Nephilim stood on the beach of Tinuvel opposite of his Bay, body facing a direction different than his normal pathway of Crossing Isle. His ears were pressed forward as though he hoped to hear some call out over the rolling waves, some call which might give him the answers he sought. Nephilim was limited to seasons in travel, absolutely refusing to leave his island during winter as the sea raged wildly and predators grew desperate for food. Barely on the cusp of summer he knew his time was slowly slipping away, soon to be gone…

An invitation to Luthien had been extended to him by Foxglove and her headstrong sister, Firethorn, the red and white girls he’d met a few seasons ago; it had been before he’d learned grotesque truths of himself and promptly found a territory to call home, making him far more than he’d been when he’d last seen them. From time and time again he’d thought of them, particularly of Foxglove and the awkward, shy smiles they had shared. He wondered if he might convince her to come to Tinuvel, perhaps to explore, perhaps to stay.

So why then had it taken Nephilim so long to swim for Luthien and to visit the sisters in the Prairie? Why, even now, was he standing on the beach, still as a statue, heart beating heavy and fast in his chest?

Because she swam for Luthien. After she returned to Crossing Isle and spat venom in his face, after she’d confessed how badly she wished him dead and told him the word mother was never one he was allowed to give her; after she told him of the horrors of his conception and looked at him as though he were an abomination she wished she could kill, then and there. He’d been almost two years old, but it had made him feel like a wobbly legged colt again, confused, hurt, lost… he’d cried and when anger eventually set in he’d sworn it would be the last time he ever shed a tear.

He worried she was on the island even though he couldn’t think why she would be. A part of him he loathed hoped she was, though he couldn’t say why; did he want to hurt her as she’d hurt him? Prove to her he was the monster she feared he was? Did he want to beg her to see him as her child? Did he want to see her alone and heartbroken? Did he want to tell her that he was becoming something in spite of her? Did he want to brag that he had a home and a family, that he couldn’t be a monster and have these things too? Whatever the reasoning was, it made him sick just to think he cared. Was he so weak that he could not forget her and the way she’d abused him, abandoned him, and tore him down until he were the smallest he’d ever felt?

A heavy sigh fell from his mouth and he started forward, hooves descending down the rocky shoreline and toward the saltwater, swimming for Luthien and both hoping he would and would not run across the cream colored mare.

***************

“Oswin! Stay close, please!” A tired voice, a frustrated one, but still, it was caring. Oswin shot a guilty look toward her mother, head sinking as she caught those blue eyes watching her sternly. This wasn’t the first time that statement had been called out across the Prairie, nor would it be the last. Dock was an overprotective mother, though no one, except maybe Valentine, could potentially understand why. Oswin, of course, did not make it easier on her either. No matter how many times she was scolded, Oswin never seemed to behave or mind her mother’s worries for long. There were always things to investigate (most of the time these things were further than her mother was comfortable with) or siblings to pester. It seemed impossible for the gold and white filly to be content to stay close to her mother all day long.

But, for now, she actually behaved herself (she didn’t like getting scolded, after all) and sulked as she walked back toward her mother, head hung low and bottom pink lip pushed out in a pout. Dock sighed and, when her daughter was close, reached to run her mouth affectionately over Oswin’s coat. Her chin tucked over Oswin’s sleek body and she guided the filly to tuck up to her side, sighing as she pressed her close. Oswin sighed at first, like a child who was embarrassed at her mother’s embrace, but then smiled and nestled closer to the warmth.

They stayed like that for at least a good few minutes and then Dock pulled her chin away, flicked her tail and shifted her weight, settling for a doze in the afternoon sun. Oswin stayed patiently by her mother’s side, contemplating a nap as well, but then decided this opportunity was simply too good to pass up… she could sneak off and do her exploring and be back before Dock even realized she’d been gone!

***************

He was sick. If it were physically possible, he would have vomited. Nephilim’s limbs shook, his breathing labored and his gold-flecked coat damp with lather. He stood in the trees of the Forest, tucked away though easy enough to spot if one searched the tree line. His gold eyes had seen it all, the way the cream mare called with worry in her tone for the little foal, the way she pulled her in and tucked her close with all the love, compassion, and tenderness he’d never been given as a child.

It was the final betrayal. Perhaps Nephilim could have lived with his treatment if he’d simply known her to be cruel. Perhaps that was what he’d comforted himself with, that it wasn’t all because of something he could not fix, but because she was a horrible person too. But then… this… this sight of her being like the mothers he’d watched on Crossing Isle in confusion, the ones who loved and protected the children they’d birthed…

Another wave of nausea tore through him, tears stung and burned in his eyes, his heartbeat quickened, stomach rising and falling heavy with each breath as though he’d galloped across the entire length of the isle. He watched her fall asleep, her head (a face shaped so much like his, if not slightly daintier) falling as her lids did too. He wanted her dead. He wanted to scream in rage and tear from the forest, to smash into the river and climb over the bank until he reached her side where he could kick and bite and push her around until she was nothing.

Then, the gold and white filly started to move. She slipped away from the cream mare’s side and with each step she took she glanced back as if to see whether or not her dam (their dam) had awoken and noticed. Nephilim’s attention turned instead to her. To his sister. He could kill her… she would be an easier target, something that could be finished quickly, and it would hurt the cream mare as she had hurt him. Madly, his gaze flashed from foal to mother, thinking with sick, vindictive glee. He wanted to break her as she’d broken him… he wanted her to hurt as he hurt… she did not deserve what she had here, she did not have the right to be a loving, doting mother… not after all she’d done to him.

“Oh!” Came a little gasp and Nephilim’s gaze flashed from the cream mare to the opposite bank of the river just a little ways from where he was sunken back into the forest. It was the filly who seemed just as surprised as he was that she’d come across him.

His ears flicked. She stood still, blue eyes wide, little nostrils quivering as she tested the air between them. It was likely she could scent his distress as much as she could smell him and, if she was smart, she’d run crying for her mother. Nephilim barely breathed during the time they locked eyes, half his mind at a war to be the monster his dam had always treated him as and take the filly’s neck in his mouth to shake her til she went limp… and the other wished to do nothing, to prove to her that he wasn’t the monster after all.

“Hey mister, you okay?” Asked the little girl before taking a tentative step closer, the tip of her hoof sinking into the mud at the base of the river.

No, he wanted to say. Run from me, a part of him screamed at her. Run before I do something I’ll later regret!

Her hoof splashed into the water. It was a very shallow part of the river and moving sluggishly, a little pool, nothing she couldn’t easily cross. His nervousness rolled off him in waves, making her move cautiously, but she inched toward him all the same. His heartbeat quickened, his instincts pounded into his mind and told him to retreat, turn about, and do right by this child before the madness in grief won out. The filly reached the shade of the trees directly before him, just a couple feet apart now, her eyes seemingly larger, brighter, and more innocent than before.

“Hey,” she said and blinked, concern darkening her gaze, ears pressed forward, body language subdued, “what’s wrong?”

Nephilim felt wetness against his cheek and it was only then he was aware that he had been crying. He sucked in a deep, shaking breath and lowered his head, ears forward and eyes on her. “What’s your name?” He asked, hardly recognizing his own voice, it was so quiet, so broken.

“Oswin.” She said and frowned as though unsure why he’d asked that rather than telling her what was wrong. “Why are you cryi–”

The question was never finished. There came a terrible scream from the Prairie, a sound of anguish, fear, and rage all in one. “OSWIN! GET AWAY FROM HIM!” The words followed and both Oswin and Nephilim jumped. Oswin’s hindquarters spun about and she saw her mother, ears pulled back, charging across the Prairie toward them. Fear entered her as though she’d been doused in icy water, a chill rushing across her skin as her heart began to pound. She did as she was told, darting away (a little awkwardly, stumbling and almost following as panic made her want to move faster than she was capable of) and Nephilim debated what to do.

He could turn about and flee, allow her to drive him away and likely off Luthien altogether (he had no doubt that was her intention, to see him to the sea) or to meet her head on.

He was sick of being treated as though his conception was his fault, of being treated as though he were the devil incarnate when he’d never done anything. He was angry that she could love another child and even angrier that she was so protective of her. His ears pulled back, flattened, and a loud bellow escaped his mouth as he charged from the trees and moved to meet her.

They clashed, rearing, biting toward one another’s necks. His teeth latched to her skin and he twisted his head, pulling, pinching. She squealed and, as soon as his mouth pulled away, caught him on his neck. When both hit the ground, she was already turning, and though Nephilim turned as well he wasn’t fast enough, she bucked and her back feet hit with a dull thud against his shoulder, a wound that was sure to ache, sure to bruise.

“MAMA! STOP!” Cried Oswin, but her little voice was lost in the sound of squeals and scuffling. Tears filled her eyes as she stood by, helplessly, watching the fight.

It took a turn. The stallion was not meeting Dock attack for attack, but seemed to be on the defense. His hooves scraped back across the Prairie ground as she drove him further away. She was mad with rage, seemingly blinded by it. He faltered as though he wasn’t certain he wanted to strike her still.

They made it to the bank and Nephilim lost his footing, his hoof catching a rock awkwardly, and she lunged at him the moment she saw the opportunity, slamming her shoulder into his chest and knocking him into the river. All the air rushed from his body, boulders stabbed into his flesh beneath him, and his gold eyes looked up at her with a mixture of fright and disgust. The fight had lasted all but a few seconds, certainly enough time to draw attention, but neither Dock nor Nephilim seemed to be paying attention to anyone that might be approaching.

“I told you I never wanted to see you again!” She screamed at him, ears flat. “Why must you continue to haunt me? To torment me? Wasn’t it terrible enough to have you suckling from me every day for months?!”

“Keh,” it was weak, having the wind knocked out of him, but it was an exhale of bitter amusement as he smirked, “you stupid bitch,” he cursed, gaze glowering as he looked up at her. “You want to finally kill me?” He taunted, threatened, his voice growing stronger, but staying low in disgusted anger. “Finally do what you should have done when I was as old as her? You told me, remember? You told me how badly you wanted me dead.” The false bravado of humor failed the more he spoke, the hurt bled in and he became hardened rage, his gold eyes glowering at her. “Fuck you,” he hissed, “fuck you for how you abused me. You’re just as much of a monster to me as I am to you. No… even worse…” His lips twisted into a sneer, “You’re just as terrible as him.”

Dock’s eyes widened, those words far more harmful than any physical strike could have been.