A treaty was made with the neighboring country, the one whose Princess had been turned down for a royal marriage. People there began to wonder why they had a royal family.
Citizens began asking why they ever had a monarchy in the first place and realized they could say that aloud.
Trade guilds flourished. Several artists began to experiment with other forms of painting. People decided they would choose among themselves for judges, and freed some prisoners who had been held simply for grudges.
He would never take the throne. The kingdom first crumbled into battling feudal territories before eventually climbing into a rude form of democracy.
The Prince was left broken-hearted, wandering around the Desolate Mountains – named that only after he took to them, because they took on his nature, so great was his sadness. The mountains echoed and mirrored his grief.
Then she died anyway, in his arms.
He broke off the kiss, and stared into her eyes, as if his hope, his desperation, his need and the troubles he had fought through alone could transfer to her a magic that did not exist.
But he kissed her anyway, for as long as he could do so before having to admit it was not working.
He knew it was futile.
The princess lay, not asleep, but nearly dead.
This Fairytale Was Told Backwards.
In 250=1, I write a short story that is exactly 250 words long, including the title. Find more of them here.
