Disclaimer: The Labyrinth belongs to Jim Henson Studios and George Lucas.
Don't sue me.
She was alone.
Her family had left, and her grand nieces had waved goodbye with the optimistic naivety of the very young that Great Aunt Sarah would be fine in the morning and that they would see her soon. They were fae eyed, wispy little things that bore the curling hair of their father, and the green, deep eyes of Sarah's old dad.
She winced, her tight, aged lips twisting together as the cankers inside her bit deeper, and not even the needle in her arm, and the steady, reassuring beat of the heart monitor could ease it away. She knew, with the gravelly clarity of the very old, that her time was soon, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She had lived well, an actress of great renown in New York, whose plays had always assumed that mystical, pensive quality of her being, and her doe eyed gaze and childlike smile had pasted itself across pamphlets all over the nation. She had been a star.
But there comes a time when the stage life grows to be too much, and she began to want to settle down and rub the ache out of her newly arthritic joints. Her hair had grayed, and her lines grew, but the classic beauty of her youth had still left its mark, for she was lovely and dignified even when her back stooped and her eyes dimmed.
She remembered the sweet days, the blazing bright spots in her memory, lying in her manufactured room, the bedpan peeking out from behind her sheets with a sullen sort of belonging. When Toby had placed his first born child in her arms, she had laughed and cried, and gathered his curly headed little son into her arms and kissed it. When she had emerged backstage from her first, live, high-paying performance, she had shook as though taken with fever, and could barely make it back for the final bow. When she had successfully campaigned that the local library not be torn down, she was pale, and shocked at her victory, and accepted it with humble words and no end of gratitude.
Sarah had lived long, and well, and if a little lonelier than she would have liked, so be it. She had had no man in her life for a very long time, no children to see grow old, and no spouse's funeral to attend. For that she was grateful, and she never regretted staying celibate, for she was surrounded by those that loved her.
But now it hurt when she breathed, and it hurt when she walked, and it hurt, oh how it hurt when she slept, for the pain gnawed deeper every day, and painkillers gave only a few hours of incomprehensible, woozy respite, and she didn't like that. No, better to live shorter days with a clear mind and a lucid tongue, before parting with it all.
Her breathing became more difficult still, and she wondered, dimly, what it would have been like to have seen her dear old friends one last time, to argue pointlessly with Hoggle, to tease Didymus' gallant pride, and to bask in the unbiased affection of Ludo.
Her cracking lips quirked upwards in a parody of a smile, and she remembered the other she would have liked to have spoken to on better circumstances, the Lord of Fae, the silver tongued, wild haired beautiful man who had attempted to lure her off of her path, and had offered her spun- sugar dreams in exchange for her half brother.
The pain gripped her for a long moment, and her thin spine arched upwards in a feeble attempt to escape it, and she said quite simply, "Jareth."
Yes, that had been his name. She would have stayed with him too, but Toby was not safe there, and she was not safe there, and the predatory, terrible sharpness of his gaze had frightened the fifteen year old girl she had been.
But he did not frighten her anymore. This was odd, as he was standing beside her hospital bed.
He was still so lovely, after all these years. Not a line had added to his face, nor was there any stiffness in his back or shoulders. He lounged against the wall as he always had, leaning back against the smooth, disgustingly pastel colors of it and not looking for a moment as if he did not own every bit of it. He was dressed in dark velvet as if for mourning, and there was silver on his cuff and about his neck, and his wild hair was tamed back from his face almost severely, into a flowing tail down his back. His slender legs were clad in long boots, and his quirt was stuck in his belt, as if not needed tonight. He looked down, and his face wasn't as cruel as it could have been, and his voice was neutral as he looked at the old woman, and said, "Hello, Sarah."
She closed her eyes tiredly and let his voice roll over her, the tones of which she hadn't heard since she was very young. But then he had been coaxing, intimidating, sensual, and effortlessly terrible. There was an unguarded sort of peace to his form now, as if he had all the time in the world.
"Has anyone....... ever beaten you since me?" she asked, in a weak, raspy old voice she had taken to using ever since speech became an effort she wasn't sure she wanted to uphold. Her hand, laden with the life-giving needle, twitched somewhat in his direction, as if unconsciously seeking his heat.
The tips of his immense canines showed somewhat as he allowed himself a smile, his arms crossed across his chest, leaning still against the wall. "Not a one." He reassured her, his voice silky.
Sarah smiled at that, "Good." She murmured, and closed her eyes.
Silence reigned for a time, but for the monotonous beeping of the monitor reminding the world of her existence. The stench of her already dying cells rose from her, and she took deeper breaths.
"Are you to die soon?" Jareth asked simply, his words simple, as if asking for the weather. He stared straight ahead at the shaded windows, the blinds rattling a bit as the night breeze meandered by. He brushed a bit of imaginary lint off of his sleeve, and looked down.
"I think..... I believe so, yes." She replied mildly, and was struck by the absurdity of it all. They were discussing this as calmly as if talking about rose fertilizer, and yet laughter was the farthest thing from her mind. She was instead, almost unbearably sad, and very tired of it all.
Jareth nodded mutely, and said nothing more.
"Please....." she asked suddenly, "Could you take me away with you?" He looked down suddenly, and she almost shrank back from the raw pain in his mismatched eyes. He watched her with an intensity she had seen before, when she had been ripping apart his kingdom. Her eyes fuzzed a bit as she continued, "I'd very much like.... to be buried in the Labyrinth." She paused for breath, her voice cracking a bit, "I always loved..... the Firey Forest."
He nodded tersely, and straightened up in a gracefully unwinding motion that made her ache to see it. Gently, he pulled the needle out of her vein, and unhooked the various tubes and bindings that connected her to this place. Curiously, the machine continued to beep, but she didn't notice, as he bent to gather her in his arms and stood, her long white hair spilling over his arms to sway below, her spindly, delicate ankles peeping out from her faded nightgown, liver spotted and gangly. She smelled of stale hospital food, of dank air and bitter medicines.
Jareth smelled clean and wild, of green trees tossing their branches to the wind, of cold rushing water, and the slight mustiness of the owl. He cradled her head against his shoulder as he freed one arm, a delicate orb of the finest glass, seemingly made of spiderspun crystal and moonlight, rolled down into his gloved palm. He paused, then bent down to hear her murmured words.
"It's just not fair."
He couldn't help it. He laughed, a merry, delighted laughter that lit up the room in a way no artificial lighting or scented candle could. Smiling, he bent down to brush her ravaged forehead with his lips. "No." he admitted, but he seemed almost lighthearted. "But that's the way it is."
Then with a practiced, quicksilver flick of his wrist, he tumbled his crystal into the air, and the air around them flickered, and then went still.
The room was empty. And it smelled of clean wind.
She was alone.
Her family had left, and her grand nieces had waved goodbye with the optimistic naivety of the very young that Great Aunt Sarah would be fine in the morning and that they would see her soon. They were fae eyed, wispy little things that bore the curling hair of their father, and the green, deep eyes of Sarah's old dad.
She winced, her tight, aged lips twisting together as the cankers inside her bit deeper, and not even the needle in her arm, and the steady, reassuring beat of the heart monitor could ease it away. She knew, with the gravelly clarity of the very old, that her time was soon, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She had lived well, an actress of great renown in New York, whose plays had always assumed that mystical, pensive quality of her being, and her doe eyed gaze and childlike smile had pasted itself across pamphlets all over the nation. She had been a star.
But there comes a time when the stage life grows to be too much, and she began to want to settle down and rub the ache out of her newly arthritic joints. Her hair had grayed, and her lines grew, but the classic beauty of her youth had still left its mark, for she was lovely and dignified even when her back stooped and her eyes dimmed.
She remembered the sweet days, the blazing bright spots in her memory, lying in her manufactured room, the bedpan peeking out from behind her sheets with a sullen sort of belonging. When Toby had placed his first born child in her arms, she had laughed and cried, and gathered his curly headed little son into her arms and kissed it. When she had emerged backstage from her first, live, high-paying performance, she had shook as though taken with fever, and could barely make it back for the final bow. When she had successfully campaigned that the local library not be torn down, she was pale, and shocked at her victory, and accepted it with humble words and no end of gratitude.
Sarah had lived long, and well, and if a little lonelier than she would have liked, so be it. She had had no man in her life for a very long time, no children to see grow old, and no spouse's funeral to attend. For that she was grateful, and she never regretted staying celibate, for she was surrounded by those that loved her.
But now it hurt when she breathed, and it hurt when she walked, and it hurt, oh how it hurt when she slept, for the pain gnawed deeper every day, and painkillers gave only a few hours of incomprehensible, woozy respite, and she didn't like that. No, better to live shorter days with a clear mind and a lucid tongue, before parting with it all.
Her breathing became more difficult still, and she wondered, dimly, what it would have been like to have seen her dear old friends one last time, to argue pointlessly with Hoggle, to tease Didymus' gallant pride, and to bask in the unbiased affection of Ludo.
Her cracking lips quirked upwards in a parody of a smile, and she remembered the other she would have liked to have spoken to on better circumstances, the Lord of Fae, the silver tongued, wild haired beautiful man who had attempted to lure her off of her path, and had offered her spun- sugar dreams in exchange for her half brother.
The pain gripped her for a long moment, and her thin spine arched upwards in a feeble attempt to escape it, and she said quite simply, "Jareth."
Yes, that had been his name. She would have stayed with him too, but Toby was not safe there, and she was not safe there, and the predatory, terrible sharpness of his gaze had frightened the fifteen year old girl she had been.
But he did not frighten her anymore. This was odd, as he was standing beside her hospital bed.
He was still so lovely, after all these years. Not a line had added to his face, nor was there any stiffness in his back or shoulders. He lounged against the wall as he always had, leaning back against the smooth, disgustingly pastel colors of it and not looking for a moment as if he did not own every bit of it. He was dressed in dark velvet as if for mourning, and there was silver on his cuff and about his neck, and his wild hair was tamed back from his face almost severely, into a flowing tail down his back. His slender legs were clad in long boots, and his quirt was stuck in his belt, as if not needed tonight. He looked down, and his face wasn't as cruel as it could have been, and his voice was neutral as he looked at the old woman, and said, "Hello, Sarah."
She closed her eyes tiredly and let his voice roll over her, the tones of which she hadn't heard since she was very young. But then he had been coaxing, intimidating, sensual, and effortlessly terrible. There was an unguarded sort of peace to his form now, as if he had all the time in the world.
"Has anyone....... ever beaten you since me?" she asked, in a weak, raspy old voice she had taken to using ever since speech became an effort she wasn't sure she wanted to uphold. Her hand, laden with the life-giving needle, twitched somewhat in his direction, as if unconsciously seeking his heat.
The tips of his immense canines showed somewhat as he allowed himself a smile, his arms crossed across his chest, leaning still against the wall. "Not a one." He reassured her, his voice silky.
Sarah smiled at that, "Good." She murmured, and closed her eyes.
Silence reigned for a time, but for the monotonous beeping of the monitor reminding the world of her existence. The stench of her already dying cells rose from her, and she took deeper breaths.
"Are you to die soon?" Jareth asked simply, his words simple, as if asking for the weather. He stared straight ahead at the shaded windows, the blinds rattling a bit as the night breeze meandered by. He brushed a bit of imaginary lint off of his sleeve, and looked down.
"I think..... I believe so, yes." She replied mildly, and was struck by the absurdity of it all. They were discussing this as calmly as if talking about rose fertilizer, and yet laughter was the farthest thing from her mind. She was instead, almost unbearably sad, and very tired of it all.
Jareth nodded mutely, and said nothing more.
"Please....." she asked suddenly, "Could you take me away with you?" He looked down suddenly, and she almost shrank back from the raw pain in his mismatched eyes. He watched her with an intensity she had seen before, when she had been ripping apart his kingdom. Her eyes fuzzed a bit as she continued, "I'd very much like.... to be buried in the Labyrinth." She paused for breath, her voice cracking a bit, "I always loved..... the Firey Forest."
He nodded tersely, and straightened up in a gracefully unwinding motion that made her ache to see it. Gently, he pulled the needle out of her vein, and unhooked the various tubes and bindings that connected her to this place. Curiously, the machine continued to beep, but she didn't notice, as he bent to gather her in his arms and stood, her long white hair spilling over his arms to sway below, her spindly, delicate ankles peeping out from her faded nightgown, liver spotted and gangly. She smelled of stale hospital food, of dank air and bitter medicines.
Jareth smelled clean and wild, of green trees tossing their branches to the wind, of cold rushing water, and the slight mustiness of the owl. He cradled her head against his shoulder as he freed one arm, a delicate orb of the finest glass, seemingly made of spiderspun crystal and moonlight, rolled down into his gloved palm. He paused, then bent down to hear her murmured words.
"It's just not fair."
He couldn't help it. He laughed, a merry, delighted laughter that lit up the room in a way no artificial lighting or scented candle could. Smiling, he bent down to brush her ravaged forehead with his lips. "No." he admitted, but he seemed almost lighthearted. "But that's the way it is."
Then with a practiced, quicksilver flick of his wrist, he tumbled his crystal into the air, and the air around them flickered, and then went still.
The room was empty. And it smelled of clean wind.