Title:That's What Friends Are For
Author: Yodeladyhoo
Summary: A day in the life; meet the characters
Genre: Fantasy
Pairings: Jareth x Maurasoon ( OC )
Rating: T
disclaimer (dĭs-klā'mər): noun
1. (law) a voluntary repudiation of a person's legal claim to something
2. denial of any connection with or knowledge of syn: disavowal
c.1986, 2006 The Jim Henson Company.
LABYRINTH is a trademark of The Jim Henson Company.
Labyrinth characters c.1986 Labyrinth Enterprises.
All rights reserved, but not by me.
All rights are reserved, but not by me. This short story is a work of fiction. All original characters in this story are fictional. Any similarities to actual persons, either living or deceased, are purely coincidental. Permission for the use of the non-original characters has not been requested by the author or granted by the licensor. This short story was written for your perusal and pleasure. No compensation, either financial or actual, has been collected or requested.
Maurasoon is mine.
Plea for Reason: I know there is a lot of character development in here that may not seem relevant at this time, but bear with me. These characters will come into play in future stories. You have to start somewhere and the beginning is better than most other places.
Dawn's rosy fingers found Maurasoon breaking her fast alone. She was awake and dressed before daybreak, as was her custom. The staff was aware of her routines and sent her customary pot of tea in a cozy with some crusty bread and preserves on a tray with her dresser. As Maurasoon was not fussy who was assigned to her, usually the older elves came in to assist her.
"Would you care to refresh your tea, milady?" Gwinny asked, holding the teapot in anticipation. Lady Mary was pleasant assignment, one Gwinny was happy to accept if she were up early enough. True, she had strange habits, being a foreigner from Gorias, but those habits made life easier for the staff. Usually, the Lady Mary only needed assistance in dressing and perhaps her hair for state occasions.
"Yes, please Gwinn." Maurasoon placed her teacup on the round inlaid tabletop for the elf to pour the tea into. She preferred to take her morning meal in privacy as Jareth and Devlin usually met with Lorgan to review and plan the guards' daily training and assignments.
Devlin and Jareth were nearly as inseparable as they were dissimilar. They were born months apart from each other and were assigned to the same wet nurse after the Queen's death. As young children, the three were devoted to each other. Usually Maurasoon caused most of the mayhem, Jareth obscured the evidence and Devlin supplied a likely alibi. As boys, they took their preliminary studies together; as young men they attended the King's Court together and caused enough mischief and scandal to make Devlin's parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Rodel, to blush. Had it not been for Devlin, those escapades might have turned into minor skirmishes. It was that quiet solidity that enabled Devlin to be the perfect secretary for Jareth's outlandish and sometimes impulsive monarchy.
As balanced as Jareth and Devlin were in personalities, their appearances were as well. Both men were lithe and lean as were most of the men of the Fairshee, and both were of average height, but that is where the similarities ended. As fair as Jareth appeared with his untamed, moonbeam pale coif, opalescent skin and cerulean eyes, Devlin was dark. Obsidian eyes, nearly pupiless so dark were they, glowered from underneath his upswept brows. His thin hair, the color of jet, was usually pulled back severely to mold against his skull in a low ponytail which reached below the muscular shoulder blades of his strong, erect back. It accentuated his high brow and finely boned facial features which were brought into high relief by his olive complexion.
Their similarities had not gone unnoticed by Lorgan, the Goblin Kingdom's Sergeant-At-Arms. Lorgan knew how the presence of the king could affect the morale of his troops and the troops of the enemy. It was rumored, between both the enemies and the allies of the Goblin King, that he was a ruler of such great power that he was able to be in two locations at the same time, rallying his horde against an increasingly quaking foe. With the help of a blond mare's tail, a high collared battle cloak, a spot of glamour and the good fortune of Aífe, Devlin had taken the place of the king on the battlefield.
Lorgan had no qualms about throwing down his life in the service of the king as a few of his ancestors before him have done for the previous king. To see him at work on the battlefield, one might think there may be troll blood in him; he met his adversaries so single-mindedly and with such ferocity. If it were not for the trace amounts of dwarf and goblin blood, Lorgan may well have been of similar stature as his commander. Yet his cunning and wit were the testament to his Fairshee lineage. Not only did his intellect bear witness, but his general appearance was of the Gentry. Although he lacked the delicate features of most of the Fair Folk, he had the same chiseled structure and pallor. There was no denying Lorgan was a soldier, though. There was not a smooth section on that man, from the way he kept his platinum hair extremely short, past the raw silken clothes that helped to buffer the amour from his exceedingly muscular shoulders and barrel chest as well as kept him warm, down to his calloused hands and seasoned boots that have probably seen more hectares walked than ridden.
Maurasoon smiled at the duality that was Sergeant-At-Arms Lorgan. The devastating warrior and the father who allows his sons to wrestle him to the ground. The brilliant tactician of the Goblin swarm and the patient tutor to his children. Sylvana, Lorgan's wife, lived this duality. He was her strength, her joy and cause for laughter as well as her cause of anxiety and fear.
"Perhaps I shall visit Sylvana today," Maurasoon mulled to herself. She missed family life. Sylvana's two boys, now youths in training to follow in their father's footsteps, were a source of amusement for Maurasoon as much as they were a source of aggravation to their mother.
Maurasoon's thoughts grew somber as she thought to her own departed family. Her eldest daughter, Maxine, went on to earn degrees in both law and medicine, yet she never learned how to handle the pressure of such work. Maxine died at the age of 52, in good health, of a massive coronary. Rachel, the youngest of the brood, became a domestic goddess, always fussing and putting her family first. She worked very hard at her interpersonal relationship, to the exclusion of her parents and siblings. It pained her terribly that she wasn't able to conceive her own children, but that did not deter Rachel. She went on to adopt two children from Romania and two from Palestine. Unfortunately, her twin brother did not fair as well. Bobby shifted from one bad marriage to another, always trying to replace the strong women of his family with his wife. The poor women that Bobby would choose were not strong, they were merely overbearing. After his fourth divorce, Bobby slipped into a severe depression, alcoholism and became homeless. Maurasoon used her contacts to help him out of the severest weather and tried to get him into an institution, but he died on the streets from exposure. Tommy was her solid son, a real meat-and-potatoes sort of man. He lived his life as a blue collared worker, married but never had any children. He was devoted to her as well as to his wife. Tommy and Lucille would come regularly to the senior community for a visit after Maurasoon left the family homestead in Rachel's care. Tommy came more often after Lucille's death until his own illnesses overwhelmed him. Luckily, Tommy didn't linger, he died in the hospital two months after being admitted at the age of 97.
"You'll not be riding this morning, milady?"
Gwinny's question started Maurasoon out of her thoughts. She looked down at her attire. "No, Gwinn, I don't think the blue muslin would look good with red dust, do you?"
The elfin maid tittered as she collected the breakfast dishes onto the tray and took her leave.
The afternoon heat found Maurasoon with the biddies. These were groups of women usually too old or crippled for manual labor who were given the unceasing task of textile fabrication. No matter the time of year, there was work to be done in these rooms. If a pair of legs were unable to move, the eyes and hands provided the capabilities to do fine work such as threading a needle. For those whose eyes could not see, there was wool to be carded, and for those eyes that could no longer see the storm clouds coming from the horizon, there were delicate embroideries for the courtier's vestments. Arms and hands that no longer had the strength to carry and move pots and joints of meat in the kitchen were still strong enough to thread a loom and remove the cloth to roll it into bolts. There were never idle hands amongst the biddies as there was always something needed to be done. From tatting the sheerest lace for the courtesan's nightclothes, to sewing flat seams for a battle tunic, to cutting cloth for the King's new jacket or cape, it was ceaseless activity.
Along with the flying fingers and darting needles, there were wagging tongues. But it wasn't for the tidbits of gossip Maurasoon came for; she was interested in the loom. This device that elevated societies from nothing more than animal hide wearers was Maurasoon's project. In ancient times, when the High King sheltered the children of Danú from the children of Adam, many crafts were lost simply because the Gentry felt it was beneath them to learn a trade. Once the veils separating the two dimensions were in place, there were precious few who knew the art of cloth making. Only the rudiments of weaving were being practiced. One of her studies Aboveground involved textiles. The young Maurasoon realized the value of this knowledge and studied all she could about the history of textiles throughout her long stay Aboveground. As the Lady Mary, she was able to reintroduce the idea of the tartan to her home.
For that is how Maurasoon is known—Lady Mary. It pleased her that she was able to pay homage to a persona that served her so well as well as maintain her anonymity.
It also allowed her to see her mother. Many an afternoon found Lady Mary seated with the crone, amicably talking quietly amidst the bustle or enjoying companionable silence.
"Milady, what news do you hear of your home?" Looking up from the table linens that she was embroidering, the older woman's gnarled hands slowed as she queried her better.
Maurasoon hoped that her breathing did not betray her rapidly beating heart. Smoothing out the linen under the pretense of inspecting her stitches, Maurasoon responded nonchalantly. "I've not had a response to the letter I sent about two moons ago. The last letter I received from my cousin was written just after Ostara and my sister still deem me unworthy of gracing me with correspondence." The false tale slipped from her lips glibly as if it were truth.
Her mother clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she resumed her needlework. "'Tis a pity that your own kin should treat you as such. At least she knows you to be hale and happy. She should never learn of the pain of not knowing where her kin is."
Maurasoon looked sidelong at her mother. She could see the pain written in the old woman's posture. Her back was bent not so much with age as with dejection, her shoulders hunched forward from introverted sorrow than burden. Too many seasons had past without word of her only family had left her a depressed woman. The shock of learning that her wayward daughter had not only returned but was also a member of the King's Court could very likely be too much strain for the ascetic. Maurasoon hated to lie to her mother, hated to maintain the charade that depressed the matron so, but there was more at stake here than just her mother. It is one thing for the King to bed a scullery maid, but to elevate her to the Court could be disastrous. Jareth was eccentric enough on his own. He did not need a scandal that would rock the existing class system to its very foundations.
And so Maurasoon's day went, day following day, incedo infinitas. She did not miss the hectic pace of her previous existence; rather she missed the opportunity to help others reach their potential. At home, she felt as if she were merely marking time for an event to occur. What, she did not know.
Author's Note: My sincerest thanks to BowieChaser, Gin, Helden and Sapphire4Steel for placing me on their story alerts. You've shown me that you have faith in my capabilities to finish this tale. Thank you.
I've done it for you. Now, please return the favor. Review. Thank you.