He's tired. That's nothing new, really, it seems like he's always tired, always hovering on the edge of fatigue. He dreamed of Winnifred again last night, of the way she had looked collapsed against the snow, and he'd woken up with aching eyes and a heavy heart, his stomach gnawing at him until he'd hefted himself up to go seek out food.
He'd hoped he wouldn't see anyone -- he felt like his skin was too tight, like he was the wolf in a lamb's body and it frightened him, the way sometimes he felt like he wouldn't be happy unless he made someone else miserable, someone else feel the way the blackness settled against his heart and rotted out his ribcage.
The voice startles him, at first.
His tail twitches, lashing through the air like a whip. The glow of his magic starts there, buried beneath the tufts of hair, and spreads across his body until it seems as though the swirled markings have sparked to life across the entirety of him. He should control it -- he should stop it -- but why should he? Vikander has been nothing but rude to him the two times they had met. Maybe the older stallion would be nicer if he realized who he was so rude to.
His tail twitches again, slicing through the air behind him like a knife. He can hear Winnifred laughing, daring him to do it, back before they'd realized what a weapon he held in his body.
"No." The word is surprisingly firm on the boy's tongue as the magic reaches his eyes, turning them into balefire pits. His body feels like the flames are raking across his skin, every inch of him too-hot and aching, and he half-expects to see smoke rising from his body as the magic gathers.
He should stop it. But he won't. Instead, he tilts his head so that he can deliberately meet Vikander's eyes, his lips pulling back from his teeth to expose the pointed tips that hide there.
"Say please." The magic reaches towards Vikander with those two words, aching, clawing, and the moment he releases them is the moment he wants them back.
Too late now.
