when ego walks with avarice
His skin against hers is like sunlight, warm and undemanding, and Shararat follows his lead as he guides their bodies, focusing only on where she puts her hooves with no concern for where they are moving. She knows Ailill will not steer her into danger. She trusts him. It is a heady feeling, one that makes her heart skip suddenly, her breath hitching from more than physical exertion, and she covers it with a breathless giggle. He slows their dance, and then they part, and the black mare lowers her head in a standing bow before she throws it up, tossing her hair out of her face with a wide wide grin.
“Not only that, I got better,” she says boldly, and laughs. Then, more humbly, she continues, “Ailill, thank you for the dance. It’s been so many years; did you stay in Paradise after we left?” Shararat leans forward to press her nose against his cheek, eager for news of his life in the time they’ve been away.
Ak Burun, seeing their dance is done, now lifts her narrow head and strolls up the beach to join them at her own pace. She stands a little apart from them, included but not intimately, and points her small ears at the stallion. Her dark eyes memorize his face. Shararat turns her head to regard her black companion, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “Ailill, meet Ak Burun. Ak Burun, Ailill. Baba gibi, ama değil,” she informs the other mare.
The Akhal-Teke lifts her head a touch higher, then relents her scrutiny. She eyes Shararat, tight-lipped, before flicking one ear to the side and nodding at Ailill. “Well met,” she says, with none of Shararat’s energy. If the Arabian is warm as a banked coal, Ak Burun is more like the chill that follows a cloud passing before the sun on a bright day.
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shararat & ak burun
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