He’d had so many titles. Most of them had been good and he could reflect upon them with bittersweet wistfulness; he’d been King of Atlantis, King of Cimarron; he’d been the son of Tinuvel’s King, Jareth, brother to so many in such a loving family, father to children he’d adored, and even a grandfather; he’d been lead of the Shore, lead of the Ravine, and even lead of Paradise. Every island in the chain had, at one point, played host to his adventures. He’d loved, even if he’d never truly understood the full depth of love as others did.

He’d been called bad names too; he’d had hatred poison the tone of those he’d loved as they spat in his face and broke his heart; he’d stood with family, watching the man he’d thought a hero say goodbye before departing from this world; he’d run the length of an island in hours, crying to his friends and neighbors to evacuate as Cimarron crumbled into the sea; he’d watched a mare he adored die, her blood staining the grass of the Falls; he’d watched his love pace the shore, looking for the child that hadn’t made the swim. He’d lost that love, somewhere in their mainland adventures.

The quiet took him at last. The bold, green-eyed stallion that always had a trick up his sleeve and a joke on his tongue was beaten away at last. One hardship, two, ten… he’d always been able to bounce back somehow; he’d always kept a hard grasp on his childlike, bright demeanor. Then it was gone. It was too much not to break a soul; it was too much to expect him to be okay.

He tried to come back, but he failed. He retreated instead of continuously pushing himself out into the open, locked himself away in shadows, cried himself to sleep more often than he would like to admit. He saw the faces of those he missed, of those he lost, and he entertained death more often than not. But the instinct to live overpowered it just enough to keep him eating, just enough to keep him drinking. Like a ghost he lived in the humid jungle of Atlantis, never once leaving a border which had once been the Shore; his first territory.

Paradise it was, now. There was a lack of individuals on islands which used to be bustling with activity, and Paradise swallowed the Shore. They had seen many leaders in the three years he’d been hiding. Likely they scented him, but he knew Atlantis better than they, and he could avoid them. The social butterfly who’d loved nothing more than a good conversation was gone. In its place was an old stallion that had seen much and done much. He was little more than a ghost, haunting the jungle and spiraling further and further into his sorrows.

He stood by a river that wound through the jungle and would eventually pour out into the sea. There were many small, three-foot waterfalls and a deep, shallow pool. The reflection caught him, gold and white coat dull, head hung low, tail flat against his hindquarters. He was drifting in and out of sleep, allowing the laziness of the humidity to sap away at what little energy for life he possessed, paying little to no mind if there were any horses mulling about on that particular day. Atlantis had been so quiet lately.

For once in his life, he thought that was nice.