Zevulun did not leave the Prairie much these days. His thirst for adventure had become more and more weighed down as every sorrowful, stressful thing came to lay over his shoulders. He liked to spend time with his daughters or with his son, because they were one of the few good things he had these days. He’d cuddle up to whichever of his mates would permit physical affection and take full advantage of their cuddles. He was clingy when he let himself be, or when they let him be, and quiet and serious other times. He would stand in the Prairie, looking toward the Thicket and a look would cross his face that used to be rare to it.
Anger, brought on by festering guilt. The change that had come to the Thicket was, at the root of it, his fault. Bacardi now being there wasn’t, but he wished it could be anyone but the painted stallion. Zevulun was not only running the Prairie alone and mourning the loss of his friend, he was now worrying about the loss of peace on his island. He knew Persephone and Vidarr trusted him… he could go to them and tell them to be frigid toward Bacardi. Maybe they’d push him out, even…
Then he’d feel horrible for thinking so meanly and his guilt would double.
So, it was an early morning on Luthien, when the high winds were blowing ice through the snow-covered grounds that Zevulun had decided he’d had enough. He couldn’t risk starting any trouble on the other islands when he had enough racked up for good, so he chose the most neutral place he could: The Falls.
The pale stallion’s coat was damp from his swim, but the early morning chill was almost invigorating. He snorted and arched his neck, feeling more himself than he had in quite some time. His knees picked up high and his wet tail flagged out behind him. His blue eyes darted over a large rock near the water, then realized a step later that it wasn’t a rock, but a horse. His hooves slammed into the cold ground and he heaved a large breath that materialized as fog in front of his face. He carefully walked through it, ears perked…
The first thing he thought of was his father - skin and bones, missing an ear and an eye, his gold freckled coat dull, patchy, and covered in horrific scars. Ice hit Zevulun’s gut. He thought about Balor, waterlogged in the cold autumn sea, bones grotesquely poking against his skin. His heart beat with fear. Hadn’t it been not too long ago he’d already decided he’d had enough? Why was he being punished again?
Then, he saw movement.
Zevulun’s heart lifted and his ice-blue eyes went wide and bright with hope, pink-lined pale ears perking. She let out a cry - the saddest, most heartbreaking cry he’d ever heard, and Zevulun was immediately reminded of pushing Sabriel to those very shores. He wasted no time in nickering back at her, dropping his head low and walking forward.
“I’m here,” he told her in a whisper, the ache in his voice as deep as if she was someone he knew. She may be a stranger, but Zevulun was no stranger to finding loved ones in her condition and he knew the despair it took to drive them there was unbearable. “I’m here,” he said again, “what can I do? Let me help you…”
|
