Go where you belong.

Her words were haunting him, always trailed by the jeers of what had occurred to bring him into this world. Emotionally it exhausted him, morning to night, pulling to and fro in the bowels of his mind; at times he hated her for how she treated him now that he knew the truth, others he hated the stallion that had sired him, and at times Nephilim found himself wishing she had killed him when he was only a few days and still on wobbly legs. He’d attempted to approach the male cologne swamped bog of the Lagoon, thinking it was there which he belonged, but the itch had persisted beneath his flesh and kept him awake at night when he wished he were in a deep, dreamless sleep.

So, he began pacing. He walked away from the Lagoon, away from where mud caked about his coronets and coated his pale peachy hooves. Nephilim carved familiar paths throughout Crossing Isle yet avoided conversations with strangers, his mood souring. The last time he’d been in a turbulent mood he’d brushed into an older stallion and found himself in a skirmish he was, still to this day, unsure who was considered a victor. Pride made him want to believe he was but reality told him otherwise.

He found himself walking the boundaries of Crossing Isle, gaze seeking out the distant, looming islands.

Go where you belong.

He wasn’t allowed to go to Luthien, where she was, or so she’d said. For just a moment it was defiance which made him want to charge into the sea for Luthien, to see what it was she wanted him not to bear witness to, but as soon as it came the fight left him. He could only stay angry for so long. Like the ebb and pull of the tide, rage came and went, crashing inside him.

But there were other islands aside from Luthien. Was it mad for Nephilim, a young colt a little halfway near turning three, to walk onto a territory uninvited? Was he actually considering attempting a life he’d never been prepared for? Was he actually wondering if his place was among his own land? Self-consciously a voice whispered he’d never be good enough for it, that he’d only fail if he attempted to hold borders as his own – after all, he’d barely been in one skirmish and not even a full fight.

He was tired of arguing with himself. He was tired of not knowing where to go or wondering whether or not he should be alive at all. With a scream of frustration squealing from his lips, Nephilim gathered all the energy within himself and pushed it outright, lifting up and surging into the saltwater, submerging himself and swimming with all he possessed toward the nearest looming shape.

It was cold. So cold. Freezing winds bit at his thin coat. Ice floated in the waters bordering the territory he climbed up the shore of. Snow was layered thick over the mountain scape and his breath was a steam of visible white, puffy clouds from his mouth. Yet inside him determination burned like a fire. So Nephilim moved further into the territory, tense and waiting to see if he might cross paths with the stallion who lived here and engage in the first fight he’d ever been in.