Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Gabbar is pleased. Sekhmet’s expression as she surveys the Dunes is intense, as avid as a thirsty horse’s focus on water just ahead, and he allows himself to bask in his success while her dark eyes scan the sun-soaked sands. He has done well and he congratulates himself for it. This is what herd life should be: sharing what is beautiful in the world with others, as equals, as friends. As lovers.
He turns his head to view Sekhmet in full again. His bay coat complements hers and he knows that, standing together, they make a striking pair. Courtship is not new territory for him, but the way in which he intends to go about it this time, is. There are no other breeders in the Dunes for him to spar with, no opponents within the herd to scuffle and defeat under the eyes of the mares to win their attention and, if a stallion is lucky, her consent, and so Gabbar reasons that his turn from tradition is justified. He cannot help that he must do things differently here, after all, and as Sekhmet is as finely blooded as any Arabian mare there is no sin in his pursuit of her. It will be easiest to get to know his refined companion better if they share the same territory —not that he will balk at journeying to spend more time with her if she decides not to stay.
The smile she offers him, though small, evokes a grin from Gabbar as she agrees to venture further into the Dunes, and he falls into step beside her as they ascend the first low hill. The pace she sets is languid. Gabbar sees no reason to rush, either, and he takes this opportunity to appreciate the natural beauty of his home. His eyes flick across the dune tops when they crest the hill but he does not see the shape of Valve, or of the pretty rabicano, on any of them. He is glad they will not be disturbed, and firmly puts his uneasy anticipation of Iftikhar’s return aside. The day, and his company, is too beautiful to waste with worry.
Sekhmet’s voice is underscored by the sound of their hooves pushing aside sand. Almost, Gabbar replies with “not long,” but he thinks back to when he first arrived on these Isles and realizes that more time has passed than he has thought— it will be two years, come winter. What is the point of going back to the desert now? he thinks. By the time he arrives, if indeed he does choose to return, the war may already have been won.
“Over a year,” he replies, and feels a bit of guilt that he has not yet completed his mission. “Though it seems like less than that. I enjoy these Isles very much.” He looks at Sekhmet as he leans his weight back for their descent, front legs straight to reduce his speed down the other side of the dune. “And what of you, Sekhmet? Have you called any of these Isles home for long, or did your history begin elsewhere?”
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