Zevulun nodded understandably as Bacardi spoke of time keeping him from meeting the other leaders of Luthien. “I used to be better at making the rounds to the other territories, but hadn’t done so in the last couple years myself.” The irony in the moment he was taken away was that the chaos of the prior year was coming to a close and Zevulun was finally beginning to feel as though he could focus on Luthien as a whole again. He put those thoughts aside and admitted, “The only reason I know the Savanna stallion so well is because a daughter of mine lives with him.”

Bacardi spoke of an Oligarchy and again, Zevulun nodded. The pair of them may never be close friends, but maybe Sidra had been right after all. Maybe they saw what was for the best for Luthien and were grown enough to put aside personal hang-ups for the betterment of the island they called home.

“I would agree to that,” Zevulun said, “even if the war never truly breaks, it’d be good to have our island be a united one, all on the same page.” He stood a little taller, almost subconsciously returning to the confidence he held as a leader, rather than the faulty guilt he’d been pressed beneath all this time. He thought of Kvasir and felt confident enough to suggest, “I think the stallion in the Savanna, Kvasir, would be agreeable. He’s young, but he has a good head on his shoulders that I’ve seen.” Zevulun spoke fondly of the brown and white stallion. There had been no hesitancy in autumn when Zevulun had shown up near-death on Kvasir’s doorstep, needing a safe place to heal and keep the family who had come with him. Because of that kindness, Zevulun knew he would always feel somewhat indebted to Kvasir, just as he now felt to Bacardi for giving Sidra a home, as well as the care she deserved. He wondered if she had seen how sickly her mother had become in his absence and if she’d worried she might lose her too. He looked over her and his gaze softened.

“I should return to the Savanna, it’ll take me some time to get back.” Sidra tried to speak up, likely to offer to travel back with him, but Zevulun interjected before she could get a word out. “I’ll be fine on my own, you should stay here with Bacardi.” His eyes drifted briefly to the painted stallion and he felt they had some understanding between them. Zevulun felt humbled beneath the painted stallion’s yellow eyes, and of course grateful as he’d expressed.

“I’m not sure of the Thicket stallion, I haven’t met him yet.” He circled their conversation back to island politics, then concluded, “if I’m successful in spring, I’ll return to deliver the news myself.” If. Zevulun hated to even say it, to speak of any fraction of doubt to his success in the world, but he was trying his best to be realistic. Despite fearing what may become of his mental state if he failed, he was trying not to charge so blindly forward and assume immediate success.

Zevulun moved forward to share a loving, short touch with his daughter, then met Bacardi’s eyes and nodded again. An unspoken, further acknowledgement of his gratitude toward the Forest lead. He had never personally thought any horse could fill the space Persephone had here among these trees, but Bacardi did. With one last goodbye shared with Sidra, Zevulun turned to walk away and return for the Savanna. His hair was slow, but his limp wasn’t as pronounced as it had been just weeks ago; pain didn’t shoot up into his hip and groin anymore. He was getting better, it was only a matter of time.