A glance and nod of greeting was given to the Eagle-Owl as the wingtip brushed his flank, though his attention quickly shifts back to the stallion beside him. Tembovu stayed, calm and silent, listening to the raspy and guttural words (pleas?) uttered by the Frozen Light beside him. His broken voice, interspersed with deep breaths that did little to control the flow of feelings, recalled a time when the owl perched so lovingly on his back had nearly fallen as Sno had. The mind, when it is already so fragile, is drawn to memories and thoughts that would splinter it while healthy.

The giant remains, steadfast and soothing, allowing the ragged thoughts to ebb and flow around the two baroque bodies. His gaze sweeps from the inky sea to the owls, before settling on Mauja— hurting for him, yet knowing his own ache could not compare to his. And it did nothing to lessen or mitigate the jagged loss that ripped the sob from his throat. The mind of the elephant worked his own heartbreak and devastation. What had made him whole? What had made him better? (There was no ‘better,’ no recovery from this). But Tembovu had relied on war, on throwing himself into other mens’ battles—

And suddenly a hesitant, silken warmth was against his broad shoulder. Carefully, it sought comfort in his calming heat. A cream ear flicked sideways, eyes moving to find Mauja’s closed lids in his pale, pale face. He realized it was not his place to press his own journey of closure on his leopard friend. That was his own path to take— and there is no speeding up salvation.

Instead, he could provide a lifeline. So he did.

Gently, he leaned his shoulder into the searching, speckled cheek. “It may not be the first,” his voice quietly rumbled, “But remember that it will not be the last.” Though he hoped that the gods and the world had dealt their last, devastating blow to his friend, he knew that was wishful thinking. Life is not a place for the weak.

The sea crashed against the black cliffs in loneliness beneath them.“Just because it is not my fault does not mean I do not feel sorrow for your loss, Mauja. The death of a child is…” his low voice trails off, for truly there are no words that can describe it. But he tries, voice speaking from his history, "It is something no father should have to endure." Gingerly he bent his neck towards the man beside him, muzzle reaching out to smooth the icy, wind-ruffled forelock.

He wasn’t sure if it was necessary. But it felt needed.