Like heady incense, the scent of him is all I can focus on as we walk, our bodies closer than what would be encouraged, but not so much as to earn censure. It's nearly all that I can do to multitask, balancing the overwhelmingly beautiful words he offers against the intoxicating ebb and flow of our barrels touching. I ache with the thought of touching him, of leaning into the strong swell of his shoulder and wrapping my body against him.

Never before have these thoughts troubled me like this, but I cannot deny that the thoughts plague me. What would the jagged edges of his markings taste like beneath my tongue? How far did they extend across his body, testaments to his chosen status? Would his neck drape over mine to hold me close as I cleaved to him?

Abashed at the direction of my thoughts, I lean into his words, grasping at them in the vain hope that they will help my mind from wandering. Had I fallen so far? To be so wantonly drawn in by a man? A stranger at that, even if his words were a velvet caress on my heart. A strange panic, born and bred of my sheltered upbringing and the harsh punishments that been heaped upon mares who behaved loosely, clawed at my heart with sudden ferocity and I stutter-stepped in the middle of our rhythm.

But I am not there anymore.

For better or worse, I have taken my own fate and forcibly wrested it from the hands of my family. My choices here will continue to define both who and what I am in this strange new world. Mares are not as restricted here, not bent and broken to the wills of their stallions. Every mare here is a queen in her own right, and the intoxicating idea that I could touch him if I wanted to quells the remainders of the panic. No one would stop me if I did. I could soil myself with his touch and there would be none to censure me save my own inner monologue.

And him.

My eyes rise once more to the bloodmarked prince at my side, and I find myself considering what he would think of me if I opened myself to him so readily. It is evident that he finds me attractive, and even if he had not professed it, I could see it in his eyes. In the way their chocolate depths stared into my heart. But would I be truly worthy of his true affection? The question takes me by surprise, for I had never considered myself as anything but. It was others that needed to be worthy of me, not the other way around. It is obvious to me that he is a man of honor, for allah would never mark his chosen so extensively if they were not men true to his values. Even the kingdom of my once betrothed had recognized the weight behind such favored markings, even if they assigned a different meaning to them.

Again he whispers sweet words and I press my lips together to temper the rush of joy that it gives me. Despite my doubts and misgivings, I cannot get enough of this pale stallion. Already I know him to be what I have yearned for in my life, and I cannot imagine moving forward without him somehow. Regardless of what this may mean for me, for both past and future, I can feel the well of my determination rising. I will have this silver-tongued stallion as my own, somehow.

"A crown borne without love would be a heavy burden to carry," I offer, my muzzle tipping toward him as though confiding a secret. The truth of it rings in my heart and solidifies my resolve. With renewed delight I allow a grin to dash across my lips as I skip a few lithe steps ahead. Elegantly I pirouette to face him, letting the silk soft strands of my tail dance with the movement as I about-face. I intended to ask him his name, so that I could gift him with my own, already steeling my resolve to touch him after. This will be my moment, I know it.

His prayer distracts me. There is something primal about the way he prostrates himself before the old gods so unlike when I pray to allah that it leaves me in reverent awe. The cadence, the sound is familiar to me in a distant way, as though similar words were once slipped from my lips, but I know not of his fervent plea. Quietly I stand there, a petite figure shadowed by his own as he murmurs his wishes to the beings above. When he is done, I stretch toward him, my eyes sparkling with mischievousness"What does your heart seek from the old gods that you do not already have?"

I slip forward, emboldened by my decision. Eagerness draws the feminine bow of my neck taut, and the wind-tossed strands of my tail lap over my rump as I fall still, now close to him once more. My face hovers before his, and I wipe my expression clean of the trappings of my upbringing, of the caution and the hiding, of the restraint and the manipulation. I will him to see the depth of my want for him, even as I leave the sliver of space between us.

"What should I call you, but mine own heart?" I whisper to the night, and tremble as I await his reply.