It was Roza who spoke, not Rohanne, and Nephilim’s ear twitched before his glossy gilded eyes looked upon her. The pain engulfing him from inside out was almost suffocating; it lay tight in his lungs as though the weight was a heavy blanket constricting him. He swallowed, accustomed to swallowing back sorrows in an attempt to not show them, and gave a sharp nod of his head toward Roza to signal that he’d heard and he understood. Did he really? Nephilim wasn’t sure he understood anything in that moment, or if he was capable of forming a full thought that wasn’t tainted by misery. But he was used to dealing with sadness alone and that is what he would do, just as Rohanne and Roza would process the grief together.

He cast one last lingering look toward Rohanne before his eyes filled fresh with tears, blurring his vision, and he swallowed thickly against the burning in his throat. Nephilim turned quickly, desperate to isolate himself as he grieved, making for the opposite direction of the herd at a walk that seemed too stiff, giving away that all he wanted to do was run.

It reminded him just briefly of all the emotions that had swarmed up inside him that he’d run from before, and how they’d brought him here. He sucked in a sharp breath, now a fair distance from where Roza and Rohanne had been, and could not take it any longer. His hooves gathered up beneath his body and he transitioned from walk, to trot, to lope, allowing his tears to dissolve into the wind that whipped by his face as he ran.