This chapter, written at the urging of sevenpercent, and is based on the opening paragraphs of "Musgrave Blaze," Chapter 9. Once again, I urge you to read "Musgrave Blaze" first to get the full benefit of what's going on, plus you'll be treated to a compelling case fic.
sevenpercent gets co-author credit on this. The dialogue and many of the descriptions are directly from her Chapter 9. I know next to nothing about equestrian cross-country eventing, so anything to do with jumps is her beautiful writing. I thank her, too, for her expertise in riding tack, of which I am fully ignorant.
The air was clear, smell of High Wood thick and strong in the aftermath of the storm – just the way Highwood Alpha liked it. He pawed at the ground with his front leg, scraping mud off his well-groomed hoof. The climb hadn't been easy, but Alfie didn't like things easy; he liked a challenge.
The Colonel was aboard Charlie; John's mount was Morag. They trailed Alfie and Sherlock as they approached a fork in the path. Alfie, in the lead – he was not called Alpha for nothing – eyed the wide, wood-chipped lined path to the left. The others, in an obvious choice, walked toward the easy grassy lane.
Alfie veered to the left, but Sherlock reined him in, bringing him to a stop. Sherlock was edgy, his seat uncentered. The bay could hear the other riders communicating but tuned it out like so much background noise, only flicking his ears when he heard his name.
The Colonel had been trying to convince Sherlock to take the path to the left.
Sherlock looked down the track. Then he shook his head, in anger. "No, there's no point."
He started to turn Alfie's head.
What's your problem? the bay asked.
What?
Don't play ignorant. It doesn't become you.
The bay, determined, stepped again to the left. Sherlock countered with a slight but firm pull on the reins.
I would rather take the left path, Alfie thought, rather emphatically.
And I would rather take the grassy path.
Alfie felt the uncharacteristic tension in the reins, the uncomfortable seat of the rider.
No, you wouldn't... You're lying. Why are you lying?
The grassy path is safer.
Alfie sensed prevarication. He shied sideways, bouncing a bit and wrestling against the pull of the reins. He felt a shift in the rider's energy and with it came sudden insight.
SAFER? Since when have you wanted safe? You want the left path as much as I do… In fact, you need that path as much as I do. The speed! The jumps!... A moment of stillness between them, then… The danger!
Sherlock muttered, "Oh, to hell with it!"
Sherlock relaxed the pressure on the reins, leaned forward in the saddle and the horse took off down the track, like a bat out of hell.
If horses could smirk, Alfie would have.
The thick trees of the woods flew by in a blur, mud and wood chips flinging in all directions as hoofs sure-footedly found their way down the trail. Alfie's mane was whipping back driven by the force of the wind, breath coming quickly, heart rate rising, steady, confident hands urging him onward – it was perfect.
Alfie knew the course, but his rider knew the horse. They came to the first jump – a set of parallel bars between two trees. He could feel the horse's muscles begin to anticipate, calculated the way it should take it compared to how the horse would want to take it.
I know what I'm doing; trust me.
Alfie felt the rider's balance shift over his shoulders, the knees grasping tight, the hands lifting.
Too early! An edge of Alfie's panic telegraphed through the reins.
No, it's not. Who's playing safe now?
The horse lifted, his legs obeying the command without connecting to the head that might have argued. The wooden bars passed in a blur and then the crunch of hoofs on earth again.
Sherlock was in the zone, hyperaware of every stimuli but yielding to the wisdom of the subconscious. The line between mount and rider was blurred, horse and human breathing in unison, muscles synched, movement perfectly coordinated. They burst from the wooded track, onto the grassy field and adjusted accordingly.
Alfie surrendered to the fearless guidance of this master rider and never felt freer, bolder, or more confident as he neared the brush hurdle fence. Sherlock, bent low over the horse's neck, yielded to the utter brilliance of his mount, and his sure and certain knowledge of its ability to take the hurdle. Releasing control, yet maintaining control, surrendering to his own muscle memory of countless prior jumps, making microscopic adjustments to the reins, to the pressure of his thighs, to the shift of his weight at just the right time…
And they were airborne!
The pair took the last three hurdles with ease, each reading the other as if they had ridden together for years. And then it was over. Sherlock abruptly terminated the silent dialogue when he dismounted. Like flicking a switch, the connection between horse and rider was cut. A light went out from both pairs of eyes.