It was akin to a dance. Two figures moving beneath the mellow, golden sunlight of a late summer afternoon. High grass surrounded the circular pen, fragrant with wildflowers and the scattered dashing of bee and butterfly. Within, an ebony coat flashed in the sun, and thick legs tromped heavy hoofprints into the soil. The magnificent young colt, in his prancing, head-tossing glory, overshadowed the demure shape nearby, who seemed little but a flash of grimy work-clothes capped with ashen-pale hair.
As the young horse circled the fence, snorting, his ears laid back against his skull, the girl stood towards the center, watching him. Her body turned to follow his movements, her hands were slack at her sides, her posture one of confident ease. If the colt slowed, she stepped towards his rump, knowing he would not allow himself to be touched, and he would lurch forward again, huffing his indignation and frustration while shaking out his ink-black mane.
The young woman murmured in a soft voice all the while, conversing with the beast as if they understood one another. For in her mind, they did, and to hold that belief firmly in one's mind was key to exhibiting it through one's body, face, voice, and hands. "You don't want to run all day, do you?" she asked in her native tongue.
On the horse circled, and on she followed, gently but persistently, not allowing him to stand still. Half an hour passed. An hour. The sun sank towards the far-off western horizon, angling its glorious, final beams over the plains. As twilight neared, the colt finally began to weary, his head sinking down, his ears softening. "There's a good fellow," said the girl in her quiet way, moving towards his head, rather than his backside, as there was no need to tire him further.
She stood a few paces away, and allowed him to regard her as she did him. The great, dark eye in his skull glistened beneath his shaggy forelock, blinking slowly.
"All done then?" she asked, stepping forward with a slow, smooth gait, utterly absent of jarring or sudden movements. The colt looked at her with that solitary eye a moment longer, then turned his head to examine her full-on.
She turned slowly, sliding her eyes away from him, and took a step in the opposite direction. She stopped then, and waited, listening.
Heavy, exhausted huffing filled the balmy evening air. A half dozen sparrows burst from a shrub nearby, startled by their own skittishness, and flurried overhead. A heavy hoof stomped at the earth as the young horse contemplated his choices.
The girl took another step away, stopped, and waited again. She smiled then, as the sound of slow, ponderous steps was heard, drawing cautiously near. She swiveled carefully, an inch at a time, until they were face to face. The colt's head was low, his ears forward, his tail swishing lazily over his rump.
Her hand extended towards him, a little at a time, knowing that his eyesight at this proximity was poor. Her fingers hovered before his great nostrils, and he whiffed at her scent, tossing his head once, but relaxing again quickly. "That's better now, isn't it?" she cooed, stepping forward at last to lay a hand with feather lightness between his eyes.
"Brynleigh!" a sharp and somewhat shrill voice called from the farm house nearby.
The girl turned to look towards the sound, frowning a little. She was never interrupted while working with a horse. Her father wanted them broken and trained quickly, and her time in the training paddock was never to be cut short, lest it lengthen the overall training, which meant a slower sale. The sound of her mother's call, therefore, was worrying. She withdrew slowly from the colt, still mindful not to spook him. He looked after her with wistful confusion, as she slipped through the gate and hurried across the yard.
The stars were just beginning to wink on overhead, and the windows of the farm house were now alight with welcoming fireglow, as she approached. And then a puzzling sight met her eyes. A man, standing on the wide, open porch, speaking with her father. Her mother stood at the corner, where she'd called to her daughter a moment before, and a hand was at her lips, pressed hard into the sun-weathered flesh. The visitor was tall and fair, but was not from one of the local farmsteads. He was dressed in a finely tailored cloak of verdant green that billowed about his heels, and a helm was under his arm.
Brynleigh stopped at the corner of the porch, stared a moment, then looked up at her mother. "Who is that?" she asked.
