There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

He heard her coming before he saw her, but only just; he was so wrapped up in his inspection of the rotunda that he would have been hard-put to notice anything outside it. When the mare barreled through the doorway, sending the hanging drapes flaring toward him, his head snapped toward her and he snorted with surprise. He leaped to the side, luckily lunging to the opposite side from her and avoiding what would have been a dangerous and painful collision. She, on the other hoof, was not so lucky - she slid to the ground, slipping haphazardly toward one of the stone walls. "Watch out -" he warned sharply, but the mare had slowed to a heaving halt before she hit the pillar. He sighed with relief, trotting to quickly close the distance between them.

He expected her to rise, and when she did not, he frowned with concern. Was she injured? "Er... m'lady, are you injured?" he asked, but his question was lost amid her earth-shattering tears. She wailed, kicking and screaming in either rage or pain (to be honest, he couldn't really tell the difference), and he retreated to watch warily. She didn't look injured on the outside - in any case, there were no broken bones that he could see, no blood spattering the floor of the rotunda. He waited, perplexed, wanting very badly to leave her in peace to vent her frustrations (or whatever this was), but unable to bring himself to depart until he had made sure that she was alright.

When she finally quieted, the prince and his companion shared a silent sigh of relief. The marmoset had climbed to perch once more atop the prince's head, a living crown that watched with as much confusion as her bonded. When the mare twisted to look at him, a weak smile on her face, he responded in kind (though his violet eyes bespoke his bewilderment and, perhaps, a hint of fear). "I... uh..." he stuttered, lost amid the sudden shift of her mood. Still, he wracked his brains, looking for an honest answer to her question. "Not happy, perhaps. But I have had to be..." Princely? Kingly? What had he had to be, exactly? "I know what it's like to wear a mask that others expect to see." There. That was honest.

Her eyes were so sad - it captivated him, drove him to stay rather than to politely excuse himself. But that wasn't the only thing about her - she was lightly colored, with darker dots spread across her body. Her wings were noteworthy for how unique they were - it was quite rare for him to encounter a Pegasus without feathered wings. They were beautiful. He didn't have long to look her over, though, for then she was approaching him, encroaching on his politely maintained space. He leaned back slightly, more to look at her than to get away from her, confusion evident on his features. This became even more pronounced as she pressed closer to him. Uh, what do I do? he asked Zarina silently. The marmoset shrugged mentally, for once rendered speechless.

The mare was warm. He was much hyperaware of her presence, of every place where her flesh met his. He lowered his head slowly, spreading his wings, engulfing her within his feathered appendages, offering her a safe haven from the cold outside. Was it the right thing to do? Perhaps, perhaps not - but he was far too aware of the effect that her damsel-in-distress act was having on his masculinity, and he was, unfortunately, powerless to resist. "Do you... want to talk about it?" he asked tentatively, his voice muffled against her mane. What an odd encounter, he found himself thinking distantly, nervous about the things that she was making him feel.

Talk talk talk.

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

The prince stood stoically, his wings wrapped gently around the crying mare. Zarina grumbled from her place atop his poll, craning to see if she could get a better view. There was something familiar about her, but the marmoset couldn't quite place it. Quilyan, of course, was useless on the matter. He couldn't remember anything since Th'orqui - except, of course, all that he had learned in the past season. He remembered Resplendence, and what she had accused him of. He remembered his daughter, and her enthusiastic greeting. He supposed it was all true, in the end - but it didn't make it any easier for him. No matter what he did, he couldn't manage to forget. In another time, he might have marveled at the similarities between this mare and his ex-mate: how they had both come to him in need, and he had cradled them in his wings, tried to convince them that it would all be okay. But with all that had happened, with all his longing to forget what he had forgotten before... well, now it was only this mare that he focused on. Perhaps that was for the best.

In any case, the mare finally stopped sobbing, reluctantly parting with his embrace. He lifted his wings, shuffling them uncomfortably to settle any misplaced feathers before tucking them sheepishly to his sides. Perhaps he had overstepped by embracing her so, but she had been so sad, so desperate, so in need... As relieved as he was to see that she could compose herself properly, if she chose, he could not bring himself to hold her rather strange greeting against her. Perhaps he had simply been in the right place, at the right time, to accept that which she could not show to anyone else. Or, on the other hand, perhaps she knew him, and that was why she had been so comfortable with him. Perhaps she was yet another ghost from his forgotten past, someone else for him to disappoint.

She introduced herself, and the prince relaxed. It would seem that they had not, in fact, met before. "It is my pleasure, Lady Myrrine," he insisted with a gracious bow. "My name is Quilyan." These were the manners learned from his homeland, manners that he had long since departed from. Oddly enough, with the loss of his Helovian memory, his Th'orquian habits seemed to have returned. "Frustrating subjects are often those we need most to discuss," he advised her wisely. "If it please you, m'lady, it would be my pleasure to listen." And so she continued, explaining more clearly that which had sent her tumbling so haphazardly into the rotunda. Finally, she trailed off with a soft laugh, as though embarrassed by her outburst.

"My dear, no one can be strong every moment of every day," he chided gently. He should know: back home, he had tried. He had been the eldest, the heir, the one who was supposed to be the smartest, strongest, most capable. He had failed in every capacity, of course, but he had tried. It had not been nearly as taxing on him as it (whatever 'it' was, for her) seemed to be on this young mare. "You must remember to take some time to yourself. What you do with that time, of course, is entirely up to you. Laugh, scream, cry: it is important to let all parts of yourself be exposed." She embraced him again, and he let her, again wrapping his wings about her. It seemed to have helped, earlier.

He didn't know why he fell so easily into this role - perhaps it was a bit of the Helovian lover and father left in him, hidden deep beneath the surface. But rather than scaring him away, Myrrine had intrigued him, drawn him unwittingly into her life - her wants, her needs, her pain... for whatever reason, as had happened so many seasons before in a forgotten life, he was drawn to her as he had been to another mare, afraid and alone in the world. He wanted to help her, to heal her, to chase away the tears. Somehow, that was who he had grown to be, even now, after everything.

Talk talk talk.

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

The stallion was unaware of his effect on the poor young mare, imagining that his way of speaking was something that transversed the boundaries of any land. His homeland, at least, had placed a great deal of emphasis on courtesy: the way one carried oneself, the way one interacted with others - it was a great game, where he came from, a game in which the stakes were a matter of life and death. He had always found it particularly satisfying to treat mares as the goddesses that they were, and his ability to do that, and do it well, had earned him many admirers back in Th'orqui. That he was flustering Myrrine more than flattering her was something that simply escaped his notice as a minute improbability.

It had been some time since he had been close to a mare, in this way or in any other. Resplendence, he supposed, would have been the last mare that he had grown physically close to, and the only mare who had borne his seed (he tossed the thought away - it was foreign, slipping through his mind as though of its own accord). But he didn't remember. He knew that it must be true, of course - he had met Rue, and although that was entirely accidental, it had chased away any lingering doubts. Still, before that... back when he could remember... well, he had flirted with plenty of noble mares back in Th'orqui, but that had been years ago.

The realization of Myrrine's closeness made him uncomfortably warm. He tried very hard to shove the attraction that she had unwittingly pulled to the surface aside, to ignore it - she was in no position to be flirted with, even, much less for him to get some kind of sick enjoyment out of her touch! But she was just so damn close, and the sweet smell of her was wafting into his nose, and he suddenly didn't want to let her go --

Zarina bit him on the ear, and he clenched his jaw to prevent any indication of pain from leaking out. It did, at least, prevent him from doing something stupid.

And then Myrrine pulled back suddenly, so the prince lifted his wings again, surprised and flustered, but relieved. The sudden rush of winter air that split the distance between him served to cool his boiling blood, and he shifted slightly, clearing his throat. Yes, this was much better. Whatever urges he may or may not have would be much easier to control this way. "Ah - no, m'lady, I didn't mind at all. It was... rather pleasant, actually," he remarked with a crooked smile. Flirting from a distance was much better. This was a game he could play. "Do let me know if you wish to have another - what did you call it? - outburst." He chuckled slightly, teasing in his violet gaze. He sobered, adding, "You really shouldn't hold it in until you explode, my dear."

Talk talk talk.

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

The prince could not recall ever having been invited to call a mare by her first name.  Even the commoners in his homeland reveled in being treated politely; he had assumed that Myrrine was not of royal birth (or, at least, not royal in his sense of the word), but he had also assumed that she would understand common courtesy.  It would seem that this Helovia was far more backwards than he had originally thought.  It was a trait that he had grown to love about the land, once; now, he was left to muse hopelessly over these silly savages and their lacking manners.  "Ah, but you are a lady, I believe," he protested, grinning crookedly.  "And a lovely lady deserves to be treated with respect."  This was easy; this innocent flirtation was what he was good at.

As pleased as he was to have moved on from Myrrine's meltdown, he was happier still to have been a source of comfort for her.  There had been so little lately that he felt he had done right, and to be able to fall so quickly and easily into the role of protector left him more relaxed, more himself than he had been in weeks.  He would gladly listen to her problems, present himself, if not as a solution, then as a confidante. "Ah, but what better burden to bear than that of a damsel in distress?  Where I come from, that is but the least any self-respecting knight could do."  Myrrine's wings fluttered daintily at that, drawing his eyes up and away from her face.  Again he was struck by how unique she was, how elegant those wings.  Perhaps she was no Lady in title, but in looks, she was every bit as fair as any of the noble women he had courted at home.

It had begun, finally, to snow outside.  A slight wind nudged the hanging drapes, bringing a quick burst of cold with it.  The wind would not last long, he knew; it merely ushered in the newly-falling snow.  As the front of the storm passed by, the atmosphere would again settle, leaving them to revel in the fat snowflakes settling quickly upon the ground outside.  If these conditions persisted, it promised to be a beautiful snow.  He watched, lost in thought for a moment, mulling over Myrrine's words.  While he understood her concerns, he could not imagine that the young beauty had many friends who would be harmed by her pain.  No, she needed a shoulder on which to cry after all the lights had gone out, needed someone to offer her a post on which to hang her cheerful mask when the days were done.

"You could have hurt yourself when you entered the rotunda," he pointed out.  "I daresay your friends would rather share your burden than attend your funeral."  What if she had crashed into the walls, snapped her pretty little neck?  What a waste that would have been.  Besides, her untimely demise would have deprived him of an oddly pleasant afternoon.

"Talk talk talk."

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

He could lose himself in her hazel eyes.

The longer he spent in her presence, the more he felt his worry and confusion fade away.  His history here - whatever history that was - no longer mattered.  It was so easy to forget with her, to fall back into the easy role of prince, to sweep a lovely maiden off her feet with his eloquent manners.  "Of a sort," he admitted in response to her excited query, his chest puffing out slightly with pride.  "I am - or was - a prince.  Being a knight was, in my homeland, something that was required of the heir to the throne."  A glimmer of guilt rose in his chest, for he had never been particularly interested in using his knighthood, much less helping the needy.  It wasn't that he didn't care - he simply thought that any changes he would make would be when he became king.

"In any case, that life is no more.  Besides, being a knight is so much more rewarding when it has led me to you, my dear.  The honor is mine," he teased, turning the attention away from his admission.  He did not want to scare her away, or cause her to act any differently towards him, as happened quite often when the title "prince" was thrown around.  He grinned at her, returning her cheer.  She really was quite lovely, and besides that, she was pleasant to be around.  He had never expected to find love in Th'orqui - he would have chosen a mate based on what would be the best for the kingdom.  They might have hated each other, for all he knew, but they would have put on a happy face for the good of their people.  Here, things were different.  He relished in the newfound freedom, pleased to be free of the judgment that he would have faced had he chosen incorrectly at home.

But the moment passed quickly as he noted a look of horror on her pretty face, tears brimming in her entrancing eyes.  He frowned, concern returning to furrow his brow, dismay evident in his features.  He had not meant to cause her more pain, especially after having tried so hard to bring her happiness.  "M'lady - Myrrine - no, I didn't mean -" he stammered, his ears flicking back and forth uncertainly.  (By the way, who was this Cerin, and should he be concerned? - oh, that's just silly, there wasn't even anything between them yet, was there?)  "Please don't cry," he begged, stepping forward as though to offer his chest again for her to lean on, peering hopefully into her eyes.  "I merely meant - I just wanted you to see -"

But it was hopeless, because he had meant what he'd said, and there was no other way to take it.  He cocked his head to the side, bewildered.  Well, he'd certainly gone and made a mess of things, hadn't he.  Zarina snickered mercilessly in his mind, having disapproved of this interaction from the start.  Sure, Myrrine was a pleasant enough mare, but Quilyan had only just found out that he'd had a mate and a child, and here he was, chasing someone else.  --Idiot,-- she called him smugly.  But she soured quickly as Myrrine pulled herself together, turning to the prince for assistance once more.  Grumbling, Zarina settled in her bonded's mane to go back to sleep.

The stallion was relieved.  At least she was still here, and she had stopped crying.  How, though, was he to teach her how to feel?  That was just something that one... did.  Wasn't it?  Still, he was more than willing to try.  "M'lady, I would be honored to assist you."  He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, wondering where to begin.  "Surely you know how to feel.  It's simply a matter of letting yourself."  They should start with something easy.  He gestured toward the falling snow outside the rotunda.  "It's snowing.  How does snow make you feel?  Are you happy that it's snowing because you can play in it?  Are you irritated that it's snowing because it makes you cold?  Anything - tell me."

"Talk talk talk."

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

If he could remember his history, he would remember that he had fallen for Resplendence for the same reasons that he found himself drawn to this mare.  She had been timid, fearful, in distress but too polite to say so.  She had been kind, too, just as Myrrine was kind.  Resplendence had always enjoyed physical closeness, and it seemed that this was another trait that Myrrine shared with the prince's first love.  Of course, he could not remember - and, just now, he couldn't say that he wanted to - and so he was left to marvel at the newness of the feelings bubbling in his chest.  He was quite taken with the butterfly-mare.

Myrrine finally noticed Zarina, who peered at the mare out of one eye, preferring to keep the other closed so that she might more easily fade back into the deep abyss of sleep.  She grumbled softly at the mare's assertion that she was "adorable."  Sure, she may not have been the most fearful companion, but adorable?  How very offensive!

"Ah, Zarina," the prince introduced her quickly, the better to cover up the marmoset's protests.  "I must apologize, m'lady.  I'm afraid she's a bit slow to warm to strangers."  He leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially, "She gets a bit jealous, you see."  The marmoset harrumphed in his mind, a grumpy sound derived from her preference for sleep.  She did not deign to comment, a choice for which he was glad.  "I found Zarina when she was a newborn," he explained further, filling in the blanks of his memory from the precision of his companion's.  "We have been together ever since."

The mare turned, ending up perhaps a bit closer than she had intended.  The stallion was distracted from his companion's atrocious manners by the feeling of her warm breath, the allure of her hazel eyes - and then she was retreating, leaving him breathless in her wake, struggling to shove the sudden desire that he felt away.  He was relieved when her attention turned to the snow, leaving him time to regain his composure.  Gods, if only the mare knew what a tease she was unwittingly being.  --Oh, pull it together,-- Zarina commented rudely.

The snow, to Myrrine, was both happy and lonely.  He chuckled as she caught a flake on her tongue, turning to show him; he frowned when she became suddenly somber, no doubt caught in a memory of her mother.  He might have pressed her for more, but he had never been one to pry into someone else's past - and despite his attempts to help her express herself more freely, there were some things that were better left inside.  He took a few steps forward, joining her to gaze out at the snow.  He knew what it was like to miss an absent family member.  He reached for her shoulder, aiming to brush his muzzle softly along her skin.  "You aren't alone now," he murmured, offering himself in place of her sorrow.

He did not move, allowing his muzzle to linger against her (unless she had previously shied away from his touch). She needed a distraction - something to chase away the errant thoughts that may or may not be bombarding her. A small grin appeared on the prince's maw. "What about the rotunda?" he asked, his voice rumbling deep in his throat. "How has this afternoon made you feel? The good and the bad, remember." There was something playful (and not altogether innocent) in his gaze as he attempted to lure her back into the light.

"Talk talk talk."

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

Zarina had been asleep, or, at least, she had been pretending to be.  The marmoset was curled into a tight ball, squeezing her eyes shut, irritation bubbling within as she tried to ignore all of the idiotic flirting that her bonded was doing.  She came from a species that mated for life - she remembered his time with Resplendence, all that the mare had meant to him, and she could not forgive his attempts to woo another when his mate still lived.  She could not fathom how he could have forgotten the mare that he had, at one time, thought to be the love of his life.  She loved her prince dearly, but she was furious with him for the ease with which he had allowed his mate and daughter to slip away.

And so she had not been entirely asleep.  In fact, she hadn't been anywhere near sleep at all.  She had been, shall we say, monitoring the situation to ensure that it did not get out of control.  For a while, she had thought that it was safe - he was trying to cheer up a pitiful young mare, and that would be the end of it.  She could sense the stirrings of desire in his gut (she cursed him for the link that they shared, but it did not stop her from feeling what he felt), but knew that he had the self-control to keep himself together.  After all, he had been tempted before, and he had never broken - not even under to influence of magic --

"Touch me," Myrrine commanded breathlessly.  --Don't,-- Zarina warned, alarmed at the sudden change, but her prince silenced their bond.  She could do nothing besides scuttle from his withers to the ground, determined to be nowhere near the pair for whatever came next (ew, gross, no thank you).

The stallion had been watching Myrrine with desire flaring in his violet gaze.  His question had been an innocent one - he had entirely expected her to laugh and offer some silly response in that flustered way of hers.  He had not imagined that she would turn to look at him that way, with need and doubt batting in her lovely hazel eyes, as though she were struggling to make a decision.  She floated closer to him - he didn't remember when that had happened, so entranced was he by the way she was looking at him - and ran her lips down his shoulder, onto his wing and over his feathers.  Heat rose in his loins as he sighed, lost in the electricity that she elicited in him.  This had not been his intention in the slightest, but if she was going to insist --

"Touch me."

It was the only command that the stallion needed.  He immediately shifted to press his muzzle gently against her cheek, tracing muscles slowly down her neck, his breath lingering hotly at each place he touched.  As he approached her withers, he pressed against her harder; when he arrived at the base of her mane, he placed a light nip above her shoulder.  He was losing himself in the smell of her, the taste of her, allowing himself to fall into the trap that she had set for them, that he had pushed her into.  It would be easy to let this happen, to allow the both of them this small pleasure.  He nipped his way slowly along her back, pausing as he reached her croup.  His chest pressed against her wing - it was a foreign sensation, this featherless wing, oddly brittle and delicate to the touch.

It was a small detail, but one that brought him up, however briefly, for air.  He remembered how she had come to be here, remembered how brief a time they had shared, remembered that she seemed to be a young mare (though her sudden demand had him questioning her innocence).  He hesitated, warring with himself.  If she wanted him, who was he to deny her?  He certainly wanted her.  Even so, he backed up a step, his shoulder brushing against hers, his maw lingering along her skin.  "Myrrine," he breathed, a gentle caress against her cheek. "Are you certain that this is what you want?" His voice was a deep, hoarse whisper that betrayed his intense desire.  His lips massaged her neck as he worked his way to her withers and back again.  He was a stallion, and he wanted this mare, but he was also a gentleman - and he could not take advantage of a young mare simply because she asked him to.

"Talk talk talk."

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There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

Despite his pause, the stallion was distracted. As he waited for a response, he nibbled at her neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to simply press on and assume that her previous requests were all the consent that was needed. He was, however, not a brute; he was not one to fuck for pleasure, not even as the prince of Th'orqui. Back home, he had resisted any such offers (not, by the way, without a great deal of resentment), waiting, as was proper, for whomever his mate would be. It was a matter of heredity that he not leave any bastard children in his wake; there would be no illegitimate offspring to question his future children about their rights to the throne. But here... here, there was nothing to stop him, and besides the fact that he genuinely liked the butterfly mare, she had elicited a certain sensuality in him that had been absent in him. Myrrine had brought him to the brink, teased him onto the edge; he was waiting now to tip over, listening for the slightest breath of air to push him into the abyss.

"Yes," she breathed, and he might have moved immediately upon her desire had she not stepped away, leaving him staring lustily into her eyes. He took the opportunity to sweep his gaze over her, noting the gentle curves of flesh that encased her body and finding it very much to his liking. Where she might have been simply cute before, a pretty young mare trapped in her own distress, she had blossomed before his eyes into a beautiful, sultry creature begging for his love. The allure of her drew him in, captured him, held him to her will. So absorbed was he in his drooling that he nearly missed her explanation - but he glanced again to her eyes, noticed the earnest gleam that graced their depths, and he reminded himself to listen.

She stepped forward to speak, pressing her cheek to his, and he closed his eyes, taking in her words and her scent. He was high on her, intoxicated beyond reason, his lust bursting at the seams; when she turned from him, he was momentarily disappointed until he saw the rise of her tail, the clear invitation in her body language. Whatever doubts he might have had about her willingness fell away, and he stepped forward as though in a dream to continue his loving caress down her spine. Had he been in his right mind, he might have denied her - who was he to deserve her virginity, to be permitted to steal away that precious piece of her? What had he done to drive her to offer herself so easily and so openly to him, a stranger, a lucky passerby who had just so happened to witness her darkest hour?

But he was not in his right mind, and instead he resolved to be as gentle and kind as he could, to make sure that he did not ruin her experience. He moved slowly and deliberately, taking his time to move behind her, to give her time to change her mind (please, Gods, do not make her change her mind). "Myrrine," he murmured almost worshipfully --

She didn't change her mind.

-fade to black-

He slipped to the ground, his breath coming quickly. He peered at Myrrine's face as he returned to her side, running his muzzle along her neck up to her cheek, where he paused. He was almost sheepish as he looked her over, carefully analyzing her for any sign of pain or displeasure. "Did I - are you alright, darling?" he asked softly, affection and concern in his voice. "I hope I didn't hurt you." The stallion searched her face. Hopefully she wouldn't run off immediately; there was something fierce and protective growing in his breast. Despite the fact that they had only just met, their tryst had left him with a semblance of possessiveness about the butterfly mare. The prince lifted his wing, offering his side for her to lean into, thinking that she might want to rest against him.

"Talk talk talk."

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