She’s gone. Gabbar has scoured the Dunes, even crossed the border of the Desert to make absolutely certain Evaline isn’t simply exploring the flatter parts of Salem, but he can still smell the bachelor who was here before, that wheat and cream male who had the gall to try to herd Valve. The idea that the Akhal-Teke could be forced into anything is laughable, but his mouth doesn’t even quirk upward at the thought. He feels sick. There is a tight knot in his gut and it is not only to do with the theft of Evaline —the one mare, after Nereid, he’d sworn he’d protect— but Valve, also.

Gabbar stands on the very edge of the oasis, hooves flat on rough sand, enduring the full heat of the sun while shade is only steps away. He has not had anything to drink for days, has not moved from this spot for days since scouring Salem, has not moved at all, in fact, and the flies have been terrible. This punishment is self-inflicted and, he feels, well-deserved. It has given the Arabian much time to think. He has been blunt with himself, unforgiving, an echo of Iftikhar’s voice in his head.

When Valve returned, he viewed her as a threat to his authority. His authority! The idea that a mere breeder can hold any amount of power is still so new to him he is appalled to reach this conclusion and realize it is absolute truth. Gabbar didn’t want to share. And he hid that under the veil of concern for the mares who lived with him, concern that the black Akhal-Teke was as driven as his own people to maintain pure bloodlines in every context of life. He is no better than the band stallions on these Isles who lord over a harem. Worse, his selfishness has wrecked this herd, perhaps irrevocably.

The bay stallion flicks his tail, the first sign of movement from him since assuming his post away from the herd. This is a common punishment in the desert: stand, unmoving, for long periods of time where the offender can hear the voices of the herd but not necessarily the words being spoken, and near enough to water and food that one is constantly reminded of what they are denied. He turns his head and the knot in his belly loosens a fraction as his eyes land on the sleek black mare he has, from the start, viewed with admiration.

Gabbar is ashamed of himself.

He leaves his spot of temporary social exile, pauses only long enough to shake out his entire body one limb at a time, and strides toward Valve. His head is up but not held high, and his tail remains lax behind him. The looks she had leveled at him during the herd’s conversation make a little more sense, now, to the Arabian. He does not deserve her patience with him.

Gabbar halts before Valve. His dark eyes travel her face, recalling purposefully the day they met during a snowfall on the Crossing, the day she lead him through the ocean and onto these sands and fought beside him to run a local stallion out of the territory and make it their own. The adrenaline during and following that fight, and the rightness of it all. He meets her gaze.

"My hubris has broken this herd," he states the obvious in a steady voice, unwavering, as he holds himself accountable before Valve, certain she already knows Evaline has been stolen. "I thought I could lead a herd alone, thought I deserved to do so. Resented your return because your presence posed a threat to a newfound power I thought only I should wield, a ridiculous notion in more way than one when you, you are the reason I am here at all." Gabbar resists the urge to lower his gaze. He wants to see her every reaction while he owns his guilt. He deserves every ounce of scorn in her body, every bit of the rejection and disdain he’s been unjustly raised with because right now, in this moment, his unworthiness is true. "We once fought together to make a home for ourselves. I have no right to ask this of you, but I ask now because I know I have erred with you, greatly. Fight again with me, Valve; this home and herd is as much yours as it is mine. I have been moronic to pretend anything else."