Valefar likes this mid-range weather much better than the winter he had arrived to. He has filled out the deepest valleys and softened the sharpest peaks that the hardship of his home had carved, and the food only becomes more plentiful with each passing spring day. It was only with authoritative discipline that Val had avoided illness; not only is there more of it to be found without even having to look, there seems to be more of it within itself. One bite satiates where ten at home would have left him hungry. He has no doubt that were he to allow himself to gorge on the plentiful Savannah grasses, they would poison him.
It’s an adjustment, but the near-black stallion is no stranger to self-control. It’s what makes his greed effective rather than detrimental. It also keeps him lanky and thin, just fattened enough to keep him comfortable in the last bitter month or so of winter. Val suspects he might overheat if he gains weight too quickly, and especially as spring deepens toward early summer.
In all other aspects, Valefar adjusts quickly to life in the Savanna. Zira does not seem interested in owning him or keeping him captive, something Val appreciates. She easily could have taken advantage of his vulnerable state upon arrival to the Crossing, though he isn’t sure what she could have done with him. She’s not playing war with any of her neighbors as far as he can tell, so being taken for cannon fodder was out of the question. Val is capable of enormous creativity when thinking about all of the ways he could be useful to someone, but despite his hypothetical generosity, the fact remains that Zira’s Savanna had been offered to him rather than shackled.
He relaxes quite rapidly into a mild sense of entitlement when it comes to his freedom. Val comes and goes as he pleases, not feeling obligated to respect any borders but exercising caution to avoid being caught. He speaks to no one outside of the Savanna, and brings home no guests; but he does watch other herds from afar, curiosity in his distant, ink-black gaze.
Eventually, his wanderlust takes him off of Luthien altogether. It’s an odd hour; the sun has just set, and most should be dozing or asleep. In the twilight, Val slips into the sea and swims north. By the time he finds land – or rather, land finds him – it is completely dark.
Tinuvel sneaks up on him, a great black void on the horizon that he doesn’t even notice until he hears the distant howl of a wolf. To whom do you sing, he mutters to himself, tasting salt on his lips as he moves them. There isn’t even a moon tonight.
His hooves brush sand, and Valefar brings himself slowly onto a coarse and pebbly beach. The scale of the island is obvious to him now, even in the near-blackness. He shivers as the breeze rakes through his spring-sleek coat; is it still winter here? His nostrils flutter as he samples the air, bringing the scents of so many unfamiliar things. The sharp and earthy fragrance of evergreen trees is a shock to the dark stallion’s senses, but he breathes it in with greed. Beneath it is the heavy musk of male, the lighter spice of female, and the sweet milk-scent of foal. Valefar considers whether he wants to be caught in unfamiliar territory during foaling season, but balances out his hesitation with the confidence that he is very sneaky and being very sneaky has worked well for him so far, so why should this time be any different?
The sooty stallion slips quietly into the trees, his slender form disappearing into the deep shadows of the Bay.