CHAPTER ONE- Rain

Rain, why did it always have to rain?

It patted against the window in thick droplets, without rhythm and without care. Sarah laid her forehead against the glass, savoring the feel of the cool, smooth texture that soothed her raging headache and sour stomach. Those physical ailments were the least of her problems, she mused silently.

"Enjoying this lovely weather, dearest?" came a frosty voice.

Her husband, Jareth, strode into the formal dining room of the castle with a royal scribe in tow, who was carrying so many scrolls of rolled parchment that he could barely hold them all. In his effort to keep up, he tripped on an uneven stone tile on the floor, and he dropped an ink well, along with the bulk of scrolls. It shattered magnificently, sending ink in violent streaks across the pristine marble, parchments unfurling and trailing everywhere. The poor scribe, a boy no more than 15, froze in abject terror. Jareth turned viciously to face the boy.

Sarah expected some string of deafening obscenities to fly out of Jareth's mouth, but he only walked slowly towards the boy, cold rage pouring from his gait and posture. The boy visibly shrank the closer Jareth came to him. When his face was mere inches from the boy's he whispered with deadly emphasis, "Get. Out."

The boy sprang into action, thankful to have avoided being struck, and dashed from the hall. Jareth plopped himself down in his chair at the head of the table with all the suppressed rage he could muster. He then turned to Sarah, who was still standing by the window, nearly afraid to move, and with a dangerously calm smile, gestured her to take a seat in her chair next to his. Sarah rather regretted being the queen right now; if she was merely a visitor, she could make the excuse that sitting next to the king was an honor reserved only for the queen and dignitaries. But she was the queen, so there was no escaping. She made her way across the formal dining hall, his eyes pinning her every move, and she gently sat down in her chair, doing her best to avoid any sudden movements, terrified of pushing his temper over the edge. Once seated, Jareth gave her one final glance of thinly-veiled hatred, then focused his gaze away from her to the rain outside the window.

Sarah felt more sick to her stomach. If Jareth had gotten that upset at a lowly scribe for innocently spilling some parchment and ink, she couldn't even begin to fathom how angry he would be with her news. Though they hadn't spoken in over two months since that horrendous night, Sarah and Jareth still kept meeting for formal dinners in the dining hall once a week, for appearance's sake, he had told her. They never spoke, that was understood, so Sarah kept her eyes on her dinner, and Jareth on his, and it went somewhat peacefully so; the roiling animosity remained unspoken between them.

But not tonight. Tonight Sarah had to talk with Jareth, no matter how much it would violate their shaky truce.

"Jareth?" Sarah ventured. He did not look up, nor did he acknowledge that she had spoken, but merely continued looking towards the window.

"Jareth." She said it more definitively. Though he did not speak, he at least looked in her direction. "I need to tell you something."

Jareth leaned forward ever so slightly, rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together, and craned his head in her direction. He just had to be so showy, she thought irritably. But then again, his stylish mannerisms and flair for life was one of the things that had drawn her to him. She thought it bitterly ironic that it was now his best defense against readable body language.

"What," He bit out after many moments, his beautiful mismatched eyes staring directly into hers; Sarah could almost feel ice forming between them.

"Well, um, Jareth, I…" but she could not find words that would pass her lips coherently. She studied the depths of his eyes, hoping for some smidgen of encouragement, but was only met with a cold, emotionless stare that betrayed nothing.

"What. Do you. Want," he snapped through clenched teeth, "I haven't got all night."

That bastard. That heartless bastard. Sarah's fear was momentarily over-ridden by her anger.

"Of course you don't have all night," she snapped back with just as much ire, "I'm sure Rasha is pacing even as we speak."

She was sorry the minute the words left her mouth. Jareth's expression had turned from slightly annoyed to deathly furious. His mismatched eyes burned like hellfire, and Sarah was too scared to move. She shrank back in her chair, which must have been enough to allay his immediate fury, but certainly not enough to make him forget her comment. Before she could blink her eyes, Jareth had yanked her up out of the chair roughly by her arms. Way to go, Sarah, she thought to herself. Here I was getting somewhere, and then that mouth…

Jareth brought his face as close as he could get without touching her. Sarah could feel his hot breath hit her face as he spoke, "Sarah, if you have some talking to do, then you'd better do it before I lose my patience," he whispered. Sarah gulped, and felt tears well up in her eyes. Then, a most peculiar sound began twisting its way up from deep within her. Oh, for god's sake, not now!

But it was too late. A giggle escaped her lips. Jareth instantly focused on it like a hunting dog to a movement in the bushes. Then another, and another, and another, and before she could stop herself, Sarah was laughing uncontrollably, holding her sides with the force of it. Jareth just looked at her, still clutching her arms, but with a look of total incredulity. Sarah tried to speak, but found it impossible to laugh, breath, and talk at the same time. So she just gave in and laughed harder. Jareth released his grip on her. She laughed harder at the continued look of shock on Jareth's face, a mix of curiosity and, (could it be?) worry. Oh, that was even funnier! A whole new stream of laughter pealed from her mouth, and as her laughter finally began to subside, Jareth sat down on the floor next to her where she had crumpled, unable to hold herself up. There was a hint of a smile in his eyes, not on his face, but in his eyes, and it warmed Sarah immensely. Having been without Jareth's laughter or closeness for the past two months had been like perpetual winter. She smiled, and asked "What has you so pleased, my King?"

She expected Jareth to immediately close up and resume his tiring façade, but instead he gently touched his leather-clad fingers to her face, and stroked her cheek gently.

"I was just remembering how much I love your laugh," he said, and then he cupped her face with his hand, and said, "Indeed, I have missed it so."

He brought her face closer to his, and she rested her forehead on his, and reached her hand up to caress his cheek, his incredibly smooth skin. She savored it the way a wanderer in the desert savors the first cool rush of water he's had in days, the feel of his skin was that much a need for her survival. Little tingles seemed to jump from his skin to her fingertips hungrily, and Jareth let out a soft moan. He, too, had missed his queen's touch.

"What were you laughing about?" He murmured, thoroughly distracted by the touch of her hand, eyes closed, and moving his face to better feel the contact of her palm against his face. She bit her lip; this would be the end of it. But he had asked, and she had to answer. "I was just thinking that all I had to do to get you to touch me was to insult you."

She expected him to withdraw immediately, but he did not. He opened his eyes, but did not pull away from her hand. Instead, he removed his hand from her cheek and placed it on top of her hand, pushing it closer against his face.

"You used to not have to do much to get me to touch you," he said it with regret, with chagrin, with longing, and stared hard into her eyes. Sarah felt more tears coming, and they would not be replaced with laughter this time. She saw the instant he put up his defense once more, the mask he had worn in her presence for these past two months. It made her want to cry out in sheer desperation. He put her hand in her lap, stood, and straightened his clothes. Then he looked down on her with cold indifference, like passing a run-over dog in the street. She was there, but what could he do about it?

"I believe you had something you wanted to tell me," he said matter-of-factly, and Sarah could not bring herself to look him in the eye. What she was about to say would drive him away from her and into the waiting arms of that whore Rasha for good. But she loved him, how could she not tell him the truth? She said it quickly before she could change her mind, "I'm pregnant."

There was no sound from the king, as she had expected. Any noise from him would have meant that he cared enough about her to get mad at her. But he did not. She did not see the look of pure anger that overcame his face as his walked away from her, pushing the doors to the hall open, and with one last look of disgust, muttered "filthy whore," under his breath before slamming the doors on her and leaving her alone in the dining room, on the floor, crying.