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A biting wind rustled through mountain brush as dusk shifted into night and Sleipnir froze, a blade once again pressed into his neck.

”You’ve slain me,” Sleipnir said joyously, and Barnabas gave a huff of laughter in return – the best he could ever muster – before he lowered his blade and stepped a few paces back, readying himself for another round of sparring. Sleipnir’s heart quickened at the thought, but his eyes drifted towards the deep violet horizon, head tilted in thought.

”The hour grows late,” he said. Not a suggestion. Merely a fact. Barnabas’ gaze rose to match his own, and he eyed the setting sun with both surprise and disdain.

”I can still fight,” he said, but it was a losing battle and they both knew it.

Sleipnir offered nothing more than a raised eyebrow, and after a long, defiant silence, his master gave a defeated huff as he fell back onto the hard earth, dark hair slicked with sweat and panting softly. Sleipnir sat obediently beside him, and for a long time, they were content in their solitude.

Those were days long past, days of Odin’s newly awakened dominant, lost in doubt and mourning. Far from the regal presence he imposed upon the castle of Stonehyrr, Barnabas had been nothing more than an unruly anomaly upon his mountain tribe with his ever somber eyes and stern countenance. He was a boy, not quite a man, and Sleipnir for all appearances looked the same.

The scarce plant life was rough and hardy. The ground was hardened by drought. Still, there was beauty in their makeshift sparring arena as the sky darkened, revealing a thousand pinpricks of stars for which he knew not the names. One by one, the grasslands were spotted with the drifting lights of fireflies as though they themselves were stars snatched and stolen from an infinite sky.

Beside him, Barnabas sighed contentedly, and for the first time in his short existence, Sleipnir was at peace.

---

The sky above was vast and unfamiliar as Sleipnir traced it with a gloved finger, failing to find any of the seasonal constellations. He could identify neither the telltale curve of Garuda’s talon nor the distinct v-shape of Bahamut’s wings carved into the canvas of the night. It was an insignificant change given his current circumstances, but a profound one. He had thought that no matter how many millennia might pass that the stars, at least, would remain constant.

Apparently, that was not the case.

A firefly flickered lazily above where he laid on his back, surrounded on all sides by a sea of long grasses. There was a chill to the night which was not altogether comfortable, but perhaps he had merely grown accustomed to the many comforts of Stonehyrr as the king’s lord commander. He longed for the bed he almost never used except to while away the hours in contemplation, eyes closed as though dreaming. He longed for sweeter sustenance than whatever food he could scavenge off the packs of those bandits unwise and unlucky enough to mark him as easy prey. He longed, at the very least, for a fire yet could not bring himself to start one when he had no need of sleep.

He longed, more than anything, for Barnabas.

His absence was a hollow ache that verged on madness.

He gave his master’s name and appearance to every passerby who deigned speak with him. He asked of notable swordsmen and sightings of knights clad in sheer black armor. So desperate were his pleas that he even gave them Rosfield’s name as well. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Sleipnir found himself alone, lost and unguided. He did not know how long he could stand to exist so contrary to his very nature and so he gave the only two names he knew which might yet wield Odin’s power.

What if Rosfield had inherited not only Odin’s power, but his egi as well? Sleipnir shuddered and banished the thought, but as the hours ticked by and the moon made its way in a graceful arc across the sky, the thought returned like a pesky fly. What might he feel if he were compelled by his very being to kneel at the feet of Barnabas’ murderer? Would Rosfield strike him down for his crimes or, in a moment of objective clarity, recoil in horror at the prospect of his new, unwilling servant? Would he distance himself from Sleipnir, refusing his most basic need of guidance in return for nothing but cold disregard? Sleipnir could think of no worse prospects, dwarfed only by that of finding no master at all.

And so he kept at his search. He could think of little else.

Such thoughts were shaken from him, however, by a soft, unnatural rustling in the grass.

They were footsteps, he thought, though far too careful to ever be human. Slowly, he rose to his feet, turning to face the shadow of the beast which stalked the grasslands. It was perhaps twice his size, feline in shape and in motion though it hesitated when their eyes met and it realized that this would be no simple ambush.

Sleipnir tilted his head curiously. Its actions marked its intent and its long, wiry antennae marked its genus. A couerl was a danger so close to a populated road. Killing it would be most ethical, he assumed, but he was not a being crafted with morality in mind. It would be far simpler to merely slip into the shadows, unseen and forgotten.

’Or you could accept an end to your suffering.’ The thought rose unbidden as a taboo. It was the most logical approach, but alas. Some hidden instinct drove him towards self-preservation. The same instinct, perhaps, which told him that his life was not his own – either to give or to take.

The couerl’s antennae sparked with aether in a violent show of blue and violet. Its muscles strained as it readied its attack, and Sleipnir merely watched, the shadows already dancing at his feet.

It was a kind of mercy, he supposed, to merely vanish in its grasp. He could not imagine that a being of aether and darkness would make for the most substantial of meals.

[attr=class,ooc-notes]My poor angsting thrall