Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
When Avangeline does not laugh with him Gabbar takes a closer look at the buckskin’s expressive face. He can see he has struck a chord and holds himself still as she processes what he’s said, while he frantically runs back through his mind to scan everything he’s just told her, looking for the word or phrase that has triggered such a strongly adverse reaction in his friend. She gives him a strange, almost haunted look and admits, quietly, that she has met Iftikhar. His whole body runs cold as she shares that experience with him.
Gabbar has borne the brunt of the chestnut’s viciousness many times. He does not care for the blade of her tongue on his ears but it is bearable, because he knows what a vain and aggressive creature Iftikhar truly is. Everyone does, but many mares find it admirable because they envy it. Her haughty disdain for all others is awe-inspiring in a culture where weakness is despised and actively uncovered by those competing for rank within the herds as they snipe at one another. In this short time he has come to know Avangeline, he can imagine how shocking an encounter with a mare as hateful as the one who bore him must have been. Iftikhar has never been impressed with anyone outside herself. Her disgust in those outside her breed is palpable, at times. His heart sinks as he imagines all sorts of insults and petty jabs directed at Avangeline— a mare who saw another running and thought, above all else, she might be in danger and could use help.
It cuts him to hear Avangeline's voice tighten as she shares what must have been a difficult memory, and as he listens he feels a strange tension in his chest. It twists and coils as she finishes her story and reassures him that Iftikhar will be rebuffed at the border. He has not heard of this Al-Hattaal but commends him, silently and quickly, to Uzay for his determination and nobility. It is not easy to face Iftikhar, much less come between the red mare and her target. He takes a deep breath. “I can imagine her attitude toward the two of you was not favorable. The war in our desert —a war she leads with unrelenting fury against those she considers impure— is based entirely on some misguided notion that mixing the blood of two breeds is to be condemned. We’ve allied with the Akhal-Tekes but do not mingle with them as those she’s vilified do. I am fairly certain she will try to extinguish our allies as soon as the war against the half-breeds is won. Arabians are the only horses she believes should walk the earth. It’s disgusting,” he mutters.
The more he considers Iftikhar’s skewed view of the world and compares it to his experiences traveling and settling into a home here on the Islands, the more the pressure in his chest builds until suddenly it snaps and Gabbar’s dark chest swells with indignation and a fury he did not know he possessed. It is ridiculous to judge a horse on bloodlines alone, if at all. The bay stallion steps toward Avangeline, feeling more protective than he ever has in his life and considering, strongly, leaving Salem right now to go scour the Meadow for the red bitch who refused to claim him but still demanded he fight for her cause.
“She is a blight upon this earth,” he snarls between his teeth. “A perpetuator of hate and full of some misguided notion that a horse’s bloodlines have anything to do with her worth.” Gabbar plants his hooves and trembles furiously, ears laced back against his black mane and dark eyes snapping across the dunes in the distance as if willing Iftikhar to appear in his land. He has never felt such heat before, not even in battle, and he knows with no doubts that he will never be cowed by that mare again. He turns his head to look at Avangeline.
“She is nothing,” he tells the slender mare. “Iftikhar is a horse full of hate who was born in the right place at the right time and rose to power because war needs a leader as charged with disgust and misguided racial righteousness as her. Uzay, ben size yalvarıyorum, she will leave this place and go back to rot in her gods-be-damned desert like the carrion she has always been!” He’s breathing hard, teeth clenched so hard he can feel an ache in his face he know he will carry for days. Gabbar throws his dished head up and jogs a few steps away from Avangeline, surprised and still overcome by the depths of his anger. “Sikme,” he spits, and strikes the sand with so much force he buries his leg hock-deep in the shifting layers of the dune.
The Arabian remains facing away from the mare and takes several deep breaths. He calms himself, slowly, and when he speaks again he pitches his voice for Avangeline to hear. “This herd has no place for such bigotry. These islands don’t. The world doesn’t. We are all here whether we will it or not, aren’t we? What is the point, then, of making life so difficult and painful for those we perceive as different from ourselves? I don’t understand it,” this last he mutters, and hangs his head with a snort before he yanks his foot free of the sand. “I don’t think I have ever understood it.”
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