The Akhal-Teke mare threatened him with a lash of her tongue and strike of her hoof in the air, commanding him not to come any closer. In doing so, she only enraged Zahhāk further. His coal-black eyes glowered. “Siktir git!” He cursed at her, his tongue metallic in his mouth. “You cannot judge me!” He bellowed, rearing up and pawing the cold air with his own hatred teeming at every edge of his pointed frame. “You are no God! You have no idea what’s happened to me!”
He wanted to spread himself like wings and burst into a million tiny feathers. He wished he could tear her apart, limb from limb and rearrange her into someone else entirely while the red stallion watched. He envisioned charging her, sending her tumbling into the frigid pool of water at her back while the roaring falls poured in relentlessly. He craved the strength and power to end the cruelty he suffered in this moment with a swift kick to her skull, and the satisfaction of watching her blood stain the clean water red.
Instead he crumbled, collapsing to his front knees before them under the weight of the realization that he could prove nothing—at least not right now. He tucked his chin to his narrow chest and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths, his ears still pinned tightly. He would not run, but he could not fight.
He hated this. He hated her. He hated the stallion for listening to her. But most of all, Zahhāk hated himself.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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