Iç blesses Shararat’s back intermittently as she winds her way through the valleys between the dunes, slipping into the shade of one monolith before stepping back into the sun’s harsh gaze at the base of another. The Arabian heads for the seaside, toward the comforting rush of water up the beach and the brisk breezes carried in with the tide. She hopes to see her kin emerging from the waves even as she counsels herself against high expectations. It may not yet be time.
The black mare is thriving. There is no mantle of responsibility upon her shoulders here, no presumptuous and overbearing dam monitoring her every action or criticizing her every word. The red mare is far, far away, locked in a battle for power among like-minded mares in a land whose unrelenting heat seems to generate not from the sun above but from the combined hate of the horses fighting on the hard sands below. So it is a pleasure each time her hooves sink into the soft sands of the Dunes, as if the land itself welcomes her over, and over, and over again.
She detects the hint of salt on her next inhale and rounds the next dune with renewed vigor only to find herself coming dangerously close to running face first into a slender chestnut horse. Shararat’s hindquarters drop as she skids, then leaps to one side and scrambles halfway up the dune beside her to avoid a collision. Her heart pounds as she eyes the other mare, taking comfort from the severe lines of her narrow face and the blessed consistency of color all the way through her coat. It is not Iftikhar come to wreak havoc once again, blessings be to Iç for Her unexpected mercy.
"Bok, özür dilerim," she laughs shakily before stepping down the dune and back to level ground so she is not looking down at the other. Her nostrils flare, making note of the fresh salt-scent this mare carries on her damp coat. "Are you the only one come from the sea?" Shararat asks, and cannot help the hopeful glance she takes over the red mare’s glossy shoulder. |