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?