rohan

how fickle my heart

A cool breeze snakes down from the mountains, rustling over the frozen ground until it finds the large stallion. He represses a shiver as the gentle wind climbs up his feathered leg, nestling beneath the nape of his neck and playing with his long hair, before it dances off into the horizon. Rohan pauses for a short moment, strong jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, huffing dramatically from his nostrils before continuing at an extended walk. It feels more like early spring this far north, with the solid ground still patched generously with snow, and the thin air is crisp. The white ice nearly turns to slush beneath his hooves, his muscled weight causing him to leave ample hoof prints in his wake.

The Warlander could say that he doesn’t know what brings him here, that he’s not quite sure of his intentions, that he knows only the beating of his heart as it guides him. But—that would be a lie. As much as he wrestles with the logic and sense of it all, Rohan knows exactly what presses him farther and farther north. With every step he takes, it feels more like a death march than a journey; a self-inflicted torture, if you will. For weeks, months, he has procrastinated, forcing the nightmare to the back of his mind and reassuring himself that it couldn’t possibly have been true.

Couldn’t it?

It is his doubts that had eventually spurred him into action. No longer could the stallion handle the uncertainties, the fears, or the suspicions, deciding finally that he must put his mind to rest (because, surely, there cannot be a bastard child lying in wait for him in the North). Rohan is uncomfortable with how unstable that assurance is, writhing beneath the weight of his doubts and pressing forward with an angry gnashing of his teeth.

It is only when the mountains of the Basin rise on the horizon that the Warlander halts again. Their shadows stretch long over the frosted ground, pulled by the midday light, straining to grasp for the stallion who stands just out of their reach. He hesitates to go any further, muscles steeling beneath his skin and rimmed ears lying flat into the unruly mess of his mane. For a moment, he debates calling out for the black enchantress, releasing the rumbling of his voice out across the wasteland in a deep summons, but his lips press only tighter together.