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Salas understood and washed his hands in the bucket. He sighed, appreciating the warmth it provided.

In a serge of gratitude that overwhelmed him, he threw his arms around the large cook and thanked her.

Surprise obviously overtook her when she jolted back, yet she quickly returned the gesture, petting him once more before releasing him.

Then she was calling the workers, who’d been out in the corridor, back into the kitchen and Salas hopped down, retrieving his crutch. She swatted at her staff playfully as they reemerged, as though they had done something wrong, but it seemed to be all in good humor. Physical touch was just her way of communicating, Salas realized.

He found his place at the table, picked up a potato, and began peeling.

Hours later, after chopping and grinding away at kitchen tasks, and after consuming two meals himself, he was given permission to leave.

Salas had found himself delaying his departure, waving the toffy he’d been given in front of the children underfoot and laughing in the chase they gave.

Finally, he’d been pushed out the door.

Salas paced in the hall in front of the kitchen door, unsure if he should go back into the kitchen and voice his concerns to the cook, yet unknowing how. Shame filled him at the thought of the kitchen staff marveling in his own pathetic situation.

Where was he to go?

Salas bit his lip, his mind twisting around the idea of a guard spotting him, of the struggle that would ensue, and finally of being thrown back into the dungeon cell with the promise of death the following day.

He had been shown no quarters of his own, so it only made sense to him that that was where this kingdom had decided to keep him.

But there was only one room in the castle that he wanted, only one great enough to suit him in the simple fact that it was the best, and therefore the only one he wanted.

Salas began making his way through the halls at a near-race, keeping to the shadows. He was deathly afraid that a hated guard would spot him and drag him away to that dark place.

Finally, he reached the large double doors of the King’s chambers. Two guards stood on either side, he was dismayed to see, and seemed apprehensive about his approach.

One of them spoke Susconian. “This is the King’s chambers. What business have you here?”

Panic twisting in him, Salas ignored the guard and began pounding on the door with his first in the greatest knock he could muster.

“Hey!” the guard barked, affronted, stepping closer to stop him.

Salas pounded quicker.

Finally, to a relief that shook Salas to his center, the door opened and King Jareth stood there—a looming, great presence.

Salas ignored the King, slipping past him and into the room. The guards rushed to snatch at him, gushing their stumbled apologies to their ruler, yet unwilling to move past the great man as he still blocked the threshold, and therefore the entrance to the room.

“It’s fine,” Salas heard the King stay, calmly and sternly. He said something else in Diagorian that Salas didn’t catch, yet it made the guards stand to attention and return to their posts.

Then King Jareth shut the door.

Salas undressed with a haughty energy, his glare for the King as he made arrangements for himself on the bed, his eyes daring the larger man to make him leave.

The King’s mouth was pressed into a line, but rather than seeming angry, it appeared as though he was biting back a smile. “And where am I supposed to sleep, little bird?”

Salas held himself still on the bed but did not reply, his glare growing in its fierceness.

“It’s all right, Salas. Be at peace. Rest.” The King moved to throw another log onto the fire.

Salas hesitantly made himself more comfortable, pulling wool and furs up over him.

Drowsy after a day’s work that felt surprisingly satisfying, he found himself relaxing.

When he felt the weight of another person settle into the space next to him, he further slackened his hold on his nervous energy, curled up beside the large figure beside him, and fell asleep.