It takes almost no time for the whirlwind to commence.
No sooner does Sarah tell Jareth that she will consent to wed him than a veritable platoon of officious under-justices and law clerks begins trooping about the palace, rushing from this meeting to that audience, carting piles of books and papers excavated from the law archives along with them. Documents are drafted, signatures and seals are sought, and both the Goblin King and the Queen of the Labyrinth are advised of the details included in the reams of scrolls produced by the seemingly endless line of bearded men and their bespectacled assistants. Sarah feels as though she is being buried beneath an avalanche of information, and it's difficult for her to follow at times.
It does not take long for the girl to lament what she has unleashed.
She knows her confusion is due partly to the fact that the laws of this land differ so vastly from those of her own world (the ones taught to her by her high school civics instructor—and honestly, she doesn't recall much about that ninth-grade class besides the way Mr. Guendel sometimes had flecks of egg from his breakfast trapped in his excessively bushy mustache. Sarah had spent as much time wondering if the portly man was just one or two eggs away from a massive coronary as she did actually focusing on the course material). But she also blames her confusion on Jareth.
Or, more precisely, on Jareth's reaction to her announcing that she would marry him.
Ever since she'd told the king her decision, and he'd had his interesting response (hopeful; joyful, even, but somehow also… dangerous), she'd been too unnerved to concentrate properly.
(The state of Sarah's nerves has not proven conducive to furthering her grasp of the tangled laws and ancient customs of a land governed by an outlandish combination of goblin logic, fae tradition, and raw magic.)
The girl discovers there are three hefty volumes of ancient texts which outline the most minute details of the process of a royal betrothal (that there even is a process is shocking to her, and frankly, more than a little off-putting). A further pile of crumbling scrolls discovered in the dark and dusty depths of the judiciary's archives explains the procedure for binding one-not-of-this-realm (in this case, Sarah) not only to the land itself, but to the intended spouse as well (in this case, Jareth).
Actually, there is only one scroll which dictates the procedure. The rest detail the historic arguments for the necessity of such a protocol and expound on the consequences of violating it. If given the choice, Sarah would rather skim these parts, but one particularly humorless under-justice insists on reading each scroll line for line and so she is obliged to listen, despite the excruciating boredom that descends upon her during the exercise.
As it turns out, there is also a surprisingly strict schedule of required fetes, feasts, and balls to celebrate the betrothal, a codified policy for officially announcing the news to the surrounding kingdoms, and what is described as a largely ceremonial (though absolutely compulsory) vote of the high council to endorse the match.
Sarah has her doubts about the 'ceremonial' nature of the ballot, owing to the way one law clerk reassures her she has nothing to worry about in somewhat tenuous tones, all while glancing surreptitiously at Lord Draimen, who of course sits on the high council. She realizes it's entirely possible the clerk is simply nervous to be in such close proximity to the imposing wolf and his keen yellow gaze, but when Jareth remarks that he expects the result to be an enthusiastic confirmation of her suitability for the role of Goblin Queen, and seems to direct his rather hard gaze at Lord Draimen while pronouncing his confidence, it only strengthens her suspicion.
By the end of the fourth day of this intensive tutorial, Sarah's head is spinning. She's tempted to simply run away from the justices and clerks and advisors, hiding in her chamber and burying her head under one of her many feather pillows until they all agree to just go away and leave her in peace. It's not just the impossible bulk of information she's expected to absorb that has her out of sorts, or even the foreign nature of the laws and traditions with which she will be bound to comply, but also an idea that no one has much concerned themselves with to this point (though she herself is exceedingly concerned with it).
It's the very idea of being a wife.
The Goblin King's wife.
It has not escaped her attention, no matter how divided, that all the information she is being presented regards the specifics of the betrothal and how adhering to them allows her to undergo this so-called 'binding ceremony' which will enable her to keep her place in the kingdom (and in the Labyrinth). All these requirements must be satisfied in order to proceed with the wedding.
But the wedding itself, well, that hasn't been mentioned, except as the end result of the rest of these serpentine obligations.
There has been no reference to a time frame in which she and Jareth are expected to marry, or consummate their union, or produce an heir. It's true that the king himself will sometimes inquire about an odd detail of the wedding ceremony here and there ("Precious, do you have any objection to chicory flower in your bouquet? Just a few, really, scattered among the larger blooms? I know it's not traditional, but it's the national flower of Lucidesa, and it will appease them for being seated behind Clan Hulluus in the Grand Cathedral. Besides, don't you humans need to have something blue when you marry?"), but none of the gaggle of royal law advisors has so much as remarked upon it.
She tells herself it's possible they just haven't gotten to it yet, and that there's another score of scrolls and a whole pile of aged tomes dictating how and when and where the wedding must take place, but by the fifth day, when it still hasn't come up, she begins to wonder if there might be some leeway here.
She wonders, and perhaps she even hopes.
And though she dreads it, Sarah knows she must address it with her intended.
Finally, on the sixth night since her return from her Labyrinth tour, Jareth invites her to sup in his private dining room, citing the need for some time away from the intensive duties and demands they've both endured over the last week (in truth, she suspects he does it for her sake, for the Goblin King never seems bothered by the continuous parade of secretaries and clerks and judges spouting lists of tasks he and Sarah must complete in order to fulfill their betrothal obligations, or the gallons of wax they seem to exhaust applying his official seal to newly-drafted documents, or the endless debates on the most appropriate way in which a newly recognized Goblin Queen should be installed into her royal offices).
It simultaneously pleases and irks her that the king seems to recognize her disorientation and her growing trepidation regarding what has come to be known as the great event, taking it upon himself to offer her some respite. She supposes she should be grateful, but it irritates her that she has been so transparent with her emotions, and that Jareth has not politely ignored that fact.
She dresses for the occasion as she always does: by donning the gown which simply appears on the dress form in the corner of her bed chamber. This evening, it's a study in contrasts. The skirts are a whimsical confection, made of layer upon layer of ivory tulle embellished with thousands of tiny crystalline flecks. They catch the candle light and throw it back into the eye of anyone who gazes upon her, like so many stars sparking to life as the waning day gives way to twilight. The bodice is the opposite of whimsy. Rather, it's a shining example of structure, somehow evoking the idea of alabaster statuary, as smooth as freshly fallen snow. It features a deeply scooped neckline that leaves Sarah's throat and collarbones bare, and the back dips so low that she shivers in the cool of the palace air as she sweeps through the corridors en route to the king's chambers.
As she nears her destination, the girl's pulse begins to quicken. She has seen Jareth every day since she agreed to the betrothal, but has had no occasion to spend any time alone with him. He has not visited her chamber as he has done in the past, and though they've dined together numerous times, they've also hosted their advisors during all their luncheons and dinners. She's seen Vergess Trindlebark more in this past week than in the entire previous year combined. All their conversation has centered around their duties as they pertain to the betrothal, with a smattering of Labyrinth business or the business of the larger realm thrown in as necessary. Sarah squints as she thinks on it, realizing the last time she'd had a private word with the king was when she'd returned from her tour of the Labyrinth and told him she would wed him.
The Goblin King's reply plays in her head as she steps through the doors held open for her by two dark, silent wolves wearing the golden uniform of elite guardsmen.
Oh, Sarah, what fun we'll have. What fun, what fun, what fun.
She would dwell on his words (she's apt to dwell, lately) and dissect them, and his tone, and his expression when he spoke them. She would, but she doesn't. Because as she enters Jareth's dining chamber, she is nearly robbed of breath. Gasping, her eyes widen and Sarah marvels at what she sees. She isn't certain if it's the beauty of what she beholds that causes her heart to clench painfully in her chest, or her lingering memory of how the king's voice pronouncing those words made them seem more ominous than they ought, and perhaps more ominous than they were meant.
Or, perhaps not.
The room looks nothing like it did when last she was here. Gone are the white walls and soft, sheer curtains dancing gently in the morning breeze through the open windows. Gone is the tinkling crystal chandelier, with its prisms that would fracture the sunlight into ethereal, winking diamonds that could flash in and out of bright existence faster than the eye could fathom. Gone is the scene that had made her feel as though she drifted weightless through the pages of an Edith Wharton novel.
In its place is a shadowed fantasy, heavy with all the danger and mystery and beauty of midnight. The room now glitters darkly, as though she is in an ancient mine with seams of gems crisscrossing the walls, torches guttering and making the minerals writhe and flicker in the wavering light. But that's not quite right, for the chamber is far more luxurious than some underground cave. The walls and ceiling are the color of the early evening, and they twinkle in the low light of a score of candles, as if they've somehow been embedded with flecks of crushed jet and gold. It reminds her of the night sky with its array of scintillating stars. The arched windows are half hidden behind heavy velvet drapes in the deepest blue. The floor is cool marble, black as coal with gray veins slithering through it, marking it with careless patterns like frozen arms of lightning captured in one moment of frightening perfection. It's dazzling, and extraordinary, and overwhelming, and her eyes fairly ache as they drink in the magnificence of it all.
Sarah has to remind herself to breathe.
In her ivory evening gown and delicate tiara, Sarah seems nearly celestial amid all the dark gleam of the room, but she feels…
Insubstantial.
As ephemeral as any ghost, fading in and out of existence in the Stygian spaces of the world.
"My dear, you are resplendent," Jareth pronounces as the doors close behind her. He is standing opposite her, clad in a deep purple frock coat with the silken black folds of his cravat spilling forth from between his lapels. An excellent table is laid between them, covered in a costly brocade of navy and emerald. It is set with crystal, and silver, and the finest bone china edged in polished platinum. There are platters with the rarest of delicacies and more superb wine decanted than the two of them can possibly drink. The whole thing is breathtaking and it's far more sumptuous than any feast she's ever attended (and, this being the palace of the Goblin King, there have been feasts a-plenty for comparison during her time here). "Please," he intones, "have a seat."
Her chair moves at his direction, a gentle flick and twist at his wrist, fingers crooked just so. Sarah wonders at the absence of servants but moves toward her seat. As she does, she remembers her courtesies.
"Thank you, my king," the girl says, sinking into her chair.
Jareth smiles and grasps the neck of a wine carafe, intricately etched with the king's own seal, lifting it from the table. He carries it smoothly around to her side and pours her a glass. Sarah tries to remember if the Goblin King has ever deigned to serve her anything, and she cannot recall a single instance in all her time here. She nods in gracious appreciation but wonders at this deviation from their routine.
At his uncommon hospitality.
In truth, it makes her wary. Her skin prickles.
"Where are the footmen?" she asks, attempting a nonchalance she does not feel.
Jareth sets the carafe down and plucks a tiny puffed pastry from a platter just beyond Sarah's wine glass. It appears to be filled with a creamy sort of cheese and is drizzled with something dark and rich.
"I've dismissed them," he tells her, bringing the morsel to her mouth and offering it to her with long, elegant fingers. Bare fingers. "I wanted you all to myself tonight."
Sarah licks her lips nervously but opens her mouth to accept the bite. It's warm and delicious, with perfectly crisp layers giving way to the decadent creaminess of the cheese and the earthy sweetness of the drizzle as she chews. Fig jam, she thinks, savoring it, with warm brie. There's a hint of heat there as she swallows, the slow sting of a pepper. Just a touch, not too much. Red chili? she wonders. Or, habanero? She licks her lips again, but this time, it's to taste any stray smear of the drizzle which clings to them.
"Oh, goodness," she sighs. Sarah is certain the Goblin King employs the most talented chef not only in the realm, but in all the surrounding territories and kingdoms as well.
"Another?" The king's smile is almost wicked as he reaches for the platter once again.
She shakes her head. "I shouldn't. It will spoil my dinner."
"Pish-posh, precious," Jareth chides, grasping another of the tiny pastries between his thumb and forefinger and waving it temptingly in front of Sarah. "Let me indulge you."
Before accepting the bite, she asks him a question.
"What have I done to earn your indulgence?"
The king laughs, the sound of it silvery and round, like an enchanted tune from a piper's flute, and it lulls her somehow. He watches slyly as she accepts the small pastry, answering her as she chews.
"Why, you've agreed to marry me, my darling girl. Should a man not spoil his bride-to-be?"
Sarah swallows and Jareth reaches for her face, curling the fingers of one hand beneath her jaw and dragging his thumb across her bottom lip, slow and hard. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, then the king releases her face and inspects his thumb, a small smile forming as he notes the bit of fig jam he's collected from her flesh. He slips the thumb past his own lips then, licking the bit of sweet off of it, all while staring into the girl's wide, green eyes.
The queen clears her throat and flutters her eyelids a little and Jareth laughs again, not unkindly. He reclines against the table, facing her, and the line of his body is relaxed yet still regal as he crosses one boot casually over the other.
"Is there something you wish to say, my queen?" His tone is light; playful. Sarah's eyes flit down to where her fingers are wrapped tightly around the arms of her chair. She notes that she has only to stretch but a little, and she can brush her fingertips across his knee. She refrains and lets out a breath.
"We've not really spoken of the wedding," she begins.
The Goblin King's perfect brows arch in amusement. "We've spoken of nothing else for nigh on a week, Sarah. Have you not been paying attention?" He tsks teasingly. "Vergess will certainly be disappointed."
She looks at him and shakes her head. "No, we've talked of the betrothal."
"Ah," he replies, understanding now. "Yes, I suppose you're right, but then, that's because the one must come before the other."
"Of course."
"And though there are traditions which must be observed, there is much less of the law which concerns itself with the wedding. Barring a very few things, and the requisite political considerations, of course, the details are entirely up to us."
"Yes, I see." Sarah looks past her king, watching the shadow he casts upon the ceiling overhead, large and dark. "It was… some of those… details… I wished to discuss."
"Splendid!" The king claps his hands together in delight, rising from his reclined position and reaching for the girl's face once again. He gently clasps her chin in his fingers and gazes down at her with a smile, repeating himself as he does. "Splendid."
He moves away from her then, taking the carafe of wine with him back around the table and pouring himself a glass before he sits. He swirls the ruby drink around his goblet a bit before taking a sip, and after swallowing and humming his approval of the vintage, says, "I suppose there's something in particular you wish to discuss."
The queen's nerves feel raw and they seem to fire continuously, raising gooseflesh along her arms and neck, leaving her fingertips feeling icy even while her chest is strangely hot. It's fear, she realizes, which is odd, given how absolutely charming and forbearing the king has been thus far. But she can't help but to remember his words, and his tone when he'd spoken them.
What fun we'll have.
What fun.
What fun.
What… fun.
"I was thinking…" she tries, and the words seem to stick in her throat.
Jareth reaches across the table, finding the fig and brie pastries he'd been feeding Sarah earlier, and takes one for himself. He inspects it a moment, then bites into it with rather more force than is required to pierce the delicate layers of the amuse-bouche, or so it seems to the girl. In doing so, he reveals a row of perfect, sharp teeth.
"You were thinking?" he prompts, his seemingly blithe demeanor edged in something faintly biting.
The girl pushes on, breathlessly, and all at once, lest her conviction wane.
"About the date. A date for the wedding."
"Oh, is that all?" A certain tension leaves his shoulders and he indicates a tray of little serving cups. They each hold a layered dish garnished with a tiny violet. "Foie custard with blood orange and cognac," he tells her. "Savory, and a little sweet. Try it. You won't be disappointed."
Sarah leans forward and reaches for one, placing it on the charger before her and dipping her sterling parfait spoon into the custard. She lifts a bite to her mouth, and the flavors explode on her tongue, complex, and succulent to the point of being sinful. Momentarily, her nervousness abates, giving way to a sweeping sense of satisfaction and delight.
"That is very, very good," she almost moans, taking another bite, her face morphing into a nearly pained expression. "So good."
"Yes," the king agrees, ignoring his own parfait spoon in favor of his finger. He dips it into his custard and takes a taste. "I am exceedingly fond of foie gras."
"It's my first time having it, but I guess I am, too," the girl remarks, taking another bite, then another. It's as if these flavors are exactly what she's been missing her entire life, and she can't seem to get enough of them now. Only faint memories of a sense of decorum keep her from licking the custard cup clean.
"It's something we have in common, then." Jareth's voice is deep, the words slow, and there is a teasing quality about them.
"I suppose it is," she answers carefully after removing the spoon from her mouth. The heat of the subtle pepper in the jam has built and her tongue tingles as her neck flushes pleasantly.
"Sharing things in common is important, don't you think, precious?" He dips his finger again, scooping up a small bit of custard and bringing it to his mouth, adding, "If our union is to be a successful one." He swipes the finger against his tongue, depositing the dollop of custard there, and Sarah thinks she has never seen the Goblin King eat without the benefit of cutlery before.
It seems to be a night of firsts.
She tries again to broach the topic she wishes to settle.
"And about that union," she interjects deftly, "I was wondering about the wedding date."
Jareth bites his lip and regards her a moment, eyes dancing. "My, my, pet, I had no idea you were so keen on the idea of matrimony. Tell me, though, is it me your heart desires, or is it the crown?"
His question catches Sarah off her guard for a few reasons, not the least of which is that he has taken the conversation in a direction she had not imagined it would go. Flustered, her response is impolitic, even if honest.
"I have a crown!" she snaps.
"Yes, you have a crown," Jareth concedes, leaning back in his chair and waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the queen's head, "but I asked if you wanted the crown."
Suddenly, the weight above Sarah's brow increases exponentially. She reaches up and grabs her tiara, pulling it free of her hair and placing it next to her untouched goblet. She stares at what she has set on the blue and green brocade covering the table. No longer is the headpiece a dainty band of tiny diamonds arranged in a simple looping pattern. It has become something altogether different. Before her sits a circlet of heavy gold, imbedded with rubies of the deepest red. Sharp points rise from the circle, six of them, arranged at regular intervals and standing three inches off the top of the band. Between each point, strings of smaller rubies are suspended from overlapping gold chains, festoons of gems dripping down like droplets of blood or pomegranate seeds. Sarah stares the thing, at its harsh beauty, and she is filled with a sense of dread.
The six points appear knife-like, sharp enough to draw blood.
She reaches for her goblet then, careful not to touch the heavy crown which seems to taunt her, and takes a long swallow of her wine, hoping to quell her disquiet.
"It's not the crown I want," she insists. "Titles mean nothing to me, except in that they allow me to keep peace in the Labyrinth."
"Then why the rush to set a date?" It is clear the king is suspicious.
"You misunderstand me. I'm not rushing to set a date," Sarah explains. "I'm… I… I want to be sure we don't set it too soon."
"Too soon?"
"I'm… I'm just…"
"You're just what, Sarah?"
She shrugs. "I'm not ready."
The king is unfazed. "Of course not. No one is. It's not as though a royal wedding can be thrown together overnight. You needn't worry, my dear. There's plenty of time to plan. I should think we couldn't have the ceremony before at least the spring."
"The spring?"
"Mountain travel in the winter is far too treacherous, and I don't think the clans would look kindly on a royal invitation that would require them to risk their necks to attend, no matter how their chiefs may wish to enjoy your charming company once again."
"Oh." Sarah murmurs distractedly as she realizes Jareth has mistaken her meaning again.
Jareth takes her tone for one of disappointment. "My dear Sarah, I know politics is not something you would've dreamed you'd have to consider when planning your wedding, and I'm sorry that it has to be this way, but there are so many other areas where you will have complete freedom to choose. Surely waiting for a less-dangerous time of year for our allies to travel is a small price to pay to keep the peace?"
The girl is seized with the desire to make herself understood.
"The politics don't bother me at all," she tells him. "I'm not ready for the wedding because I'm not ready to be married, Jareth. I'm not ready to be… queen of the entire realm! I'm just not." She's shaking her head and her heart is thumping wildly in her chest.
The King of the Goblins gives a bemused little snort, his brow wrinkling. "Nonsense! Not ready? You've managed the Labyrinth beautifully, my dear. At times, I believe you are better at it than I ever was."
Despite herself, Sarah smiles at that. "Because I never had the rest of the realm and more than a dozen allies to manage at the same time."
"You're very kind to say that, but I've had far longer than you to learn to rule these lands, the Labyrinth included. I was born to this, and groomed for it. And despite that, the denizens of the Labyrinth have never shown me even a fraction of the love they bear their queen. And who can blame them? I share that same love."
Something inside of her pinches at his words, at his off-hand admission, but then a question bubbles up inside of her and she sets considerations of love aside for the moment.
"Jareth, did you give me the Labyrinth so that I could… prove myself?" Her voice is nearly a whisper as she asks. The king laughs and shakes his head.
"No, my sweet, I didn't give you the Labyrinth so that you could prove yourself. I didn't give you the Labyrinth at all. If you'll recall, you took it from me."
"I… I never meant…"
He waves off her contrition. "You took it, and you dedicated yourself to it, and in doing so, you've proven you have a natural talent for ruling. I have no doubt you will succeed in your new role, just as you've succeeded in the old one."
His words are kindly meant, which makes it hard for her to continue pressing her case, but press she does.
"I just need time, Jareth. You can do that, can't you? For me?"
"Well, the spring is merely the earliest acceptable timeframe," he admits. "Were you thinking perhaps the summer, then?"
"I was thinking… not so soon as the summer," Sarah breathes. The king lifts his wine glass and sips, watching her over the top of the crystal goblet.
"Oh?" he asks once he has swallowed. To the girl, it seems that Jareth's expression has hardened a touch. "So, exactly how far into the future do you see this wedding occurring, precious?"
"I was thinking… after my twenty-first birthday."
The crystal in Jareth's hand shatters as he squeezes. The sound of snapping glass makes Sarah jump.
"Three years," the Goblin King seethes, all traces of charm and forbearance erased. He seems to recalculate and his expression darkens further. "More than!" He looks as if he wishes to say more, but he draws in one sharp breath instead and then blows it out through his nose, his mouth pinching in a look of utter disgust. He stands abruptly, glaring at her over the platters of delicacies and expensive wines; over the shards of his goblet which now litter his plate, the brocade cloth around it, and even the uneaten dishes laid out before them.
Without a word, Jareth stalks around the table, his eyes locked with hers. When he approaches Sarah, she sits straight and still, not daring to move even a hair's breadth. Stiffly, the king reaches out for her hand, and, taking it, he bows, pressing a hard kiss to the back of it.
"My queen," he says formally, and his voice carries all the warmth of a harsh winter's storm.
Jareth stands tall and gives Sarah one last glare before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
She does not lay eyes on him again for three whole days, and when she dreams of the lightning and the crib and the quiet, empty house, there is no one to wake her and tell her it isn't real. There is no one to comfort her and say she has nothing to fear. There is no one to promise to guard her against the bad things.
Even if the bad thing is herself.