Pros fic - The Loosed White Horses by Slantedlight
Hey, I did it! This one's for milomaus... *vbg*
The Loosed White Horses
by Slantedlight
for Milomaus, whose prompt was “One of them tackling a rider. In full speed or so”
The world moved at half-speed, Doyle’s heartbeat loud in his ears, hard against his chest, breath an effort of in and out - and then the Capri was a bare strip of metal under one foot as he pushed himself away, felt nothing but air, and then landed with a thump that he’d feel in his thighs - and other parts - for days. But the horse was a solid, living thing under him, the wind rushing around him again and the ground below a blur of green, and he fell into the desperate, headlong rhythm, holding tight with his legs, one hand reaching to clutch the beast’s mane, his other arm wrapping itself around the girl who rode in blind terror, pulling her back against him, the blast of Guigan’s shotgun no doubt still reverberating through her mind and her imagination.
From the corner of his eye he saw the Capri sloughing across the field now that she was taken care of, as silver-white in the brilliant afternoon sun as the stallion beneath him, away towards the bushes where they’d last seen Guigan, all deadly intent against a girl barely old enough to know what she’d seen, let alone be a credible witness against him. She felt as lifeless now as if she’d fainted, though her fingers still held the reins loosely, and as the horse calmed under them, against his extra weight, against the familiar feel of a rider insisting on control, he managed to take them from her, to start convincing their mount to slow, to canter, to trot, to walk…
And there, to their right, was emerald green grass sloping down to the edge of the cliff, to the sunlit, shining sea, not to death after all. but to gentle walks and to summer holidays. A seagull rose on a lazy twist of wind, hung for a moment, then swooped back down out of sight with a cheerful cry. In the distance, somewhere behind them, a wail of sirens grew louder and he turned the horse back towards the sound, saw the Capri parked aslant against a stone wall, and Bodie on the other side of it, holding a Guigan who looked as if he’d rather fall down in one hand, and the skeleton stock of a Mauser in the other.
They reached him only just before the police did, on Bodie’s side of the field, so that he barely had time to lean the girl forward and slide off the horse, reaching to lift her down after him, and letting the horse wander off to its own kind of rest and refreshment, pastures green and endless. It startled slightly as a car door slammed, then put its head down again and carried on grazing, excitement over, its world at peace once more.
The girl moved suddenly under Doyle’s steadying arms, turning to look at him, all wide eyes under her short bobbed hair. She was too young for all this, should have been left to dancing with her horse, to the safety of a world where the worst thing she might suffer was a broken bone or two, or the embarrassment of falling off in front of her mates.
He left one arm around her shoulders, looked her in the eyes. “You know, you’re very good at that.”
She gazed at him, uncertain.
“Riding,” he clarified. “I don’t know many people your age who could have kept their balance like that.”
“I do vaulting…” she began, “You have to balance…”
“Lena!”
“Ma-ma!”
Doyle let her go, and she rushed towards the wall, where a tall young policeman lifted her over and into the arms of her parents. She was, he noted with amusement, as he made his own leap unaided over the mossed stone, already looking more excited than scared. It took some people like that - maybe she’d be alright after all, with nothing more than a summer adventure to tell at school. George Cowley stepped across his line of vision, reaching out a hand to the girl’s father, and bent to speak to Lena. Whatever he said, she nodded with certainty, and then looked towards her mother for approval.
“Bet you anything he’s recruiting,” a voice said beside him, and there was warmth pressed against his shoulder and his arm and all the way through him, and he didn’t need to look at Bodie to know that his lips were twisting in a half smile. “He’ll have a team of horse vaulters on the squad before you can say hay net.”
“No bet…” Bodie’s fingertips brushed against his own, so lightly, so casually, so barely there for anyone to see, a slowed-down half-heartbeat of a moment, and the sun warm on his face. “Though in case you didn’t notice, I’m chief vaulter in this outfit.”
“What, that thing you did from the car window?” Bodie did look sideways at him now, and Doyle turned his own head to meet him, to catch his eye and his smile and the triumph in his voice. “I wondered what that was. Thought you’d got tired of watching my superior driving. Have an nice ride?”
“Might have been the last riding I do for a while,” he admitted, moving to flex the muscles in his legs, feeling them stiff and sore already. “I think my gluteus maximus has had it, mate…”
“Ah no,” Bodie protested, and though his eyes were sliding over the dispersing crowds in front of them, police and parents and Cowley and all, Doyle could feel his awareness, his heart, the air that he breathed, all for him. “It was my turn with them this week - had plans, I did.”
“Unless those plans involve a hot bath…”
“Hot bath, warm hands, bottle of massage oil?”
“Now you’re talking.” He turned his head to catch Cowley’s gesture to them as he ushered the family towards his Rover, where Sally stood waiting - back to Hq, get your reports done! - and nodded - understood. “In that case I might even let you tug my fetlock…”
“Forelock,” Bodie said, giving him a shove to get him moving towards the Capri. “You tug your forelock, not your fetlock…”
“You can tug anything you want as long as you take it easy over those bumps on the way home…”
Behind them, away to the cliffs, the gulls wheeled and soared, the waves crashed white foam against the shore, and the horse grazed steadily on.
14th October, 2015
White Horses
by Rudyard Kipling
Where run your colts at pasture?
Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
All purple to the stars!
Who holds the rein upon you?
The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
The glut of all the sea.
'Twixt tide and tide's returning
Great store of newly dead, --
The bones of those that faced us,
And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges --
A million hooves unshod --
Break forth the mad White Horses
To seek their meat from God!
Girth-deep in hissing water
Our furious vanguard strains --
Through mist of mighty tramplings
Roll up the fore-blown manes --
A hundred leagues to leeward,
Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
The coming of the herd!
Whose hand may grip your nostrils --
Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us --
The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
That rope us where we run --
They know the strong White Horses
From father unto son.
We breathe about their cradles,
We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
To call them from their loves.
And come they for your calling?
No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
Above their fathers' grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
To school the herds anew.
What service have ye paid them,
Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
Our snow-backed leaders graze --
A guard behind their plunder,
And a veil before their ways.
With march and countermarchings --
With weight of wheeling hosts --
Stray mob or bands embattled --
We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
The wild white riders lie.
. . . .
Trust ye that curdled hollows --
Trust ye the neighing wind --
Trust ye the moaning groundswell --
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies --
To chill and snap his sword --
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!
The Loosed White Horses
by Slantedlight
for Milomaus, whose prompt was “One of them tackling a rider. In full speed or so”
The world moved at half-speed, Doyle’s heartbeat loud in his ears, hard against his chest, breath an effort of in and out - and then the Capri was a bare strip of metal under one foot as he pushed himself away, felt nothing but air, and then landed with a thump that he’d feel in his thighs - and other parts - for days. But the horse was a solid, living thing under him, the wind rushing around him again and the ground below a blur of green, and he fell into the desperate, headlong rhythm, holding tight with his legs, one hand reaching to clutch the beast’s mane, his other arm wrapping itself around the girl who rode in blind terror, pulling her back against him, the blast of Guigan’s shotgun no doubt still reverberating through her mind and her imagination.
From the corner of his eye he saw the Capri sloughing across the field now that she was taken care of, as silver-white in the brilliant afternoon sun as the stallion beneath him, away towards the bushes where they’d last seen Guigan, all deadly intent against a girl barely old enough to know what she’d seen, let alone be a credible witness against him. She felt as lifeless now as if she’d fainted, though her fingers still held the reins loosely, and as the horse calmed under them, against his extra weight, against the familiar feel of a rider insisting on control, he managed to take them from her, to start convincing their mount to slow, to canter, to trot, to walk…
And there, to their right, was emerald green grass sloping down to the edge of the cliff, to the sunlit, shining sea, not to death after all. but to gentle walks and to summer holidays. A seagull rose on a lazy twist of wind, hung for a moment, then swooped back down out of sight with a cheerful cry. In the distance, somewhere behind them, a wail of sirens grew louder and he turned the horse back towards the sound, saw the Capri parked aslant against a stone wall, and Bodie on the other side of it, holding a Guigan who looked as if he’d rather fall down in one hand, and the skeleton stock of a Mauser in the other.
They reached him only just before the police did, on Bodie’s side of the field, so that he barely had time to lean the girl forward and slide off the horse, reaching to lift her down after him, and letting the horse wander off to its own kind of rest and refreshment, pastures green and endless. It startled slightly as a car door slammed, then put its head down again and carried on grazing, excitement over, its world at peace once more.
The girl moved suddenly under Doyle’s steadying arms, turning to look at him, all wide eyes under her short bobbed hair. She was too young for all this, should have been left to dancing with her horse, to the safety of a world where the worst thing she might suffer was a broken bone or two, or the embarrassment of falling off in front of her mates.
He left one arm around her shoulders, looked her in the eyes. “You know, you’re very good at that.”
She gazed at him, uncertain.
“Riding,” he clarified. “I don’t know many people your age who could have kept their balance like that.”
“I do vaulting…” she began, “You have to balance…”
“Lena!”
“Ma-ma!”
Doyle let her go, and she rushed towards the wall, where a tall young policeman lifted her over and into the arms of her parents. She was, he noted with amusement, as he made his own leap unaided over the mossed stone, already looking more excited than scared. It took some people like that - maybe she’d be alright after all, with nothing more than a summer adventure to tell at school. George Cowley stepped across his line of vision, reaching out a hand to the girl’s father, and bent to speak to Lena. Whatever he said, she nodded with certainty, and then looked towards her mother for approval.
“Bet you anything he’s recruiting,” a voice said beside him, and there was warmth pressed against his shoulder and his arm and all the way through him, and he didn’t need to look at Bodie to know that his lips were twisting in a half smile. “He’ll have a team of horse vaulters on the squad before you can say hay net.”
“No bet…” Bodie’s fingertips brushed against his own, so lightly, so casually, so barely there for anyone to see, a slowed-down half-heartbeat of a moment, and the sun warm on his face. “Though in case you didn’t notice, I’m chief vaulter in this outfit.”
“What, that thing you did from the car window?” Bodie did look sideways at him now, and Doyle turned his own head to meet him, to catch his eye and his smile and the triumph in his voice. “I wondered what that was. Thought you’d got tired of watching my superior driving. Have an nice ride?”
“Might have been the last riding I do for a while,” he admitted, moving to flex the muscles in his legs, feeling them stiff and sore already. “I think my gluteus maximus has had it, mate…”
“Ah no,” Bodie protested, and though his eyes were sliding over the dispersing crowds in front of them, police and parents and Cowley and all, Doyle could feel his awareness, his heart, the air that he breathed, all for him. “It was my turn with them this week - had plans, I did.”
“Unless those plans involve a hot bath…”
“Hot bath, warm hands, bottle of massage oil?”
“Now you’re talking.” He turned his head to catch Cowley’s gesture to them as he ushered the family towards his Rover, where Sally stood waiting - back to Hq, get your reports done! - and nodded - understood. “In that case I might even let you tug my fetlock…”
“Forelock,” Bodie said, giving him a shove to get him moving towards the Capri. “You tug your forelock, not your fetlock…”
“You can tug anything you want as long as you take it easy over those bumps on the way home…”
Behind them, away to the cliffs, the gulls wheeled and soared, the waves crashed white foam against the shore, and the horse grazed steadily on.
14th October, 2015
White Horses
by Rudyard Kipling
Where run your colts at pasture?
Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
All purple to the stars!
Who holds the rein upon you?
The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
The glut of all the sea.
'Twixt tide and tide's returning
Great store of newly dead, --
The bones of those that faced us,
And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges --
A million hooves unshod --
Break forth the mad White Horses
To seek their meat from God!
Girth-deep in hissing water
Our furious vanguard strains --
Through mist of mighty tramplings
Roll up the fore-blown manes --
A hundred leagues to leeward,
Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
The coming of the herd!
Whose hand may grip your nostrils --
Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us --
The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
That rope us where we run --
They know the strong White Horses
From father unto son.
We breathe about their cradles,
We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
To call them from their loves.
And come they for your calling?
No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
Above their fathers' grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
To school the herds anew.
What service have ye paid them,
Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
Our snow-backed leaders graze --
A guard behind their plunder,
And a veil before their ways.
With march and countermarchings --
With weight of wheeling hosts --
Stray mob or bands embattled --
We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
The wild white riders lie.
. . . .
Trust ye that curdled hollows --
Trust ye the neighing wind --
Trust ye the moaning groundswell --
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies --
To chill and snap his sword --
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!