The only thing I am aware of now, standing among the tattered remains of what was once my bedchamber, is emptiness. I have been enclosed in a circle of cold unfeeling for so long, of detachment, that the emotion was almost too much. Anger, frustration, bitterness imbued by the destructive potential of love... I did not realize that I could feel that much, and now not to feel it is also incredible.

I destroyed everything in a fit of rage. My lair is the one place for me to escape to, the one remaining solace of beauty in my castle, and its grace mocked me. Everything reminded me so much of her... the rouge sating hangings from the bed, the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room, even the tapestries... I decimated it, as it only served to inflame the jealousy and possessiveness within myself.

I can still feel the uncontrollable emotions as a flame licking slowly around my heart. They are potent and quite destructive, but I will suppress them for now.

There is something that uncurls in the ashes of destruction in my heart, something that reveals itself now that my fury has abated. I seek further within myself coldly, teeth upturned in a snarl, almost wanting to feel the...

Pain. Profound, isolating desolation sweeps over me, intense like nothing else I have ever felt. It drives a needle of pure white-hot agony into my heart, and a startled cry flies from my lips before I can retrieve it. I am awash in these new sensations, ensnared in them, and I choke back a mangled scream before it can erupt.

I have always separated myself from emotion, from feeling, remaining aloof, proud and vain. What else should a Goblin King be, if not those? It is my destiny, the part into which I have been written, what I have been chosen to do. I know nothing else.

I do not know when I fell in love with Sarah, or even if it was before or after she vanquished me. I was only partially aware of the warmth that captured my soul. I began to feel everything; anger and love and jealousy and possessiveness, and contempt for all these as well.

Love is not tender to me. It is never kind, or doting or affectionate. All I know is the passion behind it, the feeling almost like a disease. I do not know what draws me to Sarah, if it is her beauty, her grace, her childish willfulness or even the fact that she was the only one to ever conquer me. All I know is the mangled emotions all convulsed and twisted; hatred might as well be the same thing as love.

She would not listen to me, and she did not understand what I was offering her. As I stagger over to a wall, leaning on it to support me, feeling like I am drowning, I repeat this to myself, clinging to it desperately.

I would have given her my dreams, my life, everything, all for her, but she was too cruel, too cruel, too harsh...

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand, and I am grateful for the gloves that prevent me from tearing my flesh. She is beautiful to me, I understand, because she is so cold, because it is the only way she can be. But still my soul cries out in bitter, passionate anger, and there is no answer.

My breathing is ragged, and I am as one broken; she has left me raw and bleeding. The force of my love for her is too great, and seems to almost overpower me with its intensity, and this brings more pain. She is purity and innocence, my Sarah, while I am malignancy and evil. Oh yes, I recognize this fact, but it is who I am. I cannot change; this is all I have ever known.

Slowly, I collect myself, although every layer of venomous bitterness that I pour upon my aching heart feels like salt into a wound. I surround myself with the force of my anger and bitterness, my cruelty. I slowly collect the mantle of the Goblin King to myself until I have transcended emotion, leaving myself in a place where there is no feeling, not even anger. There is only cold impassiveness, and my hand scrapes effortlessly off the wall.

My lips thin dangerously, my eyes narrowing intently as I conjure up a crystal ball on my fingertips and watch her. She is sleeping right now, the sleep of untroubled youth and exhaustion. I feel no pity, and indeed, wonder if I ever did.

In the end, she is mine. Knowing this is somewhat of a salve to the still-raw pain. She will never find contentment, and her days will be haunted as much as mine will be. She will never find companionship or romance, not the ultimate fulfillment which I promised. She may marry, have as many squalling babies as she wishes, but she will always belong to me and me only. And in the darkness, I will come to her, and whisper in her ear, and she will wonder why she does not feel happy.

She will someday realize her true wishes, the way her ultimate desires can be fulfilled. She will call for me, beg for me until her voice is shrill and weak, and I will not come, and she will be left empty.

A derisive smirk darkens my face, sharp teeth flashing.

It is, after all, only fair.