“I hate these horses, mother.”
*”I know you do, Reginald.”*
“Can’t we chase them out?”
*”It’s not our place to chase.”*
“I want them gone. I’m sleepy.”
*”They’ll be gone soon enough.”*
“Mother.”
*”Look at the tree, Reginald. Is it not magnificent to your eye?”*
He follows his mother’s instruction, and looks upon the tree decorated for an occasion that has escaped his attention. He does not understand what has gotten into the creatures of the forest, of the wilderness and the great, great tangled knolls to come here, to this tree, and adorn it in all manners of things. It is a sentiment lost on the prince-- his happiness comes within the moment of movement, and it is quickly lost. He does no reflect; there is no basking for him.
Yet the tree is seen as a jewel, and he does covet it. He leaves the warmth of his mother’s side and approaches the tree, his eyes wide like a child’s should be, his wonder in evidence to match the fleeting childhood age he resides in. For a moment, there is no bitterness. It is consumed by childish avarice, a magpie’s desire for the glistening riches that the tree displays. His steps are slow yet steady, he comes close to the trunk, reaching forward with is muzzle to gently touch the silver that splays about like fur. It tickles his nose; he jerks back from it, confused by it, enchanted.
*“Reginald.”*
He answers his mother’s call, skittering back to her side just as her head and neck descends over him, covering him, pulling him close to her side once again. *“Is it not lovely?”*
He deliberates for only seconds. “It is,” he decides, his whispers only for her, “I like it, mother.” He sighs and presses his face against her side again, still tired, still angry with these crowds of people invading in his homeland. “Make them go away, mother,” he says drowsily against her, feeling her breath rustle his sparse mane. “I hate them.”
*“Stop hating, Reginald. It’s too beautiful for hate. Try to stop, at least for today.”*
And with a heavy sigh, he tries for his mother.
talk talk talk
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