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“I want you to have him.”
Elyan spoke the request plainly to her, as if it were easy. He was a good liar when he had to be, and in that moment he tried to tell himself that parting with the horse was easy.
“You mean to leave him?” Cirina’s surprise was clear even when he did not look up at her. He was too busy pretending to be fascinated by the blades of grass beneath his palms, or the ones Patch was placidly cropping, his gray muzzle hovering above the ground while they discussed his fate.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Eorzea’s a long way off, and he’s too old to enjoy the journey much.” Elyan turned to her and feigned a smile. “He’d be happier back on the steppe.”
The stable was one of the buildings the people of Namai rebuilt in the waning days of the occupation. A long, low slung building that still smelled of the cypress felled to craft it. With a dozen stalls, it was modest by most standards, but more than enough for the small number of beasts kept by the village. When their contingent had arrived from the Steppe in preparation for the assault on the castle, they had picketed their excess beasts outside. Now, on the eve of their return to Gyr Abania, Elyan found himself with the Mol, the both of them sitting on the ground beside the placid animal that had kept him company during the long stretch of time he spent flung so far from home.
“Gifting a horse is no small thing…” Cirina looked at him in a way that belied her sympathy, as if she were talking to a small child. She was kind. Elyan appreciated that about her. “But if you insist, I will not reject him.”
“It’s not like I’m giving you another stallion to look after. Only a gelding” A wry smile twisted his lips. “He’s got enough fire in him yet to be a good one for the little ones to learn on, and he’s gentle, too.”
“The gesture itself is no small thing. I didn't mean to imply Patch is a burden. We have ample room for him in our herds.”
“Aye, I’m liable to come back and find him happy and fat from all the food you’ve snuck to him along with the grass.”
“He seeks it out, you know. He begs like a dog.” It was a quick defense, and they both chuckled at it, Elyan agreeing with a broad smile that, yes, the horse was quick to sniff out any fresh fruit or vegetables tucked in one’s pocket.
Patch shuffled a few steps closer, still cropping the grass. Elyan reached out to rub the stubbly line of his roached mane, watching how a pair of red ears pointed listlessly toward the sound of another horse whinnying from the stables.
Cirina drew her legs up to her chest, folding her arms around her knees. “Still, he is the steed of a khagan. Traditionally there would be some ceremony to taking him in as our own…”
Elyan grimaced. “You don’t have to call me that. You know.”
“I know. But it is true, as a technicality, at the least.”
He sighed, finally taking his hand away from Patch’s neck once he had pulled his forelock free from the halter. “I’d make a lousy khagan, then. Not even able to give you a fine enough horse to impress the khatun with.”
“ Elyan .”
“She’s a fine eye for horses. Have you seen the string of mares she keeps?” He raised his eyebrows, watching as the Xaela’s face flushed scarlet.
Elyan patted her shoulder. “Look after him for me. And talk to her. She’s keen on you.”
Cirina gave him a look that was not quite withering, but enough for him to know he had broken through her calm demeanor. He grinned again.
“I will.” She said, smoothing her hands down over her robes. “Look after Patch, I mean.”
Satisfied that the ragged, sturdy animal he had found wandering and underfed when they arrived in Doma would at least have a place to spend the rest of his days, Elyan let the conversation dwindle. A time would come soon where he could worry about the rest of it. About the return to Gyr Abania. About his mother. About the crown prince. For now, at least, he would pretend that he was still just a young boy with his horse, waiting for the next caravan to roll through the gates.