Book Binding
by silverymare.
Disclaimer: The Labyrinth belongs to Jim Henson. I don't own anything except plot and new characters. Written for idnh_azuresky for the Labyrinth Fic Exchange '08-'09. Huge thanks goes to metalkatt for the beta help!
Prompt: Jareth decides to change his hair style. Obviously humorous, but can be taken in a different way – I'd actually be pretty interested see if this can turn out serious – but whatever inspires you! Sarah may or may not be included.
The worms remember best the first time Something had changed.
Carrying out his threats of inspecting every level of the Labyrinth to see what the next Challenger's imagination would fix and update -–he'd always liked the thought of a bog-- or what needed to be polished --his throne needed a scrubbing-– Jareth had been striding past one of the many insect holes that riddled the first ring of the Labyrinth. As decreed, all worms turned out of their homes to greet their monarch with little cups of tea. At precisely four in the afternoon, the Goblin King and his unwilling entourage appeared from the Goblin City's hidden corridor. After marching along the walls for a few metres, to the horror of the worms, their King suddenly collapsed onto the floor.
It was a spectacular drop, made worse by the fact that it was without glitter or special effects. As his subjects stared on, the Goblin King met the ground with nothing to break his fall, before recovering for a moment. He rolled onto his back, but there was a twist of pain on his face. The invisible blow that had pushed him was even missed by the cats carrying his standard, the watchers of all levels of the world. They stared on in worry and fascination as the Goblin King's fist clenched his shirt and that sharp face slowly drained itself of colour, until he was as white as the owl wings he so favoured. The crowd winced when he thrashed for a terrible moment and a howl of pain ripped its way out from his throat, echoing all along the walls in mockery of the King.
Terribly alarmed, the closest and the smallest of worms ushered out his best blend of tea, and offered it to his sovereign's nose.
Too intent on discovering the sudden pain in the vicinity of his heart, the king didn't see the kind offering. His ragged breathing gradually recovered. Releasing his shirt to place both arms by his side, the King ignored his subjects, instead choosing to stare straight up at the skies above. He didn't even bother to wipe away the mud smudged on his pale nose.
After a tense moment where the worm wondered if the king had suffered a Blinding Attack from a Fart, it took a sip of its own tea while waiting for recovery.
Two minutes on, the goblins in the crowd couldn't help shifting on their feet. There was the tiniest hum of power in the air that was making their fingers itch. A small murmur started to rise, only to be cut by Jareth. He sat up suddenly, cradling his amulet in his hands. It was then the laughter came out.
To those who were there and saw it happen, swear on the thirteenth hour that Jareth's laugh was like summer rain, light on the shoulders and warming to the skin.
They say that because the sky opened up and a curtain of shining rain dropped on the parade. Two cats dropped their banners, yowling with protest. Flowers grew out from the cracks of the walls, tickling the eye coral. The goblins sent up an excited hurrah as the water splashed their clothes, and the goblin with rusted armour found green glop in his pockets and helmet. The Labyrinth walls themselves applied an extra coat of glitter where the rain fell. It was as though a Runner had come and gone and their imagination had given Jareth power to play with.
The tiniest worm however, never saw all of this. Right beside the King when the rain had started, he'd been blinded by Jareth's tiny smirk, the one that chortled in the single mismatched blue eye, danced its way into the brown iris and lifted the right side of those otherwise frowning lips. Reeling back and accidentally smashing his tea cup, the worm squirmed in shock. When he finally recovered to look back at His Majesty, the space the King had rested was empty.
Though all denizens searched --some panicked, some in glee, others in boredom-- he was nowhere to be found, though every inch of the Labyrinth was combed, sniffed and overturned. Decades later, they found out the truth.
He'd gone Aboveground.
He returned the same day he left, right after the goblins declared a rock their new King.
Shedding night shadows and borrowed candlelight as he crossed his way across the ballroom, he bypassed his goblin subjects, wishing to sit upon the hewn-stone throne. The look in his eyes was indecipherable to them. Reaching out, a pimpled goblin stole some of the polluted air lingering around Jareth and put it in his mouth, only to spit it out. With a wrinkle of his nose, he scraped his tongue frantically, trying to get rid of the taste of human romance.
Stopping before the throne, Jareth turned to scan his audience. With a sardonic bow, he saluted the inanimate stone with roughly carved features. Then drawing a crystal from behind his ear, he demolished the stone imposter and situated himself back onto the throne, his boots tapping an erratic beat. Trying to stop their involuntary cringing, the goblins immediately sought to remedy themselves by dragging up barrels of spirits from the shelves above, dousing and cheering the King's return. But besides flicking a fly with his crop, Jareth did nothing and said nothing to anyone.
Years later, the Wise Man claimed the sovereign spoke to the sentient Labyrinth, though none but the King ever heard that gravelly, multi-layered, screaming, laughing voice, so speculation soon died down after the bestseller book came out. After some mild confusion, the goblins and the rest of the Labyrinth settled back into its quirky rhythm. Most forgot anything ever happened when a series of Challengers went through; they were too intent on the customary welcome of Harassment and Trickery.
Five months later, the Goblin King once again abruptly left his kingdom.
But this time, he came back with a Name and a cigarette packet in his hand. He smelled so strongly of ash, burning hair and unhappy dreams this time that he had to pry small fingers off him to keep his subjects from trying to lick the aroma off him. The goblins grinned at him, pleased with having actually been involved in his fun; tormenting mortals was an age-old pastime. The kegs were rolled out, and soon most goblins were drunk. That mortal woman had shrieked in the most interesting way at seeing their bright, sharp teeth, squeaky voices and nasty faces. The only thing dampening that experience was that the King hadn't let them physically touch the woman. But she clearly deserved it. The King had been so gracious as to even warn her not to light that cigarette too!
But to Jareth, the Name was so much more important.
Perched upon the stone windowsill, looking out at his land, he mused about the events that had happened in the past few months. How strange it was to feel a heart beating in his chest, growing as the child grew. His lips twisted, remembering what had happened minutes ago. The carrier deserved her fate, a little shock and burnt locks wouldn't harm the child inside. He gave some credit to the father; after all, the mortal man had chosen the child's name but had stupidly left his beloved to shop for groceries. Careless enough to leave money for his wife to use too.
Looking at the packet in his hands, Jareth took out a single cigarette. Studying the human creation, he deftly changed one of his crystals into a lighter. Slipping the filter between his lips, he clicked his fingers. Most sober goblins immediately turned to stare at the King's newest antics. He smirked at them, before lighting the cigarette, sucking in the smoke.
'Everything he did, he did it for the child.' Amused, he watched as the goblins tried to snatch the smoke tendrils he blew out, much like little children would reach for bubbles. Everything for that precious, cruel child to come.
"Sarah." The name was purred one moment, the next, spelled with revulsion. The goblins paid no attention to his words, only to his mouth, waiting for the next cigarette to be placed at his lips.
No, this will be something that I'll treat with careful planning. Finished with the stub, Jareth flicked in into the cheering goblin crowd. I'll grant her some protection. A goblin babe tugged at his boot. He pinned it with a slicing, uplifted eyebrow, enjoying the way the little one instantaneously flinched and withdrew its claim. Feeling benevolent, he dangled the lighter and human packaging over his subjects. Wishes, if I feel like it. The power of The Words would be in her grasp once she grew up. But he needed to channel the longing that would draw her into this world. A world so carefully crafted for her.
He would turn the world upside down if he needed to.
He'd met thousands of babies before. The babe in the crystal was like most he'd seen; slight frame, pink with life, curled fists and ten toes. Up close, he could see the girl's unsteady gaze focused in the general direction of those who'd given light to it, though she had no strength to lift her hand and beckon attention. Exhausted with the beginning of life, she lay in her mother's arms, content.
Carefully, the couple placed the child into the hospital-provided crib; their tender gaze swept over the many other squalling infants and gave their daughter one last loving look. With his arm wrapped around his wife and a kiss on her lips, Linda and Robert departed out of the baby ward, intent on returning the new mother back into her room where a bounty of flowers and well-wishing gifts awaited her.
Mercurial eyes watched the new parents leave and then waited.
Seconds after the door closed, a mother goblin appeared from a tile in the ceiling, scanned the room with all three eyes --two in front, one at the back-- and then fell down, landing with a bounce on her balloon bottom. Quickly recovering, she scarpered towards the child Jareth had pointed out, stopping once when she passed a crying little girl. Detouring for a moment, the goblin clambered up to steal the fresh tears with a lick of her tongue, before continuing onto Jareth's prey.
Stopping at the crib, the goblin frowned and stared up. The three eyes couldn't see anything special about the child, but under His Majesty's orders, the mother goblin shrugged. A Task was a Task.
With a quick plop, she jumped into the crib with the child. Giving the little toes a tickle, the mother climbed up to look at the newborn's face. For a moment neither baby nor goblin moved. Then with a tiny burble, the little girl reached out to the creature just out of reach, entranced at the mangled, knobby features. Taken aback, the goblin let the hand run itself over her wrinkled hands and tired forehead, unable to stop the magical shiver running up her spine.
All of a sudden, the goblin was awed by the tiny thing in front of it.
Quickly gathering her skirts, the mother goblin backed a bit from the girl named Sarah and did something that surprised both the watching Jareth and herself. She curtsied. The First Curtsy and Only Curtsy that a goblin had ever done and ever would. Then with a glance at everything and nothing around her, reminded of her Task, the goblin mother approached the child's head.
Tenderly, for a strange emotion was holding onto her, the goblin touched the tiny tuft of night hair. She felt the untapped power humming from the child, and wanted to jump away, feeling rather cowardly. But sensing Jareth's pressing will, she seized one strand between her nails. Even knowing His Majesty was watching didn't stop the goblin from pausing before a grimace held a place on those grey lips. With a swift tug, the precious hair was plucked.
Instantaneously, three things happened. With a sobbing cry, the baby wriggled with pain, it was too much for the little one to take. The mother goblin herself felt unwilling tears prick her eyes and let out a howl, waking up the rest of the sleeping infants around them. The place would soon be invaded by human nurses and Jareth scowled into his crystal ball. There'd been strict orders not to wake the other babies.
But the third and most important thing occurred away from the squalling baby ward. For Jareth felt a twinge in his heart, a sore ache that made him press his hand to his chest. He couldn't help wishing -–a futile thing for someone who only granted them-- that there was something he could do. He toyed with a crystal but there was no way for him to touch Sarah or send her the healing unless someone summoned him. Looking at his folly, he swore, before crushing the crystal into silver shards. What was he thinking?
He didn't care about her. All he needed was that piece of hair.
He was forced to watch as the mother goblin flung herself off the crib, diving for the nearest pile of nappies. She cradled the single black hair to her chest, making sure it would survive the trip from the nursery to the Throne Room. Disappearing into the abominable smell, the goblin hastily cut the weft of the Aboveground world and stepped along the road back to the Goblin City.
The Goblin King was glowering on his throne, amidst the ruin and revel of his goblin subjects. In his gloved hand, he rotated a crystal, twisting it to see the reflection within. The mother goblin was taking a bloody long time and to keep himself from pacing too much and exciting the fireys, who were paying a rare visit; he kept an eye out for the little goblin.
Four goblins playing chicken hoop nearest to the throne paused when Jareth shifted in his seat. With bated breath and bent knees, they knelt before the King, waiting.
On a day that Jareth felt like being surly and cruel, his boots would often usher in the beginning of Goblin Olympics. The four in front of the throne hoped to be so lucky. When the King was in a fine, mad mood, spectators could watch athletes vault over the stone window again and again and again, shoving down as much popcorn as possible, cheering in alcoves. On days when Jareth really felt like a terror, the discus and javelin events were popular, but the slightest change in mood would result in synchronised bogging. It was roulette, but the goblins loved it even when no one ever survived a dip.
When the King chose to stay rooted in his throne instead, lost in his crystal ball, the four shrugged to each other. Whacking the chicken forward with their knives, the foursome tunnelled the poultry hoop down the corridor with jubilant yells, towards the Esher Room. The fireys soon caught on, done with Jareth's bent knee obeisance, and instead stole each other's heads and legs and ran off to play croquet in the corridor.
With a pop, the mother goblin appeared at the entrance of the Throne Room, wobbled for a second before tumbling head-over-heels. Jareth rose from his throne, he noticed she was a mottled red from exhaustion. The trip from the Aboveground was usually made much easier for the Labyrinth citizens when their King led the way; it drained their power and spirit otherwise, until they became the Labyrinth rock they gambolled on. The little goblin clattered her way down and landed head first into a pile of orange jelly. Seeing two knuckleheads about to spoon her and the jelly into their mouths, Jareth crossed the room instantly and scooped the goblin into his hands.
Blearily, the mother goblin stared up at her sovereign, dwarfed in his palm. Chuffed that she was sitting in the King's grasp, she grinned, displayed her broken teeth. But the strength of the Task urged her on, tasting the finish line. Jareth watched as bizarre emotions flickered across that petite, bumpy face. She slowly uncurled her fingers, presenting him with their precious treasure. As if receiving a great honour, Jareth waited until the mother placed the tiny hair in his palm. It took a while, because the goblin struggled between her Task and her own selfishness to taste the hair. It was irresistible and promised great things to the poor goblin.
Once those yellow nails let go and Jareth had the black hair in his grasp, he couldn't help a gasp escaping as both his hand and the hair made contact. He almost dropped the mother goblin as his nerves sang in welcome. The sensation was only slightly numbed thanks to his leather gloves. He wondered at how it would feel to press it to his skin and shuddered, dreading it but at the same time, very curious.
The mother goblin patted his thumb; she knew exactly how he felt. Now separated from the magic, the little one had reverted back to her usual mothering nature. Like all mothers, she understood. The raw magic they both held, it was something that slotted into the Labyrinth like a well-greased key and turned it in a way that no other Runner had ever done.
Yes, the whole place would come alive for the girl to come.
Shaking slightly at that thought, Jareth hastily dumped the goblin onto a pile of rags. He tossed a crystal into the air, not waiting for it to land at the feet of the deserving goblin mother and instead faded away, his mind on the hair in his hand. Four other goblins watched the crystal turn into a herring dinner before they quickly surrounded it and began squabbling over the spilled fish guts, the mother at the head of the pack.
He reappeared in his empty bedchamber and was thankful that for once, no garden fairies or dwarves had wandered in. It was amazing how many Labyrinth citizens thought they had the right to visit, even during the rare times when he was sleeping or trying to get rid of a migraine. A crystal thrown behind him dissipated into the stone door. Any one who tried to enter now would have thirteen hours to dig themselves out of the dusty, desert hole they'd be transported to. Very few enjoyed being buried up to their head, alone in the desert that surrounded the Labyrinth.
Still clutching the hair in his gloved hand, Jareth began to undress, stripping down to his open undershirt and fawn breeches. The creation would strip him of a lot of his core power and the room's temperature would rise and fall long before he'd be done. Carefully, he shook the discarded pieces of clothing, his eyes searching for any of his own hairs. Spotting a few, he picked them up.
Next, he swiped the top of his dressing table clear with an almighty crash, not caring the way the papers, ones he'd normally go carefully through, scattered and floated. He deposited his hairs on the table, gauged their worth for a second before he savagely snarled. It wasn't nearly enough. He disappeared into the en-suite bathroom, emerging with golden scissors. Those were slammed onto the dresser's surface with such force that the mirror wobbled, threatening to fall. Taking a seat to stare into the vanity mirror, Jareth wondered why he'd chosen such a hard path. Why was he doing this?
The icy demeanour of the Goblin King stared back at Jareth.
Gently, the thin, black hair was laid on the table surface and Jareth stripped his fingers of his gloves. There was no other way. Instead of touching the baby's hair like his fingers itched to do, Jareth seized up the scissors instead. With abandonment, he gripped a fistful of his hair.
He'd consulted the awareness that was the Labyrinth on this, and had distinctly disliked the eagerness the walls had been to have Sarah tied to them. She'd be milked dry, almost to the point of death for her imagination. That tenacity to live would keep her alive but she'd become a thin comparison to the Sarah she might be, dreams and all. If it'd been any other human, he wouldn't have cared. It was his own selfishness that made him change the plans. The child had affected him directly – just her conception had him humming for days - and that latent power was just the beginning of what she would give. He wanted it all for himself.
One by one, the locks were placed onto the table, and he didn't stop for anything. The thought of a blood ritual had been in his thoughts, but his love for theatricals overwhelmed that idea. No, he would act, dwindle away the boredom with a fairytale story for Sarah. A birthday present.
The scissors were heavy in his hand, and he was savage in the way he cut the strands, hacking and sawing, if needed to be. The locks had to be cut as close to his skull as possible. Magic was in every follicle, much like how it lay under his skin and blood. It wasn't enough that he used the magic that was inherently the Labyrinth's. No, no matter what shape crystal took, it wouldn't be enough to lull Sarah towards him. No blood, but what he needed and wanted to use was essence.
From left to right, he deftly cut up his long hair, only slightly dismayed at how much it changed his appearance. Each strand was imbued with his magic, and as each wisp left his head, the room grew cooler and distant. The clamour of voices drifted away, along with the feeling of the land itself. Goosebumps beaded his skin; it was like scraping away a part of his inner self, feeling less and less that which essentially was Jarethwith each snip of the blade. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. Magic filled his veins and there was still the Labyrinth's recognition of their sovereign to keep some rule. But to find his own power so depleted after relying on it for some many eons, the sensation of loosing that sense made him shudder, his hands constantly shaking though he strived for control. The dresser grew thick with his golden-pale hair, and he was careful not to loose one piece by accident. All of it was needed.
Finally, it was done.
Those blue-brown eyes went over the reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time. The figure sitting down was a pale resemblance to the Goblin King. Gone was the infamous mane of white-blond hair, framing his face much like the feathers in his owl form. Cut back right to his scalp, the hair was short and bristly, very different from the soft wisps that gave his face that otherworldly feature. This King seemed sinister, bare and frugal. The cheekbones were strongly highlighted in this face, the hollows under his eyes all the darker. Those uplifting eyebrows gauged their worth. Staring back at Jareth was a Kingly man.
Yes, somehow he looked mortal.
His fine jacket was on the bed; his gloves were in his lap. Beside the upswept lines that marked his owl shape and the Royal sigil hanging on his chest, there was little that marked him as different from a human mortal. His lips twisted with disgust, it was amazing how much he changed from just cutting his hair. Done with this apparition, Jareth refused to look at the mirror, staring down at the pile of hair waiting. There was a lot, and knowing what was to come, Jareth couldn't help the slight hesitation in his hand before he picked up a handful of hair. Shakily, it would take months to feel normal again; his other hand summoned a crystal, moulding it with his own will into a pestle and bowl.
He placed it down on the table, taking up the scissors again. In fury, his hands worked as speedily as possible; cutting up the blond strands, making the paste, and waiting for the pages to dry. The book was a tedious creation. Magic came easy to him; a snap of the fingers, glitter and dust, and the imagination breathed, spoke and lived. It was frustrating to dirty his hands as it was strangely satisfying to watch it evolve and come together.
Night came and he felt the hours pass by while he worked. The presence of four goblins at his chamber door was noted in the back of his mind. They tried to tumble inside the bedchamber, using a Talking Head as a ramming log, but were transported away. His blond hair morphed into paste, then into pages. Jareth's shirt was soaked with his sweat; the toll for such a strong compulsion in a sole object was a heavy price. He found himself relying heavily on the Labyrinth's magic to keep himself awake and moving. It was getting too dark to see, so the Goblin King was forced to stop for a moment and cross his room. He lit the room's candles one by one, forced to use human methods of flinted fire. He returned to his desk, and stared at the finished book that was waiting for its script.
There were only the Words left to direct.
With just enough power left to shape a final crystal ball, Jareth examined his power. The crystal that appeared in his hand wasn't fully substantial, as soft as a bubble on the surface. He pressed it to Sarah's tiny hair; that tiny strand in on his table, fascinated at the way the crystal stretched and moulded itself around the dark root. Once the deed was done, Jareth inspected the pen, turning it around in his hands. Clear with a dark ink heart, it looked normal. He'd expected perfection. With Sarah's hair as the shaft and ink and the Labyrinth crystal as the directive, this would have to do. He didn't have any more hair left to do this extra task.
With a sigh, he placed the edge of the pen on the finished book. Letting go, he watched as the pen stayed suspended in the air. It began to write; not the twisted words that would have tied Sarah to the Labyrinth, to become enveloped into its walls and red dust but different words, his and her words combined, to stay as her own entity. For the first time in sixteen hours, Jareth closed his blue and brown eyes and gave them a much deserved rub, exhaustion clear upon his face.
After taking one deep breath, he spoke.
He chose easy, simple lines that a girl would tender her days with; spending long hours curled up with the tome in her lap, raven hair falling around her face, long fingers on the edge of the next page. Jareth's eyes glimmered in the candlelight at the image that rose forth, of pink lips uttering each sentence like it was the softest fruit, calling his name. There was satisfaction when his mind saw her descent into the tunnel of Talking Hands. Indignant and frazzled from being held back, she would no doubt choose to be set down. Falling into the oubliette would be her demise.
He was curling those last words, savouring the coolness of the darkness, dictating his own form in, when the pen sundered itself from his will. The pen refused to write, freezing in its position on the virgin paper. At first he thought the ink, which had run so easily before, was blocked from the tip. But it flowed easily enough when he tried describing Sarah. He regarded it with a suspicious eye. Not everything was as in seemed in the Labyrinth. He should have known that a mingled creation would cause him grief.
While thinking up a just punishment, he flipped through the earlier pages, and with a careless eye, read a few lines. He froze as a sentence jumped out at him.
But what no one knew was that the Goblin King fell in love with her and gave her special powers.
He stared down at the words the pen had produced.
The Goblin King fell in love with her.
His fingers dug into the edge of the offending page, and with bared teeth, he contemplated whether or not he should rip it out. Instead, he pushed himself away from the book and those words and began pacing his bedchamber. He stopped, changed his mind and turned, walking the opposite direction. This happened five times, while a tapping began at his window.
The sentry cat wanted to be let in, and she sharpened her nails on the glass. However, on closer inspection, she looked into his Majesty's bedchambers. Seeing the incensed, shorn head, and that dreaded rocking stance just before someone disappeared, she shied away, twitching her tail, rather annoyed. She liked having nine lives to support her antics and a King in denial was the worst sort of headache to deal with. After all, this particular cat was feeling lazy. She sauntered away, having decided that she'd go vampire-bat hunting. Hopefully, the King hadn't noticed her. She licked her lips. Vampire bats were always so juicy.
No. No. It was supposed to dictate only my will!
Unable to keep his temper inwards, Jareth settled for systematically destroying the candlesticks in his bedchamber. Methodically, he grasped their shaft, twisting with pleasure. Hot wax dripped onto his fingers but he didn't care. Darkness settled in the corners of the room. One by one, Jareth broke each candle with a satisfying snap as if it was someone's neck he was breaking. That human word echoed in his mind. Love. As if he'd ever subject himself to such a trap! The white wax went soft in his grip and melted. Dropping the broken pieces on to his mattress, he enjoyed the way the flames licked the sheets. Silk crinkled and disappeared as smoke trailed up to the arched ceiling.
However, while all of this happened, Jareth never noticed that the pen had begun to move on its own will.
It moved rapidly; scribbling down the taste of despair, an unlikely friendship made in an oubliette and the price of confusing, useless words. As he vented, the pen flew across the page, dictating her story without his consent. It skipped at the sound of a roar of torture, dust and crumbling rocks. It even paused for a few seconds, acting as if it was a person examining the sovereign before him, before writing Jareth's own presence into the tale. It raced to finish before Jareth noticed its movements. After all, if Jareth wouldn't use the Labyrinth's power to encourage Sarah to stay, then both would work in each other's best interests. The King to his own, the land to its development.
The room had been cold without his cloak of power. Now, with the fire reflecting in his eyes, he threw the last candlewick onto the floor, where a tiny flame could meet with his tapestries. The growing flames were much better than the coolness that had settled on his skin, as he could feel the press of the fire's hunger at his back, wanting to feast on his furniture and his table. He left it play on his bed, watching as it raced across the pillow cases, burning everything as it went. His cruel smile appeared, and he ran a hand through the wheat stubble left on his head.
Love. It was such a human motion, fraught with peril and betrayal. He was beyond it; such a weakness didn't suit him. He only wore it as a costume for his Challengers. Some humans claimed they loved those they wished away, only to be faced with the thirteenth hour and found lacking. What an unfashionable sentiment. He smirked. He'd cut out his own beating heart if he ever became such a pitiful, useless creature.
The sound of pages settling into place and the snap of the closed volume made him whip around. The pen had finished its task, and it was disintegrating. With its last strength, Sarah's hair had engraved the title on the cover. The crystal cover cracked, and as he stepped closer, Jareth noticed that there was nothing left inside. All the words had been used up. His heart skipped a beat and he reached for the book, only to confirm his worst fears.
The Labyrinth had interfered after all.
Robert was sitting at his writing desk in the living room when his ears picked up a peculiar noise. It sounded like lots and lots of tiny, impatient hands had decided to knock on the front door, a pitter-patter of bony knuckles along with one atrocious finger that'd taken up the responsibility of holding down the front door buzzer. He dropped his pen and rushed to the front door. Grabbing an umbrella from the coat stand, Robert Williams flung open the door, expecting to deal with some hoodlums playing pranks.
He was startled to find no one was there and though he looked left and right, even stepping down to the gravel path to eye each side of the road, there wasn't a person in sight. Scratching his head, he headed back inside. The bushes to his right rustled and Robert stopped for a second to eye them, but it was only the wind. Feeling very stupid as he made his way up the porch, the man almost stepped on a red book that had been left on the doorstep.
"Ah… What's this?" He murmured, picking it up. "Someone's gone and left a book on the doorstep."
Closing the door with a kick, the writer couldn't keep his eyes off the book. He sat down eagerly on the sofa, his hands going over the cover. It looked very ordinary, and yet – there was something off about it. Robert turned the book over in his hands, opened the cover and read a line or two. It wasn't propaganda trash, or a pamphlet. He was rather surprised and pleased to find it was a fairytale play.
"I wonder who?" He mused to himself, rubbing his unshaved chin. "Maybe those Carpenter boys playing on our lawn aga- wait a minute. There's a note." There was a tiny, but elegant piece of inked letter tucked between the title page and the beginning of the tale. There was no addressee, or a signature to identify the owner. There were just two words. Linda walked in, a bottle of milk in her hand.
"Did you just open the door, dear?"
"Oh, hmm? Ah. Yes, yes, I did. Lin, I've left my glasses on the table. Can you read this for me?"
She came over, wiping her wet hands on her red apron. She left Sarah's bottle on the coffee table, accepting the slim volume Robert gave her. He watched as she cradled it in her hands. It was heavier than its appearance belied; it took effort to hold up, even though there couldn't have been more than fifty pages to it. Hesitantly, Linda touched the letter. It was strangely ice-cold, and she had the distinct feeling that the letter held malicious feelings towards her. She frowned, a hand absent-mindedly going down to her flat stomach, cradling it.
There was a dream. I could have sworn I had a strange dream once-
"Lin?" Startled, she blinked, roused from her thoughts.
"Oh, it says 'A gift', Robert. But not who to."
Seeing Linda shudder, Robert drew her into his embrace, rubbing her arms to keep her warm. She didn't tell him to stop, and snuggled closer. The book smelt of a vivid dream she'd forgotten, of burnt hair, gastly grins that licked her hands, scraped her ears and a cruel, unforgiving voice. The feelings flashed over her, leaving her very tired and timid.
"What wrong?"
"Nothing. Just remembered a bad dream I had when I was with Sarah." She dropped the book back into his hands and got up. She picked up his glasses from his writing table and gently put them on Robert's nose. He didn't see her wistful smile when she looked at him; he'd turned the slim volume back to its cover. His fingers brushed over the gold lettering.
"Labyrinth. How strange." He gave his wife a wink. "Do you suppose it's one of your admirers again?"
"No. It's not."
Robert blinked for a second at her serious tone, before dismissing it. "Well, what shall we do with it?"
Linda turned back to look into their master bedroom. Wedged between two cushions to keep her safe, Sarah was trying to walk up a wall. Her chubby legs dangled in mid-air before gravity reclaimed them. Instead of crying, the little one-year old pouted, before trying again. She didn't get far however, her fingers were still curled around Robert's atrocious orange fur rug. Both parents smiled when she turned to burble at them, a wide smile appearing on her face.
"Let's give it to Sarah."