Their little game had come to a rather abrupt end.

The Goblin King stood facing his enemy, pain and anger coming off his white feather-clad form in waves.

"Sarah, wait—" he pleaded with an outstretched hand. "Look at what I am offering you." He flourished his hand before her, a crystal appearing on his fingertips. "Your dreams." His confidence in his control over the situation had quickly morphed into desperation. She wasn't supposed to have made it this far. And he certainly hadn't anticipated becoming so...attached.

Sweat formed on his brow. As she parted her lips to say her final words and seal his fate, his heart sank. It was over. His Labyrinth had been defeated—he had been defeated—by nothing but a stubborn little girl. His world began to spiral rapidly out of control.

"You have no power over me."

It destroyed him.

He sank to his knees on the crumbling stone floor. She was gone. She had won, after all. How could he have been so weak to let her through his defenses? How had it come to this?

"But what no one knew was that the Goblin King had fallen in love with the girl..."

He brought his hands to his face, letting his disheveled blond hair fall around him. The girl had, unbeknownst to her, inflicted irreparable damage upon the Labyrinth, and by proxy, upon Jareth himself. How could she have refused his offer? But then, how could she ever have accepted? He let out a groan of frustration as he tore his face away from his hands. He stood, shakily, and ripped his cloak from his shoulders, throwing it on the floor of the destroyed Escher room. He could not live with himself for what he had allowed to happen. How desperately he wished to forget the girl who ate the peach; the girl who had, against all odds, defeated him; the girl who had captured his heart. How he despised her for what she had done. How he longed to drive her from his mind.

Suddenly, a voice, feminine and pure, rang out from the darkness. "I can help you forget."

Jareth looked up, even though he knew he would see nothing but the destruction around him. The Spirit of the Labyrinth. Rarely did she manifest in ways that allowed them to communicate. He was listening.

"I can help you forget," echoed the Spirit of the Labyrinth. "But at a price."

Jareth looked down at his hands, encased in white leather, before lifting his head and gazing into the distance. His eyes glazed over. He was not himself. He knew he should not be striking a deal with the Labyrinth while in such a state. But it did not stop him. "I will pay it."

There was a silence. "I do warn you not to be rash, my King," the Labyrinth replied.

"And I do warn you not talk back to your King," he spat, his raw emotions getting the better of him. "Or do you forget your maker?" Jareth could almost swear he felt the Spirit of the Labyrinth flinch and retreat into the shadows, not that it was capable of such physical action.

"Very well," said the Labyrinth solemnly.

He stood, waiting for something to happen. "Well?" he asked impatiently, placing his hands on his hips. A bead of sweat slid down his temple as his labored breathing slowed.

Then, softly from the darkness: "It is done."

Those were the last words the Goblin King heard before his world went dark.

"Look, I just don't think this is working."

Sarah Williams pressed her phone to her ear with her shoulder, careful not to drop the basket of clothes that were precariously balanced on her hip.

"No, Joel, you haven't done anything wrong." She felt like a mother comforting a child. This time was no different than the last. She sighed as she placed her basket of clothes next to a free washing machine. Sarah tried to make out the slew of desperate, muffled words that came out of her phone's speaker, but someone had just started the machine right next to hers.

"Sorry, what?" A pause.

"No, I'm doing laundry. Look Joel, we went on two dates. Two." She emphasized the number by counting with her fingers in the air, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Sometimes things just...don't work out," she finished as she pushed the rest of her clothes into the machine and fished around in her jean pocket for quarters.

"I'm sorry, Joel." She wasn't.

"Yep, I'll see you around." She wouldn't.

Sarah heaved a sigh of relief as she hung up her phone and shoved it in her back pocket. Were all men really so fragile? Maybe she just had bad luck. The worst luck. Maybe she should take a break from dating, she thought. Focus more on her career.

Sarah had moved to Los Angeles eight years ago to pursue a career in film. Not in acting, as had been her passion when she was young, but in production. After college, she had miraculously landed an internship at a major studio, and had worked her way up from there, to her current position as a production coordinator. The work was tough, the hours were long, but it was what she loved. She had left acting behind a long time ago, after that incident.

As a child Sarah had, what her father and stepmother called, an overactive imagination. Even at fifteen years old, she was convinced that faeries and goblins were real, and professed that she could see her otherworldly friends through the mirror in her bedroom. She had overheard the phrase "coping mechanism" more than once in hushed exchanges between Karen and her father.

For years, she refused that her run through the Labyrinth had been a dream at all. How desperately she had wanted to believe that she had saved her baby brother from the hands of the Goblin King, in a fantastic journey filled with twisting walls, riddles, and ball gowns. But as a woman who had recently hit thirty, who was finally getting somewhere professionally, she didn't have time to dwell on such fairy tales. Or at least, that's what she continued to tell herself. On lonely nights, her mind couldn't help but wander to those cold, mismatched eyes belonging to that ethereal, harshly cut visage.

"Your eyes can be so cruel."

Sarah tore herself away from her thoughts as she opened the door to her small Koreatown apartment, clean laundry in tow.

Her enormous Norwegian Forest Cat leapt off the couch to greet her at the door. "Hi, Ludo," she cooed as he weaved between her legs. She bent over to pet him as she put her laundry down. "Do you need your dinner?" She looked up at the clock, and nearly jumped when she saw the time. "Shit!" She had promised to meet a few of her coworkers at an art exhibit opening downtown this evening. Considering it would take her about thirty minutes to get there on the subway, plus another ten to walk, that gave her about...ten minutes to be out the door.

"Shit, shit," she muttered as she rushed into her room to get changed. Luckily, she had already picked out what she was going to wear-a pleated, navy, knee length dress with flats (she had always been the practical sort when it came to clothing). She didn't bother with makeup, but quickly brushed her hair and pinned her bangs to the side, then turned to her mirror to make sure she looked presentable. With a sharp nod, she grabbed her purse and rushed out of her apartment in an effort to catch the next train.

"Sarah!" her coworker called as she neared the gallery. She waved in acknowledgement. "You're just in time!" he called. It was opening night, so only press and a select few were allowed to attend. Her coworker had a connection at the gallery, and was fortunate enough to secure a few spots on the guest list. Since moving to Los Angeles, these types of events seemed a regular occurrence. She loved it.

"Thanks for getting me in to this, Kevin." She motioned around her, beaming. "This is great."

"No worries, Sarah." He smiled as he handed her a wristband. "It seemed like it was right up your alley."

She looked down at the paper band as she secured it around her wrist. "Geometry of the Fantastical," it read. She still had a soft spot for the passions of her youth, although she was not usually keen to admit it. As she was about to make small talk with her coworker, Kevin's eyes found someone else he knew. Smiling at him in thanks, she nodded, dismissing him to search out others he had acquired wristbands for.

Sarah entered the rather narrow gallery, already crowded with press and artists discussing their work. She decided to start at the bar, and picked up a glass of chardonnay. As she slowly made her way around the room, she was awestruck by the pieces on display. Perfectly etched lines formed shapes that somehow made up a dragon, and another piece showed a scene of faeries in a forest, constructed entirely by recycled materials cut into small pixel-like squares. There was even an incredibly detailed sculpture of a medieval castle, made out of origami paper. She found a few of her coworkers, all of them equally as impressed with the variety of talent at the show.

Sipping on her wine, she began along the back wall of the gallery. But as she turned to continue, a single piece made her stop in her tracks. It was easily the largest piece in the gallery—how had she not noticed it before? She approached it in awe, but with a healthy dose of trepidation. She stood before it, studying it, unable to look away. The piece was what appeared to be a blueprint of a maze. 'Not a maze,' she thought. A labyrinth. The same labyrinth that she had run through and defeated fifteen years ago. 'In my dream,' she added. Yes, in her dream. That's all it had been—a dream. But every turn, every detail, seemed exactly the same. It must have been a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. But if it were, why did she suddenly feel the need to in some way justify what she saw before her? She reached out a hand hesitantly with the intent of touching the glass of the frame. But before she could continue with her observation, she was torn away from her thoughts as a deep laugh pierced the air.

She knew that laugh.

She willed herself to move, but she was frozen to the spot. It couldn't be. Then, a voice all too familiar to her—and much too close—rang out in a clipped accent that cut through the noise of the busy gallery.

"What do you think of my labyrinth?"