On the southern grounds

of the Imperial Palace of Asmodel,

there is a wide, fenced meadow,

next to the royal stables,

where the Imperial family

has long exercised

their robo-horses.

It is the day after

He-Thing fell from Tiderunner,

and spoke with his father,

and the grassy ground

of the meadow is soggy

with rains the night before.

He-Thing stands with his leg up

on the fence,

watching Tiderunner gallop

maniacally

from end to end.

Nearby,

War Dog lies on her belly

on the soothing wet grass,

her eyes closed in sleep,

but her ears twitching occasionally

when pestered by flies.

It is a beautiful, sunny day,

and the air is sweet.

A voice calls from behind him —

“Tempting the Black Owl again?”

He-Thing turns to see his oldest,

dearest friend,

Lord Farth Esqaine the Third,

approaching up the hill,

with a riding boot only on one foot.

In his hands,

he clumsily holds his other boot

and a goblet of flower wine.

Farth is tall,

with fiery red hair

and a hawk nose,

thin,

with a flair for women

and poetry.

“No,” He-Thing answers his friend,

“I may be foolish,

but I am not stupid.

It will be some time

before I step into

his stirrups again.”

“It is good to know

when you are bested, I suppose,”

Farth observes.

Farth coughs,

and sets his wine down

on a fence post.

He hops on one foot

as he pulls on his other boot.

“Rough night?” He-Thing asks.

Farth smirks.

“Every night is rough

when you are

as handsome and rich

as I am.”

He-Thing laughs at his friend,

whose adventures thrill him

with envy.

“Any conquests I should know about?”

“No, my friend,”

says Farth, as he finishes with his boot,

“Nothing to brag about.

Aristocratic maids can be fickle.

But —

it is a new day,

I am awake,

and I am ready

to try it all over again.”

He-Thing manages to coax Tiderunner over

with an apple.

He strokes the ribs

of the robo-horse’s armored neck

while he feeds the apple

to Tiderunner’s steel lips.

“I spoke to my father last night,”

He-Thing tells Farth.

“Oh? About what?”

“He’s sending me away.

To the Northern outskirts

of the Empire.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Without Zolantos?”

“On a political mission.”

He-Thing cannot disguise his pride.

Farth slaps his thigh.

“I can’t believe it!

I thought the old man would never do it!”

Finished with the apple,

Tiderunner trots away

and goes back

to his mad circles.

He-Thing,

paralyzed in fear

by the slighest emotional intimacy,

licks his lips.

“Farth,” he says,

“I would like you to come with me.”

“To the North?”

“Yes. I know I will need you.

And is this not what we used to

always talk about?

Being free to adventure?

To discover

the ends of the Omniverse?”

Farth smiles, his eyes alight.

“I guess you will need me

to keep you out of trouble.”

“I will keep you out of trouble

by taking you away from here,”

He-Thing quips.

“Then count me in!”

Farth says.

They smile joyfully together,

but do not meet

each other’s gaze.

“There is more,”

He-Thing says,

as his eyes watch Tiderunner

disinterestedly.

“My father bequeathed to me

the Nebule Blade.”

Farth’s face goes solemn

and he claps He-Thing

on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, my friend.

It is an honor

you thoroughly deserve.”

“It gives me pause,”

He-Thing admits.

“It is a great weight.”

Farth furrows his brow

as he looks at He-Thing.

“What choice do you have

but to bear it?”

The two friends watch silently

as Tiderunner runs about,

harasses other horses,

and occasionally,

stands still.

A wind blows through the trees,

making the dappled sunlight

on the grass shimmer and dance.

Birds sing and insects chat,

and the sweet air

fills their lungs

with hope.

“Are you taking him?”

Farth asks.

“Are you crazy?” He-Thing laughs.

“No, I’ll ride old Treefeather.”

“It will be a great adventure,”

Farth proclaims.

“The poets will sing of us,”

He-Thing promises his friend.

“Yes!” Farth agrees.

“We will astonish them

with our great deeds!”

to be continued