rohan

how fickle my heart

A cool breeze snakes down from the mountains, rustling over the frozen ground until it finds the large stallion. He represses a shiver as the gentle wind climbs up his feathered leg, nestling beneath the nape of his neck and playing with his long hair, before it dances off into the horizon. Rohan pauses for a short moment, strong jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, huffing dramatically from his nostrils before continuing at an extended walk. It feels more like early spring this far north, with the solid ground still patched generously with snow, and the thin air is crisp. The white ice nearly turns to slush beneath his hooves, his muscled weight causing him to leave ample hoof prints in his wake.

The Warlander could say that he doesn’t know what brings him here, that he’s not quite sure of his intentions, that he knows only the beating of his heart as it guides him. But—that would be a lie. As much as he wrestles with the logic and sense of it all, Rohan knows exactly what presses him farther and farther north. With every step he takes, it feels more like a death march than a journey; a self-inflicted torture, if you will. For weeks, months, he has procrastinated, forcing the nightmare to the back of his mind and reassuring himself that it couldn’t possibly have been true.

Couldn’t it?

It is his doubts that had eventually spurred him into action. No longer could the stallion handle the uncertainties, the fears, or the suspicions, deciding finally that he must put his mind to rest (because, surely, there cannot be a bastard child lying in wait for him in the North). Rohan is uncomfortable with how unstable that assurance is, writhing beneath the weight of his doubts and pressing forward with an angry gnashing of his teeth.

It is only when the mountains of the Basin rise on the horizon that the Warlander halts again. Their shadows stretch long over the frosted ground, pulled by the midday light, straining to grasp for the stallion who stands just out of their reach. He hesitates to go any further, muscles steeling beneath his skin and rimmed ears lying flat into the unruly mess of his mane. For a moment, he debates calling out for the black enchantress, releasing the rumbling of his voice out across the wasteland in a deep summons, but his lips press only tighter together.

rohan

how fickle my heart

The Warlander doesn’t have to wait long for the black enchantress to appear. She materializes from the mountain’s hoarfrost, slithering like a shadow with eyes that pierce like light, sapphire jewels that captivate him like a moth to a flame. He lowers his head, thick neck arching as his green gaze holds her from beneath the shadow of his brow. In his ears, Rohan can hear his heartbeat quickening, thundering, fueled by rage that is quickly, foolishly smothered by lust. With every step, with every sway of her hips, he forgets his fury—the coldness of his heart giving way to a blaze of desire.

His eyes narrow at her voice (the tones mere echoes compared to those of his memory), but brown lips curl into a mischievous smirk, twisting crookedly across his mouth and reaching to light his eyes. A low chuckle rumbles deeply in his chest, his large weight shifting deliberately closer to the mare. “I should like to discover such mysteries,” Rohan’s voice slips lowly from his tongue, mingled with play and wickedness, mirroring her brazen flirting.

Desperately, some part of his mind grasps at his kindling anger. Even as he steps forward, reaching to brush his lips across her cheek and down her neck, the stallion’s mind struggles for indignation and rage through the carnal haze of his male mind. He closes his eyes, breathing her in. The disappointment… It flutters at the back of his mind, struggling behind the vapor of flesh and desire. The shame… He nips at her withers, nearly ignorant of the memories that thrash, striving for rationalization and answers. The accusations… They scream for an explanation, to know exactly what had happened in that place between wakefulness and dreams, if it had been real at all. The indictments against his brother… He pauses, lids flickering slowly open over his eyes, only now beginning to grasp the levity of these things—the audacity and treachery, the—

—The kid.

“No!” Rohan growls suddenly, recoiling from the black mare and fixing her with an icy glare, his body abruptly cold where there had once been heat. “You!” He roars, shifting back again before pinning his ears, “How dare you.” The length of his pale tail thrashes against his flanks as the words are hissed from clenched teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing in the impulsive eruption of his former rage. Every part of his body grows rigid, muscles coiled beneath his skin, holding him in a stance for battle.

Of course, the Warlander doesn’t intend to hurt Sialia, only to pry answers from her—answers that have haunted him long enough. He narrows his eyes dangerously, snaking his head to the level of his shoulders. “Your enchanting wiles will not ensnare me anymore than your dark North, witch. I have waited too long, but I face you now—you don’t understand what offenses you have ignited,” his broad chest heaves with each breath, the tone of his voice promising retribution. He will not see his brother’s memory, his pride, wounded so disgracefully by a mare who has no right to do so.

Gnashing his teeth together furiously, Rohan stalks to the side with a huff, nostrils quivering and flaring wide. “Where is he? Where is the little bastard?” Green eyes dart around the black enchantress, expecting to see the gangly little shadow pressing close to her flanks, as it had so plainly in his memories. Seeing nothing, he snorts angrily, looking to meet her eye. “In your mountains? Is that where you have hidden him?” Rohan breathes heavily, nearly working himself into a sweat. There is desperation beneath his rage, trembling and frantic, barely contained by the fury of his gaze.


notes; omg this will be interesting XD

rohan

how fickle my heart

Wild green eyes are pinned on the black mare, watching her, examining her, as if he could peel back the skin from her bones and reveal the secrets underneath. It is only when she fires back with her own accusations, screaming of ignorance and madness, saying that her child is certainly no child of his, when confusion flares violently across his features. “What—No!” The stallion settles back, his eyes still never leaving her. She denies his claims, cutting through the horrors that have haunted him as if they were smoke, sending them in a spiraling chaos through the turmoil of his mind.

Rohan doesn’t move as she strides closer to him, his body frozen in this haze of confusion and anger that has gripped him so tightly, that he stands like a statue in the wake of her fury. From her mouth she spits a string of words, sentences that are barely registered—still she denies any knowledge of his terrors, of their son, that he doesn’t know what to make of it all. “What—?” The Warlander stammers through clenched teeth, frustrated at her charade of ignorance (because surely she must know! He had seen it all).

Shaking his head, the antlered stallion squares himself once again, grasping at threads of understanding in an attempt to ground himself to his surroundings. With jaw muscles flexing, he fixes the black mare with a more focused glare, the fire of desperation and rage blazing behind his eyes. “Your big talk is charming, sweetheart, but you would do best to remember that you aren’t the only warrior here,” brown lips slide into a sneer, hardly intimidated by her threats. Of course, this is far from the type of physical interaction he had in mind, and he is still loathe to harm her, but the Warlander won’t hesitate to strike back if she bites first.

“Don’t play ignorant with me now. We—we had a child together! I saw him! He was right there, by your side,” gradually, Rohan’s voice shifts into a frustrated whisper, trickling down from the snarling bellow it had been when initially leaving his tongue. His eyes are narrowed in angered suspicion, lips set into a hard, silent snarl. She must remember.

Thrashing his long tail around his flanks, the large stallion releases a grunt of breath from his nostrils, his anger brimming. “You knew me,” he seethes at her, his breath a low hiss from his teeth. You knew who I was. Somehow, she had known his history, his heritage, and his secrets. He had thought that he had run away from all that, left it behind him to rot and wither away into nothing—yet here he is, left to face it all. “You judged me, condemned me like the rest of them, without a second thought, without even understanding the blasphemies you had spit!” His chest heaves with the force of his words, ears slicked back into the mess of his mane.

For several moments, Rohan just stares, his eyes shaded and wild beneath the shadow of his brow. The translucent puffs of his breath billow in between them, his panting loud in comparison to the tense silence. Finally, after who knows how long, the antlered stallion moves his lips—his voice wooden, almost desperate, with the rest of his body still unmoving. “We—we were there,” his gaze becomes clouded with the memories, images of rolling hills and bright, summer suns, “in Etherim.” The last is hardly a breath, a fraction of a whisper.

It is only then that something clicks inside the stallion’s mind—only then when he realizes how ridiculous this all sounds. Sialia? In Etherim? He is sure that he’d never met her before Helovia’s Threshold, and he certainly hasn’t returned to his homeland since. “It…” Rohan murmurs, shifting his weight back and his muscles suddenly becoming slack beneath his skin, as if he had just received a physical blow. “It wasn’t real,” it is almost a gasp, the words hinging on a question as he looks to the black mare, as if she would have the answer for him.