He whispered a word, a name, with such veneration that the Elephant felt as if he should know of it. But he did not, and he nearly felt remiss for never having heard of this “d’Artagnan.” Silence prevailed on the giant as he continued to listen, more names of more dead that he, again, did not know. But it was clear that these unknown lives held meaning for the spotted. If not because of their lives, then because their deaths had catalyzed his abandonment.

The antelope-man tensed as Mauja shifted to his hooves— preparing for whatever his grief-stricken friend might do. But, he shuffled backwards, gloriously away from the fatal drop. Words, thickened with emotion that was in his throat and on his cheeks, continued to burst and pour out. It was almost cathartic— except that the Elephant could see that there was no relief after the spilling of such anguish.

“He just left me in this hellhole, to go on alone.” He could not help the pang of hurt that hit his heart as Mauja spoke. “I—” he cut off his words. Though he knew (or so he told himself) that these were ravings from grief, which polarizes any and all emotions, he still had to swallow the slight. He was there, being a shoulder for tears and a barrier against the cliffs. And Tembovu knew, oh how he knew, the agony and loneliness of heartbreak. So he grew angry at himself and swept such selfish feelings of insult aside.

“It felt like he tore my heart out.”

And then he grew even angrier with himself as realization dawned. Mauja had been in love with this man (‘d’Artagnan’?) who had left. Not a love of friendship or brotherhood, but different, more. This had occurred (rarely) in Dorobo, and it was frowned upon within the great plains. Such love did not bring warriors or workers, so it was not useful to the greedy nation, and thus was shunned. Though the giant had never truly given the phenomena thought, and had therefore never formed and opinion on the matter, he had unknowingly allowed his old lands to negatively bias him.

And, in the face of his bereaved friend, such swaying of his thoughts enraged him. Flicking his ears backwards in both inward fury and outward sadness, he watched the man being held up by a silent god’s shrine. There was no purpose in passing judgements, not when this was still the final result.

He stood, still and silent for a few long moments, rear hooves still balancing on the precipice. “He did,” the words were simple and low, but firm against the hungry crashing of waves, “He did tear out a piece, maybe large maybe small. Only time will tell. But remember this, Mauja,” he said his name tenderly amidst his heavy words, “Remember that you are only as alone as you make yourself. Even now, with a friend before you, you think yourself abandoned. And, while solitude may feel safer or less vulnerable, in the end it will leave you more empty and desolate than you feel now.”

The words, perhaps harsher than he would normally have spoken because of the anger he felt towards himself, fell into the insensitive blackness of night. And they came from experience— for at the fall of mighty Dorobo, when the Elephant had fled after accomplishing such a feat, he had not felt vindication. He had felt forsaken and alone.

In the resurfacing of such emotions, he took a few, hesitant steps towards the man, seeking to embrace him. For himself, for him, for them both.