Dare To Heir
Chapter 7
"Get away from me you fumbling idiot," the king demanded, his voice harsh but still quite hoarse.
Oh, the words were the king's all right but without the ferocious force behind them, it was difficult for Nargle to take him seriously. Nargle ignored him and dipped the cloth back into the basin of cool water, and then wrung out the cloth and placed it on the king's forehead. His worshipfulness had been sick for days, and the entire castle had been in an uproar. Nargle had stayed by the king's bedside wiping his feverish brow the entire time. Twas a great relief to all when the king finally began to come round.
"I said, get away from me! Are you deaf as well as dumb?" Jareth swiped the damp cloth from his head, balled it up in his hand, and with a growl, threw it at Nargle.
It struck Nargle directly on his broad, grotesque face slipping down where it dangled off of his bulbous nose. Nargle grinned behind his wet veil. His worshipfulness must be getting better; his aim had improved considerably since yesterday.
"Your worshipfulness," he started, "Meanin' no disrespect, but the High Queen told me to stay and take care of his highness." Nargle gave the king a self-satisfied grin. "I aim to do just what the High Queen asked."
Jareth glared at Nargle out of bleary, red-rimmed eyes. Confound it! Was it his mothers' intention to deliberately torture him? Could not she have, at least, tended to him? Jareth snorted. What state of delirium was he still in to have entertained such an absurd notion. Even as a child, when ill, Jareth could recall his mothers' reluctance to expose herself to the dangerous germs that apparently inhabited the air of Jareths' room. He had whined and cried for her as young, sick children are wont to do, but she did not come. Instead, servants had accompanied the healers and watched over him until he was fully recovered. It had left an indelible mark on Jareth, and he had vowed never to deprive his children of a fathers' comfort if they were ever to become ill.
It was highly unlikely that he would be utilizing that promise. Giselle and he would remain childless. His head fell feebly onto his pillow, and he closed his eyes to hide the prickling sheen of unshed tears. How mortifying, Jareth thought, but found that he was just too tired to care if Nargle noticed his momentary weakness.
Nargle sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, staining the sleeve of his tunic with thick, greenish snot. His worshipfulness be needn' his alone time. He would go to let the High Queen know that her son is feelin' much better in body iffin', not in soul. Nargle would keep that last bit to his self.
It was the unsteady beep of the machine that jolted Gideon out of his light doze. Blinking the grit from his eyes, he sat up, groaning when his back protested the lack of a comfortable seat. Another out of place beep had him standing and reaching for the call bell attached to the bed rail with urgent fingers.
Gideon spun around when with a sharp swish the privacy curtain was pulled aside. Two nurses rushed to the bed just as Sarah's body began to shake and contort. One of the nurses' ordered the other to go for a doctor but having heard the commotion while passing by; one had already entered the room.
Scared shitless didn't even come close to what Gideon was experiencing. He watched in horrified agony as Sarah writhed and twisted beneath the helping hands of the nurses and doctor. The doctor yelled out an order. One of the nurses' grabbed a vial and syringe. In a split second, she twisted off the sheath to the needle and plunged the tip into the vial and pulled back on the plunger until it was filled to the top.
"Hurry, Ellen," the doctor commanded in a strained sounding voice.
Sarah was still seizing when Irene and Sarah's father showed up. Irene gave a soft cry and clutched onto her husbands' arm, her terrified eyes glued to Sarah's bed. Gideon tasted the bitterness of salt on his lips. I'm crying he thought dispassionately. Why? This is only a dream, a nightmare. Soon I'll be waking up at an ungodly hour to help Sarah open up the Day Care.
"It's all right, folks," Gideon heard the doctor as if from a very long distance. "She's stabilized now, she's okay."
"What happened," Sarah's father asked.
A rough hand grabbed Gideon's shoulder, and a face was thrust close to his own, forcibly ripping him back from his stunned stupor. "What?"
"I asked you what happened to my daughter, what happened? You bastard! What the hell did you do to her? Answer me dammit!"
Irene was yelling now, but not at Gideon, "Stop! Robert! Stop; let him go! He's in shock honey; he barely knows where he is."
Gideon was released so abruptly that he staggered back, knocking into the chair he had so recently vacated. Someone slipped an arm around his waist and helped him back to his seat. A cool hand swept his sweat-darkened hair from eyes. He really did look a mess, thought Irene. It was so un-like Gideon to be unshaven. The term slovenly came to mind.
His beautifully tailored clothes were wrinkled and soiled with blood. Sarah's blood. Irene's lips quivered at the thought of Sarah bleeding and then Gideon grabbed her as if she were the only lifeline left. Clutching her, he burst into heart-wrenching wails; soaking her blouse with his tears. She stroked his head as he wept and the only thought running through her mind at that point was, poor, poor Gideon.
"You are certainly looking much improved, my son," commented Jareth's mother as she eyed him thoroughly. He surmised that she was pleased with what she saw if the half-smile on her face were of any indication.
Orlaith: Her name meant golden queen. It was as if her parents knew that she would one day be just that. His mother was not beautiful in the full sense of the word, but there was a striking stateliness about her – an aura so to speak – that drew attention to her as soon as she entered a room. She'd had this ability well before she became High Queen. It was a trait that was all her own, but her rise in status certainly enhanced her natural aptitude for garnering the high regard of others. In some circles, she was virtually worshipped. It was a state of affairs he knew she found distasteful, but his mother could play the diplomat when the situation warranted it. To stay in good standing with some of the more powerful families, she played along with their sycophantic ways.
"I am, mother. Your concern for my well-being is touching." The half-smile on Orlaith's face straightened out completely into the stern line with which Jareth was most familiar.
"I see that your illness as not damaged your insolence," she drawled, sarcasm dripping from each word, "A relief, to be sure."
"As always, I live to serve," was his mocking response.
Jareth wondered when she would move beyond the so-called pleasantries and just get to the point of her visit. It was true he was improving daily, but he was still continually plagued with sporadic, albeit debilitating headaches. He could feel one attempting to make itself known even now. Whether it was due to her visit or not, he did not know. He just wanted to hear her out and then show her the door. If he were going to be visited by another bone-crushing migraine, he wanted that particular visit to be anonymous to all but himself. His mother smoothed out the already immaculate skirt of her dress, fluffing the pin straight pleats with her bejeweled hand It was a sure sign she was nervous. Interesting, he thought, and unusual.
Finally, she casually asked, "The healers have been to see you?"
Jareth sighed, so they were going to play this game, were they? His mother would never admit it, but his love of games came directly from her; she was a master game player. He had learned from the best. Hers was a shrewd, discerning and calculating mind. When he was a boy, his mother had insisted he learn to play chess. Initially he had not wanted to learn, but under her tutelage he came to thoroughly enjoy the game. It was a cutthroat and strategically charged. It also necessitated getting into your opponents head, and to know what their next move will be before even they do. The entire Labyrinth had been engineered as a life-sized model of a chessboard. A rough one to be sure, but a chessboard had been the initial impetus. The Labyrinth had become a mind-bending puzzle that he and his mother had concocted together: the ultimate game. Oh, yes, he had learned from the master.
"Of course," was all Jareth offered by way explanation while relishing his mother's discomposure.
Shifting in her Elizabethan style chair, Orlaith was struggling to control her temper. Her son was taking great joy in her discomfort and taking no pains to hide it whatsoever. This sort of behavior from her son while irritating, only served to make her more determined.
"And…" she enquired through clenched teeth.
"And," he mimicked, "They can only say that it was an unknown illness. Origin also unknown."
Orlaith sat in silence for a moment before asking, "Will it return?"
"They do not know." Jareth stated with an indifference he was far from feeling.
"This is disturbing news. Has Giselle been informed?"
"I would assume so. Willum has been…"
"You would assume so," his mother interrupted, incredulous that Jareth only assumed his wife knew of this important piece of news. "Do you not know for certain?"
Jareth rubbed his aching eyeballs with his forefinger and thumb. The throbbing at his temples and at the base of his head was becoming a persistent thrum.
"No mother," he bit out at her. "I cannot abide a woman who hovers. Therefore, my beloved wife has been banned from my chambers."
His sharp tone was intended to be a warning, a less than subtle nudge that she was perilously close to trespassing onto private territory. Orlaith took no notice of this, however, and barreled right along with about as much finesse as Nargle had while handling the Viennese hand-blown goblets; meaning, absolutely none.
"She is your wife, Jareth. If anyone has the right to be by your side, it is Giselle."
By the gods, Jareth thought in disgust. Will this farce never end?
"The relationship between me and Giselle is of no concern to you," Jareth retaliated in exasperation. "I do not interrogate you on your relationship with father nor do I offer advice where none is asked. I would appreciate the same courtesy of you!"
Jareth had been rude. He knew it, his mother knew it and he was confident that very shortly his father would know it too. Jareth was well passed caring. Peace and quiet along with a painkilling draught were all he desired and now was as good a time as any to get it. To Jareth's mind, his mother and over-stayed her welcome.
Apparently his mother thought so too because she rose to her feet in a majestic manner. Looking down at him with cold anger blazing in her eyes and without another word, she glided across the floor with fluid grace. She exited his chambers with the soft rustle of her gown as the only evidence of her passing.
Sarah frantically struggled and fought her way to the surface of consciousness. Yet, for some reason, full awareness of her surroundings seemed just beyond her grasp. She was frightened and instinctively called for the one person all injured children reach for.
"Mom! Where you are you, mom?"
"Rest," a soft, melodious voice crooned back at her. "All is well, little one, all is well."
Sarah continued to stir restlessly in her drowsy state despite the assurance. Was that her mother, she wondered, was her mother here, right now? If so, she didn't want to waste a single second by drifting back off to sleep.
"Mom," Sarah entreated weakly, "I need you. Don't go. Stay with me, please!"
"Your mother is not here, little one," the voice replied in a soothing manner. "But I am," the voice continued. "I am here, and I will not leave you."
"I want to go home," Sarah cried out. "Please," she begged through tears, "Take me home."
"Soon," the voice repeated, with a tinge of tender admonishment. "Very soon. Now, sleep; dear one, sleep. He will come, little Sarah. Soon… he will come for you."
Exhausted, Sarah allowed herself to be lulled, once more, into a land of dreams. A place where scattered remnants of half-remembered images danced behind her fluttering lids.