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*“I won’t just run today, but I’ll run tomorrow and the next and the next day.”*

Reginald chuckles; it’s forced from him, slipping passed whatever barriers he has erected against this alien.“And the next day?” he wonders, continuing his steady march toward his prize, the inevitable. “And the next day? And the day after that? You’ll run forever?” His imagination runs rampant with the image of this slight little shadow flying over the countryside for all eternity, an eye cast over her back for the menace she had foolishly invoked. “I want to see that,” he decides. It is a hiss between his teeth; he does not care if she hears. He will see her run for eternity.

She stops and lingers for a bit, bolting as he comes close. She is a coy little insect, baiting the hawk or the tiny weanling serpent, teasing the grey-eyed prince with her imminent presence. He does not rise to the bait, for the churning and bubbling in his stomach has been mastered finally. It is naught but a storm raging in the distance, and though he hears the rumbling thunder across what seems to be many seas, he does not succumb to it. She runs away from him once more; he feels the thistles bristle across his legs as he slowly ambles past. He keeps his sight on her. “No sleeping for you,” he says, another growl under his breath, a mocking sort of croon. He plays the game willingly. How fun.

The scent of another reaches his notice, however, and he stops in his tracks. The game has paused; Reginald looks into the face of another young filly who has ambled into his homeland quite innocently, her tone polite as he addresses him and his new “friend” as sir and madam. “This is a land for outcasts,” he hears his mother say in some distant memory, “and all may intrude here from time to time.” Whatever blisters inside his ribcage is contained, and he feels very little for this new addition—he only acknowledges slight irritation at the suspension of their game. She is not a part of it—at least, not yet.

He stares at her. There is no speech from his maw. The breeze rustles gently; the sun begins its decent. The light becomes golden in the early evening, and he knows his mother will expect him soon. He only stands there and stares into the green irises of this new filly, disliking her stringy build, the ridiculous dish of her face. He continues to stare regardless of her infuriating faults. Waiting.

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A spider, she calls herself. Reginald wonders why she uses such a metaphor. He decides it suits her perfectly: small, black, hairy, annoyingly underfoot as she spits venom from the fangs in her mouth. He fleetingly wonders if her queer eyes old 4 irises beneath the opaque cloud of its color, and he laughs at this thought. We lets her be a spider; he lets her weave her web. How exhilarating it is for the grey-eyed prince to know he will not need to prepare the trap; it is being made before his very eyes. He must only wait until it performs its duty.

He’s good at waiting.

The daydream comes to an end behind his eyes. The sun continues its arch downward; a cool breeze wafts over the amethyst thistles of the field; it is evening now. His stomach lurches in hunger. He ignores these pangs, for he has found things to amuse him, captivate him, pull at the chords of his attention. It is indeed captivating; his spider snarls and bares the daggers of her throat, stalking this new “butterfly” that has decided to flutter much too close to a flame. Reginald does not move yet; he watches, his mind coolly assessing the spectacle before him, listening as this broken-faced filly addresses the spider as “beautiful”.

He cannot believe the words that fall from her mouth; he does not understand her reverence. She is indeed a butterfly drawn to a flame—drawn to her own destruction. The oddity of the term “hornless” is suspended as he processes the queer nature of her actions. Does she not recognize danger? For there is a dangerous light in the spider’s eyes as she stalks her prey—Reginald believes her bloodlust—he does not doubt her resolve in attack. Laughter tickles his stomach; he can’t keep it in check, and it falls lightly from his mouth, boyishly tickled, charming in its own twisted method. Only moments before she acted the role of the arrogant intruder, desecrating the land he slept on, ate on, lived on; here she marches, ever ready to purge this place of the interloper. The irony cannot escape the grey scrutiny of the dark prince. His laughter spreads amongst the golden light of the falling sun, the purple of the weaving thistles.

“After you,” he says in a tone he deems pleasant, speaking to the spider as she approaches the chou-- what an odd name for the doomed. The eyes of the broken-faced filly do not follow him, and that’s alright. He has wondered for a while if he would be able to test the sharpness of his growing horn on something larger than a rat, more substantial than a crippled hatchling trapped on the ground. He is eager to start his new game—with his “playmates”.

He follows her towards the chou.

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The spider is faster than him; it’s to be expected. Nonetheless, Reginald cannot keep the surge of hatred that rises like disgusting bile in his throat, the loathing for the suppleness to her movement, the ease of which she attacks this annoying, ugly-faced fawn who has chosen to intrude on his homeland as well. The yearning to attack in such a fashion sears his stomach, causes an ache in his breast; a groan rumbles in the back of his throat, quiet and persistent and clinging behind his eyes as she veritably chases the ugly-faced one away from his home. He focuses on that beneficial aspect of this entire maddening escapade: she could be useful if she was not so hard-headed.

He sighs; he dismisses the anger, and once again, he looks on the scene with interest. He has stopped approaching the peculiar filly, for she retreats from the bite and stab of the spider. He listens to her vitriol once more, shocked by her words, confused by her hatred. Still he does not understand the concept of racial superiority; he is perfect regardless of his horn, regardless of his blood. The spider is a nuisance with or without the aid of her sword; the dish-faced filly is just ugly. They should be ashamed.

“Follow her,” he says to the spider foaling, and his voice is tired. The sun is gone; its rays are dying fast. He hears the echo of his mother’s neigh, nearer than he realized, and he cannot ignore his mother’s call. It’s time to eat—then he must sleep. “Follow your chew toy, or brave the wolves, I don’t care,” he says, turning his back on the black filly, exhausted with so many different types of foolishness. He pauses; he's surely tired. "Your chou toy." He breathes a laugh; he lets the falling dark swallow him. The game is fun and he won’t forget it. He lets the spider skitter away; he lets her build his web.


@[Jorogumo]