Work Text:
Becoming the Dominant of Odin meant many things. For one, Barnabas Tharmr felt the irresistible sweet promise of power, raw and pure in his veins. He became all-knowing, all-seeing, a physical embodiment of unending darkness. The earth quaked beneath his feet and the seas parted at his command; not even the threads of existence could hope to escape his blade. He knew this to be true.
Before the lifeless body of his mother, bloody and torn beyond recognition, Barnabas awakened.
He breathed in aether, that substance which was life itself, and let it flow within him. He felt weightless, the terrifying burden of living in a world he once thought meaningless and unknowable finally lifted from his shoulders. Indeed, she had been brutally taken from him, but in turn, he could finally understand and see for himself the truth of her teachings. At the cost of her death – because of her death – he was enlightened and made free.
Thank you, Mother, he thought. There was no greater honor to serve, and this gift of limitless power was testament to the inviolable will and might of his god. To carry out that will, he would become Odin, destruction incarnate.
But as he now stood amongst a field of carnage and debris, Zantestuken freshly christened with the blood of fallen foes, he realized that this was not the only gift he received. Distant in the battlefield emerged a large, shadowy creature, the kinds of which he had only seen in tattered story books.
He willed his quickening heart to still, even as his limbs trembled from anticipation. A low hum reverberated from the tips of Zantetsuken, as if it, too, recognized that familiar silhouette approaching.
Tenderly, he let his eyes roam over the marvelous creature, its coat a radiant black sheen matching the elegance of his own form. Shimmering aether branched through its veins, and he could sense the overwhelming power linked to his own consciousness should he reach for it. He took in the sculpted musculature that belied its strength and agility, a worthy steed fit for the glorious conquests of Odin.
Before he could think to move further, the creature raised its head and directed its gaze. In that moment, his stoned heart stuttered, kindled by flames he thought long lost, for this was not a docile animal standing before him. There was nothing gentle or meek in those stormy eyes, only a lofty curiosity and fiery defiance. As if it was appraising Barnabas, laying bare his soul to weigh his worthiness. Its many legs trod powerfully, impatiently along the ground; a mighty thud that was also a cavalier invitation. A challenge.
Could he keep up? Dare he attempt to tame this majestic beast?
“You will yield,” Barnabas murmured, gently brushing his fingers along the silken mane once. He flung himself up, registering the smooth and corded muscle of his mount beneath his thighs.
And they were off.
He was the wind, without a care for all that it ravages in its unrelenting path; a brilliant flash of lightning gone before the eye can capture. Vaguely, he sensed that they had taken to the skies, and just as his being defied the holds of the earth, his heart soared in tandem.
Their dance had just begun. The beast’s muscles flexed and coiled, each gallop taking them faster, farther, until mountains and seas became mere blurred moments behind him, vast expanses forgotten in a single blink as they made towards the distant horizon. No matter; planting himself firmly on its back, Barnabas relished in the solid weight that grounded him, matching every movement as he held on with balanced ease.
But his opponent would not relent so easily. Now its forceful steps jerked up and down, their trajectory a winding, dizzying path in the unpredictable air as he was tossed and turned. They were threading through valleys, dagger-like rocks jagged on each side; they were plunging deep into precarious depths, the waves of treacherous waters an inch within his face. He was nothing and everything, a trifle at the whims of every force of nature.
Any lesser man would have fallen, but Barnabas was in rapture.
This was where he belonged – as one with the darkening clouds, the looming sky, the desolate land, the magnificent beast beneath him. Without realizing, he let out a laugh, a booming, unfamiliar sound even to his own ears. Never before had he felt so unburdened by his being, so at peace with his world. The years of suffocating loneliness as a child, the never-ending miseries of ennui, all swept away in a single notion as swift as the strides of his steed.
And so he held on. But something had changed in the beast as well. He sensed it in every step, every breath they took; theirs was a consciousness that was bound by shared aether and joined by a single will. Perhaps it had sensed his dominating passion, a mirror to which its own image was forged. They were a harmony of violent shadows, each eternally drawn to the other’s bloodlust and pride, their souls rejoicing in bliss at the blessing of true companionship.
They rode as one, the creature’s movements an extension of his own will. Through leaps and dives as effortless as breathing, sparks of burst aether in their wake, onwards they roamed. Nowhere was out of their reach, no lands could elude their conquest.
Perhaps after eons, or was it merely a moment – Barnabas felt the solid weight of the earth under his feet again. They had landed in a clearing, amongst the breezy shades. Dismounting the beast, he could see the rise and fall of its chest, flushed from exertion and excitement. He reached to caress its neck, and was given an affectionate nudge in return.
“I assume I’ve proven worthy,” he laughed. There was mirth and playfulness in its eyes, and something more.
An understanding. A pledge. A declaration.
“Sleipnir,” he breathed, leaning gently so that their foreheads touched.
He could see the horizon, a brilliant crimson beneath a breaking dawn. “Come, let us make for Valisthea.”
—
Illuminated by the flickering candlelight in the lush chambers of the King of Waloed, Barnabas Tharmr looked silently upon the sleeping figure in his bed. In his restful slumber, his Lord Commander gave a fine respite to those around him from his sharp tongue and knowing smirks. Yet his slender, lithe body was no less tantalizing to Barnabas, adorned by the bites and marks left by his liege.
He played with the silvery strands framing his face, his braid loose after their latest activities. Barnabas had braided it on a whim shortly after Harbard’s creation, and it had stayed.
His loyal servant stirred under his movements.
“Your Majesty.” Slight confusion laced his voice still raspy from sleep, “may I inquire what occupies your thoughts?”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Barnabas huffed. Then, after a pause, “I was merely reminiscing upon our first meeting.”
“Oh?” Now there was the faint return of that familiar grin, as Harbard moved to trace his fingers along his chest. “Does my liege wish for something more…untamed?”
“No,” Barnabas sighed, his hand catching those deft fingers. He pressed a kiss to that pale neck, before closing his eyes for sleep once more. “This is enough.”
You are enough.