He feels the small pond stir around him, repressing a hiss as the icy waters reach up to lick at the sores that lay festering along his joints, releasing only a heavy groan across the glassy surface before opening his eyes. They turn to see a figure approaching him through the ruby pool—small, delicate, petite, and so obviously feminine that he is suddenly very aware of the blood rushing through the heat of his veins.

The Warlander turns his head, and she is there. Pressing up against his side, her body—so frail against his own—cradled in the strong breadth of his frame, nearly trembling. He touches his brown lips lightly to her forehead, his hot breath surging through the thickness of her hair.
 
“Enna.”
 
Her name is like a sigh across his tongue, a practiced breath of his husky fascination—he swallows the pain of his body eagerly, desperately, disregarding the blistering pustules that lay like parasites along his body, and preferring to lose himself in her femineity and closeness. “I didn’t know when I would see you again,” his deep voice rumbles broadly despite his hushed tones, their low timbre curling a skewed smirk along the line of his lips.
 
But the beautiful bay does not play with him as he’d assumed she would—her feisty black tongue does not come lashing out with playful, childlike ire—and her silence has his attentions shifting to less physical paths. The muscles in his neck arching, Rohan draws back a little, lowering his eyes so that he might see hers. He does not expect to see her…well, she is—crying. The stallion’s ears flick back in his initial discomfort, not quite sure how to react, or how to comfort a mare in such a state. He remembers for a moment, days long ago, when he would catch Iofiel weeping. She had been a rather quiet filly, closeted to many of her emotions, and he had often slipped silently away to leave her alone.
 
He has thought sometimes (despite his own protests) since his leaving of her, of their home, of how she would have cried, and how she would have to be on her own again in his absence. Perhaps this is karma’s way of levelling with him. Forever pursued by the tears of women—how poetic.

Pursing his lips and exhaling a calculated breath, he hesitates for a short while, still uncertain, still uncomfortable. At last he comes to the conclusion that he can’t very well leave Enna here (she would certainly notice, for one, and either way, he finds himself not inclined to that idea now), and so, trying to push his uneasiness aside, he reaches for her again.
 
Trailing his lips along the crest of her neck, Rohan drapes his thick neck over hers, nearly pulling her into him. “I know life is a blessing, but I hardly think mine is worth crying over, darling,” there is humor weaved into the tenors of his voice, a low chuckle emitted soon after. He is more comfortable with this, humor and jest and teasing, and his body slowly begins to relax next to hers. However, he catches the scent of something—something off—flesh? Blood? He assumes it is his own at first, until his bearded chin grazes the wounded skin of her withers. “Enna,” he breaths, surprise and indignation suddenly flaring inside of him, “what happened to you?”


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.

He doesn’t try to understand her contradiction. He doesn’t dare begin to wonder how his life—so small, so lonely, and so insignificant (despite what he often tells himself)—could mean anything to this sweet little mare. She is goodness, generosity, and light, where he has only lingered in the shadows; first by the stone hand of his father, shaded beneath greater possibilities, and then by choice, outcasted and outlawed by himself to the untamed wilds of Helovia. He won’t try to convince himself that his heart yet lies in the World’s Edge. It is unsatisfied, hungry and wanting, sated only momentarily by promises of purpose and recognition (perhaps too grandiose to be true).
 
He forbids himself from flirting with such ponderings. The green of his eyes focus on the crest of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, and the playful wisps of white hair that dance in the faint breaths of dusk’s cool breeze. Only when she continues does his attention dare to roam again, her voice tipping a brown-rimmed ear that twists against his thick, cream locks. “How courageously foolish of you, darling,” his lips twist into a crooked and teasing grin, the husk of his low voice jesting against the somberness of her own.
 
The image of Enna—petite, slender, fragile Enna—charging recklessly into battle to protect the likes of him, is nothing short of entertaining. The Warlander’s great body vibrates against hers as a chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he looks to her with the impish light in his eyes sparkling from beneath his brow.

Too amused now, initially he isn’t concerned when the mare continues, not bothering himself with ‘him’ (whomever ‘he’ might be), or what indignations this stranger has flared within the little mare’s heart. Rohan’s only interest is what could ever cause Enna to want to hurt, but even after a moment of thought, he supposes that it isn’t entirely impossible (given her rashness and obstinacy, of course).
 
Nearly rolling his eyes dramatically, the antlered stallion listens when she accounts the incident of the Bear—of how she couldn’t possibly shed her grace and spare a moment for herself—and he feels an unexpected sense of frustration rise within him. Why? He wants to demand of her, Why won’t you take care of yourself? But the question is far too unexplainable for his comfort, and he shrugs it off with a shift of his weight. Allowing something between sarcasm, frustration, and concern to garnish the lines of his face, he continues gruffly, his skewed smirk still lingers along his lips. “You will be all right though, will you not?” A quick glance is cast to her wound. Despite an ego that could feed thousands and an unmistakable arrogance, there is genuine concern that lies beneath his confidence.
 
He is not a monster.
 
He feels, even if he tries to convince everyone else—and himself—otherwise.
 
It is then that ‘he’ returns. The mystery man tempers a little more interest from Rohan this time, fluted ears pricking forward when Enna withdraws from him. At first, he is unsure what he is supposed to be looking at when she twists about (obviously taking advantage of the moment and admiring her feminine figure, but if there is more, it escapes him). And then, suddenly, he notices it—and he can’t look away, it is obvious now. The slightest distension in her middle, the minor swelling of her flanks…she is pregnant.
 
How to react? Well. He concludes that her situation cannot be good—considering her state of mind on the matter, the fear in her eyes—he would be more surprised if circumstances have been kind to her. The thought blisters inside of him, festering like the pustules that are rotting along his body, and he isn’t sure how to handle it. Too caught up in his own musings and his own opinion, that the stallion remains uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes shifting to hers when she speaks again. He had nearly forgotten about his own sores, that his eyes narrow briefly in confusion.
 
“Oh,” he mutters in slow understanding, “nothing much to worry about—some kind of…alien boils, I guess.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, as if they didn’t burn, giving her a playful smirk that is only slightly forced. He nearly protests when she reaches up to him—concern for her frail energy flaring inside of him—but the sudden reprieve of her healing comes too fast, and his objection dies on his tongue. Relaxation eases him almost immediately, and he exhales a shuddering sigh of relief before looking to her. “Thank you,” he murmurs, daring to show his gratitude, his muscles and skin singing from relief—relief from the pain, the heat, and the tension that have tormented him. “You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart,” he presses his lips to her forehead, breathing deeply for the first time in what could have been a lifetime.
 
Trailing his touch down the bridge of her nose (a whisper of an embrace), the large unicorn withdraws enough to look into her eyes. “Enna,” he acknowledges her with a firm gentleness, to get her attention, to gather himself together, but he pauses. He doesn’t have to ask to confirm her condition—her pregnancy is noticeable now, as recognizable and penetrating as the fear that haunts her eyes. “He…” Rohan pauses again, this time without hesitation, but with the clenching of his jaw. He doesn’t want to know, but he has to—he has to. And so bridling his indignation—mysterious and impulsive as it is—he dares to ask.
 
“Did he hurt you?”


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.

Her silence, her hesitation, stretches out the suspense until it is nothing but a sinking feeling in his gut. He waits with baited breath, waiting for it to fall, waiting for the weight to sink into his bones and curl his anger. Why? Why does he care? Why does it matter if she has been wronged? She is nothing to him…nothing but another pretty face, another game of wits and romance, another toy to play with the primal instincts that fires his veins, flooding his body until his skin becomes hot. She…should not…be…special. She should not be any different.
 
But…
 
His lies are crumbling.
 
Her voice, when it comes, cuts through the façade as if a blade has pierced him through his chest—stripping him to his core until even the desire to pretend, the game, is lost to him. Her mis-matched eyes fall from his, but he still looks at her. Tracing the lines of her face, each delicate detail, he can see the pain and the betrayal that is laced through every curve. She is hurting. He will see him pay, he will burn the gutless bastard, he will hunt and shred the sniveling little rat who had taken every intimate part of her against her will. Against her will.
 
“I didn’t want him to, didn’t want this—“
 
It is that single fact alone that is the fuel to the rage that seethes within him. Enna can have sex with anyone she wants—he doesn’t own her (he certainly doesn’t want to own her, even if he wouldn’t mind some action himself, but that’s beside the point)—and to whoever this pitiful bastard is, Rohan could care less about his loose sex life. The Gods know his own list is far from the tightest either. But for all his flaws, for all his arrogance, for all his greed, the Warlander would never take a woman against her will. He’s got enough game to seduce them to his bed all with their own free judgement. To think what kind of rat would be so cowardly—would hurt Enna—ignites a wrath that fumes and blisters in his anger.
 
“I…I’m sorry, Enna,” his voice is deeper than usual, gruff and short, the green of his eyes falling from her face to skirt across the waters. The words are not spoken as an apology, because he knows that an apology is not what she needs to hear right now. Especially from him. Still, he feels helpless, uneasy, and ignorant as to how to handle Enna’s discomfort and pain. His anger is the most familiar thing to him, and he clings to it now.  “You didn’t deserve this,” it is nearly a groan, grief and pity leaking into his expression as he glances to her. “I—don’t—” struggling with words, Rohan huffs a weighted breath, flicking his tail sharply, at a loss for advice, for assistance. This isn’t him—he doesn’t do this. But he knows he can’t abandon her as he had Iofiel.
 
He doesn’t want to.
 
Shifting his weight, the Warlander simply breathes for a short moment, reaching out to press his muzzle against Enna’s forehead, breathing in her scent, before drawing back. Her nearness helps him control his rage as much as it fuels it (the images of her being taken advantage of provoking bile to the back of his tongue) and he finds himself gritting his teeth before continuing. “A child is not his father. It is only a fool and a coward who would do this, who would leave, who would abandon you—” his voice is rising and he has to stop himself, his eyes shifting away from hers.
 
“A child is not his father,” he repeats, the timbre of his voice lower again, as if he is clutching at the words for himself. Rohan would know. Rohan Kaerji would know. Held beneath the hand of his father, pressing and wretched, he had spent every moment of his youth proving that they were not the same. He is still doing so, perhaps. From prince to vagabond—it has a fitting rebellion.
 
And so it can be for her child—her child. She only need worry about herself now, get over her grace and be selfish for once. He certainly wants to be selfish. It is not an unfamiliar fault for him—greed, lust, and selfishness—and perhaps a better person might try to reason with her, reason with that despicable bitch of a stallion, but not he. There is a primal part of him that wants to rise and dominate, if only to keep her safe, to keep her sheltered (wanting her in ways that run deeper than carnal desires, even if he doesn’t understand them) and he selfishly implores of her now. “You don’t have to see him again…do you? Protect yourself. Tell me you don’t have to see him again,” his voice is earnest, almost demanding, pleading. His body rises up where he feels like he could crumble inside, eyes searching for hers.


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.

He feels the movement of her head against his shoulder before his ears catch her words, his ribcage expanding as he slowly releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He doesn’t try to hold the mare’s gaze as her eyes fall, and assuming that she will continue, he doesn’t press her for more. This is not a topic he particularly enjoys himself—preferring to dwell on more wondrous and pleasing things—but he finds himself fixated on that bastard, that monster who had dared touch her and leave her to the wolves. The demand for vengeance fires within his veins, igniting the most primal call for blood, for justice.
 
One of his rimmed ears twitching when Enna speaks again, Rohan lowers his eyes from where they had wandered, his features taking a moment to soften from their fierce lines. He tsks her gruffly, playfully, shaking his head as his unruly forelock falls to entwine in the lower part of his antlers. “Oh I don’t know about that, sweetheart—you’d be surprised how many rascals will come scurrying after a beauty like you,” his brown lips twist into a crooked grin as he chuckles deeply, but it isn’t long before he quiets, realizing how unsettling his jest might actually be. How unsettling—how infuriating—it is to think of that coward coming to track her down.
 
But he mustn’t linger on that. Shifting his weight, his thick neck arches as his muzzle is tucked in closer to his chest, his eyes leaving hers. “Alright then,” it is murmured roughly to her half-hearted assurances, only half satisfied that the Basin’s defenses are so impenetrable (given his personal doubts for the empire itself), but he doesn’t press the issue. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to admit—to anyone, even to himself (especially to himself)—how much the thought actually bothers him. How much he might actually care. The idea of it all is just…unsettling for him.
 
“Mm?” He hums when he hears his name, distracted and overlooking the tenderness in her voice (perhaps fortunately so, for now, as bitter and reluctant as his spirit is), and waiting for her to continue in her short pause, he presses his lips gently into the folds of her hair. With her question comes a huff of laughter as his warm breath seeps to her skin, humming amusedly as he draws back. “Throwing me a double-edged sword, are you?” One side of his brow rises in tease, though there is a seriousness beneath his humor (sensing her own gravity well enough—this is no game, not for her).
 
He falls silent for a long moment—longer than he would have liked—pondering, hesitating, wrestling. He feels pinned, interrogated, even if her intentions had been nothing but out of desperation. Does she expect a promise, a commitment? He only know himself, his past, and struggles with it all, knowing his flighty nature (and not intending to change). Finally, his broad voice expands across the waters. “I suppose it depends on your definition of abandonment,” Rohan attempts at a playful smirk, but soon continues more seriously, “I would never take you—against your will—” He pauses again, the thought bringing new fire to his anger, and he has to clench his jaw against the wrath that simmers beneath his skin. Take her—have her—yes, without a doubt.
 
But he is no coward.
 
“I am a wanderer by nature, I suppose. I’ve pledged myself to a herd, but my heart’s wanderlust has proved far more of a temptress than I had thought,” he huffs a breath of dry laughter, his gaze wandering through the shadowy woods around them, “The Edge will be good for me though, I suppose.” He purses his lips before returning his attention to the little mare, only realizing then that he has been avoiding the core of her question, even if he had subconsciously been doing so. “But…” he begins, swallowing. He doesn’t handle commitment well—that’s a given—but he is not a monster. “No,” he smiles again, crooked as it pulls across his brown lips, green eyes shining as he looks down to her, “I don’t think I could abandon you.”


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.