Chapter Twelve: Still Life
A/N: So I thought, seeing as I'm housesitting for some very wealthy people right now, I would do the awesome thing and play Bowie concert dvds on their giant TV (and I mean giant) in the background to inspire me while I continue writing these chapters. But do you know what? Having an ALMOST LIFESIZE version of Bowie from the Sound and Vision tour, being all sexy and increasingly under-dressed, singing all his hits to me…is a bit of a distraction. Who can get any writing done when he's right there in your face singing to you? But nonetheless, I seem to have pushed through the sexiness and made another chapter!
P.S I may have sort of half-named one of my OCs after xGutterKittyx, who has had a rough time and makes beautiful watercolour paintings :)
Could he recall his last name? Did he know what day of the week it was? Did he remember his birth date? Was he sure he couldn't remember being in an accident, or suffering some kind of trauma?
And so the questions went. On and on for two full days after he woke in hospital, repeated so often and by such dull attendants that Jareth thought he might actually die of sheer boredom. That was, of course, if his blood poisoning didn't finish him off first. The doctors told him – also rather repetitively – that he'd been near-comatose with fever for a day and a half, a result of his badly infected wound.
He remembered little from that time except fretful dreams: half-shadowed faces gnarled and toothy, blank eyes judging from afar and an almost-person, a glimmer of green and black, with a name hanging above its head that he couldn't recall when waking. Thus far, his conscious experiences were not much better: when there wasn't a constant stream of questioning he was left on his own for hours at a time. Over the days he grew incredibly restless, thinking of Christopher and wondering if he'd ever see the helpful boy again. Or had he been abandoned here, nothing more than a stray, an unwanted thing wished away?
He was in a self-piteous mood when Joy showed up with lunch. Joy was a nurse but Jareth was certain she'd only become so after being deemed too rough to join the army. She had a face like a brick, gritty and hard and probably capable of breaking glass. She was not especially tall or short, fat or thin, but seemed to be built of something stronger than iron. Her no-nonsense mousy hair was forever pinned back in an unflattering bun. She liked to stick things in him: needles, thermometers, pills, food. Her demeanour was that of a bear that had learnt to communicate and seemed impervious to his commanding aura. All in all, the arrival of this ironically-named beast did little to improve his spirits.
"Lunch, Mr Doe," she announced in a voice flat as parchment. She refused to accept his insistent claims on the name Jareth. It was a name for fairy tales, she chastised him. John Doe was a nice sensible title until they could find out who he really was. It went hand in hand with what she thought of his supposed decision to tattoo his eyebrows in such an absurd fashion. "Do you remember who did that to your face yet?"
"Not yet, my dear," he replied with false sincerity. There was no easy way to handle the woman. With such little energy he found it less draining to fake niceties than bother arguing. That wasn't to say he didn't have a few choice words stored up for when he was feeling better, however. "What fine cuisine have you procured for me today?"
"That smart mouth won't get you nowhere," she responded, swinging the fold-out table over his lap and plonking the tray on it without an ounce of grace. "Maybe if you spent less time thinking up ways to charm me and more time on remembering your proper name we'd get somewhere faster."
If there was anywhere he wanted to go with her, Jareth couldn't think of it. "I'm doing my best, Nurse Joy, I assure you." Removing the tray lid, a variety of mild smells hit him: mashed potatoes, no doubt flavourless as they were colourless; an array of over-steamed vegetables; a piece of what he assumed was meat in gravy; a cup of sweet red bouncy something; a travesty of a cup of tea. "This looks delicious. Thank you so much dear," he said, managing to hold back his grim expression. At least you aren't starving in an alley, he reminded himself, picking up the plastic spoon with forced enthusiasm.
"I'll be back in an hour to check your vitals," she told him. "You're still a bit too peaky." She said this as if he were staying ill just to bother her.
"Looking forward to it," he replied through a mouthful of lukewarm mash.
Aside from the seemingly long-gone Christopher, Jareth's only other friend was a male nurse called Con. Con sported wire-rimmed glasses and slicked his dark hair back like a gentleman from the 1920s. He was thirty-something, green eyed, amiable and just like everyone else, pitied the patients of Nurse Joy. He popped around the corner just as she departed, taking a seat at Jareth's bedside, who had a forkful of the something-and-gravy poised at his lips. "Wouldn't eat that your Majesty," he warned casually. He'd taken to giving Jareth various royal titles. "I brought you a sandwich that I can guarantee, unlike that meat, is made of 100 per cent edible foodstuffs."
With a sharp grin Jareth took the proffered sandwich, pushing the lunch table and tray aside. "You're a life saver, comrade," he said gratefully, sinking his teeth into the soft egg salad and fresh bread.
"Sort of comes with the job, I'd say," Con replied easily, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. He was a comforting presence, a man at ease with himself in the world. Jareth both enjoyed and envied him for it. "In between changing a million bandages and fluffing pillows. How're you feeling?"
"Aside from my constant headache and the dizziness whenever I stand up? Spectacular. It's all down to Nurse Joy really. There's just something about her."
"Indeed there is," muttered Con warily, checking down the hall. "Something that will give you a right box around the ears if you aren't careful."
"Why has she not been dismissed yet?" Jareth complained around a mouthful of food.
"I suspect it because there's no one brave enough to fire her."
"Would you at least do all this 'vitals' business for me? Spare me the pain of a Joyous bodily inspection?"
Con shook his head vigorously and got to his feet. "No chance your Majesty; not worth my head. Sorry."
"Then what's the point of you?" Jareth teased with a roll of his eyes. The sandwich gone, he began picking at the red dessert. Jelly, it was called. He spared a moment to gaze wistfully at the awful cup of tea before picking up his spoon.
"I don't suppose there's any point asking if you've remembered anything?" Con leant on the bed rail and looked at him with a sober expression.
"A woman," Jareth answered without thinking. It was odd really. He'd only dreamt once of a barely-there form and hadn't even been certain of the gender. But he knew suddenly, without doubt, that it'd been a woman. "And a maze. Filled with awful creatures."
"Sounds more like a nightmare than a memory," Con replied as he gathered up Jareth's chart and began flicking through it.
"I thought you weren't doing my vitals," he sniffed, irritated at the dismissal. She was important, whoever she was. He could feel it.
"No harm in just doing a little reading, is there?" Sensing the change in mood, Con softened his scrutinising expression. "Though I admit, it's not uncommon for memories to manifest in the psyche as different realities. Just pay close attention to the ones that make you react strongly. Hmmm."
That last sound was directed at the chart. Jareth lay down his spoon and empty cup of jelly. "Hmm what?"
"You're improving quickly," the nurse answered with a frown.
"Isn't that the idea?"
Putting the chart away again, Con sighed. "Look, I'm going to level with you. We're a bit baffled by you."
"You're baffled?" Jareth remarked. "How in the Fate's design do you suppose I feel?"
"This is what I'm talking about," Con replied. "You're far too eloquent for a post-traumatic-amnesia patient. You retain new information better than I do. The doctors think you have source amnesia, given that you can tell us what a car is but not where you got the information from."
His tone suggested he thought otherwise. "And what do you think happened to me?"
"I haven't got a clue," Con admitted with a shrug. "I just find it odd that your scans show no sign whatsoever of trauma. All you've got is that cut which frankly, to me, looks as if it was from one hell of a blade."
Jareth looked down at his bandaged hand. It refused to give anything away, not a glimmer or a whisper of its origin. All he had was a truth shared with no one but Christopher: blood on his hands that wasn't his own. But then again, he thought, perhaps it had been his. How was he supposed to know one spec of blood from another, if all he had to go by was nondescript gut instinct? He inspected his ID band: he had a name, 'John Doe', and a Medical Record number instead of a birth date. His entire existence came down two words and a scattering of numbers. "What happened to me?" he murmured, looking up at Con, who cleared his throat.
"I don't know," said his friend with genuine regret. "Jareth, we can't keep you here without reason. Once your infection clears up –"
"Where am I to go?" Jareth interrupted. "I've nothing, Connor."
"We'll run you through tests with people from Psych."
"And then?"
"I'd like you to stay with me."
Apparently this took them both by surprise. Jareth met Con's wide eyes with his own look of incredulity. "You barely know me, Connor. I barely know me."
The nurse shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's something about you, Jareth. I don't know what it is. But I've been here long enough to see patients slip through the cracks. We lose track of people we're supposed to be helping. I don't want that to happen to you."
He'd been too quick to judge the stream of faces walking by him in that busy street. Humans weren't all made of blank stares and harried steps. Maybe, he thought, shaking Con's hand warmly, it came down to circumstance. Maybe it came down to timing, or a connection, or luck. Jareth thanked Connor earnestly with the sudden and inexplicable thought that being thrown into humanity might be just what he'd needed.
Sarah found the envelope tucked under her door, sealed with wax and looking very official.
The parchment inside smelt fresh when she cracked the seal and felt smooth to the touch. Elegant handwriting, though similar to Jareth's, portrayed none of the same emotions as his. It was perfect to a fault, regal and authoritative and without a single blemish or blot of hastily-dabbed ink.
The letter was polite, informative and described the details of her impending death.
Apparently the new Goblin King had better things to do than tell her in person. He apologised – which seemed surprising in and of itself – for the fact that she would have to wait. A wish had been made and it was taking longer than expected for the process to play out. It informed her that as soon as the King was available they would be taking her to the Goblin City. Unfortunately, there would have to be some kind of spectacle made of it in order to make the hordes happy. She'd caused a lot of fuss and a simple 'here you go' wouldn't suffice. Well, that was what Sarah made of it all, before crumpling the letter and casting it aside.
What did any of it matter? So she had to spend a few extra hours pacing her rooms and flying between acceptance and panic. What irritated her most from this new message was that she'd have to wait longer to ask what the hell was going on. There was something happening to her that desperately needed explaining.
At first she thought they were dreams.
"Ugh, he's so infuriating I could just – just bog him! Bog him for an eternity! Or two eternities!"
"Careful," the pair of them said at the same time, eyes meeting across the kitchen table. He looked to his wife with a face that clearly asked 'who's going to take this one?'
"Honey, remember what we told you about watching your words?" she said aloud, answering the unspoken question between them.
Clare rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to wish him away, if that's what you're worried about," she said exasperatedly, ignoring the panicked startle that the pair of them gave. "I'm just saying he might ease up on the torment a little if I –"
"We know what you're saying," his wife interrupted firmly, laying a hand on their daughter's arm. "Rory's been a thorn in your side since middle school."
"He's been a complete git," he muttered under his breath, pointedly ignoring his wife's glare in the wake of Clare's grateful smile.
"See, Daddy gets it!" his daughter beamed. "Can't I just –"
"No."
"But what if I just got Ludo to –"
"Not a chance."
"Can't one of the gob –"
"Absolutely not," his wife persisted. "Clare, you can't use others to solve your problems. You have to learn to fix them on your own."
"Says the one with the all-access pass to fairyland," Clare grumbled into her spoonful of cereal. "When was the last time we had to fix a leaky faucet or go grocery shopping?"
He couldn't help a wry smile at that.
"You be quiet," his wife growled.
"I said nothing, love."
"That's enough nothing out of you, darling."
There were a few things wrong with this theory, of course. The least of which being that she wasn't always asleep when these scenes flashed through her mind. They came at any time of the day or night. Sometimes when she lay reading the same book again; when she sat in the lukewarm tub waiting for the last bubbles to pop; while she watched the sun making its usual loop across the sky outside her drawing room window. There was not much to do when you locked away waiting to die. She couldn't help but obsess over the images that overwhelmed her.
"What the fuck happened to you, mate?"
The voice came from the man who'd just appeared in the doorway. He had green eyes, dark hair and a frustrated expression that looked odd on him. He was a friend, someone he'd known for years…but drunk as he was, the name escaped him. Everything escaped him: air from his lungs, thoughts from his brain, the empty bottle from his hand –
"Jesus, mate. I leave you alone for a week and look what you do to the place."
"Learned your lesson then?" he drawled in reply, attempting in vain to stand. No, better to sit. The floor would not spin if he just sat there. "'Bout leaving me here all by my lonesome?"
"This is pathetic, you know. I thought you were going to get your shit together."
"Yeah well…" he tipped his head back into the couch cushions, closing his eyes against that disappointed glare. "Shows what you know."
The second thing was that they were just too vivid to be her imagination. Clearly not dreams but too fluid to be memories, if Sarah concentrated she could conjure them at will sometimes. The other thing of course was that she wasn't always necessarily in the visions or even relevant to them.
"The death of your sister was regrettable but necessary," Ezra intoned. Oh, how he wished the old bird would just die. Why not her? Why not her instead of Lina? "Now our nations can unite in the wake of this tragedy. It must be so, you understand."
He understood nothing anymore. Lina was gone and life meant nothing.
It was obvious that they were visions from Jareth's perspective. Sometimes they were light and airy, glistening with promise like spring dew. Other times they made her cry so hard she couldn't breathe. In rare moments of optimism, she was just thankful to have some connection to Jareth. But most of the time Sarah was just confused and frustrated. Lying on the carpet, plucking at a loose thread she glared at her newly un-marked wrist and cursed the horrible freedom it had granted her. She was tempted to feel longing for the old days, where life's worries had revolved around remembering to put the bins out and feeding the neighbour's cat. What normal feel like? She didn't know anymore. The last few months had stripped away normality until she questioned if there was even anything human left to her.
It was understandable that at this point she was starting to crack.
But it wouldn't do to let them know they'd gotten to her. Not at the very end, after all this time. So Sarah made a decision. She would go to the library and collect her things, no matter that Brynn had told her to stay put. He didn't own her. Nobody owned Sarah Williams, save for the pieces she chose to give away. Like her heart, to Jareth. Sneaking out the door and down the hall, she entertained the thought of him receiving her heart as inheritance. She pictured it: a small wooden box engraved with poetry delivered by an executor, who would read her last will and testament to Jareth before handing over the heart to him.
Yep, starting to lose it, Sarah thought with a shake of her head. "Focus," she growled under her breath. Not that she need have worried about being quiet. The Castle was emptier than it had ever been. No little goblins, no Dwarf-goblins, no big lumbering soft-eyed friends with ironically unused fangs. No faintly green men with two souls. The walk to the library was a lonely one. The stone felt cold and isolating beneath her feet, like she was stalking the halls of her own personal prison. Which is exactly what it was, she supposed, except as she reached the library a sense of nostalgia overwhelmed her in a way that real prison could never invoke.
It was just as they'd left it, maps and books and notes scattered across the heavy tables like wayward thoughts. Familiar piles of favourites hummed lightly at her gentle touch, but the sound was distinctly more muted than it had been weeks prior. There was no hidden melody in the air to seek out, only dust and wishes. Hugging herself, Sarah took a moment to sit on the lounge and just breathe. At her feet was a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, a bookmark of thinly-wrought silver keeping Jareth's place. There was little sense in taking it with her for sentimental reasons. She wouldn't read it and, frankly, there would probably be a lot of books already in the afterlife. Still, as soon as she picked it up Sarah knew there'd be no putting it down again. Its humming was a delicate cadence, barely there but reassuring nonetheless. It felt oddly warm against her skin; she hugged it into her chest and the pendant that felt like Jareth's fingers trailing down her sternum.
This time it was, thankfully, her own memory that overwhelmed her:
He talked in his sleep. It was hard to ignore when the man took naps almost religiously in the library. They were never very long, just snippets to keep him going for the day. But nearly every time Sarah caught murmurs from the Fae lying on the lounge, book discarded beside him. Sometimes they were nonsensical, comments about elephants with wings or soft chuckles followed by 'dwarf' or 'spoon' or 'bog'. Other times he seemed almost awake, whispering an entire half of a conversation. It was most often about some kind of Council meeting or community issue, dull topics for a dream. Even fast asleep he looked terribly bored.
Then there were the few moments she caught him in a nightmare. Twisted expression, jagged teeth showing in a snarl or grimace, knuckles standing out white with the strength of his clenched fists. He only ever spoke in Fae when this happened, so she could only guess at what was plaguing him. The first time she was too startled to react. It was too strange a thing to see this guarded, supposed villain sweating with fear and torment. Thankfully he woke fairly quickly, with a quiet snarl and a bewildered expression on his face. She pretended not to have noticed, head bent low over the table full of books.
The second time she got up and went to him, sitting on the floor by his head and tentatively resting a hand on his arm. She could feel his tense muscles twitching beneath the sleeve. His eyes rolled beneath closed lids at horrors she could only imagine. At a loss of what to do Sarah picked up the book he'd discarded and began to read it aloud in soothing tones. It was another detective sleuth about murder on a subway line. She'd asked him once why he liked such dull human stories when he lived in a world of fantasy. He'd told her of his fascination for the commonplace lives that people Above lived. It was exactly the opposite of why she read, to escape the everyday humanity of life, but flowing through the detective story Sarah had to admit there was a sort of macabre lure to it. He began to settle after a few minutes, the tension uncoiling beneath her hand. She was relaxing into the position when he woke with a start, eyes popping open so quickly she froze. He stared at her in surprise and she stared right back. After an awkward moment's pause, he cleared his throat and she made a hasty retreat to the tables. They said nothing about it.
In the last few months, as they grew more comfortable together, it became second nature for her to soothe him. He would snatch a quick nap while taking up the length of the lounge, close enough that the ragged edges of his hair brushed against her thigh where she sat. She held a book comfortably in her lap and listened for the sound of his restless breathing. If it came, she slipped a hand into his hair without hesitation, massaging his scalp gently. Once or twice, though she would rather have been bogged than admit it, he wasn't even dreaming when her fingers found their way into his hair.
Sarah resurfaced from the memory with a purposeful shake of her head. She'd come here for a reason. Getting to her feet, she folded her sweater into a makeshift knapsack and collected her favourites into an awkward bundle. It was ungainly but satisfying, walking back with the package like a stack of old friends tucked against her. The victory was tiny but did her well: Sarah wiled away the evening by savouring poems line after line, syllable after syllable, until she could recite them by heart: this is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless; Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done; Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best. Night, sleep, death and the stars.
Sarah Williams had given Brynn high expectations of humanity. He'd thought that running the Labyrinth would prove fraught with complications like those Miss Williams had presented on a daily basis. The disappointment was surprising. Where were the barb-tongued wildcats he'd been prepared for? Why did they cower before him so readily when he appeared to grant their wishes? Further still – what drove them to accept his bargain – the wished away for their dreams – so quickly? Sarah Williams hadn't cowered before him. She'd refused his predecessor's beguiling tricks throughout her entire journey in the Labyrinth. Without much experience in humanity, Brynn had thought that marking Miss Williams as the standard would see him prepared.
But the blood of humans spilled more easily than he'd assumed.
Worse: it was an annoyance, a distraction from what he really needed to do. The longer he spent taunting humans in that maze, the more he could feel his impatience growing. The hordes' ghastly whispers were ever present in the back of his mind, a demand he didn't have time to appease. Over and over again they growled and screeched and hissed, always the same words: King kill her King kill her King kill her.
They would not be truly under his command until he gave them what they wanted. But he couldn't do that until he could just stop being called away to play the Goblin King for a few hours. He'd have thought this night's run would finish quickly but not so: twins were involved and one of them had died. The pair of them had wished away a cousin, and so the pair of them were to run the Labyrinth. There was still one left to go. Calling his raven back to report on the human's progress, Brynn sighed and tried to ignore the pleas in the back of his mind. For that matter, he also tried to ignore the fact that his connection with the goblins was so weak. It should have been stronger, an almost tangible link between his own mind and the creatures he ruled. Yet he suspected the only reason he could even hear their insistent demand was because of the strength of its repetition. If not for the urgency, he'd feel nothing at all from the monsters. Thinking about this only added coal to the fire, so Brynn forced his attention to the task at hand. The time would come when things would be easy, one way or another.
The only thing he'd managed to get right was the tea.
Everything else Jareth had touched was in need of repair. The toaster was smoking profusely beneath a singed set of curtains; the stove was unrecognisable beneath a fine spray of detritus from the frying pan; the air reeked of obscenely burnt porridge.
"How did you think that waving your hands at the fire would put it out?" Con asked in what was surprisingly a rather calm voice, considering he'd just come home from a night shift. Though Jareth was starting to learn that the man had infinite patience and there was very little he could do to make him angry. Whether that was because Con pitied him as a lost man or just genuinely wasn't bothered by his constant failures, Jareth wasn't yet certain.
"I'm sorry, Con," he offered distantly, staring at his latest attempt at breakfast. "I don't understand why I can't do this…"
Four days after being taken in by the nurse, Jareth was starting to feel like the flat was mocking him. He understood technically what most things were: the stove, the television, the heating…but when he tried to use them he was hopeless. As if he had the information but not the experience. Worse still was that he kept hoping a flurry of his hands would do everything for him.
"I don't know if you remember, it was almost four days ago…but you are recovering from amnesia," Con replied in a gently mocking tone. "You're going to be a little confused for a while, Jareth." He eyed the curtains. "Maybe just have cereal until things clear up, yeah? Even you can't burn cereal."
Jareth nodded with a grateful smile though he was still frustrated. Resorting to simple hot water in a saucepan had at least granted them decent cups of tea. He handed one to Con and spooned a single sugar into his own. He kept suffering the thought that humanity was not what he'd expected, or that it lacked something in particular. What that something was, he could never put his finger on. His memory was frustratingly vacuous, vastly blank.
"I know something that might cheer you up," Con said brightly, ruffling his tired-looking hair and sniffing cautiously at the tea. "You were talking in your sleep again."
"How is that cheerful information?" Jareth replied irritably, sinking into his chair. The kitchen was tiny and the table clung to the edges as if afraid to take up space. He knocked his elbow against the wall and stifled a groan, massaging it. He talked all the time in his sleep, apparently, when Con snuck by his lounge-turned-bed on the way to work. It would be more helpful if he could remember or make sense of even one little part of what he said.
"I got a name out of you," Con went on heedlessly, deciding the tea was safe to drink. "You mumbled something about a brother."
"A brother?" It rang no bells.
"Mhmm. Called Toby."
"Toby…" Jareth murmured the name, feeling the shape of it, hoping for a spark of memory. "It means nothing to me. I don't have a brother."
"How would you know? You're a human colander at the moment."
"I don't have a brother," Jareth repeated. Then, without thinking: "I have a sister."
The pair of them blinked in surprise. Jareth froze in the act of sipping his tea, as if keeping still would help snare the memory in his brain. He closed his eyes and tried not to think, to let the thoughts come to him without provocation.
"Well?" Con murmured after a while.
"Not a damn thing," Jareth sniffed, setting down his mug.
"Give it time." His companion patted him on the back reassuringly with one hand and stifled a wide yawn with the other. "I'm off to grab a kip. Thanks for the tea but I'm knackered down to my bones." He stretched and Jareth heard the cracking of his back. "If Nurse Penn ever asks you to 'help out for just a mo', you run. You run for the hills."
"I'll remember that," Jareth replied vaguely, thoughts straying to what he would do for the day. He could easily have spent a few hours reading, if Con's collection held more than medical texts and war stories. He'd tried to occupy time with them but the clinical texts and bloody tales had made him feel impossibly old and sick of the macabre. What he felt like was fresh air, bright skies…but a walk through London suburbs would have to do. He told Con this plan and was met with the usual cheerful warning not to get lost, followed by another yawn as he shuffled off to bed. They worked on Jareth's memory and recovering his identity in between Con's work shifts. Things were progressing less than slowly.
Jareth sighed. The tea was nice. At least he'd made the tea. He told himself this while pouring out a bowl of cereal, glowering at the overly-bright packaging that boasted something about fibre. He glanced at the mess in the kitchen and then back at the bowl.
"I dare you to catch fire," he grumbled at it, returning to the table. "I bloody dare you."
Having her descendant put on the Labyrinth Throne had granted Ezra certain rights, or so the woman seemed to think. While the Elder had rarely ever shown humility before, now she was absolutely painful to share company with. Through the decades Mira had learnt how to handle her but today she was in too much pain for patience.
Ezra had been needling her about the broken vow for hours now. "You know it was a foolish thing you did," she said in the voice one would use on a wayward child. "Promises aren't made to be broken on a whim, Mira El'Maven."
The fact that Ezra had no actual clue just what Mira had promised didn't deter her at all. She was adamant that the Queen concede her mistake in bargaining with lower species. Anything to gain an ounce of power, to bring a flush of meekness to Mira's complexion.
There was no such chance. The only red staining her cheeks was borne of brittle anger. Mira had been racked with agony since the moment she broke the vow, flushed with a prickling heat that left her too afraid to stand for fear of falling. She sat in a wooden chair heavily adorned with violets that stretched towards the sunlight. The fact that she'd refused counsel all day in favour of remaining in her private rooms meant little to Ezra. The woman had been bothering her since breakfast.
"I know of remedies for the pain," the Elder continued. "If you would just tell me the nature of the broken promise, I could ascertain how to reverse the affects."
"I'm fine," Mira bit out through clenched teeth, pressing a clammy hand to her burning forehead. She was far from it. Her heart was pounding wildly; her skin crawled with heat and ice and a wild itching; sounds were magnified until her head ached with the volume of the tiniest noises. "If I could just have a moment to myself…" It was difficult to speak without wincing at the vibration of her own voice. "You may go, Ezra."
"A potion or two," the Elder persisted as if she hadn't spoken. "A spell woven for the itch, you would feel such relief –"
"Out! Now!" Mira spat, losing all patience. Lights flicked in the corner of her eyes at the volume of the words. She pressed a hand to her forehead and took a shaky breath, afraid to say anymore.
Indignation radiated from Ezra in waves. "I'll send an Elf with a tonic for you," she said flatly. "Even without clear knowledge of the pain's source it should be of some help." Her tone clearly said what she thought of being refused the information.
Mira nodded silently in reply, mouth compressed into a thin line of discomfort. She heard a rustle of fabric but kept her eyes closed as Ezra stalked away, no doubt with a glare hard enough to shake stone. Left in peace at last, Mira tilted her head back against her chair and sighed. Her relief at the silence was short lived. Being alone seemed only to focus Mira's attention on the torment, the quiet of the room magnifying the dreadful sensations coursing through her. It's nothing you can't handle. You are a Queen. You do what must be done and suffer with gratitude for the opportunity to rule. Logical as the thoughts were they did nothing to stem the wave of feverish heat that washed over her. They couldn't stop her teeth from chattering so hard that she bit her tongue; didn't assuage the feelings of being thrown violently about while sitting still. She huddled into the chair, arms limp at her sides and head aching where it rested on the wooden back.
It was almost a relief to hear a knock on the door a short while later.
"Enter," she called, or at least assumed she did. The world seemed a muddled place made up of only two things: pain and disorientation.
Something green appeared at her side. An Elf holding out a silver tray. "Lady Ezra sent me with your tonic, Ma'am," it said in quavering tones.
They were always afraid of her, the Elves, even though the Servant Self was constructed to be emotionally neutral. The glass trembled against the tray as it wobbled in the Elf's hands. Mira wanted to snap something about not dropping the whole thing but didn't have the strength. It was all she could do just to reach for the tonic and even then the glass felt impossibly heavy. She struggled so much that a pair of faintly green hands wrapped around hers and lifted the glass to her lips. The tonic was light and cool but very bitter; she drank with grim determination.
"Drink all of it. Don't waste a drop," said the unsteady voice. There was something odd about the tone. She might have been able to put a word to it if there weren't green hands pushing the glass with increasing pressure against her mouth, urging her to drink more. She shot a warning glare up at the Elf and was met with an expression that made sense of the strangeness in the voice. The Elf wasn't shaking with fear; it wasn't nerves making her words shaky. The opalescent face of the dark eyed servant was nearly white with cold fury. The open hatred in that look made Mira choke on the last drops of tonic. She coughed and spluttered, feebly knocking the glass away so that it shattered on the ground in a spray of awful diamonds.
The Elf was smiling.
Furious questions swam through the fog but didn't make it to the surface. Mira could say nothing as a dead weight dragged her deep under water, filling her thoughts with lead. She sagged forward and was caught in a fast and vicious hold by the Elf, who gripped her hair and pulled it back so that Mira was forced to look up at her.
"My people have suffered for the sake of yours for so long that I grew up almost accepting it," she said in a deadly calm voice. She had stopped shaking now. "Ours is a lifestyle I have always begrudged you, but it is difficult to start a rebellion with half of my people wearing the wrong souls. I may have gone my whole life without taking serious issue." The hand in Mira's hair tightened painfully. "But I will never stand by and let my own blood be attacked. It is too much to ask that I allow that."
Mira drew in ragged breaths. She didn't fall asleep but nor was she completely conscious. The only thing keeping her upright was the Elf's hand in her hair. She rolled her eyes towards the door, hoping for a sign of help. And then something happened that would've chilled her bones had she been on fire. The Elf reached into Mira's mind and touched her magic. It was a violation so severe the creature's family would be punished through generations. And yet it should have been impossible. The Queen's powers were infallibly guarded by the deepest wards – the combination of a broken vow and whatever had been in that tonic must have stripped away her defences.
"You will right more than one wrong today, Mira El'Maven," the Elf growled.
Then, inside Mira's mind, at the very edge of her consciousness, came a demand. Make a gateway.
So the Elf had gotten through her defences but couldn't touch the source? It was enough to make Mira smile, however weakly. A gateway. The demand was stronger, reaching through Mira to grasp at the magic inside her. She was being used as a vessel. Mira did nothing. If this was the only control she had left she was not going to relinquish it.
The Elf raised a knife and dragged it down Mira's cheek, setting her face aflame with agony. "A gateway," she said aloud, pressing the blade to her other cheek. "Or you will learn how it feels to be Severed in a very literal way."
Stripped of power and physical strength, worn down by poison and broken vows, Mira felt that second slice like she was about to be decapitated. On the tail end of a silent scream she found the strength to utter a single word: "Where?"
The Elf had a nasty look on her face. "To the Castle beyond the Goblin City."
It was almost too easy to be enjoyed, but that didn't stop him from doing his best. One more wrong turn and she would be his, indebted to him in a way that could never be paid off. Jareth's expression become one of sinful delight, brow arched spectacularly and eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Well, precious? How will you proceed from here?"
"I'm…" she faltered, weighing up her options though they both knew she was trapped. There was nowhere to go that wouldn't see her owing him one thing or another. He adored the expressions she made when backed into a corner, all hard eyes and wet lips, tense as a wildcat. "I'm…" she looked down. She looked up. It would all be over soon. He grinned.
So did she. And then she flipped the Monopoly board right over.
"What!" he exclaimed, wincing at the shower of pewter, paper and plastic that rained down on them both. "That wasn't an option, Sarah!"
Her laugh was pure as sunlight. "Then how did I manage to do it?" she asked innocently. "I must have defied the laws of possibility."
"You defied me," he sulked, eyeing the remains of what had been his wonderful kingdom.
"Oh come on," she crawled across the carpet and chuckled, affectionately picking the little bowler hat from his hair. "It's just a game."
"But I was winning," Jareth complained half-heartedly as she straddled his lap on the floor. He had to admit that having Sarah's mouth on his neck and hands on his chest didn't exactly feel like losing. "I suppose it's my own fault for assuming you'd fight fair."
"All's fair in love and war," she murmured against his lips. She smelt like dust from the carpet and rain from their walk earlier. There was a faded bruise at her hairline where she'd bumped into the kitchen cabinet and a smudge of ink on her shirt. It was these little observations that he lived every day for.
"But not in Monopoly, apparently." He drew his lips back, a reprimand for spoiling the game, before throwing away all pretence and –
Sarah was startled out of the vision by something big and awkward stumbling out of her mirror in the candlelight. Half-asleep and disoriented, she was upset at being pulled away from the loving scene she'd been enjoying. With a tired mumble she sat up and looked toward the thing clambering down from her vanity desk.
"Wick?" she called uncertainly, nerves dragging her into consciousness. "Is that you?"
The figure grunted in reply and dumped something on the floor – someone, Sarah realised as light flooded the room with a thought from her. The visitor turned out be to Keel, which wasn't exactly pleasing as much as it was surprising.
"Keel, what are you – who's tha – oh my god." Hands clapped to her mouth, Sarah stared in horror at the person lying semi-conscious on her bedroom carpet. There was no mistaking the Fae Queen even if she was hazy-eyed and slack-jawed. Afraid to stand too close, Sarah shook her head at the woman's limp body and unresponsive expression. Her eyes widened at the gashes down her cheeks. "Keel…what the hell did you do?"
The Elf sniffed and eyed Sarah heatedly, as if deciding whether she'd made a wise intrusion. "I took action," she snapped, though there was more than anger in her expression. Was it a touch of something irrational? Fear that she'd gone too far?
"No shit!" Sarah replied. "Why did you – how did you even – did you drug her?"
"It's her own fault," the Elf said coldly. "If she hadn't broken that promise then she could have fought back."
Sarah's eyes flicked to her own wrist. "You mean this? She broke the vow and it – it what, made her comatose?"
"It put her in a significant amount of pain." Keel started to move through the bedroom with a sense of purpose, apparently looking for something. "So much so that I was able to feed her a potion that would allow me access to her magic."
Her head was swimming. "You stole her powers too? Please tell me I'm dreaming this. I never signed up for this kind of fairy crap."
"I didn't steal them; they are still hers." Keel was searching through the wardrobe, pulling out pants and shirts and sweaters at random. "I just removed the wards so I could use the Fae magic through her. It was necessary."
"Necessary for what?"
"Bringing her here. And for what we're about to do."
"We? Hold on, Keel, this isn't – this is abduction! And probably treason, and you're going to get yourself killed –"
"The only death tonight will be hers," the Elf spat, kneeling down with a bundle of Sarah's clothes in her arms. She lay them down and started to sort through them, apparently for things that would fit the Queen.
Sarah turned cold at her words. Facing her own death was one thing, facing murder… "This isn't right. You can't just go around drugging Queens and –"
"Do you want to argue about morality or do you want to escape?"
"…escape?"
The Queen was too tall for any of Sarah's pants. Keel settled on a long violet dress and a jacket a few sizes too big. "Yes," she said, "Now be quiet for a moment." She laid the clothing over the Fae's body and then closed her eyes. The Queen twitched, eyes rolling, mouth turned down in a frown. And then just like that she was wearing the dress and jacket. It looked ridiculous not just for the mismatched outfit but for the pale regal body it clung to. Keel unceremoniously stuffed a pair of clunky sandals onto the Fae's feet.
"What the hell," Sarah asked quietly, forcing patience on herself, "Are you doing?"
"It's not enough for her to have your face. It must be believable." Keel closed her eyes again.
"But she doesn't look –" she broke off in a gasp. Another twitch from the Queen, a deeper frown, and Sarah was looking at herself lying on the carpet. Well, a less detailed version: there were no faded freckles down the line of her neck, no tiny scar on her forehead where she'd hit the kitchen cabinet one day. It was a Sarah seen through the eyes of someone not overly familiar with her, but it would fool anybody not intimate with her body. "What…" she shook her head, mouth wide open. "What."
Keel sat back on her heels, apparently satisfied. She met Sarah's gaze with a sharp, purposeful expression. "The hordes want Sarah Williams," she said with a little too much eagerness. "We will give her to them." And then she stood and took a firm grip of Sarah's arm, closing her eyes as the Queen gave a significant shudder and pained groan. At the same time a deep-winter kind of chill swept over Sarah like a wind and she forgot the protests she'd been about to make. Keel opened her eyes and scrutinised Sarah. "More correctly, you will give her to them, your Majesty," she said darkly.
Something bright shimmered in the corner of her eye. Sarah turned to see her reflection in the mirror and jumped in shock. The frosty-haired, pale skinned face of the Queen stared back at her, garbed in the flowing pastel blue dress she'd been wearing when they arrived. Keel must have spent a lot of time loathing this woman to know her so well. The details in this face were much more accurate, from the markings that covered half of it to the anger in the eyes, which Sarah was doing a good job of emanating. "Why are you doing this?" she murmured, tugging agitatedly at a lock of ivory hair. "You had her drugged and in pain at the Palace; you could have killed her there and then. This…" she tore her gaze away from the stranger in the mirror and implored the Elf to see reason. "This is insane, Keel. Can't we just scare her or something?"
"Mira El'Maven has held her position for so long because she upholds the law with no emotion." Keel's voice was quiet but powerful; she was a woman in her own kind of pain. "She sees in black and white but leaves a trail of red behind her. She described the death of her step-sister as 'necessary'. When the King died of poison meant for her, she showed no remorse. The Elf that her daughter loved was executed without trial. She arranged the death of her own son in order to maintain leadership, Severed my cousin for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and now she's going to hand you over to the hordes even though she made a vow promising the opposite." Her hands were tight fists pressed against her sides, trembling. "This Fae is –"
"I know what she is," Sarah interrupted, tentatively laying a hand on the Elf's shoulder. "I know what she's done. But we aren't like them, Keel. You, me, Wick…we aren't Fae." She thought of Jareth that night in the Castle, broken, of the blood on his hands and in his heart. "Do you think you could live with the fact that you'd murdered someone?"
"I will watch as she is ripped apart by the creatures she claims control over," Keel said, jutting out her chin defiantly. "I am not a Fae but I am not human either. I am an Elf and this is my chance to change life for my people." To Sarah's surprise, she actually unfurled a fist and laid it over Sarah's hand on her shoulder. "Which, incidentally, is also why I'm doing it this way. I want to thank you."
Sarah blinked. "Thank me?"
"I could have killed her the moment she drank my potion. But my cousin and your companions made me realise that no matter the trouble you've caused and the pain you've brought to my family…you being here, in our world, started the chain of events that has led to this moment. A moment where I am able to do something to help my people. If Mira dies then her daughter takes the Throne, who has been an advocate for Elvish rights since she was young. It wouldn't have been possible without you, Sarah Williams."
It was one moral dilemma after another. She didn't want to have to weigh up the pros and cons of committing murder. "You're standing there thanking me for going through all this shit so that can you can kill someone," she murmured, taking her hand away.
"And I am thanking you by saving your life, Sarah. Is your life not worth saving?"
How could she answer no to that? She'd calculated the benefits of her death, had spent hours crying and being angry and telling herself it would be better for everyone. But this was a way out she hadn't anticipated, a way to help Wick and get back Above and possibly find Jareth. This was a last chance. It was just that the way through was splattered with blood.
With a bitter tear in her eye Sarah nodded. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll do it."
Keel didn't smile, nor did she make any attempts to comfort Sarah or apologise. She just thanked her.
"Don't," Sarah said angrily, looking morbidly at the version of herself on the floor. "Don't ever thank me for this. Let's just get it over with."
Somewhere in the backwaters of the hordes' collective consciousness there was a change in the broadcast. It stopped being a strained connection and started feeling like a command to gather. The string that tied them to the leader was growing in strength. All throughout the City goblins stirred and shifted restlessly, following the pull that drove them toward the City Centre. KingkillherKingkillherKingkillherKingkillher. Their mantra never stopped. Teeth gnashed, tails and claws gouging grooves into the cracked stones with their excitement.
The leader was pleased and so were they.
The thing that rushed by Con and wrapped itself around Jareth's middle was scruffy and smelled like dirt, but Jareth was pleased to see it. It was lanky and knobbly and hugged him with the ineffectual strength of a young boy.
Christopher had found him, and he was wonderfully happy about it.
"Found him in the emergency room pestering the admin staff about you," Con explained with a grin. "I couldn't very well just leave the poor lad in the dark."
Jareth beamed. It was a strange twitch of muscles; it felt underused on his face. "What happened to you?" he asked as the boy was swallowed by a sudden shyness and pried himself off.
"Dad," Christopher explained with an annoyed frown. He continued on in a ramble without pause for breath. "I called home from the hospital the day you fainted to get help from Mum but Dad answered and I can't lie to Dad, he makes me nervous and I told him everything, he was really cross, he came and got me and told me I wasn't allowed out for a week except for school and I'm sorry Jareth I didn't mean to leave you on your own."
"It's perfectly fine super boy," Jareth reassured him earnestly. "Take a breath." Something strange overcame him and he spoke next with an odd feeling that the words weren't his own: "I'm just happy to see you again." He meant it, he really did – but green and black flickered in the back of his mind and he itched with unease.
"You all right your Majesty?" Con enquired, noting his suddenly muted expression.
"Didn't quite feel like myself for a moment," Jareth replied with a shrug. "I'm fine."
"Are you still sick?" Christopher asked without waiting for answer. "How's your hand? Is it all nasty? Can I see it? Have you remembered that you're a super hero yet?"
"Super hero?" Con raised a brow.
"That's what we're here to test," Jareth told the boy, ignoring Con's amused smirk. "Con brought me to the hospital so we can see the doctors and do some exercises for my memory. Today might well be the day we find out how much of a hero I am," he added with a wink.
The boy smiled but Jareth felt no real optimism. The more days that flew by, the more he started to feel like he'd been cut right out of some other life and dropped here with a blank slate. The things he tried to recover remained as out-of-reach as ever. Dreams and nightmares continued to confuse him but he'd made no more sense out of them since his first days. He kept going through the motions with Con just to fill the time, all the while suspecting he was doomed to a fresh start that felt inexplicably empty.
When he tried to fathom the hollowness that had started to gnaw at him he thought of only one thing: a woman shrouded in green and black.
"I'm just happy to see you again," Sarah cried, overcome with pleasure at the foul smell of his ragged coat. "I don't care if you can't breathe; just let me hug you!"
The goblin grumbled something half-heartedly into her dress, the rest of his embarrassed protests dying on his tongue. Ludo, Wick and Didymus suffered the same afterwards, though only Wick seemed truly uncomfortable compared to Hoggle's weak complaints.
"That's enough now," Keel spoke up sharply. "The Queen of the Fae Domain shouldn't smell like goblins."
Sarah reluctantly put Didymus down and brushed off her dress. Her friends kept forgetting themselves in the wake of her new appearance and would start to bow or shy away when she looked at them. Being hugged avidly by the Fae Queen seemed to have unsettled them even more.
"You need to start acting the part," the Elf chastised her further. "You are a royal in pain and need to remember that."
"I know," Sarah snapped. "I'm not an idiot Keel. Excuse me for being happy that I didn't get my friends killed."
"Of course yer didn't get us killed," Hoggle said. "What made yer think that?"
"I didn't see what happened to you," she replied. "Brynn stabbed me and I woke up in the Castle –"
"The scoundrel shall pay dearly for that!" Didymus shrieked indignantly. "To think we were safely tucked away while our dearest Lady was in terrible danger, I cannot ever forgive myself!"
"Well you need to," Keel told him. "We cannot afford to be revealed by an imp who can't control his need for vengeance." She swept her commanding gaze over Hoggle and Ludo. "The same applies to the both of you. You are to remain here, out of sight, until we return for you."
"And if – if we don't come back," Sarah added hesitantly, "Then you run. Got that guys? Just run away from the Castle and find some place to live in peace. There's got to be somewhere that you can stay without causing too much trouble."
"If you do not return, I will not be held responsible for my actions, Lady Sarah," Didymus replied sombrely. Ludo rubbed his ruddy great head against her arm, much to Keel's disapproval.
Sarah met Hoggle's eyes and said nothing. The should you need us was clear as day in his expression but they both knew she'd never call them to their deaths.
Brynn would never show it but inside he was absurdly pleased.
The wishes had stopped and the Queen had summoned him to the Council Chambers to discuss Sarah Williams. Things were coming to a head. The mantra in the back of his mind was still there but he could feel – however faintly – the hordes gathering in the City Centre. It's time, he thought with relief, striding down the hall towards the Chambers. Even a Fae couldn't help feeling relieved when the threat of violent rebellion was about to be extinguished.
He stood outside the anteroom waiting to be announced, but no servant came. There were voices coming from the room so he knew he was in the right place. Hesitating, he cleared his throat and stepped through the vine-covered archway into the Chambers. The Queen sat in her chair glaring at an Elf who stood over the body of Sarah Williams. The sight surprised him but he simply bowed and moved forward to kiss the royal hand. He couldn't help noting a tremor in her frame as he stood back, hands linked behind him. She sank into the seat once more, holding a hand to her face. He'd heard that she'd broken a vow, but she looked to be handling it quite well.
"Your Majesty," he said politely, casting a look around the room. "I can't help noting there are no Council members here. May I ask if we are waiting on them?"
"We wait for no one," Mira told him shortly. Her voice was heavier than usual. She gestured at the body on the floor. "I thought you would ask about the girl, Brynn."
"I'm sure you have your reasons for procuring her from my Castle," he answered smoothly. "But I will admit I rather think the hordes would have preferred a live sacrifice."
"She's not dead," she snapped. "It was necessary to tranquilise the girl. She was hysterical."
"Ah," he nodded. "Indeed, hysteria is typical of humanity's reaction to death."
Mira's hands tightened on the arms of the chair but she said nothing.
"Are you all right, Ma'am? I heard –"
"I'm fine," she interrupted tersely. "I'm tired of all this. Make the broadcast to the hordes, Brynn. I want – I want them ready."
He did as he was told. The connection with the goblins was still frustratingly tenuous but he made sure the message was clear. Your ruler is coming. Sarah Williams is coming. Gather in the City. You will be given your rightful prize.
"Is it done?" Mira asked impatiently.
"Yes, your Majesty."
She gestured with a shaking hand at the floor. "Then take her and go." She paused. "The Elf will help you."
He raised a brow in surprise. "You – you aren't attending, Ma'am?" Though she lifted her chin and directed a defiant stare at him, Brynn felt compelled to argue. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, this is a vitally important moment of reparation. Your presence –"
"Is not necessary," she cut in firmly with a quick glance at the Elf, who had paused in the act of gathering up the girl to stare back at the Queen.
"She is the girl who ruined my predecessor's reputation," Brynn persisted. "She is the one who brought turmoil and danger to the Domain where there had been none for decades. She has planted rebellion and corruption in the minds of every subject she's met. Sarah Williams will die, your Majesty, and I really think you should be there to see it unfold."
Again Mira looked to the Elf for just a second. If he hadn't known any better he'd say she had the look of a cornered woman, but he couldn't understand why.
"Fine," she bit out at last, smoothing a hand down her dress. She did not look angry at being argued with; she looked worried. "I'll attend with you."
He conjured a gateway to the City and, stooping, hauled the girl into his arms. She hung limp against him, eyes rolling occasionally, mouth twitching in a frown. They must have given her something powerful. Up close she was fairly pretty for a human, but he had no room for regret. Again, the surge of relief swept through him like a feeling akin to exhilaration. It's time, he thought once more. Control and order. No more will chaos reign. With a bow of his head Brynn stood aside from the mirror and waited for the Queen to step through.
She took a moment to gather herself, fingers clutched in the silk of her dress as she stood and walked towards the mirror. The gateway opened onto a raised platform in the City Centre, high enough that the goblins couldn't reach them. Mira stepped onto it unflinchingly and Brynn followed, with the Elf trailing silently behind. They stood in the middle of the stone platform, which was wide enough for ten of them to stand comfortably. It hung in the air with no visible support, dead in the centre of a decaying array of buildings.
They were deafened by the roar of thousands of goblins.
The hordes stretched out below them in endless numbers, screeching and chittering and shrieking with anticipation. They clung to rooftops and lampposts, packed the crooked streets with their rank and filth, fought over space directly beneath the platform. Here the connection was stronger than it had ever been. Their cries were amplified across the Centre and through his mind: KingkillherKingkillherKingkillher. It almost sounded as if they wanted him to do the honour, but Brynn thought it unlikely. The goblin vocabulary was limited. He turned to the Queen, awaiting her next move.
Wind tainted by goblin stink picked at her dress and whirled it around her ankles. She fisted her hands tightly in the silk and glared down at the hordes, avoiding his gaze. Brynn waited patiently, for all his eagerness to be done with it. She was suffering for the broken vow, after all. It was obvious in the strange way she was acting. The girl started to twitch in his arms, distracting him. He walked forward and held her at the edge of the platform. The hordes were a roiling storm of lather and adrenaline, waiting, just waiting. He could taste their hunger in the back of his mind.
Mira moved to stand beside him and a hush fell over the goblins quicker than thought. "We give you Sarah Williams," she called, voice echoing across the Centre. Brynn blinked down at the creatures. Were some of them actually bowing? Goblins had never seemed to hold much respect for any ruler but their own. A Goblin ruler was all-powerful, with the right relationship. To see them looking up at the Queen, and then dipping their heads in apparent subservience…it was unsettling. Turning his gaze back to Mira, Brynn expected more than her simple announcement. Behind her the Elf was murmuring under her breath, eyes closed tightly.
The girl thrashed in his arms. He thought he caught a murmured 'please' before her eyes snapped open and she screamed.
The hordes were silent. The Elf's voice carried on the wind. Mira stared down at the creatures below.
With her scream filling the air, Brynn dropped Sarah Williams into the City.