There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

The problem is, they are the same. Or, at least, they were once. In the time before Resplendence, in the time before Zarina: they would have been perfect, he and Phaedra, a force to be reckoned with. In truth, if he were to give in to her seductions, to allow himself to fall into the trap that he knows exists just beneath the surface of their innocent flirtations, they might still be - but he has already decided, already made his choice, already pledged his allegiance and promised his loyalty. He has not, perhaps, been the most honorable of steeds - but he has always been reliable, and it is on this thought that he chooses to focus, for without the promises and the oaths and the commitments, he knows he would give in to her, and he knows that they could be something unstoppable.

They are users, the Opulent and he, forever picking and prodding at their peers in order to find some new secret, some unknown piece of information that will give them power and control. They would use everyone else, and then, when they ran out of victims, they would use each other, relying on one another as parasites will do; and they would part ways eventually, one having gained the upper hand at long last, until some new tidbit came along and ruined the illusion, and somehow they would remain stuck in their uneasy alliance, growing more and more desperate to break free. So, you see, they are very alike. She knows it, and he knows it, and it is here that they shall remain, forever teetering on the brink of something wonderfully terrible, pushing and pulling at the doors that kept them separated.

Perhaps, one day, the doors would open, and they would see what it feels like to crash and burn.

But, for now, he merely smiles and says, "You're right." He left it at that, allowing his gaze to linger on hers, the pair of them holding one another hostage until he breaks free, tracing the petite lines of her face, the soft folds of her wings, the feminine speckles dancing along her bodice. He has nothing more to say on the subject, nothing more to add: if he were honest, he would admit that it discomforts him, how close they are on some subconscious level - but he is not honest, at least not with himself, and so he concentrates on the material, focuses on the concrete. At the very least, she has nothing to fear from him emotionally - for he will not tell her lies, will not claim love when he feels nothing, will not make promises he does not intend to keep.

And if he makes a mistake now, he will spend a lifetime mending his broken relationship.

But he does not think of that.

@[Phaedra]

[W/C | ---]
Walk walk walk.
Talk talk talk.
Think think think.

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