speak

*“I won’t just run today, but I’ll run tomorrow and the next and the next day.”*

Reginald chuckles; it’s forced from him, slipping passed whatever barriers he has erected against this alien.“And the next day?” he wonders, continuing his steady march toward his prize, the inevitable. “And the next day? And the day after that? You’ll run forever?” His imagination runs rampant with the image of this slight little shadow flying over the countryside for all eternity, an eye cast over her back for the menace she had foolishly invoked. “I want to see that,” he decides. It is a hiss between his teeth; he does not care if she hears. He will see her run for eternity.

She stops and lingers for a bit, bolting as he comes close. She is a coy little insect, baiting the hawk or the tiny weanling serpent, teasing the grey-eyed prince with her imminent presence. He does not rise to the bait, for the churning and bubbling in his stomach has been mastered finally. It is naught but a storm raging in the distance, and though he hears the rumbling thunder across what seems to be many seas, he does not succumb to it. She runs away from him once more; he feels the thistles bristle across his legs as he slowly ambles past. He keeps his sight on her. “No sleeping for you,” he says, another growl under his breath, a mocking sort of croon. He plays the game willingly. How fun.

The scent of another reaches his notice, however, and he stops in his tracks. The game has paused; Reginald looks into the face of another young filly who has ambled into his homeland quite innocently, her tone polite as he addresses him and his new “friend” as sir and madam. “This is a land for outcasts,” he hears his mother say in some distant memory, “and all may intrude here from time to time.” Whatever blisters inside his ribcage is contained, and he feels very little for this new addition—he only acknowledges slight irritation at the suspension of their game. She is not a part of it—at least, not yet.

He stares at her. There is no speech from his maw. The breeze rustles gently; the sun begins its decent. The light becomes golden in the early evening, and he knows his mother will expect him soon. He only stands there and stares into the green irises of this new filly, disliking her stringy build, the ridiculous dish of her face. He continues to stare regardless of her infuriating faults. Waiting.