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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