Author's Notes: Written for the LJ community tammy-drabbles, prompt #87 "The longest of my life."
"Eight Seconds"
Evin goes for the longest ride of his life.
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It started innocently enough. A stablehand's warning, "I don't think he's quite all that broke yet" doesn't hold up to much when Commander Tourakom tells one of her Riders that a mount needs to be ridden. Orders are orders, and daylight's a-wasting. The pony was perfectly well behaved to begin with. He stood like a gentleman while being brushed, declined to suck in his belly when the girth was tightened, and politely took the bit when bridled.
Evin should have known something was up when the beast stood stock still as he stuck his toe in the stirrup and fairly imitated the statue in the market square while he swung up and found his other stirrup iron. The real problem—or at least what he assumed to be—came when he pressed his heels to the pony's sides.
No response.
A stronger application of pressure, more of a demanding squeeze. With encouraging voice commands.
No response.
A solid six-year-old-child-on-a-stubborn-old-pony rib-popping heel-bruising kick, followed by a whack on the rump and language no six year old child would know.
Absolutely nothing happened.
Well, that would be incorrect. What did occur was a shifting of weight on the pony's part, a lowering of the head, and a half dozen other minute changes that had Evin bracing himself for misbehavior of the equine variety. Quite methodically, the pony stuck out a leg, stretched out his neck, and vigorously rubbed the side of his face against his knee.
"You little shit," Evin growled, reclaiming his reins and wishing he'd brought a riding crop with him. Or maybe spurs.
The pony flicked an ear back.
"Yeah, you heard me right." Kick, kick, kick. Boot heels like a drum against the pony's slab hard sides. Thump, thump, thump. "You…" Kick, whack. "Little…" Kick, kick, kick. "Sh—oh shit!"
The pony exploded. Metaphorically, of course.
With a tremendous squeal, his head went down and his hindquarters went up. The reins were jerked through Evin's fingers with the first duck of the pony's head, the kicking back legs quickly following to pitch him forward in the saddle. His feet lost the stirrups as the pony heaved himself skywards—an incredible feat from a near standstill. His only saving grace was the athletic series of crow hops that tossed him back the direction he had come from. He grabbed desperately for a hunk of mane, clinging with his knees, calves, thighs, anything and everything, while the pony ricocheted first one direction, then the other, bucking so hard that the breath came from his nose in gusty, angry snorts and his back hooves hung suspended above his head when all four hooves weren't actively airborne.
Evin didn't get the sense that this was anything beyond ordinary misbehavior until the moment he realized the pony had been in possession of the upper hand the entire time. This thought didn't occur to him until the whitewashed fence line blurred and bounced its way into his vision with startling proximity. The pony let loose its most terrific buck yet and with one deft, calculated twist of the shoulders, effectively parted ways with his rider.
Evin experienced a brief moment of arms-outstretched head-first flailing before catching the top rail with his stomach. With a faint noise somewhere between a moan and a grunt, he flipped over the fence and collapsed on the other side with the wind knocked out of his lungs.
When he could breathe again, he found Onua and Daine peering down at him with mixed expressions of concern and amusement.
"You know, in some parts of the world they do that for fun," the Horsemistress told him, holding out a hand and hoisting him to his feet.
He promptly braced himself up against the fence and stared at her. "You mean there are nitwits out there who voluntarily get on the back of a horse they know is going to toss them off?"
"What do you think?" Onua asked, ignoring his incredulity and turning to Daine. "He lasted longer than most."
The younger woman was grinning. "A whole eight seconds, at least. Very impressive."
"That was the longest eight seconds of my life! You could have at least given a man some warning."
Onua laughed. "And deprive ourselves of the entertainment? You were doomed from the start, bucko. No amount of magic could've saved your backside the moment you dropped it in that saddle."
Evin looked back at the pony. The little bugger was trotting in meandering circles, stirrup irons bouncing and reins dangling, tail flagged and clearly pleased with his freedom.
Disgusted, Evin pushed himself away from the fence with some effort. "I hate you all," he declared and limped away. His horse-speaking wildmagic-wielding ex-friends could deal with that pony instead. He had a lecture to deliver to his Commander.
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