A distant rumble sounds—but that’s all it is: distant. Reginald cannot feel it in his bones, and he ignores it as he waits in the darkness of the rain. A steady trickle of cold water falls beside him from the boughs of the tree he stands under. He sees his breath as he snorts softly, mist slowly leaking from his lips as he stands in the shadow. The silence stands suspended even in the steady thrum of raindrops on the forest floor. Reginald does not break it; he closes his eyes, and waits for it to be broken.

It doesn’t take long. His ears pick up the unmistakable voice of his brother, a tone promising of a baritone resonance later in life. He opens his eyes, turns his head, peering into the crowded dimness of the forest. Abraham emerges as a piece of it, cloaked in the inky black of his hide, nothing but the silver-white of his proud legs to break the shadow of his body. Reginald does not need to inspect his brother as he does for all things; the colt is a womb-mate, forever joined at the hip since their mother first painfully expelled them upon rain-soaked earth. He knows Abraham’s body better than he knows his own; with invidious appreciations he has observed the sparse mane and tail that is inclining to flowing locks with age; the great, feathered feet that stomp about proudly, carelessly, excitedly in the heat of coltish boyhood. He knows his brother’s eyes and how they gaze about curiously in shades of their mother and father together, harmonious and powerful in their vibrant tints. He knows the supple movement of his longish legs, the thickening of the chest, the roundness of his quarter and clout in the hock. He sees the coherence of his brother’s body as though his father’s power decided to throw itself into the fetus as an afterthought, vaguely curious as to whether or not the perfection of the sire could be decoded and translated into what should have been the scrawny, useless pile of hide and horse bone that is the foal.

Oh yes, he knows his brother.

He doesn’t know this basket.

As Abraham sets the item down upon the dry dust, grey eyes fall to it, remaining there even as the excitement pours from Abraham’s maw. He feels his brother’s touch upon his shoulder, and still he stares at the basket on the ground. He knows what an egg is; he takes notice of the pine needles scattered carefully around and against the shell. He sees his brother takes care of it, and he contemplates the implications. Nothing stirs in the forest, for it’s a foolish time for stirring; only the foolish brothers stand there, the only living souls in this hellish, freezing place. Only they and the egg live.

He is a master of himself. Abraham has news—and he’s so eager to share with his brother. Reginald lifts his eyes to see the dark colt’s face, an edge tempered and sheathed. He has mastered himself; he has no speech to give this moment, for his brother is excited. Discoveries wait, ideas are postponed, thoughts are conquered and shut away for the time being. He does not stir with restless unease; his gut does not boil over. There is no priority for himself. His brother is excited. “Tell me,” comes the patient, enquiring whisper, for he must be interested. He is interested. He would like to know.


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He doesn’t move even though his brother shifts before him, over the basket, a protective shadow hunched over its prize. He doesn’t move, but he sees his brother’s adjustment; he recognizes the gesture. Reginald closes his eyes as the word dragon falls from his brother’s lips. Dragon. For all the chill of the dismal forest, there is fire near, very near indeed. He knows what an egg is. He knows the promise that clings to the curve of these shells. This promise has proved itself to be a dragon.

*"The scars on father are from dragon fire."*

“I know,” comes the reply; the pounding of the pouring rain seems to swallow his words. He does not try to make himself heard; he only stands, eyes closed, a tired sag in the crook of his cheek as the cold yanks at his body, dragging him down, forcing the grey pelt to wilt in heavy dampness. He remembers his father’s tales; he listens in his head how his father explained the loud, angry scar that runs down his side, partially hidden by his curtains of dark mane. At the time, Reginald had been disappointed to hear this story: the scar sent images of a brutal battle of giants, of heavy males engrossed in the fight of their turbulent sex. This talk of dragon’s fire seemed as far removed from the grey-eyed colt as a whimsical fairy tale, an item apart from the grandiose display of raw power that danced behind his eyes on sunlit days. He doubted that fire, before—though he understands it now.

*"Dragons are powerful, Reginald."*

There is a note in his brother’s voice that forces Reginald’s eyes to snap open; he regards Abraham impassively. The lilt is unmistakable; the message is clear. And with that message comes a pacifier Reginald didn’t know he needed until it has done its work well and truly. “They are powerful,” he agrees quietly, glancing down upon the basket once again, a different glance, “It’ll fit you when it hatches.” He offers this to Abraham, along with a fleeting smile, nothing more than a break and bend to his lip. Then he is done; it’s cold and he does not like the wind and the roaring rain, and the egg is forgotten. He did not come here for dragon’s fire.

“Abraham, tell me,” he starts facing away from the shadowy colt into a different shadow altogether, the thickening veil of the forest’s depths as the sky continues to blacken both under and over the clouds for the coming night. They’ll have to leave before night truly falls—but not yet. Not while there were still things to discuss. What could have been an uncomfortable topic now slips easily from the grey-eyed prince’s tongue, for he thinks of this night and day, feverishly, the stirrings of an obsession that sparked to life after the fire of the heart. “…Have you ever killed someone?”


@[Abraham]
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