Ok, so back in the castle...
Jareth ran his hands down Sarah's beautiful face, awestruck as the pallor of death began to recede, colour tinting her cheeks once more. He felt weak and drained, his vision slightly blurred. Gently, he lay his head on Sarah's chest where he knelt beside the bed, pressing his ear against the faint sound of her heartbeat and marvelling at the brilliance of the tiny sound. Her chest rose and fell imperceptibly as her lungs began the struggle of breath, and Jareth found the rhythmical rise and fall lulling him into drowsiness, as his own weakness began to overtake him.
Vaguely, he thought of the wounds that Sarah had sustained. His head seemed far too heavy as he lifted it and his eyes fought blackness, unable to clearly focus on her face. With great concentration he managed to raise his hands to the buttons of Sarah's shirt, but could not gain enough control to undo them. Through the thick fog clouding his mind he fought the frustration, giving in and tearing the blouse open. He leant close, like a short sighted old man, to peer at the burn in the centre of her chest. Silver lined and smooth, it was a perfect imprint of his medallion.
Jareth sat back. His chest hurt as though cramped and bursting at the same time. He tried to draw breath but it felt it as though the air had turned to water around him. His reflexes told him to choke, but though his lungs spasmed no air could be expelled.
On the bed, Sarah breathed deeper, her eyes beginning to flick beneath her lids in her unconsciousness. Jareth turned himself towards her, but sparks and lightening were disturbing his vision, black tongues of flame leaping across his sight. He raised his hand to his cut lip, but no blood was flowing from the split anymore. He brought his hand close to his face and squinted at the sword slice. The black liquid was drying, and the edges of the wound were starting to gape. A vice like pain seized his chest, and it felt as though his left arm was on fire. In his last conscious moment he thought of Sarah, and then his eyes rolled up into his head as blackness overtook him.
Sarah was walking through the meadow. Again she basked in the sunshine; again she knelt to twinkle her fingers through the clear, gurgling stream. But there was something different. Something had changed. A thing that was intangible, almost unidentifiable. Little more than a feeling. It was a sense of peace. A sense of belonging. She could not remember why she was here, or where she had been before she came. All she understood was that this was where she wanted to be. This was where she was home. The sun warmed her bare arms and in the stillness she slowly unbuttoned the loose fitting blouse she was wearing, knowing it would no longer be needed. She slipped out of the stonewash jeans, letting them fall onto the smooth stream bank. As the last item of clothing vanished from the meadow, Sarah turned, opening her arms and revelling in her nakedness.
Singing floated across the forget-me-nots, stirring in her soul the desire to join the euphoric voices. The melody was beautiful, and sad, and longing all in one. It had the lilt of the Gaelic and as she listened, she again felt recognition start within her.
Away to the West, where I'm longing to be,
Where the beauty of heaven unfolds by the sea,
Where the deep purple heather blooms fragrant and free,
On a hill-top high above the Dark Island.
As she listened to the words, the image of a grassy mound swam into her mind. A place of resting, of beauty, of freedom. She felt a deep longing for the place. She felt the love for mystery, fantasy and legend stirring in her heart.
Oh, Isle of my childhood I'm dreaming of thee,
As the steamer leaves Oban, and passes Tiree,
Soon I'll capture the magic that lingers for me,
When I'm back, once more upon, the Dark Island.
As Sarah was overcome with a sense of the enormity of the creation of the night sky, Herne the Hunter lowered his hood and extended his hand, smiling into her eyes. She felt drawn to him, her feet slowly carrying her towards the group. As Jareth's father lowered his hood, the pale silver scar was again revealed. He smiled in welcome and recognition and then he too extended his hand towards her, offering her a hooded cloak, as they wore, of pure silver white.
Oh gentle the sea breeze that ripples the bay,
As the stream joins the ocean and young children play,
On a strand of pure silver I'll welcome each day,
And I'll roam, forevermore the Dark Island.
Forevermore.
Forever.
Forever and ever.
Sarah accepted the cloak and pulled it round her bare shoulders. It fitted perfectly, was warm and soft, smooth as her skin. Another of the fae ran his fingers through her hair, capturing it in a silver clasp with the insignia of a flying owl. Something jolted within Sarah.
An owl.
An owl.
She shook her head.
The fae kings smiled at her reassuringly, parting in a wave and stepping back, making a corridor of their bodies. With slow step, Sarah began to walk the way between them. And then there was a figure before her. Tall. Imposing. Kindly. His hair fell in auburn curls past his shoulders and his broad chest and thick muscles were brown from exposure. Sarah's gaze travelled his body from his bare feet, until she looked into his mismatched eyes. Black as night and blue as clearest day. He smiled at her. He motioned through the air in a way that made memory itch at Sarah's mind, a crystal appearing in his strong hands. Sarah leaned closer as he offered the gift to her. She stared, fixated, at the image of her own self, suspended in the orb.
Oh Isle of my childhood I'm dreaming of thee,
As the steamer leaves Oban and passes Tiree,
Soon I'll capture the magic that lingers for me,
When I'm back, once more upon, the Dark Island.
Sarah reached out her hand, brushing the clear glass. Eyes stared at her intently. She wrapped her fingers round the smooth sphere. It was pleasantly warm. It fitted her hand. It was comfortable. It brought with it deep peace. Deep happiness.
Pan did not let go of the crystal. His fingers interlocked with Sarah's as they both grasped the delicate glass. She raised her eyes to his. Slowly, still smiling kindly, he shook his head. As he did so the music began to change. The longing was still foremost, but now it spoke of an earth shattering sadness, running deep. Flowing through blood. Coursing through the body of the singer.
Sarah looked round her. The fae kings were silent, backing away. Beginning to fade. And yet the singing continued. Herne smiled sadly at her, and vanished from view. Raemon was again the last to fade from existence.
As the deer pants for the water,
So my soul yearns after you,
Sarah sought the source of the singing, turning her head, finding herself once again alone in the meadow.
You alone are my heart's desire,
And I long to worship you.
A bright light was glowing in the meadow, growing in intensity until Sarah could barely see. She strained her eyes. There was a figure. A figure in flowing robes, silhouetted in the brilliance. The single voice was clear and true.
You alone are my strength my shield,
To you alone may my spirit yield,
Jareth stepped from the light into the meadow waiting ground. Tears were coursing down his cheeks and he opened his arms wide, falling to his knees before her. Sarah ran to him and he reached up to wrap his arms round her waist, burying his face in the folds of the loose blouse she was again wearing. As the tears began to course down her own cheeks, Sarah ran her fingers through his silky bond hair.
You alone are my heart's desire,
And I long to worship you.
So let me know what you think, we're not done yet! FY.A xxx