#[ Lorenz horse boy hours real ]

[thyrosus]

gallant.—cavalier mastery drabble.

FOR EVERY YARN OF GALLANTRY and birdsong of the heroics of knights of a foregone era, there is an oft-unsung stalwart companion.

A tireless steed, no less elegant than the swordplay of a hero, mane untamed or perfectly bound in intricate ribbons—it depends on the level of theatrics, Lorenz would discern later, upon closer readings, but such details escaped him as a child, captivated by the simplicity of the image itself. A knight upon a horse, the horse’s legs reared and head wild, a weapon pointed to the heavens and striking awe and fear with equal measure, every emotion cutting straight to the eye of the beholder.

Lorenz has never aspired to knighthood, of any kind. His path was set long before his birth, and he has never once considered what it might be like to stray. If he did stray—damning centuries of his ancestors in the process—it certainly wouldn’t be to knighthood.

(He can admire them, of course.

Who wouldn’t?

Strapping ideal of a gentleman; Lorenz can admire from afar and choose to emulate their core values, amplify them beyond, as he must with all things.)

But he aspired, as a child, to ride like them, to sit astride his own companion and be recognized for his glory.

Lessons started young, and as with most things, Lorenz felt as though he took to riding as naturally as breathing. The smells of stables took getting used to, and sensitive as his nose is, he’d learned the hard way he’d never be truly blind of it—but it was hardly a deterrent. 

Neither was the first time he was thrown. Or the third. Never injured beyond repair, mind, but it smarted enough to ground Lorenz to his own minuscule sense of humility. Colloquially, you can break a horse; that was never his goal, at least not after learning with bruised ribs and broken arms.

He sought an equal. A companion. He’s never wished to rule with an iron fist, not in his future endeavors, and not with fists curled into reins.

Stories are embellished, and Lorenz fancies himself a realist. (There is nothing quite so real as a face in the dirt.) But everyone must have their follies. A nobleman must have a noble steed. A noble steed may well not respond to a rider that cannot respect them in turn.

It became a point of pride, then, that he’d go through the ritualistic process of tacking up his horse without the aids of one of the many stablehands under House Gloucester’s employ. Every buckle secured, tight but not constricting; every coat brushed to perfection and hooves cleaned meticulously. Never rushed, so that both rider and steed may relish in the attention.

Begonia was a gift—no, a living apology for time cut short on his own endeavors. Fhirdiad’s chill was still in his bones, and there was still a bitterness in the back of his throat at the platitudes of his father, but he’d known best, and they were tempered. A velvet nose against his palm, a coat that called back to the night sky. Intelligent eyes, despite the shine of youth.

A noble companion, even some three years later.

Neither have any illusions of knighthood; by now, all illusions of Lorenz’s perfection have likely been shattered by Begonia’s judgment. The same ritualistic care still bookends their solo rides together. In Beltanne, an ocean of green flooded their gaze on the gentle slopes of Gloucester county’s hills.

At Garreg Mach, they see the break of clouds, jagged peaks that brush the heavens themselves. Atop Begonia, Lorenz feels as though he sits on the lone still point of a world that turns without them.

This is the last ride of theirs before winter sets in. It’s come early. The cold air still burns the both of their lungs raw. Both horse and rider are bundled to the best of their ability, dead earth underneath hooves. Soon, the world will be awash in flurries of snow, and the distant ache for spring will needle them both until they feel warmth in the air again.

On the peaks, were Begonia to rear, Lorenz’s years would kick in, and his body would move with his steed, heels in the stirrups and compensating for the shift in weight.

They may look gallant. They may simply look like fools, close to slipping from the edge of the world entirely.

“Dreadful,” Lorenz muses of the weather, and the thought, and only Begonia is around to hear him.

The pageantry of knighthood from stories of old has lost a lot of its luster.

The companion remains.

Begonia agrees, he thinks, with a puff of hot air expelled from his nostrils. Lorenz’s breath as he laughs leaves the same cloud in its wake, and they continue on down their path, no gallop of passion but a steady, meandering trot.

It is not noble, but it suits them both just fine.