It was warm today, for winter, yet cold air remained, tangling with the unseasonable conditions in the sky. Flashes of lightning and upset rumbles of thunder echoed across the vast Meadow, snow melting into large puddles scattered in patches as far as he could see. There was no rain, despite the warnings from the sky, and Zahhāk once again found himself alone.
He stood squarely at the edge of a vast pool of impossibly still snowmelt, his skinny rib-laden black frame reflecting perfectly beneath him in the water. The Akhal-Teke stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the mirrored image of himself at his feet. He did not want to face the reality of his misery. He needed his strength back; he needed to feel the warmth of hot sand under him instead of the relentless dampness that constantly enshrouded every inch of his being.
Zahhāk craved what he had never had—abundance of all things—yet everywhere he looked he saw only emptiness, falsehood and shame. With each day that passed he wished for something new—an acknowledgement of any kind that might lead him to the proper path he was meant to walk. He came from a long line of clever conquerers, each laying their claim on the world in different ways, and the pressure for him to uphold these expectations weighed heavier than the mountain that loomed in the distance.
He snorted and stamped his foot, breaking the perfect image of himself in the water. The small ripples scattered outward, getting larger with every wave and proving even the smallest action can have the largest impact. Soon, he thought silently.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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