“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?