"Truth!" Shararat laughs as Illusion surmises, correctly, her energetic youth. It is lucky for Iftikhar that Ailill ruled Paradise, for the red mare couldn’t keep up with her daughter’s relentless energy (or at least failed to expend it with her endless drills and discussions of tactics and strategy and ugh just remembering it bores the black mare nearly to tears), but the vivid personality of the band stallion had been enough and more to engage her as a filly. She learned to swim and dance thanks to him, and spent many happy days racing through the jungles or scaling the cliffs or tromping through the ocean’s surf— an entity she fondly recalls naming “Fathersound” for lack of any other paternal presence in her life.
She makes a small surprised sound when Illusion elaborates on her lack of stamina, and Shararat’s eyes sweep her body as if she’ll recognize any of the tell-tale signs of pregnancy. It is a foreign state to her— both because she’s never let a stallion cover her and because her only examples have been those of the Arabian mares in the desert. Mares whose maternal instincts do no extend to the unfortunate colts they bear, and who are about as nurturing to their daughters as the sun that beats hot upon their backs. Mares who will admit to no weaknesses, and will blame every discomfort tenfold on the breeder they chose if the foal is not a filly.
Shararat shudders. It is good to be free of that place. It had been hard to witness her brother’s treatment on the journey home, his exclusion from the mares increasing with every mile they neared the volatile sands. Even she had been discouraged from keeping company with him— her own brother! As if he were diseased... The black mare blinks, an apology on her lips for her absent-mindedness in the middle of their conversation, but the gold mare is launching herself down the side of the dune and teasing Shararat with a challenge as she flies over the sand.
Laughing, the black mare follows suit, skidding a bit down the side of the dune before the ground levels beneath her and she can race more effectively to catch up. She catches up as they pass the oasis, but it takes a burst of speed and she is content to lag behind a bit as they make their way through the dunes and toward the crashing surf on the beach. It will be good to run through the tideline, feel the chill of the wet sand folding over her hooves and kicking up cool and prickly on the underside of her barrel, and so she slows to a manageable trot for the rest of the journey.
She can’t resist the nostalgic pull of Fathersound, however, and as the two mares draw near she lengthens her stride and runs to meet the waves in a full-out sprint. Sand sprays beneath her hooves, then the gliding tide as she plunges into the ocean, saltwater frothing up around her chest in a shockingly cold, cold embrace. It feels wonderful against her hot skin and she ducks her head under the water, nostrils pinched and eyes closed as she mutes the world above for the one bubbling distantly below. Why is there no god within these waves? she wonders.
The Arabian surfaces with a gasp, legs churning to turn her back toward shore, laughing as she looks for Illusion from under her forelock slicked tight to her forehead. "Isn’t it wonderful?" she calls to the golden mare, and spins herself in another circle, laughing. |