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.