His head swung slowly back and forth, disagreeing in anguish as Dances poured his heart out between them. As much as Nephilim wanted to crumble and collapse against his oldest friend, his closest companion, he couldn’t risk it. His mind was already whirling, trying to think of ways to shun Dances from him so he would leave this place and never look back. But Dances kept speaking. Dances kept pleading and when Nephilim risked letting a watery eye land on the painted stallion, he saw the pure anguish and heartbreak written in the lines of his face. Nephilim’s lips opened, but no sound came out. He closed them again and shook his head once more, body shaking with grief. He spoke after a moment. “You don’t need me, Dances.” He said, remaining ear turned outward, head slung miserably. “They can’t need me.” He said it less as if he believed it, and more as if he wanted to. Nephilim’s love for his children was unbounded; as was his pride in them, but as much as he wanted to see them again he couldn’t allow them to know him like this. He was strength in their eyes, but to see him scarred, lame, and deformed…
Tears pricked in his eye again and he clamped his eyelid shut, too weak to stop the tears from slipping down a well-worn path of slick, wet hair on his cheek.
It was easier to blame Oswin for bringing Dances here than it was to blame Dances. Nephilim doubted he could ever think wrongly of the dark and white stallion, not after everything they had been through. His relationship with his half-sister was shaky at times, given their only blood connection was the mare who’d abused him and abandoned him in his foalhood. Nephilim was quicker to push blame and rage to her than he might ever be to Dances – his chosen family. To hear his brother blame himself for what happened, Nephilim shook his head sharply. “No.” He said, and his chin tilted so his remaining eye could focus solely on Dances, burning bright with vigor. “This is no one’s fault but my own. The Bay was taken and instead of fighting for it back, I convinced Mariael to hide us in the caves that most horses won’t dare travel to.” He’d been worried for Zevulun’s safety. He’d promised Mariael come spring they’d venture back down into the Bay’s more traveled terrain and challenge for the land back.
At first, Nephilim stiffened against the contact Dances made, having pushed himself to where Nephilim could not retreat. But as his body registered the warmth and familiarity of that form (even changed as it was by age), it relaxed and reached greedily for more. Nephilim reached and pressed his nose against Dances’ skin, closing his eye and taking a deep, shaking breath. He hadn’t realized he needed this physical comfort – Nephilim refused to allow Oswin to touch him, but with Dances it was different.
It had always been different.
He shook slightly against Dances, and pressed harder, as if he’d slip into Dances skin and all the pain of his current circumstances would drift away into nothingness. “I remember,” he choked on a sob, his heart aching and his lungs burning. He swallowed a large breath of air, trying to steady himself, but the tears had begun anew and it was all he could do to press close to Dances.
“I can’t go back, Dances.” Nephilim said once he was able to have his breath. “My children can’t know I’m living this way. The cold… winter… it…” he lost his voice for a moment and worked his jaw, clearing his throat and drawing in a sharp breath, “it hurts… the joints; I can hardly move. I couldn’t survive winter on Tinuvel. If I can’t be with my children…” the broken pieces of his heart seemed to grieve in anguish, emotion swelling in his throat and a few tears chasing down the line of his angular, dished face. “If I can’t be with my children, I can’t be on the islands. And if I can’t be on the islands… they need to think me dead.” He knew it was best this way for all of them, no matter how much he yearned to see Mariael standing proudly over the Bay again, or sweet Maziel’s kind smile, or the fine stallion Zevulun was growing into.
“I want you to stay,” he confessed in a whisper to Dances’ hair, which his nose was buried in, little strands tickling him each time he breathed. He’d tried to push him away, but Dances’ determination to remain close and bare his soul had caused Nephilim to expose his own. “But can’t you see? I need you there, with them. I need you to watch over them for me. Make sure my children are okay, Dances. That’s what you can do for me…” he nearly choked as tears rose again, blurring his vision. “That’s how you can keep my memory alive.”
Because Nephilim was fairly certain it would be no time at all before he was truly dead.
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