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]
talk talk talk