Silver hair?
Different coloured eyes?
Sarah's heart began to once more pound so hard she could feel it beneath her skin.
It couldn't be. It wasn't real. There's no such thing as Goblins, let alone a Goblin King. Nonsense born from the imagination of a frustrated teenager.
But there is Fae…a voice whispered inside her head.
No, there wasn't, she argued back. Fae were not real. Faeries, sprites, nymphs…all folklore and artistic imagination.
Eliza thinks so…
There's was very little Eliza didn't believe in, Sarah argued with herself, but she was feeling increasingly sick.
One night, not long after they had moved in, Eliza and her had spent the night "cleansing the energy" of the apartment. Sarah had been bemused but had gone along with the rituals, which involved a lot of sage and a couple of bottles of wine. Something for the apartment, something for us, Eliza had said. They'd gotten drunk and Sarah, thoughts on Toby who had turned 8 the day before, had confided in her new roommate about the weird adventure that had happened when she fifteen. It was her imagination, obviously, a strange dream she'd had after a frustrating night of babysitting. But it had felt so real. She'd spent the days following glued to Toby, much to her father and stepmothers surprise, watching furtively over her shoulder for a shimmer of fair hair, mismatched eyes.
Instead of falling about laughing or drunkenly commiserating, Eliza had listened curiously and at the end of the tale said, "You got him back, your brother Toby. Well done you, Sarah. Fae can be tricky to deal with, they don't let go easily of what is theirs. Either your claim over Toby was somehow stronger magic, or his claim wasn't truly on the stolen baby."
Embolden by alcohol, and encouraged by Eliza's belief in her tale, she'd spilled her other secrets. How she dreamed sometimes of the adventure…how she dreamed sometimes of just her and him, beyond the realm of why had happened…creating something entirely different in her mind…
No. This was ridiculous.
Sarah blinked back to the present, straightening up and taking a deep breath. She'd been paused in front of the mirror at the woman's words and she noticed a few odd looks directed her way by other women in the bathroom. She smiled brightly, grabbed her purse form the counter and headed for the door.
It's an art exhibition, put on by the gallery she worked for, and it just so happens to be Faerie themed. She'd volunteered to be in Professor Titan's painting and apparently she'd made it into more than one and with a flattering likeness. Hardly anything to be upset about.
She exited the bathroom and turned down the corridor to head back to the hall, musing on her own foolishness of entertaining such ridiculousness. She'd go view that first painting right now and put a stop to this crazy fear. Footsteps sounded behind her and she startled in surprised when the person brushed past without warning.
"Hey-" Sarah voiced died off as the figure walked ahead, silver strands gleaming off broad shoulders.
He did not turn around at the sound of her voice, his tall figure moving swiftly towards the hall.
Sarah could barely breathe.
"Wait." It came out as whisper, as the figure moved further and further away.
"Wait!" She spoke loudly this time, heart in her throat, feet frozen to the floor.
The figure paused. Sarah stared at his back, unable to move her eyes from the silvery blonde hair that spilled over his shoulders.
Then, without wanting, his head turned and he looked at her.
Skin like marble, sharply beautiful features; eyes glittering as they met her own. Mismatched eyes.
Sarah felt as if the breath was stolen from her. She could neither move, not speak, not breathe. Her purse hung limply from one hand, the other just as formless. She could not break her gaze from his and fear was turning her blood to ice.
He turned fully and strode towards her. Long strides. Confident. Threatening.
He stopped directly in front of her: his head tilting as he looked down at her. He said nothing. The corner of his mouth was upturned but his eyes were cold.
Sarah opened her mouth but nothing came out other than her own, soft breath. Up close, even in the midst of fear so strong she felt sick, she was mesmerised. He had angular features, haunty eyebrows framing those odd-coloured eyes. His hair fell in a silvery sheet, far more sleek than she remembered.
Several moments passed as they stood there. Where were the other people, Sarah wondered distantly. What a sight they must be making standing frozen like this in the corridor.
He raised an eyebrow, his head tilting back slightly, as though challenging her.
Sarah took a breath, forced her heart to calm, and opened her mouth again, "Why…what are you doing here?" It wasn't a whisper, thank God, but it was hesitant and she knew that fear bled into her voice.
He smiled. It was pleasant enough but something sinister was written in the curve of those pale lips. "I was passing through."
Sarah had heard his voice 7 years ago as a sneering opponent and in her dreams as someone softer...now was something entirely different...there was a smoothness, almost like a reassuring quality to his tone but it chilled her to the bone...
"You were…passing through." Sarah repeated.
She wanted to run. Beneath the smile, he was watching her intently. His eyes flickered over her face, taking her in whilst she stood defenceless.
"Indeed I am. You see, a friend of mine is exhibiting and I am keen to witness the reception his work garners."
"A friend?" Sarah repeated his words back again. The sick feeling increased. "And who-" Her voice faltered, "Who is your friend?"
The corners of his mouth quirked once more, "Oh a friend of many years. Have you seen his work, Sarah?"
Her name on his tongue sent shockwaves through her. She shook her head wordlessly.
"Ah. I see you have not yet had the pleasure." Without warning, his right hand rose and the fingers lifted the heavy mass of the hair that skimmed her left shoulder.
Sarah froze in shock at the feel of his gloved fingers holding her hair. Just holding it as though testing the thick length of it for weight. There was a smile playing around his lips as he eyed the dark locks in his fingers.
"It seems we are right on track, Sarah." His hand remained where it was for a few seconds before he removed it, the locks falling back down to brush against the tops of her shoulder.
"I don't understand." She came to her senses then and stepped back, out of his reach. She watched as his eyes darkened at her movement.
"No." He looked at her dispassionately. "You do not. But you will soon."
Sarah reached up, unable to stop herself, to touch the locks he'd held. She saw him watching the gesture and abruptly let her hand drop.
"I preferred it long. Still, it will grow."
Sarah flushed, with both embarrassment and indignation. And humiliation that she should even care whether he found her attractive.
"No." She looked up at the quietly spoken word to find him watching her, "You are beautiful regardless."
There was an intensity there that made her feel strange all over, frozen in the wake his declaration yet heat spread within, swirling around her body. She could almost step forward into his reach again, into the intensity of his eyes, into the…
No.
She stepped back as if physically shocked. What the hell was happening.
"What are you doing here…Jareth?" She had meant to take back power. He had used her name so casually, as though he owned it, as though he had the right to it. She meant to confront him but she saw instantly her mistake.
He smirked and stepped closer. She knew if she retreated once more, he would pursue and a dance would ensue. One she was in no condition to win. So she held her ground, tensing at anticipation of his touch.
But he merely leaned in slightly. "Go and see the painting, Sarah."
Then he was gone, striding away. Through the open doorway to the hall without pausing to look back, melting into the crowds, silver hair glinting at he vanished.
Sarah staggered towards one of the wide window sills in the corridor and sat, purse on her lap, hands either side, resting against the cool surface.
Her mind was desperately trying to process the last five minutes.
Jareth was here. King of the Goblins. Thief of wished-away infants. Yet he didn't look quite like he had when he had taken Toby. He seemed…less of a cosplay character and more of…more like…an ethereal King…a dangerous and lethal and hauntingly beautiful King…
And he had touched her, held her hair in his gloved fingers…like she was his…like they were in the middle of a dance he knew the steps too and she did not.
In her dreams, no, her fantasies, he was the attentive lover, softly worshipping her. Now, here, in person, he looked the part, but there was something frightening in the flesh. In her dreams, he would never hurt her…would touch her only gently. And yes, the touch to her hair had been gentle…but his eyes…the cruel curve of his mouth…belied that gentle touch. He would not bend to her, would indulge her only when he wished to. He frightened her in the same breath as he beguiled her.
Why was he here?
It wasn't to court her, like the version from her dreams. He had barely spoken to her, let alone attempted to woo her. There are as something lurking in his gaze, something sinister. He was so beautiful, and she wished to run as far as she could from this evening. Find him again in her dreams; where she was safe, where he loved her.
Go and see the painting, Sarah.
Would that tell her what this was? She instinctively knew he meant the Professor. But how…how could he…Professor Titan had been tenured at the college…he was an established artist…how could he know the Goblin King?
"I've never seen a fae myself." Eliza had said, as they'd lain in the aftermath of Sarah's tale. "But many artists have. The Professor I'll be studying with…I wouldn't be surprised if he has many times over…his depictions are so surreal."
Sarah swallowed hard. Eliza was here, in the reception hall. She'd know…she'd help…and the Professor…God…he had never been anything but courteous with her…he could explain his own painting couldn't he?
But first, she had to go see it.
She blew out a breath, gathered her courage and stood. She felt wooden as she walked back along the corridor and through the doorway into the reception hall. It had grown busier still. Guests thronging about; engaged in conversations; smiling as they drank the champagne and admired, and critiqued, the pieces on show.
Sarah headed to the left corner where she knew the Professor first piece was displayed. Reaching the corner, the painting was crowded and she waited patiently as those already at the front shifted and made room as they left.
Her heart beat fast, her palms felt slightly sticky.
It's just a painting, she told herself. Just a painting. Just a painting.
As she shifted closer, a couple just moving away from the front stopped and stared at her; eyes shifting over her briefly and smiling before moving on towards the back wall display.
She swallowed and moved forward again as the queue shifted. She could almost see.
Her neck prickled with tension all of a sudden and she knew with absolutely certainty she was being watched. He was watching her, waiting to view her reaction as soon as she saw the painting. Summoning her courage, she turned and looked into the crowd, expecting to have to scour the faces.
He was right there.
Standing several meters away from the viewing group, eerily still, focused as a bird of prey might from their vantage point. His eyes met hers. They gave nothing away. He merely tilted his head slightly to the right and continued to watch her.
"Excuse me, are you waiting to view the painting?"
A voice broke through Sarah's concentration and she saw a man had come up behind her and was looking politely both at and behind her.
"You can move forward, there's room for us both now," he said, indicating with a hand.
"Sorry. Yes, thank you." Sarah got out and turned back to queue to to see it had largely melted away and there was ample space for three or four people to move up and see the painting.
In fact, if she went in the space between a tall man wearing a suit and a woman in long black skirt, she'd be directly in front of the canvas. She moved on autopilot, aware as she entered the space that the painting was right there, yet keeping her eyes to the bottom of the frame until she was firmly positioned.
She swallowed, close her eyes briefly, then looked straight ahead.
It was her alright.
That was her first thought. It was her, no mistake. Her second thought was not a thought, no it was the feeling of horror that sent a sickness spreading through her stomach.
The painting was beautiful. Utterly enchanting. It was drawing admiring glances from all around and Sarah could hear faint murmurs of praise from those either side of her. Of course they would praise it. The painting was spellbinding…if you were not the subject. And if you were, as Sarah was, it was utterly terrifying.
There she was, on canvas. From her fair skin to her green eyes and dark hair. She stood, her posture rigid and inflexible. Clothed in a gown of emerald green. It was a flattering portrayal. The vision of every fantasy she'd ever had of herself when dreaming of romance, suitors and other worlds. But her face…her eyes…she recognised that look as if she had worn it herself.
Fear.
Her eyes gazed out from the painting in a trapped and powerless state.
And trapped she was…there was a figure behind her in the painting. An arm, like a band of steel, wound round her. Not holding her waist in a courtly gesture but held across her ribs, binding her cruelly. And the arm belonged to him.
Sarah swallowed as her eyes ran over the man in the painting. Standing behind her, dressed in a black poet's shirt, pendant gleaming around his neck, silvery blonde strands falling over broad shoulders. He also stared directly outwards…but his gaze was of an entirely different variety.
Predatory. Cruel.
That's what she saw in his eyes. The same cruelty that was in the left arm that held her so firmly to him.
There wasn't just cruelty. There was resolution. Unwavering resolution.
Sarah felt sick.
Breathing fast, she tried scanning the overall painting again. What else was there. Something other than herself trapped in the arms of a man with cruelty in his eyes.
She looked again at herself, shuddering inwardly at the remarkable likeness.
Except…something was off…something wasn't right…what was it?
She looked at the painting of herself, from the top of her head to where it finished somewhere in her folds of the gown. But she couldn't see…couldn't see what was so wrong…
She was aware of a shuffling to her left and looked over to see someone reading the small plaque to the left of the painting.
The title.
Trembling slightly, she waited until that person had finished before moving closer to the neatly printed square.
Her eyes flickered over it.
The Fae King
Professor Michael Titan
Her lips moved as she read the words but no sound came out.
She looked back to the painting and her heart stopped.
The her of the painting…she had thick gleaming dark locks…
...cut short to her clavicle.
Sarah stumbled away from the painting, mind racing frantically…she needed…air…she needed the cold night air to calm her…she needed…
"Sarah! There you are!" Eliza interrupted her panic, smiling widely, "Have you seen the Professor's paintings? Have you seen…" She trailed off as she peered at Sarah's face, "Are you OK, Sarah?"
"I'm…fine…just feeling a bit flushed." Sarah got out. Her mind was still racing but seeing Eliza, her friend, her normal, safe friend gave a swell of instant relief. "I'm fine, really. I was just looking at…the first painting…and I got a bit overheated."
She must of looked less freaked out as Eliza seemed reassured at the explanation.
"Yeh, it's a bit hot in here." She paused, "So you've seen the first one? Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes, it's…beautiful."
"But your hair! What are the chances?" She looked curiously at Sarah, "Did he know you were planning to cut it?"
"No." Shook her head, the locks in question moving gently around the top of her shoulders, "No. I just felt like it this morning. I had no idea the Professor was painting me so…detailed."
What she meant was, she had no idea she, along with the King of her nightmares, were to be the sole subjects. No idea she'd have a starring role without ever sitting for, nor providing a photograph to, the artist.
"Ah. Well, you the painting is beautiful and you look amazing too, tonight." Eliza said easily. She added, "Your hair suits you, I like it that length."
He doesn't.
The thought sprang straight to Sarah's mind and it alarmed her even though she herself wasn't sure of the length change.
Eliza must of read face as she then went, "It'll grow back. Besides, the Professor clearly predicts the future so I don't think you need to worry."
Huh? Sarah was about to ask what on Earth she meant when she saw him.
Standing some distance away, over by the panelled glass, watching her. Waiting.
She glanced around. No one else was paying any attention. No one seemed aware of the terrifying turn this evening had taken for the subject of the art they were all admiring.
She needed air. She needed to get outside and away from him.
Sarah murmured her excuses as another guest engaged Eliza, turned on her heal and hurried towards the entrance.
Heart thumping, she went through the doors into the lobby.
She was shaking as she crossed the foyer. She didn't stop to request her coat and instead fled out the doors and into the cool evening air.
There were a few patrons standing around at the top of the steps, wearing coats and holding drinks as they smoked. Sarah ignored them all and made her way down the steps.
At the bottom a gravelled path offered a route straight ahead to the exit gates or round either side of the building. The grounds wrapped around the gallery: an expanse of lawn, littered with trees. Sarah took the left route, and walked a few meters out of sight of the entrance. The gravel path was dimly but pleasantly lit and she saw a bench a bit further along.
As she walked towards it, he appeared as if from nowhere. His tall, lean frame standing meters away from her on the gravel path.
She froze and sharp spikes of fear flooded her. They were out of sight of the entrance. She was alone, in the dark with the man from the painting.
No, The Fae King.
She took a step back, her heels crunching against the gravel.
He took a step forward, no sound emitting from his black boots.
Black boots…Sarah's eyes travelled upwards…he wore black leggings and a black poet's shirt; a golden pendant gleaming from where it hung against the dark material.
She felt sick. He was dressed exactly as the painting. And she…she glanced down at herself. The green velvet dress, the beautiful thrift shop find…combined with her shortened hair…she, too, looked as though she had stepped out of the painting.
She trembled as he took another step towards her. No, she had to run, she had to -
"No." And then he was in front of her. Looking down at her, his gaze relentless on her face.
She stood frozen in place and trembling in frigid air.
"It is too cold to be outside dressed this way." Gloved fingers trailed down both her arms.
The touch jolted Sarah from her immobile state. "I'll just...be going back inside then." She tried to move backwards but his hands locked on her upper arms.
"I think not, Sarah."
Sarah dug for her courage. She was not feeble. She was not without strength.
"Let me go." She tried again to a step backwards and to her surprise, he released her.
"Perhaps I should hold you like this instead." One second he was there in front of her and the next he was behind, his left arm a band of steel across her ribs securing her ageing his torso. Trapped. Helpless
She felt his hair tickle her ear. "Do you not like our painting, my Sarah? Does it not represent us well?"
It was hard to think, held against him, his voice in her ear, but she whispered in a tone somewhere between a refusal and a plea, "I am not yours."
The arm around her vanished and she staggered at the sudden change. Her heels betrayed her and she crashed down, her knees impacting painfully into the gravel. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and waited for the nausea to pass before climbing, shaking, to her feet. She wouldn't be surprised if her tights were torn and her knees bleeding.
He stood in front of her watching. His face dispassionate.
She met his eyes, fisting her hands against her thighs. In her dreams, this would be where he held and healed any injury that might befall her. In reality, she stood shaking from both cold and adrenaline, feeling liquid dribbling slowly down her legs.
"You are hurt." His voice was impassive.
Her instinct was to reply that he had dropped her and, thankfully, she caught herself before she walked into that trap.
"I am fine. It's just bruises." Lies. She could feel rivulets of blood making their way down form booth knees.
He stepped forward but didn't touch her, eyes scanning from her face to her cut knees.
He waited. Sarah said nothing. She would not ask. She'd rather bleed to death on the gravel than ask.
His mouth tightened but his tone was even when he spoke into the prolonged silence, "As you wish then."
She swallowed.
He held a gloved hand out to her, "Come. Let us walk. There is much for us to discuss."
Sarah looked from the black leather to his face.
Walk with him?
Go willingly into the dark with this...this figure of nightmares?
She shook her head, swallowed a few times to calm her voice. "I'm going back inside. I need to…to…"
To escape.
"Hmm." His eyes flickered over her. "I see. So you would rather I pursue you." He smiled, but there was a bitter taint to it that frightened her.
He moved back several paces, all the while watching her.
"It seems our artist was indeed accurate in his depiction of us. I shall play my role accordingly. And you shall play yours. I fear yours is the more difficult of the two but that is your choice. I do enjoy a good chase."
His words seeped into Sarah and she stared, comprehension dawning as his limbs seemed to tense.
She turned and ran.