A/N: This is a repost of an old fic. I originally posted this under the pseudonym Tenebrious. (My first stories for Labyrinth were humorous, lighthearted things, and I worried that my followers would be angry if I wrote Dark!Fic.)

Before I went on hiatus, I'd written a prologue and the first chapter of the story. I will continue this eventually!

The title of this story comes from a poem by Christina Rossetti, "Monna Innominata."

PROLOGUE
I Bury Thee, And Lonely, Seek the End

He staggers through corridors, tripping over stones as the thrumming of his heart becomes a dagger in his chest. The ground lurches beneath his feet, forcing him against the wall. It won't be long before everything crumbles, before he is taken—before he succumbs.

He'd been certain, confident she was the one. He searched both above and below, growing weaker with each passing century. She had been emergent with the promise of life, of vitality, in her first breath. Her infant squall sang to his soul, beckoned him. He bent over her tiny form as her mother slumbered, studied her delicate features and knew his savoir.

Or so he had believed.

He throws out a hand as the castle pitches again. He would have transported directly to his chambers, but his strength is gone. A barrier now lies between him and the source of his power—a product of his failure. The first of many to come.

One choice. He'd only been given one choice—one rescuer. He followed her, observed her as she grew from babe to little girl. Her belief grew more fragrant, potent with each passing year. The very air around her crackled with vibrant wonder. She was physically beautiful, yes, but it was her effulgent aura, shining like a beacon, that drew him ever to her. He laid bread crumbs at her feet, a pathway to him when she was ready—when she was strong enough to save him.

She took his offerings, but in the end had doomed him instead.

He climbs the steps, his pace slowing as fatigue settles over him like a heavy cloak. Through the arrow slits, he sees dark, billowing clouds rolling toward his kingdom, coming to smother his world. Already, the trees in the fiery wood droop, leaves blowing away in the wind, leaving behind a forest of skeletons. Soon, he will wither too. Each breath is a struggle, each beat of his heart labored.

The doors to his chambers loom ahead, weathered and solid. At the base lie his guards, eternally trapped in goblin form as they slump over their spears. He stumbles past them, pushes open the doors, hinges whining in protest. His bed is only a few paces away, but it might as well be leagues. His limbs are laden as he treads toward his final resting place.

After all of his careful planning, his cultivating, she had misunderstood. It had never been about the baby—the boy had been nothing more than a catalyst. She triumphed as soon as her feet touched the stone floor of his castle. The game in the Escher room had been an opportunity for her to see what he wanted—what he needed. But she ignored his song, her focus narrowed on winning the babe she had already won.

You have no power over me.

Useless words. He never did. He never would, even if she had stayed. He was always at her mercy, from the moment he chose her as his champion to his last breath. That phrase and the others she repeated from the little red book—one of his many gifts to her—was meant to show her she was the dominate one. She reined over him. His intention was to reveal her true nature to her, but she used it as a weapon against him, still believing he held her brother hostage. Nothing he said deterred her. He pleaded, his life in her adolescent hands, and she crushed him.

Fool.

He collapses into bed, the last of his energy seeping from him like water through a sieve. He glances about his exquisite room, thinking what a beautiful mausoleum it makes. A fitting tomb for a cursed king.

If only he had reached past her misconceptions, opened her eyes. If she hadn't colored him as the villain, but saw who he was, what he was—a being in need of salvation. If…

He feels a trickle of power and seizes it, using it to manifest a crystal orb. Another foolish decision, but every instinct demands he exhaust all his options, no matter how futile. He chose her, his last hope still in her fingertips. The ball slips from his hand, floats away as he exhales her name.

Find me, Sarah. Save me.

Tentacles of darkness snake around him. He fights no more as he is engulfed by the cold void, perhaps forever.

A/N: The title of the prologue comes from a poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "A Burial." Thank you for reading! If you want to share your thoughts, I'd love to hear them! (I FIXED THE MISTAKE WITH THE SECOND CHAPTER!)