Unseeled

by FangamerBowiextreme

Sarah, contending over the imminent death of her terminally ill father, receives a proposition that sounds too good to be true. The life of her father, the eternal protection of a fae over her family, in exchange for her hand in marriage. In a moment of weakness, and too guilt-stricken to refuse, she accepts the proposal -but to whom, she has no idea. So long as it isn't 'Him'.

12. Chapter 12

A/N- Okay, so I know I said it was Night of a Thousand Deaths turn, but I felt more inspired to write this one instead. It's okay though. The chosen holiday for that chapter is Mabon, so I have until the end of September to get it written.

I have a disclaimer before you begin, as this chapter contains some graphic content which some readers may be upset by. Instances of sexual aggression treading the line of dubcon abound —as well as recounts of/references to theoretical and actual physical abuse/rape. I'd ask that readers sensitive to such topics tread with caution. Secondly, DESPITE these instances, I do not view this as a dubcon story, nor do I feel S/J's relationship as being particularly BDSM. Those elements are present given Jareth's *condition* and his predisposition towards a *rough manner*, but please don't think the aforementioned is something I'm trying to represent. Jareth has some issues. Sarah wants to uncover them. Things are going to happen, some good, some bad, and they are both going to grow from that process. That in mind, if heavy-handedness is not to your tastes, then all I can say is I think I've been pretty transparent as to how the story is building and where it's leading to.

I mentioned way in the beginning that I wasn't sure how to properly categorize this story, as it contains dark elements but isn't in and of itself "dark". Same with Jareth. He has dark aspects, but I don't at all view this characterization of him as Dark!. I guess...at the end of the day, it's all subjective so we'll see. Anyway, I think that's everything I need to say. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading.

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Chapter 12, Shame

---

Jareth exited the dungeon with his head held low, staring vacantly at the floor while smoothing a frown away from his brow. He was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy, like the darkness of the corridor itself weighed him further down with each step.

He'd been up the entire night and, judging by the guiding light glaring at him at the end of the hall, it was now morning.

Frustration lingered along with a pressure behind his eyes. He could still feel it. Coiling there. Like a worm churning in his ear. Like a thumb pressing deep into his brain. He hadn't dealt with this kind of persistence in a long time, and was drained in both body and spirit.

Alas, he'd done all he could, all he was capable of. He was confident he was well enough to leave at least. To rest. Well enough to retake his place of seclusion in this otherwise unsuspecting, brightly colored world.

He was angry —with himself —at the feeling —at the fact that he knew precisely why he was so, so incompetent.

It was her. It was all her. No matter how he persevered, her image alone was enough to keep that wretchedness clinging on by one single claw. He couldn't shake it. He just couldn't. And he knew that so long as she existed within his reach that the shadows would only grow heavier.

He didn't know what to do. Didn't know what he even wanted to do. Lochlan was right. It would be easy and better for him to just avoid her. Or at least….it should be. It should be easy, and yet they kept finding one another. She kept looking and he kept going and…and then he sighed. She was a plague only because he had made her one. He knew that.

But...what else could he have done? Said no? Sent her home? Done right by her when Fate had thrust them together, again? Yes. Yes, he could have. It had been a simple decision, and he had simply decided...not to.

Lochlan was right about that too. He had no moral footing to stand on. His motivations were as selfish as they always had been. The simple truth was, when he first saw her again after all those years, when they crossed gazes, when she fell and touched him, he'd…

He stopped and let out a breath just before the door silently eased open, dismissing what remained of that thought and the excuses and the fancies and the pathetic guise of helplessness that combined them.

Lochlan may have set up that situation, but Jareth knew his impulses were his own, and he knew...

It was all futile. He knew his mind, and he knew his madness, and he'd known (oh, how he'd always known) all the terrible things that he wanted.

He thought he could ignore her like everyone else. He thought, at the very least, that she would proactively do the same. He put her through hardship. He toyed with her life and with those precious to her. He was her villain, wasn't he? He was the thing that dwelled and dreamed, that tainted what he touched. A thing that was wicked, that hurt, that was sullied.

What kind of things would she call him if she saw what he was behind those bars? He'd been living those labels for so long, he no longer knew what other words there were to say.

If she knew those words, that thing that they described, then she would fear him too. He consoled himself with that knowledge. He had to. As he crossed the threshold from darkness into the morning light, he could not fully fathom how tragic it would be for her to feel the weight of it all and somehow still have the courage to smile.

He stood in silence and stared down at the stone floor, so engrossed in thought that he almost didn't notice Lochlan waiting beside him. At a sign of movement from his peripheral, he turned and looked down —eyes landing on his trusted retainer sitting on a bench, slouched against the wall with arms crossed and head dipped as he peacefully slept.

Jareth's attention lingered for a moment. He ought to wake him, he thought. Ought to let him poke and prod, and see that the beast was still tame. Jareth knew from experience how annoying it would be later on if he didn't subject himself now. As he stared at Lochlan (somehow still managing to look chipper even in his sleep), he realized that annoying would be applicable to any part of the day and, lest the abrupt little shift of Lochlan's boot be a sign of his rousing, vanished on the spot.

A shift in the air woke Lochlan with a jolt. Realizing he'd fallen asleep, he sat upright and peered all around. He'd sensed something just now. Was Jareth—

He stood and turned towards the door to the dungeon. It was left open, but no light shone from within. Lochlan took a step back from it and frowned, turning around to look down the other end of the hall.

There was no one there —not that he really expected there to be. With a frown, he turned back around and closed the door, internally chastising his carelessness. He'd been up all night monitoring Jareth, and was determined to do so until he was finished. But, apparently, his hovering proved more tiring than Jareth's tribulations. …How crass.

He wondered if he should go after him. No. No. That was never wise. Best to let him recover. Still, how frustrating. It was morning now and, from the look of it, he must have just missed him.

Hrrmm… It was getting a little stressful being so out of the loop. Maybe he should go check on Sarah again? No. No. That would probably be just as bad. Her temper was as quick as Jareth's.

He scratched his head as he tried to figure out what to do with himself, eventually huffing at the notion that he really had no place in any of it. Maybe he should let them figure it out for themselves then. Let the cards fall where they may and all that...

And then he grumbled again.

Damn.

---

Sarah woke to a headache with the power of two hammers pounding against her temples. She scowled tightly before even opening her eyes, cursing the blasted sun and her lack of curtains while swiftly rolling into her pillow. The silk duvet was cool against her cheek, it helped lull the thumping in her head.

She laid there for several minutes, resenting her consciousness as a tacky cottonmouth and uncomfortably bloated stomach joined in the fray. Urrggghhh. Stop picking on me, stupid hangover, she internally grumbled, berating her own body while sandwiching her head between two pillows and curling her legs up to her chest. She felt like shit. Like a goddamn sack of flour someone had wasted their energy beating and then thrown out into the rain —as if she had any foundation for comparing herself to such a thing.

She groaned low into the cavern made by her pillows and scowled again. The thumping was quieter now, falling to a dull ache that was just bearable. She wondered, ruefully, if they happened to stock Aspirin on this godforsaken island.

As the minutes ticked and the much desired curtains failed to spontaneously appear, Sarah felt more and more obligated to acknowledge her lucidity and, eventually (although with much gripe) sat upright in bed.

She peered around with murder mixed in her lackluster gaze, her eyes maybe not quite blinking in sync as she pushed through her grogginess. She was alone, expectedly. The quiet vacuum of the room made the sound of her nails scratching the back of her head too loud.

She glanced over to the windows next, spying on the (very much there) curtains that were neatly pulled back, daring to look so coy over there with their ruffles and carefully measured pleats. Damn them, she thought, being a precise ten strides away. She supposed she could simply get up and close them. That would be the easiest solution —shut out the sun with all its stupid cheer, and go back to bed. Alas, she'd have to walk those ten strides and...honestly, she'd rather just sit there and complain.

She rubbed at her eyes and wondered why the fuck she felt so shitty, gradually and carelessly thinking back over the previous night. She remembered drinking with Cedric down in the kitchen. She remembered Lochlan being a dweeb. She remembered going back to her room and flirting with an owl out on the balcony—

Oh.

Oh sweet holy mother of shit.

Sarah's raccoon eyes widened painfully as her attention veered towards the balcony door, the swift motion sending a sharp pang through her temples which was predominantly ignored.

Holy shit. Jareth. She was totally fucking cocked and had spent the night with Jareth.

Wait. Spent the night?

Operating on a whole new level of panic, Sarah whipped her head around looking for a certain pattern to her matted sheets and any foreign (hopefully masculine-looking) limbs poking out that really ought not to be there.

To her relief, there was nothing. Or no one, she should say. In fact, that whole side of the bed was still neatly made. The hand that had instinctively risen to her heart lowered slowly, although her eyes remained glued to the bed. The fact that it was vacant didn't necessarily mean nothing had happened, only that he hadn't stuck around to pet her afterwards.

Kicking off her blanket, she pulled up her knees and started patting herself down, searching for any signs of potential molestation. Again, to her relief, all seemed well. No sores (or soreness), or viscous, never-to-be-named fluids messing up her thighs. Her hair was a rat's nest, but that was a given. As her flare of adrenaline subsided, she recalled the remainder of the evening, down to every last embarrassing detail, and then let out a deep breath. Outside of acting like a total buffoon, she didn't think she'd done anything regretful (or not?) to him. That was good. Good...

But —wait a minute— how the heck did she end up in bed?

Sarah stared downward with the lividity of a madman as she struggled to recall the tail end of the night. She remembered they went for a walk. She remembered hanging all over him because that's what Cosmo said the boys thought was cute. She remembered him laughing at her. She remembered undressing him…

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Sarah's face flashed hot and turned rosy red as her hands sprang up and splayed over her face, and she actually made an eek sound as her teeth gritted with mortification.

What the fuck happened after that? WHAT HAPPENED? Oh my God. Why. Jesus Christ, Sarah. WHY?

She remembered there being a kind of tension and a certain, telltale closeness that had been vastly underutilized. She'd had his chest bared. Had him looking like freaking Fabio. She thought maybe he was going to actually kiss her calmly for once and—

She was caught in such a fluster she couldn't physically stand it, and began shuffling her way out of bed. Her heart was pounding. Her headache, stronger than ever, was no longer acknowledged.

She couldn't remember what happened after that. Not a thing. She blacked out, obviously, but did she pass out too? She had a feeling in her gut that she hadn't made any moves, but what did Jareth...how did he respond?

Her hangover was the least of her concerns when her feet hit the floor. That was a mistake. She was too caught up in herself and stood too quickly. She took a feverish step and almost immediately fell forward. Vertigo hit her hard, but not quite as hard as the bedpost as she crashed face first into it.

She turned just in time to save her nose, which made her already tender temple the unfortunate victim. The post was solid wood, but it might as well have been made of concrete or stone or a fucking frying pan as far as she was concerned. She hit it full force. A loud crack resounded through the room, promptly followed by a guttural, deeply frustrated outcry.

"Ah! Jesus fuck!"

She yelled at her bedpost, pushing herself away from it and clutching her temple as the throbbing there grew a fierce tenfold on one side. She winced tightly, staggered away, wobbled, grimaced, scowled, and cursed under her breath. When the startle left her, she pulled away her hand and looked at it, near-enraged by the light smear of blood left on her finger tips.

"Ugh. Are you freaking serious?" she asked her hand —audacious thing that it was. Then, with another groan, pressed it back to the wound. Anger helped her regain some equilibrium, and she was able to stagger away from the bed. She could feel a bump already forming as she took those few steps. What the fuck.

And now she was distracted. Now, she really didn't care what Jareth might or might not have done. She walked unevenly towards the dining table, needing an open space where she wouldn't bludgeon herself. As she grumbled, she noticed something idling on the table and stopped to investigate.

There was a black, glass bottle sitting on the table facing her bed. Next to it were some decorative flowers and a folded card. Her brow scrunched tightly as she stared at it, having absolutely no idea what it was or why it was there, and was therefore irritated by it. She picked up the bottle first, impatiently sloshing it around when she discovered it was corked and had no label, then set it back down. Next came the notecard. She rubbed at her head with an unintentional sneer as she read what was written inside.

I thought you might need this after last night. I think you call it Hair of the Dog, yes? That's a strange name for a drink, I think. It doesn't sound particularly appetizing, but I guess its taste isn't the point. You'll have to tell me where the name came from sometime. Anywho, you were dead to the world when I came to see you this morning and looked like you needed the sleep, so I'm leaving it here. I hope you're feeling well. I'll come back to check on you later. Please don't be angry. —L

Sarah stared at the ink scratched into the card for a few long seconds, eyes fixed on that (so very fancy) letter L. She knew it was probably due to the bump on her head, but being faced with this wholesome expression of concern only made her more miffed —and the curl in her upper lift conveyed it clearly. So, Lochlan came to see her? He was in her room? Watching her sleep? Alone? Like a fucking creep?

She huffed and tossed the card back to the table, not wanting to admit the root of her vexation might have been disappointment over the fact that that swirly L was not a swirly J. She took hold of the bottle again just for the sake of it, bringing it close for inspection as she mulled over what to do with it. Some of her friends swore by this stuff, but currently her stomach was screaming at her to throw it out the window on pain of vomit.

No. More alcohol was the last thing she needed right now, she thought, and set the bottle back down before going over to ring her rope. A minute later, a goblin arrived.

"G'morning, Mistress. How may I help ya?"

He spoke pleasantly and with a formal bow, which was an effort of cordiality Sarah and her strained smile did her best to reciprocate.

"Would you bring me some coffee, please? And um...some hash browns would be good too," she said. The goblin looked at her quizzically, an expression she mimicked, and then she explained. "Um, it's like fried potatoes...I guess. I'm sure Cedric knows what I mean."

Reassured, the goblin deftly nodded and backed into the hall.

"Of course. Right away, Mistress."

"Thank you, Sabby."

Sarah closed the door behind him as he left, pinching the bridge of her nose as she leaned against a dresser while taking a moment to will away her headache. In the lull, she recalled how awkward it had been for her those first few days. Initially, she wasn't sure how to behave around legitimate servants, but now it was just a part of her routine. She was starting to get to know a few of the goblins too —like Sabby. There were maybe three who served her on regular rotation, and all were calm and kind. Truthfully, that surprised her. She'd been passively bracing for shenanigans after what she'd overheard with Greta and Gimble, but t'was all smooth sailing so far.

Maybe they knew better than to mess with her, she mused. Maybe Jareth would put them to spike too.

Thoughts of Jareth came with less panic the second time around —which she appreciated given all the other pains she was dealing with. She rubbed at her forehead as she walked over to sit at the table, content to wait for the bitter, black brew that was sure to melt all her troubles away.

When Sabby returned with her breakfast, she noted a pitcher of water on his tray that she had not asked for, and wondered if that was a tactful addition from Cedric, or if she looked so physically haggard that Sabby had taken the gesture upon himself.

Regardless, water would have to wait now that coffee was literally on the table and —be it by caffeine or placebo— that first scalding sip gave her exactly what she'd hoped for. She actually sighed and sank into her chair, relishing in the waft from her mug and the warm, soothing glaze of metaphysical something that calmed the pulsing in her head. The carbs helped her stomach and, combined with a silent and stable fifteen minutes of nothing, she actually started feeling a lot better.

When she was recharged enough to walk properly, she finished her rejuvenation ritual with a long, hot shower. She was still a little wobbly, which had her wondering if she was in fact still a tad drunk. Thankfully though, the cascade of water on the back of her neck helped tremendously, and was successful in relieving what remained of her headache. The bump on the crest of her temple had gone pleasantly numb as well, which put her in a state of hollowness she lazily soaked in for who knows how long.

She was staring downward when she opened her eyes, the vision of her pale stomach gradually coming into focus. She caught herself frowning when she lifted a hand to touch herself, moving it down between her thighs just to confirm what she already knew.

She was actually...disappointed by it. Was she really? She knew without a doubt that she would have been both humiliated and terrified to have blacked out and then woken up with a blotchy neck and crusty inner thighs, and even more upset to have found him snoozing there, naked in her bed. To do that with him and not remember? She couldn't think of a more mortifying scenario. But, at the same time...she was still disappointed.

She wondered again what happened after her lights went out. Did she just drop dead? Or could she just not remember? Did the party carry on? Or...did he bring her back? Did he...take care of her? Put her to bed? Tuck her in with the blanket and leave? The fact that she just didn't know was depressing. Frustrating, even. And where was he now? Why was he not the one to write her that corny greeting card?

If not before, she was fully sobered when she exited the shower and slowly went through the motions of putting herself together.

With no better plans than to wallow, she decided to stretch her limbs with a walk. She had all of her faculty, but there was still a bit of a fog in her head. Some aimless wandering ought to clear it.

She was alone for a long while, but that no longer fazed her. She traversed the parts of the castle she (kinda) already knew, simply for the validation successfully remembering a particular hallway or corner gave her.

She learned quickly that her body was too angry with her to handle a thing like ascending stairs, so she decided to go low. After a while, she entered a grand hall that she recognized as leading straight to the gates. She stopped herself, however, upon hearing a queer little echo resonating from a hall to her left.

It sounded like goblins (quite a few of them too), and, if she was remembering correctly, that was the same direction as the throne room. She didn't often hear noises these days, let alone chatter or, dare she say, jubilant cacophony, and so just stood there listening for a full minute. Eventually though, curiosity caught up with her and she followed the sound. Her pursuit required her to climb two whole stairwells, but it was worth it.

A part of her felt cautious upon approaching the threshold. She had no idea what she would be walking into, or whom for that matter. Uh oh. What if Jareth was there? What...what would he even possibly be doing? Was she mentally prepared to face him? What if he looked happy? What if he looked mad. Oh geez. Maybe she should just turn right around—

"Look! It's that lady!"

Some goblin somewhere in the room spotted her before she could successfully flee, its crooked pointer finger marking her with a bullseye that all the others immediately honed in on.

She stood there in silence, trying not to wince as she decided what to do.

"Huh? Who?"

"You know, that lady! The one we couldn't squish when all those rocks were comin?"

Sarah blanched, but it only lasted a fraction of a second. A fevered glance around the room showed there was no Jareth among them. That was a relief. Probably. She was so caught up in her own anxiety, however, that she failed to notice as the goblins —all of them— fell deathly silent.

Beady eyes darted amongst themselves, and then a collective, echoing "Ohhhh" was spoken.

Sarah tuned in to the awkwardness just as all those little gapes turned toward her.

"You're that lady," one of them said. Sarah wished she knew what that meant.

"Um, yeah…" she said, precariously stepping into the room. A second look around showed her it was exactly as she remembered it. Right down to the empty ale bottles and tattered cloth lining the pit. They all continued to stare at her in silence. Sarah wove a stiff hand. "Hi again."

Her eyes shifted to the side, caught off guard by the fact that they had immediately remembered her. It forced her to wonder if they would view her as friend or foe. If maybe she really should tuck tail and run—

"Ah hah! Look, it really is her! Hey lady, we didn't think we'd ever see ya's again!"

Smiles formed and were shared as elation abruptly returned, and suddenly the room was filled with voices again. Sarah stood with her mouth open, cracking a grin after the three seconds it took her brain to process that they were, for some reason, happy to see her.

"Did you know she was still alive?"

"Nope. Not me!"

"When did she come back?"

"Did you know?"

"No!"

"But why is she here? Is it another game?"

"Game?"

"Where is His Majesty?"

"His Majesty?"

"Is it another attack?"

"Are there rocks?"

"Rocks?"

"Rocks!

"Quick! An incursion! Sound the alarms!"

And, just like that, good-natured nostalgia became a call to arms. Alarm lit up Sarah's eyes as she quickly shuffled forward, waving her hands in a panic.

"Oh. No, no, no, no. Don't do that. You don't need to do that. It's not an incursion, or a game. I'm not an enemy—"

"Ah hah! Something an enemy would say!" said one, heavily armored goblin with his chest puffed out. Several of the surrounding goblins nodded.

"Yes yes! Trickery! Witchery! Quick! Call for the King!"

Sarah could feel the adrenaline rushing in so fast it surely threatened to explode her poor, dehydrated brain.

"Oh my God. No," she said, and crouched down in a fluster. "I am not a witch. I'm a human. Just a regular human! And, Jesus holy hell, I live here now! Have you not heard?"

The impending riot paused in an instant, all heads turned to stare dead at her with lifted chins and eyes narrowed in suspicion. The room went too silent too quickly for her liking, however. Sarah licked her lips and froze in place lest she disrupt that delicate balance.

"Heard? Heard what?" one goblin, the one standing closest to her, asked. Sarah's eyes moved all around the lot of them, trying to ignore the actual fucking pitchforks a few of them had brandished.

"I'm uh…" and she stammered stupidly. "I'm...engaged to the King."

Silence burgeoned. Potential energy brimmed. Sarah wondered how many daisies Hoggle might leave on her tombstone.

"We uh….we are to be married. I'm actually...the mistress of this castle now."

Dark and glowing eyes, like embers, blinked at her, but that was the only change. Sarah, still holding her hands out as if that would have any effect should they decide to charge, achingly curled her fingers inward in the attempt to lower them. Several tense seconds passed, and then one of them spoke.

"Wait…" it said, and then its brow shot comically high up its forehead. "You're that lady too?!"

It broke eye contact to look back at its cohorts with a genuine gape, a look that spidered quickly to mirror on all of them. Sarah haphazardly counted the number of perplexed smiles forming on their muzzles or mouths, and felt just a touch of her own tension sooth.

"She's that lady?"

"You mean that lady?"

"The new lady?"

"The King's?"

"He's getting married, yeah?"

"To her?"

"To that lady!"

The way they bounced with spontaneous excitement caused a raucous clanging and thumping as their armor and weapons jittered right along with them. To Sarah's deeply felt relief, all pitchforks and scepters were lowered, and she even heard a few blades being sheathed. Well damn, thought her poor little heart. This was really not what she was expecting.

"Forgive us, My Lady. We knew you were that lady, but we didn't know you were that lady. We almost had to slay you!"

And layers of rich laughter followed. Sarah forced herself to chuckle but was unable to smooth out her expression to anything less than disturbed.

"Well, thank goodness for that," she said.

And now the goblins flooded her, surrounded her on all sides, and beamed up with looks of awe. Sarah felt compelled to stand straight and just brace.

"Can't believe you're marryin' the King."

"Does that make 'r a Queen?"

"Awwww the Queen!"

"She'll be a good queen. She was good at breaking things."

"Yeah. Sieges are important."

"Okay. Hold up—" Sarah cut them off with a shake of the head. "What does breaking things have to do with being a good ruler?"

The battalion fell dumb yet again, returning to their previous state of shifty-eyed confusion.

"Well...the King breaks things," said one, then locked eyes with another.

"Yeah. And he's really good at it too."

The first goblin nodded and then continued.

"And he's a pretty good king. So...if the Queen is good at breaking things also, then….she must be a good queen!"

The crowd voiced their agreement with a boisterous cheer, which implied this logic was sound and could not be refuted. Sarah took a moment to ponder.

"Uh huh…." she muttered, then cocked a brow. "So, His Majesty is a good king? You truly think so?"

T'was a vastly different opinion than her trio of besties, which made her suddenly invested in their answers.

The goblins all nodded with grins that she would define as proud.

"Oh yes. He's really good at bossing. Kings gotta know how to boss. And he's clever!"

"Clever?" Sarah repeated.

"Yeah! He comes up with the funniest punishments!"

That last line was spoken candidly and made Sarah's brow twitch with alarm all the more for it.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, you know. Torture? We has us a lot of fun —with the baddies, especially! He's always got these ideas. Stuff we never dream of. Oh, you gotta know it too, Lady; you squashed everyone with those rocks! You must be clever too!"

Their laughter took on a sudden maniacal trill as Sarah listened, standing more stiffly as recent words from Hoggle rang in her ear.

He's got somethin' in him. Somethin' nasty. It scares most of us, but...the mongrels actually love him for it. Feedin the crazy, I guess.

Oh. So was this the crazy? As she looked around the room at all the laughing, happily sinister faces with their glaives (dirtied with a dark red substance that she hoped was rust), and tacky, fingerprint-covered bottles, she figured there was a strong chance they might be.

And yet, they were allowed within the castle? Sarah had no idea what Merek's criteria was for such privileges, but she went out on a limb in thinking that their presence here meant the lot couldn't be that bad. Mongrels, maybe. But not psychotic.

Their blunt language surprised her; but, outside of that, none of this was new knowledge and she didn't feel particularly affected by it.

Awareness of that apathy sparked a very brief moment of introspection, wherein a part of her thought maybe she should be worried about some of Jareth's hobbies or, even better, offended and upset by them. That would be the right reaction to have, wouldn't it? A good person would think that way...right?

Alas, whether or not giving him the benefit of the doubt was morally justified was a question she did not feel obligated to ask herself, and the subsequent guilt-trip that might follow felt equally unnecessary. Maybe it was because she'd already spoken to Jareth about it, or because she was, as Lochlan accused, pitying him and his supposedly uncontrollable violence —violence she still had yet to witness, she reminded herself. Still, was she being too careless in writing it all off? Maybe she'd feel differently if she actually saw someone being tortured, that little voice rang. Hm. Touché. Best to hope she'd never have to find out.

The goblins were drawing on about the wonder that was her storming of the castle and the wild destruction it had caused. As Sarah tuned back in to the moment, she acknowledged that they were right to draw comparisons. She'd had a purpose. A desire. She didn't care at all about the damage she was causing, or the possible casualties. How many homes had she destroyed? How many lives were permanently changed, and for the worst? How many goblins were hurt or even killed by the boulders? Again, those were questions that had never, in all these years, not once, occurred to her.

So...maybe they were right. Maybe her halfhearted moral quandary was as pointless as it felt. Maybe her feelings towards Jareth had little to do with the benefit of the doubt because, maybe, she had a bit of cleverness in her too.

Now that was a thought.

"So, you're happy for us then?" she asked, shifting the course of the conversation with a halfcocked grin as she stared down at them.

"Of course! We shall rejoice in the streets! The Rock Maiden herself will join with the King. What fun! There could not be a better match!"

Rock Maiden? Sarah inwardly repeated. That sounded like some low budget talkshow on MTV.

"Would you like to sit on the throne?!"

Sarah blinked and looked down at them. Of course, they were all gawking eagerly. She didn't reply right away, but instead looked over their heads at the large, empty throne erected in the middle of the room.

She'd completely ignored it all those years ago. To be precise, this was the first time she really took a moment to regard it. It was...just a chair, really —tarnished and definitely dusty. So...why was she so intimidated?

Her brow drew together and she instinctively took half a step back.

"Um. Is that okay? Am I even allowed to?"

The goblins, like a hive mind, looked between themselves and then back at her with the same stern expression.

"Why not? It's a throne. You're gonna be queen."

Sarah's eyes darted over to the throne again. —Yupp. Still intimidating.

"Yeah, but I'm not Queen yet…" she said uncomfortably. Would Jareth be mad if she sat there? That kind of….meant something, didn't it? Would she be audacious to take the liberty? But….wait. He wasn't even a real king. What the heck was she getting so worked up about?

"If he has pledged, then it is as good as done," a goblin said, one standing right next to her skirt. Sarah glanced down and stared him in the eye as he spoke. There was a bit of a weighted silence after that, as short as it was. "They cannot go back on 're word once it's given."

The goblin looked to the others, who all nodded in return. Sarah pursed her lips.

"Has His Majesty given his word?" another one asked. Sarah looked over at it.

"Yes. He has," she said, a bit soberly. That tone, however, was vastly misplaced.

"Then, what're yah waiting for?!" they suddenly shouted, throwing up their arms in exclamation. "Go sit on the throne!"

Sarah blanched when a dozen little hands were abruptly on her, pulling on her sleeves and her skirt, and guiding her forward.

"Yes! Yes! Come! Come! Over this way, Lady."

She shuffled along to their stride, trying not to trip over tattered tails and fall into the jaggedy blades of those very much functioning (and now wildly thrusting) glaives.

"Sit Sit!" they implored, ushering her down with low hanging arms dramatically extended. Sarah managed a tight smile, combating what she thought might be guilt over an irreverent act as her derriere made first contact. The goblins, however, were nothing less than ecstatic. "Well?" they asked once she was seated. "Do you like it? Is it good?"

Sarah placed her hands lightly to the armrests curving on either side of her, her fingers tapping along, and shifting her butt as if testing its fit.

It wasn't particularly comfortable. It was made of stone, or metal, or something, and had no cushion. Hm...

"Good?" she repeated, though wasn't sure if that was her answer. The goblins did not pick up on the nuance, however, and continued to blink up at her expectedly.

They were surrounding her now. A crowd of dirtied denizens with twinkling eyes all gaping up like dogs waiting for their bones. From the way she spied a few tails wagging, she figured that analogy wasn't far off. They continued to stare at her intensely —with a noticeable lack of blinking that made it immediately awkward. Sarah's eyes darted to the sides, wondering what in the world they were expecting of her.

"Will you give us an order, Lady?"

It was only one goblin who'd spoken —the one who had first noticed her. Sarah's brow started to draw when the rest of the rabble joined in.

"Ooh, yes. Give us an order!"

"An order! An order!"

And now the sea of fur and scabbards was bouncing. Sarah's hands curled against the arms of the throne. This felt...like a place she really shouldn't be.

The clamor fed off itself, rising in volume as those widened, excited smiles turned this way and that to exchange with one another. Sarah pursed her lips.

"Okay. How about you try calming down?" she asked and, like a snap in the air, the commotion stopped dead.

Every one of those creatures shut up in an instant, falling still even as their weapons continued to clink. They looked back at her and stared attentively, with hungry looks that were just patient enough to be restrained. Sarah arched a brow and scanned the lot of them. Oh? Had Jareth trained them well after all?

The hard seat of the throne felt more comfortable all of the sudden as intrigue curled its little claw.

"And...lower your weapons. You're going to end up putting an eye out the way you swing them around like that."

Again, they readily obeyed, many of them grinning like it was a game of Simon Says. A clatter of metal resounded loudly through the room as a myriad of blades were simultaneously set on the floor. Sarah sucked in her cheek, feeling a bit of a slippery slope as she sat perched on her royal summit.

Oh, but she should use her powers for good, yes?

"Would you like another?" she asked, getting a little caught up in the role. The goblins nodded deftly. Sarah leaned forward as if to whisper. "How about you help out and try cleaning up after yourselves a bit, hm?"

Sarah watched as all those happy looks of anticipation fell to lackluster frowns en masse, moving as a palpable wave of disappointment over the crowd.

"Aww…" the masses groaned. "Well that's not very fun."

Sarah chuckled to herself, leaning back haughtily like they were mere children and she their parent.

"Then don't ask for things you may come to regret," she said, and quirked a sassy brow at them. "How about that?"

There was silence among the goblins as they processed her words, many a mouth agape and confused. Then, from a little fella far in the back, a certain whispering could be heard.

"Ooh, she sounded like the King," he said, his voice hushed but not nearly enough. The rest of the goblins turned on reflex, then another one chimed in.

"Yes. Just like the King."

"Of course. She's the queen."

"Hm...she looks a little scary too."

"Yeah. Yeah. But not a him scary. More like a pretty-scary."

And then laughter.

"Haha! Yes! Pretty-scary!"

And the laughter grew louder.

"Yeah! Yeah! She's pretty scary alright!"

Distraction and revelry overtook them quickly, and soon they were off topic completely. Their attention spans were incredibly fickle, their moods just as erratic as she remembered. It left her wondering if trying to get through to them would be a lost cause. She let them entertain themselves for a moment, then felt a little power trip spark in her posture. It must have come directly from the chair, she thought. There was no way she would ever entertain, let alone consciously take advantage of, such a feeling.

"Ahem," she said, speaking the word loudly. The chatter stopped. She waited until their attention turned to her. "Now, did I or did I not just give you all an order?"

Sarah basked in her pseudo Goblin Queen high as she sprawled herself over Jareth's throne. Really, the longer one sat in it, the more comfortable it became. Now, as she quietly watched a battalion of goblins humble and grumble as they dusted and swept, she felt down right cozy. It took them a while to get going, and to...stay going...but going they were! She had no shame at all in patting herself on the back as the actual throne room gradually came into focus, having been lost under years of mysterious grime, dander, and feathers.

She directed them as needed and praised them often. That seemed to help at least. They were like a bunch of children —throwing fits just like Toby when told to clean his room before playing outside.

After a while though, even contented silence got to her. She rolled onto her side and roamed her eyes around the group.

"So...do you always hang out here?" she asked. One goblin, Smeville (she'd been passing the time learning their names), stopped as he passed by her —his arms loaded with scraps of fabric.

"Ah...yes?" he said as if unsure. Sarah looked around to a different part of the room.

"With the King?" she asked.

"Sometimes," replied another goblin, shrugging. "When he's bored."

The goblin, dubbed Sir Janken, went back to his sweeping and looked away. Sarah pursed her lips. It seemed menial tasks kept them focused, and thus calm. Good to know, she thought.

"And….what does he do while he's here?" she asked.

"Nothin much," answered Marta —a Lady sporting a broken Valkyrie hat. "Sits there like you, mostly."

"He zaps us sometimes," quipped Smeville. Sarah turned around just as he snickered. "It's really funny."

"Or he'll toss someone out the window," added Marta.

"He did that to Quip once," said another goblin (Sarah couldn't remember that one's name). "Remember, Quip?"

Quip, a stout little goblin all fur and jitters, looked over with wide eyes that twitched.

"I 'member," he said, and somehow those too-large eyes widened even more.

Sarah's brow drew tightly as she watched them.

"Did...you fall?" she asked. She was sitting on her knees now, facing the back of the throne with her hands gripping the rim. Quip was scrubbing the floor next to the window in question. He looked over at her with a wide, toothy smile.

"Yup!"

"All the way….to the ground?"

She winced at the end, her eyes narrowing as she tried to interpret Quip's undeniable sense of glee.

Again, Quip quipped,

"Yup!"

"And...you didn't die?"

"Nope!"

Sarah drew back a little, her eyes darting to the window and her guesstimate of how many stories up they were.

A lot. Her guestimate was a lot.

"Were….you hurt?" she asked him.

"Nope!"

Sarah shook her head.

"How?"

The strength of Sarah's reaction must have intimidated the poor thing, for he suddenly tensed and shifted its eyes all around. How? he wondered? HOW?

Smeville answered for him with another passing shrug.

"We don't get hurt," he said, and dropped a sopping-wet rag into a bucket. "Can't be. Not really."

Quip jittered as he snickered.

"Hehe, yeah. That's why it's so fun!"

While Sarah was glad for the nonchalance, the progression of these questions was only making her face twist.

"...why can't you be hurt?" she asked. Don't get hurt was one thing. Goblins were robust and she knew that. She'd even ripped a few heads off once only to have them laugh back at her. But the term can't... Now that was interesting.

"It's against the rules," said Janken.

Sarah, triggered, turned around in the throne perked to her toes with attention.

"What? What rules?" she asked him.

Janken froze, gripping that crooked broom of his tightly as his eyes darted. He looked suddenly confused, his bushy grey brows drawing together to make his large, round eyes look even larger.

"Rules?" he repeated, like he'd never once heard the word before.

"Yeah. Rules. You just said there were rules."

Silence perturbed filled the throne room, as suddenly Sarah was the only one both with and without a clue. Janken looked at the goblins, and the goblins looked between themselves. There was a bit of queer stupefaction going on as Sarah turned in her seat to scrutinize it.

"Rules?" she heard murmured, heard it spread as layers and echoes and questions.

And then they giggled.

"Hm. Are there rules? What are the rules?" one goblin asked, and then a collective and resounding, "We don't know!"

Sarah sat stiffly as she stared around the room, finding their sudden and total fit of laughter unnerving. Their smiles were back. The wicked ones. And, as her question remained completely unanswered, she thought maybe she'd been too quick to dismiss possible insanity. She felt cornered in a regular Mad Hatter moment, still wondering if and what and why there would be rules for such things.

She was lost in puzzled musings even as the laughter faded, slouching back in the throne as she scowled out at nothing. They kept on cleaning even as they chuckled, though maybe now such distraction was having the opposite effect.

A couple buckets were knocked over, causing a once-sleeping chicken to dash spastically across the room. The goblins' laughter renewed, and then one called out to her.

"Hey! What should we do with these, Lady? Burn 'em?"

Sarah leaned around to look over her shoulder, put on the spot by the question. The goblin who'd spoken was staring at her, holding up some massive piece of what was once probably violet colored cloth. Sarah scrunched her brow and sat upright.

"Um...what is it?" she asked.

The goblin (Smithy?) looked down, tilting its head at the thing in question, and then held it further out in front of itself.

"The banners."

Sarah's brow twitched, and she looked upward reflexively. She saw sharp metal rods jutting from the walls, each devoid of the flag that she supposed ought to be hanging there. She hadn't thought anything of them before now, but...

Looking back to Smithy, she saw the edge of the room was lined with the same dust-covered mounds.

"Oh. Um….can they not be rehung?" she asked.

The goblin's eyes widened, and she watched him physically recoil while quickly shaking his head.

"Oh no. No. No. No," he said pointedly.

Sarah was...confused.

"Why?" she slowly asked.

"His Majesty does not like them," said Smithy, then kicked at the pile.

"Yeah. He ripped 'em all down once," added Smeville. "They ain't moved since. He was scary that day." and he looked over at another goblin.

"Yeah. Scary," said one.

"—but not in the fun way," added another.

"No. No. Certainly not."

This sentiment was agreed upon unanimously, confirmed, if not vocally, then by the somber nodding of heads. And now Sarah was curious.

He took them down? she thought. Why? In a fit? Or was it a fit?

She cocked a brow as she stood from the throne and moved over towards the flag where Smithy stood, bending at the knees to take hold of it and inspect it first hand.

It was so dirty she had to shake it, which she immediately regretted from the violent coughing it spurred in a few of the goblins. Oops. She quickly apologized and then looked the banner over.

The picture there was the same as what she'd seen in the kitchen. The family crest. Only...there was something off about it. Sarah stared hard, wondering if it was her drunken recollection that made figuring it out so difficult. And then it clicked. The sash...or...bend thing (or whatever Cedric had called it) was flipped. And the swirly symbol, the sign of Seel, was on the other side of the shield. That...had to mean something, yeah?

"Do you know why he took them down?" Sarah asked, feeling more curious by the second. "Or...why he doesn't like them, I guess?"

The goblins standing in her immediate vicinity all frowned and shook their heads.

"Nope."

"Do you know what this image is?" she asked next.

"Yeah. That's the crest!" said Quip.

"The King's crest," Smeville specified.

Sarah pursed her lips as she inspected it.

"This one...is a little different actually," she said, handing it back to them. "I've seen other flags here that have this sash going the other way. Do you know what that means?"

She looked around at the goblins beside her and then out to the rest of them. The collective response was silence backed behind Smeville's contemplative, "Mmmmm...no."

Sarah sighed. She supposed she'd have to ask Cedric…

"Are you sad?"

Sarah peered down, blinking out of her thoughts. Quip was staring up at her with nerves that now jittered with worry. His expression made her aware of the frown on her own face, which she shook away.

"Hm? No. No, I'm just thinking," she said, and then turned casually away. "If His Majesty doesn't like them, then we definitely shouldn't hang them up again. I...think burning them is a bit extreme though. Maybe just….tuck them away out of sight somewhere?"

That would be fine, right? No stepping on toes? She really had no idea of the extent of the authority the title of Mistress gave her, but...surely, keeping things organized was fine?

A kind of glimmer sparkled in the goblins' eyes that lit up the whole of their faces.

"You mean like a treasure?" Smithy asked.

Sarah paused and looked over at them. They were back to brimming on pins and needles.

"Um, sure?"

The way their bright eyes sprang to attention, and their little feet bounced was a sign to her that they were pleased. That this would be fun for them. Dropping (or, more accurately, throwing away) their dusters and brooms and various domestic wares, they all scurried to the banners sitting in the corners as fast as their little legs could take them, sparing no hesitation to bundle them up in their arms as quickly as they could.

"Ye! Here that? We have a quest! The Queen has given us a quest!"

"Quick! Hide the treasure! Hide it!"

"Whoever falls behind will have to clean!"

Passion for the game escalated so quickly that Sarah braced and hoped that a fight wouldn't break out because of it. The banners were large, yes, but there were only about seven of them to share and there were a lot more goblins.

"Fear not, Lady! We will hide 'em well! No soul'll ever find 'em, ever again!"

Sarah huffed with a pursed grin, just standing there in amusement as groups of them arduously dragged and tripped over the flags as they left the room. She had absolutely no idea where they were going, but they sure as hell did. Have fun questing! she thought. Surely, this would be a safer alternative to being thrown out a window.

---

Sarah stayed in the throne room even after it was emptied. She didn't have a reason why. She just enjoyed the silence. She wasn't sure how long she loitered there on Jareth's throne, but it felt like a while. There was a thirteen hour clock on one wall, but it must have been broken because the hands did not move even once. The goblins had done as much cleaning as she could expect of them before leaving on their adventure, so she felt good about its current state. She wondered if Jareth would notice the next time he was in here. She wondered...when that might be.

To her surprise, the goblins returned to her sooner than expected —though with much wear. Those exuberant faces once so bright and manic were now sullen and tired, the natural pep in their step having devolved into grumbles and petulant knuckle-dragging as they paced back into the room. A wavering, "The deed is done, Lady," was uttered to her, with a profuse bow that almost sent Janken toppling over. That was, of course, before they'd passed out before her en masse. Sarah had not said anything at all, and wondered in bemusement just what the hell kind of quest they'd gotten themselves into, and where the fuck those seven purple banners now lived.

It seemed such untold dangers were beyond their constitutions. Or, at least, they were today. —many of them were already worn from the cleaning effort and pretty darn drunk to begin with.

The pit in the floor was now a goblin nest. Mounded together, they looked like a single entity —something bulbous and furry that breathed in slowly and out deeply.

Others were face down on the floor, or propped up by their spears against a wall. A few, she noted, slept with their mouths open after throwing themselves to the floor and passing out under the leaky tap of the ale barrels. Water would be better for them, she thought —as if she was one to talk.

But, actually, watching them made her tired too, and an afternoon nap (it was afternoon, right?) sounded rather appealing. After a few minutes of ambient heavy breathing, she decided to slip away and head back to her room.

That was the point when her aimless journey doubled back to shoot her in the foot, for, while it was definitely easier on her limbs to descend all those stairs on the way there, those same stairs now needed to be ascended in order to get back.

She sighed audibly as she stood at the bottom of the first stairwell, wondering if it would be considered abuse to tell one of the sentinels to carry her there.

The journey back was longer and came close to being labeled as a trial. She had to take several breaks, hunching over to catch her breath like her young and vivacious twenty-year-old constitution had been replaced with that of a geriatric.

She was probably just dehydrated, she told herself, still hungover and achy, and lethargic on a cellular level.

Her knees actually started to hurt after a while, which of course only irritated her knowing exactly how much farther she still had to go. The summit of her current jagged mountain was the steepest she'd have to face, each stone step taller than what she would assumed was the industry standard, with the entire stairwell rising a straight two stories at the least. Thankfully she wasn't that far from the top, and she knew there was a lounge around that corner with a chair or a chaise that would serve as her reward.

God, she was tired. Heh, maybe she should have just jumped in with the goblins

She wasn't quite paying attention as she thought this, which caused her to forget about the extra three inches she needed to lift her foot while assuming the next step. She moved forward and stubbed her toe into the face of it, which then caught on the hem of her dress, which then jerked it down (along with her) as her foot forcibly fell flat.

She felt a line of tension shoot from her skirt up to her bodice, the abrupt force of which yanked her forward as she tripped in a truly grand fashion.

Instinctive surprise was her enemy, for it had her panicking over falling down the stairs and instead compelled her body to thrust forward into the stone.

She hit it ungracefully. Hit it like a wet towel that just flopped all over itself.

She caught herself with her hands, just barely saving her face from breaking against the sharp edge of the stairs. She was unable, however, to spare the same attention for her legs. Her skirt just kept dragging her down, which made it impossible to catch her footing in time before her poor, vulnerable shins cut against the stone.

In the split second that was her descent, she was glad she was alone. The sight of her obnoxious shriek and wild, flailing arms was not something that should ever be seen.

Then the pain came.

She could feel the exact moment the sharp edges of the steps, like knives, cut into her flesh, into her bone, and she cried out in pain. A deep, angry throb immediately started pulsing in her legs, but it wasn't nearly as angry as her as she pulled herself up and yanked her stupid dress out of the way.

She winced again and sucked in a breath, making another little, pained sound that came high and pathetic as it was forced out between tightly clenched teeth. She adjusted her footing lest she slide down any further, but just laid there for a minute, composing herself and her ire over the fact that she'd pointlessly hurt herself again.

First I walk into a pole, and now this? Jesus Christ. No more wine for you, she scolded herself. No more wine ever again.

Despite her quiet minute, the pain in her shins only worsened. She could feel it blooming outward now, and was afraid to turn herself around and inspect the damage. And, oh, how the frustration built. Why the fuck are these stairs so tall, anyway? And the ceilings too? Who the fuck lived in here? Giants?!

Her joints suddenly ached all over as she lay crouched over the steps, though she did her best to persevere and push herself upright. Stupid tears smarted her eyes. She could feel them making her cheeks hot, and there was a telltale pinch in her nose too.

No. No, she was not going to cry—

"Are you alright?"

Sarah froze. The ugly grimace on her face brightened with alarm, with dread —before she forced it, and every eminent tear, completely away.

Her breath came as huffs and puffs as she turned around to face Jareth, finding him standing and staring upward just a few steps below her.

Hair was covering her face. She imagined it made her look rather feral, but they locked eyes nonetheless. He didn't seem bothered by it, and watched her with a stern gaze. Reality and daydreams caught up with her too quickly, and she felt an inexplicable flutter of butterflies suddenly rousing within the rage. But, because she was still really fucking frustrated, she ignored it utterly and, with as much grace as possible, pulled the hair back from her face.

"I'm fine," she bit out, scowling while turning back around. Jareth continued to stare at her, his eyes traveling low from head to fidgety foot.

"What happened?" he asked.

Sarah huffed sharply and began pulling herself into a seated position.

"I wasn't paying attention and stubbed my toe, and then my stupid dress got it the way and I tripped," she said, unwilling to look him in the eye. There was a crease in her cheek while saying that. A nasty kind of grin and a twitching brow. —a clear cut sign that her pride had been damaged. He probably recognized it and knew she was embarrassed, she thought, but that only aggravated her more. She managed to sit herself on a step, looming slightly above him, and took the time to smooth out the folds in her skirt.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Sarah's jaw clenched tightly.

"Yeah, but it's fine," she said, staring downward at her knees while fighting the heat building in her face and the awareness of just how stupid she must look. Had he seen her fall? Heard her scream? Why was he there all of the sudden?

His silence was tactful, though she could feel him looking at her. That scrutiny only made her more tense.

"Has Miri not altered your wardrobe yet?" he asked.

Sarah scoffed.

"She did. I'm just...really hungover, I guess. I'm tired and achy, and I keep…." And her voice caught when she peered up impulsively, inadvertently locking eyes again. "...falling."

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but really should have known better. She hadn't fully acknowledged him yet, so doing so by looking at him now brought her right back to her very last memory: to his hands on her hips, to hers on his chest, to the way he smiled at her and then...whatever happened next.

She could not decipher what answer lurked in his expression, if there even was an answer at all. He looked his usual, mysterious self. Only, the color around his eyes was...darker.

"If you're not feeling well, you should tell Lochlan," he said, weirdly passive.

Sarah's brow twitched. They were still deadlocked in a stare, and the intensity she saw in his did not match his bland tone at all. His hair looked a little different too. Freshly washed. He was wearing black breeches and a white tunic that was left scandalously untied in the front. The collar had fallen open on the left, so she could see part of his chest. And his sleeves were rolled. She could see the shadow of a vein. Why….why was she paying so much attention to his forearms?

"I'll live," she said, deflecting from her shameless ogling with a terse tone. "I don't need Lochlan."

She shifted her legs up, presumably in preparation to stand, but she never made it. A tic moved across Jareth's eyes when instead she suddenly froze and winced. He saw her toes curl tightly in her shoes, and peered up to catch the white of her gritted teeth when she sucked in a sharp inhale between them.

She was in pain. His thoughts spared little more than that when he took two steps toward her and knelt down on the same step as her feet.

"You are hurt," he said, and reached out towards her. "Let me see."

Sarah flinched, looking up sharply as if startled by the contact of his hands on her legs. He left her no time to refuse, however, deftly taking hold of one ankle and pulling it forward.

Sarah tensed but didn't fight him, falling quiet as she watched him straighten her leg and push up her skirt to expose her ankle —his ungloved hands holding her lightly and then stroking.

Oh...

Okay.

He was closer now, oblivious of her quickening heartbeat as he stared downward. A second passed, and then she reflexively inhaled when noticing a new scent on him. It was...fresh. Like he'd just come from a shower. A natural smell unobscured by the richness of leather and the day.

She stared at him in beguiled silence, feeling her breath hitch in her throat as she wondered what other ways those hands of his might have touched her the night prior.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked, and Sarah blinked out of her daydreams. Her toes curled nervously, but she was glad that was the mannerism he saw and not the way she also nibbled her lip.

"Um, my shins. I hit them on the stairs."

She eyed him intensely, gulping back heartbeats while analyzing the state of his being. He seemed calm. Normal. There was no tension in his voice, and the way he touched her was familiar. It was the same demeanor he'd had when her legs fell asleep: strictly business. And yet...and yet she could still see the dark red shadow around his eyes peeking from beneath his bangs as he looked downward at her.

He was silent. Contemplatively so, she thought. She watched his head tilt just slightly, and the flicker of his upper lashes conveyed the wandering of his gaze as it moved around the shape of her leg. His hand...traveled lightly up it, and they both watched as he carefully pushed her skirt back over her knee.

Sarah took in shallow breaths through her nose. The mood in the air felt tense all of the sudden, and the way the pad of his thumb grazed along her skin was…

Oh no, Sarah thought.

Oh yes, replied her libido.

His other hand wrapped under her calf, holding her leg up as he inspected it. Sarah scowled when her wounds were revealed, forgetting her fluster in a flash as she instinctively leaned forward to gape at the deep gashes, dead white flesh, and purple (already blackening) bruises spreading in repetition up the center of her shin.

"Oh my God. Jesus, look how bad that is," she said in some disbelief. There were two bruises, with a big red scrape at her ankle too. She assumed her right leg was the same. Damn. No wonder it'd hurt so bad. "Ah...that's actually pretty nasty, isn't it?" she asked.

Jareth did not respond, but the reason for it was not something she noticed. His attention was transfixed to her leg. To the marks. To the deep cuts that, in some spots, had even split and were beading with blood…

Those bruises would get worse if he left them, he thought. Would swell. Would take days, maybe even weeks to heal. He bet the skin was tender. He bet it would hurt if he pressed into them…

His thumb trailed lightly down her shin, drifting closer to the purple gradient and deep, red line creasing her perfectly white skin—

"Tss. Ow—"

Jareth's hand froze in place and he looked up, broken from his daze by her sudden flinch of pain. He'd touched her there. Right on the wound. He hadn't even realized it.

"I'm sorry," he quickly said, a sudden lividity in his eyes. Sarah shifted in her spot, her wince fading gradually as her eyes flickered up to meet his.

She was taken back by the way they glowed. By the way the bloodshot rim around the white made them seem to glow. Such a sight reminded her of that day in the hall, and she quickly wondered if he was in the midst of another fit. Alarm prickled at her for the tiniest of moments, but something else about him soothed it away. She couldn't tell what. Maybe it was his attentiveness. His calmness. Or...the fact that he still had his hands on her.

"It...it's fine," she said unevenly, then darted her eyes away. She was leaning back, her weight in her hands as they pressed to the stair. Those hands fisted anxiously as she drew up her other leg.

Jareth's attention left her face, falling back down to her leg and the soft highlight cresting the bone.

"Try not to move," he said, then ran his thumb up the full length of her shin. She braced for pain, but there wasn't any. No, this time he kept his thumb a tingling hairsbreadth from making contact.

Sarah watched him curiously, eager to witness more magic as it was inflicted upon her. She saw the space between his thumb and her leg glow, then saw it pass from him into her, illuminating some subdermal layer of her flesh with a bright red hue. It warmed, and then the pain faded. As the light from his thumb dwindled, it took the discoloration in her skin along with it. The bruise receded, healed, as did the swelling and the gash that once cut so deeply into her.

His expression was stern as he did this. Was stoic, and aloof, and—

Sarah rolled her lower lip and then bit it as she silently watched him move onto the next, healing each of her wounds with a very attractive sense of focus. When her left leg was back to being as white as snow, he set it down and took hold of the other.

She could tell his mind was elsewhere when he pushed up that part of her skirt too. Could tell lewdness was the very least of his concerns as he carefully inspected that new line of injuries. As it was, Sarah's mind was not elsewhere, and lewdness was her only concern.

Jareth was kneeling on the stairwell, his head at the level of her knees which were both now exposed and spread somewhat apart. The skirt of her dress bunched heavily on her thighs, so (being extremely conscious of that compromising position) she slowly and slyly did what she could to press it down between her legs in an attempt to make herself decent. He didn't seem to notice, which was ironic considering his darkly lined eyes looked near ravenous with focus as he softly caressed her calf.

The silence was unnerving.

Her vulnerable position, left on perfect exhibition, was even more so. She gulped again and kept her hands near her thighs. Her knees were gradually pressing together but...had yet to touch.

What is he thinking? she kept wondering. What had they done last night? It didn't seem like she'd upset him again, so that was good. At the same time...he hadn't hesitated to touch her and was, well...being rather intimate about it, wasn't he? Did that mean anything? Should she ask? Would that wreck the experience? Would it be better to just roll with the punches?

But why were his eyes dark? That meant danger, didn't it?

He wasn't acting like he was bothered. And the color, did that mean something? The marks were definitely of a red hue, where before they were blue. She had no idea what any of this meant and thought, at the very least, Lochlan could have given her a precautionary rundown on that.

In her musing, she didn't realize she'd leaned in closer to him, simply watching as he worked. She did, however, go full doe-eyed when he finished, set her foot down, and looked up straight at her.

Their faces were close enough for her to see the shards in his irises. See the veins breaking the whites of his eyes. The redness there made them glassy, made them bright. In contrast, his lashes were thick and dark, and he—

Jareth scowled at her irritably.

"What is that?" he asked and suddenly leaned forward.

Sarah's eyes widened and her torso retreated on instinct, not stopping until her spine hit the edges of the steps behind her. With nowhere to go, she braced, turning her face strictly away when she registered that he was, oh-so-abruptly, practically laying on her.

Jareth's knee had risen a step and rooted in place between her own legs —crushing her clandestine effort to close them. In fact, she had to spread her legs wider just to avoid touching him. And, by golly, she did avoid it. He was reared over her now, holding himself up by one hand pressed to the step beside her elbow. She felt caged. Attacked. Even as no part of him touched her at all, the mere proximity of his chest...and his stomach...and everything below it hovering so close and in line with her own body parts was….Um...

Mortification and panic and probably intense intense arousal turned her face red, which was another reason why she kept it turned away. She had no freaking idea why he'd pounced like that, but found herself physically incapable of asking. Her nerves were near overload. And he—

Jareth reached out without reservation, took hold of her face, and turned it back to face him.

"Well?" he asked. She gaped. His next words were pointed. "What happened to your head?"

The neurons in her brain that hadn't already exploded fired and re-fired until she realized what he was talking about. Oh. He must have seen the bump on her head. She'd totally forgotten about that—

"I—I uh...kind of fell when I got out of bed this morning. I hit my head on the bannister."

Her eyes darted every which way, anywhere but straight ahead lest they lock and sacrifice what was left of her dignity to the pretty blue glaring back. He was so close to her. Too close. She could feel his breath, and he still hadn't let go of her jaw.

She saw his brow rise from her peripheral, and had to agree that, yes, she really was that dumb.

"You should learn to hold your alcohol better if you're going to drink like that," he said, his voice low, but frank. Sarah clenched her jaw, finding it impossible to carry out casual conversation while his hips were idling between her thighs like that. It didn't help that the edge of the steps hurt, which prompted her posture to arch away and thus closer to him. He had her like a regular damsel right now. Did he...even realize it?

"Sorry. I'll take the escalator next time."

Humor was her bane. Or at least, surely it would be. It came out only in the most awkward moments; a defense mechanism no doubt, but a really shitty one.

Realizing he probably didn't know what an escalator even was, she kept her jaw tight and her eyes averted until he either responded, or she eventually died.

Thank God the former came first.

"If you knew you were that incompetent, you should have stayed in your room."

Oh. But that felt like ridicule.

Sarah slanted her eyes towards him sharply, her mouth opened on the precipice of a retort.

"Excuse me?" she asked, but he finished for her.

"This castle is too big and too empty for someone to be without their bearing," he stated. Sarah shut her mouth. "What if you had fallen backward? What if you had broken your neck and I hadn't sensed you were nearby? It could have been hours before you were found. You would probably be dead."

Oh no. He was being serious. —and he made a good point too.

Sarah pretended it was the conventional kind of intimidation that made the shadowy spot between her thighs feel hot.

"Ah...but...what about the sentinels?" she asked, blinking rapidly in lieu of shaking her head —he was too close to her for that.

"The sentinels are machines," he said, perfectly steeled. "They only speak when spoken to, and only act when ordered."

"But...I thought they knew when to intervene? I thought they could sense danger?"

"Yes. Danger as it centers around me," he said with a snap. Sarah locked her jaw. "If I am not involved, they're little more than objects of surveillance."

Sarah felt her brow twisting. He seemed a little angry now. Or...was that passion? Oh God. Bad Sarah, she thought. Stop it. She tsked herself internally, wondering just how far these inappropriate thoughts could take her before they turned around and bit her back.

"...oh," she murmured, eyes shifting about his face as she sorted through her speeding thoughts. He did not retort, did not say anything. And, as he continued to stare at her with those intense, judging eyes, she thought...maybe it wasn't anger or passion, or even judgement that she was seeing at all. The edge in his gaze was sharp, but it didn't feel directed at her, and the delayed realization of it made her feel like an ass. She recoiled a little into the stairs, her shoulders tensing as her eyes darted to the side. "I'm sorry," she said, then glanced up at him. "I wasn't trying to worry you."

A pause could be felt around her —she wasn't sure what to do with it— but...the slight shift in his shoulders was reassuring.

Her eyes were wide and guarded as she stared at him. It was a look so sheepish he almost cracked a grin. He resisted, however, and merely sighed through his nose.

"Just stay still while I heal this too," he said, and reached up to turn her face to the right.

Sarah gulped. She stared outward at the wall and the vein flexing in his forearm, and gulped. His other hand, the one that had turned her chin away, could now be felt reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. The sensation was enough to make her shiver, but she played it off well. At least...until that same commanding thumb and knuckle reached back down and hitched under her chin, tilting her head back until it rested against the step. It was an awkward angle. It exposed her neck and the artery that was probably giving away all her secrets with each thump.

Yeah... This was bad. Why was she so turned on right now? Why was she the only one acting like a dog in heat? She only hoped he didn't notice any of her squirming. Or her breathing. Or even her quick blinking, for that matter.

Her feet shifted against the stone, and she almost flinched when her leg touched his hip. He had to lean up a little higher to get a close look at her wound. If she peered over from the side, she could see more of his chest. The opening of his loose fitted shirt hung low, and she could see—

Nope. Just don't even look at him at all.

She felt the tips of his fingers doing something in her hairline, and then that same magical tingle followed. Sarah counted every infernal second of it.

"So um...since you're here...can I ask...what happened last night?" Her eyes darted over at him, but couldn't exactly see. She tried to talk casually, figuring that, at this point, there really was no better time for it. It would probably make more sense to be sitting upright for this, she also thought, but….no, no, don't go ruining the moment with something as trite as rationality.

The magic tingle emanating from Jareth's hand paused.

"I...kind of blacked out," she carried on awkwardly. "I remember we went for a walk down the hall, but—"

And then the tingle resumed.

"You passed out," Jareth said flatly.

Sarah arched a brow.

"Hm?"

She tried to turn towards him instinctively, a motion he stopped dead by the gentle pressure of his hand.

"You fell unconscious mid sentence," he explained. "...and would not stir."

Sarah relaxed her neck and laid there.

"Oh," she said, lackluster. "What um...what happened then?"

Another little pause. Sarah looked all around as if it mattered. Jareth...stole a touch as he brushed the tips of his fingers over her hair.

"I brought you back to your room," he said. "...then left."

"Oh," she replied —again— masking a twinge of anxiety. Seconds were starting to tick longer. The ache in her head had been gone for several of them now. Why hadn't he pulled away?

"Did...you cover me with that blanket?" she asked.

A longer pause this time. She wondered if she was distracting him.

"...yes," he eventually said.

Sarah pursed her lips, disappointed by how easily he'd gone back to his usual, taciturn state.

"Thank you," she said, filling the void before it became more awkward. "And um...sorry I'm so...you know, unkempt."

"You're not," he replied, pointedly. A bit too pointedly, Sarah remarked. Her eyes turned to the side again, perceiving a stiffness about him that confirmed to her that he was equally aware of the impulse. She said nothing right away, merely waiting as he lowered his hand from her temple. When he spoke again, it was in a slower, softer tone. "You're perfectly fine…" he assured her. "...just as you are."

He stared vacantly at the spot above her temple that was no longer torn, no longer split and red and swollen. She looked better that way. He told himself she looked better that way.

He glanced to the side and began to lower, to pull away even. Sarah felt her breath hitch again as she turned her head forward and watched him.

The hand that healed her temple was now placed on the step. Now both his arms caged her. He was inching down, soon to be eye level with her. She could feel the tickle of his shirt as it draped, touched, and dragged down her front. Her chest lifted instinctively because of it.

She could see his neck. Could see the muscle and the shadows there. And his hair...his hair had pooled over her chest, the soft tendrils also dragging down as he moved. His smell was stronger now. Was good. It'd been building on her all the while, and made her want to lean forward and run her nose along his neck. Feel his skin against her lips. Taste him. Feel his pulse with her tongue as she pretended it would be anywhere even remotely close to as fast as her own.

She had no idea what kind of stare she was giving him when he was finally level, when he held himself over her with their chests perfectly aligned and oh so barely not touching. She fidgeted in her spot, caught in total ambivalence over whether she wanted to dare touch him with her thighs.

He could have me pinned in an instant, she told herself. He could have me any way he wanted.

Maybe he sensed these thoughts. Maybe he felt the same. But surely, that cool stare of his was proof to the contrary. Surely, the slow meander of his gaze was careless in making its way up to her own.

Their eyes locked. Hers widened. Their noses...were so very close. There was a part in her lips. She took in short breaths between them. He focused, for just one second, on the subtle peeking of her teeth from beneath her upper lip. There was a glint there. They were wet.

Sarah knew, without a doubt, that any tension felt was coming all from her and did her best to ignore it. To play it off. She breathed in slowly. She stopped her fidget. She laid stock still while her eyes...moved all around his face. She thought he would keep pulling away (surely her gape wasn't that obvious), but he didn't. He did not move. And his hands...his hands were fists on either side of her.

She watched the chroma build in his irises as he stared at her, as they turned bluer and brighter in a most unnatural way. Oh. That was...something. She should be getting nervous now, shouldn't she? And yet...it was just too pretty.

A stitch in her brow made her eyes narrow, made them fall to his mouth and linger there. Her lips parted a little wider, and she thought...she saw his part too.

Her head tilted all on its own, but she had no idea which of them was moving closer. She could feel the ends of his hair on her cheek. Could feel heat from his breath, and a tingle between their noses as they lightly touched. His dark gaze had fallen as well, and was rendered to a mere sliver as she felt the delicate tips of his lashes batting her own.

There was an ache in her hands as she held herself up, as she kept herself braced in an awkward recline against the cutting edges of the stairs. She wanted him to reach up and grasp the back of her head, to alleviate her strain, and hold her there.

That ache became a pain that sent a tremor through her arms. It forced her to lean back a little —which was how she knew the intent was his when she felt his lips over hers.

That touch lingered, the gesture made slow as blurred eyes stared through one another. Sarah waited, hesitant to respond or further or do anything at all. So...it must have been instinct that took over for her. Instinct that calmed her trepidation when their lips parted. Instinct that opened her mouth and turned her head when he touched her again. Surely it must have been something she had no control over; for, as his mouth opened in just the same way, and wetness passed between their lips, and the tips of their tongues lightly touched, she felt any and all reservation slip idly away.

She closed her eyes and relaxed a little further against the steps. His tongue traced her upper lip, tasting the edges of her teeth before moving deeper into her mouth. She felt a bit of force, a bit of insistence, a bit of sweet wine left behind on her palate before that mouth and that tongue conformed to an honest kiss and drew her lower lip in. And she let him. She followed his pace and returned every lick, every breath, every motion that had her, so leisurely, melting into the steps.

Her eagerness betrayed her when she nipped him, the sharp point of a canine pushing down into the flesh of his lower lip. The feeling it sparked motivated her to do it again, to do so insistently. She couldn't help it. He wasn't fighting her this time. Wasn't fevered, or angry, or spiteful. He kissed her slowly, kissed her back tenderly, steadily lowering to his elbows to be closer.

It was...like a dream really. Moving too slowly and too sweetly. In the far reaches of her mind, she wondered how long it would last. How long and how far she could go before those marks took over and he sent her away again. But...maybe not this time, she thought. It was about control, right? He'd said that himself. So maybe...if she just let him lead…

She felt his chest lower and weigh against her. Felt his stomach flatten to her own. Sarah's legs opened wider for him, letting him press himself there too, if he so wished. His breath flared hot against her cheek, exhaled through his nose as his lips molded with hers in kiss after deep, aching kiss.

She reached up tentatively, mindful of the balance of pressure against her spine, and held the side of his face. He allowed it. Allowed it eagerly, in fact, which encouraged her to reach into his hair and hold him there next. Soon her other hand joined. —and now their teeth scraped.

She could feel passion building in multiple places. A light whimper escaped her, followed by another and the soft sound of breath. Her hands moved down to his neck, to his shoulders, under his arms and to his back. The feel of his shirt was provoking. It made her want to know the feel of the bare skin beneath it.

He was firm under her hand. Strong. The muscle there was distinct. She traced them down his spine, around his sides, and back up again. She had never touched him like this before...

She couldn't help but pull him down. —just a little.

One of her hands pressed to his lower back, encouraging him to rest his weight on her despite the dull pain she felt building on her spine. He did, but she could sense something that was still mindful within him. Perhaps it was the same thing that kept him from touching her back.

She gripped his shirt tightly in her hands as impatience festered, then moved them up and over his shoulders. She had a strong desire to remove it from him. She resisted it...for now.

Her insistence, however, finally reached him. One of her hands went to the back of his head, turning him as she pushed forward and kissed him more forcefully. He made a noise. A very low, very nice noise, and brought a hand to grasp the corner of her jaw for balance as he pushed her back into place.

The pressure of one of the steps, just below her shoulders, cut into her harder because of it.

She smothered a grunt and arched her back, trying to find a more comfortable position while inadvertently grinding against him. His torso felt just as firm as his back. And his hips…

Jareth's brow furrowed as his hand moved from her jaw to her neck, gripping her firmly and in place. He felt a heat burgeon. A pressure behind his eyes that was somehow not heavy. Oh, but it would be. It should have warned him but...but he was not listening to that voice right now.

His mouth pressed harder over hers, was less considerate, and he pulled back on her lower lip as he bit it. Sarah gasped in response, taking in a quick breath before the demand of his tongue curling back into her mouth took over again. His other hand found its way to her hair, clenched and unclenched, and pulled as he pushed forward on one knee.

The movement made her sway, made her feel him, made her back press harder into the stone. She had to brace before it hurt too badly, pushing back and holding him close as her legs squeezed.

She felt his thumb press under her jaw and turn her head up, exposing her neck which he kissed his way towards. Her chest lifted high on each breath. She stared at the ceiling, eyes wide until they reflexively closed —her neck twisting against the bite he was giving it.

His other hand moved down, felt along her shoulder, down her arm, to her waist and then her hip. His grip latched on there, pinning her as his thumb under her chin pressed in even harder.

There was a peak to each of his bites. A point of pain that was just fleeting enough not to protest against. And it was relentless. It made her squirm. Made her press herself flush and hold him. Her hands on his back moved down, boldly grasping his hips before lowering still.

She felt his muscles flex when he pushed forward and churned his hips, rubbing his thigh against her groin in a way that she thought she was prepared for.

She was surprised by the sound she made —more than a gasp, but less than a moan— and could feel herself opening up for him. There was a pressure building in her groin, a yearning and a wetness and a horrible emptiness. She wanted him to touch her again. To lower his hips all the way so she could grind against his cock instead.

Instinct must have linked their thoughts, for that was exactly what he did.

The hand on her hip let go, drawing up the length of her leg and clutching the flesh of her thigh as it moved back down under her skirt. The contact —his bare, hot hand— made her gasp, as did the jolt that came when that hand curled inward and clamped over her hip bone. His thumb pressed deep into the soft spot near her groin. A spot that was sensitive, that was getting hot, that was too close to an even more sensitive spot. She felt the scrape of his fingers shifting over the thin lace of her underwear, and somehow her awareness of that felt more scandalous than if she'd been bare.

He let go of her jaw and reached down to hold her other hip too, freeing her neck to turn as he licked down to her chest. The way he shifted his weight relieved the pinch under her shoulders, but now it moved to the edge of the step jutting into her lower back. She did what she could to counteract it, which was bow her torso even more and press her breasts up towards his face. She felt his fingers tighten around her hip bones in response. Felt him adjust the position of his legs and grind against her.

She was caught off guard by the feeling. By how hard and long it was. It hit her perfectly. Even through the layers of her dress and his pants, she felt every inch of him slide over her pubic bone. It made her clit throb. Made her suddenly urgent. A part of her couldn't believe her own reactions, her own disregard for the setting and the potential eyes that may fall on them.

Presently, however, she did not care. She couldn't have cared less. After all the back and forth bullshit she'd been through in this place, she would 100% let him fuck her right there on the stairs.

In her musing, his hands left her hips and traveled up. One supported himself while the other felt up her side, groping at her breast and pushing it up so he could kiss whatever flesh that was made exposed. And then he looked up; he caught her with a searing gaze, and took her tightly by the nape. She murmured when he kissed her, submitting with closed her eyes as she rocked with him. The marks around his eyes were still dark, were darker, but she was too worked up to notice.

Both hands came to hold her face, his forearms resting against her shoulders and pushing her down. The edge of the step bit into her, made her wince, but she powered through it. Admitting the pain might break the moment, and she'd be damned if she let that happen now.

Her knees hugged him on every wave-like thrust, every motion of his cock against her cunt that slowly inched her dress higher. She was hot. So hot. A flash of it swept over her, bringing a sheen to her forehead and the well between her breasts. These dresses were stupid, she thought. Too thick and too heavy and too in the way.

Her hands were around his back when he turned and ran his tongue over her ear, lightly dipping in before pulling back and biting the lobe. Sarah arched towards him, gave a little moan, and closed her eyes as his body undulated flush against her.

His weight pushed every one of those steps into her back. This time, she couldn't help but wince. She made a sound of pain —a little cry she tried to bite back. She thought he ignored it.

He didn't.

A pause too short to be noticed passed between them. Jareth's hands tensed around her face...and then he pushed down on her shoulders again.

It came harder this time, the command he wielded merciless despite the way her body cringed and jerked away. She even whimpered —made a pretty grimace with her face. Jareth sucked the sounds from her very lips as the markings turned black.

She was ill guarded when he let go of her, preoccupied by his avid kiss and the discomfort left behind in her back, and left unsuspecting when he gently reached down and removed both her hands from him. He kept his body balanced against hers, laid out and keeping her down as he extended her arms above her head. She let him, of course —he was just so tender about it.

Sly. His movements were sly.

He bent her arms inward around her head, holding them tightly by the forearm. The feeling in and of itself aroused her, but not the way the next stair up dug into the backs of her wrists. She began to squirm against his hold, but it was no use. If anything...he was holding her like that purposefully.

She turned her head away and took in a sharp breath, trying to compose herself against the nips he left on her numbing neck. The mindfulness she sensed earlier was now gone, scattered somewhere amidst it all as the full weight of his (so very strong) body pushed against her. This was exactly what she'd wanted, she reminded herself. Only now...now she was starting to regret that encouragement.

The pain at her back was growing, and became difficult to ignore. Her arousal faded as she writhed, trying her best to find a position that was comfortable, but it was impossible. Her hands above her head flexed and then flexed again, bracing before trying to tactfully free herself. His grip only constricted in reaction, however, and...if she didn't know better...was actually pressing her harder onto the edges because of it.

"Hey—" she said, struggling in discomfort. He did not respond. "Could you...ease up a bit—" Again, nothing. Sarah's sounds of excitement turned to sounds of struggle as she more actively tried to get free. "The stairs are cutting my back. Just...lean up a little." She shifted in a certain way, which caused the edge of a step to scrape across her vertebrae. The feeling was sharp enough to make her cry out and, as if that was encouragement, he pushed her harder still.

A feeling of alarm broke through her romantic haze, for —between jolts of sharp, cutting pain— Sarah formed the suspicion that Jareth might actually be trying to hurt her.

"Okay, seriously. Stop. You're hurting me—"

Her heart quickened in her chest, and she laid her head back to stare up at the ceiling again. Anxiety trickled alongside her lingering arousal, and together it brewed something she really didn't understand. Jareth had yet to respond to her. And yet, by every twitch and increase she felt in the force of his kiss or in the grip of his hands, she knew that he heard her. That her pleas were acknowledged. Acknowledged...and dismissed.

He could have me pinned in an instant, she told herself. He could have me any way he wanted.

She felt a hard thump in her chest as those thoughts echoed through. A hard thump that heated her blood and made it bloom as a flush on her cheeks. Her breathing quickened. Became short and anxious.

Well, she was pinned, said a little voice in her head. And he did have her...exactly the way he wanted.

She was still nervous. Still alarmed. Still unsure of the edge she balanced on. And yet, she would not deny the hint of perverse thrill that came with it. It was something she'd never quite felt before.

That unsettling feeling burgeoned and filled her to the brim as she stared up at that dark, shadowed ceiling. It made her hands curl into fists and her hips shift restlessly. It made her attentive, excited, and nervous. His eyes were dark, she reminded herself. Were a sign of warning. He did things because he could not help himself. Because there was something nasty within him. She'd never been...handled like this before. Never been subdued and forced and—

If she felt actual fear in that moment, it was only towards herself. Towards the way she laid there while he sank deeper into that trance. Towards the way she braced with palms up and open while he marred her. Towards the way that, despite her empty struggles and pleas, a more dominant part of her did not want to fight him off.

She was just following his pace. That's all it was...right?

In that passing second, she wondered where the sentinels were. Wondered if and when they would intervene. Their absence meant she was still safe, didn't it? But...did she feel safe?

Caution guided her to carefully maneuver her arms lower, bringing his grip to her wrists. She twisted them, grating her poor muscles against the stone in the process, as she did her best to slip her hands into his hold and touch him. She managed to do so, just barely, curling the tips of her fingers around his thumbs as they moved up into her palms. She didn't know what to expect from it, but thought maybe he'd clamp down on her and squeeze.

She was not surprised when he did. Not surprised when his hands curled up and engulfed her hands whole, folding her fingers together and rendering them totally useless. This new trap she'd made for herself meant nothing, however. No, something else was at work catching her off guard and it was not the action, but the feeling.

It was warm. Hot, even. A symptom of his prurience that formed a tangible link between them. It was hard and possessive and unyielding; but, more than anything, it was not sinister. It was not dangerous. It was not cruel. No, the unnamed things she felt in that grip were altogether passionate and enveloping, lost to the moment —and reciprocated.

That feeling alone made her stop fighting and writhe in another way entirely. Made her clench her jaw and turn her head in rather than away. A bit of mist built in her eyes as she acknowledged something new about herself and him, and suddenly the pain or the marks it might leave didn't matter at all. There was something more imperative to be faced. A connection to be made. To be seized.

His face was still buried in her neck. She turned her head towards him as best as she could and whispered,

"Jareth...Jareth, look at me."

She spoke into his ear, did so softly and with ease. She made his name sweet on her lips —gave it guile that slithered through the haze and the shroud and the black. There, it dissipated like an echo. An echo that he heard. A Siren's song if ever there was one —and she knew it. He stopped and lifted off of her.

He pulled back and looked her dead in the eye, the sclera in his inflamed and bright and burning. The marks were pure black —so dark she could see nothing else. She gaped helplessly up at him, enthralled by the thrill and the terror and brutal anticipation of it. She had no idea what would happen. No idea what he would do. He looked menacing. He looked ravishing. They teetered together on the brink of such things and, oh, what a deliciously dangerous dyad for her to be caught between. Would she scream if he pounced? Or would the sound...be something else?

As she stared up at the bemused reflection of her own self in his eyes, she couldn't help but remark that her wrists were going numb. And that...for some reason, that was just fine—

*Gasp!*

Whatever precipice that scalding, two-second stare might have triggered was instead shattered utterly when a shrill and frightened exclamation echoed from above.

Sarah froze. Panic seized her —made her muscles tense and the thin hairs covering her body stand on end. She looked back and upward reflexively, eyes wide and face burning at the sight of Arlyn and Sirene standing at the top of the stairwell.

A twisted grimace made Arlyn look downright terrified. What caught Sarah's attention, however, was the cold, perfectly steeled gaze of Sirene.

All four stared in stony silence, and then Sirene asked,

"Are you alright, Your Highness?"

Her voice was austere, was a tone Sarah had never heard from her before, and the edge in her eye was unmistakable. From that distance, standing so tall at the head of the stairs, she looked like a completely different person. And she was focused, entirely, on Jareth.

Sarah's brow drew together in confusion. Why was she asking him that and not her? She was the one pinned to the floor!

Shaken from her lust, she looked back to Jareth quickly —but only felt even more disturbed by the way he was glaring back at Sirene.

The two were making eye contact, deadlocked and unblinking by the look of it. Sarah wondered...why that frightened her so much.

He still hadn't let her go, and, despite his focus, neither did he respond to Sirene.

"Jareth?" Sarah whispered, quietly so only he could hear. There was worry in her voice. She couldn't mask it. As if caught from a daze, he blinked and looked down at her. Their eyes locked yet again, only now….now she was frightened.

It was her look that broke him —eyes that were wide and round with a brow that turned down in a frown. There was uncertainty in it. Nervousness. A plea. He looked agitated as he processed it, scowling and blinking harder as something within pushed through the haze and the smoke and the black. She watched his markings retract, watched him wince them away with a look that became even more disturbed than her own.

The brightness dimmed. Sarah watched him come back to himself. She was still close. Within an inch's proximity. She could see the markings tremble. See them writhe with colors and shades. She could see the creases that formed at the corners of his eyes. See the veins and the vessels contract and expand like a pulse around his irises. Seeing such a visceral shift change him made her frown worsen. Made it sad and fearful for him. Made her forget the throbbing pains leading all the way down her spine.

He blinked and stared at her anew —and it was new. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, like he had no idea where they were or what had happened. His gaze darted around her face before catching on his own hands still clamped around her wrists. She watched and saw a flash of honest fright pass behind his eyes before he abruptly let go of her arms and pulled back from her.

He looked out of sorts. Like he had no fucking idea what to do. He sat back to his knee, holding out his hands that were still curled to the shape of her wrists. Sarah tried to lean up with him, but the severity in his gaze when it reflexively shot over and locked with hers made her stop.

He looked like he was going to run away again. She was about to reach out and stop him when—

"...forgive me," he said, and was gone.

Sarah felt a piece of her heart break between blinks, the sudden emptiness of the stairwell below her bringing a still coldness along with it. Shock pulled her breath from her, stole her voice and her movements as she just sat there and stared. She'd never seen him like that. Never seen him look at anything, let alone himself, with tangible fear. It was so much more than the last time they'd kissed, and made her question what had really just happened to them. If maybe she was the one forcing her way after all—

"Mistress, are you alright?"

Sarah blinked from her thoughts and looked back, meeting the sound of rushed footsteps as Arlyn and Sirene descended the stairs.

She sat upright and fixed her skirt, holding herself guardedly as Arlyn hunched down and touched her by the shoulder.

"Oh my goodness, that was so scary. Are you hurt?"

She sounded fretful. Genuinely. Sarah, however, was still a million miles away, and only stared outward with a hard, absent gaze.

"No...not really," she replied.

Sirene knelt down on her other side, her eyes quickly scanning her limbs.

"You are," she said, and lightly grasped one of her wrists.

"I'm fine," Sarah cut her off, pulling her arm away. Sirene paused and frowned, looking Sarah hard in the eye like she just didn't understand.

"Look at your arms, Mistress," she said evenly.

Despite her reluctance, Sarah looked down at her forearms. As expected, there were two thin, deeply cut lines moving horizontally over the back of each wrist while the surrounding skin suffered the pink impressions of a hand and fingers. The marks were red, but not bleeding or bruised, and weren't nearly as ugly as what had been on her legs. But even so, truthfully, the sight was alarming. She knew it was alarming, but...it somehow failed to reach her.

Sirene's frown deepened the longer she stared at Sarah.

"You should call for help when his eyes are like that," she said. Sarah looked over at her. "—While you still have the ability to."

Her tone was frank. Was serious. Was nothing like the soft and elegant Lady Sarah was starting to know. This new side of her was jarring. The knowing she could see passing between her and Jareth's eyes just a moment ago was a thing of familiarity. Of intimacy. Of…

Sarah hated how petty she felt just then, and lowered her eyes as she glanced away from Sirene.

"He wasn't...hurting me," she said, nearly muttering it under her breath. Arlyn drew back, looking over at Sirene in alarm.

"What do you mean, he wasn't? Mistress, he had you held down. Look at those marks—"

"It doesn't hurt," Sarah interjected curtly, vexation working through her tone. Arlyn hushed up and eased back, her mouth pouting like she might cry. Sarah could not have cared less, however, still distracted as she ran circles around her wrists. "The marks don't matter. It doesn't bother me," she added, but couldn't say which marks she was speaking of.

Sirene, starting to put it all together, flickered her eyes down as she carefully tried to take hold of Sarah's hand once more.

"Even so, may I heal them for you?"

There. That sounded kind. Like her. Sarah looked over as she allowed her arm to be pulled away from her again.

Sirene watched her cautiously, gauging her mood before touching the marks with her fingers and sparking the same kind of magic Jareth had. Sarah watched the light, felt the warmth, but lacked the wonder. She healed her other arm next, then sat both down in Sarah's lap.

"Are there any others?" Sirene asked.

A flash of her back hitting the stone as Jareth ground into her shot to and from Sarah's mind, and then she turned away again.

"No," she said, feeling a peculiar kind of insecurity close to...was that shame? "There's nothing."

Despite Sarah's intentions, Sirene saw through her clearly. She pursed her lips in thought, and then forced a pretty smile.

"Well then, let's get back to your room, hm? It might not be safe to loiter out here."

A sharp side-eye flashed Sirene's way, but no retort came. No, Sarah obeyed the gentle guiding of Sirene's hands as she was urged to her feet. Arlyn stood as well, holding her own hands in front of herself nervously. Once standing, however, reluctance returned and Sarah's feet became firmly planted. Sirene couldn't help but sympathize.

"It would be better to talk there, don't you think?" she asked. Sarah looked over at her. "—if you'd like, that is."

Sarah's brow was furrowed tightly. It remained that way even as she nodded and said, "Yeah….okay."

---

Sarah felt the light pressure of Sirene's hand against her back and, before she even knew it, all three were back in her room. This startled Sarah. For some reason she thought only Jareth could do that.

Sirene took a step forward and gestured towards the dining table.

"Why don't you have a seat? I'll send for some tea."

She pulled out a chair for Sarah and immediately went back to ring the rope. Sarah felt her body obeying again, her feet moving in quiet steps towards the table. Arlyn followed her, still so quiet as she darted looks between her and Sirene. Clearly, Sirene was the only one who knew how to navigate this situation. Sarah wondered why.

When one of the goblins came to take their order, Sirene spoke quietly to it in the hall. A moment later, she closed the door and joined them at the table.

"Drinks should be here shortly. I asked for some treats too, if you're hungry."

Sarah stared down at the tabletop, ignoring Sirene's casual remark completely.

"What did you mean…" Sarah began, crossing her arms tightly. "...when you said, while I still have the ability to?"

Latent tension woke between them. Arlyn looked to Sirene anxiously.

"His Highness becomes very...insistent when in that state —as I'm sure you've noticed, Mistress. And...he cannot always control himself," she spoke carefully. "Forgive me, but you have no magic. No defenses. It would be easy for him to…" and she glanced over to share some look with Arlyn. "...overpower you."

Sarah's upper lip formed a snide curl as she looked away. It was an instinctive reaction, as was the desire to shake her head. Arlyn watched this gesture pass, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"Were...you not terribly frightened?" she asked, sounding so terribly perplexed. "The way he had you...it was as if he was going to—"

"I'm aware of what he was going to do," Sarah cut her off, though immediately regretted how snappy it sounded. "And...no. I wasn't frightened. He overpowered me because I let him."

The notion didn't seem to properly compute for Arlyn. She stared aghast and then drew back in her seat.

"W...why?"

Her tone was typical and irritating: all shock and awe and fear. Sarah crossed her arms tighter and rolled her eyes away.

"Why not?" she countered, going on before anyone could answer. "We're engaged, aren't we? I'm under contract by the King to give him more heirs. These things have to get done by some means."

Sarah's sarcasm, as bitter as it was, went completely over Arlyn's head.

"But…" poor Arlyn interrupted, her fingers tapping against the table's edge as she shifted forward in her chair. "It shouldn't be— If...if he forced you—"

And now Sarah was angry.

"He did not force me."

Sarah's voice cut the air like a knife, hard and decisive, and so thoroughly over it. The room fell quiet, but it was a silence that brimmed. Arlyn closed her mouth and sucked in her lips, staring downward at her hands as if she'd been scolded. If Sarah didn't have so many things on her mind, she might have noticed it more and then felt bad about it. As it was, however, she only let that painful silence drag as her exasperation over the matter weighed it down.

"Forgive us," Sirene eventually said, her tone a cool contrast to Sarah's. "From what we saw, and the severity of those marks, we couldn't help but think—"

"I know," Sarah said, exhaling roughly through her nose as she crudely shifted in her seat. "Those marks come with a stigma. It means he's bad. Untouchable. I've heard all about it, so I'm sure I know exactly what you were thinking—" and she peered over at them sternly. "—but you thought wrong."

Trickles of tension tapped with the seconds. They passed far too slowly for anyone's liking. Sirene went quiet, gauging Sarah as tactfully as possible, before forcing one her polite, barely-there smiles into place.

"Clearly," she said, with a quiet kind of canny that succeeded in catching Sarah's attention. Her gaze was quite sharp when Sarah glanced over at it. "It seems we didn't so much save you as simply...interrupt?"

And now the silence shifted. Now it was weighed equally on both sides of the table. Sarah slouched in her chair defensively.

"Do you think that's ludicrous?" she asked.

The quibble on Arlyn's brow told her yes. Sirene's expression, however, remained steeled.

"Not at all, Mistress."

Sarah did not like the aloofness that carried that statement. Didn't like the way it paired with her slight smile and floated across the table. She had no idea how to discern it, whether or not she was being mocked or admired.

Thankfully, the tea chose that most opportune moment to arrive. A knock at the door broke the tension —for the moment at least.

The goblin serving them, Cyndi, poured each of their cups without an ounce of awareness. Her genuine good cheer bred awkwardness amidst the table. Sarah did her best not to fuel it. And then Cyndi was gone.

Sirene stirred a tiny spoon in slow circles around her cup. Sarah watched her intently, not having any interest in the formality. She looked over at Arlyn next, curious about the way that she too was looking to Sirene for cue.

"Why were you so afraid?" Sarah asked, to Arlyn more or less, then turned the next question to Sirene. "Do you really think he was going to hurt me?"

Sirene set her spoon down. Both of Arlyn's hands held her tea cup. The two fae women shared fleeting glances, and then Sirene looked forward directly at Sarah.

"We do," said Sirene.

"Why?"

"We just told you, he becomes—"

"That's not what I mean," Sarah said, internally berating all her bad manners, but being too frustrated to stop them. "I want to know what evidence you have to believe that. How do you know what he would do?" Sarah's question hung in the air. She shifted her gaze from side to side between them. "I'm sorry if this is insensitive, but no one will tell me anything. If you care at all about my safety, or expect me to look out for myself, then I need to know." and then her brow furrowed tightly. "Is it because he's...because he's hurt you?"

There was a kind of plea beneath that agita, a beseech that laid within the knit in Sarah's brow. Sirene regarded it clearly, regarded it with pity, and sighed.

"I understand why Lochlan doesn't want you to know any of this," she said, glancing down into her cup. "He doesn't want you to make assumptions and turn away."

Sarah drew back a little.

"You know Lochlan's name?" she asked, looking from her, to Arlyn, to the shadows on the walls as if an alarm might go off. The two fae, however, showed virtually no reaction at all.

"Yes. We all do," she said, offering no explanation. Sarah bit her cheek, settling down as she watched Sirene thoughtfully tap an index finger against the side of her cup. "But...I also understand your frustration. So...if you'll permit it, I'd like to speak with some candor."

She looked up with that same, frank expression, locking onto Sarah's gaze and putting her on the spot. Sarah held that stare with equal force, and nodded as she uttered a patient, "Please."

Sirene's eyes shifted to the side, to Arlyn, seeming to make sure she was okay with the situation before continuing.

"Surely…" and she looked away from Arlyn. "...you've noticed there isn't much to do here. This place hardly needs a whole staff of maids." Those statements were rhetorical. Sarah did not respond. "I'm sorry to say, Mistress, but your suspicions before were correct. We clean to pass the time, but...really, the job of a maid is to deflect His Highness's temper."

Of course, deflect and temper meant other things entirely. Sarah felt her legs squeezing together in discomfort, but she sat tall. This was not the time to be getting bashful or insecure (let alone territorial) over Jareth's past.

"Does he…" she started, not sure how to find the words. "I'm sorry, but...has he...?"

She couldn't say it. Despite how desperately she wanted to know, she couldn't bring herself to ask —and maybe that was because...with a word like temper as a placeholder...a part of her was afraid of the answer.

Thankfully, Sirene understood her perfectly.

"No," she said, point blank. "The others were speaking the truth before. None of them have slept with him, and neither has he forced his hand on us. He does avoid us as much as we do him." She spoke evenly, but Sarah was still skeptical. If that was true, then...why would they think... "We agree to the possibility —both consensual and not— when taking this station, but it's rarely spoken of," Sirene went on, distracting Sarah. "In fact, Miri, Lochlan, Merek, myself, we do everything we can to prevent such incidents."

Sarah's mouth slowly opened, confusion laden in her countenance.

"I...don't understand," she said, and then blinked low and to the side. "You said the others haven't slept with him. I…know this is really none of my business, but—"

Sirene watched as something unpleasant built on Sarah's face.

"Yes," Sirene replied, without any emotion or inflection whatsoever. Sarah looked sharply up at her just as she added, "I have been with him."

Arlyn did well to stifle her gasp, though her wide eyes spoke for themselves. Clearly, she was startled by this. Sarah...had no idea how to respond.

"But that…" Sirene continued, lowering her eyes from them both. "...was a very, very long time ago."

Silence resumed, heavier than ever, and left Sarah jittering with indecision. She'd felt something flare in her heart at Sirene's words. It felt like panic, but was it jealousy? Intimidation? She didn't have time to decide.

"Mistress...I'm sorry if admitting such makes you uncomfortable," Sirene continued, careful of her tone and the words she chose. "You've obviously heard a bit about his condition, and I'm glad for that. You're right. He does carry a stigma. But...there is a reason why we are so afraid for you and, I assure you, it is not blind prejudice." She kept her voice cool, kind. Sarah, despite her emotions, felt some of her physical anxiety lull because of it. "Lord Leche told us not to speak of this topic. He believes it is not our place to tell you, but...I would like to nonetheless. If you don't want to hear, however, then I also understand—"

"I would like to hear," Sarah said, the words coming forth before she even thought them. She caught herself however and bit her lip, not wanting to seem too eager when adding a courteous, "Please."

Sirene regarded her openly, her stern eyes evaluating whatever nameless something that Sarah was sure could be plainly seen on her face. She only hoped she wasn't found lacking. Hoped Sirene wouldn't take it back and leave her in the dark—

The woman in question turned her head downward just then, her carefully crafted expression fading until it was sullen.

"I've known His Highness for a long time," she said, then quirked a brow. "Lochlan and Miri too. I was an aristocrat once, you see." and then she looked up from her cup. "We were never what I would call close, but...you could say His Highness and I moved in the same circles. Lochlan served as his squire at the time, and Miri had worked as his governess."

Both Sarah and Arlyn's heads tilted with intrigue, though Sarah was surprised that this might be something Arlyn didn't already know.

"When His Highness was first sentenced here...the three of us —along with others— were asked to join because of our familiarity. The King wanted those who knew him to be by his side. Those who might...better understand him. My father also happened to be a gambler, and had accrued a daunting amount of debt. His Majesty offered to absolve it in exchange for my service here."

Sarah fiddled with her cup, wondering if she should pretend to drink it.

"...and how long ago was that?" she asked.

Sirene's brow tightened, and she peered up towards a corner.

"...I'm not sure," she said, then looked back down. "A few centuries...maybe more? Time gets harder to track the more it passes."

Sarah frowned. That statement was similar to one spoken by the Queen. It made her wonder just how much time needed to pass before one lost the ability to decipher it.

"Initially, there were six maid posts," Sirene continued. "I still remember my sisters at the time; they were Lucida, Avana, Gwyn, Freyn, and Elan. I had known Lucida from Court. The rest, however, were new to all of us. They each came from...questionable circumstances, and needed rather than wanted the aid promised by His Majesty. It's worth mentioning how difficult it was, as it is still difficult, to find those willing to sell their time here."

"...because of his affliction?" Sarah asked. "How it's regarded?"

"Yes," Sirene replied, not bothering to ask how she might know something like that. "Fear of it is so profound that...in many cases, there is no price high enough. For every one who agrees, there were a thousand who said no. His Majesty is kind, however, and he would never force his people's hand. He would buy it, assuredly, but never force it."

Sarah found the notion that Jareth's situation could be so badly regarded that not even the King, in all his richness and might, could persuade a faithful few to come and simply live in the same building as him to be disturbing.

"Back then…" Sirene continued, her voice softening to her usual, airy self. "It was hard to tell that he was afflicted at all. We were young, and curious, and scared, and the Prince…well, he was still the Prince, you see. It was easy to forget, and impossible not to harbor some excitement.

"We were like a family. We worked, and we played, and we ate, and we slept, and we did so contentedly every day. This place...felt out of time. Like an escape. His Highness was confident then. He was sure we wouldn't spend more than a decade here…"

Sarah watched as Sirene licked her lower lip compulsively, a tick tensing her brow in a way that was far too discernable.

"I suppose...our naivety got the better of us," she went on. Sarah started to frown again. "We ended up forgetting why we were there in the first place. We drank and laughed and touched —all of us, together— and yet no one ...no one… was close enough to him to see how he was changing."

She paused as she gathered her thoughts. Sarah didn't like the sense of disappointment she saw building on her face.

"When I think back, it was obvious. We did it to ourselves and to him. And I...I can say that I regret that carelessness more than anything."

She tapped her cup again and then let it go, putting her hands in her lap as she sat up even straighter.

"He started to withdraw. Not noticeably, at first, but the signs were there. He became pensive. Quieter. He stopped coming to see us as often. And, when we went to him, he was...different. We thought it was simple frustration. We'd already passed the proclaimed decade by that point, and our circumstances were no different than the day we'd arrived."

"He was...sent here to try and cure himself, right?" Sarah asked. Sirene nodded.

"Yes."

"So...he was getting sicker, then?"

"If you can define it as that, yes." She looked Sarah in the eye while speaking, showing a ruefulness about the corners of her mouth. It kept Sarah silent, leaving her to wonder what else it might be defined as. "He stopped going out. Gave up his hobbies. Eventually, he only joined us for meals, and then that started happening less and less too. During the time we did see him, he was irritable and reticent. Those markings gradually embedded themselves deeper, but...we were so accustomed to them that we didn't even notice."

And then an awkwardness. A pause. Sarah anticipated her next words near verbatim.

"The way he...handled us...changed," Sirene said, pausing tactfully to look up and judge Sarah's reaction. Sarah, forgoing her jealous nature, gave her a serious but sympathetic look of encouragement. It's okay. Go on, that look conveyed. Sirene looked away again, shifting her shoulders. "He became...more impatient. More aggressive. Punishing, even. We were...just starting to get concerned about it —and then he stopped doing even that."

The way Sirene kept her eyes averted was a sign the memories were tense ones. Sarah felt a part of her become curious to ask, while another part was totally fine when she changed directions completely.

"Lochlan and he argued frequently," she said, tangenting. "I thought they were always close as children, but their relationship at that time was...poor. I'm sure that didn't help. But...mostly it was we who weren't helping him. We'd hardly even noticed, and what we did notice was only because of how it impacted us. And I think...if we had just taken the time to acknowledge what we were all ignoring...then what happened to Avana...might not have."

Sarah's posture straightened attentively, just now remembering she'd heard that name before.

"What happened?" she asked.

"She went off on her own," Sirene said, perfectly frank. "That meant nothing back then, but….now we are forbidden to go anywhere alone. That's why you'll always see us in pairs." and she spared a glance at Arlyn. "His Highness...was failing in his trials. His moods were becoming fits, and he was...suffering them in secret." and then she paused, wading through some grim thought that showed as a shadow behind her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was...sad. "He spent the majority of his time crafting new magic. Trying to find ways of...curing himself. As it turned out...one of his experiments actually worsened his condition considerably." and then she huffed exasperatedly. "A shame then that we had no idea."

Again, Sarah's and Arlyn's expressions mirrored one another: brows slowly drawing as mouths formed frowns. Sarah wasn't sure what to say, so she just waited for Sirene to continue.

"This was before we or he really understood what was happening or what it meant, before we had any real means of dealing with it. There were no sentinels back then. We had guards, of course, but...they were only fae. And one cannot know...what one does not know. Avana crossed his path on her own that day. That was it. Her only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sarah felt a rock forming in her gut. It kept her rooted in place. Kept her sitting attentively.

"What...did he do to her?" she asked.

Sirene's stare passed through her.

"What do you think?"

Sirene replied with a wistfulness that did not match her one-sided smile. It was humbling in a sense. Sarah didn't speak. She had no idea how to even feel.

"It's still hard for me…" Sirene started up again, lowering her eyes. "It's hard for me to recall, let alone speak of. I know I spoke of candor, but...I'm not sure if I can—"

"It's okay," Sarah said —decisively, to reassure her. "You don't have to tell me the details." There was genuine fluster to Sirene's mannerisms. Sarah did need anything more than that to back off.

"Thank you," Sirene replied.

A moment of silence passed, lingering as Sarah crossed eyes with Arlyn before eventually looking back at Sirene.

"But...can you at least tell me if he...did he kill her?"

Was that too blunt? Sarah's bedside manner had always been poor, so she really had no idea. A light sniffle could be heard as Sirene turned her head to the side and made herself smile.

"No," she said, and composed herself while turning back to Sarah. "No. She survived. Captain Fostad —sorry, I mean General. He held the rank of Captain and served in Merek's position at the time— he found them and was able to intervene, but…"

Her voice trailed off and went into something that Sarah knew better than to poke at. Curiosity was clawing at her, but she knew to make do with what she had. This was some heavy shit that she really was not expecting to hear today. And Jareth...she hadn't even stopped to think about Jareth yet.

"Obviously, nothing like that had ever happened before, and it jarred everyone on the island," Sirene quickly went on. "We realized we were playing in a delusion. We remembered, clearly, why we were there and what he was. Avana...was healed. When His Majesty heard word of the incident, however, he gave her full sanction and took her from the island. I don't know what became of her after that. Sometimes I still wonder.

"Things changed when she left. Rules were implemented, precautions taken. Sentinels were brought in —to watch over this Highness lest he ever be caught alone with someone again. It was a...tense time, and...when I think back, I feel that maybe all of those precautions...just made things worse." and she shook her head with regret, musing over something lost and bitter before looking up to catch Sarah's eye. "He pulled away completely, hid himself, avoided everything but Lochlan, and it was like...for the longest time, it was like he wasn't even here.

"Time kept passing, and eventually the term of our own contracts ended. I remember...going to the dock with Lucida, Elan, Gwyn, Freyn, and Miri. Lochlan was by our side, and so was Fostad. I remember standing there looking out over the ocean. I remember my friends jittering with the desire to leave and never come back. They were terrified of him. Terrified to the depths of their souls...when I could still remember a time —not long before— when they laughed with him, when they teased and flirted, and wanted to be near him. It was scary for me...realizing how quickly it had all changed.

"When the ship docked...we stood by with our things as our replacements disembarked. There were only four of them, however. Rumors were spreading and he could not persuade any more than that. And I saw them...I saw them leave that ship with the exact same faces we had —with curiosity, fear, and excitement— and I thought...no. I knew in my bones that if something wasn't done, if someone didn't warn them, then it would just happen all over again. It would happen to them, and it would happen to him."

Sirene frowned as she said all this, and yet her eyes were stern and clear and directly on Sarah. She wanted her to hear this. To know these details. She wanted her to understand...why she was needed.

"My friends practically ran onto that ship," Sirene continued, her eyes clouding with the memory. "They did not take one look back. Miri had already agreed to stay on longer, but I didn't realize why until that moment. I think...it's because we were feeling the same thing. We'd known him. The him before this place. We knew who he really was, who he still was, and that...the tragedy was not Avana's alone." Another contemplative pause. Sirene glanced down and pursed her lips. "I severed my contract with His Majesty that day, and decided to stay." When Sirene looked up, she saw surprise on the mistress's face. "I wanted to help those girls. I wanted to teach them and protect them and keep them safe….to keep His Highness safe. To make sure no one, especially him, had to go through that ever again."

Sarah stared, unblinking. There was nothing else to do. Sirene quirked a brow as her mouth made a little, self-deprecating grin.

"This is my repentance," she said. "My acknowledgement of our follies. It's also why I intervened today. I'm sorry if you feel it was unwarranted, and maybe it was, but…" and then she inhaled deeply, lifting her shoulders to show more confidence. "Whatever else might frustrate you, Mistress, please know that His Highness did not ask for this. He's doing all he can, but...it's been a long time, and reality is reality. You're not afraid of him, and I'm so happy for that. He needs someone who is not afraid —who might actually come to know him again. But….I feel obligated to tell you that you are always in danger here, and that danger is only made certain when with him. Make no mistake about it, Mistress. Make no mistake, ever."

She'd finished speaking. Sarah could feel the conclusion in the air. She was looking down at her lap now, deep in thought over everything that was said.

"How am I…" and she shook her head in frustration. "How am I supposed to know him if I'm tiptoeing around whatever might happen? How am I supposed to not be afraid if I'm always anticipating the worst?"

For the first time over that whole exchange, the anxiety made palpable in Arlyn's expression faded, and she quietly looked over at Sirene. They exchanged looks of sympathy, one that they directed together back to Sarah.

"I don't know the answer to that, Mistress," said Sirene. "I believe it is something Lord Leche has been struggling with as well."

Mention of Lochlan made her scowl, made her bitter to admit she might now have an inkling of understanding about his motivations and his mysteries. He thought she was going to be turned off after finding out about Jareth's past, yeah? There was ample grounding for it, yes? Well….was she?

"And if I don't tiptoe?" Sarah asked, treading dangerous waters that even she was unsure of.

Sirene stared at her in earnest.

"Then that is your choice," she said, passively. "All I ask...is that you seriously consider those consequences —both for you and for him."

Sarah rolled her bottom lip over her teeth, absently gnawing on it as she ruminated at the tabletop. "I understand," she said, and that was all. There was a lot to process here, decisions to be made and opinions to be formed. She tried her best to simplify for now and save the rest for time alone. A moment passed, and then she pushed on. "So...you and Miri stayed behind, and have been here all this time to keep the girls from having any contact with him?" she asked. Sirene nodded.

"Yes."

"And His Majesty….keeps on sending replacements?" And she scowled in confoundment. "What is the point in that?"

Comfort women who didn't comfort seemed like a massive waste of everybody's time and potential health, didn't it? —but she was far too prudent to say something like that.

"His Majesty keeps sending maids because he does not know of our arrangement," Sirene explained. "Lochlan has made sure of it."

"But why? If it's so dangerous for everyone involved, why send women here at all?"

She was, of course, omitting herself from the equation entirely. Wherever Jareth's manner fell on the spectrum of acceptable to abominable didn't change her purpose there. If anything, it only reconfirmed why his father had been desperate enough to go for a human. The way things were...it didn't seem like any babies were going to be made any time soon.

And now a whole lot of other things were starting to make sense...

"It's not about what we do here. It's about what we get afterward," Sirene said, pulling her back into the conversation. "I told you, His Majesty does not coerce his subjects, especially when it comes to this assignment. The dangers we may face are fully disclosed, and the women who come here do so willingly because —despite those possibilities— His Majesty makes an offer too good to refuse. So long as they serve their time here, they get what they were promised. It doesn't matter what happens, or doesn't happen, to us because questions are never asked. For a long time now, working as a pleasure girl here has amounted to little more than passing boredom. Do some repetitive dusting for twenty years and get everything you've ever wanted? It's an ideal situation, really. But it's also because...of how it reflects on His Highness." And then her voice quieted. "To have them here...to keep bringing new temptation here...is seen as a test. If His Majesty believes his son still has the ability to hold back, that the women here are performing their duties without injury, then there is still hope."

Okay, that made sense. But still, Sarah drew back with a sharp scowl.

"You say that like it's a lie," she said, sounding defensive. "He does hold back. Constantly."

Her sudden passion gave Sirene a feeling of relief, though she didn't express it.

"I know," she said, quietly.

Sarah shifted around in her seat, reverting back to disgruntlement as she crossed her arms again. She brooded for a few long seconds; then —a bit petulantly— she muttered, "...I don't think he would've hurt me. Not like that."

Sirene blinked slowly as she watched that young, mortal girl frown in all her enviable stubbornness, then watched her freeze and glare up guardedly when she replied, with perfect repose,

"Neither did Avana."

---

Jareth sighed as he appeared in his room, though it was hardly an act of relief or comfort. The light there was dim, heavy just like everything else.

He walked across the room towards a door on the far side, peeling off his shirt and tossing it to the floor. There. Now he felt less constrained —marginally lighter.

The door to his washroom opened for him, and he ran a tense hand through his hair as he passed through. Next to hit the floor were his boots, his socks, his pants. The water running in his shower was already steaming when he stepped inside. He endured the bite and burn of each droplet as it seared his skin —for the second time that day.

He'd made it hot on purpose. Scalding. It was the only way to distract from the pressure.

He pressed a hand flat to the tile wall and stood with his head bowed down, closing his eyes as the heavy water weighed his hair and cascaded from the mopping tendrils of his bangs down and over the contours of his face. Despite the humidity, it was easier to breathe, and his chest moved higher on a deep inhale.

A torrent of needles pelted against his back, but it was a kind of pain that brought physical relief.

He tried to lose himself in it. To just fade away under the sound of the water. The flesh on his shoulders turned tender, turned red and inflamed, but still he endured. In fact, he turned the knob to make it even hotter —clearly, that morning's flagellation was not nearly enough.

That voice of his was starting to nag at him. A shout felt far off in the distance. No. It's fine, he told himself. The water would drown it out.

His closed eyes formed a scowl, formed frustration. The blackness behind his lids was meant to remain empty. To remain hollow. To be filled only with the sounds of the water, and the taps against his scalp, and the heated weight of the air.

So why was that not enough? Why, when the temperature of the water burned him, was he still thinking? Why wouldn't she leave? The sounds were her breath, the taps were her fingers, and the heat...the heat was…

His mouth dropped open and he breathed heavily, the scowl on his brow drawing tightly as water streamed down his face, over this nose, around his teeth and his tongue, and down his chin. His hand against the wall curled and clawed on the tile, his shoulders hunching as he reached down bitterly and took hold of his throbbing cock.

He could have had her today. He could have had her last night. —on any night— She kissed him. Pulled him down. She was always seeking after him. He told himself this as his hand formed a fist and squeezed, pulling up his shaft as it flexed then hardened.

She was always looking at him. Always trying to talk. To laugh. To touch him—

He stroked himself again, growing longer and harder under the heat of the water.

She wanted to be near him. To know him. Feel him. She wasn't afraid. Wasn't afraid—

The hand against the wall formed a full fist and braced. His cock was rigid in his hand, slick and hot from the shower. He pumped it faster and faster.

There was cunning in her smile. Guile in her eyes. Her lips...her lips were round and pink and...and he knew that the skin there was soft. He knew the taste—

He let out a moan as he pictured her mouth, pictured all the wanton shapes he knew it could make, knew it would make, that it would have made for him.

She'd tried to lure him with her figure last night —swaying her hips as she walked away like she was something more than a rabbit scampering before a wolf. A vixen, maybe —but still prey. Prey that had submitted before he'd even taken a bite. A vixen who had spread her legs for him on the stairs because she wanted him to bite.

Long legs. She had long, shapely, pale legs. He knew the skin was soft there too—

He let out a pained sound and gasped for breath, adjusting his stance as the heat of the shower broke his equilibrium. It was soon to make him dazed. Good, he thought. If he was lucky, it might make him pass out. Anything to distract him. Stop him—

He'd licked the shadow in her navel while she slept. She hadn't woken. He'd touched her waist and ran his nose along the skin. Her breasts were large and full, and he knew...now he knew how soft those were too.

His cock twitched in his hand, sending through it a feeling that had a pressure building in the head. He was hard as steel as he imagined the feeling of her soft cunt around it, pulling him in, being fucked by him. He could feel the heat from her. Feel the mound as she pressed herself up against his cock—

He imagined the taste of her breasts in his mouth, of how hard her nipples would feel peaked against his tongue. He imagined the O of her lips as she moaned for him and took him deep to the back of her throat.

There would be tears at the corners of her eyes. She would gaze up at him with that guile and that glimmer and the eagerness that he'd seen.

Jareth's breathing quickened as he jerked himself off, his moans lost under the sheet of water and immune to the stabbing pain it still caused as he brought himself closer and closer to coming. Maybe if he gave in, the feeling would leave. Maybe if he indulged in this fantasy he would no longer see her. No longer need to. Of course that's what he told himself. He just—

She would cry out with his name on her swollen lips. She would dig her nails into his skin. Like the water. Like the heat. He would hold her down until she was bruised, until she was broken, until she could do little more than gasp. He knew the color of her bruises now. He knew what they would look like pressed under his thumb—

And he would taste her soft flesh. He would know every inch, every color, every blemish, every hot, stained inch of it. He would bite, and she would bleed, and he would have his cock in her ass with a forearm pressed against the back of her neck—

His body gave a reflexive jerk as a jolt of precum shot onto his knuckles. He moaned low and re-cemented his posture, stroking himself hard and fast as the pleasure built.

He'd hold her down by the biceps —she wiggled too much by the forearms. He'd be too strong for her that way. She wouldn't be able to move. Her hair would stick to her face and tears would cloud her eyes but, oh, were they not more beautiful that way?

He'd slam her against something hard. The stairs? No. A wall. One made of stone. It would break the skin but she'd like it. She'd have to. He'd give her no choice. She'd cling to him because there would be no other option. She'd endure and she'd scream and he'd pump her full—

She might fight back. He might let her. She might try to push him away. Might successfully hit him. Maybe she'd bite him. Make him bleed. Maybe she'd tear streaks of red into his back the same way he would do to her.

She'd hit him with her head. Forehead to forehead. That would be her only option. She'd push back and kick him. One good shot. He'd allow it and he'd laugh because it was more thrilling that way. He'd come back for her and take her by the neck. Slam her to the wall. Do so over and over and over and over—

She would stop fighting him. It would be sudden. If she passed out, he would wake her. If she came close to death, he would heal her. He would keep her just well enough to look her in the eye and carry on. It was no fun if they didn't respond at all.

She would be dazed. Her eyes would be dreamy just like last night. Her mouth would be chafed and her cheeks would be flushed, and a collar of black brushes would adorn her neck. There would be red on her skin. He knew what she looked like when cut—

Jareth grimaced as those thoughts and images played out wildly behind his eyes, and twisted his head painfully against the wall. He hated them. All of them. Even as he moaned and tensed and reveled in it, he hated himself for giving them life, for giving in, for not caring quite enough to stop himself. He didn't want those things. He didn't want…

But it felt too good. Having her like that would feel too good—

He'd play with her like that for hours. For days. Over and over in a million ways. He'd take her voice so she couldn't scream. He'd break her legs so she couldn't run. He'd paint her with rouge from the bites he'd leave. The sentinels might intervene but —no. This was a fantasy. There were no sentinels. There was no one. No one to stop him.

Jareth groaned and shook his head again, pressing it hard to the wall as he forced himself to think of anything else. He was wretched, but he would not give that voice what it wanted. He would not be this thing. He did not want to hurt her. He did not want...to want to hurt her so badly.

He stopped his movements and stood rigidly, breathing heavily through his nose as he composed himself. The point of this was to regain himself, he reminded, not make it worse.

He let the veil of the shower wash over him, letting the white noise of it sooth his racing heart. He held his breath without realizing and, after a few moments, let it out with a shudder. A scowl twisted deep into his face, and he did everything he could to will that presence to leave.

He thought of the way she'd touched his chest as they stood together in the hall. He thought of the sad smile he'd seen, and wondered what it meant. He thought of the way she looked under the moon, of the way she looked with flowers in her hair, of the way she incorrectly held her wine glass and smiled at him so lazily because she enjoyed his company. Because he comforted her. Because she felt safe. He thought of the way she felt laying in his arms, the way he felt wrapped in her own, the way they'd kissed each other.

He recalled the gentle touch of her hand. He imagined what it would feel like against the bare skin of his back and his arms. He imagined what it would feel like to wrap his arm under her and lift rather than push her close. He imagined what it would be like to be with someone and not take them. Someone who wanted him. Who enjoyed it. Who was gentle. Who made him gentle.

Her mouth would make the same shapes. Her skin would feel just as soft. Her moans would sound exactly the same.

She would still cling to him —because she was impassioned. She would still claw her nails and bite —because she was eager. She would still cry out with his name on her lips, lips that would still be swollen and chafed with cheeks still flushed. She would be bruised but not broken. And the marks on her neck...would be from the kisses he'd give her.

It would be everything that happened today. Only...he wouldn't have to stop.

He would take her to a place more suitable —someplace as warm and soft and welcoming as she. There would be tears at the corners of her eyes because she was overwhelmed. Because he pleased her. Because she felt too good with him inside her—

He didn't realize he'd started stroking himself again, didn't realize amidst his fantasies that he'd started moaning and jutting his hips. Those alternate visions made the water less hot, the air less heavy. The pressure was receding and the voice with it, but he was no longer aware of the sway of either.

She would touch him. She would touch him because she wanted to. To bring him closer—

She did. She had.

She wouldn't fight because she wouldn't need to—

She didn't. She hadn't.

Her hold would be tender—

It was.

He'd feel her fingers sifting through his hair, feel them press to his scalp as she kissed him.

He did feel it.

She wouldn't want him to stop. She wouldn't try to run or scream. Her eyes would be clouded but not dazed, and not with tears—

They weren't.

And...and she would be more beautiful that way—

She was.

And he knew those things. He knew them all because he'd felt them and seen them. Because it wasn't fantasy. It didn't have to be fantasy—

His entire body shifted when he came, his head tilting back as he clenched his jaw and let out a long breath that shook his chest. Water caught on his lashes, blinding him, but he blinked it away, slowly letting go of himself as passion faded and his cock gradually softened in his hand. His chest lifted high on strained breaths, but, for all the relief he felt, her image remained.

He no longer suffered the abetting weight, but still felt just as wretched. He leaned up off of the wall and dragged a hand down his face, not knowing why he bothered thinking one moment of weak indulgence would make things any different.

There was no helping himself. He couldn't because he'd forgotten how. Each failed attempt only reminded him of an ache that she'd unburied, that she'd stumbled upon, that she'd poked and prodded at, and stroked...and caressed...

The voice was silent but still it spoke, and with no sound he heard it. It warned him —oh, how it delighted to warn him— and taunted and teased and trilled that, soon, mere fantasies would not nearly, and not ever, be enough.