Anam Cara

The Champion Sows a Seed

Jareth stood at the periphery of the room, separating himself from the crowds. Everyone milled about as though no one could take their seats before anyone else. These imbecilic courtiers would make something as banal as seating arrangements life or death, only wanting to be positioned next to someone of equal or higher stature. Pathetic.

His teeth ground in irritation as Saoirse approached him. Her eyes batted from behind a handpainted silk fan she fluttered for no reason in the climate-controlled castle. She was draped in a navy over-the-shoulder gown with peacock feathers sticking out of her ringlets that would assuredly block the view of anyone sitting behind her this evening.

"There he is. The talk of the Yule Tide," she closed her fan, using it to tap him on the shoulder for emphasis. She was positively atwitter with unspent energy.

"Tell me what you are clearly dying to say then leave, Saoirse." He had no time to deal with her. No desire to placate the bored wife of a middling aristocrat.

Her pretense of a smile dropped, brows raised in challenge. "Everyone is talking all about the Goblin King and how he has been insulted again and again this week by a young human woman. A mortal who is still alive and unharmed according to all accounts. You were once so strong and fearsome. It's frankly, embarrassing. And I, being a dear old friend, thought you should know so you could rectify the situation."

"You think I care for the opinions of anyone here? Least of all you? You flatter yourself unduly. I have not spared a thought for you or anyone else in attendance since the last Yule. And those here mocking me may want to rethink their situations."

"What do you mean by that?" she snapped.

"Few here have any right to judge any association I may or may not have with humans. How many of the heirs of those in attendance were acquired from humans with my assistance–including yours?"

Saoirse cheeks flushed, red that spread down her neck and into her hairline blending in with her curls. "How dare–"

Jareth brushed passed her, ignoring her building apoplectic eruption. Let her husband deal with her. He would not tolerate such blatant disrespect. How dare that bitch tell him how to handle Ivy. If anyone deserved to feel his wrath it was Saoirse, not Ivy.

Rowan entered the ballroom followed in quick succession by Daisy and Ivy. The room had been arranged like a small theater. Seats were set out in semi-circle rows facing the staircase which would serve as a stage with its landings and balcony. Two tables of refreshment on both ends of the ballroom were set in front of french doors that opened into the gardens allowing a cool breeze to flow through the space.

Rowan directed the ladies to some chairs near the front of the rows as he saw Jareth leave Saoirse in a huff. From the blotches on her skin, Jareth must have upset her. Some things never change. He left his charges and joined Jareth.

"What was that about?" Rowan asked nodding in Saoirse's direction.

Jareth crossed his arms in annoyance. "Nothing that concerns you."

"Fine, let's discuss something that does concern me," Rowan said. "I want to know what your intentions towards Daisy are."

"Daisy? Your little mouse?" Jareth chuckled at the mere thought. "I assure you. I have no intentions towards her. I was only agreeable to her due to an arrangement I made with Ivy."

"And what arrangement would that be?" Rowan asked genuinely curious. Jareth could not be made to do anything he did not want to do. How had Ivy succeeded where so many had failed?

Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply. Must he continue to suffer? "We made a wager and I lost."

"Lost? You?" Rowan's brows raised to the ceiling. "What exactly did you lose?"