_{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?

He stares at the slender black shadow.

The grey-eyed prince returns frequently to this color kingdom of the sky, though it costs him shaking limbs, ragged breath, a rapidly beating heart. He returns despite the weakness in his bones, because he likes these colors, he likes to bask in the fragrance of the Gods’ own garden. Is there spite in his heart for the possible desecration of holy land? Perhaps. He still treads softly, watching the world react to his tiny hooves. There’s nothing gained in inciting the wrath of a being he knows he cannot fight.

This place would be perfect were it not for its perfection. Reginald is not the only one to recognize its peaceful, quiet beauty, the lushness of its fields and sweetness of its clover. He wishes he were; he escapes his mother’s intuitive eye, his brother’s blinding strength, his father’s golden glare just to spend his days in this immaculate solitude, allowing the visions to play behind his eyes as he daydreams under the cold light of the mountain sun. Countless strangers pass his invisible boundaries; they invade the imaginary borders of his kingdom, oblivious to his claim upon it, leaving a bitter taste in the prince’s mouth. They will learn one day to fear to cross his path and urine. He will not stand for it.

He watches quietly as a slight black spit of a colt gambols about playfully, and once again sour envy coats the back of Reginald’s throat as he observes the effortless grace and power children his age should possess. He calms himself. One day, he whispers in his mind. One day he will break from his chains.

But for now, he approaches the small black colt, noting the slim legs, the knobbly knees, the bud of a crimson horn that adorns his fuzzy black face. Reginald hears the hiss that spits from the teeth of the colt. He pins his ears from behind the child, before setting them straight again, forward and curious. He gets rid of that flash of annoyance. It won’t do to be annoyed. “They won’t kneel,” he whispers in his specter’s voice, a rustle of leaves in the wind, the sigh of mist on a heavy Orangemoon morning. He is minutes older than this youngish colt—though he believes there is wisdom in those extra minutes, and he offers it. Just to see.

"talk talk talk"