Sometimes Hak wondered if it was all a dream. If this was all a nightmare, a twisted, sick dream borne from his equally twisted jealousy. He'd wake up on those nights, when the hollow schulk of a sword through flesh was too real in his dreams, when the blood was too scarlet behind his eyes, when the ripping scream echoed too harshly through his ears. Those were the nights he could not bear to be with anyone, not even with the person dearest to his heart.
On those nights, he would slip away, making sure to glance back every so often. He could never be sure if a little princess was stalking him from behind the trees. That thought brought a faint, wry smile on his lips for a warm moment, before it faded in the dissonance of the night. Hak would continue to walk and walk and walk until the blades of grass no longer held the hint human soles. Then at last, he would slump against a tree and close his eyes. There at last, he could let his battered soul rest in the solitude of forgetfulness, away from the fear panting at his ankles and the anger knotting in his throat.