The cold penetrates his bones and frosts his marrow—but the heat had seared his soul and boiled his blood as well. The very earth seems to be against his body, or maybe his body is unfitted to exist in this realm. Reginald forces it to move regardless; he forces the air into his throat, and tries to hide the rapid thump of his heart from his brother. He always tries to hide it, because it shames him; it’s an embarrassment. He always fails, though. Abraham isn’t stupid.

The trek is long; his joints wobble somewhat with every step as the frozen desert unfurls before them. It’s the eye of interest, the burning curiosity in his breast that drives the grey-eyed prince through these realms of heat, of thistles, and now, finally, of cold. Loretta’s shadow flits behind him; he ignores her presence. She is naught but a shadow at best, a growling nuisance at worst; Reginald’s mind is hungry, his desires blazing passed the limits of his flesh. He hates restraint of all kinds—and Loretta could prove to be one at any point. Prying eyes are an annoyance.

*"Reggie, isn't this place wonderful?"*

Abraham’s voice cuts through the brittle air of the white nirvana. It thaws the ice that has started to coat Reginald’s innards; the grey of Reginald’s irises turn toward his ebony littermate. “Mmmh,” he replies with a bored, thoughtful lilt in his breathless voice. It wisps in the air, and is subdued by the heavy chill that permeates the place; one must struggle to hear the colt’s voice in this vault. Reginald’s gaze roves over the solitude of the realm, of the sparse grasses that dot the landscape. His eye catches the glistening of snow; he learns it. Abraham’s second question rings, and Reginald ponders the words. “Perhaps,” he mutters without commitment. He supposes the place holds its own appeal; he imagines himself living in it, master of this territory, lord over the white snow and the gem-like icicles that hang from the cliff faces in the same way his horn hangs from his own brow. He likes this daydream; it causes the burn within to flare and protect from the cold.

Movement catches Reginald’s eye; he watches his brother frolic in the snowdrifts, powerful in his innocence and gaiety. Jealousy sparks an ugly flame in Reginald’s bosom. He knows from experience that he cannot mimic his brother’s display of carefree strength, especially now having just traveled so far. With a soft snort that is lost in the bitter, brittle air, Reginald trots after his brother; his legs lengthen, his steps become exaggerated; his spine seems to flatten and elongate as he attempts to recreate his mother’s easy, rocking pace. He’s successful so far. It eases the bitter taste in his mouth to know of his own beauty, to know of his own brand of perfection. “We could live here,” he agrees quietly, passing his brother in his rocking step, his eyes starting to swivel once again and take in the frozen land, to ignite the daydream that has captured his fancy.


walk walk walktalk talk talk

His eyes continue to greedily scan the vista of snow, the translucent vaults of aquamarine ice over yonder, as Abraham’s voice lifts in the air. Reginald slows his place, plumes of white issuing from his nose. He thinks about his brother’s question; he ponders a response. However, before so much as a syllable slips passed his maw, another voice cuts through the din, high and enchanting, trills of a songbird. An interloper. Reginald snorts, casting his eyes toward the intruder.

He did not know beauty before this point, for his mother isn’t beautiful, nor is she meant to be. He didn’t know female, either, because though his mother may be a mare, that means nothing for the grey-eyed prince. His mother is a cornerstone of his life, an unmovable pinnacle—this is something apart all together. It’s fitting that he learns beauty from the delicate foal that approaches, for it is beauty incarnate that stalks them. His eyes fall upon the subtle darkness and light muted in her coat, the ivory mane that threatens a cascade around her neck. He sees her eyes; outlandish in their vibrancy, yet attractive in their own rite. He sees the pearl that emerges from her brow; the makings of a horn. They are very much alike. The sight of her gives him pleasure, a liking he does not understand. He casts it aside.

Even so, through her beauty, he sees that she is a different creature from them. Her delicacy is irritating to the prince. He cannot stand her spindly legs, the ethereal quality of her gait, the thinness of her hip and her chest, though now it’s swollen with her own pride and demands. “What are you?” he asks scornfully, his tongue lashing, his fangs bared. He is offended by her presumptuous authority; who is she to command them? The nerve was astounding. As much as Reginald hates to admit it, he knows his own weakness in the shadow of his younger brother—and yet he easily perceives himself crushing this girl under his own weight. The thought tickles him.

The next words that fall from the fae’s mouth irk Reginald. It’s the blurted observation of his brother's eyes that causes the darkling colt to decide she is an idiot: not worth his time. He casts another contemptuous look in her direction, and as he does so, he spies the flora that grows in the fawnling’s wake, the green and the colors of the rainbow springing from the frozen ground underfoot. So out of place; so oddly alluring. His curiosity burns; he walks around the fawnling, ignoring her, towards the path of flowers she has left behind her. He bends toward the nearest flower; he contemplates biting it, tasting it, seeing if it’s a regular thing or a bloom from paradise. He wonders; does she hide them in her hooves, or is she so warm that she melts the ground and allows the flowers to grow? He considers touching her to see if she's as hot as he believes. The idea leaves a queasy ire in his stomach. He hates and likes the thought at the same time; he does not want to come close, yet he imagines her to be soft. It leaves him confused.

As the leaves touch Reginald's lips, the chill descends upon him. His lifts his head; his eyes cast towards his brother in haste, for he knows fear now. He knows it; he has felt it. And he hates it with all his being. His spirit flares, angry at the fawnling, for he knows it is a fault of hers. “What are you?” he hisses again, his voice rising ever so slightly; his ears are pinned, and he’s tempted by a bloodlust that emanates from his brother. His brother’s question isn’t lost; Reginald ponders it, wonders if their first act in this place should be to eradicate the blight of this….this….thing. This gorgeous thing, this wrong thing that Reginald has learned to hate.



walk walk walktalk talk talk

The crawling chill of fear recedes swiftly, its frost melting from the darkling colt’s limbs just as suddenly as it had come. Without it, Reginald’s suspicion and hatred of the filly dies. He regains his composure, the burn in his belly flairs once more—she is once again dainty to him, a frail creature, a fairy that continues to sew her seeds and blossoms even when motionless. Now it is only the bitter cold of this northern terrain that bites into Reginald’s hide. His spine shivers; his breath comes out in an opaque cloud of mist. Could he truly live here? Perhaps, if he had his brother’s bulk, his brother’s feathering. Now, the cold is more than a mere nuisance-- he feels his heat wane against the frost. He cannot stand it here, though he wants to. His desire reigns.

Loretta is here; Reginald has forgotten. She comes and responds to Abrah’s anger, for his brother is indeed angry with the filly just as Reginald had been moments before, when his passion had flared brightly indeed. Now it has frozen; the grey-eyed prince cannot spare passion on her anymore, save for token irritation. Though he is annoyed with Loretta's presence, Reginald can see now the strength in his father's bitch, how she stands, powerful and compact, cold and calculating in her amber eye. Compared to this...fairy-child, Loretta is a monster indeed. His caution for the nymphette dies, for she is a child, as they are, though a spindly, glass-blown one at that. She is breakable, and Reginald is content in his superiority.

He continues to stalk behind her, where her trails of flowers bloom in the stiff permafrost; he bends down to touch them. The leaves are warmer than the ground allows—for if they shared the same icy temperature, the flora would die, yet here they are flourishing. The colors are enticing to Reginald in this colorless place; his lips rend the petals of a snowblossom, the bitter, acrid flavor of the flower coating his tongue for a span of moments. Though all the evidence points to the contrary, Reginald discovers them to be—flowers. Nothing more, not some magic spun enchantment, some illusion of the north.

“Leave your anger, Abraham,” Reginald rasps suddenly, swallowing down the petals as he raises his grey-eyed gaze to his brother, “she’s not so important for that.” He speaks with sense, for his fury is cooled by the absence of the shadow, the ambient freeze of the air. What good is there to be had for them to unleash hell fire upon her puny frame? She’s no monster; she’s no great warrior to be felled. She’s a useless little lady, somewhat like a mouse—and indeed, a wry thought crosses Reginald’s mind, likening her voice to that of a squealing, terror-stricken rodent. Yes, he has heard such a squeak before the dying rasp of his tiny victims; the thought threatens a smirk.

“Are the flowers in her mane the same as the flowers on the ground?” he wonders aloud, brow furrowed as he shoots this inquiry toward his brother. It’s a sudden thought, but he had noticed the blossoms laced within her mane; if she is indeed a fairy, are they a piece of her? Or perhaps she laces them in herself, a vain gesture to become as beautiful as the springtime? “I want a flower,” he decides, and takes a step toward her. It’s a half-truth, for another question floats in his mind: If I give chase, will she run, or is she heartless? A leer threatens again, but he is not so zealous.




walk walk walktalk talk talk