Four weeks. It had been four weeks since he’d left home, twenty-eight days of travel by foot, and he was now six hundred and seventy-eight hours into what was to be the most important journey of his life. Thus, it was regrettable that it had also been four weeks since Jericho had last properly bathed.
And the journey had not been kind to him. He had scaled a mountain range, wandered through dense woods, weathered late summer thunderstorms and waded through the resulting mud. His coat was matted with sweat and his hair tangled, barely contained by the topknots that had been so deftly twisted into his mane a mere twenty-eight days prior. Only the silver ornaments winking from his horns and tail remained bright—those, and his pair of shining eyes as they took in the distant spires.
At last, civilization. As soon as he had spotted the fortress from the vast meadow through which he walked, Jericho’s entire demeanor had changed. Days of hard travel were temporarily forgotten and sore joints temporarily silenced. He had walked with a new spring in his step—that is, until he had encountered his reflection in a puddle in a marshy patch of the field. Trained soldier as he was, he could not suppress a snort of horror at the bedraggled creature that stared up at him. Jericho considered the unkempt mane and shaggy coat, grimaced, then glanced up ruefully at the faraway towers. This was no way for a bridegroom to make his first impression; they would have to wait.
Hurrying now, the stallion turned and began to make his way back to the river he had forged that morning. Luckily, he soon discovered that the water had been flowing parallel to his path the entire time and was spared the agonizing ordeal of retracing his steps. Jericho picked his way along the bank until he found a place suitable for bathing, then waded in without hesitation, ignoring the sudden chill. Paddling his way to the shallows, he attempted a clumsy roll in the smooth gravel of the riverbed, hoping to remove the more stubborn patches of dirt. Though awkward, it afforded him moderate success: a few repetitions, and he was soon satisfied. That left only his hair.
Peering down at his dripping reflection, Jericho judged this particular battle to be a losing one. Without comb or razor, there was not much to be done. Reluctantly, he pulled his mane free from the soggy topknots (or rather, what remained of them) and smoothed it down as best he could. He’d track down a comb or a barber once he was inside the gates.
Appearance much improved, he set off again. Now taking care to avoid muddy patches, his progress was significantly slowed, but the sight of the castle on the horizon lent him patience. It was less than half a day’s journey, and he’d be there soon enough.
It was nearly nightfall when he reached the wall. Up close, it was massive: ivy-covered towers loomed above him like giants, and he shivered slightly in the cool shadow of the fortress. For the first time since that afternoon, Jericho hesitated slightly. The entrance was just ahead of him, beckoning…but was he welcome?
