living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

The months by her side have passed by quickly. Many times he has stopped to ponder how peculiar it is, for a tameless (or so he would like to think) vagabond such as himself, to be tethered to a single woman for so long, but he finds that he is not tethered at all. A pregnant mare—her body steadily growing swollen and heavy with the child inside of her, not even his child, each step seeming more lumbering than the last—is not a sight that he is accustomed to (his roguish head full of elegant and whimsical creatures); and exactly why he has lingered by her side so long is an enigma that he has no intention of exploring.
 
His green eyes skirting sideways in one of his habitual glances, Rohan notices her stare, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as a playful smirk widens across his lips. “Enjoying the view?” The large stallion teases her easily, the deep breadth of his voice melting into an equally rumbling chuckle. His broad shoulders expand as he puffs out his chest dramatically, strutting forward ahead of her and swinging his hips oh-so-provocatively. Continuing his theatrical prance, the Warlander throws a glance over his shoulder, expecting her to banter with him—but all laughter is promptly cut short when he notices the horrible grimace that twists her face.
 
“Enna?” The stallion sobers quickly, the playful mirth trickling from his features to leave their rugged lines taught in hesitant concern. He turns, walking back towards her, but it is when her swollen body suddenly crumples to the ground that he lurches forward. “Enna—!” There is panic laced into the edges of his voice, green eyes roaming frantically over her figure, feeling frustrated and helpless because he doesn’t know exactly what he is looking for. He has no experience with something like this, he would not know that the bulge in her body is suddenly too misfigured to be normal, all he understands is that something is wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
 
Then there is blood and mess. Rohan flinches back at first, cursing to himself with his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears, not knowing what to do other than hover over her—is he giving her enough space? What should he do? What can he do? His thick tail lashing about his flanks in agitation, the Warlander doesn’t dare to venter down there until she has stilled. Breathing heavily into the crisp morning air (like he’d just done something even half as strenuous), he eyes Enna for a short moment, unsettled by the stillness. It is too quiet. Pressing his lips softly to the mare’s cheek and satisfied that she is in fact breathing, he peeks at the tiny little mass—should he help it?—but he only needs a glance to know. It is too quiet.  “Oh no,” his voice cracks and he withdraws, his neck arching as his body bows. He mourns for the mare—mourns for what awaits her when she wakes.

 
Hours pass. Rohan waits anxiously, having wandered off just a short ways in his restless grazing, one ear constantly trained in her direction. At last, he hears the grass stir as she rouses into wakefulness, his name a whisper against her dry lips. “Enna,” he sighs, feeling only a moment of relief, coming quickly to her side again. She is safe, as far as he knows, and that is enough to loosen the grip in his gut a little bit—but the knots of worry still weigh him down. He fumbles with himself, awkward, and frustrated at his utter incompetence. “You were asleep for so long—I didn’t know what to do, I—” Enna snaps up then, cutting him off as his throat tightens.
 
She seems determined to rise, as he would expect of any mare who’d just given birth, and while he pleas inside for her to turn away, to run—to save herself—he only lingers closely, ready to offer his support should her strength prove too fragile. “Enna…” Rohan murmurs when her eager eyes fall on the black filly, too silent in her young sleep, his eyes shutting tightly at the breaking of her stuttering, shattered cries. He turns his head away—giving her a moment of privacy with her heartache, allowing her a moment of aloneness before it becomes too much.
 
His eyes are on her again by the time she looks to him, but selfishly, he almost wishes he had not caught her gaze. He has never felt so helpless. Is there any way he could possibly help her? Rohan can’t help but look away again, momentarily, beneath the weight of her sorrow. He knows death; he remembers the day his brother had been slaughtered, brought back to them in pieces after the battle. But…this? He has never been a father. He couldn’t possibly understand what this is.
 
Knowing that there is nothing he can say to ease her mourning, and nothing he can do to lessen her grief, the stallion remains silent—standing as a still, quiet comfort. Finally, when he thinks her sobs have calmed, he moves to her. His legs are stiff from standing without movement, but he ignores his discomfort (so petty in light of her own) and presses his lips gently to the top of her head. “You need to rest,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t urge her to move. His touch slowly lowers until his cheek is pressed against hers, and Rohan looks to the filly, his eyes much quieter than their usual brightness. “She is beautiful,” he breathes slowly, feeling like he is tiptoeing around her, “as pretty as her mother.” He dares to chuckle awkwardly, the sound forced and lacking humor.
 
But oddly enough, he means it—every word. Even as sweaty, and clammy, and utterly exhausted as she is, with the mess of birth around her and the long curls of her hair matted into knots, Enna is beautiful. He wouldn’t want to be spending this moment anywhere else. She needs him now—he tells himself, at least. Deciding that there is no way he can possibly distract her from this tragedy, not now (perhaps it wouldn’t be respectful, perhaps she needs to sit now with her still child), Rohan lowers himself to lie beside her in the grasses. “What will you name her?” He inquires softly, his gaze lingering on the filly before he shifts his attention to Enna.


“Speech.”

rohan

living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

“There was nothing to be done.”

The breadth of the stallion’s deep voice is composed in its finality, leaving his lips in measured breaths. Green eyes rest evenly on the mare’s face, stoic in comparison to her grief-induced anger, and he bites back the fire that flickers to the tip of his tongue, recognizing for once that his temper will not serve him well now. She is hurting. Her accusations are hollow and woeful, he knows, and he waits like the smoldering rock for her hot lava to cool. It boils and then simmers, cracking and bubbling, before it quiets. Her apology, when it comes, is choked by the sobs that wrack her tiny frame, and slowly, gingerly, he tightens his grip around her.

There is no need for her to apologize to him, he won’t accept it, but he allows her to keep whatever peace she has made, however fragile and broken it might be. Like glass, she has been shattered—wrecked and devastated—with edges like knives that cut anyone who gets too close, whether she intends it or not. He bleeds silently, selfishly, patching up his own small bruise as her great wound festers. He reaches for her, tentative almost, the heat of her skin vibrating as violently as her body, her pining, anguished cry nearly too heavy for him to witness.

Shifting his weight, the Warlander trails his muzzle up towards her brow, his warm breath tousling the matted curls of her forelock. “I know, love,” he breathes almost gently, carefully, but—he does not know. He does not know what it means to love as she loves her daughter, to want to give his entire soul and being as she does to that one who can make it all right, or to give his heart as she has given hers. He does not know—and perhaps he never will. Hers is a grief that has transcended him, and he does not try to understand it. He has seen death, and he has felt loss…but he has not been robbed. He has only stolen—does that make him the monster?

“This is my fault, only mine.”

It is the mare’s pained condemnation that returns her to his focus once again. He pulls away enough to look into her eyes, searching for her gaze with a stern desperation. “Enna, no—” But she cuts him off, his protest dying on his lips and leaving a sourness to putrefy there with every passing word. Rohan knows anger, and he clutches at it now when he feels its familiar flame, harboring it in his chest to brighten his eyes in his disapproval. “There was nothing to be done—nothing could have changed this. I know what a terrible parent is, and Enna, you couldn’t not love this child even if you wanted to. Look at yourself,” his voice, which had first left him in indignation, is now soft in his earnest, eyes never leaving hers as he pleads for her to understand, to see what he has seen, “You have loved her long before now.”

The words seem to hang between them for a moment.

In his youth, Rohan does not know wisdom as many others do—he is wild and he is reckless, ever impulsive in the adventures of his heart. He has no clever, poignant words to offer her, no practiced methods of comfort to soothe her. He gives only his honesty, his insistence, and the simplicity of it all. She is certainly no monster. “Perhaps she was too good for this world—too pure to see its hate,” he shifts his attention to the frail, still figure of the filly, cradled tenderly in the soft, violet folds of spring.

He feels her press against him then, her slender frame curling into his own, and her hot breath billows across his skin as she reaches up to his face. She seeks comfort, reassurance, and familiarity, but even in this harrowing sorrow, the carnal ferocity of his mind cannot be tamed. It tempts him towards places that are likely not appropriate at this moment, and he tells himself that he cares about her fragility, her needy desperation and that it can be no more.

Her eyes fall and retreat just as his resolve begins to crumble. Relaxing from the tension he hadn’t realized had gathered within him, the Warlander exhales heavily from his nostrils, his eyes lingering to watch her face. There is silence for a short while, his heady breathes quieting as the heat slowly leaves his body, the wicked clouds of testosterone and lust lifting from his mind, leaving the same chill of grief behind. Finally, she murmurs a name—a name that brings a smile to her lips and a weak flash of light back to her eyes. “Quinn,” he repeats, tasting it for himself and offering a small grin of his own, “It is a beautiful name.” His touch trails to her cheek again, whiskery muzzle brushing away the wetness there.

But, just when he sees a glimmer of relief in her, a dark shadow descends. The stranger attacks Enna, verbally picking at her wounds like a vulture to meat, as if she already hasn’t been devastated. Rohan’s indignation flares and ignites into anger, rimmed ears disappearing into his thick mane as he thrusts himself upward, rising from where he had been lying next to the mare and confronting the beast directly. “Who the hell are you to question me?—to question her?” His eyes are narrowed and teeth bared, long tail lashing out in the heat of his wrath.

He has met Caleb, however brief it had been, so he knows that this colorful buffoon isn’t the bastard who had abused Enna and thrown her to the wolves, but he sure isn’t painting himself a pretty picture either. Rohan scowls aggressively. Although he doesn’t quite realize it himself, the Warlander finally knows what it feels like to not be the biggest hot-headed, careless ass in the company. What a victory. “Explain yourself and your foolishness, or leave us; else you suffer dearly for your impertinence,” his voice has dropped to a hiss, and he steps forward, placing himself pointedly in between the stallion and Enna as a buffer. He usually isn’t the type to play hero and save the damsel in distress (he’s likely the one putting her in distress) but today, he’s sure as hell willing to make an exception.


“Speech.”

rohan

living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

The stallion’s muscles are coiled, taught, and flexing beneath his hairy skin, eyeing this thick-headed brute with a contentious glare, his head snaking threateningly to the point of his shoulders. The last thing that Rohan wants to do right now is talk. He is all too often an impulsive and reckless character, habitually following the hunch of his gut and intuition of his inner drives on first instinct, and leaving the consequences to work themselves out at a later point. It has seemed to work out relatively well for him in the past, and right now, the fire and tension in his muscles scream at him to just—attack. Fight and conquer this buffoon of an opponent.

With his brown lips curling into a derisive sneer, the Warlander scoffs openly and heartily at the imbecile’s—Misael’s—comments. “I wouldn’t listen anyway—” the green of his eyes narrow aggressively, and he allows an air of haughtiness to leak into his carriage as he flaunts his crude honesty, his scathing sneer deepening before he continues, “I find that I generally have little patience for rotten miscreants like yourself.” Rohan’s dark-rimmed ears flatten further against the back of his neck before he gives a dismissive toss of his head, the unruly billows of his thick hair framing his rugged features, and he thrusts his jaw boastfully toward the other male.

“But you do owe an explanation to her!” The sharp points of his antlers tilt roughly in the brown mare’s direction somewhere behind him, the words seething like venom across Rohan’s tongue as they are spit from his lips. He doesn’t want to see this brutish fool anywhere near Enna (Rohan does not yet understand what this is, this feeling, this drive, other than protection—he cannot yet fathom from what depths of his heart and soul such efforts originate, propelling every fiber of his being with a burning, reckless, and nearly unexplainable need to guard and defend and keep), but he forces himself to compromise that, perhaps, she deserves it herself.

The antlered stallion breathes heavily from his nostrils, green eyes so fixated on the other male that he nearly misses his name falling from the mare’s lips, one of his ears rising in a small response. The broad skin of his shoulder twitches at her touch, a moment passing before he is able to tear his eyes away to look at her, knowing already what he will see there, and rebelling against it. No, his mind tells her, tells himself, begging her to not do this. He doesn’t back down—he couldn’t back down—but he allows the little mare to step around him, breaching the buffer that he had set for her, and prays silently that she will not suffer for it.

However, his worry is quickly abated when she speaks—sparks igniting into fire as they flash from her tongue, creating an inferno that—quite plainly—swells Rohan’s chest with pride. Good for her. It isn’t necessarily the physical retribution that Rohan craves, but even so, he had not expected Enna to explode so boldly—so fiercely.

Unfortunately, her fires seemed to have kindled others—far more dangerous flames.

Rohan’s hard gaze narrows once more as he eyes the foolish twit, suspicion lacing into his expression when the animal moves. “NO—!” He roars furiously, pivoting on muscled flanks and charging, but he is not fast enough. Pale hooves dig into the soft earth as his motion is suddenly ceased, muscles clenching violently in his shoulders, anger and indignation combusting across his entire body to flare treacherously in his eyes. “Drop her,” the Warlander’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss, an open threat, his eyes never leaving the other stallion’s face as he dangles Quinn’s tiny, frail body from his teeth. Rohan does not care to hear any more from this pitiful wretch—there will be no apologies, no forgiveness, and no mercies. He is not a character of morality, and he cares little for manners.

This bastard deserves nothing.

The moment he sees the fragile filly’s body fall from the brute’s clutches, the antlered stallion is on the move. He thrusts his large body forward, lunging for the colorful buffoon with wild eyes and bared, hungry teeth. “Get out of here you filthy bastard!” Rohan snarls viciously, snapping his jaws together with a brutal growl. He would likely hunt down such a dastardly creature, but there are more pressing matters that cling to his attention. He will have his time.

Forcing himself to a halt and snorting contemptuously at the receding figure, the Warlander turns back around, returning at a trot to the little brown mare with sweeping strides. “If I ever see his gaudy, pathetic ass near you again, I’ll beat it into the ground,” he mutters this more for himself than for her, but it is a promise all the same, and he intends to keep it. Clenching his jaw together in his effort to “cool down,” Rohan breathes slowly and closes his eyes in a long blink before searching for Enna’s gaze. “Are you alright?” There is a hardness that lingers within him, a roughness that makes his question more clipped than intended. Attempting to soften, he lowers his head to hers. “I’m sorry Enna, you shouldn’t have had to endure that, especially now…” his deep voice trails into silence, knowing that there isn’t much more than can be said; it isn’t him that needs to atone for the affliction against her, after all.

Pausing for a long moment, Rohan presses his nose gently to hers, far more comfortable to comfort her this way than with words. However, there comes a point when he can no longer ignore the question that bites at him, stinging (and for what? Why? Why should it matter?) at the forefront of his mind. Releasing a long and weighted breath, he pulls back from her slightly. “Who was he?” To you.


“Speech.”

rohan