F3 The Rider

     The Rider, as villagers whispered his name, slumped in his saddle as his horse plodded along the dirt road. Both man and horse bore the signs of heavy travel. The horse's hair, once a pristine white, lay matted with caked mud, his eyes and walk a reflection of the man he bore. The rider wore a tattered cloak, and patch-work armor that a blacksmith might have said had been fine work if not for the years of mis-care represented by rust, dents, and
gouges. Shield and sword hung from his saddle, the shield matching the armor, but the sword seemed cared for with its fine leather wrapping and shining silver pommel.
     Instead of a helmet, the rider bore a wide-brimmed leather hat to keep the weather from his face. His face bore lines, aged before its time by too many battles. His eyes had the same look, but something more. Despair sucked those eyes deeper into his skull, giving him a haunting, otherworldly look.
     He let his horse carry him while he wondered if he would finally be free. Free from recognition. Free of their expectations. Free from the name hero. Free of their pleas. Free of the betrayal he had suffered. Free of the pain.