Can’t feel anything—when will I learn?

I push it down, push it down.

The stallion smiles at the boy’s spitfire declarations, the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes while he laughs, low and short as it rumbles from his chest. He remembers being so young—unburdened by anything but a youth’s concern, skipping about palace halls and pulling the pretty girls’ hair for sport (of course, that is how a boy shows his affection, is it not?). His heart had far exceeded his body then, swollen with grand adventures and childish mischief. Perhaps a part of him hasn’t changed; he still dreams, although all the fantasies in the world cannot relieve the mistakes and troubles that burden him now.

Silencing his laughter to a low hum, the tall stallion lowers his head towards the boy, amusement still sparking in the shadow of his eyes. “You should listen to your mother, she knows what she’s doing,” he can’t help but look to her for a moment, smiling crookedly, knowing that sooner or later Etziel will learn how the wisdom of women shines in comparison to the folly of men. In spite of all his rebellion, all of his silly anger, Rohan had always respected his mother.

Giving the young colt a mischievous wink, he raises his head, one side of his brow rising in light question when the brown mare speaks. Freely, she gives validation to the boy’s hot words, perhaps for the sake of his untested heart, sparing him of insecurity like any mother does (like the good mother Rohan always knew she would be). Earthy eyes watch her with a quiet intensity, silently imploring her for forgiveness, wordlessly communicating all the things that he cannot will not speak. Pride is a stubborn and disgusting thing—a clasp around his tongue and a wall around his heart. (Why must he cling to it so?)

All the same, she doesn’t meet his eye, placing another brick to the wall that they endlessly seem to dance around. He presses against it (cold, hard stone), almost pushing, before he leans back with an inaudible sigh. The Warlander doesn’t deserve to push her now, not after all the heartache he has put her through (and yet, he still couldn’t promise that things could’ve been different, that given the chance, he wouldn’t do the same thing). He wants her (needs her), and yet his abominable ego is far too swollen to allow him the chance to settle humbly into her arms.

The boy’s boredom cracks into the heavy silence, igniting a smile from both of his parents (an idea still so foreign, strange, and terrifying for the antlered man). With hardly a breath lost, the colt is bounding down the shoreline—green eyes turn then to the little mare, nearly begging for her to stay (this can’t be goodbye again), though she takes the direction now. Curving close enough to touch, she turns after her son. The stallion’s bearded chin hovers so close to her skin, radiating with the warmth, memories of sunsets and mingling breaths blossoming to the forefront of his mind. He doesn’t hesitate in accepting her silent invitation, settling comfortably at her shoulder.

Perhaps for a moment far too short, and a night far too rare, everything will be okay again.

“Speech.”

rohan