People often forget that there is a grain of truth in the fairy tales of old. Tales of enchantment and wonder, full of skill and magick, leave us with something more. They leave us with a sense of a world not just larger than ourselves, but one that is subject to our own exploration in a never ending quest to invent myth and understand fact.

Michael himself was no different from any other man who felt this primal draw to both myth and fact. He lived on the outskirts of a particular town with his old uncle Victor. The unenlightened townspeople whispered about fevers and maladies in the old man because of his immense genius. Truth was that yes, he was strange. He would not hunt animals and spent hours tinkering away on one of his many various contraptions. But the oddest thing of all was that Victor had not required his only living family to marry.

Michael was undoubtedly at the age and had many suitors of both the male and female variety. It was not a strange thing at the time, dear readers, as it has become of late. Uncle Victor would do nothing more to press the issue than to discuss what nice young people there were in the village. This general lack of enthusiasm displeased Brian, the most beautiful boy in town who believed that he truly deserved only the best in life, including Michael.

The truth was that Brian could have anyone he wanted. He was the mayor's son, a child of immense wealth and power, with all the good aristocratic breeding that his life allowed. He had faithful servants and many trysts, but availed himself of no love. He and Michael had been playmates once, but they had broken off with terse words. Michael hated those who vainly loved themselves alone. On good days, they were acquaintances and on bad days they were less than.

One can imagine then that Michael began to feel quite lonely in his little town. He would rise each day with the morning dawn, which he loved from the pure morning sun over the amber hills and all the way to the honking of the mallards in the nearby marshes, and go for walks through the bustling markets. Women with urchins crawling and running all about the place created quite a cacophony, but still Michael did not add to the confusion unless it was to kick a dusty ball back to some small, grinning child that perspired as the sun continued to rise.

Michael would make his customary walk to the town's only bookshop nearly every day. The bookshop was run by a harmless old man who could barely read anon, but was, in his younger days, a school teacher that had fled a New England university, although he would never say whether it was by choice or disgrace. Bartering books for food or sometimes lessons, Michael and the bookshop owner Drew seemed the only kindred spirits of the whole town, which was fine by Michael in some ways.

He would spend most of the day afterwards reading by the town's fountain and making casual remarks to townspeople as they passed. Lunch would be a little loaf of bread and some hearty cheese when he could manage and an apple when he could not. Learning to cook was not an inherent talent to Michael or Victor, so they made due with what they could and not much more.

Now let it be known that even in this somewhat type of poverty, uncle Victor was not the type of man to toil in obscurity. When he was not able to write introductions properly for his new devices, he had the librarian Drew ink them on onionskin parchment. When it was affordable, Victor himself carted out those same inventions and sold them for handsome fees and the possible promise of more to come. Michael liked those nights the best, visions of roasted legs of mutton spit by the fire danced in his dreams on the night he slept in the lonely house on the outskirts of town.

On one such occasion, uncle Victor did not return nor did he send a letter ahead informing Michael as such. This worried young Michael since they were so close and the worries intensified themselves on his brow when the panicked and intensely loyal horse Milady returned to the house without rider or cart and a wild look on its face.

Michael thanked God for a small moment that mud and not blood caked the hooves and saddle of the horse, but then began to worry. It was already a long autumn and it yet might be worse before it was better. Nights were cold enough with a dim fire, let alone the elements to bite at your skin unguarded. Michael packed quickly on his search to find Victor: filling his bag with bandages, water bottles, and traveling bread. He would not allow himself to prepare for worse.

The wind was beginning to whip as he left on his journey, the sun already lowering itself into twilight. Michael pulled his light blue traveling cloak tighter around his shoulders and tied it so that the hood stayed in the breeze. He coaxed Milady all the way back through the darkening forest until the mist was filled with the chill of night.

In the distance, Michael could hear wild creatures, but went on undeterred yet exceedingly weary. He didn't notice as the overgrown path became slightly flatter or when the bumps in the road became less and Milady stopped whinnying in complaint. Nor did the sound of Milady clopping over worn stones come to his ears until the mists unveiled a terrible and awesome site. Michael proceeded to climb down from his saddle, leaning over to pat the nose of the frightened horse.

"There, there," he stated in hushed tones as he hoped to also calm his own jangled fears. The wrought iron gate in front of them was tall and rusted, much older than Michael himself. Michael could never remember a legend about, or a map featuring, any such tall gate or premises behind it. But, at the very least, the castle would most likely be abandoned. Without care to the gate at all, it must have been for quite some time. However, there was one thing to be certain of. Uncle Victor's favorite traveling hat was lying on the other side of the unlocked gate.

Steeling his reserve, Michael led Milady forward, the gate clanging behind the pair. Michael had reservations, but picked up his uncle's hat and continued onwards. The castle itself was shrouded in mist and night, and in some ways that was for the best. It would have easily been the tallest structure in the land except for how deep in the forest it resided.

But, for as tall as the castle was shrouded in mist, it was even the taller when Michael began toward the outside staircase. Leaving Milady tied to sturdy branch of a long untended tree, Michael stood at the outside steps for a long moment out of fear. Stepping into the building, the door shut behind him. Gulping and hoping to give his moment eyes to adjust, Michael shouted out into the great and echoing distance of the tiered castle before setting his uncle's hat down on the small front table to the right.

"Hello? Uncle Victor, did you find your way here?"

There was no response except for a passing of the clouds in moonlight to give the room some hollow warmth through its large, stately windows. There were at least three levels to the place, all unlit and severely unloved. But, even in its state, the deep red carpets that cascaded about the place under wood and fine marble like glass still had a proud and haughty feel to it.

Trodding silently and looking this way and that, Michael called out still for uncle Victor. As brave as his uncle was, Michael could not imagine him traveling very far into such a godforsaken and rundown castle. He would have become lost except for the guiding hand of providence leading him to someone with a set of candles walking deep and lightly in the castle's inner chambers.

Michael followed the soft glow as it led him down the darkening hallways. He called out to the light several times, but the bearer seemed to be either deaf or just beyond his range of hearing. Either case became increasingly exasperating for him. Eventually, the glow of light began to disappear up a staircase, which looked as though it was dusty from a lack of use, excusing recent times. Dust from the center of the stairs had been swept along to the sides, creating small mounds that lay in shadows, moving past Michael as he followed the glowing light.

The only light he could see as he reached the top of the stairs, besides the pale moon coming in from a small barred window, was a motionless candlestick, shiny of pure gold and left in the room almost as a careless afterthought. However, the light of the moon and soft glow of the fire did nothing to hide the room and its dirty contents. The floor was strewn with hay and, unlike the other parts of the castle Michael had seen-did not have grand lacquered floors, rotting boards lay under rotten hay and black splotches of water stain.

There was a familiar cough that came from a corner of the room.

"Uncle Victor!"

Michael rushed to his uncle's side, finding that he was barred from him through a heavy wooden door that seemed locked and rusted shut. Once they were out, Michael thought that he might ask his uncle how he achieved such a trick. But, for the moment, Michael's focus was on his uncle and that menacing cough he had acquired. He was pale and shaking, looking for all the world as though a trickle of drool had frozen to a spot beneath his chin.

"You're freezing."

Uncle Victor didn't register Michael at first. His eyes seemed to come out of a cloudy dream before they could focus. "Michael? My own dear Michael?"

Michael smiled in return, watching his uncle begin to respond and return to life. "Yes, yes its me. I've come to take you home. You've had me worried ill."

Victor's face went more pale than Michael previously thought it could. "Home? Michael, forget me. You've got to get back there yourself. You've got a good head on your shoulders...you could..."

Michael's brow furrowed at his uncle's panicked words. "What are you talking about? I could never leave you like this, you've been my world! How can I get you out, get you warmed up a bit and headed for home...."

"How did you find me?"

"Milady."

Victor nodded slowly. "Of course. She's a good horse, she'll serve you well. She's strong and caring..."

Michael's voice tried to stay calm under the panic of his uncle's delusions. "You're talking nonsense. How did this happen? How did you find this place?"

"My only concern is you. You are my only family, Michael. You must...you must...you must go!"

Michael blinked hard, rubbing his hands against his uncle's so he might have a little warmth. "You're acting as though you're chained to this place, though you've been here so few hours. Let me get you away and well."

Victor shook his head. "He will not let me go. I trespassed. You must go, its a big castle. I will pray that he has not found out about you being here yet."

"Who, dear uncle? That mysterious man that led me with the candlestick and disappeared? I hardly think this is the time for jesting. You act as though this place is haunted."

A voice barked out from the darkest portion of the room, unseen in his entrance. "It is haunted and he pays the price for passing through these gates. Would you pay that price as well?"

Michael didn't turn to see that the voice had a body hidden in shadows. "Please, sir. He's sick. Find kindness to forgive him. He needs proper care. He is my family."

"Sentiment means nothing to me. He is under arrest for the crime of trespassing."

Michael's voice rose in anger. "Is it a crime to be lost or a crime to be old? You can't treat people that way, master of this house or no!"

Victor shook his head, pleading with Michael to try and leave him. "No, no Michael. Do not anger him. Run, go, get out! I've had many good years, I can face this yet."

The man in the shadows held curiosity, or possibly delightful contempt, in his throat. "People? How have people treated others for centuries long gone and for centuries to come? People do not understand courtesy as a person would, and certainly not in this destitute place. Leave your uncle, return to your country and forget the accursed."

Michael turned, startled for a just a moment that he was addressing shadows. "You hold such a low opinion of my uncle and I, dare that I would ever call you sir or good. You lock up old men for thieving your forsaken property? In my place, this is not a tone to take with travelers. There is nothing decent about it."

The voice in the darkness snarled. "There is no decency left in this place. Must I give a final warning before your soul?"

"He's sick, he needs my care or someone else's, at the very least. I love him deeply. Does love mean nothing here, even at the end of the world?"

The body of the voice must have shaken his head in the shadows. "Love? I shall show you the world's love, child."

The voice and body came out of the shadows. He was tall, startling tall in the low tower room. His robes were either cobwebbed or tattered, though neither mattered to Michael. He was almost shrunken from the invisible weight on his shoulders as he stooped very slightly. There was a darkness, hardness to his eyes. All along his face were scratches, some scabbed and others brightly red. He himself looked at the floor without extending his hand, merely keeping them in his robes as though he might freeze to death in a moment.

"Cruelty paid in kind, no love borne. I am master of this castle and you will now leave."

Michael tried to bear himself up, even though he barely reached the master's height. "No. Not without him. Or, at very least, a trade."

The master snorted. "A trade? A life for a life? Do you consider yourself worth so little?"

"No, I...." Michael thought a moment, setting his heart to resolve. "Yes, a trade. My value without him is not much and his value is far greater than my own. At least send him to a place with warmth that his old bones might revive."

"It is done then, but you will stay in this place forever. We will not touch hands for the deal, merely living by its creed."

Michael turned away from the harsh man and looked at his uncle, both tearing at the eyes. "You have said. Let him go."

Uncle Victor protested loudly as the master produced a rusty key from an inner pocket and dragged the old man down the stairs without giving Michael a chance to say goodbye. "No, you can't do this to him! He has a future, he has a life waiting....I....Michael!"

The master of the house barked at the old man as he flung him out the castle door and to a waiting carriage that seemed to move on spindly legs abject of a driver. "Michael is no longer your concern, old man. Go home, forget this place. It is better for all."

The master of the castle returned as Michael was finishing climbing down the stairs. His eyes were red from momentary crying in the freezing tower. "You really don't have a heart, do you? You wouldn't even let me say goodbye."

The master muttered underneath his breath. "The greatest cruelty will come yet, when you realize your sentence."

"What?"

The taller of the pair coughed. "I said, we will lead you to your room."

"My room? We?" Michael grabbed onto the door post, unsure as to what the master of the house meant.

"Did you really want to stay in the freezing tower, young Michael?"

"No."

"We will follow Emmett. It is too dark in such a late hour to navigate this place by ourselves."

"Emmett? So you don't live here alone?"

A soft voice with a rich accent began to talk from behind Michael, causing him to gasp. "No, of course he doesn't. If it were up to him, he'd have burnt this place down long ago. Save for us, you'd be searching for your uncle on such a pile of ash and rubble."

The master snarled. "That is enough. Take the young gentleman to his room."

The talking candle stick named Emmett shrugged, as though he were used to such chastisement. "As you wish, Master Benjamin."

The candlestick, Ben, and Michael moved silently along the corridors as though it were a funeral procession. The grandeur that Michael had once seen in the carpets and around the smoky ridges of marble and real wood seemed gloomier, more oppressive, given the nature of his term in the place.

Ben seemed uncomfortable with silences. "This place is now your home, such as it is. You may roam the house and grounds, except for my personal estate in the West corridor. Go no further in that damned place, I know not what magick has kept my will as such for these many years and what affect it might have on you."

"Why would that magick not be on the rest of the castle, Ben?"

Master Ben turned, causing Emmett to stop hopping along as well. "Benjamin. You will address me formerly when we eat together. I may be your warden, but neither of us will be barbarians."

Michael looked down at the floor, uneasy about taking such a tongue lashing and keeping himself from rebuking the bitter man. "It seems that we might reach a disagreement in that area, of your barbarity, if such a word exists."

Ben shrugged as he turned again and they proceeded on. "You will be come accustomed to it." Once they reached a blue door which seemed to have been made shockingly cleaner recently than the rest of the corridor, Ben addressed Michael yet again. "You will join me for dinner in one hour. This is not a request."

Michael heard the door slam behind him and he looked back at the empty space, blinking. "He takes my prisonership for granted."

"Lord, he takes everything for granted. You get used to it. He's just crabby. Well, he's always crabby and who wouldn't be of course, given the situation. I mean, if I can count the number of times I've wanted to scratch my nose...."

But the wardrobe stopped rambling on when it noticed Michael staring so intently, mystified or possibly on the verge of a hysterical fit. The wardrobe itself was a grand piece, made out of a sort of fake ivory with a real gold piping along the side, culminating on top with a cherub among its fleur-de-lis, the head of which was conversing with Michael.

"But, of course, I've always had issues with decent conversation. Its been so long since we've had a real guest. I'm Daphne, and I suppose that I'll be your wardrobe. Of course, I'm not sure what I have in this old wardrobe that would fit such a compact frame, but I suppose thats better as opposed to..."

Michael interrupted Daphne, the talking cherub wardrobe who seemed to waddle from inch to inch as she talked. "I'm not his guest. I'm his prisoner."

This took Daphne aback for a moment, although she recovered well. "That doesn't mean you can't dress like a guest, does it?"

Michael turned away, feeling drained. He found the tall window in the room to his liking, tuning out Daphne as she yammered on about the contents of various drawers and such. He noticed how high he was from the ground and how thick the glass was. It was frosted, too close to winter. Michael wasn't accustomed to praying, but he prayed hard and deep for his uncle and himself. Snow began to fall, whether a portent of good or ill mattered so little to Michael. He was trapped in either case.