Title: And Tears Fell
Author: Kit Viridis
Description: The rains came, swallowing up the Labyrinth and pushing the inhabitants of the Underground to desperation. Rated for later chapters, JS.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Labyrinth or its character. However, everything else is mine
Chapter One:
Aboveground…
Keys, loafers, satchel, jacket, scarf, shirt, and pants all hit the floor as Sarah made a beeline for the bathroom. Her rich, chestnut locks cascaded down from the confines of a French twist, shielding her body from view. She drew her bath and peeked out the small window. The city that once offered solace within its depths now repulsed her. Crying, she watched the twinkling landscape, as the tub overflowed…
Underground…
The sound of heals against stone was muted by the slosh of water. The fine leather of his boots was not made for wading. The King was no common fisherman and he did not plan on taking up the profession. Yet here he was, barely staying afloat in his own castle, treading lightly down hallways lined with sand bags and planks. He might as well commission the building of an arch; they would not be staying in the castle much longer.
………….
When the rains first came they met with the red sand beyond the Labyrinth and the hot kiss of the desert vaporized each drop that fell. A thick, balmy steam rolled into the paths of the ancient maze, blinding the runners. In the beginning the cloud was ignored or cursed as an inconvenience, a strange anomaly that would disipitate with the ending of the uncharacteristic rains. The wet season was not anticipated for 237 years hence, this was just a glitch.
When the fog finally disappeared the rains had not stopped. The desert was now as a pool of blood. Wet and cool, the sand no longer kissed with passion and the waters began to gather. Months passed and then years… and still the rain persisted. Jareth cursed the waters, his magic ineffective. He who held this world in the palm of his hand, had no power over the red sea creeping ever closer to his home.
………….
He made it to the throne room without succumbing to the tide that ran through his halls and with as much dignity as possible, the Fae lord took his throne. There were still those unable or unwilling to take the sanctuary Jareth offered. The powerful smell of sour bodies and stale boozes was testament to the multitude that had, yet he was not satisfied. His mixed heritage was never accepted by some of the lesser, pureblooded Fae and he had abandoned them early in his reign. Now, he regretted not mending that rift. They would willingly die before accepting his generosity, and Jareth wept for their petty bigotry and his negligence.
He was alone; there was no shame in weeping, 'Oh Sarah, what have you done…'