If he closed his eyes, he could still see her there, head angled regally, eyes narrowed determinedly, lips pursed aggressively. The very image of a queen, she'd been, and more fool he, to allow her to slip away from him like smoke through a sieve.
It was no fault other than his own, he knew. He'd deliberately presented her a cold, cruel façade, in the hopes that her will to overcome his persecutions would surmount her fear of them. He'd succeeded, moreso than he'd planned. He'd underestimated her very greatly, and paid just as great a price for his arrogance.
He honestly hadn't meant to take her childish immaturity for granted. He'd never had another runner like Sarah. He'd never met anyone like Sarah.
Sighing, he viewed her sleeping face in the crystal. She was pretty enough, he decided. Obviously caught in that stage between child and woman, where both her body and her mind reflected the awkwardness of that existence.
He found himself picturing that face in a few years, when time and experience had eroded the innocence and accentuated the beauty.
With a muttered oath, he tossed the crystal away and listened to it shattering on the ground, then disappearing into nothingness.
It didn't matter what she'd look like as an adult, he told himself, flinging himself from the throne and pacing around the scattered goblins at his feet. It wasn't as if it would affect him in any way.
Cursing himself—her—everything—he vanished from the room and reappeared at her bedside.
He blinked for a moment to get reoriented—crossing such a distance, from Underground to Above, without being summoned was hell on the senses—and stared down at her sleeping form. One hand gripped the blanket from beneath, so only her fingertips peeked above the edge. The other was splayed above her head, fingers tangled to the knuckles in her wild dark hair.
He caught himself just before he reached out to smooth those tangles. He cursed again.
She sighed in her sleep, her head tilting to one side. Distracted by the small movement, he watched curiously as she turned over to one side and curled into a ball, sending her curls tumbling over her face.
For a long, silent moment, he ached to touch her hair, and deliberately clenched his gloved hands so tightly the leather strained.
She'd turned him away, he told himself furiously. She'd rejected him, tossed his offer to the ground, shattered his hopes as surely as he'd shattered his crystal. And why was he still here, groveling at her bedside like a lovesick swain?
The Goblin King, he mocked himself, playing the role of the jilted lover. Wouldn't that just shock her sensibilities?
Inhaling deeply, desperately ignoring the scent of wildflowers that seemed to permeate the entire room, he stepped back and melted into the shadows, appearing in his own bedroom this time. He staggered and clutched a table, a great deal of his energy drained from making a round trip to the Above ground and back without the excuse of a summons.
He needed to rest, he thought to himself, and stumbled for his bed. And he needed to get a grip. The distance between him and her was too great for him to make such a fool of himself. She didn't care, so he shouldn't either.
Except, he realized as he tumbled onto the coverlet, except…
I do.
He wondered as he drifted to sleep when he'd recover enough energy to go see her again.
[i don't mind the distance, this kismet's a dance