The thick boughs of tropical trees sway gently overhead, the green leaves dancing in the ocean’s breeze as they cast shadows down below them, the patterns playing across the dainty lines of the mare’s face. Rohan watches her silently, his gaze lingering on the scabbed wound just behind her ear—evidence of the brutality only days before—before it moves to trace her features, so supple and relaxed in her slumber. He is careful not to rouse her even as he stands, muscled flanks rising before he maneuvers his body away from hers, thrusting himself upwards with a breathy grunt from his nostrils.

Enna needs her sleep; he has not seen her rest much since she had urged him away from the Earth God’s battle, and he would venture to say that it’s been that way for many months now. The little mare has been forced to endure pains and sorrows that his prideful heart could never understand, even if he had tried. Still, he has felt a restlessness festering within him, a desire to be alone with himself and his thoughts (even if but a moment, as he is not anxious to leave her side just yet). He had waited until she drifted off before wandering away, telling himself knowing that she would not want him to go.

Reaching down to brush a stray lock of curled hair from her forehead—a whisper of a caress—the antlered stallion pivots, picking his way gingerly through the tropical underbrush. He stretches as he moves, extending his thick neck and arching his sore back, his muscles stiff from battle.

The skin along his spine and flanks is still scored; the scabbed burns from the crocodile’s blood are all but healed by now, although the flesh from the most recent conflict isn’t quite as restored. Someone’s blasted dragon had caught him in a line of friendly fire (or what he would assume to be friendly fire) and had severely singed the length of his spine and hip. He would be far more miserable if it weren’t for Enna’s healing ability; despite her own exhaustion, she had insisted in helping him until he relented, allowing her to take away the worst of it. Now the wounds appear days old rather than fresh, the skin already toughened in its healing.

Closing his eyes in a long blink and relishing the relief of not feeling like his head is going to implode, Rohan soon finds the island jungle thinning around him, the pearly sands of the beach peeking through the foliage ahead. Pricking his rimmed ears forward, he follows the ocean’s waves until the ground gives out gently beneath him, the fine grains glistening softly beneath dawn’s glowing light. He comes to a halt a yard or two away from the tree line, where the salty water laps periodically at his feathered fetlocks.

It is a quiet morning. The battle has come and gone, leaving the archipelago of islands in a weary and hushed silence (like a held, hesitant breath). Sometimes it is difficult to think that the violence raged so close before, when it feels like months. So much has happened, so much has changed, and yet—nothing, at the same time. How can this be? What, exactly, has changed? It is a slow and gradual adjustment, one that the Warlander can hardly recognize himself, and yet it is profound all the same. He ponders on how he had felt, seeing her collapse, how his heart had lurched and his mind had screamed its protest. Surely it is nothing, he thinks stubbornly as he shakes his head, resting his weight.


notes; eeeeeeeeeee!:D
“Speech.”

Emptiness, the breath of air against your body where he had been, is what you wake to. It does not come exactly as a surprise, his absence—he had a habit, it seemed, of keeping himself just out of your reach; escaping just as familiarity set in, though you cannot decipher if it intentional or not. Despite the way your head swims, the ache set deep in your body, you climb to your feet, unaware or uncaring of the beauty that is nestled around you, your mind focused solely on finding him. And so you teeter forwards, following the marks in the soft sand between the spaces of thick brush, at times the ground disappearing entirely in deep greens. The sound of the ocean, what had been a distant exchange of calm and then rushing, grows to a roar as the trees thin, the light from the morning seeps brighter and brighter through the new sky.

It is not this that you are particularly concerned with, nor the sorrow of the memories that the shore brings, but the shape of a man against its vast expanse, alight with the soft kiss of dawn. For a moment you simply watching him, allowing your heart the moments it needs to resolve the erratic pace that has taken hold, to blink the sleepiness from your eyes.

Finally, you move along the beach towards him, the ghost of a touch pressed along the length of his body as you reach him, mismatched eyes examining the damage that the fire had done, all of the hurt that you cannot undo. Your own shoulder twinges at the memory, itchy scabs growing over the flesh that had been melted away by the wrath of a god, but it is not this, not the stab of pain that had spread like darkness through your head, the way that it exhausted you to even breathe, not this that had concerned you. It had been the stench of burnt flesh, the way you knew he hurt beneath all the macho bullshit that he hid behind (something you would never tell him, allow him to keep his pride), the threat of infection in the humid heat of the islands; his pain, his pain and his denial of it had been the worst. You had been convinced that, as long as he was alright, none of the rest of it mattered.

He had tried to protest; maybe thinking that if he simply pretended it didn’t hurt enough, that it wouldn’t, thinking maybe that if he hid those hurts from you, it would make him seem braver, bolder, somehow. It is something that had bothered you to no end, only made you insist harder, respecting him too much to simply ignore his wishes and help him without his consent. Your eyes roll in their sockets at his stubbornness (stupidity) before finally sweeping upwards to the set line of his jaw, lips folding into a soft smile (if he looked, what would he see? What would you, in those green, green eyes? Nothing.)

You breathe a long breath, cherishing the pine and dust and salt of his skin, things so far, so vastly different from your home and yet held so much closer to your heart all the same, your gaze lingering on him as you settle beside him, your skin near enough to radiate with the warmth of his but not close enough to touch just yet, lingering for just a moment before that moment becomes too much, before tearing away over the sands and the waves and the sun, your body moving steps ahead and away from him, into the grasp of the cool waters as they rush against your legs, leaving you to swallow all of the words that you are not brave enough to say, just yet (and you wonder if you ever will be).

“You should be resting.”

But when you turn back to him, look to him from under those long, long eyelashes, it is not overbearing concern that smothers, but something tender, secret, something holding the thousand and one questions that you have wanted to ask since that day (you had heard it in the way his voice trembled, you know you did; know you felt it in his hesitant caress when he finally made it to you, know you have felt it in your heart and the way it aches every time you look at him, breathe him, feel him, the way it is his face you see every time you close your eyes) but are too afraid that, should you ask, give to these things, all these terribly fond things, he has made you feel despite yourself,  tomorrow, he would be gone.

“Rohan—”
(If he looked, what would he see?)

You cannot help but wonder how long you can continue to pretend.

He feels her touch unexpectedly, his grazed skin twitching beneath her velvet muzzle when he recognizes her company. A rimmed ear tilts back in her direction, but he does not look, brown nostrils curling with the familiarity and heat of her scent, his muscles slowly relaxing as she ghosts her way along his side. Bright green eyes close in a long blink when she reaches his jaw, the length of his tail flicking around his legs as he suppresses a shiver, before finally looking down to meet her.

“Good morning,” he hums deeply, a shadow of a smile ghosting over his lips before they twist into his characteristic smirk (something familiar, normal, and comfortable). Unabashed, he takes in her delicate features, framed with tumbling locks of white curls and haloed by the dawn’s soft glow—he feels his body react in more ways than one. Even so, the stallion doesn’t overlook her injuries. With her bruises and burns now scabbed over, and the healing process quickened by her own magical talents, he feels a quiet sigh of relief. It is over—they survived. It is a worry he hadn’t considered before now, as reckless as he had been (and will be).

Flirting with the idea of reaching out to her, embracing her (in a physical and desperate need, surely, it is nothing more), Rohan is caught off guard when the mare suddenly dashes away. His sides expanding in an exasperated snort, he watches her prance into the frothy shores, nevertheless enjoying the view of her supple movement. The Warlander seizes what advantage he can of the moment before sauntering closer to where she had danced, his muscled neck arching naturally and his eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of his brow.

A broad, rumbling laughter rolls simply from his lips. “The whole lot of Helovia could use a good long beauty sleep, sweetheart,” his smirk deepens playfully, large antlers catching the sun’s light as he tilts his head, “but it is not them I am concerned with.” The words fall from his tongue easily—his usual coquettish praise, flattering the damsel so that he might see her smile become bashful beneath his charm—but what Rohan refuses to acknowledge (what he has always avoided) is how honest it might be.

It is no different now, his green eyes skirting away from her figure when he feels something stir in that heart he dares to call a stone (confined, barricaded, impenetrable). He will not entertain such foolish things—not again. He had abandoned Iofiel without a second thought, hardly sparing her a final glance as he fled from her side, regretting nothing. What, for him, does that say about love?

Hearing his name, the large stallion returns his eyes to Enna. “Hmm?” He waits for her to continue, thinking that something still clings to her lips, but it is only silence that stretches between them. Looking at her now, Rohan knows that he should ask how she is, how she has shouldered the grief he knows she has borne, but he is not one comfortable with sharing such knowledge. He pushes other boundaries, pressing and stretching and leaping until they force him to stop. Suddenly, in this moment, he feels this infiniteness.

In her gaze (this sweet, tender secret), it breaks—the something that had been holding him back from her (chains he hadn’t realized until now, when they fall from his mind and body and push him forward, closer). Risen by this surge of confidence, Rohan moves towards the little mare, salty waters licking up his hairy legs. “Look at us,” he grins crookedly, “We have fought gods and emerged victorious.” His voice is deep with his pride, relishing for a moment in their triumph before he settles at her side, his lips carefully finding her scabbed wounds. But victory did not come without repercussions.

Gently, his touch traces the line of her wounds along her back, and shoulder, and then trailing up the slender curve of her neck. She is warm beneath his touch, so delicate and fairy like, he can hardly comprehend how such a dainty thing can contain the fire and resolve (and stubbornness) that he has seen from her. Pausing, he breathes softly. “Could there ever be a sweeter triumph?” His words are murmured into her skin, left almost open-ended, nearly an invitation for her to join him in this moment.


“Speech.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe you will be a little more careful next time, and save yourself—and me—some worry.” You smile then, looking to him out of the corner of your eye with a certain degree of mischievousness, refusing to admit the possibility (probability) that he had not meant himself, denying the chance to look in to all the things that it could mean. Knowing him, it is just another quip, another taste of his odd sense of humor, another demonstration of his inability to take some things seriously. And yet, out of all the things that you hide, all the things that you deny, you cannot ignore your wish that it wasn’t just another joke. And yet, what more is there for you to do, besides deny? You nearly sigh in relief as his voice breaks the growing silence; an ear tilted in his direction the only sign of your attention, too lost in the moment to break yourself from the thoughtlessness of the motion of the waves.

Nearly, but he speaks of victory, a word, a flimsy concept, that brings a shallow taste to your mouth, ignites your veins with a familiar anger. It is not a victory, to kill, to take anothers life, no matter how corrupt; it is pride, senseless pride borne from selfishness, something that you do not—will not—ever understand. Still, you allow him his indulgence with little fight, the pride that exudes from him opening chasms like wounds on your heart, plucking names from memory, faces that you would sooner forget, for all the pain that they bring you, yet you do not let go. Aviya, her father huddled over her as he broke so quietly, so completely, apart, the man with the fractured wing and shattered leg, the wounds that cover his back—you breathe deep against the morning, keeping your question of whether he would still call it a victory should he see the damage these things had left in their wake, if he would still call it victory should he see himself the way that you do now: hurt and vulnerable and so very stupid. Your eyes roll, teeth clamping on the soft flesh of the inside of your cheek, worrying at it like your annoyance at his ignorance wears on you, though you still refuse to acknowledge the way that it boils under your skin, the way your tongue grows heavy with all the black words that you would say, should he be anyone else.

But he is not, and he is entirely too close to your heart; and so you play the fool, force your contempt to burn in utter silence. It is then that he reaches out to you, and it is under that heavy, heavy touch, a touch that means too much (to you), too little (to him), that your bitterness is suddenly nothing, a soft hmm emitting as your skin shivers, neck arches to press just a little closer to his lips, into his touch, something you missed too entirely much in the moments it has been absent.

‘Could there ever be a sweeter triumph?’

For a moment still you remain silent, the sudden surge of something in your heart making your limbs tremble beneath you, forcing your breaths to come all too fast. To not have to hide from you, is the only thing that echoes through your mind, but your lips, pressed so firmly together, do not move, your eyes remaining glued to the brightening horizon. You know that to expose to him the things you have tried so hard not to feel, would be to lose him. And still, a fledgling courage grows within the shadow of your doubt, your head turning ever so slightly towards him, eyes shut (too afraid of what they won't see) as you utter a single word: “Yes.” Only now do you push yourself against him, skin tingling as his heat flares against you, lips reaching for the bony expanse of his cheek, your touch as tender as it is inexperienced as you draw a breath hesitantly. “To have you, know you, even just once, and only for a moment—“

Only now do your eyes open, peering up to his for the thousandth time, but with need kindled within them, a desperateness that you cannot put to words. To expose him would be to lose him, you know, but in this moment, the boldness that has taken hold, you are tired of feeling like the both of you only move backwards, and something within you needs to know, needs him so, so much closer—

“And for you to (love) want me in return.”

“Yes.”

The stallion’s eyes close with the single word, nostrils flaring as he exhales a breath across her soft skin. He had been hoping she would say that—even though his pride, his glory, does not mirror hers (his own being far too arrogant and fickle to see much past Helovia’s shallow victory, the mental taxing of battle shadowed by his own stubborn ignorance) even so, Rohan is eager to see Enna rise with him. Unbound and bold, the Warlander does not intend to leave this day unsatisfied. It is the morning after a terrible bloodshed, a dawn of a new day—a fresh start—an awakening as the whole of Helovia takes its first step in its recovery from this blasted mess.

At this moment, he only feels fortunate to do so at her side—

Together.

Heedlessly, they press against one another, the stallion’s thick neck arching as his lips trail beneath her twisted mane, whiskery muzzle caressing her skin with a practiced touch. For too long he has imagined this moment, this embrace, freed now of whatever reservations had grasped him before. Perhaps it had been her innocence, somehow too pure for his own carnal brutality; or maybe it had been his concern for her health, on some level unwilling to take advantage of her in her weakness (given all of the grief that has been shoved onto her slender, too-noble shoulders). Whatever it had been, it is gone now—and in its absence, his passion surges.

Rohan turns his head to the mare when he feels her lips at his cheek, fluted ears slanting forward when her breaths turn into hushed words, speaking things that he had not expected her to say. He pulls back despite himself, if only slightly, just enough so that his eyes might meet hers. Within them he sees something that he hasn’t before—a desire, a need, a craving that is as desperate as his own. The stallion’s heartrate rises excitedly, coursing blood through his veins and thickening the heat that flares between them.

“And for you to want me in return.”

These words, in particular, cling to the stallion’s thoughts, lingering to echo from his ears and into his bones. Words leap to his tongue—Oh my dear Enna, his mind cries, pleads, out to her, if only you knew how much I have wanted you!—but they are caught in his throat, silenced by his own fear and realization of how true these cries might be. It terrifies him.

Recognizing the burning lust of his body, the Warlander clutches at it (something familiar, wanted, and expected). Lowering his head so that his eyes are closer to the mare’s level, Rohan shifts his weight forward, his bright eyes dancing beneath the shadow of his brow. “I’m afraid it’ll take longer than a moment to get to know me, darling,” there is a shadow of a smirk that twists his lips before they are pressed to the bridge of her nose, trailing upwards to brush her long forelock from her eyes and resting at her cheek, “but I think that’s time I’m willing to give.” His voice is little more than a deep rumble, an inadvertent, heartfelt promise masked by the comfort of shallower things, worldly things.

With strong legs shifting in the shallow waters, Rohan moves, his body following his muzzle as it traces down her neck to her shoulder, and then across her spine. He does not rush his motions, allowing her time to reject his advance should she wish it. With every step his heartbeat rises, until the crashing of the waves slowly fades away, leaving only the thrumming of his heart and his heady breaths to sound in his ears. The stallion does not admit how it might be different this time, how this time it might be more meaningful, more lasting—he focuses only on the now, allowing his body to guide him. Thankful that they aren’t deep enough in the ocean to where he might lose his balance in his performance, Rohan is careful not to crush her when he rises, whiskery muzzle nuzzling her withers as he finally takes her as his own. Together, they are one for a moment, risen in an ecstasy…

•        •        •
His large body now steaming in a light lathering of sweat, the Warlander moves back to the mare’s shoulder, his hot breaths billowing gently over her skin. He arches his neck over hers, embracing her in a gentle caress as he presses his muzzle to the other side of her neck, drawing her close to him again (even if for a moment). “You were right,” he murmurs softly, nearly humming delightfully to himself, “there are sweeter victories.” There is a smile in his tone, green eyes shining more brightly now when he looks to the beautiful, blushing horizon.


notes; omg<33
“Speech.”

Silence, silence, silence—for too long this is all you are met with. As it extends through the seconds (and who is to say it is not a lifetime that passes?), your heartbeat grows louder, your face becoming hot with the promise of tears, your legs itching to turn and flee before your heart breaks,  shatters within his grasp. Your body only grows more tense, your mind beginning to race with a million questions, a trillion fears, without you being able to latch on to a single one, until he cranes his neck to look at you, something held within those green eyes.  ‘I’m afraid it’ll take longer than a moment to get to know me, darling,’ It is only simple words, only a strand of a thought, the ghost of a touch, but suddenly your breath is caught in your throat, your mind all but hushed, your heart utterly ablaze. ‘but I think that’s time I’m willing to give–’  

Before long, it is more than justa touch, his lips moving along your slender frame, your skin tingling anew beneath each and every inch of warm breath, each sweet caress. You cannot help but question how many other women he has had, what they had meant, what this means—just what you mean—if it would ever be enough. It is only as his weight sinks in to you that you lose your train of thought, inhaling sharply beneath it, against the knot in your stomach as you lose all sense of self, of where you end and he begins; falling into the moments of unity, into things you never cared to know existed.


•       •       •

It is in his embrace that you pull yourself closer to him, resting your head against his shoulder, lips playing with stray tendrils of his curly hair. It is in his embrace, in the afterglow of the sweetness that has found the two of you, that you feel invulnerable, untouchable. In his embrace that you feel complete. For moments (and who is to say it is not a lifetime, a thousand lifetimes, when an eternity with him would only leave you wanting more) you stay like this, running your muzzle along his shoulder absentmindedly, reveling in your shared warmth, the singularity that is him and all that he means; in the way that you can feel his heartbeat against your skin, so close. It is with the same absentmindedness that your lips move to speak three words that do not mean nearly enough to summarize the bliss that has ensnared you.

“I—“ The sound of your own voice startles you, pulls you from your waking dream, your body becoming rigid, your heart palpitating at the realization of what was to be said, of just how natural it felt, for all of the things that you work so hard to deny to yourself, to him. There is a prick of betrayal that rests there; of anger for your stupidity, of hurt. In this moment you are thankful that he cannot see the look upon your face, feel the way that your heart hangs so very heavy.

(If he looked, what would he see?)

It is after minutes of silent fretting, dwelling, that you finally turn your head towards his, smiling once more, despite the writhing of your heart, all the ways it feels so wrong to be separate from him, so right to be near him, to want him, all the ways that you wish things could be different; you smile because he is beautiful, because even if your heart will never be sated, not by him, you cannot imagine the darkness it would be to wake up knowing that he is not there. It is because of this that you place a kiss upon the tender skin of his nose, breathing him yet again for just moments, moments, moments, before finding different words to say, words that would not make you lose him; words that are easy to forget, for all that they mean to you. Meanings that you have repeated time and time again, that you have avoided with nearly pathetic consistency.   

“I’m glad that I found you.”

Your brows furrow as the words resonate, the vulnerability you have exposed yourself to becoming altogether too much for a moment like this. You force a laugh then, leaning to push in to his shoulder playfully, resorting to the teasing nature that had always provided a scapegoat to such sensitive matters, allowed things to be said without repercussion. You are unsure of the appropriateness of it, but you reach for the comfort of familiarity as if it were habit. “It seems my making a fool out of myself left more of an impression than I realized.”

An ear tilts downward at the sound of her voice, cupping the familiar tone as it lilts and breathes from her lips (so delicate and tender, even in just a single breath, he feels it in his mind and in his chest). The stallion doesn’t look at her, doesn’t meet her eyes, he doesn’t dare to—not at a time like this. Stripped of boundaries and reservations, they have risen together. Even unconsciously, he has made himself vulnerable, exposed, and bare where his mask of apathy and detachment usually rests so protectively.  His guard has wavered in the afterglow that knits them together, threading through walls and barricades and stones that he has so painstakingly, irrationally forged—

No. It is nothing.

It is…nothing.

He stands oblivious to the mare’s own conflict that riles within her, too preoccupied with preserving his own impartiality to take notice (and what would happen if he did look to her? If he did give in, succumb and let himself fall to the desires of his heart—desires that he so vehemently, stubbornly, hopelessly rejects—what would happen then?)

The stallion nearly startles at her touch, so wrapped up in the writhing and chaos of his own conflicts (but they aren’t conflicts at all, he reassures himself, tells himself; because there is nothing to wrestle over. It is just like anyone else. …Right?); he doesn’t realize that she has turned her eyes to him moments ago. All Rohan can do is chuckle deeply at her simple statement, too afraid to trust his tongue. Still, he manages a smirking smile, ignoring and burying all of the words that he longs to say in fervent agreement—words, foolish words, that leap unbidden to the forefront of his thoughts.

Enna leans into him then, shoving playfully in their typical light banter. The Warlander welcomes this familiarity, this security, and almost immediately he begins to soften (hardly realizing that he had become tense at all). “It would seem that way,” he grins crookedly, masking with a laugh the deeper meaning that resonates through his bones.

Surely it is nothing.


“Speech.”