The End of Sleep
by Alison Harvey
Disclaimer: Characters from the movie Labyrinth belong to Henson & Co. All else is mine.
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Cleopatra:
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that's not it:
Sir, you and I have lov'd, but there's not it;
That you know well: something it is I would,
O! my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.
--Antony and Cleopatra (I.iii.106-111)
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Chapter 1: What She Regretted
In 2071, the world changed. The first Martian colonists returned, bringing with them a new, evolved supervirus that killed billions before a cure was found. Doomsday cults reigned over the population, and world leaders were assassinated by the dozens in an attempt to bring the afterlife sooner. The multinational biotechnology corporations announced their cure in 2128, but their price was dear.
It is now 2306. Life is scarce in all forms, tainted generations earlier by those driven mad by plague. The corporations control the world through their puppet presidents and ministers. The United States has split into two distinct countries: Eamerica, centered in Boston, and California, named for the state that controls it. Magic, long ago bred out of the people by fear and ignorance, is at last beginning to return.
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Footsteps pounded in the night.
No one was there to hear the frantic beat of scuffed shoes on cracked pavement, or see the teenage girl and the young boy run for their lives.
Only the church stood silent witness to their flight, waiting in the darkness at the top of the hill. It was a small and unassuming building of grey stone, built and tended with care long since flown with the rest of the population. Only the huge double doors, monstrous creations of dark wood studded with brass, remained untouched by the loops of green ivy that strove to break each stone into pebbles and dust. The courtyard and its heap of broken gravestones was fenced away from the barren, dead land by a simple brick wall, its empty archway framing the worn stairs up to the church.
In mid-stride, the girl pointed to the hill, her loose braid streaming behind her in the darkness.
"Look!" she yelled, the wind of her passage snatching her words almost before they could reach the boy who ran with her. "There it is!"
She ran onwards, hands tightly clasping the straps of her torn knapsack as she bounded through the fallen gate and up the steps. The boy clenched his jaw, saving his energy for the last mad dash needed to finish his flight. He reached her a moment later, panting for breath and clutching at the cramp in his stomach.
"You didn't say nothing about the bars," he said sullenly when he had caught enough air to speak again. "Just the lock." He looked up at her accusingly, large blue eyes wide in his thin face, his small ponytail crudely tied with a piece of twine. He was painfully bony for his small size, and painted with swirls of black dirt that hinted at no personal experience with soap and water.
His similarly filthy and gaunt companion was quiet, dark eyes intent on the small, rusted sign nailed to the outermost brace. Someone had gone to great measures to seal this building, hammering large beams of wood across the venerable doors. None showed even the slightest scuffmarks of attempted removal.
The sign read "Nuclear waste repository."
She repeated this to the boy as she fidgeted with her long, knotted braid, undoing the string that tied it and fumbling futilely to unwind it the matted hair enough to re-braid the strands.
The boy made a face at the words. "Course it's not." He paused. "Isn't it, Sarah?"
Sarah rolled her eyes, fastening the braid once more and shoving it back over her shoulder. "Would I take you in if it was?" She touched one plank and nodded when her fingertip came away smeared green. She wiped it on her clothes, a patched and heavily stitched pair of pants and shirt that might charitably be called rags. "Mold," she said with satisfaction. "It'll have rotted the wood enough around the nails."
The boy paused to look behind and was relieved to see only the empty road, stretching lazily back towards what passed for civilization this far north. He listened, but heard only the ceaseless pounding of the ocean on the shore beyond the hills.
"Hurry!" he said, shoving at her. "I think we got a few minutes, but they'll figure it out soon enough."
Sarah paused a moment longer, then nodded. Reaching into her pack, she pulled out a bent crowbar and a stained ball of cloth. She tossed the cloth to the boy, who caught it with care. He peeled away the layers slowly, revealing four shining wires that were startlingly pristine against the crusted dirt of his hands.
"Get to work, Tommy," she said sharply, already digging the crowbar beneath the far end of the first plank. She pulled, a smile cracking her lips as the wood began to peel away.
Tommy shrugged and did so, tracing the outline of the lock reverently.
"Chie!" she cursed; the bar had slipped on the slimy wood and thrown her off-balance. She teetered for a moment on the step but quickly regained her balance.
Tommy grinned. Unlike her predecessors, Carmencita "Chie" Spencer Yang, President of Eamerica, hadn't waited for phony elections to seize control, instead instigating a bloody coup d'etat. Her vicious persecution of dissidents had directly led to Tommy and Sarah's current predicament. Only Sarah, in Tommy's experience, could twist the name so violently into a curse.
"Better Chie than the Mekuza," he pointed out matter-of-factly, referring to the squads of violent men who enforced Chie's excessive tithes and laws. He picked up the first wire, holding it out in the dim starlight to check the length.
"The Mekuza," she grunted out, throwing her weight against the crowbar, "work for Chie. What's the difference?" The fall of the first brace punctuated her words. Both managed to jump away in time, although Sarah spared a rueful glance for her foot, only an inch away from the fallen beam.
"Yes," said the boy slyly as he stepped up and fitted the wire to the old-fashioned keyhole. "But would you rather meet Chie or a Mekuzae tonight?"
"Chie," she conceded. Anyone was preferable to a combat-trained Mekuzae, especially those of the Mekuza death-squad that had been chasing them from village to village for a week now. Neither she or Tommy were prepared to fight after a week with little food or sleep. They had two meals and two knives apiece: if this last stand failed then they were sure to be tortured and killed as an example.
"We probably shouldn't name them out loud," she counseled Tommy absentmindedly as she kicked the fallen plank down the stairs. "We still don't know how they found us in Augusta, or outside of Boston." The Mekuza had tracked them despite her best false trails, double-backs, and disguises, which worried her more than she was prepared to admit to the young boy.
He nodded. The wire clicked and Tommy withdrew it, bending the tip carefully with the torn nail of his grubby finger.
Sarah was fitting the crowbar to the next plank as he made the second bend, and he had to jump back at least four times more before she had caught enough breath to berate him.
"What's taking so long!" she spat out, glancing at him suspiciously.
With an exasperated look, the thin boy inspected the now intricately twisted and bent wire. "You know, the usual."
She turned to inspect the road, shielding her eyes from the sweat running down her face. She froze for a moment. "They're coming."
"What?" he said, his voice cracking even higher than his usual prepubescent pitch. He looked down the road and was even more alarmed to see nothing. "But I can't see them!"
She wedged the crowbar under the final brace with vicious satisfaction. "They're coming. We're out of time."
As the final plank crashed to the ground, he inserted the wire again. The lock clicked loudly as the wire slotted into place. Tommy bobbed his head frantically, clearly trying to resist looking back. "It's open."
Sarah stepped up and tried the door handle, only to curse loudly after the handle turned but the door remained shut. With a dark glare, she put her shoulder to the door and began to push with protesting muscles. Tommy added his weight to the door, throwing his shoulder against it with a familiarity born of long practice. They were near-experts at breaking into abandoned buildings: the only safe houses rebels could trust.
Under their combined weight, the door gave in and creaked open ponderously. The two stumbled in under their own momentum, blinking wearily at the moonlight that streamed in through the stained glass windows.
"It's untouched," Tommy said in wonder, looking at the carved statues of men and women, drawn for a moment to the poignant statue of the woman gazing adoringly at her child. His eyes strayed to the rotting velvet curtains hung at the entranceway to two booths against the wall, pausing on the crumbled remains of flowers heaped in vases by the statues. "No one's been in here!"
"Probably no one since the plague," Sarah commented, letting her hand skim over the smooth wood of the centuries-old pews as she walked down the central aisle. "They'd've been too afraid of plague bombs to gather."
He continued his survey, oblivious to the turn in her thoughts. "That looks like real wax candles, too!"
"Won't work," the girl said curtly, shaken out of the melancholy reverie by his comment. "Only the one I have in my pack will do."
Tommy began gathering them anyway. "We could use them when we get out of here," he explained when he saw her raised eyebrows.
"If we get out of here, we don't know what will happen."
"Then we don't know if we need them, do we? I've only got one more lightstick, and candles are impossible to trace in e-magnescans..."
She shrugged in defeat, already examining the massive black marble altar, carved with intertwining Greek letters. A few sweeps of her sleeve cleared away a circle of dust, and she dropped to the floor. Hurriedly, she unlaced her pack and dumped its contents into the circle, revealing a pitiful heap of half-eaten crusts and green-black cheese. She snatched up a torn piece of paper, scanning it hurriedly before tossing it to one side.
Tommy, returned from plundering the saints, picked it up and squinted at it. "What's it say?"
Sarah said nothing, lost in concentration as she picked through the contents of the pack, gathering up a black-handled knife, a fat blue candle, a blackened, tiny bell, and a golden ring. "Match?"
He dug in one fraying pocket and offered a match coated in pink nail polish. She took it and gingerly struck it against the altar, lighting the candle with the burning sulphur. She watched the first trails of smoke carefully, nodding when it began to spiral steadily to the ceiling.
The dull thud of marching feet, soft but unmistakable, filtered through the open doors. Tommy sprang up, running to the doorway and peering out. "They're just coming 'round the road," he said, voice fluting high in his panic.
"Don't let them see you," Sarah warned, then turned her attention back to the circle that surrounded her. She began to chant steadily, strange words and clicks that sounded impossible for a human tongue and throat to voice.
"They've fourteen," Tommy continued, unable to look away from the Mekuza squad. "And they have someone with them..." He squinted and then jumped away.
"Sarah, they got someone with magic! Someone strong!"
She chanted faster in response, sprinkling dust on the flame. Her words became deeper and more guttural as she spat onto her hand and let the fire lick her skin. She jumped as it began to burn but did not move away until a patch of skin on her wrist was reddened and nearly charred with heat.
Tommy's eyes went wide as he peeked outside again. "No!" he screamed, scrambling away from his lookout post and slamming the doors shut. There were shouts from the road as the squad saw the movement and sped up. The sound of running feet grew louder.
Shaking violently, Tommy staggered over to Sarah, who was still chanting and watching the candle intently. Lifting the bell carefully, she rang it once. The corners of the old church took the tinny sound and threw it back at the pair like thunderous church bells.
Tommy trembled as the echoes reached him. "He's strong, Sarah. Hurry before he figures it out and gets through to me." He looked at her, frightened. "I let him see me, I'm sorry. I can feel him trying to use me."
Sarah reached out her hand. Hesitantly, he laid his hand palm up on hers. She sliced across the ball of his thumb with the knife, cutting herself the same way before he could jerk his hand away or cry out. She pressed their fingers together with a wild look in her eyes as the sound of the running men grew nearer.
"They're through the gate," Tommy moaned. "He knows I'm here...Sarah, don't let them have me!"
She let the mixed blood drip from her finger onto the flame, chanting the last few words quickly. She tripped over the last phrase in her rush and swore softly, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Carefully, she repeated the ruined phrase as their mingled blood hissed and spat in the flame. Both flinched as she slipped the ring over her left thumb.
The candle died at the same moment the Mekuza threw the doors open.
The two rebels, crouched guiltily in front of the massive marble altar, stared at the men who had torn the doors down. The squad was young, clean and well-groomed, wearing expensive armor in a hodgepodge of elaborate leather, Kevlar, and ceramic pieces. They all looked well fed and well kept, each with neat queues of plaited hair that made Tommy's imitation seem childish and ill considered. The leader, who wore a golden badge on his shoulder, licked his lips as his gaze fell on Sarah.
"We meet again, female," he said with an oily chuckle, tightening his grip on his gun. Behind him, his men began to laugh and talk amongst themselves.
Sarah tightened her grip on Tommy's right hand and lifted her chin a fraction higher in defiance.
"Leave them," said a sepulchral voice from behind the squad. They fell silent, beginning to part as the man pressed through from where he had lingered in the doorway.
This newcomer was Tommy's "someone strong," Sarah realized, not the Mekuza leader as she had initially thought. At least she now knew how they had been able to find her and Tommy unerringly during the last week: Tommy had finally come to the attention of Chie, which meant it was time to leave. She smiled as she felt a gentle breeze ruffle her hair.
"You're too late," she informed the gathered men solemnly. She held her left hand out, palm towards the squad, warding them away with her hand as she concentrated with all her might on their destination.
The ring melted into vapor.
A strong wind blew into the church, screaming through the pews and ripping away Sarah's carefully drawn circle in the dust. The unseen magician paused in mid-push.
"Quick, you fools!" he screamed. The Mekuza rushed forward, their leader quickest of all as he headed for Sarah with an evil smile.
There was a blinding light, and the rebels were gone.
The Falconer shouldered his way to the front of milling, swearing men, turning cold eyes on the leader of their pack as he brushed past him. He paused to sniff their air delicately before crouching down to touch his hand to the dirt Sarah had sat on when she performed the rite.
"A good spell," he said slowly, aware that the Mekuza had stopped to watch him. "A strong one, with power behind it." He touched his hand to his lips, tasting the dust. "Either she did it, and used him, or he did it and used her."
He paused, sighing in satisfaction at the icy fear he felt from the men behind him. "I need whoever it was who can make such a spell."
He turned, just in time to catch the head Mekuzae as he fell gracelessly to the ground.
The Falconer sighed again, touching his fingertips to the dead man's eyelids and closing them gently. He pulled the poison dart from the man's neck with the ease of a long-practiced lover. "You failed me. You failed President Yang. Neither is acceptable."
He stood up and strode through the men, nearly shivering in delight at the terror he felt. "Now follow me back to the village. There are more clues hiding in the townspeople that sheltered those two."
He turned around and bared his teeth at the confused Mekuza squad. "And we can have some sport there, lads."
They followed him eagerly, but none came too close to the small, balding Falconer who strode tirelessly ahead of them, a mirthless smile fixed on his face.
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"Hello," said the man.
Sarah looked around in confusion. She had a dim memory of a rushing wind and a great light, and then she had found herself here, in this strange, dazzling place. It was a large and painfully bright room, huge and opulent with a high gilded ceiling. The sheer empty space contained by the ceiling was overwhelming after a lifetime of low-roofed huts and lodges.
Whatever she had expected to come of that portal spell, it had certainly not been this. Although, in all truthfulness, Sarah had never really given thought to what would happen. She had been so sure that the spell wouldn't work that she had never spared much time for the descriptions set forth in the grimoire Tommy had brought her.
She snuck a glance at Tommy, who was fidgeting as he looked around from beside her, eyes calculating as he scanned the room for small and portable valuables.
Looking from him to the man who had greeted her, she felt ashamed. His skin was bright and clean, and his garments, although foreign, were spotless and pressed. She spared a moment to marvel at the wondrous clothing that he wore, so different from that which she knew.
He wore a tight black shirt of some stretchy material, cut and sewn to uncover all his arms below the shoulders, and blue trousers of a rough material that went to his ankles and flared over bare feet instead of ballooning properly at the calves. He had crossed his bare arms as he waited for her to finish her inspection, high and inhumanly arched brows knit beneath a fall of short, blond hair that shone in the pure light of this new place.
Sarah wondered how she and Tommy looked to him with their baggy pantaloons and draped sleeves. She wished, looking at the stranger, to be free of the dirt that sank into her skin and stained all her clothing to the same filthy black. Next to him, she realized, they must have looked like pigs rooting in a sty.
His mocking gaze hinted that her thoughts had occurred to him some time ago. She felt embarrassment for a brief moment before her natural pride reasserted itself, fighting to be unleashed against the arrogant stranger. The man waited as she struggled, his casual posture suggesting that he was doing a great favor to the newcomers by allowing them the time to adjust to the delights around them. Delights that included him, or so his half-smile encouraged her to think.
"Where are we?" she said, examining the room. Murals painted with colors so bright they made her eyes water filled the walls, detailing a rich history that she wanted to read panel by panel until she could no longer tell each drawing apart. A plush carpet started just beyond her feet, tempting her to remove the rags that passed for shoes and let her feet feel its softness. A fire blazed merrily in the grate of the nearby black marble fireplace, casting shifting shapes of light on the man who lounged in a wine-colored armchair beside it. She tilted her head slightly, trying to read the title of the book that dangled from his hand. When he caught her looking at it, he carefully closed it and leaned backwards to place it on the other side of the chair, safely out of sight.
"This is not what I read about." She had expected cold stone, loose chickens, and drafty pits, not an elegant sitting room with a roaring fire and art that could make a master weep.
The man smiled carelessly, revealing pointed teeth that reminded her again of her situation. "You are in my realm," he said, swinging his legs down from the arm of the chair. He looked her up and down and she nearly cringed, remembering the look of the head Mekuzae. "Where you have wished to be, of course. Seldom do wishes turn out exactly like we plan them to." He smiled to himself at his private joke.
If he were who Sarah thought he was, then it wouldn't be a good idea to slap him. She held her tongue, considering what to do next.
"Who is the man with the funny hair?"
She started at Tommy's innocent question, but it was too late. The man uncurled from the armchair and jumped up, stretching his arms above his head. She had a brief glimpse of a strip of pale flesh between black shirt and blue pants before he walked towards them with fluid ease. The heels of his boots clicked on the floor as he stepped off the carpet, stopping just short of Sarah. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance, sure he had done so to intimidate her with his nearness and even more irritated to discover that he had succeeded.
"Little boy," he said with a winning smile that deepened when he saw Tommy squirm at the address, "I am the Goblin King."
She closed her eyes for a long moment, but when she opened them, he was still in front of her in that dazzling room. She had managed, against all odds, to open the portal to the realm of the Labyrinth and Jareth, the Goblin King.
Jareth blinked, looking straight at Tommy for the first time. He held out a hand sheathed in black leather, looking at the boy with an expression of wonder. Mercifully, Tommy held still as the hand lightly touched his cheek, looking at the Goblin King with solemn eyes. Sarah unclenched her fists in relief when the man dropped his hand without incident.
"You have brought me a gift, woman," Jareth said carefully, straightening after a quick glance at his gloves. They were still pristine despite their contact with Tommy's grubby face, Sarah noticed. "And I do not quite understand the pattern."
"His name is Thomas Camponello," she replied haughtily, stopping herself from gawking at his strange alien beauty as he gave her, too, a thorough second inspection. "He is a direct descendant of the mortal Sarah Williams."
Jareth hissed in a sharp intake of breath. "Then you have done me a favor indeed," he said, looking down at the boy with sudden proprietary interest. "Is he her great-grandson?"
She shrugged, having expected the question. "Sarah died over three hundred mortal years ago, Goblin King. This is the son of her son of her son to the seventh generation."
He looked at her again, clearly interested now. "A seventh son of Sarah, you bring me," he said thoughtfully. Before she could consider this reaction, the Goblin King had turned his knife-like attention to her, examining her with exquisite care.
"Why such a prize?" he demanded, ruthlessness in his eyes. "You know his value to me," he added as she opened her mouth. "What did you think to gain?"
"Sanctuary, and magic," she rushed out, leaving the rest unsaid for then. His sudden flare of anger sent a rising tide of worry flooding through her.
His eyes narrowed. "Sarah Williams," he said softly, looking at her face.
"Half right," she answered. "I'm not a Williams, but my name is Sarah." The weariness of her flight and the drain of the spell began to sap her strength, and she lurched on her feet.
Jareth grabbed her as she swayed, gripping her arm so tightly that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. "Hold still," he said irritably. "I can't work the spell unless you stay calm."
Sarah realized she was about to be sent back despite her plea for shelter. She had been wrong about many things, it seemed. Wrong about the ancient description of the goblin castle and its king, wrong about his love for the long-lost mortal--and most of all, wrong about gift of safe haven he would offer both the mortal's kin and the bringer.
Sarah closed her eyes, happy at least that Tommy would be safe, and braced herself for the journey back to the church and the Mekuza. It figured that only Jareth's quicksilver temper would hold through the years.
She cringed as a tingle swept over her skin, nearly weeping in relief as it disappeared before it could spread beyond her arm. His grip slackened abruptly. She cracked an eye open tentatively in surprise, only to see Jareth standing in front of her, a softened expression on her face.
"Appropriate," he said, touching her on the cheek as he had Tommy. "I would not have seen this happen, but here it is set in front of me for the taking."
She stared openly at him in confusion, which shifted to disbelief as he conjured a crystal and offered it to her.
Carefully, she took it from his hand. It glimmered softly in her palm, weightless, tickling her hand gently as it wobbled on the uneven surface. It was glowing and ethereal, spun of dream-stuff and magic, and she fought the urge to run and hide far away, where no one could find it but her. She cradled it closely, lost in the colors that seeped lazily across the surface, twisting in dazzling fractal oilslick patterns.
"It is you," he said when it became clear the crystal would not break. He favored her with a brilliant, genuine smile. Before she could bask in its warmth he soured, his face darkening with anger. She fought the urge to step away, forcing herself to stand her ground against his mercurial disdain.
"Yes, you are here again," he said, mouth twisted in a thin line of discontent. "But why are you here? Why didn't I know you were walking in the free air, waiting for me?" He bent down to look at her again, shaking his head when he couldn't find the confirmation he wanted in her confused gaze. "I should send you back and be done with it."
"What?" she demanded petulantly, feeling strength inside her rushing forth at the unfairness of it all. Were they safe here or not? What was the Goblin King talking about? "What's going on?"
"On the other hand, perhaps it has finally been enough," Jareth said to the crackling fire, his mood suddenly contemplative. "I must have done my penance in the long years, for you have finally returned."
He turned to her, eyes filled with a longing so strong she had to avert her eyes, seared by the raw emotion he had shown her. "You are back and my offer still stands."
The crystal imploded, leaving a delicate ring in her palm.
"Take it, and all I've promised before shall come to pass. Pledge yourself to me now and we can end the game here."
Numb with horror, she looked down at the ring and the fading crimson sparks that the crystal had showered her hand with when it had burst.
"Sarah, what's going on?" said Tommy from where both had forgotten him. "What is he talking about?"
"I don't know," Sarah wailed, unable to take her eyes from the gold filigree circle, deceptively heavy in her palm. She raked her mind over his words for some hidden meaning, utterly confused by his sudden shifts in mood and his final, bewildering offer.
She had never met the Goblin King before, despite what he claimed. She hadn't known for sure that he existed until the portal spell had transported her to what she presumed was the Underground. The ring filled her vision relentlessly, a silent warning to judge her actions. From the strength in his words, she doubted the misunderstanding could be explained once she made her choice. Yet remembering the men at the church, particularly the Mekuza captain and the magician, she wondered if the deception might be the safest path. She had no desire to return to a painful death.
The weight of Jareth's regard as he watched her was heavier than the ring to bear. She shivered as she felt his gaze sharpen.
"Well?" he drawled smoothly. The hollowness in his voice warned her against looking up but she couldn't stop herself.
He was living ice: tall, imposing, and radiating menace. He met her gaze and she fell into the event horizons of his frozen eyes, helpless against the naked fury she could feel rising all around them and focusing around his slim figure.
Underneath all her confusion and fear, something liquid coiled in her and began to pulse hotly in her blood at the arrogant display of power, filling her with slow weight that turned her attention inward. The feeling of remembrance grew, battering her mind as it froze to ice within her.
"Decide, mortal," Jareth said coldly. "You have had more than enough time to decide."
"She's only had five minutes!" Tommy burst out behind them.
"Much more than that," Jareth replied, eyes never moving from Sarah as she looked helplessly at the ring. "Lifetimes beyond your count," he finished, but did not elaborate.
"No," she said at last, deciding that he needed to know his mistake before it hurt her. "I haven't had years, and I need more time for such an important decision."
"What?" he roared, taking her chin between his fingers. He searched her face, tipping her head back roughly so that he could look into her hazel eyes.
Moments passed, ticked off by the swing of the grandfather clock in the corner. She was forced by her awkward position to consider his eerie sky-colored eyes and watch his mismatched pupils flickering as they passed over her face. What he saw in her, or what he sought, she couldn't fathom. Trapped in his grasp, she only wished for it to end.
"You don't remember," he said at last, glacially calm. "This cycle, you don't even remember who you are." He shook his head. "I had thought we had played the game poorly last time, Sarah Williams, but even I would not be so cruel." He paused, searching her face once more. "You do not know me," he at last bit out, releasing her and whirling away, pacing to the fireplace in dismay.
"You're the Goblin King," Sarah said carefully, afraid to correct his mistake once more.
Jareth stopped, throwing back his head and laughing bitterly. "I am indeed. You know enough to lead you here, and I will take that as the one encouragement it was meant. You knew enough to bring the boy." His eyes narrowed as he turned, laying one arm on the tall mantel as he leaned against it. "I think you are deliberately avoiding this choice, Sarah. It is time to end this."
The sense of memories coiling through her intensified to near-pain as she felt the pressure ascending, wrapping around her spine and crushing her rib cage as it climbed past her heart and inched its way to her mind. She gasped, stiffening, mouth frozen open mid-sentence.
"Yes," Jareth whispered, studying her from his place by the fire. "You may not remember yourself now, Sarah Williams, but you will soon." Firelight caught the planes of his face, wreathing him in shadow as he kept his vigil.
Tommy was still by where he waited, watching Sarah with quiet fear. She felt the lightest brush of his magic; heard him gasp as he recoiled.
"So cold," Tommy said through chattering teeth, and blurrily she saw the Goblin King turn with raised eyebrows to consider Tommy as he fought for control, bruised by the backlash of whatever was attacking her.
Bitter frost wrapped her throat and caught her breath, her eyes glazing as the pressure rose the last few inches of its journey.
Then it was gone, shocking in its lightning-quick disappearance. She looked up to see Jareth directly in front of her, twirling a crystal on his palm with disdain and looking anywhere but at her.
Her vision was colorless; the Goblin King was all angles and sharp planes, ruthless beauty and curious vulnerability. Looking at him, she could almost see the precipice he hung over and contemplated in the depths of the crystal. Something deep and dark within her shifted, and her lips shaped words before she even knew what she was saying.
"You have no power over me."
As she said it, she knew it was true.
Jareth stared at her for one long, cold moment before clenching his fist, shattering the crystal and grinding the fragments into the leather with a sound like cracking bones.
"So be it, Sarah," the Goblin King said slowly, carefully. "But I will not lose you again." He turned his fist and opened it, letting the shards drop to the ground. They clattered to the floor like broken wind chimes.
Sarah stumbled as he came for her, and the world fled into darkness.---------------------------------------
Author's notes:
Version two uploaded 12/14/03--many thanks to dawn1 and thehoodedbanana for the reviews that led me to revise the intro
Beta'd by songbird, who responded to my call for a beta with amazing speed. Special thanks to Stormchild, who set this idea in motion about two months with her challenge calling for a reincarnation story.
And a big fat apology to readers who thought I was gone until January. I broke my own first rule of writing with this one: never start one story when another is half-done. But hiatus is...almost...like done, so I figured I was safe. (Right? Right?) In the meantime, this'll be a short break for me.
I welcome all criticism freely. If something offends your neurotic grammar or plot instincts, tell me and you will make my day. I throw this stuff out here in the hopes of receiving scathing reviews that'll improve my next try.