Just one disclaimer, and it's the standard one – anything in this story that seems like it might be from the movie Labyrinth is, and therefore I don't own it. Everything else, on the other hand, is mine. This is meant as a tribute and comes from my great admiration and respect for Jim Henson and all of the talent behind this amazing film. This story is rated 'M' for language and adult situations in later chapters.
So, there are a few things any potential reader of this story should know. Firstly, if you're here and reading this, I seriously thank you. I've done a kind of weird thing here – this story was actually born last year, and I had several chapters posted when I got to the point where I could no longer deal with the fact that I knew there was a much better way to write it, and that wasn't the way I was doing it. Rather than continue with the other format I had going, I decided to pull it for a total re-write. So if you remember the old version, or you start to read this and it seems familiar, that's what happened. This version feels much better to me, and it's just something I had to do. If you read any of it before, as I said, thank you. And if you reviewed, thank you very much for that, also. I'm totally in love with this fandom, and I am absolutely committed to seeing this story to its completion through regular updates. Much thanks to my talented betas (who are the best in this or any universe) and other Labyrinth writers who have inspired me. : )
CHAPTER ONE: Just Another Example Of How I Can Never Seem To Come Home And Have A Normal Weekend
"Damn!" Even though no one was around on whom I could vent my frustration, there was something satisfying about verbalizing it anyway. There was that familiar little stab of pain, blended together with the sort of irritation one usually feels when stuck in traffic behind a school bus, a garbage truck, and someone who clearly thinks it's Sunday (rather than rush hour on a Monday morning). Hmm…did that make two? No, it was actually my third broken nail that day, if you counted the one I snagged opening mail the night before, which was after midnight. I counted it. Why on earth had I let Carla drag me to the salon last weekend? There was seriously no point in having new, fancy nails if I was going to be this bad at maintaining them.
The front door was giving me a horrible time again. The funny thing was it wasn't just one singular problem. Sometimes it was the deadbolt, which seemed to fall mysteriously into place when no one was home, making coming back in again a real bitch. Sometimes it was the knob, which on its best day was pretty sticky, although one time it had actually fallen right off in my hand. Other times the door itself was so stiff it took my whole body weight to heft it open; it didn't matter if I was coming or going. Tonight it was the deadbolt. Seriously, how can a deadbolt be locked if it's only the flip-switch kind, and no one's home? Only in my crazy apartment, I swear. Sometimes it felt like there was some force that just didn't want me in there or something.
When we had first moved in it sort of freaked me out. I'd seen a scary movie once where a woman comes home late one night and unlocks her door, only to find the chain lock in place (and she lives alone). Okay, just that idea alone is enough to give me nightmares for a week. Then, she pulls out her cell and dials her own number (a pretty stupid thing to do under the circumstances, I thought). And this guy answers, like it's no big deal – he just says 'hello'. Then the door flies open and said man (now obviously the serial killer they'd been looking for the whole film) grabs her and pulls her inside, with a nice shot of blood spatter on the opposite wall, all over the door of her neighbor's apartment. Charming, I know. That scene, coupled with my possessed front door, used to scare the crap out of me. But I was totally used to it now. I'd accepted the fact that it seemed to have a mind of its own. And I was never scared in my own apartment. Once I crossed the threshold, I knew I was in my own complete haven, and I made the rules.
Having finally used a little brute force from my shoulder, I managed to get the damn thing open, making a mental note to call the office in the morning. Well, noon anyway, since tomorrow was Saturday and they opened late. Reflexively, I reached out in the dark and palmed Ambrosius' head. He was trying to nose his way outside, as usual, before there was even an opening big enough for him. This would have been a lot easier if it wasn't so completely dark. Ugh. It was just like Neil to forget to leave a light on when he left. I managed to find the switch and flick on the hall light. The dog started jumping up and frantically trying to lick my face. Judging from his level of enthusiasm, I figured I had probably thirty seconds, tops, before he peed on the floor.
"Alright, alright," I told him, laughing a little in spite of the crappy day I'd had. Just a quick change from heels to sneakers, which I always kept in the entryway for this situation, and I threw the door open, letting him run down the stairs ahead of me. I wasn't worried about not having him on a leash at this time of night. Being that Neil and I were practically the only tenants without little kids, and it was currently almost midnight, there wasn't much chance of our meeting a neighbor.
I followed him out to the lawn, inhaling deeply and generally enjoying the fresh night air now that I'd divested myself of the huge-as-usual pile of crap I'd been carrying. Tonight that pile had included ten costume-design portfolios I was supposed to review over the weekend. If I didn't know there was no way I could possibly have carried more than a hundred pounds' worth of stuff up the stairs, I would've said they weighed in at ten pounds each.
The outdoor floodlights illuminated the fluffy whiteness of dog fur as Ambrosius sniffed idly from tree to tree, trying to pick a good spot. I sat on the stairs, and dropped my chin into my hand as I watched him, finally beginning to relax after a day of non-stop tension. The air was slightly crisp and a little damp, full and lush with the earthy smells of spring. The scents of the flora around me seemed to have a little more intoxicating edge after dark. I wasn't sorry that I dodged Carla and Dave at the end of the night and opted to go home instead of out for drinks with them. After this week I was dangerously low on sleep, and I looked forward to drifting off with the window open. Tonight was the sort of night made for dreaming.
A few more deep breaths, and I tipped my head back to check out the sky. The moon was supposed to be nearly full, although I hadn't noticed it on the drive home. Also, I'm pretty good at recognizing some of the constellations. The famous ones anyway – Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion – the stuff they teach liberal arts students in a class (very generously) titled "Physical Science." But nope. Tonight was too cloudy. I hadn't noticed that it was supposed to rain, and I'm a chronic weather report-checker. When you're getting ready to open a show, and the scene and costume shops are in a separate building from the auditorium (necessitating the running of a twenty-yard gauntlet between the two buildings during load-in), you get to really start praying for sunny skies so nothing gets wet. The most realistic-looking Grecian column will still liquefy in water if it's made of styrofoam, which trust me, it always is.
The barking got my attention. Ambrosius had become a distinctly smaller white smudge, having now wandered down to the river. Probably he'd seen a deer, maybe a fox…please God, not a skunk. I jogged down to him, hoping that at least he wasn't rolling in the mud. It was a little cooler down here, and I was starting to regret leaving my suit jacket back in the apartment. The blouse I was wearing did nothing to keep me warm. Ambrosius trotted up to me, seeming fine and thankfully still smelling like dog.
Taking care to keep my tweed pants out of the mud, I bent down to make sure he was okay – checking his face in case he'd gotten in a fight or something like that – as I scratched his ears. He seemed fine and he nosed at me a little himself before he started to lick my face shamelessly. Without warning, the landscape around us was illuminated as a bolt of lightning sliced across the sky. Two seconds later a sonic boom-style thunderclap seemed to shake the earth. Apparently we were suddenly in the middle of a gothic horror cliché.
"C'mon, Merlin. Time to go inside." I stood up, then hearing the echo of my words, felt like I'd just been punched in the stomach. We'd had Ambrosius for nearly a year and I was still slipping from time to time. I'd been hesitant to get an Old English Sheepdog to begin with, thinking it would just be too gross since Merlin (the first sheepdog in my life and also my first love) had died several years ago. But after going back and forth about it, Neil showed up one day with the sweetest puppy I'd ever seen and since then he'd been the third member of our family. I loved him enormously, but sometimes he was just so much like Merlin, it was a struggle to remember that they weren't the same dog.
Almost impossibly fast, the rain started and we were soaked through in seconds. So much for the silk blouse and this half of my new tweed suit. The previous weekend's trip to the mall with Carla had also included the purchase of this outfit, meant to impress the Board of Governors, with whom I'd met earlier that day. Oh well. I'd reminded her at the time that I wasn't the suit-wearing type. That in all likelihood I'd ruin the thing the first time I wore it (I don't tend to have the best of luck with clothes that are labeled "dry clean only"). And now look, five days later, soaking wet and running through the mud.
Our building sits on a hill, and the trip back up to the doors was a hell of a lot harder (again, the mud was partially to blame) than the trip down. Ambrosius ran a little ahead of me, obviously excited by this impromptu race. Looking at him as I struggled uphill reminded me of something. What was it? I felt a little like there was a magnet in my brain, pulling me toward…something I was supposed to remember.
Once we made contact with pavement I grabbed the dog collar and muscled him up to our apartment door. This time, thankfully, the door unlocked right away, behaving itself as if it hadn't been a total bitch a few minutes ago. I swung it open. Complete and total darkness. What the hell? I knew I'd left that light on. Maybe it had been on its way to burning out after all, and I shouldn't give Neil such a hard time about it. Yet, when I reached out and flicked the switch again, it was down. As in, turned off. The light flared bright easily enough when I turned it on this time, but I was beyond freaked. Either I was just deliriously tired and thought I'd left it on when we went outside, or someone was here.
"Hello?" I called softly, heart in my throat. Huh – maybe I was just as dumb as that woman from the movie after all. Yeah, if there was some psycho in my apartment, announcing my solitary, scared female presence was a great idea! Hell, I might as well call out, 'hey, my jewelry box is in the bottom drawer of the vanity, I'm all alone, weak and unarmed, and the only thing protecting me is the world's most cowardly dog'. What in the hell was I thinking? If I really thought there was a chance of an intruder, I should have turned right back around and left, right? But no, that was a little more sensibility than I was capable of at the moment. Hoping that I wasn't vastly over-estimating Ambrosius' ability to intimidate (hey – the dog had been around enough actors in his life that hopefully he'd picked up a thing or two), I kept hold of his collar and made him walk with me from room to room, as I switched on every light in the place. By the time we'd checked the kitchen, bathroom (making a particular point of looking behind the shower curtain) and spare bedroom, I was feeling foolish. You'd think that being married to a performer who, obviously, worked nights, I'd be used to being alone at odd hours by now. No wonder Neil had been so insistent about getting the dog. I had probably been showing signs of cracking up from the solitude back then.
Breathing much easier, we went into my room and took a look around. Unfortunately, the ceiling fixture in here was burned out – I'd been meaning to fix it since a couple of nights ago – but the light spilling from the closet, and an extra-bright nightlight that always stayed on, were more than sufficient as the dog and I checked in dark corners and under the bed. I let out a huge sigh, feeling very stupid and now completely convinced that I just needed a good long sleep. Ambrosius flopped down on the bed, but a quick snap of my fingers and he jumped right down. I love animals, but the wet dog and mud combination on my duvet is where I draw the line. He trotted over to the corner, and I stepped into the walk-in closet. I pulled out some pajamas to change into, and turned my attention to my ruined blouse. I'm no expert, but I figured it was a goner for sure so I wasn't even careful as I unbuttoned it. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something weird. A gentle flickering. Turning my head, I found the source. A candle was burning on the dresser next to the television. What the hell? How had I not seen it before? Although at my current level of exhaustion it wasn't impossible for me to have missed it – plus I'd been at least partially convinced that I was about to be attacked by a maniac. Oh, Neil was going to get it from me when he got home! If it was still burning, that meant that we could have burned this building to the ground anytime in the last six hours! That was really careless, even for him. I blew it out and stepped back into the pool of light coming from the closet, where I pulled my shirt the rest of the way off.
Then I heard it. It was…horrible. The sort of sound I'd been freaking myself out imagining, whenever I came home to our empty apartment. It was the sound of a throat clearing, distinctly male. From behind me. In my bedroom.
Without turning around, I started to pull the blouse back on, consciously trying not to shake (even though I was freezing, and wet, and more vulnerable-feeling than I could ever remember being in my whole life) as I attempted to force my arms back through the sodden sleeves. Almost immediately I realized this was a stupid choice. My robe was hanging right next to me, for goodness' sake! But, having committed to the action, I continued to struggle for some moments with the blouse, as though this was something I did every time I experienced a home invasion. There was just something about not being fully dressed with this stranger in my house that made my skin crawl – aside from the obvious reasons – and while it might have been smarter for me to get out of there as fast as possible, I couldn't stand the thought that he'd breached not only the privacy of my home, but my own senses of personal privacy and decency as well. It was like if I could get my same blouse back on, I could somehow undo what he'd already seen; what I'd already felt. Just a nice, simple rewind. So while my body was busy with that undertaking, my eyes started looking for something I could maybe use as a weapon. They landed on a large flashlight that I kept on the closet shelf. I use it just about every day to find my shoes, since they're in a gargantuan pile on the closet floor and the light of the ceiling fixture is sometimes very unhelpful in finding the partner of whichever shoe I'm already holding in my hand. Karen keeps trying to convince me to get some sort of multi-tiered organizer, but I figure, why pay a thousand dollars for some hoity toity closet system so I can find my stuff when a ten-dollar flashlight does the job just as well? And now look, I've found another great use for it: in-a-pinch weapon against a burglar.
I knew he was watching me. I was standing at the closet threshold, light right over my head, and he was, at most, twenty feet away in the (relatively) darkened bedroom. He must have been able to hear my heart pounding by now. My thoughts had abandoned language, becoming nothing more than a series of images and feelings, as though I was an animal in a trap; a woodland creature caught, alive, in its own environment. What a horribly bitter thing that must be for a cuddly little herbivore, to be caged and facing its doom, but still be able to look around and see the happy forest it had known its whole life. In this case, I was the harmless, victimized bunny rabbit, and the role of the predator had yet to be determined. He hadn't made a sound since the initial vocalization. Several droplets of water raced each other from my drenched hair down by back, feeling like the touch of death. One tiny water-bead rolled from its perch on my left eyelash and splashed into my eye. My mind raced as I continued to struggle with the damn blouse. Options? I could just run right now. But I'd kicked off my sneakers at the door, so I was barefoot with no shirt. I could attack him, banking on the element of surprise. But I guess that's not really possible when you're essentially standing on stage, as I was. Talk to him, ask him what the bloody hell he was doing in my house? Maybe….
"Sarah," came the voice behind me. It sounded like he was moving closer, although I heard no footsteps. I kept fighting with the blouse, my eyes away from him. I didn't want to look.
"Sarah," he said again, now from right behind me. I still pretended he wasn't there. So far all I knew about this intruder was that he knew my name. That and that his voice sounded vaguely familiar.
A black leather glove moved into my line of vision and I actually opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Scared out of all rational thought, I noted distantly that his hand wasn't coming toward me, but rather, toward my robe where it hung on its hook. The hand grasped it firmly, then it left my sight for a moment and I felt the robe drop around my shoulders. Knowing full well I was not camouflaging my shaking at all, I finally turned around.
The sight of the man in front of me wrenched a few second's worth of hysterical laughter from my throat, during which he calmly waited for me to finish. I guess I should explain. I was looking at Jareth, the Goblin King. He was the literal face of all of my teenage fantasies, dreams and nightmares. I'd gotten so obsessed with my fantasy world (of which he was king) that when I was fifteen I had an uber-realistic episode where I thought I'd actually gone there. This wasn't the standard realistic dream. I was pretty sure I hadn't been asleep, and it was so real I could remember the smell of the place. They say that smell is the sense most tied to memory. Of course, any self-respecting bizarro-fairytale-land consists of a variety of settings, and mine had been no exception. There was even one setting whose most identifying feature was a noxious odor…. But there was one underlying fragrance throughout the whole place, always close around me and always annoyingly unidentifiable. You know how you might see a minor character actor in a movie, and it drives you crazy trying to figure out where you've seen them before? This smell was like that, and I have never been able to forget it, even though I've never experienced anything remotely similar since then. How to describe…. Does glitter have a smell? I'm not talking about the stuff kids use in arts-and-crafts; metal shavings stuck on paper with glue. I'm talking about, like, a substance that is glitter. It's not made of metal, or plastic, or anything fake. It's like light, or water, or warmth. Does thermal energy have a smell, independent from the object it's heating?
The morning after it happened I'd been so freaked out by it that I swore I'd never think about it again; that is, if I wasn't looking for some lock-down time in a pysch ward. It was kind of good, in a way. Most people can't pinpoint the exact moment they grew up, but I can. It was that morning, when I packed up most of my fantasy-oriented belongings and hauled them to the attic. In fact, as I did this I distinctly remember thanking Jareth, as well as Hoggle, Ludo, Sir Didymus and a host of others for helping me to see what a dangerously fantasy-addicted kid I was. No way had any portion of that episode been real. I really hadn't thought about it since. Why in the hell was the King of the Goblins standing in my bedroom?
He looked just as I remembered him. He was dressed in all black, imposing as hell in his flowing cape, armored breastplate, black riding breeches and tall boots. Snapping my eyes back to his face, I noted that his hair was wild as ever and his face still had that otherworldly, completely-inhuman quality that had both excited and unnerved me as a child. Utterly devoid of expression, he bent his face a little closer to my own. As a direct reflex, I leaned back to get out of his way, my back bumping into the doorframe. If I hadn't been a hundred-percent caged before, I was now.
"Sarah, are you alright?" he asked. There was maybe the tiniest twinge of concern in his eyes. Checking…yes. They were still oddly mismatched. Wait, was he actually talking to me?
"Sarah," he repeated.
God, I'd forgotten the way he'd said my name. He drawled it, in a way that could make me feel positively violated. In the intervening years, I may have banished all thought of him from my waking mind, but that didn't mean I didn't sometimes dream about him. That's how it always started, with him saying my name. That way. Like it was the most deeply sensual word in the English language.
I clutched my robe around me, still staring at him. Um, was I still not talking? Why couldn't I get my brain in gear? Oh yeah, because I was gazing into the eyes of a figment of my imagination. That must be it. I could hear blood rushing in my ears, evidently on its merry way away from my brain because I was incredibly light-headed. It was like I was made of Jell-O and suddenly a fancy closet system didn't sound like such a bad idea – they generally come with a little stool or chair to use when you're putting your shoes on. What I wouldn't have given for a piece of furniture at that moment! Of course if I fainted outright, at least I would be properly playing the role of the heroine to his villain. And maybe that was what I was supposed to do….
He spoke again. "Sarah, I think I'll give you a chance to change your clothes and …relax for a moment. I seem to have startled you. May I speak with you in your kitchen in say, ten minutes?"
Argh! How could he dare to be so calm and controlling right now? So…should I go along with it, or maybe revert to the impertinent little brat I probably was when I last saw him and refuse? Perhaps I should just insist that none of this could be real, shut the closet door in his face and sit myself down on the floor, patiently waiting to wake up. Of course, most of these choices required speech, which didn't seem like much of an option for me at the moment. Somehow I found the ability to nod. I hated myself for playing along without a fight.
"Wonderful. I'll see you then." He disappeared in a little cascade of glitter (probably not made of metal shavings).
Great! I'd just vacuumed. The robe fell to the floor as I grabbed a sweater and jeans and stiffly put them on. I consciously tried to speed up my breathing. See, I'd figured the whole thing out. I must be sleeping. If I could increase my pulse a little, and get to over, say, twenty breaths a minute, I'd wake up. That was all I wanted at the moment.
Once I was completely free of any wet clothes, I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. Okay, I thought out to the universe, I'm ready to wake up now. I'll believe this was all a dream and I'll shake my head and go make a pot of coffee to keep me awake until Neil gets home. It seemed like as good a plan as any. A few more breaths. The bed dipped next to me and I knew the dog had jumped up on it. Somehow that didn't seem like such a big deal now. I rolled over to face him and rested my head against his ribcage, comforted by the gentle rise and fall. He snuffled a little at my hair. Interestingly, Ambrosius wasn't wet anymore. In fact, he smelled remarkably clean, like he'd just had a bath, even though I knew he was way overdue for one. Cuddling into his fur as though he was an oversized, breathing teddy bear, I was reminded of Ludo (another product of my teenage psychosis). So comforted was I in that moment that I'm not exactly sure how much time passed. When I opened my eyes and glanced at the alarm clock on the table next to me, it read 12:45 a.m. Okay, so it was now officially Saturday and I'd just woken up in my own bed. I swung my feet to the floor and went to the vanity.
"Come here, Ambrosius," I called and he reluctantly left the comfort of the bed and came right over to me. "Well," I said to the dog as I tied my damp hair back in a knot, "You should know that your mommy is one crazy lady." I sighed and stretched, pausing at the bedroom door. It's just a dream, Sarah. You're appallingly overworked this week and there is absolutely no reason why you shouldn't walk right into the kitchen for that coffee. Ambrosius looked up at me expectantly, seeming to sense my hesitation. I gave him one last pat on the head as I reached for the door handle. "Even you wouldn't believe me if I told you, puppy," I said. "Let's go get you a treat and watch some TV until daddy gets home, okay?"
I guess deep down I was expecting what happened next. I was just in major denial because I didn't want to be insane. We walked into the kitchen, and there he was. The Goblin King was just sitting there casually at my kitchen table, rolling a crystal back and forth across the surface. I noticed that he was now wearing a white ruffled shirt with gray breeches and dark gray boots. So evidently he was still a frequent clothes-changer.
The dog ambled over to him like he was approaching an old family friend and nudged his head under Jareth's hand. Jareth fluidly slid from his chair, giving the dog a good belly scratching as he rolled over onto his back. I knew I was staring like an idiot, but I couldn't help it. Without looking up, Jareth spoke.
"Sarah, I get the feeling you're not happy to see me. Honestly I'd hoped for a slightly better reception from you."
I finally found my voice. "Well, what exactly does one say to a figment of her overactive childhood imagination, waiting to ambush her in the dark twenty years after she'd stopped thinking about him?"
"Hmm…you're right. It is a tricky situation in terms of etiquette protocol. You could try being hospitable and offer me a cup of tea, but that's just a suggestion." At this, he looked up at me, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips.
Was he making fun of me? I turned quickly away and started rummaging through the cabinets. "Is chamomile okay? It's all I've got, unless you want coffee."
"The chamomile will be fine," he replied as he drifted across the kitchen and started inspecting the microwave. "You know," he said conversationally, "I think that this is my favorite invention of the twentieth century."
"Well it isn't mine," I told him as I filled the teakettle and set it on a burner. "It heats too unevenly so you never know what you're going to get. I prefer the stove any day."
So I was having a conversation with a fictional character, was that really so bad? God, I was working my way into a monster headache! I started pawing through another cabinet before spying what I needed on the spice rack.
"So what's yours?"
I risked a quick glance at him. He was sitting at the table again. Funny, because I hadn't seen or heard him move back over there. "What's my what?"
"Your favorite twentieth century invention."
"Oh, that's easy," I replied as I downed some pills with a swig of Coke and studied the red and white bottle in my hand. "Tylenol."
At the last minute, I decided to brew a pot of coffee for myself. I was still hoping (although I knew by now it was probably fruitless) that I was dreaming, and drinking chamomile with Jareth seemed just a little too 'tea with the Mad Hatter' to me. Except he wasn't wearing a hat. But it was technically my un-birthday. Boy oh boy was I losing it!
I was careful to avoid eye contact with him as I took my time getting our beverages into mugs. Prolonging the inevitable, I guess. Finally I put them on the table and sat across from him.
Another loud throat clearing from Jareth. At least this one didn't make me feel like I wanted to throw up. I glanced up at him, then quickly down again.
"Now, Sarah. I'll admit on first inspection I didn't detect much of a change in you from the last time we met," he said conversationally. I could hear his spoon clinking against the side of his cup. "But perhaps I have underestimated you. Could it be that you have finally mastered the art of self-restraint?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Only that the Sarah I knew would never have waited so long to ask the obvious questions. I know they must be positively burning at you. Yet here you sit, as though late every evening you received a visit from…a caller like me."
Fighting with myself not to give in to temptation and tell him exactly where he could take that condescending tone of his, I met his gaze. His eyes sparkled with amusement. Interestingly enough, the thought to ask questions had not yet crossed my mind. My brain was currently occupied with the question of my own sanity. "Well, I figured you'd tell me whether I asked or not." Good. Keep things nicely vague.
His eyes narrowed. "No, you really haven't changed a much at all, my dear, except to grow into quite an exceptional young woman. My, my but you do seem to have it all…husband, career, good friends…."
That was enough. "Okay, stop baiting me. I give in. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" I tried to summon my most intimidating expression and let him have it.
"I was just in the neighborhood." Jareth started. I continued to fix him with my best approximation of an evil eye. He sighed. "Sarah, can't an old friend just drop by to say hello once in a while?"
"I suppose if we had ever been friends, and you know, if you were actually a real person, that might be okay…. But seeing as I invented you as part of a youthful fantasy and I've subsequently worked hard to grow up and stop playing with imaginary friends, you'll forgive me if I'm just a bit confused by your sudden appearance. I don't remember taking any mind-altering drugs recently, so I'm at a loss here. Help me out." There. I'd said my peace. He should be going poof (or I should be returning to consciousness) any minute now.
But all that happened was that he sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "Sarah, I can assure you I am as real as you are."
"Yeah right. And when I was fifteen I actually became, for real, the heroine of a Robin Zakar play and traveled to the Underground where I had to challenge you, the embodiment of the villain, to retrieve my baby brother. Christ, it isn't even a good Zakar play! Yeah, that sounds entirely plausible, Jareth."
Then he started laughing. For real. I'd never heard him do that before and it was very unsettling. "Sarah, you think you imagined all of that? Isn't that quite a lot of ego, even for you? Robin Zakar is an accomplished playwright, not to mention a friend of mine, and he would be quite insulted to hear you say that. He didn't even get all of the details exactly right, did he? To be fair though, he'd never actually been there. Had to rely entirely on my directives."
"Okay…so according to you, I had some sort of authentic experience the last time I saw you? You know, I'd actually be almost happy if that were true because it'd mean I'm not crazy, but even making the biggest stretch imaginable I can't make myself believe that."
"What can I do to convince you?" He sat up a little straighter, as though he was getting ready for a challenge.
"What, that you're real? I don't think you can. I mean, if you pop out a few magic tricks I could still just be dreaming, right?"
"What if I tell you something that only you would know? I could read your mind, or describe in detail something that happened to you recently."
"Nope. If I'm dreaming that means you're part of my subconscious and therefore you know everything I do, maybe even a few things I don't know in my conscious mind, blah blah blah. I took a couple of psychology classes as an undergrad."
"Well, that puts me at something of a disadvantage, doesn't it? I know…what if I make a prediction and it happens exactly as I describe it? Would that convince you?"
"I don't know. It depends on what it is, I guess. I'm not promising anything. Why? Do you have a prediction about me ready to go?"
"Yes. In exactly two minutes your phone will ring. It will be your friend Carla, wanting you to meet her at a bar."
"Two minutes from now?"
"Yes. Well, about a hundred seconds now, anyway."
"Okay, I can wait." The truth was I was already becoming more and more convinced that this wasn't a dream. It just didn't feel like I was dreaming. Plus, I'd burned myself a couple of times making the tea. That had to be pretty damn near the pinching-awake thing. I kept my eyes focused in Jareth's direction, but the annoying thing was that he kept trying to make eye contact with me. Somehow I couldn't let myself do that. Ambrosius lay his head on my knee. The clock kept ticking. The phone ringing shattered the silence. Feeling defeated, I got up and answered it.
So what he'd predicted turned out to be true. Carla and a few of our other friends had found a new after-hours club they liked recently and were planning to go there after the regular bars closed, and didn't I want to join them? I lectured my friend for calling me at one o'clock in the morning on my landline (digital age etiquette dictates that if you're calling someone in the middle of the night you should call their cell because it's easiest to turn off if you don't want to be disturbed). Then I hung up and went back to the table, eyes back on my coffee cup.
"Have I convinced you, Sarah?"
I shrugged. "So you're telling me that everything that happened during those thirteen hours – well, I guess it's a little less than thirteen, right? – actually happened. I met Hoggle, Ludo and Sir Didymus and together we beat the labyrinth and I faced off with you and won Toby back. Is that what you're saying? Wow, you must be pissed at me now, losing like that to a little girl." Okay, I know it was a harsh thing to say, but my whole worldview was being shaken at the moment and I was feeling, well, cranky.
I have to credit Jareth for not getting sucked in to my snarkiness. "Actually, Sarah, I bear no grudge because I did not 'lose' to you, as you say. As it happens, the labyrinth is not a real place. You could say it's as real as you made it. The Underground doesn't exist, except in your own mind. In point of fact, despite the bit of fun I had at your expense before, it was your exceptionally wild imagination that conjured all of the elements of that adventure," he appeared slightly apologetic here, "including your companions. Only I am actually real."
"And Robin Zakar?"
"I may have been something of a muse to him."
"So my friends really were in my head?"
"Yes."
I suddenly felt very cold, and without thinking I opened my mouth. "Somehow I even suspected it at the time. Especially with Hoggle. He was just the sort of fairy tale companion I would have hoped for – very 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs', but a tough nut to crack, you know?" I couldn't help looking up for Jareth's reaction.
"Yes," he chuckled, "Hoggle was a great invention. There were times when I almost thought he was real myself. Although I didn't appreciated the fact that you wouldn't let me properly remember his name. Really, Sarah, if there's one thing I'm certainly not, it's forgetful!"
Without thinking, I responded. "You know that had more to do with you just being a jerk than you simply forgetting a name, right?"
"Of course I do. As long as you know that that was part of the persona assigned to me in the story. Er…I'm really not a jerk, not really." The look on his face was so serious, I could've laughed. Almost.
"No, you know I have no idea why, but I don't think you're a jerk either." This time I met his gaze. Jerk? Probably not. 'Trustworthy' was still in a completely different universe, though.
"Lovely, well, now that that's settled –"
"Wait," I interrupted, "so now you're real, but the Underground isn't. So who – what – does that make you, exactly?"
"That's a bit complicated, my dear. I am a different thing to every person, but to put it simply, I am tasked with giving people what they want most. For example, I could be a helpful stranger giving directions to a lost soul at the most opportune time, or the numerical inspiration for a winning lottery ticket, or the quick turn of a stoplight when someone is running late for an important meeting. I've been Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, although those are mostly for the kids, you know. But for women, now that's the most fun. I could be a swashbuckling rogue one day, a charmingly nerdy professor the next and a tortured genius the day after that. Variations on some sort of father figure tend to come up rather often. What is it with you females and issues with your fathers?"
He leaned back in his chair, and interlaced his fingers behind his head, the picture of relaxation. "But you, Sarah. You made me into a Goblin King, complete with flamboyant good looks and wardrobe. No one's ever done that for me before. I've really got to hand it to you and your creativity. It's fortunate my psyche is not in possession of anything as mundanely mortal as masculinity, or it would certainly be quite threatened, what with all of these glamorous adornments." He was absolutely smirking at me.
"That's funny," I said, thinking about how his clothing generally displayed (rather dramatically) certain parts of his anatomy, "you always seemed pretty masculine to me."
"I guess I would consider myself male, but I'm not really confined to anything, not being human, you see."
"So okay, what are you? You still haven't answered that."
"I am an idea. Let's just leave it at that for now. I am usually expressed in human form, as you see me, but sometimes I've been reduced to something far more vague. I am quite real, I can assure you that you did not create me, and I mean you no harm. I really just came to talk. I wasn't kidding before when I said that your imagination was uniquely captivating to me, even with all of the mortals I've met. Also, I have to say, I'm impressed with how relatively calm you've been since I arrived. I realize that I startled you before, but you seem remarkably accepting of this situation, more so than most of your kind would be at having a confessed non-human in their homes."
"What? Were you hoping I'd scream like a little girl, or attack you with a blunt object?" Um, thoughts I'd had while standing at the closet door were still only thoughts after all. "Sorry to disappoint you, Jareth, but I stopped being afraid of you when I was fifteen. Plus, if you had any sinister intentions towards me, I'm guessing there's not much I'd be able to do about it. I don't know any exorcists who make house calls." I stood and stretched, taking my cup to the sink. Somewhere along the way I'd lost my taste for the beverage that usually served as my most reliable panacea. As I ran cold water in the mug, a weird thought occurred to me. Of course, 'weird' was an entirely relative concept to me just then. I stopped what I was doing and turned back to Jareth, who looked completely at home sitting at my kitchen table, my dog at his feet. "I should probably stop calling you Jareth, huh? What's your real name?"
He paused before answering, tilting his head to the side. "No, 'Jareth' will do just fine. I've grown to really prefer it, in fact."
If vagueness ever became a competitive event, no one would ever be able to touch Jareth. "Okay…so what happens now?"
He turned his head slightly, as if listening for something. Then I heard it. A key in the front door lock. Somehow, however ironically, if I'd imagined the scenario of my husband coming home in the middle of the night to find me in the company of another man, it would never, ever play out like this in my head. I was mildly surprised that I hadn't been worrying about this. I guess I just had enough other stuff on my mind. Grasping for some semblance of normalcy, I turned back to the sink and my mug. All I could do at the moment was focus on the task at hand, eyes down. Coffee cup, coffee cup, coffee cup.
Neil strolled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Hey Sar, who's your friend?" he started, but then he froze.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I'd been hoping Neil's arrival would be the smelling salts I needed, so to speak, to jar me out of what I now new for certain was not a dream. So, what was worse? Being crazy, or knowing that your delusion is definitely real? With Herculean effort, I turned so that I no longer had my back to the scene unfolding in my kitchen. Shutting the refrigerator door slowly, Neil's eyes darted from me to Jareth and back again. I'd thought I had a pretty bizarre evening up until that moment, but it was nothing, nothing, compared to what Neil said next.
"Jareth, what are you doing here?"
Jareth smiled graciously. "Hello, Neil. Just thought I'd pay a visit to some old friends."
I couldn't breathe. I mean, not at all. When I steeled myself moments earlier for whatever this conversation might bring, I had planned to appear as casual as possible, leaning against the sink. Now I needed to do so for support. The room faded a little at the edges of my vision. There was a hand-turkey on the fridge, courtesy of Abby, Rachel and Dave's five-year-old daughter. I focused on it now. A voice, somehow, came out of me. I didn't really recognize it as my own. "Do you two know each other?" I didn't look at either of them.
"But of course," Jareth answered. "Sarah, I think with time you'll find that there is very little in your life that I have not had a hand in."
Gravity had failed me. I felt like I was falling upwards. Strong hands on my arms guided me into a chair. I don't remember anything after that.