Stranger
Yew and Rosethorns
Sarah believed many of the stories the elders told around the dinner table, so she paused when she saw Merlin, her great, shaggy foal, disappear into the woods. The young grey Fell pony had jerked suddenly away from her, startling Sarah out of her daydreams. With a frown, Sarah remembered all the dire warnings she'd heard, tales cautioning against ever entering the woods alone.
Once I get Merlin back, I won't be alone, will I? she thought, rather sensibly. Silly colt…
With that in mind, Sarah stepped briskly into the tree line, pausing only a moment to retrieve the horse blanket that had fallen from Merlin's back. She slung the still-warm wool over her own shoulder, partially for convenience and partially to ward off the chill encroaching despite her fine grey cloak.
The trees rapidly grew thicker and closer together and little light filtered through the leafy canopy, but Merlin left deep hoof prints in the soft, loamy soil, so she easily followed him north. From the space between the prints, it seemed the colt had slowed to a walk; given her own long stride, Sarah hoped she'd catch up with him shortly. Merlin veered north-west to walk along a riverbank for a mile before turning back into the woods to lay down a small clearing, where Sarah finally found him.
"Merlin, you've less horse sense than Toby, and you're the horse! Honestly, colt, you're almost more trouble—" Sarah stopped talking as she looked about the clearing Merlin had led her to. Thick bushes and vines formed a semi-circular wall and marked a path deeper into the trees, but most spectacularly, an abundance of wild roses flourished amidst the brush. They tangled in the tree limbs with the vines and nestled close to the ground with the underbrush; the smallest, fully bloomed rose was the size of her thumbnail while the largest, Sarah saw, spread wider than her fingers could stretch. The color varied, too, some gold and some silver, some blushing pink and some scarlet, and even a few that appeared a dusky blue-violet ; all of them, she noticed, in awe, were semi-transparent, casting colored shadows like stained glass throughout the clearing.
Merlin nickered, breaking the spell. Sarah plopped down beside him, smoothing out the wrinkles in her green kirtle before she leaned back against the warm, sleepy pony. She sighed, content.
"This place is gorgeous, Merlin. How did you find it? Oh, look at that rose—it's silver, like your hide, with a bit of blue around the edges. Here, why don't I just…" Sarah leaned over and up, stretching her arm to reach the rose, started to pluck it when a gloved hand grabbed her wrist.
"I cannot believe," a voice growled from the forest, "that you have the audacity to take what isn't yours." The owner of the voice (and the hand, which continued holding her arm still) stepped forth from the roses and glowered down at her. He was tall, seemingly towering over her, though that might have been because she was sitting. He was dressed warmly if roughly in a linen shirt, a deer leather tunic, wool pants, a long cloak, and leather boots and gloves. Wild hair fanned out around his face, like the mane to a mythical lion. She pulled against his grip and he tightened his hold, mercilessly holding her in place.
"My father owns this land, from the far side of the mountain to the border of the neighboring clan," Sarah replied haughtily, hoping to brazen her way out of the situation. "That includes these woods. I am no thief, sir, but you appear to be trespassing. I know my father's woodsman and groundskeeper, and you are not he."
He hissed at her, revealing far-too-sharp teeth, and pulled her to her feet. "Don't test my patience," he warned her. "These roses belong to the Fey Queen, and none other may take them."
Merlin surged upwards to push at the ethereal man, spooked by the menace in his voice. Sarah laid her free hand against Merlin's cheek, attempting to soothe him, even as she jerked against the stranger's hold again.
"You stopped me before I picked the rose," she somehow managed to say through gritted teeth. "Let me go!"
Just as suddenly as he'd seized her, he released her.
"You are right, of course. I did stop you. But had I not…" Sarah waited for him to finish speaking, but he left his words trailing off, a peculiar look on his face.
"Why are you here?"
Sarah blinked at his quick demand. "I was looking for Merlin. He stopped here." As if to validate her story, Merlin nickered and tossed his head. Sarah pressed on, "I just wanted to braid one of the roses in Merlin's mane; I wouldn't have ravaged your glade."
"Not mine," he said absently, staring at her intensely, "the Fey Queen's." The sky rumbled ominously and he grabbed her hand again, pulling her from beneath the tree. "Take the path, there's a bower at the end. It'll keep you dry. This way, pony," he added, catching Merlin by his halter.
Sarah stared at the mercurial man dragging her along the tunnel of trees and bushes, vaguely feeling the increased wetness of the air that accompanied rain but well protected beneath the branches. Merlin followed him docilely, and she glared at him for a moment, mouthing the word "traitor".
"Here," the man said as they reached the end of the winding path, opening into a bower of oak and roses. The thick, leafy branches above blocked both light and rain, and Sarah tried to stop a minute to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The strange man wouldn't hear of it, though, and tugged her hand insistently; Sarah nearly toppled over, half-blind and off-balance. "Clumsy," the man tsked, leading her to the base of the largest tree to sit on a roughly hewn bench set between the roots. He let Merlin go, so the contrary foal kept following him. Sarah blinked up at the man and her pony, both hovering over her.
"Your father owns the mortals' land," the stranger stated. "My mother owns the Fey lands here, and you would do best to remember that this is her wood. That said, I have been terribly rude, and I hope you'll accept my belated hospitality. I insist you stay until the storm passes by, but then…"
Sarah watched him warily. In the dark, she could not see the calculating gleam in his eye, nor the slightly cruel edge of his smile. "You may call me Sarah, and the pony Merlin. But what, o Fey prince, shall I call you?"
"Very good," he complimented, "you know the old lore. You may call me Jareth. Would you join me for an early supper?"
She looked up sharply. "You're right, I know the lore, and I will not eat your food… Jareth." He laughed now, the capricious, confusing creature, before he stopped to reassure her.
"These gardens are on the border, girl, and the food I have is just as mortal as the food at your hall. The water is clean and from the well," he gestured to the stone well at the far side of the bower, "the mead is from Carterhaugh, and the bread is left for me as a tithe from those I let pass by." He knelt to retrieve a bag from a hollow in a near-by tree, then returned to the bench, sat beside Sarah, and extracted a loaf of bread. Breaking off a hunk, he offered it to her. "Ladies first," he teased, and then rummaged through the bag for two wooden goblets, which he tapped the sides of. Sarah watched in amazement as water bubbled up from the center of the cups. Jareth winked at her, handing her the first one filled. "Pulled straight from the well," he murmured, "as if I drew the water up by a bucket, but faster. No food or drink will trap you here."
She took a sip, suspicious. "Why?"
"Sometimes I get lonely," he answered, "and you refuse to cower before me, unlike most people I encounter. Why don't you stay awhile here? I am well versed in Fey lore, better than any of your bards, more than enough to keep you entertained, and I want for company."
Sarah nibbled at the bread as she considered him. Thunder rumbled, as if trying to convince her, and Merlin lay down in the mossy center of the bower, obviously comfortable. She trusted the foal's ability to judge people and he seemed at ease, so Sarah nodded.
With a somewhat wicked grin, Jareth leaned back against the oak and drank deeply from his cup. "Why don't I begin," he said, "by telling you an old story, passed down through my family from my great-grandfather's time."
The storm rumbled on long through the afternoon, ceasing some time near midnight. Sarah, for all her initial mistrust, found Jareth charismatic and intriguing company even if she wasn't quite comfortable with him yet. They'd traded tales, riddles, rhymes, and ballads until Sarah thought she might lose her voice. Merlin lay quietly, watching them almost thoughtfully, and Jareth was careful to keep her at ease as much as he could.
She no longer leaned away from him if he moved too fast, Jareth noticed, and she lingered over his name much the way he lingered over hers. She mostly ignored the small, 'coincidental' brushes of hand or shoulder; she didn't shift away when he stretched out, pressing his leg against hers. Taking these all as good signs, he knelt before her, reached out, and clasped her hand. Sarah's head whipped around to meet his grim gaze, and when she started to protest his forwardness, he shook his head.
"Sarah, I need you to listen to me now, carefully. What I will ask of you is not what you must give unto me, but I need you to listen and decide carefully.
"Your timing is… most fortuitous. The full moon rises tomorrow, Sarah, and when it does, I am put to trial for guardianship of the Wood. If I win, I am free from this service; should I lose, I am trapped here until the next trial, a wait equal to the age of the yew. If you help me," he leaned closer, "I will pass the trial, as I have not in the previous attempts. If you help me," he leaned slightly back again, "you will be in danger from the others attending the trial. Never myself, mind, for I have grown fond of you and would not harm you, but others of my kind aren't nearly so generous."
He stood, releasing her hand and backed away a step, two. She stood, concern shining in her eyes, and followed. "It starts with a morbid parade. I ride behind my judges—my own parents and siblings, Sarah!—and before the witnesses on the horse I see only on moonlit nights, for he is made of the shadows the Grey Lady casts. If you help me, you will find me at the center of this precession, astride Tuired; he is the darkest ever seen this side of Donn's realm. You will know me, though bound and shaded by magic, by my gloved right hand and bare left hand. Mind not the thorns, Sarah," he told her, "they are glamour to your ilk, and cannot hurt you. Pull me from Tuired and bring me to the fork in the river, then step in with me and wrap me in your cloak; hold tight to me the entire time and know I will not harm you."
"I will help you, Jareth," Sarah promised before he asked. He pulled her tight against him, feeling the end of his time in the wood approaching, for he'd learned Sarah was stubborn, clever, and knew her aid would free him.
"You are kind," he whispered. "We'll go now, and you can meet Tuired while I escort you back. Sarah…" Jareth took a deep breath, savoring the triumph and hope in this moment. "Let's go."
Merlin heaved to his feet and pranced over to Sarah, eager to get back to his stall in the stables. Jareth was silent as he led her out of the rose bower, through the tunnel, out of the Fey Queen's garden, and along the river. Sarah, too, walked in thoughtful silence until she heard a whispered nicker, the sound of which brought Jareth and Merlin up short. Merlin's ears twitched nervously while Jareth raised his hands to cup the air, which solidified between the gloved fingertips to become a huge, dark, finely-boned horse head, followed quickly by a neck, shoulders, a broad barrel chest, and the beginnings of the back and withers. Jareth greeted the rapidly appearing horse in a language ancient and eerie, one that raised the hair on Sarah's arms, and the great horse stepped towards Sarah, lowering his head to put his eyes at the level of her own. She noticed absently that the horse had to dip his head quite a bit to do so, due to his height.
"Sarah, this is my equine companion; you may call him Tuired." Tuired nodded slightly and pushed his nose toward Sarah; she tentatively lifted one hand and placed it against his muzzle. She blinked and realized Tuired was just as warm as Merlin; he'd formed himself of shadows and moonlight, so she'd expected him to be cool to the touch. The fine hairs around his nose and mouth felt like silk on soft leather, a mesmerizing texture that Sarah savored for a few strokes more before she remembered her manners.
"Good evening, Tuired," she whispered, feeling a little foolish but erring on the side of caution. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Then she curtsied politely. Jareth laughed, amused by the irony, but Tuired took a step back before sweeping his neck down and bending one knee, bowing with the flair of a gentleman at court. He raised and rumbled in the same language Jareth had used to greet him, but stopped when he realized she couldn't understand him. Tuired tossed his head at Jareth, and the incorrigible Fey man chuckled again.
"He said, in essence, 'likewise', and that it is his honor to carry you home. Come on, then, Sarah, I'll give you a lift up." Tuired moved to stand to her right side, his broad shoulder nearly two hands above her head. Noticing her hesitation, Tuired turned and gave her an encouraging nudge as Jareth threaded his fingers to give her a leg up. Merlin whinnied and pressed against her back; Sarah thought vaguely that the pony was jealous of the massive horse, tall as a draft but built lean like a courser. Then she was swinging her leg over Tuired's broad back, so startled by the distance to the ground that she barely noticed Jareth hoist himself up behind her. Then Tuired prodded Merlin into motion and ambled alongside the river to the edge of the wood.
Between Tuired's bare back beneath her and Jareth's chest pressed to her back, Sarah was more than comfortably warm—despite the way her kirtle had ridden up to nearly her knees—in the brisk night. Their heat and Tuired's long, ambling gait lulled Sarah into a dreamy, half-sleeping state as Merlin cantered briskly beside them and Jareth propped her upright. Far too soon, they arrived at the wall of the bailey at her father's fortress.
Lifting her and gently depositing her on her own feet, Jareth let his touch linger as he whispered, "Remember your promise."
Oro: Alright, so this is the first of two (maybe three) parts to this story, Yew and Rosethorns, hopefully the first of many in this collection, Stranger.
Quill: If I have anything to say about it--
Oro: (interrupting) Some of you may know the general storyline; I am remorselessly nicking it from a legend. I think the stories here will all be retellings of ballads, actually, but I have some good ones up my sleeve...
Quill: You're in a sleeveless shirt--
Oro: (darts out, leaving Quill with Disclaimer) Good night!