The Same Tune

It's been almost two whole months since my last post, so I figured it was time to get my butt in gear and enter once again into HARPG-land.

Also, Freddie decided to co-operate with me for once, as have all the rest of the cast. It's eerie.

Previously:

A man and his horse who play to the same tune give the sweetest of music. There is an unspoken tenderness, an unbreakable connection between them, a feeling unknown to any but themselves. Passers by rarely notice the slight shifts in both's body language, complimenting and molding each other - the relaxed hoof of a hind leg, the casual lean, the soft nostrils, the calm expression. Their emotions rebound off each other, amplified by the closeness. Every twitch of the skin is felt. Every breath is shared air. Every spare moment is spent in each other's company, and those who have a true connection are not embarrassed about it.

The colt shuffled; closed his eyes, and sighed as Freddie's hand traced circles in the coat, ruffling it first one way, then lying it back down flat. His left hand burrowed deeper into the chestnut mane; grabbed a handful. The fingers were used to grabbing hold and never letting go, for life and limb depended on the steadfastness of those singularly fragile hairs that were so strong in a pack. His right hand traced the colt's bare spine; stopped and flattened itself like a hunted rabbit. It tensed. He held his breath.

In one fluid, easy motion, Freddie swung himself up onto Clock's back, settled into the curve of his spine, and hung his legs down, tracing the form of ribs beneath his calves. This was home. This was where he belonged, on the back of a horse, in the last light of the day. Clocks, his warhorse. Faster than creatures of legend. As proud and haughty as a deity, yet he had accepted him.

Freddie breathed. In, out. His heart didn't pound as if they were pressed in against the stall or flat out in a race, but it thrummed a wavering beat that flitted around the steady baseline of the heart below him. He stole a glance upwards away from the mane.

The sun took its last breaths as it prepared to plunge into the darkness of the horizon. Trees whispered to each other in the gentle breeze. Creatures clambered out of their daytime lurking places and took up the hunt, ignoring the onlookers - a silent white owl gliding past them on soft feather wings, a fox skulking under the paddock fence and trotting across the field, ears pricked, staccato gait sharp.

Clocks followed them with his ears, but at a soft whisper he came back to Freddie. He tossed his head at the words. Easy, said his arrogant neck, bent and tensed. Simple, said the hooves that pawed at the ground.

Let's go, said the flaring nostrils that flashed red.

Let's go, said the squeeze at his sides and the boots at his barrel.

And they went.

---

'Hey, Freddie. Look at this,' Graham tossed a scrap of paper at his chest. 'You'll like it.'

Freddie's eyes scanned the paper, a scrawl of letters that swam before his tired eyes. '"Backsteel fired - tell Freddie"?' He could barely make sense of the words, but they revealed themselves before long, settling into his brain like well oiled cogs. He blinked. 'Oh.'

Graham grinned and snatched the paper back. 'I thought I'd better write it down in case I forgot. Getting ever more senile. A friend who works at the track rang and told me, knew you'd been fueding with him. He said it was over something to do with betting, don't ask me what, but I thought it'd brighten your day,' he said, tearing it into tiny pieces and flinging them down on the office table, switching them with a steaming cup of tea. He drank, and gasped, then attacked the cup again. Between sips he swore, freshly burnt tongue throbbing.

Freddie swept the torn paper into his hand, 'I hope never to see that guy again.' He was lying, of course - he'd have liked to meet Backsteel on the streets of Mexico City so he could give him a proper piece of his mind, but it would be nice not to have to think up new sparring thrusts every time he went to weigh in at Newmarket.

He left the office, and Graham, and, rubbing his side, walked down the barn to check in on another one of his mounts, the hulking angel in a demon's body that was Hrimfaxi. He was as pleased as ever to be noticed, pressing his massive head against the tiny human and gently leaning into the circular petting. Hrimfaxi caught the scent of a carrot and zoned in, radar senses at full capacity. Right a bit, down a bit...there!

He removed the carrot from its denim confines and crunched upon it happily, like a child with a lollipop. Carrot all gone, and with orange gunk spattering his lips, Hrim hunted for more, playfully butting Freddie's side.

A searing shiver of pain ran up and down his body, spasming out into the ground and swirling around his head. It felt like a million acid spitting serpents were slithering along inside his veins at a hundred miles an hour, biting where they could and drooling venom. He stumbled back against the wall; Hrimfaxi regarded him cautiously, anxiousness written all over his face. Pain was not new to any jockey, indeed it was a constant parasitic companion, but this - ach, this hurt like hell. More than hell. Without adrenaline and drugs, oh it hurt.

He remembered how it had happened. Last night, the feeling of sliding jerkily down the white and chestnut side in the midst of a headlong rush across turf, tumbling down like a water deprived fish. He could still hear the echoes of the sickening crunch, but after that, nothing.

Until the moonlit silouhette of British Summertime met his eyes, some long, black minutes later. He had been laying down, his head resting on the ground by Freddie's face, and his eyes full of worry and longing.

Shown: British Summertime and Freddie De Vere.


Name: British Summertime
Barn Name: Clocks
Gender: Colt
Height: 16.3hh
Color: Chestnut Sabino
Eyes: Blue
Markings: White legs, large white blaze, famous white ear of the Sumerian line. A few birdcatcher spots from his dam.
Build: Clocks is quite bulky and well muscled with plenty of leg and good strong bones. He looked almost ponyish in his foalhood, with a short neck and barrel. We hope, however, that he will grow up to be just as handsome as his sire.
Breed: Thoroughbred
Lineage: Summertime x Oh No!
Discipline: Flat Racing
Genes: ee/AA/nSb
Temperament: Clocks is much like his father and not a bit like his dam, thankfully. He is confident, almost over confident even, and he needs to be handled by a firm hand who won't back down. He'll test your bravery and he is somewhat of an unexploded bomb. Like Summer, he is nippy and very highly strung. And, also like daddy, he adores being in the limelight and will do anything to capture attention.


Art, writing & Characters (C) me
Reference: Link