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Salas sat there for a long while, finally pulling the dagger from Jovack’s unmoving chest and dropping it to the side, reaching to gently close Jovack’s eyes.
He rose.
It had taken him so long, to figure out what had been right and wrong, and to figure out his desires had just been fabricated thoughts to appease others, never himself.
But he knew what he wanted, now.
So he moved, and he turned, and he embraced everything he desired, arms folding around him as he was held in return.
Though he had met no jinx and made no wish, he felt as though it had come true.
Epilogue
Despite the reclaiming of the kingdom, there was thankfully less violence than Salas was expecting when the Diagorians came to once more take Suscon, this time with a different enemy. The Malthenians outnumbered them, as was promised. Outnumbered them greatly.
But with their new King, Jovack, having fallen, there was confusion about whether or not this battle was worth fighting for. With Victoria dead, the odds of success for them were slim. Morale was low, giving way to the advancement of the Diagorians. When the Diagorians proceeded forward without bloodshed, instead merely subduing their enemy, the Malthenians laid down their weapons, no longer desiring to fight.
A truce was eventually reached.
Salas had been taken to hide away within the old royal chambers, though he refused to let King Jareth leave his side, and they waited together in the room, Jareth treating Salas’ back wound and murmuring gently to him until soldiers came to them with news of a peace treaty that was to be signed. The Malthenians would return to their own country. The Diagorians would bribe them with Susconian wealth and aid them in their travels.
It was over.
Despite diplomatic orders to attend to, the King refused to leave Salas’ side while he was injured. He hovered around, barking out orders to physicians, pacing, and rushing to Salas’ side when Salas so much as shifted positions.
“His blood runs clean without infection,” chortled the Diagorian battle physician who had accompanied the men to Suscon. “There is no need to fret, Your Grace. Settle down.”
The King grumbled, though when he grabbed Salas’ hand, he held it like he would a cardinal with an injured wing.
Salas did eventually recover, though if he were being truthful, he wished the intensity of his injury would have lasted longer. Eventually, when he could make the journey, they would return to Diagor. He wasn’t sure when, or if, he would see Suscon again.
He thought of the King’s promise, though, of visiting Suscon when he wanted. That future seemed so unsure, now, with no ruler to claim Suscon. A kingdom without a king.
When he was well enough to walk, Salas took Jareth by the hand and they walked through the white, marble halls. Salas would stop to look upon the statues, pointing out quietly which ones he had named in secret, and why. He took him to the windows and painted pictures with words about escapades to grottos and pearl diving. Sitting on beaches and drowning in the sun.
Jareth questioned quietly, more content with listening to Salas than providing his own opinions, taking in the information with reflective, subdued patience.
A week passed and Beatrice returned from Diagor, offering them passage back to the northern country. When Salas passed through the portal, leaving Suscon and stepping into the thinner, frigid air of Diagor, it was as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was like stepping back into a calm reality after being asleep for too long, finally being allowed to rise and wake, like Suscon had all been a dream.
The kitchen staff, having heard of Salas’ injury, had prepared a sweeping spread of soft, hot meals that waited for him in the King’s room. His room. He sat folded within the layers of wool and down, Jareth watching and hovering, as though at any moment he would rip the utensil from Salas’ hand and spoon feed him.
Eventually, just to see how the King would react, Salas clapped his hands, as though he were being waited upon by a servant, not the King of Diagor, and announced, “Finished!” in Diagorian.
Jareth’s look could only be described as unimpressed. “Finish eating,” the King growled, gently but sternly.
Salas looked at the spread incredulously. “How could I possibly?! You want a fat and soft bird?” Salas wanted to bite his tongue the moment the Susconian term slipped out.
For a moment, there was silence where Salas found himself unable to meet the King’s eye.
Eventually, he felt the weight of the bed pulling down as the King took a seat beside him. The porridge bowl in his hands was extracted and set aside so that, it seemed, Jareth could lace his fingers through Salas.’
“Look at me, little one,” the King breathed softly.
Salas, after a moment, was able to wrench his eyes from a non-existent, distant point in order to meet the demand.
Jareth reached to tuck a lock of hair behind Salas’ ear. “Wounds don’t heal in a day. You cannot, and I cannot expect them too. It was unwise of me to think they would, to think that you could leave all of your teachings of the Susconian-way behind within the span of a few moments. It was unrealistic, and unfair. I’m worried, now, that because I have impressed my expectations of you so intensely in our time together, that you are now terrified to slip up. Scared to let even a bit of that country show through. Worried that I might reject you if you ever reveal that you have not fully healed.”
The King gently grabbed Salas’ chin when Salas, expectedly, attempted to look away from him again. Smart man.
