If he - or anyone for that matter - thought I’d be upset, then they are wrong. Or so I tell myself - honestly, I feel weird and a bit... I don’t know, intruded upon? Not sure. In fact, I don’t even (wanna) remember. All I know now is that I have to... dispose of something.

The something that comes out of me is not normal, I already know. I wing myself to the coldest place on the island that I know, and the most magical one, for that is where magic must happen. I think so anyway. I’m not sure about anything, but I instinctively feel that it is so, and I figure that to give in might be the best way to be rid of it.

Beneath the flaming Icicle Tree, I end up laying two eggs. One is gleaming black, the other is snowy white. They are small, paw-sized, and I frown. I don’t think this is a normal egg size for a dragon or dare I say it, even for a horse. They might not live. Maybe they shouldn’t?

Hesitation is followed up with an answer. These small, slimy eggs are born of cold and magic alike, and I have no place for them. My ice breath encapsulates the two of them, nested now in snow and dragon ice, and then with no less ceremony than before, my paw swipes them away through the snow and into the lake. Ice floats, so they don’t sink, or at least not very deeply. I stare at the black and white shapes, then shake my head and clean the rest of the snow, covering my empty nesting site with more snow and ice.

All is best forgotten, now. My wings take me elsewhere, and I resume my days as overseer of this cold-loving place beneath the fiery sky.

If anyone finds those eggs, it would be fate, but if not, I’m happy for them to stay where they are: beneath the surface.