DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thirteen…
Twelve…
Eleven…
The king would live.
For three days the fact had been a mere question, whispered behind closed doors, where the grief-maddened adviser would not hear the fearful assumption. He needn't be told the extent of the injuries to understand the concerns of mortality; the state of the bedclothes was enough to churn his doubt, stained and muddied as they were. Beneath them, where the trembling, pale form clung to the proffered warmth, lay the full recollection of the king's horrific tale.
Magic had its limits, and try as they might, the healers could not erase the damage the forced transformation had caused. Administering herbs and draughts with determined care, the concoctions could do nothing to aid his recovery, but rather they served to induce sleep and ease the searing pain ripping through to the marrow of his bones. The king was far too weak, too damaged, to draw upon his own powers and hasten the process, leaving him to mend at a mortal's pace— were he to mend at all.
Had he been mortal, he would have met his end six days before, lying beside the hearth, screaming atop the deep pool of crimson. Had he been anyone other than the most powerful ruler in the Underground, he would have died yesterday, leaving his throne with no heir and the Labyrinth to the Faceless.
The king would suffer through eternity before he allowed his crown to fall to another—he would even venture so far as to break the rules to which he was so intimately bound. Hour by endless agonizing hour, the days moved one into the next, as he fought against the looming shadow of his own demise. He could feel the tendrils of death draped around his neck like the course fibers of a noose, gnawing at the straining flesh. Despite his whimpered odiums, the healers continued to pour potion after potion down his throat, lulling him into the abyss of sleep where he might find some semblance of refuge.
Seven days of hellish convalescence passed and though the king's condition had not improved, it had yet to worsen. The hours ticked away, crawling across the sky until, as the sun began to sink into the horizon, the fever finally broke. He was not healed, but death would not claim him.
He will live. Emere recited the words as he remained uncomfortably posted in the black, leather armchair nestled beside the bed. The memory of the wounds, gaping and monstrous, haunted him with every blink, and his dark eyes had yet to fully close as he stole what little rest he could. Mired on the shore of rage and nauseating fear, his molars ground together with jarring force as the silver, stress-weather man loosed a shuddering breath. Though he had no proof, nor acknowledgment of the fact, he knew without doubt, that the girl— the riddle— was somehow responsible for his friend's anguish.
Unable to remain still, Emere strode to the bedside table and tossed a fresh cloth into the waiting basin with undue force. The fabric groaned as he twisted the excess water from its pores, as though the small scrap was the throat of an enemy. The final drips pulled him back, and he sighed as the weight of his unease settled achingly in the pit of his stomach. Though the danger of fatality had passed, the fever had returned, burning like wildfire atop the shivering nerves, despite their best efforts. He will live. He will live. Repeating the mantra, he gently placed the cool, damp cloth against the heated flesh of the blonde's furrowed brow.
Curiously, the man began to twitch as the fabric met his sweat-dampened skin. A pained, gasping groan pulled from his chapped lips as his eyes moved frantically under his lids. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, his muscles taut and straining until thin blue veins bulged against the greyish-white skin. The once-pristine sheets wrinkled in his unrelenting grip as his teeth clenched, threatening to shatter from the force.
With a snarl, his head trashed against the pillows as he bellowed an unintelligible cry into the cavernous room, the sound ricocheting painfully against the carved, stone walls. Again and again he called out, the words lost in the moans and whimpers of his agony, the sound growing to an unbearable pitch. Another scream roared about the room, threatening to shake the foundations with its pain, the sound grating on tired and worn chords, until it faded into silence.
He lay there, body bowed and taut, his chest heaving with each hiss of breath dragged forcefully through gritted teeth. A fresh sheen of sudor clinging to his reddened flesh, matting the naturally wild hair in dark-flaxen clumps against his temple, his ear, his throat. A long, low moan slid between gulps of air as he trembled from exertion, the damaged sinew unable to support grueling demands of his fitful dreams. Just as quickly as his torment started, it finished, leaving the formidable ruler a whimpering shell of limp limbs and broken bones.
Eyes round in horror, Emere watched with bated breath as the nightmare took hold, the fear once again rising to suffocate him where he stood. Finally, when it was over, he fell into the wingback chair, scrubbing his face with his hands until it felt raw. He remained that way for some time, before pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace.
A week serving as both distraught friend and vigilant nursemaid had taken a significant toll on his person. It was hard enough keeping his eyes open for longer than an hour or two, but his deepest fears crept into his dreams, jolting him awake before he could succumb to slumber. Weary as he was, the adviser would not allow anyone to relieve him of his post, determined to the first person the king saw when he finally awoke with some level of coherency. Far too many questions needed answers, and he would be damned if he weren't the first to claim them.
It would be another six days before he got his wish.
The biting cold woke her.
Violent tremors wracked her slight frame, shooting up her spin and back into her naked toes. Why they were bare was a much a mystery as her location. She lay on stone, the unforgiving surface siphoning the her vestiges of warmth. It was dark— too dark to see more than the pale hand trembling near her frozen lips. Even her ragged breaths were not enough to heat the frigid flesh— even her lungs seemed to be coated in frost.
Beyond her own tumultuous gulps of air, there was a faint stirring of sorts, small sounds that seemed to becoming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her mouth was empty, but she tasted the metallic tang of copper, and the slightest movement of her jaw, and the turn of her neck split her head in two. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry as the pain burst around her skull, leaking into the sockets of her eyes, where her tears dripped into the darkness.
The sharp, needling pain returned; her extremities were numb— almost, save for the piercing bite that seemed to cut through the haze. It was a strange sensation: the stinging cold, a balm of warmth and the foreign tickle along her flesh. Wincing, she attempted to pull her knees closer to her chest, but her body could not curl any tighter. The movement shifted her feet and the stinging, burning stab began anew, and she was unable to contain her mewling cry.
A scuffling near her exposed knee made her gasp as another faint brush along her fingers forced her to scream. Dragging herself to sit upright, her arms wrapped around her knees as she choked on her tears, trying to ignore the throbbing sting left by blunted teeth.
Against her will, she burst into tears.
A/N: Please tell me what you think. I love your reviews so much! I am sorry it is so short, but the next chapter cannot be 9K+ words. I promise this will all make sense! -Insert evil laugh- thank you for reading! See you next chapter!