On the seventh day of travel, land suddenly came into view. Long missed land, the relief to sailors everywhere, marked the half-way point on the journey to Silverglen. With early morning tide, the ship was pulled toward the mouth of Camelot Bay, King Arthur's castle sitting high upon a plateau, with the fields and orchards of apple and other fruit trees shimmering in the fertile valley and even close to the shore.
     On the seventh day, breakfast would not be held on the decks, in the galleys or ship quarters but in town! Amazing how fast a ship can sail when there is a port in sight, isn't it? Here, the ship shall be provisioned for the last part of its journey, down the Silver River that leads to Myrtle Lake and Silverglen, past the kingdoms of Avalon and then Rose.
     For you, it had to be a bit of a homecoming. With Avalon so close by, and so closely tied to Camelot, here you were quickly surrounded by friends and associates, surprised to see you (word is slow to filter when ships are still at sea). The markets were brimming and a late autumn festival was underway. (Of course, some of the chatter was about Drustan and Yseult and their leaving Camelot for the Sun King's kingdom. Hard to imagine them not in Camelot!)
     As you were swept up into breakfast and lunch, into shopping and reading -- Lord Fox was kind enough to give you a holiday from work -- the King of Silverglen was likewise swept away by a wave of protocol: hand-shakes and glad-hands; meetings and greetings; and even a private tea with King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. It seemed highly possible that you might not see him until the next day, when setting sail once more...
     What a day...
     By the time collective breaths were caught, the sun was setting. Now, the moon rises full and plump over the apple orchards, with bright rosy cheeks from an affectionate day. White moonlight, one of the purest things there is, streams through the leaves, sliding sweetly along the blades of grass. Nearby, a rivulet stream, one of the brooks that feeds into the Silver River, gossips to anyone who is near.
     But ...then... the orchards and even the brook fall silent, a respectful, a reverent hush made. The grass sighs beneath the large but delicate hooves of the unicorn.
     It is as large as a horse, but its features are as delicate as glass, with wide, green eyes partially shrouded with long white mane and forelock, and velvet-soft pink nostrils and lips. Its singular horn seems spun of moonlight and starlight; it glows. Illumination finds it, is drawn to it, and its shape is like a Turbinate shell, long and set in the center of its forehead.
     The velvet nose brushes against the moonlit blades of grass, its lips wrapping around the stems and lightly pulling, nibbling as it steps slowly into the orchard. The stallion's ears, large and tufted, rock forward and back, listening to all that surrounds him as he picks, picky eater, nibbling only what succulent stems the moonlight decides to grace. Lifting its head, it spears an apple with the tip of its horn, knocking down three for a snack before circling the spot of ground three times (exactly) clockwise and lowering for what appears to be a nap.

     It has not been unpleasant to see so many of her old friends and acquaintances, especially as while she might not be returning in triumph, neither is she returning in disgrace. There has been time for snacks and tea and lunch and even some shopping. But eventually she has run out of words; she has run out of things to say. She has run out of energy, and in weariness, she makes her withdrawal after dinner, excusing herself for a walk among the tall trees. It may, after all, be some time until she sees Avalon again.
     "I have missed you," Lys speaks aloud to the trees and the river. She hasn't seen you yet, wandering further. She kneels beside the stream, downstream from you, bending to wash her face in the flow of rippling water. "I am afraid that I am leaving, though, again. I can't stay."
     She smiles, bending over to regard her reflection in the water. It is rippled through, moving water not holding images well, and she dips her hands beneath the surface again. "I wish I could say that I wish I could stay," she half-hums the words, lyrical as they are, "but I can't. I am paring myself down, you see. I am finding out who I am."
     She sings, wordlessly, a few lyrical notes, pulling her hands back out and beginning to weave fabric from the water, singing as she does so. Color streaks through it; one of her little secrets, that she usually doesn't show others. Once she's got enough fabric, she folds it neatly, and she puts it in her rucksack. "There. A part of you will come with me, and I'll keep this for - well, who knows." Lys blushes, smiling at the creek. "You were one of my closest friends, the entire time I was growing up here, in Avalon," she tells the rippling brook, the trees that frame it. "I always could come and talk to you, as to no one else. Even if others seldom spoke of my lack of identity, I knew from their looks, pitying or otherwise. And you always accepted me, without that in the way. How lonely can one be, with a friend like you?"
     She unbraids her hair - so seldom does she do that - and she combs it out, looking up at the rising moon. "I don't know what the future holds. It's painful, yes, but ... I am hopeful. My fears are fewer, lighter than they were when I was sent to the capitol," Lys explains to the rushes at the water's edge. "Oh, yes. I still have fears, of course I have fears. How couldn't I?" She laughs, as if to a friend's quip, and she shakes her head a little bit. "No, don't worry. I won't forget you, even if your voice has never been that loud. I always have to strain to hear you, and after being on the ocean for so long... fears? Oh." Again she blushes, lowering her gaze to her lap. "The usual. Will I do well. Will I be loved. Who am I, anyway. They think they might know, or have a hint," she confides to the stream. "Just maybe. I might get to find out. My parents are probably dead, of course; I won't get to meet them. But it is still better to know, even if I turn out to be the child of convicts and killers." She pauses. "Well. That wouldn't be much fun," she admits. "But ... I am hoping very, very hard, because..."
     Her voice lowers to a whisper, girl to girl. The moonlight paints her silver and gold, her smile and her eyes sparkling in a way that few ever see.

     The moon seems to hover over one particular place in the orchard. It is, of course, an optical illusion. Both the moon and the earth are in motion. But its rising seems halted somehow, slow anyway, as it remains fat and swollen and observant.
     Legs tucked beneath him, the unicorn stretches out his neck, his muzzle propping up on one of the apples. A sigh ripples from his nostrils with a soft equine nicker and his large green eyes, rimmed with long moonlight lashes, stare out at the orchard.
     In all this world, I am ...a solitary kind. Large eyes lift to look at the moon, his turbinate horn seeming to point to it. It is just you and I, fat moon. If only you were close enough to hold, moon-friend, or if I were a cloud rather than what I am. But all I can do is stare and wonder and wait.
     He lies not far from the brook. Certainly, upon standing, he could reach it with two or three steps. And where he rests, surrounded by the apples his clever horn had freed, he is unobstructed by trees, his white form glowing with the moon's attention. Wherever he goes, it goes. Wherever he goes, its light dotes upon him.
     I am tired of searching but I cannot stop moving, stop trying. They deserve more of me than that. I wish my heart were in it.
     Velvety pink lips twitch and curl, wrapping around the body of the apple beneath his chin. A sweet crunch fills the orchard, and the trees shimmer in response. I will make myself fat and sick on apples. Maybe I will get drunk.

     She rises to her feet, picking up her rucksack. "I'm going to go visit with the river," Lys informs the creek, smiling at it like an old friend. "I will try to send my thoughts to you often. And I will think of you often, and with love in my heart." She bends and stirs her fingers through the eddying water, and she then turns to head up the stream, following its course.
     Do you hear her? Her footsteps are soft, but not those of an attempted hunter. Do you smell her? She smells of sweet, clean scents, of rose soap and eau de lys perfume (how could she resist?). Her lips are unpainted, her face unpowdered, her glorious dark hair worn down as it never is in public. She wears a simple Avalonian shift, white cotton with a golden belt. Her vanity has her wearing a dark cloak lined with purple, flipped so the lining is now out; only when she is alone can she wear the royal purple, that so well matches the threads in her irises. It is a color which suits her, after all.
     And she walks, and she starts singing again, that wordless tune, a lullaby that she dimly remembers from infancy, before words had any meaning to her at all. You can hear that, if you hear nothing else. Lys smiles, looking up at the moonlight. "Even if I am alone, still, I've been blessed," she tells the night. "No solitude is so great that it must remain that way, after all. I have hope. And tonight, at least, I can show you, my friends, that I'm happy. I have hope of so many things. And though I will not forget you, maybe I can meet new friends. Maybe," she blushes, her voice going quieter, "there is even a friend... oh!"
     She's come between a clump of sweet-smelling grasses, and she's spotted you, eyes wide and violet in the moonlight. Do you even recognize her, with her damp hem and her unbound locks, the blues now given over to wilder, earthier colors? She does not recognize you, though she blushes all the same. She has never seen a real unicorn before.
     Lys stands there, staring, cheeks pink and painted silver by moonlight, lips slightly parted. She is holding her breath.

     In typical Eavan style, his mouth is full when it ought not be. The equine jaw -- actually, it is far more delicate -- makes short work of the apple, the juices glittering on the velvet muzzle only a moment before a pink tongue swaths it all away. And his head lifts, his turbinate horn aglow with moon and starlight, at the approach of a sweet, pure girl.
     I should be more thankful. More grateful. I should look at this as a blessing, even as you do. To think of the possibilities, and not the loneliness of an aching heart. The green eyes of the beast are gentle as they look to you, a veil of silvery white forelocks hanging down. The unicorn rises as it sees you, lowering its head in a kind of bow, and with the lifting of his head (to avoid skewering you!), the unicorn slowly approaches.
     And the orchard once again bows in reverent silence as he moves...
     It has no fear, no skittishness. Standing before you, it stretches out its neck, its nostrils flaring at your fingers. How peaceful and gentle his gaze, the bright green between moonlight white lashes. I cannot be false or tease her with fantasy, he thinks to himself.
     And then, in your heart there is a feeling of recognition. Good evening, Lys. You feel the words more than hear them, and they come with a goodness of heart, a gentleness, a kindness and warmth that could only be King Eavan.

     Her eyes remain wide and expression as awestruck as a child's as you approach. How could she react otherwise. She stop in front of her, and very gently, very cautiously, she stretches out a hesitant hand. This is new. "I haven't seen you here before," Lys whispers. It is as if further years have been cut from her; have you ever seen her this unguarded? Even in her playful moments, they have been more for your benefit than for her own. She is nineteen, going on twenty. And here she is stripped of some even of those few years.
     And then, you speak - after a fashion, and she jerks her hand back, blushing brilliantly, as she would if you had sought her out in this fashion, in your human form. Her hand goes to her chest with a slight jerk, a gasp slipping from her, although she doesn't step back, doesn't flee. She leans in a little, frowning just a little, peering again at you. "Eavan?" Her voice is softer again; hesitant.
     Is it a trick? Do unicorns always speak with the voice of the heart? Does it mean something? She runs through the possibilities and comes up dry. She doesn't know anything about unicorns; just that they can detect virgins and only a virgin can catch one; that their horns can cure poison and their tails and manes can cause those of evil intent to bleed with the slightest touch; that their tears can resuscitate the dying and the near-death; you know, the usual. "What..."

     I would ...change...but I fear it would be embarrassing for us both. No matter his form, his humor remains intact. He sees you, knows you better for who you are and you, in this instant, know him for who, and what, he is. Those soulful eyes, gentle in his goodness and in his emotion, cannot be mistaken.
     I asked her once....Tanira...if she ...wanted to see me as I truly am. She declined. Here... have a seat, it will be easier. Besides, it has been... a long time since I have been able to rest my head on a virgin lap. Would you mind it? Is that too forward?
     The delicate face of the unicorn lifts up and away from your startled hand. He lowers, carefully minding his turbinate horn for your sake, to his knees and then curls up on the soft grass, large green eyes turned upward to you.
     What strange fate has brought us here. The Orphan Queen and the Unicorn. I should wonder at destiny. But now you know. It's not really much of a secret, admittedly. I just don't like to do parlor tricks.

     No, it really is you. She can't think otherwise, not now, and somewhat hesitantly, she smiles at you. "I don't mind," Lys murmurs, blush painting her cheeks. Her heart leaps in her chest. You know she is a virgin. What else do you know now? What else will you know, with that intimacy allowed?
     But how can she say no, when she longs to remove pain and rejection from your heart, when her own heart is straining, keeps straining at the leash in its effort to reach your own? She smiles, though, and gently, she lowers herself to your side in the grass. "It's still a trick which puts mine to shame," Lys murmurs to you as she makes herself comfortable. She pats her lap, glancing sidelong to you. "I'm no queen, though; not that we've been able to find out for sure. If I am anything at all, it will have to be more because I've managed to make it so. Although I do still want to find out more; I've been finding out a great deal, though, because of ... well, because of leaving."
     She smiles again, this time up at the moon, the way she had been. It is a very different smile from the small, polite, painted smiles the courts get to see, all civilized and restraint. "It meant I left behind some of my own preconceptions, you see," Lys tells you. Very gently, her hands land on your mane, and she begins coming through the fine threads of it, skillfully working to disentangle any knots. "So I've been testing myself more; and learning more about what I can and can't do. I'm afraid it's nothing compared to being a unicorn, though. Does it hurt? Changing into one, I mean."

     His head, however delicate, should be heavy, especially with the added weight of his turbinate horn, which in your nearer proximity glistens like a shell, iridescent. But it is not. The unicorn sighs through his nostrils, with a gentle rumble. Peace. His large eyes droop with sudden relaxation. There is no pillow to match the comfort of a virgin's lap.
     I remember the flood. I was six at the time. Hundreds of people died. Three little girls were missing: a princess, a duchess, and a textile merchant's daughter. His green eyes, so near you, reflect the magical gardens of truth and inner peace. Truth, he is. Inner peace? It is a little overgrown with the ivy of doubt at the moment.
     You should not have had to wait your whole life to find out your truth. I shall have to speak to Bianca about this when I see her next. You will know, and soon. And if you are the Orphan Queen, I will have Lord Lugh add you to the List of Hopefuls.
     That doesn't seem to be in jest!
     The unicorn is silent for a time, his large ribcage moving gently with his breaths. His hooves are as iridescent as his horn. And everywhere there isn't horsehair, there is a velvety pinkness. You are a dear and kind person. And talented. Compare your gifts to no one's. You are as special as a unicorn, maybe just as rare, he teases lightly. For you have a sweet honesty that is missing in most. I will send Tanira a card of thanks for suggesting that you join us in Silverglen. You have already been such a blessing and help to me. Personally. A large green eye shifts to look to you past the veil of gossamer forelocks. It is like taking off one's robe and slipping into a warm bath after a long day, going from the form you know to this. The only part of it that is hurtful is that there is no one with whom I might be completely truthful. It is a very heavy burden, helping a king with the luggage of his heart. And there are so few people with whom anyone, king or no, might be perfectly honest. After all, the only thing more rare than a unicorn, is a person of pure heart, without ulterior motives, upon whose lap he might rest his head.
     The unicorn looks to you, feeling a sudden kinship. Pure thing to pure thing; rarity to rarity. You're as rare a thing as I, in that regard. But is it fair for me to unburden my heart to you? I do not know. I know only that you are kind, and good, and pure of spirit and intent. You come from a place of sweetness and hope, resiliency against whims of fate. And that you mean no harm. Those are my parlor tricks, he teases lightly again, his equine head shifting upon your lap.

     Her fingers twine gently in your mane, and she strokes your muzzle. She can't help it. She likes animals to begin with. And there is a unicorn with his head in her lap! Even knowing that it is you does not alter her reaction. It is still a unicorn.
     "It's entirely possible that I am none of them," Lys points out to you, fingers returning to their careful work. As a weaver, a spinner of threads, even if usually of watery threads, her hands are delicate and precise in their motions, doing her best never to tug or snap the hairs of your mane. Her cheeks burnish with bright color, and she avoids your gaze. "I am sure that Lady Bianca has had her reasons," she murmurs. "And there is no need to make such potential promises."
     My heart could not take it, if it were proved false...
     You are silent, and she does not rush to fill the silence. Sometimes, silence is permissible. And then you are complimenting her, and she blushes, reaching up to lightly run a fingertip along the spiraling shell of your horn. "I am not as kind and sweet as all that," Lys murmurs. "We all have our dilemmas and our demons. But I wish... I wish that there were more that I could do, Eavan."
     Calling you 'your majesty' right now seems almost coy, arch, when you have your head in her lap. What point formality in a moment like this? She leans forward, her inky hair a curtain over her cheek. "If I accept the burden, then I've only myself to blame," she tells you lightly. She smiles, and she blushes, lifting your head slightly to stretch out her legs. "But it is still your choice. You know that I am willing, Eavan. Unless you need me to put it into more words?"
     She looks down at you with the tenderest of expressions. Her heart is shy; she knows your feelings for another woman. She will not speak those feelings and complicate or embarrass you or herself. Instead, gently she pats your forelock, and she waits in companionable silence, as long as you ignore the moonlit blush.

     Are you uncomfortable? His 'voice', as it is the feeling of words within your heart and mind, wonders such as you stretch your legs. The burdens of the king also come with a heavy head.
     The unicorn lifts his head so that it rests nearby but not fully on your lap. It is not that my heart aches for Tanira, specifically. It is merely the idea, the desire to find a match. And the fear that I am never to find one. I have given up such thoughts as finding another unicorn spirit out there somewhere in the world. There hasn't been a recorded unicorn sighting for a thousand years. Let alone one who is also a woman. So, that I am not seeking. But of all the women eligible within my lifetime, such that I might marry and provide heirs for Silverglen's stability, there have been none I have met that don't have some ...ulterior motive for wishing me. I want to be loved. I want Silverglen to be loved. Not used as a closet where one might store one's many things. Of available princesses, yourself excluded for the moment, there is only Azizam who has any truthfulness at all about her. Well, and Gillian West. She is true, but she is claimed already. Azizam is all of fifteen. It is very frustrating. Sometimes, I wish I could not see the truth behind one's actions. There is no Ignorance Is Bliss clause for me, Dear Lys.
     The unicorn sighs through its nose, making a kind of nickering sound. And so I pinned all my hopes on the one who was true. And I am certain I made a fool out of myself by trying too hard. That is the truth of my heart. I wanted it so badly for Silverglen and for myself. I began to fall in love with the idea that it could happen. That I had a chance. And so... I am struggling to get my heart back in this race. I am under intense pressure to wed and to produce. And time, unlike truth, is not my friend.
     Large green eyes look upward to you. Have you any words of advice for me? You have gone through so much and yet you have such a positive outlook. How have you managed? How do you brush yourself off and look to the future for possibilities? I need to be able to put a smile on my face and a confidence in my heart in four days. My people deserve that of me.

     "I'm fine." Lys smiles. She is enjoying this. She is closer to the object of her beloved than ever she has been before, and though she takes no triumph in it, for the moment, at least, she can pretend...
     She is a decent listener, and she cradles your head gently, stroking your muzzle and your ears. She has had years of listening. It was her duty, after all. But now she is listening for herself, not for anyone else, and for you... and it makes an enormous difference.
     "There are options open to you," she whispers, voice low, almost inaudible to her own ears. But she doesn't elaborate. "You did not make a fool of yourself, Eavan. She did like you. That she did not fall in love with you has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with herself."
     It is time; you need to know. And if it makes you hate her - well, then, at least she is already in Avalon. If you cannot forgive her, then she is already 'home'; there will be no long slinking home in disgrace. "If you want to blame someone for it falling through, then blame me," Lys tells you. Slowly, she draws her hands from your mane, resting her hands on her hip instead. "I was the one who pointed it out to her. I could see where her pain was. I will swear to you, give you any oath that you like that I had no ulterior motive in mind, that I did not know and did not intend for her to send me to you." She squeezes her eyes closed; the admission is costing her dearly. She is so afraid her heart may break if she pushes these words past the seal of her lips. "I only saw that there would be pain, the longer it went on - and if I am being honest, I must admit that I went against the orders given. I did not report what I saw, to my handlers in the Avalonian court. I did not try to pass it along, or twist it for my own gain, or seek to persuade the princess in the direction that they would have wished. As it is, I gained credit I am not due, for having been sent by her to you, although that credit will by now have eroded, in the face of my lack of reports."
     When she went to you, so did her loyalty. It was unexpected, in some quarters. She turns her shoulders away, grabbing a handful of rushes and beginning to plait them restlessly. "She was conflicted because of her heritage - caught between angel and human, a unique creature, as yourself. But you are wholly yourself, Eavan. She is an amalgam of two things, and she feared choosing one half over the other, that she would be denying that other side of herself. But she was in love with him, and putting off choosing, and denying out of stubbornness. And ... I drew the veil from her eyes. I am not sure, to this day, that she did not send me to you in a manner of revenge as well as reward."
     There. She has told you. And she looks up at the moon and its luminosity, rather than at your beauty, so that you will not see her distress and her fear in the tears sparkling in her eyes. "My outlook has been positive because of you and your people," Lys tells you, voice quieter still. "Because being with you freed me from a trap, one I didn't know how to escape from, Eavan. I could not be the spy they wanted me to be. I could not give my body and not give pieces of my heart or my soul in exchange. I made a very poor courtier. I do not know what kind of thing I could be for you, but - I wanted to try." She is so near tears. She lifts a hand to her mouth, pressing a knuckle in against her lower lip. "I will understand if you would - like me to leave. But my outlook has been positive because of the opportunities and hope you have given me, your majesty. Because here there was some good I could do, sheltered from those who would wish me to do, if not ill, then unpleasant things."

     The unicorn lifts his head from your lap once more, but this time not simply to spare your lap the added weight. The delicate velvet muzzle, with its starlight whiskers, brushes your cheek. Forgive my forwardness, but I don't have hands at the moment. I would transform but my clothes are hanging on a tree upstream. I have no wish to leave just yet.
     The muzzle nuzzles again, to comfort, to ease distress. No maiden should be in distress in the unicorn's presence, after all. Rest assured, dear Lys, that I shall not send you away. And you've nothing to apologize for. If she loved me, her heart would not have been swayed by the telling of a truth. And her heart was given elsewhere. I thank you, rather, for encouraging her not to let me follow her down the courtship path any farther.
     The moon loves him, certainly, for as he lifts his head and looks to it, it beams upon up with such luminosity. He glows white in that moment, his green eyes very clearly green. You have my heart in your mind. I am so very flattered. He looks at you a long moment. I want you to remain by my side. I shall inform Lord Fox that I wish to take you into my confidence, to remain in Silverglen. I find it so very easy to talk to you. I want a companion who will ...tell me the truth, even if it is a hard truth. Especially if it is a hard truth. Long moonlight lashes sweep downward in the equine's slow blink. I know it is not a very exciting job for an attache, staying home. But ...I like you. I... can talk to you. I suddenly do not want you placed far away. It may not be fair to you. I will leave it up to you to decide. There will be no penalty if you ...do not wish to stay. If you wish to be placed in some kingdom somewhere else on my behalf and benefit.
     There is humor in the unicorn's eyes. I should probably get my clothes for this part of the conversation. I am a very sweet man but a bit of a peculiarly informal king. I apologize. I cannot help my odd authenticity. Would you care to ride back upstream? I do recall that you can ride a little. I will walk, I promise. If unicorns could blush, he would. I'm sorry, that sounded a bit forward. A bit like a proposition. I mean it with all due respect.

     She has your heart in her mind; in more than one meaning of the words. She looks at you, and she smiles, although a bit hesitantly. "I'm still sorry that you had to get hurt," Lys answers you quietly. She touches your mane, lowering her gaze. "If it is what you wish, then I will not refuse, your majesty." Oh, how she longs that you would ask her that with a different meaning! "Other places will still be there," she adds lowly, "once you are wed."
     She is a realist, at bottom. The chances of her marrying you are small; even if her family should turn out to be a good one, there are just so very many better choices. Even if she were, as you say, the Orphan Queen - and there is no guarantee of such a thing - then what dowry could she offer you? So she clings to realism, and bids her heart not to break.
     She moves to rise to her feet, blushing a bit. "If it is very far, then perhaps I should ride. If it is not, though, I do not mind walking, your majesty," Lys murmurs to you. "I ... know that you would never do anything to take advantage of me." No matter how tempted she might be.

     You are dropping back into the formal. I have upset you or offended you. He does not question it. He regrets and respects it. I apologize, Lys. I should not have asked that of you. It is selfish, to ask such a thing of a young woman, one of marrying age. Eavan...
     His name does not appear in your heart as a reminder for what you should call him but as a chiding tsk to himself. A reminder to himself.
     It is not terribly far but far enough that I do not think you should walk in the dark, even if you are walking beside me. I am formal enough not to hear of such a thing, making a young lady walk when there is a perfectly good, if fanciful, pack animal at hand. Here, do not stand. It will be easier if you grab hold of my mane now. Tell me when you are ready.
     The unicorn shifts so that his back is completely available to you. All he will have to do is rock onto his knees and then rise. He turns his head to you, to watch you as you mount.

     "You don't need to apologize." Suddenly and impulsively, her arms go around your neck; she buries her face in your mane, so that you won't sense or smell or feel the sudden rush of tears that sting her eyes. "Please," Lys whispers, "don't apologize to me. Let's not talk of it. It's all right, I promise."
     She releases you, forcing herself to, shifting back and picking up her bag. It's tied to the outside of her cloak, her gaze cast down to the pale-lit ground, and she sweeps her hair back from her cheek with one hand. Oh, god. I must love him, to be in this much torment. I wish that he would not speak of marriage.
     Lys sighs, and she looks up to the moon, then moves to daintily sit upon your back. She buries her hands in your mane, fingers running through it and then taking hold. "Whenever you are ready," she whispers. Her voice is again barely audible, and she regards her knees with absorption.

     When he feels you settle upon him, he gracefully lifts, rising. He glances back and then slowly proceeds to follow the stream against the course of it, to head to where the royal gardens of Camelot spill out into the orchards. I do need to apologize. I know I have upset you. Parlor tricks...remember?
     You seem to float more than ride. His slow stride is careful, mindful that you are riding bareback. I have turned smiles and humming to tears and uncertainty. His sigh becomes an equine snort. I ask you to be my ...companion, without even considering that you might have...someone else in your heart or in mind for your future, or might not wish to be so close to one who is, well, for lack of a better term, your boss. And so... yes... I need to apologize. Please forgive me for being so ...forward. I care for you, Lys. I truly do. And...only want what's best for you. I would blame the moonlight, but the moon has always been so kind to me.
     Ahead, there is a thickening of the apple grove. He moves to follow the banks of the stream, rather than thread his way through the trees in the darkness. All for your safety. He is quiet. He thinks it best, with the rate he's going.
     In your hands, his white mane is like spun sugar and while he's not as comfortable a ride as a super plump Belgian might be, there is a sense of wonder that surrounds you as you are carried on a unicorn's back. Other creatures stop their evening foraging to watch you pass, insects, birds and mammals alike.

     "If we begin arguing over whether or not you need to apologize, we will be here all night, and still here when the sun has risen and the tide has changed," Lys murmurs to you, tears once again carefully suppressed. She strokes your mane, and leans forward to rub one of your ears. "They will find us standing here and wonder what could possibly be going on. Except for Lord Fox; he will unerringly have deduced precisely what is going on, and shake his head and tsk-tsk at us both. You are his employer, Eavan. But if you think about it, in some ways he is the one who aims us both."
     She pats your neck, keeping her tone light as she looks around at the orchard. With your back supporting her, she reaches up to pull down one of the fabled apples, white teeth crunching through the sweet, tart flesh. She chews, she swallows, then leans forward along your neck to feed you the rest, whispering in your ear, "I care for you. I would gladly be your friend, Eavan. I know marriage is never far from your thoughts because of your kingly situation, but I am content to wait until there is a man I love who loves me back. If that happens, I assure you, you will know, and until then, you are being very good at borrowing trouble. If you wish ... I will help you find a wife."

     You were speaking earlier about... other options. Other options that were open to me. What did you mean? I am curious. There is a certain amount of trying to politely stuff the genie back into the bottle as he asks the rhetorical-sounding question, in hopes that you won't have noticed that he asked you to be his mistress. He feels like a fool, but having recently been so foolish who's to notice? There is a kind of grace and beauty in that.
     He moves beneath a large apple tree, an old tree, bearing plump, sweet apples blushed pink as a maiden's cheeks. He lifts his head, his nimble, equine lips plucking one of the apples for himself. It is ground to a pulp quite quickly as he heads into a copse of similarly fruited trees.
     There, his clothes are hanging upon a set of limbs: suede trousers folded, boots set upon the roots, the sweater looped around a smaller branch. He comes to a halt. Hold tightly. I'm going to kneel so you won't hurt your feet on the sticks and stones. Ready?

     To you, it is a genie in a bottle; to her, she is unaware that such was even your intent. "Options... oh yes." She smiles to herself; it is a small, sad smile. "There are many young ladies who would be happy to marry you, Eavan. Some of them are not, of course, from the sort of background that you have considered. But think this; even if Princess Tanira has chosen elsewhere, what is to prevent you from looking further afield? Oannes, for example; or the elves to the far north. If they are longer-lived, then you might consider a consortship."
     She strokes your mane as she speaks. Make this last, Lys; it may well be the last chance you ever have. "Or you could look to the daughters of the merchant houses. Or, of course," she adds lightly, "you could take a harem, or multiple wives. I realize it might not be what you want - but if you have not found a lady who your heart seeks most earnestly, whom you would keep with you above all else... ah, I should not tease."
     I should not tease. I torture myself in this fashion, not him. You eat an apple, and she smiles, stroking one of your ears again before you kneel, shifting to lie along your back and winding her arms around your neck. "Ready," Lys confirms, whispering it to you. She buries her face in your mane again. Why did I have to love him? Why could I not just like him terribly? This is awful...

     God, I'm awful enough with women individually. A group of them would be impossible. And his pink, velvety muzzle does, indeed, deepen in color. Unicorns can blush. Hopefully you missed that.
     He kneels, allowing you to slide off of him for a moment. I'm going to ....change...behind the tree. Just...so you... know. There's a lot of cover. Please don't leave. That last is a hope, a plea. As you softly touch the ground below, he rises again, soft steps leading him on the other side of the thicket. The pair of trousers is tugged by a human hand and pulled into the thicket. First things first: trousers.
     "I hadn't considered that. There's no...law dictating how I should proceed. Tradition, certainly, but not law." Eavan looks to his hands, turning his body away from you, even though there is a large tree between you, and several bushes as well. Still, courtesy. He pulls on the brushed suede trousers and turns, reaching for the sweater. His hand is visible, and a portion of a strong arm. "Would you be at all interested in such a pursuit? I want your honesty. Even if it is a hard truth, Lys."
     Wearing the grey suede trousers and heather grey sweater, both fitted, King Eavan appears from around the body of the apple tree. His eyes, soulful green still, bear witness to his emotions. He leans against this tree to pull on the knee high boots. "I... am," he looks to his hands and the right boot he holds. "...your friend, in any case." Green eyes look to you as he pulls on the right boot, hopping a moment on one leg as he does.
     His face is already turning in a chiding. Smooth, Eavan...

     She manages to resist the urge to peek; it's there, though. She feels her heart flutter in her chest, her back turned to where you're changing. "You are the law," Lys agrees steadily, voice quiet as usual. She is suppressing herself again; it isn't just preparatory to going back. She is trying to find the keys and locks which will help to guard herself against hurt. "Who and how you choose will, after all, be up to you."
     She glances over her shoulder; the glimpse she sees causes a heated blush, but not nearly so much as the words which are paired with that blush. Do you notice the blush? It rises into her cheeks. Her heart rises into her mouth, pounding so heart that she almost needs to sit down.
     She curtails herself sharply. You must choose the answer which is best for him; not for yourself, she reminds herself. She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly. "I care for you deeply," Lys murmurs. She turns her face away. "But I could not call myself a true friend, nor a true servant, if I answered in a self-serving way, Eavan. I do not see any way in which I could bring to you what you and your kingdom most need, do you? I will always serve you loyally, and be as close by as you wish me to be. But to enter myself in such a race, knowing full well that even if I did, miracle of miracles, turn out to be one of those three orphaned children - what could I possibly give you?"
     Despair threatens to make itself known; she presses her lips together, stilling herself with a secretive hand pressed to her breast. "Whatever option you choose, and there are many, I must advise you wisely and fairly, to the best of my limited abilities," she murmurs, voice quieter still. She bends down to pick a moonflower, tucking it into her hair and untying the heavy cloak in order to reverse it, the purple lining hidden once more. "How can I tell you to seek me?"
     Even though I love you. Even though my heart is breaking to acknowledge the truth. Oh, god. How am I holding back the flood? Why am I always subject to being destroyed by floods?
     "It is best we return alone, in case anyone sees, and misinterprets," Lys murmurs, her chin pointing down now. "If your majesty permits, I shall depart first." Let me be alone with my tears, damnable tears!

     He is quiet as he listens to you deflect. One. Two. Three strikes. Even Caesar stopped after three. And he pulls on his other boot. "It is because you answer the way you do that I ask," is his quiet answer. Because you are True.
     King Eavan looks up to the moon -- it still adores him -- and to the leaves of the apple tree. He reaches up to grasp one of the smaller, pippin apples hidden there. "Go ahead," he whispers, the leaves murmuring as he picks the fruit.
     The King looks to it, not you, giving you the space to depart. It is only after he thinks you are well away that he lowers to a crouch, balancing upon the balls of his feet. He tosses the small apple away from him.
     And it bounces and rolls headlong into the stream...

     She draws away, and even her composure, as good as it is, doesn't manage to make it completely. There is a choked sob from the girl - whoever she is. She thought she'd found out, after a fashion. And now, she has lost it. She has lost it all...
     The bag is dropped. It is no longer important to her. Lys runs, feet finding purchase on the ground, tears blinding her. There is moonlight in her eyes and on her hair, and there is the flood, arrived, crashing on her doorstep. Again.
     She runs, her hands covering her face. Did you know she could find such speed? If you didn't, you do now. And as she runs, she weeps. She has a broken heart; and worse, she had to break it, herself.
     Ah, god, you are not merciful at all...

Posted by rowan at June 11, 2010 05:32 PM