So don’t leave me here on my own—

without you I’m so lost

When the faintest trails of her scent begin to trickle into his nostrils, into his mind, Rohan passes it off as nothing more than memory—nothing more than his foolish and fickle mind, playing tricks and clawing at the barricades and walls that he has sought to strengthen (seemingly to no avail). Still she is there. Every one of his thoughts is intertwined with images of beautiful, mismatched eyes; of long, cascading locks; of the soft, playful curve of her lips. Island breezes and ocean waves besiege him, restless and poignant and infuriating and beautiful. The stallion feels haunted, unable to escape her, escape the dreams, unable to escape himself.

Perhaps a wiser, less stubborn stallion would concede to these things, allow himself the bliss of companionship and rejoice in her company (because certainly, it is no question of Enna’s company—he thoroughly enjoys being around her—but it is own self with which he wrestles). Rohan will not allow himself such pleasures, such happiness. Because what is love, if not fickle, and vain, and selfish? It is better this way, he thinks, undoubtingly, sparing both himself and her from the paltry heartache (surely an unavoidable doom).

Still, he would definitely like to see Enna again. Deep within his heart of hearts, perhaps there is a part of him that has missed her, longed for her—the heavens know that he has certainly craved her. His skin still prickles with the memories, flushing with a surge of heat, and the quickening of his heart thundering loudly in his chest. Rohan has not forgotten—could not forget—the taste of her skin, the delicacy of her body, and the warmth of her embrace. It is all of these things that he ponders now, not realizing the gradual potency of her scent (fueling the images that flare beneath his eyes) until he is almost upon her.

“Enna?” His surprise manages to leak into his tone, broadening the depth of the sound as it stretches and reaches for the mare. Of all the places in Helovia, he had least expected to see her here. Why? He wonders, though his flighty mind is too distracted by her mere presence to consider the question for long—consumed instead by her proximity, he ambles forward, slipping quickly into his usual ease and swagger. “What brings you to my neck of the woods, sweetheart?” He grins crookedly, playfully, bright eyes searching through the mists and shadows that lay swathed around her.

Through their cocoon the stallion breaches, unknowingly ensnaring himself in a web he doesn’t realize he’s woven. Slowing when her shape becomes clearer, his gaze wanders over her physique—as it often does—but the charismatic mischief of his features slowly drips away, leaving behind raw and confusing emotions. The roundness of the mare’s body in unmistakable. Her abdomen is swollen, bulging, and thrumming with life—he has seen it before, many, many months ago—but—how?—no—could it be?!

Rohan swallows against the tightness of his throat, suddenly feeling very cold. At last he looks to her eyes (those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes!) and dares to force breath and words from his tongue. “You are…” he has to swallow again, pursing his lips before continuing, “Is it…?” But he doesn’t need an answer. He already knows—somehow, some part of him already knows the sire of the…child. Why else would she be here? The delightful strumming of his heart quickly accelerates, heightening into a drum of anger and frustration and confusion and fear. “I can’t be a father,” Rohan gasps, the words meant for himself, their fervor echoing throughout out every fiber of his being.

I’m not ready to be a father.

notes; Aaaahhhh!:DDD
“Speech.”

without you I’m so cold

rohan & enna

So don’t leave me here on my own—

without you I’m so lost

I’m not ready to be a father.

I’m not—I can’t be a father.

These words—these fears—are all that echo in the stallion’s mind. For a moment—for several long, dreadful moments—they are all that he can comprehend. He doesn’t notice when the small mare shifts her weight forward, her apology drown out by the mess of emotions that knot and writhe beneath every surface of his body. For a moment, he only gives her silence—his mind screaming and howling out at her, at the world. Why?! He pleads, he demands, I’m not ready to be a father! Of this, he is certain. There are many titles he has worn graciously—warrior, explorer, lover, friend, enemy, idiot, fool—but father? No. That is a title he is not prepared willing to bear.

Her apologies and her pleads, they pass through him like ghosts, leaving him cold and distant. He seems to look past her, unfocused and detached, too consumed by his own horrors to care much for the turmoil that she bears herself. Finally, he manages movement—the slow flexing of his jaw, the heavy curling of his tongue, and the choked words that break woodenly from his lips. “How long…have you—?” known. It’s been months since that glorious fateful day, when he had been too captivated by long lashes and sparkling eyes to worry about the consequences.

Not that consequences have ever been much of a concern for the reckless stallion.

Her sudden touch startles him—

Rohan flinches when he feels her warmth against his cheek, recoiling for half a second before he gives in, falling almost wearily into her embrace. It is toxic, her proximity. The closer she presses herself to his chest, the more he forgets, and the more he craves. For too long he has been without her touch; for too long he has been without her smile; for too long…he has been without her. “Enna…” the stallion breathes, pulling her closer, wishing everything else away.

For a moment, everything is right again; but it is gone too quickly. That beautiful voice…her voice…forms words that cut through the silence, piercing through the warmth of his haze and dragging him back into the harshness of reality. Perhaps, at any other time, he would dare to ponder, dare to dream, about her confession of need for him—but he is too fixated on the bitterness of reality, of this responsibility that he doesn’t want. “Our…child,” he cries through gritted teeth, his deep voice more of a hiss as it is spit from his lips. Suddenly his body is cold, rigid, a statue that is frozen and unyielding against the mare’s tender heart.

“I…can’t—I’m—sorry, Enna,” his voice is strangled and almost pained, but clipped and firm in his defiance. “I—can’t,” he turns away from her, releasing their embrace and allowing the cold mists and dark shadows to spill into the empty space between them. If there wasn’t pride etched into every crevice of his character, there would be shame across his face, his body—a hurting and dishonorable shame. It is not an indignity he is unfamiliar with.

He is not an honest man—

She deserves better. Better than this arrogant twit that stands before her, too frightened to face his past, and too foolish to let it go.

With clenched jaws, he sighs heavily, antlered head refusing to fall to the obligation that threatens to overpower him. “It will be better off without me; you’ll…be better off without me,” his voice wavers, threatening to break and crumble and collapse; it is not the child that he mourns, but its mother. He needs her far more than he cares to admit—far more than he knows. Turning to face her, he manages to meet her eye squarely, a whisper of a smile ghosting along his lips, “You will make a great mother, darling.” This he does not doubt, and for a moment, the coldness cracks, and his smile widens—

—but it cannot last forever. Too soon those stone walls melt themselves back together, screaming at him fears truths that resonate into his very bones.

I’m not ready to be a father—!

The stallion’s ears pin back into the unruliness of his mane, a coldness washing again over his features, hardening the rugged lines in an attempt to drown out his terrors. Stiffly, he turns from her, instinctively curling his head into his chest defensively. “You’ll be better off without me,” it is said brokenly, painfully, vehemently.

It is for her own good.

“Speech.”

without you I’m so cold

rohan & enna

So don’t leave me here on my own—

without you I’m so lost

“You promised—”

Her words suddenly cut through the silence that had settled between them, piercing through the haze of emotions and striking him like a knife. Instinctively the stallion bristles, his selfish, swollen pride flaring in foolish and blind indignation. How dare she ask anything of him now, as if he had ever been one to promise himself, ever been one to give in to responsibility and chain himself down. She should have known better than that—she should have known. The acerbic bite of barbed words rises to his tongue, stinging and sharpened, wanting to be rid of his guilt and shove it into her face—to cut her down and bite back—

—but…he can’t.

He can’t. Not to her.

The fiery anger suddenly dissolves into smoke, callous words dying on his lips and leaving only a sighing, broken exhale to seep into the cool air. From a guarded expression, he watches her, unwilling to give in to the shame and reveal—unwilling to admit—just how much he is crumbling inside…how broken he feels, with the pieces of him cracking and shuddering beneath the weight of his bitter remorse. It is better this way. He is no knight, he is no hero, and he certainly is no prince. He is nothing that Enna deserves.

“You promised. Does that mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing to you?”

Deeper the knife is pushed, twisting and carving to find his shattered heart, severing strings he hadn’t even realized had been tied. Some part of the stallion aches to reach out to her, to hold her, and release her of the pain and anger that clouds her eyes and sharpens every line of her delicate face (an agony that he had thrust upon her—). ‘You mean everything to me, Enna!’ He wants to scream, to declare from somewhere inside the abyss of his heart, but the words only grasp at emptiness. He can’t say it, he doesn’t realize it, and even if he did confess that there was some part of him that needed her (like he needs oxygen), he would refuse to believe it.

Once upon a time, bathed in ruby waters and in the throes of disease, he had dared to think that things could be different, dared to allow himself a fantasy of simpler, more remarkable things. That he could change. But no—wild, impulsive, proud, unattached—these are what he is. What he has been. And what he will be. He knows no different.

Surely there is no changing that.

She needs a man who will stand at her side, and he—he cannot. Not in the way that she is asking of him. Even so, the stallion doesn’t understand how his heart hurts when she turns away, how his body yearns for her touch, how the pinprick of tears sting the back of his eyes, with a single one escaping to leave a lonely stream across his cheek. ‘Wait, Enna!’ his mind cries desperately for her, ‘come back!’ Words leap to his throat, explanations and endearments and apologies—but what would all that mean now? She is gone. And so the words are choked into nothingness, dying with not even a whisper left on his tongue. Only long after she has disappeared is he able to speak, the murmur of his voice stiff, broken, and painful:

“You are better off without me.”

And yet, the pain only grows. Desperately, he can feel himself clinging to her knife, pressing it deeper if only to feel some part of her, to somehow hold her close one last time. Gritting his teeth, the stallion fights off what little part of himself cries, what little voice echoes and swells through the space of her absence. From the deepest fragments of his heart, it demands a solitary, poignant question:

But what will I do without you?

“Speech.”

without you I’m so cold

rohan & enna