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.




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