The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Ride to Aimsby

Lark was in such high form that morning that Able wondered in amusement if he might float away. Or she. The first time they had gone riding, Lark had worn a sharp, dark green jacket that accentuated his shoulders. He had been a man that day. Today's jacket, a sable brown with a pop of yellow, had similar shoulders but flared at the waist and had a gathered tail, so Able's best guess was he was "both."

"Tell me, what would you do with yourself if you could not make your own clothes?" Able asked.

"Probably crawl naked into a hole and sob a thousand tears until I had drowned," Lark answered reasonably.

Able chuckled at this then frowned at his brain trying to picture Lark without clothes. He busied himself with loading his things onto Fox, whom he was actually happy to see again, despite the persistent soreness in his legs. When Lark had explained he could get them to Aimsby overland by horse in less than half the time it would take them by wagon on the roads, Able had swallowed his complaints.

"Can you get up all right?" Lark called from where he was readying his own mount, which was somehow both shorter and fatter than Fox was.

Able considered the stirrup he had just put his foot into, but Lark came over behind him before he had calculated an answer.

"Yup, like that. Now grab up here, on the pommel." Lark patted the front of the saddle until Able carefully took hold of it. "And the cantle." Now he was patting the other end of the saddle.

As Able reached for it, he envisioned Lark patting other things and blurted, "Would you give me some space? I can do this."

Lark backed off obligingly.

Able gripped the saddle and tried to step up, but the stirrup, dangling as it was, swung away and the saddle lurched after it. Able started back only to see nothing had moved as much as it felt. So he tried again, trying to center his weight, but his strength gave out before he managed it. Anxious that Lark was about to offer help again, he hoisted himself as far as he could with an embarrassingly loud grunt then scrabbled towards the pony as he swayed backwards. But he was up.

"Good man." Lark grinned encouragingly from beside Fox's head. He'd been holding her still? "Now you just gotta make sure your stirrups are a good length. Make sure you can stand up, easily, from where you're sitting."

"Yeah, okay," Able mumbled and looked over the stirrups to figure out how the heck to even—

And Lark was there, warm fingers pushing Able's thigh back. Able jerked away, but Lark, undisturbed, pulled up the flap where Able's leg had been. Oh.

"You're tense this morning," he commented as he pulled and buckled the strap then raised his eyes to meet Able's, his searching, deep gaze too gentle to be anything but comforting. Unless that's what you're thinking.

"Out of sorts this morning," Able replied quite honestly. "Don't know why."

"The woodland air should clear that right up!" Lark took Fox's lead back over to his pony and hopped up easily.

This time they rode the other direction out of town, right through a rambunctious herd of goats—the goat-herder waving to Lark on the way—and on to zigzag between farms on a plateau just above the bay. The plots were full of lentils and beans and other shallow-rooted vegetables which, thanks to Woodbrook, Able expected grew beautifully in the torrential seaside rains.

His legs were quickly remembering how to work with Fox's movements and were having an even easier time thanks to the stirrups. However, Lark had to call back reminders to lean forward when they left the farms behind and headed up the inclines into the woods. Able almost slid straight off Fox's rump before he remembered on his own.