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zepskies · 2 months ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

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🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn.

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly.

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now.

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock…

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insipid-drivel · 8 months ago

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Warhorses: Which horses are actually good candidates, anyway?

This post is in honor of @warrioreowynofrohan, who asked the question in the comments under my guide, "Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap". Their question, "Given what you said about too much weight breaking a horse’s spine, how did that work with knights in plate armour?" is one I'm going to try to answer here, since the answer can be very nuanced depending on where and when you're talking about.

Also, while I was a stable hand for years as well as a rider, I never had the opportunity to directly learn more ancient styles of tacking, horse training, and combat, so I don't have any direct experience to draw from with regard to horses used for military purposes. I'm still gonna do my best here with what I know, and research what I don't.

As I've covered in the past, large horses (draft horses) make less-than-ideal warhorses, and so do carriage horses like the elegant and dramatic Friesians.

Let's begin by addressing this from the perspective of creative writing. For you writers and content creators out there, an essential part to the continuity of any historically-themed work you do involving horses will be depicting breeds of horses that didn't exist before a certain time in history. I'm going to approach this question from the stance of, "Medieval-type era warhorses". Horses were used in warfare as late was World War II, but actual horses you ride into battle with knights and archers and bannermen? We actually have to drop the subject of specific modern breeds altogether aside from using them for comparisons.

When discussing warhorses, various cultures have approached them differently. Some cultures will value a specific type of horse above all others, such as the Mongolian Steppe Horse or the American Mustang. Other cultures, which may be from biomes and territories where multiple types of horses are needed for different forms of warfare and tactics, value whichever horses can get their jobs done without their riders getting killed.

Carrying vs. Pulling:

Horses have been used in warfare since as far back as 4000 BC, but their first applications were more as chariot horses. Humans have been riding and working with horses since before we even had stirrups to more easily ride them with! As archaeologists and anthropologists make more discoveries, the more we learn that we humans have been working closely with horses since before we had specialized tools to ride them with. The very first warhorses pulled chariots or carts, which is much easier for a horse's anatomy to handle compared to carrying a heavy weight like an armored rider on their backs, which puts stress directly on their spines where they have very little supporting muscle for supporting a lot of heavy downward weight.

Warhorse Size Categories:

Really, any breed of horse can apply to a niche in warfare if it's needed enough. Even very small, delicate horses have had their place in the history of human combat! Before I continue, it's important to know that there's a unique unit of measuring a horse's height. Rather than measuring a horse's height in centimeters or inches, they're measured in units called "hands". A single "hand" = ~4 inches/10.16cm, and a horse's height is measured based upon the distance between the bottom of their hoof to the tallest part of their shoulders, just at the base of the back of their necks. We don't actually include neck length/head height in a horse's measurements with traditional measuring.

Another rule of thumb: The average horse cannot safely carry anything heavier than about 30% of their total body weight. This is a serious factor to take into mind when deciding on a type of or breed of horse for a mounted warrior of any kind: You need to factor in the OC's starting body weight, and then add on the weight of armor, weapons, and any armor the horse itself may wear along with the weight of its tack.

Light-Weight Horses:

A few examples of lightweight horse breeds whose ancestors have historically been used in combat are Arabians, Barber Horses, and the magnificent Akhal-Teke. Lightweight and delicately-boned horses like those are best applied for military maneuvers that require precision, speed, and endurance, and the rider themselves should specialize in some form of combat or reconnaissance that doesn't require them to wear heavy metal or laminated armors. Archers are good candidates for riding smaller horses, or lightly-armored swordsmen like an Ottoman Janissary.

Central-Asian and North African horses also benefit from having a higher tolerance for hot climates. They can absolutely suffer from heatstroke and cardiac arrest from being forced to run and work in extreme temperatures and should always be provided with the same protective measures in a heatwave as any other horse, but they have a little bit of an edge over horses descended from freezing and temperate climates.

Medium-Weight Horses:

Medium-weight horses started showing up in the archaeological record around about the Iron Age, where chariot warfare was becoming an increasingly utilized form of mobile combat, and people needed bigger, stronger horses capable of pulling heavier loads - such as a chariot with two passengers rather than just one. As cultures began to develop heavier-duty armors made of metals and laminated materials, it also became important to breed horses that were tall and stocky (muscular and with relatively short spines compared to their height), and therefore more capable of carrying riders in increasingly heavy armor. Medium-weight horses were also essential at the dawn of the gunpowder age when the cannon came into use in siege warfare for pulling the heavy, iron cannons into position.

Medium-weight horses are really where we see the beginnings of knights and other warrior classes on horseback come into the forefront of warfare. When you have a horse that's big and strong enough to carry heavier armor and heavier weapons along with a rider wielding them, you have a much deadlier force at your disposal. Strikes from a sword or spear from the back of a galloping horse basically results in a sword capable of cutting through enemy soldiers like a hot knife through butter.

Important Note: Traditionally, cavalrymen wield blunt swords when attacking from a charging horse's back. When a horse is charging at full speed, the sharpness of a blade becomes less important than the blade's ability to stay in one piece when it impacts hard armor and bone. A blunted edge basically turns a cavalryman's sword into a thin club that's better at holding up against smashing through multiple layers of armor and bone compared to a thinner, more delicate sharpened edge that can shatter from a high-speed impact.

Heavy-Weight Horses:

The direct ancestors of modern draft horses, such as the Shire Horse, only began to appear around about the beginning of the European Medieval Era, and were far and away not even close to the enormous sizes of the draft horses we have today. Any horse counts as a "Heavy-weight" classed horse if its weight exceeds 1500lbs/680kgs.

Heavy-weight horses were really more bred for pulling enormous weights rather than carrying knights. While yeah, there is some evidence that suggests that heavy-weight horses were used by heavily-armored knights, historians argue a lot about whether it was a rule or an exception (such as with Henry VIII, who continued to ride well after he had begun to weigh more than 350lbs/158kgs, and even went to war in France in his final years on horseback). Generally speaking, medium-weight horses tend to be the right balance of agile and strong for carrying someone that's going to actively be fighting. Heavy-weight horses were bred to be a lot more tolerant to the chaos and frightening stimulation of the sounds of battle, but medium-weighted horses generally tended to be more suited to moving efficiently through dense packs of soldiers and weaving around other horses.

Ponies:

While actually being the smallest class of warhorse, ponies were essential when it came to carrying cargo and working as pack-horses. In certain forms of terrain, such as mountains, large horses pulling big carts full of supplies or soldiers could often be extremely impractical. In situations where an army needed to move on foot and form a narrow line in order to travel, ponies were able to traverse much narrower and rougher terrain while carrying smaller loads to their destination, when heavier horses would struggle more under their own weight and dexterity.

Europe-Specific Terminologies:

If you're a writer reading this and writing a piece set in the European Medieval age, there are specific terms used for the different classes I listed of warhorses above that I'm gonna list:

Destriers: The Destrier was a universal term for the iconic knight-carrying, jousting horse. They were also sometimes referred to as "Great Horses" due to their reputations in combat settings. Destriers could have just about any appearance, but were rarely taller than 15.2 hands, or 62inches/157cm. They were capable of carrying heavily-armored knights (although knights in full plate mail rarely rode into battle and stayed on the horse the entire time - they tended to specialize at grouping up and killing a lot of footsoldiers swarming them at once and preventing breaks in defenses from being overwhelmed by an oncoming army; in the case of Edward the Black Prince, we have substantial evidence in the form of his surviving brigandine that a mounted soldier or knight was more likely to wear chainmail and brigandine with a tabard on their body with their arms, feet, and heads the most heavily armored in plate when they intended to fight on horseback, making them a little lighter and more maneuverable, but I may be waaay off base there because I'm thinking of more of Italian soldiers who used full plate and how they applied it in battle more than any other example) and wearing armor themselves.

Interestingly, the sex of a destrier was often chosen strategically. Stallions (horses that haven't been neutered) are more aggressive, and could both act as combatants on their own if their knight was dismounted or killed, but could give away an army's location if they were attempting to move stealthily. Stallions whinny and shriek a lot when they're horny or arguing with each other, which is most of the time.

Mares were often chosen by Muslim armies for being much less vocal, and therefore much more capable of stealth. Geldings (neutered males) were the preferred mounts of the Teutonic Knights, a Catholic military group, since they couldn't be stolen and used to breed more horses for the enemy army.

Coursers:

Coursers were the most common Medieval European warhorse. It's important to remember that in Medieval Europe, most armies were almost entirely comprised of common men - serfs subject to the will of their landlords, not far removed from slaves in many ways - who couldn't afford the highly-prized and expensive Destriers. Coursers were usually a bit lighter than Destriers, but were still strong enough to carry someone wearing armor. Coursers were also a little more utilitarian, because they were also sometimes used in hunting as well as warfare, so they had a valuable use outside of warfare that the owner could benefit from.

Rouncey:

A rouncey was an all-purpose horse that could be used for leisure and travel-riding as well as be trained for war. They were a lot more likely to be found on the farm of a serf or independent farmer of some kind, as they could fill a lot of different roles depending on what they were needed for. Their sizes weren't really important as much as their ability to get the job done.

It's also critical to remember that, when talking about warhorses, we're usually talking about eras long past. In general, thanks to resource availability and incredible advances in medicine, modern humans are significantly taller, and therefore heavier, than people from the European Medieval era and prior. While fatness was valued in many cultures for its suggestion of wealth, most working-class and serf-class people worked intensely physically-demanding daily lives just to maintain their own homes. They were a few inches shorter on average than we are today, had greater fluctuations in body fat distribution depending on how harsh or bountiful the harvest season had been and the season in which a war was taking place (the average person's weight would swing by 30lbs or more on average every year prior to the industrial era), and cavalry were usually chosen based upon skill in the saddle as well as physical size when considering the application of medium or heavy armor being placed on the horse's back and body.

#long post #horses #horseback riding #warhorses #writing #writing resources

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hiwaaranit · 1 year ago

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what made you decide to make Híwarránit a Sugarbush? are they your favorite breed of horse? i’m curious because they’re not a super well known breed, so it’s quite cool to see someone make an oc of one!! :>

Thank you! ^^ It was actually because of this picture, it’s a normal draft horse but Appaloosas and draft horses are my favorite horses (for obvious reasons). I love appy mules too, any breed of horse originating from mustangs are super pretty and I take pride in horses my ancestors used and developed. And I was curious about a draft x Appaloosa and I found out they’re called sugar bushes and I love that. I was going to draw her in full horse regalia with travoi but I never got around to it. I like love the history and tradition uses and origins of native horses you have no idea like ggrgrgegeysgaga I go crazy, like omg I could write papers

Native horse W

#my art #oc #character design #native artist #horse fandom #horse art

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apocalyp-tech-a · 9 months ago

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SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW 🌈 (TechxReader)

Hello! This is my Bad Batch XReader Exchange gift for @deezlees for the @cloneficgiftexchange run by @ghostofskywalker!!! 💜

Prompts: Learning to ride a horse || Going on a vacation together || His first time at a history museum || Confident reader persona

Words: 2500

Warnings: None except flirtation maybe

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55173340

A/N: Having background in public history and having already written Tech at museums, this was a perfect matching!!! Hope you enjoy it! 🤓 And thank you to @cloneficgiftexchange for running it!

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW 🌈 (Tech X Reader)

The sun shone through the early morning commute of speeders and ships traversing Coruscant's sky, its pale blue color muted by smog that even the planet's filtering system could not alleviate. Towering skyscrapers of grays in every hue passed by as you navigated to the Grand Army of the Republic's base.

Upon pulling up in your speeder, a bright millaflower red Mustang XD38, you saw your future passenger salute you by casually flicking three fingers from his brow. You brought the speeder to a stop and flirted. "Hey good looking. Looking for a ride?"

"That depends," he said as he hopped into the passenger side with one dexterous and confident move.

"Depends on what, Tech?" You raised an eyebrow at him.

"On if I can be the driver." He adjusted his goggles hopefully.

"Can I pilot the Marauder?"

"No."

"Then you can be my CO-pilot. Just remember, I am the Captain here." You winked at him playfully.

You revved up the engine, but it wasn't loud enough to cover Tech's large sigh of frustration. You chuckled to yourself proudly before shooting him a grinning glance. "Aw, don't be like that, maybe you can drive back."

"That is exactly what you said on our previous two outings." Tech held up a pointed finger in a very casual, yet disgruntled manner.

"Yes. Hence the word "maybe."

Tech's propensity for arguing about who was driving dissipated as the museum came into view. His eyes were wide with excitement, though you knew he was trying to keep that emotion at bay. You had seen him go on one of his excited know-it-all rants before. You found them amusing, endearing, and most of all impressive. He was the smartest person you knew, whether it was from Kaminoan meddling or not, didn't matter. You loved listening to him, and he loved to talk. And you didn't just like listening to him because of the pleasing sound of his voice and looks, but because he actually did talk about things that were interesting.

After parking, you both walked to the museum's main entrance. Tech adjusted his goggles as his head tilted back to take in the much larger than necessary doors adorned by a full arch of sculpted marble, stone, mythological figures from all over the galaxy.

"Shall we?" You suggested with a smile.

Tech nodded in the affirmative. "After you, Madame." Tech took note of the strange face you gave him upon being called 'Madame.' Perhaps it was a little old fashioned, but he still had not figured out what else he could use in place of your name without being too forward or disrespectful. Sometimes you called him 'Hot Shot' or 'Ace' which were exceedingly better than the names his brothers called him.

As for you, his brothers were not without suggestions. Crosshair suggested 'Doll,' Hunter suggested 'Sweetheart,' Echo suggested 'Dearest,' and Wrecker suggested 'Booboo-tooka.'

None of those monikers were quite sufficient, however, but Tech knew a solution would eventually present itself.

Since you had already purchased tickets as a surprise for him since he had not only repaired, but upgraded and heavily modified the repulsor system for your speeder, you were able to acquire visitor badges quickly and began your mosey through the museum.

With twenty levels, there was no way you could see everything in one day let alone a few hours, but you knew Tech had marked out an itinerary on his datapad to follow at your suggestion. You knew he only had so much leave to see what most piqued his interest. Even though he wanted to see everything, you finally convinced him to whittle it down to four floors.

"Let's start with the Paleolithic and Neolithic," he said with a tweak of his goggles. He started walking toward the lifts as if he had been there before, but you knew he had simply memorized the entire museum's layout.

"Sounds good to me," you said walking beside him. As you stood in the lift, you tilted your head up to study his profile as he continued to look down at his datapad. You wanted to blame the movement of the lift tube for the slight buckling in your knees, but you knew it was all due to his handsomeness.

Your heart pitter-pattered the moment you had seen him at 79s three months ago. You weren't one to go pick up guys at bars, but there was something unique and enticing about him. You thought little of it or him, figuring to never see him again until he came into your electronics shop in search of a capacitor.

Apparently your knowledge of computers made an impression because he came in the next day looking for a hyper-regulator. With fate on your side, you asked if he wanted to meet you for a drink and after some adorable awkwardness, he agreed.

The lift doors slid open and you stepped into a carefully curated world of wood and stone. Dioramas with the first humans, the first Trandoshans, the first Rodians, Twi'leks, and Pantorans were set up along one corridor.

"It is fascinating, the similarities between different species as pertains to the genesis and evolution of technology," Tech marveled as you came to the exhibit of like tools from all over the galaxy. "The Twi'lek arrowhead is quite similar to the Devaronian and Human. The same goes for ax-heads and needles. But once you get to items like beads and pottery vessels, you see the cultural trajectory lose conformity and develop based on materials available by individual local environment and customs."

"I had never really thought about it like that. I'm used to technology and more recent history I guess." You shrugged.

"Indeed. One can hardly expect the modern mind to memorize all of the information whether historical or technological. Though I do try."

"You have some 'exceptional' advantages that the rest of us do not," you teased. You had not known him three rotations when he went on a detailed explanation of he and his brothers' 'defects' which did not sound like defects at all to you. Then he continued to explain how those traits made them more deviant than defective. You certainly understood that side of him as he often met with you when he should have been attending to GAR duties.

Satisfied with your visit to the 'stone' ages, you next traveled through time and to the fifth floor to the rise of cities and nation states.

Tech stared at the first exhibit with fascination. "The agricultural revolution varied by planet. Those that did not have crops that could be mass produced could only sustain small settlements, whereas those with large crops could maintain large cities that grew exponentially into kingdoms and nations."

"And wars and starvation."

"Yes," Tech turned to you, his brow furrowed with concern at your statement. Did you not find history as fascinating as he did? He knew your views on the war and cloning. He dared not ask, but all he could do was agree with you.

When Tech continued to stare at you, you realized maybe you had gone too far and put a damper on an outing that was supposed to be fun. "I'm sorry, Tech. I didn't mean to rain on your parade."

He adjusted his goggles thoughtfully. "I have seen plenty of rain on Kamino," he said understandingly. "You need not apologize. That is an unfortunately correct assessment of civilization. With growth and progress comes conflict and suffering. The two seem to go hand in hand, but I think rather to have faith that intelligence and good intentions have the advantage."

"In that case, it's almost as if sentient life is collectively "defective." You smiled, grateful for his understanding and wisdom. For being a clone maybe a third your age, if that, you can not but admire his calm and collected approach to situations and problems. The only thing he seemed to ever be nervous around is you, but that was understandable because you knew the clone troopers didn't exactly get lessons in romance in the GAR.

Tech merely pushed his goggles up the bridge of his nose with a knowing smile. He was never quite sure how to take your sarcasm, probably because he was self aware of his own and that of his brothers, Crosshair in particular. But the affectionate twinkle in your eyes and gentle flourish of your smile made his heart beat a little faster and the tips of his ears feel a little warmer.

He had not expected to become interested in a female. He was engineered to be a soldier, nothing more. Yet, you made him feel like he was more than that, that he wanted more even. He found himself returning to your shop even though he really did not need to.

And yet he did 'need' to.

Tech found himself smiling back at you. "Indeed. I must apologize. We have been to two floors of exhibits that I wanted to see. Is there something you would like to see?"

"No, Tech. This was all for you."

"I should very much like to learn about what interests you."

"Well, there is an atrium level. Gardens and ruins from other worlds. I remember being taken with the one from Naboo when I was a child." You felt a little weird saying that considering Tech was technically the same age as you were at the time. "You can actually sit there and relax. Or meditate like a Jedi." You shrugged.

"I would very much like that."

After browsing the garden exhibits of Kashyyyk, Chandrila, Selonia, and Old Coruscant, you settled in the Naboo section. A small waterfall splashed down a rock cliff before flowing through a makeshift river that encapsulated the area and then recycled back to the top of the waterfall. Lush green grass spread across one half before melding with a more tree and moss covered rocky area that housed some Gungan head statues. But what really amazed you not only as a child, but as an adult as well, were the guarlara statues that guarded the Naboo area.

Tech studied you as you gazed upon the statues, content to witness your own fixation with something in the museum since you put up with his. "The guarlara, a quadrupedal mammal native to Naboo, having evolved the physical trait of speed on that planet's grassy plains and also a long mane of hair. Used as transportation before the speeder was invented and now only used for official royal business such as coronations."

"Sadly, I don't think I'll ever get a chance to ride one."

"No. They are reserved for royalty," Tech said a little too bluntly. But you knew he didn't mean anything by it and that he for the most part sympathized with you.

"Indeed," you echoed a word he had a habit of saying. "Let's sit over on that fancy stone bench. My feet are a little sore from all of the walking we've done."

"Indeed," Tech said in reply with a grin. He forgot you were probably not used to walking five or ten klicks or more as he was.

You both sat in silence as the sound of the waterfall drowned out the low chatter of the museum. You took extra satisfaction because Tech is sitting right next to you, so close that your arms and legs were touching.

You knew he was a little nervous because he continued to look down at his datapad rather than enjoy the soothing sound of the waterfall, but maybe water just wasn't his thing.

“Hey Ace. What cycle are we heading for next?”

There it was. 'Ace.' One of your pet names for him. He wanted so badly to find one for you as well, but he wanted a special name, not the usual. He knew you liked driving and piloting as he did, but Ace could not work for both of you. He knew you also liked guarlaras, but there were not many equus related monikers that seemed suitable. Guarlara itself did not roll off the tongue very well. Pony was not very romantic. And mare simply sounded unsuitable.

Tech's eyes went from studying his datapad to studying the floor. He was disappointed that he could not find an ideal solution to this very simple quandary.

He now turned to you, studying your delicate features, so content to be in your favorite part of the museum, yet you were so colorful as well, not like anyone he had ever met before. When you turned to him, he took to studying the sparkle in your eyes, that seemed to represent everything he admired about you.

“What is it?” you asked, noticing Tech staring at you strangely.

He took your hand in his. "I was simply thinking about what an extraordinarily colorful woman you are. You remind me of the rainbows on Kamino. They were always so vibrant after a storm. And you are a vibrant beacon after all of the missions we go on. You are like a rainbow to me, albeit in adult human female form."

“Awwww...” You squeeze his hand and place your other hand over your heart. "I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Tech could not help the large smile that spread across his face. “Then it is settled, Rainbow.”

You could not stifle the huge goofy smile that was spread across your face, beaming with happiness at Tech, whose eyes reflected your contentment. “You know, Ace, I think you might have earned the title of Captain.”

“That is not possible. Hunter is our Sergeant and first in line for that- Oh. You are referring to your speeder. You are going to let me pilot it?” Tech asked with a hopeful tweak of his goggles.

You laughed at him. “Come on, Captain Tech. Let's finish out the rest of the museum, then you can take me for ride.” The sly wink you gave him gave you exactly the fumbling reaction you desired.

Tech pushed his goggles up the bridge of his nose nervously and cleared his throat. “Yes. I shall take you for a ride in your speeder.”

After you were all done at the museum, you took note of Tech's excitement to sit on the pilot side of your speeder while you took the seat he had earlier. Before you knew it, you were speeding away from the museum, up into the sky at a breakneck, but controlled speed, but it didn't matter, you knew he was a skilled pilot, and you trusted him with your life, and your heart.

Tech looked over at you, a huge smile spread across your face as the speeder breezed through the bright, neon signs and beaming lights of the other vehicles in the skylanes and shining through the windows of the skyscrapers. All of the colors of the Coruscant evening did not compare to the lovely colors of you, his own personal Rainbow.

#TBBE24 #tech the bad batch #tech tbb #tech x reader #star wars #the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #aelfwynn on ao3 #fan fiction #reader exchange #aelfwynn / techpopstar on ao3

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levi501ackerman · 3 months ago

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Steel Heart Chapter 22:

White Mustang

Hange x Reader Chapter Index Masterlist AO3

Megan's Note: I went to the natural history museum in nyc back in August and saw a gem called "spectacular stibnite" and the description was "hundreds of blade-like crystal". It looked cool and made me want to add it into my story with my own little twist :D It's pretty small in real life tho lol. Posted: 10/5/24

Word Count: 4.3k

!!! WARNING: Violence & Unsettling descriptions !!!

The temple was emptier the higher you went. Cult Leader Willy Tybur’s steady pace ascending the stairs was calm while Marleyan Cultists rushed past you, moving off to the side for him as they hurried toward the main level of the temple. Another howl was heard in the far distance, and your eyes darted around, searching for an opening to look out of.

The repetitive steps of the stairs glossed over your mind as you were focused on all the information that Willy Tybur told you. He would treat you as a host and drink your blood as fuel for the Founding Titan’s full potential. You were worried about him turning you into a titan for a while, only to realize he wanted the power for the Marleyan Cult.

The thought of the piercing crystal needle pricking your index finger and making you endlessly bleed made you cringe. You clasped your hands together, protecting your fingers from the empathetic feeling of being stabbed. It didn’t sound too painful and . . . there are worse pains in the world . . .

There was an odd thought that you began bargaining with yourself. The idea that if Hange were to die . . . maybe being trapped and slowly dying after your twenty-fifth birthday wouldn’t be so bad. After all, what’s the point?

Willy Tybur led you to the upper bailey that once held the burning emerald fire. What was once an area of celebration for your captivity was now filled with the scent of burnt wood. Lingering smoke floated and dissipated into the air. Willy Tybur made his way to the edge of the upper bailey, looking out to the dusty valley. He placed both his hands on top of the short stone wall. The short wall fenced around the upper bailey and you looked over your shoulder, eyeing the stone railing of the mezzanine. His throne and your chair were in the same place as they were when you were up there over an hour ago.

The valley before the temple was dustier than when you peered out the large opening in the tallest tower. A cloud of dirt masked the land and your heart began to beat faster.

“Is that—“

“Yes. Looks like your knights ran into some trouble.” His tone was too calm for the precarious nature surrounding the dust.

You searched for a visual sign within the dust for a horse or a knight. The skin around your eyes was red and a lump in your throat formed. A pinching pain in your chest demanded your attention, but you continued to look into the dust.

“The dogs . . .” your shaky voice whispered. The thought that Hange, Levi and all the knights who had protected you were facing the mutts again made your stomach sick. How many horses have lost their legs and were whinnying to be put out of their misery? The image of six dogs pinning down a helpless and defeated Hange crossed your mind. Even with claws digging into their skin and teeth sunken into their flesh, Hange would be fighting until their last breath left their body.

You covered your mouth and doubled over, leaning against the short wall. Tears were blurring your vision and running down your face. There was an itch in your throat and you held back a cough.

Another image you couldn’t escape was the thought of the dust scratching the eyes of the knights. Their grunts and howls from being left visually vulnerable played in your mind and the malicious mutts had the advantage. One after another, the canines would knock the knights off their horses and pin them to the dusty ground. Some fallen knight expected to die from teeth tearing off their flesh, only to be stampeded by horses transporting their comrades.

“My Princess . . .” Willy Tybur’s deep voice was laced with a contemptuous tone. “The pain, the deaths . . . this could have all been avoided if your knights did not seek to retrieve you.”

“Leave them alone!” he laughed, and you wiped tears from your eyes. His taunting chuckle was smug, and a helpless feeling washed over you. You couldn’t bear doing nothing and standing by, waiting for a sign of life. If only you knew how to fight and could take him down and find a way out. Although, without a physical indication, he had a grasp on you. He was reveling in the control he had.

“I am not going to hand you over,” he said, amused at your plea to simply stop the fighting. “Your parents can send every knight—every soul to the temple and blood will spill.”

“I don’t want any of them to die . . .” You whispered and glanced at the cloud of dirt and dust. Your heart ached and your head pounded, knowing there was a vile fight in the mist. “I wish . . .” But you couldn’t continue your words. Though Cult Leader Willy Tybur saw you and Hange in an intimate moment, there was an aversion to speaking their name in front of him. As if speaking Hange’s name would put a target on their back.

Like the devil that could read your mind, he glanced at you from the corner of his blue eyes. Willy Tybur could read you like a book, knowing you were thinking of the knight you grew a bond with. The light in the dark. The Guardian Angel.

“Answer me . . .” His voice dripped with malice. “The Dame you kissed . . . how strong is your bond?” You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering where he was going with this. You knew his intentions were unforgiving and dwindling your hope. Willy Tybur returned his eyes to the valley of dust, ignoring the thorns of turmoil tied around your heart. “Which outcome do you prefer? All your knights die and the Dame lives? Or the Dame dies and the knights rescue you?”

More tears filled your eyes at the bargain between your freedom or Hange’s life. There was a barrier between your thoughts and your will to answer—a refusal to speak or manifest an outcome. Willy Tybur’s test of loyalty drained your energy and you fell to your knees. Your forearms laid on the top of the short stone wall and you rested your forehead onto your forearms, hiding from the misery of the physical and mental battle.

Hange’s life versus the lives of the knights . . . To choose Hange or choose Levi, Jean, Connie, Eren, Franz, Samuel, Daz, Thomas, Abel, Keiji, and the rest of the forty-plus knights of the camp who have been guarding you. How strong is your bond? One person dying to save the rest . . . or the swan lives? What is morally correct? Selfish or selfless.

A recall of the memory of Hange sleeping in bed flashed in your mind. You remembered the thoughts of determination to protect Hange and the ‘sides’ you created—the side of Hange Zoe and you and the side that wanted to harm Hange Zoe and you. But . . . to spare many lives at the death of one was selfless. To have the knights die in order for Hange to live was selfish.

Tears damped the sleeves of your white cotton shirt, and you sighed defeatedly at the moral dilemma.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Answer,” he commanded, neglecting your stifled sobs. Willy Tybur relished in the fact the knights were at his mercy and your emotional state was easy to control. “I thought you were going to be Queen? Queens sacrifice for humanity—for the fate of the Kingdom. You dare to turn your back on all of your knights just for a single Dame?”

“This isn’t real!” You cried outwards and fresh, hot tears streamed down your face. “You’re not truly giving me a choice—you’d kill anyone who would try to take away your power, so please be quiet!”

“You are deflecting, which, to me, means you are thinking selfishly.” Willy Tybur’s half-lidded eyes peered down on you, almost out of pity. “The years leading to having you in my possession, I have selflessly sacrificed people, women, and those I have called friends to achieve you . I am worshiped by Marleyans seeking power and I am hated by Marleyans seeking power. You would have been hated as Queen, as well. With power, you stand alone and have to look down on those beneath you.”

His words stunned you, and you felt revolted at how he admitted his cruelty. In your mind, he was twisting selflessness with being selfish. He wanted power; some were born with power, and some obtained power. Willy Tybur wanted power for the Marleyan Cult and spearheaded the acts to obtain it. How does a charming man with pleasant facial features speak vilely? Do vicious acts and be detached from the horrors he orchestrates?

His words stuck with you as you tried to ignore his looming presence. The way he would sacrifice anyone to obtain his goal was familiar—almost relative to your determination to protect Hange. Though, you and Lord Willy Tybur were different . . . you had to be different. You couldn’t be like him. You couldn’t sacrifice many . . .

Among the dust of the valley was a figure emerging from the cloud of dirt. A knight on a white horse riding toward the temple. Followed by many knights on brown horses. It looked like a quadruple of the number of knights guarding you previously. They all held heater-shaped sapphire steel shields and charged toward the temple.

You gasped, recognizing the white horse. Hange’s horse. Your heart raced at the physical evidence that the Knights of the Royal King’s Guard had come to rescue you. Hundreds of knights survived the malicious mutts. With the charge toward the temple, all the canines had to be dead—defeated.

“H—” you cut yourself off. The excitement of seeing Hange in the distance was exhilarating and a shot of hope coursed through your body, but you remained level-headed and refused to say their name in front of Willy Tybur. Chills trickled on your neck and up the base of your skull. Anticipation tingled as many knights gallantly rode toward the temple.

“Those poor souls . . .” Cult Leader Willy Tybur said in a dull tone. Listening to him made heat rise on your cheeks and you shot him a stern look. A breeze flowed through his hair, lifting a few pieces and letting the strands float. You thought for a moment he smirked but then withdrew his expression. “If the canines did not harm them . . . they will want to kill themselves. Stibnite thorns do that to the desperate.”

You blinked, gazing down at the stampeding knights on their horses heading toward the stibnite thorns surrounding the temple.

“Their suit of steel armor will protect them. They’re fine.” You whispered and Willy Tybur’s lips curled into a smile.

“The face and neck are the most vulnerable and sensitive to stibnite thorns and swords . . . and the horses, they have little to no armor. How do you think the horses will react? How sweet of you to remain hopeful. It will only end in disappointment . . . ”

The knights approached the stibnite and the white horse came to a halt in front of the thorn bushes. The coily thorns stood six feet high, enough to cover a person’s body. You imagined that Hange was able to assess and come to a conclusion on the gravity of the thorns. Hange would be able to figure out the fatal act the thorns could manifest in the knights. You imagined them calling out to the knights and commanding not to itch or scratch, no matter how intense the craving to satisfy the itch may be.

The knight on the white horse was the first to head into the stibnite thorn bushes, holding out their sapphire steel shield. The knights followed and began slashing branches of the thorns with their steel swords.

A thought crossed your mind and fogged your thoughts. What would Willy Tybur do to Dame Hange and Captain Levi if he knew they had a jeweled sword? Willy Tybur said no one could stop the power of the nine when he had the six gemstones. You furrowed your eyebrows and pondered the information you had been told. The six jeweled swords together created a weapon to defeat the ritual. But that didn’t make sense since the ritual is on your twenty-fifth birthday and the Founding Titan would use you as a host and reach their full power by drinking your royal blood . . .

Willy Tybur walked along the short wall. When he reached the edge of the stone wall fencing in the upper bailey, you noticed an opening leading to a downward staircase. Like a prisoner with chains, you followed him. The stairs led to a lower deck—another large bailey that looked out to the valley. You could see the edge of this bailey from the arch opening in the room from the tallest tower. From the view in the room, the upper bailey blocked the lower deck. As you descended the stairs, the quaint garden of the lower bailey was revealed.

Seeing tall hedges and vibrant plants covered in the lower deck felt odd. A white butterfly rested on the side of a hedge and splayed its wings for you to admire. The smell of dirt floated into your nostrils, and you noticed Willy Tybur was walking towards a small table with four chairs.

Willy Tybur withdrew the orange sword and placed it on the wooden table. Then he pulled out the chair and sat in it. You stayed still; it was unsettling how relaxed he was and how he lacked anticipation of the incoming battle. He had no worries about death or being attacked.

You couldn’t sit down, not when Hange and the knights were passing through the stibnite thorns. In the distance, most of the knights were cutting through the bushes of the thorns. They were most likely scratching their faces and neck, pleading for their nails to relieve them. Some knights likely gave in to wanting to satisfy the itch and were scratching fiercely, cutting into their skin, causing droplets of blood to bead. The horses struggled to continue onwards, getting pricked by thorns and unable to relieve itches on their legs, shoulders, necks, and bodies. The horses didn’t understand the causes of the itches and remained uncomfortable and unable to focus on traveling forward. Though you imagined Hange told the knights to protect the horses; the knights could only do so much, knowing traveling into the stibnite thorns would not leave anyone unscathed.

You felt eyes on you and not from Willy Tybur. Over your shoulder, behind some hedges, were Reiner Braun, the traitor who acted as a knight in the Karanese District Headquarters and the dark-haired man, Bertolt, who took you out of the tower. Their statue-like presence was menacing, as if they were ready to act vile with a single command.

Willy Tybur crossed his legs while sitting in the chair, and this time, he didn’t care to demand that you sit. He leaned back into his chair comfortably as if the knights weren’t on their way to retrieve you. The orange jeweled sword laid on the table and the tiny orange jewels glimmered in the dull light that passed through the grey clouds. You wished you could wield it and have the weapon to defend yourself. But with the men around you, you knew there was no way of freeing yourself. Why does Cult Leader Willy Tybur want the six gemstones? They defeat the ritual somehow . . . but he isn’t going to tell you how to stop him from the power he wanted to obtain.

You eyed the sword and then his gaze. He looked outward, watching the knights struggle to get through the stibnite thorns. From the first time you spoke with Willy Tybur when you thought he was Erwin Smith, he misled you into thinking he was trustworthy and beneath you. He was submissive and gained your trust by reassuring you and acting respectfully . . .

You touched the sword, expecting Willy Tybur to flinch and retract it away from you. It seemed you were both on the same page; he didn’t believe you could use the sword to escape. You stared at the tiny orange jewels and prepared to sound submissive.

“How do the six jewels help the founder?” Your tone was perfectly aligned to sounding clueless, and Willy Tybur clicked his tongue.

“You do not listen,” he said under his breath and your heart raced, hoping he would correct you. “With the six gemstones in my possession, no one can stop the—”

“I thought the gemstones made the Founding Titan stronger? I was told—”

“You were told wrong. You do not listen,” he gruffed. “When those specific gemstones: ruby, amber, citrine, emerald, sapphire, and amethyst are crushed together into a powder, it can wipe out Paradis Island when coming into contact with fire.”

“Why can’t people buy those crystals from the markets and create the powder themselves?” You were satisfied with the ability to have Willy Tybur reveal the information you wanted.

“How clueless you were kept from your destiny is astounding, yet . . .” he sneered and his sharp eyes gazed at you. “ . . . the jewels were crystalized with royal ashes. They have royal blood and bodies infused in the gemstones.”

There was movement in the sky. The speed of arrows cascaded across then spiraled downwards into the bush of stibnite thorns. Emerald fire spread along the thorns. The knights held their sapphire shields and hastily cut through the thorns in an attempt to avoid the contagious emerald fire. After a moment, arrows from the valley flung into the sky, barrelling toward the area where the emerald fire arrows were shot from. Another round of arrows from the valley flung toward the temple. From the distance, you saw two bodies of cultists fall from the walls of the temple.

Another round of arrows was shot from the temples. The arrows, coated in emerald fire, landed in the thorns of stibnite. The knights held their sapphire shields and fought through, breaking through the last segment of the stibnite bushes. Multiple knights on horses rode free from thorns. A knight on a black horse charged toward the temple’s main gate and Willy Tybur stood from his chair. The chair fell backward from his aggressive movement.

He gritted his teeth and he snarled.

“DAMN IT!” Willy Tybur yelled and he turned over his shoulder. You cowered as he raised his voice, addressing Reiner and Bertolt. “WHY AREN’T THEY CLOSING THE GATE TO THE BORGO?!”

Willy Tybur grabbed the jeweled sword from the table and walked closer to the edge of the lower bailey. The wall fencing around the lower deck was short like the upper deck. Willy Tybur’s expression became sharper, nearly losing his cool as his frustration rose.

“Tarhos Kovacs is down there with the defense ward.” Reiner’s voice said behind you. Willy Tybur gripped the jeweled sword in his hand tightly as if he was gripping onto his last ounce of control. The knights poured into the small borgo and held their shields as Marleyan Cultists on foot charged at them.

The knight on the black horse slashed the cultist as he rode through. From the distance, you saw Marleyan Cultists fall to the ground and you practically heard their cries. More knights flooded into the first entrance gate of the borgo and fought the cultists.

You gasped, realizing the black horse was Beauty and Captain Levi was easily plowing through the cultist trying to kill him. Beauty stomped over cultists, crushing their skulls and bodies.

Finally, the white horse that held Hange entered the gate, followed by the rest of the knights. Moments later, the metal gate of the borgo dropped, and a few knights couldn’t enter the borgo or join the fight. You saw Hange turn around to address the knights who didn’t pass the portcullis gate. Seconds later, they rode away from the gate and you figured Hange had a plan for that particular instance. Then Hange rode into the crowd of cultists, slicing their necks and fighting to continue toward the temple.

On the cobblestone of the small borgo before the temple, the bodies of the cultist lay on the ground and their blood pooled into the cracks of the ground. The knights were dominating the cultists in the battle in the borgo.

Levi, riding on Beauty, managed to get past the battle and enter the temple. A few horses followed after him. Willy Tybur was breathing heavily, and he slammed his fist onto the dark stone of the wall. The hand that gripped the jeweled sword was shaking and he stared down at the strength the Knights of the Royal King’s Guard had against the Marleyan Cult’s defense ward.

Willy Tybur’s face was red, and you heard him muttering to himself indistinctly. More knights passed the cultists entering the temple and moments later, the portcullis gate of the temple’s entrance began to drop. A knight on a horse flung backward, hitting the ground. The horse barely missed getting pierced by the gate and ended up on the entrance’s side. A few knights on horses slammed into the metal gate, and the force knocked them off the horses. Some horses plummeted to the ground and a group of the cultists charged toward them.

Even while on foot, the knights stood from the ground and fought off the cultists. Their strength was no match for the Marleyan cultists and they slashed through their bodies. Blood was spilled and covered the grounds of the borgo.

For a moment, you saw Cult Leader Willy Tybur inhale deeply. You thought he was gathering his composure, but he was snarling and glaring at the battle below.

“That knight you kissed!” He roared and your heart pounded in your chest, hearing him visually notice Hange. Hange was off their horse, slaying the cultists as they fought them. They cut into the stomach of one and then pivoted behind them to stab a cultist in the chest and kicked him off their sword with their foot. “ . . . A commander with a jeweled sword . . .”

“LEAVE THEM ALONE!” You cried only to be burdened with guilt. The outburst of your plea only put a target on their back when you should have stayed quiet, knowing nothing you could do or say could control Cult Leader Willy Tybur.

Suddenly, you felt yourself being pulled backward. The hands of Reiner and Bertolt pulled you onto the ground and the air was knocked out of your lungs. You thrashed against them as they held you down and then you jammed your elbow into one of their chests. Reiner grunted as you sat up and blinked a few times, then noticed Willy Tybur standing on top of the wall that fenced the lower bailey.

Willy Tybur held the jeweled sword to his neck. You screamed as you saw him slit his neck, jumping off the edge of the wall, and the jeweled sword clanged to the ground. Your eyes widened, taking in the moment of seeing Willy Tybur jumping off the wall.

A sudden piercing bright light, brighter than lightning, blinded the area, and a large thudding sound, almost like thunder, boomed through the temple. You held your arm up, shielding your eyes against the flash and turned your head away.

You felt Bertolt pulling you up from the ground, and you thrashed against him.

“We have to get her to the tower!” Bertolt struggled against you and then you felt yourself being lifted off the ground. You cried out, hoping somehow a knight could hear you and come to your aid. Reiner hoisted you over his shoulder and you kneed his abdomen. He used his arm to hold your legs down and carried you up the stairs toward the upper bailey. Bertolt followed behind him, watching and ensuring you didn’t fall off Reiner.

“LET GO OF ME!” You screamed in Bertolt’s face and then, among the steam, a large figure caught your eye. You froze from wiggling out of Reiner’s grasp, petrified at the sight before you.

A human-like figure, fifty feet tall, was next to the temple. The large creature roared like an animal. The knights fighting the cultists down in the borgo froze in their tracks, eyeing the gigantic fifty-foot man who was Willy Tybur.

That’s a titan . . .

When the titan opened its mouth, a sound like lightning struck, and fire came from its mouth—a fire-breathing titan. This was proof that the legend and Willy Tybur were telling the truth. The story of large, intelligent beings with powers seemed larger than life . . .

He was there . . . those nights.

The Founding Titan was passed down to Willy Tybur.

Your heart pounded and then tears brimmed in your eyes. You could imagine Hange and the knights before the temple terrified at the towering fire-breathing titan.

The familiar sound from those nights . . . The sounds of explosions—thunder followed by fire were from the fire-breathing titan.

That first night. The night it all began.

He’s the reason.

The night in Shiganshina, when you woke up from the sounds of explosions and the city was being illuminated by fire . . . Willy Tybur was burning the district. He’s the reason you had to escape. You clenched your jaw feeling your blood boil.

Then, it made sense.

The night the Karanese District Headquarters caught on fire, no one could figure out how or why the fire started . . . It was the Founding Titan. The rain and the natural weather of thunder and lightning were the perfect disgust to blame for the chaos of that night. You recalled when the cultists captured you and how they were shouting into the dark night. When one cultist yelled, ‘The founder is here!’ The cultist meant it literally.

The evening Willy Tybur abducted you, the last thing you felt was being lifted from the ground and the wind in your face. The Founding Titan had to carry you to the temple. The ability to transform back into a human makes it all too convenient to hide being spotted in titan form.

The jeweled sword glimmered in the dull light from the clouds and was left discarded in the lower bailey.

Another sound of thunder came from the fire-breathing titan as the Founding Titan casted another wall of fire toward Dame Hange Zoe and the knights in the borgo.

next chapter Chapter 23: The Clash of Emerald and Amber

Chapter Index Masterlist

#hange zoe #hanji zoe #hange x reader #hanji x reader

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