Forever
Disclaimer: Labyrinth belongs to people that aren't me.
A/N: I've had the first section or so of this sitting around for ages. Woke up the other day and the rest came tumbling out. I am very much interested in what you guys think.
Warnings for sexual situations, the squicky and tragic bits of the reproductive process, and some shameless butchering of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.
She waits stiffly, back properly straight as the sun rises higher over the breakfast table. The smell of eggs is making her ill, but she shows no sign of it. The servants move to take his place setting, and she sends them off with a sharp reprimand, a threat that would make him proud.
It is more than an hour before he comes in, dressed in last night's wrinkled clothes. The scent of someone else is on him when he passes. She presses her lips together and ignores it.
She waits while he drops carelessly into his chair and snaps for a servant to bring fresh food. She waits until he has filled his plate and reaches for a carafe of juice. She waits for him to bring the cup to his lips. "Good morning, my Lord." She affects just the right level of bored arrogance. "I trust you slept well."
He lifts an eyebrow at her over the rim of his glass. He knows this game well, after all, he was the one to teach it to her. "Well enough," he replies.
Despite their elusive words, there is no deception between them, just as there is no remorse in his expression while he watches her watching him.
She stands abruptly and bows her head as is proper. "I trust you will have a good day, my Lord."
He waves her back to her seat with a brisk motion. "Come, come, dearest. You must eat. I'll not have you starving yourself."
She does not obey. "I seem to have lost my appetite," she replies and is gone.
He sets down his food and watches her leave. Her eyes are no longer cruel, but have hardened into carefully cut stones.
He leaves his plate untouched and follows her out the door.
...
They meet the court together as they have always done. She is on his arm where she belongs as they circle the room, speaking with their courtiers. Her smile is warm but does not melt the ice in her eyes. Though they are outwardly united, when his eyes wander she does not seem to notice or care.
...
He catches her in the hall, fingers closing around her elbow more by luck than actual aim. She whirls on him, a fire sparking in her that he hasn't seen in many moons.
It is the same fire that kindled his interest the moment he first saw her. She burned gloriously at their first meeting. He lapped up every flame and spat them back at her. She defied him; he punished her. He drew her to him; she broke away. She was a hero; he became her villain. He begged her to stay, but she left.
When they met a second time, she smouldered. He blew on the coals ever so gently and set her alight. In the end, he got what he wanted. He always does.
No. He always did. Until this.
"Unhand me at once," she says. Not furiously, not even defiantly. But regally, poised and confident, like the Queen she has become. It is an order, not a request.
He ignores it, as is his right. Grabbing her by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise, he draws her close. He follows that tug in his chest, somewhere under his left ribs, that has always pulled them together. "I will do no such thing," he tells her harshly, and does not think to regret the tone.
She struggles, like a wild frantic bird caught in a net, but with no result. "I will not have you manhandle me like some cave man," she says. "Let me go."
His face twists into something ugly, and when she cringes from it, he does not see. "I do as I please," he says in the same silken voice that once ensnared her.
He would continue, but she shifts suddenly into a familiar distress that he, in his anger, does not immediately recognize. Her bid for release increases, almost frantic now. "Jareth," she says. Everything about her that marks her as his Queen dissolves, and she is almost the girl he had first met. Less than that girl. "Let me go. Please."
Surprise loosens his fingers, and she jumps at the opportunity, bolting for the door of her chambers. He follows her still.
She has left the door open, and even from there, he can hear her retching. A futile effort, there is nothing in her stomach to purge. It all comes back to him in a rush, green faces, days of counting, waiting, testing, wishing. Praying. He is left trembling and clenches his hands into fists for control.
The door shuts behind him and locks with a wave even as he strides firmly to her side. He kneels, and his hands are gentle as he draws back her hair, conjures a cloth and a cup of water for her when she is done. But he is furious.
"How long?" he says in a hiss. "How long have you been keeping this from me?" She faces him, defiant as she has always been, and for the first time, he sees the smudges under her eyes, the pinched look around her mouth.
She breaks away from him, leaves the small confines for her bedchamber, and does not turn around though she knows he has followed. Her arms are crossed, each cradling the other, looking for some form of comfort that does not exist.
"Sarah," he says, warning without the necessity of words. I have been generous up until now.
She is the Queen again. "Not long," she says. "A week or so. I thought it wise to wait until it was certain."
He presses his lips together. The words have sense to them, but, "We will wait to announce this to the court, yes. But you think to hide it even from me?" She has no answer. He is angry again. Frustrated, and it gives him the wrong words to say. "Do not try my patience, girl. I am your King!" he roars.
She whirls on him. "And I am your Queen!" she roars back. "Not one of your whores!" The words hang there, like a physical thing between them. They have never been voiced until now.
She jerks away, stinging, and takes to the window, gripping the sill with white fingers. The Labyrinth lays sprawled below, and as much as she loves it, the sight of it pains her.
He comes up behind her, subdued. Fingers rest lightly on her shoulder, asking. She does not shrug them away. He pries her hands from with window with careful touches, brings the length of her back against him. One hand moves down to press gently over her abdomen. The flesh there is firm where it had been yielding the last time he touched her like this, so many weeks ago.
"Sarah." He turns into her, breathes in. Small tendrils of hope rise like the vines crawling up the Labyrinth's walls. He wishes to tear them away before they can burrow into the cracks between the stones. They defend with small but sharp thorns. "Precious thing," he says softly into her skin.
That is all he has. It is enough.
Tentatively, her hand rises to rest over his. Together, they watch their kingdom move below them.
...
The laws to assure succession to the throne are firm. The Queen's throne depends on the existence of an heir. The Queen has no issue, and her time grows short. The more ambitious courtiers consider plans, make contingencies. It seems an inevitability that she will not last much longer.
...
They send for him only after it is over.
She is crumpled on the floor by the bed like some discarded wad of paper. Her eyes stream tears unheeded, and she does not seem to see him there. A little bucket sits next to her, one hand resting limply on the edge.
Everywhere he looks there is blood. On the sheets a maid is bundling away. Another is assisting the midwife gather up cloths and towels, most of them soaked through. It stains both her hands and is smeared over her skirts.
With a frown, he peers into the bucket and sees what he expects. A little thing that looks almost right, curled in on itself with arms and legs and tiny fingers.
"Take this away," he orders.
The maid hesitates. "Her Majesty asked to see-"
"And she has seen," he cuts in quickly, not wanting to hear the end. Not wanting to hear that little thing, the almost child, referred to as an 'it'. "Do as I say."
He does not have to tell them what to do with the remains. It will be the same as always. The maid takes the bucket gently, pulling it from the stained hand with care. She takes no notice; her hand slides away with no direction. The servants gather their burdens and leave, closing the door behind them.
He kneels beside her, though he kneels for no one else. The proud King is gone, leaving only a raw sort of feeling where those vines of hope had been ripped suddenly away. The same as always. That doesn't lessen the sting.
He cleans her hands not with magic, but a damp cloth and bowl of water that has been left for that purpose. She watches him dully, tears spilling over her cheeks with every blink. His gloves have been removed, and when he touches her face, he feels the slide of his fingertips over the soft, wet skin. He has no tears of his own; they have fallen inside him and turned to stone.
"Sarah," he says, firm and solid, to anchor her lest she drifts away. He does this every time, but each time is harder than the last. He does not know if it is because her despair pulls at her with more force, or if the stone harbor he offers her is slowly crumbling.
But he holds on as tightly as he can. This is what is left, between them. So he will cling to it until his last breath is gone, and his fingers turn to dust.
She draws a shuddering breath and really sees him for the first time since his arrival. "Jareth."
Her next words he already knows. The same as always. He stands and paces through the room with stilted steps.
She reaches out to him as he goes, but drops her hand in resignation when he takes no notice. She has no energy or will to unfold her legs and go to him. "Send me home, Jareth."
"This is your home," he says tightly. She dissolves into hiccuping sobs. He is too stung to go to her and will only watch until they subside.
"It is," she says at last, almost too quiet for him to hear. "It is. I grieve to leave the Labyrinth. I love it. But I can't-" Her voice cracks, fails for a moment, but she gathers it up and moves on. "I must go."
This is the sixth. None carried past the thirteenth week. Six buckets. Six tiny graves.
"You must stay," he says harshly, hoping to turn her away. Go back before it is too late.
Six times; under the law, it is enough to prove she is not capable of carrying to term. Enough to grant him the freedom to seek a wife who can.
She ignores the warning. She always has. Her hands find purchase on the bedpost, and she rises before him, bitter and beaten and glorious. "Damn you, Jareth! We talked about this. This is the last one. You said it would be the last."
Perhaps. But had he not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Is he not a man consistent in his resolve?
"Tell me, precious thing," he says, calm. Reasonable. "Where would you go?"
"It doesn't matter," she says, her voice rising an octave, cruel eyes flung desperately wide. "It's over, Jareth. It's been over for a long time."
He steps closer to her. She stands her ground, his bride, his equal. They meet in the center of the room. As they are.
She falters, takes a breath. She begs with with wet eyes and trembling lips. Her words are firm on the surface, but the foundation below is not stable. "Don't. Don't do this, Jareth. Don't ask this of me." The foundation crumbles. "Not again."
His finger slides under her chin, lifting her face to his as he leans over her. "I promised you forever, Sarah," he says silkily, caressing her with his voice and tearing at her with his words. "And that is what you shall have."
Her sobs follow him as he sweeps out of the room. He tries not to hear.
He has always warned her that he can be cruel.
...
The Goblins are not the smartest of creatures, but they are more observant than most realize. They hear the rumors on the wind and gather their weapons to defend their King and his Queen if it becomes necessary.
...
"Get. Out," he snarls the second he enters the Queen's chambers. The assembled group of ladies and guards scatter immediately. The doctor lingers just long enough to assure the King that she is fine, the attempt failed, and not even a scratch mars her precious skin.
The room seals against intruders with a wave of his hand. She rises as he comes to her, uncertain in the face of this pale, trembling fury that she has never before seen from her King. Her hand presses against her left side, just under the ribs. The same place that pulls at him, painfully.
They meet in the center of the room. Equal, as they are.
He wraps her up in him with frenzied murmurs. Lips brush over her mouth, her cheek, her neck. Hands work expertly at the laces of her gown. She resists with words. He insists with skillful hands, lips, tongue, and scrapes of sharp teeth over sensitive skin. Together they rediscover something that was theirs alone, something not felt or wanted or needed in such a long time.
She leads him to her bed. For the first time in too long, they go with no other agenda than this.
He inspects every part of her with his hands and his mouth. She twines her fingers in his hair and keens an ancient song that she sings only for him. When he enters her it is, for them both, a reconnection, a tightening of a knot that had loosened and almost come undone.
As his release finally overtakes him, he has only the words: my love, my love, my love.
...
The King gives the would-be assassin to the Goblins. They take him in bits, starting with fingers and toes, then working up. The man lives a surprisingly long time. When only the head is left, it is staked on the gates of the Goblin City. It is a royal proclamation that no one can misunderstand.
...
He has hardly left her side in weeks. He showers her with jewels and dreams and gratuitous sex. He dismisses his mistresses and takes her back into the bed he has only ever shared with her. He makes her, once again, into his precious thing.
It is not the same as before. But, maybe, it is better.
They dress in black and go to visit the tiny graves together, as they had done after the first, but never since.
He confesses to her, "It's not fair." But that's the way it is. And even he, with all his power, and she, with all her strength, cannot change that.
She has never loved him more than she does at that moment.
They twine their hands together and stand before their failures, helpless in the face of them. Guilt and anger and fear are raw, open wounds they both carry. For the first time, they tend them together. And for the first time, there is hope that they may someday heal.
They find acceptance, if not peace. For now. The next time hangs over them, silent but fearsome like a storm cloud on the horizon. It is one thing they do not speak about. But, each thinks, they will be together when it comes.
...
They meet the court together as they have always done. He defies custom and does not escort her on his arm, but with a hand on her waist, drawing her close as they speak with their courtiers. Her smile is warm and flickers serenely in her eyes. If they part, his eyes wander after her and look to no one else.
...
He finds a little spark behind her navel while he is kissing his way down the length of her. It is a spark of his own magic, just like the others. And for a moment, such a wave of terror falls over him that she is caught in it as well, without even knowing the cause.
Their play forgotten, they huddle together for comfort. He keeps his hand over her abdomen, and inspects the new life, what little there is, as best he can. He had done this with the first, only wonderment and joy coloring his anticipation then. The second was much the same, with only a slight, passing concern. The third, he did not inspect so closely, wary even then of his expectations. The others, he only touched briefly to see for himself that they were there.
For this one, he tells himself, he won't draw away, no matter what. He says the words to her, to test how they sound outside his head. The tearful, grateful smile she gives him strengthens his resolve.
"Together," he promises her, with a kiss to seal it. He touches the spark with his magic, to send it a promise as well, only to realize that there is something different. There is his magic, just like all the others, but also something else, a faint trace of a gift he had bestowed on her, long ago.
He does not tell her this now, lest he is wrong. But he allows himself to hope.
...
The King declares her perfect, a little girl with dark hair and his eyes, just as he had predicted. The Queen rolls her eyes when she hears, knowing full well that they had not dared to speculate any such thing. The people make predictions of their own for the Crown Princess, which turn out to be (frighteningly) accurate: she is a deceptively adorable hellion. The King has changed his favored punishment from bogging to babysitting. It is turning out to be far more effective.
fin