_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

Reginald likes this place. The meadow in which they live possesses a sun that beats down relentlessly, with a creek that emits stifling air that coats the lungs, making it impossible to breath. This place is better; the air is cooler in his throat, the shadows a welcoming respite for the grey-eyed prince. He decides he likes these trees. He has not seen their like before, with rough bark and needle-like leaves. He tastes one, and it’s bitter, but he learns the bitter sap. He does not anger—in fact, he appreciates its acrid flavor. It plays on his tongue, something strange and alien and new, and his body burns for more discovery.

He resents his mother’s pace, for she travels quickly, and the forest’s scenery melts away in her haste. His limbs remain on the earth longer than he wants to; a substance coats the bottom of his hoof, the hairs of his fetlock, and it binds him dirt despite the hurry in the wake of his mother. He despises this substance. Besides this, he wants to explore the forest more—but he also understands his mother’s rush. Father has left; Reginald knows the land which his father has travelled to is called the Foothills. He does not know this place; he has never seen it. Apparently both his mother and father had resided there, but what does that matter to the darkling colt? He doesn’t know it; it does not matter to him.

Grey eyes flick to his brother, who also follows. A question hangs in the air; where do they go? Why do they go there? As wonderful as this place is, Reginald feels the oppression of the trees around them, the dormant malice that bleeds from the trunk, from the thick shadows that hang from the boughs. He does not imagine his mother would take them to a place like this for the sake of idle retreat. There is a purpose. Reginald’s hypothesis is proven in his mother’s tension—for she is tensed. There is always talk of her being a warrior by his father’s side, but it is only now that he can see it. He can’t decide if he likes it or not.

The walk isn’t so long, but Reginald stifles his pant as his mother stops at the shore of a clear pond. He wanders over to it, foalish curiosity and burning desire propelling him forward. He leans toward the water, marveling at its clarity, his eyes caught and entranced by the stones that litter the pond floor. He laps up some of the water; it’s sweet on his tongue. He’s tempted to extend a hoof into the water, to play about with the bloodied pebbles that so enchanted him, but before he can act upon such impulse his mother’s voice rings out in the repressive din. His eyes flash with annoyance at the interruption.

Quickly, however, his irritated visage turns to one of thoughtful interest as he watches and listens. His mother speaks of fighting; something lurches within the prince’s breast, and he is immediately enthralled with the idea. He ponders the uses he has subjected his horn to, carefully controlling the welling excitement in his throat, forgetting his weaknesses for the moment. “I have carved,” he starts, his windfall voice slithering into the open air as he thinks carefully about his answer, “into the bark of a tree at home, once. I have pierced leaves with my horn, to see how sharp it is.” He does not mention the belly of the frog, the skin of the mouse, because he anticipates his mother’s wrath. She does not condone his cruelty to smaller creatures. He doesn’t know why, but he cannot challenge it. “I haven’t played with Abraham with it, though. It’s sharp, mama. I don’t want to hurt him.” In all truthfulness, Reginald has thought of piercing his brother’s hide with it, to see if he can—but the idea is always abhorrent to him. His brother is not a frog or a mouse.


"talk talk talk"