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The Iron That Comes -


He rides in the night and the cold though he is tired and hurt. His clothes are wet from the rain so his tunic is heavy and sticks to his body. He uses the tunic to swathe his shoulders and chest but no matter how tight it is set it does little to help from the wind. He dozes at times, lulled by the rhythms of the trot of the horse and the taps of the rain on the brim of his hat. Again and again he is roused from these sleeps by a chill down his spine from the bite of the cold. He says "fuck", every time.


In hope to keep warm and that having to balance might keep him alert, he crosses his arms and puts his hands in his pits and sits stiff and upright as he rides. Yet his eyelids slide closed and his head drops and bobs and he jumps with a start when his body cants left and his inner ear snaps him awake.




Though, for much of the ride, his tired and hurt and his cold and despair and regret and the wet go unfelt. For much of the ride, events and effects that a man need endure have nothing to do with that what sits on the horse. For, what sits on the horse, for much of the ride, is no man.


What rides on the horse is revenge.

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