Abraham followed carefully after his mother, steady at his brother’s side. He kept a mind to stay close to Reginald as thy moved further and further from their meadow. He would be the shoulder that Reginald needed, but he knew too well that his brother was all too haughty and self-righteous to take refuge against his pristine white limb. It was a frustrating ordeal he endured, wanting to be his brother’s strength as well as his own, but knowing Reggie would never take it. It did not make him sad, it did not make him angry, it just bothered the poor colt. Despite the confusion and boiled-down frustration that gripped his chest, Abraham silently accepted his brother’s stony façade and usually pushed past the subject of asking about his health and strength.

Bi-colored eyes danced on Reginald’s frame as he explored the new sensory objects that they stumbled upon. The yearning to explore and discover that bound Reginald’s heart so tight inspired Abraham, and the wings of desire to help his brother reach his own dreams began to form and develop each day he watched his twin discover. Blinking, Abraham finally tore his eyes away from Reginald to take in the beauty around them for his own self. The land they were in now was vastly different than the meadow. Tall, ominous trees loomed over them, ancient in their story and wisdom. He wondered what the trees could say if they were to talk, but he knew from experience that the trees did not speak, nor did they cry out in pain when Reginald carved small intricacies into them with his obsidian horn.

Stopping when his mother turned and addressed them, Abraham waited as Reginald spoke and moved closer to the glinting pool that bounced red off of his mother’s hide. Archibald, their father, had told them many times that their mother was a valiant warrior and she had served well in his army, but he did not see anything in her from that past except for the many scars that littered over her flanks and legs. Her words now, however, were aggressive and cold. Her mouth captured Abraham’s attention, and something so close to adoration fluttered with his tiny heart. ”I’ve never thought of hurting anything with my horn, except once.” Abraham confessed, glancing in Reggie’s direction. He knew his twin would know of the time they were speaking, when they met the blue filly in the iceland. She had so blatantly pointed out that his eyes were different, so unique on his skull, but she had seemed appalled by them. He had wanted to poke her with his dual swords to remind her that, in fact, his horn was different than her’s, too.

Abraham waited, listening to his mother as she spoke. She was so knowledgeable, her scars finally making sense in the young prince's mind. Abe watched as she moved gracefully and powerfully over the needled ground. He was in awe of her movements, in awe of the mention of their father. In his mind's eye he could see his father's bulk moving like a serpent over the land, then thrashing with a devestating blow. The colt nearly shuddered with excitement. This fighting, this battle--this art--it was going to be his. Abraham was going to be a master, perhaps greater than his parents, perhaps greater than any other horse in existence. Abraham was ready.

Letting his jaws fall open, Abraham breathed out carefully and slowly. His brother, Reginald, was already straight to work, pushing his body and forcing it to mind. Abraham, on the other hand, lowered his gaze to the ground and relaxed all of his muscles. He stood silent and still for several minutes, breathing in and out with a slow rhythm. He closed his odd eyes and saw his mother moving behind his dark lids, but slowly her form flitted and faded, and he saw himself(or, what he assumed he looked like. He had only seen his reflection in the river of their meadow). He was holding his head low, in his mind, horns pointed dangerously, ready to slice the hide of his attacker. Carefully, the colt lowered his neck and tucked his chin with a gentle flick. Taking another breath, Abraham opened his eyes and lifted his hooves.

The colt moved forward first and then he tried to place his hooves to the side. He was moving forward and to the side, opposite his brother, but he was not nearly as flawless as his mother. His legs were stiff, hooves clipping his pasterns as he overshot his movements, stepping down on feathers that were already growing long, pulling them painfully. The colt gritted his teeth to keep from grunting, or whining, but he pushed his breathing until he was nearly palpitating. He needed perfection, he needed to do everything his mother could. Abraham needed to overcome his own body.

Finally, a frustrated growl falls from the dark youngling's maw. "Mother, why can't I do it right!?" He exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks without her command. With instinct, his legs set strong underneath him, holding his body square. His frustration was boiling over, obvious in his rapidly moving breast and the sweat that began to pool on his downy between his legs. "What is wrong with me!?" Abraham grunts, locking eyes with the shadowmere. He prepared himself for a lash, an angry quip from his mother. Abraham did not care, he was angry. He was angry with himself, with his body. "This should not be so hard--we are your's and father's sons!" He nearly yelled, ears pinning against his dark mane.