(no subject)
Edmund went out to the stable earlier. There was a stranger mucking out stalls, which Edmund was secretly rather grateful for. With a stranger, he could just nod amiably and move on to Rachat's stall, and not have to make small talk and explain that, well, no, he hadn't been around in a while, had he, but he'd been doing fine, so nice to hear about the past six months' news and crises.
But the stablehand was a stranger, so he could just have a quiet visit with his horse and slip away again with another nod of farewell.
Rachat's been well cared for, of course. Well groomed, well fed, turned out regularly and exercised enough to keep him fit. He's doing fine.
But Edmund knows a man's duty to his horse -- you don't forget, when you've been taught by Talking Horses, and you don't forget when you've been a knight and king -- and he knows that leaving him in the care of even the best of grooms for months is no part of it. It was a minute before Rachat even recognized him -- and that hurt. Mostly the pain was guilt.
He gave the gelding an extra sugar cube, and didn't even pretend that it would help, really.
He's at a table now, with tea and scones. (Tea because, well, it's tea, and scones with jam and clotted cream because if he's in a place that serves lovely food like this he might as well take advantage of it.) He's trying very hard to keep from brooding, at least visibly. The copy of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night he got from the bar is helping a fair amount with that.
But the stablehand was a stranger, so he could just have a quiet visit with his horse and slip away again with another nod of farewell.
Rachat's been well cared for, of course. Well groomed, well fed, turned out regularly and exercised enough to keep him fit. He's doing fine.
But Edmund knows a man's duty to his horse -- you don't forget, when you've been taught by Talking Horses, and you don't forget when you've been a knight and king -- and he knows that leaving him in the care of even the best of grooms for months is no part of it. It was a minute before Rachat even recognized him -- and that hurt. Mostly the pain was guilt.
He gave the gelding an extra sugar cube, and didn't even pretend that it would help, really.
He's at a table now, with tea and scones. (Tea because, well, it's tea, and scones with jam and clotted cream because if he's in a place that serves lovely food like this he might as well take advantage of it.) He's trying very hard to keep from brooding, at least visibly. The copy of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night he got from the bar is helping a fair amount with that.