Author's Note: For some reason, I just can't write for my long-term stories, but I'm cranking out one-shots like nobody's business.
Time Wears On
He used to visit the graves once a year.
But as time wore on, he would find himself several countries away and promise to go next year. So he started going every two.
As time wore on, he started going every five.
Then, as time wore on, he visited the graves every ten.
He's a legend that nobody knows and he prefers it that way. His face hasn't changed, but his eyes and dark and heavy and sad with the weight of years upon them.
When they ask his name, he used to say Arratay. But that name became old and worn, bringing up memories of Alyss's dry wit, Will's bright smile...of Pauline's gentle teasing.
He went through a cycle while he tried to decide. Resez, Tahl, he even considered borrowing Crowley's name.
Now when the ask his name, he says Graybeard.
He is the oldest being alive, as far as he knows, and he knows a lot. Even that Skandian vampire is a few decades younger than he is.
But when your life spans a thousand years or more, what's a few decades here and there? The only difference was that the Skandian was frozen in his twenties.
They both share a laugh when the historians place their first gravestones in different centuries.
He imagines what Will might think.
Will might not recognize him now.
The face is the same, but the beard has gone in an effort to blend in, and the hair is shorter.
His bow, arrows, and knives have been replaced by guns, bullets, and electronic gadgets.
The tools have changed beyond recognition. So has he. The job remains the same.
He waits. He watches. He protects.
He chuckles to himself when the new country's special forces call themselves Rangers and think they're so clever for thinking up the name.
The Skandian roams freely, a restless spirit bound only by the light of the sun.
He has no such restrictions, but he stays at home. Watching. Protecting.
Redmont Fief, Redman County - the name doesn't matter to him. It is home.
It is the cool forest glades and the wooden towns and the great redstone castle.
It is the crumbling fortress and the bustling city and the farmland he used to ride through with trees thick above his head.
No matter what, it is always home.
As time wears on, the names on the gravestones begin to fade.
Duncan, Arald, Rodney, Jenny, Alyss, Crowley, Gilan, Cassandra, Horace, Will, Pauline.
He touches the golden oakleaf around his throat.
One day he will join them in the earth. But it seems that day will not come. Not for a long time.
As time wears on, he does not.
A familiar nudge on his shoulder, a soft, insistent nicker.
Absently, he gives the little pony an apple. The pony crunches blissfully.
He scratches the little pony on the forehead, just between the eyes.
"Looks like it's just you and me, old boy," Halt says softly, staring out at the industrialized expanse.
Abelard rests his head on Halt's shoulder.
The automobile has rendered the horse nearly obsolete, but Halt would never abandon Abelard.
His last companion, his faithful friend through the long years and longer centuries as he waits for the sky to burn and the ground to freeze and the world to end so he can see them again.
He clutches his gold oakleaf.
He can hardly wait to tell them all about it.