A/N: So hey guys! I've recently read the Scorpio Races, had this idea and had to write it down :') It's written in the POV of Sean+Puck's daughter, Eleanor. That's all for now, so R&R? Thanks, and happy reading! Have a nice day I own nothing by the way! XD
I press my ankles into Song's sides and push her into a brisk trot, of which I have no problem with. A morning gust stings my cheeks on the cliff top, and a heavy mist cloaks the beach; one which I know from my experience will lift, come midday.
Hopefully. Today is a good day for riding, and one that I don't want to miss. This is a day when I feel the heartbeat of Thisby pulse inside of me, and a rider's blood surge through my veins. It all I've ever lived for, loved for, this island: the way it works its way inside of my soul, and the way that it knows me better than I know even myself. For that is the unmistakable magic of Thisby. A magic only an islander can feel.
The wind whispers of Thisby. My Cappall Uisce screams longingly for its sea and its sand and its sky and its sand and to run free, anywhere. Just to run, free.
The trot progresses into a canter, which on a Cappall is an uneven pace, hardly recognisable being compared to the gait of the Island Ponies that bears the same name. Cantering is not enough though, today, Song is hungry for a gallop. When I lean down, I can see it in her eyes.
I imagine us as a blue-grey blur on the Cliff Top, hardly distinguishable from the rest of the foliage and slate that is scattered around. The tourists filtering in from the mainland for the races must be gawping, I can tell. The ways of Thisby are new to them.
As I urge Song into an urgent gallop, I hear my name carried on the wind. My mother.
"Eleanor Seren Kendrick!" she bellows. She never uses my full name, and certainly not in that voice. I tug on Song's reins and she tosses her head but slows reluctantly. We take the cliff path obediently and ride down to where my mother is waiting on Dove. The old dun mare shuffles nervously in the presence of my Cappall: no matter how many times she is introduced to her, she never quite seems to settle.
But my mother's tone is in no way furious.
"Malvern gave me a day off, it's the lead up to the races," she smiles, "He says he has too many people helping out, or something." I roll my eyes.
"I bet you're delighted to know that you're such a valued worker at that yard," I reply, sarcastically. I don't hate Malvern, but I don't like him either. However, he gives both of my parents a job, and for that, I should be eternally grateful. Many a time my mother has told me the story of when she won the races, and was allowed to keep her childhood home due to her immense winnings.
She chuckles. "You're just like me," she sighs, wistfully, "Anyway, want to go for a little gallop?"
"A little gallop?!" I splutter, "A gallop on a Cappall is hardly little!"
I think Song realises that she's about to get a run, because she suddenly becomes agitated, unable to keep still. I slacken her rein and let her bow her head, before digging my heels deep into her grey sides. She springs into action, and Dove soon follows, ears pricked but always wary of the sea.
And we're off.
Of course people recognise us; everyone on the island knows each other in some way. But the islanders almost respect us, especially my mother. But even though my mother proved that a woman could win the races, no one has attempted it since. Thisby women are lazy.
We're caught up a mad chase, and all the while Song's eyes are fixated on the sea. But not once has she succumbed to its mesmerising trance, and for that, I'm proud of her. She is my horse, my mount, and my livelihood.
But the fact I cannot ignore is that she's not an island pony, like my mother's Dove.
Song is my monster. My monster of the sea.