"Halt!"
Myka flinched at the abrupt command, though she had expected it the moment she felt the bracing of Pantomime's back compromising the quality of his trot. She had lost the elasticity in the reins when the gelding's neck lifted tensely and any hope of resuming their conversation was lost.
In a last ditch effort to reestablish Pantomime's relaxed frame, Myka stretched her legs further down and draped them supportively around the horse's barrel, exhaling to lower her center of gravity. However, she knew by the increasingly choppy stride that her own body was too tense to clearly communicate her intent.
"Off!" Damn. Artie stalked his way into the arena, his uneven gait kicking up dust.
Myka slowed the movement of her seat, allowing Pantomime to slow to a shuffling walk. She let the reins slip loose through her fingers until she could fidget with the buckle. With a relieved snort, the large bay horse stumbled clumsily to a crooked halt and stretched down his neck to nose at his itchy knee. Myka quickly dismounted and absently patted Pantomime's sweat-dampened neck as she waited at his shoulder for Artie's unavoidable lecture.
To her surprise, the older trainer silently dismissed her with raised eyebrows and took the reins from where they were looped in her fist. With a grunt, Artie swung up into the saddle as gracefully as his bad right hip would allow. Pantomime, no longer distracted, turned his head toward his new rider, snuffling curiously at Artie's boot. Artie expelled what sounded suspiciously like an amused huff as he gently pushed the gelding's large face away from his leg, giving Pantomime a light scratch behind an ear when Myka dropped her gaze to her watch. Myka stifled a fond smile. Old softie.
"Out."
Myka obliged, vaulting the fence with practiced ease. She lingered on the other side. It wasn't too often that Artie would ride nowadays, especially with the pain of his twice-injured hip. Resting her arms atop the fence, she settled in to watch the man who had first taught her to ride.
To those unacquainted with Barn 13, the sight of the portly man perched astride a long-legged horse would no doubt seem unconventional - absurd, even. Artie's short legs, however, had a masterfully honed muscle memory that allowed him to communicate to the horse in the subtlest of ways. His seat was artfully composed, built up around a core that could withstand the stiffest trot and unbalanced canter. He rode with the elegance and vigor of a man half his age and twice his health.
Physical appearance does not a good rider make, Myka knows.
She watched eagerly, transfixed by the way Pantomime relaxed his back and lengthened his stride the moment Artie took up contact with the bit and asked for more energy. A relaxed, swinging walk - accomplished in the space of several minutes where it took her half an hour and what feels like a dozen sore muscles to achieve even a few relaxed strides. She'd call it magic save for the fact that Artie's limp will no doubt be much more exaggerated in the hours after this ride and he will be quicker to snap and criticize. Riding takes its toll on its most devoted.
As Pantomime transitions roughly to a trot, Artie remains seated. From the near invisible motions of his hands and seat, Myka could tell that he was negotiating with Pantomime, softly persuading the confused gelding with light touches of his legs and correcting with a firm but steady hand.
She'd become so invested in the conversation unfolding in front of her that she did not notice another person's approach until she felt a soft touch at her elbow. Startled, Myka broke away from the engaging scene to see Helena Wells' charmed smile.
"Aren't you spooky today," Helena murmured, "Worse than Charles."
Myka flushed hotly. No one really knew why a talented professional like Helena kept such a nervy, go-nowhere horse as Charles. Only that she loved that ungainly horse dearly and would likely choose him over a potential Olympic mount given the choice.
"Just— just look," Myka elected to ignore Helena's observation and gestured toward the far end of the arena where Artie was coaxing Pantomime into crossing over his legs more clearly in the leg-yield. The young gelding, uncertain and puzzled in Myka's hands, blossomed with the confidence Artie imbued in him. It was obvious what great potential the seven-year-old horse possessed.
Helena hummed appreciatively at the sight, eyes crinkling in delight. "Artie hasn't lost it."
Myka wanted to reply with, "If I have it, will you look at me that way, too?" Wanted Helena to see that Myka could one day be her rival, her equal, her—
But she settled for, "You haven't either."
The grimness in Helena's brown eyes when they regard Myka's is alarming.
"I hope not, my dear."
Riding takes its toll on its most devoted.