Common

OOC: TW mention of suicide.

Two ears poked up above the lush jungle greenery, tipped in a red-brown that faded to a rusty color. They were attached to possibly the most heartbreaking face he could have imagined, though he had hardly dared to imagine at all in those days. Every hour of his life had been devoted to surviving, escaping, and then surviving all over again.

He had hardly dared to dream she was real.

And even though her mother's defection had permanently scarred a part of his heart, it wasn't Celestine's face he imagined. It was little Osiris.

She had looked at him with such suspicion and distrust. Rightly so, if truth were told. She had been born and raised in a jungle with no notion or mention or presence of her father, only for him to show up suddenly claiming a desire to be with her. Reh had vowed in that moment to make it up to her, to prove to her that he cared about her.

And even in that, he failed.

---

As dawn broke, Rehoboam shook himself off and fought a shiver as the snow blanket dissipated from his back. He had spent months hovering over Osiris' gravesite, mourning not just the loss of her but in a way, mourning the loss of all of his children. He had never been a great father, despite a desire to be otherwise. Theseus was the closest he had gotten to a true family, and even he had been raised without a mother. Without a home of his own. Without someone to protect him.

He had failed in every single endeavor he had ever set forward to attempt. He hadn't changed anything about the Lagoon the first or the second time he had tried. He had not ended Nyimara. Nor protected Shenzi or Titania. Hell, he hadn't even been a decent companion for Arsinoe, and she had hardly asked the world of him.

And yet, the call of the void refused to hold him. Call it selfishness, or stubbornness, or a sick joke played by the universe but he could not bring himself to contemplate the end. And so, instead, he wandered. He was careful to steer clear of the Lagoon and the Peak, although this was out of habit rather than conscious choice. From the time the sun woke him until pure exhaustion put a halt to his footsteps, Rehoboam walked.

Today, he felt more lucid than usual, although the sadness still clung like a shawl over his skin, drawing the edges of his mouth down and aging his handsome face ten more hard years than he had lived. Though not thin, Rehoboam's figure was no longer toned as it had once been after long years of continuous practice, and his once-rough hooves had grown smooth through his pacing.

He ambled along at the edge of the Commons, letting the intermittent sun dapple his back through the bare-limbed branches above. The open meadow of the Commons lay to his right, dotted here and there with creatures he had no desire (or reason) to approach. In truth, he might have passed the entirety of this day as much in a trance as the one before, were it not for the figure that appeared suddenly in his peripherals, jerking him to a reflexive halt in surprise.