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

“There was nothing to be done.”

The breadth of the stallion’s deep voice is composed in its finality, leaving his lips in measured breaths. Green eyes rest evenly on the mare’s face, stoic in comparison to her grief-induced anger, and he bites back the fire that flickers to the tip of his tongue, recognizing for once that his temper will not serve him well now. She is hurting. Her accusations are hollow and woeful, he knows, and he waits like the smoldering rock for her hot lava to cool. It boils and then simmers, cracking and bubbling, before it quiets. Her apology, when it comes, is choked by the sobs that wrack her tiny frame, and slowly, gingerly, he tightens his grip around her.

There is no need for her to apologize to him, he won’t accept it, but he allows her to keep whatever peace she has made, however fragile and broken it might be. Like glass, she has been shattered—wrecked and devastated—with edges like knives that cut anyone who gets too close, whether she intends it or not. He bleeds silently, selfishly, patching up his own small bruise as her great wound festers. He reaches for her, tentative almost, the heat of her skin vibrating as violently as her body, her pining, anguished cry nearly too heavy for him to witness.

Shifting his weight, the Warlander trails his muzzle up towards her brow, his warm breath tousling the matted curls of her forelock. “I know, love,” he breathes almost gently, carefully, but—he does not know. He does not know what it means to love as she loves her daughter, to want to give his entire soul and being as she does to that one who can make it all right, or to give his heart as she has given hers. He does not know—and perhaps he never will. Hers is a grief that has transcended him, and he does not try to understand it. He has seen death, and he has felt loss…but he has not been robbed. He has only stolen—does that make him the monster?

“This is my fault, only mine.”

It is the mare’s pained condemnation that returns her to his focus once again. He pulls away enough to look into her eyes, searching for her gaze with a stern desperation. “Enna, no—” But she cuts him off, his protest dying on his lips and leaving a sourness to putrefy there with every passing word. Rohan knows anger, and he clutches at it now when he feels its familiar flame, harboring it in his chest to brighten his eyes in his disapproval. “There was nothing to be done—nothing could have changed this. I know what a terrible parent is, and Enna, you couldn’t not love this child even if you wanted to. Look at yourself,” his voice, which had first left him in indignation, is now soft in his earnest, eyes never leaving hers as he pleads for her to understand, to see what he has seen, “You have loved her long before now.”

The words seem to hang between them for a moment.

In his youth, Rohan does not know wisdom as many others do—he is wild and he is reckless, ever impulsive in the adventures of his heart. He has no clever, poignant words to offer her, no practiced methods of comfort to soothe her. He gives only his honesty, his insistence, and the simplicity of it all. She is certainly no monster. “Perhaps she was too good for this world—too pure to see its hate,” he shifts his attention to the frail, still figure of the filly, cradled tenderly in the soft, violet folds of spring.

He feels her press against him then, her slender frame curling into his own, and her hot breath billows across his skin as she reaches up to his face. She seeks comfort, reassurance, and familiarity, but even in this harrowing sorrow, the carnal ferocity of his mind cannot be tamed. It tempts him towards places that are likely not appropriate at this moment, and he tells himself that he cares about her fragility, her needy desperation and that it can be no more.

Her eyes fall and retreat just as his resolve begins to crumble. Relaxing from the tension he hadn’t realized had gathered within him, the Warlander exhales heavily from his nostrils, his eyes lingering to watch her face. There is silence for a short while, his heady breathes quieting as the heat slowly leaves his body, the wicked clouds of testosterone and lust lifting from his mind, leaving the same chill of grief behind. Finally, she murmurs a name—a name that brings a smile to her lips and a weak flash of light back to her eyes. “Quinn,” he repeats, tasting it for himself and offering a small grin of his own, “It is a beautiful name.” His touch trails to her cheek again, whiskery muzzle brushing away the wetness there.

But, just when he sees a glimmer of relief in her, a dark shadow descends. The stranger attacks Enna, verbally picking at her wounds like a vulture to meat, as if she already hasn’t been devastated. Rohan’s indignation flares and ignites into anger, rimmed ears disappearing into his thick mane as he thrusts himself upward, rising from where he had been lying next to the mare and confronting the beast directly. “Who the hell are you to question me?—to question her?” His eyes are narrowed and teeth bared, long tail lashing out in the heat of his wrath.

He has met Caleb, however brief it had been, so he knows that this colorful buffoon isn’t the bastard who had abused Enna and thrown her to the wolves, but he sure isn’t painting himself a pretty picture either. Rohan scowls aggressively. Although he doesn’t quite realize it himself, the Warlander finally knows what it feels like to not be the biggest hot-headed, careless ass in the company. What a victory. “Explain yourself and your foolishness, or leave us; else you suffer dearly for your impertinence,” his voice has dropped to a hiss, and he steps forward, placing himself pointedly in between the stallion and Enna as a buffer. He usually isn’t the type to play hero and save the damsel in distress (he’s likely the one putting her in distress) but today, he’s sure as hell willing to make an exception.


“Speech.”

rohan