He has kept an uncharacteristically low profile since returning from Blackfeather Woods. There are times here and there where he emerged from his shell, but they are few and far between. He is more ghoul than guardian these days, drifting through patrols, the look in his eyes reminiscent of a man who sees something far removed from the path before him.

The prince is dead. Long live King Rhys of Mynydd. Long may he reign.

When had Llewellyn ap Gwynedd died, and Llew the gilded ghost had come to replace him? There is no moment in particular to pinpoint as his downfall. It is the careful, deliberate deconstruction of a once-formidable wall, a brick-by-brick effort.

He is more than humbled; he is dirt-poor here, and his name is meaningless. He is not anything particularly special, contrary to everything he was told throughout life in Mynydd. He rules nothing and will never do so. Tales will never be spun, nor songs sung, in his honor.

He is and always will be forgotten. A prince in exile, the pretender to the throne.

If Llewellyn was aware of the growing rebellion in Mynydd, with brave souls calling for his ascension, he would return immediately. As it was, he is here, on the Moonspear, where all he has to show for himself is a mindless fealty and myriad scars from the Blackfeather bitch. He is nothing here—he will always be nothing here. He has sealed his own fate with his pledge of loyalty to this mountain.

Oh, how he wishes he could bring it down, pebbles and all, for what has become of him here! He sends a glare toward the snow-capped precipice, stalking through the evergreens near the summit. The air is thin and cold here, and the silence is deafening.

He can hear each and every beat of his heart, and he hates it.

Out of everyone here, Speedy is easiest to speak to. Perhaps it is because he feels like she is not someone he needs to impress. There are no appearances to keep up. He feels some of the darkness leave him, upon hearing her voice, and gives her a kind look, coming to a halt as well. Almost a smile, but not quite. It is too difficult, these days.

Bore da, he rumbles, dipping his head. Speedy. I am. . . He trails off, unable to answer her question without thinking first of the words he means to use. How truthful does he want to be? No one wants to deal with someone wallowing in the pit of despair, least of all him. Alive, he concludes with a sigh, an inkling of dark humor escaping with the word.

He tilts his head, regarding her for a moment before speaking again. And you? Llewellyn asks. How do you fare? He is still incensed about the incidents with that Blackfeather woman; God help her if he ever finds her again. He will destroy her.

He gives into her questioning, knowing that he wouldn't allow anyone else here the same courtesy. Nor many back home, either. Perhaps his sisters, or at least Seren. His parents. But apart from that. . . It is a sign of immense trust that he puts his heart in front of Speedy, and says a lot about her character. Her kindness, her natural empathy. She is good.

I do not belong here, Llewellyn says hoarsely, dipping his head. I was born to be a king. Here, I am a follower, and no more. This is not the path I was meant to walk, ever. I am lost, Speedy. The only place that I have ever felt like I belonged was home. . .and I can never go home again.

Emotions flicker over his face like tongues of fire, burning in the depths of his eyes, sparking as the corners of his mouth tremble. I am more miserable than I have been in my life, and I cannot escape it. That bombshell dropped, he stares at the woman, as if she is the remedy to all his problems. Intent on latching on to each and every one of her kind words, as if they are water and he is a man dying of thirst.

He nods in agreement, though the task seems nearly insurmountable. Perhaps at one point he could do what she describes—start a kingdom from scratch, gain followers. Now he barely has the energy to keep his head up. How is he to ever become king of anything again.

Her words warm him, nonetheless. Thank you, Speedy, he rumbles, his face growing softer. It does. . .it does matter. And you're-- You are important to me. The words stick in his throat, for some reason, but he hopes she can read them in his eyes.

Llewellyn swings his head away, clearing his throat. Ah. . .walk with me? the prince offers, a little sheepishly. He begins to pad off without waiting for her response, but then turns abruptly, fixing his gaze on hers. You are important to me as well, he says with confidence, dipping his head. And I am grateful for your friendship.

He waits for her to join him, then, on a spin around the Moonspear.