DISCLAIMER: Alas, I own NOTHING related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER FIVE
A King stands at an open window.
The rules are set.
She runs…
"Blythe you weren't there, you didn't see her." Constance placed the water jug on the table, then dried her hands on her apron. She glanced across to him, her expression agitated and alert. "This dream was different— I think she remembered all of it— or at least most of it." She couldn't help the cold that raced up her spine as she recalled Sarah's words. The rational part of her wanted to reassure the poor girl that she had nothing to fear, but another part wanted simply to run.
At this, her husband turned, his curiosity blooming, "She remembered all of it?" He rubbed his hand across his beard, the stain from last week nearly invisible. "That is odd, I'll admit— but darling, I hardly think it is cause for concern." He moved close to her, placing his hands on her shoulders, leaning to rest his forehead to hers. "I know you are worried— I understand— but they are just dreams. Have you ever known a dream to be dangerous?"
She shook her head gently, then pulled back, her eyes searching his. "You feel it too, don't you? It feels— seems— " She paused trying to find the right word, but there wasn't one, it all felt "wrong." She finished, "It feels wrong."
He nodded in return, his thoughts turning from Sarah to the woman in his arms. Her compassion never failed to astound him. In his best moments he could never hope to equal her goodness, but he could admire it and try to be worthy of if. He was much too cynical to ever emulate her, so he watched and prayed that whatever children they might have would be blessed with even the faintest taste of it.
He kissed her, catching her unawares, but she recovered quickly and returned his desire with equal measure. Her arms moving to wrap around him, drawing him closer. Breathless, she pulled away— a warm blush tinted her cheeks as her voice rasped, "Blythe, the food will get cold."
"Damn." He spat, glancing quickly to the table then back at this wife, a wide grin spreading his lips. "I'll eat it cold." In an instant they both moved, she to run, he to chase. With a soft cry she darted to the other side of the table, her eyes alight and wild. "Mrs. Tillens, are running from me?"
"If you must ask, you are not nearly as brilliant as I once believed!" she called, and sprinted to the open doorway of the kitchen. Blythe caught her just above the elbow, pulling her back. She tried to wiggle out of his arms; now wrapped firmly around her middle, holding her to him. "Blythe!" He only squeezed her tighter, laughing at her struggle.
His merriment was cut short when her healed-boot connected heavily with the top of his foot, eliciting a string of curses. He let her go, and she fell to the wooden floor with a resounding thump. "God help any man that tries to be forceful with you!" he hissed, bending to pull her upright.
"I'm sorry!" Her voice ripe with concern. "If I'd have meant to, I would have struck you much harder."
"Of that I am certain." He pulled her close, kissing her hair as he often did, an arm wrapped loose about her shoulder. "Well, you've won. We'll eat first." Blythe smiled, guiding her to one of the antique chairs at the head of the table. "Though, I dare say the food would have kept well enough in our absence." He winked, and motioned for her to take her seat.
They ate in companionable quiet, neither feeling the need or obligation to fill the silence with idle chatter and useless squawking. It was not unpleasant, the quiet that surrounded their little family, on the contrary, it was comforting— the knowledge that they could occupy the same room and find peace and understanding without the need for words or touch.
Her conscious however, did not feel this way, and Constance felt she must speak or go mad from thinking too loudly. The day's events had left a certain stain in her mind, ignoring it seemed to make it spread deeper— saturate and spread like ink pooling across parchment. "She saw him— Sarah— saw him."
"Saw who, Dear?" Blythe asked, seemingly oblivious to the abruptness of her tone. Between one bite and the next, his eyes hardly lifted from his plate; too focused on the meal laid before him.
"The man from her dreams— the one with odd eyes."
"Did she now?" His lips quirked with interest, "Do tell."
"There's isn't much to tell. She doesn't know who he is— she's never seen him before." She took a long swig, then frowned. "It was all very peculiar, the way she described him. 'Tall, fair, and pale.' As though she was trying to be obtuse." She looked thoughtful a moment, "She was afraid."
Blythe's understanding expression drifted over the glass raised to his lips. "I can hardly blame her." The conversation fell away, both lost in thought as they ate, until an odd look swept across his chocolate eyes. His head shot up in quick succession, a disturbed frown creasing his brow.. "You were alone— at the lake— I assume?"
"Unless you consider an arrant barn owl companionship, then yes, we were." Her brows knit together, "Why, does it matter?"
With a heavy sigh, he stared at her, his concern palpable, "Should anyone hear— that is to say— should anyone misinterpret Sarah's dreaming—" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them. It was no secret their town's superstition was a beast entirely its own; men and women alike were eager to blame everyday occurrences on the supernatural— or more accurately, the Adversary and his puppets.
Though women had not been burned for witchcraft in quite some time, it was an ever-present thought waiting to surface like some great monster of the sea. "You and I know she is perfectly sane." His voice stern in his assessment, "I agree with you both: this should be taken seriously. Until we know what— who— is behind this, Sarah mustn't tell a soul."
He looked down, idly staring that the half-eaten food, distracted. "Fear and superstition are two very dangerous things, and rumors can be far more damning to a man than sin. Dreams might not light the fire under her feet, but they will bring an Estate carriage." His lips set in a hard line, she instantly knew what he was thinking before he opened his mouth. "I doubt Richard Lefroy would be so understanding should one come for her. Neither he, nor I, have the power or means to stop them."
Unseen fingers traced down Constance's spine— a wave of foreboding so deep, she lost her breath at the thought of it, crashed brutally over her. Lead fell to the pit of her stomach, killing her appetite on impact, her lips, white as death, whispered a wayward prayer at her husband's words.
"The Estate doesn't need proof."
"Make your wish, Sarah." He purred her name, warm lips brushed her skin with each word he shaped, climbing the column of her throat, kissing across her jaw. He found her mouth with his. Her lips parted to his without hesitation, as her whole body softened with a sigh. He deepened the kiss, molding her lips against his. Wild, leucous hair tickled against sensitive flesh as he broke the kiss moving his mouth lower.
"Sarah."
"Sarah! Get up, you lazy girl! It's almost light out!"
Sarah rolled to her side to avoid the end of her father's cane, used only for ceremony, from nudging painfully into her ribs. She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked about the small kitchen where she had fallen asleep— yet again. Her back creaked in protest when she sat up from the wooden bench. She had every intention of sleeping on her large mattress, but it seemed exhaustion had won the night.
"Get up, or I shall make you sleep outside! Hurry and fetch my things before your fiancé comes to collect me." His face, which could only be described as mean, moved close to hers. He smelled of whiskey and whores. "You look terrible girl. I dare say Mr. Lefroy would might revoke his proposal if he ever saw you in such a state!"
"Well, which is it to be, Papa?" She asked, pushing away from him. Her irritation mounted, bringing with it a headache lodging deep in her skull. "Shall I gather your things, or prepare my bath? I cannot do both, no matter how loud you shout." She bit, her voice low to spare her head further pain.
Robert's angry expression grew even more frightening: something Sarah hadn't thought possible before her stepmother fled to the countryside. The harridan let his cane fly and sent a wooden bucket across the stone-tiled floor. It smarted against her knees forcing her eyes to water.
She would not let him see her tears.
Standing, she wrapped a thin wool blanket about her shoulders, and returned her father's crassness with a kind (if not genuine) smile. Without another word she slid her cold feet into the over-sized work boots kept near the back door. Bucket in hand, she left to the fetch the water her father would hardly use before his departure. When she returned inside with her heavy load, teeth chattering against early autumn morning, her father was waiting.
"About bloody time." He said under his breath, tossing his paper on the table. Sarah was certain he hadn't been reading as she moved to heat the water over the small fire. Setting her jaw, she grabbed the small pitcher near the sink— the water was clean if a bit stale— and washed her hands. Gasping, she scrubbed her face, her teeth clicking at the shock of cold. She would use the warm water for the rest of her morning ablutions, she decided— once her father left
The thought sent her mind racing, her worries surfacing, yet again. "Papa," she said frantic, coming around to where he sat watching her. Kneeing before him, she grasped his meaty hands between her own delicate fingers, her grip firm, desperate. "Promise me you will contain yourself. Please, don't overindulge, I beg you." She raised up to look him more steadily in his dull, aged eyes, hoping he could see her fear and apprehension. "You cannot take advantage of Richard's hospitality. Please, Papa. Please."
Robert's eyes darkened; he yanked his hands away with a violence that had her recoiling— frightened of him. He slapped her faster than she could think to pull away, the sting forcing her to wince. She rubbed her cheek, grimly determined to have her say. "Papa, I won't stand by while you ruin what little respect we can still claim! If you want this marriage to take place you cannot disgrace us any further!"
The large man moved past her, almost kicking her out of his way. "I do not answer to you, girl." Without another word he marched to large black pot hanging over the flames. With a growl, he raised his cane, swinging full-force. The echoing crack of the splintering wood shook her. The pail dislodged, the water extinguished the orange flames, splashing onto the grey floor.
He thundered to her, hatred burning black in his eyes, his hand reared back. She felt her cheek split under his thick ring, before landing painfully on her hip, hands slamming brace her. "You are my daughter— not my wife. I do not answer to you. I will do as I please and you will stand aside. Silent. Lord knows you are good for little else."
Robert's grip bruised her arm as he dragged her, tripping across the room. "Your fiancé will be here any moment— do not make him regret his choice." He flung her into the stairs; satisfied with her sudden cry upon impact. He huffed and stalked away, back to his chair near the pathetic fire. He didn't see the hate radiating off her in droves as she fled to safety of her room. Nor did he hear the scream she buried deep within the worn feathers of her pillow.
He could still feel the warmth of her hands pressed firmly against his chest. Her skin was softer than anything he had ever known, smooth as water washing over his fingertips. The chaste touch of their hands had parted her lips (he had sensed it, though she refused to look at him) the barest trembling breath escaping in fear— or something far more damning. She was so still in his arms, her eyes liquid pools of warmth— if she had only looked at him.
It was cruel of him to do what he had done, he knew, but a King did not have to explain himself. Her actions merited his suspicion; the ends justified the means. Who would he answer to? Who would dare to question him?
She had acted afraid. Her mouth had thinned, her lips pressed firm. Instead of widening with interest or— whatever other emotion he had expected— her eyes narrowed, then grew far too round for her face in fear. He knew fear. He understood fear. Fear drew lines in the sand, turned stone to dust; it was cataclysmic, a destroyer. Men lived and died for it— because of it. Oh, yes, he wanted her afraid. He needed her afraid.
She was the enemy— for everything she had done, all that she was doing now. All that she might still do. He hated her. He despised the power she still claimed over him. The scent of her: wine and roses, lingered in his brain, the feel of her curls teasing his jaw. He abhorred the want— the need— that so keenly called to him.
Starlight filtered through the open window, where he sat idly dancing two crystals through his lithe fingers. The motion calmed him, grounded his thoughts, tempered the debate storming within his blood. The disquiet under his skin yearned for her warmth, yet all his uncertainty concerning her intentions, her behavior, his suspicions, troubled his soul.
She was temptation and torture.
In her limited experience, Sarah found that setting to a task when her mind was ill at ease could do wonders to sort her thoughts— which is why she knelt on the floor, her skirt ringed with water as she scrubbed fervently at the tiles, the harsh soap drying her hands as she scoured.
She found no relief in her work; the sound of the brush scuffing and the gentle splash of the water did not calm her thoughts at all. It was only a dream, the half-hearted mantra swirled in her thoughts. It's only coincidence— you've seen plenty of owls before. Sighing, she sat back on her heels, rubbing her wet hands on her homespun apron. "This is ridiculous!" She shouted to the empty house, feeling embarrassed for doing such.
A bird in a storm is hardly proof! She cursed herself and leaned forward to continue her efforts, but the floor was clean. She had scrubbed it two nights prior, after the less-than-friendly dinner party had gone awry. In fact, she had cleaned the entire house from floor to ceiling, even going so far as to dust the unused and empty rooms. It had taken all night, and the better part of the morning, but she hadn't dared to stop— anger drawn forward from self-consciousness and humiliation had fueled her.
This was different. She wasn't angry— not at the dreams. She was nervous and, dare she admit, frightened. The problem was not the reoccurring dreams, or the strange emotions that accompanied them. Nor was it that hateful owl that she couldn't seem forget. It was— as it always had been— those beautiful, mismatched eyes haunting her every thought. Now they belonged to someone, a stranger— a man— who was not her intended.
Were she a better liar, Sarah might have convinced herself that the touch she had dreamt of these last three nights, had been that of her fiancé. Her guilt would be assuaged and perhaps the reservations she had about her marriage would be for an altogether different reason.
With a groan, Sarah rubbed her face, wincing as her palm grazed her purpled, cut cheek. Tears sprung to her eyes, not out of pain— she'd endured worse— but she couldn't help the morbid sorrow that lodged deep in her breast whenever her father turned against her. Though not a daily occurrence, its frequency was enough she couldn't call it a rarity. Her father had never been called a gentle or soft-spoken man, but he had never been cruel— stern and determined— but never malicious. The transformation had come on slowly; an errant raising of his voice or shortness of temper. Then all at once, his words began to wound and eventually so did his hands.
It was a burden Sarah bore alone— her only true secret.
Pushing such thoughts as far from her mind as she could, Sarah looked to the window; the setting sun painted a glorious picture against the glass. Where is the owl now? She wondered, her thoughts taking an abrupt turn, knees going numb beneath her. Had he hidden away after the storm, sheltered from the blistering rain? Or had he stayed perched uncaring on the dancing branch? Why it mattered so much to her was an anomaly of its own.
Her right hand toyed with the locket hanging delicately from her neck, her fingers caressing the tiny carved-ivory rose adorning the center of the weathered and tarnished silver. Good Hell! It is only an owl! Her hand clenched around the necklace. And they are only eyes.
"I wish it were here, " she said serious, then breathed an airy laugh, rolling her eyes. "If only to prove my sanity." Perhaps she had lost her mind. After all, what grown woman talked to herself— and about barn owls no less?
With a grin she tossed the brush into the large wood pail, not caring how many puddles the action created. No one would see the floor she had spent hours washing— and those who might, would not give it a second thought. Sarah rolled her neck, bringing her hand to massage the tense and stale muscles, sighing audibly. Perhaps all she needed was rest; Lord knew how troubled her sleep had become, or what little she had of it on the nights she wasn't thrashing about for one reason or another.
Light filtered through the slats of the door, freedom (though from what she didn't know) whispered to her, beckoned her outside. Sarah stood, her legs protesting the sudden movement, then went to the door and pushed it open. Golden light spilled into where she stood, along with a brisk autumn breeze. Misty air greeted her as she moved down the steps and onto the soft earth.
Wading through to the bench she so often occupied, Sarah stood, her arms wrapped warmly around herself in a soft embrace. She couldn't remember the last time she found such solitude. Calm, soft as candlelight, painted itself into the scene, becoming as much a part of the beauty of the night as the moon and stars. Basking in the brisk glow of the sunset, her eyes closed, feeling the warm sienna and deep mauves seeping into her bones.
A soft rustle pulsed on the air; the sound carried gently to her ears. Her head inclined, eyes still closed, unwilling to break the tranquility that had overcome her. Her cheeks dusted pink in the chill, arms squeezing her body tighter trying to pull the warmth deeper.
The fluttering twinkled again.
Slowly her mossy irises looked out into the fading light, then rolled to the sky, agitated. Setting her jaw, she turned— her anger melted away instantly. Mouth agape. Ice crashed through her blood stealing the air from her lungs.
The owl.
Black marble eyes watched her, studying her as she stepped tentatively forward, holding her breath. Its wings twitched, opening a fraction, talons shifting warily beneath it. The bird seemed to glare at her— if such a thing were possible. The round head cocked to the side, and involuntarily, Sarah mimicked the movement.
Deciding quickly, she pushed closer, then stopped short. The rounded stone corner of the bench collided sharply with her knee. A hiss slid through her teeth as she fell forward, catching herself on the offending masonry. Her eyes darted up to the fence. The bird was gone.
Her palm slapped loudly against the stone, the sting radiated through her hand. "No!" She bellowed, watching the creature disappear over the trees. Pushing up from the bench, her anger burned away to a sensational, overwhelming wave of curiosity. Without a second to question the absurdity of her thoughts, she ran.
Skirts lifted, she made chase. Sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, she darted to her refuge behind the cemetery. Not knowing if she was running to the creature or away from it, Sarah bounded and stumbled across the familiar path. Her throat and lungs burning from exertion, the muscles in her legs ached in protest. She had never run so far, so fast.
Sarah wound down the path behind the last row of graves, and climbed down the ladder at the wall. Running the moment her feet struck the ground on the other side, she wove between trees and broken underbrush, leaping over the bramble in her path. Finally, she slowed, sliding across the damp grass and pebbled shore and into the clearing, her heart thundering wildly against her ribs.
Her ragged, gasping breaths sounded so strange against the quiet symphony of the animals and trees. Sarah turned wildly, searching the crest of the tree line and even higher to the sky. The winged beast was nowhere to be seen in the dying sunlight. "Where are you?!" Her eyes darted between the sky and the colored leaves scattered about the branches. Had he come this way at all?
Gooseflesh pimpled down her arms as she stood statuesque and alone, shivering in the twilight. She must be going mad to think that an owl bore any ill-will against her. Whatever had possessed her to take flight at such an hour? Sarah did not understand her motivations— even now she couldn't name what rooted her to the spot she now stood anxiously waiting, hand pressed firm against her stays.
Loneliness draped over her like an unwanted blanket in the scalding warmth of summer. It weighed upon her like an over-sized cloak; she wanted nothing more than to cast it aside. She was disappointed. Her shoulders hung as she stepped back, putting distance between her and the shimmering water. Whatever she had hoped to find wasn't hidden within the forest, or beneath the water's depths— she might never find it— if it existed at all. Oh! How she wished for answers!
Whispered words echoed quietly in her mind. A memory stirred, the voice so foreign and familiar she could hardly think, purred between ravishing refrains. Make your wish.
What wish did she have to make? Who would hear it? Certainly not the owl.
Make your wish.
Her hand braced against the nearest tree, eyes drifting back to the lake, lit beneath the last of the light before glittering stars would claim the sky. It was silly, she knew, to entertain such a notion. Rational minds did not make wishes under the canopy of trees, on an algid evening— alone. But what could such foolishness cost her? There was no one to watch her, no one to judge or belittle her. People wished for things everyday, why should she feel ashamed? They were only words.
Biting her lip, she closed her eyes tight as though bracing for impact. "I— I wish—" She stumbled over them, not knowing what to say. Embarrassment colored to her throat as her fingers tapped the trunk impatient. Nervous. With a cough, her shoulders squared, "I wish— I wish he were here— now."
Silence surrounded her, skin prickled in anticipated awareness. What did you expect? Her eyes opened to the empty wood before her, an impish smile played on her lips as she chewed them. Her teeth began chattering— her time was up. The game played and lost. The owl could wait.
With one last glance behind her, Sarah turned— her scream stopped short. Fumbling back she fell, landing hard on her ankle, the cry bursting free. She scurried back across the earth, tears poling in her eyes and falling heavily down her cheeks. Fingers dug into the dirt as she dragged herself back, shaking. Fear nestled somewhere in the recess of her mind, like a phantom in the dark, its icy fingers choked her.
A man stood at the water's edge. He moved nearer to her, his footsteps sure on the uneven ground. He was dressed in black, a large cape billowed behind him as he closed the small distance between them. Power radiated from his every pore. He was a demon.
The devil with yellow hair.
Sarah pressed her back into the tree wedged behind her with such force, she was certain she would meld into it. "No! No!" Shaking her head violently, the words blurring together. Panic overtook, her lungs heaved and whined as they dragged air through her trembling lips.
The man stopped before her bending down to match her level— his wild hair tugged by the breeze. He was smirking— his eyes searching her, watching. Her chest heaved in an effort to breath, the ragged gasps the only sound. He leaned closer studying her. His devilish eyes— mismatched— grew cold, calculated. Dark. He frowned.
"You have no idea who I am, do you?"
A/N: Thanks again to all those who review and favorite! I hope you liked this chapter (no matter how long it is) and are excited for more. As always, please review or message me. I love getting feedback and hearing everything you have to say. Thank you for reading!