A/N: I am SO SORRY for the wait between this update! I have been orchestrating a friend's wedding, my brother's 21st and my sister's baby shower which all took place last weekend and I'm SO done with doing stuff other than writing. I tried to get more of the story done but apparently working full time, organising all this and then writing until 2am wasn't beneficial to my brain. So after a few tears and long days performing tasks while longingly thinking of paragraphs I could be editing…here is the next chapter! Hopefully it makes up for the wait, as I will warn you it contains SEX (YAY!) and FLUFF and ANGST. All the best things in fandom life hahaha.
Also I just wanted to say that there has been a ridiculously kind response to this story and I really really appreciate all of you for it. Your reviews and comments and support are what make me smile every day and what make me strive for perfection with each sentence. There are a few anonymous reviews too that have been especially heartwarming to read, and whoever you are (whether you are multiple people or the same on), I wanted to say a special thank you for your amazing words!
P.S the poems scattered throughout like thoughts are excerpts from these:
Walt Whitman: To a Stranger
Christina Rossetti: 'Love knows not 'mine' or 'thine' and 'He and She'
Marina Alexandrova: Beauty
Chapter Eight: Lost and Found
There'd been a few memorable kisses in her life so far. Troy's mouth had been hot and smoky, making her feel wickedly guilty. Matt had kissed her on a blanket under a sky full of fireworks. Dylan's cotton candy lips had soothed her pain the night she'd broken her arm roller skating. But Sarah had never been so loved that she could feel it in a single kiss. Not before now, with Jareth's mouth opening against hers, had she ever heard the sound of violins and tasted poetry on someone's tongue. It was a sensation she would never take for granted, no matter if this was their only kiss or the first of a thousand. But god, she hoped there were a thousand more.
With obvious reluctance she pulled away, gasping for air. For a second all that existed was the man in front of her: Jareth panting, Jareth licking his lips, Jareth touching his forehead to hers. But then in the corner of her eye she spotted faces and lights and remembered where they were.
And what they'd just done, right in front of the Queen.
"Act embarrassed," Jareth whispered, her saviour once more.
It made sense – freezing up with fear would reveal them as criminals who'd been caught, while blushing would show nothing more than two people who'd been swept up by the moment. Though she trembled with worry and desire simultaneously, Sarah forced herself to appear flustered. Jareth stepped away and rubbed the back of his neck, looking determinedly at the ground. She held a hand to her mouth and feigned an absurd giggle. The Fae that had taken interest in them now seemed bored, not at all surprised by the happenings of the Harvest. Their gazes sought out other curiosities.
Cold dread replaced the heat inside her as she caught the Queen's eyes. Though she was sick to death of acting, Sarah summoned the willpower to put on a calm face and stared back at the Fae woman as if she'd fully intended to do what she'd done. Was that a look of approval she received? Or a look of disgust? Or both? It was difficult to tell, but whatever the woman thought she seemed to take no further interest in the pair of them. Apparently a kiss wasn't enough proof, then. With a relieved sigh Sarah watched her leave the tables and disappear. Only when she was certain they were no longer the centre of anybody's attention did she dare face Jareth again.
He looked different now that she'd kissed him. It was hard to say how exactly. He seemed to have softened around the edges, lost some of the sharp angles to his face that had once been so intimidating. Had she done that to him? Only one thing was certain – they were on a path there was no returning from. Even just standing there she was drawn to him, eager for more of his mouth and his hands and his comforting closeness.
With a final wary glance around them Jareth approached her. "Would you like to see the Harvesting now?" he asked mildly.
It wasn't what she'd expected to hear. A declaration of love, certainly, though her heart ached with terror at the idea. An affectionate comment, maybe, with a touch to her cheek. Even a wise-ass remark about her being the one to yield first would not have surprised her. But instead he offered his arm as if their interruption had been nothing more than a brief chat. Deciding she could surprise too, Sarah ignored the arm and went straight for his hand, gripping it tightly in her own. His amused smile was irritating until she felt how natural it was to walk with him like this. And then she realised why he was reacting so calmly: their union came as naturally as breathing. It required no fanfare, no grand gestures. It simply was, because it was always going to be. A kiss wouldn't change the fact that they'd been in over their heads for far too long now. Leaning into his shoulder Sarah grinned broadly as he led her to where they'd been heading all along.
It would be more than difficult not to ravish her in front of his own mother if he let himself get too worked up. He must have inherited some of Mira's abilities for prescience. Or maybe it was just self-fulfilled prophecy. Either way Jareth couldn't believe they'd just gotten away with that. Couldn't find the energy to care, honestly, because he was preoccupied by the skin of Sarah's hand. It was rougher than he'd imagined. Nothing like that of a noblewoman, manicured and moisturised, it was mildly calloused in places from her work in the gardens. He could feel a feint scar on the underside of her middle finger. He was so immersed in learning the curve of her wrist that he bumped into someone as they came to a stop in front of the Dream Trees.
He apologised diplomatically enough, though his eyes dared them to comment on a Goblin King distracted by a woman. He'd had his fill of that rubbish from the royal consort earlier. Thankfully the Fae man turned away in silence and Jareth was free to enjoy the marvel on Sarah's face. But he had to admit the Trees never failed to impress him, no matter how many Harvests he attended. They were giants who sat in silence, reaching up and out over the Field as if trying to gather the sky in their branches. The energy was electric here, standing so close. It affected him just as any other Fae: prickling his skin with heat, filling his head with images of life and love and the cosmos, magnifying the scent of the earth beneath their feet. It was invigorating and intoxicating all at once; those around him shared similar expressions of elation. The Harvest humbled all, inspired purity in all. Contributing sparked kinship where it had long dried up. For once Jareth found it difficult to resent his people.
Beside him Sarah was awash with the golden glow of the Trees. She could have been any other Fae with her eye markings and that look of serenity. But there was never any mistaking Sarah, for the love he felt couldn't have been for anyone else. Their eyes met in silence and he started to hum, joining the low rolling cadence of those around him. It was an ancient, wordless tune, a melody of rebirth and gratitude. Stepping towards one of the enormous Tree trunks Jareth placed a hand on the smooth bark and waited for Sarah to do the same. Being human she couldn't actually Harvest, but with their hands still linked she could share his experience. Most others closed their eyes when feeling for the Dreams but Jareth kept his on Sarah's. When the spark of a Dream touched his fingers, his smile was her smile. When he hummed low in his throat, beckoning the Dream, they both shivered with the cold sensation of it touching his skin. Brief images flashed before their eyes: a heartbeat of existence, a whisper of human imagination. Sarah gasped in wonder and he resisted the urge to cover her open mouth with his own. Instead he entwined their fingers on the bark, lifted their hands as one and swept them upwards. A sliver of colour flew from their fingertips; a wisp of violet cloud went streaming up into the sky and disappeared into the opalescent atmosphere.
Around them others were doing the same. Colour burst around them in streaks of silver, crimson, pearl, auburn, olive green – tearing towards the sky like the luminescent ghosts of birds. They repeated the same motions with different results each time. Dreams passed through Jareth like memories, filling his mind with snapshots of fantasy: purple worlds and raging oceans and twisted faces; animals and cities and rooms filled with light. The visions were brief but endlessly divergent and complex. Sarah had closed her eyes some time ago in concentration, humming her own melody. Now she sought his attention silently, tugging at his hand in hers. She met his questioning look with a coy smile and bade him to follow her around the trunk of the Tree. They stepped over the thick roots hand in hand, finding themselves alone on the other side.
"Much better," she murmured, pulling him to her.
"Agreed," Jareth replied, slipping his arms around her from behind. She shuddered as he trailed a hand feather-light down her arm, threading their fingers together. They made a dance of pulling more Dreams from the bark: joint hands pressed against the glow as one, cradling the spark between them before sweeping it out and up in unison. The flashes of colour reflected off the dark of Sarah's hair, bathing her in watercolour lights. Each time their arms lowered and reached forward Jareth would breathe down the line of her neck, his nose brushing against her left ear. He wasn't certain how long they did this for. Empires could have risen and fallen and he'd have been none the wiser. The Dreams moved him, the Trees humbled him and Sarah, oh, Sarah…
Soon it wasn't enough for them to be dancing. He let both hands fall to her hips, drawing her back into his chest. The skin of her neck was warm beneath his mouth but still he hesitated in kissing her.
"What are you waiting for?" Sarah whispered into the dim light, her hands settling over his.
It was difficult to think of an answer. His head was thick with Dreams and Fae song; he felt heavy and warm and couldn't be sure that she wasn't just another remnant of human imagination. Her sigh was real enough, as was the rustling of her dress as she turned in his embrace. She whispered his name against his lips, curious, pleading. All the false suave moves of his old self crumbled in the wake of the way she said it. He'd seduced women for decades, had manoeuvred them into his arms and his bed with precision. But he floundered beneath Sarah's gaze as if she'd stripped him bare down to his soul. And that was why he hesitated. He'd been careless once, promising dreams and futures like they were truly his to give. Now though, all he had to offer was himself, for however much time they could steal. There was no certainty, no promises, no granting of wishes in a world that forbid their union. He could only place his heart in her hands and pray that it would be enough.
"Jareth," Sarah murmured again, sliding her hands along his throat. "Take me home."
She kissed him while the world blurred around them. Wind rushed through her hair and blood pounded in her ears. Jareth's mouth once again evoked thoughts of fire and the embers of poetry burning. He was saying something with that kiss, the same words she'd been unable to say to him. Even now, alone in the castle, they weren't safe. Don't speak, she pleaded over and over. Don't say a word. She used his mouth like a confessional, tracing her guilt and shame onto his tongue, planting prayers to soothe the sting. He pinned her flush against him, hands in the small of her back. She groaned into his mouth at the feel of those fingers on her bare skin.
Nothing would ever be the same again. How had she gone her whole life without feeling this alive? The thought of going back to her old world without him made her want to cry for a thousand years. To her horror Sarah abruptly burst into tears against his mouth. Her groan became a sob, her needy grip in his hair now a plea for support. Jareth drew her into his chest, touching their foreheads together.
"Am I that bad at kissing, precious?"
A strangled laugh escaped despite herself. The curve of his gentle smile was comforting; she pressed her face into his neck. The humour didn't last long.
"It's not fair," she sighed into his skin, the first time she'd said so in many years.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
Someone coughed. It wasn't either one of them.
Jareth was suddenly staring over her head and very clearly trying to regain his composure. "We have an audience," he announced in a carefully mild tone.
"Don't be mad," came Wick's voice from behind them.
She spun around to find themselves before a small cluster of Elves. Five of them, all sitting on her bedroom floor with varying degrees of uncomfortable expressions.
"Don't be mad?" Sarah repeated, frustrated and embarrassed and angry all at once. She smoothed a hand down her dress and took a step away from Jareth. "Wick, what did I tell you about holding off on the parties? And in my room! You –"
"It isn't what you think!" Wick interrupted, rushing forward. He gathered up both of her hands tightly. Something immeasurably bright glimmered in his eyes as he told her in a steady, meaningful voice: "Sarah, I found a way."
There was no mistaking what he meant. "You – you did it?" A disbelieving grin broke out across her face. "You found a way to –?"
He nodded vigorously, sharing her smile. "That's what I was here to tell you yesterday. Before, you know, I –"
"Got blind stinking drunk and vandalised my castle?" Jareth stepped toward them. His tone was mild but the look on his face was anything but. Sarah thought it probably had more to do with their being interrupted than Wick's actions. "You seem to spend a lot of time skulking around my kingdom unsupervised, young Elf."
Wick turned a very pale green. "I – I –"
"Jareth," Sarah turned to him with her grin still wide. "Trust me, you'll want to marry Wick in a second. He's been helping me with a gift for you."
Wasting no time on Jareth's questioning expression, Sarah turned back to the Elf and gripped his arms excitedly. "How do we do it? Can we do it now? Is that why we have an entourage in my room?"
Wick nodded. "It can only be done at night. She has to be asleep. And we need a little help." He swept his arm wide, gesturing at the four Elves who had so far remained tensely quiet. They didn't exactly look thrilled to be there, casting wary glances at Jareth but smiling politely as Sarah greeted them warmly. Wick introduced them as his cousins; they all looked fairly similar to her friend but with subtle differences. Brax was darker in complexion and stormy-eyed. Tork held himself with aplomb, his long bluish hair tied into a pony tail. Rade was stiff-backed and tight-lipped, his sharp smile not quite as genuine as Wick's. The last was female and her name was Keel. She wore long skirts and a lot of bangles; her skin was almost translucent. She gave the impression that she was only there as a favour to Wick.
Sarah thanked them profusely for agreeing to help, which seemed to make them even more uncomfortable.
"Wick's told us a lot about you," said Tork, who seemed to be the most relaxed of the four. "I was curious to see the human who'd captured his attention so. I'm happy to help a friend, whoever they may be."
"Even if it does require helping one of them," muttered Keel, rearranging her skirts and pointedly not looking at Jareth.
Sarah could understand why the Elves might not have the best relationship with the Fae. Her gratitude only doubled.
"Sarah, might I ask what you've been planning, exactly?" Jareth enquired, eyeing the gathering suspiciously.
He had no idea what she was about to do for him. Excitement and trepidation bloomed in Sarah's chest simultaneously, a flower with thorns. She reached out a hand for him to take. "Trust me," she murmured. When he was at her side she turned to the Elf. "How does it work?"
"I was looking at it the wrong way," Wick explained, gesturing for them to sit among the others in a circle. "I wasted weeks on finding a safe gateway there using the usual Fae magic, when I should have been thinking about Elf magic."
"I'm not surprised," Brax commented tightly. "It's difficult to remember our own strengths when the Fae try to suppress them so."
"I remembered reading about a very old method of communication," Wick continued as if nothing had been said. "Centuries ago we used dream states to meet with others when it wasn't feasible to travel. It hasn't been used for so long; it was a skill we lost somewhere along the way."
"Any guesses as to when our people began to lose ourselves?" Brax added in an undertone, glancing at Jareth.
"Brax," Tork said warningly. "We're here to help our cousin. No politics in the circle."
Jareth shifted beside Sarah, still holding her hand. She expected him to snap at them but he remained silent, seeming to take the remarks as if he deserved them. Maybe the Fae did, but not him directly. She gave his fingers a comforting squeeze.
"It involves a sustained link," Wick carried on. "Which is why I've asked my cousins to help, and they have been so generous in obliging." He shot each of them a pointed look before returning his attention to Sarah. "We don't have to physically travel anywhere, Sarah. As long as she's asleep, which admittedly is the only uncertainty…we can induce a dream state and forge a connection. We'll sustain the link while you and Jareth call her."
Sarah's heart began to flutter nervously. "Are you sure you know how to do it? You said it hasn't been done for centuries."
"We've been practicing between us while you were out," he replied. "I think we can do it. There's enough of us, as well as two Fae with their own magic. It should be a strong enough link to last an hour or so."
Her grip on Jareth's hand was so tight that she noticed him wince beside her. Two Fae. Is he getting it now? "Sarah," he breathed. "What in the Fate's design are you doing?"
Ignoring him for fear of ruining the surprise, Sarah drew his hand into her lap. "Okay Wick, what do we do?"
"You close your eyes," Wick instructed both of them. "We'll open the path and then I'll take your hand. You'll feel the need to sleep; just let it happen. You should find yourself in a black space, like a sort of limbo. Start thinking of the person you want to talk with. Repeat the name in your head, and if she's asleep…" he licked his lips nervously. "It should draw you to her. You'll have about an hour."
She could feel Jareth's leg twitching anxiously against hers. It seemed as if it had been years between their kiss and where they now sat, about to delve into magic long lost and find something so important. She leant over and whispered in his ear. "I know we were a little busy before…but you'll want to concentrate now, Jareth. Think about Lina. Think about your sister."
There wasn't a word to describe the look on his face then.
Smiling encouragingly, Sarah turned to Wick and nodded for him to begin.
Lina rarely dreamed of her brother. Life in the Dust Bowl left little time for dreaming; at the end of the day she was so exhausted that sleep came instantly and without interruption. That didn't mean she didn't think about him every single day though. Jareth was the reason she was still alive. He was the voice in her head that told her to carry on when all she wanted to do was scatter herself to the winds. There was a feeling beneath her skin that said he was thinking of her too; an itch she couldn't rid herself of. Every day that she woke to the sweltering heat of the wasteland was a day she met with gratitude. Every Azari borderland skirmish that required her diplomacy was attended to with humility. She took in nomads dying of thirst and watched communities die as wells dried up; the sight of villages turning on each other over livestock was never enough to rattle her.
Why was all this bearable? Because Jareth had saved her from a worse fate. Without his help she'd have died long ago. So she'd thought about him every day for the last one hundred and twelve years. It was a surprise then, to find herself actually dreaming of him for once. It was subtle and delicate: his voice calling to her from a distance. And another's too, female, nervous, desperate, hopeful. She could see nothing, just empty blackness like a void. There was something else too, a familiar faded touch of magic. It made her think of green skin and sharp teeth on a kind face. The pull of Jareth's voice became stronger; Lina's mind raced with the thought that she felt far too awake to be sleeping at that moment. In fact, she didn't feel like she was asleep at all. Not as she strode through the empty black space searching for her brother; not as two figures appeared in the distance. Not as they came into clear view: a young Fae, dark hair – and the other. His face was not as she remembered – hungry, pained, older without visible signs of aging. She had always dreamed of the young Jareth from their childhood. So she knew, looking at this tired man before her, that she was not dreaming at all.
At first Sarah felt no different. In fact, she felt a little foolish, sitting in a circle with her eyes closed while a bunch of Elves hummed around her. But then her grip on Jareth's hand started to relax with the rest of her body – the pull of sleep came like a wave. Unable to resist Sarah let herself be swept into the current, feeling as if she were floating on her back in water. The world was dark and hazy; images of Elves and wastelands flickered in and out of view. Jareth's presence beside her was the only solid thing in a black stretch of empty nothingness. Lina, she thought pleadingly, willing the woman to hear them. Lina, please, Lina I've brought your brother to you. Jareth was incredibly tense beside her. His hand in hers was tight enough to hurt, his expression one of anguished hope.
When she finally came to them it was with wary steps, reminiscent of a deer. Lina El'Maven was a photo-negative of her brother: dark where he was pale, soft where he was sharp. She had a face like a heart, a sloping nose, almond eyes framed by gold that rushed down her cheekbones like a river. She had the look of someone naturally kind-hearted who had weathered a cruel sun. Her skin was thick with red dust and a tan built over decades. Sun-bleached auburn hair fell over a white cowl that hung down the back of a green tattered blouse and skirts. She is the spring and summer to my bitter eternal winter. It was true. Jareth reminded her of snow and the wild wind of cold mountains. But Lina exuded an easy grace and light shone in her eyes that conjured images of sunshine and spring flowers. The eyes, though. Her eyes were just like Jareth's, one pupil larger than the other and both filled with immense emotion.
There was silence as Jareth simply stared at his sister. Sarah gave his hand a squeeze but he didn't seem to notice. Tentatively Lina raised an arm, fingers stretching towards her brother. His name fell from her lips in disbelief. That single sound moved him. He went to her with the urgency of a man starved for so many years, as if another single second apart was too much to bear. They embraced, heads pressed together, arms tight around one another. There was whispering; Lina uttered a singular, overwhelmed sob and Sarah turned away from the strength of the love emanating from them. It was enough to bring a tear to her eye. She let it fall, hands folded, standing in silence as brother and sister became lost in a world of their own.
"I never thanked you," Lina whispered against his cheek after a while. Oh, her voice, that silvery tone like a melody. How he'd missed that sound.
"She never gave you the chance," he replied hoarsely. "I've hated her every day for it. For all of it."
"It shows." Lina cupped his chin in her delicate fingers, tilting his head side to side. "You've let hate age you. What have you suffered for me?"
"It doesn't matter," he answered. "I would do it all again twice over."
"I know. So would I."
He hesitated for a moment. "He was worth it, wasn't he?"
She pulled back from him to glance in Sarah's direction. "They always are, Jareth," she answered solemnly. "Who is she?"
He didn't bother asking how she could tell. Lina had a way of knowing things he didn't even understand himself. "Sarah. She's…" Words failed him. "She made this possible, with her uncanny ability to make the right friends."
"Elves?"
"Yes. He found a way to –"
"The dream state…" Lina murmured to herself. "It's been too long since I've been in Elf company. I should have thought of that myself."
Despite his overwhelming joy, Jareth felt a familiar need to roll his eyes at her. "You really do know everything, don't you?"
A teasing grin crinkled the corners of her eyes. "And you're supposed to be the scholar, aren't you? How embarrassing for you."
"You're not too old for a dip in the bog, little sister," Jareth warned without any conviction.
Laughing, she wrapped her arms around his middle and burrowed into his coat. He was reminded of countless childhood days spent chasing her through fields, that laugh carrying high on the wind. The more he lingered on the memory the stronger it became, manifesting in the dream state. They found themselves standing in that very same field of knee-high grass that swished in the wind. An indigo butterfly touched briefly on Lina's head before passing on, but although she beamed up at him her eyes were forlorn.
"How was your century?" she enquired solemnly, smile fading.
"Tedious, for a time," he answered, brushing hair from her face. "But it's definitely been a little more interesting of late."
"Don't do that."
"What?"
"Dance around the truth. You always do that." She toyed with his silk scarf. "I want to know what's happening to my brother because of me."
"Not because of you," he told her firmly. "Never you, Lina. And I told you it doesn't matter. I'm handling it."
"Well then, will you at least tell me why there's a very Fae-looking woman over there with a very human name?"
Looking back at Sarah Jareth felt a twinge of guilt for forgetting her. But she seemed content enough to have taken a seat in the long grass, her gown billowing around her, gazing up at the white-washed sky. He beckoned her over with a smile and a wave. With a soft touch to her cheek he took away the disguise. Back to her human self, standing barefoot under his memory of a sky long gone, she was more beautiful to him than she'd ever been. Especially in light of what she'd done for him. He resisted the urge to kiss her; surely it was enough that they'd done so in front of his mother.
"I thought it strange that a Fae woman should catch my brother's eye," Lina remarked. Then before anything more could be said she pulled Sarah into a firm embrace. "Thank you," he heard her whisper fervently. Sarah murmured something in a gentle tone, squeezing Lina tightly.
When they pulled apart Sarah wiped a tear from her eye. "I had to do something for you. I'm just so glad I met Wick. He's the Elf that's doing this for us."
"I'd like to meet him," Lina said earnestly. "We will do this again, won't we?"
"As often as Wick can spare himself," Sarah reassured her. "Every night if possible."
"Oh Sarah, you're wonderful!" Lina embraced her again, placing an affectionate kiss against her cheek. She turned back to Jareth. "Where did you find this darling creature?"
Jareth was busy enjoying the subtle flush of Sarah's skin and couldn't fathom the answer. How had he been so lucky?
"It's a long story," Sarah answered for him. "But you'll hear it another time. I think I might leave you two to catch up."
"We don't mind if you stay," he told her, but she gave his arm a pat and shook her head.
"One hundred and twelve years is too long to spend apart. Talk to your sister, Jareth. I'll be waiting at home."
Home. Had she even noticed her second casual use of the word? He squeezed her hand. "Sarah…thank you." With a nod and a grin, she disappeared. He turned back to Lina. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You're not going to say anything about it, are you." It wasn't a question.
Sitting down in the grass, Lina tugged him along with her. "I think you know perfectly well what you're doing, Jareth." She looped her arm through his and rested her chin on his shoulder, gazing up at him fondly.
"Actually I haven't a clue," he responded, leaning into her. The wind was just as warm as it had been centuries ago. If he closed his eyes it seemed as if not a single moment had passed them by.
"It's best that way, isn't it?"
"Always. Now tell me, sister of mine: how was your century?"
Surely there'd been a point in the evening when her room had been full of Elves. Five of them, to be exact, whom she'd spent awhile studying as they sustained the dream state. She thought she'd also been padding restlessly around the room, waiting for everyone to awaken. It must have happened, and there must have been thankyous and goodbyes and a hug for Wick.
But for the life of her Sarah couldn't remember a single thing before right now.
Jareth was looking at her. Silently and with a mysteriously intense expression, across the expanse of her now very empty bedroom. The world was too quiet, her heart was too loud, and nothing had existed before Jareth started looking at her like that. She wasn't afraid; she was hardly even nervous. What worried her was the strength of emotion in his eyes because she knew that her own reflected just the same. And what it meant in the grand scheme of things.
"Lina's lovely," she ventured, amazed at the control in her own voice. "I can't wait to spend more time with her. I'll have to ask Wick when he's free next."
Jareth gave no indication that he'd been listening. He'd been leaning on the dresser when she started talking but by the end he was just feet away and closing in.
"Are you –"
He swallowed her words in a kiss borne of the deepest kind of adoration. Every fibre of her being ignited in response, body melting against his, hands clutching at scarf and lapel and hair. No, Sarah thought with conviction, nothing ever existed before now. And nothing would ever exist in quite the same way afterwards. But that didn't matter. Now was important, here, with Jareth, whom she loved so much she would die with or without him.
Only when there was no breath left in her lungs did he relinquish her mouth. His thumbs brushed slowly over her jawline. Still he said nothing but at least Sarah knew what his expression meant.
"Well," she breathed heavily. "You're welcome –"
Another kiss; this time his arms went around her back and nearly lifted her from the floor.
If her ribs cracked in the process she would forgive him. It was all she could to keep up with the demands of his mouth, let alone worry about silly things like breathing. What did air matter anyway when you had the heat of a man like Jareth pressed against every part of you? After having spent so many months denying herself Sarah would do so no longer. Tugging on his hair she changed the angle of their mouths, swirling her tongue around his. Heat pooled deep inside her; she moaned at the sensations he stirred.
And then she felt something damp on her cheek, tasted salt, and realised he was crying.
Not profusely, just a few tears, but it was a realisation that set her heart bleeding. He'd cost her more than a few sleepless nights over time and yet all she wanted to do now was stop him hurting.
"Jareth –"
He cut her off with a desperate, fervent moan against her lips. She couldn't find the willpower to care about finishing a sentence. It wouldn't matter if she never finished another thought again, if this was the way he interrupted her. If this was how he sought her help. His hot wet mouth and roaming hands soon washed away her concern. This was about more than just sex – always had been and would be – a feeling swept through her like she'd never felt before. The need to be with him was overwhelming, to taste his skin and draw him into her soul and her body, to know him in a way that would outlast forever. Jareth was the one to yield first, panting into her neck.
"Sarah –"
This time it was her turn to interrupt.
Poetry was running rampant through his mind. I loved you first: but afterwards your love, outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song as drown the friendly cooings of my dove. He couldn't bear another minute existing outside of Sarah's soul; he started with her mouth but would end up pressed to her heart. Which owes the other most? My love was long, and yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me and loved me for what might or might not be. Every anthology he'd ever read was surfacing to the forefront of his mind. I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only…I am to see to it that I do not lose you. He tasted the tears but didn't feel them; he was far removed from the emotions torturing his heart. Gratitude, sorrow, nostalgia, devotion, terror – nothing could touch him except for love. Nothing mattered except Sarah and what she'd done for him.
I adore you, he thought and tried to say before she cut him off with her lips and tongue and hands slipping under his coat pulling his hips into hers. The contact sent poetry careening out of his mind, leaving him raw. Whether time slowed of its own accord or he did it subconsciously, Jareth wasn't sure. He softened the urgency of their kiss into something more languid. Sarah's eyes closed and her head tilted back as he planted tender lips against her cheek, jaw, ear, down her neck. She tasted like salt and earth and the perfume of a thousand flowers. Her breath came short and light as he felt her hands drawing his towards the thin straps of her gown. Meeting her heavy-lidded eyes Jareth slipped the material down her shoulders inch by inch, brushing his thumbs over her skin. The idea of being stripped bare was nothing new to either of them and yet still he expected her to blush or fidget. The trust and serenity in her gaze was humbling. He dipped his mouth to her collarbone as the gown fell with a rustle to the floor, leaving her standing in silk underwear.
Instead of raking his eyes over her Jareth learned Sarah's body by touch, falling to his knees before her. He trailed kisses down the sides of her breasts in turn, lingering at her sternum. Once, twice, three times he affectionately pressed his lips to her navel, smiling reverently up at her as she threaded fingers through his hair. A rough line of skin met his sweeping fingers; he frowned at the protruding scar to the right of her stomach.
"Appendectomy scar," she explained in a murmur, looking abashed for the first time. She subtly tried to cover it with a hand but he stilled her fingers.
"What if beauty is not something you're born with," he recited in a low voice, "But something that is learnt through breathing in oceans, drifting through deserts, walking on moons and stars – if not in the real world, then in the one inside the soul, perhaps the most important world of all." Tenderly he pulled her hand away and placed a kiss against the mark. The jangling of silver bracelets mixed wonderfully with her sigh. He tried to remove the bangles but she took her hand away, drawing him back to her mouth instead. He rose to his feet, returning her gentle kiss easily. Again he wondered if time was playing by its own rules; they seemed to move as if through water. Sarah was arching her velvet body into him, arms around his neck and head tilted back. Somewhere in the back of his mind a clock ticked out of sync with the beating of Sarah's pulse beneath his mouth. What did time matter when he had her slick skin to ravish?
Sarah had believed in a lot of things when she was younger. She'd believed in true love, magic and fairies; that heroes and villains had to be one or the other; that people did bad things because they were bad at heart; that there was no such thing as Fate; walking across cracks in the sidewalk was bad luck. While her beliefs had no doubt changed through the years they had never undergone such intense scrutiny as in the last few months. She still believed in true love, magic and fairies: it was difficult to deny what was right in front of you. But heroes and villains? They only existed in stories; real people were made up of more complex thought. They were bad because bad things had happened to them, or they were hard because life demanded it. She now believed in never judging a book by its cover. She now believed in Fate, because there was no way that she and Jareth could have ended up anywhere but where they were.
"This was always going to happen wasn't it?" she asked quietly, tugging the scarf from his neck, letting it fall silently to the carpet.
"I'd like to think so, precious," he replied with a hiss as she slipped her fingers beneath his coat and pushed it from his shoulders. "Ours is a dance performed long ago and years from now, in every time and every realm." His fingers covered hers like a whisper as she worked the buttons of his shirt one by one. They threaded into her hair as she planted kisses along his collarbone.
"That's very poetic of you," she remarked with a grin, feeling a visceral thrill at his racing pulse beneath her lips, smoothing her hands over his bare chest.
"I can't help myself; you're a stunning muse."
"Hmmm," she hummed against his throat. "Is that another line for the ladies? Right after borrowing Whitman's stuff about electric fire?"
She heard him breathe deeply into her hair. "Trust me, Sarah Williams. No fire playing within me for your sake is ever subtle."
Raking her lips along his jaw Sarah smiled against his ear. "Same here, Goblin King," she whispered, thumbing the waist of his pants. Her tongue traced the shell of his ear with a murmured: "Jareth."
It seemed to be too much for him. With a groan Jareth picked Sarah up, her legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. She hissed sharply at the friction created as he carried her to bed. On the mattress she made a show of stretching out languorously, smugly aware of his hungry expression. He filled the space above her instantly, leaning over on one elbow to capture her mouth, his hand ghosting across the space between her breasts. Those almost non-existent touches drove her mad. He wouldn't settle on any one spot long enough to satisfy, teasing out a melody as if she was a violin. Every nerve in Sarah's body was starting to hum; she imagined it was why the books sang after so long without being touched.
The only jarring thing was the continuous rattle of bracelets as she dragged her fingers over every part of him. It served as a cruel reminder of promises she no longer intended to keep. With a frustrated growl Sarah ripped them off and heard the clatter of silver hitting the floor. She wasted no time in worrying about her exposed wrist, pushing Jareth onto his back and straddling his legs. She fumbled for a moment with unbuttoning his pants but he didn't seem to care, watching intently with his hands running over her forearms. With a wicked smirk Sarah finished with the buttons but made no further effort to remove his pants. Instead she traced stories into his skin, fingers skimming down his chest and across his abdomen in lazy swirls. It delighted her no end to feel him shiver and exhale sharply. Every so often she hooked a thumb into the hem of his pants and peeled the fabric down an inch, just enough for him to groan in frustration. After months of suffering through the never-ending tease that was his very existence, it felt good to get her own back. And it moved her to know what she could do to him: his breathing shortened, his hands clenched tightly into her thighs, he bit his lip in an obvious effort to remain calm. She adored the way he hissed under her touch and whispered her name fervently.
So many teasing words flew through her mind – comments about getting him to beg, making him lose his cool, all the usual things she'd have flung at any other man. But they didn't apply here. She didn't want to control Jareth; she wanted to make him feel good. To thank him, in a way, for saving and loving and damning her in a hundred different ways. So finally, meeting his hooded eyes, she released his cock and took him in her mouth in one swift movement. Jareth moaned deliciously, sinking fingers into her hair, massaging her scalp. He tasted like sex and heat and she drew him in deep after finally breaking eye contact. She closed her eyes, listening to his groans as she smoothed her hands up and down his thighs. Even totally at her mercy, urging her on with his half-whispered pleas her drove her mad. She ground against his leg, marvelling at the need he stirred and the moans that came from her own mouth.
"Sarah," Jareth hissed, tugging firmly on her hair. His hand slipped down to her cheek. "Sarah, stop."
Drawing him out slowly, she hovered over the head of him with an arched brow, unable to find words to question him.
"My retelling of Beauty and the Beast," he panted, stroking her cheek. "Do you remember it?"
Heat flushed through her from head to toe. "A little."
"He devoured her," he recited thickly, cupping her chin, gently urging her to sit up.
Heart racing, head foggy with need Sarah found herself suddenly pressed back into the mattress with a completely naked Jareth toying with her underwear. He planted kisses down her chest and stomach, trailing his lips down to where his fingers were grazing the wet lace softly. Every touch sent a shiver down her spine and made her want to scream in need. The universe seemed to ebb and flow in relation to the proximity of his fingers; there was no other feeling than the fire in her veins. She was panting heavily by the time he finally had her naked and spread before his open mouth. He made no eye contact, focusing instead on a hunger that seemed to only be sated by plunging his tongue inside her. The first time he sucked on her clit a ragged groan ripped free of Sarah's throat; he held her thighs tightly to prevent her from clamping them around his head. One hand grabbed a fistful of bedsheet and the other dug firmly into his shoulder. When two fingers slipped inside her Sarah arched her back, crying out at the deft strokes and the kisses he planted with precision.
Life was a rolling wave of bliss, sweeping toward the shore but never quite crashing. He kept her on that edge for god knew how long before she was writhing and begging, a string ready to snap. It was more than she could bear when he withdrew, leaving her cold and desperately empty for only a heartbeat. Before she could summon the strength to complain he was back, mouth seeking hers and hands tugging her into line with his hips.
"Sarah," he whispered affectionately into her lips, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. "My Sarah." She felt the velvet smooth tip of his cock press against her and moaned, kissing him hard. Their teeth clashed, tongues dancing wild as she clung to his shoulders and arched upwards.
Surely his reality was nothing more than dream. How could she be here, writhing underneath him and ready to snap like a promise? How many nights had he longed to feel the length of her naked body pressed along his own, to taste and suck and kiss her until she screamed? He whispered her name in disbelief, thankful to the Fate's design that he should find this his reality. He longed to sink into her but made himself wait. He took the time to savour every jittery nerve-ending, every part of his body and soul that was screaming with the exquisite torture borne of simple touch. Sarah was burning and wet, her voice raw with desperation. Her cheek was hot against his palm as they gazed at each other, mouths open in stark wonder when he finally – oh, yes, finally – sunk into her.
Sarah threw her head back into the pillow with a gentle scream. Jareth quivered and growled savagely in satisfaction, eyes rolling with the sheer joy of sensation.
"Oh my god," she moaned, nails digging into his shoulder blades. "Jareth –"
"Sarah," he murmured, dipping his forehead to hers. He kissed the tip of her nose. "My precious, my pet, my –"
"Sssh," she hushed him with strange urgency, searing his lips with hers in a scorching kiss that set him aflame all over again.
They rolled together towards a not-so-distant shore, cresting small waves. He smelt the salt spray on her skin and heard rushing wind in her gasps. Sarah was the ocean he would drown in and the raft he could cling to for survival. She met his thrusts with easy grace, making him think once more of their dance fated to repeat itself in every lifetime. Pressure was coiling deep inside him, a heavy tight spring waiting for release. He framed her flushed face between his arms, leaning in as he rolled his hips deeply into hers, eyes closed and mouth falling open. Sarah muffled her keening cries by bruising his collarbone with her teeth, kissing the place she'd no doubt left a mark. He felt the press of her heels into his lower back, urging him deeper as she writhed like a wild thing beneath him.
"Sarah?" he posed her name as a question, wondering how much longer he could hold back and what might escape his mouth when he couldn't.
"Almost," she panted, dragging her nails up to the nape of his neck. "Kiss me, Jareth."
He did. He loved her without knowing what would come of it, with no certainty that they would both be alive at the end of everything. He adored her in a way that made it impossible to think about any moment beyond the spectacular now. Because any future that didn't involve Sarah Williams was not worth wasting thought on. He wanted to tell her all of this, pour his heart into hers and set their moulds together but he couldn't find the strength. Tension was boiling in the pit of his stomach like a storm about to break. All he could do was kiss her.
She was warm and tasted sweet and salty all at once, like a promise doomed to be broken. Her moans were a low mantra out of sync with the throbbing energy pulsing through his whole body, jarring him into ecstatic delirium. The mantra shattered into a scream as Sarah came undone: those lovely lips parted, green eyes opening wide, body shivering around him. Should one of us remember, and one of us forget, I wish I knew what each will do – but who can tell as yet? Watching her come was the most powerful thing he'd ever seen. Should one of us remember, and one of us forget, I promise you what I will do – and I'm content to wait for you and not be sure as yet. He kept moving, keeping her atop the crest of that wave for as long as possible just for the magic of it.
And then it was all he could do to keep breathing. It was the sigh that pushed him over – an achingly satisfied, heartfelt whisper of sound in his ear that had him coming with its purity. His senses amplified: he saw Sarah in stark black and white, felt every inch of her skin against his like fire, heard the drumming of his own heartbeat. His lips met the hollow of her throat, tasting a thousand grains of salt and spring's sweet perfume. Their hips rolled together in jagged rhythm, leaving him raw inside and out. At last the world melted back into colours and shades; the air was thick with the sound of their heavy breathing. Jareth drew his mouth up to Sarah's tenderly, unwilling to part. She seemed in no hurry for him to move, running her fingers up and down his back in a daze as they kissed long and slow.
"Do you think it's this good in all those other realities?" she asked, licking her lips when they paused for breath. Her hands were in his hair now, resting idly there without a thought for moving.
"I have no doubt," he answered with a sure smile against her jawline, inhaling deeply the scent of her. "If it's you, pet, I have no doubt whatsoever."
"Ever the charmer, aren't we?" she replied fondly, eyes bright.
He responded by kissing her yet again, revelling in the way she relaxed as if they'd been lovers for years and not hours. Stroking her cheek Jareth finally slipped free, drawing another gentle moan from them both. They lay facing each other, hands entwined, noses almost touching. She didn't shy away from meeting his intent stare, lazily drawing her foot along his shin in soft strokes. He lifted their joined hands and pressed them against his chest. The pounding of their hearts was a melody all its own. Sarah studied him, eyes flickering over the lines of his face, the curve of his ear, the slack tension of his jaw.
"You're making me feel like a book," he commented, eyes drifting shut.
"You don't look old," she replied. He felt her hand brush across his fringe.
"How kind of you to say," he remarked drily, settling into the pillow. "How did you expect a three-hundred-year old man to look?"
"Normal, I guess." She shrugged. "I mean I've seen movies about immortals with young faces…it's just hard to realise that you're that old."
"If it's any consolation, I'm quite young according to Fae understanding of age."
"But don't you look at me and see just this tiny little human baby? I'm only twenty-five. That's nothing to you."
His eyes snapped open. "I look at you and I see stars and moons, Sarah. You are a stubborn, persistent, beautifully inquisitive young woman with an entire universe inside her soul."
Her skin flushed crimson but it wasn't an embarrassed blush; she burned warm with affection. He could see it in her eyes. "You make me sound so beautiful," she murmured, looking at his lips.
"It doesn't take fancy words to tell the obvious," he responded softly. "You shine your own bright light, you know. With or without me."
That last comment seemed out of place in their bubble of denial. It gave voice to the sinister truth that their future together wasn't clear. He smoothed over it by kissing her, unwilling to face anything real just yet. Her mouth was too much of a comfort for him to worry about it for very long. When they parted he found that she'd wormed her way into his arms, whole body pressed against him. She rested her forehead in the hollow of his throat with a sigh. Time moved on but he paid no attention, enraptured by Sarah's warm breath on his skin and the finger she traced up and down his shoulder. It was a subdued affair, their first night together, drifting in and out of sleep in companionable silence. The peace of it drove everything from his mind, making him forget that sooner or later there would be hell to pay.
"I don't like it," Keel announced. She'd said this so often in the past hour that Wick had lost count. Although his inability to perform simple mathematics was probably due more to the fact that he was rather drunk. How could he not be? He'd successfully reunited a brother and sister, made his good friend happy, recovered a lost art form and had done it all without the Queen finding out. The evening deserved to end in celebration. And so here they were, he and his cousins, walking the streets of the village in search of a tavern with later closing hours.
"Oh be quiet Keel," Wick snapped. Drinking afforded him little patience. "It doesn't matter what you think. They're not going to fall out of love because –" he paused to burp, "Because an Elf disapproves."
"She has a right to be anxious, cousin," Brax interjected, who was almost as sober as Keel. "The Goblin King is risking more than his own life here. If he lets the hordes overpower him, we're all in danger."
Wick nearly toppled over in his effort to glare at them while walking backwards. "Can we not just be happy for a few hours?" he asked loudly, waving his hands both to show frustration and maintain balance. "We've done a good thing tonight."
"I think you've let yourself get too close to this human," Keel replied waspishly. "You've forgotten who it is you really helped. Don't you remember what the Fae have done to the Elves?"
"Keel, I'd offer you another drink if I thought it would soften that attitude," Tork put in, slapping Wick on the back companionably. "Don't you remember that Jareth's father was good to us? He devoted a lot of his life to our kind in his time."
"Which his brutish wife then undermined by killing one of us for loving the princess!" she replied, bristling.
"Why are you here then?" Wick complained. "Go home if you're just going to snap at me for helping a friend. Enough politics, cousin! I want to enjoy the night!"
"Maybe you've enjoyed it enough, hmm?" Rade suggested. Though not openly agreeing with Keel his opinion was obvious enough. He sidestepped quickly to avoid a passing group of revellers; the village was dotted with late partygoers such as themselves. "Shouldn't you go to bed, Wick?"
"Let him be!" Tork said cheerfully, arm now draped over Wick's shoulders as they stumbled along together. "Just because he's the Queen's messenger now doesn't mean he has to stay alert for her beck and call!"
"Actually it does," Wick muttered to Tork. "If she needs me she can still call on me anytime."
"Oh." Tork blinked rapidly, steps slowing. "Well, does that mean you can't have a little fun in the mean time?"
"No!" Wick exclaimed. "It doesn't! And so – so what if she calls me? I could be a better messenger full of mead than any of you could with a clear head!"
Rade rolled his eyes. "Come now Wick, you're being ridiculous."
"No I'm not! I can answer the Queen's call and have her be none the wiser!"
Tork barked out a laugh, throwing his head back. "You tell them Wick! I'll bet you all he has the prowess of a panther."
"It's true," Wick nodded vigorously, bumping against his cousin. "I've been spying on the Queen for months without anyone knowing!"
Keel gasped. "Wick! Bite your tongue!" she hissed, trying to cover his mouth with her hand.
He shrugged her off. "I have! I've been sharing everything with Sarah for months and the Queen has no clue!"
"Wick," Brax practically growled. "Think about what you're saying. What if anyone hears you?"
"You just don't believe me," he sniffed in reply. "But I'll prove it. Won't I, Tork?"
"Yes, he'll prove it!" Tork agreed, as Wick knew he would. "How will you prove it?"
"I'll bet you all thirty crowns I can take the Queen's medallion without her knowing," Wick boasted. "She doesn't wear it at night. Keeps it in her private chambers. I'll snatch it, show you, and have it back in place before you can say goblins."
"Now that is a bet," Tork said delightedly, rubbing his hands together. "What do you all say to that?"
"If he wants to get himself arrested then so be it," Keel snapped. "I thought my kin were a little smarter than this but obviously I was mistaken." She stalked away without another word, ignoring their protests for her to come back.
"I think she approves," Tork said jovially, clapping his hands together. "Right. Let's get on with it then."
The walk to the Palace was a long one but Wick hardly noticed. He'd show them how clever he was. They didn't believe him? Ha! I have the prowess of a panther, he thought to himself happily, rolling along the streets with his wide gait. He ignored Brax, who muttered something about finding Keel and disappeared. He ignored Rade, who had started to sober up and was trying to dissuade him from the mission. As they approached the Palace even Tork began to slow his steps and eye the building warily.
"You know Wick," he said quietly, "Nobody would hold it against you if you changed your mind."
"Don't you start," Wick replied. "I know that Palace like the back of my hand. I'll be in and out –"
"Before we can say goblins, we know," Rade interrupted. "Thirty crowns isn't worth being arrested over, cousin."
Wick waved a dismissive hand, already focusing on the window he would need to get to. They made their way to a huge marble wall in silence, boots rustling in the grass. The window was five stories up. Wick swallowed, thinking how much higher it looked close up. Still, even if the walk and his fear of heights had cleared his head somewhat, he couldn't back down now. No matter what they said, they'd never let him live it down. Spying a thick growth of vines stretching up by the windows, Wick resigned himself to the climb and looked for the first foothold.
The agitated mutterings of his cousins did nothing to help his sudden onset of nerves, but he persisted all the same. The vines held fast as he carefully sought out each step, holding on tightly. His confidence grew as he neared the window, soft light emanating from within. He could do this. He was doing this. But then Tork hissed something and he looked down. And oh, he hadn't realised how high up he was and –
With a groan of vertigo Wick scrabbled for the ledge of the nearest window, blissfully open, and hauled himself over the side into the Palace. Heart pounding, he landed with a hard thud on cold marble and took a few steadying breaths as his vision swam. When his pulse had stopped racing he glanced around at his surroundings. He was in the Queen's private chambers certainly…but they were not empty. Voices emanated from behind a screen of violets that separated the drawing room from what he knew to be an office. It would have been fine, had he not taken the time to listen and realised it was the Queen's voice that he heard. And that she was talking about Sarah and Jareth.
Looking around to ensure that there was at least nobody in this room, Wick took a few calming breaths and got to his feet. His head had cleared significantly in the panic of seconds ago; he tiptoed over to the screen with surprising finesse and strained to listen, pressing against the wall.
"...are the only other one to who know about this; I don't need to make myself any clearer do I?" The clear cold voice was unmistakably that of the Queen's.
"No, Ma'am. Sarah Williams must complete her task. She can't do so if subjected to the scrutiny of the Council. I understand. She is not to be touched." The female voice was one he'd heard before during the Queen's meetings with the Fae Council, but without a face he couldn't pick the name.
"For now, at least," the Queen replied icily. "The Fates only know what might happen if she doesn't finish this soon."
"With respect, Ma'am, you already know what will happen. To us, at least. Jareth cannot be allowed to remain Goblin King for much longer. The incidents with the Dwarf territories are becoming almost regular. We can't afford for that to spill over onto Fae Land."
"I'm aware of this," the Queen hissed. "Why do you think I removed the spell on the Williams girl's disguise? I thought it would move things along. It seemed to. She has assured me she'll have his confession any day."
"It's not enough." That was a third voice, powerful and completely void of emotion. Wick knew it instantly: Ezra was the eldest member of the Fae Council. At three thousand years old, she commanded the highest respect next to the Queen herself. "You know what has to be done, Mira. Bad enough you let a human attend the Harvest, but to allow this entire charade to go on for so long…have you taken leave of your senses?"
Wick's breath caught in his throat. Ezra was the only Fae who could talk to Mira El'Maven in such a way. There was silence for a moment.
"I know it's not enough, Ezra," replied the Queen heavily. "You think I don't understand what you're saying? That I haven't been considering the alternative this whole time?"
"Then why have you not acted?" Ezra demanded impatiently.
"There has never been a de-throning such as that during my three hundred years as Queen of the Domain. Forgive me for being reluctant to tarnish my public record so hastily."
"An interesting answer. For a moment I thought it was out of sentimentality over your son."
The council member Wick didn't recognise spoke up. "Forgive me, Ma'am, Lady Ezra, but I don't follow your conversation. What exactly are you alluding to?"
"Ezra wants me to sign Jareth's death warrant."
There was a silence so thick Wick could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. Licking dry lips, he edged as close to screen as he dared without revealing himself.
"You wish to have him killed?"
"Jareth is no longer worthy of redemption in the eyes of the hordes," the Queen continued. "The only way we are going to regain control is by publicly de-throning him in front of them, which means having his successor execute him." If there was even the barest hint of emotion in that cruel explanation Wick couldn't find it.
"And this would secure control?"
"It would earn the new King instant respect and restore desperately needed order." Ezra too spoke with no more passion than as if they were discussing a game of chess.
"But…Ma'am –"
"Yes he is my son, Jini, I am aware!" snapped the Queen. "He has disappointed me too many times for that small fact to be of any more import. Did I not send my daughter into the Dust Bowl as punishment? Did you ever see me weep over the body of my dead husband? I am what I need to be." A pause. Then, almost so quietly Wick had to focus hard to make it out: "I will do what I need to do."
If he hadn't been so anxious, so tired with fading drunkenness and so intent on listening, Wick might have noticed that he was moving closer to where the wall stopped and the screen of violets began. But he didn't and so he crept forward meaning to lean into a wall that wasn't there. He went tumbling through the screen and into the office with an undignified thump, landing flat on his face.
The Fae women turned to him in shock and outrage. The Queen's frosty white appearance made his knees tremble; Ezra's stern expression was borne of a centuries of practice, though one couldn't tell from her youthful appearance. Jini was staring at him mildly, her shock reduced to simple surprise and almost a hint of disinterest.
"Who in the Fate's design is this?" Ezra demanded, casting a sharp finger at the unfortunate Elf.
"My new messenger," answered the Queen. "It seems he's taken it upon himself to listen to our conversation. Tell me, young Elf, were we entertaining for you?"
Wick didn't dare answer. He couldn't have if he tried. Shaking, he got to his knees, hands splayed in a sign of respect and a plea for forgiveness.
"This is typical of the Williams' girl's effect on my realm," the Queen hissed bitterly to her companions. "She corrupts every being she meets. I daresay this Elf has befriended her and has every intention of warning her of Jareth's fate."
"No," Wick managed to stammer, "I –"
"Then kill him and be done with it," Ezra replied blankly. "He's only an Elf."
"I have a better idea," the Queen responded, her abrupt smile making Wick shiver down to his soul with fear. "Let's see how Miss Williams likes it when I change the people she relies on."
She advanced on Wick, who threw himself at her and begged for mercy. She took hold of his arm, nails biting into skin as she hauled him to his feet. There was a murmur of Fae language, a sensation deep inside him like something being cut, and then there was nothing but the desire to serve.