His eyes continue to greedily scan the vista of snow, the translucent vaults of aquamarine ice over yonder, as Abraham’s voice lifts in the air. Reginald slows his place, plumes of white issuing from his nose. He thinks about his brother’s question; he ponders a response. However, before so much as a syllable slips passed his maw, another voice cuts through the din, high and enchanting, trills of a songbird. An interloper. Reginald snorts, casting his eyes toward the intruder.

He did not know beauty before this point, for his mother isn’t beautiful, nor is she meant to be. He didn’t know female, either, because though his mother may be a mare, that means nothing for the grey-eyed prince. His mother is a cornerstone of his life, an unmovable pinnacle—this is something apart all together. It’s fitting that he learns beauty from the delicate foal that approaches, for it is beauty incarnate that stalks them. His eyes fall upon the subtle darkness and light muted in her coat, the ivory mane that threatens a cascade around her neck. He sees her eyes; outlandish in their vibrancy, yet attractive in their own rite. He sees the pearl that emerges from her brow; the makings of a horn. They are very much alike. The sight of her gives him pleasure, a liking he does not understand. He casts it aside.

Even so, through her beauty, he sees that she is a different creature from them. Her delicacy is irritating to the prince. He cannot stand her spindly legs, the ethereal quality of her gait, the thinness of her hip and her chest, though now it’s swollen with her own pride and demands. “What are you?” he asks scornfully, his tongue lashing, his fangs bared. He is offended by her presumptuous authority; who is she to command them? The nerve was astounding. As much as Reginald hates to admit it, he knows his own weakness in the shadow of his younger brother—and yet he easily perceives himself crushing this girl under his own weight. The thought tickles him.

The next words that fall from the fae’s mouth irk Reginald. It’s the blurted observation of his brother's eyes that causes the darkling colt to decide she is an idiot: not worth his time. He casts another contemptuous look in her direction, and as he does so, he spies the flora that grows in the fawnling’s wake, the green and the colors of the rainbow springing from the frozen ground underfoot. So out of place; so oddly alluring. His curiosity burns; he walks around the fawnling, ignoring her, towards the path of flowers she has left behind her. He bends toward the nearest flower; he contemplates biting it, tasting it, seeing if it’s a regular thing or a bloom from paradise. He wonders; does she hide them in her hooves, or is she so warm that she melts the ground and allows the flowers to grow? He considers touching her to see if she's as hot as he believes. The idea leaves a queasy ire in his stomach. He hates and likes the thought at the same time; he does not want to come close, yet he imagines her to be soft. It leaves him confused.

As the leaves touch Reginald's lips, the chill descends upon him. His lifts his head; his eyes cast towards his brother in haste, for he knows fear now. He knows it; he has felt it. And he hates it with all his being. His spirit flares, angry at the fawnling, for he knows it is a fault of hers. “What are you?” he hisses again, his voice rising ever so slightly; his ears are pinned, and he’s tempted by a bloodlust that emanates from his brother. His brother’s question isn’t lost; Reginald ponders it, wonders if their first act in this place should be to eradicate the blight of this….this….thing. This gorgeous thing, this wrong thing that Reginald has learned to hate.



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