Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Avangeline’s attentiveness reaffirms Gabbar’s decision to invite her into the herd. She is just as capable as any mare he’s lived with, and a lot more tolerable given her pleasant demeanor. He’s looking forward to spending more time with her. When she answers his question, he watches her face as speaks. Though her words are not happy and her smile doesn’t stay long, Avangeline does not succumb to any sadness or despair. He is happy to see her maintain such a solid disposition. “I am sorry,” he tells her in a low voice. “For the losses you have suffered.” Loss of freewill, of friends— Gabbar cannot name a single horse he has called friend. Only comrades, brothers-in-arms, companions to drive away boredom and compete with whenever mares were present, which was at almost all times. He understands the loss of freedom, however, now that he has attained it for himself after so many years of being told what to do and who to be.
It is the Akhal-Teke who says it: she names their relationship and he grins so suddenly to hear the term friend applied with him in mind, it startles him how deeply he has longed for that sort of connection with another. “Yes,” he agrees, then admits, “My first.” Gabbar would not count Valve a friend. He is too careful with how he acts around her, too aware of crossing lines he has been taught should never be breached. He looks away from her, unable to hold eye contact and unwilling to see what changes her face might make as he continues to speak.
“I was a soldier in my homeland. Stallions have no worth, there. We are useful only for breeding and reminded of that constantly. I came here to retrieve a couple of mares— funny, isn’t it?” He glances at Avangeline, too quick to get a full look at her, and tries for a laugh that falls flat. “A mere breeder sent to collect the lead mare and her High Seer. They had no reason to listen to me, or believe what I said.” His voice is low and measured, but his ears turn back of their own accord and a frown twists his lips. “It took some time to locate them. And, by then, I had settled myself here. Even though it felt a little wrong. It felt more right.”
Gabbar is unused to expressing vulnerability. But he smiles now, and can turn back to face his gold-and-black companion as he continues, “I chose to stay. And it infuriated her— the lead mare. Her name’s Iftikhar, by the way. Chestnut Arabian with high white stockings on every leg and a blaze she likes to stare down. Don’t let her in if she shows up here; she’s an awful creature.” He glances down at his left legs, each limb socked in white instead of black, and grimaces. “I’ve never spoken a word against my mother before,” he admits, then grins again. “But it feels pretty good.”
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