She was not his princess who he observed grow from spindly-limbed, bright-eyed filly to confident, agile young mare set to be queen; this was not the red-hot sands which baked beneath a sun always held high in an endless blue sky. It was not Areo Hotah’s place to say whether it was for the best she and this place did not remind him of home, but a small part of him considered it anyways. It was proving difficult to apply his training to look past that which filled his story and instead focus on the present, on what needed guarded.
His eyes – they were such a rich, warm amber – regarded her carefully. Areo Hotah did not involve himself in politics; one could say he did not think for himself, either. Since the day he was born he had been drilled again and again to know his own place was to protect and do as those wiser led the masses. He would never contemplate leading anything; he would never contemplate living a life in which he did not serve as guard. Such thoughts never once moved into his mind.
It was not entirely up to him, then, to decide who was fit to lead. If this mare was queen here, she deserved his servitude. “What is the name of my queen?” Asked Areo Hotah before leaning his weight back and bowing his head down in an act meant to display his submission to serve her every whim.
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