Is it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? The Nameless Civil Servant asks himself as he lifts his head above the parapet and surveys the monumental mess before him.
He, the Great Man of Words, the Top Negotiator, the One who Won.
He had been. Once.
Years of precepts and precedents, chalked up challenges and crumbled contrary arguments. But now none will do. Now there is no way forward and there will be no winner.
The only way is back, he thinks. He glances back over his shoulder at the long-travelled road, its twists and turns. Maybe, he thinks, maybe.
Could he create a bridge, a bridge from the lobbies of enlightenment which would cross over the wall and into the abyss? To eliminate the wrongdoers and the naysayers.
He shakes his head.
This is a new beginning. Over which he has no control.
And it frightens him.
From a prompt by Hélène Vaillant of Willow Poetry