The Absent Prince
This prince was not home.
He was far gone, vanished, sealed away. Some say he was simply sleeping, dreaming of faraway times. Some say he was off on a journey, seeking that which was lost. Some say he was dead, and yet more rumours abounded, but we will not mention those, for they are far too absurd, even for the most open-minded individual.
What was for certain, was that he was no longer at home. Some have called upon him, only to find an empty shell, devoid of what which made it such a noble yet honest dwelling. He was no longer there, and without him, there was no longer majesty in that stately place.
In that cold and frigid land of the far north, something bright had been snuffed out. A Prince, glowing in all his innocence and trust, was no longer there, and the land was made poorer by the fact. Yet, it seemed that the people did not notice, for they saw not the radiance of our Prince, and grinded on with their daily lives, ignorant of that presence within their ranks, ethereal as it was, and fleeting.
Those who saw, acknowledged the light, but jeered at our dear Prince. He was noble, he was honest, he was humble. He trusted unconditionally, and gave as such. He was a fool, scoffed the detractors. He was too good for this world, minced some others. No matter, the Prince had left. He was no longer home, in this land of frost and snow. Only a husk was left, watching as the cloak of eternal winter settled in over the country.
He was no longer there, even if his legacy was. The body lay like a monument to a failed struggle, against society, against reality, against the cold truth of the land. It trembled unconsciously in the absence of its former owner, shivering, shaking, spasming uncontrollably. Simply because he was no longer there, this was the result, all that was left in his memory, short as it was.
The foundations of the home was sturdy, young and likely to last for decades longer. Then it would crumble, fade, and degenerate, until it was no more than a skeleton, a real skeleton, not simply the empty husk it was now. There would be nothing left, nothing to evoke even the merest hint of memory, of conscience, of hope, if you will.
He was hope, he was light, he was gone. He had left the house, and in his absence, it had turned into a pitifully ravaged shell of its former glory. People looked away in disgust, and beggars spat at it in derision. Even common hounds avoided it, for fear of the madness that oozed from its very pores. For is it not against nature for such a house as this to be abandoned thus by its owner?
Yes, the Prince was no longer home. I walked away from the grimy steel bars, pulling my coat closer around my body to ward off the chill, studiously putting out of my senses the blank irises focused somewhere around the back of my head. Leaving behind too, the husk that was once home to Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin, ignoring the raving that began once again.
No, this Prince was not home. Not anymore.
Based on the novel The Idiot written by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The character mentioned here is Prince Myshkin from that selfsame novel. Go wiki it, it explains the context of what I've written.
Mention of "grimy steel bars" a reference to a habit of the times. The chronically insane were put up like showpieces on display, where people pay a small fee to see the madmen rave. I don't know if that's what really happened to the Prince after the official ending of the book, but I'm just stretching it. It's plausible, at any rate.