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Description
This will be separated into two parts. It became very long.

I feel sorry for Freddie, poor guy. In doing what he loves, his family has turned against him.

Cookie for the brave souls that read it all!

---

– APRIL –

It was 5:13am. The horses were awake in advance of their daily workouts. Graham wandered through the barn with purpose, directing grooms and handlers left and right, relishing the feeling of power. He clutched important looking papers in his hands as well as notes written in his scrawl about this horse and that jockey. A stop-clock hung about his neck, ruining the cowboy slash rogue effect that a blue shirt, (no tie) and beaten leather jacket gave. A recent run in with the terror that was Snake had scarred the jacket’s shoulder, evoking a frown every time it caught his eye.

A voice murmured from within the stall he’d just passed, the scrape of fabric over the door told him that she was coming out. Graham whirled around and fixed Eliza with a steely glare.

‘That horse,’ his hat was perched firmly on his head, Stetson shape the image of the wild west. Below it was a lined and weathered face with blue eyes that were old, yet able to pierce flesh better than any sword. She quailed beneath his gaze, and worried about what he was going to say. ‘He’s become impossible to handle. Without you, he’s a monster. You’re going to need to help us in the mornings.’

She blinked up at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

He sighed. ‘Well...We’re doing it the American way, I'm afraid. There’s no way around it. Can’t have my best grooms mauled by a horse that loves only one person. Tack him up first, then come see your new mount.’

Graham had not expected Eliza to protest, and he was correct. She trailed behind him like an overexcited puppy, her step bouncy next to his reserved stride. She kept asking questions, which he waved away like a practised politician, bidding her shut up.

---

He stopped outside a stall she’d never noticed before; for it had been horseless previously. Now though it contained a glorious red mare who looked up at their approach with bright fire eyes. Her fine head lifted and her nose sailed towards Eliza, nostrils flared wide. Intelligent eyes searched her face as her muzzle butted her shoulder gently. Curved scimitar ears pricked, the mare whickered, echoing the girl’s cry of delight at this Indian gift. The Marwari mare and the English girl embraced clumsily, with the horse’s head through her arm and her fingers in her mane. Instantly her lips started to quiver in ecstasy at Eliza’s touch on her neck where flesh gave way to silky hair. Clocks and Sam had their bond, it was likely that this would be another. They loved each other instantly.

She’d never had a horse to herself before.

Graham broke the silence following the greeting. His hat was in his hands, revealing a head of greying brown hair. ‘She’s yours. Her name’s Saranyu. Get her ready, you’ll be leading Snake out. Her tack’s over there,’ he turned to leave, but was apprehended by a weight around his middle. Graham managed a small smile to himself as she hugged him from behind, thanking him over and over again. To her, though, all he said was ‘Don’t waste time.’

Saranyu was a dream of a horse. She stood still while Eliza tacked her up, her ears flicking back to catch every sound she made. Her vibrant sunset red coat shone even in the dim morning light. Her ears were rimmed in gold, silhouetted against the dawn. Her eyes were deep as oceans, brown as chocolate. Tears pricked at Eliza’s eyes, overcome. Even though on paper every racehorse and broodmare and stallion belonged to her, there was nothing like a creature you could ride when you wished, out over the bridleways and fields of England. Something that subscribed to no training regime, and could go out in the paddock and roll around like a mad thing, then dash by the fence with a reckless glint.

Eliza mounted her, careful in her movements to keep the excitement at bay. She floated under he as a wraith, with the light graceful steps that even royalty loved. Graham looked up to see an exotic creature gracing the yard that had its place in parades and processions, but not for long. He gripped a lead rein, at the end of which wrestled a chestnut beast that thrashed and writhed like a snake under a boot. Indeed, they called him Snake, and his bite was more venomous than any mamba’s, his temper like a storm cloud.

As they trotted into view, he drew his head up slowly to look at her curiously. Eliza nudged Saranyu towards him to grab the lead rein from Graham. She whispered something to him in his still state, smiling and laughing. Snake looked at her quizzically, unsure yet sure of his place. He didn’t even notice the rider hop up onto his back, so rapt was he with the mare and her own rider. The mare was new, and perhaps jealousy hid, yet he paid it no heed. His own human would be leading him. A flood of happiness rushed through his veins and he leaned on Saran’s side as the two chestnuts exited the yard towards the gallops. Their riders blurted into surprised conversation; the air too silent without the colt’s screams.

They passed through the gate held open by a scared looking lad, then drew to a halt. This way was new and confusing. They were here, so what did she do next? Eliza settled on letting him start his own run. He lingered as she let him loose, unclipping the rope with fumbling hands. Snake danced on the spot, so she slapped him on the rump. He went.

She didn’t stay to watch him run; she’d seen it many times before. Instead she leant down and whispered in her steed’s ear, daring her to take on thoroughbreds. Watching a horse run may be exhilarating, but it was nothing to being the one atop one. A tap from her heels and they were off, girl and horse melding into a perfect fluidity of motion. The air whistled through her hair as they galloped past horse after horse on the outside of the track, close to the opposite rail. Snake’s chestnut rump kicked up turf and mud far ahead.

She rose in her stirrups and stuck her bum in the air, pretending in a bout of childish enthusiasm that she was a jockey and the horse she rode was winning. Saran’s scimitar ears pricked as her make believe jockey whooped, and they were alive with the pure rush of speed that thundered through their veins and soared around their hearts.

Graham was shouting at them to slow down as thoroughbred after thoroughbred tensed in their rider’s grip, each one weighing up how far they could get before the bite of the bit met their mouths. Some jumped into hundred mile an hour mode, chasing down the red mare and her flyaway rider, passing them with relish. Eliza could have let her run faster, but Graham would have killed her even more than he was already going to. Others, the older more reserved horses, stayed in their human’s grasp, content to watch.

She pulled on the reins and they slowed to a relaxed trot. Eliza felt more than saw the cacophony of flailing hooves and speeding horses that whisked past. She laughed. Graham would definitely kill her.

Worth it, though. So worth it.

-MAY-

True to the time he'd clocked on that workout, Snake flew round the Newmarket track again and again as the days turned into weeks, increasing his times and whipping the press into a frenzy. The mean tempered colt was rare with his markings alone, and they still weren't used to such a loud and fast sight. He worked four furlongs in :47 flat, to squeals from Eliza and a satisfied 'humph' from Graham as he noted it. He returned, steaming in the cool air, to walk by the flashing cameras. A vain look rode in his eye.

Beretta followed suit, adding a touch of grace to the works. His palomino coat shone in the rare moments when the sun peeked through the clouds. He would be pitted against his stable mate in a few short weeks.

Every person there knew what was to come.

Back at the yard, Freddie continued to work with Clocks, improving their bond day by day. The colt would look jealously at Gloria whenever he spotted Freddie near her, and ring out an aggressive neigh to let her know he owned that human.

De Vere was all too happy to let him think that. He didn't like the filly any more than Clocks did, despite her recent surge of enthusiasm for running. He found that he could get her to gallop, get her to stay by the rail by sheer willpower, but it was a battle to steer her anywhere else. He couldn't stop her without a struggle and he was fed up. It was only by standing in his stirrups and yanking her head up did he even get her to listen to him. He hated doing that.

Out of desperation, he bought some bit guards and fit them to her bridle, after having got approval for a Dexter Ring Bit. She was her own master, and none would tell her otherwise. He needed the extra stopping power, and was grateful for it.

To ride Hrimfaxi after Gloria was sweet relief. He was huge, and ran like a tidal wave, but he was safe and reliable. He wouldn't shy or bolt. His gear changes were slow and anticipated, but always leading to a herculean sense of speed. He was very much liked by all the track staff, who would clamber over each other to put him in the gate when it came to starting practise. This never happened with any other horses, especially Snake and Clocks.

Hrim broke in exactly the same way every time. Freddie soon stopped bothering to tell him to do anything when he lumbered out of the gate. Slow starts and steady acceleration was the way he rolled - and he could roll on for miles. Far from the surge of speed he'd shown at the end of his two year old career, now he understood what was expected of him, he had developed a recognizable style. He was a safe bet to place in a race, and he did so in a Group 2, on a warm April afternoon, finishing in third.

Clocks was just pure raw speed. From the gate to the wire he sung a song of power and awe, flying like pegasus over the turf. His hooves struck up clods of dirt over mere mortals like Beretta, who shadowed him like a golden cloud, angry that his intelligence and speed could never outrun Clocks. Now that Beretta was staying at Newmarket, Clocks had no one to race.

He could defeat others on the track, though. He seized the lead early in his maiden, leaving the rest to scrap over the remaining places while he increased his winning margin. Easy as pie, like taking candy from a baby. The majesty he cloaked himself in as he pranced to the winner's circle was jaw-dropping. He nickered to the press, tossed his head, and placed it on Freddie's shoulder, playing to the camera, revelling in the flashes of white light power they gave out. The horse was well and truly vain, yes, but it worked for him.

Graham and Eliza weren't on speaking terms for the time being, after Eliza's adventure with Saranyu all over the gallops. The red mare plastered herself to the seventeen year old's side like a lover. Graham had to admit, though, that she did serve a purpose. The combined duo of the only person Snake listened to and the stern marwari made workouts and training so much easier. It was almost bliss.

The Red&Sky yard had its own private track that connected to the race barn, this made anything possible, since no other yards shared it. He could run a carthorse down it and no one would complain! He'd relented to Eliza's pleas and allowed her to exercise her horse on the track, forcing himself to ignore the curved ears and treat her as a thoroughbred.

Snake, though, was at Newmarket, awaiting his race day. Next door, Beretta taunted him with whinnies and neighs.

Eliza curbed her longing for a good gallop and both she and Saran waited patiently until it was time to go catch Snake. The reporters were initially surprised to see the face of the owner flash up on their digital camera screens, but recovered with professional speed and readied their microphones.

'So, Miss Dartley - what are your expectations for Quetzacoatl in the big race today?'

'Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Over here!'

'He's sent off as third favourite, how does that make you feel?'

'Do you think Quetzacoatl has a chance in the 2,000 Guineas? Where do you think he'll come?'

'What about his stable mate Beretta? How will he run?'

'Yes, Beretta! Who would you rather win - him or Quetzacoatl?'

They preferred the willingness and flowing mouth of Eliza to the stern, gruff, silence of Graham, who chose to reply with body language and varied facial expressions that screamed 'go away', sometimes punctuated with a sentence or two that was intended to satiate them all.

It was the first Classic race of the year, though. It was kind of important. In the end he gave in, and allowed them a short glimpse into his mind just to get them to go away. He liked it when he could get away from the press behind Red&Sky gates, fences, and security, but race day meant that the Newmarket barns were swarming with journalists.

---

The horses had been walking around the parade ring for a while. Their tack was on, the trainers were chatting, the crowd was a perpetual murmur of sound. Volume increased when the jockeys appeared, one by one. The two Red&Sky jockeys in their blue and white silks came out side by side, behind and in front of men who'd done this all before.

Sam swallowed and was boosted up onto the wide, muscular back of his speed machine. Snake danced beneath him, suddenly filled with a mad lust for speed. Sam steadied him, breathing in and out slowly. The pounding of his heart was loud in his ears.

He was nervous because it was the 2,000 Guineas. He was nervous because of the crowd. He was nervous because of expectations. He was nervous because of the trip - longer than Snake liked, but he'd been trained for it. And he was nervous because Eliza was there, smiling at her horse and rubbing his face, distracting him from the tightening of the girth and the fire in his limbs. He was nervous because it was the 2,000 Guineas. It was the 2,000 Guineas, and he was riding the (now) second favourite.

Snake looked around for his track pony, didn't see her, performed the equine equivalent of a shrug, and tore off up to the starting gates. Leaving Eliza on race days was easy. Racing was better, running was more exhilarating.

Butterflies danced in the pit of Sam's stomach as the track worker grabbed the bridle of a surprisingly docile Snake and led them both in. Sam felt his legs shake - all of him shook. He tried to tell himself it was just another race, but it wasn't. You don't treat a race with a purse of £400k as just another race. He breathed in and out.

Freddie De Vere followed suit. The golden shoulders of his mount shone. With barely contained pleasure, the son of Gold Bullet pranced after Snake with the grace of a ballet dancer (armed with nuclear missiles, of course). He muscled his way towards his gate, loading himself expertly. Freddie's heart pounded. The push button horse had come a long way since the piddly G3s, where it didn't matter quite so much. Now he was a Group 1 horse, and it was the 2,000 Guineas. Nerves jumped around his body, tiny electrical shocks of fear, excitement and anticipation. He was nervous because his family were watching, from a private box that stank of wealth and was a million miles away from the thud and dirt of the track. Rett shifted under him, eyed the track over the doors.

His family would be watching from their box, separate from the common crowd. His father would be stern, planning his speeches. One would praise Frederick on his win/place/show, telling him how proud he was of him and how they had always supported him. Lies. The other would be reserved for a loss, a fall, a failure, and it would be the inverse. His mother would stand cruelly at his father's side, ice eyes staring into his soul. No matter how he did, he knew she wouldn't be proud of him.

When his father died, the eldest son of the De Veres would not recieve the Lordship. It would go to the son that stirred in his mother's belly, by his parent's request. No horse-riding-manure mucking-truck-driving boy would inherit the power they wielded. It would go to a proper De Vere.

The last horse loaded; the gate clanged shut behind it. The race was about to begin. Snake readied himself beneath his shaking jockey. Rett dropped his hindquarters and set a target; calculated a trajectory.

---

Shown: Quetzacoatl

Art & Characters (C) me

Description
This will be separated into two parts. It became very long.

I feel sorry for Freddie, poor guy. In doing what he loves, his family has turned against him.

Cookie for the brave souls that read it all!

---

– APRIL –

It was 5:13am. The horses were awake in advance of their daily workouts. Graham wandered through the barn with purpose, directing grooms and handlers left and right, relishing the feeling of power. He clutched important looking papers in his hands as well as notes written in his scrawl about this horse and that jockey. A stop-clock hung about his neck, ruining the cowboy slash rogue effect that a blue shirt, (no tie) and beaten leather jacket gave. A recent run in with the terror that was Snake had scarred the jacket’s shoulder, evoking a frown every time it caught his eye.

A voice murmured from within the stall he’d just passed, the scrape of fabric over the door told him that she was coming out. Graham whirled around and fixed Eliza with a steely glare.

‘That horse,’ his hat was perched firmly on his head, Stetson shape the image of the wild west. Below it was a lined and weathered face with blue eyes that were old, yet able to pierce flesh better than any sword. She quailed beneath his gaze, and worried about what he was going to say. ‘He’s become impossible to handle. Without you, he’s a monster. You’re going to need to help us in the mornings.’

She blinked up at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

He sighed. ‘Well...We’re doing it the American way, I'm afraid. There’s no way around it. Can’t have my best grooms mauled by a horse that loves only one person. Tack him up first, then come see your new mount.’

Graham had not expected Eliza to protest, and he was correct. She trailed behind him like an overexcited puppy, her step bouncy next to his reserved stride. She kept asking questions, which he waved away like a practised politician, bidding her shut up.

---

He stopped outside a stall she’d never noticed before; for it had been horseless previously. Now though it contained a glorious red mare who looked up at their approach with bright fire eyes. Her fine head lifted and her nose sailed towards Eliza, nostrils flared wide. Intelligent eyes searched her face as her muzzle butted her shoulder gently. Curved scimitar ears pricked, the mare whickered, echoing the girl’s cry of delight at this Indian gift. The Marwari mare and the English girl embraced clumsily, with the horse’s head through her arm and her fingers in her mane. Instantly her lips started to quiver in ecstasy at Eliza’s touch on her neck where flesh gave way to silky hair. Clocks and Sam had their bond, it was likely that this would be another. They loved each other instantly.

She’d never had a horse to herself before.

Graham broke the silence following the greeting. His hat was in his hands, revealing a head of greying brown hair. ‘She’s yours. Her name’s Saranyu. Get her ready, you’ll be leading Snake out. Her tack’s over there,’ he turned to leave, but was apprehended by a weight around his middle. Graham managed a small smile to himself as she hugged him from behind, thanking him over and over again. To her, though, all he said was ‘Don’t waste time.’

Saranyu was a dream of a horse. She stood still while Eliza tacked her up, her ears flicking back to catch every sound she made. Her vibrant sunset red coat shone even in the dim morning light. Her ears were rimmed in gold, silhouetted against the dawn. Her eyes were deep as oceans, brown as chocolate. Tears pricked at Eliza’s eyes, overcome. Even though on paper every racehorse and broodmare and stallion belonged to her, there was nothing like a creature you could ride when you wished, out over the bridleways and fields of England. Something that subscribed to no training regime, and could go out in the paddock and roll around like a mad thing, then dash by the fence with a reckless glint.

Eliza mounted her, careful in her movements to keep the excitement at bay. She floated under he as a wraith, with the light graceful steps that even royalty loved. Graham looked up to see an exotic creature gracing the yard that had its place in parades and processions, but not for long. He gripped a lead rein, at the end of which wrestled a chestnut beast that thrashed and writhed like a snake under a boot. Indeed, they called him Snake, and his bite was more venomous than any mamba’s, his temper like a storm cloud.

As they trotted into view, he drew his head up slowly to look at her curiously. Eliza nudged Saranyu towards him to grab the lead rein from Graham. She whispered something to him in his still state, smiling and laughing. Snake looked at her quizzically, unsure yet sure of his place. He didn’t even notice the rider hop up onto his back, so rapt was he with the mare and her own rider. The mare was new, and perhaps jealousy hid, yet he paid it no heed. His own human would be leading him. A flood of happiness rushed through his veins and he leaned on Saran’s side as the two chestnuts exited the yard towards the gallops. Their riders blurted into surprised conversation; the air too silent without the colt’s screams.

They passed through the gate held open by a scared looking lad, then drew to a halt. This way was new and confusing. They were here, so what did she do next? Eliza settled on letting him start his own run. He lingered as she let him loose, unclipping the rope with fumbling hands. Snake danced on the spot, so she slapped him on the rump. He went.

She didn’t stay to watch him run; she’d seen it many times before. Instead she leant down and whispered in her steed’s ear, daring her to take on thoroughbreds. Watching a horse run may be exhilarating, but it was nothing to being the one atop one. A tap from her heels and they were off, girl and horse melding into a perfect fluidity of motion. The air whistled through her hair as they galloped past horse after horse on the outside of the track, close to the opposite rail. Snake’s chestnut rump kicked up turf and mud far ahead.

She rose in her stirrups and stuck her bum in the air, pretending in a bout of childish enthusiasm that she was a jockey and the horse she rode was winning. Saran’s scimitar ears pricked as her make believe jockey whooped, and they were alive with the pure rush of speed that thundered through their veins and soared around their hearts.

Graham was shouting at them to slow down as thoroughbred after thoroughbred tensed in their rider’s grip, each one weighing up how far they could get before the bite of the bit met their mouths. Some jumped into hundred mile an hour mode, chasing down the red mare and her flyaway rider, passing them with relish. Eliza could have let her run faster, but Graham would have killed her even more than he was already going to. Others, the older more reserved horses, stayed in their human’s grasp, content to watch.

She pulled on the reins and they slowed to a relaxed trot. Eliza felt more than saw the cacophony of flailing hooves and speeding horses that whisked past. She laughed. Graham would definitely kill her.

Worth it, though. So worth it.

-MAY-

True to the time he'd clocked on that workout, Snake flew round the Newmarket track again and again as the days turned into weeks, increasing his times and whipping the press into a frenzy. The mean tempered colt was rare with his markings alone, and they still weren't used to such a loud and fast sight. He worked four furlongs in :47 flat, to squeals from Eliza and a satisfied 'humph' from Graham as he noted it. He returned, steaming in the cool air, to walk by the flashing cameras. A vain look rode in his eye.

Beretta followed suit, adding a touch of grace to the works. His palomino coat shone in the rare moments when the sun peeked through the clouds. He would be pitted against his stable mate in a few short weeks.

Every person there knew what was to come.

Back at the yard, Freddie continued to work with Clocks, improving their bond day by day. The colt would look jealously at Gloria whenever he spotted Freddie near her, and ring out an aggressive neigh to let her know he owned that human.

De Vere was all too happy to let him think that. He didn't like the filly any more than Clocks did, despite her recent surge of enthusiasm for running. He found that he could get her to gallop, get her to stay by the rail by sheer willpower, but it was a battle to steer her anywhere else. He couldn't stop her without a struggle and he was fed up. It was only by standing in his stirrups and yanking her head up did he even get her to listen to him. He hated doing that.

Out of desperation, he bought some bit guards and fit them to her bridle, after having got approval for a Dexter Ring Bit. She was her own master, and none would tell her otherwise. He needed the extra stopping power, and was grateful for it.

To ride Hrimfaxi after Gloria was sweet relief. He was huge, and ran like a tidal wave, but he was safe and reliable. He wouldn't shy or bolt. His gear changes were slow and anticipated, but always leading to a herculean sense of speed. He was very much liked by all the track staff, who would clamber over each other to put him in the gate when it came to starting practise. This never happened with any other horses, especially Snake and Clocks.

Hrim broke in exactly the same way every time. Freddie soon stopped bothering to tell him to do anything when he lumbered out of the gate. Slow starts and steady acceleration was the way he rolled - and he could roll on for miles. Far from the surge of speed he'd shown at the end of his two year old career, now he understood what was expected of him, he had developed a recognizable style. He was a safe bet to place in a race, and he did so in a Group 2, on a warm April afternoon, finishing in third.

Clocks was just pure raw speed. From the gate to the wire he sung a song of power and awe, flying like pegasus over the turf. His hooves struck up clods of dirt over mere mortals like Beretta, who shadowed him like a golden cloud, angry that his intelligence and speed could never outrun Clocks. Now that Beretta was staying at Newmarket, Clocks had no one to race.

He could defeat others on the track, though. He seized the lead early in his maiden, leaving the rest to scrap over the remaining places while he increased his winning margin. Easy as pie, like taking candy from a baby. The majesty he cloaked himself in as he pranced to the winner's circle was jaw-dropping. He nickered to the press, tossed his head, and placed it on Freddie's shoulder, playing to the camera, revelling in the flashes of white light power they gave out. The horse was well and truly vain, yes, but it worked for him.

Graham and Eliza weren't on speaking terms for the time being, after Eliza's adventure with Saranyu all over the gallops. The red mare plastered herself to the seventeen year old's side like a lover. Graham had to admit, though, that she did serve a purpose. The combined duo of the only person Snake listened to and the stern marwari made workouts and training so much easier. It was almost bliss.

The Red&Sky yard had its own private track that connected to the race barn, this made anything possible, since no other yards shared it. He could run a carthorse down it and no one would complain! He'd relented to Eliza's pleas and allowed her to exercise her horse on the track, forcing himself to ignore the curved ears and treat her as a thoroughbred.

Snake, though, was at Newmarket, awaiting his race day. Next door, Beretta taunted him with whinnies and neighs.

Eliza curbed her longing for a good gallop and both she and Saran waited patiently until it was time to go catch Snake. The reporters were initially surprised to see the face of the owner flash up on their digital camera screens, but recovered with professional speed and readied their microphones.

'So, Miss Dartley - what are your expectations for Quetzacoatl in the big race today?'

'Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Over here!'

'He's sent off as third favourite, how does that make you feel?'

'Do you think Quetzacoatl has a chance in the 2,000 Guineas? Where do you think he'll come?'

'What about his stable mate Beretta? How will he run?'

'Yes, Beretta! Who would you rather win - him or Quetzacoatl?'

They preferred the willingness and flowing mouth of Eliza to the stern, gruff, silence of Graham, who chose to reply with body language and varied facial expressions that screamed 'go away', sometimes punctuated with a sentence or two that was intended to satiate them all.

It was the first Classic race of the year, though. It was kind of important. In the end he gave in, and allowed them a short glimpse into his mind just to get them to go away. He liked it when he could get away from the press behind Red&Sky gates, fences, and security, but race day meant that the Newmarket barns were swarming with journalists.

---

The horses had been walking around the parade ring for a while. Their tack was on, the trainers were chatting, the crowd was a perpetual murmur of sound. Volume increased when the jockeys appeared, one by one. The two Red&Sky jockeys in their blue and white silks came out side by side, behind and in front of men who'd done this all before.

Sam swallowed and was boosted up onto the wide, muscular back of his speed machine. Snake danced beneath him, suddenly filled with a mad lust for speed. Sam steadied him, breathing in and out slowly. The pounding of his heart was loud in his ears.

He was nervous because it was the 2,000 Guineas. He was nervous because of the crowd. He was nervous because of expectations. He was nervous because of the trip - longer than Snake liked, but he'd been trained for it. And he was nervous because Eliza was there, smiling at her horse and rubbing his face, distracting him from the tightening of the girth and the fire in his limbs. He was nervous because it was the 2,000 Guineas. It was the 2,000 Guineas, and he was riding the (now) second favourite.

Snake looked around for his track pony, didn't see her, performed the equine equivalent of a shrug, and tore off up to the starting gates. Leaving Eliza on race days was easy. Racing was better, running was more exhilarating.

Butterflies danced in the pit of Sam's stomach as the track worker grabbed the bridle of a surprisingly docile Snake and led them both in. Sam felt his legs shake - all of him shook. He tried to tell himself it was just another race, but it wasn't. You don't treat a race with a purse of £400k as just another race. He breathed in and out.

Freddie De Vere followed suit. The golden shoulders of his mount shone. With barely contained pleasure, the son of Gold Bullet pranced after Snake with the grace of a ballet dancer (armed with nuclear missiles, of course). He muscled his way towards his gate, loading himself expertly. Freddie's heart pounded. The push button horse had come a long way since the piddly G3s, where it didn't matter quite so much. Now he was a Group 1 horse, and it was the 2,000 Guineas. Nerves jumped around his body, tiny electrical shocks of fear, excitement and anticipation. He was nervous because his family were watching, from a private box that stank of wealth and was a million miles away from the thud and dirt of the track. Rett shifted under him, eyed the track over the doors.

His family would be watching from their box, separate from the common crowd. His father would be stern, planning his speeches. One would praise Frederick on his win/place/show, telling him how proud he was of him and how they had always supported him. Lies. The other would be reserved for a loss, a fall, a failure, and it would be the inverse. His mother would stand cruelly at his father's side, ice eyes staring into his soul. No matter how he did, he knew she wouldn't be proud of him.

When his father died, the eldest son of the De Veres would not recieve the Lordship. It would go to the son that stirred in his mother's belly, by his parent's request. No horse-riding-manure mucking-truck-driving boy would inherit the power they wielded. It would go to a proper De Vere.

The last horse loaded; the gate clanged shut behind it. The race was about to begin. Snake readied himself beneath his shaking jockey. Rett dropped his hindquarters and set a target; calculated a trajectory.

---

Shown: Quetzacoatl

Art & Characters (C) me