Wednesday
Dancers whirled past Sarah, their movements jerky and cyclical, like figurines stuck on a giant music box, each one repeating the same set of mechanical, lifeless motions. Their painted faces were smiling but blank, like dolls with no purpose other than to please. Of course, if that was their function, their creator had missed by a mile. It was creepy and… familiar.
An image flashed through her mind: a young girl in a white dress, wandering, lost amid a sea of gluttony and decadence, surrounded by dark and nightmarish dancers. Had she been that girl? This scene was different, though. The dancers didn't seem to have any will of their own, and she was definitely not wearing white.
Sarah's dress fell to the floor in a cascade of black gossamer. Woven here and there through the flowing material were small chips of crystal beads, to catch the light, and silver silk lashed delicate patterns along the length of her bodice. Wispy sleeves fell from her shoulders, thousands of loose-fitted strands held together in one place, like the intricate design of a black spider web across her pale flesh. A simple black velvet choker encircled her throat, while her hair tumbled down her back with only the smallest of crystal adornment.
Something blue darted from the corner of her eye, but when Sarah made to go after it the dancers turned in unison, blocking her way. "Looking for something, Sarah?" a dark voice whispered in her ear, but there was no one there. "Forgotten something, perhaps?" Another flash of blue, and again the dancers blocked her way.
"Where are you?" she demanded. "Who are you?"
"You wound me, precious thing," the voice continued to whisper. "How quickly I've been forgotten."
Sarah tried to push through the crowd, but the dance had turn fast and angry, keeping her perpetually in the same spot.
"But I suppose I shall have to make allowances; you are, after all, only human," the whisper had switched to her other ear, but she still could not find the one who was speaking.
"Then what are you," she asked plainly, frustration beginning to color her voice, "if not human?"
The voice laughed then, a dark sound that rolled around the room and sent shivers down her spine. It was a laugh that made her think of empty caverns and cold winds. "I'm every shadow you see flitting through the darkness; I'm the figure you see from the corner of your eye, but is always gone when you turn to look; I'm the nightmare that haunts you but provides no memory of what caused your terror."
"You're also extremely longwinded," Sarah muttered, rolling her eyes. "And people tell me I'm melodramatic."
The dancers parted until there was a clear path between her and a man in blue. He was unlike anyone she had ever seen, with his wild blond hair and piercing eyes the color of ice. His clothes were finely tailored, a beautiful creation of silk and velvet and diamonds, with high black boots and well fitting gloves, but despite his cultured appearance she couldn't help but feel that there was something about the man that seemed… untamed. There was a wild aura around him, intense and dark. He stood with his legs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, defensive but commanding, and a smirk played about his lips while his eyes gazed at her with familiarity. And longing.
Sarah shivered and her vision seemed to fragment. Through one eye she could see him as he was: a stranger. Through the other eye she could see him as something else entirely: her greatest challenge and her first real crush. A name sprang to her lips, but never fully formed.
He titled his head to the side. "Your mind tries so hard to not remember. Jareth, pet; my name is Jareth."
Thousands of images raced through her brain, each more confusing than the last—high brick walls twisting around her in an endless maze, monsters that looked scary but were really just silly, monsters that looked silly and turned out to be scary, dark places and peaches and glitter and, above all, the man before her—until her mind shoved them back into a dark corner. It was a strange feeling; until that very moment, she hadn't realized that the dark corner was there, but now she would always know, just as she would always know that it hid something strange.
Sarah shook her head and refocused on the man—creature?—who stood at the other end of the dancer-created clearing. "This is a dream, isn't it?" she finally said. "I read about a Jareth in that ridiculous Le Livre De Bogey and now I'm dreaming about it."
The man ignored her statement. "It's a sad life you lead," he murmured, walking down the cleared path, drawing ever closer. "You delved deeper into a world of fantasy than Mary 'We are not a codfish' Poppins; you not only stood toe-to-toe with the greatest rival nature could have provided, but you beat me at my own game, too. And how does your mind repay you for that?" he asked silkily. By this point he had drawn level and was pacing around her in a tight circle like a wolf. He stopped at her back, placing his hands on her shoulders, and leaned in to whisper into her ear. "Made you forget. Took every single memory, good or bad, and locked it away."
She shivered; having him at her back was disconcerting. "Maybe I was meant to forget," she replied.
Jareth chuckled, ruffling the hair against her neck. "That is the natural order of things," he agreed, "but your triumphs deserve better." His arms slipped down to wrap around her waist. "You and I," he breathed, "we're two of a kind, Sarah. Yin and Yang. You crave fantasy and I crave humanity. Why not help each other out?"
"Because," she said simply, "you're molesting me," then added as an afterthought, "and this is only a dream."
"Very well," he sighed, not removing his hands, "we'll do this the hard way. Again." But, somehow, he didn't sound very upset by that fact.
The dancers began to whirl around them once more, and Sarah was hit with an abrupt sense of dizziness as she swooned in Jareth's grasp.
Sarah woke with a start and immediately realized four things. One: Le Livre De Bogey was resting serenely across her stomach, like some bizarre parody of a napping cat. Two: she was wearing the dark-fantasy dress from her dream, the gossamer skirts pooled around her artistically. Three: she was not in bed or, indeed, even at home. Early morning light filtered through the brightly colored trees as the three-story clock tower rose a mere one-story above her. She was on top of the town hall.
Four: she was not alone.
The man from her dream was kneeling less than a yard away, his head cocked curiously to the side, but he was flickering in and out of sight, as though he had solidity problems. "Smithburg has certainly changed over the years," he said, his voice coming out clearly, even as his body faded like the images of an old movie. "I've grown so accustomed to the stagnant world of the library," he mused, pale eyes surveying the town.
"Why are you here," she asked, shocked and wondering if she was still dreaming. "Well," Sarah amended, watching as he disappeared from his crouching position, only to reappear halfway through standing up, "mostly here, anyway."
"You have to read more of the book," Jareth replied, standing as close to the edge of the roof as he could. "Still, some form is better than no form."
She took hold of the book, studying its deceptively innocent cover as she slowly got to her feet, hindered a bit by the lengthy material of her dress. "You mean to tell me," she accused, "that you came from the book?"
"Of course not," he answered absently, "I am the book."
"Right," she muttered sarcastically, "because that makes so much more sense."
Jareth finally turned around to face her, raising an eyebrow at her snarky words. "Read the book, Sarah," he admonished, "it's all there."
"I wasn't aware that poltergeists came with homework," she quipped.
He gave her an offended look. "Poltergeist? The indignity!" Jareth slashed his hands through the air, waving away her statement. "I am the Bogeyman," he said, preening.
She stared at him for a moment, watching as the effect of his proud stance was completely ruined by his solidity impairment. He looked like a spastic Christmas decoration. "The Bogeyman? Well, that's… perfect. Just freakin' perfect." She regarded the town below them, musing to herself. "Am I having some kind of post-traumatic stress from breaking up with Will? I mean, I know he was a bit of a whiny ass, but seriously… the Bogeyman? There is something wrong with me."
"So you can believe in the Goblin King at fourteen, but not the Bogeyman at eighteen?" he asked acerbically. "It's the same damn thing, Sarah! Does four years really make such a big difference?"
"If I pushed you off this building," she asked, completely ignoring his question, "would you die?"
"No," Jareth replied plainly, "and even if I did that would be murder. Getting a bit morbid in our old age, are we?"
Sarah bristled. "Eighteen is not old!"
"It is when you're used to haunting ten year olds; this is taking a lot more effort than I thought it would." He eyed her speculatively. "I don't suppose you could be persuaded to read another chapter or two?"
"No," she replied bluntly.
He sighed. "I didn't think so."
She waited for a few moments, but when he made no move to say anything further she asked, "That's it? Just 'I didn't think so,' that's all?"
A twisted smile bloomed over his lips, making her shiver. "Well," he purred, "I would hate to disappoint."
Below them, the town rippled. Buildings that she had been surrounded by her whole life shattered and fell to the ground in great heaps, Victorian and colonial structures rising up to take their places. Trees sprang from the ground, growing in the blink of an eye while the paved roads crumbled into dirt. In less than a minute, two hundred years worth of progress was erased and Smithburg was sent spiraling back in time.
"You can't stay visible for more than thirty seconds, but you can enchant an entire town?" Sarah asked confusedly.
He ignored her comment. "I'll make you a deal. There's something in this town I want; if you can find it, I'll change everything back."
A/N: Mary Poppins reference in a story about the Bogeyman… probably one of the weirder things I've done. The 'solidity problems' comment was blatantly stolen from Farley, of Karen Marie Moning's Highlander romance series.
On a side note, today is the second year anniversary of my first Labyrinth posting (the first chapter of Dramatic Orchestrations)!
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Labyrinth belongs to Henson; Don't Look Under The Bed and Mary Poppins belong to Disney.