Witnessing Darshan’s death in the midst of childbirth had placed a very heavy, sobering reality on the dangers mares put their bodies through to bring new life into the world. Zevulun had always sympathized with the mares who’s bellies swelled with his children, but even worrying about them hadn’t prepared himself for the anxiety he’d feel after watching Darshan pass. It was difficult to walk the line of being overbearing and keeping a steady eye, but with the rest of the islands falling to pieces (in Zevulun’s opinion) he chose to remain home instead, watching over the mares who were going to bless him with new foals in the upcoming spring.

The frustrating truth was no matter how much he fretted, he couldn’t do a damn thing if things turned for the worse. He would only be able to stand helplessly by, cursing the way fate was so fickle, and watch a horror pass before him again. So, where Zevulun was normally quite excitable and almost colt-like with the approaching season of foals, he was instead quiet and somber. Some of the herd would likely attribute it to the loss of Ramiel (-and the fact that he hadn’t bothered trying to return home) as well as Claret and what dramatics had ensued after her loss.

Either way, despite the worries, the world would keep turning for the better or for the worse.

Larka’s disappearance was rather notable, despite the Prairie herd being run rather loosely and able to choose where they might like to graze and relax among the vast, rolling hills. She had been staying close to where the largest number of the herd stuck together lately and Zevulun had eyes for her quite frequently. Since their hushed confession his warmth and love for her had only grown and, allowed to now express it, he often found himself gravitating toward the dark-pointed mare either for conversation, a quiet grazing partner, or a close cuddle of shared warmth where he could idly trail kisses along her skin.

After enough time had passed to feel notable to him, the cream stallion took off at a brisk trot, pink nose to the ground as he whuffed and caught the old trail of her scent. It took him little time at all to come around a bend, over a soft roll in the earth, and spy the sight of Larka nursing their first child. He paused briefly just to absorb the sight of something so perfect, something so worth all the worries and anxieties he’d had the entire time he waited for their arrival. The foal was a bold golden color, sharing the dark points of their mother, but spattered over their rump in white with spots like his. Without even having met them, just upon first sight, Zevulun loved them tremendously.

A low, rumbling nicker called out of his lips, coming from deep in his chest. It was possible that while he was taken aback by watching their child, Larka had already taken note of his arrival, but he called out to her anyway and started down the slope to make his way closer. His pace slowed, haunches dropping somewhat to pull any gained speed up so he could stop close, though not crowd the pair, and offer his muzzle first to Larka. He looked over at her carefully, noting the tired lines in her face, then sighed softly, a little relief at the fact that she seemed overall healthy.

“Larka,” he said, his blue eyes briefly flicking to the child at her flank - a girl - and couldn’t help the way the edges of his pink lips curved into a smile. “She’s beautiful.” He only allowed a brief pause before he pulled his gaze away and back to Larka. “You’re okay?”