The clangour echoed dangerously against the stone of the High Court room, a peal of low-pitched bells mimicking the slam of the heavy wooden door she had been pushed through. The sound of the bells was swept up into the swirling maelstrom of colour that whirled around her: the eye of the storm, standing in a vacuum all the more frightening for its isolation from the chaos.
He swept at her, an accusation in his eye, a glance of hatred for her supposed crime. His long dark hair swung loosely over his shoulder into her face.
Didn't you? Didn't you do this – when we have both proof and motive for you?
The man's figure seemed to swell until it towered above her. A dark, avenging angel.
Don't deny it. Don't deny it.
Don't defy me. Don't defy me.
We know you are guilty.
The colours swirled – dancers in a ballroom. Her accuser's figure seemed to meld into them.
He turned as he moved away, and when he looked back at her she saw into his mismatched eyes, his wild blonde hair framing an angular face.
She couldn't look away, even when his puzzled glance moved to the side of her and he briefly – for oh! such a short moment – held an expression of something like fear, widened eyes attesting to surprise.
She was watching still when his body seemed to jerk away under a blow, doubling over and reaching up gloved hands against a sudden blossom of red. And in the moment, just before he fell through the ground and away from her sight, he looked up. He met her eyes.
Then he was gone. The colours swirled together and hid his form.
She wanted to scream.
She tried to scream.
You are guilty.
You were seen.
The man's straight dark hair streamed over her shoulder as his head tilted forward to whisper in her ear.
She spun to face him. He was seated on a throne on a dais, his eyes glittering with hatred.
For this foul act – the voice whispered in her ear, his lips did not move while he sat there, staring at her in impotent rage – for the assassination, the murder of the King of the Goblins
Jareth
You are found guilty.
The figure was gone, the endless swirl of colour consuming its outline. A high, outraged scream seemed to echo from the floors, fusing with the ominous melody of the bells. A pulsating shadow scuttled along it; engulfing the stone she stood on.
This is your punishment.
"Since you desired rulership of the Labyrinth so much, lady, then you shall have it. But you shall not be an ordinary queen. Because of your repulsive crime, you shall take on the mantle of the previous ruler and become the Labyrinth's king.
You must be responsible not only for the peoples' welfare and politics but also act as their champion and war-leader. You will lead them into battle.
Sarah...
Consider this your coronation
Sarah...
Woman King of the Labyrinth.
"Sarah..."
Sarah sat bolt upright with a gasp, breathing heavily. Her skin was shining with moisture.
As her breathing gradually slowed down and the quiver in her muscles abated, she raised a shaking hand to her head and pushed back the mass of dark hair forming a messy aureole round her head. She sighed, eyes closing tightly against the sting of tears that still made itself known against the vivid nightmare on its occasional recurrence.
Knowing she wouldn't sleep again so close to dawn, and secretly afraid she would slip back into the dream again if she did, she looked around the heavy stone chamber she slept in for something else to occupy her.
She frowned at the book beside her bed and decided against it, swinging herself up with a decisive movement and pulling a silk robe on over the long white shift she wore. She reached the window before her quick, firm steps faltered and she sighed again, her face pulling into an expression of anguish. She rested her forehead against the stone frame for a moment and turned back towards her room, giving it a searching look.
The pale stone peeking out between the room's luxurious linings gleamed in the faint starlight. Thick rugs covered the floor and silk hangings adorned the walls. It was spacious, tastefully decorated, and contained a massive and very comfortable feather bed. It was a room, quite literally, fit for a queen.
There were times when Sarah hated it.
Her face twisting, she turned and leaned her hands on the broad windowsill, leaning out to gaze across the land far below and beyond her.
The Labyrinth's stone walls twisted and turned as far as the eye could see. Every now and then, she knew, one of them would move of its own accord, although it was too dark to see that happening.
Miserably, she pulled herself up onto the ledge and sat childlike, knees drawn into her chest, and stared out over her kingdom. She watched a radiance that seemed to pulse and cavort across the horizon; the Dancing Faery Lights, vastly different to any constellation she had known back Above. They were strangely comforting, and Sarah had often sat in this same position when she couldn't sleep. It was a little frightening to realise how often she had done so over the past ten years.
Ten years. Ten years ruling a kingdom she had never had any wish to run in the first place. Ten years she had lived with the mischievous goblins. Ten years she hadn't so much as seen her family. Ten years she had wished she could just go back Above, get a boring job as a secretary, and a boring little flat she could come home to every day and collapse in front of the television.
Needless to say, it had never happened.
The dark-haired woman rested her head back against the window frame and looked momentarily towards the door that led into the king's bedroom.
She hadn't occupied it herself, preferring to take the queen's room. In the first place, it was more feminine, but more important had been the idea – the hope, really – that the other room's owner would return to his castle. After all, no body had ever been recovered. That hope had faded day by day, year by year.
By now, it wasn't just that she was settled next door (and would have felt as though she were trespassing in his chamber), it was the colour of the room. Rich, sumptuous, royal reds. Once upon a time, she would have luxuriated in the colour scheme and the delightful fabrics. These days, the colour reminded her only of blood. She was thankful for the green fitting of her own chamber – a restful, natural colour.
It was an escape from the constant reminder of how much blood she had seen spilled in the useless, fruitless wars that had been ravaging the Underground for years. How much blood she had spilled herself, killing foes that must surely have been loved by someone.
Ten years of politics she had stood against on her own. Ten years of bloodshed for which her own hands were responsible. Ten years since the Goblin King was killed.