Written in an effort to overcome my writer's block.


There are years and years and years before resolution, and then:

She finds him at the end of the end, when the world is young again so, the beginning actually. She finds him at the beginning.

The world is new and she is new but he isn't. He's wrinkled and grey, clinging onto yesterday's people and half remembered dreams. He loves her he says. The words crowd at her feet, worn and dusty, trying to find a way in, burrow into her skin. She used to think they were beautiful, gleaming and gold and every bit as royal as their king. But now they are pathetic withered things, begging for her mercy and she has no mercy for him.

Please, he says. He's on his knees, the king is on his knees and she supposes she should feel honoured or perhaps a twinge of sympathy but she doesn't.

She tells him no and watches the hope in his veins curdle and clot.

And she almost regrets it, almost.