Chapter Text
Dandelion was an old pony. He had suffered through many owners over his years, and was prepared to suffer them until his last breath. His current master was a loud, foul smelling man, whose main use for him was towing an overly large cart full of objects with the same foul smell. Dandelion didn’t much care for the cart work, and the cart had been particularly heavy that day, and the padding on his harness particularly thin.
So when the foul man was particularly loud, switching his back particularly harshly, Dandelion refused to speed up, and instead dug his hooves into the mud, bringing a dead stop to the cart.
Hooves pounded the dirt behind him, and the man got louder, waving his arms about and stomping his feet. Dandelion still refused to move. He was done for the day, he decided. The hoof beats drew up beside him, and he turned to glare at the big horses, who no doubt thought themselves better for their size.
The men who had ridden up climbed off the big horses, and struck the foul man. Dandelion didn’t much care about the commotion, he was an old pony, after all. He had seen things much more concerning in his long years.
The two men grabbed some of the foul smelling load in his cart, and laughed, shoving each other around a little behind him.
“Say, Arthur’s going to be needing a horse, Dutch, and that pony’s barely even flinched.” The man with the blond mane not unlike Dandelions own approached him, letting out noises as he did. Dandelion snorted, this man wasn’t going to get him to move the cart either.
“Looks to be about the right size, too.” The other man, with the dark hair walked towards him too. The blond man stroked down his side, and Dandelion couldn’t help but turn to snuffle at the man's pockets. He was an old pony, and he had suffered many masters. He knew when they were changing, and he also knew a kind man when he saw one.
The foul man groaned as the dark haired man kicked him, shouting the old pony name in response to some stream of noise or another. Dandelions ears twitched as the blonde haired man repeated it.
They cut him from the cart, and tethered him to one of the big horses, a proud and big horse. So his masters changed again. Dandelion was led for miles, and he went without much fuss. At least the cart and foul smell were left behind.
He met the boy the next day. He was small, dark blond, gentle with the brush that he dragged over his coat, and moved carefully and slowly. He was quiet, too. He was the type that always had a treat stuffed in his pocket. Dandelion found that he didn’t mind the boy. He had had children as masters before, and had always found them to be loud and harsh, jerky on the reins.
It was to be found that this child was not a good rider, however good his other manners were. He sat like a stone in the saddle, stiff as a board. His nerves and anxiety bled into the air and clogged Dandelions nose. This one was going to have to be taught.
Dandelion didn’t have much opportunity to teach the child, as one or both of the men would always be along on their rides. Their big horses would no doubt overtake him if he attempted a lesson on the child, and so he waited. The men tried to teach the boy, he could tell from the marginal improvement he made. He no longer sat so stiff, rather, he flopped like the potato bags Dandelion had once been made to carry, throwing his weight in all the wrong places in all the wrong times. Dandelion was an old pony, and he had suffered many riders. He knew how to teach a bad one, or how to remove a worse one.
The day came when the big horses and men didn’t accompany them on their ride into the small town. Dandelion waited until they were a mile away from the camp when he leaped from his easy trot into a mad run. The boy yelled and his legs clenched around Dandelions sides automatically, driving the old pony faster. Dandelion nickered, enjoyed the way the wind tore through his mane and the way his aging joints and muscles loosened.
He didn’t slow down his fierce run until he felt the boy working with him, and even then only slowing to an easy lope. He was winded and frothing when they finally got into town, but the boy no longer felt so much like a heavy sack on his back, so he deemed the lesson taught. He was an old pony, and he knew how to fix a bad rider.
Things were better after that, and Dandelion, now nicknamed Dandy, was having perhaps the best years of his long life. The boy, Arthur, had learnt fast after that first lesson, and Dandelion didn’t have to suffer through his presence. He was still gentle and quiet, but much more confident in Dandelions saddle now, and they rode often by themselves now. They ranged all over the valley that the camp was situated in, and later around the lake that it was moved to. It was by far the easiest work and the most well cared for Dandelion had been since he was a colt.
The fourth spring of their partnership, Dandelion knew it was their last. He was an old pony, and Arthur was a fast growing boy. He was fast outgrowing him, and Dandelion wouldn’t be able to bear the boy come the change of the seasons.
The time came one morning when the men rode into camp with a small child and a large horse. Dandelion was grateful, because though, and perhaps because he liked the boy so much, he had no wish to suffer him. The small child had a shock of black mane, and was crying furiously. The blonde man, Hosea, held him and whispered to him softly. The other man, Dutch, pulled Arthur aside to speak with him.
Arthur went, listened, and then stroked the new big horse, and crooned, “Boadicea.”
Dandelion was an old pony, he knew when his masters were changing, and he knew a kind man when he saw one.