She wasn’t real.
Zahhāk lost his grip. The shadows ridiculed him, dancing through the twisted branches of bare trees and taking the form of mares not there. Ghosts. Phantasmagoric shapes that spite him and slight him with their supposed existence. He had gone so far as to call out to one, but he was met with no response. Nothing but the cold winter wind whispering lies between his ears. He was tired of it.
He moved slowly across the snow-covered land, his hooves crunching rhythmically as he trudged forward with a lack of vigor. The snow was cold and wet, a stark contrast to his tight, faded black coat thinly stretched over his ribs. He had been decidedly neglectful of his health over the last few months and he was too skinny, even for his breeding. As the grasses hid away and died, so too did Zahhāk’s will to seek what life remained.
The roar of the Falls attracted him towards it unconsciously, and before long he found himself staring at two others before him. A red stallion teetering on the edge of the icy water, making quips about his mortality, and another mare who looked eerily like him save for the small patch of pink and white on her nose.
“Bir alâmet,” he grumbled aloud.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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