Ok, this next chapter should be dedicated almost completely to Talisman. I have been wallowing in the self-pity of writer's block since I posted the last chapter. The truth was that I actually had this chapter written, the one after it, however, had me utterly stumped. I had nearly abandoned Misery all together in favor of some others I have in the works (I have some pretty interesting ones I hope to post soon) but I came back to this section, discouraged by the plethora of crap and I was only going to read my reviews to boost my ego and here was this cranky review from Talisman. Well it was her review that finally stuck a pin my ass and started me on this story again, so please direct all praise (or criticism, whichever way you want to look at it) her way.

Ah well I'm poor and have no idea how I'm going to pay for college next year, if I owned either of the shows this story is based off of I would have hawked them long ago to buy books. The original characters are mine but I would gladly part with them in favor of tuition.

Niamh

The prince lay unconscious on the ground, an angry lump already forming on the back of his head. He was young, just thirteen, his soft, lavender hair danced gently in the breeze. His mind could sense the danger that lay so near, his heart screamed at him to do something His friend was there, fighting for him, for the world. He was losing. But the prince could not move, his friend had knocked him out and now all he could do was lay motionless, helpless, a calm exterior concealing a burning rage within.

Trunks woke with a start on the gravity room floor. He groaned and sat up stiffly. The air had cooled considerably during the night and the prince shivered slightly as a cool wind swept through the roofless room. He was used to the nightmares by now, he'd had them nearly every night for thirteen years. They'd been milder last night than they sometimes were; he attributed that to the fact that he'd exhausted himself before he'd fallen asleep. Trunks found that if he worked himself to near collapse the dreams would generally leave him alone most of the night.

Momentarily glancing up at the sky Trunks noted that it boiled an angry black, promising a storm, not the best weather to be flying in. Grudgingly he began to walk back to headquarters, it was so hard to go back to the normal way of doing things after he'd allowed himself a little touch of super man yesterday.

His mother was waiting when he returned, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a plate of eggs waiting for him.

"Hello!" she said brightly, slowly rising from her chair and walking toward him gingerly, as if every step she took was agony.

"Mother wait!" he said, hurrying to her, letting her grasp his arm for more stability. "You know that you don't have to get up for me."

"Such a good boy." She said softly as he helped her back to her chair. "See, I've made you breakfast, it's eggs, your favorite…Where's Gohan? I've made him some too."

Trunks closed his eyes for a moment and turned away from his mother so that she wouldn't see the sadness etched on his face. "Gohan isn't coming back mother," he said patiently, "remember?"

Bulma looked puzzled for a moment, but then plastered a fake smile on her face and waved her hand in the air like she was shoeing away a fly. "Oh of course I remember dear," she said with false cheer, "it just slipped my mind, that's all."

Trunks sighed softly and sat down in front of the plate she'd set for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he hated eggs.

Bulma had not aged well. Years of fear and loss had taken their toll on her. Her hair, once a brilliant blue, had turned milk white and had begun to thin. On the days that she remembered to comb it, it still retained some of it's former bounce and body, but the days that it hung limp and lifeless were now occurring with greater frequency. The once full and mobile mouth was a thin, pinched line; the rest of her face was full of sags and wrinkles as if weighted down by some terrible sadness. She looked years older than she should have.

The hardest to bear, however, was her mind. Trunks' mother had once been brilliant. Once she could have rambled off the exact quirks and specifications of nearly every technical device on the market, and a few that weren't. Now she had trouble remembering her son's name, or the fact that his best friend was dead.

"Is Gohan coming in soon?" Bulma said loudly, jarring Trunks from his thoughts. "I've made him some eggs too."

Trunks bit his lip, setting his fork back down on his plate of untouched eggs. "Mother," he said softly, "why don't I take you back upstairs and you can rest for a while, would you like that?"

"Alright." Bulma said complacently, "That'd be nice." Bulma began to rise and her son was there in an instant, offering his arm for support. Slowly, inch-by-inch they made their way to the stairs. When they reached them Trunks picked the old woman up in his arms and carried her gently to her bedroom.

"This is nice." She said smiling. "You know your father used to do this sometimes, not when anyone could see of course…" Bulma's eyes seemed to gloss over, "Where is your father anyway," she chirped. "I haven't seen him today."

Trunks paused for a moment on the stairs. "Mom," he said sadly, looking at the frail woman in his arms, pain twisting in his chest, "dad's dead."

"Oh yeah" she said softly, turning away.

When they finally reached her room Trunks set her down gently on the bed and tucked the covers up around her chin, just as she had done when he was a boy.

"Such a good boy," she said, lifting a hand to caress his cheek, "Don't worry, I'm just tired, I'll be better after I rest." Her clouded eyes were clearer then than he'd seen them in days.

After he shut the door Trunks let out a shuddering breath and pressed his back against the cold stone wall. As tears began to slip down his cheeks he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes and sank in exhaustion to the floor. It was impossible to say how long he sat weeping outside his mother's room; he did not stop or stir until someone very near cleared their throat. In an instant Trunks shot up, angrily scrubbing his cheeks, breathing deep, shattered breaths to try and stop the tears.

"Is it bad today?" Bran asked softly.

"Yeah" Trunks said, glancing back at the door to her room and sniffing slightly, though Bran seemed not to notice.

"The advisors have requested a meeting."

Trunks let out a slightly steadier breath. "Tell them…tell them I've gone for a walk, I'll be back soon."

Bran nodded and turned to leave.

"Or better yet," Trunks said, causing his advisor to turn back, "you handle it."

"Your Highness-"

"Your better at this than I am, than I'll ever be." The prince interrupted him. "Just tell them I've put my vote of confidence in you and they'll do whatever you say."

Bran looked unconvinced, but Trunks turned on his heel and hurried down the stairs before he could object.

While Trunks had been with his mother the sky had opened it's maw and began to obliterate the city with a heavy sheet of rain, soaking Trunks to the bone the instant he stepped outside. He didn't mind though, the rain would erase the signs of his earlier breakdown and the storm created an interesting atmosphere. The rain soaked his face like tears and the thin howl of the wind seemed to cry misery, if he had been anything other than his father's son, perhaps Trunks would have broken down again. But he was truly the heir of the Saiyan prince; his emotions had been effectively forced back behind his mask of strength.

He walked blindly through the city, barely noticing as the fat heavy raindrops battered him or that the mud under his feet was now nearly two inches deep. No one was out now; they were all huddled together in their homes near their hearths. Not that he would have been able to see them if anyone had ventured out, the wall of water that fell from the sky had effectively blotted out the world with an opaque whiteness that did not reveal anything further that a few inches from his face.

Slowly, so slowly that the prince did not notice until it was too late, the sound of thunder faded from the air and the roar of the rain as it plummeted to the ground dwindled away. Before he know it Trunks was standing in complete silence, still staring at a white wall, completely dry. It was another moment before he realized that the wall he was staring at wasn't a wall at all, but mist, swirling mist, mingling and dancing everywhere. All around him images were flashing in the haze, as if they'd been projected there.

There was a girl playing in the waves of the ocean.

A woman screaming in terror.

An old lady sleeping in a hospital bed.

An infant lying in a basinet.

A girl staring into the depths of an iron cauldron.

A child lying motionless in a coffin.

The images flashed faster and faster until he could no longer distinguish one from the other.

"Misery." A thin threadlike whisper sounded in the mist. "Misery." There was a form solidifying in the vapor, slowly gaining more detail as it drew nearer. It was a woman. She was beautiful, tall with long dark hair. He watched as slender hands grasped a jeweled staff.

"You." Her voice rang through the mist, sweet and regal, full of power, full of loathing. "What do you want here?"

"N-nothing" Trunks stuttered, squinting to try and make out her face. "I don't want anything."

"You've taken enough from me." She said stepping closer so that he could see that her eyes were a deep red, like garnets set in a face of pearl. She looked sad, troubled. Her face was at once terrible and beautiful. There seemed to be no words to describe what he saw.

"Get out" she said her teeth gritted.

'Tell me" he said desperately as the world around him faded. "Who are you?"

"I am misery's mother." She said before she disappeared altogether.

By the time he had gathered enough sense to be aware of anything Trunks found himself standing in the middle of a meadow, far from the walls of his city. Pursing his lips Trunks glanced around quickly, but there was no sign of rain or mist or red-eyed woman. He ran a hand distractedly though is hair before he shot into the air. "Weird" he muttered softly.