_{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 remembers the day of the obnoxious tree, the boughs draped in colorful, irritant livery for the celebration of traditions whose rites escape his notice and care. He remembered how it drew wretched souls from all four corners of the world, how they trampled his home, shitting on his food, drinking his water, sharing their sweat and their presence in a place where they weren’t welcome. He remembers how his mother asked him not to hate on that day—to try, for once, and quench the thirst of his flaming soul. He tried for his mother. And thus, the tree granted him a ridiculous trinket indeed for his trouble. He tried to stop hating—and was rewarded with something to hate.

No matter. Time passes, things change, and Reginald still breathes. The air became cold indeed; he begins to despise the cold months, for they blow winds that rape his bones and chill his blood, weeping ice-cold tears that penetrate the growing thickness of his coat and mane, slipping against sensitive baby’s skin, prickling with needles of chill. He travels further south, away from this detestable weather—from other detestable things, for many things have become detestable. There is no anger—he has mastered that, tamed it and shut it away in the cage of his heart-ribs—but there is hate, despite his mother’s deepest wishes. He cannot apologize. There are too many things to hate in this world.

So he does.

The grey-eyed prince travels to the kingdom of the underground. He knows it is warm there—he has witness its warmth first-hand, even in the fires of Tallsun. Yes, then it smoldered unbearably against his weak lung, his feeble heart. Now, however, as he descends into the crystal-studded channels of the subterranean utopia, his body becomes alive again. The chrysalis of cold is pierced and shattered; he feels his heart beat again. His blood rushes underneath his skin. He is in love with this warmth; he wants it for himself. He knows that hordes of others know of this place, and he detests the thought, but there is little he can do about it now. He may piss and grit his teeth and bare his fangs, and nothing will come about. No, he will return for it later. It will be his diamond-studded kingdom.

Yes. Fire is a good thing indeed.

He continues in the catacombs of earth, turning into a darkness he hasn’t explored yet. He traverses it, and comes upon a most curious scene—a pool merrily splashes against a slashed and battered wall, graffitied and defiled, seemingly, by the claw of a great beast. The mockery of a tree’s crown rocks on the dome of the darkling colt, a ridiculous prize indeed, a childish assertion of his very real sovereignty. He does not know the wall is to be read—and so, he cannot read it. It doesn’t matter. He will have it one day, and this fountain, and the diamonds, and the lava that flows freely behind the glassy rock.

He commits this place to memory; he stays awhile. He dreads returning home. There are too many things to hate in this world.
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