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Heat of the moment, snap-second choice to jump on the pony’s back, its bokoblin rider still writhing on the ground where she’d stabbed him. The logic: there were four more bokoblins, all on horseback; the ground was a strategical disadvantage. She’s been trying to catch a horse, solid blue, specifically to deal with this group when she’d accidentally driven it straight into the fighting grounds. Now, it was somewhere, not here, presumably off in the mountains attempting to find its herd, and Link was on the ground trying to fight a group on horseback. So: acquire a horse. It whinnied and reared and bucked, but Link held on tight and shushed it. Luckily, it calmed down. Another bokoblin’s spear missed her by a hair and she had bigger concerns.
When the fight died and she had attention to spare for things that weren’t stabbing, she noticed the horse flinch every time she spurred it on. Calming had no effect, though the horse tilted its ears back whenever she spoke. Frowning, she steered the horse towards the stable, crossing the entrance and jumping off its back.
There were wounds. Night made it difficult to see, but the full moon provided just barely enough light. On the belly, around the part where your heel would hit to spur it on, the skin was scraped raw, scabbed over at parts, though not bleeding actively. Link gently pressed her hand to it, and the horse took a nervous step sideward.
“It needs care,” she said to the stablehand, startled awake from a doze. He blinked.
“Right!” he said. “I’m new here so. I’ll, uh, get the stablemaster.” Scurried to the tent like a millipede. Without helping.
Irritated, Link led the horse inside the stable, grabbing a rope and halter to fasten it, fetching a pail of water. The night was cold, season just beginning to change to winter. Link’s hands were freezing. She placed the pail over a fire and waited for the water to warm, foot kicking the ground. Over came the stablemaster, yawning.
“Back?” he said, slurring with sleep. “Did you catch that horse?”
“No, I caught a different one,” pointing at the pony. The stablemaster’s gaze lingered on its belly.
“Not you, I’m assuming?”
“Of course not.”
“Good, would’a had to kick you out. Where’d you get her?”
Pointed over to where the bokoblins had been. The stablemaster whistled between his teeth.
“Ya got the gang? Great job! Just for that, we’ll make the registration free.”
“Do you have any ointment?” Link asked. A finger dipped into to the water; it was still too cold.
“Yeah, we do, but you can make your own with chuchu jelly if you got some.”
More than enough. “Recipe?”
The stablemaster rattled it off, coming to dip his hand into the water as well. He winced. “Always a pain to warm it up. Probably gonna take a while.”
Yes, obviously. It might be rude to say that; Link stopped herself.
“So in the meantime, we can do the registering.” The stablemaster clapped his hands together. “What’s her name?”
Oh, right. A name. Since it was going to be her horse now. Since she was going to be her horse now? Link looked at her. Moon-dappled blue spots seemed like craters against the light fur.
“Moonbeam.”
Finally, the water was starting to warm. Registration took only a few minutes, after which the stablemaster went back inside, content to leave Link to her own devices.
Rinsing the wounds didn’t take long, neither did making the chuchu-ointment and slathering it. Through it all, Moonbeam was remarkably tolerant. She watched Link attentively, ears turned towards her, never kicked or bit. At most, she took a few steps left.
Done, Link scratched the top of her mane. She leaned her head back into it. Humming, Link found an apple, eagerly eaten. This was a good horse. She would be treasured.
Healing went smoothly. The wounds closed quickly and painlessly. Flighty at first, nervous when losing sight of Link, Moonbeam calmed down as the scrapes scabbed over. It took work: ointment applied twice daily, a slow routine to desensitize. Loud noise, sudden movements, other horses; all things that made her rear and whinny and try to run the other way, or scrape the ground and pace around her stables nervously. But patience and care made work of it, and soon the scars were covered by fur.
Surprising: before long, Moonbeam was more reliable than Sweetie. Though faster, Sweetie easily startled, training notwithstanding. A few months, however, and Moonbeam charged at bokoblins. Unflinching even among Guardians, only throwing her ears back as Link spurred her on, dodging lasers. Quickly, she became Link’s go-to trail horse.
Picture: the warmer part of Hyrule, a meadow, canopy spotting the ground with day-end sunlight, deep-red apples covering tree roots. A campfire quickly made. Exhausted, Link tied Moonbeam to a branch and fell asleep.
Whinnying. Link woke up; Moonbeam was not where she’d left her. Half the apples on the ground were gone. There was more whinnying. Oh no.
Several trees too far: Moonbeam, stretching her neck to reach apples, whinnying in protest when they stayed stubbornly out of her reach. Seeing Link, trotting over to her, pushing her nose against her shoulder, trotting back to the tree, staring expectantly among her apple massacre.
Those pictures were cherished most. More than dragons, more than gods; the beasts, and not those divine. After this was over, perhaps Link could start a stable.
The sepia horse smell, dust and straw tingling her nose, the brush’s smooth wood beneath her palm, Moonbeam dozing. Grooming, Link’s favourite task. Soothing, repetitive, grounding. Easy to get lost in. Link let her brush glide along the hair, again, again. Next stable, Sweetie chewed; further, there was chatter, indistinct. Brush gliding along the hair. Brush gliding along the hair. Brush —
Gliding along the hair.
His mother stood at the stable door, fidgeting. Rubbing one finger, pushing her ring up and down. No-one was around, then. Link hadn’t noticed the stablehands leaving. The sun had almost set. He hadn’t noticed that either. Had he missed sparring? Had nobody come get him?
Stilling her hands, standing straight, his mother, suddenly regal: “Your father wants to congratulate you on your performance in training. However, he would appreciate renewed attendance at our evening meals. Your progress has been sufficient and you need not prolong your hours.”
Link did not look at her. Underneath his hand, Chestnut fidgeted. He scratched his mane. Tap-tap-tap; his mother kicking the ground. Stopping, starting again, stopping.
“I also —” she started, sighed, stopped. Tap-tap-tap. Brush gliding along the hair, the sepia horse smell; in the distance, chatter, clanging of swords.
The stable door creaked open. “You haven’t been — I’m —” his mother stuttered, stopped. Link looked at her. Her fingers tapped on Chestnut’s back. He caught them and stopped her.
Scraping her throat, loud as in court: “I’d appreciate morning updates on your training.”
Chestnut began scraping his hoof. Link scratched him again. Restless. He should ride him, but Link had missed training today. He’d have to make up for it.
“Or evening meals.”
He could stand to sleep less. A night ride?
“Link.”
Probably a night ride.
A sigh. “I’m —” his mother stuttered, looking past his face. Tap-tap-tap, muffled by straw. Rubbing her finger. Voice a little too loud when she began to speak again: “Do you — want to tell me about Chestnut?”
Link brushed along his flank. “He needs to be ridden again,” Link said. “I was planning on going for a ride tonight.”
A pause. “Instead — I mean, can you do a morning ride instead?”
He didn’t answer. The brush glided over the hair.
A little too loud again: “How can you tell he needs to be ridden?”
Pausing, looking up. Link pointed at Chestnut’s hoof. “He’s been scraping the floor a lot,” Link began. “He’s also been banging on the stable door, and bucking a lot in the paddock, and getting more aggressive. He’s getting restless and needs to run more.”
His mother brushed her hand along Chestnut’s flank. “Do all horses do that when they get restless?”
“No,” Link began, and kept talking until it got dark, proper. His mother listened.
Moonbeam whinnied. Link startled. She’d never remembered her mother before.
The grooming was practically done. Link laid her head on Moonbeam’s back, buried her face in her hair. It was fluffy. It’d thin out soon; winter was ending. Morning light entered the stables. She’d planned to ask Yunobo about Vah Rudania today, see if anything could prepare her for Vah Medoh.
“Want to go for a ride?” she asked Moonbeam. Righted herself and scratched her mane. It was a good morning for it.