Common

Riesling is a little irritated when Balor points out running or fighting is an option. As if she hadn’t considered that, resigned to starting again as soon as her body was up to the task. But it isn’t so simple as all that - once you start running, you can never stop. Riesling knows the vicious cycle well; you can leave a place behind, but it doesn’t mean you escape. Not what it did to you, not what it meant to you - none of it. She can still feel her past in every inch of her body, and running only made things worse. “Choices aren’t always a blessing,” Riesling bites out. “And leaving them behind is never so easy.”

Sometimes, she thinks of the little colt she abandoned almost a year ago now, helpless at the feet of some strange mare who was desperately sobbing over the body of her own stillborn. Her son had looked so beautiful, lighter red coat broken up with a clear white, unmarked by the darker spots covering her own end. He was flashy and tall and finely built, even as a newborn struggling to stand. It ripped her heart to pieces to walk away, in a way she had never expected, but the choice was made. She didn’t want the foal - she wanted an excuse to hide away for blessedly peaceful seasons, she wanted to have an excuse to be left alone, and she wanted an excuse to die. He never would have let her, otherwise. It was worth it, in her mind, to carry the child, to bear the child. It was even worth it to walk away from the child - or it would have been, if she wasn’t caught. No fresh start, only an endless run and a lifetime of paranoia to avoid a fate worse than one she’d ever known before. Her anger had bought her a life of violence - what would the murder of his son bring? Of course she hoped the mare took him in, raised him as her own, but there was no way of knowing. They’d not shared a word or a look - both so lost in their grief they were hardly more than shells. Riesling had left the colt and slid off into the night, hoping he wouldn’t die. From the moment she found she was carrying she’d been preparing the foal as a sacrifice in the name of her freedom, but when the tears came they were great, wracking sobs, bitter and unending as she mourned the life she wanted. As she mourned her son.

Riesling sighs out a quiet agreement, sadness at the train of thought ebbing out some of her venom “A year at least," she agrees tiredly, “To put back on the weight I’ve lost, before I can even consider running again.”

It’s a painful admission but it’s the reality of where she’s at now. A few more weeks at this rate and she’d not even have a chance to defend herself, little hope of a choice or rational thought. She’d be caught for sure, and these days the mercy of a quick death is preferable to slowly running herself into the ground. Her golden brown eyes fall on the quiet, kind stallion next to her, gaze calculating as she stays silent at his offer. Such an emphasis on choice, on making this her own decision. It’s a terrifying sort of power, one she hates, because Riesling doesn’t trust herself. Every choice she’s been allowed to make in the past has sent her a few steps closer to ruin.

“I could leave whenever I wished?” she asks him, voice tight with resignation. Even if he agrees, now, she knows well how quickly things change in a year. Her choices are limited, and the way he looks around has her quickly weighing her options, an involuntary half-step toward the empty horizon as she tenses to run. Had he heard something? The longer she lingers in such a public place, the better chance of being found. He doesn’t react any further, though, so Riesling forces herself to relax, and glances at the stallion again. “Fine. Lead the way, then, Balor. At least on Luthien, she can hide away in his territory and recover somewhere that isn’t quite so visible. “Slowly,” she adds crossly. ”I’m hardly in any condition to chase you through the ocean.”