Sarah and Jareth belong to Henson and Co.
Beta review by Ellen Weaver.
I don't like when "Dark Jareth" hurts Sarah and suffers no consequences and this is what I'm doing about it.
This is a HORROR story for Halloween. There is no light and fluffy here. Fairly warned be thee, says I.
Divorce Proceedings
When the owl flew in the open window that evening, he met a blinding cloud of salt. He tried to reverse his direction, stalled and tumbled to the floor. A net covered him and entangled his wings and legs. He screeched in baffled rage. He could not imagine anyone would be stupid enough to do this. A rough hood was pulled over his eyes and more disabling salt was dumped over him. He was trapped in his small and weak owl form and couldn't free himself.
Hands roughly grabbed his feet and tied them together. He was dumped bodily into a large sack, which was whirled up into the air to land with a painful thump upon someone's shoulder. Sack and owl were then roughly and continually bounced by hurried footsteps.
The jostling went on for a long time. He could see nothing with the hood over his head. He could hear footsteps on gravel, crackling through piles of leaves, and splashing through a stream, but never a word was spoken. He was trembling with fury. He was going to kill his attacker, whoever it was. He was going to tear their heart out over this insult to his person.
A feeling of nausea caused by a very long time of being bounced around and being stifled by stale air was damping his anger when the sack was suddenly dropped onto a hard surface, knocking the wind out of him. He screeched furiously and attempted to slash with his bound feet. The sack was upended and he tumbled out. The falconer's hood was still over his eyes. He blindly flailed with wing and beak, hoping to connect with the flesh of his attacker.
He was handled roughly as he was wrapped in bindings. One wing was bound tight to his body and one wing was left free to flail helplessly. He was abruptly rolled onto his back. He attempted to flog his assailant with the free wing and took a blow to the side of his head that left him breathless and aching. He stopped trying to flap, but continued to screech and screech as he felt hands fumbling with something at his feet.
Finally the hood was removed from his head and he looked up to see the grim and narrow eyed face of his wife. His duplicitous, stupid, ungrateful little harlot of a wife. He noted the bruise on her arm from her forgetfulness of the morning and the lash marks on her shins from her stupidity of the afternoon with approval. He would give her some additional bruises when he got loose.
"Hello, Dearest," she said. "Welcome to your divorce proceedings."
He was beside himself with rage. He was going to kill her. There would be no need for a divorce because he was going to kill her. He was going to throw her on the floor with the rest of the dirt and stomp on the middle of her back and this time he would break her spine instead of just her ribs.
"Perhaps you would like to shut your beak and listen for a moment, Jareth," she said mildly. "No one's going to hear your squawking out here in the middle of nowhere anyway, and I have some information you might find pertinent."
He quieted and glared at her. Let her talk, he thought, he would make her eat whatever words she was going to say. Maybe when he was finished with her, she would finally know how to control that smart mouth of hers.
"The salt is keeping you in your owl form for now. I realize you'll shake it off eventually. That's fine, it's only a temporary measure. But beyond that, the leggings of the jesses you're wearing are iron rings, Dearest. The leather lining will keep them from burning your legs, but you'll be an owl as long as you wear them," she said with ugly satisfaction.
He fluffed his feathers and glared at her with pure hatred. He hissed and clacked his beak at her. She had always been insolent and infuriating. That was why she had so many scars on her back and rump, he thought grimly. She simply refused to learn.
She pushed a chair under the table and tied the straps of his jesses to the top rung. He rolled onto his belly and struggled to his feet. His makeshift perch was only a few inches above the table top and he began hopping on and off of the perch onto the table, hissing and threatening her.
He fully intended to beat her senseless when he finally got loose. Ungrateful wench. She had her own pair of jesses and he'd see her wearing them again. He was going to tie her to the bedpost and reacquaint her with his riding crop. He was going to ride her hard while he whipped her into a lather. He looked forward to her screams. Every other punishment she had received was going to seem like a caress compared to what he was going to do to her.
He raged at her and conjured impotent curses that he couldn't voice.
She looked unimpressed as she walked toward him, taking slow steps, and giving him a menacing smile.
He quieted and glared at her, hoping for a chance to slash at her face with beak or talon.
She stopped, just out of his reach and stared coolly at him for a moment. As she paused, he took closer notice of the gloves she was wearing. They weren't the thin, cotton gloves she always wore to cover her bruises. These were thick, tough, leather gloves that reached nearly to her elbows. He eyed the gloves with suspicion and growing wariness.
After reaching into her pockets, she held up a small stick for his inspection with one gloved hand, and a pair of iron anvil jawed pruning cutters with the other. She snapped the cutters shut a couple of times, the jaws closing with a solidly metallic sound.
"This is about the size of a wing bone, isn't it?" she said, turning the stick and looking at it in a speculative manner. She quickly and casually snipped the end of the stick with the cutters. The crunching sound made the owl flinch.
She made eye contact with him and snipped off another piece. Crunch.
"I can't have you trying to escape, you might injure yourself," she said, smiling grimly. "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. You fuss and complain, but you must know that everything I do, I do for you."
Crunch.
"It's for your own benefit after all." She was beginning to raise her voice. She took a breath and spoke again, quietly this time. "This will hurt me more than you, Dearest." An ugly sarcasm sharpened the edges of her words.
The stick was getting short. Crunch.
The owl screeched again. He was suddenly more afraid than angry. He recognized his own words. He had said that to her the first time he had punished her for trying to escape. He had intended for her to remember his words, and to his dawning horror, he understood that she had remembered them too well.
She was furious. He was trembling with nerves at just how furious she was. He had always known that she was angry, but had never been concerned. He had always assumed she was too afraid of him to do anything about it. Never in his wildest dreams had he considered the consequences should she gain power over him. He simply hadn't believed it was possible. He was stunned, realizing his perilous situation.
She reached for him and he frantically tried to evade her grasp. He beat his free wing in a frenzy of motion and writhed his small owl body, trying to twist loose from the bindings. He leapt away from her, but the jesses held and he ended up flopping down onto the tabletop with his feet held up by the straps tied to the perch.
The owl shrieked and tried to bite, tried to flap, tried to escape, but she grabbed his free wing. He was stretched out between the jesses tying his legs to the perch and her angry grip at his wingtip. He was helpless and terror-stricken.
She held the cutters over the uppermost joint of his wing and pinched him; just enough that he could feel the pressure, just enough to hurt.
He flopped and struggled, shrieking in horror and fear.
She waited for a moment and then screamed into his face.
"SHUT UP!"
The owl froze, eyes glazed in fear.
"You sound just like I do when you beat me," she said quietly.
"How does it feel, Jareth?" she said. "Do you appreciate the kindness I'm about to show you? Are you grateful that I'm going to keep you safe? Do you love me for hurting you?"
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Surely she didn't think this was the same thing. He loved her. She belonged to him. He would never, that is, he would only hurt her if it was for her own good. Surely she could understand that. He had never done her any permanent injuries, at least nothing as severe as this. Maybe he had broken her ribs once, but that was an accident, really, just a miscalculation. He'd been sincerely regretful when he'd cut the tip off of her finger but it was her fault for pointing that accusing little finger at him and making him so mad. And besides, he thought, as the fury returned to him, she had deserved every beating he'd ever given her.
She shifted the cutters on the wing's joint. The iron was beginning to burn and sting a bit.
"I'm sure you're familiar with pinioning, my Love. I'll bet you've had it done to some of your servants. I'm sure you thought they could benefit from being mutilated. After all, if it makes the King happy, it must make everybody happy right?" she said.
He had indeed had servants pinioned, but it was for their own good. They had been difficult and foolish, trying to run away, misbehaving. They benefited from the practice. It made obeying easier. He remembered their screams. He had felt a small measure of sympathy for them, but it had been necessary.
But this wasn't necessary. This was wrong. She surely wouldn't do this. She had no right to do this.
She began to put more pressure on the cutters.
He resumed shrieking and flailing. His eyes were squeezed shut against his terror and he thrashed and screamed.
The cutters closed.
The click of the jaws snapping shut pierced his brain and he gasped in a mighty breath and then exhaled it in a terrorized animal scream. He could feel nothing. He was completely numb. He was immobile. His head spun and he was sure he was dying.
"You spineless wretch," she said.
He opened his eyes and looked at her for a split second with hatred and disbelief. Then he looked fearfully at the remains of his poor beautiful wing that was… intact. A bead of blood welled from the small, half cauterized wound the iron cutters had made in the skin over the joint.
She threw the anvil pruning cutters onto the floor in the corner of the room. The clatter made him flinch and wriggle.
"I know you're going to tell yourself something comforting like I would never really hurt you, or even something ridiculous like I spared you because I have some feeling for you. You would be very foolish to think that." She sneered at him. "I have no intention of letting you live, but I don't want to see your pretty little feathered body damaged."
She stood over the shivering owl.
"The taxidermist wants to kill you himself. He'll get a better mount that way, he says." She smiled down at him. "He believes you're a beloved pet, tragically gone mad, that needs to be put down. So sad. But his skill will allow me to keep my dear pet always. Isn't that nice?"
She turned and walked away, leaving him in a stunned and crumpled heap. She turned back as she reached the door.
"I have a lovely shelf picked out for you, Dearest."
The door latch clicked as it closed behind her, leaving him alone in the cold and silent room.