Something happened the morning he awoke in Atlantis. Zevulun’s next place to travel was the Badlands, but something inexplicably called him back to Luthien. He stood on the shoreline, watching the water lap against the sand as he pointed southwest, but felt the pressure to turn about and head north instead. Stubbornly he wanted to push forward with his plan: one day on Atlantis, one day on Salem, and then the third day he would return to Luthien. Was he hesitating because he was not ready to see Riesling?

No, that wasn’t it. Despite the way his heart cut deep any time he considered their final conversation in the Prairie, Zevulun did not feel a need to hide away and never see her again. Plus, he needed to know for himself that she had made it to the Badlands safely last season and delivered their child; he wanted to meet his child. In his youth he hadn’t minded covering mares all over the islands and, as a result, there were children he’d sired that he’d never gotten the chance to know. There was no helping that his relationship with his and Riesling’s third child was bound to be strained, given that he assumed Riesling was going to choose to stay in the Badlands rather than return to the Prairie.

With all of this in his head, Zevulun couldn’t understand why it felt oddly impossible to simply walk forward into the warm waters that lapped the Atlantis shoreline. Salem lay just ahead, a short and easy swim; to return all the way up to Luthien would delay this trip by another few days at the least.

But… he couldn’t do it. Something was drawing him back not only to Luthien, but to the Prairie specifically.

The sigh that left his breath when he was standing among the tall yellow grasses and rolling hills was a heavy one, but it left him feeling lighter. Zevulun had not returned to the Prairie since the day he’d drug himself out of the Thicket and let those who remained in his absence know he was alive. It had been the Savanna (and a short trip to the Forest) that he had spent his autumn healing and growing stronger, focusing on the upcoming spring and hoping he would be physically capable of issuing a challenge, let alone winning it. Keeping himself away from the Prairie had been imperative, though he’d known he’d come back in winter at some point to see Larka; even if she didn’t wish to see him, he wanted to at least check on her and their child.

Was that why he’d felt so compelled to return here?

The pale stallion limped slowly over the rolling hills, walking further into the territory. The wound on his back leg was no longer a deep gash, now it was long, large healing lines of new, pink-flesh. Hair would never grow there again, leaving a stark reminder of everything he’d endured the last three seasons. Zevulun kept his head lifted, pink nostrils flared as he took in scents now and again. The scent of the stallion who’d claimed the Prairie was still there, but faint. Zevulun drew himself to a halt near the heart of the territory, chin held high and blue eyes peering curiously all about him. The quiet was… striking.

His heartbeat stammered in his chest. Could it be? Could the Prairie really be his again?