Title: 25 Underground Crystals
Fandom: Labyrinth
Pairing: Sarah/Jareth
Rating: M
Disclaimer: The Labyrinth belongs to Jim Henson and Brian Froud.
Summary: 25 sentences based on Sarah, Jareth and the Labyrinth.
A/N: This was a challenge from the 1sentence comm under the set 'Epilson', but as you can see, I never finished the fifty. (And I don't plan to.) Also, some of my sentences turned out to have more of a story than one line could tell, so I was doubly doomed. Blur is influenced by the marvellous pika-la-cynique's Girls Next Door comic.
Motion. The moment Sarah lets him kiss her, the scrape of his mask brushing her cheek, she loses, joining the multitude of men and women in the ballroom, forever locked inside, forced to watch, laugh and mock his next Runner.
Last. During the wager between the Runner and himself, the Goblin King thinks of nothing except winning, but when he's left standing victorious, wearing a glass smile and watching their slow demise, he knows that once the Runner is dead, his world will again be encompassed by a vast desert; void of challenge, change and emotion.
Gentle. Sarah lifts up the tiny goblin up onto her palm and they carefully greet each other by having a thumb match.
Blur. She gets the fright of her life as she's closing the bedroom curtains as a large, straggled white object bats crazily at her window, then drops like a stone two storeys onto the pavement.
Change. They shared no words, but he instead cradles her in his billowy sleeves while she sobs heavy, hot tears, unable to glance at the stone Ludo statue in front, caught in his final call.
Command. He thunders, throws chickens around the room and uses magic to control his goblins, so he could be forgiven if he got iffy when she held up a bottle of green gloop and every one of those errant, wild children froze in their tasks and cooed.
Vision. She's walking ever so daintily; one step at a time, making sure her wedding dress hem doesn't dip into the Bog. But then she stops caring and drops the lace, because the grimy, grinning faces have turned around, their claws ready to throw confetti, and Sir Didymus has dropped into a low bow to their new Queen.
Attention. Only now does he realise his mistake in bringing her underground, when all Sarah does is sit with his crystal gift, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, and day after day of sighs over Toby growing, changing, getting old.
Picture. He can't stand the sight of her sleeping figure draped on his throne, a chicken feather pillow cushioning her head, while a dozen finger goblins snuggle into her arms.
Fool. She resents him when she feels the strings of his magic press her limbs into a deep curtsey, and he cruelly watches her face turned red, the laughter of the Fae court, goblins, garden fairies and her once-friends, Hoggle, Sir Didymus and Ludo, echo in her ears.
Mad. He settles on the ledge for just one moment, looking into the asylum bars and watches as Sarah cradles the goblin child she caught clambering her walls, laughing and tickling the tiny creature, "Stay still Toby!", knowing she doesn't see the darkness of her man-made oubliette.
Child. The king lifts a hand away from Toby for just the slightest moment, but before he has time to cover his gap, the faces of the goblins have swamped his personal space, a thousand eyes on the sleeping babe.
Goodbye. He tries to leave their morning bed, warm eyes still caressing the teasing shadow of her curves but just as his hands leave her possession, she pulls off his gloves, slides them on hers, and with 'come-hither' smile, mischievously drags a finger up her bare thigh.
Fortune. Sarah gets awfully fed up when every time she walks past a fortune teller's booth or some mystic offers to read her fate by tarot card, knowing eyes follow her, and the whispers in the shadows sounds rather like goblins giggling, "the way forward is sometimes the way back'".
Ghost. She refuses the King's company the day that Ambrosius dies, cradling the heavy mop of grey-white shag, identical to her Merlin, the toll of humanity echoing in her mind.
Book. She had thought that maybe it wouldn't burn or it'd disappear with a 'pop' when the flames licked that red leather cover, but she was wrong.
Eye. In one of their fascinating late night conversations, she tells him that as much as she loves every denizen of the Labyrinth for what they are, having eye coral watch them make out was never her idea of romantic.
Sing. Only after the honeymoon does he find out that she's worse than a chorus of barrel-drunk goblins at holding a note.
Time. "And then, when the clock struck thirteen, Cinderella had to leave the ballroom." And with those words, she closed the book amidst the sighs of the junk ladies. "Read us some more, pet. Be a dear and finish the tale." With a tiny smile that she tried to cover behind her book, Sarah hopped off the broken massage chair. "Sorry ladies, his Majesty calls."
History. He throws Sarah's Mills and Boon book onto the cobblestones and pinches the bridge of his nose, now rueing the Labyrinth's romantic idea of writing their entire history in a leather-bound volume.
Power. After a millennium of letting him show his expertise in the bed, against the wall, behind the curtains while their goblins scamper past unaware, she gives him one sexy grin on her birthday and turns his world upside down.
Bother. On Valentine Day, there's a queue of goblins demanding peaches just outside the 'disturbing = bog' sign on his bedroom door.
Wall. When the wall to his left grows a face and starts screaming bloody murder and the arch above starts humming 'never going to give you up' for the fiftieth time, the Goblin King swears to go Aboveground and research the feminine phenomenon called 'that time of month'.
Naked. Gloved fingertips caress her exposed shoulder, as he passes her in the ballroom, so light and teasingly that she almost mistakes it for the air.
Need. Normally, Sarah can't stand that laugh. It curls from his throat and spills out, making her spine tingle and she often wets her lips unconsciously at the sound of it. Right now, as he looks down on her with his wicked smirk and dancing eyes, his warm hands are pinning her arms above her head, out of reach of his neck. Before she can spout profanities, Jareth's sinful mouth starts on her wrist, unhurriedly winding its way down.