[BOOM CRASH. Hope you don't mind me throwing Reggie in here <3]



Warm wind replaces bitter, lashing gales; bulbs sprout, grasses burst from the frozen ground. The air thrums with the life of it; birds sing and chatter with life, animals emerge full of life, everywhere and all things—life bursts from it. So too, does it burst from the Grey-Eyed Prince.

See him there! Chest, full—legs, long, stocky, the boughs of a great, ashen oak, sturdy underneath him, sure in its action. Haughty. Life bursts from him, from his eyes and his warbling tongue, for he laughs in the strength he feels. He grows; his chest does not constrict so easily, now. He cannot run like his brother—but so what? He leaves his younger sibling, and his growth is apparent, his strength undeniable without the afterimage of his lesser, greater womb mate. In the dark colt’s travels, he feels himself so much bigger, his skin tough as diamond, his eyes piercing glass, quick to cut his prey, calculating and cold, so cold, despite the growing warmth. He thrives, and Mama’s milk is growing bitter, always bitter. He leaves her side often enough.

The sea—he does not know the sea. His mother has told him stories of an ancient kingdom here, balanced on the Edge of the World; she spoke of strange creatures and oddities of horses, submersed in the dragon’s magic of times passed, where obscene happenings take place. He did not believe her then; he does not believe her, now. He does not see a kingdom here, he does not feel its magic.

He explores, though. In the warmth of the sand beneath his hooves, he discovers. He finds the shell; he investigates the mollusk. The air is tanged with hidden salt, as is the distasteful, brackish, sticky water; he leaves it. Sand gives ‘way beneath him, and he laughs at its weakness under his growing bulk. Things scuttle away from him, and in his fading coltish fancy, he follows them; sea creatures and water-spiders he does not know, pinching his feathers as he reaches for them with his solid, boulder-esque hooves. They live like all small things do—like the mice of his meadow home. He ends those small lives it like he’s done with the others, all the others.

Someone is here; Reginald grows wary. It is a large stallion, only large, not monstrous. The sea holds them captivated; the Prince grows bored with him. He chases crabs once more, though he does not know their name—he only knows they live like mice, die like mice, and he will kill them all the same. Their carapaces snap beneath him with an enjoyable report; their armor is no match for him. He is delighted with their death; tail lashes beneath him, curling with glee. Warm wind replaces the bitter, lashing gales, and it is spring time; he is happy.

”Watch for Circe.”