His Broken Fairy

Chapter 2: The King in Chains

Lysandra's days blurred into one another, an endless cycle of darkness, pain, and silence. Since Zareth's visit, she had been left alone in her cell, but the memory of his presence lingered like a distant echo, unsettling and comforting all at once. He had said little, yet his words weighed on her mind, especially his cryptic parting remark: "You'll survive, but not in the way you think."

What had he meant by that? How could she survive in a place like this, broken and without her wings?

She spent her time curled up on the floor, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger in her belly and the throbbing pain from her mutilated back. There was little to do but think, but even her thoughts offered no reprieve. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in Aethenwood, watching as her wings were torn from her, hearing the cruel laughter of her captors. The rage, the helplessness, the horror—it consumed her. And yet, here, in this dark, forsaken place, what could she do but endure?

The heavy clank of the iron door startled her from her thoughts.

Lysandra tensed, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't know whether to expect another tormentor, a faceless guard coming to drag her off to some further punishment, or something worse. But when the door swung open, Zareth was standing there again, tall and cloaked in shadows, his eyes fixed on her with that same unreadable intensity.

Her heart skipped, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or something else. He stepped into the cell without a word, and the door slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the chamber.

"Why are you here?" Lysandra asked, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Zareth didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the small distance between them, kneeling down once again, though this time, he was closer—close enough for her to feel the faint warmth that radiated from him. His presence was overwhelming, not just because of his size, but because of the sheer power that seemed to ripple from him, barely contained beneath the surface.

"I wanted to see if you were still alive," he said at last, his voice low and gravelly.

Lysandra frowned, her confusion deepening. "Why do you care?"

For a moment, Zareth's expression darkened, as if the question stirred something within him he wasn't ready to confront. He leaned back slightly, studying her with those intense, dark eyes. "I don't know," he admitted.

The admission caught her off guard. There was something so raw, so unexpectedly honest in his words that it left her momentarily speechless. Lysandra wasn't used to this—people being truthful with her. The world she came from had been filled with deceit and cruelty, even before her capture. But this stranger... this powerful being who called himself Zareth... he didn't seem to play by the same rules.

She studied him for a moment longer. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice soft, her curiosity finally outweighing her fear.

His eyes met hers, a flicker of something dark and ancient passing through them. "Once, I was a king," he said quietly. "But not anymore."

Lysandra's brow furrowed. "A king?"

"Of Hell," Zareth added, the weight of his title hanging heavy in the air between them.

The words sent a shiver down her spine, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or disbelief. She had heard stories of the King of Hell—whispered tales of a being so powerful and terrifying that even the gods feared him. But those had always been just that—stories. Legends told to frighten children and keep them in line. Yet here he was, sitting before her, real and tangible.

"Why are you here then?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "If you were a king... why are you in this prison?"

Zareth's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. For a moment, Lysandra thought he wouldn't answer. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, he spoke.