Chapter Text
“What did I say when you’d chosen it?”
Puss in Boots turned his face away and pursed his lips sourly. He knew the answer to the question, but so did El Guante Blanco, and if the maestro asked it anyway, Puss would not dignify it with an answer. Guante had always hated idle chatter.
Puss had no regrets about choosing the white horse as his prospective steed and partner. This, he could swear by.
The animal was sympathetic to him, not to mention his strong stature, which would give their horse-and-horseman pair a distinct advantage over any opponent. The late afternoon sun highlighted his powerful muscles hidden under his sleek coat. Although, his stature was still obviously that of a yearling with too-long legs and a head seeming disproportionately small.
Despite having had to face death several times in his short life, he was still just an untrained, stubborn colt.
He shamelessly pulled his gray nose away from any paw extended towards him, and riding him was downright impossible – even the maestro had to run, fearing for his tail, when he first tried to jump on his back. The only sign of domestication he showed was the dull green halter on his head, made out of thin rope. It had been put there by the men working under El Guante Blanco’s old friend, Syril, back when there was still some hope of taming the young stallion.
Unlike Puss, Guante had plenty of experience in both training and riding horses. A living example of his knowledge was Goliath, a blood bay stallion, who was now grazing peacefully outside the paddock and lazily batting away flies with his black tail. Sometimes he looked up, still chewing on a large clump of grass, and followed the colt with an almost fatherly look, as he trotted round and round. Beside Goliath, perched on the top fence rail, sat El Guante, watching Puss in a similar manner.
The maestro’s student was standing in the middle of the paddock and pivoting in one spot, trying to keep his ever-moving steed in sight. His boots were covered in a thick layer of white sand and his tail hovered only an inch above the ground.
It was true that Puss had occasionally ventured near the stables of San Ricardo – understandably, for what little boy could resist the hoofbeats of the lean war horses or the whinnying of the sturdy, soft-maned workstock? – but other than brushing, feeding stolen sugar cubes or occasionally carrying the saddles for guards, he had no experience with horses.
All that is why Puss found the colt’s behavior so strange. In his presence, the animal showed exceptional peacefulness. He was almost cheeky, playful – even though Puss had no idea how to approach him, how to hold himself, how to appear safe but deserving of obedience. On the other paw, even though El Guante was armed with all his skill and a couple of juicy apples, the colt remained jumpy and the maestro could never get close to him without a bite aimed at his hat.
Thus, El Guante Blanco kept his distance (only staying true to the promise he’d made at Siryl’s stables, really), and Puss, master trainer in the making, was left to his own devices. Of which, there were very few.
Rope loosely hanging from his left paw, Puss in Boots let out two quick, high-pitched whistles from the side of his mouth. For the umpteenth time that evening.
“To me!”
The horse kicked the air with his hind legs, shook his mane, whinnied a few times, and then ran on as if nothing had happened. After all, his calmness did not equal obedience.
"You! You are laughing at me!" Puss called out, though his lips curled into a reluctant smile.
The colt’s playful whinnies made the heat and grime on his fur seem insignificant, even dulling the sting of Guante’s watchful gaze. There was something contagious about the sound, and he felt that bright spark of connection once again. He knew, without a doubt, that this horse was meant for him, and he for it.
“Ginger,” his mentor’s rough voice snapped Puss out of his thoughts, “that is enough for today. I’m getting dizzy from you two’s circling.” He stood straight, balancing on the fence. “Maybe if it had a name, it would listen to that, if nothing else.”
“I am working on it…” On the training and the name. With one last look at the white horse, Puss began to walk towards his mentor. Small clouds of dust rose into the air with each step as he neared the paddock fence. Lifting his hat, he wiped his brow with the back of his paw, smearing a streak of dirt across his forehead by accident.
Once he reached the edge, he hesitated for a moment, toying with his silver belt buckle. Instead of jumping up next to El Guante, he stepped to Goliath’s side, who raised his head in silent greeting. Puss muttered a quiet ‘hello’, and petted the stallion’s long, dark mane. It wasn’t shaggy, but it was still not as well kept as that of the San Ricardan guards’ steeds. He used to love watching them – grey, black, sorrel and palomino horses – during the annual summer fair, with their manes and tails sparkling from tiny pearls, beads or rings. He wondered how his white stallion would take to such poshness.
“A name should not be rushed,” Puss said decidedly, then turned to Guante with a shy smile, a paw resting on the bay horse’s nose. “And I am sure Goliath would agree.”
Meanwhile, on the far side of the paddock, the white colt slowed to a walk, but he didn’t dare, or want to come any nearer. He turned his head towards the two cats and angled his ears forward, as if he understood that this was indeed about him.
“Those born from the dead should not be touched,” retorted Guante with a slight hiss to his voice. Puss believed that, in truth, his mentor’s dislike of the horse stemmed from its behavior and not its origin, but he squinted his eyes at the older cat nonetheless.
Then, El Guante put on a dry smile and added, “and yet, here we are?” He finished with an upwards inflection, which was a characteristic of his that Puss knew well and recognized immediately. It meant he was waiting for his student to bite back with a witty remark of his own.
You see, as Puss’s skill grew in fighting, his mentor began to challenge him to battles of wits more and more. Admittedly, these conversations could feel like pointless arguing to Puss, but he usually had something to parry the maestro’s words with. (He rarely dared make a lunge.)
But now, when it came to this… Puss simply couldn’t manage. The maestro may complain and insult him and his steed, but no amount of cold remarks could change one simple fact. That he had allowed Puss to take the animal home, and by doing so, he saved him from certain death. Had it not been for El Guante, a life would have been distinguished, a string of fate cut, a destiny not fulfilled.
How lucky we are, are we not? Thought Puss jokingly, as his gaze locked with the colt’s big black eyes.