His ears are ringing with rage. He cannot even hear the demeaning remarks of the mare anymore, but he felt them bearing into him like white-hot coals against his skin. Death would have been a reprieve, but he did not wish for it. If he truly wanted to end his life, he could have plunged his feeble body into the icy water and froze to death—but then the shame of who he had become would be preserved for all time.
Zahhāk wanted all of this to be different. He detested every part of what had happened to him. He wanted to change, to be fit again, to be better, but he needed help and could find no one willing to offer it. Even the red stallion with his rebuke of her encouragement to kill him where he kneeled could only offer defiance—not assistance. None of this was productive. Enough was enough.
His legs shook as he used what little strength he had left to try and stand once again. Shaking, he managed to straighten them out between his ribcage and the wet ground. Mud caked the underside of his narrow barrel and the top of his knees, but he did it.
He glowered at the mare, vowing that come spring when food was plentiful, he would regain his strength and avenge the assassination of his character that had occurred here today. In time, when they would inevitably meet again he surmised she would hardly recognize him. In fact, he was counting on it.
The black mare with the white nose would regret this day. He would make sure of it.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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