DISCLAIMER: Alas, I won't ever own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A beggar waits in the dark.
The servant betrays his king.
A lonely child cries.
The smell was not alcohol or the filth that littered the alleyways and crevices surrounding the shops. Nor was it the musty scent of straw, horses and sweat that so often lingered in the countryside like a skunk's sharp fetor. The distinctive pomade and musk clung sickly to his worn and dirty attire, burning her nose and reddening the rims of her eyes. If the man had not bathed in the potent oils and penny colognes, his overpowering stench may have altered—if only a bit— but the presence of unease and distrust would still cling to his person like a second skin he would never shed.
Silhouetted by the burnt siennas of the setting sun, three men stared, unsurprised by her confusion. The taller of the them leaned heavily into the door frame, his lips revealed a brown, gapped grin— her stomach churned in warning. His voice was as oily as the thin, string hair poking from underneath a tattered, graying bicorne, "It ain't Aunt Alber'a, love."
Cold, beady eyes crawled slowly from her hair to the hem of her skirts as his tongue slipped past rough lips, like a snake tasting the air before a kill. "But I's can be anyone ya' like— if ya pout those pre'ty lips o'yours." One brow raised in approval, either of her trepidation or her figure— though she assumed it to be both— as he unabashedly gandered.
Ice raced down her spine, prickling her flesh as a small, primal voice embedded in her mind demanded she run from the predator at the door. But her feet refused to move as she glanced between the imposing leeches, two of which watched her closely as though reading her thoughts, while the third looked on with disinterest. "You've made a mistake— I-I have no business with you, sir. Goodnight." With as much calm as she could manage, Sarah pushed the door closed: the worn hinges moaning in protest— then stopped on a hollow thud.
The door remained open.
Shaking her head in a pitiful attempt to ease the panic that threatened in the back of her throat, Sarah slammed the door, throwing her weight into the wood, but it had no effect. She grunted, painfully flinging her shoulder against it once more, her eyes watered from the effort, but it refused to close. Her gaze flicked down to the scuffed black boot wedged firmly between the frame.
The man cocked his head to the side the way one might speak to a wistful child demanding attention, a crooked, pursed grin setting his stubbled jaw. "That wasn' very nice, now was it, lads?" His tone remained light; the threat in his dark eyes was unmistakable.
"Aye." The shortest man grunted, his voice much deeper than Sarah had expected. Unlike his companions, he was impeccably clean, and to her surprise, well-dressed. Upon first glance, he appeared harmless— much younger than the others, only a few years her senior— but the glint in his eye as he pulled his hands free of his frock, laden with silver, proved her worst fear. "Perhaps we should teach her some manners—"
The blade caught her attention.
She dared not look away.
Both men turned to the last, a solid wall of muscle and ire, who stood back from the others in profile, hands resting loose on the belt wrapped snug around his thick waist. Unlike his counterparts, he had no distinguished features, being neither remarkably tall or short, fit or thin, striking or plain. Even his hair, curling beneath a navy, homespun tam, was a dull brown resting at his shoulders— he was entirely ordinary. At first glance, his behavior mimicked his appearance, but Sarah saw the lie. His back was too rigid, eyes too alert, surveying the scene around him, ignoring her— he was their sentry. A guard dog, bred to maim.
Three thunderous strides brought the beast to her door, his eyes hard and hollow; Sarah shrank under his hounding, towering form— though he was only inches taller. Her heart pattered in deafening applause at the fear worming its way to the forefront of her mind, chilling her to the bone. It became clear, perhaps a moment too late, that these men where here because of her father, and his absence was of little consequence.
A large, calloused palm settled flat against the offending barrier that was the door, giving it a gentle shove. He was giving her a chance, she assumed, to stand aside and allow them entrance without fuss. Wanting nothing more than to keep them out of her home, Sarah instinctively pushed back.
So did he.
The hinges screamed as he drove forward; the door bashed against the wall behind it, forcing Sarah to stumble back. She barely caught herself on the wall as the loyal guard dog stepped back, his hand still on the wood, as he ushered them in without so much as a sound.
The two moved past her. "Ain't yous got a bloody fire in 'ere?" the tall man asked, his nose scrunched in disgust. He leaned into Sarah, his tongue wetting his lips with a sheen of spit. "With the sum your father owes, you'd think he could warm 'is 'ouse!" His hand shot out, his rough fingers cupped the back of her neck, pulling her so their foreheads were inches apart. "I's don' care where the fire is— or 'ow small— take us there." He squeezed painfully, making her whimper, his glare sharp— then released her with a shove.
Too frightened to do anything else, she obeyed and led them down the hall and through the massive structure of her home. The kitchen was not warm, but the chill had become little more than a nuisance as the little fire swayed in the hearth sending thick shadows flitting against the stone walls, the light too soft to banish the demons lingering in the dark.
The leader took his seat, giving a quick, knowing glance to his minions. Both men nodded and walked purposely to their places guarding the doors. The short man folded his arms across his chest, his back to the garden door, his glaring eyes narrowed. While his counterpart, the dog, remained at the kitchen entrance, his arms hanging loose at his sides, appearing almost careless. Relaxed. He hadn't tried to intimidate her: he needn't bother— she was terrified.
Sarah remained fixed near the table. Her stomach ached, the constant churning threatened to make her ill, but she forced it down with a weak smile. "Sir, I don't know what my father has done— or how much he owes you— but I can assure you he is not here." Her words were small but sure even as she trembled with each breath.
"Not here?" The tall man frowned, "How convenient for him,"
Her palms began to sweat, and she wiped them down the sides of her skirt. "Convenient?" She whispered, her brow wrinkling, "He is hunting with my fiancé, Mr. Richard Lefroy. Per—perhaps you should speak with him when he returns." Taking a long breath, she stepped forward, steadying her voice. Placing emphasis on the name that was meant to protect her. "Mr. Lefroy already settled my father's debts— if you have further business with either men, then I suggest you meet with them. I am sure Mr. Lefroy's solicitor would make an appointment for you, as I am unable to do so." Straightening her spine, she walked with a false bravado to where the dog stood. "As you have no business here, I ask that you please take your leave."
Pulling his hands from behind his back, the mongrel brandished his own knife. His face remained stoic as he stepped forward the blade poised at her stomach, the polished steel gleamed as the orange flames danced across it.
Instinct forced her backward. Her steps moving her away from the weapon, only to collided, with a gasp, against the table. Her hand flew to her heart, as she spun to face her assailants. The tall man remained seated at the head of the table, leaning forward with his hands clasped together, expectant. "Aye, Mr. Lefroy paid the debt— but Robert isn' good with his purse. Always gamblin' away more than he 'as. We've been generous— your father 'as 'ad more than enough time— an' now payment's due."
"I have nothing to give you." She said, the cold seeping heavily into her flesh as she tried painfully to rein in her fear. Her nerve dying as he bared his teeth snarling, his voice low.
"You see," he said, wagging his finger at her, "I don' think tha's true." His eyes dropped to the small, untouched parcel on the table. He snatched it, pulling at the soft floral lid until it came free, the delicate paper crinkling at his touch. An insidious grin slithered into place as he removed the fawn gloves from their hiding place. "What 'ave we here?" He whistled. "Aren' these nice? Cost ye a pre'ty penny, didn' they?"
Sarah said nothing as he stood, the leather clutched tight in one hand. "Now I don' think ye stole 'em— no, girl like you's too proud to steal." He caressed the light leather to his grim-riddled cheek, purring at their softness. His eyes flashed open to his hand, turning white around the gloves crushed between his fingers. With deliberate slowness, he brought his cobalt eyes to her; a lurid sneer danced in their depths, his words crawling around her in a scratched whisper. "Wha' else did ye buy with a borrow'd purse?"
Before she could stop him, his black-ringed fingers snatched the silver chain at her neck, his thick, ragged nails catching the tender skin of her décolletage. The rose locket, normally hidden between her breasts, pulled free as two pearls of crimson slid against the lavaliere. Annoyance crested the intruder's lips. "This ain' worth anythin'—" he cocked his head, his gaze incredulous. The chain pulled taunt, biting into her neck as she tried to lean away. Shivers raced across her skin at his nearness, the threat of vomit creeping up her throat once more. "Where is it?" he barked.
Her mouth formed the words, but no sound came. "I-I don't— understand. I don't have it— I don't have anything! Please, Richard— Mr. Lefroy will return next week with my father. He will settle this, I'm sure of it." Her hands flew to where he clamped the chain in a silent plea for release. Fear pooled in her eyes, the mossy green browning like algae on a stagnant, sun burnt lake. "Please."
A flared nostril twitched at her whispered plight; his eyes darted to his companion, giving a stiff nod. All at once his hand opened, and he stepped away, Sarah felt off balance as the locket bounced against her bodice. She screamed as a hand dove viciously into her hair, wrenching her head back, her hands grappling wildly for purchase. Before she could topple back, another hand pushed painfully between her shoulder blades, bashing her cheek onto the table with a crack.
The younger man, who had guarded the garden door, was now pushing his weight into her back. His elbow dug painfully against her spine, as he buried his nose in her hair, taking a deep, unhurried breath, his thighs pushing against her own. Sighing, he pulled away, his hand still firmly wrapped in her dark coiffure, her face pinned painfully against the rough surface. "I think she's at least worth half the debt," the short man said, with a dark chortle. His hips rolling against her and he groaning in delight.
Sarah planted her hands, driving the heels of her palms downward as she struggled to straighten. The muscles in her arms tightened and burned the harder she fought, their strength quickly waining as her nails scored the table. Tears dripped heavily down her cheeks, splashing against her nose and the tabletop as she wailed in her struggle. Sarah was not weak, but neither was he.
His iron grip loosened for a moment, and her head came up from the wood, her fingers shooting to his locked in her hair as she tried to pry them away. "Get a good look, gents! She's ripe for the picking!" He brayed, bending her back further, forcing her to arch against him as her breasts pushed forward. He hummed his appreciation in her ear, before slamming her back against the wood. Her hands barely catching the brunt of the impact before her already bruised cheek kissed the surface once more.
Cold air pricked her calves as the heavy fabric of her skirts skimmed up the length of her legs. Her panicked grunts turned to bellowed screams as her thrashing began anew. Warm, coarse fingers tickled the tender flesh of her thighs through her homespun chemise, humming his approval with each inch revealed. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, as her efforts failed, and her dark reality took hold. The hand tangled in her disheveled hair tore loose, strands of her chocolate tresses ripping away from the root. She cried out as her head lifted from the table, eyes searching the room, begging her captors to leave her be. The leader stepped back, his hands resting behind him on the lip of the sink, an excited glow igniting his eyes with something she dare not name.
A flash of movement from the window at his back drew her attention. Hope flickered to life in the pit of her stomach. Sarah twisted her head, craning her neck to see whatever had distracted her from their vile efforts. A soft flutter and a streak of white darted past; her jaw fell open, as the white owl settled on the outer sill. Its head cocked as it peered inside. The beady eyes locked with hers, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled free, nearly unintelligible: "Help me! I beg you! Help me! Please!"
"No one can hear you, whore," the short man whispered in her ear, biting her lobe none-too-gently before planting a soft kiss behind it. Sarah tried to pull away, only to be met with laughter. "I always did like a good fight. Bleeding knuckles always made the victory sweeter." His palm slapped squarely against her arse and she cried out at the sudden shock. His hips, and arousal ground against her through the last layers of her skirt that had yet to be bunched at her waist.
"Help me, damn you! HELP ME!" she screamed, her eyes searching for the bird still waiting outside, with its feathers poised to fly. Get your master! Please! It must have heard her pleading— she hoped— for the foul took flight in one graceful jump, its snow white feathers floating up and out of sight.
She prayed he would come.
A hand cupped her barely covered sex, and Sarah jumped forward, her stomach slamming into the sharp edge of the table, her legs locking closed on instinct. "He'll never pay you! Lefroy won't wed a whore!" she screamed roughly, the hands on her stilled, giving her the courage to continue. "I have n-no money, no title, no family name! If you do this— you take the only thing worth paying for!" She hated the words, even as she said them, knowing they were the bitter, undeniable truth. "If you defile me— he'll never pay you." It was a shattered whisper of pitiable honesty. "Your money or—" she swallowed hard, "or me… your choice."
The leader moved in; a knife she had not seen before pressed lightly at her throat. He leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers, searching for signs of denial. "You're 'is fiancé— he'll pay." His rotten teeth gritted in unfettered anger. This had not been part of the plan.
Her head shook, careless of the blade, the words dark and bitter. "Richard Lefroy would never pay for damaged goods. My father can never repay you— but my— Richard would. He must."
They were silent a moment, the weight of her words clinging to the air. The leader snatched her arm, his grip sharp and unyielding as he dragged her from the table, pulling her back flush against his chest. Her heavy skirts dripped back down her legs, as the tip of the knife moved to the damp spot behind her ear. "We'll leave 'im a message then, won' we, boys?" His warm breath skated across her neck, before his thick tongue traced its path; his hips pushed firmly into her. She felt dirty in his hands— under his touch. The terrible culmination of smells swirled around her in a blinding fog of pungent filth. Bile rose to her throat, and it took every effort to keep from retching under his uncleaned fingers. Sarah could feel the bruises forming beneath his death-like vice on her arm— as though the weapon wasn't enough to subdue her. He licked her pebbled skin once more— slow, and purposeful, like a lover.
He swirled the tip of the blade across her neck, like a lover's caress, dragging it lazily across the tops of her breasts and back to that spot his tongue hand just been. The knife pressed into her skin, pinching hard into the dampened trail he'd created. She cried out as he blew against the steady stream of crimson trailing along the column of her neck. It burned. Stung. "Tha's for Robert— a lit'le reminder to pay 'is debts. An' a promise for Lefroy."
"As for you—" His chapped lips, like slithering scales, caresses the length of her ear with sickening slowness; the heat of his liquored breath felt like fire. She could feel the blood at her neck begin to drip past her shoulders, collecting in a warm pool along the small frill of her gown. "Can' 'ave yous forgettin' what 'appens if he don' pay." The sharp pain splintering her arm vanished, as he released her from his hold; a cramped ache taking its place. With acute speed, the leader moved back, the cold steel trailing to rest against the ridges of her spine.
Sarah stood taller.
She jumped, the sharp point pushing into her back; then every muscle tensed at once in a weak effort to avoid the inevitable pain. Her breath caught. Eyes slammed shut as she fisted her skirts roughly in her trembling grasp. There was no pain as the metal slid down along her spine— but the sound was like tearing fabric as she was cut in two. She felt weak— cold. Dizzy. The room began to fade into blackened fringe, and she swayed, her head heavy. Aching.
She nearly fell when his hands grabbed her roughly, pulling at her shoulders. Her back felt strangely cold, then her arms. He was talking— she could hear his voice, but the sound was a garbled mess, like a scream underwater. Pain seared her cheek. Her head reeled back from the force. She looked up. The short man stood before her, raising his hand to strike her again. "Take. Off. Your. Dress."
Without giving her another moment, he reached forward, grabbing her sleeves, and jerked them down her arms until the entire bodice pooled at her waist. The two men lifted the dress over her trembling form, their eyes shamefully roaming her body. Awkwardly, her hands rose to cover herself. Arms crossed over her worn stays, gripping the short sleeves of her worn chemise. She remained covered by layers of underskirt and linen, but the leering eyes of her assailant made her feel exposed. Naked.
Humiliation burned her cheeks as she stood center stage. "Y-you've made your point. He— we— will pay." Sarah glanced between them, waiting for any sign that they were finished. "Please—" her words died as her eyes locked firm on the window, where the lowly owl paced, agitated. Its white wings twitched, batting against the glass like a finch behind bars. Her heart dropped— the bird was alone.
She was alone.
Numbing cold consumed her as the fear from only moments ago sat idly in the recess of her mind. He had ignored her plight while his bloody pet observed her horror through the window. She hadn't known why she thought he would help her. His actions were not those of an honorable man (if he even was a man) and most certainly not a hero. She had hoped he would prove her wrong, that he might be a champion for one shining moment. But even that small request seemed impossible. The world became an obtunding void closing in on her with every breath. They had her dress— and though Richard might not pay for a deflowered bride, Sarah was not so naïve to think they couldn't ruin her.
"Sarah?" a familiar voice called, as heavy steps marched up the hall. "Sarah, I wanted— what is the meaning of this?" the man barked from behind, the hateful tone unmistakable, though laced with caution.
Sarah's heart leapt— she sobbed in relief, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. He had come after all! He had come for her! She turned, a smile hidden behind her hand. Five days had passed since she had seen him. She had not wished, and he had been absent in her dreams and she felt the loss. The threats and fears of the twilight had only served to solidify what Sarah refused to acknowledge, even to herself— she missed him; the demon with mismatched eyes and wild hair.
He had been cruel. Tempting. Yet, in the days since he left her stupefied and breathless under the blanket of stars, he was all she could think of. His visage had consumed her wakefulness to dangerous distraction. Sarah did not know she felt about the mysterious man. Hatred and fascination drew a delicate line in shifting sand, and she couldn't find her bearings on either side. But tonight he was her savior. He had come. He had come for her.
They had been talking— perhaps shouting— but she couldn't focus on the words, too consumed by the emotions swirling wildly in her chest. Turning, heart trapped in her throat, swelling from spectacular and overwhelming gratitude, Sarah looked upon her champion. "Blythe?" The flame of hope flickered and failed, smothered by the proof that he was not there. He didn't come. She turned her face away, that Blythe might not see the pain hidden in their depths— though with the sight before him he could hardly question why.
"As I said, we were jus' on our way out. Weren' we, lads?" The leader smiled at the others, seemingly undisturbed by the unexpected guest. "Sees for yourse'f— we ain' don' noffin'— an' we won' if the terms are met."
Blythe blocked their path, his voice as dark as their intentions. "If you hurt her, I'll see you all hanged."
Raising his hands as though he had done nothing untoward, the leech shook his head, "We's only messengers, honest." He made the sign of the cross, his gaze penitent. "You 'ave my word, sir. She ain' been harmed." Tipping his hat, he pushed by, the other men at his heels, taking their leave. "We'll be seein' you!" He called over his shoulder before marching proudly out of the kitchen.
Blythe and Sarah stood frozen until the shuddering clash of the slammed door forced a much needed breath. Her eyes remained downcast as though she were guilty of some heinous crime, her arms wrapped tight about her core, protective. He knew who the men were, what they were after and that, try as he might, there was little he could do to stop them.
The same threats had sent her stepmother running to the countryside before the breaking dawn.
He stepped to her, cautious, as though she were a wounded animal that might make a crazed dash into the night. His hands coming slowly to rest on her shoulders, "Sarah?" He was afraid to know the answer, but the question had to be asked. Her weary eyes met his as fresh tears streamed down her face. "Did they— did they hurt you?" She made no move to answer, only staring blankly at the buttons on his frock. He waited a minute more before whispering, "Did they touch you?"
She stood motionless, her expression distant, then, at long last, her head shook, infinitesimal but he saw. "I s-s-stopped— they didn't—" her voice thick, the whisper stuttered. She took a long breath then squared her shoulders, "Richard would never pay a shilling were I-I—" A breathy chuckle, half-hearted and humorless pushed past her white lips. "My virtue and my dress were the only things of value— and they could only leave with one."
Blythe didn't laugh. The weight of what might have been settled heavily on his shoulders, aging him another ten years as his back hunched in unresolved worry. "Thank the Lord that I came when I did." He said, pulling her to him in a fierce, almost sharp embrace, before thrusting her forward to look in her eyes. As though some great relief could be found in their depths. "If I hadn't—"
Sickening anger pooled hot in the pit of his stomach, he straightened suddenly, commanding control from the very air around him. Gone was the saddened and woeful thing of only a second ago, replaced with the strong man she leaned to far too often. "You can't stay here." He gestured to the stairwell with a slight nod of his head, his tone daring her to protest. "Collect your things. You are staying with us until Richard returns— that's nonnegotiable."
"I won't argue." Sarah moved quickly to the stairs, turning his way before she made the climb. "Thank you— " she whispered, the depth of her gratitude making the air thick with all that was left unspoken. She couldn't— dared not say more for fear of puncturing the fragile bubble holding her tattered nerves together.
"I'll only be a moment." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she refused to acknowledge the unwanted emotion. This was not her fault. Blythe knew it. She knew it. He would never think less of her after this night, nor would he spend more than a moment pitying her. He would direct all of his ire on her father, and spend the next week fantasizing every which way the man could be tortured— made to pay for all the harm his addictions had caused his poor family. Perhaps that is why she loved him so dearly. He was the brother she couldn't have and most certainly did not deserve.
Without a thought, her eyes veered to the window; a much larger part of her than she cared to admit wished he would be standing in the darkness— wished he had come. She hadn't understood why she had called out to him— or what she had honestly expected should he have arrived, but now that the wish was made and he had failed her did she feel the sting of his rejection. But even as her eyes settled on the darkness where no one stared back, she wanted to see him— needed to see him— for reasons she did not fully understand.
Only the night greeted her— and the strange glowing eyes of a lonely owl.
Sleep eluded her, dancing far beyond her grasp in the blackened hours of the evening. The clock chimed on the wall; its melancholy bells harrowed in the first moments of the new day— midnight. She had not been lying on the coverlet for more than an hour or so. The realization was disappointing. Time was crawling at an agonizing pace. She need it to fly.
The longer she remained awake, alone and lying on the goose feather mattress, where sleep evaded her at every turn, she could do little else than remember. Much to her relief and utter dismay, her mind did not linger on the disgusting, vile creatures that invaded her home and threatened what little peace she had. Oh no, her mind mulled and festered over the man who had not made an appearance.
Sarah did not cry— had not since her arrival at the Tillens' home where she barricaded herself behind the door to her borrowed room. She could not bring herself to undress; instead she lay atop the covers fully dressed, wrapped in her mother's faded red scarf, praying for rest to overtake her. The solitude was torture.
Alone, she recalled the feeling of the knife on her skin, the way her throat burned when she screamed for help from that ridiculous bird. The sudden relief was so powerful, she could taste it on the air and feel it coursing through her veins like wildfire. It had consumed her in the breath between moments, before the chilled waters of reality crashed upon her to reveal the face of another, who had stumbled across the scene in error. Disappointment crested into anger the longer she thought of the man that teased she wish him back only to refuse her summons. Every fiber of her being screamed for him, begging the bird that brought him to the fruition before, to do it again. Her hope has soared the moment the creature took flight and with each minute he failed to return her heart sank into a void of numbing pain. Why it had returned at all angered her as much as his absence. Her rage swelling in her breast, threatening to burst as she thought of the white creature watching her torment and humiliation like a poorly sung Greek tragedy.
Forcing the thoughts aside, Sarah moved to the window, searching the serene country hidden under the starlit sky. The dark outlines of trees painted the horizon with their silhouettes, with a scattering of buildings and homes standing out against the pitch. They appeared out of place and foreign against the sparkling heavens. The single white spire of the humble church glowed under the waxing moonlight, like the halo, so often painted around the Virgin Mary. Beneath it lay the varying figures of new and forgotten tombstones in uneven rows down to the wall, lining the edge of the forest. She could almost see the crumbling ladder and the hidden path beyond the stones.
Wish me back, and you'll get your answers.
The thought nearly threw her back. She would never wish for him again! The beast ignored her desperate cries, leaving her to be slaughtered by blood-thirsty wolves in her own home!
He wouldn't answer her summons anyhow— tonight had proved that point, if nothing else. From his open disdain towards her, made plain in their first meeting, he was almost certainly enjoying the spectacle made of her tonight, reveling in her tears. How he would have enjoyed the way she fumbled over her words as fear threatened to choke her. Would he have laughed or perhaps assisted them in their unforgivable endeavors, watching as piece by piece she became a crumbling shell of her former self?
You'll get your answers.
The thought made her bold. It made her from the sill, before she could lose her nerve, Sarah wrapped her scarf tighter around herself, then threw her cloak over her back, and pulled up the hood. Silently, she opened the door a sliver, waiting for any signs of a restless household. If she were caught they might think her mad for wandering out alone after such an ordeal. Madness was not something to be trifled with— not with the Estate so near.
To her relief and slight dismay, the pounding of her heart was all that greeted her. This would be her only chance to confront him and she would be damned before she let it slip through her fingers. Cautiously, Sarah made her way down the servant's path to the empty kitchen where she took a small lantern off the hook near the door. It took her several moments to find the matches, but once the fire burned behind the glass she fled, her unanswered questions pushing her forward through the cemetery and past the wall. She ran until her feet became unsteady and branches toyed with the lamp in her hands, until her breath grew short and a stitch burned in her side. Reluctantly, she slowed her pace, lifting the lantern to brighten her way, but it was of little consequence— merely illuminating what she couldn't help but walk into. The brush grabbed at her: its hands finding those soft tender places just above her ankles, leaving pink abrasions on her skin, until at last, she stepped into the clearing.
With one slow, steadying breath, Sarah stood taller, her eyes fixed on the glassy surface as she spoke, the words strong, but bitter: "I wish he were here— now." There was a change in the air though everything remained still, but Sarah could sense it. She searched the line of the trees, seeing nothing. "Show yourself!" she called to the darkness. Her voice echoed on the water as she stepped forward.
The words were greeted with a deep stillness that left her unsettled.
Her eyes drifted to the sky; the glorious stars filled the darkness with a chaotic order that put her more at ease as she searched their expanse for any signs of him or his pet. "I wish you were here! Now!" Her voice sounded desperate, and she felt the familiar pull of panic tugging at her heart. "Show yourself!" She turned staring at the void behind her, hoping.
The seconds ticked away to minutes of screaming silence.
"I made my wish! Where are you?!" Sarah could hear the tears in her words, though her eyes had yet to shed them as she stood bereft amid the trees. Lips trembling, her face heating with anger and hurt. "Please!" The lantern lowered to her side, her eyes falling to meet it. "I wish—" but the words died on her tongue.
A gentle fluttering whispered through the air. Her eyes flew to the branches where it watched her. That beautiful owl that had given her so much and destroyed everything within minutes. "You!" Had a judge pronounced a death sentence, it could not have been uttered with less kindness. "He sent you? " She stepped closer, the words punctuated with fresh tears. "He sent you? Why?! Can he see what you see? Or do you tell him?"
Her claims were ridiculous, but she couldn't stop the words now that the dam had broken. "You watched! You bastard! You bloody bastard! And he— he— sat by and did nothing! NOTHING!" She spun to the lake once more, her shoulders shaking from the weight of her anger, her voice hysterical. "Show yourself you coward! Show yourself!"
Her lungs burned from her outburst, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her ears rang from the pounding of her heart. She breathed deeply, taking comfort from the crispness of the air, but her tears still spilled, splashing hot against the pebbled shore. For a time, a fleeting moment, no one could touch her here. No one would see her red eyes or blotched face. In that moment, free within the circle of the trees, she wept.
Her eyes soon grew heavy as fatigue swept over her with welcomed warmth, her burden somehow lightened now that her tears had ebbed. He was not coming. He never would. Life would continue as it had every day before his invasion of her life. Soon she would forget the impossible man who had damned her.
Wiping her face on her sleeve, she turned, the lantern crashing to the earth with a metallic crack. The beautiful owl was gone, and there standing in its place, his expression thick with something akin to regret and hell-born anger, was the devil with mismatched eyes.
A/N: I know it took forever and a day to get this posted, so as a treat I posted TWO chapters! I hope this makes up for my absence. Thank you to all of you readers and thank you to everyone who reviews. It really gives me the motivation to keep writing when I get your feedback! Please continue to read and review! Enjoy the next chapter too! Thanks!