Sleipnir snorted at the Watcher as he heard the condemnation of his actions. Never before did fellow warriors approach me with leg-chains in hand, Watcher. He thought, wanting to speak but failing as the hood prevented words from forming on his lips. In his mind those warriors approached him with intent to do battle. If it had been servants he would have resented every moment of it, but he would not have struck out at an innocent Asgardian. Thor, too, brought battle to his door. As much pain as it had cost the warhorse he regretted nothing. The warriors he'd defeated fought bravely and died thus.
It was the way of things.
His head jerked slightly at the gentle touch upon his fevered brow, a short whicker of surprise leaving him. After the day he'd been having, a gentle touch was a far cry from what he'd expected. The sound turned to a low grunt of amusement as the Watcher went on to chastise Thor like a child caught playing with a family heirloom. While Odin seemed pleased enough that I've been beaten into submission, it would seem that Heimdall is of a kinder mentality. He snorted again, feet shifting with a rattle of chain. How nice. He thought bitterly, his teeth grinding at the bit. It was one thing to be viewed as an animal, but to be seen as a relic of Odin's glory made the warhorse feel ill.
After a moment under the sentry's hand Sleipnir's head shifted again as his whole body trembled, feet shifting restlessly. He used all of his concentration and what little magic ability left to him to fight the influence of the hood over his head. He needed to speak. He needed to know. Not knowing what would become of him after all this time, who would he serve, what end awaited him...it was driving him mad. For the first time in centuries, panic had found its way into Sleipnir's gut, giving him strength. It was painful, the bridle and the hood working in tandem to keep him silent, but after a long moment he managed to grind out the words, "What...now...Watcher?"