A/N: Ok, so I know things just got weird. Fear not, this will not be one of those stories where the heroine falls falls in love with her abuser. I hate those kinds of stories just as much as the next dyke, so it certainly won't be one of those. That being said, Callie is in survival mode now, and it only seems fitting that she would resort to such means. Please don't hate me. Not everything is what it seems…
As the World Falls Down
The next morning she woke with a start when she felt the sting of him brushing his fingers over the stripes on her back. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, neither of them said a word. Then he drew his hand away quickly.
"I will have Ellowyn apply a salve to that before she leaves today," he said.
She wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn she heard a tinge of remorse in his voice.
He had breakfast brought to the room and they sat across from each other at the small table by the window. To anyone who didn't know any better, they would have appeared an ordinary husband and wife rather than a captor and his captive.
"Eat," he said as a plate was set before her, "You are getting too skinny. Your clothes hardly fit you anymore."
Again, she was taken aback by his sudden concern for her well-being, which just days before, seemed hardly a concern at all. Then, as they ate, he explained to her that her new position afforded her more freedom to move about the castle.
"You may go anywhere you like," he said, "so long as it is within the castle walls."
Though grateful for this small liberty, she wanted to tell him that the only place she longed to go within the castle walls was back to the atelier, where, for a few short hours, she could lose herself in her work. But she still felt the lashes smarting on her back and she didn't need any new ones, so instead she just thanked him and forced herself to finish her food.
After she bathed, Ellowyn did indeed apply a salve to her back and dress the wounds so that they would not stick to the fabric of her clothes. Then she robed her in a steel blue gown embroidered with scarlet and turquoise hummingbirds and arranged her hair around a pair of peach-colored roses. Afterwards she left to return home to her family as Callie took advantage of her relative new freedom by wandering the castle.
Besides the King's apartments and the gardens, she had always been confined to either the working quarters or the servants' living quarters, where her and Artemisia's rooms were located. The rest of the castle was just as shrouded in mystery as everything outside of it. The first thing she noticed was all the other people. When the King spoke of his court, she thought he was speaking in a sort of abstracted sense, seeing as she had never encountered any courtiers. But now she saw them, floating through the halls, wispy and willowy in their grace, impeccably dressed, the women drawing long trains behind them, the men in their tailored finery. Like the King and Ellowyn, they were humanoid in form, but retained an air of otherworldly beauty that prevented them from appearing truly human. As Callie passed among them, some of them looked at her, whispering among themselves, flashing bemused smiles her way. She ignored them. Whatever world they belonged to, she had no desire to be a part of it.
As she wandered further into the heart of the castle, the rooms unfolded before her like a series of catacombs, revealing more an more curiosities the further she went. One room was nothing but a series of stairs, leading every direction, including sideways and upside down, with no apparent destination. It vaguely reminded Callie of an art print her mother used to keep in her bedroom. Another was laid out like a giant chess board, but on one side emerged white fish, popping up from the floor in a detailed marble relief, and on the other side, black birds created the same effect. Their shapes met together in the middle in a perfect flat tessellation. He seemed to like things like that: games, puzzles, anything he could solve, anything he could master. The cold, mathematical precision of it seemed all too becoming of him.
The next room was a library, enormous in size, stacked to the top with shelves upon shelves of books on multiple levels. Attached to each stack was a series of ladders—some vertical, some horizontal, some diagonal—forming their own strange pathways up and around the shelves. Callie wandered through, occasionally pulling a book from the shelf and leafing through its pages. Some were written in languages she'd never seen before, others contained beautiful, gold-leafed illuminations, others contained detailed ink illustrations with subjects ranging from great works of literature to historical events to lewd pornographic depictions. She shelved them away and continued her wandering. Though the path through the library lead naturally through a door at the far end, Callie found her curiosity peaked by a smaller, more obscured door down the second-to-last rows of shelves.
It was old, wooden, almost shoddy-looking, but Callie turned the handle and went in anyway. It was nearly pitch black inside, but she found a taper and a box of matches sitting on a small table by the entrance, which she lit and continued on. She found herself walking down a long, narrow hallway before she finally reached the room that the door concealed. What she found there both intrigued and disturbed her.
It could have been a shrine the way it was laid out, an alter, strewn with various, seemingly, unrelated artifacts. Some looked like stuffed toys, others looked like brushes and cosmetics from a woman's boudoir, others were jewelry and headpieces, and in the midsts of it all was a lectern propping up a little, red book. But what drew her attention most was that which hovered right above it all: a voluminous, white ballgown, silvery-white as a specter hanging over the alter like a crucifix in a chapel. It appeared very much like—too much like—the dress worn by the figurine in her mother's music box, and for a moment she beheld it in breathless awe. Then she gradually drew her attention to the little, red book.
She approached it hesitantly and held the taper close so she could read the gold lettering on the cover.
Labyrinth.
Her heart began pounding as she picked it up and started leafing through its pages.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful, young girl whose stepmother always made her stay home with the baby. And the baby was a spoiled child, and he wanted everything for himself, and the young girl was practically a slave.
Slave. Her eyes lingered on the word, hesitating before allowing her eyes to continue on to the next line.
But what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and he had given her certain powers…
Her heart seized as she recalled her conversation with the King just a few nights previously. I gave her a story she might want a part of, a story she did want a part of. That's when it dawned on her: it was hers. All of it was hers.
She closed the book and put it back on the lectern, then turned to retreat back down the corridor when something else in the room caught her eye. It was shoved under a chair in the far corner—she didn't know how it had even caught her attention—but slowly she knelt down and drew it out.
Her dress. The first one Artemisia had ever taken off her, the one the King had stolen that same day, she had nearly forgotten about it, but here it was. She gazed upon it mournfully, caressing the worn muslin, fingering the cut-work embroidery at the neckline. She held it to her chest tenderly, that precious relic of who she once was, as she stood slowly and made her way out of that room of phantoms. Upon returning to the King's bedchamber, she hid the dress deep in the recesses of her closet, hanging it underneath one of her finer gowns to conceal it.
She knew now how she would escape, but she also knew she would have to wait. If she didn't get the timing right, the plan would fall through and she may never get another opportunity. So she would have to bide her time over the next week, working through it, making use of that "naturally sweet temperament" Ellowyn had eluded to
At dinner that night, she did as she had seen her mother do so many times before with her father and asked him about his day. He seemed taken aback, suspicious even, but he told her and, perhaps out of nothing more than customary politeness, he asked her about her own. The conversation went no further than that, but it was cordial enough for Callie to count it as a victory.
Then later in the bedroom, his demeanor seemed to have changed entirely from what it once was. He did not drag her, pull her hair, or hold her throat. He was coaxing, gentle almost, and though it didn't make it any less distasteful to Callie, she wondered how it was that just a single kiss could change a man over night. Afterward, as he held her close, stroking her hair like a lover, she could almost sense from him that same loneliness she had experienced for so many years before meeting Artemisia. Although his dark embraces only served to smother her, for a brief moment, she felt a sprout of empathy creeping up through the cracks in her hatred.
Each subsequent night passed just as strangely, his aggression held at bay by each yielding affectation she put on, like a wolf appeasing another with a white flash of belly. There were even a few nights when he didn't even carry it out, only falling asleep beside her with his arm over her. But by the end of the week, she had him nuzzling his leonine head into her lap as she stroked his long tresses like a tamed beast. It was then that she knew she could make her next move.
The next morning, she had Ellowyn dress her a gown of white satin, with a bright crimson stomacher and crimson inlaid into the deep box pleats of the skirt. He always seemed to like her in white and, according to Ellowyn's insights, men always liked red. She wove her hair with poppies again and applied rouge to her lips and her cheeks. Then she slipped a pair of red satin shoes upon Callie's feet and squeezed her hand.
"Good luck," she whispered as Callie stepped out into the hall and began making her way toward the throne room.
He hadn't been expecting her; she knew he wouldn't have been. As the guards drew back the doors to allow her entrance, she relished the look of astonishment upon his face as he beheld her. The grotesque throng of horned and armored goblins parted like the Red Sea as she approached and though she held her head high and proud, she wore a mask of demure reservation. When she reached the center of the mosaic before his throne, she curtsied deeply, the skirt of her gown pooling around her, the pleats splayed open to reveal their slashes of red.
"Your Majesty," she said, still low to the ground, her head still bent, "I have come to ask that you grant me a boon should you find me so deserving."
The surrounding assemblage broke into a flurry of whispers and, for a few long moments, that was all that was heard. The King shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers against the armrest.
"What is this boon you ask and I will determine whether or not it is deserved," he responded.
She rose only after hearing his voice, and even then, she kept her head bowed, eyes lowered, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"I have come to ask if Your Majesty would allow me to make my own gown for the ball on Samhain," she said.
The whispers instantly turned to storm of noisy chatter and the King raised his hand to quiet the room.
"We have already discussed this, Calliope," he replied cooly, "Such labors are beneath your station now."
"If such labors are performed as a means of employment, yes," Callie conceded, "But what if they are done for their own sake? For pleasure?"
She raised her eyes now to meet his for the briefest moment before dropping them back down.
"There is many an honorable lady who sews for her own enjoyment, if only to pass the idle hours," she argued, "I do not ask to enter into a trade, only that you allow me to sew for myself at my own leisure."
The King remained silent for a long while as he considered this, still drumming his fingers, his eyes trained on her. Callie raised her gaze ever so slightly to see that he was wearing one of his long cloaks with fur trim around the collar. She could also see that he was distracted, not just by his own thoughts, but by the very sight of her. When she detected that look of hunger in his eyes, she decided to push her boldness a little further.
"Please, sire, I implore you," she said taking a few more steps toward him.
She knelt upon the dais at his feet, bowing her head as she took hold of the bottom of his cloak.
"You may decide the fabric, the color, the cut of whatever gown I make," she continued, "only please allow me to practice this art I so love."
At that, she lifted the edge of his cloak and pressed it against her lips, making herself the very picture of humility as a hush fell over the whole room.
She kept her head bowed until he leaned down, cupping her face in his hand and tilting it up so she could look at him. There was suddenly a warmth to his eyes that she had rarely ever seen.
"Under the condition that the design meets my approval," he intoned, "you may make your own gown for the ball. I will see to it that a room is made up for that very purpose tomorrow."
A flood of relief washed over Callie.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered, pressing her hand over his, "You have my gratitude."
She met his eyes, smiling warmly at him, holding her hand over his for a few short moments before bowing her head and backing away slowly.
She sunk once more into a deep curtsey before turning to exit the room.
After that, she swore never to doubt Ellowyn's wisdom again.
He stayed true to his word. A room had been prepared for her the next day, and he walked with her through the corridors, escorting her there himself. When they reached their destination, he pulled out a key and turned it in the lock, pushing open the door to present it to her.
It was the atelier of her dreams: the sewing machine, black and swanlike, painted with decorative gold scrollwork; the cutting table, tall and broad, laid out with gridded mats; a dress form exactly her size; bolts upon bolts of silks, wools, linings, underlinings, crinolines, muslin; rolls of pattern paper; every tool, ruler, or cutting implement she might need hanging upon the wall. And the light. The windows arched so high and open, they allowed the entire room to fill with light. Callie took it all in in a state of breathless awe.
"Will this suffice?" he asked.
"Yes," Callie breathed, "This will do nicely."
She turned, bowed her head, and curtsied to him.
"Thank you again, Your Majesty," she told him sincerely.
He didn't have much of a taste for formality when they were alone, so he took hold of her chin, tilting her head back up to draw her into a kiss. Callie let him and even smiled at him as he pulled away, resuming her role as the adoring mistress.
"Get to work," he said, "You have three weeks to Samhain."
And work she did. The days melted into one another as she draped, cut, drafted, stitched, watching piece after piece come together into a cohesive wholeness. By the end of the week she almost had a complete gown of ombre satin, fading from dark navy at the top of the bodice to champagne gold toward the hem of the skirt. Over the course of the next week, she would stitch little flying insects into the darker portions of the silk in contrasting gold beadwork. The ball on Samhain was to be a masquerade, all of its attendants imitating every beast of the field and fowl of the air, though Callie had a feeling she would be the only firefly there. A firefly: it was his idea, the only demand he made upon the design. He had commissioned a mask of matching navy wrought with gold filigree, a diaphanous fan of glossy insect wings to brush against her cheeks. It was a good thing that the mask was dark and opaque, she'd decided. It would have to stay on the whole night.
Though she had been so energized and driven throughout the day, she felt an odd sense of fatigue come over her as Ellowyn arranged her hair that last night of the first week. She felt completely off, though she didn't know why. The flowers that night were stargazer lilies, and even as they laid out of reach upon the vanity, Callie felt overwhelmed by every intake of their scent. As Ellowyn trimmed them and began pinning them into her hair, it suddenly became so unbearably potent that a surge of nausea seized Callie's stomach and she pushed Ellowyn's hand away.
"Is everything alright?" Ellowyn asked.
Callie shook her head, holding a hand to her mouth.
"The smell…" she said, "It's too strong. It's making me feel sick."
"The smell?" Ellowyn's brows furrowed with concern, "And you're feeling sick?"
Callie nodded, and Ellowyn slowly dropped her hands by her side. She stared at Callie silently for a moment, not saying a word.
Finally she asked "Lady Calliope, do you remember when your last cycle was?"
Callie's blood froze in her veins. She slowly lifted her head to reveal a look of horrific realization upon her face. She didn't remember. It had been so long that she didn't even remember. She met Ellowyn's gaze and slowly shook her head.
Another long pause.
"I will fetch the physician," Ellowyn said.
"No! Ellowyn, please don't!" Callie cried, grabbing hold of her arm.
The dread consumed her. She didn't want to know. She didn't want the doctor to come and confirm her single greatest fear, the worst thing that could possibly be happening right now. Ellowyn looked down at her piteously, but drew her arm away and went.
The physician came. He examined her, asked her questions, took samples. Afterward he stepped out into the hall and spoke to the King in private. All the while, Callie sat on the bed in her sage green nightgown, staring at the floor as the world fell down around her. Soon the physician departed and the King returned to the room. She knew what he was going to say before he even said it.
"You're about four weeks along."
Callie closed her eyes, sinking into the devastation.
"We will keep things quiet for now," he continued, "But I will announce our engagement at the ball on Samhain, then plan the ceremony for the following month."
Callie said nothing. She couldn't even look at him. He approached her and gently brushing his fingers over the top of her head.
"I know I haven't always been kind to you," he said, "but I will strive harder now to show you the respect due to you as the mother of my child."
He knelt down in front of her, cupping her face in his hand. She turned away from him.
"If you would like to respect me as the mother of your child, you can start tonight by leaving me alone," she said.
Her voice was hollow, her eyes narrow and spiteful. He was clearly not pleased by her response, but he pulled his hand away and stood up.
"As you wish," he said.
He put out the lamp and crawled into the bed beside her, turning his back to her. Callie laid awake almost the whole night, clutching her belly, her mind oscillating between despair and rage and grief. It must have been one of those first nights—one of those first horrible nights— that her body betrayed her and allowed such an intruder to take root inside her. And no matter how she starved herself, how poorly she slept, how much alcohol she consumed, the root held like the pincers of a parasite. Soon it would grow bigger, like a cancer, like a tumor, and then it would come out and start making its own demands. It would tie her eternally to him, to what he did to her, to her own pitiful weakness, and she would never be able to outrun it.
They would find clues here and there—the remains of a campfire, an old piece of jewelry, a forgotten knife—but nothing concrete and certainly not another person. Pips was convinced that all their searching was in vain.
"Most people aren't stupid enough to even come here, let alone live here," Pips explained. "Even the King avoids coming here."
"Does he?" Artemisia mused, "Well, that's good to hear."
"The reason why isn't so good to hear," Pips continued, "It's called the Forest of the Fieries for a reason. The place is infested with them."
"And are they dangerous?" Artemisia asked.
"Incredibly," Pips answered, "They have a fascination with dismemberment… They enjoy taking things apart, especially people. I believe you have another name for them in the human world: Furies."
The Furies. Artemisia had definitely heard of them before. The vengeful demon nymphs of the god Bacchus and their orgiastic rituals of violence. She had to repress a shudder as she thought of encountering one of them.
Another week has passed and Artemisia was coming to her wit's end. She was running low on her stores, most of which she gave to Pips, so she had to resort to hunting rabbits and fishing to keep herself fed. There were at least plenty of fresh water sources around, which she was thankful for, seeing as she thought she might die of dehydration in the junkfields when her canteen began running low. But the place was also full of traps: camouflaged beasts, trees that moved, pits that looks like piles of leaves. Pips was well-acquainted with the perils and usually warned her before she could fall victim to them, but she still had a number of close calls. She had considered herself lucky that she hadn't yet had a run-in with the inhabitants for which the forest was named, but by the next morning her luck ran out.
Pips was still asleep on her shoulder as she wove through the trees with her bow, keeping an eye out for her breakfast, when she spotted something nearby in the brush. It didn't look like an animal, but she moved closer to it, thinking it might be a promising clue as to the Exile's whereabouts. But as she squinted to look at it, turning it over with her foot, the cold realization of what it really was struck her.
A human skull with half the spinal column still attached, but the rest of the body no where to be found. But even that she ended up finding when she stumbled backwards, crying out in surprise, and stepped through the ribcage. She shook it off her foot with disgust and stumbled back again into a tree. That's when she heard the knocking begin.
A/N: Thank you so much to Laura for your review and kind words. Chapter 10 was definitely one of my favorite to write. There will be another creepy Jareth conversation in chapter 13 to look forward to.