Not one of my better ones – though I thought it was a cute idea. It was inspired by my own horse – Peace of Star – who, at times, believes himself to be a fallen knight.
Disclaimer: The knights aren't mine, neither are their horses – no matter how much I wish they were.
OO
Lancelot cracked an eye open. He was laying on the ground staring at a landscape of lush grass and cloudless sky, but there was nothing for it. His head felt as though it had been split in half. It hurt to move – hell, it hurt to think about moving.
As he lay there, he let his memories slowly drift back to him. The Saxons. Guinevere. A crossbow. Arthur. They were all too jumbled to make any sense of them. There had been a battle…
But then where was the smoke? the fire? the cries of dying warriors? the clash of steel on steel? Everything around him was too clean, too quiet. Instead of the sounds of battle, all there was was the clear, blue sky and the soft whispering of the wind in the grass.
Arthur! He thought and tried to heave himself to his feet, intent on finding his friend and asking what the hell was going on. But his legs didn't seem to want to bend like they were supposed to, and he rolled onto his other side. There was a black stallion grazing not far away, and although he looked somewhat familiar, Lancelot couldn't decide why. Frustrated and confused, he tried to at least sit up.
Amidst his struggles to conquer his uncooperative limbs was when he first noticed it. A dark hoof where his hand was supposed to be, attached to that was a feathered ankle covered in glossy black fur, it continued to a knee which bent backwards and more black fur.
Panicking, Lancelot observed the rest of his body. Sure enough, his eyes were set wide apart and he could now see behind him – back to a thick black tail. Convinced it was some sort of clever trick, Lancelot tried to stand yet again. And again his limbs wouldn't cooperate and he toppled over.
After a few more fruitless attempts to make his limbs work the way he wanted them to, he rolled his eyes and decided to play along with the joke. In a few moments and with much creative cursing, he had gained all four of his feet. I feel like a dog, he thought cynically to himself as he stood there, splay-legged and feeling as gangling as a newborn foal.
While he'd been struggling, the other black horse had sauntered over, looking relatively amused. "Finally decided to join us?" he asked. "We were wondering if you were going to."
Then Lancelot recognized the voice. "Dagonet?" he asked hesitantly.
The black bowed his head gracefully, on which Lancelot recognized his fellow knight's distinctive scar running through his left eye and down to his jaw.
"Who's we?" Lancelot asked, hopelessly confused yet again.
Dagonet glanced over his shoulder to where a dappled-grey stallion had just gained the ridge.
Lancelot scowled as the new horse trotted towards them – a face that looked very unhorse-like.
When he finally reached them, the grey acknowledge Lancelot with a curt bow of his head before turning to Dagonet. "There's a pond about four miles back that way and a village nearby," he said, "but there're streams all over the place."
It was only when he spoke that Lancelot recognized him. He hadn't seen the knight fall, and hadn't believed it possible – but then again, he hadn't believed some Saxon could kill him either. "Tristan?" he asked, confused yet again.
The grey turned and inclined his head slightly.
It took a moment for the facts to register with Lancelot. Somehow he'd always imagined the cynical scout as a black horse to match his rather dark outlook on life.
"Where are we?" he asked finally, trying for something he could understand.
"Home." was the simple response from Dagonet.
As they sauntered in the direction of the pond Tristan had found, Lancelot trotted to catch up with the scout, who was walking slightly ahead. It felt strange to have four legs and a tail, but Lancelot was too interested in getting information to worry about it.
"What happened?" he asked, hoping to get a less cryptic answer than what Dagonet would have given him.
Tristan turned his head slightly to look at him, but his ears kept swiveling to catch any little noise. "Remember that frozen lake, when Dag promised that little boy that fallen knights return as great horses?"
Not really, thought Lancelot sarcastically, I was a bit preoccupied by the Saxons! He nodded anyway.
"We fell, and we've returned," the scout explained simply. At that moment, Tristan's attention was diverted. "Horses coming," he said, turning and trotting back towards Dagonet, who was still walking steadily some paces behind.
Lancelot rolled his eyes and snorted in annoyance – of all the knights he could have been stuck with he got the two he didn't have a prayer of understanding. He waited rather impatiently for the two to catch up with him.
By the time they caught up to Lancelot, he could hear the hooves of horses as well, but they seemed to be echoing all around them. He was just about to comment on Tristan's diminished tracking skills, when three horsemen crested the next ridge and came galloping down towards them.
As they approached, Lancelot recognized one of the riders by the kilt he was wearing. "Galahad," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The young knight had discovered them soon after their first meeting and had never given them up. That meant that the one slightly behind with the long hair had to be Gawain, looking out for the younger knight as usual. And bringing up the rear, followed by a wagon, came distinctly bald-headed Bors and all his little bastards – of which almost half were probably Lancelot's.
Tied to the wagon were two familiar horses – a dappled grey mare and a black stallion. "That's my Flight," muttered Tristan, recognizing his loyal mare.
"And Scimitar," demanded Lancelot. "What're they doing with them?"
"Taking them home," interrupted Dagonet. "I watched the same thing with Faith. They take them home to the families of the fallen."
It was only then, watching his fiery Scimitar being taken home, that the reality finally hit Lancelot – as far as his family, friends, and other people were concerned, he was dead.
When their old friends were past, the three knights-turned-horses continued on their way, not bothering with the rutted track the others had taken, but going across country.
It was getting late in the day when they arrived at the pond Tristan had told them about; having to skirt around a small village of portable huts to get there. The fresh, cold water tasted wonderful compared to the dirty, stagnant, Roman stuff they'd been drinking for the past fifteen years.
Having drank their fill, Dagonet turned to grazing in the lush grass around the pond. Tristan trotted a short distance away and stood, attentive to all goings-on around them. Old habits, thought Lancelot, watching the scout. The break gave him a chance to survey his surroundings. On the walk over, he had been too preoccupied to even see where he was going. Now he could see the land was like the Sarmatia he remembered – rolling, grassy plains as far as the eye can see and an expansive, cloudless, blue sky, now turned red and gold by the setting sun.
He was jolted out of his reverie by Tristan. "Riders coming," said the scout. A moment later, a group of familiar knights appeared, heading for them and the pond. The horses watched them as they dismounted, letting their horses drink.
"Make camp here tonight," said Bors, "my arse can't take much more of that saddle."
Gawain laughed. "You spend fifteen years in that saddle and you can't take a few days' ride?"
"Not as long as I don't have to," Bors retorted.
A longer argument was averted by Galahad pointing to the three horses. "Look," he said, "wild horses."
"Wonder why they're not running?" asked Bors.
"Because we're downwind – they can't smell you," retorted Gawain, ducking to avoid Bors' fist.
Ignoring them, Galahad picked up a rock and threw it – hard – at Tristan, who happened to be closest. The grey neatly shifted aside and the rock soared past him.
Looking as insolently as a horse can, Tristan sauntered up to Galahad and unceremoniously knocked him into the pond.
Distracted by Galahad's frustrated curse and immense splash followed by more colorful cursing, Gawain and Bors looked up from their friendly argument. When they saw Galahad, soaking wet and sitting in the pond, and the grey horse looking down at him curiously, they couldn't help laughing.
With a flick of his tail, Tristan turned and wandered away, closer to the wagon and his old mare. Seeing the unfamiliar stallion, Flight pinned her ears and squealed, lashing out with her back hooves. Serenely, Tristan waited for the mare to stop. Finally, she stood, breathing heavily from her display and eyeing him warily.
Meanwhile, Lancelot and Dagonet had sauntered over to their friends, who were hauling a very wet Galahad out of the pond. Gawain turned his back to pull Galahad up, and Lancelot saw his chance. With a well-placed nudge, he sent the two knights tumbling head over heels back into the water. They landed with an immense splash, spluttering and cursing, while Bors and all his children laughed uproariously.
One of the younger children – probably Lancelot's by the curly brown hair – approached Dagonet and reached out to pet his nose. As had been proved with the boy, Lucan, Dagonet always had a soft spot for children. The black horse stretched his nose towards the child and allowed himself to be scratched behind the ears. As a horse, he was allowed to let his softer side shine through.
"Look!" the child called. "He likes it."
Bors sauntered over, leaving Galahad and Gawain to extricate themselves from the pond on their own. "So he does." With a snort, Dagonet allowed Bors to run a giant hand down his glossy neck. "What's a fine horse like this doing running free?"
At that moment, another great splash came from the pond – Lancelot had set one of his hooves on Galahad's foot, causing the knight to overbalance and fall back into the pond. With much cursing and splashing, Galahad struggled to his feet, aiming a swift kick at Lancelot's ribs. Easily, the horse stepped out of range.
"I thought all Sarmations were wonderful with horses?" To add insult to injury, Vanora had appeared at the door of the wagon, and was watching the whole affair with a very bemused expression.
Galahad scowled, but didn't dare retort for fear of Bors. Instead, he dragged himself out of the pond and onto the shore, skirting around where Lancelot stood, eyeing the horse almost warily.
While Bors' attention had been diverted, the small child had scurried up Dagonet's leg and perched himself astride the horse's wide back. "Look!" he piped up happily. The child resembled a large fly seated precariously atop the massive horse.
Bors made a protective grab for the child, having in mind to drag him off and reprimand him. "Get down from there," he said sternly.
The child whined pitifully, and Dagonet took a few steps back, careful that the child didn't fall. The whine quickly turned into a playful giggle.
Narrowing his eyes, Bors took another step towards Dagonet – Dagonet took another step back. Bors took a step back – Dagonet took a step forward. Their game went on for several minutes, the horse always keeping an equal distance between himself and the man.
Meanwhile, Vanora approached Tristan, who was – as usual – deep in conversation with his grey mare – although it was on a much different level than anything he could have achieved as a human. "So, you like Flight, do you?" she asked, reaching up to pet his face.
Instinctively, Tristan turned his face away. He had always been more comfortable around animals than other people – women most especially, and even as a horse wasn't quite comfortable with the idea.
Vanora smiled slightly. "Yeah," she told the horse, "her master didn't like people too much either," – she sighed – "but he and that horse always managed to bring my lover home alive."
Sidetracked, she looked towards the pond, where Galahad was still muttering darkly and casting venomous glances at the black stallion, who was watching him innocently. To her, it looked almost as though the horse was laughing hysterically.
In fact, Lancelot was laughing. If anything, being a horse allowed him a freedom that he never had as a human. It was wonderfully hilarious to see Galahad get so angry, yet be at such a loss for retaliation. Had the human Lancelot knocked the two knights into the pond, he would have been next – presumably weighted down with rocks.
When the three knights – with the help of Bors' eleven children – packed up their small camp the next morning, the three stallions were still there. Bors' patted Dagonet on his thick, silky neck. "Here now," he said, "you're free."
With an impatient squeal, Lancelot galloped a short distance away, arching his neck, and adding a short buck to emphasize his willingness to go live his new freedom. Giving Flight a last nuzzle, Tristan trotted smoothly away to where Lancelot was waiting. Bowing his head to Bors, Dagonet turned and walked out to join his friends.
Together, the three horses broke into an earth-pounding gallop – clearly intent on living their new-found freedom to its fullest.