A/N: Hello again, everyone. No, Speed Onis and Indigo are still on hiatus. However, when Tall, Fey and Sparkling starts whispering in your ear and letting loose goblin plot bunnies in your brain, you have to DO something. So I have.
Labyrinth and characters belong to Jim Henson & co. I own myself, thank you.
What is it about the month of October? Is it the slow (or abrupt) slide into autumn? Is it Halloween, the expectation of dressing up and going out and about with all the other monsters and superheroes to gather as much candy (with regrettable items like pencils and stickers from the "health nuts" or "cheap bastards") as possible? Is it the thinning of the Veil, traditionally part of the Winter Solstice but adjusting to the last harvest as religions changed and were "rediscovered"? There is SOMETHING about October, a distinct crispness in the air and a feeling of rushed joy. Gather in everything you can, deprivation is coming along with the long cold nights that bring their own quiet inspiration.
It's also the month when He comes calling. It's my own fault, I suppose. An gathering of petrol heads I had to work for late one September, before my world shattered. I had speculated the feasibility of Calling an Archtype to keep me company and He was suggested. It sounded like fun, so I did. I'm pretty sure I said "Just for this day", but I'm not certain. Then again, He is a Trickster, a magical foil for stupid, selfish teenage girls, even the grown up ones. What was supposed to be one day out turned into a yearly occasion. He even showed up after my world shattered! I raged at him then, throwing my loss in his face as greater than his. Perhaps to punish me, perhaps because he actually did understand, for the last four years He comes with Inspiration, demanding a story. I defied him; writing what pleased ME while including Him and the Champion. Eventually I gave him what he wanted, but it still wasn't enough.
"What is it about Sarahs that make them so difficult?" Jareth, the Goblin King asked, lounging next to me on my bed. My children were asleep and I was sitting up with my laptop, trying to work on a marketable story. No, he wasn't physically there, (if he had been I would have been torn between screaming and snogging him), but he has a very distinct voice. Most of my Muses lean towards feminine. He does not.
"How many Sarahs do you have giving you everything you desire? Being a slave to your Muse?" I retorted, reading an article about crop rotation.
"You believe," He answered, as if that was it. I looked at the empty bed to my left. Sometimes he's more then a voice in my head. Sometimes I can almost feel him, a prickle on my skin, a breath against my ear, a pocket of heat. And sometimes it's just easier to pretend he's physically present. I gave the air my patented Mother Look and clicked my mouse a few times.
"Ah-hem," I said, pointing to the over eight thousand stories posted on site. He waved a metaphorical hand.
"Trifles. Amusing in their own way, useful in others, but not enough." I raised my eyebrows and clicked some more.
"I suppose nearly ninty-thousand pieces of art, comics, crossovers and stories are trifles too?" I asked.
"My Reluctant Writer, do you know how many of these fanatics understand? Not just believe?"
"I will laugh in your face." A psychic shrug.
"Believe what you will, Sarah. The fact remains that you have yet to write me a proper story."
"You wedded and bedded your Champion and had a daughter that went to Hogwarts!" That had been fun to write. A 10 year old half Fey wandering Hogwarts playing all sorts of pranks.
"But there was no drama! No romance! No sex scenes!"
"I am NOT writing you sex scenes! I'm horrible at it." I went back to my farming article. Something ghosted by my ear.
"Why deny yourself? You know you long for my magic...touch," I rolled my eyes.
"You are a fantasy. A sexed up, sparkling Muse who shows up every year and bothers me." I sighed and stared at the screen. "Why can't you leave me alone?"
"Because you want what I represent. You want magic to be real, to conjure crystals or control water or teleport. You want a High Fey to come and take you away from your life. You want to be a princess."
"I'm Queen Bloodsong of Mercia, a pocket dimension created for a group of Sluggy Freelance(tm) fans to play in. Princesses are overrated." I let my head fall back against the wall, staring at the hook holes in the ceiling. Like so many dreams, my glow in the dark canopy had not survived rambunctous children. He wasn't completely wrong. I did want to work magic, the visible, special effect type magic found in popular culture. Fantasy and fairy tales had enjoyed a serious reniassance in the last twenty years. I did NOT, however, want a Fey to carry me off. I have duties and responsibilities. I'm also a widow, five years from the day my world fell down in teeny tiny pieces. I tried dating, twice. I tried a live in boyfriend, once. But I knew from the beginning he was there to teach me how to let go, so I did. I've been on my own, again, for over a year. It's not a bad life, even with my yearly excursions into Labyrinth happily ever afters. I don't ship J/S, but when it's well written, has a solid plot and there's a few lemons here and there, it's fun to read.
"You can still do better then a scene where you snog me on a dance floor before throwing Sarah-mine into my arms with specific limitations." I grinned.
"Shut up and dance with me. I'm rather proud of that."
"Would you respond the same way?"
"What, if you were actually real and solid?" I shrugged. "I'd probably scream or faint or bolt out the door."
"No snogging?" How DOES a Muse manage to sound disappointed about an impossible thing?
"Well, maybe. Eventually. If you were still around and real and solid and such."
"And?"
"And what? As Mary Sue as this whole thing is, I'm not stupid. You're bloody dangerous."
"So good of you to notice." I waved my hand irritably.
"Could you please go pester another writer to give you a steamy seduction or BDSM story? I'm trying to write something I can actually sell without the ripoff accusations."
"Sex sells, Reluctant Writer."
"I'll be sure to tell Bowie that." I couldn't suppress a smirk. David Bowie I would happily snog. Hells, I'd be happy with a serenade. At least Henson had given the Goblin King an actor that aged oh so well.
"Eventually I will get what I want from you."
"Yeah, yeah. Kingdom as great and all that. Go away." He did, leaving me with a barest sensation of leather stroking against my cheek. I stared at my screen before shaking my head and closing my laptop. Snuggling down under the covers, I closed my eyes. "Don't you dare send me any dreams."