The Mountain and the Desert (Abram x Fox) {FINISHED}

Abram | Serora Bondmate and Representative {former ambassador}

Breathing in the thin, sharp air, Abram felt some of the tension that had been plaguing him ease. He took another deep pull, eyes closed as the winter air flooded his lungs. Ah, he'd missed it. The sun-warmed sands and jagged cliffs of Sedo would forever be his home, but there was just something about the brittle, clean air of Onea that spoke to him, resonated in his heart. Mahogany eyes slid open once more, and shrugging his cloak tighter across his withers, Abram resumed his careful decent down the icy, snow packed path that led into Skeldr Town proper.

Negotiations with Lord Hira and the Stone Circle had been put on temporary recess, much to Abram's relief. Not only had they hours of discussion yielded no results, but tempers had seemed strained among the War Forged. A former ambassador, Abram was adroit at "reading the room", and the unspoken words between the Circle and Lord Hira hung in the air like thick, invisible smoke. The Seroran's were of course not brought up to speed on the internal affairs of the herd, and the toll was beginning to register on them as well. Cranky with the proceedings and the weather, Yeshua had retired to their rooms, feathers fluffed up comically in the drafty cold of the fortress. At Abram's suggestion of making the short journey down to the market, Yeshua's face had darkened to such a degree that Abram had left the room at a good clip. Let the featherpuff stew in his bed, if he wanted. Abram certainly wasn't going to miss the opportunity to explore the town.

It had expanded quite a bit since he had been here last; Abram's eyes eagerly took in the new shops and homes. The market was truly booming, finally having achieved the potential Abram had seen in it years ago. The Seroran picked up his pace, slipping and sliding the final strides on to the stone-paved paths of the market. His wounded hip and stifle complained at this, the reminders of that fateful blizzard, but Abram ignored the pains. He could track down a medic later, if need be. Healing herbs here were different than in Serora, but they worked just as well- although not if one was to listen to Yeshua's complaints. Onean life did not agree with his twin, who failed to find the same wonder in snow and ice that Abram did.

Abram spent the better part of an hour perusing the market. Few Onean goods ever made it to Sedo, so Abram found himself immersed in new and interesting culture. He bought lunch, enjoying the different flavors of Onean flora. But as the day wore on, Abram found himself growing... not bored, no, how could he, surrounded by such an interesting collection of wares? But he was lonely, he realized. War Forged were not known for being particularly friendly to strangers even at the best of times. No one was rude to him, exactly, but no one was taking pains to talk to him, and he caught more than one coolly speculative stare. He had just decided he might be better off risking Yeshua's petulance back at the fortress, when-

"Abram!"

Startled, the stallion turned, catching sight of the paint mare as she skidded to a halt before him. He was surprised, pleased- and a little bit embarrassed to see her. He was still being teased by his fellows for mistaking Fox for Kaia, and had little doubt that the story would make its way back to Sedo.

None the less, he his lips relaxed into a genuine smile.

"Wind beneath your wings, Fox," he greeted her. War Forged generally worshiped Alya alongside Kaia ("the only intelligent decision they made since moving upon this godforsaken rock," Yeshua had grumbled) and thus Abram felt reasonably assured that his Seroran greeting would not be deemed offensive. "My hip still aches in this cold climate of yours, but it's a small price to pay, all things considered." He hitched up his cloak, settling it higher on his withers. "And you are doing well, I trust?" Eyes swept her form briefly, still remembering the sight of the orange mare plunging valiantly through the snow, a pop of colour in a world of ivory as she battled the Cultists. Abram shuddered, pushing away the memory.

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Post 1 | 729 words

Abram

Abram felt his eyes widen slightly at the veritable snowfall of words tumbling from the painted mare's mouth; in one greeting Fox had said more to him than all other War Forged combined, today. A smile tugged at the corner of his lip as he listened to her. Several times he thought her torrent at an end, and he prepared to reply- and then she would draw breath and be off once more, all the enthusiasm and wildness of a mountain stream resplendent in her voice. He found that he was quite charmed, if bemused.

A silence stretched suddenly between the two, a striking contrast to the current of words that had left it in their wake. Abram blinked, shaking off the spell of Fox's words as she gazed at him, obviously waiting for a reply.

"Oh- ah, yes, that sounds lovely," Abram managed, finding his tongue at last. He fell into stride with the chestnut mare, enjoying the soft crunch as his hooves bit into the packed snow on the path. "I was an ambassador here, many years ago," he said, answering one of the questions as his mind turned over, peeled back the years on his memory. "And before that, to Breim." He could not fully repress the dislike that flavored his tone, and he fell abruptly silent, embarrassed at such an uncouth display. "I enjoyed aspects of Breim, " he hastened to add, "please don't mistake me; their world of tunnels and gems is... unique, in all of Hireath. I just prefer the wind in my mane, the sun on my face. I enjoyed my time here in the mountains much more." He smiled at Fox as he spoke, the cold wind lifting his forelock as if in emphasis of his words. "Have you ever traveled outside of Onea?" he asked curiously. "To Eithne, perhaps? I know the trade runs thick between your herd and theirs."

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Post 2 | 318 words

Abram

Serorans by nature were a tight-knit people, and considered all to by family under Alya's warm winds. This was not something Abram had truly understood until he traveled, and realized that it was not so with the other herds, especially with Kaia's independent, robust descendants. But as the stallion found himself gently but inescapably pushed into a shop, ushered to a table, and a drink ordered for him, he found himself idly noting that this Fox would fit in well, with his people. She had the right manner of affectionate bossiness, much unlike the flat, reserved stares of others in the shop. But Abram detected no true hostility, only judgments yet unreached, and so he put it from his mind. They were simply being War Forged.

"I'd say you've done a fair amount of traveling, then," Abram replied with a smile, inhaling the rich aroma of his own drink, letting it suffuse him, wrap around his senses. "Onea is vast and wild, and as I learned a few days ago, rather dangerous." He shifted his aching hip with a wry smile. "Any scout of your herd has done more than their share of traveling, I would think. Much like our scouts, in Serora." He eyed Fox's scars as he spoke. Dangerous indeed.

He fell silent, sipping cautiously at his steaming drink. It was still hot, but quite drinkable, and it filled him with a comforting warmth. He rolled it on his tongue, sipping slower as he tasted the bright notes of cinnamon. A rare delicacy, all but unknown in the deserts of Sedo. He said as much to Fox, adding, "I assume it is imported from Eithne? It must be nice, to have such regular imports of spices."

Abram continued to slowly enjoy his drink, while he turned over Fox's words in his mind, and weighed his responses; thoughts of Eithne had slightly sobered him. Better to be struggling and free in Onea, than to be struggling and bridled, in Eithne, he thought darkly, but did not say. He was quite too careful for that; he was here as a diplomat after all.

"I would not bet against you, painted Fox, if you were to set your heart on traveling. I think you would make a fine ambassador, to Serora." He meant it too, although the stallion doubted the War Lord would consent to such a mantle of responsibility settling around such young, loquacious shoulders. He eyed Fox as he considered his answers.

"To be bondmate, is to be bonded in body and soul, to the Sultan- that is to say leader- of our herd. His name is Osprey, and he is..." and here Abram paused, mahogany eyes softening, "he is the breeze that lifts my heart, the wind beneath my wings." The painted stallion paused, cleared his throat, returning his mind to the present. "To be his bondmate is to be married to him, but not only him, but to the entire herd, and to Alya, our sky goddess. I assist him with herd matters, and," he flashed Fox another smile, "the occasional diplomatic mission."

"Osprey is the reason I am no longer an ambassador." And Abram fell silent again, remembering. He had not known the depth of terror, of horror, that one single equine might be able to feel. And even now, those terrible weeks buried beneath years of happier times, a shadow of that yawning, horrible abyss remained still in Abram's soul. But he said simply, "Osprey had... been injured, and so in a fashion had I, slipping off one of your jagged mountain ledges." Well, that was half-true, but no need to bring up the rest of it. "I returned home to Sedo, and together Osprey and I... well. We healed, and I knew my place then was to be at his side, and not traipsing all over Hireath." 

He looked wryly out the window, at the snowy square of Skeldr Town. 

"It is good to be back here, however. I do miss the snow."

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Post 3 | 669 words

Abram | Bondmate

Finished with his drink (and well aware that he had probably consumed it faster than was polite but it was just so good, and also he had been cold) Abram listened to Fox's meandering words. She seemed discomfited; Abram wondered what had upset the flow of her previously easygoing words. Ah, perhaps it had been the revelation that was bonded to another stallion; although not strictly taboo, the War Forged tended to spurn any narrative that strayed from hetero-normative. And yet they guarded carefully the number of foals born each year... as always, Abram felt the dual twinges of exasperation and amusement at such discordant beliefs, but he stifled the impulse, listening instead to the chestnut mare's halting words. Whether or not she found his situation odd, she did not seem inclined to judge him for it, and Abram was grateful. Indeed, she seemed more interested in Osprey himself. Well, why shouldn't she; he knew well how little news the Forged heard of Serora, and vice versa, despite shared affinities for the earth and air gods.

"He has," and despite himself, the eloquent stallion had to pause, but it was no secret, not really. "He has mostly recovered in flesh, although," and again a half pause as pain thickened the words, "he will never fly again." The words hung, heavy and dark, between the two equines, and were utterly incongruous with the otherwise cheerful and cozy atmosphere of the shop.

"Flying is not everything, however, as we horses know," Abram continued, forcing lightness back into his tone and shrugging his wingless withers. "There is wisdom learned in many things, and hardship is one of them... hard though it is to swallow at the time." He smiled, shook his head. "We... he is doing better now, though such an injury leaves more than one type of scar. He is not the same stallion he was before the accident, but then, I think that is perhaps the point." He was rambling, and shook his head again in self-deprecation.

They had both finished their drinks, and the light was waning as it seeped through the thickly paned windows. Abram looked at Fox. "I apologize if I've been keeping you from any duties," he said with an apologetic smile.

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Post 4| 379 words