`hurt

[Hattie]

Spring was a time of renewal and rebirth across the Homelands. In the North buds would be just beginning to unfurl into a fresh crop of petite green leaves and in the Freelands the ice that had entombed lake Acele for so many months would soon break up and melt away. Yet here in the Plains spring seemed reluctant to make its presence known. There were no trees here to be coated in a new robe of green or to block the chill wind that still cut across the open ground. Fresh green shoots of grass, though they had already broken through the soil, were still too short to poke up through the tall dead husks of last year's crop and the endless waves of mottled grey and brown gave an overwhelming sense of barrenness to the place.

But then, perhaps the land was a reflection of its leader, for the elderly stallion was struggling to shrug off the winter as well. A rasping cough had settled in his lungs and even now, standing perfectly still as he surveyed his kingdom, each breath was labored and rattled in his lungs.

This place had seemed a haven to him in his youth. Back then he'd found the open expanses liberating and the near constant wind had filled his lungs with fire and renewed him, but now the wind merely tossed more knots into his already haggard mane and the freedom he had craved in his youth now seemed more like endless solitude. He had, had something resembling a respectable herd once but over the years he had let them drift and their numbers had slowly dwindled. Now the old stud could walk for days and not see a single soul aside from the occasional speck on the horizon. In that way his exile was self inflicted, but he couldn't bring himself to make them stay. He couldn't offer foals to his mares, he had no eye for them, and his age and only made him more wary of any young stud who sought to live here and he couldn't stand their company for long.

What then was left for him here then? What kept him clinging to this life? His age slowly sapped his strength, his love was dead and his herd in shambles. It didn't seem like he had much left to live for, and still he had yet to die. His body, though old and worn, was not ready to release his soul and perhaps his soul was not so eager yet to flee.

There was still something here for him, he prayed that there was something still here for him. With all the regret boiling in his gut, Merlo's only driving force that got him through each day was the blind hope that he might yet leave some positive mark on this world. What that mark might be he did not know but it didn't appear as though today would be the day he made it. The horizon was bare, and the breeze void of anything but cold. Just another day in the life of a King.