Title: Remembrance
Author: Skaldic
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Jim Henson own all.
Rating: PG13 / R
Universe: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Labyrinth
Spoilers: BtVS, Season 1-10; Season 5 AU. Jim Henson's Labyrinth.
Warnings: Dark themes. Gore. Violence. Underage Situations.
I knew I loved you before I met you.
I think I dreamed you into life.
— Savage Garden
PROLOGUE
She was born standing up. Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. Athena bursting from Zeus's forehead in full armor with a war cry on her lips. She was all this and more, and less. A woman-child born of magic with Armageddon in her veins, and yet so fragile, so incredibly finite, because she was only human. It would have been laughable if it wasn't so infuriating. Of course they would take something so beautifully, terrifyingly wild and bind it. Diminish it. It had happened time and again. Christianity rolled roughshod over the Celts, the Scots, the Normans, even the Romans. They stamped out what they could and assimilated whatever lingered.
He lingered. But only because of her. Only because of one small, insignificant detail.
A memory. Less than that: a memory of a wish that never was.
But it was enough. The memory spun out, light glinting off a delicate spider-web of possibilities, and with it so did he.
Pan-dimensional energy matrix, would write the scholar, historian, father, wizard.
The Key, would say the half-human, owner, devil woman, Beast.
Thing, would think the girl who was not quite a girl but altogether a goddess.
All right, all wrong, but none understanding just what they were faced with. He understood. The memory of a wish had breathed life into a crumbling kingdom of lost and forgotten things. It had breathed life into him. It had given him form. More than that, it had given him a name and names were very powerful things.
Like her, he had existed since the beginning and yet had only been born in a moment.
Jareth, the King of the Goblins, Spinner of Dreams and Nightmares, Shaper of Time, older than all, but new, so terribly new. He could count his life in epochs, in millennia, in the distance between guttering stars, but his life was tied to hers, an infancy that ticked by in baby-fresh days that totaled in months.
Her, his Sarah, but only by a trick of magic; a girl who loved books who dressed as a girl who had triumphed over them.
It was only a memory, but for her it was real, and like the Velveteen Rabbit, reality came from love, from belief, and the girl was loved and she did believe. In the memory, Janus had been called, stirred from sleep, called by a name he had not heard since his chosen people had walked the earth: Chaos (because he was of the first world). He had been called and besought to make a new beginning when the fabric between worlds was thinnest. He had been called and he had agreed.
And for one Halloween night, Sarah Williams had walked the streets of Sunnydale, a steely glitter in her bright eyes and a defiant tilt to her chin.
You have no power over me.
A memory, intricately constructed and carefully placed by ecclesiastic hands.
Dawn breathed, her sister's red sweater in her hand, her birth scream a childish protest, meshing with her new protector's: "Mom!"
Jareth breathed, a crystal sphere in his hand, his birth scream an amazed laugh as his Labyrinth spread out before him, writhing and growing and existing.
Her a mortal girl and he something else entirely, but both with certain powers.
For the first time in his very long, very short life, Jareth had to wonder at the unfairness of it all.
CHAPTER 1
once upon a dream
The owl winged low. Silver-white feathers cut through pale streams of moonlight and inky pockets of shadow as he swept through the sky. The world was quiet and still, the flutter of his wings a soft whisper as memory and magic solidified and carried him onward. The air was thick with it, crackling. A storm was coming.
The wind joined the owl's flight, breaking the stillness of the evening. It pushed and pulled at him with insistent hands and he dutifully followed.
The way was familiar, well-traveled. It was strange; though the owl had never flown this path before, he had flown it countless times: a fabricated memory spinning more, a domino effect of altered reality. When he finally alighted onto the branch of a wide, up-stretching white poplar tree, there were old score marks from his talons. The magic was crisp and vibrant, lovely in the way of all newborn things.
Feathers ruffling, the owl turned his attention toward the house in front of him. White with sky blue trim, it was an ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood; at least, that was how it appeared and appearances were of utmost importance in Sunnydale. From the cookie-cutter suburban trappings, one could almost be made to believe that nothing exciting ever happened to the family who lived in 1630 Revello Drive. The lawn was neat and well kept, carefully tended hedges bordered the porch. Only the blooming rosebushes in the back garden gave testament to a mother's individual fancy. Everything was clean and picturesque and forgettable.
Not entirely unlike a certain home in New England. Smaller and newer, the Summers home wasn't the Williams home, but there were similarities.
"It's not fair!"
A fondly remembered and oft repeated refrain, but not from who one might expect.
The front door slammed open. Down the porch steps stomped a blonde young woman, her pinched expression clouded with pique. This was Buffy, the magic said, the elder sister. A silly, irritating girl who personified the adage about books and covers. Black owl eyes followed her sudden departure with fading interest. Where she was going and why was hardly important; he hadn't come for her.
In the blonde's unhappy wake stood a frowning brunette. She was young; dreamers often were. Her hair hung in a long, straight sheet of shining chestnut and her limbs were gangly and coltish. That, too, was similar and yet completely different. This girl, so like Sarah but not, was the youngest Summers daughter, Dawn. Her pale blue eyes stared after her sister, betraying nothing save a certain weariness, a touch of resignation. After a moment, she sighed and shut the front door, locking it.
Inside the house, a tense conversation started and abruptly ended. The growing wind snatched the words away, carrying them off into the night. The owl tilted his head in curiosity as the girl's trudging footsteps took her upstairs. Leaping from his perch, he swooped in and landed on the shingles outside of her bedroom window.
Memories tumbled forward like overeager puppies and the fictional heroine was set aside and replaced by something far more substantial. Dawn Summers had always believed. Before Slayers and demons and the knowledge that the things hiding in the darkness hunted her, she had found solace in fairytales and believed. That hadn't stopped when she had learned that the world was older than she knew, but it had changed. Now, every storybook made her pause and wonder: Are you real? Now, she wondered and she wanted and she needed, but she rarely ever wished.
Wishing opened doors and you never knew who would walk through.
Dawn had made her last wish when she was eleven. It didn't matter if it wasn't technically her wish; the memory existed and, now, so did the magic. It breathed over the world and changed everyone it touched, everything. It changed Dawn, too.
Sarah's adventure had been a coming of age tale; it had been a journey to maturity and consideration; and the memory of it had left Dawn a quieter, more thoughtful girl. It had left her older and wiser. Eleven to fifteen in an evening, but looking for all the world like nothing happened. An interesting burden to bear, but still a burden.
As a consolation, a small, red leather-bound playbook sat on her bookshelf and, at times, she would pull it out to read. At times, a wish would sit on the tip of her tongue, wicked and tempting. But Dawn had learned well about the power of wishes and she understood the risk of careless words. And so the playbook would be returned to the shelf and Dawn would put away her childish things.
She wasn't as dreamy and discontent as Sarah.
Such a pity.
Inside her room, Dawn had thrown herself across her bed and punched her pillow. Her face was scrunched in anger and she glared at the clock on her bedside table. It read: 8:00 PM. "I'm old enough to be a babysitter," she muttered bitterly to herself and it carried the air of an on-going complaint. "I don't need Buffy to watch me." Sighing deeply, Dawn rolled over onto her back and turned her glare up toward the ceiling. She kicked at her bedding. "Ugh! It's not fai—"As quickly as the words started, they stopped, and Dawn scrubbed a hand over her face.
"But that's the way it is," she said firmly, sitting up and sliding her feet to the floor. It'd been that way since that Halloween.
She pushed back her hair. Three years.
It was hard to believe. Nobody ever really thought about what Ethan's spell had done to them. Yes, Buffy had aced French and could embroider a mean sampler, and Xander knew a lot more than he let on about soldiering, but they didn't think about it. Dawn's own experiences had been summed up with a joke about tragic 1980s fashion and glittery Tina Turner hair. Never mind that she remembered being older. Never mind that she remembered having a baby brother. Never mind that she remembered a whole 'nother life. Never mind, never mind, never mind.
Damn, she missed being the oldest.
Casting a disgruntled stare to her window, Dawn debated. She debated and then she decided.
On quick feet, jacket in hand, she snuck into her sister's room and grabbed a stake, a tiny bottle of holy water, and a cross which quickly went around her neck. She was tempted to take the tacky silver cross Angel had given Buffy, just out of spite, but it wasn't worth the fight it would cause. Armed and feeling mildly dangerous, Dawn slipped on her jacket and headed toward Buffy's window. Her own window led down to the trellis, but it also left her in full view of the living room and came with the risk of getting caught. Buffy's had a great climbing tree.
Outside, Dawn grew pensive. What had started out as a nice, clear night was quickly becoming a blustery one. Distantly, she could see dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The air tasted like rain. So much for going out. Lame. She supposed she could go visit her friend Melinda. If she hurried she might not even get rained on. It was a small rebellion, but she didn't have the energy for anything bigger than a token effort. She would sit her mom down tomorrow and talk out this whole babysitter brouhaha; if Buffy didn't want her tagging along, then she just wouldn't.
Like she wanted to watch Buffy and Riley suck face anyway.
Plan in place, Dawn slid Buffy's window shut and crouched, slowly picking her way across the roof toward the tall, gnarled tree that stood beside the house. A flicker of white in her peripheral vision had her snapping around and losing traction, a small, muted shriek in her throat. She dug the soles of her shoes into the rough shingles and caught herself. At least she had, before she saw exactly what it was that had surprised her: a large, pale barn owl. It blinked and fluffed its feathers.
Her first instinct was to scramble away from it. Her first instinct was a moron.
Panic washed through her as she slid backward, hands clawing for purchase, but only hitting empty air. She was on the wrong side of the house to land on the hedge, she realized with a dim, skittering sort of terror. Either this was going to hurt a lot or it wouldn't hurt at all because she was about to break her neck and die.
A strong, gloved hand caught her by the wrist and brought her fall to a jerking halt.
Dawn could only stare dumbfounded at the man it was attached to. Only that wasn't exactly right, was it? Male, of course, masculine certainly, but so very much not at all a man. Suddenly, she wondered if she might be better off hitting the ground. Because the guy, the wrist grabby guy? Was the frickin' Goblin King.
And he didn't look impressed with her in the slightest. "Do you ever look before you leap?"
Her hands slapped closed around his forearm and clung. Pathetic maybe, but Dawn didn't particularly care; when it came to unexpected near death experiences, she checked her pride at the door. After all, it was a long way down and the only thing to cushion her fall was a hard, unforgiving strip of concrete driveway.
"And ruin the surprise?" she tossed back. "Where would be the fun in that?"
His expression soured and his lips thinned. "Where, indeed."
And then he let go.
Eyes flaring wide, panicked hands slipping frantic over the slick red leather of his coat sleeve, Dawn sucked in a breath to scream and— immediately had it driven out of her as she landed in a pile of fresh cut grass and leaves. Blinking dully up at the night sky, a crinkly brown oak leaf stuck to her forehead, Dawn took a moment to enjoy the fact that she wasn't actually dead. Then she shoved herself up, peeled the leaf off her face, and cast a peevish look around for the Goblin King.
She found him sitting sprawled and indolent in one of the carriage-style seats on the carousel, feet propped up on the front and arms stretched across the back. Not too far away from them stood an empty park bench, shining with late night dew. From the pile where he'd so gallantly deposited her, Dawn could just see a very familiar swing set. They were in the park where she'd had her tenth birthday party.
"Having fun yet?" he drawled, not looking at her.
Dawn glared at him and almost decided to stay where she was out of sheer, bratty contrariness. Finally, the dampness seeping into her favorite pair of jeans made her decision for her and she climbed to her feet. Stepping out of the pile of grass and leaves, Dawn shook her white tennis shoes clean and brushed off her clothes. As she tromped over to the carousel, she picked grass out of her hair.
"You," she said, with feeling, "are a jerk."
His eyelids slit open and he stared at her with an amused predator satisfaction. It was a look she'd often seen on Spike's face right after he'd said something horrible. Buffy usually socked Spike in the nose for it. Dawn just narrowed her eyes.
"Displeased to see me, Sarah?"
The name reached inside her and tugged in ways she didn't like. Dawn crossed her arms and climbed up the steps to the carousel. "I'm not her," she said, shoving him over as she sat down next to him in the fanciful gilt carriage.
"No, you aren't," he agreed.
He turned slightly to fill the left corner of the carriage, regarding her with frank interest, and Dawn stared back.
He looked different, she noted with some surprise. Where the movie had obviously been makeup and glitter and occasionally ill-fitting costumes, this was real. He was real. The strange, upswept double-tick of his dark eyebrows looked like part of him now rather than a fashion choice, and his pale blond hair hung around his head in feathery wisps. Still an allover rock star mess, but fine and soft-looking in a way that Dawn knew her sister would kill for. As though offering her a better look, he tilted his head and his white skin glinted faintly in the dim illumination from the light posts. His eyes shone bright and catlike.
She looked away.
"Do I pass inspection?"
She leaned away. Maybe she should have stayed put. "You look different."
"And you are different," he returned. He sounded pleased. Dawn glanced back at him when she felt him lift a lock of her hair. His lips curled up at the corners as he wound the lock around a gloved fingertip. "Tell me, Dawn..." He drew out her name like it was something warm and exotic, something meant to be savored. Her flat, irritable look only made his smile widen. "Tell me," he repeated, softer, and there was a little more sincerity clinging to the edges, "have you missed us?"
Dawn almost answered, then she paused. She squinted at him. "Is this one of those funny double-meaning things where I end up losing three hours because petty?"
He released her hair. "If you recall, I have no power over you."
"So this is, what, a friendly visit?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"If we're friends."
That brought Dawn up short. Were they? She fidgeted, tugging at her jacket cuffs and straightening them. "I'm not her. I never wished anybody away."
"But you remember it," he said, "and you miss him."
"And you're a stalker."
He said nothing in reply, seemingly content to watch her from his lazy vantage point. They slipped into silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable or heavy, it just was.
"This should be weird," Dawn finally said. She cast her eyes upward toward the sky. Lightning crawled across it in bright, branching fissures of white. Faraway thunder rumbled. "Are the others real, too? Hoggle, Ludo, Sir Didymus?"
He sighed and moved, his black leather boots lowering as he sat up properly. Still, he watched her, and Dawn had to wonder if she was as new to him as he was to her. "So that's why you never called them. I thought, perhaps, you had forgotten."
Guilt curdled in her stomach and she told herself it was stupid. She couldn't have known. "It was a movie."
"Belief can make a great many things real, Dawn."
Her eyes flicked over to his face following its sharp aquiline edges and suspicion itched at her. Even she knew that belief and implication filled in the gaps when it came to magic. Do you believe in fairies? Say quick that you believe. If you believe, clap your hands! Sometimes simply wanting something strong enough made it happen. An absolutely terrifying thought considering where she lived.
"So Ethan's spell made you real?" It seemed reasonable enough.
Instead of answering, he plucked a crystal from the air and set it spinning along his fingers. As he did, the carousel lit up in a twinkling kaleidoscope of color and lurched forward. Startled at the sudden jolt, Dawn grabbed onto his arm, which had his strange, unsettling eyes pressing down on her. She quickly let go.
He glanced off as though nothing had happened. "This should be weird," he said, both echoing and agreeing with her.
"I walked with you once upon a dream?" she asked.
Instead of catching the reference and smiling, he gave a small nod and changed the subject by offering her the crystal that he'd been restlessly rolling from hand to hand. It glittered, almost innocuous as it sat perfectly still on his outstretched fingertips.
Dawn stared at it dubiously, then she stared at him dubiously.
"I've brought you a gift." The words slithered into her ears, familiar and yet new. "Do you want it?"
She did. You'd think she'd have learned. "Thanks, but I'll pass."
The crystal rolled onto his palm and he closed his fingers around it. When he opened them, the crystal was gone, but in its place sat a dainty silver ring. "Then I'll just return this, shall I?" Smiling thinly, he turned his hand and let the ring fall.
Dawn caught it on reflex. Upon inspection, she wanted to drop it, or throw it back at him. It was the ring that she'd stolen from Ethan's. She hadn'tmeant to steal it, exactly, but between the excitement over Buffy's free dress and trying to convince Willow to buy a real costume, she'd forgotten that she had it in her hand. She'd planned to return it after Halloween, but by the time everything was over, she'd lost track of it.
In the yellow half-light, the garnet setting shone a deep, dark scarlet.
Unsettled, Dawn moved to hand it back, but when she looked up, the Goblin King was gone.
Author's Note:
(1) The bit about Janus and Chaos is from Ovid: Fasti, translated by A.S. Kline.
(2) "Do you believe in fairies? Say quick that you believe. If you believe, clap your hands!" is, of course, from Peter Pan.
(3) Lots and lots of symbolism in this. Can you spot it?