Epilogue
A/N: Inspired in large part by Loreena McKennitt - The Mummers' Dance. And astute readers will recognize phrases from the Labyrinth soundtrack without having them pointed out.
In the blue veil of the night, they dance. Crowned in wreaths of glowing orange flowers, their movements are fluid and graceful. Shapes come in and out of the lantern light, forming circles and then rows. Ribbons fly in arcs and swirls, then settle on tree branches to form a lattice of satin and leaves. The dancers sing of the springtime and sing to the forest, clear voices carrying to starry skies. The birds are awakened, and they congregate to fill the wood with song. The trees sway with the dancers; the ash and oak, the birch and yew listen to the footsteps on the soft earth. The movements increase in speed, limbs are intertwined, and each dancer answers the call of the fiddler in perfect time. The dance crescendoes, and the owls call to the breathless moon.
They dance until they can dance no more, until the very sun is poised to end their play with shafts of light. Even then, they still wait and they still dance. Every move, every step, is only waiting, and passing the time - the time until she should appear.
Yet when she does appear, they are not ready. It would not be possible to be ready for her coming; she is many times their size, a giant to their eyes, but she is kind, and brings a smile full of magic and a wave of raven hair. She joins the dance and steps to the center of the clearing, her skirts swirling round her as though with a spirit of their own. She claps, delighted with their dance, and they gather around her in a flurry of adoration. She dips her head in a nod of acknowledgment, happy to please them. Amethyst blossoms spring from the ground where she treads, and the whole forest reacts to her presence. She willingly gives the delicate purple flowers in the knowledge that they will form their wreaths for the morrow's dance.
The first brilliant rays of the sun make an appearance on the tree tops, the morning fully come. The faeries slowly fade away, leaving only their garlands and the echo of song. The ghosts of the trees long gone from the woodlands settle again in the past, to wait for another fae dance. The trees no longer dance, but they do not quite sleep. They have been awake ever since she first appeared to speak to them, long ago.
The Lady of the Dark Hair does not mourn the faeries' absence, for the day is glorious and stretches out before her infinitely. She greets all the trees and tends to any wounds in their bark, righting birds' nests and gently replacing the lost young who have strayed from their burrows. Every morning she wanders the lands within her domain, healing and renewing with every step.
A stray head without a body, covered in orange fur, crosses her path, with the chattering, irrepressible firies following. She takes a moment to scold the head's owner for such unrestrained displays of wildness. Hiding a smile, the Lady knows her reprimand will have no effect. It is their peculiar way of paying her respect, and she knows this. She is still smiling to herself as the forest ends, and she steps carefully through a large stone wall that marks the beginning of a great maze.
For all her love of the forest, the Lady knows that the maze is her true home, and she is one with it. Her awareness extends to every small piece of it, from the tunnels deep under the earth to the towering cliffs it climbs. This does not confuse her, however, because she knows she has an identity of her own, one that is separate from the maze. It does not matter to her what the history is of that identity, or what she was and did before becoming part of the maze. She knows who she is, and she knows her role is caring for this land of which she is a part. She knows its mood and revels in its weather, from terrifyingly strong thunderstorms to the great sweeping winds. She does not control it and it does not control her; that she exists and that it exists is enough for her. She is vaguely aware that things were not always so, but it does not bother her that she cannot remember any such time. She rests easy with the certainty that it would not be worth remembering.
The maze's complexity often exceeds her comprehension. Sometimes she encounters a Runner, who represents a purpose engrained deep in the maze's history, well beyond her memory. She feels strong empathy for the Runners, but she does not interfere with the game between the Runner and the maze and the goblins - she is content with an occasional piece of cryptic advice. That way, she does not invoke anyone's wrath; for wrath there is in store for those who would interfere with this game.
Today, she sets those concerns aside, for there is no Runner today. Her bare feet grace the earth as she follows the maze down a corridor to greet its creatures as they awake. She is no more tied to the earth than are the great eagles, but her closeness to the land means that it merits the majority of her attention. A worm nods its head at her, and invites her for tea this afternoon with the missus. She gives him a smile and promises to be there. The ground moves and skinny, curious-looking creatures poke their heads up to gift her with a flood of words. They are not intelligible in any language, but she understands every word and promises to mediate their dispute with the goblins, if the two groups ever manage to sit still for long enough to speak to one another.
A short, stubby dwarf rounds the corner and breaks out into a brilliant smile upon seeing her. This creature she grants a hug, kneeling down to embrace him. He is embarrassed, but pleased. She sits down on the dirt, legs tucked under her, and asks him how his labors are progressing. She listens as he describes the latest problem with the fairy population around the outer walls. He may grumble, but she knows he takes his duties seriously and that he had sorely missed being able to perform them. (Had there ever been a time when he could not perform them? She wonders, but does not mind that she does not know the answer. Things are as they always have been.) Somewhere out there, too, is a small fox who can talk to her again (but was there ever a time when he couldn't?), a dog that reminds her of one she had lost (though she does not know what loss is), and a being whom she once knew as a fuzzy beast but, in reality, is an entity as powerful as she, with far more force at his disposal. She is thankful they are on good terms. There is also a sentient book full of wisdom who is connected to her in ways even she does not understand, and a kind-hearted goblin maid who is different from the other goblins. These six creatures are special, and without knowing why, she calls them "friends."
Somewhere in the back of her mind lives a small, messy boy, laughing and running around. She doesn't know who he is, but she knows he's happy, and she knows he dreams of her and her happiness here. She thinks he is a child, and sometimes she thinks she wants children of her own, but she does not understand what that entails. So she does not think about it much.
The Lady moves on, greeting every creature in her path by name. She knows everyone and they know her: the gentle giants in the north, the gorgeous butterflies on the hilltops, the dangerous eels in the swamps, the prowling cats of prey in the desert sands, the pure unicorns who range where they will, their cousins the wild mustangs of the prairie, even the fierce and untamed dragons who stay deep underground and venture into the sunlight only once a century. These and many others, they love her and she nurtures them, protects them, and rejoices as they grow. The creatures are not hers, but she is the land they depend on and care for, and they respect and worship her. It is no secret that her every wish is granted, but she never wishes ill upon another creature. It is rare that any raise serious trouble in her domain, and her role is never a disciplinary one; those duties she leaves to another. The land's few inhabitants of true intelligence are wary of that other, and even those creatures not ruled directly by that power - all but the goblins - fear his wrath.
It is that other being who she now feels seeking her out. He cuts an imposing figure when striding down her halls, and those left in his wake are relieved to have escaped his notice. He is her opposite: he burns where she soothes, frightens where she reassures, maims where she heals, and taunts where she comforts. He is dark and she is all light; he commands obedience through fear and manipulation while she inspires it with beauty and grace. Yet there is a part of him that is caring and generous, just as she is aware that she can be cruel when necessary. She does not know who he is or where he comes from, but it matters little, for when she looks on him she knows what it means to be complete.
She allows him to find her in a courtyard of green hedges, laced with white flowers of soft petals. There is a fountain which springs from nowhere and collects in a pool, refreshing under the warmth of the sun. He speaks of his fears and she of her dreams. The day is still young, and the Lady shares its youth. The King pulls her close and their lips meet in a glorious symphony of pleasure. Her arms are around his waist, his hands entwined in her hair, and they dance together, swaying to his music in the air. She drinks him in, every inch of him, and her need is satiated. He promises her that he will be there for her when the world falls down, and she believes him. They are strangers, and always will be, but he leads her through the stars and she follows, sadness and pain evoked by his words but banished by his touch. She closes her fist, then opens her palm to him and he takes the delicate flower that has sprouted there, to place it gently behind her ear.
They are one, the Lady and the King - not in the way that the great maze is part of her being, but one because they feel it, because they wish it, because they belong together. She needs neither a roof nor food nor sleep, but this she does need, just as she needs to stay in this land forever. He courts her by day, and visits her at night when they truly come together.
She does not ever remember being without him, but somehow she can remember what it is to be lonely. Now, she feels lonely no longer. And even without being told, she knows when she looks at him that the grip of this loneliness has also left him long behind. They are one, and anything else that ever was does not matter.