Chapter Five

Jareth

Didn't know what this would be

But I knew I didn't see

What you thought you saw in me

- MS MR, Hurricane

September 21st, 2002. Day 4 of the quarantine

"Sarah?"

"Hm?"

"Do you have a birthmark?"

A rustle of covers and a foot grazed his knee. "Yes."

"Where?"

"On my left hip."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

"What does it look like?"

She sighed. "It's a birthmark. It looks like a birthmark." The spell rumbled, and Sarah let out another huff of breath. "Fine. It's—you cannot think too much of this. Just... don't. It's shaped like a cherry, or a peach." She traced the shape in the air with her finger.

Jareth grinned. "A peach?"

"Stop."

"Would you like a peach, Sarah?"

"I very much would not."

"Peach juice? Peach turnover? Dumpling? No? I suddenly find myself with a craving."

She shifted again, and this time he captured her bare foot in his gloved hands, kneading into the tight muscles in the arch with a precision that had her making a delicious little sound, even a moment after she attempted to pull away.

"You're so tense, precious," he murmured.

"I wonder why."

He focused on his task, and he felt her relax by degrees until her other foot was nudging up to the first one, and he switched to it as she sighed in contentment.

"Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but why are you giving me a foot massage?"

He did not look at her. "Because I want to ease your pain, in whatever way I can." He paused, the spell swelling between them. "And because I want your love. Your devotion."

"That's a lot of reason."

"Yes."

Her head fell back as he continued his work, her book splayed across her chest. She was wrapped in a soft blanket on the couch with him, and up until a few minutes ago, they had been quietly reading together. His book—a copy of The Feminine Mystic—had a slip of brown paper marking the pages halfway through where he had stopped reading.

"I can't believe it's only been four days of this," she said at a near whisper. "Are the days crawling by, or is that just me?"

"Time does seem to have slowed down considerably," he said, and a thought struck him. He stopped his movement on her foot despite her mewl of protest. "I may have something that could help divide the days, however."

She sat up, pulling her feet away as she hugged her knees to her chest, heedless of her book. "You do? What is it?"

"It will take some preparation, precious," he smiled at her. "You sound so eager."

She affected an air of disinterest. "I wanted to know what it was."

"A surprise, now."

"If I asked you an official question, would you answer it then?"

"Perhaps."

"Okay—what do you have in mind for a distraction for the two of us?"

He grinned. "I won't answer that."

Sarah stuck out her lower lip a little before a triumphant smile lit up her face. "Then let your punishment begin," she exclaimed and scooted around on the couch so her back faced him. She pulled her waist-length hair out of the way and turned her head a little, so she could eye him. "I need you to do to my shoulders and back what you did to my feet. And no funny business! Just a massage. Please," she added at the last in a near whisper.

It was all he could do to not grin ear to ear. She was starting to let down a little of her guard around him. Not much, but enough. Enough that she was showing the true nature of her personality. Vulnerable yet fiery.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and began to press into muscles knotted tight. He worked at her, keeping his focus professional, but marveling all the while that he was able to touch her. Her. His Sarah.

You have no power over me, she had said all those years ago. But he could not say the same, could he? For under his soothing fingers, he could feel her begin to relax, and he treasured every little sigh and caught breath. They were close enough he could smell her. Almonds. Jasmine. Something else. Like the elusive taste of her. Something unique and new.

He craved newness. Needed it after so many hundreds of years alone. And time is short.

She was mortal, yes, but mortals brought to his kingdom were often unaffected or immune to time and its inexorable crawl. His precious Sarah would live, yes, but only if she returned with him.

He slid from the couch and instructed her to lay on her stomach. She complied, moving with an ease of trust that made hope bloom in his chest.

"I'm bent over the computer all the time," she said. "My shoulders and back are always so tight. Thank you."

He used her new position to his advantage, rolling his palms up and down along the sides of her spine, easing out muscles that were like bands of iron. He worked on her for some time, keeping track of every small movement and exhalation of breath, each little moan and small whimper. Slowly, inch by inch, she relaxed beneath his hands. "How long has it been?"

"Mm, at least six months. I haven't had the time, and with the pandemic, the massage and the tattoo parlors were some of the first places that closed down."

"Tattoo?"

He saw her cheeks redden. "I have a small piece. On my right shoulder."

He smoothed his hand over the spot and noticed her shudder beneath him. He pulled away, leaning back to sit on his heels, hands spread over his thighs. "You've never shown me."

"No." She turned so she was facing him, her cheek pressed into the blue fabric of the couch cushion. "I will."

"When?"

"Not now."

He gazed at her and felt a rising tension swell in the air between them. Her fist was covering her mouth, but her wide green eyes were unblinking upon him. "Sarah—"

"No," she interjected, her voice a little muffled. "Please, don't ask me anything."

His mouth slid shut. A dozen questions whirled in his mind, demanding release, but he kept them locked down deep in his lungs, far behind his lips and teeth.

"Did you know about me, before you took my brother?" She asked.

"You have your questions, but I may not have mine?"

"You've had plenty of answers. I want some of my own." She still stared at him, and there was a weight to that gaze he had rarely seen. Similar to the final confrontation. A calm. "Was it like the playbook said, that the Goblin King fell in love with the girl and gave her special powers, or was that just—what was that?"

Jareth wanted to pull off his gloves and show her. To confess all, yet years of solitude kept his tongue still. "I knew of you before you wished your brother away, yes. You had caught my attention."

"Why?" It was a whisper.

He shifted a little, so he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was oddly intimate, sitting like this while she lay before him, as though spread out on an altar. A priestess embodying the goddess. A sacrifice, in more ways than one. He wanted to be done with this talking. But they had entered a bargain, and the spell was pressing between them.

"Because of your affinity with magic, at first. Not many mortals can harness it the way you can. It made me take another look, and when I looked I saw your heart. It was fractured. Shattered. I saw that behind your costumes and your smiles, your tantrums and your stamping feet, you were wailing. Screaming to be heard. You were lonely. Tired. Confused. It was because your mother left you, wasn't it?"

As he spoke, he had been looking down near Sarah's feet, but now he found her face once more, and his stomach lurched to see the steady stream of tears now peppering the rich fabric. She sniffed and rose, so she was seated, hands pressed to the edge of the couch as tears continued to flow. "You saw—" she choked, and when he made a move toward her she held up a shaking hand. He went still. Sarah took a deep breath. "And you still wanted me?"

"Now, more than ever. You were too young, then. And you had not yet earned your place. But even if you had not run the Labyrinth, I would have found a way to you, eventually." He took a breath. "Sarah, I—"

"I'm going to go to bed now," she said, interrupting him. She rose and gripped the blanket around herself. "Sleep well."

Jareth did not move until the door to her bedroom closed with a soft snick of a sliding lock. He tried to pretend it did not bother him, but it did.

One step forward, two steps back, he thought with some wry humor.