It is perhaps the first time Dorian has truly been forced to run since his arrival here, the slender young man ducking through the gate and running out onto the foot path- rather determined to prevent the woman from catching him. His invisibility, at least, provided some method of escape as it had done for him so many times over the years. He pivots neatly upon his feet, seeking to assure himself the woman was not chasing after him and yet he hardly desires to offer her a chance all the same, his home is within sight and as such this is where the man heads- Dorian hastening up the street with his affinity still cloaked about him. He reaches the apartment building unharmed, taking the stairs near two at a time before very near colliding with the front door. Why was it so people continued to lock doors?! It takes him several more moments of fumbling for his key before he manages, at last, to unlock the door and let himself in- shutting it behind him before finally allowing his own power to drop and his form to become visible once more.

"A woman kicked me! We were struck down and assaulted."

The outrage in his voice is surely clear, Dorian still unable to understand under what law it was acceptable in any fashion for royalty to be assaulted as he had been, the man rather clearly frazzled in every sense of the word- so much so that he fails, at first, to register Samantha's unusual position upon the floor and beside the couch- draped in a blanket. It is only after another huff of irritation has left the Fae Kings lips and the man has near crossed the room entirely that he truly becomes aware of his companion and the sobs she struggles to maintain. His gait pauses near mid-stride, the gentle silver of his gaze turning upon her now as he frowns ever so slightly. Either this was a modern custom to which he held no actual knowledge or the woman seemed visibly distressed.

"Samantha?"

He pauses still. It was the job of a ladies maid, a Mother, a sister or even a female friend to comfort a woman when in distress- at least, in the case a husband does not exist. Here and now however none of the options for her security exist, Dorian momentarily caught in between the binds of culture and position and the continual assurance by the woman herself that he was her friend. Her best friend at that. Did not this title bestow upon him some right perhaps to...embrace her in a fashion? He had never seen fit to ask her exactly what duties were expected of him as this so-called best friend and yet whether such a thing allowed him to circumnavigate the decorum of his culture he hardly knew. It would be decidedly improper for a man to put his arms around a woman. Doubly so, for a King. He seems to wage this inward war for several minutes yet before he steps forward at last to make his way towards the sobbing woman, easing himself down and onto the floor beside her.

"We do not ever sit upon the floor- this is a decidedly special occasion, you should remember it well."

He offers gently, some touch of humour within his words. After all- a King does not kneel without exceptional cause. Just as a Queen, he thinks, surely does not cry without one. He adjusts himself momentarily until he sits beside and against her, his own back pressed against the couch before he allows one arm to encircle her, pulling her gently against him as he has seen others do in an act of comfort- allowing her to cry into his chest or shoulder if she desired.

"Perché stiamo piangere?"

The gentle Italian lyrics slip near flawlessly from his lips, Dorian unaware momentarily he had reverted to his native language, the man speaking his question again in a language the girl would surely understand.

"Why are we crying?"

Dorian Aragona