Checked for continuity, grammar, and spelling: May 2, 2011.
Chapter Six: Delicate Lines
The sun had long since travelled below the horizon leaving the Kingdom of the Goblins shrouded in darkness. Lights could be seen flickering in windows, extinguished one by one as the hours slipped by and inhabitants of the Goblin City settled for the night. In the gardens beside the castle, one light burned steadily on longer than the rest.
By the light of a small lantern, Hoggle surveyed the work he had done that day. Though a few new things were planted, he spent most of the daylight hours caring for the plants that were already there. In any case, there was not much left in the way of planting to be completed and pruning and weeding the rest took up most of his time. That left little time for completing the little things left to be done. Things such as placing the stepping stones, crafting benches for under some of the trees, and building any extra walls, fountains, or other ornamentation. So, when the rest of Jareth's day staff went home for the night, Hoggle lately found himself staying on in an attempt to get it all done.
For some reason, he felt in his bones the need for the gardens to be completed soon, as though time was running out. He often thought someone, or something, was compelling him, but he could not figure out who or what that was. It was not Jareth, to be sure. That one had often walked through the gardens at dusk and happened upon Hoggle, telling him with a laugh that he worked too hard and should go home. Hoggle would do so with a sigh, but the next day could be found working even later.
Leaning on his spade, Hoggle wiped his brow with a satisfied sigh. "Soon, now, it will be ready." He started when he realized he hadn't said that for his own benefit, but for someone else's. "Heh. Going a little mad myself," he said, shaking his head. Gathering up the rest of his tools and the tiny lantern, he turned in the direction of the little garden shed. He walked across the lawn, whistling tunelessly.
Suddenly, a sound rent the air, as though large pieces of fabric were being torn. There was a great flash of light and a burst of power, momentarily blinding Hoggle and throwing him backwards into a flower bed. The candle in his lantern went out, plunging everything in darkness. "Blast. If it ain't one thing, it's another." Hoggle fumbled in the darkness to relight the flame so as to take stock of the damage and attempt to discover what happened. He blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the change of light and peered around.
Something moved in the darkness just beyond the circle of light emanating from the lantern. Hoggle gasped, scrambling to his feet. It made no further movements, but moaned lowly instead. Tentatively, Hoggle approached the shape. As he neared, recognition dawned and his eyes widened. "Yer Majesty!" He rushed forward and rolled the nearly unconscious man onto his back, then moved him into a sitting position. "Yer Majesty," he repeated, "are you alright? What happened?"
"Aboveground..." he muttered. His head was hung forward on his chest, as though he was too weak to hold himself upright. Each breath was ragged and even speech seemed to come with difficulty. "Too quickly... Was too soon... Returned... not ready... she's not ready..." His staggered and slightly incoherent explanation was cut off when he suddenly passed out cold.
"Yer Majesty?" Hoggle cried out in alarm. Gently setting Jareth down again, he checked to make sure he was still breathing. Satisfied, shallow though the breaths, he ran inside to get help.
Not five minutes later, Hoggle rushed back with nearly dozen Goblins in tow. Together, they carried Jareth up to his bedchamber. On the way, he wavered in and out of consciousness, repeatedly muttering that string of words that did not make much sense to those attending him. Hoggle could not make much out of it, but he managed to gather that, whatever happened Aboveground, Jareth had returned Underground in an abrupt manner rather than using his normal finesse with magic or traveling in another form. Hoggle knew that could only mean Jareth had tapped his magic raw instead of channelling it into a more malleable form, something he would only do should he or one of his subjects be in grave danger. That was a rule all inhabitants of the kingdom knew. One that was given seemingly without reason, though Hoggle believed that reason lay stretched out before him.
After laying him on his bed, most of the Goblins discreetly bowed their way out of the room leaving Hoggle and two of Jareth's personal servants behind. "Wha'do we do now?" Hoggle wondered aloud.
One of the Goblins looked up at Hoggle. "I am not quite sure. The Goblin King has always cared for us, not the other way around."
"Perhaps," said the other, "we should try to make him comfortable, and then he will be able to rest easier and recover soon." The first Goblin nodded and the two busied themselves with that task. Hoggle sighed and watched them work. When they were finished, the second Goblin turned to him. "We should leave him alone now."
"You go ahead. I'll wait here in case he needs anything." Hoggle sat himself in a chair across the room before the Goblins could contradict him. They looked slightly discomforted, as though one of them should wait as servants. But they left without making a fuss, dimming the lights as they went out of the room.
Hoggle watched in silence as Jareth tossed in a restless sleep for more than an hour. All the while, he continued his mutterings, though they were no longer audible. Slowly, he calmed down and settled and, just before falling still and into a deep slumber, he uttered one last word. It caught Hoggle's attention and caused his eyebrows to shoot up. As a general, unspoken rule, no one dared to give voice to that word out of fear of Jareth's reaction. Hoggle had not even heard reference to it in years, yet there was no question what was distinctly emitted from Jareth's lips:
"Sarah..."
Sarah lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She had a small candle burning on her nightstand, the relaxing scent of lavender wafting about the room. From where they lay next to the candle, twelve crystal roses caught the light of the flame and reflected it around the otherwise dark room. Turning her head slightly, she could see two vases on her desk. Each held a bouquet of flowers: one a mishmash from her brother, the other twelve white roses from him. She still hadn't decided what to make of it all. This business of showering her with gifts at each show anonymously and then, when he finally makes an appearance, vanishing without even saying hello.
Stupid man. Not, she clarified to herself, that I wanted him to say hello of course.
True, but since you saw and recognized him it would only have been the polite thing to do.
Right. Especially after haunting my dreams for the past nine years.
He did not haunt your dreams.
Whose side are you on? But I guess there was only the one and it wasn't actually a dream.
Exactly. But I will grant that he did make you believe it was all a dream for the past nine years and then turned up, throwing all your notions out of the water.
And after making dinner an uncomfortable affair because I was so distracted and couldn't even begin to explain it to anyone there.
No, dinner happened after he showed up.
Fine, and thereby making dinner uncomfortable.
You know, you really can't go blaming everything on him.
Yes, I can. Watch me. And as you said, he should have said something to be polite. He's just as rude as always.
Um, he did give you flowers.
I didn't ask for them in any case. I certainly didn't want them. I still don't.
So why did you keep them all after telling yourself you were going to chuck them out the car window and drive over them?
Because... Well, because... Hey, I do not have to justify myself to you! And I am not going to continue having this ridiculous argument with myself. So just be quiet already. Sarah waited for her voice of reason to pipe up again, nodding with satisfaction when it didn't. It is all his fault. Stupid man.
She turned her gaze back to the ceiling and the dancing reflections of candlelight. Sighing in frustration, she flipped over onto her stomach, her head dangling off the side of her bed. A bit of white caught her eye and she leaned farther over the side to reach down. Her hand came in contact with the feather she had found on the floor at the theatre. Rolling back onto the bed to rest on her side, she twirled it in her fingers. What was he doing there, anyway? Writing first her name and then his on her palm with the tip, she noticed it was soft and silky, feeling not at all like what she thought an owl's feather would feel like. Without thinking, she brushed it against her cheek.
As though that simple action was the key to opening a floodgate, she was suddenly hit with a barrage of memories from her night in the Labyrinth. It replayed in her mind, moment by moment, and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Unexplainable tears of loss, of pain, of embarrassment, of anger, of confusion, and of abandonment.
She lay on her back once again, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down to soak her duvet. He didn't even say hello. Stupid, stupid man.