Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Gabbar’s gaze sharpens as the pretty mare asks about his mother. Her line of questioning is in eerie alignment with his own thoughts, but he dismisses his moment of suspicion as he recalls that this mare is not from his desert or his culture— why did he expect her, even for a moment, to know how stallions are raised? Likely she assumes there is some sort of bond between Gabbar and the mare who birthed him— the bay Arabian is aware that in foreign cultures, mothers personally nurture of their offspring regardless of the gender of the foal. He lets his eyes swing back out over the water as he searches for an answer he is willing to share with the pretty rabicano.
“Breeders do not have mothers in the desert,” he says. There is no rancor in his voice, only fact. “I was raised communally by the stallions of our herd.” He does not speak of Rakkas, or of the stallion who sired him. It is too personal a thing to share when he knows Iftikhar is, indeed, on these Isles. If this conversation had happened before the chestnut woke him with her teeth, perhaps Gabbar would have had a looser tongue, but he is wary now. Iftikhar’s presence has always filled him with unease: she does not follow the same rules as other horses, and while that is admirable on the battlefield where there is a war to be won, Gabbar finds it thoroughly discomfiting in lands of peace. He does not wish to incur any more of her wrath than he already has, what with the presence of Valve among his dunes.
The mare’s next line of questioning veers sharply away from Gabbar’s personal life. He looks at her, tilts his head as his ears point toward her lovely face, and offers her an apologetic smile. “I do not know the context of your people’s conflict,” he admits. “But where I am from, it has only to do with survival. The desert is vast and beautiful, yes, but it is uncompromising and harsh. Only those who are fit to survive, do. My people have warred with the Akhal-Tekes in the past over rights to oases, and little else. In more recent years we have reached an uneasy alliance with them, for the sake of a greater cause. There are a deplorable number of half-breeds using up valuable resources in our desert. We have banded together out of necessity, to ensure that we can eradicate the blight quickly and efficiently.”
He pauses to drag one toe thoughtfully through the damp sand and examines the dark furrow with a small frown. “We need that water, and that grass. We were the first to inhabit the sands, and so we will be the last. Once we’ve eliminated the last of the mongrels, I am sure things will return to normal. We will fight the ‘Tekes, and the ‘Tekes will fight us over rights to water and food, and so it will continue until one finally prevails.” He lifts his head and looks toward the horizon as his ears tip back. “Although, with both Iftikhar and El Halin gone, there is a chance the ‘Tekes will abandon the war for a greater opportunity— they are not fools. This is the best chance they have of tipping the scales permanently in their favor.”
Gabbar’s ears flatten and he glances over his shoulder and into his territory as if he anticipates seeing another horse behind them. There is no one there. He straightens, then turns his head to face the mare once more. “I have come to bring them home,” he says, and there is an echo of discouragement in his voice as he finally acknowledges that, in returning with Iftikhar and El Halin, he will not be allowed to venture outside the desert a second time. They will need him on the front lines and in skirmish parties; he is a good soldier, and their numbers have been dwindling more than growing in recent years. “We must go home,” he says, but his eyes have lost their light and his deep voice sounds heavy.
If he could, Gabbar would stay on these Islands. He enjoys it here. Life is easy, and there is time and energy to pursue things other than war— such a conversation, talk that does not revolve around strategizing or commands.
It is not to be.
“Bayan.” Gabbar blinks and refocuses on the mare beside him, mustering as much of his former good spirits as possible as he does, so that when his eyes meet hers there’s no evidence of his private despair lingering in his gaze. He does not want to speak of home any longer, but it would be rude to ask her to change topics. Gabbar is a bold stallion, however, and he does not hesitate to achieve his goal in his own way, speaking on to ask, “What is the conflict between your people and the ‘Tekes you know? Perhaps my impression of your people’s circumstances will be objective enough to help you find an answer to your question,” as he tries to subtly shift the conversation away from himself.
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