Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1986 fantasy film Labyrinth, then it probably belongs to Jim Henson, et al., including (but not limited to) the characters of Sarah Williams & Jareth, the Goblin King.
Peaches and Dreams
For Eve, it was an apple.
For Persephone, it was a pomegranate.
And for Sarah Williams, it was a peach.
Because the Goblin King was not as cruel as she imagined him to be, she did not return to him that first night. He let her have her celebration. He let her rejoice in her victory.
He even let her think she had earned one.
From the other side of the looking glass, in another world, he was an uninvited guest to the impromptu party that took place within the secure confines of her sanctuary—her bedroom. But it wasn't secure enough to keep him away, to keep his intent stare away. A gloved finger absently tracing the contours of his frown, he watched his subjects, and he watched the girl.
There was no jealousy that he couldn't attend. He had an entire realm to rebuild now that her words had destroyed the crystalline nature of the Underground. He had a labyrinth to placate and restructure, traps to perfect and redesign, and a punishment to decide for those who defied him.
And, of course, he had the future to plan.
Because the Goblin King was not as cruel as she imagined him to be, she did not return to him that first night, or even the next. He let her have thirteen peaceful, dreamless slumbers before he called her back to him. Just when she was beginning to forget, beginning to think her adventure was illusion over reality, she felt the darkness settle and the power beckon. She felt her stomach clench and her eyes screw up tight.
When next she opened them, she knew she was dreaming.
She was back in the crystal ballroom, back in the decadence of the jeering masquerade. The music haunted her, the dress weighed her down and he'd wisely removed any chairs from sight.
It was just the dancers.
It was just him.
As if he were a puppet master who pulled her by her strings, he held his gloved hands out before him and she inexplicably found herself clasped tightly in his embrace. She had no will of her own, powerless in his wake, and in his arms she began to dance.
Three nights she fell asleep and three nights she suddenly found herself whisked away to his domain. As if she had never left.
Nothing about it ever changed. The scenery was the same, the garish masks and the leering grins behind their splendor were the same… even the song was the same.
I'll paint you mornings of gold, I'll spin you valentine evenings…
She found herself drawn to him, unable to resist. She wore the same dress, and he insisted on her hair being curled into that ridiculous pouf. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of her reflection in the crystal and grimace. She looked past the glamour, then past the dark eyes and the darker circles underneath. She looked like hell and felt even worse.
Somehow, and she didn't quite understand how, he had succeeded in making her his toy, just like the doll on her music box. A plaything. A living doll to dress up; a doll to pose and manipulate and play with.
His.
As the world falls down…
For three nights she danced with him, twirling and swaying along to the haunting melody. She said nothing, unable to argue, unable to question… until the final dance of the third night.
Only then, when the music slowed and faded before dying away for the night (morning), and she felt her heavy eyes start to shutter and close… only then did she find her voice.
"I thought…"
His lips next to her ear, he whispered, "Yes?"
"I thought…" She shook her head, searching for the (not those) right words. "I thought… but you… no power…?"
He savored her hesitation, pleased that she still retained that stubborn streak of hers that fascinated—and infuriated—him so. Licking his lips slowly, eyeing her puzzled profile as a predator would its prey, he quirked an eyebrow and murmured, "I don't."
"But—"
He drew back away from her and, with a theatrical wave of his hand and nothing short of a taunting smile, he conjured up a shining, translucent crystal ball. It caught the light of the ballroom, sending shocks of a sparkle straight at the girl.
She blinked once, stunned by its brilliance and leery of what she might see in its depths. She'd had enough of the sort of dreams he might offer. She didn't linger in the darkness long though; when she opened her eyes again, the crystal was gone. A ripe, fuzzy, delicious peach was sitting in its place.
"The power isn't mine, Sarah."
Perhaps, she thought, the Goblin King was even crueler.
As powerful as knowledge can be, it's all for nothing if refused. She knew then the source of the enchantment, and she even knew what had to be done in order to make it stop. But it wouldn't stop… it would never stop. She knew that, felt that truth more deeply than anything else. It was real, and it became realer still with every night that passed when she was constantly tempted.
She had begun to lose track of how many nights she'd spent in his arms, dancing to the sultry, seductive tone of his voice, teased by the promise of the fruit. It had been days, weeks, months since she bested him but still she returned. She had no power, she had no strength—she was trapped. She tried to forgo sleep but the dreams found her always.
Stubbornness could only do so much.
And she was already so hungry…
One bite off the juicy peach had done it, charming her tongue and bewitching her soul. She was never satisfied, her favorite dishes tasting spoiled and rotten, her drinks always tasting like a mix of dirt and salt, until she stopped trying to taste them at all.
Sarah Williams was wasting away slowly, and she did it with clenched teeth and a determined scowl.
She never stood a chance.
Time continued to pass, her real life slowly changing to a pale imitation of what it used to be. Her existence became the illusion, the dance the irrefutable truth. She can't escape it anymore than she can escape him; even the little red book couldn't help her now.
It was easy to see his enjoyment, from the amused tilt of his head to the secretive smile he wore as he pulled her close. Any power she might have siphoned during her short-lived victory was gone. In truth, it was the peach that had defeated his defeater and it was with a cocky smirk and an inherent purr to his voice that he offered it to her once more: "Take a bite."
She bit her lip, shaking her head. There was nothing that she wanted more but she couldn't do it. She wouldn't.
"I… I can't."
"And why not?"
"Because… then you'll win."
"Don't you see? I've already won."
With his glove placed gently on the small of her back, the Goblin King dipped his unwilling partner back. Long, dark hair caressed the stage; a satisfied grin reflected back to its wearer in the depth of her weary dark eyes.
Dance,
Magic,
Dance.
Another night. Another dance. Another offer. Another chance.
The weight of her constant refusal has begun to show. Obviously tired, terribly frail, she clung to him that night as if afraid she would stumble without his support. Her steps had slowed and every so often she would tremble. He felt it, he felt the tiny tremors and the shakes, and he waited.
It wouldn't be long now. It couldn't.
"Will you eat it tonight?"
It took her a moment to hear his simple question and comprehend. She held her head high, drawing on the little strength she had remaining, and she shuddered. "Never."
"But you must be famished," he countered with a sly curve of his lips. He marveled at her stubbornness. Even the strongest should have succumbed by now.
The strength fled, and she sighed.
"Always," she whispered, letting her chin return to its resting place on his shoulder.
"You must stop fighting. I can see it. Your belly burns and your mouth is dry. You insist on eating your mortal food, drink your mortal drink, but it's futile. You've had food from my kind, Sarah, and you'll die without another taste."
"Death would be better," she grumbled out loud, but her heart wasn't in it.
That was the first time he actually said the words she pretended she couldn't see written behind his regal, untouchable façade. He stopped wearing his own mask forever ago; the only other dancer apart from her to share his face. He had nothing to hide. He bared his worries and his threats and let her see him as he did.
He wasn't the only one to change, either. The fire had dimmed from her eyes. There was less and less fight every night, but one thing didn't change ever: she still refused to save herself.
The peach remained whole, and he grew angry and tense. In response, he refused to let her see his concern… until that particular night.
"I could make you," he threatened, punctuating his sharp tone with a gentle turn in time to the song.
"You have no power over me," she repeated stubbornly.
He sighed and, for once, told the truth.
"I lied."
She can't escape the dreams.
There's stubbornness and there's stupidity and Sarah was old enough now—mature enough now—to tell the difference.
There was a time when death would be welcome—anything would be welcome—over the dance. It was getting harder and harder to resist. One bite and the pain would be gone, the taste would be gone.
The temptation would be gone.
The price would be worth it. The never-ending dance of her dreams in return for the opportunity to dream the dreams he wanted to offer her in the first place. She didn't want the dreams—she just wanted peace.
Still, she refused. Though her mouth watered and her stomach grumbled and she felt herself slowly fading away, she refused the peach night after night after night.
She can't refuse forever.
The dancers never changed and, in some of her stronger moments, she would wonder about them. In the beginning, she took it for granted that they were even real. She took a lot of things for granted then. But now? She had noticed that their faces were very much the same—it was the masks, their disguises, that made them unique.
She stopped thinking of them as real a long time ago.
She doesn't remember when it finally dawned on her, but she used to be the only real thing in the whole dream. That wasn't true anymore. He was the only real thing now, the only solid thing as she struggled to hold tight, and he was the only one who kept her tethered to this fantasy.
She doesn't remember when it all changed, but she can't (won't) let go of that tether anymore than him.
"You're different tonight," he remarked at last, carefully brushing the limp, hanging curls away from her neck.
His hands, even through the gloves, feel cool and reassuring against her feverish skin. She liked them much better holding her up than holding out the fruit.
"I'm so tired…"
"And hungry." He doesn't even have to ask. He can see it in her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Just one bite, Sarah. One bite and I can take all the pain away."
His voice was hypnotizing, the murmurs and the promises just too much. She could sense his manipulations but she didn't have the strength to fight him any longer. There weren't any words that can save her, no friends to save her, nothing could save her… except for the peach.
Really, how bad could one bite be?
With a weak hand and a small, heaving sigh, she grabbed the peach that appeared so suddenly. Her nails bit into the flesh, sticky juice staining the tips of her fingers, and her teeth find their mark next.
She doesn't think. She doesn't even feel.
She just tastes.
And then she understands.
She knew without knowing that the first taste had ensnared her and this, this second bite, had trapped her. She was trapped, but she didn't have the strength to fight against the realization.
Or did she?
The strength returning, he felt stronger than ever under the light grasp of her gentle fingertips. His body lean and taut, excited as she swallowed; her fingers tingling as the fruit revived her, confirming her place in this strange realm. She felt stronger. More solid.
Real again.
And it wasn't as if she didn't have the strength to fight him—she gave up her right and her freedom when she finally succumbed and closed the spell he had started those thirteen hours so long ago.
She knew it, and she knew it all without even having to witness the satisfaction and victory in his heavy, mismatched stare.
The Goblin King had won after all, and Sarah Williams was nothing more than a slave to his peach.
It's the forbidden fruit that tastes the sweetest—and costs the most.