//------------------------------//
// Bedouin 
// Story: Tales From Saddle Arabia 
// by Pen and Paper 
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Like the birds that stopped at my village’s oasis, my bravery was migratory. It came and went, curled under their wings as they skidded over the surface with an exhausted landing, dipping their heads to indulge in the fresh, cool water.

My lover was very much like the sand swans he studied—lanky and beautiful, narrow, focused eyes, and a slender neck that arched gently like a palm tree. His wings were slim and sharp, meant to cut through the sky rather than glide. Despite us both being pegasi, he was a creature of alien beauty.

At night, while the swans rested and preened their feathers, we would sneak to the outskirts of town to make love in his tent under the cautious orange glow of his lantern, letting our moans ride up the dunes to be whisked away by untamable winds. And when we lay in our sweat, breathing hard, he would tell me about his studies—biological functions, aerodynamics, dissections—all in immaculate detail. He would run his hoof through my mane while he did so, playing with my disheveled hair. Despite the cool nights, his touch always felt as hot as the Saddle Arabian sun.

Once he was done discussing his studies, he would try to convince me to leave my village.

“Come with me, Fadheel, my stallion of the sands. Let us fly together under the moon and all of the stars. Just you and me,” he would say.

As much as my heart yearned, I could not. By ancient law, the stallions of my village were not allowed to leave. Only the mare-folk could set hoof outside the oasis, just as the Wanderer had done thousands of years ago when she blazed her holy trail across the desert. In some parts of the desert, stallion pegasi had their wings clipped at birth to deter them from leaving. And if one did decide to journey out of their home, they would be treated as an exile, shamed from ever returning.

My lover understood this, but would still push me further with each passing season. He would arrive with the swans in the cold months and plant his rebellious seed in me. I would leave my father and my mother and sisters and never look back. They would forget me eventually, and I them, and that would be my path.

I would promise him that we would depart together once he made his way back to me in the warm months, but as soon as he left, I felt so heavy that I thought I would sink under the dunes. I would spend six months trying to nurture that rebellion—that new bravery inside me, but the deserts were not good for growing things.

This pattern repeated itself for five years. Wings, love, promises, then excuses.

But this year, he did not arrive with the birds, and he did not come back with them, either. There was no sign of him or his beautiful neck or his dancer’s legs or those crisp wings that cradled my head so gently in his tent. I wept that night as the swans circled each other and preened their feathers, floating aimlessly in the clear waters.

In my moment of despair, however, I felt that seed of rebellion flourish into my own bravery, beautiful and strong in its own way.

Now, I stand at the edge of my village, staring up at the guardian pillars that have confined my entire world. It is dawn, and the sand swans are flying overhead in their arrowhead formation, pointing me where I need to go.

With a final step, I cross the threshold, hold my head up high, and kick into the air, joining the birds as they guide me into the unknown.

I do not look back. I do not think of anyone else except him. Wherever I land, I know he will be waiting for me.