A/N: This has been a long time coming, and still will be. It's nowhere NEAR complete, and I've been working hard to rewrite chapters I lost when my hard drive crashed in spring 2006. Soon, though. crosses fingers
This is a tad dramatic (this first chapter, anyway), and I'm not quite pleased with it. It'll get there, I'm sure, but until then, it is what it is. Let me know if it doesn't work for you, either. Then I'll HAVE to fix it.
I don't own Labyrinth-related stuff. That's the Jim Henson Co. care of Disney. Enjoy!
Chapter One: A New Identity
He tugged the leather of his coat closer to his face. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized—not at this stage in the game. Various people stood waiting with him. He watched them with avian precision from underneath the silver fringe of hair covering his eyes. His traveling companions looked weary and over-worked. He felt for once in his life as if he could commiserate. Yet his face was a perfect cast of indifference as he surveyed his surroundings.
The railway was about five paces in front of him; many had already queued up in wait. He could hear the roar of the whistle echoing down the many distant tunnels. The rumble of the train throbbed in his chest as it pulled into the station.
The train stopped in an expulsion of steam. Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, he stepped through the open bay of the boxcar. His boots clicked down the length of the car as he headed for the back corner. He would be traveling to one of the last stops, and so he wished to avoid tripping over other passengers exiting en masse.
An inconspicuous sparkle in the direction of the platform caught his attention through the window. Identifying the magic sensor, he inhaled a sharp breath, hissing as if stung. It had been a few short months ago when a run-in with one of these sensors had almost cost him his life. The guards had been on him with forceful immediacy, swords drawn and at the ready. As they closed in, he had taken a running leap into the air. Gliding on the wind, he extended his owl feathers and crossed the portal into the realm of the Aboveground. He was safe there, as it was a great feat to travel between worlds. Only one mortal had ever been successful at it.
Closing his eyes, he brought himself back to his reality. He fingered the iron around his wrist, thankful it was shielding him from detection. It protected him and left him vulnerable at the same time. While his magic could not be sensed, neither could it be used. He was left defenseless, except for the small dagger at his hip.
The train lurched into motion and the sensor continued its rhythmic sparkles. He hugged himself, fingers splayed across pursed lips in thought. It had only been eleven years since the Revolution. To an immortal, eleven years was by no means a significant passage of time. But he was jaded, having spent the better part of those years in hiding and on the run.
In the time before the magic sensors, he had wandered the Underground, never staying in one place for too long. The kingdoms had long since been dissolved and power usurped by the mortal council who called themselves the Iron Hand. The hand that had struck everything he had known; the hand he was determined to destroy; the hand that, even now, was still searching for him. They had come close to finding him on numerous occasions, but he had taken to using his near anonymity to his advantage.
He walked among his people, not as a monarch, but as one of them. He worked with them to survive in a new world. Many of them, he had found, were still loyal to him. From this fidelity, he realized he could build something useful. If they worked together, they might one day achieve some little bit of the lives they had once lived. He knew now what it was to work for one's livelihood.
He exhaled his grim thoughts and bent to retrieve his traveling papers from his pack. As he was made to understand, one could not get anywhere without them since the magic sensors had been installed. It was most fortunate, then, that of those still faithful to him, one had been a scribe at Taal Abbey. A child had delivered the papers to him outside the station with all the aplomb of one that knew nothing of his position in this new world. Half goblin, he thought, sure of the child's heritage. Hell, he had spent enough time among that race to know well enough.
Scanning the papers in hand, he read of the new identity his followers had given him. Mika Thresher was a storyteller based in the Vogel district. He had aged three hundred and ninety-five years and had no living family. His façade had been described accurately, complete with silver hair and mismatched eyes. Permission to travel between all but three of the districts in Taal City had been granted him. The penmanship was beautiful—an exact copy of the official papers as far as he was concerned.
A door near the front of the car slid open and a soldier of some rank stepped through. His heart galloped as he realized he was about to be tested. He affected a mask of disinterested calm as he re-read his papers. The soldier was making his way through the scattering of passengers, checking papers and questioning individuals as he went. Leaning forward, he avoided the soldier's eyes as his turn came up.
"Ha'n't seen ye 'round here afore now." The solder was suspicious. Mika, as he was now to be known, lifted himself up to reply.
"Ain't never been up here before."
"Really, now?" And, ah, where might ye be headin'?" the soldier pried, assuming an air of cautious thoroughness.
"Back home, mate. I've made a livin' today," he said, holding up his coins.
"Right," the solder narrowed his eyes. He held out his hand expectantly. Mika watched the curiosity before him. His shoulders were squared and the slight sneer upon his lips suggested more than a little self-importance. This mortal—for that was what his aura proved—felt himself above every other passenger aboard. Mika found himself rather annoyed by this simpering little human.
The soldier cleared his throat. He held out his hand again, clearly unhappy by Mika's lack of attention. The latter blinked and shifted his gaze to the human's extended palm.
"Oh, right. Here they are," he said, his voice cold. The soldier shivered at the lack of emotion in the voice, but ignored it, scanning the papers in his hand.
"The Vogel district, eh?" The soldier studied the silver-haired man over the edge of the papers. He listened to the answer of each question he asked, comparing the information he heard with the information he read. Everything matched, but he was still wary. He trusted emotion and feeling, but this man seemed to be void of those very things. He could not withhold anyone based on such mistrust, and so resigned himself to let this new figure pass.
"Well," he glanced at the papers, "Mika, ye may be headin' where ye may. Pleasant journey, then."
On your way, mortal, he thought viciously, as the soldier moved on to the next car. It hadn't been quite what he expected, that was certain. He was pleased with how easily he could still deceive, something so inherently him. Now he had only to calm his heartbeat, and thank the gods that months of planning had not been for nothing. He would ride the train to its second last stop to the outskirts in the Vogel district where he would meet his contact and head on to their hideout.