So… yeah. I'm back from a long hiatus. This was actually written only a few weeks after Hunter, but it got lost in the fray. My writing style has changed substantially since then.
This is a sequel to Hunter, and it is the final part of the story. So, before you read this, read the first part. If you like song-based fanfics, I'll tell you now: these are the only two that I will ever write. Hunter only exists because of a challenge that I felt deserved attention, and this fic only exists because I liked the little world that comes from listening to this band.
The song in this fic is called "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" by Fiona + The Machine. I do not own the song, nor do I own Labyrinth.
Sarah had survived through breakups before with only a little grief: a few tears if they had been especially dear to her, but mostly with a small amount of painful acceptance. Unlike most of her thespian peers, she tended to keep her drama on the stage. There was no public breakup-fight, no back and forth emotional commitment, no screaming fits or bursts of loud sobbing. And—under penalty of death, it seemed like—Sarah refused to pine. It was stupid and silly and dramatic, and she had learned better.
So why, she wondered between sobs, had she put herself in a position to miss him so badly?
Someone banged against the door to the maintenance closet, making her startle and almost tip over a mop in a bucket of something she didn't care to learn more about. It had probably just been a stumbling bar guest, because nothing—thankfully, she thought—followed. The spook had stopped her in the middle of fighting down a sob, and it gave her a brief moment of clarity. She was in a maintenance closet of the bar that had started their local popularity, crying her eyes out before a show like some love-struck teenager that couldn't control herself. Brilliant.
Someone knocked at the supply closet, the rhythm against her back, and Sarah was standing and opening the door before she even realized what she was doing because she somehow knew who was there. The expected head of long, red curls came peeking through the door, Rebecca's eyes glittering in the dark. The guitarist invited herself in, plopping down beside where Sarah let herself slide down the back wall with her face in her arms, curled into her knees.
Long, pale, too-pretty-to-be-human fingers came to rub her back. Each circle felt a little tingly—not as tingly as such a touch could be, she knew—and nails that were a little too sharp caught on Sarah's sweater. 'Pisky,' Sarah thought, and then, 'halfling.' The second label was not hers, but something she had learned during the darkest part of the night, curled against a warm chest as he explained things to her that no other human had known in centuries. Thinking about those moments sent her into another tail-spin, and Sarah found herself crashing into Rebecca's shoulder because she missed that tingling touch and the under-the-skin sparkle and he was done leaving and was already gone and she couldn't do anything!
Rebecca was hugging her close and hushing her with quiet noises, and if Sarah had moved her face from her friend's stripped shirt, she would have seen that her friend's not-so-nice smile had stopped glittering and that she almost looked human. She was giving as much of herself as she possibly could, Sarah soon realized, and it was comforting to the part of her that was addicted to the magic. After months with an Other as strong and as magical as a Fae, a complete lack of magic had sent her into a kind of withdrawal that helped to make her so hysterical. As a half-pisky, Rebecca could only offer so much, and Sarah wasn't surprised when her friend pushed her away.
The sparkles that made Rebecca's smile not-so-nice had faded to something less dazzling and more human, and Sarah tried to return the gesture because her friend looked tired and a little faded around the edges. For the first time since that morning, Sarah could think clearly. The part of her that craved magic had had its fix—it wasn't his, but it was enough—and the feeling that made it hard to breath faded to something throbbing dully in the background. Rebecca seemed to understand that her friend was as put together as she was going to get, so she whipped Sarah's eyes with a sleeve and pushed her out of the closet. They ended up in the bathroom, with Sarah doing all she could to make her face less puffy and her eyes less red. Rebecca had caught up a glass of water, and was having her gurgle in an attempt to undo some of the damage done by the sobbing. When they had done as much as they could, and Sarah re-did her makeup enough to look presentable, they made their way back stage to check in with the rest of the band.
The opening act had already finished, apparently, and Sarah felt herself flush. Had she really been in the closet for so long? They didn't seem too bothered, though, and Sarah walked out towards the stage with them, trying to make 'I'm totally fine' and 'It's nothing, I swear' sound natural. A familiar hand squeezed her shoulder, and the redhead leaned in close so that Sarah had to look into almost-glittering blue eyes. "It'll be okay." Sarah tried to choke out something, a little too startled to react coherently, but the same hand was already pulling her on stage and pushing her to the microphone.
Rebecca took the lead when they came onto the stage, which was normal and comfortable and Sarah could almost forget that nothing felt right at the moment. The masses that filled the floor danced with the glitter, individuals once again blended together by the glare of the lights. But she couldn't sneak off stage or break down again, because everyone was hooking up and the crowd—there were so many—was looking at them.
There were Fae all around the room, covered as humans or as nothing at all. They grinned not-so-nicely and glittered and flashed eyes that promised something fun and something painful all at the same time. There were—she noticed with a sinking sensation—no goblins in sight. But, again, she fought down the choking feeling, because the music was starting and she refused to make an idiot of herself.
After so long together, their show layout was almost instinctive. Months after their first show, Sarah had given up on her position being merely transitory, and since then the shows seemed to flow together into some kind of comfortable pattern. Their first song was not their most popular, but was something that everyone knew, and it was loud and it had a rhythm and it was enough to get Sarah's voice out of her chest.
She had learned, about their fourth month together, how to look more confident as a singer. She shut her eyes and thought of acting, thought of being someone else: someone prettier, someone smarter, someone with more talent. If she could do that, if she could pretend to be someone else, Sarah felt invincible. Suddenly, she could joke and laugh and wink and flirt as well as Rebecca. The music picked up, and she could feel everything thumping with it.
But she couldn't be someone else this time. The glittering was distracting because this time there was nothing brighter than usual. It was almost funny how she could miss something once been so alarming. But the music was going, and it was still easy enough to let herself go with it.
One song after another after another, and She knew she was rushing the show along by the third song, but she couldn't help it. If she kept singing, she could at least stop thinking. Every time they stopped between songs, she kept looking for something familiar to stand out. She wanted something to tell her that what had happened hadn't really happened at all, she wanted it to be some sort of dream that he had conjured up. Unfortunately, she never found anything, and quickly moved into the next song.
The lyrics that Sarah sang had meaning, she knew that, but after a while, some of them faded. She knew where to emphasize, where to add energy and where to add what Rebecca called 'soul.' When she was nervous, though, they were just emphasized sounds. The words lost their meaning, and she didn't bother to care about what was coming out of her mouth. If she had, most of the songs would have been too much to sing. They must have collectively reminded her, though, because she couldn't quite shut out the words of their last song.
"The looking glass, so shiny and new
How quickly the glamor fades.
I start spinning slipping out of time,
Was that the wrong pill to take?
Raise it up."
There was a woman standing close to the stage, off to the side so that Sarah could see her clearly enough to make out her appearance. She was tall and thin and pale, with black hair that was stick straight and long enough to brush the bottom of her sparkling minidress. That was the only thing that sparkled, though, so Sarah knew that it wasn't her, but it still brought back the whole thing that had started their end, and it hurt.
"You made a deal, and now it seems you have to offer up.
But will it ever be enough?
Raise it up, raise it up,
It's not enough,
Raise it up, raise it up."
When they had come together, Sarah had been ignorant of some unpleasant truths. She knew the general ideas, the concepts of what she was getting into, but there was only so much information available to people like her. She had learned early that, though Others do not give their love easily, their bodies were a completely different story. Jareth—it hurt her to call him by name too often, and she didn't want to risk calling him to her by saying it aloud—was no exception. In fact, it was harder for him than most. He was young for his kind, and very powerful, which meant he was used to being able to have anyone he wanted. It was an idea that seemed to be bred into him. To Others, sex was just fun, with no emotional connotations. And Jareth had struggled to abstain from that certain brand of entertainment while Sarah was not around.
"Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl,
Frozen in the headlights.
It seems I've made the final sacrifice.
We raise it up, this offering,
We raise it up."
She had tried being understanding, she truly had. They were different creatures with different instincts. She forgave him for flirting and looking and sometimes letting others get away with not-so-friendly-touching. They talked and argued and he had tried, but when he gave in—when she found out—it hurt.
"This is a gift, it comes with a price.
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight,
And turns me to gold in the sunlight."
Others, she later figured out, are more than jealous creatures. Sarah had known that they could be possessive, obsessive even. But she hadn't been ready for Jareth's lack of forgiveness. He hated when she talked to men for long periods of time, hated even more when they touched her. But he loved her, and Jareth had put in the effort to keep it to himself. Sometimes it bled through, though, when they were alone together, normally in the middle of his brand of fun. He'd get the point across by the end of the night, and Sarah usually listened and tried to avoid as much physical contact with men as she possibly could.
It had been his jealousy that started their end. She had been at an audition for another of her college's plays, and the director had asked her to kiss the selected hero, to see if they seemed compatible. She'd complied, and then gone home to her—their, really—apartment, ready to explain. He kissed her before she could, and suddenly he was all dark and angry and damn close to terrifying because he said he could taste it. She had thought it would blow over, and he had seemed to have calmed over the following two weeks. But then she saw him at the bar after a show, with a pretty Fae woman—all long legs and black hair and glittering eyes—on his lap, and she realized how wrong she had been. She knew he had seen her and, when he didn't follow her out, she had a sinking realization that he probably—oh God did it hurt—didn't care.
That night, she locked him out. But it didn't really matter because he never came home.
"I look around, but I can't find you.
Raise it up.
If only I could see your face.
Raise it up.
Instead of rushing towards the skyline.
Raise it up.
I wish that I could just be brave!
I must become a lion hearted girl.
Ready for a fight,
Before I make the final sacrifice.
We raise it up, this offering,
We raise it up."
Sarah did her best to not choke on the words. Finally opening her eyes—she had kept them shut for most of the song—she looked for something, anything, that could distract her. But there was nothing unusual, nothing abnormal that would show that he had come to see their weekly show. She hadn't seen him in a full fortnight, hadn't slept well in almost twice as long. But really, she couldn't blame it all on him, because she had known. She had gone in knowing most of the rules—more than most others in her position would have—and she had jumped at the opportunity, because she had thought the possible consequences were worth it. Funny, though, that if hind-sight was twenty-twenty, she was still blind enough—maybe it's stupid enough—to do it all over again. In fact, she wished that she could.
"This is a gift, it comes with a price.
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight,
And turns me to gold in the sunlight.
Raise it up, raise it up,
Raise it up, raise it up.
And in the spring I shed my skin,
And it blows away with the changing wind.
The waters turn from blue to red,
As towards the sky I offer it."
The crowd—the sparkles—did something odd. There were suddenly more of them, ones that shifted and dove under people and Others alike. They slipped from the center of the room outward, away from the stage. The other glittering, not-so-nice things following their example. Except for one, which stayed in place just far enough from her to be difficult to see, but she had a feeling she knew who it was, and Sarah tried not to gag on the last part of her song.
"This is a gift, it comes with a price.
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight,
And turns me to gold in the sunlight.
This is a gift, it comes with a price.
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight,
And turns me to gold in the sunlight.
This is a gift."
Rebecca—she seemed flustered and a little rushed—was quick to get the band off the stage and introduce the next group. When she was done, Sarah found her arm wrapped in a too-strong grip as she was practically heaved off of the stage and bodily thrown into the dressing room. This time, though, there was no laughter as the guitarist shut her in. One look across the room told her why.
Jareth didn't look right. His skin looked wrong on his frame and his eyes looked too glassy, and Sarah was across the room as quickly as physically possible. In a movement that was much too slow for him, he pulled her in by the hips. The arms that wrapped around her middle felt too light, and she could barely feel him breathing against her stomach, bellow where he rested his forehead. It was then that he murmured, "Sarah," in the most relieved, sad sounding voice that she had ever heard, and she almost felt like crying again.
Instead, she chose to wrap her arms around his shoulders, and lean down far enough to kiss him. It was just hard enough to get a reaction out of him, mostly to show him that she still loved him and a little to see if he still had the capacity to even feel it. He could, she found, because his arms tightened and he kissed back just as hard and she got the feeling he was doing it mostly to tell her that he loved her too and a little to see what he could get away with.
It wasn't prefect—but what real relationship is?—and it never would be, but it worked. It had to work. And they had learned a few lessons of their own. As Sarah rested her head on his shoulder that night with his arm—it was starting to have real weight again—slung around her waist, she smiled into his skin and announced something that she realized they both needed to hear.
"It'll be okay."