She is everything she was when he had left - except married. Her abandonment of her abuser had labeled her a sinner, a lost girl, an unsavory woman of loose morals. Her reputation in the throngs of Maghrib, however, mattered nothing at all here. It most especially did not matter to the man she had run to find, the man who called out to her from across this new world’s desert.

She lifts her head to his call, swinging her luminous moonlit tail so that it snaps - the sound of the ends hitting her hide is like the pistol firing off at the races. He takes off for her and she takes off to meet him, their gallop ending in the centermost point. They halt before touching, always so close and yet never quite. They had never but accidentally crossed that threshold with anything more than whisker or breath - save for that one night they had succumb to the worst heat of Qetesh and Min, raking teeth over withers and backs and haunches as they groomed one another as was normally reserved for betrothed and married pairs.

It had been the furthest he had ever crossed the line of propriety until he had attacked Aldebaran for daring to come too close to his underhill oasis. He can still feel the sensation of his teeth passing over that place in her withers that had been such a temptation, a claiming place meant for First Wives alone. Oh and how he had wanted to cross that line with her - to hell with traditions and their demands that only the pure Arabian blood could hold such a station.

It is perhaps why now he was so stringent, having been denied this greatest wish for the sake of tradition. Even now, he aches to feel her against him again - to filter his lips through her mane and pretend that it is only to straighten a lock or to appreciate her aiding him day in and out between molestations of her revolting husband.

He has grown, however. He crosses none of those lines, only sweeping whiskers against her at the most. They hunger for each other and the entire night becomes electric with their wanton need of one another. "Rigel… I-I," she says, so tortured in ton that it drags his own words from his locked throat, "You are free. You are free and I will love you with more passion and fidelity and sweetness than anything I promised you as Prince of Mira." It would not wait. It could not wait. It should not wait.

The night lights with a bugle to match his first, this one instead to his Sheik, to his Mira, to whichever would make swiftest work of the land between their dual private oasis and this place of reconnecting.