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.