After the murder of his son, King Bashir rode his horse to near-absolute exhaustion as it foamed at the bit, and snorted heavily.
I've just spent the last two days at a gallop, and I don't think my arse or the horse can take much more, he thought.
He observed the path behind him, desperately searching for anyone who might be following him. The sun had begun to set, and he could just barely see a glint of the Coltend's tower reflecting the setting sun's rays. He had ridden as fast as he could from Coltend Castle, over the Lucent River, to reach the base of the Rhydian Mountains.
I know this horse well, but its hooves are covered in dried blood from riding over countless twigs and rocks in the road. I don't know how much longer it will survive without food and rest, he thought.
He promptly decided to make his small camp near a stream that ran down the mountainside. His small fire did little to ward off the cold air from the peaks, and the sheep-hide bed only maintained its warmth on the cold floor. The horse lay next to him, taking the blunt force of the wind while Bashir nibbled on a field mouse he had killed and tried to roast over his small flame. It was still partially raw, and he struggled with every bite.
"You've done well," he said to his horse, patting it on the neck after taking another bite of his questionable meal. He had stolen it from one of the men who had gone with him to the council, who had been waiting for him outside the palace walls.
"I know you cannot speak, and yet I feel as though I must know your name," he said, still stroking its massive nape. The horse shook his head slightly. He was pensive for a few moments. "I shall call you 'Hatal'. Do you want to know what it means?" he asked, breaking his silence.
The horse didn't reply, obviously.
"Ah, right. Well, I shall tell you anyway. It means hero in my language. Your strength saved me from what could have been a most horrible death. I thank you," he said with another pat. Hatal leaned his head over his rider's shoulder. "We make a great pair, you and I. Once we arrive in Harut, I will ensure you are fed an entire bowl of lush red apples. How does that sound, huh?" he said, stroking Hatal's long hair.
The horse snorted heavily, rubbing the side of his face against Bashir's. "Heh, you're a good horse," he said with a smile. "Let us rest now. We have only one final stretch before we're home. You're powerful, Hatal, and I know you and I will make it," he said comfortingly. He leaned back on the horse and curled up to keep himself warm.
I wonder what Bashaa would say if he could see me now, he thought.
Thoughts about the journey ahead began to flood his mind, but he pushed them aside as memories of his son began to flood his consciousness. Bashaa had been his pride and joy, the brightest of his sons. The others had died from an unknown disease after a feast, though Bashir and his son had been absent that fateful evening. When he returned, he found three of his sons in the morgue, covered in white linen.
"Do you know the pain of loss, Hatal?" he asked. The horse, once more verbally unresponsive, perked his ears up. "I don't suppose horses feel remorse or heartbreak, do you? Not that I would know what goes through your minds. But as it currently stands, I have no more sons. No heirs to continue my line, and no joys left in this world. I witnessed that monster slash my last remaining son's neck, and defile his corpse," he growled.
"As for my other sons, I just wish I could go back in time and be, at the very least, present for their final moments. I…" he choked, tears welling up in his eyes. "I have failed, Hatal," he began, struggling through tears. "I have failed as a King, as a husband, and as a father. Just look at me, now," he gestured his arms at his own body.
"I am nothing. An empty shell of my former self. A shadow and a thought of what once contained joy, laughter, and pride in myself and my sons. Now, I am here pouring my soul out to a fucking horse, all while fleeing for my life." Hatal, not understanding exactly what was said, but feeling the emotion behind his words, gently leaned his massive head on Bashir's shoulder, moving him to tears.
My dearest Bashaa, how I miss you. I feel as if a part of my soul has been torn from me. You were the last heir to the Ibn'Escea line, and even if I do have another child, I doubt they could live up to your reputation. You have joined the spirits of your brothers and forefathers, but your memory will live on with me. I will make Truls suffer greatly for what he has done to you, my son, he thought.
Hatal quivered, feeling the anger, frustration, and hatred growing. Bashir, considering numerous ways to torture Truls potentially, emitted a dark energy around him. Being sensitive to such things, the horse gently nudged his master as if to break the train of horrific thoughts.
Bashir snapped out of his attitude and noticed Hatal's face had come awfully close to his own. "Wh-what? I can't want revenge for what that piece of shit did to my son?" he asked. Hatal, without budging so much as a hair's width, snorted. The man seemed to understand what the horse meant and sighed.