Common

He feels vulnerable after his outpouring of words to Sabriel, regretting it almost immediately. For a moment, the somber mood and the eerie, dreamlike scene before him messed with his mind, but there is a reason he tries desperately not to think of just how he arrived at these isles, just how he came to call the Badlands home. It stirs a deep, long-denied well of emotion within him, muddying his self control and letting...less desirable traits rise to the surface, glittering and sharp. He can’t let anyone close - not like this. Not when his sharp edges would cut them to shreds. Rafe has always been a talker, but he tries to keep to short, teasing quips these days. It’s an easier guise to put up, an efficient mask to wear - the relaxed confidence he shows and his laissez-faire approach to life is a carefully curated front. It hides just how much he cares, and how angry and lonely he really is in this strange new land.

Everything he did was for his family; for his mother, his brother, his sisters. Hell, even for his father - better to bear the weight of his grandfather's death on his own shoulders, better to take the choice from his father and end it quickly. This way, they didn’t slip back into some deranged war when Rowan wasn’t strong enough to deny the call of his sire; this way, his father didn’t have to choose between his abusive sire or the family he fought so hard to build free of his influence. Rafe is certain he kept them from descending into madness and violence that would spell the end of it all, the death of everyone he ever cared for. He doesn’t feel guilty for the blood he shed; he only feels anger at the outcome. After everything he did - after years of holding their home while his father hid from the world, after protecting them all, after maintaining alliances and comforting his distraught mother, after murdering his own blood to protect them, his father still cast him out. And he had the nerve to blame the banishment on Rafe, to question his loyalty to his own mother and siblings. As if he would ever do anything to harm them; as if the actions he took that day weren’t to do what his own father could not, and protect his own. Even thinking of the conversation, shouted accusations and the bitter fear in his father’s eyes sets Rafe’s gut boiling, anger welling too close to the surface. The only option then, had been to depose his father, kill him and take control of the home, the herd. But that wasn’t forgivable - his mother loved him, loved all of her children, but...Rowan was always her choice. And Rafe knew, in that moment, he couldn’t stay. So he didn’t fight back as his father made him leave, setting out for these ridiculous isles on the advice of his brother and his well-traveled friends.

This is why he does not dwell on the past - this is why he cannot let himself care. The wounds are too new, not even scabbed over and in a foreign place with no allies, with little support to fall back on, Rafe cannot afford to bleed out. Sabriel draws him from his dark thoughts, though, the touch of her muzzle across his jaw a warm, bright spark in the bitterly cold night. He offers a brief smile, hoping that his icy eyes show none of the poorly-controlled emotion he was dwelling on. He doesn’t want to frighten her - not when their conversation has been pleasant so far. After all, the goal is still to tempt her back to the Badlands with him. He is stunned when she matches his playful tone with her own, laughing when she mentions outrunning him. It’s true - he’d lived by the mantra that he didn’t have to be the fastest, just faster than one of his siblings. Rafe was always good at fleeing the scene of whatever mischief they caused. When Sabriel takes off, Rafe is still for a long moment, watching as the pretty dark mare gains ground - he’s trying to be better; fighting for Viveka and still having her enmity had reminded him that a herd who hates him is worse than no herd at all. Is Sabriel running to escape his attention? The indecision has him pausing, instinct to chase her down and herd her to the Badlands warring with his recent choice to not collect more mares actively wishing for his death. But she turns her head back to look at him, eyes sparkling, so he follows.

Rafe shoots forward over the snow, gaining ground quickly. She doesn’t seem to be running as hard as she can, and so he pushes ahead, relishing the sweet burn that comes with a sprint. His breath puffs out in noisy exhales, steaming up the cold air around him and morphing into a cloud of mist that immediately freezes along his muzzle. With a last grunt of effort, Rafe manages to pull ahead of Sabriel for a few strides before she overtakes him again and he gives up. It is still a long swim back to the Badlands, and Rafe is sore from his recent battle - he’s up for a bit of fun, but hardly needs to push himself to injury. He slows, ultimately coming to a stop behind Sabriel and tosses his head as he lets out a snort. “Full bellies for the demons,” he murmurs, grinning at her, “And peace for you, at least for tonight.”

He is curious to know what haunts her so, wants to promise that if she goes with him, nothing like that will happen again - but they would be empty words, and while he lies like he breathes it generally isn’t for situations like this. Rafe knows better than most that misery follows you wherever you go, dogged at your heels and always waiting for you to give in to the pull. Instead, he offers the only real comfort he has left - words of encouragement, still playing on their talk of demons. “You’ve fight in you yet,” he offers quietly. “Even if they catch you, I don’t think you would give in so easily as you assume.”