Freewind

            He soared across the open fields as if on wings, joy unbridled. It was always so, moments like these being few and far in between. The air in these northern climes was sweet and pure and the grass that his hooves skimmed felt cool. It was times like these that brought back his childhood, when he, his mother and the rest of the herd roamed the plains free and there seemed not a worry in the world.

This was the world he enjoyed, becoming utterly lost in it. Many were the countries he had trod on. He had trundled along busy alleyways, charged on the sun-soaked wastes of the southern deserts and trudged through the bitter snows of the far north. But this was where his heart lay. The cool northern wind blowing back his golden mane and the untarnished endless green spurred him further on. He could stay and live here forever.

“Freewind! Freewind! Come here! Come here and rest awhile,” a voice brought him out of his reverie.

At those words, Freewind stopped abruptly and wheeled around towards the voice. He did not wish it, but had to and knew the words meant well. He was almost resentful that the man had chosen that very moment, the most precious of all, to call out to him. But as always, the resentment would pass. He understood. Pack and warhorses seldom knew when rest was needed. And rest was always needed, especially at the right time. Running unhindered on the plains made him forget that he had a master to answer to.

But running for too long made the blue and green of the sky and ground blur into flashes. Flashes of that day, that one day. Several years had passed since that fateful day, when a great commotion of rapidly approaching men had forever shattered the peace of the plains. Freewind had been captured by the horse traders that day and sold to the first bidder who came along. Even though he had always been strong, bringing food when others from the herd were too weak to fend for themselves, the capture had greatly broken him. He was separated from those whom he loved and had grown up with. The very will to live seemed to hang by only a thread.

This dispiritedness did not go unnoticed and most of the traders favoured releasing him or worse, getting rid of him. Against all reason, they decided to try their luck at the nearest horse market. And indeed luck did favour them – especially for the horse. A noble was passing by and would surely have overlooked the broken animal had it not been for his son by his side.

“Please, father, please,” implored the boy. “He is not broken yet. There is a greatness in him. Please buy him for me, father. I shall bring back the light in his eyes. You will see”.

The trader who had his palms coiled around Freewind’s rein smirked upon hearing this. But the boy stepped forward to stroke him and Freewind felt something different. It was much like his mother’s caress. The boy had a reassuring touch, and for what seemed the first time in his life, rather than after weeks, his perpetually bowed head rose.

But the white stallion had never begrudged the boy anything. Freewind could not have asked for a better owner. No, not an owner, but a friend. A friend who loved him and tended him as if he were his own. Garwin’s father was not of great means and was loath to purchase the beast. Seeing the determination of his son compelled him and the pair had brought him home. For the first few weeks, the lord’s servants instructed the boy on how to care for the animal. The boy was very inquisitive and wanted to know everything - at what times of the day to feed him, how to check for a fever, how to clothe the animal in case of an unexpected deluge. This Garwin did that he might restore the beast’s spirits himself. In time, he dismissed the groom and servants and took charge himself.

“You are a wonderful animal, though you may yet know it not. I look at you and I see loss. Father and I too have lost,” he said, pausing for a moment, as if to recollect himself.

This was the first time that Freewind had ever seen pain in a human. Not the fleeting kind that could be tucked away but genuine pain, the same that had taken hold of him months ago and still lingered.

“Freewind I name you herein. For though you be bound to me and my family, I would that you have your freedom and not be chained as others would have it. Do not forget though that I shall still have great need of you.”

As weeks, and then months went by, the boy nursed him back. He would even forsake a good night’s sleep to see that the horse got his. At other times, he would be chastised by his father for neglecting his studies to spend more time with Freewind. Both horse and boy grew up together.

Before the sweetness of adolescence flowed away, Garwin, in upholding the family name, enlisted as a soldier in the King’s Forces. Initially assigned to remote outposts of the kingdom, he proved himself and won much fame, among his own people and others, shielding borderland villagers from hostile raiders. And always bearing him would be Freewind, for Garwin would have no other mount. Together, both horse and master accomplished feats of glory, and hope would be rekindled in the harassed who saw the armoured knight borne upon the fair steed furiously riding down the attackers. Tales grew around Garwin and Freewind, such that it seemed both had morphed into a single being.

The drilling was hard, and Freewind had not been exempted. The Pallantine Corps were regarded as some of the best horsemen in all the realms. Before being formally accepted into its elite ranks, drawn from the military’s finest, both man and horse had to undergo the most rigorous training. Men of the Pallantine tended to be stationed in the far-flung parts of the king’s dominions, to keep his peace and deliver his justice if warranted.

Such assignments ill suited those weak of body or faint of heart. A rider did not fight in isolation – his mount had to be equally conditioned as well, to adapt to conditions and withstand the strains of battle.

It was a far cry from before, when the most effort required by Freewind was running across the open meadows at home with the boy on his back. Yet Garwin and Freewind had impressed the king’s inspectors who had received recommendations from boy’s drill officers. The horse seemed to be in exceptionally good health and spirits. Garwin had received some instruction from his father in swordplay, as did every noble’s son. But while the boy’s skills were not remarkable by any means, he seemed to have a hawk’s eye for surroundings and, inexplicably, a sense of justice bordering on retribution. It was the kind of attitude needed to serve and survive in the hinterlands. Thus the pair were accepted, at least nominally, and sent to the Pallantine camps. Freewind was trained to run faster, swerve at ever sharper angles at a moment’s notice, canter in formation and take on the added weight of armour and rations.

On the rare occasion that he would sojourn in the city, Garwin would partake in the lord’s trade. Being the son of a merchant, he was destined to take his father’s place someday. Neither horse nor master relished navigating the clogged streets of the big city but this was another task that both knew had to be carried out. A sign of the special place accorded to him, Freewind would be spared the burden of baggage. Garwin was firmly against it. Instead, he was used to lead the way for the long column of other pack-animals through the narrow walkways.

It was on his first errand riding to the northern plains that Garwin noticed something different. He was as yet unaware that this was Freewind’s first home. The horse became restless as rolling hills and taller grasses came into view. Upon approaching a patch of land with nothing but a solitary tree and a few shrubs, he stood strangely rooted to the spot. Even when Garwin dismounted, Freewind would not move and it took all his effort to get the horse to budge at all. This had never happened before, not even in the harsh deserts of the south where most horses did not fare well. Even the fearsome clash of steel against steel did not cow Freewind anymore. This was something completely different. In that moment, the man knew.

Garwin then leaned in and whispered in the stallion’s ear, “Go now, Freewind. Run. The world is yours. This place is yours. If only for a little while, I release you.”

With some hesitation, Freewind had started taking his first few steps, unsure whether it was wise to tread the path of old memories, memories that were pure joy but also reminded him of that which had rent his world apart. The familiar feel of the cool grass under his hooves and the melodic hymns of birds perched on the treetops gave him new confidence – but only for a while. They also reminded him of his mother and kin and the now voiceless plains that confronted him.

Things are different now, he thought to himself. It is not like before. I can run on these fields again. I have lost, but I have also gained.

That was the thought that finally pushed him. It took a while but he felt his pace quicken. His slow stride spurted into a gallop. Suddenly, the smell of the moist grass and the sweet air entered his nostrils, infusing him with a new energy. He wondered whether he would be able to stop himself. Before he knew it, he was gliding along the green, as if he had been there all his life. He would always tire himself out, and yet yearn for more.

And so this became custom. Every year, master and horse would journey to Freewind’s home in the northern plains, where he could shake off all burdens and run free. Upon seeing the familiar grounds and without waiting for rest or food, Garwin would release the horse. There was no need to beckon him forth. As soon as he felt the saddle and reins come off, Freewind would sally forth and not stop for miles.

And so, many hours would pass this way. But ever dutiful, he would always go back to Garwin when called for.