but i was not blind;

Being back in the Prairie had felt okay – until, of course, she’d found her stranger again. That had sent Claret into a tail-spin and she’d panicked, hiding away for weeks. Being faced with her presence so unexpectedly had forced Claret to reckon with things she was not ready to give credence to. She had had little choice, though. Avoidance didn’t work and so Claret had faced it head-on.

Most of her family was missing, her mother and father both long gone. Her youngest half-sister was left behind, devastatingly beautiful and as icily brutal as their mother on a good day. Claret had her work cut out for her, keeping the leggy yearling girl out of trouble. The striking black-and-white filly was a magnet for stallions and had an appetite for trouble not colored by Claret’s own experiences as a young mare held captive.
Life was hard – and so she only felt slightly guilty taking Airen away, retreating from the Prairie for parts lesser known, wild and poorly inhabited lands off the islands. She didn’t bother hunting down her mother or father to say goodbye - and all she offered Roi was a half-hearted, murmured explanation and a lingering glance.

It’s been too long - honestly, a nearly embarrassing amount of time she’s been gone. The likelihood that someone she’s related to still holds the Prairie is slim, and it is even less likely that Roisin is around. But…but they’re back, and Airen has split off to make her own way. She’s a mare grown now, and while Claret would much prefer she stay safely tucked away on Luthien, there was no convincing her sister that that was the best path forward. They may be cut from the same cloth, born of the same mare, may have shared an upbringing in all ways that matter but Claret is ever Zevulun’s daughter - little of Riesling’s fire is within her. Instead of the white-hot flare, it burns low and slow, a well-banked coal that lends strength.

She’s home. That’s what matters - and regardless of what she expected, it does seem that one of her myriad relations still holds the Prairie. Not a half-brother, but a young uncle she remembers her mother and Rafe being so upset about, assuming that the pale stallion was Zevulun’s child and the basest form of betrayal by her grandmother. Perhaps, then, he will let her stay when she explains the convoluted nature of their relationship. And if he will not…perhaps she continues further south. Her father had many children; someone, somewhere would give her refuge, wouldn’t they? Because Claret knows one thing about herself after this journey - she will never be a herdmare, will never have a stallion to call her own, children to rear. She cannot love that way; how some pine over a handsome face and a strong form, she thinks of the soft words and reassuring, kind eyes of Roisin. She thinks of long, lonely nights spent wishing she had poured the truth of her soul out to the other mare when she had a chance. She thinks of the companionship and comfort of another mare - not the polite disinterest or outright fear she feels around stallions.

Her absence has given her this, at least. Claret crosses a small stream and steps from the shade into the warm autumn sunshine, breathes in the rich air of her home and closes her eyes in satisfaction. Whatever else happens, at least it will happen here.

claret