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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