A young man with a sword held tightly in hand stood before the castle—or what was left of the place. It seemed as if overnight a jungle had taken over and leeched itself upon the grey stones of the castle. The tower to the left was in a state of crumble, stones littering the ground beneath it and others half-clinging to the structure as if they wished to never let go.

One such stone toppled down and shattered as it hit the vine-covered floor. The young man startled, drawing his sword up in defense. His eyes skittered nervously in search of a foe, but none was found. He drew trembling fingers over his eyes and suddenly wished himself back at home.

He heard of the castle taken over by vines and roots from his father's Master of the Stables. The hunched man had fixed his flinty eyes on the prince, words whistling through the gap in his teeth as he told his tale.

"A week's journey from here," the man had begun, "is a castle set upon by the curse of a wicked witch. Her hair—purple as you father's royal robes—trailed three feet behind her on the floor as she damned the inhabitants of the castle to an eternal sleep.

"Tenants of the unfortunate royal family witnessed streams of deep purple and oozing green puffing above the structure in numerous clouds. Without any thought the people scrambled away, taking with them a tale that chilled the hearts of those who heard it. Each telling grew darker and more terrible, speaking of a dragon with blood running from its eyes and a witch so frigidly beautiful she paralyzed those she set her eyes upon.

"Those who had known the royal family personally took it upon themselves to discover what had become of them—at least those with courage in their breasts enough to chance facing the witch herself.

"No harm came of them as they approached the castle. Young, tender vines had already started to climb upon the castle and the windows were yet to be blackened with vegetation. The peasants peeked in and were startled to find the entire court lying prostrate upon the floors. They tried to enter and help, but the wooden doors were locked shut."

The wizened man had nodded at the disbelief in his prince's eyes. "`Tis true and you know I would not lie. Those courtiers were out cold…but the most astonishing thing I have not yet told you….

"There was a princess. She was the youngest of the king's children, and she was claimed to be more beautiful than her sister the witch—the very witch that cursed the castle—and even her mother—which was to say a lot, for the lady made many a man bow and scrape for her before she took a husband.

"The Queen's sister was frightfully jealous of her sibling. She was handsome herself, but none could surpass her sister. This jealousy took shape in her cold heart and was manifested the day the youngest princess was born. The Queen's sister had not been invited to the Naming of the child a month after its birth, and the slight burned in her breast until she was unable to sit or sleep without thinking about it.

"Just after the child had been anointed, and just as the gathered crowd began to cheer in earnest, the witch appeared. She stood taller than the King and his guards, and the look in her eyes silenced everyone. The royal couple and their children trembled as the witch reached for the little girl. With blackened nails stroking the white plump cheek of the child's face, the Queen's estranged sister breathed a curse. 'Eighteen years this child shall live,' croaked the witch, 'and she will be the apple of her parents' eyes. But…on her birthday she shall be taken ill and no one will be able to keep her from the sleep of the dead.'

"The air left behind the evil woman when she dissolved into thin air crackled and fell to the ground in sparks. The Queen wept and held her daughter to her closely, knowing the years ahead would try all those involved.

"The country's more knowledgeable and famous magicians were sent for. Every known spell of protection and every charm to offset evil was placed upon the young princess. She lived a sheltered childhood, and only upon her insistence as she grew older was she allowed more freedom to roam the village. She was, after all, not yet eighteen.

"When the time came, no one breathed a word of the Princess's birthday. Her birth had been wiped from all records but had not been stricken from the minds of those in the land. Spells to cloud the castle in a deep and magical fog were chanted. They thought they could keep her at bay, but they weren't able to.

"As the court silently celebrated the Princess's eighteenth birthday the witch took form in the flames of the Great Hall's fires—she stepped out with the fire licking her ankles. Every person in the room was stilled by the casual motion of her deadly fingers. Courtiers dropped to the tiled floor with their last breaths leaving them in a collective woosh—all except for the Princess.

"She was led upstairs where the witch attempted to steal her youth and beauty, but the girl was strong-willed and withstood her aunt's magic. The witch gave a terrible shout when she realized she could do no harm to her niece, and she laid the same sleep upon the slight girl as she had done with the courtiers. She departed soon after."

The Prince remembered the tiredness he felt tugging at his bones from sitting for so long, but his mind was as awake as ever. It was just as the old man finished speaking that he decided he would go and see the castle for himself.

And that's where he ended up, skitterish and frightened before a cursed castle far from his home.

As he scraped blossoming vines from what he could make out as a window, he wondered why had had been so foolish. He'd ridden two horses near to death to reach the castle as quickly as he could. He found he could not believe in the magic of it all without having seen the place. And now, peering into the darkened room from behind the wavering, running glass, he could almost believe it all.

He brushed aside foliage in search of a window latch but could not find one, and so he wrapped his hand in his cloak and broke it through the window. Glass sprayed outwards and tinkled onto the floor inside the castle while some bounced off of his face. He finished the rest off with a stick from the ground.

The Prince swung his leg over the sill and the rest of his body followed as he entered into the darkness of the room within. His boots crunched bits of glass noisily and he cringed—it almost seemed sacrilege to make such a racket in such a place. And so he stepped quietly and carefully along the wall lined with windows hoping that he might see something in the dim light emanating from them. Just beyond the shadows he could make out a doorway.

The door creaked open at the touch of his hand. He heard a distant, tinkling noise above his head, and when he looked up he saw a broken glass chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. It creaked as it swung in the small breeze that was whirling into the castle through the window the Prince had broken. It was almost as if the castle were sighing, for a strange whistling wind was beginning to wrap itself around the Prince and to latch itself on the walls.

The Prince shivered as he looked upwards once more, his fingers playing upon the hilt of his sword. Just thinking about the witch made his insides clench, and he dearly hoped she had left for good long ago. He sidestepped an overturned chair and ended up tripping upon the still body of a young child.

"Forgive me!" he cried hoarsely. The little boy looked to all the world as if he were dead, his skin milky white and his eyes rolled back into his head. The Prince knew otherwise, for if he had been dead his body would have decayed and the skeleton would have been all that was left of the youth. He didn't know what to do except to grab his cloak and set it under the boy's head—who knew how long he would be sleeping.

By chance the Prince spotted a narrow and crooked staircase nestled behind a heavy drapery. He batted it aside and climbed upwards, cobwebs dragging at his face and sticking messily to his hair. He couldn't help but curse, for the damned things were getting into his mouth. He spit.

Another drapery was soon before him, and he drew it aside. He found himself in a completely dark room, and it took all his will not to panic. He clumsily drew his sword out of its sheath and used the tip to navigate his way through the darkened room. Every once in a while the sword would run into a piece of furniture and a dull thwang echoed into the room. The Prince hurried, wishing to quit the place as soon as possible—just as long as he could find some light.

There was a door ahead of him, and underneath it the crack between it and the floor glowed with an obvious light. He felt for a doorknob but found none. His fingers scrabbled a little more along the wooden panels but to no avail. He slammed his fists on the door and heard it groan. With his foot he slammed into the door, and some of the wood gave in and splintered. But it was not enough.

"What are you doing?" A voice seemed to materialize from the dark itself and the Prince saw purple in the edge of his vision. He spun around, gasping loudly and dropping his sword. No one was there—as far as he could tell. He turned back to the door with a renewed and desperate resolve to kick it down. His breathing became labored as he slammed himself bodily against the it over and over.

He fell through once the splinters lost their will to resemble a door. There was a loud and drawn out craaaack as he tumbled through onto the floor within the painfully bright room. He screwed his eyes shut and groaned—his eyes felt like knives were being poked into them and his body felt like one massive bruise.

Before he could gather his wits someone grabbed him by the hair of his head and jerked him to his feet. "Who are you?" the person hissed into his ear. He could feel nails biting into his scalp and he cried out in pain. His head began to throb.

"Please," he whimpered. Tears gathered at the corner of his eyes and he flushed at how quickly he'd been unmanned. He was suddenly thrown to the floor, and he slid a few feet before he realized with awe at the might of the person who had been grasping him by the hair.

He was finally able to take a good look at the witch from where he lay on the floor. Her hair dragged behind her onto the floor by several feet and her skin was tinged an odd bruised color. The gown she wore was tattered and hung upon her thin frame like a flood. She was glaring at him and clutching his sword in her bony hand. Was she really so strong that she could throw him so far? She barely looked able enough to survive a cough.

"Get out or I shall kill you," she said, her voice cracking. Her gaze shifted to the left, alerting to the Prince of the presence of someone else in the room. There was a girl splayed out on a large canopied bed. The curtains were drawn back and he could see the white shadows of sleep on her that the boy he'd seen earlier exhibited.

A hair-raising keen issued from the witch as she launched herself at the Prince. Her eyes rolled in their sockets as she clung weakly to his neck as she tried to strangle him. What had happened to her strength? It appeared to wax and wane for suddenly her hold on him tightened and he could hardly breathe. He gurgled and tried to get some semblance of breath into him, but it was too difficult. He would not be able to keep it up for long, for there was a crazed look in the witch's eyes and her tongue was sticking out in an almost demonic manner.

She was thus distracted when he noticed his sword abandoned at her side. He toed it over to him as best he could and his fingers clutched at the hilt. He swung it up at an awkward angle and brought it down on the witch's head. The blow glance off her head for the Prince was weakened from lack of air to his lungs, but a second swipe at her as she jumped back from him proved enough. The sword sliced into her side and went straight into her chest where her heart—cold as it was—was pumping blood. She cried out and thumped to the floor, clutching at her wound.

Blooding leaking from between her fingers, she begged him, "Please, young man. I'm just an old woman…Would you leave your grandmother to die?"

"If she were turned evil and rotten like you, then I would. You don't deserve to live, witch," the Prince snarled. He dragged himself up from his knees and staggered over to her. Her eyes widened as he drew his sword to stab her one last time.

"No one's perf—." Death interrupted her final words and she twitched as the sword was drawn from her body. The Prince swallowed deeply, looked once at the girl on the bed and fainted.

The Prince's eyes peeled themselves open, feeling as if there were sand and grit in them. He rubbed his face and noticed that his fingers were trembling violently. He looked over and saw that the corpse of the witch was still there. So it had all been real; he hadn't imaged it. He got up and kicked his blood-stained sword away from him—it smelled horribly of over-sweet blood and that witch.

He wandered over to where the Princess lay. He was sure it was her, for why else would the witch have been laying in wait in the room? The young woman certainly was beautiful, but her face was covered in bruises and dark, heavy bags hung beneath the girl's eyes. She looked wasted away and tired. The irony that she was sleeping yet looked so exhausted was not wasted on the Prince. He bit back a laugh as he drew a hand over her face to brush an errant lock of hair away from her brow.

He sat down beside her. The bed creaked and a puff of musty dust rose up in a cloud around him—he sneezed five times and made the bed quiver with his movements. His eyes began to water and he rubbed at them to clear the tears away. He was without any idea on how to wake the Princess up. He took hold of her by the shoulders and shook her—she just flopped beneath his hands like a ragdoll.

He got up and paced around the now dimly-lit room with his hands in his hair in deep thought. He began to hum to himself as he contemplated his situation. When he tripped over the still soft body of the witch he broke into a sweat, so he tore the curtains from the bed off of their frames and he threw them over the corpse. Perhaps he would be able to think better with her out of sight.

What came to mind was the silliest and most ludicrous thing he could think of. Could he really kiss the Princess? She was, after all, asleep and doing so would seem almost improper. On the other hand, she was under a curse…. He drew a deep breath and winced—his neck was terribly sore. Rubbing his neck gingerly he went to the bedside of the princess. He kneeled down and prayed, hoping that what he was doing would not send him to Hell.

He got onto the bed and kneeled once more. He gathered the poor girl's face in his hands and prepared for the worst as he lowered his lips down to latch upon her's. He drew back and waited, touching his lips as he hoped she would awaken. She had tasted like dust, and her mouth had been cold to the touch.

Suddenly the girl's hand shot up and slapped him on the face. "Impudent monkey!" she cried, sounding like she had the world's worst sore throat. The Prince slapped her back before he could stop himself. She yelped and made to clutch her burning cheek with her dry hands, but the Prince grabbed them.

"I'm sorry," he said truthfully. "You startled me is all."

"What are you doing in my bedchamber?" she asked suspiciously. Her gaze roamed upon every dusty surface in the room in puzzlement. "Has the maid not been to clean?"

"What?" the Prince asked. The girl suddenly bent over and coughed violently. She gasped for breath and her eyes widened as spots of blood appeared on her white nightgown.

"What've you done?" she asked in shock. "What've you done to me? Mother and Father shall know of this and they will have you hanged!"

"What? What!" the Prince shouted. The girl began to pummel him with her fists and push him from the bed.

"Are you trying to kidnap me?" she asked, eyes flashing dangerously.

"No, of course not!" the Prince replied, stumbling backwards as the Princess pulled a dagger from under her bed and wiggled it at him.

"I will scream!"

"Please don't. Please. I was only saving you!"

"Hah! Don't think I don't know how to use this, you scoundrel," she hissed. She jabbed it at him and slashed him on his jaw line.

"Damn you!" he yelped in pain. Blood started to pour from the deep cut on his face. The Princess looked frightened, and, when he cursed again, she did what she thought best. She threw the dagger and it burrowed itself in the Prince's shoulder. He clutched at the blade and threw it down. "I was only—trying to help—the witch—the curtains—blood…" He toppled over, and he tried to stop the bleeding as he grew fainter and weaker from the loss of blood.

The metallic tang of the blood filled the air and he passed out. The Princess started to shake. Had she just killed a man? She shuffled over to him, the tiles underneath her bare feet burning with cold into her skin. She prodded him and he mumbled something about a witch. Her head jerked to the bundle of curtains on the floor. Weren't those from her bed?

She bent over them and drew them to the side. The face of her aunt stared back at her from the gates of death. Her aunt had lead her to her room when she began to feel sick earlier in the day. Before she fell asleep she remembered something—but what was it? She looked at the corpse's hands and then knew what it had been. The woman had drawn her fingers across her face and whispered, "So pretty and so soon to be mine." The word's of the scoundrel ran through her head—"the witch" "trying to help". She began to scream and distantly heard the sound of someone running down the hall to her doors.