The storm, the challenge in her eyes, she looks at him with enough electricity to vaporize the rain and he feels it from poll to haunch, swirling first in the deep of his gut. She is not some tender soul, not some fealty dumbed soldier, not some fool brother. She is wild, she is fuel enough to make a fire so great that it burned its own oxygen out of the air and caused the fire’s own demise. He has no notion just how many battles brought her to this, to this wild creature.
As the water plasters their manes and turns their wisping tails into rattail whips, he finds himself struck by the urge to do battle. Let the storm rage, for all that he had never fought sopping and only ever fought blinded by sand or beating rays of sunshine. His foreleg strikes out and his crest arches handsomely, declaring an acceptance of her challenge. “I could never refuse such a welcome, much less from someone so deathly beautiful that it makes my heart want to burst in it’s cage.”
Poetic words for a man who was supposed to impress this particular woman with battle prowess and not liberal use of language flowery enough to out-scent a spring meadow in full bloom.
He tells her only honest truths, however, and the guileless nature is clearly shown in his eyes. He found her radiant in her element, though he yearned to see her rainstorm self settling her wild wind and rain into the quenchless sand of the dunes. Not to tame her, but only to show her his own might - the might granted by Ra in his proper sphere. Ra and Set and Amun and Shu. In their graces he would not be so dull in her eyes. Or so he fancies, perhaps.
He sounds that classic call to arms that all stallions use to trumpet their charge, lunging into the spray and fray, teeth bared as he had never bared them to another woman. Running to meet whatever fate the watery, green, chokingly fertile gods would have in store for a Prince of Stars and Sands.
|
