A/N: I have thrown caution to the wind and have decided to just post this as it comes. Please bear with me-- this may be the biggest mistake of my life, but this is why I wish to take you with me... I cannot endure such tragedy on my own. This story came from the depths of my mind that I never roam-- the inner psyche where all darkness dwells and madness prevails. I apologize now for how infrequently I may update- I remain without my laptop until I fix my math grade, but until that day, may I present you the prologue... :D (I may update twice today, my dears-- barely two hundred words is a foul excuse for a prologue, but that is how this has come.)

Prologue

The line on the wall was a beautiful red- russet, with the pain of a skewered artist's heart, as if he himself had bled the line. But he had not. Artists were perfectionists. This line drew the soft curves of the mountainside, ever wavering, ever pure. The line danced in a hearty crescendo before the music abruptly stopped.

Poised beneath the crimson rain lay a man, drenched in blood. It flowed freely from his fingertips and as he looked to the ceiling above him, the ceiling of a castle, shrouded in depressing darkness, his breath caught in his throat as he choked out, "Leave. . . .Her."

But no one knew to whom he referred, for a moment thereafter, his eyes rolled back, sinking deeper into the dark abyss as the danger plundered on. No one knew the cause of it until a deep voice from the darkness said softly, "To kill a man is worse than it is to kill a madman. This man was mad."

No one questioned; it was absolute. The man had a mad funeral, was given a mad eulogy and even had a mad saying slapped on his cheap gravestone. "To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."