Every night of his absence had been spent with guilt and half-hearted justifications. Yes, he had left his family, his friends, his responsibilities without so much as a message directing their attention to where he had gone; but the stranger had said that the king was alive, that he was in hiding and waiting for his son to return to rally the masses, to take back the kingdom. He had been the oldest, the firstborn son, the next in the line of succession - it had been his duty to go, hadn't it? But how does one trade one duty for another? How does one's past rank against their present or their future? To whom did he owe the most loyalty - the family he had lost or the family he had adopted as a replacement? But he had been groomed for years to become king of Th'orqui, and it was that instinct that compelled him to leave immediately for the faraway land, to seek out his miraculously living father and take back their throne.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. He saw the way her eyes crinkled when she was afraid. He saw the gentle lines that framed her mouth when she smiled. And yes, he saw the feminine shape of her body, remembered the way the sight of her made his blood quicken and his heart race. He remembered the way she would burrow her way under his wing, into his heart and his protection - and he had betrayed her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her, and he remembered. And he hated himself for it.

It had not taken long for him to realize that the stranger's story had been a ruse. The more questions he asked of the mercenary, the more cryptic the responses; and finally, the truth came out. The Anarchists wanted him dead. They wanted no trace of the royal lineage to remain in order to better strengthen their claim to power. The stranger's role among the mercenaries was a diplomatic one; he was not a ruthless warrior of the Anarchy, but rather a grunt sent to retrieve lost goods. Even with the prince's lack of proper combat training, the mercenary could not have succeeded in a fight; and so Quilyan was able to persuade him to return the Th'orqui and assure the new rulers that their enemy had no desire for the throne. Once, he would have thirsted for their blood, longed for vengeance - but he was older now, and wiser, and tired. He wanted his home, and his remaining family, and his lover. He wanted the bloodshed to end.

Zarina was the first to notice the dragon wheeling above. -Valiance.- The prince's head snapped up, his violet gaze finding the familiar form of his lover's bonded. Resplendence. He looks around wildly, searching the landscape for a sign of where she might be (for her companion would not ever be far away). And then, movement: she is running to him, and his heart swells to bursting at the sight of her, and as she slides to a stop only a neck's reach away, he takes a sudden step forward, aiming to throw his head over her neck, pull her into his chest. His guilt and fear be damned: she may hate him now, but she is alive and she is here and he needs her. "Resplendence," he breathes, his breath dancing through the air between them (or, should she receive his embrace, the lack thereof). "I'm not dead. I'm so sorry, my love."


"more words."

@[abba]

Quilyan

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