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Salas stepped over him and lowered himself to straddle Jovack’s stomach.

And there, he paused.

Jovack made no move to push Salas away. In fact, he had even made the motion of lowering himself fully to the floor, hands hovering near Salas’ hips as though Salas straddled him like a lover, not the bringer of his death. He continued to stare up at Salas with the same, understanding expression, his gentle touch feathering across his skin in a gesture that could only be described as soothing.

Salas didn’t know that he was crying until dark spots from tears widened on the brocade that Jovack wore. Instead of feeling sure and focused on what he was doing, he felt drained and lost.

“A traitor must die,” was all Salas could manage to say between soft, gasping sobs, shifting the dagger to hold it above Jovack’s chest; something that seemed too fragile, now, to contain his heart.

Jovack nodded softly, as though he understood. Perhaps he did. “Did you finally find what you want, Salas?”

Salas bit his lip, nodding, knowing everything he ever wanted stood right behind him. “I think I did.”

He heard Jareth shift, though thankfully, he made no move to approach the distressing scene.

Jovack nodded, smiling a little. “I’m glad, then.”

Salas trembled, finally meaning to bring the dagger down.

Except he couldn’t move. Jovack continued to gaze up at him with eyes so welcoming and familiar, and he found that he couldn’t do it. He could not kill Jovack, friend to Eldron, and traitor to all, despite the curse and the justice of vengeance telling him to do so.

The wish had demanded the death of a traitor, and a traitor would die today. Perhaps, though, it would not be Jovack.

There were two traitors in the room, after all.

Salas, by siding with Diagor, had betrayed Emperor Eldron.

He turned the dagger on himself.

Can’t these two Kings rule in peace?He wondered. Hoped.If they both live? Will they honor me with that if I am gone?

Salas lifted the blade, meaning to plunge into the depths of his own stomach. From behind him, he heard Jareth rush forward, though he ignored the noise.

The dagger came down.

It was all just a single, solid moment, and at the last bit of it, everything changed.

The dagger was meant to meet Salas’ gut, and he was supposed to bleed out and die, perhaps in the arms of King Jareth. He could see it so clearly.

But at that last possible breath, the dagger veered direction. Strong hands caught around his own, firm, though somehow gentle, and drove the dagger into the body beneath him.

Jovack had caught Salas’ hands and had moved the motion of the stab so that he himself was the victim of the swing, the blade slicing cleanly into the man’s chest so that it was buried deep into him.

Salsa gasped, shocked, immediately moving to draw the blade away, though Jovack’s hands were still wrapped around his tightly, even as he began spluttering blood.

Already, the wish that cast the curse over Salas began to lift, as though dissolving, and the pain was gone.

Granted.

Jovack was dying, having brought the dagger down upon himself. As the breath faded from him, Salas saw everything that Suscon had been, die with him: the decadence of splendor, of marble halls with sanded floors, of kisses in the shade, of a paradise that could never be.

What died was everything Salas had thought he wanted. There was a part of him that still did, and the ache of that loss was heartbreaking.

Jovack reached up, finally releasing Salas’ grip, his fingers trembling as he moved to brush a thumb to wipe away a running tear from Salas’ face.

“I was originally planning on saying nothing; doing nothing and just letting you be. I don’t think I can do that. Watch you fall,” Jovack said softly, his voice achingly gentle as the light finally left his eyes and he slumped in peace.

He was gone.