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/Chapter Four: Insanity.../ After that night, Naiya never returned to talk with Braeden again. When she had gone, she left him under the impression that the open doorway to his cell was also enchanted in the same way as the window. He was afraid to pass through the open, and inviting, door-less entrance. He kept the window hidden behind the tapestry because it tantalized and taunted him cruelly to see the leaping deer and flying, singing birds in their liberty, while he remained trapped. The only creature but for crumb scavenging rats that he ever saw was the little servant girl, who brought him his meager meals. If ever he began an attempt to start a conversation, she’d hurriedly set the platter of food down and scurry off, frightened by the hoarse growl in his voice. At one point, he mistakenly cleared his throat while she approached and she was given such a fright that she dropped the platter right onto the floor and did not come back till the next day. Always with the right timing after he ate the food and drank from the natural cascade of water in the wall of his cell, the little girl would sneak in unseen and retrieve the silverware and dishes. He spent one evening just staring at the platter – not moving at all, but staring at the large, razor sharp knife. He eventually took it up in his hand and hid it within his pillows. His mind shifted and began to wander. He lost track of time simply staring blindly into a never-ending oblivion of absolute nothingness. This would be how he’d spend his time – staring at an unseen object of interest and mumbling a pitiful, incoherent sort of conversation with himself to keep his lonely mind somewhat active. Illusions of grandeur of his previous years as a prince danced before his unblinking, unseeing, daydreaming eyes. Darkness would eventually envelop him in its cold, yet warm embrace, and he would drift into a deep sleep. He would be haunted by horrid dreams and awake completely unrested. This continuum carried on for a fortnight, and it ate away at him like insects to a rotting corpse buried beneath the earth. Braeden of Bayfelas, eldest son of the late King, and heir to the throne, was drifting into a state of insanity. It was not out of pure hate for his surroundings and for his captors that drove him to madness. It was the lack of company, the lack of reasoning to calm his outrageous imagination and the lack of speech as well as his waxing and never-waning hate. Though he became lonely in his isolation, he never dared to leave his room through the open doorway for fear that it may capture him in a stone-solid trap. He had even seen the magic of the window first-hand. Many rodents ventured through his room to the window, only to find their way at an abrupt halt – and so also do they find the end to their lives. Even if there was no trap to catch him in his curiosity, he dreaded the many twisting and intersecting, confusing and damp mazes of glittering, dark caves. With great fear of exiting the one place he know could keep him safe and alive for at least some time, he lost sleep and his face sagged beneath his once-bright blue eyes to form dark bags. His tongue became swollen in his mouth from lack of actual conversation, though it was always kept moist and satiated from drink. Soon enough, on the last evening of the first fortnight of solitude, his heart broke and he lost all will and all fears. He dragged himself from off the cold hard floor, where he had collapsed earlier, and waited just a little more for time to pass. He was hoping to see the Blue Lady, Naiya, once more so he could spit at her feet and curse her with the colorful words he had learned from his father long ago. But now, he could to bring himself to wait in that place any further, refusing to wait for death in old age find him. Hopelessness drifted down upon Braeden’s soul and he never felt any wish for freedom, but for the end. He woke from his dreaming consciousness and remembered the knife he had stolen - or rather, kept. He drew back the tapestry from the window, and held up the knife in his right hand. He rolled his filthy left sleeve and raised the knife slightly – ready to make the incision. He thought of his father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. Tears fell down from his cheeks silently as he recalled their faces and their smiles in his heart, and heard their voices ringing his ears. Thunderclouds rolled in outside and rain poured down upon the eerily quiet woodland. He felt as if the outside world was tense as he knelt down his concluding agony. Lightning cracked down upon the earth and thunder roared above. He heard the laughs and chortles of his baby sister and felt torn apart. He would not have been able to see her grow up anyway. With one last tear falling down from his eye onto the floor, he brought the blade down upon his wrist - slicing through skin, membranes and beyond ‘til he could press no further. All the strength in his body failed him and he became deaf, blind, mute. The smell of tiger lilies filled his nostrils and was so strong it stung his nose and hurt his eyes. Pain burst through his skull in an array of bright shapes and colors as sticky, warm blood dripped down his arms, covered his fingers and stained his clothes and the floor beneath him. Then, all the colors dancing before his eyes faded into innumerable shades of grey, and from there, into utter blackness he faded. Drifting between life and death, Braeden could hear a voice – a female’s voice – in his mind, not ears, shout words he could no longer comprehend with his fading mind. Now his heavy heart was no longer a burden and it felt light and free. Now, beneath the irremovable blanket of death, he slept. Flames exploded from outside the entrance of his cell inwards. IT traveled in a straight line to where he lay at rest and it encompassed him, consuming him. Streams of water shot up from the fountain in the rock face and, in nearly solid strands; it dove into the flames where the body of the elf was hidden. A cloud of a black something crept through the walls of the very earth and blanketed the floor with a soft quilt of darkness – the very essence of evil comforting his soul and keeping it at bay before letting him pass on towards the underworld. The inferno first dried his blood and melted the blade – reforging it as it reforged him. It poured into his veins and his heart, filling him with new spirits to be held high. A new fire inside of his heart was lit and kindled; never to be extinguished again by a broken soul, decay, or age. The water, proceeding the fire, entered into his veins and gave him sensibility; it cooled his heart and calmed his stressed body. The water surrounded and froze his singed heart. It washed away his tears and gave it equilibrium. A stream of water circled his slit wrist and froze itself upon the incision, healing the severed flesh and tissues. One rivulet strengthened his muscles whereas another cooled his questions and doubt as to the meaning of life. The darkness kept his soul nearby, yet it also ate away at the unnoticeable weaknesses of the deceased elf. Destroying the demeanor of a snobby prince that Braeden unknowingly had, the darkness gave him the aura of a dark ruler – a demon lord’s soul. As the body and soul both rested separated from each other, Braeden felt nothing and knew nothing of his invisible saviors’ toils. He was, in fact, quite dead. He didn’t think, he didn’t breathe, and he didn’t feel. He was completely severed from all joys in life, and completely detached from his consciousness. He was in only one state that the living could only dream of – peace. While he remained in his tranquil serenity, his body was made anew. It was a stronger body, a better body than before, and there wasn’t any frailty or flaw to be seen. Braeden awoke with a start, and, all at once, he began to breathe again, his heart began to beat again, his mind began to think again. He found himself alive and believed all that had happened to be just a dream, yet he looked down and saw the blade of the dagger-like knife still remaining in his skin. No blood flowed from the wound now, and he concluded that much time had passed as he lay on the stone floor trying to die. The last thing he remembered was darkness. He also thought back on the feeling of death – it felt like a blanket of nothingness was swept over him and enveloped him. The feeling was fleeting as magic of some sort had come to bring him back, although he was unaware to it. He wondered why he was still alive. He was shaking violently now as he sat there, cradling his wrist where the knife had remained. Surrounding him were pools of his own dried blood. He brought his shaking hand to grab the handle of the weapon and slowly, gently, jerked it out. The blood had clotted around the blade during the elemental phenomenon, and he winced as it severed through the healing skin once again. Once the blade came out, a small trickle of blood crept out yet quickly stopped to clot the sliced flesh once more. He did not move his left arm from it’s resting place on his leg, yet held up the knife before his eyes. His hand shook violently and he swallowed nervously. A feeling of nausea overcame him and the knife fell to the stone, shattering the silence. Dizzy, he held his filthy, bloody hands over his eyes and, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life, he wept. He wept for what seemed like hours, and when tears could well up in his eyes no longer, a large ache swelled up in his head, making it throb. He stood up, yet his dizziness knocked into him and he doubled over, heaving mass amounts of vomit upon the floor.