Night after night, day after day, the old soldier rode across the hills on his grey warhorse. White scars scattered across his lined brown face and his mail was full of holes and broken rings.
Villagers and travelers asked him why he rode and if he would not stay a night, rest a moment.
He would not, he always answered, for he sought the demon Teridaxo, the rider in black, who did not tarry for even a moment. In the heart of war, he had first seen the demon, a laughing face in the smoke, but the soldier’s blade could not pierce his side. Ever Teridaxo danced across moonlit nights, a flicker of movement in the dark.
And so he rode on, always chasing, always just behind. Teridaxo moved even as he did, slipping through his fingers and between the branches of dead, grey trees amidst villages of tumbled, ash-black stones.
Then the hills ended. The land gave way to sharp white cliffs and the expanse of foam-crested sea.
There Teridaxo could run no more. The old soldier looked to his side and there, upon his horse of darkness, was the rider in black.
There was his shadow.
Word Count: 198
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to C E Ayr for the prompt photo!