_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

Large, slightly tufted ears are perched to attention, to catch every syllable that falls from his mother’s lips. He listens, yet there is derision in his attention; he understands, yet he remains skeptical of his mother’s knowledge. She demonstrates her ease of movement—Reginald watches with a greedy stare, his eyes upon the suppleness of her joints, the arch of her entire body as it is thrown into action. Arrogance springs forth from the kiln in his breast; he believes he can perform such simple maneuvers just as well, if not better, than his trained mother. It is the foalishness in his blood that drives him to believe such unlikely circumstances. He cannot help it; he is young. He will learn soon enough.

Their mother gives instruction, and Reginald follows suit without question. He lowers his neck; he holds his horn into position. Only moments pass before his bravado begins to deflate. Nerves twitch, muscles jerk; he wants to lift his head, but he knows it will throw off his position. He wants to drop it and ease his straining muscles, but again, he will fail to uphold the standard. There is median that makes it a sweet breeze for him to hold his posture, but it’s a small margin to grasp; he overshoots, undershoots, struggles to get it just right. His molars grind in concentration. He has decided to conquer this, for he can conquer it. He will.

However, his mother adds more to her demand. She demonstrates her earlier refinement if action, and bids them to replicate it. Reginald fights to lift his hoof, the residue of the mire making it difficult to move; his horn falls from its position, and he must lift it again. It takes all of his attention, all of his strength, to side step to the indicated tree, to return to the shore of the blood lake, all of it without dropping or raising his horn passed the standard. A burst of breath escapes his firmly closed mouth; he can’t stop his exhaustion from coming on, he cannot hide it. With a sharp inhale, he repeats the exercise again, and again, repeating the process and waiting for his mother’s allowance for respite.

The heart flutters; the lungs ache painfully. And all throughout, he does not feel fear from his shaking body—he is only enraged, infuriated with his clumsy corpse. He cannot, will not, look towards his brother, because he knows he will be embarrassed by what he sees: effortless grace, surely, for Abraham is strong and great in many ways. Reginald only focuses on moving his own sticky limbs, in trying to move them in the same graceful fashion his mother had exhibited. He knows he fails. He does not care. He will accept naught but the greatest from himself—and so Reginald pushes. He perseveres.


"talk talk talk"