(I did it. X3.)

     Chapter 3:

     I have no sense of time here, other than Bailey telling me how long a process has been. It's all a blur though, as the pain coming from my wrist is bringing me in and out of consciousness. Eventually I wake up and feel no pain, Bailey not far off when I do come around.

     "Your wrist is all fixed up now, Sky." She mumbles, looking more awake than she had before. "With that mess out of the way," I sit up, shifting weight into my right wrist and back off of it again, relief bubbling inside of me. "I'm need you to drink this." I look back to Bailey, taking note that her formal medic getup is gone. She's dressed in shorts and a tank top, plastic gloves on her hands as she hands me a plastic cup. Inside the cup is a stationary brown liquid, and it reminds me of the wine in hell. That Hero enjoys. I begin to drink it. "Now, you're going to notice an intense-." I cut her off as the sudden stab to my back causes me to begin choking on the sticky liquid. My mouth and throat feel thick and I can't breathe from the film of this liquid blocking my airway. "Sky, you need to calm down!" Bailey urges. I continue to panic. Wouldn't anyone? It feels like something is reaching into my back and firmly grasping my bones, then taking said bones and tearing them out. "Sky!" It's hard to hear Bailey with this ringing in my ears, and everything around me sounds muffled. I can hear my heart as clear as day though, and its quickening rhyme sounds very wrong.

     It doesn't matter anyways, because soon Bailey's had enough and I'm being struck on the skull with a metal pole. I'm on the floor very quickly, still having trouble breathing, still panicking. But she strikes me again as I watch her do it this time, and after that I can't remember anything.

     --- Prince Mitchell ---

     The morning hush is still in tune, quieting the castle, silencing the city. The dawn has only just begun, reds and oranges piercing through the film of blue as the sun cuts its way into the day, leaving the moon to rot where it lay and slowly decompose. The process is beautiful.

     I'm not dressed up; I hate those garments. I already know what my father is going to say, so I'm dallying. The air is cool, the Fourth soon to begin, the Third halfway through its yearly cycle. Outside I sit on the ledge of a balcony, watching the sleeping kingdom from afar. I've never been outside the castle even though I can defend myself, and I know the geography, and the cities... That won't ever be enough for my father, though. To him I am weak and will never be anything else.

     A sigh escapes my lips, and I lean back, placing my head against the brick wall of the castle, bricks of stone that are cold in this early morning. My robe gently sways as a breeze blows by; one bare leg propped up, my arms wrapped around it, the other bare leg dangling off the ledge of this balcony up so high that a fall would surely kill me.

     That doesn't sound so bad.

     I can't stay here forever, sadly. They'll find me eventually, they always do, always will. There aren't many more hiding places in this castle anymore. I'm 23. Imagine how many I've gone through since I was 5. Trust me; the castle isn't that big at all, in fact I could argue that it's been shrinking... but what would be the point in arguing when no one is going to listen?

     I stand, stretch, cast my eyes over the city once more before turning away, entering the castle, wrapping my body up in my robe. I'm not cold, but no doubt I'll be passing some of the female servants and quite frankly I'm only in boxers. By now, some sort of breakfast is made, surely.

     The halls remain empty for a time, though eventually I pass by an older female, in her mid-thirties, pulling back the large, thick, and heavy curtains that cover the windows and letting the natural light pour inside. She glances to me as I pass by, saying nothing as she returns her attention to tying back the drapes. In return, I don't say a thing, both of us avoiding attention, avoiding sound that will disturb the bliss and silence.

     My room isn't far from the balcony, as I wasn't truly hiding, unable to by this point in my life. I'm not small anymore, in fact I'm much larger than I was then. My frame can't squeeze into smaller spaces any longer. My door opens with the sound of the lock pulling back, closing with a click. My drapes are already open; I did them myself. My small balcony - and by small, I mean very small; it doesn't even hold more than one body at a time - door is open, letting my room chill. I toss my robe away once more, not staying to watch it flutter onto the bed as I move to the bathroom.

     In the mirror, my hair is messy and my eyes dull. I grab a comb, combing through my chin-length hair before wetting a rag and washing my face. I can't spend long... I ring out the rag once before patting my face dry and then wiping off my hands, leaving the bathroom once more. My closet is large and full of clothing - most of which I despise, but I pick out an outfit anyways and begin to dress. The outfit is a black pair of trousers with a white bliaut. The bliaut has a high collar, slit in the front, and has a trimming of gold. The "chest plate" part of the bliaut also has the trimming of gold. I pull a simple black leather belt on around my waist and tighten it, before pulling on a surcoat of red velvet, also possessing the trimming of gold, that hugs my form loosely and hangs down to my ankles. The surcoat is sleeveless and possesses two clasps right above my belly button that I do up. The sleeves of my bliaut are white and loose, hanging all the way down to my wrists. I pull on gold bracers to cover my wrists as a knock sounds at my door, the door opening without my say, as it always does.

     "The king demands your presence, Prince Mitchell."

     "I was just coming down, sir." I assure my father's advisor, slipping on a pair of knee-length leather boots, stuffing my trousers within them and quickly lacing the boots up. The boots were also black, matching my trousers.

     "Yes, of course you were." I can hear the sarcasm in his voice but make no say of it, smoothing out my surcoat just a bit as he moves to my balcony doors and closes them with a quick ease. He turns, and I look him in the eye.

     "Where shall I-?"

     "Where do you think?" The advisor interrupts impatiently, ushering me out of the room before closing the door and walking off to do his own thing. I sigh, making my way down the hall before turning right, to the grand staircase, and heading down to the main floor. From there, I turn left, leading me into the main hall, where the throne sits. I continue forward, across the way, passing the stationed guards, and enter the dining room where I find my father sat impatiently at the table. He glares at me, jaw set as I make my way over to him. He's sat himself at the head of the table, forcing me to take a seat at either one of his sides; I choose his left side, seeing as he's right handed.

     "Tell me; what took you so long?"

     "I was dressing."

     "Dressing shouldn't take so long with others dressing you." Father criticizes.

     "I dressed myself." I snap. "I'm not a child."

     "You surely act like one. If it weren't for me sending for you, you'd never show up to anything on time- even with people fetching you, you're late!" A maid places a plate of food down in front of me, walking off as I gingerly pick up my fork and begin to eat. Maybe I'd rather not show up. I shove some food into my mouth, suffocating the thought as I keep my gaze low. "Now do explain, how are you coming along with a wife?"

     "Haven't been looking." I respond after swallowing, and my father heavily sighs, very annoyed.

     "If you won't find yourself a wife, I'll do it for you. You've disregarded my request several times now- and with all of the maidens that have come through the castle you surely should have been able to pick one by now."

     "Well maybe I don't want to get married yet." I grit my teeth, glaring at my father.

     "Don't give me that look, young man." He warns, and I huff, looking back down to my food and continuing to quickly eat. "And stop stuffing your mouth full of food, it isn't prince-like! Sit up straight while you're at it- don't think I'm so stupid not to notice what you're trying to do!" By now my father is yelling and I'm finished, another one of my father's councilmen in the room, watching. I can't remember what he does. I stand, swallowing my last bit of food before storming off, not saying a word.

     "Did the King dismiss you?" The councilman harshly demands, a guard catching my arm.

     "I didn't think I'd need to be dismissed in my own home." I snap back, trying to yank my arm from the guard as the councilman glares at me. The guard doesn't let up, and begins to drag me back towards the table where my father is standing, waiting.

     "I will not stand for such disrespect towards me from my own son." My father warns, grabbing me by my bliaut and yanking me closer. "If you don't correct your attitude, then you don't want to know what I'll do."

     "Are you going to hit me again?" My tone is venomous. My answer comes so suddenly that I'm nearly on the floor by the time my vision kicks back in again.

     "Don't you dare mock me, Mitchell." My father grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back up, my face stinging harshly and my head spinning. "Now I want you out of my sight, do you understand?" I meekly nod, eyes closed tightly. I'm thrown away from him, catching myself on the floor with my hands before standing up. "Get out." I leave, and the guard doesn't attempt to stop me this time.

     I don't go back to my room, instead I head past out back, to the gardens. The gardens have always been a safe haven, other than Frank, the dungeon keeper. Out in the gardens, the air is cool, a breeze lightly blowing as I wander around. I unclasp and strip off my surcoat, wrapping it around both of my arms in a pathetic attempt to fold it somewhat as I continue to walk around. Eventually, out in the deeper, more desolate part of the garden, I find myself upon a grave, and sit down next to it, leaning against it.

     It's my mother's grave.

     Everything is quiet, birds humming melodies in the distant wind as I gaze toward the water of the river nearby. Her headstone is worn and cold, just a slab of stone standing upright. But it's comforting. My mother died when I was very young, and all I remember of her is pictures and faint memories. I remember that her one wish for me, was that I didn't turn out like my father. That was her only wish, her only dream. She was killed by a hired mercenary, out in town one day while visiting shops. I had been with her, but I don't remember it. All I know is that the incident sparked war, and though it only lasted a year, I remember it more vividly than I do my mother. I remember feeling so alone, so abandoned... I couldn't understand then what had happened. I was only four years old, alone in a giant castle as my father fought out in the war, alone with maids and slaves, servants and advisors to watch me. And Frank, too.

     I sigh, the memories returning and giving me a nauseous feeling inside. The mercenary had been friends with baccas, and because of it the baccas stood by him, helping their friend. They had been completely unaware that he was a criminal until they were already plunged deep in the war. After that, my father blamed them too, enslaving the baccas that remained and forcing them to live as prisoners of war in our basement, otherwise referred to as the dungeon. I lean more into the gravestone, a tear slipping down my face as a wind blows. This is all I have left of you now.

     The gardens are quiet, dense with greenery. I can very faintly hear the horses at the stable, off by the castle gates. The river is most of what I can hear though. Strong and powerful, yet quiet and mellow sounding. It's strange to imagine that a force so powerful can be so tranquil. I suppose that's what a silent killer is, then.

~-~-~-~

     My sword slices through the air, clashing with his. He's quick, and bigger, and stronger. He pushes me away, rushing me but I dodge, and catch his gut against my knee, listening to the grunt that he sounds. I pull my knee down and back in a quick secession, going to knee him again but he catches my leg and throws me off balance; I manage to recover but not in time to block his next sword swing, and he catches my right bicep from behind me. The blow is hard and will surely leave a bruise but I don't inch off, making a quick grab for his sword and giving it a yank. He's unarmed in an instant, and looking very unamused.

     "Prince Mitchell, making a grab like that-."

     "Disarms an opponent and yes, will cut open my palm. Who the hell cares if I cut myself, it's a cut." I argue, turning and facing my trainer.

     "A cut can lead to a much more serious injury- or infection, not to even begin mentioning that it won't always disarm someone!"

     "Well it disarms you, now doesn't it?" I step towards my trainer, gripping the wooden sword in my hand tighter as he closes the distance, standing a good head taller than me. He's beefier, well trained, and an utter ass.

     "If you aren't going to pay attention to what I'm teaching you then why am I here?" The trainer glares down at me. "Continue like this and I'm going to-."

     "What?" I challenge. "What are you going to do?" My trainer knees me, and though the blow is very sudden and all of the breath in my lungs is now gone, I wrap my arms around his leg and spin, throwing him to the ground despite all of my disadvantages. He once again grunts, getting up as I pant. "When're you going to teach me real skills? When will I learn to really fight?" I demand, trailing behind him as he walks off towards the gate.

     "When you're older."

     "I'm 23, not 11!" I argue, stepping in front of him. "My father hired you to teach me to fight, not to argue with me about how I'm fighting."

     "You fight like a whiny child." My trainer argues, snatching the wooden sword from my hand. "If you won't listen to me, I'm not going to do anything more with you."

     "You're quitting?" He walks around me, not saying a word. "You're quitting because I'm cutting my palm in an attempt that's always worked to disarm my opponent?"

     "You're cutting your palm in an attempt to disarm me." My trainer turns to me, and thrusts the sword at my neck, where it's blocked by my forearm. "If I were a real enemy I'd yank that sword straight out of your grasp and cut half your hand off." We both go silent, and he lowers the wooden sword, glaring at me, his jaw set as if it'd make him seem superior. "If you won't fight the way I teach you, then I don't have to teach you."

     "I am fighting the way you teach me- I have been for 12 years!"

     "And even after 12 years, you're still a horrid fighter."

     "I fight the way you want me to, so if I'm a horrid fighter then why are you teaching me to fight this way?" I yell, bring my arm back down to my side. My hand balls into a fist as my teacher snorts.

     "It isn't my fault that you're incapable of learning, or listening for that matter."

     "Oh really? And what am I supposed to listen to? Your constant bitching about every little thing I do?"

     "You should get that thick skull out of your ass, boy." My trainer warns, gripping the wooden sword more firmly.

     "Why, you want up there instead?"

     "Sometimes I wonder how the hell your mother created such a disrespectful child- she must be ashamed of herself." It's suddenly very warm, and very dark, and all I can see is red. And my trainer. My heart is beating fast and adrenaline rushes through me. My trainer's abandoned wooden sword is laying on the ground, and I snatch it up and charge him. All I can hear is a ringing in my ears and my breathing is heavy. I can barely focus on the fight. I feel a numbed, harsh thwap but it's not painful.

     And when everything is normal again, when I can hear, and see clearly, and think clearly, my trainer is laying beneath me, wooden sword long gone and a black eye quickly forming, laying on the ground beneath the tip of my wooden sword as I pant. He looks a mixture of shock, and pain, and anger. There's a dark bruise forming on my right shoulder joint.

     "Say another word of my mother and next time I won't be using a wooden sword." I warn, throwing my sword to the ground and beginning to walk off. A few of the guards posted nearby are staring, a few beginning towards my trainer. I glance to the sky. It's the afternoon, at least. I need someone to talk too again.

~-~-~-~

     Dinner is tense, and silent. My father doesn't say a word to me, and I don't say a word to him. I'm sitting to his left again, as I always try to do. The food is great, but nonetheless I don't want to be sitting in here.

     "Your trainer quit a few hours after your session today." My father suddenly announces. I stop eating, glancing to him. I find him glaring at me, looking rather upset. "What did you do?"

     "I didn't do anything wrong." I reply. "He was a horrible teacher anyways. All he did was complain about every little thing I did and never made an effort to teach me a different way of doing things."

     "That isn't the point, Mitchell!" My father yells, suddenly very upset. "From what he says, you blatantly disregarded his instruction on several occasions! Furthermore, you beat him senseless for merely arguing with you!"

     "That is not what happened!" I yell back. "He insulted my mother! He deserved to be beat senseless!"

     "Why the hell would I believe a child to a trusted, honest man?!" My father stands up and I quickly follow, growling. I can feel my heart racing.

     "I'M YOUR SON!"

     "All you are is a wasted effort!" My father harshly spits out, glaring and looking down at me. "Until you grow up, you're nothing more than a worthless child!" Everything suddenly feels heavy- very heavy. I don't feel hungry anymore. I feel empty. My father sits back down, still glaring. I don't bother to finish eating or push in my chair before quickly leaving. None of the guards try to stop me, and I make a quick dash across the main hall and up the staircase, running to my room and slamming the door closed behind me.

     And from there, I don't move. I lean against the door and the tears flow, searing, burning. I don't make a sound, keeping it inside as my knees go weak, and slide down the door to sit on the ground. If I'm not supposed to be a child, then why the hell do you keep treating me like one?