He strode purposefully through the corridors and into his bedchamber his boots making staccato retorts against the stones. As the thick, heavy doors closed behind him, he peeled off his gloves and angrily flung them on his bed. Damn! Damn! Damn! He couldn’t get the sight of her out of his mind; her hair pulled back with wisps of curly tendrils framing her face as she knelt over the latest battle casualty. Did she have to show the tops of her milky white breasts when she leaned over? Did she have to tempt him like that? Seductress! Do-gooder! How he had grown to despise her hazel eyes and her rosy lips ready to lift into her soft smile. Her womanly body still called out to his basest desires and he hated her for that, too. He picked up the wine decanter that sat on the side table and poured a drink. He drained the glass in long thirsty gulps hoping to purge his thoughts of her. In his vexation, he heaved the decanter against the stone wall scattering glass shards over the floor and spilling the red wine and wished it was her broken body and spilled blood laying there in his bedroom. The single drink didn’t help at all and now he had no more; the remnants of the red wine soaking into the tapestry hanging on the wall and the glass fragments sparkled at him in the remaining light. The debris lay there taunting him, reminding him of his demolished dreams and splintered heart.
He still remembered the last time when he saw her nude – her bath water lovingly caressing her body. He closed his eyes fighting the memories. When she lived in the castle, he had conveniently altered the wall in her room, removing the mortar between the bricks so he could watch her bathe and dress without her knowledge. Many a night found him behind her boudoir’s stone wall gazing lasciviously through his peep hole. She was unaware of what he had done. His heavy breathing was masked by the thickness of the rock barrier between them. He was able to gaze at her for nearly a year before she requested her own quarters outside the castle proper and moved out of his castle. He set the glass down. Even though it had been several decades since he had last seen her without clothes, he remembered it like it was just yesterday. He dreamed of her. He tried exorcising her from his mind but he failed. She still haunted him. She was a sorceress. She was evil!
When she came to Meneldur, everything changed. He was smitten at first glance. Never had a woman affected him the way she did. He followed her with his eyes whenever they were together, noticing little things about her; the tilt of her head when she listened, the pink blush of her skin when she laughed, the sway of her hips when she walked. He shuddered. He was the king and he could have any one of the fair ladies in his village with just the crook of his finger at them – and he had his share of liaisons. But the girls were poor substitutes for the one he coveted and he became mean and surly as he kicked them out of his bed the next morning still unsatisfied. Huor took it upon himself to be her protector keeping a vigilant eye out for her when they were in battle. He always had the special cake she enjoyed on hand at the tavern. Zigaroth, the old fool, acted like he was her father. They were often found with their heads close together talking. Fëanáro asked her opinion on the school’s curriculum and he knew that she influenced Fëanáro on his sermon topics, too. It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would he have talked about the desires of the flesh shortly before she moved into her cottage? He slowly pulled his dagger from his boot. The candlelight caught the sharp edge of the blade. He twisted it back and forth, staring at the blade as it winked – hypnotizing him. He traced the edge with his finger. It sliced his finger with ease, drawing blood. He stood there and watched the blood pool along the wound and then drop with gentle splats to the floor. He stood unmoved, unfazed as each droplet founds its place with the others at his feet. Yes, as much as he desired her, he hated her - passionately. He resented that everyone went to her for her help and opinions and not him. They use to come to him for all their questions and concerns and advice. He should be the most important person in the village; the mentor, the healer, the decision-maker. Not her! HIM!!
He might have grown accustomed to all of that, forgiven her, or used it to his advantage in some way, but she never gave him the chance. He wanted her to come to him, to need him, to seek his opinion. He wanted her to love him! There he said it! He wanted her to want him, the King of Meneldur. He abhorred the fact that after all his kindnesses when she first came to live in his castle, she didn’t shower her affections on him! NO! She showered everyone else BUT him! Then, she went traveling and came back with those three brats in tow! Even after raising the bastards she didn’t give him a second glance. Not once. He felt his anger grow white hot in remembrance of past ills. Evil wasn’t strong enough to describe her. She was a she-devil! He set the dagger down still stained with his now dried blood and walked to the chiffonier.
He had been so mesmerized by her beauty and he thought she would make the perfect queen to rule at his side. Even after she, oh so politely refused, he thought he had a chance to change her mind. All he had to do was have patience. But she kept rejecting him, over and over and over again, year after year after year! He was quite sure that the whole village was snickering behind his back. Chienne!! Well, he was tired of being the fool. He was going to get his revenge and no one, absolutely no one, would ever know it was his doing.
He stood in front of the mirror and gazed upon his reflection. He saw a handsome man with brown eyes, full lips, square jaw, and medium length chestnut colored hair gazing back. He was above average height, long legs, and a fine physic. His left hand stroked the intricately marked family sword hanging at his side. Yes, such a brilliantly crafted sword. It held its edge in spite of the battles it had seen. He cocked his head a bit to the side still entranced with his image as he absently traced the markings, the gold-work around the hilt and down the weapon’s shaft. “Yesss,” he thought to himself. He worked diligently at his swordsmanship and was one of the best in the village - as he should be. He was taught by his father and the best warriors ever to pledge allegiance to Meneldur. However, lately, he found that he was not the best but only one of the best. If you were to ask any of the villagers, they would probably inform you that he was actually second best. That thought fueled his rage. His eyes turned black and his fist clenched around his sword. A hateful sneer crossed his lips at thinking of the only one that rivaled him - who cut a more handsome figure and proved to be a better swordsman – HER Master of Whispers, the oldest brat bastard! He ran his fingers through his hair and contemptuously tossed his head and thought, “Well, enjoy your last few hours, my dear Larien. Soon, I will have the love of the villagers back. I will console them after your death. They will find out what you were really like; the evilest, most vile witch in my kingdom! With you out of the way, they will come to me for advice. They will ask my forgiveness. They will learn to fear my retribution! It will be the way it was before you set your pretty foot into my castle. You and your lover will be gone as will anyone else who opposes me. I won’t care who I have to eliminate. Meneldur, and all that it is, will become mine once again!” His eyes glazed as he stood there watching himself. His mind chanting with every beat of his crazed heart – “Meneldur is mine and you must die...Meneldur is mine and you must die. YOU MUST DIE! Yes, soon, it will all be mine again!!!
He stood a few more seconds admiring himself before he turned on his heel and moved to change for dinner. He certainly did not want to show his hand too early or alter his evening pattern so people could give pause to question him after the deaths. He had waited and searched a long time until he found the perfect patsy. His perseverance had finally paid off. He could wait a few more hours. His plan was finally coming together. An evil gleam lit his eyes. He found his assassin and after those that opposed him were dead, he was going to make sure that the assassin also met his demise. There would be no proof left to point to him. There would be no possibility of blackmail. It will be perfect! He started to chuckle to himself and it turned into full blown maniacal laughter, consuming him and comforting his soul.
After Bone Face delivered his news to Sly and Deamon, it took a minute or so for the name to actually sink into their brains. Bone Face had been grappling with it for a few hours already. While his discovery still made his head spin, perhaps that could explain so many things over the years. However, the news was still being absorbed by his brothers. King Jareth? King Jareth!! Deamon usually didn’t allow himself to get emotional over events outside his control. However, he was ready to explode in sheer and utter fury at the news that Bone Face delivered. It was rare that the twins saw Deamon in such a rage – such a furor. Deamon’s reaction was more intense than when the twins were banished from Meneldur by King Jareth all those years ago. Perhaps it was that Larien’s life was being threatened or the person who was responsible for the threat or a combination of the two reasons. Either way, it did not bode well for King Jareth. After the color returned to his face, he leapt to his feet, his sword rattled against his stone seat in his hurry. Sly and Bone Face scrabbled, grasping frantically at his arms. Bone Face caught a handful of his left shirt sleeve while Sly connected with his forearm. They had all they could do to keep him sitting there on the boulders by the lake and not running up to the castle and dealing a death blow to the king.
“Deamon, wait! You cannot go running after King Jareth! What, you going to run him through in front of everyone? We still do not know who the assassin is. Sit down and use your head! We need to plan this out, very carefully.” Bone Face was trying to force Deamon to see reason, to make a workable plan and not make emotional decisions. “We know you want to serve swift justice but we must be smart about it. Think, man!” Bone Face gave an extra strong tug on Deamon’s sleeve imploring Deamon to listen to him.
With suppressed anger in his voice and resignation in his body, Deamon replied, “You’re right, Bone Face. For once in your life, you are being the reasonable one.” He took a deeper breath. He covered Bone Face’s hand with his gloved one. “I will be alright now and you are correct, we must plan. We must make this work to our advantage. King Jareth doesn’t know that we have this information yet. We need the element of surprise to be ours and not his. Let me think a minute.”
Deamon forced his mind and muscles to relax. It was hard to think objectively when he was tense and emotional. First, he cleared his mind of all agitation picturing Galeran Glen as his peaceful starting place. Then, he willed each sinew and tendon to calm itself starting at his feet working his way up his body, down his arms to his hands, up his neck to his jaw. The twins could visibly see him take control of his body as each body part relaxed through his mental discipline. His stance changed, his jaw stopped clenching. When he finished, he had his confident edge back. Now he could think. Now he was in control. Deamon knew that as much as he wanted this whole affair concluded he was not going to rush through the planning. Planning and execution were keys to the success of finding the high commander. He figured that King Jareth would not have the assassin be someone from Meneldur and the fact that Bone Face did not recognize the second voice supported that hypothesis. The king also would not want to be seen in the commander’s presence. Therefore, it was someone from outside the village, someone who would be a stranger. The more he thought, the more he felt it was important to go to the rendezvous place where the two conspirators met to see if any clues were left behind. In his vast experience, criminals never covered their tracks completely and always seemed to leave evidence behind. If anything was there, he would find it no matter how small and insignificant it might seem to someone else. Larien’s life depended on him finding it. Deamon needed to discover something to gain an upper hand against the unknown butcher-to-be.
“Come with me. First, we must inspect the area where Bone Face suspected King Jareth and his guest were standing when they were overheard. We will need torches for our search. If we don’t find anything now, we will search again at first light. Allez, allez on se grouille!”
The three brothers left hastily. As they maneuvered their way towards the dungeon staircase, they pilfered lit torches along the empty cobblestone passageways. They were most careful not to run into anyone. They reached the dungeon opening and stood quietly, assessing the night noises. Deamon did not want to be surprised by any intruders, especially now when he had to focus all his energy in his search. After determining about where the two had stood, he had Bone Face and Sly point their torches towards the ground and keep a visual watch in case of uninvited guests. Deamon took meticulous care in searching the trampled grass on his hands and knees. Nothing out of the ordinary caught his eye. He covered the area inch by inch and came up with nothing. There wasn’t much territory left. He took extra care around the base of the low-laying shrubs next to the outer dungeon walls. There were three bushes already in bloom; their cloyingly sweet smell permeated the night air. As the night frogs peeped, Bone Face and Sly heard the soft rustling of the leaves as Deamon continued with his search; first one bush, then two, then three.
Deamon drew a sharp intake of breath. “Bring the torches closer. Now!”
The brothers walked towards Deamon, their torches leading the way. Deamon moved his gloved hand slightly to the right and picked an object from amidst the leaves and thorns, tugging it to release it from its prison. He held it in his hand and he said in a soft whisper that both men within ear shot had to strain to hear, “C'est quoi ça? What’s this?”
you did it again left me hanging
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