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On more than one occasion has Harbard been told that he is overbearing.
Though few have reason with which to wander the upper levels of Stonhyrr's castle, he has ever been tasked with watching the door when his liege desires not to be disturbed. The king's reasons matter not – the knight will not waste breath on inquiry, for he always knows – and so he has long made habit of watching and waiting for the gentle pull of beckoning at the back of his mind.
Sleipnir, to me.
This day begins at the break of dawn as do all the rest. From the darkness of his bedchamber does Barnabas rise, stone-faced and outfitted for the hunt, his usual attire traded out in favor of leathers carved from treated behemoth hide. This ritual the king has made these many years, that of starting his day with bloodshed, is but one of few constants in which both he and Harbard find some measure of excitement.
But even the thrill of the hunt does not seem to stir the king as it once did. His features oft remain stern and static as his prey falls to the earth, the torrential spray of beast blood brought about by Zantetsuken not quite enough to fill the void within. But, as per protocol when out in the open, Harbard holds his tongue, separates his concerns from their shared chamber of thought, returns to the shape of a beast to tow his liege's kill back to the capital where the silence might be broken.
"You can leave. I am able to—"
"And return to find you drowned? Oh, no."
The water stains red, rivulets of soap and dark blood trailing down the canvas of his king's back. The presented implication is one of disdain, that a man capable of slaying violent beasts is also one who can and will cleanse himself of death's lingering stench.
True as that may be, Harbard's purpose is to serve – to support, to protect – and it is that very purpose in which he finds contentment.
"You are being..."
"Overbearing, yes. As you have said many times before, my liege."
A gruff sigh is Barnabas' only retort – a sign of conceding to his adjutant's more personable demeanor. He remains silent as Harbard works soap into a lather, the second venture across his king's body slower and more purposeful than before.
Barnabas has never been a man well-versed in the emotion of intimacy. He does not quite grasp the necessity of paying heed to another's expressions, the duality of words, the ideas of romantic gestures and attachments. No, the tedium of such awareness had been foisted off onto his egi on the day of creation, the weight of emotion deemed far too great a burden for the man who would be king.
Though bound and devoted to his master as he is, Harbard is prone to wondering if such adamant refusal to see himself as human has not harmed Barnabas more than aided him.
A small smile blooms as his liege vacates the tub, and he imagines this must be how a parent would feel, fussing endlessly over their child. If left to his own devices, Barnabas would undoubtedly return to the ways of his nomadic youth, shaking water out of his hair and allowing himself to air dry like a dog.
For a king, however, such practices are improper, and Harbard – towel in hand – will not abide such things.
It falls to the floor only when he is satisfied, sweet oils now slicking his bare hands, kneading into broad shoulders and working their way down, and he can hear the king's scowl, the barely audible growling in a language long dead to the Twins. He can only smile – not in mockery, but amusement for all the blustering turned his way with no intent to act upon it.
In some ways, His Majesty truly remains a child. Would that Harbard might give him that which he desires most.
The smile fades.
He remembers it well, the day of his birth. The shadows from whence he had first been beckoned were parted to give way to a world unseen with aetheric eyes. The colors – greens and blues and too vibrant reds – had been ethereal, a beauty the likes of which he had not deigned imagine. The thought had struck him then, bare and still upon the earth, that the feelings he bore were terribly unfamiliar sensations that were perhaps unnatural as Odin's steed.
Even now, the gratitude felt in those first moments, the joy and anguish of laying eyes upon his liege lord, have not once faltered. And in the present, some fifty years removed from that day, he still aches at the memory of a weeping boy holding fast to his mother's corpse.
Please, no...!
He had been born into the world amidst a sea of blood. The first breath drawn into his lungs – his first breath as a man – had been laden with iron and smoke, the latter stinging mercilessly at the aetherial blue of his eyes. No longer was there darkness, solitude, an existence that may as well have not been.
Only one had been left alive within the carnage of persecution, his pallor ghostly white and stained red with the blood of many. A boy in far too many ways, mired fast in mud and grief so thick that he could not be made to move.
In that moment had their connection been born, his first breath of Valisthean air drawn in just as her last had skittered away on the wind. It was within the visceral echo of that grief that Harbard's purpose became perfectly clear.
He was made to serve.
"Nir?"
Fingers resume play against the gentle valleys of ribs, working their way back up the length of the king's spine to settle in still damp hair. Harbard smiles once more, genuine and true, pressing himself close to inhale the scents of soap and fresh pine. Though the stark contrast between the usual waft of coal and sweat is not lost upon him, he finds this preferable, the intimacy found in these small and silent moments that are far and few between.
A tug is felt at the back of his mind, a soft prickle that he has come to know as affection, gratitude that they both know will never be put into words. Barnabas is much too stubborn for that.
There is a curiosity that lingers too around the edges of the mind, a query that will not be raised. Though the languages of silence and violence are those that Odin knows too well, it is known to the egi that his lack of chatter has become an indication of distress.
Though the physique of this form pales in comparison to Barnabas' own, an arm winds around his king's middle, the other pulling his head back to rest against a shoulder. The pause that stretches between them is familiar, the moment needed for Barnabas to remember that he cannot be betrayed nor harmed nor hated by the creature he allows to touch him this way.
It wounds the both of them to recall such things – the sting of anger and white-hot grief in the aftermath of loss.
Never again.
"Nothing—" Harbard whispers against his king's stubbled cheek, a kiss placed where the heat of his breath had been. "—will harm you again, my liege. I swear it."