Nephilim held Amaranthe’s gaze once she’d explained to Tithe who and what he was. A friend. He did nothing to dispel this description, instead letting the quiet and his lack of aggressive mannerisms answer the question she hadn’t asked – Nephilim would not attack her child. If later she required verbal confirmation, she could ask, but for now his gaze returned to Tithe as the bold colt stepped forward and extended his small muzzle. Nephilim’s neck arched, stretched, and he hovered his charcoal nose near Tithe’s, breathing soft breaths of warm air as he took in the scent of new life, of the Bay, and of Amaranthe.

He pulled his head back, ears forward and gaze returning to her as she requested her son be allowed to stay. Nephilim had heard among those of the island that, often times, colts not born of the lead stallion would be forced into abandonment or worse, killed. Amaranthe did not need to fear this with Nephilim, but he had not told her why. A part of him had relaxed somewhat to see she shared no aggression toward her son and instead seemed to put his welfare ahead of her own. She worried for her child and that was a far better sign than anything his dam had done for him. Though, again, it was just as likely Nephilim was completely wrong concerning the conception of the foal – Amaranthe could have been pregnant from a stallion on the mainlands and there were all sorts of possibilities with what had happened to the father.

“Amaranthe,” he started, wondering how to say what he wished to say before finally blowing a soft breath of air, looking from Tithe, to her. “Your son is welcome here, just as you are.” It said everything he did not put into words – Tithe was welcome; Tithe was a part of the Bay family; Tithe would suffer no ill-will simply because Nephilim was not his sire.

“I mean, what kind of friend would I be otherwise?” He joked, a bit of a flash of humor brightening his gold eyes.