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He remembers vaguely that, in his previous life time, he had only ridden a horse a mere two times. Ash people had very little need for steed to the degree he’d imagine other clans had; they lived high up in the mountains, towering over towns and villages in private isolation. They had the freshest of water, collected from the beginning of the slipsteams at the top of the mountains so close to their homes, had caves to keep their slaughter from escaping, and could source warming sunlight for their own grains, meaning that only but a handful of men needed to be riders in order to journey to neighbouring towns for a renewal of medical supplies and some seedlings if the yield was less than expecting.
Nevertheless, the children of the ash folk took pleasure in trotting around the village on the large beasts, taking turns to ride or run alongside the animal, with an elder brother or doting mother leading the horse at a steady pace with a rope attached to its head reins.
The first experience he’d had on a horse was surrounded with humiliation, and was banished to the back of his mind with or without the teaching of the bible to cloud his memories. He had been young, maybe five or six years, when an older boy - whose face remained foggy on the rare occasion he thought back to his life before the brotherhood, preventing him from truly recalling who he was - had clapped him on the shoulder, declaring that it was his turn on the horse, before gripping him under the pits of his arms and hoisting him into the air and onto the leather saddle with a thump.
He had never been that high up before, and distracted himself with the view of his home from such a towering height. It was this distraction that left him vulnerable when suddenly the horse lurched forward without warning, leaving little time to steady himself and grip the reins, and instead left him toppling to the side and straight into the dirt.
The only vivid part of that memory was the chorus of laughter that erupted from his peers when he landed harshly on his arm, his cheek grazing the ground below. He remembered the horse stopping abruptly and the older boy's feet charging around him, pulling him to his own feet and brushing the mud from his trousers as he inspected for injury. The children laughed on heartedly, as if it was the most humorous thing they had witnessed in some time, and the older boy in front of him gave him non-injured cheek a warm tap before berating the children for their foolish laughter. Still, it was too late and he was already red in the face with embarrassment and vowed never to get back on such a foul creature.
Despite years of training and conditioning to the teachings of the Red Paladins, there is still one memory from his childhood he can recall as clear as a summer’s sky.
He had aged on in some years and was now possibly eight or nine years, but no more than that. True to his vow, he had never rode the horses again and had even avoided partaking in the chase behind the animal the other children led whilst waiting for their turn.
On this morning, however, the children were granted the opportunity to play on a new horse their village had taken in only weeks prior.
A tanned horse with a mane of black hair that looked as if to be shimmering in the spring sunlight; it was the finest creature he had ever seen in his small amount of years. Because of this, even he, who had sworn off the breed all those years prior, found himself trailing after the children to watch it in action. He recollects following the steed all morning and into the afternoon, watching its majestic legs prance around as children squealed with delight from atop its back. When children began being called back into their homes to complete this chore or that, the elder girl in charge began leading the horse back to the stable. He frowned at having to leave the horse, and went to retreat back to his mother - or what family he may have had; he had long forgotten aspects of such nature - when a familiar hand clapped his shoulder and steered him towards the girl.
“Rosalind,” the voice behind him spoke, “let me tie him back up for you, I would quite like to test his pace myself before he goes for his rest.”
The girl - Rosalind - had nodded and passed the horse over to the boy without question. She left and the boy with the face blocked by fogged memories crouched in front of him.
“Lance,” he spoke softly, “might we try you once more on horseback?” He imagined he must have nodded because the boy sprung upwards and mounted the horse with such elegance. A hand was extended down to him and he gripped it - it was soft, and warm, and felt so familiar in the back of his condemned mind - as he was lugged upwards and into saddle.
Like those years previous, he became distracted once more. This time it was not by the height advantage, but by the wonderful mane in front of him. He reached a single finger out to touch it, swapping to a whole hand once pleasantly surprised by the silky texture as he stroked it gently. Once again, the horse began swift movement without his knowledge, jolting him to the side, his body reddle to topple.
This time, however, he was met not with the roughness of the harsh ground below, but instead, a warm and strong weight wrapped around his stomach.
“Steady now, Lancelot.” A voice said close to his ear as the boy pressed to his back held him securely on the saddle. His chest heaved with slight panic as he looked down and, indeed, saw the boy’s arm embracing him, hand splayed across his stomach to keep him in place. He looked back and saw the boy grinning at him, tightening his arm for a moment in a sincere squeeze before relaxing and ripping the reins once again, “I have you, Lance. No need to fear.”
The memory stayed with him for all the passing years, he assumes, because it was the last time that he felt such a strong sense of security before a brotherhood of men donning red cloaks attacked at dawn some weeks later, burning his entire tribe and snatching him away until the pretence of redemption and messages from God.
Of course, one of the first things the Red Paladins did was make sure he knew how to ride a horse, for what good is a warrior that cannot lead his men into battle? It had been a slow process, one that was littered with bruised ribs from the swift kicks delivered to his chest whenever he panicked and took a fall, but in the end he rode with great talent and no longer feared he would take a tumble.
Still, he never felt that same sense of safety and security on horseback like he did back in that last moment of his childhood.
Until now, that is, in the present moment, when suddenly that memory of security returns to him abruptly, this time from the other perspective.
Feeling the burn of his injuries, he had been quite content with resting slightly on the back of the young fey in front of him, his arms reaching around him to lightly hold the reins, entrusting his trusty steed to get them to safety. He gave little thought to his charge and their riding skills, instead letting his mind be consumed by the transpiring events and the hot rush in his side that squelched with his own blood, until his horse tread over a particularly rocky part of path that left his charge unstable and falling to the side, ready to topple.
The child let out a cry of alarm and, instinctively, he surged forward and wrapped his arm around his small waist, pulling him into his chest, ignoring the flash of pain it sent up his injured side.
He breathed out a sigh of relief at the feeling of the child’s weight against his body, his bloody hand now being gripped by a smaller one. He felt that hand against his and thought back to the soft and warm hand that helped him onto his horse when he was no bigger than this child in his arms. This memory seemed to work of its own will, subconsciously leading to him presenting the child with the same sincere squeeze around the waist that he had been gifted a long time ago.
“What is your name, boy?” he had asked as they crossed the wastelands.
“Squirrel”, had been the reply and he couldn’t help but point out that “a squirrel is an animal. What name were you given?”
The child had not hesitated to say that “I don’t like that name,” but when met with the reply of “It’s still your name,” had presented the answer of “Fine. It’s Percival.”
“Percival.” He had replied in confirmation, but had not planned to speak the name again, instead wanting to keep as much emotional distance as he could.
And yet, as the child - Percival - sat himself straight again, he - “Lancelot”, he had to remind himself, for it had been so long, “a long time a go, my name was Lancelot.” - found that he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t relax completely.
Instead, Lancelot moved his hand just enough that he could reach to hold a rein in each without actually having to let go. He could still feel the heavy breathing of Percival, a mirror of his own such a long time ago, and chose instead to keep his arm loosely embracing him, his hand resting against his stomach similar to how a hand one once did for him, hoping to convey the same warmth and strength that had given him the security to feel safe enough to breathe again.
“I have you, Percival. No need to fear.”