Pull the Sword
The country without a king lost battle after battle. Whether the winter or the invaders took a heavier toll, none could say. Villagers huddled together, staring at the Winter Sword buried to its hilt in the market square. If only . . . but none could pull it, even the old king’s half-brother’s cousin’s bastard.
Then, one day, the hilt dripped.
Spring came, and there was no longer a sword to claim. The country pledged to its new queen, and life went on. Still, for generations after, ice flowers grew in the market square, and villagers waited for their king to return.
— The End —
My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.