Not entirely sure what inspired this; it draws from the myth of Persephone and Hades, as well as being written while listening to Panic! At The Disco's 'Nicotine'. Make of it what you will.

If you have ever walked alone down a dark road at night, you will be familiar with the feeling that somewhere — just beyond the lurking shadows — someone is watching you. You will, perhaps, have looked hastily over your shoulder when a slight wind rustles the leaves; you will have heard the tapping echo of your footsteps speed up just a little as you try to convince yourself that no one is there.

Sarah knows that feeling very well; unlike most of us, however, she also knows it to be true. Shadows follow her everywhere she goes. In an empty hallway, down a narrow street, in a darkened room. They rise to meet her, they dog her steps, cling to her like cobwebs cling to your face when you try to brush them off. Whispers dance across her hearing, cackles of brittle laughter that fade when she tries to hear them.

He has done you grievous harm, child.

She is marked, and she knows that she is marked. Even humans who do not have the Sight can see it occasionally, out of the corner of their eye or when the light is just right. There is something about Sarah, something about the extraordinary whiteness of her face and the ruby of her lips and the terrible distance in her eyes that warns them not to come too close. There is a charm laid on her, a spell woven, a ward cast.

She knows.

For if the mortals taste of the forbidden fruit, all will turn to dust in their mouth.

Even now she tastes him on her lips; food and water cannot erase it. The ghostly sensation of his fingers is imprinted forever on her skin. He possesses her utterly, choking her, numbing her, burning her to ashes. She will never be free.

The path to the otherworld is an easy one to find, if you know how, but the shadows that lie thickly on it are darker than any you will find here. They pool around Sarah's feet like tar as she steps along the way; her white face is a glimmer in the twilight. The dying light of the day casts a golden reflection on her ebony hair, and then it vanishes and the eager night closes in.

It is an addiction stronger than any other, and she has fought it for too long. It is eroding her from the inside, clawing at her throat, the burning longing for his touch and for his kiss. He has done unspeakable things to her, and she knows what he is, but it is too late to run. Too late to turn back.

Step by step she walks, proud and pale, unbroken and unyielding though she lost the game long ago. Before her, even the night itself parts to let her pass, an unwilling admirer of the ethereal beauty and stubborn will that belongs to the Queen of the Underground. Behind her the shadows cluster thicker than ever, but she will not turn her head.

He waits for her on a silver throne, all twisted and tangled like thorns. He is enfolded in the darkness, and his heart is cold. Pallid lips are set in an imperious frown as he beholds the one he claimed long ago. She is a creature of light, a clear, unwavering flame, a moonbeam on rippling water. He can never extinguish her, though he longs to do so; but she is his, body and soul.

She holds a white hand out to him, the King of Darkness, and in it lies a peach with a single bite taken of it. Grey eyes like death are raised to a limpid, emerald gaze. An unspoken agreement is made, and the peach is exchanged for a crown. A silver crown, twisted and beautiful and colder than ice; it encircles her brow with regal finality.

The King and the Queen of the Underworld take their thrones in the court of the dead.