Abraham waited, listening to his mother as she spoke. She was so knowledgeable, her scars finally making sense in the young prince's mind. Abe watched as she moved gracefully and powerfully over the needled ground. He was in awe of her movements, in awe of the mention of their father. In his mind's eye he could see his father's bulk moving like a serpent over the land, then thrashing with a devestating blow. The colt nearly shuddered with excitement. This fighting, this battle--this art--it was going to be his. Abraham was going to be a master, perhaps greater than his parents, perhaps greater than any other horse in existence. Abraham was ready.

Letting his jaws fall open, Abraham breathed out carefully and slowly. His brother, Reginald, was already straight to work, pushing his body and forcing it to mind. Abraham, on the other hand, lowered his gaze to the ground and relaxed all of his muscles. He stood silent and still for several minutes, breathing in and out with a slow rhythm. He closed his odd eyes and saw his mother moving behind his dark lids, but slowly her form flitted and faded, and he saw himself(or, what he assumed he looked like. He had only seen his reflection in the river of their meadow). He was holding his head low, in his mind, horns pointed dangerously, ready to slice the hide of his attacker. Carefully, the colt lowered his neck and tucked his chin with a gentle flick. Taking another breath, Abraham opened his eyes and lifted his hooves.

The colt moved forward first and then he tried to place his hooves to the side. He was moving forward and to the side, opposite his brother, but he was not nearly as flawless as his mother. His legs were stiff, hooves clipping his pasterns as he overshot his movements, stepping down on feathers that were already growing long, pulling them painfully. The colt gritted his teeth to keep from grunting, or whining, but he pushed his breathing until he was nearly palpitating. He needed perfection, he needed to do everything his mother could. Abraham needed to overcome his own body.

Finally, a frustrated growl falls from the dark youngling's maw. "Mother, why can't I do it right!?" He exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks without her command. With instinct, his legs set strong underneath him, holding his body square. His frustration was boiling over, obvious in his rapidly moving breast and the sweat that began to pool on his downy between his legs. "What is wrong with me!?" Abraham grunts, locking eyes with the shadowmere. He prepared himself for a lash, an angry quip from his mother. Abraham did not care, he was angry. He was angry with himself, with his body. "This should not be so hard--we are your's and father's sons!" He nearly yelled, ears pinning against his dark mane.