Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
She keeps pace with him easily, not that this surprises Gabbar. She is clearly made for this climate, and does not seem to be suffering unduly from the heat despite the wounds on her head. It does not escape him that the black mare observes him almost as studiously as he does her. They stand together for a time trying to get a read on the other until finally the mare gives her name. Gabbar’s ears twitch. He’s never heard such a word before but he does not doubt it carries as much weight in meaning as the names in his own culture.
Her question does not elicit an immediate response from the bay stallion. He could give her his name and leave it at that. He could list his lineage and give her some idea of where he’s come from. He considers these options until, finally, he smiles. It is a relaxed expression, wide and easy as the laughing undercurrent of his words as his happiness swells and reveals itself. “I am Gabbar, protector of the Dunes and lead stallion of the herd which calls this land home.” It feels good to announce himself in this way. More real.
He nods at the surroundings dunes. “What do you think? Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Arabian knows he is biased. He cannot help but show off his home, however, as it allows him to revel a little bit more in his good fortune. He’s making a name for himself here and he loves it. Gabbar’s worries about social status and constant vigilance have all sloughed away a day at a time like sand off a dried coat and he is happy, consistently, with his place on these Isles. “Come,” he says, and turns to step out of the shade and across the top of the low dune until he descends to walk through the shady valleys once more.
There is more energy to his step and he looks around not in concern but awareness. He knows his home, no longer expects to be surprised or ambushed within these dunes even with a stranger tailing him. The land around them flattens as they approach the eastern oasis and he smells the small pool before it comes into sight. It is smaller than the main oasis and hosts more shrubs than trees. The grass is not quite so widespread but it is still a suitable place for one to rest and regain energy. The herd is still small enough where Gabbar would not mind spending a few days here with them, to give their primary resource time to replenish itself. He turns in a loose circle in the grass at the edge of the small spring to face the mare before he plants his hooves. “Here is water. Drink, nourish yourself. I will keep watch.” And he does, shifting his dark gaze from her face to the hilly land beyond.
Gabbar is used to sentry duty with a partner, standing hip to shoulder with another horse and watching two horizons. Solo sentry duty has always been a chore, but he embraces it now because he must. While he does not expect pursuit of this mare it would be foolish to rule it out completely. At the count of one hundred breaths he pivots ninety degrees to survey a new section of his home. He glances toward Firouzeh to see how she’s faring. “Why were you attacked?” he asks. “Most horses aim for the neck, the body, the legs. You bleed from your head— from your neck.” He feels Iftikhar’s teeth on his throat and swallows in self-conscious discomfort from the memory. “A horse only seizes the neck for one reason,” he says, though Gabbar knows Firouzeh is well aware of why anyone would hold fast to the throat latch. Now she knows that he, too, understands what viciousness their own kind is capable of.
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