El Bayadh Boundless
"Fatna breeds horses in El Bayadh's high steppes. When equestrian photographer Carlos arrives capturing Arabian bloodlines, she shows him that true pedigree can't be documented. 'El hsan y'aref sayedou' (الحصان يعرف صاحبه) - The horse knows its master."
El Bayadh's horses had carried prophets and poets. Fatna carried their lineage.
"These bloodlines," Carlos marveled. "Pure Arabian."
"El hsan ma yetqassemch." Horse can't be divided. "Ykoun wahd."
It's whole.
Her stables held legends—horses descended from mares that had crossed the Sahara.
"Can I photograph the stallion?"
"El hsan yqarrer."
"The horse decides?"
"El hsan y'aref sayedou."
She was substantial—horse-strong, steppe-weathered, commanding without commanding.
"You've bred how long?"
"Jeddi bda. Jeddi ta' jeddi bda."
"Generations?"
"El kheil 'ayla."
Days among horses taught him. Fatna's animals responded to her like extensions of self.
"They obey without command."
"Ma yetba'ouch." They don't obey. "Yhabbou."
"Horses love?"
"El hob f'el dem."
"Love in blood?"
"Kima fina."
Night brought different rhythms—horses running free, manes catching starlight.
"Ya latif," Carlos breathed.
"Hada el haqiqi." This is real. "El camera ma tlqethech."
She let him ride—not photograph, ride.
"Ana ma nerkebch kwayes."
"El hsan y'allem."
The horse teaches.
"Fatna..."
"El hsan qalli."
"Said what?"
"Belli qalbek sahih."
Your heart is true.
She kissed him in stable warmth, horses witnessing.
"Hada..."
"El hsan ywafeq."
She undressed in hay-softness, her curves powerful.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El steppe," she said. "Ana el steppe."
He rode her like learning to ride—finding rhythm, moving together.
"Carlos," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her gallop. "El 'adaw."
She ran beneath him, pleasure unbridled.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El sarj."
He mounted her completely, and understood what horsemanship meant.
"El hsan y'aref sayedou," she cried.
"W ana 'raftik."
Their rhythm was gallop—powerful, free, beautiful.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into the run. "El hsan y'aref sayedou."
They finished together, pleasure thoroughbred. Carlos held her through the cooling.
"El photographs?" she asked.
"Burned."
"Alache?"
"Some beauty should stay free."
His work transformed—observation not capture, presence not taking.
"El new style?" magazines asked.
"El hsan y'aref sayedou."
Now he rides beside her, learning what lenses miss.
"El photographer w el fares," they say.
"El hsan jab'na," Fatna smiles.
"El hsan ykhallina," Carlos adds.
Some pedigrees choose you.