It seems history is intent upon repeating itself.

Autumn came. Balor disappeared, and Zevulun took the Prairie in his place. Autumn is here again, Zevulun has gone and some stranger is in the Prairie in his place. Balor returned, and then Balor died. Zevulun returns; Riesling finds that this is where she would like history to stop. Zevulun cannot follow his friend here and die, nameless and cast out.

Riesling is no stranger to a power change; usually she is the first to arrive, sus out exactly what the newcomer wants, give it to him and secure her safety. But she is rewriting the inevitable here, she is fighting the cyclical turn that says next Zevulun will take a subordinate role and then slink off to rot in the ground somewhere without so much as a goodbye.

So Riesling watches, but she does not approach. She doesn’t bargain for her safety, doesn’t feel the need to negotiate a place for herself, for the herd, for Zevulun.

She is no longer alone - Rafe is here, only a few islands away. Her safety is assured; she and Claret and this unnamed, overdue child will always have somewhere to go. Zevulun will too - she knows her brother would welcome him and whatever remains of his herd if only she asked; they’ve not ever been the sort to deny one another anything.

If some small part of her cannot fathom doing such a thing, offering herself and a child to this invader because she will have to reckon with the inevitable hurt in Zevulun’s gaze when he looks to her in the aftermath, well, Riesling does not acknowledge it. Soft feelings such as that, affection for someone so useless as Zevulun are a danger to them all. So she tamps it down viciously, banning whatever kernel of love she felt to the dark recesses of her mind, condemning the feelings to a slow, withering death.

The only reason she hadn’t made a break for the Badlands sooner is that she’s as wide as a damn tree, overdue in her pregnancy to the point where she is worried for her life. This child, which she has vowed will be her last, has been the most difficult pregnancy of her life. To be quite honest, Riesling isn’t sure she would even manage to make the swim in her condition. Laboring wherever she washes up, under threat of kidnapping or loss of Claret is simply not an option.

She catches Zevulun’s scent on the wind, no longer stale and old but fresh. Tainted with rot, with sickness, but she cannot think of that now; all she can think of is that he is here. Riesling gathers up Claret and calls out for Castillon (although he wanders so far now, there is no telling if he will follow them) before making her slow, laborious way towards where she hears voices.

She doesn’t know the mare or filly with him, but that is little surprise. In all the years that Riesling has lived here she has never actually spoken to another one of the herd members. It also is of little concern to her. She waddles forward, planting herself in front of Zevulun, ears pinned and golden eyes as sharp as ever. “A bear?” she scoffs at him, disbelief warring with irritation. Why didn’t he run? He’s old, sure, but not so old that he couldn’t make his escape. “And of course you fought it,” she can’t help but sneer, although the venom in her voice is dampened with concern. Silly, noble idiot. He was probably more concerned with the fallen cub than he was with his own safety.

Riesling shifts so she can glance at his leg and adds, “You won’t be able to beat him, not in this state. He’s small and not much to look at but he’s healthy.” Riesling glances back over her shoulder to where she had last seen the fine-boned black stallion. She practically towers over him, and even while not pregnant to the high heavens she has a significant amount of bulk on him. He isn’t exactly a threatening figure. “He hasn’t tried for any of us; no taste for violence, it seems. Take the herd to the Badlands - Claret and I are on our way, as soon as this damned child of yours sees fit to show its face. Recuperate, and in the Winter I will take back our home while you sit back with the children and watch.”