A traveling minstrel just sang us a ballad about a “valiant steed of legend.” My knight assumes it was about me. I have inspected my hooves. It was not about me.

The road forks ahead. Sancho says left, toward the next village and a hot meal. My knight says right, toward “destiny.” I, the only one with a vote that matters, abstain. We will go right. We always go right.

We passed a mirror today. A real one, propped outside a barber’s shop. My knight saw his reflection, drew his sword, and demanded the stranger identify himself. I would like to retire.

Some days I think I will write all of this down. Then I remember: I am a horse. I have no thumbs. The story will have to be told by someone else, and they will almost certainly get my name wrong.

Stars are out. Camp is quiet. My knight is dreaming aloud about glory. Somewhere far from here, a windmill turns peacefully, unaware of what fate has in store for it next Tuesday.

Sancho slipped me an apple at lunch. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Sancho is, and I cannot stress this enough, the only one of us holding it together.

Travel tip: if you are a horse traveling with a delusional knight, always angle yourself so the windmills are behind you when you stop to rest. He cannot charge what he cannot see.

My knight just delivered a 20-minute oration to a haystack. The haystack handled it with grace. I am taking notes.

Crossed paths with a real knight today. Real armor. Real warhorse. Real reputation. He looked at me. I looked at him. There was an unspoken understanding between two horses about the situations we are in.

There is a dog following us. He has been following us for two days. My knight has named him “Squire Secondary.” Sancho is offended. The dog seems content.