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Baruk frowns deeply at the unhappy horse and frustrated rider in front of him. The lengthy line in his hand, connected to the horse’s noseband, grows slack with the horse’s sudden lack of movement. The rider huffs with exhaustion and disappointment, cheeks gone ruddy in the chilly winter air. He eyes her with a hint of pity.
Ah. Just how had he ended up in this position? A retired old battle-axe like him should be at at home, bouncing his grandchildren on his knee and nagging his husband - lovingly, of course. Instead, he's tasked with teaching the troublesome girl currently knocking her heels against poor Midnight’s flanks in a desperate attempt to make the old gelding move forward.
“Baruk.”
The old ex-warrior straightens at the sound of his Commander’s voice coming from behind him. His instincts seem to have been dulled with time, he thinks wryly. Perhaps it was best for him to retire. He would not dream of ever failing to protect his Commander, and it’s apparent he would in this state.
“Heda,” he murmurs as he turns to face Lexa, bowing his head after briefly meeting her eyes (softer today, softer than they have been in weeks, and it does his heart good to see it). She hums gently in acknowledgment.
“Clarke,” Lexa addresses the rider, an abundance of warmth condensed in one syllable, “How has your lesson fared?” It’s obvious from the twinkle in her eyes that she’s well aware of how poorly Clarke’s first foray into riding has gone.
There’s a muffled groan from atop the horse. Clarke is doubled over Midnight’s lean neck and has buried her face in his scruffy coat. It looks like the bay gelding’s suddenly sprouted a tuft of luxuriously long (if dirty) blonde hair at his withers, an amusing contrast to his scraggly black mane.
“That well?” Lexa shifts her attention back to Baruk. She silently extends her hand to him, palm up, and Baruk places the end of the line in it. He steps back, curious to see his Commander in the role of riding instructor.
Clarke reluctantly lifts her head from the disgruntled gelding’s neck and peeks at Lexa, surprised to see her on the other side of the line instead of the irked old man. “I really don’t think I’m meant to ride.”
Lexa lifts her brow, staring in silence.
“I mean,” Clarke starts, hands clutching at the knotted reins in front of her. Midnight grunts loudly in annoyance at the sudden movement of the bit in his mouth, ears twitching back. “See? Even he knows it!”
“He knows no such thing, Clarke. He’s been teaching children to ride for longer than you’ve been alive. I doubt you’re the worst he’s ever encountered.” Lexa walks toward the duo, stopping at Midnight’s head to scratch underneath his large, shaggy chin. His ears slowly loll to the sides, his body following in relaxation. The Commander spares an affectionate smile for the old horse, childhood memories warming her guarded heart.
“See?” Lexa looks up at Clarke who still wears a defeated expression. It’s clear Clarke does not understand what the Commander is trying to demonstrate. “His body relaxes when yours does.”
Clarke wrinkles her nose. “I’m pretty sure it was because of you.”
“No. Your legs.” Lexa reaches out a hand and places it on Clarke’s thigh. “They’re no longer clenched in fear.”
If she’s being honest, Clarke doesn’t think she could feel relaxation or tension in her legs, they’re so sore. She does feel a heated flush run up neck, though, oddly enough. “Um.”
Lexa’s hand slides down the length of Clarke’s leg and gently tugs her foot out of the stirrup. “The other one, too.”
Clarke obeys, barely repressing a pained moan as she feels her stiff muscles strain against the stretch. She wonders in detachment how she’ll manage to dismount...
“I’m going to urge your horse forward,” Lexa warns. Clarke can already feel the dread bubbling in her gut at the words. “Let your legs hang down and try to follow his movement with your hips.”
With a resigned sigh - it’s obvious Lexa won’t end the lesson, won’t put her out of her misery - Clarke readies herself. She almost protests when Lexa takes the reins from Clarke’s clenched fists and loops it around the saddle horn, but decides against it. Instead, she splays her fingers flat across her thighs, her nails digging a little into her deerskin leggings. As ready as she’ll ever be..
Lexa backs away until the line is just short of taut and clucks softly. She can already see Clarke tensing, back rounding over and heels drawing up, but it’s better than before. Any improvement is a good improvement, Anya used to tell her, before knocking Lexa on the head and reminding her not to use that to inflate her ego.
Midnight takes four steps before he stops abruptly with a snort.
“Breathe, Clarke. You’re holding your breath.”
“I--” Clarke blinks in surprise. She hadn’t realized she had been sucking down such shallow breaths. With an audible whoosh, she releases the air in her lungs and feels herself sink somehow deeper into the saddle.
“Good.” The praise from Lexa’s lips, brief but loaded, bolsters Clarke’s quickly waning resolve.
Lexa clucks again, and this time, Midnight plods an entire fifteen meter circle around Lexa before slowing to a stop. Clarke’s bright, triumphant smile is something Lexa is going to remember (even if Clarke leaves - especially if she leaves).
“I could, I could,” Clarke sputters out with an almost childlike glee, “I could feel him moving! His legs moving my hips forward with him! I was moving with him.” She sinks her fingers into Midnight’s thick winter coat and strokes his neck. Good boy, Lexa can hear faintly from where she stands, good boy.
“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa agrees with barely disguised affection. She knows Baruk is watching, is smirking at her back, but she can’t bring herself to care with Clarke practically beaming at her. The old man knows better than to speak of anything he sees here.
“Again?” There’s hesitance edged in the word, Clarke realizing that perhaps the Commander of the 12 Clans has better, more important things to do than to teach her to ride, but also, not wanting to end this soft moment between them.
Indeed, Lexa needs to speak with at least two of her generals, appoint a new healer to a village that’s needed one for a month, calculate this year’s combined harvest yield in comparison to last year’s, and address a list of other issues as long as her leg, but - it can wait.
She nods and clucks again to get Midnight moving gamely forward, this time gently correcting Clarke’s position as she rides.
“Try to keep your heels from lifting.” (Relax, relax.)
“Lift up with your chest. Like you’re proud.” (Like how Lexa feels right now.)
“Let your hips roll.” (Perhaps the winter air is too much - Clarke is very flushed.)
“D-don’t arch your back.” (That wasn’t a stutter. It wasn’t.)
“Breathe, Clarke. Breathe.” (Her mantle of command is melting away, if only for this moment.)
Midnight’s stride is getting longer and smoother with each circle, his hind legs stepping further under his belly and his back lifting a little.
Clarke no longer feels startlingly jarred by the foreign movement beneath her, and it’s almost soothing, the constant rhythm of it, each step mirrored in her own hips. Her mind is focused in on the pure single-mindedness of it, the absence of any trouble larger than remembering to sit up straight and let her legs hang without tension, the sound of Lexa quietly praising her every time she corrects herself without Lexa having to remind her, the ability to just be for a while.
Clarke closes her eyes.
Lexa says, “Good, Clarke.”
And their hearts echo in four beats.