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Above him, he felt the man’s face press against his hair, inhaling deeply. “Ah, it’s just as you say, Your Grace. He does smell exquisite.”
“Enough,” The King snapped, finally switching to Susconian. “I know what you are doing, Tarick. And if you cross a line, I won’t take kindly to it.”
“Oh? And what, pray tell, is that? You know I’m not too good at the social maneuverings of court talk, so you must forgive me if I don’t know what you are referring to. I was just going to suggest taking him to my quarters to have him healed.”
“You invented the social maneuverings of court talk,” King Jareth muttered.
“You flatter me. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Another low growl, and the King was blocking their path.
Salas felt himself squeak in response, clinging harder.
“I’ll take him tomyquarters,” the King said sternly, allowing not even the smallest bit of space for objection in his solid, calm declaration. “He’ll be healed there.”
Salas glanced over the Diagorian King to see his arms already stretched out, waiting for the burden to be passed to them.
Salas shook his head, even though he could not find words to speak his objection—he was too terrified to speak.
With a sigh, the man—Tarick—pried Salas’ arms away from his neck and began to pass him along, as though handing over a thin bit of pottery on the verge of collapse. “It’s okay, little one,” he murmured to Salas. Then to the King, “As you wish, Your Grace, so long as you are delicate with the precious cargo.”
And then Salas was being enveloped in new arms, solid and sinewy. Arms that Salas had experienced first-hand, their power.
Next, he was moving again as the King twisted through the halls, Tarick following along beside him, finally switching his speech over to Diagorian and speaking in low, hushed tones. At some points, King Jareth would abruptly respond, with a question, perhaps.
Salas assumed that Tarick was most likely recounting the horrific events of the morning thus far, and he mildly appreciated that he did not understand what the foreign man was saying. There was no need for it all to be illustrated to him once more.
Salas held himself stiffly as he was carried by the King, bridal style, earning open stares from the palace residents. Still, he could not resist the close warmth the supporting body offered, and found himself drooping with less resistance on King Jareth’s chest.
Soon, they came upon The King’s chambers, and the next thing he knew, he was placed upon the bed, his shivering body dipping into the plush of the quilted bedspread, his fingers enveloped in the fur of the pelt throw-blanket.
The ever-roaring hearth in the room felt like the sun after a brittle night.
Salas could only enjoy it for the briefest of moments before the presences still looming over him pressed closer. The King was reaching, hand outstretched, and before Salas could react to protect himself, two fingers were pressing to his neck insistently. Waves of memories crashed upon Salas: images of himself pressed against walls, King Jareth’s hand holding him there, digging into his air path, his life force.
The snap of his leg as the King had carelessly crushed it.
Shrieking, he pushed away from the King in a swirling motion, making his head spin.
Except the other man was there as well, Tarick, speaking soothing words to Salas, as though there were still words in any language that could, at this point, pacify him. “Hush, Salas, it’s okay. Jareth was merely checking your pulse. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.” He took up the other side of the bed, perhaps in an attempt to stop Salas from rolling off of it, but only serving to make Salas feel surrounded by the enemy.
Salas shook his head vigorously, unable to look at the Diagorian King. “Don’t… don’t touch,” he whispered, barely audible over the grinding noise of the fire.
Salas’ request drew an impatient grumble from the King, and when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, he flinched. The King merely grabbed his wrist, holding fingers gently to the pulse just below the skin there, timing the rhythm. It only lasted a few moments and then, thankfully, the King took his hand away.
They were speaking again, and Salas found himself drifting. Though his last, residual sense of self-preservation told him it was unwise to sleep in the mouth of a lion, he shut his eyes all the same. The last things he was aware of were the tense murmurs beside him, the breath of the hearth’s warmth on his face, and the weight of a blanket as someone pulled a pelt over him to cover his body.
When Salas awoke next, the first thing he noticed was that the hour had, at some point, struck evening. With no light from the windows, the only source of illumination coming from the hearth. The last of the burning embers were resilient, shedding a deep glow.
Salas shot up, glancing around, expecting to find the eyes of King Jareth upon him, cold and unwelcoming.
Except he was alone.
Frowning, he stretched himself further and peeled the peculiarly-placed blanket from his body. Tarick’s jacket was gone.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing when he was reminded of the pain in his leg with the movement.
Movement that was aided by a strange contraption attached to his left injured leg. While he had been asleep, someone had wrapped the fractured limb in a splint: two solid wooden poles kept in place with clean gauze. Oddly, a piece of paper stuck out between his skin and the bandaging, and Salas reached for it.
