Chapter 4

As the pain seeps through
Makes no sense for you
Every thrill has gone
Wasn't too much fun at all

Sarah wandered distractedly down the corridor after school. She was on her way to her locker to get the costumes she had promised her drama teacher for the play, taken from the extensive collection her mother had given her. Normally she would've fussed over them, thinking which ones would suit which character, wondering which she should wear herself; but at the moment she wasn't even thinking of them. She was still thinking about the dream the mysterious man in the Labyrinth had given to her. She felt like she hadn't woken from the dream properly at all, and she had been walking around with her head in it all day. At breakfast she had started eating her cereal without putting milk on it, even though she hated dry cereal, and even Irene, who was by no means a morning person, had managed to notice that she had been acting vague. She hadn't been able to concentrate at her lessons, and she had only mumbled half-hearted replies to Beth's chatter. She knew that if Beth and Irene were worried, they'd just put down her spacey behaviour to her being tired. But the truth was, she wasn't feeling tired at all. She felt like she'd slept deeper last night than she had ever slept in her life. It left her feeling restless, and preoccupied. It was the first time since last night that she had had time to think about the dream properly; now she was alone and was in no hurry, she carefully thought through every detail.

She should've known better than to trust a mysterious man's offer, and especially when she had met him there of all places. He had said 'a dream of the past', but he hadn't specified whose past she would dream about. But just why was she dreaming about Jareth's past? It had been Jareth, of that she was sure, though the scared little boy she had dreamed about bore no resemblance to the sinister, imposing adult Goblin King she had met and outmatched. In the dream, she had just known it was him, there was no mistake. And yet… was it Jareth's true past, or a fabrication? After all, it was just a dream; it didn't have to be true. And why was she seeing this stuff anyway? The Jareth she knew was proud and arrogant, confident of his own superiority; surely he wouldn't want her, of all people, to see him like this, so young and weak and defenseless. It was so unlike him, like a different person; to look at him then, she never would've suspected that the scared, humble little goblin boy could grow up to become the rotten personality he was now… so how had it happened? She hadn't had any other dreams after she had finally dropped back off to sleep in the early hours. Was there more to the tale? How had he gotten from the oubliette to the throne room?

With a start, she realized she had walked straight past her locker. She sighed vexedly and doubled back, paying attention to her surroundings this time. She had just taken out the bag of costumes and was closing her locker when she heard something squeak on the linoleum behind her and turned, feeling an irrational sense of alarm.

"Hey, Sarah." The large boy with spiky black hair who had spoken was loitering in the corridor with two friends. She knew these boys; they were her age and were in some of her classes. She remembered having years ago been in the same homeroom as the one who had spoken to her… now what had his name been?...oh, yeah-

"Hi Corey," she replied evenly, getting her breath back – really, what had she expected?! - and wondering what they wanted with her. They weren't the kind of people she normally talked to at school. They could be classified as part of the school's 'popular crowd', since the 'popular' girls in her year seemed to hang around with them, probably more for the sake of liking attention from anyone and everyone than any actual mutual attraction to these boys. These boys were punkish and silly, always in and out of the principal's office, throwing cans at teachers' cars and pulling other stupid pranks. Sarah wasn't part of the 'popular crowd', and never remembered having spoken to these boys before, though they had probably pushed past her in a busy corridor on at least one occasion during their school life.

"I heard you got a part in the play yesterday," Corey began, speaking with a false-sounding casual tone that unwittingly implied that this was a rehearsed speech. She nodded, wondering where this was going. "You got the part of Tit-ain-iya," – he pronounced the name with difficulty, obviously unfamiliar with it – "the same part Caitlin auditioned for."

Ah. Now she understood. She remembered seeing Caitlin, one of the popular girls, at the try-outs. She had been surprised that the girl had bothered with something as 'uncool' as the drama club; she had guessed from Caitlin's audition that she had fancied herself as a Faerie Queen as well as homecoming queen. After Sarah had unexpectedly gotten Titania's role, she hadn't seen Caitlin again, although she suspected that the other girl had stormed out in a huff, which was her general response to things that didn't go her way. Seeing Corey's bulk advancing towards her, she had a bad feeling. Corey was one of Caitlin's hangers-on, and she had him wrapped around her fuchsia-tipped pinkie finger; she may have put him up to something…

"Not only did you get the part, but you didn't even audition for it. Which looks real suspicious when your mom is in theatre." He said the words 'in theatre' disdainfully, as though they were 'garbage sorting' or 'rock collecting'. Which all probably equated to much the same thing by Corey's standards.

Sarah shrugged. "My mom isn't even in town, so she didn't exactly help me get the part. I didn't even expect to get that part. Like you said, I didn't even try out for it. Why, is Caitlin upset about it?"

Corey shrugged. "Well, she thought it was unfair, was all" – funny how Caitlin's sense of fairness only came into play when she herself felt wronged, Sarah reflected wryly – "and she thought perhaps I should come ask you 'bout it."

"What, exactly, did she want you to ask me?" Sarah was getting sick of all this tough-guy posturing. The charade was obvious, but that didn't make her feel any less nervous. "Caitlin can come and ask me whatever she wants, whenever she wants."

"Perhaps. Depends what kind of asking she wants done." Corey took a step forward; so did his two friends. Sarah backed against the lockers, feeling alone and trapped. No one was around to interrupt. Which probably suited the boys just fine.

"This is kinda unnecessary, isn't it?" she asked, trying to reason with them. "I didn't think Caitlin even liked theatre. She's not in the drama club."

"So? She tried out, didn't she? Why should you drama nerds get the roles all the time? Why not let someone else have a go? Especially when you could get all the parts you want through your mom. Why not tell that teacher who's running the thing to let Caitlin have this one, since she actually auditioned for it?"

Sarah's cheeks burned. They actually had the nerve to…?!

"The teacher's a tough judge of auditions," she said stiffly. "She said so herself. I doubt I could convince her to change her mind. I'm sorry Caitlin didn't get the part, but-"

"And just what are you saying about Caitlin's acting?" For the first time, there was a slightly dangerous-sounding edge in Corey's voice as he detected what he thought was an insult against 'his girl'.

"I'm not saying anything about it." Sarah tried to sidle past them, watching warily as Corey's cronies shadowed her. "If you're done talking, I have to go-"

"We're not done yet!"

She tried to dart away, but one of the boys stepped in and blocked her path. She tried to shove him aside, but he pushed her back against the lockers. The boys grinned. They were enjoying themselves.

"Let me go! Just leave me alone!" Corey stepped in front of her; starting to panic, she dropped her bag and blindly raked her nails across his outstretched arm, making a break for it as he recoiled.

"Ah-! Bitch!"

"Ouch!" One of them grabbed her by her hair and wrenched her back.

Snap!

They all froze at the sound. Uncertain, the boy let her go. Something tinkled and fell from her hair. The butterfly clip lay on the ground, its wings snapped down the centre; he had broken it as he grabbed her. Corey, rubbing his wrist where several parallel red lines stood out against his skin, looked at the clip and snickered.

"Fancy yourself a fairy princess, do ya? Well, see if you can fix this with magic!" Sarah's heart fluttered in dismay as he brought his heavy boot over the beret and prepared to stomp on it...

Crack!

The boys froze again. Corey had jumped back instinctively as something dropped past him and shattered on the floor, spraying him with shards of glass. He looked up; the light bulb had dropped from its socket, landing right between him and Sarah. The empty light-fitting swung ominously.

Hiding his unease, Corey curled his lip in a 'gangsta' snarl. "Think about what we've said," he muttered threateningly, but only half-heartedly, and motioning to the other boys, they skulked off. They seemed to have lost interest; Caitlin's disappointment in not getting the role would pass. Getting hit by light bulbs wasn't worth it Sarah watched them go, nerves still jangling. She bent down and sadly picked up the two halves of Irene's present. It wasn't fair – it had been brand new, and something she had really liked. And it had been broken on the very first day she had worn it! The boys had long lumbered off. She felt relieved that they had finally left her alone, but something still didn't seem right… Glancing around at the floor, she saw no signs of broken glass. She looked up. The bulb was in the socket, only swinging slightly in the draughty corridor. But it had been broken a minute ago…

She glanced around wildly. No one else was here, there was no one visible, not outside, not anywhere. She shook her head. Nope, just don't think about it. It couldn't be. It was just a coincidence. It just fell… She looked up. The light bulb looked back like a single gleaming eye, glimmering in the light from outside… shining, like a crystal ball…

She lowered her head abruptly. No. That's the last thing I need to think about, with the play and school and the weird dreams, and everything else! Remember what happened last time you meddled with these things! Just leave it alone, and it'll go away! She snatched up the bag of costumes and hurried off down the hallway, carefully tucking her broken hairclip into her pocket.

Outside, at least ten yards from the school building and sheltered by a small stand of trees, a gloved hand extended. Piece by piece, glass shards appeared, arranging themselves to form a perfect sphere; the cracks melded together until it was whole, without so much as a single scratch and looking as though it had never shattered on the floor of the school corridor. Satisfied, the hand closed around it; there was a sharp rustle of wings, and nothing more.

"I can't believe they'd do that!"

Beth's voice was high and loud with indignation. Several people in the street turned to look at them as they walked past shops, Beth waving a drinking straw to punctuate her words.

"Of all the-! That is just so over-the-top! And over a high school play! I bet Caitlin doesn't even like plays!"

"I said as much to the boys," Sarah replied, taking a sip of her smoothie. "Caitlin will get over it."

Beth snorted. "Who does she think she is, Elizabeth Taylor?! Sheesh! And over Shakespeare! Why would she, of all people, bother?! What a bitch! Hey, what do you think of that one?" She pointed to a loose green blouse covered in white polka-dots that hung in a shop window. "I could wear it to my cousin's birthday party; he might have some cute friends coming along!"

Sarah grinned. "They'll think you're a peppermint humbug!"

Beth grinned and chewed on the end of her straw. "At least they'll know I'm tasty!"

"You tart!"

"Y'see, even you think I'm sweet!"

Sarah flicked a bit of icy-cold smoothie at her with her straw and, giggling, the two girls raced down the street. Beth had promised Sarah she would take her out to celebrate getting by her audition, but she had had to work at her after-school job the previous day, so this trip to the mall had been belated. Having stopped for drinks at a juice-bar, they were strolling back towards their homes as the street lamps started to come on.

"You're lucky you haven't had to work lately," Beth said after taking a slurp of her drink, the two girls having gotten over their scuffle and fallen into step again. "That place where you work sure is easy on you!"

"Mr Colter was away for a week visiting relatives, so he closed up the shop while he was away. He's opening up again tomorrow, and I have to be there; I've been lucky how it was timed around the audition!"

"Yep! All I can say is, you deserved to get the part more than anyone else! Things just worked out!" Beth frowned, sipping thoughtfully. No, it hadn't quite all worked out for her friend. "What will you do about the hairclip?"

Sarah grimaced and touched her jeans' pocket. "I dunno. Irene will be devastated! She was so proud that she picked out something I liked, she said I should wear it for the play." Beth nodded sympathetically. She had long listened to Sarah's accounts of ongoing trials and tribulations with her stepmother, and had been supportive when they had finally started to get along with each other. "Maybe if we take it back to the store, they might…"

The girls shared a doubtful look. The clip had been a department store item; it wasn't likely the store would refund or replace it if it had been broken after purchase.

"Well, maybe a jeweller could fix it," Beth suggested. "There's one round the corner, you could go in and ask if they- Hey! What's that store?" she stopped midway through her own sentence and wandered over to have a look. Shaking her head at her friend's short attention span, Sarah followed her.

"Cool! Didn't there used to be a discount store here? This looks way more interesting! What is it, a night club?" She said the words 'night club' with the feverish excitement that adolescents generally felt towards 'grown-up' pastimes. "Woo, looks fancy! A French name and everything! Hey, get this- 'opening soon, innovative new night spot, an all-purpose venue for live music, open-mike nights, children's entertainment, amateur drama-' hey! They're gonna put on plays! Maybe you could do that!... Though you're practically on your way to Broadway now, by the time this place gets set up it might be beneath you. What do y-… hey, what's up?"

Beth finally realized Sarah wasn't paying any attention to her; she was standing a few feet back, staring at the shop's sign. She started at Beth's question and quickly turned to face her, looking as though she had just snapped out of a trance.

"Er, nothing… I was just trying to figure out what the sign means."

Beth rolled her eyes; always the cultured outlook! Sarah was such an 'artiste' with an 'e'!

"I dunno, it's French, and you know French isn't exactly my best subject." Sarah gave her a small, apologetic smile; Beth always got her 'le', 'la' and 'les' hopelessly mixed up. Now she was squinting fixedly up at the sign, nose wrinkling in concentration. "I think I might have seen that word before, I think… isn't it something like 'to think', or 'to remember', or…"

"'Oublier', the verb 'to forget'…" Sarah murmured distractedly.

Beth snapped her fingers, looking impressed. "Yeah, you remembered it! I'm hopeless at these foreign languages. Why make us learn more than one when one is all we'll ever need or use? Hmph, if it means 'forget', it's a silly name for a night club – you don't exactly want people to forget your business if you want to make money, do you? Unless they mean they'll 'forget' your age at the door… reckon we could get in? It says they have kids' entertainment, but that stuff is usually so boring, men in animal suits and lame old puppet shows and stuff, and besides we're not kids any more. Reckon if I wore my mum's shoes, the ones with the really thick wedge heels, and made myself up really heavily…"

"If you went at night when it was really dark and you plastered on the make-up… maybe it would work… but they might mistake you for a drag queen!" Managing to think up a rejoinder, Sarah dodged the straw Beth aimed at her with a devious grin. Beth was always like that about grown-up things, like cocktail parties and dating boys and going out dancing. Sarah didn't see what all the fuss was about. She had tried a sip of champagne once, when her mother and Jeremy had taken her out for dinner at a swanky restaurant to celebrate the opening of one of their shows, and it hadn't been all that great, a bit like bubbly white vinegar, really… and as for dating and dancing…

Once again, she stopped her own thoughts before they strayed into dangerous territory.

She followed Beth down the street, trying to pay attention to her friend's constant, incessant chatter; but she couldn't help looking back one last time at the ornately curling letters on the night club's sign:

"LES OUBLIETTE"

The doorway to the throne room slammed open. The lord's servants, already assembled there, looked inquisitively at their master's entrance.

"I am back," he announced as though this already obvious fact was penultimate, elaborating no further. The underlings looked at each other, silently questioning each other – who was brave enough to ask…?

"Err… did you win?" a timid voice ventured.

He whirled to face them; they all flinched instinctively, waiting for rants and rages…

The Dream King merely sighed, as though the weight of the world rested on his one syllable: "No."

Curiosity overcoming caution, Matthew flapped into the air to hover before him. "Was there a fight? Did Lucifer give you any trouble? Did you get the woman you were looking for?"

"No, Matthew. No… and no." Gradually getting more and more wearisome, this last 'no' was the most dejected of them all.

"What happened, Milord?" Abel, emboldened by Morpheus' tolerance of Matthew, managed to ask.

"I'll tell you later," was the curt reply, and with that, turning his back upon them all, he strode from the room.

He meandered down some stairs which were not attached to any walls or floors, but were held up by the Dreaming itself, floating in space. Down he went, until he came to his own private rooms, a rather opulently-disguised storeroom for various dream-articles. Upon the dream-space – for that was all that supported it – hung a large mirror in an ornate frame. He stopped before it and glanced into it, as he did so taking a large key, its handle modelled with a similar design to the mirror's frame, from his robe and inspecting it. Looking into the glass before him, he saw his own semblance, and a figure likewise holding up the same key; however, in this vision, these were not one and the same. Another figure with pale, almost anemic colouring and a pair of bat-like wings protruding from his shoulder blades, held up the key for Morpheus to see.

"That was the last of the gates to be sealed," the blonde man told him. "Hell is closed." He held up a dagger with a skull modelled into its hilt, offering it to the Dream King. "Morpheus, you must cut off my wings for me. It is the last thing that needs doing."

"Very well, Lucifer," he had replied politely, as though there were no past animosity between them. "If that is truly what you wish." And so, with careful strokes, he had cut the wings from the fallen angel's back; Lucifer, teeth clenched, had not so much as flinched as thick rivulets of blood flowed down his back. Once they were removed, he tossed his own wings scornfully aside and turned back to face him.

"Perhaps you'll find the woman, Dream," he said, recalling Morpheus' original task. "They are out there. All of them. My little disembodied refugees, fluttering through the dimensions." He gave him a smile that recalled a fraction of his devilish nature. "I once swore I would destroy you, did I not?"

"Yes," he admitted, reluctant, his face set. He had come prepared for a confrontation; if he must face it now, he would not shrink from it…

However, Lucifer merely offered him the key. "Here. This is for you, Dream Lord. It is yours now. Perhaps it will destroy you and perhaps it won't." His smile stretched at the edges, becoming pointed, sharp; almost wounding. "But I doubt it will make your life any easier."

And so, Morpheus now held the key to Hell in his hand. And it wasn't only the key he held, but also what it opened – Hell, all its pain farms and torture houses and pits of inextinguishable fire - all were now under his dominion. But that wasn't all. Lucifer had expelled all Hell's inhabitants before locking its gates – all its demons, and all its tortured souls. Which meant that though Dream now owned Hell, Nada, the one thing he sought, was still lost to him, cast out somewhere across the cosmos' many realms, even further from him than she had been before… now he had no idea whatsoever of her whereabouts…

No, it did not make his life any easier.

The frustration arose within him; his fist clenched tighter and tighter on the key until, his temper arisen, he lashed out, striking the mirror. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. He sighed. It made no difference; he had gone to Hell expecting ordeals, and now he had them, though they certainly were not what he had expected. No, life wasn't any easier, but he must shoulder the burden. He must do what was right.

Casting aside his own problems for a moment, he waved his hand over the frame, instantly restoring the glass to its original spotless sheen, and used it to scan his original domain, observing the changes that had come to the Dreaming during his brief absence. Remembering the boon he had granted to the Goblin King, he sought out the human woman, Sarah Williams. Yes, there she was, currently in his domain, but she had resisted entering it, he sensed it; she had willed herself not to sleep, not to dream. Yet inevitably, she must. She had accepted the dream; now she must dream it. He wondered how far she had progressed through it…

Oh, this was…!

He allowed himself to continue to observe, despite his preoccupations. He enjoyed this point in the dream. He was a being almost older than time itself, far too old to appreciate nostalgia; nevertheless, he watched the dream unfurl with fond memories. This had been the first time he had met directly with he who would become Jareth the Goblin King…

In the depths of the dungeon pit, all was quiet. The young goblin, too exhausted to sob any longer, was dozing fitfully with his head on his knees, the tracks of his tears still wet upon his cheeks. The hands above him, usually chattering and complaining amongst themselves, had gone strangely quiet. The glass globe had slipped from his grasp and now rested on the floor beside him. Unbeknownst to him, it glowed softly, and its depths were animated; images could be seen of people, people with mouths silently stretched in terror, arms flailing against the encroaching darkness, hands raised beseechingly, begging, wailing unrestrainedly, grovelling before unseen conquerors as more hands pulled them back. Images of all different people, but all united in their suffering; all reaching out, shielding themselves, entreating with outstretched hands...

The real hands above were silent, motionless, as though they too were sleeping. In contrast, the boy moaned softly, eyelids creasing as he frowned, whimpering now as though he were in pain, flinching as terrors unseen clawed at his vulnerable young mind, shifting restlessly in a troubled sleep. The vision in the sphere changed; instead of the frenzied faces of distraught prisoners, it now contained a person, the squat figure of a woman with strangely greyish-toned skin and irregularly sharp teeth, giving her an almost Goblish appearance. She was completely unclad except for a single ring on her finger with a cruel, curved hook on it, which she absently used to poke at her own lip. She appeared to actually look out of the crystal at the boy, cognitive of his presence, not just another inexistent vision. Slipping the ring from her lips, she instead parted them to speak, though the boy, still sleeping, did not seem to hear her clearly-spoken words:

"Brother, I stand in my gallery as I hold your sigil. Will you hear me?" This 'sigil' was a charm in the shape of what appeared to be a bizarre mask, with blank eyes and a strange protrudence where its mouth should be, somewhat resembling a WWII-era gasmask…

"You summon me, my sister. What do you want?" A second, indistinct figure appeared in the crystal; it was little more than a dark silhouette, rake-thin, like a living sliver of shadow.

"This small being is manipulating both our domains, converting the despair felt by lost souls into dreams. Can you attend to him? It concerns your realm more than mine. He is making their grief insubstantial, but he is only young and it is taxing him – his powers are as yet uncontrolled and may be volatile. Can you help him?"

"Yes, I will. I thank you for drawing it to my attention. I felt a pull in the fabric of the Dreaming, but I had not yet followed the threads to their source."

Both figures disappeared from within the crystal orb; at the same moment, in the pit, a new hand appeared out of nowhere, almost skeletally thin and white; it came to rest on the young goblin's head. It soft weight seemed to calm him; he stopped writhing in his sleep as soon as he felt its touch. Slowly he woke and raised his head - or rather, he appeared to wake. A figure stood before him in the darkness. This person wore full armour, like the adult goblins all did, but unlike the shabby, cobbled-together suits of mismatched irons most goblins wore, this man wore a complete outfit, and the entire suit was black, as though it had been dipped in pitch. Somehow, he could make out his silhouette in the dungeon's impenetrable darkness; he seemed a denser blot of black against the shadows. As he became more aware of him, Jareth grew more fearful.

"W-who are you?" he asked in a small voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I am here because of your dreams." The voice that replied seemed to have been formed out of the very darkness itself; it made him shiver like a soft, cold breeze across his skin.

"My dreams? How do you…?"

"I know your dreams because, in essence, they are mine, a gift to all beings in existence. Sometimes they are a welcome gift, other times not. It is not my place to say who has which dreams, every being decides for him- or herself; I am merely their distributor and overseer. I am the Wielder of Sands, the Lord Shaper – I am the King of All Night's Dreaming."

The king paused to let his statement have dramatic effect. Realizing he was in the presence of royalty, the lad's eyes widened, and he tried to wipe his tears away on his grimy sleeve. It wasn't fit to be seen crying by such an august personage. He had read about kings before, and he knew how someone was supposed to act when granted an audience with a monarch.

"If you be the Ruler of Dreams, o Lord of the Night, I beseech you, please; can you help me escape these nightmares?" he asked meekly, bowing his small head in entreaty.

The Dream King watched him steadily. He had to admit he was impressed by the young goblin's manner; it was every bit courteous and correct, despite the wretched circumstances he was in. "Yes, I can," he said, feeling generous, but adding as was his duty: "though I can't free you directly. You must free yourself."

"B-but how…?" the little goblin glanced around blindly in the darkness, looking up the way he had fallen in. He could just make out the amassed hands in the dim vertical passage, laying more still than leaves in a windless forest. How could he get back up that way…?

Morpheus looked up at them, too. "You have a gift, little goblin. Your mother must have passed it on to you; I feel the essence of her still present within the object she once owned." The Dream King bent gracefully and picked up the glass orb from the floor. In his hand, it began to glow steadily, illuminating the chamber with a softly-radiating light. Though the light flooded the cramped chamber, for the first time revealing its dank, dripping walls, putrid corners and piles of Goblish skeletons which were strangely - or perhaps, expectedly - missing their arms, the boy paid no attention to it at all; all he saw was the glowing visage in the sphere's centre. The light seemed to radiate from the image of a woman with her long golden hair flowing about her, her blue eyes kind as a summer sky as she seemed to smile down at the boy.

"Mother," he murmured softly, reverently. He'd never been able to produce such a clear image of her on his own…

"She was more than just a gypsy woman who knew a few entertaining tricks," the Dream King continued. "She had a slight ability to manipulate dreams; specifically, she could make them visible to others through this-" he indicated the crystal ball – "and to some extent, she could make them tangible. Lucien, my librarian, would often distress that she would deplete the stocks of our library, so often did she dream books into existence, and hence cause the dream versions of them to be destroyed on our shelves. It seems you possess a similar gift, yet yours is far stronger."

The image in the crystal changed. The feeling of wellbeing that had temporarily washed over young Jareth disappeared instantly as the tormented souls reappeared within the sphere, howling and writhing. He shuddered and looked away as his dreams reappeared before his eyes.

"You dreamed the dreams of those souls and turned their despair into intangible visions, effectively cancelling out their feelings of distress. You see, they have stopped wailing; they are no longer suffering within the persistence of memory. You set them at peace, at the cost of having their nightmares for them. All of them. It has caused you much distress."

The boy started. He hadn't realized that… that he could dream other people's dreams as his own… "I-I didn't mean to do that…"

"Perhaps, but nevertheless, you did, and by doing so you did them a service, as well as my sister; they are no longer in her charge, she has catered to them now for decades. You are not yet in control of this gift, but you can learn to wield it in time, and you can use it to leave this place."

"I can?" He glanced about at the walls – they did not look at all dream-like, they were solid stone, impenetrable, not showing the least crack through which a bug could escape. "But how?"

"I shall show you. Watch." Morpheus handed the crystal back to the boy – his hand, felt in the briefest of touches, was quite cool, but also soft, like the dream-fog that gently caresses the mind of the dreamer as they drift off to sleep – and he went to a corner of the dungeon. He lifted a door that had been lying on the ground, the hinges still hanging from it, and approached the wall.

"You see these frames?" he asked. Jareth looked. Indeed, he hadn't noticed them until now. The wall was full of what looked like wooden door-frames which had been filled in with stone. As he watched, the Dream King fitted the door into a frame, closed it, and paused with his hand on one of the knobs – this door had two of them.

"With your ability, these frames can become portals to any domain you may dream of visiting. All you need to do is will it hard enough, build a clean connection through the dream-space, and open the portal." He suited the action to the words. Jareth gaped.

The door in the solid-rock wall opened up to a featureless plain, a landscape painted bog-brown and rendered bleak by a weak ray of sunlight breaking through some murky clouds. It was, in fact, a bog; most of the Underground was a flat mire, punctuated occasionally by a stunted bush. In the distance, Jareth could make out some black dots moving about and a faint pillar of smoke; a goblin army camp. The sight made a thrill of panic go through him as he remembered Snirick and his lackeys.

"Not very inviting," Morpheus commented, echoing his thoughts. He closed the door, temporarily plunging them back into darkness, then reopenedit in the other direction, using the second door knob.

Author's Note: Lines in this chapter are quoted from the manga Death: At Death's Door by Jill Thompson, which in turn based on the Seasons of the Mist story arc from Sandman.