Can’t feel anything—when will I learn?

I push it down, push it down.

When he first sees her, he thinks that perhaps this is a dream. Perhaps she has come to him now, and none of that infernal grief had ever happened between them, and all is right again as it had been (perhaps, just perhaps). But life is never that easy—never that forgiving. When her figure on the horizon splits into two, he is grounded once again to reality, wrenched from the delusion of fantastical thoughts and his own selfish dreams. He should have known by now, not to hope for foolish things (no matter how much he might want to). He must let go.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

He feels something twist in his chest when she draws near (near enough to touch; he can imagine the heat radiating between them). There is only silence at first, neither of them wanting to speak (he for fear of the bitterness that lays wait on the back of his tongue, of that cruel lion of pride that is ever so eager to bare its teeth and slash its claws); for now, he can only stare. How long has it been, since he has seen those bright, bright eyes? How long has it been, since he had buried his face in those lily-white curls, and caressed the satin skin across her neck?

Too long.

The stallion drifts again, far too eager to abandon responsibility, seduced by the wondrous temptation of recklessness freedom. When their eye contact breaks his trance breaks with it, shattering into jagged shards that cut and pierce when she draws his attention to him. The boy. Etziel, she calls him—an old friend, she says. His wounds (not of flesh and bone) throb angrily at this meager introduction, sparking a reaction that flares to ignite his indignation.

An old friend? He wants to demand of her, You dare to keep my identity from him? A multitude of sore words boil to the tip of his tongue, resting there like burning embers, just waiting to let loose their flames.

But they die as quickly as they had been kindled, smothered by a rare sense of shame that settles heavily across his shoulders. What right does he have now, to claim this title? He who had abandoned it, tossed it aside like garbage and stomped it into the ground (and unwittingly her heart along with it). He had not wanted to be a father at all, then. Why should that change now? It is better this way, he realizes, and the reality of it hits him with a force he hadn’t been expecting. How can he hurt for the loss of something he had never even wanted?

Clearing his throat gruffly, the Warlander swallows past the grief in his heart, his ears tipping backwards and his smile flat as he looks to the boy (because he has never been good at controlling his wild, wild emotions). “Hello, Etziel; it’s nice to meet you.” There is so much of her in him (so much of himself, perhaps), and he can only hope that he comes to practice more foresight than his foolish father.

When Enna continues, he turns to her too eagerly, hoping to lose himself in the cadence of her voice. She is so gentle, so affectionate towards the boy; he is not surprised. Rohan has never had a doubt that she would make a great mother, all of his mistrust has been directed inwards, like daggers (which makes him push them away all the more fervently).

Still, he cannot deny the painful warping of his heart as it is tied and twisted, a momentary flicker of sorrow managing to find its way into his eyes.

Is that what they have become now?

A story?

It takes him a moment to answer the boy, green eyes lingering on her face for a moment longer (if only to hold her there), before he turns to Etziel with a rough chuckle. “It is something you can only learn right then, when suddenly caught in the heat of battle,” he forces a smirk for the kid’s sake, memories of their intimacy then reaching out to sting him now. “The girl was very brave too, you know,” His eyes wander to her face, as though the words are meant for her rather than their her son, “it’s not just anyone who can face such an enemy.” He couldn’t have done it without her.

“Speech.”

rohan