Chapter Fourteen: Such A Sad Love
The deep waters were milky, their surface adorned with the heavy purple heads of amaranths. She squeezed out the juices of the flowers, rubbing them into her skin; their scent was musky, dense, life-giving. Mírthíêl leaned back lazily, skimming her pale fingers through the warm water, drinking in that heady scent. It was a long time, too long, since she had had a companion. She thought of the Goblin King and the long lean lines of his body, the fierce beauty of his face. She remembered his father, a handsome man but one broken by loss and illness; the Sisters had tended him and he passed beyond her lands. But his son. His son was different. Jareth. She smiled to herself. When she rose, taking one of the bathing sheets from the pile and stepping from the bath, she pause, observed herself in the mirror. The heat of the water had suffused her body with a blush of pink.
It was a good body, she thought with pleasure: narrow waist, firm high breasts, long slender legs. And she was beautiful, she knew that. She had heard that the Goblin King had taken a mortal lover, a creature for whom he had reordered time and nearly lost his kingdom. She smiled again, contemptuous. Men made stupid mistakes when in thrall to the exotic; perhaps even something so mundane as a mortal could seem strange, exciting, just by its difference. But what mortal could compare, compete, with her? The Gatekeeper, the Mistress of the Amaranthine Realms. Her beauty was powerful, and her power was fearsome.
She unpinned the length of her hair, watched its sleek blonde curtain fall into place. And she imagined those strong, clever fingers of his running through it, pressing against her scalp.
A flutter of white draperies pulled her from this reverie. She scowled at the slight, veiled figure who deposited the tray and had the impression of glittering dark eyes watching her.
'Yes? Did you want something?'
The figure withdrew, gliding silently. After so many centuries, Mírthíêl was beginning to resent the presence of the Sisters here. Her good mood evaporating, she wrapped the fine linen around herself, picked up the key that she had removed before her bath and fastened the long chain around her neck.
ooOoo
Delaine woke suddenly, her mind blurred by images both familiar and horrifying. She became aware of her surroundings, the high vaulted ceilings, the pale wood panelling, the immediacy of the silk, cotton, and wool that covered her in layers. Familiarity, security. She eased herself up, sucked in a breath at the dull throb that sent a spear of pain up her arm. Her hand had been neatly bandaged and she examined the handiwork, waited for the pain to subside. There was a fire built high in the grate, taking the chill from the air. And beside it, in a high-backed chair with his long legs stretched out inelegantly, was Rajad, asleep, his face squashed against the chair's angular wings.
He looked uncomfortable, out of place, unlike himself. And cold, she thought, despite the cheerful blaze of firelight. His shirt was thin, open at the throat, exposing a long V of bronze skin down his chest. She slipped out from beneath the delightful warmth and the softness of her bed, pulled one of the blankets from the pile that had covered her, padded silently across the room and paused on the rug before the hearth. He looked ridiculously young, yet strangely wearied; the lines of stress and worry were wrought deeper into his face. All that stiff dignity suddenly gone. Not suddenly, she reminded herself: that had always been something with which he merely cloaked himself - a defence against all comers, even her. She bent over him, gently depositing the blanket over his person when he started up, his hand grabbing at her, green eyes glittering dangerously. Delaine let out a yelp, sprang back, stood with the blanket clutched to her chest. They stared at each other.
'You're awake,' he said accusingly, straightening himself in the chair.
'Yes.' Still they stared. She became aware of the thinness of her nightgown, of the way it had moulded itself to her, of how against the background of dancing firelight it would be all but transparent. She wondered who had put her into it in the first place. She did not use the blanket as a barrier. 'I thought you might be cold,' she said, proffering it.
'I'm fine,' he said gruffly, unfolding himself and feeling his limbs protest against the stiffness induced by cold and inertia. In the firelight her skin was turned to gold, the feather-like markings around her eyes stark, and her body-
He kept his eyes resolutely on her face.
'You've been asleep for twenty hours. More.'
She looked appalled. 'Why did you let me sleep so long?'
Something shook across his chest, worked its way up to a barely contained explosion from his lips. 'It was not a matter of letting! In all my recollection, no-one has ever 'let' you do anything! You've always done as you damn well please without much thought as to what anyone else may think or feel about it.'
'Since when do you care?'
'I don't.'
'Oh.'
Her fair hair, loose and glinting softly, had curled that one lock around her throat. He lifted it away, his fingers brushing against her skin, the fine ridge of her collar-bone. For a moment her eyes closed. She looked up at him. 'Have you been here all that time?'
His hand dropped to his side. 'No. I had to dry off Rashira, feed her, make sure she was warm enough after she was soaked to the skin. Then I had to dry off as I, too, was soaked to the skin. It all took some time.'
'Yes,' she said softly, 'yes, I suppose it would.' It would take some time, a few hours, more than one, fewer than twenty. His face was hard planes and angles in dancing light and shadow, his eyes opaque as jade. The mighty Elf lord, feared, respected, loved, she had once delighted in the idea of bringing this proud being to his knees for love of her. Her body still flooded with shame at the memory. Shame and a hint of melancholy. In the end his pride had been stronger than his desire: she had left him and he had allowed her to leave; had he said one word, the right word, to call her back, no, beg her back- And then what? She would have had her triumph and they would have destroyed each other. She shivered. He took the blanket from her hands with an irritable snort, wrapped it around her.
'After having dragged you out of that pond, I'd prefer it if you didn't freeze to death in your own damn bedroom.' There was an edge of gentleness to his tone that cut her deeper than any knife. His hands rested on her shoulders, their warm weight soothing the tensed muscles beneath. 'Did you find Sarah?'
'Yes. I saw-' Another shiver, one that no warmth could cure. 'It was awful.' She allowed herself a luxury without thinking of it. She rested her cheek against his chest, breathing in the scent of him that had always reminded her of the spice trees in the mountains above the summer residence at Ber-el-Djehir. His hands moved from her shoulders; she felt them lightly against her hair, barely stirring the fine strands. His heart hammered in his chest against her ear. It would take so very little, just to turn her face and press her lips against his skin. His hands still hovered in the air behind her head, still not touching her. She let out a breath, straightened, looked up at him again.
'How's Toby? I think I frightened him.'
His face was taut, then unbent slightly. 'You did. And he's not the only one.'
Her eyes lowered. 'I know. I'm sorry.'
'Yes, well... The boy is fine.' His hands were at his sides again. Delaine held her blanket around her. 'I- You should get some sleep.'
Her chin lifted. 'I've been asleep.'
Rajad shifted restlessly. 'You've been- You should rest.'
'I don't need it. I am hungry, though. And so are you.'
One heavy eyebrow arched. 'Oh, am I? You know this?'
'I know you.'
They watched each other. A complex series of unnamed emotions rippled across his face, a struggle that he mastered. 'Come on, there must be something in the kitchens that we can eat.'
He offered her an arm to lean on and she took it.
ooOoo
It was one of those perfect late-summer days in which the Underground seemed to specialise: deep blue skies; a balmy breeze fresh enough to relieve the heat of the sun; air heavy with honeysuckle and jasmine and the hundreds of plants that Sarah could never name; birdsong and peace.
The oddity was her companion as they sprawled on the grass under the shade of a willow. Sarah was, slowly, becoming accustomed to the fact that creatures of myth truly inhabited these lands, but sometimes being confronted with their existence came as a surprise. Names she thought to be the invention of mortals even more imaginative than herself were revealed to belong to immortals, far more powerful and incredible than any fictional rendering.
Sarah again glanced from beneath her lashes at the woman reclining beside her: Titania, the Fairy Queen. Her beauty was extraordinary - wonderful and terrible. She shimmered, Sarah's eyes never quite able to focus on her, to capture her edges. Insubstantial and overwhelming. Sarah recalled the cavalier treatment of Titania's subjects at Hoggle's hands and wondered that the Fairy Queen, this being of power and wonder far older than the Goblin King, should stand for it.
'Inconsequential creatures,' Titania stated imperiously, a dismissive hand waved, in response to Sarah's cautious query.
Terrible indeed.
Where Titania was air and fire, Oberon was very much of the earth. A muscular being, black haired and carrying with him the scent of wood-smoke, leaves and freshly-turned soil. Sarah watched where he stood beside Jareth and could not imagine two beings more different in appearance or manner. Oberon was not the creature of fairy-tale, but then neither was Jareth. In the years that marked their separation she had thought of him as a glittering, slightly whimsical being - a watered down version of the dangerous reality. The glitter that surrounded him was hard, searing, his moods mercurial, his nature wild beneath that smooth, mocking exterior. He was her greatest adventure. Sarah turned back from them and found that she was the subject of Titania's scrutiny.
'It has been a long time,' she said in that voice like the rush of the breeze through summer leaves, 'since a mortal has been bound so strongly to one of our realms.'
'It used to happen more often?' Oberon and his conquests, she thought - according to Shakespeare. Sarah dared not ask how much veracity lay in that tale.
'Yes, but that was long ago. It became ... difficult.'
Sarah nodded sadly. 'Yeah, we all got too rational. Everyone stopped believing in magic.'
Titania laughed slightly. 'There was that, but that isn't what I meant. All love is difficult, but the love between a mortal and an immortal has its own difficulties. You do not love as we do.'
Sarah looked at her. 'I'm not like other mortals.'
ooOoo
For four nights and four days Sarah was kept in confinement; although, for the first two she was unaware of this. A sleep, dark and unfathomably deep, had claimed her and when she did awaken it was slow, a struggle. Her head felt leaden, her body one aching mass. Late afternoon when she had woken, she guessed, judging by the reddened rays marking their passage across the floor.
She lay, coaxing her limbs into co-ordinated motion and while she waited for them to comply she listened and heard nothing except for the whistle of a prevailing wind. No footsteps beyond the walls of her room, no voices. Just a stone-clad silence and the wind.
When she did, at last, ease herself from her bed she investigated the room. Small, sparse but not uncomfortable. Stone floor covered with rugs, stone walls covered with dark hangings. Sarah examined them, unable to make sense of the twisted threads and what they depicted. She stood further back, almost pressed against the opposite wall and made out a scene of carnage, a battle of particular bloodiness. She shivered. A large chair, its wood almost black, smooth and gleaming. She ran her fingers over the frame, marvelled at the fineness of the grain. Had it always been so or was that a result of many years and countless hands tracing the same path as hers? A bed, a washbasin, little else.
Her clothes had been taken and a dress left for her. Loose, all but shapeless, covering her to her feet. She pulled it on, tied the sash around her waist and noted how much weight she had lost. It was merely an observation, not a point of any real interest.
She waited.
When the door to what she had come to think of as her cell rattled and started to open, her relief was as much from the hope of seeing another living being as gaining some answers regarding both her location and her captivity. The sun had faded, leaving her small quarters in deep shades of grey and blue; the door opened and light came with it, a pair of candles along with the tray of food. They chased the shadows to the corners, bringing an illusion of warmth. The figure bearing it was small and strange and Sarah experienced a moment's familiarity, until it drew closer and then it was wholly alien to her. In stature and in the walnut brown of its skin the creature was like a Goblin, but there the resemblance ended. The skin of its face so smooth it looked stretched over the skull beneath, wide eyes too large and pale to be attractive, hairless. Reptilian, she thought, and felt an instinctive repugnance.
But to win her freedom, friendliness with her jailer might be required.
'Hello,' she said and forced a smile.
The creature darted a look at her, gripping the tray. It set it slowly on the only table, keeping its eyes, unblinking, on her.
'I'm Sarah; what's your name?'
It uttered a string of harsh guttural noises that she realised tardily was a language.
'I'm sorry, I don't underst- No. No, please don't go. Don't leave me here!'
Too late to catch it. She beat her fist helplessly against the solid wood door. It too was of the same strangely fine-textured timber, its surface so highly polished she could see her reflection in it. Pale face, serious eyes that looked haunted in the sheen of dark wood.
Sarah completed a circuit of the room, came to a stop by the table, inspected the contents of the tray. Meat of some kind, vegetable of an even stranger kind, bread, fruits, wine. She turned away from it, made for the narrow aperture that served as a window; the walls were a good two foot thick, judging by the depth of the window embrasure. The glass itself was smoky and heavily barred. She should not, she told herself fiercely, partake of food when she didn't know its source. But the knowledge of it there, so close, brought the stab of hunger she had been trying to ignore for some time. She took another tour of the room, sat down in the hard chair. A little bread, at least, could do no harm. Perhaps a little of the fruit-
She pulled her hand back.
No, not the fruit.
The bread took the edge off her hunger, but no more. She tested the meat, felt no ill effects. By the time she was halfway through she was thirsty and poured the wine. Her jailers were generous at least. But how, she wondered suddenly, had they known she was awake to enjoy it? Sarah pushed the plate away, peered about suspiciously and could not shake off the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.
She had not intended to sleep, had merely curled herself on the bed seeking more comfort than her chair offered, but was woken by the sun in her eyes and the delicate clink as a new tray was deposited and her odd little waiter took away the one from the night before. She called out, started up towards it but it fled through the door. Which closed with a resounding thud. The creature feared her, she thought, and the thought seemed ridiculous.
By the time of the next meal, the next entry, Sarah had formed a plan. While the trays were swapped she darted behind the gaze of the bulbous eyes, towards the open door. Her path was barred by two large guards in sleek armour that hid every part of their bodies and danced fiercely bright under the torches that illumined the corridor. Sarah retreated. Another hissed string of incomprehensible words were thrown at her and the servant-creature edged away from her, out of the room.
In all of her imaginings as a child, and in all of her experiences as a woman, Sarah had never desired to be the maiden in the tower. That role, however, was now forced upon her and she practised patience with the constant whine of the wind for company. She waited.
On the evening of the forth day they came for her.
ooOoo
Beyond the confines of the palace were groves, wild trees heavy with fruit, interspersed with land that had been tamed and mastered by the Sisters. Crops grew in neat rows. Beyond that the white-crested sea and further out yet the flat line of the horizon.
And beyond that...
His own lands, his people, his home, and her.
The breeze through the high window embrasure brought warm scents of rain and earth and flowers and sometimes, fleetingly, something he knew but could not quite grasp, something almost tangible.
There were figures working the land below, the air carrying fragments of their song back to him. He blocked it out; he did not need its distraction. He remembered the smooth flow of his quill over her skin, her laughter, the love he had poured into the words he had conjured for her. He could not remember the melody.
But another, older, also for her, had come back to him. Not in its entirety but enough. He had no wings to ride the currents that would take him back to her, but their song, for a time in his imaginings at least, could.
To be continued...