The stallion was struck by the change in her voice as the mare addressed the little marmoset. Whatever he had done - whatever pain he had caused - he had scarred the mare, hurt her beyond what words could say. He had never considered himself particularly perceptive - perhaps it was a shred of a memory, but he wouldn't have known that - but this he understood. This he saw without a shadow of a doubt. And somehow, guilt pervaded him, drove through his heart like a knife. Whatever else he did, wherever else he went, he knew that this encounter (the uncertainty of it, the raw emotion of it) would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Zarina chirped softly, making her way slowly up the mare's long mane. There was a certain sadness in her, almost a depression, for she, at least, knew what her prince had lost. How long they were gone, she still didn't know - but it had been far, far too long. The wounds were too deep, too scarred over, and the mare's pain resounded deeply within the marmoset. She would miss Resplendence, regardless of what came after, and she knew that by doing so, she would cause her bonded pain time and again. Her lithe fingers began to braid, a task that had always calmed her. This time - this last time - she took special care, winding and weaving in a way that she never had before. Braids began to take shape, looping through one another, weaving into a lovely pattern. Perhaps she would finish her last work by the end of their journey. She hoped that it would be some small condolence to her bonded's mate.

Of course the marmoset and the mare would be in cahoots. Naturally. He began to wonder if perhaps this wasn't just some cruel jape - but at the mention of his sister, the stallion started. "Nasreen? She's here? But how? She was - she was in the castle, they... she can't have survived... how...?" Wonder and excitement sparked and fell short, doused by the tension that remained. The prince stood in silence, mulling over the weight that had fallen between them. She was a lovely mare, and despite his lack of memory, he could not help but feel a deep, sudden loss. "I'm... sorry, then," he responded finally. "I'm sorry that I don't remember, and I'm sorry for your pain. I... For what it's worth, I'm not sure why I would have left you, but I don't believe... I hope I would not have done so willingly. I regret that I cannot offer more closure than that."

He hesitated. "I wouldn't want to trouble you, not... now." Now... whatever 'now' was. Now, after everything that he, apparently, had done. Now, after finding that his image of himself was scarred and blurred, lacking in direction and focus. "If you will give me a direction, I will find my own way. Unless... you would rather...?"

"more words."

Quilyan

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