It was the foundation of any good story, the heart beating in the chest of romance novels everwhere. Any half-decent reader of fiction of any kind, really, could tell you about it. A classic archetype of literature: the brooding, dark hero. Fallen-angels were naturally inclined toward angst-ridden back-stories, to say nothing of vampires.
The conditions were perfect; the water fairy had seen to that. Dark velvet drapes cloaked the windows, barely discernible by the faintly glimmering candlelight. Shadows painted the walls like lost nightmares, etc, etc. It was an immaculate setting, and the fairy could practically see it in her mind: the melancholy man, long limbs gracing the low couch, midnight hair contrasting porcelain skin, lips slightly parted, eyes distant with thought as he contemplated the quiet horrors of his beautiful existence in the night.
Dhariel, however, had no such thoughts. In fact, the water fairy was beginning to wonder if he had any thoughts at all. After having him carefully arrange the blood-red roses around the room, she had him sit on the couch.
"Now," she coached him. "Hold the rose tenderly against your chest, perhaps letting one of the thorns prick you..."
"Won't that hurt?"
"Shh! Just do what I tell you." She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "Anyway, the pricking is just an option. It would give you a metaphor to contemplate, if you felt like you inner monologue needs a little prodding."
"My what?"
"Monologue!" This was bad. Things were spinning out of control. "Dhariel, we're never going to get anywhere unless you're willing to cooperate with me!"
It was like scolding a child. His large, dark eyes glimmered with tears, his shoulders hunched pathetically, and his bottom lip stuck out ever so slightly. She only barely kept herself from smacking herself in the face.
"Please don't pout like that. It makes you look nine years old, and we're not aiming for that kind of audience." She took a deep breath and smiled at him. "All I need you to do is lay back on the couch, perhaps give a melancholy sigh, and think despondent thoughts of your dreary life and the love that can never be yours."
For just a moment, he took her breath away. Clutching the rose to his chest, the deep red petals like blood against the smooth skin of his throat, an expression of dejection and inhuman sorrow gracing his features. It was almost better than what she imagined.
"My dreary life," he breathed softly. The water fairy leaned forward, entranced by the beauty she had created.
"I miss my sewer tunnels, though I'm having fun here." His gaze lifted to the far wall, an indignant anger flashing in his eyes. "Bryson Carmichael will regret coming between me and the popcorn."
It took a solid five minutes for the water fairy to recover.