The End Begins
. . . Rotting.
Everything which had been held onto with a feverish zeal was rotting away.
They were turning to dust!
One mistake had ended it all, taken everything away: his life, and then finally his love.
Curses. He had dealt in them before, but never in such a magnitude as this one, and never upon himself. Most had directions. This one was blind. It neither thought nor felt concerning the intended target. The thing, if a thing it could be called, plowed on, aimless. The irony of it was not lost on him.
Silver fluid traced down his hands, falling to the earth.
She had left him. No one had ever dared leave him. They feared him. She had not, but how?
There had been nothing he could do to change that. Now she was gone, rotting, turning to dust.
It was a mistake . . .
Forgive me, was his last thought before he was flung into the void.