There is a god of the sea, it seems; it spares the kingdom from grey-eyed wrath, tiny and inconsequential though it may have been. It is a monstrosity of a horse that emerges from the depths of the glass-spun village, an avalanche of a voice that speaks the Prince’s name: Reginald, he says. Reginald looks up into the molten eyes of this behemoth of childhood, this ghost of a mountain that engulfed all in his heady shadow, a giant that threw a colt just as awesome in power and strength as himself, along with the afterword of a twin.
Reginald stares at his father; he takes in the hard white of his hooves, so much cleaner than he ever remembered seeing—he realizes that the wilderness has left his father’s coat, and that the mark of a herd has been stamped on his father’s brow. A herd; what an alien idea that is to the Grey-Eyed prince! To choose constriction within the fellowship of bothersome pests and stupid beasts; the idea makes him ill. Eyes narrow; his lips twist slightly in his disgust, his rising panic. “Father,” he rasps, walking passed the great, dark stallion—staring about, taking in the image of the land, smelling the salt on his father’s skin. He cannot trace his mother anywhere.
“Where is mother?” He whirls around to face his father, and the feeling deeper than thought is present on his tongue; it sounds like anger, it bites like anger, and it boils in his stomach like acid. She’s not here, comes the thought, and he pushes it away; his tongue turns sour at the thought. He looks into his father’s eye, and the granite hardness of his pupil falters; he breaths hard through his nose, almost snorting, waiting impatiently for his father’s response. He is overwhelmed with this sudden feeling that the idea of a herd has brought him; his mother is not here, he cannot lie to himself. But his father is, and there’s consolation in that fact—it’s been some time since he’s seen those golden eyes.
@[Archibald] --WOW SORRY FOR THE WAIT
"talk talk talk"
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