Give us all the storybook told me - the faith and the glory, till my kingdom comes

Hotaru knew the glint of an amulet even from the distance between them. If she could offer him a single platitude, the only gift she had to give that he could in any way appreciate it, she would sacrifice it. No matter how the sweat collected on her body, how her heart seemed to shred itself with a unanimous self-hatred that would take weeks to crawl out of her bones and stop plaguing her. His pain was so evident, so distinct and profound that all she wanted was to look away. Even so she forced herself to watch, to bear witness to the atrocity she was committing – regardless of whether he’d begged her to or not. Hotaru had always been proud of her power, of the fact that she could bring men like Ashamin to their knees or rip pegasi from the sky with the force of her will. It was always a rush of pleasure and perverse excitement, for she had been weak and broken for so long. Was it not righteous retribution? Was she not deserving? But this…this was never what she had wanted.
 
Ashamin was no foe of hers, no conquest to tote proudly and then glance away from at herd meetings. For the Lady, he had kept his tongue blissfully silent, holding the burden of her fears and insecurities upon his humbly-bowed head. He had slipped into her heart without a breath of warning, leaving her stumbling and struck dumb by how quickly she’d grown fond of him. Friendship in a place she had not expected, allegiance in the crooks and corners of shadows. Pack as Alice would call them all. For Hotaru loved her family, her herd, even with their machinations and conspiracies. Even with the violence in their hearts and the blood upon their souls, she loved them. She had vowed to protect them the moment her fingers had clasped that bloodied crown, to die only in serving them and ensure that under her rule, they would want for nothing their greedy and immoral hearts desired. So was the chain of the royals, and yet here she stood, forcing pain upon the body of her subject.
 
Her friend, the importance of which was not lost on her for how few she had.
 
When he crumpled, as surely as a blade to the back of his neck, she felt her heart fall with him. No force could have held her as she raced to his side, sliding immediately to her knees in a way that scraped at them. It was the smallest of paybacks for the pain she’d inflicted, and her tears bubbled over in the worst sob as she saw the tears wetting his cheeks. His nose touched against the soft, vulnerable side of her throat, and her grief was expelled in a sharp, feminine wail of distress. She threw her neck over his withers, crying messily and rocking against him, wondering where she found the strength and passion to hate herself with such virility.
 
“Never make me do that again,” was cried into his bloodied skin, her own form shaking with the force of her despair. Every Queen had a downfall, after all. Perhaps he was hers.