The Wanderer trudged his way through the Frozen North, an eternal blizzard biting at his ebony black coat. He had no idea how long he had been walking, time losing all meaning as the pure white landscape extended endlessly around him in all directions.
As he walked the featureless wasteland, occasionally he lost consciousness and passed out into the thick snow below. The feeling of his consciousness fading was his favorite part, hoping each time that this would be the end, and he would finally depart the living world for good.
And yet, as he awoke buried under a painfully cold blanket of snow each time, the immortal Wanderer knew that even this wasn’t something the cruel fates would gift to him. Even death was too good for the crimes he had committed.
So he wandered the desert on, hoping and wishing for a change of scenery that may protect him for even a short few moments. He had found a cave once, an untold amount of time ago, and it had served to shield him from his attackers for all but a brief moment of comfort.
His attackers loomed overhead, Windigos, whipping up a mighty blizzard just for their prey.
They too were tortured, hungry and made even more starved by a prey they could fell but who kept getting back up each time. Their anger at The Wanderer forced them to attack despite this, old furies growing new again as both were trapped in Sisyphean endeavors with no escape in sight.
As The Wanderer grew numb to the cold and blinded by the snow flurry, all he could bring himself to do was think.
Think about the mistakes he’d made in his life. A list he could spend centuries going over.
About the ponies he’d mistreated and left behind.
About his former kingdom, fallen by his hoof and raised in his absence to a seemingly grander station.
About… him.
It wasn’t fair, The Wanderer cried out to the gods against deafening winds, that he be again and again and again given life while his Lover was forced to give up his one chance. Just to save a kingdom that The Wanderer would soon crush under a tyrant’s hoof.
Not fair that, even in this purgatory state of seemingly eternal wander, he was allowed to see the sky and feel the ground beneath his hooves.
Not fair. Nothing was fair.
As The Wanderer fell with this thought, hoping yet again that this time would be his last, he could spy a light in the distance.
And then warmth.
A familiar glow bloomed in his chest as he forced himself back standing. Staring towards the distance before him, he could faintly see a beacon of frosty blue light shooting into the night sky.
It called to The Wanderer, urging him towards it with an energy he’d not felt in a millennia though not one he’d ever have forgotten.
As The Wanderer trudged towards the beacon of light on the horizon, finally a goal in mind after so long alone, he gave a small smirk.
Finally, he’d been called home.