Like a rotting rose, the castle was crumbling in on itself, and the girl ran until her lungs were bursting. The jar in her hands was growing warmer; her glass could only hold so much heat.
To save the witch, she ran until the soles of her shoes burned through and her feet began to rip and bleed. She was bitten once or twice, on the way, but she ran. The other child would be walling up the gate, and the king had sent twilight rushing after her.
The green plants watched the man in the chamber warily. He had been away too long, had grown too used to the dry desert sun. He was going through the last file, putting the pages in the fire, holding the words in his head as the papers smouldered away. Dignitaries had graced the room with exotic perfumes and soft smiles, before the queen had turned, before she had given up her garden.
The plants were everywhere now; they were tendrilling around his dapper shoes, and he kicked them away. Flowers were rupturing around the mottled phone. He sloughed petals from stems and cast their leavings to the floor, but the line had been dead before he even thought to return. The carpet had turned swampy and livid beneath his feet, and things were swimming in it.
In the red forest the girl was still running, and now her heels were bloody from the nips. The statues were starting to breathe. She caught glimpses of granite writhing, drawn by the light in the jar.
“Stars are dying,” said the witch in the tower, and she smiled, watching the light winking in and out through the trees below. She couldn’t feel the ropes on her arms anymore. The king’s daughter was almost done with the stones at the gate. But the queen’s daughter was the fastest runner, the most tenacious runner. And she was coming.
Night lurked heavy and wicked vile, all round the running girl. The light was throbbing faster now, pushing against the glass walls that held it back. It was tempting to let it slip from her hands, which had begun to singe. She clenched her hands around it tighter, and ran.
“Just breathe,” said the witch, to the wind. All she was now was a single pulsing heart, blood pumping through failing chambers.
He was almost done with the files now, though the mold was coming off onto his fingers, leaving an ichor that lingered no matter how he smeared them on his sharp, sleek pants. Only the last page left. His eyes were racing the tendrils that had his legs overwhelmed now. It was down to the last word, it was done, and his hand reached out to the fire, hovering above the grate just an instant too long.
And the light was at the gate.
The man who was king dropped the page into the flames. He had the whole story in his head.
