It had been any other spring day, halfway through the season, just days after he laughed and frolicked with his mares and children among the superbloom, when Zevulun was simply patrolling the borders of his home and tragedy struck. A mother bear, likely with her first cub, had crossed his path shortly after he’d stepped into the Thicket, curious about the familiar scent of Arroyo’s he caught. He’d startled the cub, who’d tumbled, and when the cub let out an injured, panicked cry, the mother bear had been overcome with blind rage. There was no escaping her, there was just surviving...

Then there was pain like he had never known, and then darkness. When he awoke he realized he’d tumbled and fallen down some sharp declines in the granite and dirt, crashed through thorny brush and was lying in his own blood, physically weaker than he’d ever remembered being. He’d tried calling out, but his throat was so dry, noise couldn’t come out. He’d tried standing, but the nasty gash where the bear’s claw had cut through his back leg down to near-bone made sure he wasn’t going to be capable of that.

So for the last two weeks of spring and all throughout summer, Zevulun was trapped just miles away from his home and unable to get anyone’s attention and somehow able to stay alive just enough, through fever and infection, to drag his injured body up, up, up… and then one day he walked into the Prairie and learned an opportunist had come to take his land while he was gone.

Zevulun did not blame the stallion; he himself had been such an opportunist just five years prior, when he’d thought the Prairie empty only to later find Balor here, established, and hoping to stay. A mixture of feelings were stirring inside Zevulun’s stomach as one by one, those of his herd appeared to greet him. The reunions were emotional, the guilt gnawing at his conscience at each sight of the children born later in spring he’d never had the opportunity to know until then. But if nothing else, this situation showed him many things he could be proud of. Even in his absence, his herd was here. They knew their places to be unbothered and safe and they had not been harassed or harmed when he was not here to protect them. The friends he’d made on Luthien and beyond, those familial ties that’d grown stronger and stronger yet with each year that passed since he established himself in Luthien, proved beneficial. His family had no shortage of safe places to seek shelter until they knew if they could stay in the Prairie once more. It was even more of a relief knowing they could go to his daughter in Paradise, or even just in the Savanna with Kvasir. Places without targets painted on them. Places that wouldn’t bring more drama for a family already torn asunder.

But as tired as Zevulun was and as badly as he ached, there was still more to do before he could travel to the Savanna himself and finally collapse and rest. He felt his weight sway, his pale hooves stumbling in step as he lurched to move at last, pulling away from everyone to trail after the intruder they’d seen in the distance.

Before he could, however, he was intercepted by Riesling. I will not stay here with you. The words hurt, despite the fact that he expects them. Any argument he might’ve voiced, Zevulun forcibly snuffed out before the words could begin to form on his tongue. It felt strange to be cut so deep by just her words alone, when so much else was happening. But he had always been such a weak fool, and he had known for a long, long while that he loved Riesling in a way she could likely never return. He had to trust she would not risk her life or their unborn child’s, if she felt she could survive the swim to Salem, he wouldn’t argue. He would trust her.

How many conversations of that sort did you have with Balor before he was nothing but a forgotten corpse, and you the victor with his home and his herd?

The words “forgotten corpse” almost felt like a bite to his face; he shied away somewhat, pulling his neck high and snorting softly. How could Balor be a forgotten corpse when the image of him, lying cold and lifeless among the Ruin shallows, haunted Zevulun nearly every day that followed? But he knew what she meant by what she said, and he knew she was right the more she spoke. Despite his decision to keep the Prairie his and his bloodline’s, Riesling was right. At Zevulun’s core he had never been the heartless leader Mariael had tried to show him to be; he had the love and compassion of Maziel, through and through.

But he wouldn’t send Riesling. Not now. His look quieted on her face and studied the emotions shining in her eyes. I’ve spent too long here to let you disappear into some watery grave… her earlier spoken words rang back in his ears. Zevulun sighed a low, long breath and glanced at Micah, and then beyond, where he saw his eldest son Raziel approaching. He nickered out to him, beckoning him close.

“Go, meet with this new stallion who took the Prairie. Learn everything about him, what he wants. What his goals are here.” Raziel’s face had paled when he looked at his father’s injury, and the way he was standing there among them, still trying to be a leader in spite of it all. He only nodded, unable to speak, accepting the direction put on him and nodding before he turned about and trotted away from the gathering, off to find the stallion who had come to take the Prairie away. Only when he left did Zevulun look back at Riesling.

“I’m not going to share this place.” He assured her quietly. “I had already made up my mind about it before…” Well, before fate reminded him of how fickle it was. “But you’re right. It’s best I don’t speak with him now.” Maybe it was best if he didn’t meet him until spring, when his leg was healed enough to fight. Maybe it was best if the first time he faced the intruder was in a fight, when emotions were too high for any soft reasoning to wiggle in.

“When are you going to leave for Salem?” He tried. Damnit he tried to not let his voice soften, but it did, and he was too weak to hide any hurt that might’ve lingered in the blues of his eyes.