Emilie strikes me as a person who would continue to watch out for her favorite horse, even in death. I really wish she could have met Albert in the film; they would have become very good friends. Also, considering how she named Topthorn and Joey after young boys who had once courted her, I think she probably also would have had an innocent crush on Albert. It wouldn't have come to fruition, however, considering the age gap.
Structuring the afterlife for Emilie and Topthorn/Claude was difficult. There is another fanfiction on this site that gives a glimpse of the afterlife for Emilie, in which she rides Joey and Topthorn as much as she pleases. I wanted to expand on that idea by showing that Topthorn and she have differing versions of a haven. Topthorn is only in her afterlife because she wants him to be there, but he also similtaenously exists in his own paradise, hence his attitude problem (plus, that just fits his character).
Emilie's death is never clearly stated in the film, so I had to create that, as well.
"Claude!" Emilie exclaimed, dropping the hand that gripped the lead rope to the side in frustration. Her other hand was on her hip. "Come now, it isn't far!" The black horse's response was to do a half turn. Emilie sighed before starting toward the stallion to place her hand upwards on him, but not quite reaching his neck. Stroking the coarse hairs on his hide, she muttered, "What will I ever do with you?"
The horse turned his head toward her, and cocked it to the side, as if to ask, "What?"
She frowned as her fingers brushed over the jagged, ugly scars on his hide. Claude, as a result, jerked his head with a whinny. "Sorry," she whispered before retracting her hand. Claude made no response, save for edging toward the rolling fields of grain that rimmed the wide dirt path. Emilie's eyes followed him. She felt sympathy as well as anger, rising up in her, and not for the first time, either. How could anyone harm such a creature?
If only she had been bigger…stronger…She could have stopped those soldiers from taking François and him away. It died away just as quickly with another sigh, this one empty, but with enough force to cause her shoulders to rise and fall as she looked down at the dusty trail. What was the point? The scars still remained, but he was here for her now. A tug came on the lead rope, causing her to raise her head. Claude was looking back at her, his rear end facing the open grassland beside the grain. A small dust cloud rose from his pawing the ground. Emilie smiled, starting toward him. "All right, you can stay for a little while."
The stallion lowered his head expectantly, his snout reaching her waist. Grasping onto the edge of his mane to get his attention, she bent down beside his head. The image of her faintly tanned face, and long, brown hair was reflected in the lens of his eye. The mirror was sealed away for a moment as he closed his eye. She wagged her finger. "Remember, we only have so long. I still have to be home for supper!" The black horse nuzzled up against her shoulder, and she smiled in turn, hugging his neck. She pressed her soft cheek against that coarseness, her fingers combing through his mane.
A few moments later, she let go to push his head away. Reaching up, she undid the lead rope. Emilie backed away, rope in hand, to watch him turn around before taking off a trot into the field. She raised her free hand to catch her hair that the wind stirred.
Beside the green grass, the golden grain danced in the wind, the opposite side of the trail holding similar agrarian scenery, save for the fact that it was corn, as opposed to grain. The stalks were a healthy dark green, much like the brownish-gold of the grain. It would still be quite some time before the coming harvest. Rolling in the distance beyond the quick-shrinking black smudge that was Claude were several hills darkened by forests. Floating above was a patchwork of white clothes, broken apart by the light blue of the sky. A windmill spun in the field behind Emilie. Birdsong filled the air. She wasn't sure whose farm this was, but the owners never seemed to mind her riding by.
Stepping off the trail, and onto the field where he had run off, she spread her arms, closing her eyes. Mama and Papa…She'd missed them so much. That first embrace after so long…To call it warm and loving would be a tremendous understatement. It wasn't so much the softness, the comfort of home, but the simple togetherness that carried its importance. That was why she was a little frustrated with Claude's refusal to return just yet. For as much as Emilie loved to ride, for she no longer had to worry about falling, her parents meant so much more.
All the same, it would be wrong to force him. Emilie knew she was spoiling him, but this expanse was his home. True, the paddock and corral were suitable, and the ever-present bucket of apples positioned near his stall in the barn was a delicious treat, but it wasn't nearly the same. Claude couldn't verbally tell her stories of his past, but his sudden appearance in the windmill had always kept her and Papa had agreed that the burly horse must have been used beforehand, no question. His bulk was enough. But before the war? Their opinions were divided. He was a horse of good breeding, his posture and figure regal. Perhaps he had belonged to a lord? Whatever the case, it didn't matter. Emilie was proud to have him, regardless of his past status. Still, it didn't keep her from weaving stories of his origin in her dreams, with images of proud horses wearing saddles decorated with gold and silver, and bearing multi-colored feathers in their manes, prevalent.
She frowned, dropping her arms to her sides. For as bountiful as the possibilities were for stories of the past, not all of them were truly happy. Her poor grandfather…Sometimes she wondered, as she lay in her bed alone, whether it was wrong that she was allowed to be with her family, while he had no one. Her eyes closed again, this time against the salt that stung them. Her skirt floated over the grass as she walked.
That night…That terrible night…She'd been right when she'd said that the sound of explosions had in fact been coming closer. Her grandfather, however, had refused to believe her, or so it had seemed. A sob that was building up in Emilie's throat was released as she sat down on the grass, her skirt fanned out around her. She rubbed at her eyes with her thumb before lowering her hand with a gasp to bite on the side of it. Her body shook a little as she struggled to regain control of herself. The mortar shells took many lives. Whenever Emilie heard the screams in the distance, she would run. Her grandfather would always be there to catch her in his arms, and tell her it was all right, that those men were in a better place. The shells wouldn't touch her.
White dandelion puffs stood out against green in her blurry eyes. Reaching down, she pulled one out of the grass, and cupped it between her palms. Her grandfather couldn't have left if he had tried. He was too old, and she was too frail. Emilie blamed herself, even though she wouldn't think of voicing that to her parents. Instead, she settled for whispering it in Claude's ear.
That lovely cottage…It was gone. The explosions tore the land viciously, their booms sounding like roars of giants. The shells had flashed through the air like lightning. She had been ushered to safety by her grandfather, hiding in the most structurally sound part of the house possible. Glass had smashed, objects had fallen, the ceiling splintered, and the entire cottage had groaned, as if in pain. Emilie remembered how brave she had wanted to be, holding a stiff upper lip as she clung to him. Yet, she had still felt those hot, sticky tears trail down in the darkness. He'd comforted her, whispering that the shells would go away, that it would be over soon. The last thing she had heard had been the wood above her splintering in a loud squealing noise against the lower-pitched booms, and then no more.
With a puff, Emilie dispersed the dandelion, opening her hands to release its stem. She missed him so much. One day he would return to her. It wasn't that she couldn't check on him. She had quite a few times, but each time had only given her pain. The poor man was facing titanic problems after the War. Not only was he still grieving over the loss of the only family he had, but he was also trying to rebuild his lifestyle with little to no money in an already financially deficient, and utterly destroyed, time.
It was because of this that Emilie no longer watched. She simply couldn't bear to see him that way, after all he had done for her in the past. He had single-handedly held their lives together during a time of such peril and tumult. But this…This was completely undeserved. And that, that creeping, crawling fear of what might happen to him next…She really didn't want to feel that ever again. She ran her hand absent-mindedly along the grassy surface, her frown slowly turning to a smile. There had been one time, however, when he had still maintained that heroic stance.
XXXXXX
It was just after the catastrophic conflict had ended, and the war horses had been placed up for auction. Much like in the case of her grandfather, the burden of watching her still-living horse was hard to bear. Emilie had been glad that she hadn't seen Claude meeting his end, but to see François barrel straight into that barbed wire…It had broken her heart. Yet, he had miraculously survived. She still wasn't quite sure how, as she hadn't been able to bring herself to watch for a good long time, for fear of what she would see next. Emilie knew the bay was still alive only because he hadn't yet appeared in this haven.
When she had opened her eyes, there he had been, his hide clean of all dirt and mud. His scars were even more brutal, but they were still clean. The stallion had limped slightly, and that had nearly driven her to tears once more on the spot. He was her horse, and those terrible people had abused him so unspeakably. That greedy butcher had wanted her dear François. He had been going to hurt him!
Emilie remembered how she had clung to Claude's neck to bury her head in it. For as much as she screamed at that mean man, she knew he wouldn't hear her. Her stallion, meanwhile, had whinnied worriedly, and tossed his head a few times. But that kind group of British soldiers…She hadn't understood. Why had they bothered themselves with rescuing that one horse, meanwhile so many had already been auctioned? She had raised her head at the counter cries, and watched in wonder at those young men gathered behind a grizzled-looking officer. For every bid the butcher had made, the sergeant had outbid him.
Yet, the more she had watched, the clearer it had become to her as to the why. A boy, a handsome-looking one at that, had egged on the officer, and the other young men had followed suit. Emilie had felt repulsion against, and pity for, the agitator after more closely looking upon his face. The skin around and beneath his eyes had been an ugly-looking red, as if they had been bleeding. The eyes themselves had shown another side to her. Unbridled fear for François had gleamed from those surfaces. Emilie had had a feeling that if not for the fence, the boy would have darted forward, and flung his arms about the stallion. Perhaps there had been truth to his declarations of being the bay's true owner. Emilie hadn't helped but smiled hopefully.
Then tragedy had struck. The officer's funds had become inefficient, and the boy's reaction had mirrored her own in shock, horror, and desperation. She had wailed, burying her head once more. This had been all wrong!
The final twist had come with the exclamation of a rather high monetary figure, its caller having a voice she had known like her own name. In awe, Emilie had raised her head to see her grandfather declaring that he would pay whatever price he had to in order to buy that horse. Joy had made her heart dance. The butcher could certainly not have been able to compete! But as the auctioneer had begun to call "once," her heart had quickly stopped its merry dance to sink. How on earth would her grandfather be able to afford to take care of himself, let alone the horse, as well? No…She couldn't have let him!
Emilie's protests had fallen on deaf ears as the auctioneer had declared François to be sold. As the bay had been led away, the guilt that had been forming in the pit of her stomach had forced her to transfer her gaze.
It had rested upon the boy from before, the men around him dispersing. Tears hadn't run down his face, but the longing look he had given after the horse had said much more than enough. He then stumbled up to her grandfather, begging for the horse, but the old man would have none of it, saying it was all he had had left of her. Emilie had sighed sadly. Truth be told, she had felt terrible inside. Yes, she had been happy that François had been saved, but it had come at such an expense. To think that she had been the reason why her grandfather had kept the horse from him simply because it had been in memory of her…That had made her feel the worst.
For as much as the disgrace had welled up in the poor girl, causing her to cling to Claude's neck once more as she practically leaned on him, it had been partially quashed quite soon.
Her grandfather had been readying to leave when the battle-scarred soldier had reappeared, begging for the horse. The stallion's current owner had then rejected him, leading François away. Emilie had felt compelled to cry once more, but this time for both sides. The boy had clearly been distraught, and he had appeared to be telling the truth. Even if he had been, however, that would have left her grandfather with no one if the horse would have been given over.
A swift jerk had suddenly come from François, and the old man had in turn let out a cry of surprise as the lead rope had been taken right out of his hand. Emilie had gasped as the horse had run over to the boy, who in turn had stroked the stallion's nose affectionately. Yes, François had been his once, no doubt about it. Both had become scarred by their experiences, but together, maybe…A call from Emilie's grandfather had then drawn the attention of not only the boy and François, but her.
Her eyes had widened at sight of the elderly man taking out the tri-colored, decorative pennant. Asking sternly as to whether the boy had recognized it, he had held it up the younger man to see. Emilie had been intrigued, as well as relieved, when the young soldier had in turn answered to the affirmative, explaining that it had belonged to his father. At least that had solved one mystery. Still, she had been curious. Who had that made his father, then? A hero, of some sort? Her grandfather had handed over the pennant, which the soldier had in turn thanked him for, before taking the lead rope once more.
Emilie had wanted to admonish him, to get him to turn around, but what would that have helped? He had bid everything on François, and all because of her. Claude had nickered, pawing in agitation, and she had turned to him in response. The two horses had proved themselves to be quite extraordinary in intelligence. Could he have also somehow recognized this boy? She had found the bay and the black simultaneously, after all. Turning back, Emilie had caught her breath, her going to her mouth.
Her grandfather had turned back, offering the reins to the boy. Emilie had never felt so torn. She had wanted the boy so badly to take the reins, but she had wanted the old man to retract his hand just as much. Not that she had had any choice in the matter. Emilie swallowed. Tears ran down her face as her last living relative placed the rope in the soldier's hand, justifying it with the statement that it was what she would have wanted. A sad smile had formed when he had referred to her as "The Boss" before walking away. As the young man had tenderly stroked the stallion's mane, Emilie realized that she couldn't thank her grandfather enough.
XXXXXX
It had been no wonder that François had been so accustomed to her country home; he had once lived on one. Curiously, Emilie had looked on as the stallion's first owner had led him back to a little farm on the moors in England. This time, she had been alone, as Claude had returned to the field. Whether it had been due to lack of interest, or perhaps something else, she hadn't been sure. An older woman had stood expectantly behind the farm's gate, beyond which lay stretching plowed fields, and an unoccupied plow.
No other horses had been in sight, so Emilie had determined that the task had been accomplished by François, and that had made her feel proud of had guessed that the woman had been the boy's mother, and the seated man further back had been his father, the owner of the pennant.
Oddly enough, the man had not resembled a hero, rather he had more looked like a tired old farmer. Thinking nothing of it, she had returned her attention to the boy, who, after leaving the stallion behind, had embraced his crying mother in the golden rays of the sunset. Smiling warmly at the sight, Emilie had whispered her good-bye to her beloved horse. He, as well as the poor soldier, had been free to live out their lives in the country.
XXXXXX
Whenever Emilie watched over François, the least she could say was that it didn't hurt as much as it did to watch her grandfather. Over time, she learned that the boy's name was Albert, and he called the bay a curious-sounding name, Joey. Well, to her, he would always be François. Despite the fact that the young man had been gifted with the stallion, she still couldn't help but retain her skepticism. War did make men mean, after all.
Her worry, however, was thankfully misplaced. The boy, or rather, Albert, as she learned his name to be from the calls of his mother, always touched the stallion with the most gentle of hands. Those same hands gripped an axe to chop wood, and held tight to a shovel to dig a new well. When the time drew near for the land to be plowed again, Emilie hoped that François would be spared. He was still too weak. On occasion, she would fondly think of how he stepped over the jumping branch she had set up. She missed riding him dearly.
As it turned out, however, Albert thought ahead. She would groan in response to his entering the barn during this period. It took away her "alone time" with François. Couldn't Albert just go away? The interruptions, however, soon became less unwelcome by her. Rather than simply coming in to whisper in the horse's ear, or groom him, the boy would enter with his father, and discuss plans to buy another horse. That lifted her spirits, especially considering they discussed real figures and how to ascertain them, rather than simply drawing ideas out of the air.
Although, she couldn't help but notice that it was the son, not the father, who carried the conversation. Not that that mattered. She was more concerned with the welfare of the horse. At least Albert delivered on his plans, bringing a sturdy, but older horse with him to the farm a few weeks later. The resident goose had an interesting go-around with the newcomer, dashing up and causing a racket before darting away at the returning snorts and stomps.
Albert worked well enough with the second horse, but it was clear that François was his favorite. Emilie thought it strange that without his uniform, he looked even younger than before, although not necessarily in a good way. The scars beneath his eyes still remained, although somewhat faded. They were a high contrast to his simple farmer's attire. Where were his friends? He never seemed to leave the fields, save for times when he had to go work at a second job. Emilie could relate to that; many of the young children had moved away, their parents fearing for their safety, but that had been during her time. She felt a little sad for Albert.
Sometimes, he would stop what he was doing, and turn around. Emilie, growing nervous, would shrink back in fear as he stared right through her. Each time, however, she would just as soon clasp her hands together, and give a shaky laugh. Of course he couldn't see her! Still, she would always give a subconscious step to the side. Usually, he would be looking at the grazing François, but other times, he would simply be staring off into the distance, and watching the clouds drifting over the horizon. It was times like those that made her wonder what he was thinking of.
Night sometimes posed a different scenario. Emilie would check on François in the barn as he quietly nickered to his neighbor. Most of these nights would be quiet, but during others, the barn door would creak open, pouring moonlight into the room against Albert's silhouette. It was hard to see his face in the darkness, but the way he stroked the side of François' nose, and how he pressed himself against it, eyes closed, shoulders shaking, provided the description. Even he wasn't too old to have nightmares. Those instances, Emilie turned away. He was clearly upset, and it felt wrong to watch him. Rather, she would fix her eyes on the silvery light cast upon the floor, and the shifting shadows beyond.
XXXXXX
Gathering herself together, Emilie stood, brushing the dirt and grass off of her skirt. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called, "Claude! We have to go!" He wasn't exactly a good listener. Claude raised his head from grazing at her voice, but dropped it back down just as soon.
Shaking her head, she picked up her skirt with one hand, and broke into a run after him, her other hand waving freely. Darn him! Sometimes she wondered just why she bothered. She answered her question just as soon with a small smile. Claude's unpredictability made him special.
The smile faded just as soon, and she stopped, closing her eyes. The wind billowed out her skirt, carrying to her the scents of wildflowers. Maybe one day, she could talk to Albert, face-to-face. Of course, she would be the one to ride François first, as she had been without him for so long. A gentleman like him certainly wouldn't mind. Besides, he could ride Claude instead, and she would certainly share. She wanted to know everything. It amazed her how little she actually knew about François, and Albert could (hopefully) fill in the gaps for her. Where was the stallion born? How did the boy train him? Just how long had Albert known him? She could just picture it, the two of them sitting side-by-side under a tree, watching the two stallions grazing in the distance. She would lean in eagerly to hear another tale from him…
Emilie's eyes popped back open, and her hands flew to her mouth as shame swept over her. While she was having fun with her fantasies, she was neglecting to care for the very man who raised her in her parents' absence. She lowered her hands slowly before grabbing onto her skirt again to take off once more. Her steps were urgent as she exclaimed, "Claude, we must go now!"
Not long ago, the rolling fields of green were barren, marred by explosions and littered with bodies. Cheery establishments like the windmill had been reduced to rubble. The gentle breeze was choked with mustard gas. Where animals roamed freely, and people walked, tank wheels had pounded over the uneven ground. Just as quickly, however, the remains of such a massacre were buried in the attempt to move on. By the time a head was turned, they were gone.