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love, like rain, does not choose the grass on which it falls
– proverb
EYES TRAINED ON THE SPARRING knights in his far peripheral, Hussam shifted his weight, sand and pebble crunching under the weight of leather sandals as he ambles toward the stables. Penetrating rays trickle over the landscape to kiss the bronzy olive of his skin. Lifting a hand to his head, he unfurled the pistachio green ghutra, a cooling breeze warming the sweat collecting at his nape.
His freed hand remains on the massive beast walking beside him as a calm washes over him. Wisps of Qadr's long, free-flowing mane swayed slightly in the air after a furious gallop. His thick obsidian pelt resembled pure raw silk with a strong gloss that glistened even darker under the sun. Instinctively, the beast lowered his head to brush it against the crook of Hussam's neck. The callous, yet gentle hand of his master fell to caress the bridge of his nostrils and Qadr leaned in to the touch, content.
Hussam's smile is faint but obvious. "I should not spoil you so much."
No sooner had they reached the stables did the stallion suddenly rear up on his hind legs and lashed out with his front hoofs with a sharp neigh—flinging the contents on the saddle. A soaring arrow had struck the nearby tree, giving him a fright. Grasping the reins, Hussam pulled down hard on the leather noseband until Qadr's front feet returned to the ground. He then placed a strong palm on his head, adding decent pressure.
Qadr did not yield.
"Easy, boy. Easy." he said, stroking his underbelly. The stallion finally eased up, nuzzling him. Hussam smoothed his horse's forelocks before loosening the bridle. He removed the saddle to prevent any soreness and further irritation. It was why Hussam trekked to the village on foot. The journey back from patrolling the outskirts had worn his companion, and it was critical he restores stamina.
