The large stallion hadn’t been sure what to expect from the Edge when he had approached them, but two pretty faces, an ornery king, and a candid behemoth hadn’t exactly been disappointing. He feels different somehow, not quite understanding it, but embraces it nonetheless and happily releases the bridles of his pride. Perhaps there is a certain purpose to him now—a reason for his appearance into this strange new world, still unknown to him—or perhaps it is only the fresh spring air that has put a certain pep in his step. Whatever the cause, Rohan feels largely confident in himself when he sets off from the misty borders, the minor wounds of battle doing little to dampen his spirits.

However, it isn’t long before the sickness catches up to him. The Warlander feels it first in the stiffness of his muscles—movement becomes gradually harder, more painful, as though his skin is stretched taut across his body as if to hold him in place and keep him from moving. This eventually gives way to the heat. Burning, searing, and writhing. It is as though someone has set fire to his flesh, the very vessels of his veins scorching through every bone and muscle of his body, so much so that steam begins to rise faintly from his skin, despite the passing of winter.

He burns.

The Warlander isn’t sure how long the fever lasts. He grits himself against the pain and suffers quietly, snarling to himself in the darkest hours of night and sequestering himself away from those who might witness his agony. He has endured sickness and pain before, but not like this—nothing like this.

Rohan is not sure how much time has passed—days, seconds, weeks, it would all be the same to him—but eventually, blessedly, he is finally released from his fitful fever. The heat leaves but the stiffness remains, settling deep into his muscles like the aching after a terrible cold, a reminder that it is not yet over. Only recently has he noticed the inflamed pustules that have begun to blister along the inner part of his thighs, the curve where his elbow meets his body, and even some smaller ones manifesting in the warm creases where his ears attach to his head. They are painful, ghastly things, and he keeps telling himself that the worst is yet behind him.

He hates to be proven wrong.

During the day he tries to keep to the shadows, as much out of the sunlight as possible (haunted still by the memory of feverish nights) and is relieved when the light begins to slant beneath the trees’ boughs, signaling the approach of night. Whipping his tail in agitation, Rohan stumbles across a clear pool of water, and with hardly a moment of hesitation, slides into its cool depths. Ancient pool his ass. With his creamy tail fanning out over the glassy surface, he lowers his lips to the water, green eyes closing in a long and heavy moment of silence.


notes; hopefully this works xD  
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.