Zahhāk returned to the Crossing, haven been driven out of the Prairie and away from the kindness of the blue mare Zimri by the hooves and teeth of the stallion Jabari. She had warned him he might be received as harshly and she had been right, yet it was a risk he had to take given the poor condition of his health. He had been near death when Zimri had found him, yet she saw past his faults and gave him the only opportunity he had to regain his strength.
Though his time on the lush isle of Luthien was limited, it had been fruitful. Some of his strength had returned, and this gave him more hope than he’d once had that he might more successfully survive this impending winter. His smoky black coat, still quite rib-laden and thin, was far from at its prime, and now adorned with a few hairless patches—scars from the fight.
Zahhāk meandered through the mist of the morning, the sunlight poking between the odd tree that dotted the meadow as he parted the tall, wispy grasses with the tops of his knees. Fall hung chilly around his thin frame as he walked, his attention flicking to a small commotion at a nearby grove of similarly slender trunks.
He watched like a voyeur from between the pines, the tantalizing dance of the red woman—her build akin to his, thin-skinned and shining like a sunset reflected off a calm ocean. She set a trap that he was careful not to trip, despite his desires; he had learned in his time of solitude, that such a mare could be dangerous. The stallion however, was either fool or brazen enough to think he could best her. He approached all too confidently, and he was surely about to pay for his presumptuousness dearly.
Zahhāk, amused at the show, remained set back from them, flicking his tail with no intent to disturb. He was not fit to pursue such a woman, at least not yet—but he could still enjoy her from afar, lest he be discovered.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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