Chapter Two: The Lost and the Lonely
He passed through the stones, sliding through them as though they were water. His anger pushed him on, made him stronger. If she was determined to face cruelty, he would not let her down. As he moved quickly through the castle, her scent grew stronger. He could still feel her—coming close to the end of her endurance, running almost blindly, close to stumbling with each step.
Now that the time had come, he was eager for confrontation. Why had he been trying to delay it? She had made him soft. He shook his head, which had an interesting rippling effect inside the rock before it settled. He would show her who was soft. He gathered his strength and slammed his body against the wall from the inside, bursting out of the silent stone world. The connection with the castle was severed—he was once again alone. With calm composure, he adjusted the cuff of his military-style jacket.
He was exactly where he needed to be.
It was the spiral stairs; the same stairs that Sarah was running. But he was ahead of her—all he had to do was stay where he was and she would run straight to him. The thought fed his inner Beast, who began to howl and tear against the chains that held him bound.
He could hear her. Her feet struck unevenly against the stairs as she ran in circles, winding her way down to where he stood. He quickly positioned himself, leaning with a careful casualness against the wall, arms crossed. She would be here soon.
His anger had a strange edge to it. He unfolded himself and stood straight. Crossed his arms again. As soon as she was here, as soon as it was over, everything would return to normal. He bounced imperceptibly on the balls of his feet. His skin prickled. It was too hot. The torches on the walls were burning too brightly.
He raised his torn hand to his lips with the palm facing upwards and blew a breath over it, spraying a spell that chilled the air, snuffing out the lights one by one. There. That was better. He had always felt more alive in the icy darkness. He absent-mindedly ran his hand through his hair, smearing blood through the choppy strands.
He waited, listening. No footfall. She was not running anymore. She moved no closer.
The darkness. Of course. She was not like him—not in this. She lived in the light, and he had taken it from her.
This was outside his plans. Would she start moving again? Eventually she would need to. He could stay silent, patiently wait for her to appear. But who knew when that would be? He was all restless anger and energy, almost bursting from standing still. He could not resist calling out, making a connection.
"Well? And what is your next move, foolish girl?" He was pleased with the sound of his voice—it was as cold as the stones that it echoed off.
She made no answer, but it pleased him to imagine what she might look like—all lovely wide eyes and shivering skin. Frantically searching for any sign of him; shaking with fear. He knew that the echoes bouncing off the cavernous stairs from every direction would make it impossible for her to tell where his voice was coming from.
He could hear her breathing get louder, more panicked. It was like music in his ears.
After a pause, he heard an echo come back to him.
"I'm not a little girl anymore." It was her beautiful voice, always so full of warmth. At the moment, it was laced with a delicious tremble. It hooked under his skin, tugging him forwards, drawing him nearer to her. He walked slowly up the spiral stairs, going to her like a sleepwalker.
"Strange that you do not dispute the other accusation."
"What?"
"You are a fool, Sarah." He felt his anger rise again, burning in his chest. It was his sword and his shield. "I have seen what it is that you carry."
So close now. He reached out with his bare hand to brush his fingertips along the outside wall of the circular stairs as he moved.
A few more shadowed steps. His heart began to beat erratically.
Then, the rest of the world fell away.
He could see her.
She was there, just before him, standing with her back turned. She was really there. But she had not yet seen him in the shadows. Perhaps the darkness meant that she could not.
His chest contracted. He tried to absorb every detail of her, locking it deep within. Her slender frame; her delicate curves. The shape of her neck. The porcelain skin at her arms, her naked feet. The way her long, dark hair tumbled freely down her back. Had she always been this small?
He approached her carefully, soaking up the shadows and wrapping them around him like a cloak. Her smell was so strong, he filled his lungs with her. She was so near now. With a few more strides, he might be able to reach out and touch the small area of soft skin at the back of her neck, exposed where her hair parted, just above the line where her white blouse ended. She had always seemed beyond his reach, somehow. But here she was. If he wanted, he could move to her now, touch her. Still, he stayed his step. It was her move.
She was still. Motionless for long moments. Tense, but still.
So she would deny him.
He would not allow her. He would prove that his will was the stronger. By his will, she would know he was there. She would turn to face him. He raised his hand again and with another breath blown over his blood, the torches flared to life.
She whirled, blinking in the sudden light.
Even in the middle of his controlled fury, he could not stop the sharp intake of breath at the sight of her in the flickering light. The face that had filled his dreams every night since he first saw it. His private torment and his best desire.
He could not help the slight flutter of his eyes as they met hers. Even as she stood before him exhausted and afraid, her bright eyes were more powerful—less frightened—than he had imagined.
They were both still for a minute. Maybe more.
He shifted his weight forward slightly, and her hand shot out towards him.
He saw the metal flash in her hand as she waved it in his direction, cutting wildly at the air. He took a few hasty steps back down the stairs, out of her reach.
"So it is true," he hissed. "You have brought iron to my land."
Her eyes flickered down to her hand. She was clearly not expecting to keep him at a distance with such a small knife.
Perhaps she really is that foolish, he thought. Perhaps she is not even aware of the true nature of what she holds. Something inside him grabbed onto the idea tightly. It was so tempting to believe. He might be able to forgive ignorance.
He collected his calm again, forged sharp with anger. He inclined his head, studying her. She was pale, drawn, shaking; absolutely lovely. He needed to know.
"Do you even know what it is that you hold?"
She took a small step towards him, pointing the knife straight out towards his heart. He gracefully slid backwards the same distance, mirroring her step.
She stood taller. "I know that it's making you back away. That's enough."
Thoughtless girl. As though bravado could ever mask fear. "Sarah, do you really mean to do me harm this night? Do you truly wish to be my enemy?"
She looked surprised at the intensity of his words. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words followed. Subtly, he leaned forward, his unblinking eyes never wavering from her in the half-light.
He tried to keep his voice low, controlled. "Do you have any idea what the smallest speck of iron would do to me?"
Her answer here would change everything. This could be it. As ever, he would give her what she wished for. If she willed it, this could be their final dance. But then, maybe she was innocent.
Within the perfect stillness of the moment, he was not sure which he preferred.
She looked up at him, torn. She clutched the knife in her hand so tightly it drained her hand of blood flow. Her free hand clenched and unclenched, nails biting the soft flesh.
Then, she turned back up the stairs and her skirts spun with her, almost brushing against his leg in slow-motion. Her body coiled, ready to run.
He grinned. The game was starting again.
But something was wrong. In her haste to escape, her body was turning at a strange angle; off-balance.
He heard the bone at her ankle make a snapping sound. A shout—more surprised than pained—burst from her lips as she fell on the stairs leading away from him, hitting her head with a sickening thud on the stone. Her head bounced once against the hard ground, and then she was still.
Big thanks to my beta (my poor sister, who thinks my LabyLove is weird: 'you're playing that song AGAIN?', but likes me anyway). Her reaction to this chapter was priceless. I will never forget her screeching at me, "Did you just kill Sarah? You just killed Sarah! Did you?!" In that moment, I felt that maybe I had spent too much time in Jareth's headspace—I sadistically enjoyed the reaction. I think most writers are happy when they evoke emotions in their readers, just by putting certain words together in a certain order.
Thankyou for all your support—I loved getting those notifications that somebody has followed or favourite-d my story. It's an amazing feeling—there's nothing else quite like it.
And a big shout out to everyone who took the time and effort to review my first chapter, weighing in at only a measly 1000 words… I really appreciate it.
Feel free to review my story… *shuffles feet* Not that, you know, it means THAT much to a new writer… (yeah! way to go nat, playing it cool like a cucumber)
Stay tuned for Chapter the Third—Wherein We Discover the Fate of Our Fallen Heroine and the Dark King Who so Dotes upon Her.