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It wast a dark and stormy night, nigh the village of Barton, where a weary soul first cameth to us. We hailed him to our abode, whispered hospitality. He came wet and desperate. he yearneth. We smelt it. We asked him 'what dost thou wish,' he answered, after much confusion and deliberation, 'love.' 'What wouldst thou givest' and his reply 'anything.' And so we chose to give him respite. The price for his wish, we had decided, wouldst be his freedom. 'We know a suitor, to whom thine heart you shall giveth. Thou shalt be chained to her forever and always, til thy breakst.' And we ushered him to the damsel who he wouldst loveth. The damsel gaveth, for the price of his love, everything. And so they lived. Her every whim answered by his chained soul. But she greweth unhappy. She hadst losteth all that she heldeth dear. She boreth down upon him with heat, despair, horrible regret. And he couldst do nothing. A mere puppet to her abuse. And they both lived disheartened, ungrateful. And so we came again. And we gave them another chance. 'What is thine wish, thine desire.' 'To be free' his reply. 'To be happy' her reply. And so it was granted. The price of both wishes, the man's existence. and so he disappeared into the night. And she wast happy, happier than she'd ever felt. And then the dawn cameth, and she kneweth what she hadst done. And melancholy turned to an intense madness. She hadst nothing. The price for her first wish was complete. And in intensest grief she ripped out her own heart, attempting to join her man in nonexistence. But she had nothing, Her soul wast ours.