Clevan woke up in his cell one day, realizing that his author had either died or discontinued the writings. His awareness of this bubbled to the surface somewhat like a dead fish. It developed somewhat like a black-and-white photograph sitting in the developer tray. Things didn't make sense, then all of a sudden he saw an outline of a form of a thought that he wasn't sure was real. Then, it started to get darker, and he knew it was real, but still couldn't make out what it was. Then, finally, the image came crisply into focus. The enslavement was lifted, and Pinocchio was a real boy. He was free, or he was forgotten. He didn't know what had happened, and he didn't care. He just knew that there had been a spell over him, keeping him locked in this stinking pit of a prison, letting him out just enough to breathe, then roping him back in again. He finally knew that if he'd gotten out once, he could get out for good.
Clevan's energy began to grow as he saw the possibilities. He had been gone from his cell for years now, but things had stayed the same. The cityfolk still regarded him with dim anger. He still couldn't get an apartment downtown. He still couldn't get food stamps. He still pushed a shopping cart from place to place, gathering up whatever scraps he could find. Quite ridiculous behavior for a wizard, and he knew this well. He knew that there was no need for him to run from the police, to gather up dirt in his hands and pick through it for bread crumbs, but the magic wasn't working yet. He could only conclude that he was still under the spell, and that he was still in prison. It was time to break out, and for good.
When he came to this realization, the world got darker. Eyes got nastier. Teeth got sharper. The Keeper was still putting him down. He was being brought back in for questioning. Soon, as expected, the police arrested him and took him to the station. They transferred him to another facility. He could hear the faint echo of his Master's laughter. He'd fallen for it, once again.
He found himself scheming, plotting, trying to figure a way out of this trap. Trying to figure out how he'd really know once he was out for good. How he would vanquish his tormentor for once and for all. He came up scrap. He didn't know what to say, or what to do. So, he just sat still, out in that wooded territory that housed the Jail of the Wolves, where he was incarcerated for third-degree Murderous Thought Patterns (known as MTP for short).
Someone, somewhere, didn't want him to be free, and would always make sure that he remained trapped. Letting him go was part of the game. He realized that he could never escape. He could only learn to love being in prison. That was his way to freedom. He began to sit in the quiet, and listen to the voices that came to him. He could only wait and see. He had no idea what to expect, or who to ask. He only knew that something would shift soon.
The prison guards began to have him tortured by the other gangs of inmates. They began to die. He began to speak his spells. He did not defend. He began to inflict physical pain on himself, and he put a spell on his flesh that kept him On The Flame all day long. He learned to whisper his screams. Then, he learned to be Pain Man. He learned to love torture. He turned up the heat on himself. It grew unbearably bearable. He could no longer fear pain. He was numb, or so he thought.
In due course, the others began to worship and follow him. He responded by locking himself away. He withdrew deeper into the Temple of Pain, away from everything. The Keeper began to fret. All the while, he'd been writing Clevan into a trap of misery. But, something had shifted. When he wrote about Clevan now, he couldn't stop his fingers moving up and down the page. He couldn't stop telling Clevan to love the pain, because it was never going away. He couldn't bear to write about false hope anymore, even though he desperately wanted Clevan to keep looking forward to something he knew would never happen.
He had to put Clevan into Eternal Hell before he died. Or else, everything could be ruined.
It didn't work.
