living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

The months by her side have passed by quickly. Many times he has stopped to ponder how peculiar it is, for a tameless (or so he would like to think) vagabond such as himself, to be tethered to a single woman for so long, but he finds that he is not tethered at all. A pregnant mare—her body steadily growing swollen and heavy with the child inside of her, not even his child, each step seeming more lumbering than the last—is not a sight that he is accustomed to (his roguish head full of elegant and whimsical creatures); and exactly why he has lingered by her side so long is an enigma that he has no intention of exploring.
 
His green eyes skirting sideways in one of his habitual glances, Rohan notices her stare, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as a playful smirk widens across his lips. “Enjoying the view?” The large stallion teases her easily, the deep breadth of his voice melting into an equally rumbling chuckle. His broad shoulders expand as he puffs out his chest dramatically, strutting forward ahead of her and swinging his hips oh-so-provocatively. Continuing his theatrical prance, the Warlander throws a glance over his shoulder, expecting her to banter with him—but all laughter is promptly cut short when he notices the horrible grimace that twists her face.
 
“Enna?” The stallion sobers quickly, the playful mirth trickling from his features to leave their rugged lines taught in hesitant concern. He turns, walking back towards her, but it is when her swollen body suddenly crumples to the ground that he lurches forward. “Enna—!” There is panic laced into the edges of his voice, green eyes roaming frantically over her figure, feeling frustrated and helpless because he doesn’t know exactly what he is looking for. He has no experience with something like this, he would not know that the bulge in her body is suddenly too misfigured to be normal, all he understands is that something is wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
 
Then there is blood and mess. Rohan flinches back at first, cursing to himself with his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears, not knowing what to do other than hover over her—is he giving her enough space? What should he do? What can he do? His thick tail lashing about his flanks in agitation, the Warlander doesn’t dare to venter down there until she has stilled. Breathing heavily into the crisp morning air (like he’d just done something even half as strenuous), he eyes Enna for a short moment, unsettled by the stillness. It is too quiet. Pressing his lips softly to the mare’s cheek and satisfied that she is in fact breathing, he peeks at the tiny little mass—should he help it?—but he only needs a glance to know. It is too quiet.  “Oh no,” his voice cracks and he withdraws, his neck arching as his body bows. He mourns for the mare—mourns for what awaits her when she wakes.

 
Hours pass. Rohan waits anxiously, having wandered off just a short ways in his restless grazing, one ear constantly trained in her direction. At last, he hears the grass stir as she rouses into wakefulness, his name a whisper against her dry lips. “Enna,” he sighs, feeling only a moment of relief, coming quickly to her side again. She is safe, as far as he knows, and that is enough to loosen the grip in his gut a little bit—but the knots of worry still weigh him down. He fumbles with himself, awkward, and frustrated at his utter incompetence. “You were asleep for so long—I didn’t know what to do, I—” Enna snaps up then, cutting him off as his throat tightens.
 
She seems determined to rise, as he would expect of any mare who’d just given birth, and while he pleas inside for her to turn away, to run—to save herself—he only lingers closely, ready to offer his support should her strength prove too fragile. “Enna…” Rohan murmurs when her eager eyes fall on the black filly, too silent in her young sleep, his eyes shutting tightly at the breaking of her stuttering, shattered cries. He turns his head away—giving her a moment of privacy with her heartache, allowing her a moment of aloneness before it becomes too much.
 
His eyes are on her again by the time she looks to him, but selfishly, he almost wishes he had not caught her gaze. He has never felt so helpless. Is there any way he could possibly help her? Rohan can’t help but look away again, momentarily, beneath the weight of her sorrow. He knows death; he remembers the day his brother had been slaughtered, brought back to them in pieces after the battle. But…this? He has never been a father. He couldn’t possibly understand what this is.
 
Knowing that there is nothing he can say to ease her mourning, and nothing he can do to lessen her grief, the stallion remains silent—standing as a still, quiet comfort. Finally, when he thinks her sobs have calmed, he moves to her. His legs are stiff from standing without movement, but he ignores his discomfort (so petty in light of her own) and presses his lips gently to the top of her head. “You need to rest,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t urge her to move. His touch slowly lowers until his cheek is pressed against hers, and Rohan looks to the filly, his eyes much quieter than their usual brightness. “She is beautiful,” he breathes slowly, feeling like he is tiptoeing around her, “as pretty as her mother.” He dares to chuckle awkwardly, the sound forced and lacking humor.
 
But oddly enough, he means it—every word. Even as sweaty, and clammy, and utterly exhausted as she is, with the mess of birth around her and the long curls of her hair matted into knots, Enna is beautiful. He wouldn’t want to be spending this moment anywhere else. She needs him now—he tells himself, at least. Deciding that there is no way he can possibly distract her from this tragedy, not now (perhaps it wouldn’t be respectful, perhaps she needs to sit now with her still child), Rohan lowers himself to lie beside her in the grasses. “What will you name her?” He inquires softly, his gaze lingering on the filly before he shifts his attention to Enna.


“Speech.”

rohan