A Fantasia

by Geliot99

Summary:

“Look, Sarah. Look what I’m offering you; your dreams.”

It was a statement which, in hindsight, she should have paid more attention to…

 

Twelve years have gone by since Sarah last dreamed a dream. Unbeknownst to her, her dreams belong to someone else.

And, of course, there'll be dangers untold to win them back.

Chapter 1: What Comes In On Stormy Weather

"Look, Sarah. Look what I'm offering you; your dreams."

It was a statement which, in hindsight, she should have paid more attention to…

xXx

It was raining in the Underground.

Murky water trickled around the cobblestones of the Goblin City in miniature streams, dripped off the squat roofs into endless puddles, and flooded some of the smaller inhabitants out of their homes altogether.

The labyrinth corridors had turned into rivers fit for gondolas.

The oubliettes were so damp that an infestation of eye-moss had completely furred the rocky walls.

The forests had become swamps.

In the grand window of the Goblin Castle's throne room, an enormous heap of goblins stared mournfully out, watching the rain coming down in sheets. The tink-tank-tinkedy-tank of leaks collecting in buckets harmonized with the white-noise staccato, and the collective goblin sigh.

"I'm bored," groaned one from low down in the pile, his mushy face made all the mushier from the gravity of goblins above him.

"You're always bored," grunted a second; a large leathery upside-down face dangling off the parapet, letting the rain run into his eyebrows.

"It's always borin'," said the first. "It's always rainin'."

"Ve could play a game," suggested one from far left in the heap. The heap sighed, disappointedly.

"We could have a battle," suggested another from top right, and was met with a volley of head-rolls, wordlessly expressing maybe but without much enthusiasm.

"What about The Her?" asked a croaky fifth voice from the back.

That caused a ripple, accompanied by a chorus of clanks as helmets clinked against helmets, goblin eyes meeting goblin eyes in sudden intrigue.

"The Her?" repeated Top Right goblin.

"The Her," confirmed The Fifth. "His Her."

Another flurry of clanking interest.  

"That's a thought," snickered Far Left.

xXx

Aboveground was just as wet. Rain had soaked Sarah to the skin underneath her sweater, droplets clinging to the wool, making it feel like a suit of armor over her shoulders. Condensation fogged the inside of the coffee shop as she ordered two lattes, and scored a table by the windows, wiping the glass with her sleeve so she could peer out into the torrential downpour outside. Waiting for her friend to arrive.

Across the street, she spotted the bright blue of Natalie's raincoat, face obscured by an umbrella but her trademark hurried half-march was unmistakable even as she jumped over puddles and ducked into the small Italian cafe that was the closest to Sarah's work.

Sarah waved and Natalie beamed back, shaking out her umbrella and depositing it in a bin next to the door before winding her way through tables.

"Hey, Sar!" she called, and then immediately stifled a yawn with her hand.

"Hey, Sleepy," Sarah greeted, opening her arms to Natalie as she slumped into her for a hug.

"Oh my God, the sleepiest," Natalie murmured, returning the squeeze. "Coffee so required, all the coffee." She dropped down into the chair opposite Sarah's and immediately picked up the designated latte, taking a big gulp.

"Not sleeping too well?" Sarah asked, sliding into her seat.

"Ugh, no. Stress dream, after stress dream, after stress dream," Natalie groaned. "This merger at work is going to kill me."

"So going great, then," Sarah prompted with a wry smile, taking a sip of her coffee.

"The worst. Just two more weeks, though." Natalie sighed and waved her hand. "Don't ask about it, it's so boring. How's the museum?" she asked, changing conversational direction like doing a U-turn down the highway.

"Mega stress," Sarah answered with the same amount of groan. "We're installing a new exhibition, and have a new shipment coming this afternoon. It's chaos."

Natalie raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed.

"Wow, I bet all your stress dreams are such high-brow, artistically rendered nightmares," she chuckled.

Sarah laughed with her. "Super thankful I don't dream."

Natalie stopped stirring her coffee, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "What do you mean you don't dream?"

Sarah glanced up at her, offering her a light smile. "You know, I just… hit the pillow and then it's fade-to-black."

"Weird," Natalie said with an amused huff. "You've never dreamed ever?"

"Oh… no, I definitely dreamed as a kid," Sarah replied, her brow furrowing slightly as memories were recalled. "I know I had a really bad nightmare when I saw the poster for Jaws—"

"Terrifying," Natalie agreed around a sip of her latte.

"I remember it was just a huge hole of water with teeth." Sarah shuddered. "Still freaks me out thinking about it."

Natalie swallows the last of her coffee. "Then when did you stop?"

"When…" Sarah paused and counted back in her head. "When I…"

When I—

Her mind reached for the answer and found it immediately.

She drew in a breath, clearing her throat of its sudden iron-fisted tightness, and tried to shake off the shock, chasing it back with a slug of latte.

"It's been twelve years," she answered.

Natalie cocked her head. "When you were sixteen?"

"Yes," Sarah said, and the confirmation brought with it a distinct feeling of dread. Like water rushing suddenly back from a beach. A harbinger of wrongness.

The cold wave of dawning realization was so at odds with the cozy coffee shop background noise. The clinks of mugs, and muttered conversations. And her in the middle of it, suddenly alone. Adrift.

I've had that feeling before…

"What happened, did you bump your head super bad or something?" Natalie asked.

Sarah held herself still as thoughts swirled, fringed with panic.

Twelve years.

Twelve years. It had been so easy to keep at bay the twirling, glitter-filled memories. She was practiced at it, not allowing memories of the Labyrinth and the watchful eyes of its monarch to sweep her away. After all, she'd won, hadn't she?

Hadn't she?

Sarah swallowed.

"Ate a bad peach," she answered under her breath.

xXx

Jareth lounged, cutting a long, narrow-hipped, wild-haired, drape of a figure against the study window, sprawled in his chair with his boots up on the desk while the rain outside filled the air with a beautiful, endless monotone.

He let out a contented sigh.

He liked rainstorms.

They reminded him of her. Of that day. Those first thirteen hours and the way it had all begun.

The way storm clouds had plastered her romantic, green dress to the jeans she'd worn beneath. How she'd tried to race the clouds only to be swept under them in a downpour. The sight had been worth the rain he'd had to shake out of his feathers.

Shame about how it had ended though.

But…

Jareth rolled his hand and brought out a crystal from the recesses of the ether. It sparkled with an oily rainbow sheen as he danced it across his fingers.

…there's something to be said for consolation prizes.

Notes:

AN:

A massive, massive thank you for my endlessly supportive betas Em_Kayelle and RavenLove12! I am so so grateful for all your advice and cheerleading, you both rock!

To the wonderful readers in this fandom, this fic will be dealing with themes of aphantasia, and whilst I am supported by a sensitivity beta for this topic I am by no means an expert on the condition. I encourage any readers to let me know if I get things wrong, any feedback is welcome and appreciated!

Chapter 2: Apples and Peaches

"Is it Her?"

Bright, beady eyes watched from beneath a storm grate, tracking a pair of jean-clad ankles swinging past; jumping over some of the larger puddles on the sidewalk and hurrying to escape the rain.

"Maybe?" muttered a scratchy voice in reply, a second set of sharp eyes glowing a dim yellow next to the first pair.

"Vhat do you mean maybe?" grouched a third voice. "It 'tis or it 'tisn't. An' I'm gettin' wet!"

"Well it's bloody hard to tell from only legs!" hissed the first.

Two grumbly-mumbles of grudgeful acknowledgement echoed wetly from the drain.

"Ve need a better look," stated Three. One and Two agreed, and three sets of yellow eyes ducked back down into the murky gloom of the drain, followed by the sound of scrabbling claws on brick.

xXx

A gloved hand played across the surface of a crystal, spinning it and twirling it and sending it gliding across a palm, bringing it to a stop with perfect balance on outstretched fingertips. The suddenly still surface reflected back a sharp face with mismatched eyes.

"Let's take a look," Jareth murmured to himself.

The reflection shivered and rippled, blurring and morphing into three goblin scouts hunched in a drain, yellow eyes peering out from the darkness.

What are those rascals up to?

The image pulled back, capturing long legs. It pulled back further until there she was: Sarah, her back hunched as she ran through the rain, water dripping from her soaked hair as she barrelled through a side door to a museum.

Jareth sighed, his head tilting affectionately, a soft smile playing across his angular features. "There's my girl."

His gaze focused, watching as she hung her coat and stowed her bag in a locker before making her way to what seemed to be a loading bay, full of rectangular packages of varying sizes.

Jareth reclined back against the glassless window's arch, the window's overhang protecting him from the worst of the rain. Leaning comfortably, he propped his free arm on his knee, the other leg dangling over a sheer drop to the goblin city below as he brought the crystal closer, the image honing in on her face.

There was a solidified realness to her image this time. To the frown of her mouth, the green of her eyes. The sleek fronds of hair, still partially drenched. No blurry, romantic vapors of a dream here.

He much preferred it, though he didn't visit often. Seeing her was like opium, and he couldn't afford the addiction.

"Sweet Sarah," he sighed, a grin curling one side of his mouth. "Shall I give you something to remember me by?"

The crystal spun again as he started humming softly to himself.

There's such a sad love. Deep in your eyes…

xXx

Sarah huffed out a sigh of relief when she finally made it back to the museum's staff entrance, squeezing a river of water out of her hair after the wind had rendered both the hood of her jacket and her umbrella useless.

The coffee date with Natalie was still playing in her head, her thoughts slippery and hard to hold on to.

Something had changed. Some delicate piece of denial had shattered and she was still picking up the pieces. But stubbornness prevailed over the shock.

I'm not going to think about it, she thought determinedly. I'm not going to think about… him.

I'm not going back.

I won.

It's over…

And yet that conversation with Natalie had filled her with a mounting dread that such a rigid statement wasn't entirely the truth...

"So if you picture like, I dunno… an apple? Is there anything there?" Natalie had asked, stirring sugar into her second coffee.

Sarah had swallowed hard, blaming her thudding heart rate on the double shot of espresso in her hand.

"Yeah, for sure. I can do that, that's… I just don't dream," she'd said, the coffee infiltrating her bloodstream beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly bad idea as her skin seemed to tighten around her.

Can I picture an apple?

As Natalie went to order a muffin from the counter, Sarah had closed her eyes.

And willed an apple to appear.

For an uncomfortably long beat there was nothing. A barren wasteland of nothing devoid of even a black abyss. The abyss would at least be something. But nothing materialized—empty and silent—until worry turned to panic in Sarah's gut.

Why is there nothing?!

Then suddenly—

A round shape.

Good. There it was. Sarah eased out the clench of her jaw as more details filtered through.

Furred skin, a blushed pink color.

…Wait…

A cleft line running from tip to base..

That's not right—

A bite mark revealing the hard pit in the center. And the blackened hole that a worm had taken through the soft yellow flesh—

Stop!

Her eyes had flown open with a jolt, her breath catching in her throat as her heart hammered.

Oh God…

Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. The sounds of a coffee shop in motion slowly washed away the horror. But the taste of peaches lingered.

Don't think about it, she'd coached herself as she'd struggled back into her wet coat and hugged Natalie goodbye, heading back out into the torrential rain, wind whipping at her hair and making her eyes sting. Put it out of your mind…

It didn't mean anything. It was just… wires getting crossed. It didn't mean anything…

She was tired, that was all.

Now partially dry, she stood in the unloading bay, packaged paintings surrounding her on all sides like big, bubble-wrapped walls as she chewed her pen, staring at the consignment checklist in her hand in a hypnotized daze. The adrenaline that had carried her back from the coffee house had already left her system with a thud.

In the oppressive quiet of the warehouse, the apprehension returned. It was worse in the clinical silence and bright lights, a feeling of being on a stage and forgetting her words washing over her. She felt under scrutiny inside and out.

I feel like someone's watching me…

She took the pen out of her mouth and shook herself out of that thought. You're being paranoid.

It was years ago, after all. Let it go…

Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, Sarah ran the pen down the checklist, circling which paintings were to be unwrapped and hung first, making notes of which gallery they were assigned to.

A cackle broke her concentration—gritty and guttural—cut off by a harsh shh!

Her neck prickled with heat, her eyes darting around the loading bay as she spun.

"Hello?"

She waited.

Something moved in the corner of her eye—a shadow mingling with more shadows—but as she moved to catch it, there were only the stark shapes thrown from the heaps of unloaded paintings, highlighted by the loading bay's lights.

"Hello?" she called again. "Emma?"

Silence greeted her, and she waited. Waited, but nothing else came, and eventually she let the air out of her lungs in a slow breath.

Hearing things—

"Sarah?" the gallery supervisor called down from the slope leading to the main hall, startling Sarah into dropping her pen. "Have you got paintings eleven-A to eleven-D? We're nearly ready to hang."

"On it!" Sarah called up, crouching to retrieve the pen from beneath a workbench.

Eleven-A had been one of the first ones off the transport truck, leaning against the far wall with three others.

Sarah looked down at the list and ticked them off with four hurried flicks of her pen.

Here, here, here, and here.

She checked the adjoining list for titles and artists. First to be hung was Bal Masqué by Charles Hermans; oil on canvas.

That'll be the big one at the back…

Sarah frowned as she glanced up. Rather than tightly wrapped like the other three, this painting's wrapping was loose, undone in one corner and hanging open.

Maybe it snagged on something getting out of the truck? Sarah thought, worrying her lip with her teeth. Shit, please don't be damaged.

She moved the other smaller paintings carefully to one side and picked away a piece of packing tape to let the rest of the bubblewrap fall open. She froze with the tail of the wrapping in her hand, the plastic bubbles exploding as her fist tightened.

"Oh…" She breathed out as she took in the scene with wide eyes.

A glamorous balconied room, a raucous crowd, bodies pressed in tight to the point of claustrophobia, laughing and dancing and shouting in wild gaiety—

Sarah took an unsteady step back, the memory hitting her like a tidal wave; powerful and unstoppable. The way music had spun through her head, pulling at the fringes of her mind. She could hear it clearly as if it were playing now, deafening yet dreamlike.

The feeling of bodies crowding her from every side, laughing and cackling and screaming, hands clutching at her, nails digging into her arms as she tried to run.

Riotous laughter echoed in her mind…interrupted by the sound of glass breaking…

"The ballroom—"

It's just a coincidence.

It's just a coincidence!

But the longer she looked, the more it seemed the colors of the painting were… wrong. Instead of the dark red velvet trim of an opera house balcony, it was a shimmering rainbow-hued gray. The figures were extravagant in their attire, but the gentlemen looked like pirates, the ladies like fairy queens. The masks were no longer simple black satin, but wild and grotesque faces; sharp noses, empty eyes, all uncomfortably reminiscent of… of…

Goblins.

"No—"

Sarah took another step back.

There's such a sad love. Deep in your eyes…

…a kind of pale jewel…

…open and closed… within your eyes…

Sarah stumbled away from the painting, the back of her thighs catching on the workbench as she bumped against it.

And the light hitting the painting shifted.

The reds and golds returned as though they'd always been there. The strange, ethereal figures became merely a trick of the light. The goblin faces melted back into dappled light across oil paint.

Sarah took a breath. Rubbing her eyes hard. You're just tired, Sarah. Get a grip.

"Hey, we're ready!" Emma called out, bounding down the slope with long bouncy strides. "Whoa, you okay?" she asked, taking in the gaunt paleness of Sarah's cheeks as she blinked out of her daze and hauled in a deep breath.

"Fine," Sarah muttered, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose, massaging across her eyes to rid herself of the cloying memory that shouldn't be a memory at all. She dropped the clipboard on the workbench and straightened her back. "Just… too much coffee. I'll take that end." She lifted one side of the painting, walking it up the slope as Emma took the lead into Gallery Room Number Seven…

…missing another rustle in amongst the shadows.

"It's defin'ly Her."

And two other voices snickered in agreement.

Chapter 3: In A Dream, Darkly

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when she finally made it up the steps to her apartment.

The day had been exhausting, filled with carrying paintings into different galleries and running up ladders to hammer nails and hooks into walls. Enough physical labor that the strange dip in reality hadn't managed to keep a foothold on her attention.

But something had followed her home. She was sure of that. Little scratchy footsteps, a cackling chuckle at her back that could easily have been rainwater trickling into drains, but still the hairs at the nape of her neck were prickling up under her wet collar.

She held herself stiffly as she unlocked her front door, and sagged against it in relief as she closed it behind her, her hand twisting the lock with a thunk. After a beat, she turned and slid the chain into its bolt too.

A hot shower relaxed her muscles, a glass of wine relaxed her mind, and she curled up on the sofa with her draft copy of the museum's autumnal exhibition catalog opened in the cradle of her legs; sticky notes prickling the fore-edge like a flattened hedgehog, and handwritten scribbles in the margins.

She flicked through it, making more annotations, ticking pieces off, glancing now and again at the paintings she'd spent the day hanging, and ones still to be delivered. She paused on the small, slightly grainy image of Charles Hermans' Bal Masqué.

She couldn't help it, her eyes glazing as the memory of twirling through a ballroom unleashed, being held in a tender grasp, the dreamscape of it all flooding her system unbidden. Her heart thudded the way it had then, with each dip and twirl, the air in her lungs cinched tight with awe.

Jareth…

It hurt to think his name. A slip of her thoughts like the slip of a hand trying to pick up broken glass and inadvertently slicing through skin.

Twelve years and it was still a strange wound. A breathtaking fantasy that she'd been too young to fully comprehend at the time, but not so young that the intention behind it was unreadable. The look in his eyes. The softness of his voice. The hypnotizing half touches that were oh-so-chaste. Deliberately so. Drawing her closer like a fish on a line.

Stop it.

Sarah took a breath and focused, put him and his labyrinth and his city and his minions out of her mind, staring intently at the pictures beneath her fingers, the work still to do tomorrow. Her concentration held until she came to a stop on a painting of Eve, framed by wildflowers in the garden of Eden, an apple poised partway to her lips.

Can you picture an apple?

Sarah bit her lip. With a determined huff she placed her glass of wine and the catalog on the coffee table and closed her eyes.

Picture an apple.

Picture an apple…

Nothing came.

She tightened her jaw in frustration and then forced herself to relax it. Forced herself to recline back into the sofa cushions and unclench.

You've just seen an apple, she coached herself. Just picture that apple.

But still, nothing came.

Sarah sighed and opened her eyes, then massaged over them with the tips of her fingers, trying to rub away the exhaustion the last few weeks had tattooed across the lids.

"You're just tired," she muttered to herself. "Go to bed."

She downed the wine and turned out the lights on the way to her bedroom, eyes almost closing as she brushed her teeth in the ensuite, before collapsing into bed.

Swaddled in a thick duvet, her arm tucked beneath her pillow, she let her eyes drift shut. Welcoming the nothing.

Although this time the 'nothing' felt weighted. Heavy with a watchful silence. Regardless, she drifted into sleep, dark and warm and devoid of anything but that strange presence that had been around her all day, sleep taking away her apprehension. Her shroud of denial eroded with it. She knew who was watching.

"Well, Sarah," said a soft, purring voice, little more than a murmur, the edges slightly smug, an audible grin. He was close, his warm breath a fluttering caress across her cheek. "Can you picture an apple?"

Sarah swallowed, letting her body relax further even as her gut tightened. One more time.

Come on, she coaxed inwardly, willing one last time for that elusive vision in her head to reappear. Something! Come on!

A round shape began to unblur. Dusky pink and burnished orange like a sunset.

That's not…

Sarah pulled away from the image, letting her mind's eye return to the darkness behind her eyelids, the blank slated nothingness.

Maybe a different route? She knew what an apple felt like. What it smelled like. Tasted like. Maybe if she brought those things into her mind first the picture would follow.

Sarah refocused and brought the scent of apples into the forefront of her mind, their bright perfume filling her nose, sharp on the back of her tongue.

Except the flavor was too honey-sweet, the tart bitterness not present.

She opened her mouth, lips parting as she imagined the crunch of biting into hard flesh. But the texture in her mind was soft. It didn't split with a satisfying crack the way an apple would. It fell apart against her teeth, supple and pliant, stringy as the pulp came away from the hard pit in the center. She swallowed as imaginary juice flooded her mouth. Dripped down her throat. The tangy nectar made her dizzy as it once had before.

Her mouth widened and the fruit was pressed to her mouth again, urging her to take another bite. She did, letting her teeth sink into the soft flesh, and this time her lips grazed the fingers of the hand holding the peach.

A thumb brushed her chin, wiping away a smear of juice, and Sarah lurched back from the feel of leather across her skin. Her eyes flew open, wide-eyed in the dark of her room, gasping as the taste of peaches turned saccharine on her tongue and the dream evaporated around her.

"Oh no," she whispered.

xXx

"Look, Sarah. Look what I'm offering you: your dreams."

But she hadn't accepted his generosity. Had not, in fact, even considered the offer—and hadn't that just worked out oh so nicely anyway?

As consolation prizes went, her dreams were bountiful. Every night for twelve years he'd enjoyed their comforting presence; languishing in them, letting them fill his head with the delectable fog of her. Letting her thoughts and feelings and memories surround him like water closing in over a drowning man.

They were mostly of the Labyrinth: his subjects, her adventure, the moment they'd had together. He liked those parts best. Sometimes he was her dark villain, sometimes her romantic prince. All times Sarah's heart beat quicker as he nestled into her subconscious.

Other dreams had been of her life outside. He'd paid less attention to these, but he liked the way she dreamed of art. Always so much movement. So much color. So much her.

But he had always been alone in them.

Until now.

It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see her; her arm tucked under her head, supine on a bed the edges of which were blurry from her half-sleepy state.

Jareth held his breath. The first time seeing her asleep in a bed—lying before him in solidified realness within this shared space of her dreams—was a contradictory freefall of elation. She was so close he could touch her; no waiting endlessly for her to call him again, no peering through a crystal at her, she was there.

Her waterfall of hair fanned the pillow, her brow furrowed in concentration, and as he closed the distance between them, the object she was trying to summon appeared in his mind, bright and shining. Temptingly red. Crisp and sharp and sweet.

But he never had cared for that particular fruit.

Moving slowly so as not to tumble her from this precarious space of half asleep and half awake, he knelt by the side of her bed. She stirred, sensing his presence, and he waited for her breathing to even out again, for her muscles to slacken out of their apprehensive tension.

"Well, Sarah," he murmured softly, whispering to her as her head turned towards him, her mind's eye comfortably tucked behind his own. "Can you picture an apple?"

She swallowed, and he watched her eyes scrunch tight in concentration.

"Come on," Sarah whispered desperately, and he almost lost control of the game. It had been so long since he'd been so close to her the nearness was making every muscle in his body ache with wanting. "Something. Come on."

With a slight grin and a flourish of his wrist, barely even an ounce of magic, Jareth brought a peach out of thin air.

As you wish…

He held the peach out to her.

Her lips parted, and Jareth shuddered at how badly he wanted to sink his mouth down over hers.

Not yet.

Gently he held the peach to her lips instead. After a heartbeat, her head lifted off the pillow and her teeth sank into the supple yellow flesh, juice dripping down her chin over his thumb. She moaned slightly as she swallowed, and Jareth held the reins of his desire even tighter.

She took another bite. Her lips brushed over his fingers, a light pressure over his glove, but he could so vividly imagine the plush wetness against his skin instead, the hint of teeth, the caress of her tongue.

He couldn't help himself this time and wiped the line of juice off her chin.

Her eyes flew open, wide and green, and on him—seeing him, he was sure of it, as her eyes dilated even without being able to fully focus on him in this shared dreamscape—before she was gone, swallowed up by the darkness, winking out of the dream like a blown out candle.

Jareth chuckled around an awed breath, feeling intoxicated and dizzy on the stolen moment.

"Goodnight then, my sweet Sarah," he whispered, and took a bite of the peach himself.

 

 

Chapter 4: Look Who Wandered In

As you wish…

Sarah sighed as she rubbed her eyes. Those words were still echoing in her head, along with an almost sleepless night and a draining workday sitting heavily across her shoulders. After a fitful amount of tossing and turning, she'd finally managed to claw her way towards sleep, exhaustion winning out sometime around early morning, her dreams just an inky black well she'd sunk into as she'd crossed the threshold to unconsciousness.

But that didn't mean there was nothing there.

A lilting voice.

The taste of a peach.

The slightest touch of leather-clad fingers.

Fuck.

Her head slumped in her hands, staring down at the catalog on her desk, recuperating before the final stint of the day (or more accurately, early evening), the page open—once again—to Bal Masqué by Charles Hermans. A little thumbnail version of the piece hanging in Gallery Room Number Seven. She couldn't bring herself to go and look at the original. To satisfy her curiosity that way…

Because if she tilted her head in a certain way… and looked into it…

Things changed ever so slightly.

It was hard to be sure, the picture was so small, but… but…

Tell me I'm dreaming, Sarah pleaded silently with herself. Tell me I'm just dreaming.

…Would I even know if I was? It's been so long since I last—

"You look tired."

Sarah startled up from the catalog, meeting Emma's eyes through a bleary gaze.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she muttered once her heart stopped trying to gallop out of her throat, brushing the hair back from her face.

"Not sleeping well?" Emma prodded, perching on the edge of Sarah's desk, taking a swig from her water bottle. Gallery plaster dust scuffed her clothing, a couple of flecks dotting her hair, twirled into an effortless updo that looked stylishly disheveled enough that Sarah fought back a spiteful glint of envy.

"Definitely not enough," Sarah answered, combing her own tangled locks out with her fingers and finding her own plaster flecks.

"Go home," Emma said, reaching over to shut off Sarah's computer and closing the catalog with a thwap.

"We still have Gallery Thirteen to hang," Sarah argued mid-stretch, though not passionately; the overtime had already dragged into over-overtime and her muscles ached, loudly pleading for a hot shower and a soft bed.

"We've done enough for today," Emma insisted, ushering Sarah up out of her chair. "Go home. Order a pizza or something. Sleep. We'll do the rest in the morning."

"You're the meanest boss in the world," Sarah muttered as she slipped into her coat, still damp around the collar from the storm that didn't seem to have any intentions of letting up.

"I know. I can be so cruel," Emma replied, and the hairs on Sarah's neck stiffened.

Just a coincidence…

She shook it off and tucked her hood up around her head as she stepped out into the torrential downpour. She hailed a cab home, watching the rain lash the windows, its white noise soporific and the steady whump-whump of the windscreen wipers like a giant's heartbeat, tension slowly unwinding.

Back in her apartment she shrugged out of the wet wool of her coat, and kicked off her boots, peeling off wet socks and dumping them in the laundry hamper.

She tumbled down onto the couch with a groan, stretching out just for a minute, just to rest all the aches synchronizing in every muscle, then she'd raid the bare bones of the fridge before a shower and bed.

She didn't mean to close her eyes.

It was pitch black when she woke up. No light, nothing but a dark void where sight should be.

Sarah raised herself slowly off the sofa, careful to avoid the coffee table as she felt her way towards the light switch. She reached out to where the living room wall should be. But instead of sturdy plaster there was the feeling of cold stone under her fingertips…

Stone?

"Where am I?"

The scent of rain filled the air. She breathed it in, blinking frantically to try and lift the dark veil from her eyes but the sightless abyss persisted.

Her hand grazed along a wall as she took a hesitant step forward, the stone wet from a storm just recently passed, fingers brushing across the soft ripple of moss that wriggled beneath her touch, causing her hand to lurch away.

"Ugh!"

One step at a time, she lifted her leg when her feet met branches obscuring her path, debris, and sodden leaves squelching beneath her bare feet.

I'm dreaming… It's just another dream…

Sarah swallowed.

…Isn't it?

But she could feel it all. Could feel the slime of soaked stone walls beneath her fingers. Could smell the cold stone and taste the rain saturating the air. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around in a dream?

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled a low bass note through the air. The stone wall under her hand suddenly gave way into an opening she hadn't anticipated and almost tripped through.

She froze, her hand no longer moored, the vulnerability of her blindness making her heart jump into her throat. She might have imagined it but she could've sworn something cackled nearby, a dirty little laugh that could've been an echo of the lightning cracking overhead.

"Hello?" Sarah called out, her voice strained with panic.

No one called back.

She turned her head left. Right. Trying to feel out a direction to take with all her other senses that were stoically refusing to be heightened by her lack of sight.

Which way? Which way?

Left or right?

Up or down?

…Which way did I go last time?

She drew her lip in between her teeth, pinched hard to draw down her concentration, trying not to spin in place. Which way, which way, which way?

She closed her eyes. Opened them again uselessly back into blackness.

"Give me a sign!"

A crack of thunder broke over the Labyrinth, shaking the air. A gale of wind rushed down the damp stone corridor, billowing through Sarah's hair. It buffeted her and pushed her back until she was facing left. Her hand found a branch and reconnected with the stone wall like a miracle.

She took a breath.

"Fine, since I'm pointing that way…"

With brittle, cautious steps she walked, the stone paving ever so slightly beginning to steepen into an incline enough that her calf muscles began to gently burn, wet leaves and grit sticking to the soles of her feet.

Should I feel that? If this is just a dream…?

After what felt like forever the wall curled around. Became an alcove, rough stone turning to soft, smooth brick.

The storm dropped away to the stillness of inside air.

I'm in the castle…

Sarah's foot plummeted as she missed a step, over-correcting and slipping, falling, her backside meeting the stone paving.

"Shit!"

She groaned, and when the shock of the fall passed, she used her elbows to push herself back up, fingers outstretched.

Her hand met warm leather, the ruffle of lace.

And then the warm skin of a wrist as fingers closed around her hand, pulling her up.

"Well," murmured a voice, low and soft, purring directly into her ear as she yanked her hand back with a shocked gasp. "Look who wandered in."

Sarah jolted awake, a cry halfway out of her mouth.

"God… Oh, God…"

Several deep breaths pushed the dream away and put it back under a shroud of denial.

Just a dream. She drew her hands down her face. "Fucking hell."

When the shivery, shaking feeling eventually passed she rose to her feet, shutting the living room light off as she strode off to her bathroom to shower off the lingering aura of the labyrinth.

Missing the yellow eyes glowing underneath the couch.

"D'ya fink she's dreamin' of Him?" said One as the sound of running water joined the sound of rain hitting the windows.

A dirty chuckle croaks from under the sofa. "Defin'ly sounds like."

A third gave a grunt. "If she is, they ain't her dreams though, is they?"

A long pause. "...Ya fink she's finkin' of Him too?"

Two snickered. "I dun't reckon she ever stopped."

Chapter 5: Can You See Me?

"Darling, how you consume me…"

Jareth hummed to himself as lightning flashed and briefly overlayed the warm candlelight dappling the castle's walls.

"Starve and near exhaust me…"

The night had drawn in, and he'd shucked off his courtly extravagance in favor of a silk robe of tawny brocade and shimmering gold embroidery that reached the floor and pooled on the flagstones. He let it drop from his shoulders, catching it with one hand and flinging it across the bed as he continued the melody.

"Oh, tightest grip on my affection…"

He wore nothing underneath but his medallion.

Not that modesty mattered in the confines of his bedroom; a quiet haven away from goblin ruckus, filled with tapestries and hangings, a burning fire, and a bed that echoed the throne's sweeping curl, creating an intimate half-shell silhouette filled with furs, blankets, and pillows.

"I move the stars for you…" he sang aloud, walking to his bed before sinking into it, moving the covers back to slip in underneath them.

He left the other side of the bed free.

Just in case.

"...And though your eyes can be so cruel…"

He grinned to himself, and let his head recline into the pillows.

"I'd do anything to catch your attention."

A lazy hand ran down from the hollow of his throat to his heart, straightening the amulet over his sternum, his fingers playing over the lunula's curve.

He was going to dream of her.

He could feel it; the press of it heavy and waiting behind his eyes, bearing down on him like a hand on his chest, holding him still. The feel of her hand momentarily encased in his the night before still had his heart fluttering. The brief glimpse of her was still intoxicating, the way she'd strayed into his castle—wide-eyed and blind, windswept and beautiful—still dazzled.

Brave thing, to get so far on touch alone.

His mouth stretched into a private leer. He could get quite far on touch alone, too. Maybe she'd come to appreciate that...

The second time she'd made an entrance had been after he'd drifted into a doze on his throne, his hand stretched behind his head as a pillow, the other draped across the throne's curve. His eyelids had flickered open when he'd felt the touch of her hand stroking down his arm, exploring the texture of his leather coat with a crease between her eyebrows.

He'd watched her fingers trail his forearm almost absentmindedly as she tried to get her bearings, unwilling yet to give the game away with any movement.

He'd turned his hand over as her fingertips traveled from sleeve to glove, and as he'd finally reciprocated with a gentle touch of his own, his fingers trailing across her palm, she'd gasped and snuffed out like a candle. He'd grinned and resurfaced from the dream with a flicker of his eyelids opening and a pleased hum.

Getting closer.

And now…

The thought of her touch had his blood fizzing, heart pounding hard enough to see the twitch of it beating at his pulse points.

Yes, he was going to dream of Sarah.

But more importantly, she was going to dream of him. They'd meet in that strange shared space that wasn't really shared. The dreams no longer belonged to her—she couldn't see them with her own eyes—but that didn't change the fact that the real estate existed inside her head.

It had taken her a while to realize that particular door in her mind was closed. And now she was breaking in on private property without an invitation.

Jareth smirked to himself.

Delinquent.

He didn't mind, of course.

He was nothing if not generous.

He took a long, deep breath and willed himself to calm. The bed cradled him comfortably, drawing the tension out of his shoulders. He'd never wished a day to move faster, practically pleading night to fall, knowing she'd be in his mind's eye as soon as he retired for the evening. She was so close…

The soporific staccato of the rain flooding the Goblin City drew him slowly down into sleep, his eyes closing without a fight. And when he finally reached the low depths of unconsciousness, the air changed; the rain no longer so loud in the curved archway, the fire no longer burning so bright.

Jareth's eyes opened. Trained around the dark room.

And stopped on Sarah standing in the window.

She was dressed in a white t-shirt, shapeless joggers slung low on her hips and bare feet. Her hand braced against the stonework and a crack of lightning illuminated her gaze, blind though it was honed directly on him.

She wasn't startled by the roll of thunder that followed it, but the hand on the alcove stroked inward, leading her deeper into the room, and Jareth watched her hungrily, sitting up in bed and letting the blankets pool in his lap.

Her hand met the edge of the window's alcove, fingers slipping over the grooves in the stone, and she sighed as though bored, irritated to find herself sightlessly searching another room in his castle.

Such an inconvenience.

"Where am I this time?" she asked, presumably a rhetorical question meant only for herself, but he answered it anyway.

"You know where you are, precious," he said softly and her head snapped back to him.

She didn't vanish on him this time, her nerves having steeled from annoyance. Perhaps she was acclimatizing to his presence.

"Is this a dream?"

Jareth smiled (to himself, since she couldn't see it) and reached for his robe.

"Well, it's certainly not a nightmare," he answered affectionately, closing the brocade around himself as he rose from his bed. He took a moment to summon the fire into a brighter flame so he could take her in.

Still, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Long, dark hair, and eyes so sparkling green that he yearned for them to see him fully. Yearned to see those pupils widen into inky pools the way they had whenever he'd been close to her.

The sight of her standing in his bedroom made his gut clench pleasantly.

Of course, he'd keep his manners, but every fantasy of her here, within his reach, standing before him, flashed before his eyes on an in-breath (all with considerably and consistently less space between them).

His eyes slipped down her form and he felt his throat tighten. Here with His Sarah.

What an exquisite dream we could share…

"How do I know it's not a nightmare?" she asked, one of her hands remained anchored to the window sill, the other stretched out to find something else to connect to, fingers straining.

Jareth tilted his head.

"Are you scared, Sarah?"

She rolled her eyes in his general direction, affording him the full impact of her unimpressed scorn.

"No," she answered, her hands still searching.

He stepped closer to her, into the circumference of her arms reach, and her hand connected with the collar of his robe. She caught hold of it. Swallowed.

"I just keep dreaming of you," she said, a bitter inflection indicating he wasn't intended to take it as flattery, but he chuckled regardless.

"How romantic, to be so much on your mind." He watched her fingers flex, her hand flat over his chest, her fingertips brushing his collarbone. She didn't pull away. "And you're in mine," he added quietly, confident she wouldn't pick up on the double meaning.

Her fingers traveled inwards. Brushing over his medallion she let out a shivery breath. A small line furrowed her brow, eyes narrowing.

"It feels so real," she said pensively. "For a dream."

Jareth held his tongue, fully aware that this gentle exploration would grind to a halt if she caught on that this was no figment of her imagination.

Yet, how promising it was; that this was how she behaved with her figments of him.

He leaned into her touch as her fingers brushed upwards to his throat, up his neck, cupping his face in an exploratory caress. He kept his hands down at his sides, not reciprocating as she stroked the hollow of his cheek.

"Is it really just a dream?" she asked again.

Jareth nodded, ignoring the 'just'.

"It's a dream." He turned into her hand so the corner of his mouth met her palm. "One we share."

She was still for several breaths as that thoughtful crease between her brows reappeared.

Another flash of lightning.

Another roll of thunder.

Her thumb traced inwards, testing the plushness of his lower lip, and he couldn't help himself, unable to hold himself in place—his restraint slipping free of its moorings ever so slightly—his tongue licked the pad of her thumb, and he all but tasted her heartbeat jump under her skin. His teeth nipped gently, and she drew her hand back.

He caught it, fingers encircling her wrist completely, and she gasped.

"Don't wake up yet," he whispered, keeping his voice low lest she hear the plea wrapped around it like barbed wire. "Not yet."

Ever so slowly he slipped his hand against hers as though he'd caught her in a dance. One they hadn't managed to finish last time…

"It's so good to see you again," he whispered, stepping another inch into her.

"I wish I could say the same," she quipped, and he chuckled, resisting every instinct that was clamoring to press closer, gain more ground, feel her against him.

Instead, he brought her hand back to his shoulder, his fingers trailing down her forearm. She didn't resist, her breathing starting to deepen, her blind eyes dilating brazenly.

The way they had done for him before.

"Shall we practice?" he offered, placing his hands on the window sill. Caging her in but not touching, her free arm came up to brace against his chest. "We can forego the fruit." He leaned in closer until their foreheads were almost touching, the warmth of her breath fanning his cheek.

"Can you picture… a Goblin King?" he asked, and Sarah's brow furrowed. She blinked. Eyes suddenly focusing on him. "Sarah…" he purred, meeting her gaze and holding it. "Can you see me?"

She winked out and Jareth opened his eyes, blinking in his bed with the taste of her skin on his lips.

He let out a pleased groan and rolled back into sleep.

Chapter 6: Wish It

Sarah rubbed the grit out of her eyes with the heel of her hand and pinched the bridge of her nose but it was no use. Sleep was taking her. There was no way around it.

She'd spent the day struggling to stay awake, her eyes drifting closed if she sat, or leaned, or simply stood still for even a minute, dead on her feet dragging her way through the work day, the minutes ticking past in painful slowness.

The exhibition was up, ready for open doors in the morning. And that was the other problem. There was the painting; Bal Masqué by Charles Hermans…

Her weary eyes could only see the Goblin Ball now. Twirling gowns, cobwebs of crystals and pearls hung in the air, and masks shaped like moths, foxes, pirates, and birds. Unable to shake the breathless, crowded feeling that consumed her every time she looked at it, she'd avoided eye contact with it, walking quickly past it without even turning her head.

It was like Jareth had sent her a picture postcard and she'd had it framed and placed in opulent grandeur in Gallery Number Seven.

I'm just tired, Sarah coached herself from where she lounged with a glass of wine on her sofa, her TV droning on, unwatched. I'm just tired and the dreams are getting…weird.

Except she didn't dream, did she? Not like this. This was all new; every night, deposited in the Underground, castle flagstones under her feet and a watchful presence prickling her skin.

The throne room had been a surprise—the throne's wooden curvature under her fingers, and then the feeling of leather…

The feeling of fingers linking with hers…

Sarah shivered.

She wasn't even sure which part of the castle last night had been. It smelled of him. It smelled like owl feathers and rain. Warm too, the way a room does when it's been slept in. There had been rugs carpeting the stones, and a fire crackling somewhere. Had she dreamt herself into Jareth's bedroom…?

Sarah swallowed. Thank God they're just dreams…

And then out of the abyss, like a curtain whipped back, Jareth's eyes had suddenly been on her, piercing her with a mismatched gaze and an indulgent half smile. The first technicolor image to surface in her mind in twelve years. It had been something of a shock, jolting her awake like a hard slap to the face, gasping into consciousness with the covers rucked around her legs.

She couldn't picture him afterward—nothing in her mind but that watchful black void—but she knew she'd seen him. She knew she had. And even if it had thrown her bodily out of sleep, she could ever so gently admit that she wanted it again.

"Can you picture a Goblin King?"

Sarah bit her lip and downed the dregs of her wine.

Way too well…

She scrubbed her hands down her face one last time before giving in. If she was going to crash into unconsciousness she might as well do it in her bed.

Teeth brushed and hair combed out, Sarah changed into shorts and an oversized t-shirt and slid into cool sheets, her eyes already closing as she wriggled down and dropped her head onto her pillow.

In seconds that deep, dark undertow pulled her under.

Immediately, there was the sound of rain around her, and a familiar feeling of cool wet stone beneath her fingers, flat like a ledge. She turned her back on the sense of emptiness that she assumed was a window, breathing slowly.

Back again.

She kept her hand on the stone, running it along until it became a wall. Fingers brushing the thick velvet of curtains, over sandstone cracks and then the rougher fabric of a tapestry, each stitch read by her fingertips like braille. Her hand found a wood frame curving downwards. Her hand moved down the rough wood, her fingers reading the knots in the grain, the twist in its shape; swooped downwards like Jareth's throne. Further down, what felt like the pliant plushness of a pillow.

Is he here? she thought to herself, her fingers stalling momentarily, reliving the way his hand had cupped hers as she'd stroked down the curve of the throne, and then the curve of his arm.

And the way his voice had welcomed her the night before…

She held her breath.

There, now that the rasp of her hand over the walls and furniture was stilled— she could just about hear the susurration of low breathing; long and rhythmic and peaceful.

Oh…

Gracelessly, she edged back, losing hold of the headboard.

Her foot tangled in something—something that felt like brocade silk—and she lost her balance. Stumbling forward her shin connected with the low frame of the bed, tumbling down onto it.

She was caught out of her freefall by strong hands, one against her bicep, one on her shoulder as a huff of surprise fanned her cheek.

Sarah froze. There was warmth beneath her palm and it dawned on her that her hand was flat against bare skin, lithe muscle under her fingers.

She didn't move back, unsure how to do so safely, remaining poised in an awkward half-lean, one hand buried in the pillows and the other splayed across a chest.

"Jareth?" she whispered, throat tight, and a low hum escaped his throat, tickling her skin with a hitch of a smile in it.

"Sarah," he purred. "What an unexpected pleasure."

She breathed out, low and steady, ignoring the racing thud of her heartbeat rushing through her ears like a roaring river.

It's just a dream.

It's just a dream.

She shifted uncomfortably, trapped between climbing off or climbing over him but not knowing where to put her hands.

"I'm kind of blind here," she said.

He chuckled ever so softly, clearly unwilling to break the hush between them.

"Up or down?"

Sarah furrowed her brow in a frown.

Right… That's kind of a big decision.

'Down' hadn't worked out so well for her last time…

And, since it was only a dream…

"Up."

Jareth let out a pleased hum, and his hand dropped from her bicep down to her thigh. His fingertips tapped her bare skin, over the muscle that was starting to shake from being held in position too long; bent at the knee, her toes against the floor.

"Here, precious," he murmured.

She followed his hand, letting his fingers wrap behind her thigh, bringing her up onto the bed as the hand on her shoulder moved her until she sat back on her knees.

"Dreaming of me again?" he enquired, a smug leer wrapping around his words.

"Evidently," Sarah sighed. "Can't seem to stop."

Something moved beneath her, brushing her thighs and she realized she was straddling Jareth's leg. Before she could lurch away, he lifted his knee and jolted her forward with a nudge, causing her to brace herself against his chest or tumble forward over him completely.

"You flatter me," he said, and Sarah scoffed dryly.

"That wasn't my intention."

But she didn't move back. Not even when his hands came to rest on her waist. It was only a dream after all. There weren't any consequences in dreams. And he felt so warm beneath her, his skin breathtakingly soft against her fingers, the muscles in his chest microscopically flexing as he breathed.

"What is your intention, Sarah?" The hands on her waist squeezed, his thumbs digging into nerve endings just beneath her ribcage, making her spine arch in response. And Sarah felt all of it, every firework in her vertebrae, every caress of his fingers, his thigh at the crux of her legs, the sheets and blankets separating their bodies but only barely. "What do you want?"

Drunk on touch, Sarah blinked herself back into cognition. There was only one answer to give.

"I want to see you."

She could feel his heart beating against her palm—thumping like an insistent tap-tap-tap against her skin—and she could've sworn it missed a beat.

"Wish it."

Sarah took a breath. In and out and low and careful.

Those two words held a galaxy of power. They were dangerous and liable to twist in her grip like a snake. She'd learned that lesson before…

But…

There weren't any consequences in dreams.

"I wish I could see the Goblin King."

Thunder rolled, a crack of lightning filling the air, startling her hands off his chest. And then the next time she blinked the world was there in her eyes; the room, filled with tapestries and rugs, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a fire burning in the grate, casting yellow shadows on the ceiling, the Labyrinth etched on the horizon outside the window—

And the Goblin King between her legs, smiling cruelly up at her as she panted and blinked and tried to get her bearings.

This isn't a dream…

The thought surfaced out of the white noise in her head like some monstrous beast breaking the surface of a once-calm lake.

THIS ISN'T A DREAM!

Jareth grinned.

She scrambled back.

He hooked two fingers into the collar of her t-shirt, holding her in place for a moment longer.

"Sarah." She was falling into those eyes, letting those endless depths draw her in even as she struggled back. "Meet me in Gallery Seven."

Sarah gasped herself awake.

Chapter 7: Gallery Number Seven

"Is zis a good idea?"

Three pairs of hands paused on the frame they were halfway through adjusting on Gallery Number Seven's wall. Its rainbow surface sparkled under the overhead lights.

Yellow eyes narrowed.

"Vhat do you mean?"

"He means," said a third voice, sounding strained under the weight of the frame, "is we gonna get bogged? What if Him dun't get what He wants?"

There was a pause, and then the slick sound of a lip being chewed pensively, accompanied by a thoughtful smack of teeth echoing wetly.

"Nah. Not likely," said One, and secured the frame onto the hook that had been less-than-expertly nailed into the wall, scurrying back down the ladder to survey his handiwork. "Besides," he added, as Three took hold of the bottom end of the ladder, toppling it into One's hands. "All's fair in love and war, right?"

"Vhich is this, then?" asked Two, tilting his head to take in the large painting nailed to the wall, before scampering to catch up with the two goblins disappearing through the alcove.

"It's both, stupid," One answered.

xXx

They aren't dreams.

Sarah tried to get a handle on that. Tried to put the lid back on that particular Pandora's box, but now that the veil had lifted it was impossible to ignore.

Jareth was inside her head.

And not just in the daydreamy, romantic way. Somehow he was in there, strutting (or in this instance lounging) about it in her subconscious. Through her commute to the museum, through the work day over-viewing a proposal for an upcoming installation, signing off on repair estimates, and studiously avoiding Gallery Number Seven through every single second; he was there.

Some switch had been flipped, her inner eye now drifting across the vivid image of him sprawled over his bed, the bedsheet only just preserving his modesty where her knee had split his thighs, his wild hair further tousled from sleep, the fiery depths of his eyes sparkling with intoxication at her proximity.

She could see it all now. Couldn't stop seeing it.

Sarah pressed her fingertips into her eyes, her leg bouncing under her desk, as she tried to dissolve that image back into the familiar blackness that had been her imagination for so long.

Stop it, stop it, stop it…

His tall, lithe frame wouldn't disappear from her mind's eye. Tauntingly perfect skin, toned muscle and tight hips achingly in focus.

It rankled. Every moment with him, there had always been a costume. Meant to dazzle and intimidate. Meant to steal the air from her lungs and the words from her mouth. Splayed across his bed as she'd straddled his lap, his nakedness had been another costume, and she knew it. Another unfair tactic to turn her around, and it had worked perfectly. Her head was still spinning.

She could still feel the brush of his fingertips over her collarbone as he'd stalled her by the neck of her t-shirt, the brush of his lips against her ear.

Meet me in Gallery Seven…

Sarah shivered and glanced to the big glass door that would lead her down to the galleries.

No.

Not a chance.

She let out a deep sigh, rubbed her hands down her face.

I just won't sleep. Ever again.

She picked up the pen from her desk and started working through the paperwork heaped on it, two fingers at her temple like she could force her attention not to waver. She scribbled the last signature onto the insurance forms. And stopped.

Squinted.

If you turned the page this way…

It almost looked like the bunch of scribbles pulled together into a little goblin face.

It cackled, and Sarah gasped, pushing herself up onto her feet, her chair clattering behind her.

"Sarah…? Sarah!"

Her eyes flashed open. She hadn't realized she'd closed them, head jolting up from her desk with the insurance form plastered to her cheek, and the gallery supervisor's hand on her shoulder, shaking her out of unconsciousness.

"Sarah, did you pass out?" Emma asked gently, her eyebrows knitted with worry.

"Uh," replied Sarah succinctly. "No, I… I…"

"I think you need a doctor, hun," Emma said, her hand squeezing Sarah's shoulder.

"I'm—no, I'm fine—"

"You should go home," Emma insisted. "The gallery just closed, hmmm?"

Sarah frowned.

Something was wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Head thickened with lack of sleep, eyes blinking blearily at Emma's mushy, wrinkled face, there was something wrong but it kept wriggling out of Sarah's comprehension.

"What did you say?"

"I said the gallery just closed, dear, didn't I, hmmm?"

"It did?" Sarah's brows furrowed as she took in the darkened windows. How long was I asleep?

"Better to go home, deary, there's nothing for you here," Emma encouraged, the copper pans and brick-a-brack on her back clinking all against each other as she hustled Sarah out of her chair. "Now, there's your coat, dear, you'll want that you will, yes go on, put it on, yes, yes, yes…"

"Th…thank you," Sarah managed, picking up her shoulder bag from the back of her chair and turning towards the gallery exit.

"Not that way, dear," snapped Emma, turning her around by her shoulders, the spinning wheel that was strapped to her back knocking Sarah's pot of pens down to the floor. "You won't want to be going that way. Through Gallery Number Seven, dear, yes, yes, there we go, off you go now…"

"Oh," Sarah muttered, and on wobbly legs, opened the polished glass door. In the corridor leading to the stairs the sound of tinkling glass and laughter made her pause for a moment, before her feet started walking without her again.

Her shoes clicked on the steps, and as though joining their percussion a deep low bass note began droning in accompaniment.

Where am I going?

The staircase twisted, descending in a spiral, and on the last step Sarah touched down onto a blood red carpet. A gold curtain swept across two marble plinths and she pushed her way through the soft velvet. She found herself standing on the second balcony of an opulent opera house.

She braced herself on the balustrade, taking in the sight below her. Every terrace was full to bursting with laughing patrons, all clinking glasses, singing and dancing. Two women in bright red dresses, their hair braided with roses, swung in hoops above the crowd, the heights terrifying. Some party goers leaned against the railings in top hat and tails, staring up in awe. Others twirled in shimmering ballgowns of satin and silk, and Sarah pulled her coat tighter around herself, an embarrassed flush at being underdressed overtaking her cheeks.

Musicians from the orchestra pit tuned their instruments and the surrounding crowd cheered as the intro of a melody crescendoed. Bright synth notes soared over guitar and drums, tinny and electric, and Sarah swallowed as the first verse of the song, sung en masse.

"There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes," crooned the full crowd of the opera house, sounding mostly drunk, every patron leaning against another. "A kind of pale jewel, open and closed within your eyes! I'll place the sky within your eyes—"

The acrobats above the sprawling mass swayed in time with the beat, every rise of their hoops reaching sickening heights, and Sarah couldn't bear to watch. It was too much like standing on a precipice looking down. Everything turned on its head and vertigo setting in.

I have to get out…

She pushed her way through a throng of jesters wearing dunce caps, their bright white pajama-costumes decorated in frills and red baubles. They cackled as she forced her way through.

"In search of new dreams—!" A ballerina bellowed, holding a champagne flute in the air, and the crowd roared with applause as though that line was some sort of cue. "A love that will last, within your heart!"

A glowing green sign marked Exit came into view at the end of the terrace, and Sarah fought her way towards it. It felt like it took hours to cross that small expanse of balcony, bodies crushing her, arms wrapping around her shoulders to force her into a companionable sway to the music until she could wriggle free.

"I'll paint you mornings of gold, I'll spin you Valentine evenings though we're strangers 'til now! We're choosing the path between the stars! I'll leave my love! Between the stars!"

And then suddenly she was through, feet leaving carpet and landing with a hard clack against the stone floor of Gallery Number Seven, the party continuing without her, on the other side of a velvet curtain.

The air was cool after the burning press of bodies and Sarah drew in a thankful breath, taking several shaky steps away from the opera house terrace.

It's just a dream, she thought, but that thought brought her no comfort at all.

From Gallery Number Seven it was only a short flight of steps up to the main hall and the exit onto the street.

Sarah adjusted her bag across her shoulders and started hurrying through the gallery at a brisk pace.

She froze mid-stride at a painting hung wonkily right at the end.

The breath caught in her throat. Blood drained from her face.

It was a perfect recreation of her last stand in the Labyrinth. It shimmered unnaturally; the pigments sparkling like crushed diamonds on the canvas.

The words came into her head unbidden, falling like an echo into her ears.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City—

"Stop!" A harsh cry reverberated from the painting, and the glittering surface moved: wind blowing through the fronds Jareth's hair and billowing out his cape, and the depiction of Sarah opposite him straightened her spine, hardened her jaw."Look, Sarah. Look what I'm offering you," Jareth pleaded, the tawny feathers of his cape fluttering behind him on an Underground breeze. "...Your dreams."

The image changed, and Sarah was suddenly staring at her own face as her eyes focused on the outstretched crystal in Jareth's hand.

I'm going to say, "and my kingdom as great," Sarah thought to herself, remembering that moment so vividly she could feel the wind on her face, the ache in her back and feet from hours in the Labyrinth's twists and turns, and the stab of shame still in her heart from wishing away her baby brother.

And my kingdom's as great…

But the Sarah in the painting didn't say her line. Instead, she tilted her head at the crystal, a slow smile spreading across her face, smug like she'd solved another riddle.

"You can't offer what's already mine, Goblin King," she said, and the air in Sarah's lungs lurched to a painful stop, a gasp caught in her throat.

Wait!... Wait, what?!

The Sarah in the painting looked triumphant as the words echoed around her.

"You can't offer

what's

already

mine…!"

The words cracked the crystal in Jareth's hand, and he let it drop. It shattered on the stones.

And then the painting splintered like glass, a spiderweb of a fracture breaking over its surface, splitting the wall behind it, and down to the floor as Sarah reared back, her shoes dancing over the fissures in the concrete.

It's a trick! It's just a trick! It's not real!

But the truth had already seeped out of the painting like juice from a bitten peach and she could taste the rotten knowledge of what he'd done.

He'd taken her dreams.

They were hers, and he…

HE TOOK THEM!

Her temper flared in a way she'd sworn it wouldn't again, words already barrelling out of her mouth and ricocheting off the sterile gallery walls before she could bite them back down.

"I wish the Goblin King would show himself!"

Thunder boomed inside the gallery, and she flinched. The stairwell lit with a crack of lightning. Another roll of thunder, another beckoning crack of lightning out in the gallery, and Sarah braced herself against the wind rolling over her, spinning her around with it.

And there he was, leaning extravagantly against the entrance to Bal Masque like a work of art himself.

He sparkled as though he'd just stepped out of the painting, everything gold except for the dark red stitching down his trousers and around the cuffs of his shirt. The lining of his cape was jet black, and it billowed impressively even in the airless room.

Mismatched eyes met hers, a wry smile twisting his lips and Sarah's blood boiled.

"Wish granted, darling."

Notes:

I always get so Labyrinthy at the end of the year and I'm so sorry to have been away from this story for so long but yay a new chapter just like that! It's almost like I wished for it...

I'm smarter than that though.

Chapter 8: Nothing’s Fair In Love And War

There was nothing but an angry growl in Sarah's throat, no words but a barely strangled scream. Though far from standing stunned, she was a thing of furious action.

Jareth's eyes sparkled as she stormed across the floor to him, a half-smile tugging his lips that didn't dull even as she raised a hand.

The smack echoed out across the gallery.

"You bastard!" she spat, raising her arm, intending to slap him a second time

He caught her wrist this time, and in a seamless spin, turned her—cape whirling around them—pinning her to the wall, both of her wrists pressed to the plaster by his merciless grip.

"Well, aren't we off to a bad start?" he said as she caught her breath. "After last night I was hoping for a warmer welcome."

She kneed him. He let out a pained growl, doubling over, and as his hands slipped from her wrists she twisted out of his hold.

"You stole them!" she hissed, looking ready to drag him down to the ground in a brawl. He caught hold of the collar of her coat and held her at bay with the full length of his arm as though she were a wild animal. "Admit it!" she bit out.

Jareth's jaw hardened, and his eyes darkened the way they had in the tunnels when she'd exhausted his patience.

"The term is relinquished ownership."

Sarah scoffed, and yanked his hand off her, breathing hard as she took a step away from him.

"That's for property, not dreams!"

"Dreams are property," he replied, blithely, brushing an illusionary speck of dust from his shoulder. "You didn't claim them."

"Fine! I'm claiming them now! Give them back!"

"They belong to me. If I gave them to you, you'd owe me something in return, Sarah," he said, and his tone was suddenly overfull of warning. "Is that really a position you want to be in?"

Sarah drew in a hard breath through a throat cinched tight from anger. A single night ago—when this was all a dream—she maybe wouldn't have minded owing the Goblin King something. When he was just a figment of her imagination…

"My offer still stands," he murmured quietly, and Sarah glared, refusing to allow his tone to gentle her. She was going to cling onto her outrage with broken nails. "Everything you want. And for so little in return."

"Love you, fear you, do as you say?" she sneered. "Is that still the price?"

"I could be so generous and settle for one."

"Fear you, then," she bit back, and to her displeasure, a smile crinkled his eyes.

"Fear me." He took a step closer and Sarah held her ground, her fingers curling into a fist as he closed the distance between them. "Show me fear, then. Tremble for me. Let me hear your heart beating faster. A sudden gasp… a terrified quiver… " He sucked his lip between his teeth, appraising her shamelessly. "Maybe a whimper or two. Though don't let me stifle your creativity."

Sarah scowled, willing herself not to blush even as her blood pumped hotly to her cheeks, the imagery he was deliberately conjuring not lost on her at all. She felt compelled to knee him a second time, since apparently the first one hadn't landed sufficiently.

If he comes any closer, I'll bite him.

He chuckled, reading her murderous intentions.

"But you don't fear me, do you?" he purred. "You never have."

"I'm sure I could give an adequate performance," Sarah growled.

Jareth grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "I won't settle for anything less than the real thing, precious. As a matter of pride, you understand."

"As a matter of pride, what if I killed you?" she snapped.

She hadn't really meant to say it—though in fairness she'd planned exactly none of the conversation so far—but that self-satisfied smile was fully under her skin, boiling her blood like an infection.

It didn't appear to have any shock value whatsoever, though. Didn't wipe the smile off his face in the least.

Instead, he smiled, and for just a heartbeat he looked like he'd somehow won.

"I'd have to name you my successor," he said, mismatched eyes catching on hers. Sarah felt herself dancing on a knife's edge as something unknowable passed across his eyes, but then he nodded sharply. "So done, Champion." He straightened, squaring his shoulders with regal gravitas. "I name you, Sarah Irene Williams, beneficiary of all the dreams I own in the untimely event of my demise." He paused. Waited patiently. And then smiled, generously not gloating at her lack of sudden movement. "Well, dearest? Are you going to glare me to death?"

She shoved him, but his body evaporated against her palms, there and then suddenly not.

"Violent little thing, aren't you?" he mocked, and Sarah spun to see him reclining on top of a cast replica of Aphrodite of Rhodes, his legs spread obnoxiously wide with his foot propped up on the goddess's hand.

"This isn't a game, Jareth!" she shouted. "They're mine! My dreams! And if you think you can just steal from me, again, and that I'll just do nothing, you're delusional! I'll storm your stupid castle all over again if I have to!"

She caught her breath as Jareth raised an eyebrow at her outburst. He hummed in thought, tilting his head pensively and crossing his arms.

"You're proposing a war."

Sarah blinked. She was. Gods help her she was, but it had worked last time.

She'd gotten her brother back. She'd defeated the Goblin King. She'd won the Battle at the Center of the Labyrinth.

She could do it again.

"So what if I am?"

"Careful, Sarah," he cautioned, his tone suddenly severe. "These words cannot be undone."

"Don't tell me you're scared of me, Jareth," she goaded.

"I am merely clarifying your intentions," he replied. "I'll give you your war."

"And when I win, my dreams belong to me again."

He nodded. "As you wish," he said and hopped down onto the gallery floor. "Let's talk terms. When do you propose to start?"

"Right now."

"Darling, you haven't even amassed an army," he said gently.

"I had no problem 'amassing' last time," she snipped back.

"It won't be a game this time, Sarah. The hardships will be entirely unnumbered," he replied, annoyingly unscathed as Sarah glowered at him. "I propose a fortnight."

Sarah paused.

"In the Underground?"

"Unless you'd prefer this quarrel of ours take place on your own turf?" he said, gesturing openly to the gallery and the priceless collection of art it encompassed.

"I can't just disappear for two weeks."

"I've reordered time for you before, precious. I can do it again."

Sarah's stomach plummeted at the thought. Two weeks in the Underground. One day had been a nightmare. She debated calling the whole thing off, but it was no use. She couldn't go back into that blissfully ignorant darkness. Not now.

Too late to turn back.

"Will you?" she asked, hardening her resolve. "Let me hear you say the words. Promise it."

"I solemnly swear to deposit you back in the Aboveground, safe and sound," he said with a hand over his heart. "Should you win," he added with a sardonic smirk.

"The same day? The same hour?"

"I swear it."

"The same place, Jareth."

"My love, the distrust is growing tedious." He waved a hand and an antique brass clock materialised over them, suspended in midair. "Shall we say at the stroke of midnight?"

Sarah studied him for what felt like an age, her fingers flexing and unflexing by her side, until she let out a resigned breath.

"Agreed."

She stuck out her hand.

He took it, warm fingers encasing her own, and Sarah held down a shiver.

He pulled her close with a sudden yank, a hard jerk of his hand downwards that caused her to trip against him, and in the blinking moment of shock he sank his lips over hers, a kiss so hard it bruised her inner lip and stole her breath.

Over too fast to protest, she gasped as he released her mouth and her hand.

"For the slap," he said, and vanished.

 

 

Notes:

Immense thank yous to my betas RavenLove12 and KittyFantastic22 for so so much help with this one!

Chapter 9: The Clock Strikes Thirteen

Sarah stood blinking dazedly in the suddenly empty gallery with Jareth's kiss still burning on her lips, before she remembered herself and furiously wiped at her mouth.

She hurried past the painting of herself still unevenly hung at the end of the gallery, her gaze only barely flitting across Jareth's countenance; the fluttering edges of his cape, the fronds of his hair blowing in a breeze, before rushing on to the steps up to the main gallery.

Shall we say the stroke of midnight…?

Without breaking her stride Sarah lifted her sleeve and checked the time on her wristwatch. 7:58 PM. It was already dark outside the gallery windows, and as she hurried across the foyer to the staff exit off to the side, she was certain she caught owl eyes watching her through the glass from atop a lamppost.

"Keeping tabs already?" she muttered as a shadowy, avian body took flight, the tips of its wings momentarily illuminated by the gallery lights. She snorted, shaking her head. "Anyone might think you were worried."

Outside it took an age before she could hail a cab, standing on the corner of the gallery as rain seeped in around the collar of her coat, making her skin clammy and cold. By the time she got home she was shivering.

She shut her apartment door behind her and struggled out of her coat, kicking off her boots.

She checked her watch again.

8:47 PM

I've got time…

She ordered a pizza from the restaurant down the street, and then peeled out of her clothes for a scalding shower, her frigid skin melting under its warmth. She let herself linger under it, relishing it as potentially the last hot shower she might have for a while, before dressing in thermal leggings and a t-shirt, wrapping her hair in a towel just as her apartment bell buzzed with her dinner.

She set the box on her coffee table, and from her bedroom brought in her alarm clock, an old fashioned one she'd bought at a junk shop that displayed the date in chunky black letters above the time.

Her eyes flicked back to it after every slice.

THU 3 NOV

9:17…

9:25…

9:43…

Time was slipping away.

She wiped her mouth on a kitchen towel and left the pizza box in the kitchen by the trash, before taking a deep breath.

Focus.

One fortnight. Two whole weeks. In the Labyrinth.

…Who can pack for that?

"Me," she murmured to herself, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Supplies, need supplies. Let's start there…"

She opened her cupboards and took out all the cans she had. Couldn't exactly expect a Best Western in the Underground. Soups and chopped tomatoes and chickpeas. Anything that would last. A couple of energy bars at the back of her cupboard, and a packet of cookies, coffee and some unopened milk powder she'd bought when she'd had an urge to bake bread that had passed as quickly as it had come.

From her closet she wrestled out her camping pack that she had bought for a nature trip with her friends. It had taken the weekend for them to realize they were not in any way equipped to deal with nature on a prolonged basis, but the tent was the self assembly kind with an orange sleeping pack rolled up and strapped to the bottom. An enamel mug, a copper saucepan and a compass hung on straps, and a waterproof windbreaker that folded up to the size of a wallet tucked in one of the pockets.

She packed her underwear and socks, the rest of her winter thermals, clothing she could layer, and all the food she'd laid out in the kitchen. She pulled on her thickest corduroy jeans that fit snuggly over her leggings, and a wool sweater over her t-shirt. Two pairs of socks over her feet to pad out her hiking boots. She wasn't going to be caught out like last time, traipsing for almost eleven hours in a pair of moccasins that had left blisters across her toes.

"Okay…"

From under the sink, she took out her flashlight, and a camping lantern she'd stashed there in case the power went out.

Bottled water from the fridge.

From the kitchen drawer, a swiss army knife that had been a gift from Toby last Christmas.

She checked the time again.

11:17.

What else, what else?

Sarah bit her lip, and then from under her bed brought out a shoe box.

Just in case.

An iron horseshoe. An adder stone. A God's Eye talisman wrapped around two short pieces of rowan wood... Little things she'd started collecting after she'd caught yellow owl eyes watching her from the tree outside her bedroom window what felt like a lifetime ago.

She didn't know if they worked or not, but they made her feel more prepared, and maybe that was half the battle.

The God's Eye and the adder stone she threaded onto a piece of string from the kitchen and knotted into a long necklace that she slipped over her head.

The horseshoe she hung from her backpack.

11:36.

What else, what else, what else?

She was moving around her apartment in a barely restrained frenzy, opening drawers at random and searching through cabinets.

Hand soap.

Toothbrush.

11:38.

A first aid kit.

Matches.

11:41.

A bag of apples.

A kitchen knife.

11:46.

A hand towel.

Her thermos.

11:48.

The little red book of the Labyrinth, its pages well-thumbed.

Salt.

11:51.

Sarah let out an exhausted sigh, and tried to zip the pack closed. Bulging at the seams, it wouldn't close all the way. She cursed and removed the top layer of stuff, redistributing what she could into the outer pockets, then shoving everything that was left back in with trembling fingers.

"Come on, come on, come on!"

The zipper resisted but inch by inch she dragged closed.

11:54.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, stooped to pull her hiking boots on over her socks, tightening the laces in a double loop round the back of her ankles and into a sturdy bow at the front.

She pulled on her waterproof parka over her sweater (burnt orange and fleece lined), tightening the cords around her wrists and waist, half wishing it was armour she was cinching closed around her. Picturing it as such. Polished plating across her torso, vambraces down her arms, pauldrons on her shoulders. A sword in a scabbard at her hip.

You're daydreaming again, she scolded herself. That's what got you into this mess.

There was a presence around her now. Watchful and hungry and as the seconds ticked away she could feel it slinking closer, diminishing the distance between them.

11:57.

She hauled her backpack onto her shoulders, clipping the straps shut across her chest, tilting and jostling the pack to make sure nothing spilled out, untucking her hair from the nape of her neck where it tugged, hairs caught between skin and clothes pinching uncomfortably.

11:59.

She stood expectantly in her living room, her fingers clenching around the straps of her pack, her lips pinched into a hard serious line. She shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

A clock struck the hour.

Sarah jolted, eyes fixing on a large grandfather clock that she didn't own, standing arrogant and proud against her living room wall. Its low chimes rang out through her apartment as her heart pounded, fear freezing her blood to an icy slurry.

Stroke of midnight…

She kept her eyes on it as the twelfth strike chimed.

And then on a thirteenth toll a cold burst of wind blew open her balcony windows, the doors crashing against the walls and Sarah jumped, spinning to face the deluge outside.

Sheets of rain poured down, and dripped through a dense forest that had replaced her modest balcony with its garden furniture and burned down candles. Mossy, waterlogged ground and vegetation glittered in the light of her apartment, shivering under the raindrop's impact. Thick spiderwebs hung between tree branches like swathes of silver tulle, sparkling in the dark. Ferns like outstretched fingers reached out menacingly from the mud.

Thunder rumbled towards her. A flash of lightning cracked the sky like a warning, and the rain surged even harder, blowing in and soaking her living room carpet.

The continuous white noise sounded almost like goblin chatter, and for a single second as another bolt of lightning lit everything in a stark white light like a camera's flash Sarah could've sworn she caught a glimpse of a hundred yellow eyes staring back at her, hidden in the murk and in the trees and then gone again with the light.

She let out a slow breath, setting a glare on the malignant murk waiting on the other side.

Such a warm welcome, Jareth.

Her fingers gripped the straps of her backpack tight, her spine ramrod straight under the weight of it as she raised her hood over her head.

"Come on, feet."

Chapter 10: Into Tollydown Wood

Jareth smiled, spinning the crystal balanced on the tips of his fingers, and through it he watched as Sarah took her first steps back into the Underground. Mud oozed around her boots. A ferociously strong gust of wind hurled the rain against her. Leaves plastered themselves to her hideous orange coat.

"Well, aren't we off to a good start?" Jareth commented, resting his head on the knuckles of his free hand. The goblins crowded in around him, watching maliciously as Sarah pushed soaked branches out of her path.

He tilted the crystal for a better view. Admittedly, he'd been less than generous this time, granting her entrance through a doorway that had deposited her on the edge of the Labyrinth's largest forest. It was treacherous terrain in the best of weather.

It was downright murderous during the monsoon season.

"Nasty welcome," said a goblin in a spiked helmet. The spikes glinted in the bright flash of lightning arching across the horizon, framed by the throne room's window.

"Clash," Jareth chastised as thunder rumbled in the distance. "Don't sound so concerned."

"Ain't concerned," muttered Clash, leaning in over Jareth's arm. "I's jus' sayin'."

Jareth raised the crystal higher, propping his arm on his knee and retrieving a goblet of wine from an alcove, taking a relaxed sip.

The goblins winced in unison, letting out 'oofs' of sympathy as Sarah lost her footing and slipped, only narrowly avoiding landing in thick mud as she grabbed a branch just in time to save herself. She hauled herself up, unsteady from the weight of her pack. She brought out a small pocket knife and spent several minutes sawing away at the branch until she could yank it free from the tree, planting it solidly in the mud as her walking stick.

"She dun give up, eh?" piped up a second goblin, a wild hair creature with jagged teeth named Pott. He leaned a bony elbow on Clash's shoulder to leverage himself a better look at the crystal.

"Of course she doesn't," Jareth replied, and a lilt of pride warmed his voice as he raised his leg over the sweep of one of the throne's arms. He took another lengthy sip of his wine, watching the crystal as a rain soaked Sarah fought ever onwards. The goblins settled in tighter around him.

She was making her way further into the woods now, clinging to her staff and to overhanging branches as the ground sloped upwards, every step treacherous as rivulets filled in the holes left by her boots, creating deep puddles in her wake.

The path that was little more than a dirt track of slightly thinned undergrowth split in two. And after a rain battered moment of consideration, Sarah went left.

"Bad decision," tsked a goat-faced goblin named Auggins. "She'll catch 'er death."

"Indeed, she might," said Jareth. "But it wouldn't do to save her too early, would it?"

"What if she drowns?" asked Clash.

A curling smirk spread across Jareth's face as he stretched his legs out further, reclining in languid consideration.

"I'm by no means opposed to the kiss of life," he hummed, almost to himself. But he raised an eyebrow at the rabble after a beat of silence. "That was your cue."

The goblins obediently burst into uproarious laughter and wolf whistles.

xXx

 

The rain had somehow penetrated down to Sarah's collar, damp and frigid at her neck. The palm of her right hand stung from how tightly she'd taken hold of a low handing branch to stop herself slipping in mud. With how heavy her pack was, she suspected if she fell on her back she'd be stuck like a tortoise on its shell.

The branch didn't offer much in the way of support, but she kept hold of it, sinking it into the mud with every step.

She was exhausted already.

And furious.

And freezing. Her pants were becoming waterlogged and the chill was working its way through her leggings too. A malicious gust of wind blew through the trees and pushed her hood back, soaking her hair in seconds. She scrabbled with raw, red fingers to bring it back over her head.

Lightning arched across the sky and she couldn't help ducking into a crouch as the thunder rumbled dangerously close by.

Water was cascading around her boots as she crawled inch by inch up a slope. Higher ground. She needed higher ground. And somewhere dry, but that seemed like an impossibility given the current circumstances.

She knew next to nothing about camping, her only experience being of perfectly manicured camping sites in immaculate weather. Warm crackling fires, and loons calling out at dusk. But this was survival, and she was beginning to seriously doubt if she would, in fact, survive at all.

Her fingers started to numb, and she shoved one hand into a pocket to warm, swapping it out when the other ached with cold, her branch-staff moved to her left hand.

She was being watched. She knew she was. There was a telltale heaviness in the atmosphere even through the deluge whipping her skin. An insistence, like a gap in conversation, begging her to fill it with a wish.

No, Sarah thought even as she took a step and her boot sank ankle-deep in mud. Not a fucking chance.

She had to find somewhere to make camp. Some cave or hovel. Even a hollowed out tree if it was big enough, she'd take anything. Any port in a storm.

She turned in place, trying to get her bearings in the thrashing forest surrounding her. Nothing but mud and rain and bramble.

"Please!" she whispered in desperate exasperation, and bit down on whatever the rest of the sentence might have been as another arch of lightning lit the sky.

In the bright flash of illumination, Sarah spotted a dark smudge through a gap in the trees; a crumbling piece of labyrinth wall framed the base of a cliff, the large piece of rock sloping forwards into an overhang framed by dripping weeping willow fronds.

Sarah sighed, and started trudging towards it, the distance seeming insurmountable as the mud pulled at her every step like clawing hands holding her back.

"Come on," she hissed to herself, climbing a rung of tree roots like a ladder, her fingers slipping on slick moss. "Just a little further…"

What little path there had been, vanished as she hauled herself over an enormous felled tree—one leg over, then flat on her stomach to raise the other, landing with a squelch in the boggy marsh on the other side—but it didn't matter with the overhang in view. She fought her way through the undergrowth, pushing bracken and brambles and branches out of her way with her forearm like a shield. Tall grass obscured a sudden drop, and she stumbled, overbalanced, sliding the rest of the way down the slope and landing with a thump against the rock face.

She crawled the rest of the way into the overhang. Her knees bruised, shoulders aching as she brushed the wet willow fronds aside, letting them fall behind her like a curtain.

With frozen fingers she wrestled her tent out of her pack, unstrapped its velcro ties, and let it unfold itself into a two-person hideaway. She stamped the holding pegs as deep into the boggy ground as best as she could, then threw her pack into the tent and ducked inside after it.

Her coat was soaked. Her clothes were drenched and caked in mud. Sarah fought her way out of it all until she was down to just damp thermals. She knelt at the mouth of the tent and squeezed out as much water as she could before dumping the sodden lump of clothing in a corner of the tent and crawling into her sleeping bag, fighting back shivers that were vibrating violently through her.

"Go to sleep," she begged herself as her still-wet hair clung to her face, huddling pathetically into herself, cupping her hands and breathing into them. "Just go to sleep."

The wind continued to roar, the ever present drone of rain smattering at her tent's walls, but eventually exhaustion won out over the din and the cold and she slipped into darkness.

It was not an empty dark.

There was the sound of a fire crackling in a grate. The sound of the storm still howled outside, but it was removed, far away on the horizon, the thunder a softened rumble.

And breathing. There was quiet, rhythmic breathing. A soporific sigh of someone mid-dream moved the air.

Beneath her fingers were silk sheets. Pulled up to her shoulders were soft blankets and furs warmed by body heat.

Sarah sighed.

She knew whose body that heat belonged to, but she was too cold and too tired to care. She crawled in deeper, burrowing in towards that warmth, her subconscious letting out a grateful groan as the chill gradually melted from her skin.

She was touching the void of complete unconsciousness when something shifted in the dark. Soft fingers passed across the back of her hand, a barely there caress that was so light she didn't even flinch from it, and as she let go, falling into that bottomless oblivion, she caught a whispered "goodnight, Sarah" against her cheek.

Chapter 11: Day One

Sarah woke up damp and shivering, roused from sleep by an unnerving tack-tack-tack sound drumming inside the tent.

A leak.

The tent had a leak.

Sarah sat up. And put her hand straight into a shallow puddle of water. It surrounded her, dripping with steady inevitability from a minuscule hole in the roof. Condensation beaded down the walls, and as Sarah wiped a hand down the blue nylon it came away soaked.

"Oh God," she groaned, shuffling out of her sleeping bag.

There was an aching pressure inside her head, and she sniffed wetly, pressing the cuff of her sleeve to her nose and trying not to think about how frozen her toes and fingers were. How wet her hair still was. She mopped up the small puddle with her still-damp and muddy corduroy jeans, unzipping the tent and ringing out the water, and repeating the process again. It was still raining, but only a steady drip through forest leaves.

With most of the water extracted, Sarah unzipped her pack and pulled out a dry pair of jeans and a second thermal top to layer over the one she'd slept in, fresh socks for her feet which were white with cold. It took several minutes of rubbing to get any heat back into her toes before she could pull on her muddy boots.

She rolled up the sleeping bag and dismantled the tent, before forcing herself to eat an apple for breakfast. It was dismal. Sharp with no sweet notes, or perhaps she was too congested to taste anything but its bitterness. She longed for coffee. A hot breakfast. A bath.

"It's day one," she reminded herself sternly as she repacked everything and shrugged back on her cloyingly cold parka. "You can't give up already."

She unfolded the rain poncho from the pack's clip-on pocket, pulling the thin, crinkly plastic over the top of her parka, and tried to summon the energy to haul the pack onto her shoulders.

"Good morning."

Sarah sighed and turned her head to spy Jareth leaning elegantly against a moss-covered tree. A thick winter cape enshrouded him in opulent cream brocade, the tawny fur hood lowered to his shoulders. It billowed in the wind, showcasing his military jacket in fawn gold, silvery buttons adorning the full length of the long coat's lapels. Dark brown riding boots hugged his legs past his knees, and Sarah couldn't help noticing that neither the mud nor the rain dared to besmirch his attire.

"It definitely is not," Sarah retorted, and lifted her pack with a groan.

"You look…" began Jareth, taking in her boots still clogged with mud, his gaze roaming upwards over her already-muddy jeans, and the see-through, fluorescent-yellow rain poncho flattening itself against her wet and dirty parka. He winced, visibly trying to find a compliment. "Waterproof," he finished, and smiled beatifically.

"Well, looks can be deceiving," Sarah muttered to herself, tightening the straps around her cuffs.

"How did you sleep?"

She answered him with a glare.

"Why are you here?"

He shrugged lightly with the shoulder not pressed to the tree. "To rescue you, sweet Sarah."

"I don't need rescuing," she clipped back, and tried not to shrink her neck into her shoulders as dampness collected back in around her collar, prickly at the top of her spine.

"You wouldn't take friendly advice if it was offered?"

"If there was a friend in offering distance," she shot back, a brittle smile on her face and a sharp barb in her tone. Infuriatingly, Jareth made a sarcastic moan of winded hurt.

"Cruel as ever," he said, recovering instantly. "Then do me a kindness instead, precious." He kicked himself off the tree. "And head east."

He turned on his heel and vanished, a smudge of an owl in flight flitting through the trees, the only glimpse Sarah caught of his retreating form.

She forced back the instinct to hurl something after him, and after a few deep breaths to quell her temper, dropped her pack down with a squelch. She unclipped the compass that hung next to the copper pan that was accumulating its own puddle and brushed her thumb across its face, wiping it free of raindrops and finding east.

The needle swung towards the denser, darker part of the forest; cobwebs slung in great blankets across what little gap there was in the trees, sparkling with raindrops above the boggy ground that looked like it would suck her down and drown her if she took even a single step. Above the treeline more black clouds billowed menacingly.

Sarah snorted, re-hefted her pack, and turned, heading west.

xXx

 

It was only an hour before she had to stop to rest, her calves and thighs aching from the force needed to extract her boot from the mud with each step, spine singing out in agony from the pack's poor equilibrium between her shoulders.

A thick, greasy rain started falling, the kind that permeated through clothes and took no prisoners. It collected in the creases of Sarah's rain poncho, seeping in around her collar and her sleeves. The cuffs of her thermal top went from cool, to damp, to soaked, rubbing her wrists raw and freezing her fingers.

She huddled on a damp rock ledge, her feet resting on a rotten log as she held out the copper cup, letting it fill half way before taking a long drink of rainwater. She ate another apple, the pack of cookies, and an energy bar, and wished she'd eaten that first as it left a dry, musty taste in her mouth. She washed it down with more rainwater, and when her back muscles finally unseized she hoisted her pack back into place and trudged on. Moving was the only thing keeping her warm. The rain had broken through her protective layers and was worming icy fingers down into her bones.

It was another hour before she started really shivering, her breathing labored, and her nose streaming.

It's just the cold, she told herself. She tried unsuccessfully to dry her nose on her parka's sleeve, but it was too wet to do anything but smear cold water across her already frozen cheeks.

An aching weariness started to weigh her feet down.

Sarah sighed, and leaned against a tree, both hands folded together and her forehead pressed on top of them. It couldn't be more than midday but she couldn't go on.

She sneezed, and groaned as a headache blossomed across her forehead.

"Great."

She pushed off, each footstep dragged with pained slowness as she headed uphill. I've got to find shelter. Walk for hours and then find a miserable bit of shelter and fall asleep on the ground. I can't believe people do this for fun…

Sarah slipped and went down hard on one knee, kneeling in the mud, too weak to stand under her own strength. She stretched her hand for a low-hanging branch and pulled herself up. It felt like it took hours until she was panting and shivering against another tree trunk, only a few yards ahead of the last she'd rested on.

"Come on, feet," she pleaded as she trudged on. "Please."

A cold prickle of sensation froze her in place. An icy tingle against her toes.

One of her boots had a hole.

The other followed suit a few yards later.

"Oh no," she sobbed. "No, no, no…"

Every subsequent step forced cold water in through the hole, her socks rapidly becoming sponges. She swore, and cursed, and cried, forcing herself to walk even as her energy seemed to be dissolving under the rain's relentless downpour.

The trees widened into a tiny clearing, barely enough to cradle her tent, but Sarah didn't care. She slung off her pack, and unstrapped the tent from it, hurriedly forcing the pegs into the mossy ground. Water bubbled up around them.

Inside her minimal shelter, she stripped back down to wet thermals again. There was no way to dry them, so she dumped them in a corner of the tent and dug out fresh clothes; another pair of leggings and her last thermal top. They'd been wrapped around her wet and muddy corduroys and were damp too, but at least not soaked. She struggled into them, tucking her necklace with the adder stone and rowan wood talisman against her chest—Jareth's gaze still burned over her skin, intense and full of mockery—before wriggling down into her sleeping bag.

She could feel the boggy ground beneath the tent's floor. Wet and marshy like a sodden pillow, moisture already breaking in.

The rain pattered insistently against the tent's roof. An endless roll of ironic applause.

Sarah rolled onto her side, tucking her sore and frozen fingers between her legs to try to warm them, shivering painfully. Another sneeze racked her frame, and with it a deep hacking cough. Everything hurt, and she knew it wasn't from the hike, or the weather. A second fit of coughing scoured her throat.

Just the cold, she tried to persuade herself again, but the chills were flushing a fever through her skin.

The rain hammered on, and before long the tear in the roof began its death toll.

Tack… tack… tack…

Sarah sighed and shuffled deeper into her sleeping bag. It was early afternoon when she slipped into a dreamless unconsciousness.