Don't Dream it's Over

Author's Note: This story is a crossover between Jim Henson's Labyrinth and Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novel series, although it deals more with Labyrinth's characters. None of the lead characters belong to me. In terms of continuity, this fanfic doesn't link up with the Return to the Labyrinth manga, though it may borrow aspects from it; I'm not sure yet. It may also touch on the story in Bowie's film clip for As the World Falls Down.

The title is taken from the song of the same name, written by Neil Finn and originally performed by his band, Crowded House.

Currently rated K+ for mild swearing and some slight adult themes which may later occur, if you're lucky :P

Edit: since it was first published, this chapter has been amended. The first version was a bit clunky, and minor details were added as I fleshed out the plot further. It's still fundamentally the same plot-wise; however I think this new version reads better.

Please enjoy my interpretation ~ W.J.

Chapter One

*Now your smile is spreading thin
Seems you're trying not to lose
Since I'm not supposed to lose
All you've got to do is win*

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Matthew fluttered his feathers irritably. He had been trying to retain his most regal pose upon a pillar for nearly two hours now. The Dream King highly valued a dignified visage in his servants when undertaking official duties. Matthew was awaiting a guest of the Dream King's, and had been assigned to greet the distinguished personage; that is, when he finally cared to grace the Dreaming with his presence.

"Damn pretentious stuffiness." Matthew hopped on the spot, unfolding and refolding his wings restlessly. "I've served long enough to no longer be relegated to playing 'page boy'; I should be above putting on such ostentatious displays of-"

A sharp sound like a sail whipped about by the breeze split the stillness of the foyer. Matthew whirled, startled, as he recognized the sound of a fellow bird banking against an updraft. Preparing to land.

A large bird alighted regally in the centre of the foyer, looking incongruous in the expanse of the great floor. It was white with a flat, pale face, a slender black beak, and two eyes which, as the owl swivelled its head right around to fix Matthew with a piercing stare, were two mismatched shades of blue, one darker than the other. Both were strange colours to see in a bird's eyes. The barn owl rearranged its sleek plumage and strode across the floor, its long black talons clicking on the hard surface, with the jaunty tread of a nobleman on parade. Its reflection in the floor's slick surface, contrary with its size and colouring, swirled around it like the hem of a mystic cape trailing behind it, expanding swiftly and full of glimmering colours. The Dreaming was like that; reality had no place here, and nothing was as it seemed. As someone would soon find out.

"Hey! You!" Matthew's harsh croak of indignation interrupted this strange parody of a king's swaggering gait. He took to the air, rising upward, then began a sharp descent, directed at this unexpected intruder. He continued to mutter all the while: "You can't just waltz in here! There's room for only one bird here! Damn sight-seers! That griffin at the gate isn't doing his job, letting anyone just float in-"

"You're right, there is room for only one bird here," a haughty voice replied unexpectedly, making Matthew hesitate, startled, in mid-swoop. "Or rather, only one bird-brain. At least said-griffin knows how to do his job properly, and when to keep his beak shut."

The talons which had been about to drop on the intruder instead hit some round and hard which skittered under Matthew's weight. He fluttered madly and managed to deposit himself inelegantly on the floor. Staring about with one beady eye, he saw what had slipped him up; a glass orb, which, disturbed by his impact with it, rolled sedately across the floor as though down a gentle incline, though the palace's entrance hall was a vast, flat and featureless expanse. Then it unexpectedly jumped upwards, and was caught, not by a black talon, but by a similarly claw-like hand clad in sombre black leather. Gone was the cloak of snow-white feathers; the reflection on the floor had rearranged itself into the semblance of a man, the corporal twin of which stood poised in the centre of the hall, the orb in his hand clutched with a possessive air of authority, a short cane topped with a similar crystal held in his other hand like a sceptre. Ornate lace, reminiscent of the feathers he had worn moments ago, spilled over his wrists from beneath a pearly-white, shimmering frock coat, and adorned his throat in a frothy cravat. In old-fashioned culottes and knee-high boots, he had an air of aristocracy. Framed by a shock of unruly blonde hair, a handsome, slender-featured face peered down at Matthew with an expression that was part regal-disdain, part feral-snarl. The mismatched eyes, though both the same hue, were startling; while the left, cobalt-blue one stared piercingly down at Matthew, the other, lighter iris looked out at the middle distance, as though it were bored with the sumptuous vaulting halls and gazed instead into an unseen horizon; into a world of imperceptible dreams.

"Er, you wouldn't be His Majesty, Jareth of the Labyrinth, Goblin King and Ruler of the Underground, would you?" Matthew inquired nervously. If he was, and the Dream King found out what he had just said…

"He is indeed," A third voice answered from just behind Matthew; he winced. It was shot with cool disapproval.

Another figure had appeared in the hall, so suddenly, and yet standing in the great airy expanse of the hall with such perfect self-assurance that it seemed he had been there all along. Unlike Jareth's brash egotism, his was a quiet confidence, an air of righteousness and benevolent royalty. He similarly wore what looked like riding clothes from the era of le Roi Soleil with an added eccentric flair – a glossy satin shirt all made of lace ruffles and flounces; a velvet frock coat which absorbed all the shiny fabric's lustre, so rich was its blackness; black breeches and high black leather boots. Between shirt and coat he wore a simple black waistcoat, from which a single ruby hung on a silver watch chain. A glimmer was visible from beneath the heavy mane of hair which fell over his eyes like thread spun of obsidian; a briefly-shining light like a single star within pupils which, even compared to the hue of his entire outfit, seemed darker still. As the two monarchs faced each other across the floor, they appeared like alternate versions of each other, dark and light.

"We welcome you to the Hearth of the Dreaming," Morpheus, King of All Night's Dreaming, intoned officiously, using the royal pronoun and making a slight bow which was every inch both accommodating and dignified. "You are dismissed, Matthew," he added in a curt aside.

"Yes, Milord. Sorry Milord, your Majesty." Matthew, looking sheepish, bowed until his beak nearly touched the ground, then swiftly took off, disappearing beyond the foyer's seemingly limitless walls.

"To repeat an already trite phrase, it is so hard to find good help these days," Jareth observed and smiled wryly, thinking of his raucous court of goblins and the woeful reception they would have given if roles of host and guest had been reversed.

"He means well, and he is useful in some ways. Come, refresh yourself after your journey. Preparations have been made."

Morpheus ushered Jareth into a smaller chamber where a table had been set with a pitcher and goblets. Jareth sprawled casually in his chair as was his wont, and the Dream King set a goblet at his elbow. Jareth took it graciously, eyed the livid orange fluid somewhat warily, then sipped. He started with mild surprise, and a chagrined look came upon his face, thin lips twisting sardonically.

Peach nectar. It is sweet, yet also a bit tart. Refreshing. And quite ironic.

"You have need of my assistance, my friend," the Dream King stated, recalling him from his reverie. Jareth grimaced.

"It brings me shame to come to you in need, grateful as I am for your hospitality. A monarch should be proud; should silently toil on his knees, suffering with dignity, until he claws his way back to his rightful position. I have great respect for your having done so after your unfortunate sojourn in the mortal realm."

Morpheus shrugged, a gesture of polite modesty. "Mortals are not all they are said to be; most, though volatile, are fundamentally weak. They do not realize their place in the greater scheme of things, beyond their realm, and therefore cannot affect or even truly comprehend anything beyond it. Their motives are purely selfish; and hence, my captors were simple to manoeuvre into defeat. I believe your problem also involves humans."

The Goblin King didn't respond right away. Brooding silently, he stared darkly into his goblet for a time, at last depositing it on the table beside him with a clang.

"Humans!" he hissed between clenched teeth. "Such a foolish race!" Despite his vehemence, there was a tragic sadness in his eyes, which were rimmed with dark circles, and his face was pale to the point of being unhealthily wane; it was clear that his outburst was not quite genuine, but more a bluster to conceal deeper emotions which had been running close to the surface of late. Morpheus waited patiently whilst Jareth stared at his boots, collecting himself. When he finally spoke, not bothering to look up, he didn't use his usual arrogant tone; his voice was surprisingly low, almost sulky, and tempered by shame.

"There is a woman…"

The Dream King paused to take in these words, then set down his goblet with an almost imperceptible nod. Weren't most of the realms' woes caused by women? The same applied to himself, and he was not proud of the fact. He sympathized with Jareth. He continued to listen as the goblin haltingly spoke on.

"A woman named Sarah Williams, from the human realm. She was beautiful, talented, radiant in her youth, so very alive. Such a dreamer. She knew our world, would have been in her rightful place had she chosen to live among us, as my queen. I attempted to woo her, a little over four months ago now. I thought I had provided her with everything she had ever wanted. She was, at the time, a damsel in distress, an ill-used heroine, discontented in her mundane human life, burdened with things she longed more than anything else to be free of. And so, I freed her. I rescued her; I removed her obstacles, and took her away, laying my very kingdom at her feet." He waved his black-attired hand with a graceful flourish; in an instant, another clear crystal orb appeared, poised on his fingertips. Inside it appeared to be a tiny nucleus, which gradually grew and grew until it filled the sphere, becoming a whole world. The Dream King could see the spire of a fine castle, looking as though it had been carved from a single column of tawny-brown rock. At its base, the walls of the castle seemed to divulge and twist and turn into the ground in a tangled, knotted mass, like the roots of a great tree. Between them, dim passageways of seemingly infinite length were visible. The Labyrinth.

"Every desire she had, I satiated," Jareth continued, gazing at it absently, holding it aloft like a sacred vessel. "Every whim, I catered to. Every task she willed, I performed. When she could no longer stand the strain her family imposed upon her, I removed them; I took her brother away where he could no longer squander her loved ones' affections. When the idea of banishing him forever startled her, I wasn't offended that she regretted the use of my services. I gave her a choice; I showed her my kingdom, and let her choose whether she wanted to give up her harsh reality for the utopia I offered her. I consoled her with a gift of her fantasies made real, of a world where she could leave her drudgery for the preferable delights of her imagination; where she could live in dreams."

The image in the crystal changed. It became a single round room a-whirl with movement, dancers dressed in sumptuous costume and fantastic masks spinning around its perimeter like stars in a solar system. Slowly the dancers drew outward and passed beyond the edges of the sphere, disappearing beyond it; a gracefully turning couple in the centre of the room grew larger until they became its sole occupants. One was a graceful, waif-like girl clad in a shimmering white, bell-shaped gown which showed off her creamy complexion and dark locks, delicate silver ribbons and leaves wound whimsically into her hair, giving her the appearance of a woodland nymph. She was dancing with an equally elegant figure in full formal attire, who with adept steps and protective arms guided his partner in a sweeping slow dance. This figure was a miniature, identical version of Jareth. The real goblin king watched his sliver of semblance turn with its beautiful partner in the midst of the orb. His left eye, as though to match his emotions, had darkened to a shady of navy very near to black; his gaze, always piercing, hardened even more until it became trenchant. The black-gloved digits likewise tightened on the crystal, leather squeaking on glass; for a moment, his hand trembled, then with a crash the sphere shattered within his tightening grasp, the vision of the dancers disappearing abruptly like a flame snuffed from a candle. As soon as it broke, the shards of the orb melted into the ether, and Jareth was left with his empty fist tightly clenched. His voice was dangerously steely.

"After all I had done, she rejected me, begged me to return her to her life of misery and hardship. I had given her all I had to give, and she threw it carelessly back in my face as though it were nothing. She taunted me, ridiculed me. 'You have no power over me.' Those were her exact words. I did everything in my power to please her, woo her, soften her heart. All for nothing. She only tore me to pieces her cruel words. I weakened to her indomitable will. I sent her back to the drudgery she professed to long for, together with her precious sibling, whom she had claimed to despise. I watched her give a fete in her chambers for her helpers, celebrating her triumph and lauding my loss, my humiliation. I had offered her my many possessions, my boundless favour, my total adoration, but she would take none of it. I had given and given, but she would not receive. What was left for me to do?" He dropped his empty hand heavily onto the table beside him. The goblet and its contents toppled over, but he didn't notice; his head was bent in misery which was barely veiled by a strained composure. "What was left… for me to do…?" he said again faintly.

"What would you have me do?" the Dream King asked after a time, after he had remained sufficiently silent to acknowledged Jareth's tale of woe. With a wave of his hand, the streaks of spilt drink on the table melted away; the goblet righted itself. "How can I be of any service in these affairs?"

Jareth turned to face him with a wild look of desperate hope in his mismatched eyes. "I tried to tempt her with her dreams, but they were not enough. Though my realm was intertwined with her dreams, though she glimpsed snatches of it and pined to possess it, when I opened the door wide to her, she turned away. I have nothing else I can offer her, and so I resolved to acquire more." He looked pointedly at Morpheus. "You are the King of All Dreams, the Lord Shaper. My command of dreams is haphazard, weak and ineffective compared to your grand mastery." Morpheus acknowledged this flattery with a slight inclination of his head. "You can help me to shape a dream which she cannot refuse, which encompasses all her desires. I alone have not the skill, nor the insight to be all things to her; but with your help, I can finally win her. Please, please, I beg of your assistance – without you, I can achieve nothing, and she will remain lost to me." Jareth bowed as low as his seat would let him, his head bent in humble supplication. It was astounding to see the once overly-proud monarch pleading to another with such humility.

Morpheus frowned deeply, the stark white forehead furrowing in almost invisible creases, like snow upon a ploughed field. "You flatter undeservedly, and you ask assistance of the wrong person," he murmured, making Jareth look up in surprise. "I can tell a similar tale to yours. Once I had a woman whom I adored. I loved her; I thought I loved her utterly, and she likewise did me. Just like you, I offered her everything – my kingdom, my adulation, all that I could offer her. And like you, I was rejected." Dream folded his skinny arms across his slim frame broodingly, his voice full of bitterness. Jareth listened intently, seeing the parallel between their predicaments.

"Unlike you, I was not gracious. I denounced her, branded her ungrateful, a traitor, and condemned her to the worst punishment I could inflict: I sent her to the torments of Hell. That was ten thousand years ago. She remains there still."

He stopped. No more was needed to be said. All knew of Hell, had heard of its horrors, its harshness, its savagery; there was no need to explain. The Goblin King gazed at his contemporary in stupefied awe; his soul shivered within him. Even he was not so heartless, even he had a shred more humility. The depth of the Dream King's resentment, the pain and anguish that had prompted this action, left him stunned.

"You must have loved her very much," he uttered softly, respectfully.

"I did." Morpheus' tone was quiet, relentless. He turned to look at his guest, and his eyes seemed like portals to an empty, airless space, devoid of any warmth, of any spark of life. "Lord Jareth, do not think that you can sway a woman's heart with material wealth alone. I offered her – Nada – the entire Dreaming. Anything she wanted, anything she desired, I would have fashioned for her from the fabric of the Dreaming itself and presented to her on a silver platter. But she asked me for the one thing I could not willingly give her: Freedom. I was not as compassionate as you; what she truly desired, the only thing she asked for from me, I could not bring myself to give to her. I was so cruel to her."

Dream's words were painfully frank. Slightly embarrassed, Jareth tried to reassure him. "A king must keep his dignity. Our first priority is our kingdom, it is our greatest responsibility. We must give ourselves first and foremost to our duties. If we lose ourselves, our kingdom loses us as well, and it suffers in our stead."

Dream shook his head shamefully. "I would have lost nothing by giving up my pride, by admitting I had lost her. I acted out of selfishness. I… I was wrong."

The Dream King's voice had dropped until it was barely audible; he seemed to be talking to himself. Jareth remained respectably silent, a part of him outraged and embarrassed by Morpheus' claims. A king was never wrong; he always knew what was best, and none could question his word. His word was the very law of the kingdom; it governed all existence. And yet, here were two great, once-proud kings, sitting side by side in shared defeat, airing their sadnesses to each other. How could two kings be conquered by… by…

"Desire," Dream said softly, his voice suddenly carrying a softly-spoken malice, "is a dangerous thing."

He remembered, a dinner held not long ago in dusty halls; six people of strikingly contrasting appearance, yet all of the same family gathered around the table, as a single rich, sensuous voice, high in triumph and brashly loud spoke over the heads of the others while he stood alone, unable to protect himself from those spiteful words:

"She really loved you! I know! I could taste her heart. And what did you do? Because she wouldn't stay with you until you tired of her, you sentenced her to Lucifer's domain. Because she hurt your pretty pride - you've had her tortured for ten thousand years!"

The words still echoed within his fragile soul, and they were followed by more; a softer, more compassionate voice than Desire's callousness, but nevertheless one that hurt him more, since it was one that had guided him, that he had always trusted:

"Desire was right! You shut up and listen. Nada really loved you! Maybe Desire had a hand in how intensely you two felt about each other, but that doesn't matter, because Nada was right."

He had tried to explain himself, to justify actions which he had thought were his right to perform: "I would have made her a goddess…"

"Maybe she didn't want to be a goddess!" that voice had argued back; to his alarm, it had rung with truth. "Did you ever consider that, little brother? And condemning her to Hell 'cause she turned you down?! That's a really shitty thing to do!"

Dream's eyes narrowed in determination as those words resounded within him. "Do not repeat my mistakes, friend Jareth. My course was made clear to me by one whose advice I trust unwaveringly. My flaws were made evident to me; I committed a wrong, and though it may hold the direst repercussions for me, I must set it right. I was about to leave on a journey to Hell when your message reached me. I thought the least I can do was to meet with you one last time before I leave on a quest which may utterly destroy me. Upon my return, if you still want it, I shall gladly aid you in what you wish to do. However, do not mistake the wish for freedom as defiance, as I once did. I acted callously, unjustly – do not let pride and… Desire… manipulate you into doing the same thing, Jareth."

The Goblin King was silent for a minute, staring into space, these companionable words of caution whirling in his consciousness. Had he been wrong? Had he acted callously, cruelly? Had what he asked for from her been too much to demand?

"Look, Sarah… look what I'm offering you; your dreams… I ask for so little… just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want… fear me, love me, and I will be your slave…"

What if she hadn't wanted that, to be bound to another in such a way, on any terms? What if, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he offered her, no matter how he tempted her, she would never submit to him? He remembered her, diaphronous in a floating gown the same pale shade of green as a new spring leaf, a wreath of dainty rosebuds regally crowning her hair – so young, so tender, so stunning… he remembered her pent-up sighs of wistfulness, her fitful cries for help, her misty-eyed longing… oh, how it quavered inside him, how it softened him, how he wanted to support, to protect that vulnerability… and at the same time, how that rebelliousness, that flash of light in her eyes, like lightning, like a tiger glimpsed through the bars of a cage; the incisive, clear little voice that intoned like a queen, so regal, so magnificent… so powerful…

"You have no power over me…"

Though he had a kingdom full of lowly subjects cowering at his feet, though his fearsome realm stretched, peerless, across the hills of the Underground; though he had his crystals full of magic and wonder that could bedazzle every sense, though he could have whatever he wanted, just by wishing it… the only thing he wished for, and the only thing he could not conjure for himself, was her…

"I must try," he declared vehemently, with some of his former bravado. "I must try one last time to win her, no matter the cost. I can't let it end with this. I lost; I am entitled to a rematch."

"And if you lose again? What then?"

Morpheus' question struck him like a whip, though his tone was still sedate and low. The full force of the possibility hit him. Jareth was silent. He couldn't contemplate it, couldn't allow it to happen… but he had thought that the last time as well. What if it happened again…?

"I shall contemplate that when it happens," he said with some pride, but his voice was shakily subdued. Yet he kept his head held high, chin tilted up obstinately, a fierce determination making his eyes flare blue fire.

The Dream King nodded. It could not be told if it were an approving nod, or the contrary. It seemed a mere acceptance of the way things must be.

"You will help me?" Jareth asked him, a hint of premature dejection in his voice. There was a pause, during which the goblin feared the Dream King might refuse.

"I shall help you, since you requested my aid," Morpheus answered at last. "I am not one to judge whether you are right or wrong; I have misjudged my own deeds, and therefore I am in no position to refuse you. As I mentioned, I have my own task I must undertake, my own wrongs I must right. As soon as I return to the Dreaming, when my own affairs are dealt with, I shall help you to create your dream."

Jareth looked relieved; the intimate talk of spurned love became a strictly-business transaction. "I shall pay you in advance." He held up his empty hand again; an orb appeared in it, and he tossed it across the table. Morpheus held out his hand with a masterful gesture, and it hovered there, suspended over his outstretched fingers. Mysterious mists of undefined colour and form whirled within it. "A dream paid for with a dream," Jareth declared. "I no longer have need of those dreams; they are my payment, do with them what you will."

"Your payment is accepted." Morpheus lowered his hand, and the orb blinked out of existence, probably to materialize somewhere within the Dreaming, stored away until its new owner found a use for it. "I apologize in advance if I am unable to fulfil your request," he said, rising to his feet and signalling the end of their meeting. "The journey I now undertake is perilous, and I have no indication that I may ever return from it."

"The best of luck in your endeavour; I anticipate your safe return," Jareth reciprocated, standing also.

Morpheus bid his guest farewell; Jareth again donned his cloak of feathers and flew home, trepidation and hope intermingled within his heart.

The Dream King materialized a long black travelling cloak about himself, gave his underlings, who appropriately fawned and feared for his safety, his final instructions, and left the Dreaming for what might have been the last time, similarly with both a foreboding and an urgent sense of purpose within him. He paused at the border of his domain, considering. He had a few errands to run before he made his way to Hell; perhaps, since he was going to the human realm anyway…

He outstretched his hand, and obediently, a glass orb came to perch there. Its contents swirled fitfully, impossible to make out.

"Do with it what I will," he repeated thoughtfully to himself. "Yes, I don't believe I'm mistaken in thinking that that is the proper course of action. Her name, then, was Sarah Williams..."

His mind made up, man and crystal winked out of this realm and into another. The Dreaming, though masterless, was, for the moment at least, peaceful.

Author's Note: Lines in this chapter are quoted from the manga Death: At Death's Door by Jill Thompson, which in turn based on the Seasons of the Mist story arc from Sandman.

* Lyrics from Win, by David Bowie