There was the slope, and the mass, and the hill. It was all there had ever been, down there in the grey of death. There were times when he thought there might have been once been more to his existence: impressions less than memory, but slightly stronger than a wish. The concepts of sunlight and warmth, of having someone care about him, a warm hand reaching out...
He had been a king, hadn't he? He almost believed that was true, in those rare moments when the mass was almost at the crest, phantom muscles straining because one more push, one more and he would be free. His labors would be ended. He could... he wasn't sure. It just had to be better than this, than failing over and over, watching the mass roll back down the slope and knowing that his existence would consist of almost reaching the top, over and over.
For eternity.
Or until someone came.
Someone must have loved him once. Respected, at the very least, if he had been a king. What had he done, to place himself in this pit? Forever climbing out, never succeeding, always chasing after the mass to make one more attempt, and one more, and one more...
Had he been such a terror that all who had been his subjects would prefer this for him? No family, no friends...
He was almost at the top. He was always almost at the top, until he was not. Almost free. Almost about to fail.
"You."
He looked up.
All was grey, down there in the dark. The small horse was just as grey, but... there was something soft about her. A suggestion of a brighter world in the fur, and the liquid quality of her eyes.
"You shouldn't be here," the small horse wearing the blue half-toga said, in a voice as dull as death. "You shouldn't be suffering like this. You never did anything to deserve it. You're innocent."
He stared at her, through the sweat which was forever falling into clouded eyes. Tried to believe.
She came over the crest of the slope. Trotted down towards him, hooves never coming close to slipping.
"You're innocent," she repeated. "And now you're going to be free."
The mass nearly slipped as he stretched out a shaking, dirt-covered hand towards her. Needing to touch...
She head-butted him.
He fell backwards, almost rolled. The mass took the cue as gravity assumed its normal duty, heading right towards him --
-- and the little horse was in the way.
The mass stopped. Frozen against the minimal weight of her form.
"Let's go," she said. "You're free."
And foot by foot, she pushed the boulder of his torture all the way up the slope and over the rise, never to be seen again.
He stared at the slope for a while. At the place where the boulder wasn't. A boulder which, to be fair about it, had probably never done anything to deserve him.
"Er," Sisyphus finally said. "...thank you...?"