Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
The expression that crosses the Arabian mare’s face is soft as she speaks of the necessity of their cultures. Yes, he wants to agree, but he refrains. His people have not always been matriarchal, and the history that precipitated such a drastic change is both shameful and bloodstained. Gabbar does not care to think of it, nor does he wish to speak of it with a near-stranger. For the sake of conversation, however, and so that her words are not left hanging in a silence that might be construed as rude, Gabbar repeats her statement: “We do what we must to survive.”
When she asks him if there will be a home for him to return to, the bay Arabian twitches his skin and looks aside, down the inconsistent tideline where the ocean meets the beach. He does not truly believe the Akhal-Tekes will win anything. The two breeds have lived in the desert for centuries with a healthy rivalry— it has been a fact of life for generations. The only war that is truly being fought is the one against the halfbreeds, and those from both breeds who chose to mix bloodlines with the other race. Such a thing is blasphemous.
He does fear, though, that with both Iftikhar and El Halin absent, things will change. The rivalry that has kept each breed strong might escalate. Aggression has been higher in the desert than usual in the past two decades, and it would not be that far of a step for the ‘Tekes to turn their full attention to the Arabians once the war has been won. He turns his head to face her again. “Perhaps,” he replies. Privately, he tells himself has not yet decided whether or not he will fight his superiors for the right to remain on the Isles— although he knows, in his heart of hearts, that he does not wish to return to a war ravaged land where his only value to his people is as a soldier in their armies. “That is for the Gods to decide,” he amends, and reminds himself that the plans of the divine far outweigh the plans of a mortal.
This time it is the mare who looks away. When she speaks, he can tell she bears perhaps as much hate for the Akhal-Tekes as Iftikhar, although each mare’s justification is vastly different. He is unprepared for the vulnerability in her eyes when she looks him in the face again. Relationships in the desert tend to burn hot and fast, often cooling before anyone can become too invested in another. To love is to admit weakness, for attachment to others creates a liability, one that is often apparent to the enemy. Gabbar thinks of the horses he’s left at home and, besides the occasional longing for the rough camaraderie of his brothers, cannot name a single one he misses.
He keeps his eyes on the fine mare’s face as she speaks quietly, painfully about her home. He knows then that she is not from his desert. Not only do the Akhal-Tekes have a different warcry in his home —the whisper of a Thousand Voices, a terrifying buzz that precedes their forces before a major strike— but no Arabian he knows would admit to cowardice. An Arabian retreats only to ensure that he or she may retaliate, and soon. He faces the ocean once more.
For a time, as Gabbar processes theses things, the ocean is all that speaks. This mare is unlike those he knows, and though he finds her physically attractive he cannot help but feel repulsed that she admitted to fleeing. That she did not return to avenge her family speaks of weakness to him.
However, the mare has been alone for as long as he’s known her. The foals, he thinks, as swings his dished head around to stare her full in the face— a very bold move for a breeder, one he does not give a second thought to now that she’s proved she is not from his home. If she were to look now, he would meet her gaze and hold it. “What of the children?” he asks, his voice rumbling as low as the waves. “Did they survive, thanks to your efforts to protect them?”
He is also aware that, since she is not from his desert, their cultures are different. Perhaps in her homeland, self-preservation mattered more than glory. Gabbar tries to see the benefit in such a mindset. One would certainly live longer— the Akhal-Tekes he knows seem to operate under such a principle. They have no shame, and spend many skirmishes in flight as often as they fight. There is a softer element to the mare beside him, however. He does not think her drive to survive is fueled by anything selfish. She took the foals out of harm’s way first. Why should he fault her for protecting others in a way she felt would be most effective?
Gabbar does not consider his next question bold, though if Iftikhar were around to hear it the lashing he’d receive would be brutal. “Bayan,” he says, neck arched and chin tucked. “What is your name?”
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