“Rohan, you are a strong warrior, but your presence in training has been lacking. I think your strengths are suited to Sergeant...”

Demoted.

The word clings to his mind like a splinter, festering and raw and painful, clinging to every thought like a sliver does to skin. Always there. In the days that have passed, he has tried time and time again to relieve himself of the guilt that weighs so heavily across his shoulders—a shame he has shouldered since the moment he could walk. It is a different misstep this time, of course. A different king, a different mentor, a different home; but at the core of it all, isn’t it the same? He cannot fool himself forever (try as he might) and even when he closes his eyes, even when he runs away, he can feel it—

—failure.

A disappointment.

(Is that all he will ever be?)

Insecurity is a black secret that the stallion keeps hidden away, tucked beneath and smothered by layers of hollow pride and arrogance. He is no yellow bellied pantywaist (like many others, his mind has been warped by the expectations of man and stone). No one can know how much he has doubted himself at times, no one can know how his father’s voice still haunts him at night, screaming insults and profanities that Rohan tells himself cannot be true.

And yet, here he stands—at the cliff’s edge, staring out and down, across the blue horizon and the frothy waves that crash violently below—filling his own mind with characteristics of grandeur and strength. His father’s wretched voice is not alone now, echoing with the Elephant King’s deep rumble as they both rob him of power and leave him naked, stripped and vulnerable and bleeding. (Is it because he is afraid to face his own mistakes? Is his pride too swollen and his heart too stubborn to admit to his own negligence? Is he equipped to lead anyone at all—to be a part of something greater than himself?)

Rohan’s teeth clench as his jaw muscles flex, dark-rimmed ears slanting backwards against the mess of his mane. He has never been an organized man, taking each day as it comes and living each moment to its fullest. Perhaps the mammoth of a stallion had done him a favor. Perhaps he is better off without responsibility, without the accountability of others in his care. Perhaps they are better off without looking up to him for guidance (a free-willed rogue trying to fit into herd life like a circle into a box).

Perhaps.

notes; Let's try this again<33
“Speech.”

Can you lie next to her

and give her your heart, your heart

As well as your body?

“Rohan?”

It is his name that rouses the stallion from the brooding waters of his mind. Like waking from a particularly deep sleep, he moves slowly, blinking bleary eyes and sighing from his nostrils before he turns his head to look at the one who has joined him. He recognizes her easily—the lithe pegasus woman, with eyes far greener than his own, eyes that shine with an earnest concern he knows painstakingly well (how could it be so similar, coming from blue and brown, or green—is he only seeing what he wants to see?). Perhaps he should have expected it.

Between them, the silence stretches longer than normal for greetings; the stallion’s features are still set in quiet (almost sad) frustration and self-doubt. Only when the mare moves does he properly respond to her approach. Arching his thick neck in a way of invitation, he welcomes her at his shoulder, shifting his large weight without really changing his position. “Alysanne,” brown lips crack into a crooked smile, reminiscent of the characteristic smirk that usually alights his expression. Leaning a foreleg forward and arcing his antlered head down towards the ground, the Warlander gives her a playful and terribly exaggerated bow. “My queen,” he chuckles deeply, shadowed eyes glittering with superficial mirth.

While Rohan undoubtedly receives the attention of the newly-crowned queen happily (he is not one to complain about a pretty face to lift his spirits), there is a black part of him that is more cautious. The personal event of the herd meeting hangs over his head, heavy and unrelenting, with humiliation spreading through him like wildfire. The cold stone of his pride has never felt so fragile. Even in the wake of selfish sins, never has he had to bare his wrongdoings so publicly. He waits, muscles tensed quietly beneath sloping shoulders, preparing himself for her rebuke.

“Are you alright?”

Her voice is quieter than he had expected—gentler. A dark-rimmed ear tilts in her direction, and for a short moment he looks to her from the corner of his eye before turning his head fully. One side of Rohan’s brow rises amusedly, casting (as he often does) a thin sheet of humor over any pain or vulnerability that might weaken him to others. “Would you believe me if I said I was?” The laughter in his low voice doesn’t quite make it to his lips, though he grins satirically (his cheer perhaps a little too forced). Cream strands thread around his hocks as he turns his head, brown lips flattening once hidden from her eye.

“Speech.”

Can you lie next to her

and give her your heart, your heart

As well as your body?

The stallion can feel her gaze on him. He can sense the way she searches, unassuming and unobtrusive, undoubtedly brimming with the concern he has seen radiate from her on every encounter. He feels the instinct to shift beneath the weight of her stare, but he does not; motionless, stoic, and silent, he does not turn to meet her eye. For as boisterous as he might be, the warrior is deceptively secretive. Of course, he does not hide his emotions particularly well, but he wears the mask as best as he is able—fitting into the tight curves and trying to shape himself to the thin, breakable guise his heart has crafted.

Whittling away at himself like a piece of wood (dissecting, hacking, ravaging).
(What has he become?)

Years have now passed since his self-exile from his homeland. If his wretched father, or his lost, naive Iofiel were to find him now—would they know him? Would they recognize the creature that has been crafted by months of lonely rugged paths, or molded by the selfishness and pride that fester so sorely within his heart? (Would he want them to?) These sins, these failures, what have they turned him into now? (Would he even recognize himself?)

Would he like what he sees?

So used to the shallow fantasies of the world, Rohan is uneasy beneath these deep, cutting questions. He feels weak for concerning himself with the expectations and conceptions of others; he feels stripped and vulnerable for allowing his pride to be cracked so easily; and, perhaps worse of all, he feels torn and raw from the tangle of emotions that have ensnared him for the past year. Never has he felt this many emotions so intensely. Only the anger is familiar; only the anger is comforting (and so he clings to it like a lifeline, calloused fingers grasping the very thing that drags him deeper, deeper into the black, boundless abyss).

The stallion closes his eyes, trying (futilely) to expel the burdens in a single, long breath. “I’ll remember that, then—I wouldn’t mind seeing more of your pretty face around,” he spares the mare a sideways glance, forcing half a smirk to soften the rigid line of his lips, though the tension around his eyes does not ease. A long moment passes before he responds to her prodding. Initially, he can feel himself bristle at her encouragement (however gentle it might be), though his ears soon relax from their pinned position.

“And,” Rohan inhales a sharp breath, turning his head to face her directly, “what would you say to ease a broken man?” There is humor in the way his lips twist, but the solemn (pleading? Screaming? Crying?) of his eyes is too strong to temper.

Naturally, his query is more than a little exaggerated. Far, far worse things have happened in the world than simply being demoted—but, perhaps, that is not the only load that encumbers the warrior’s mind. A home abandoned, a love lost, and a son forgotten; these are the black fingers that spin the web that traps his heart and mind. Demons he has created—demons he drags (clutches) to him. “Is it only the strongest of men who can piece themselves back together?” He says with bitterness on his tongue, turning away for fear she should see his foolishness.

“Speech.”

Can you lie next to her

and give her your heart, your heart

As well as your body?