She passes the last few days by sitting quietly on the floor of the cage, her spindly legs crumpled beneath her and her unseeing turquoise eyes staring straight ahead. He's no better. He sits on the chair beside the cage and no matter what ridiculous gesture he makes, he never manages to come into her line of sight.

Yes, he knows she's blind. It has nothing to do with that.

He recalls, as he lays his head against his hands on the desk, the eventful beginning of her captivity, when she would throw herself at the ungiving walls of her cage and hiss thinly veiled threats in response to his small talk. Her attention, then, was given fully to him, and he took every one of those precious moments and locked them away in his memories.

But now she sits. Now her lips stay glued together. Her fine features, once filled with a vast myriad of anger, outrage, fear , remain blank and resigned. Only the slightest twitch of her pointed ears as he taps on the glass of the cage tells him that yes, she's still quite aware of him.

The bread soaked in honey and milk he left for her has gone untouched. Strange, he heard from multiple sources that the fae have a notorious weakness for sweet things. She seems to have no appetite, and as the days wear on, the smooth, glossy sheen of her pale blue wings has dulled to a tattered gray-blue. The sight of her wasting away leaves him with a silent dread as he recalls the last few words she screamed over and over at him.

"Let me leave! Let me go!"

He pays it no heed and lets the days pass, lets her sit there quietly, lets himself sit with her until finally, she turns to face him in a slow creaking manner. Hope rises in his chest, but she defeats it, slashes it to bits in a small hoarse whisper.

The days pass again. The cage is gone. He's moved his chair back to the corner where discarded clothes pile up on it. He's greeted by the sight of his empty apartment room. It fills him with a silent dread as he recalls the final words she said to him.

"Am I to die here then?"