It’s too warm in this place. Not warm--hot. The air sears his throat, his own sweat blinds him. His flesh is cooked within the wrappings of his own skin. The grass is gone; there is naught but rock underneath his younger hooves. The sun literally beats him as though he were a pelt thrown against a boulder to knock the dust from it. He is suffering. He does this on purpose.

He must escape his mother and his brother. Only for a time. He must battle his body on his own, for Reginald can’t abide by this. If he cannot train his body to do what he desires, then he will punish it, because his wrath is starting to become unhinged. He had taught himself so long ago to control his fury, because it was without focus; Reginald ruined himself when he let loose the ends of his rage. It was becoming unbearable. He wanted to do, and he could not. Patience is learned with time, and as young as the darkling prince was, he had not experienced it. He suffered in his boyish need for action, for his body could not act.

Exhaustion: he felt it now. He couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t keep up. The treasure of the Heart was lost on clouded eyes, because the heat beat him down, and he moved out of sheer will. A draft reaches him; the promise of respite whispers against his cheek, and his body follows it blindly, because destruction is not what he seeks. It’s control he wants, but to break his body is abhorrent indeed. As humiliating as it is for him to swallow, Reginald allows himself to find relief from the heat.

He travels; the cavern is dark. His eyes open wide to receive light, to navigate through the twisting halls of this strange place. He could very well be in danger—he cares not. His breath is ragged as it’s pulled into his throat, into his lungs, but his eyes stare about in his curiosity, which has taken over his exhaustion.
Reginald comes to a room filled with things, glowing things, things that reflect off the walls of the cave, the waters that flow beneath the earth. His eyes are drawn to the glow of the magma from behind a thick sheet of transparent stone—he does not know glass and he does not know lava, but it is here that he learns both. The heat that comes from here is not the heat from the sun; the sun spears with its heat, trying to hunt with it, subdue its prey with it. The heat here is life giving; Reginald knows he would welcome it if he was not already sweltering in his own hide.

The magma captivates Reginald; he does not approach it, but his eyes are glued to the spectacle. Voices echo around the walls, bouncing to and fro, reverberating in the din. His own pant is magnified in this place; he listens to the sound with curiosity. The interest turns into liking for the eerie noise. The liking turns to a wicked sort of excitement. He laughs, and his laughter is distorted in the curve of the cave walls. He snickers. He chuckles deep in his throat, and it’s the chuckle of a monster, the harbinger of ruin.

He likes this. He decides he enjoys this cave.



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