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From Rider to Ridden

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

Commissioned by Bukefalos06

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Lady Lyra rode with her chin jutted out and disregard for those around her in her eyes. The angles of her body were harsh and stiff, poised on top of her imported grey mare, a Lusitano that she’d had shipped over especially as her palfrey, a calm lass with little of the Spanish spirit in her blood. But she needed an impressive horse to go with her impressive name, a noblewoman through and through who needed the world around her too to know all that and more about her. Originally called Nebulosa, the mare stood with a quiet pride to her, although Lady Lyra had shortened her name to simply Nebula, considering it unfit for a horse to have a more pleasing name to the ear than she did.

As if they could miss it with her cascade of blonde hair that appeared as if it had never seen a speck of dirt in her lifetime, braided around her head as if she was posing as an angel, although she was far from angelic in her nature. The rich velvet of her cloak shone with luxury, skirts coming down to her ankles as she elegantly rode side-saddle, lips parted for the touch of wind just about grazing them as she passed the fields that her family owned. The servants toiling away turned their faces from her, weathered and beaten down by both sunshine and cold alike, knowing just what Lady Lyra would have in store for her if they did anything at all, even a ‘strange’ sort of look, that displeased her. Why, they all knew how she treated her stable boy… And Wesley still bore the marks of her whip.

And her horses fared much the same too as she sawed brutally on the reins, using her crop on the offside instead of her leg for the aid that was, supposedly, much more dignified for a lady. After all, Nebula needed a firm hand, even though she appeared to be calm and obedient, the perfect mount for her – yet she had not that spark about her that would carry her on post haste to her lover, Richard Neville, whom she was due to meet on the riverbank.

She shivered, a small smile forming on her lips, although it did not quite reach her eyes. He was a man that her father, Sir Thomas Langton, approved of too and that was good for a noblewoman like her, his power and influence commanding so much of her life already. Her father had provided for her until adulthood, of course, but there was much to be gained in marrying her off too and he was ready to reap the spoils of connections that her marriage into a new family would bring him. His wealth and power was unrivalled and shown in his flourishing lands, a man who enjoyed nothing more than to hunt and enjoy leisurely activities in line with his station in the world, a friend of the King himself.

Hastening on her way, she cut through between the wheat fields where the hedging had been removed to make a path: convenient for her. It was not her usual route and she cried out as she whipped her mare into a canter and then a gallop, legs flying as her mouth foamed, the whites of her eyes showing. She didn’t know what she had done wrong but she knew what the negative reinforcement of the whip cracking down on her hindquarters meant and leapt between the fields of golden stalks as if the hounds of hell were well and truly at her shod heels.

But it would have done Lady Lyra well to practise patience for no one could have predicted the old woman who stepped out ahead of her, working a path along the very edge of one of the fields. With her back bowed, she could barely move as she hobbled along and yet she still strived to do her job admirably, grey hair wispy about her face with the lanky look to it as if she had not even had the water with which to wash it for quite some time.

It was too late to stop but Nebula bravely took care of her rider, veering sideways and slamming down with her hindquarters as she took her weight backwards, off-balance but doing all that she possibly could not to topple over and lose control entirely of her legs. Lyra, however, was not much help as she spat something that really should not have come from the lips of a lady, whipping her mare and yanking on the reins as Nebula squealed and spun, lashing out with her hind hooves, although her foe and abuser was, of course, on her back and nowhere near striking range.

The old woman straightened with difficulty (well, as much as she could), holding out a wizened, gnarled hand as if that would be enough to stay the wrath of a spoiled, rich babe in adult’s garb.

“Don’t harm your mount,” the old woman said with the grave wisdom of the ages, eyes wrinkled in at the corners. “She has done nothing wrong. Have you no shame?”

“Foolish horse! You are to keep going!” Lyra growled, eyes narrowed with distaste. “Don’t you know what the whip means?”

Nebula did, most certainly, but the old woman only frowned and folded her arms, voice raised to cut through the clamour of the grey beast leaping through the crops in an effort to escape.

“You are only bringing trouble to yourself, treating that poor horse like that!”

“Stay out of this, you old wench!” Lyra snapped, wrestling with the reins. “I’ll have my father cast you out on the streets for your insolence!”

Yet she had Nebula back under some semblance of control again and aimed to make good her escape, her progress onward to her lover still whispering sweetness to her. She had no time to stand and gossip with old women! Beating Nebula once on either side of her round haunches for good measure, she sent her mount forward in a clumsy canter, nearly running the old woman over in the process, whip flying a scratch from her head.

And that was her undoing.

Drawing herself up as tall as she could, the old woman stared after her gravely, something far more sinister lurking in the folds of cloth covering her otherwise frail body, worn down by time. With the hind end of Lyra’s horse rapidly making haste, she only had a moment in which to extend a shaking finger to her and utter the words that would change Lady Lyra’s life forever.

“If the spoiled noblewoman causes harm to one, let her forever that copy become!”

Lyra heard, just about, but only laughed, continuing to whip Nebula without a care in the world, despite the fact that Nebula was already trying her heart out for her, veins standing out on her neck, curled into sweaty cowlicks. Who did the old woman think she was, some child to be cowed? She’d soon sing a different tune indeed when she was cast out on the streets begging for scraps!

Dirt in her mouth. It took Lyra a moment to realise just what had happened, the pain of impact coming a moment later as Nebula’s hooves flashed above her, dangerously close as the mare reared. But she was no longer on her back, safe, as her mouth retorted, fighting back even as her owner and rider scrambled up, a mess of dust and her braids half-undone, a scream coming up from her gut that would cow the silly beast right back to the stables and into her hand once more.

“Whhheeeeeneeeeeee!”

A squeal. That was all that came out as she clawed at her throat, wide-eyed and tried again, but all that burst from her lips was, very decidedly, an equine noise, a whinny that carried with it the hooves of time and all the ages that had gone before them. And what was that smell too, like being back in the stables? Nebula snorted and trembled back from the stench, as much as it followed her with her tail clamped down, but there was nothing for her to do but watch in equal equine horror as Lyra clapped a hand over her mouth, the soft, pink skin shifting quickly. There, of course, would be nothing to stop the change once it had begun, the fields of crops surrounding them hiding most of the show from view as Lyra’s hand melded into what could only be described as a horse’s hoof.

She tried to cry out, to say something, anything, ask what was happening to her – yet words were no longer for her to use as the grey of her hand spread down her arm, under the cuff of her sleeve, its tingling path reaching down the full length of her body. What was happening? Why was she turning grey? And her hand… No! She didn’t want to think about her hand, fighting to get her fingers apart even as they, very clearly, were not her fingers anymore, the changes spreading up as the joints cracked and realigned, her wrist shifting into a horse’s fetlock, the rounded bulge of the joint simply unmistakeable for anything else at all.

Fear gripped her heart and she staggered, holding her hoof-hand out away from her body as if she could prevent things from happening if only she kept it far enough away from her, but it did not work like that as her other hand stiffened up too. Yet that was not the only strange (to put it lightly) thing to occur as Nebula staggered backwards, unsteady on her hooves as her front hooves, slowly but surely, became lighter and softer, more fragile than the sturdy, blood-rich vessels they had been before. For the Lusitano’s hooves were becoming hands right before her very eyes even down to the curves of her nails.

Curses, after all, were not something to be trifled with. But that was not something that Lyra could take back as she wheeled about, neighing and nickering like a horse herself, the bones in her body shifting as even standing on two legs became difficult. But she could not fall – could not fail! She was a noblewoman and she had to hold herself upright even as her clothes became tighter and tighter around her, strained and bursting at the seams. Even as this went on, Nebula shrank before her very eyes, the grey hair of her beautiful coat, dappled so stunningly, falling away to expose grey skin that was rapidly turning to pink, the greatest changes beginning at her front hooves, which were now perfectly formed human hands, and sweeping back along the length of her body from there.

With the coat, however, came an aroma that could only be defined as equine, distinctly earthy and musty and embodying everything that made the creatures great – if not Lyra. She was human, not a horse! But as much as she grunted and huffed and squealed, there was no one there to tell her that as Nebula whickered lightly, eyes seeming to glisten under her light, defining brows, lips ever so slowly taking the form of a smile that Lyra would never again be able to make for herself with her own lips.

The crops rustled, a golden, dancing audience to bear witness. Somewhere high above, a skylark warbled its song, but it did not care for the magic happening below. A coat of white hair swept its way up from Lyra’s hooves, the canon bone a strong line and her chest rounding out as her clothes, finally, gave up, falling about her in shreds, although the cape remained mainly intact. And Nebula followed right along, rearing up more easily onto two legs as her hind end changed and shifted, becoming something more humanoid even as Lyra’s swelled out grotesquely from naked grey flesh into the rounded, muscular hindquarters of a horse too, followed by a smattering of white hair.

Breasts disappeared: she would not need them anymore as a horse, although Nebula’s udders receding smoothly into her, now pink, skin were replaced by all that Lyra had boasted, what men had coveted. Tipped with pink nipples, they seemed to draw the eye in invitingly, although that was hardly something that Lyra was going to be able to pause on as her back cracked, lengthening dramatically. Nebula could stand more easily then, still a horse’s head on top of a body that was looking more and more human with every passing second, Lyra’s sex drawing up into equine folds as the mare-woman before her nickered a laugh.

Back legs nearly completed, Lyra gasped and jolted on her new hooves, trying to spin and nearly sending herself flying. As her spine pulled out, Nebula’s drew in, receding her tail as Lyra gained an admittedly beautiful white one, long and flowing and everything that an equine should have boasted. Her shoulder filled out with muscle up to the defined round of her withers, hair changing colour and spilling down her neck in a pure curtain, the fall of it lightly curled as if it had recently been damp.

But it was her face changing that made her scream the most, her neighs and shrieks of fear stuck in her throat as her face bulged out and out, unable to tear her eyes away as Nebula’s became human. And not just the face of any human but the face that had been Lyra’s, soft and sweet and coming with an easier smile than anything she had ever had to call her own, blonde hair as full and natural and wavy as it had ever been. Taking a shuddering breath, Nebula drew herself up tall, looking down at her naked body as if marvelling.

She didn’t want to think how close she was to being a complete equine with the odour of herself thick and heavy in her nostrils, yet Lyra could not deny it as she finally hung her equine head and snorted, trembling in place with her tail flicking anxiously, unable to stay still. There was no way to seal away the tension in her body and Nebula herself gave a small moan as she ran her hands down her front, over her curves, exploring just as Lyra would, sometimes, before the long mirror she had the servants set up beside the bath for her to admire herself in.

“Finally,” Nebula whispered, eyes shining as she turned her hands over to inspect first one side and then the other, shivering lightly in her state of nudity. “It has finally happened… Human again! Oh, blessed be me!”

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Lyra could not care, dizzy and shaking her head as if she was trying to shake a fly from her large ears. Only later would she learn that she had become an Andalusian horse, even though she would not recognise her reflection in a pool of water with her startlingly white coat, hooves of a light, soft grey. When the bridle went over her head by Nebula’s hand, she pulled back, but it was too late as the harsh bit clanked into the gap between her teeth, seating itself back in its rightful place. It would serve a better job on her head than on Nebula’s, although Nebula no longer looked like a steed, a beast of burden, but the very image of the woman that Lyra had once been and never would be again.

“Come now, or we will give those working your land such a fright.”

Barely in any state to run away even if the thought had crossed her mind, Lyra nickered and hung her head down low, white sides shuddering with breath, nostrils flared and her nose wrinkled with worry. She could hardly think straight, her mind sluggish with the thickly disturbing scent of horse, which was now herself, in her nose. It seemed impossible to get rid of and she blinked languidly at Nebula as she slipped back into the human clothes, however dirty and ripped they were, covering up her modesty in the nick of time.

“Lady Lyra! I heard a cry!”

And then they were surrounded on both sides by two of Sir Langton’s guards, their expressions stern as they leapt from their mounts and rushed to her aid. Their hands were respectful, tugging a cape around her to better cover the tears in her finery, and she pressed her hand to her forehead as if she was suddenly taken faint.

“Oh, good sirs!”

Nebula clearly knew how to act as a noblewoman, falling into their arms as if she was too weak to even hold herself upright, fanning her face. They supported her, as she’d known they would, Lyra held at the end of the reins with her eyes wide and shining with fright for what she did not understand.

“Oh, it was frightful! A pheasant in the crops – it just jumped straight up! My poor mare could not help herself and I came off in a hurry. The poor girl, she knew no better.”

They fell for it, of course, even as Lyra stretched out her neck desperately and tried to tell them with a snort and a nicker that she was the real Lady Lyra, but things moved on around a horse without their active consent, changing as they were not held of any importance in any scenario. Lady Lyra was their only concern.

“Let me help you, Lady Lyra.”

Kindly, one of the guards replaced Nebula’s saddle on Lyra’s back, even as the white mare snorted and jolted away from him in fright. What was that feeling under her stomach? What did it mean? But the saddle was tightened all the same and Nebula given a kindly and gentlemanly lift up into the seat that perhaps should have been rightfully hers all along. All Lyra had to do was woodenly and awkwardly make her way back to the castle with Nebula sitting on her back, posing as her, unsure of where to even place her hooves without falling over.

It hit her, however, as she was dragged into a stable, the whites of her eyes showing and a scream on her equine lips. Skittering, she struggled and strove not to go in, although it was merely the darkness and close confines of the box that had her rounding her back, threatening to buck and kick out and demonstrate her great displeasure to the watching stable boy who let the yard boy do the work of hauling her about. But there was something missing in the flick of her heels that had him pondering even as the stable door slammed shut and the yard boy swore, shaking out his hand from the strain of wrenching her lead rope about.

“Crazy beast…”

“No shoes…” He scratched the back of his head and twisted his lips. “The smithy will be by in the morn. Can she wait until then?”

She would have to, either way, and the white mare spun and spun around her box, snorting at the demons she imagined in the corners. The true demon, of course, lay inside her and that was just why she had become a mare while the old woman smiled to herself, in her own little cottage, and sipped nettle tea, knowing that justice had been made.

Anxiously, she neighed and thrust her head out over the door, but the lamps were blown out, nobody left there to hear her cry but her fellow horses.

She was one of them now.