_{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?

He rarely smiles, for he rarely has reason to. Yet the princeling has never before witnessed the tears of another. Has he cried before? Surely; Reginald was a child of frustration, and the hate for his body ran thick and full as it refused to obey his commands. The sight of another’s tears is a novel experience for him; he sees the fat tears slide from her eyes, falling into the tranquil waters of the lover’s grove. A new sense emerges in his breast, an alien feeling he cannot place that rises, bubbling, in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. Reginald comes to learn giddiness.

He doesn’t not know why the sight of her tears amuses him, excites him, entertains him in this deviant manner—but it does. And with this impulse comes the inclination to lift the corner of his lip, a small smile threatening to play on his lips. An instinct insists he shouldn’t smile. To cry is to express malignant emotion, and to smile is to express gaiety; they don’t mix. His game calls for sympathy. So he shifts his face, and as he approaches Reginald possesses look of concerned interest for the emerald eyes to scrutinize. The interest is genuine, for he wonders why she cries; the concern is a fabricated attempt, and he feels he succeeds in his endeavor.

She says she knows him. Reginald suppresses the impulse to snort, for that would ruin the game—but it’s a base thing that she’s said. She does not know Reginald. No one knows him, save for Abraham—and secrets have been beginning to emerge lately. “You explored my home, once,” Reginald says to the homely and senseless filly, correcting her misconception, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet now it is a warmer tone than what he is used to, “You saw me, I remember seeing you. You and another colt. “

He pauses as his eyes seemingly wander over to the surface of the pool, where tears had fallen only moments before. The question burns within him, yet he suppresses his savage curiosity for the curtain of subtlety; his eyes slowly shift from the pond to the verdant gaze of the filly, and he looks into them for a span of moments, of heartbeats. He furrows his brow; he pretends to notice the bloodshot pupils for the first time. “Why do you cry?” he asks in his breathy voice, taking a step toward her, his eyes squinted in apparent thought, “Is it because of your reflection? Why would it make you cry?”


"talk talk talk"