Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
One of Gabbar’s favorite things about the sleek warrior beside him is their nonverbal understanding. It is heady to stand shoulder to shoulder with a mare —and yes, he does mark how she shifts her position to grant him that esteem— whom he has also fought beside, one who he feels an unexplainable type of kinship with. If she were male, he would call her brother, so strong is the camaraderie he feels.
But she is not.
Valve is undeniably female, in some ways more powerful and intimidating then even the mares from his own breed. For she speaks little but says much, and every move the black mare makes seems loaded with purpose. She is the most concise creature he has ever had the fortune to meet.
Her observations about Iftikhar are more than correct. “I agree,” he blasphemes softly, but the exhale that carries the words is unburdened by guilt. The red Arabian is highly volatile. While that may be considered useful in a land ravaged by war, there will be no real place for her in times of peace. Such a mare thrives on antagonism. Under her eye, there will be no peace, for lack of conflict will threaten her right to rule. Gabbar knows this. Many Arabians know this. But it is not a thing that is said aloud, much less by a breeder of the herd.
“There is a tale among my people, about the creation of our Gods. You know of the Walking Mare, correct?” he asked, and his deep voice grew softer as he fell into the cadence of storytelling. “The Mare with Two Wombs is the Mother of All, the First of our breed. She gave birth to twins: first Iç, Her volcanic daughter, the Sun Mare, who was so filled with fire even before birth that she cauterized her mother’s womb and left only ash to create her brother, Uzay, the Stallion of the Abyss.”
Gabbar pauses. He is no seer, no keeper of tales, but he had heard them enough to repeat the relevant information contained within. And he does not think he has done a bad job, as a storyteller, despite the fact that he would never be considered for such a role. It is a shame his people are so adamant about the roles of breeders. Gabbar would have liked to be a storyteller for the herd.
“Iftikhar is quite like Iç,” he says as he lifts his fine head to regard Valve with steady, dark eyes. “She burns too hot. We value Iç’s fire among my people, but fire is indiscriminate. It consumes all it touches. I do not wish to be consumed by fire,” the bay stallion admits. Uzay, beni tutmak, he prays to his God, but knows in his heart that he has made the right choice.
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