The cold penetrates his bones and frosts his marrow—but the heat had seared his soul and boiled his blood as well. The very earth seems to be against his body, or maybe his body is unfitted to exist in this realm. Reginald forces it to move regardless; he forces the air into his throat, and tries to hide the rapid thump of his heart from his brother. He always tries to hide it, because it shames him; it’s an embarrassment. He always fails, though. Abraham isn’t stupid.

The trek is long; his joints wobble somewhat with every step as the frozen desert unfurls before them. It’s the eye of interest, the burning curiosity in his breast that drives the grey-eyed prince through these realms of heat, of thistles, and now, finally, of cold. Loretta’s shadow flits behind him; he ignores her presence. She is naught but a shadow at best, a growling nuisance at worst; Reginald’s mind is hungry, his desires blazing passed the limits of his flesh. He hates restraint of all kinds—and Loretta could prove to be one at any point. Prying eyes are an annoyance.

*"Reggie, isn't this place wonderful?"*

Abraham’s voice cuts through the brittle air of the white nirvana. It thaws the ice that has started to coat Reginald’s innards; the grey of Reginald’s irises turn toward his ebony littermate. “Mmmh,” he replies with a bored, thoughtful lilt in his breathless voice. It wisps in the air, and is subdued by the heavy chill that permeates the place; one must struggle to hear the colt’s voice in this vault. Reginald’s gaze roves over the solitude of the realm, of the sparse grasses that dot the landscape. His eye catches the glistening of snow; he learns it. Abraham’s second question rings, and Reginald ponders the words. “Perhaps,” he mutters without commitment. He supposes the place holds its own appeal; he imagines himself living in it, master of this territory, lord over the white snow and the gem-like icicles that hang from the cliff faces in the same way his horn hangs from his own brow. He likes this daydream; it causes the burn within to flare and protect from the cold.

Movement catches Reginald’s eye; he watches his brother frolic in the snowdrifts, powerful in his innocence and gaiety. Jealousy sparks an ugly flame in Reginald’s bosom. He knows from experience that he cannot mimic his brother’s display of carefree strength, especially now having just traveled so far. With a soft snort that is lost in the bitter, brittle air, Reginald trots after his brother; his legs lengthen, his steps become exaggerated; his spine seems to flatten and elongate as he attempts to recreate his mother’s easy, rocking pace. He’s successful so far. It eases the bitter taste in his mouth to know of his own beauty, to know of his own brand of perfection. “We could live here,” he agrees quietly, passing his brother in his rocking step, his eyes starting to swivel once again and take in the frozen land, to ignite the daydream that has captured his fancy.


walk walk walktalk talk talk