Author's Note: Based on a prompt from Pauline in the reviews section of FF.Net: "Monster."
There's no one left—no one except her.
I'm the monster, she says, looking at her hands, trails of ice blooming along her fingertips. I'm the monster in the book.
He doesn't have to ask which book; there's only one.
That's a fairy tale, he says half-heartedly, as if that's any consolation. You can still bring back summer.
She can't look at him, because looking back means she has to look at what she's done—but she knows what's there nevertheless.
Don't you see? she asks him, choking on a sob. I can't.
He takes a step towards her, and it's one step too close.
She recoils, but she doesn't hurt him. (She's not sure why she didn't, then or now.)
You can't let me go, she tells him desperately, smelling death all around her, desiring her own.
I will do what I can, she hears him say from behind her, closer again, his voice heavy as the grave.
Her palms are flat against the floor of her palace, against the cracks running across it and up the walls, fracturing the teetering chandelier above.
She swears she can see the blood seeping into them, running in little rivers from bodies suspended in mid-air by ice.
(No—by her curse.)
And she wants it to end.