Nightmares could destroy the world, the boy thought to himself as he made his way through the rich grass and pools with plumes of steam. He pretended himself a ghost, a nimble dancer of mountain meadows, an elf of the winter valleys, but he could not quite kid himself. Carnesîr was not meant to be a snow prince or glacier lord; he was meant to be a king of tree-nymphs, aristocratic sovereign of the green glades and emerald forests, a monarch of golden light and glistening dust motes. You gave it up, the colt scolded, memories flitting back to his father and mother with their stern faces and all the peoples, their eyes heavy on his lithe silver body of elvish make. But he, he had left them behind in the unnamed forests of their home and hearth. So why did his heart cringe at the thought of them, ache at the soul-bruising images of him chasing shadows and the sound of his laughter ringing in his ears?

What songs had they written about him? Were they ballads of his cowardice, scriptures of his broken-hearted parents? Did they blame the omen of Galathil and Lólindir found in the crushed, bruised red-and-purple petals?

And of his parents, had they met each other in the cloak of night, twined tails and murmured their lilting oaths of love, and created a child, a true and proper heir to the Throne? No doubt they had, and by now his mother would have borne the second child, the first recorded descendant. Surely he had been wiped from the family tree, obliterated from their lines as a traitor and unruly boy. And just as certainly, Carnesîr's replacement would be raised noble and gallant, thoughtful and wise, a little seigneur of flowers and birds. Or perhaps a princess had been born, a righteous empress whose voice was the most beautiful throughout the land, who was so gorgeous all who laid eyes upon her had their words stolen from their lips and the thoughts in their minds emptied.

One thing was without doubt; the second foal would be raised as properly befitting the next monarch, and Carnesîr would be forgotten.

He shook off the thoughts by slipping into the hot springs, letting the heat soak deep into his weak, useless-for-battle muscles, allowing the warmth to numb his spinning thoughts and whirling head.

There is a shape in the mist, soaked coat oil black, mane turned gray, a shape that looms grandeur and huge, four swords on its head.

He is drawn, a fly to the terrible monstrosity of a spider, and so Carnesîr comes closer, closer, eyes wide and curious.

"Do you kill what you touch?"