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Borrowing Freedom

Written by Amethyst Mare (Arian Mabe)

Do you know how to fly?

No, of course not, that would be crazy. There are some furs and sentient beings in this world that have experienced flight in one manner or another, I'm sure you've seen them. However, I would be one to claim that they have never been able to spread their wings or stretch their legs like the wild ones, our feral animals.

Wild, of course, is an operative word. I can say that. She will not kick me for calling her wild, not if she doesn't hear. You may say that it's funny for a chestnut horse anthro to tack up and ride a chestnut horse feral, though it's common enough for anthros to treat non-intelligent animals as pets or companions.

Other furs say that we were too similar and that it makes them uncomfortable. Is that really any of their concern? Horses are horses and it does not mean that I am doing any more with the equine, even if we are divisions of the same species. I only reply that at least we are colour co-ordinated in coat and her with brown leather tack, I with a tan jacket that I hoped offset my coat. The cute stable hand was not at the yard today, however, so I suppose my meagre fashion sense was wasted on any other than Blaze. She sneezed on my jacket so I'll count that one as approval.

I smile as I brush a curry comb over her coat, removing stiff flakes of mud from her coat. Rhythm, stroke, rhythm, stroke, rhythm, on and on. There is no need to halt the motion until the grooming is complete and I love to utilise my perfectionism. Have you ever groomed a horse? It's one of the most relaxing things you can do, riding aside, of course. Nothing compares to riding, I challenge you to present me with something, anything, better. To this day, I'm not even sure that anything can compare. Sex? Yeah. Get real.

Tacked up in our yard best, we ride out alone as we often do, trusted enough to keep to the main paths with some modicum of sense. We have the ability to be sensible but it was so easy to throw caution to the hills as we worked our way up the farm tracks to wilder country. A friend of ours tending a farm waves as we edge off the beaten track, a pleasant bay equine with a white blaze and kind eyes - Shy, he went by. A brief interlude for conversation bolsters my spirits and I feel better in myself as we track uphill. Walkers rarely ventured up such steep tracks so, in the grass and wind of the hillside, we could be as alone as alone can be in this world. As much as I enjoy conversation, it is at this point that I crave solitude.

Blaze huffs as we climb higher, wind tearing at her mane as if it sought to rip it clean away. She's a real one for cross country and I can feel her tension beneath me, even as I want to stop to admire the view. From here, we can see the fields and farmland stretching down to the forestry and, beyond event that, the estuary with a curl of water at low tide. It's more dramatic with tide in - now there is miles and miles of damp sand, not even glistening under this Autumn sun. It would be disappointing if I did not have other things to occupy me.

My chestnut beauty fidgets, stomping a hoof and playing with the bit. I'm one of few that actually take her out beyond the yard so I'm sure she appreciates the chance to stretch her legs and kick up her hooves. She does so like her flying bucks, though she's yet to dump me - not for lack of trying. I smile and flip her mane back over to the right side of her neck, ignoring the tangle of worry in my stomach. It is not there for any reason, it is simply there as it always is, an irrefutable presence. But that is not for me to think about right now. ­With the stretch of undulating track before us, I touch my heels to her side and we're off.

Galloping with greater pace than we ever have - at least in my mind - I can finally forget the drama. I can forget the turmoil and I can forget the way I ache inside. Blaze's hooves drum out a beat over packed sand and dirt and she snorts, throwing in a reckless buck for good measure. The pain is gone, a distant memory, somewhere at our heels. It cannot claim me up here. Clinging on to her mane with one paw, I laugh, the sound lost on the wind. Up here, no one can hear me. And that's just the way I like it!

The world is wild and this is simply my reminder. Crisp Autumn air, the sun above, clouds scudding by. It will rain later but who fucking cares right now? Who cares what you think of me? Does it matter if my phone rings? I'm giddy and I know that, if it does dare ring and disturb my peace I will fling it down the hill to smash upon the turf and rocks. This day is mine!

Call it riding: I call it freedom. Blaze sets her eyes on a ditch and tosses her head. I don't have the heart or will to stop her - I want to clear it as much as she does, feel that moment of suspension as we fly. Her hooves kick off the ground and we're sailing forward, me curling over her neck in the classic jumping position because, in typical Blaze fashion, she has leapt two feet higher than she actually needs to.

And then we're down and her nose points towards the foot of the hill, a winding track away through the trees, yet I know it is there, waiting for me. My heart sinks but I heed her weariness and realise that an hour of hard riding has already passed. The mare is getting on in years and, though she loves her work, she misses her warm stable and the charm of the field more. The freedom she has in her daily life is something that I only have with her and she will never understand.

I sigh and slump forward, letting the weight of what could be the world or more or less fall back upon my shoulders. It seems that I escape from it for less and less time these days. If I had it my way, I would stay up on the hillside and disappear into the mountains with this mare forever if only to keep the anxiety at bay. My everyday curse and my greatest obstacle does not like to be ignored, so I must flee and borrow the freedom she boasts whenever allowed.

The problem with borrowing freedom is that you have to return it after a time.