In Tinuvel, winter had meant retreating to the mountains far inland and taking shelter among the system of caves. There had been no swimming the turbulent, bone-chilling seas to leave and poke around Crossing Isle with an exploratory, curious hope for something new. The only time he had ever left the caverns was to make sure no wandering horse had come by and gotten themselves in a life-threatening predicament. Otherwise, Mariael had told him to stay. His wandering heart had to learn to accept a leash, even for a season.
Luthien wasn’t so drastic. The snow blanketed across the open Prairie and, at times, the wind was fast and whipped the snow through the air with a ferocity that made it sting. But there was easy shelter found in the trees, and the snow didn’t fall in quite the same volume it had on his home island. Yet again, Luthien proved itself to be a place to bring Zevulun peace, even as events (of his own doing) threatened to bring all of it crashing down.
Soon, he would need to speak with Riesling. He had promised her they only had to have their one, first meeting together, but when they’d come together later, during fall, it appeared to have taken. Ever since then, Riesling had been avoiding him. Or him, her. Zevulun wasn’t entirely sure. He wanted to spend more time with her, to learn more about her, to puzzle out this complicated thing she was to him… but despite their moment of shared intimacy, it was very clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Was it the guilt? It couldn’t be him personally, could it?
Maybe he should face Balor himself. Zevulun’s stomach turned over with guilt as he thought of the kind-hearted bay paint stallion who’d allowed him to share his home. No, no… Riesling first. It was her choice in the end whether or not she wanted Balor to know. If she wanted to hide and cover it up… well, Zevulun supposed he couldn’t fault her for it. As it was, he’d already done enough damage and was tired of finding that even when he tried to solve problems, he only seemed to create more.
Instead of being so wrapped up in his confusing, conflicting feelings of Balor and his mares, he needed to spend more time focusing on his herd. In truth, Zevulun wasn’t going into the cold winter waters to swim to Crossing Isle because he wanted more horses inside Luthien. He was going for yet again another distraction. Another day spent away from here where he wouldn’t have to catch a glimpse of Riesling or of Larka or of Balor and find himself mixed with conflicting emotions.
Zevulun climbed ashore and let the water run off his shaggy, creamy white winter-coat. He shook and sent droplets flying and darkened the sandy shore before blowing a hard breath to shove the little bit of ocean out of his nose and off of his lips. The salty taste lingered and he smacked his lips, ears turned out with distaste before he started ambling inland in search of a place to drink. There were plenty of hidden ponds and creeks and rivers if one knew where to look and Zevulun, who’d always loved a romp around Crossing Isle when he was young, knew of plenty of them.
After drinking from the river of the Falls and shaking out the last few drops of seawater from his winter coat, Zevulun settled only for a few minutes before he started walking again. The Falls were uncharacteristically quiet and empty, and for a moment he wondered if this was a sign he shouldn’t have come at all. Maybe he should be responsible enough to stay in the Prairie throughout the duration of winter, to be right there in case anyone needed him.
The stallion sighed and turned for the Meadows, deciding he’d make one half-hearted, slow loop around the territory before heading back. The trip didn’t need to be a total loss, he could always take a moment to try and find his aunt in the Peak and see how she was getting on. Having just come to this conclusion, Zevulun pulled up short at the sight of a bay and white horse a small distance away and found himself frowning.
It… it couldn’t be…
“Dances?” He asked, voice a white cloud of warm air in front of his face. He frowned and turned toward the stallion, picking his way carefully over to him. The closer and closer he drew, the more apparent it was he was looking at who he’d thought he was. Zevulun stopped short, just a small distance from the tobiano, and snorted his surprise, lifting his head high and perking his ears forward. He wanted to be the gleeful colt, excited to see someone he’d considered an uncle, but all the heartbreak that had come to Nephilim’s children made him pause.
Seeing Dances just made him wish, even knowing it’d never happen, that suddenly, the gold-freckled figure of his father would come out from the woods beside him. Not the skinny, one-eared, one-eyed skeletal thing that had claimed to be his father, but the stallion Nephilim was when Zevulun was young.
“Dances…” he said more softly, and took one small, hesitant step close. His head lowered, blue eyes wide and, despite his better judgement, becoming filled with a hope he should no longer have. “Is it really you?”
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