Beautiful music is playing and the moon is bright. She is standing in the middle of a field of flowers. Small hands are clasped in hers.

What is this place?

Sarah shivers in the night air, although it is pleasantly cool. She looks downward.

She sees two little girls, with halos of thick dark hair and eyes glimmering in the moonlight, gazing up at her with worried expressions.

"What is it?" one of them asks, her high-pitched voice chiming like a bell.

Sarah hesitates, her skin prickling. Then she forces a smile.

"Nothing –" she shakes her head. "Nothing – it's just that for a minute there I thought I was –"

– drowning -

Her legs tremble as she sees dark water closing over her eyes, and feels a weight twining around her body and dragging her down –

She sucks in air, unevenly – trying to force away the blackness at her eyes, the burning in her lungs –

One of the girls cries out. "Look! Father is here!"

And then the two voices chirp: "Father! Father!" – and their hands fly free of hers, and feet pat over the springy grass and blooming flowers, leaving scarcely any marks where the moon shines down –

The children run to a figure coalescing out of the gloom, and latch onto it, eagerly. Sarah feels her eyes water as she blinks, desperately, gasping for breath and almost crying out at the pain stabbing through her ribs (why would there be darkness, or fear, or pain –)

But then the figure looks at her, and smiles –

– and Sarah takes a deep, easy breath of her own, and feels herself smile back, as she exhales – for she looks at Jareth in the moonlight, and he is beautiful.

He is dressed differently from the way she best remembers him – his shirt is loose and white, with no lace or ornament to be seen – it flows down over the top of a pair of simple black trousers. She sees that his feet are bare – and then can only watch, as he kneels in the grass and flowers and embraces the children.

The simplicity of the tableau lulls her, but her heart beats faster as she sees his mane of hair shine, as she sees his eyes catch the moonlight and break it into a thousand little pieces as he stares at her.

Blackness shot through with red edges her vision – Sarah shakes her head to clear it. Why should there be darkness? (or drowning, or fear, or pain?)

Jareth speaks. She closes her eyes, feels his voice caress her through her gown of cloth of gold, through her silk shift, through the quiet night air.

"My little birds," he murmurs. "How goes your nightly dance?"

The children's voices flow like water in a smaller stream. "Well, Father –" They echo each other – "Very well, Father –"

Sarah hears him smile. "Then shall I sing for you?"

"Yes!" – "Oh please!"

Sarah opens her eyes and watches, dreamily, as they put their arms around his neck, as he places one hand at their heads, his gloves grey against their dark hair. Jareth looks up, slowly, and meets her gaze. Something in his eyes makes her heart twist, even as her chest is burning (why would it be burning?)

Then she realizes that Jareth's hands are at his sides, and that the little girls have woven their fingers through hers again. They look up at her, beaming – their eyes sparkle. Sarah feels caught by the grey-green color, by the mismatched pupils, by their look of –

– love? (why would there be love?)

"Dance and sing," one lilts to her, and "Sing!" chimes the other.

… wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein …

And Jareth takes a quiet breath, and begins to sing.

… to sway and dance and sing with you …

The tune is not one that Sarah knows; the language is none she understands. But she feels at peace – and she closes her eyes and tilts her head back and turns in a circle with the children, listening as the melody slips in and out of the river's song, knits itself to the other music, fading in the air, and weaves a tapestry of sound that tells its own story, that eases around her like a shining golden net and works its way through the air into her very being –

She hardly feels the girls' hands slip from hers. But she does notice when Jareth's voice fades away, and when the only sound that remains is the whisper of the river and the wind …

Sarah opens her eyes – and the wind sighs to her – Beautiful – and she blinks, and sees herself as the wind and water must see her – her arms outstretched, her gown of cloth of gold floating around her in the cool night air – her own steps in the dance trailing bits of cloud and wisps of fog where she turns in place, several feet above the ground.

Sarah looks down, and smiles, quiet and calm. She sees Jareth where he is kneeling, gazing up at her, through a golden glow – she sees where he has an arm around each of the girls – the children who are staring at her, mouths open, awe written on their faces – awe and

– love? –

She shakes her head (why would there be love?) and steps forward – feels as though she is running lightly down steps made of air – and then looks at her own bare feet in the grass, glowing in the moonlight. She wiggles her toes. The golden glow fades, and she can see the little girls – she smiles at them.

They smile back at her.

There is a moment of silence, and then Jareth speaks. "Such a dance." His voice is low. "Such a dance is rarely to be seen, my dears, and I must thank you for it …"

The last words are muffled as he kisses each of his daughters on her brow. They snuggle into his arms.

"But –" and his voice gentles into a murmur – "your dance is done, and now it is time to sleep."

One girl sighs theatrically; the other pouts. "You don't sleep."

Sarah smiles at the child's jutting lower lip; Jareth laughs.

"No, little one, but that is because I am old and grown. Now fly on your way, and go to sleep, and I will send you a dream."

"A pretty dream," one says, drowsily. "With dragons, and a unicorn. Like a story."

Another soft laugh. "Very well."

The child falls silent. Her sister turns to look at Sarah, quietly, intently, and whispers in Jareth's ear. The sound carries.

"Will Mother tell us a story?"

Mother.

Sarah's blood turns to ice in her veins.

Jareth looks at her. His eyes are hooded. He whispers back to the child.

"Mother is tired."

"Then she can sleep too, and dream with us."

Jareth smiles, his eyes not leaving Sarah's. He caresses his daughter's hair. Sarah feels her heart flutter frantically; her calm is gone, and panic is taking its place. (His daughter? Our daughter? My daughter? Oh please no, not my daughter, not my daughters, this is a dream, it has to be a dream –)

"I must speak to your mother, child."

The girl smiles, sleepy. "What about?"

Sarah stares, numb, as his smile widens. "I must thank her for her dance."

A rustle – Sarah focuses her mind, looks through the haze of fear, black and red, distorting her sight, and sees him rise, and take each child by the hand. "Now fly away, my little birds, and dream well."

"Good night, Father."

"Good night, Mother."

And Sarah hears a flutter of wings, and when she looks again, the children are gone.

Mother.

Sarah chokes on a sudden rush of sickness, on fear and cold and panic – I can't be a mother – I don't want to be a mother – I don't want to – and oh God, they're his children, and my children – how did that happen? I don't want to be a mother – I have college, I have to work, I have an exam –

An exam …

And Sarah staggers backward, and falls to the ground as her legs give way – as memory crashes over her and around her. The concert. Toby. Running – and the cold – and fear – and pain – and –

"Falling," she gasps, tears gathering in her eyes. "I fell –"

"Yes." Jareth sounds amused. "It seems to be a narrative staple, falling." His voice floats down, from above her head. "I once fell, myself. Quite a long time ago, quite a long ways – but certainly nothing worth crying about, precious."

Sarah bends forward and feels through the flowers and tufts of grass like a blind woman. Some of the leaves bite and sting – she jerks her hands back, and clutches at her gown of cloth of gold.

She sees where her stays are undone, where the dress is loose and practically slipping off her, and where her own blood coats her arms.

"Why, Jareth?" Sarah croaks. "Why am I remembering? Why can't I wake up?"

"My love …" His voice is quiet; it makes her skin crawl. "You think that this is a dream?"

Sarah flinches as he takes her hands, but Jareth merely lifts her to her feet, and touches gloved fingers to her face. She meets his eyes – a mistake; the hunger in them is naked and unabashed, and they glow like coals in the dark.

"This is no dream, Sarah mine - mine – do you understand? You are looking through the mists of time – you see what will come to pass."

"No –" she chokes. "No. Let me go – I have my life, I have school –" she grasps wildly at anything; her voice cracks – "I have an exam tomorrow, Jareth – please, please let me go."

Jareth laughs, darkly, and slides his mouth over hers in a fierce kiss – she shudders and feels her stomach flip.

"My dear love ..." His mouth slips free of hers, and his whisper burns her flesh. "By now, you are late for your exam by a few hundred years."

A few hundred years. "No. No – that can't be. That's impossible!"

Jareth's grin flashes in the dark. "No more impossible than dancing in midair," he purrs. "But I will ground you, if it makes you feel more comfortable."

He grips her hands in his and steps in the pattern of a dance – Sarah follows him, numbly, trying to buy time to think. Her mind races – she feels her chest burn with every breath, and yelps in surprise when Jareth turns in the dance and snatches another kiss.

Her lips tingle. "Jareth – you have to understand – I never meant for this to happen – whatever words it was, whatever magic it was –"

"You didn't really mean it …" he sing-songs, and kisses her again.

"No –" she grabs desperately at his shirt, as her feet slide over something slippery –

Jareth's hands clamp around her waist. "Careful."

"No –" she gasps at a flash of memory, and her words spill out. "You said a year and a day. A year and a day, from when the spell was cast – even if I did cast it, and I didn't mean it –" Sarah hears her own voice, pleading. "Take me back to that moment. Reorder time – go back and explain it all to me and I'll set you free – I promise you –"

"Ah …" His laugh is ugly, like a misshapen rock falling into the river that whispers nearby. "What a wonderful idea! Sheer, unadulterated brilliance, my lovely one – what a pity it is that I had not thought of it before!" His voice turns cold. "Oh, that's right. I did. I did think of it – every single minute of every single day, for that year and a day from your magnificent triumph. The idea came to me in a fit of inspiration – just as soon as you called your pathetic friends to you, I flew to your window and watched, and I raged, as I could only watch and not tear them limb from limb, and take you on the floor in a pool of their blood, as I so greatly desired."

Sarah gags at the image, and leans over, retching. Jareth waits, solicitously, and then wheels her back into their dance.

"Yes," he continues. "You called up figures of your own making, and they took on solid form. I knew then that the chains set around me by your will would not be broken easily. So I reordered time, Sarah – I slowed it to a crawl and sent you dream upon dream – do you remember them, Sarah?" His voice is dulcet in her ear. "Do you remember your dreams?"

My dreams …

Sarah closes her eyes. She had shut them away, but now they are creeping out of the locked strongholds in her memory, and she remembers that she had attributed the dreams to stress – her first boyfriend that year, her changing relationship with her stepmother, the demands of school, even her period finally settling down – anything to account for the repeated image of Jareth, perched in the ruin of the Escher room, cloaked in white feathers, raging eyes fixed on her and teeth bared as her threw a crystal at her and screamed –

"But you never took back your gift, Sarah," he breathes. "You never released me."

"I had no idea, Jareth." She recoils at the feel of his body brushing against hers in the dance.

"Ah – but did you even listen to what I had to say?"

"No!" Sarah shakes her head, jerkily. "No – that's not fair. You never said anything! You just yelled – and threw things –"

Jareth sneers at her. "You would not listen!"

"No!" Sarah shouts. "I never knew!! I would even ask H-Hoggle about you –" she stutters, "h-how you were, and he wouldn't tell me –"

"That is because he did not exist in my domain, Sarah." His voice is acidic. "You brought us together for a short time, and then you did me the great favor of keeping him and those other fools in your memory, and troubling me no more with them. Would that you had done the same with your gift –"

Then Jareth pauses. "But you spoke to them of me? Now, why would you do that?" He hisses in her ear. "Why, precious thing?"

Sarah gulps, tugs her head back, and angry with herself for feeling – hot – breathless – like she were melting, flowing down and pooling on the ground – hisses back: "Because you were beautiful, Jareth – because you were irresistible, and you damn well knew it!"

"Did I know it?"

Sarah flinches at the rage in his voice.

"And now we come to the crux of the matter, Sarah mine. It seems to me that you would cling to that spell, even unknowingly, and that that is why no dream of mine could sway you –"

"No!!" Sarah shoves at him and breaks away. "I did not!! And you're so powerful, so mighty – why the hell didn't you just reorder time and tell me, and keep me out of your damned Labyrinth in the first place?!"

She is breathing heavily, pain stabbing into her sides. Jareth glares at her from where she has pushed him, immobile, like a marble statue marooned in a field of moonlit flowers.

"My dear," he breathes, and magic crackles in his voice. "Power and might, will and magic – gewalt – are unique to those who possess them – strange forces with their own mysteries – but time …" Jareth's eyes shine with an unholy light. "Time moves on for everyone, inexorable, implacable. All I can do – all a being of such power as myself can possibly do – is move within it –" he begins to turn, in the steps of a dance, "move forward in it, and backward, and around and through – slow it down, speed it up – all with considerable effort expended – and all with dangers untold to myself, and to the fabric of reality …" His voice turns musing, he does not stop his slow dance. "And yet, I took that risk. As the year and day marched on, I flew back through time and gave you dream after dream – I flew back and tried to warn myself –" a sour laugh – "although that was worse than useless, as I could never get close enough, lest reality tear …"

Jareth pauses, and goes still.

"But I tried, my love. By all the powers of this world and my own – I tried. Dreams I can weave easily enough – but changing reality in your lumpen world of mortal flesh and rot is something else ... Spells knot when they are cast, and to pick apart even my own while struggling against the gale of time is difficult – and to alter the spells of another – the actions of another –" He tips his head; Sarah shivers at the expression on his face. "All I could hope to do was influence your actions – coax you into releasing me, with wisps of thought … with dreams …"

Silence.

"I should have known that escape was impossible."

Sarah cannot move – she looks at him, woodenly, as Jareth steps forward and takes her hands. "Yet, I continued." His voice is quiet, steady – the sound of a storyteller approaching the end. "I wore such a crease in time by my journeys back – sending you dream upon dream, plea upon plea – I almost tore the fabric of the world. But you resisted."

Resisted. Sarah tries to remember. Books on deep breathing, meditation. Warm milk before bed. Stress management lectures at the library. Exercise. Finally, a prescription for sleeping pills – all to stop the dreams of that year – dreams of eyes, and feathers, and a crystal, and a voice that cajoled and cursed her in turn – and words –

Words.

Something she had said.

Sarah frowns. Something I had said.

What was it?

Jareth's voice cuts through her thoughts.

"You resisted – and time itself protested my abuse, and the year and day ran out, and my fate was sealed. Once that year and day were up, no amount of reordering time could hope to unravel the weave of your magic." His tones turn soft and lulling. "And I was left to myself, to the rage of my true love. So I decided to send you another dream, once you were older and had a proper context for it – only once in a while, you understand. Just to remind you. To –" and he smiles, slowly – "unsettle you …"

Jareth tilts his head at her, and runs his thumbs over her knuckles. Smiles again.

"Do you remember that dream, my love?"

Sarah does not want to. She had locked the dream in a heavy wooden chest, chained the chest shut, and thrown it down a deep well in her memory, and closed the iron door to the well and locked it three ways –

– but the dream must have sent tendrils gnawing through the wood and shooting up through the water of the well – it has bored through the door and now touches her with one soft leaf -

– and Sarah remembers.

Her freshman year of college. The age-old story – girl meets nice boy, girl dates nice boy, girl falls in love, girl thinks it through carefully, girl lines up appropriate birth control, girl loses her virginity. She had thought it through – and she had begun to enjoy the sex, after the first few times – and she had chalked up the unease she felt to vestiges of stern lectures in health class …

But she had had trouble sleeping, and her roommate for the summer intensive writing program had noticed, and had shyly given her a dreamcatcher left over from time as a camp counselor.

It was flimsy, and poorly made; the feathers obviously dyed. Sarah, feeling stupid, had hung the dreamcatcher above her bed, and had slept well, until –

– she whimpers as the memory blossoms like a flower, its petals black and heavy with poison.

"Ah …" Jareth murmurs. Her brings her hand to his mouth; kisses it. "It has not left you. How touching."

Touching.

Sarah squeezes her eyes shut, fighting back tears. That had been the dream. Touching. She had walked down a long hallway – the way to her boyfriend's dorm room, only the hall stretched out longer, and longer, and her legs were throbbing when she reached the door … but she had hesitated to open it, because she heard her own voice, saying absurd things like – "oh, yes – God, yes –" and "please don't stop – oh – don't stop –" and did she really sound like that?

Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt …

She had frowned, and had grabbed the doorknob, and then had felt a ripple of shock and – something – as she realized that she was on her boyfriend's bed, and they were making love (having sex) – and that she was moaning and twisting beneath him, and feeling a deep-seated throb of pleasure build within her – and it was somehow different to feel his hands on her body, and to feel him moving over her, above her and inside her – for one thing, the light was on, and he never liked the light on, and for another thing, he was biting her, and he never bit before, and for another thing, he was blond, and he was normally dark-haired –

I love you – your beautiful form arouses me …

– and she had gone rigid in shock, and had realized that it was Jareth's mouth on hers, Jareth's eyes an inch from her own – and she had felt him laugh in her face as his hands plunged into her hair and as he thrust into her hard and she had screamed –

– and she had woken up, screaming, and had hit the light before running to the bathroom to be sick.

And when she had returned, she had seen the dreamcatcher hanging pathetically over her bedstead, torn in half, the feathers strewn over her pillow.

And her roommate had eventually applied for a transfer –

And Sarah moans at the memory, and her eyes fly open as Jareth laughs in delight, and brings her other hand up to his mouth, caressing it, kissing each finger and flicking his tongue over her knuckles. She feels sick.

"Why? Why torture me this way?" Her voice sounds broken, in her own ears; she despises herself for it. "Why do you make it hurt so much?

Through her tears, Sarah sees Jareth fix his gaze on her, still holding her hands at his lips.

"Why not just use that power over wind, and snow, and ice, and whatever you have and make a tree fall on me and squish me, if you hate me so much? Why not just let me die?"

Silence stretches between them, broken only by her sobs.

Jareth slowly presses her hands between his gloves.

"My dear one …" he whispers. "To have you force me away – to have you walk into darkness without me – to have you escape from me – to have no power –" his voice catches, and then quickens – "to have you pass forever beyond my reach …" Jareth's eyes burn into hers.

"I could never allow that to happen."

Sarah tries to focus. He has said something important.

What is it?

"Why?" She can hardly hear her own voice. "Why, Jareth?"

He closes his eyes, touches his forehead against hers.

"Because I love you."

What is it? (Force. Violence – well, violence is not, perhaps, as accurate.) Might. Power.

… Power …

Sarah bites her lip and moves her head away from Jareth, looks down, past their intertwined hands –

– down, to her feet –

– her bare feet –

– bleeding –

Sarah's thoughts splinter. She stares at her feet. They are lacerated – she sees lines of white bone through the pooling blood – blood oozing everywhere –

She frantically looks over the field of flowers, and sees tracks of her own blood, black in the moonlight –

"Jareth," she whispers. "My feet …"

Jareth half-smiles. His eyes glitter. "What about them?"

"I can't feel my feet."

"Ah," Jareth looks down, and arches an eyebrow. "Does the sight trouble you?"

"They're bleeding – and I can't feel them –" She chokes back a sob.

"Shhhh …" He draws her close to him, gently kisses her cheek. "Stay with me, Sarah. Come with me – come this way …"

"What –" Sarah tries to speak; her throat feels tight, and she can hardly breathe as he leads her to the edge of the river, his fingers threaded through hers – and steps into the water, and draws her in after him.

"There – you see?" His voice is arch.

Sarah looks down, to where the current swirls and plucks at the hem of her gown of cloth of gold.

"No –" She whispers. "It's too dark."

The water flows pitch-black in the moonlight.

But Jareth's voice lilts in her ear. "Dance with me, Sarah … Stay with me here –" and he steps against her body and catches her waist in his hands, and turns with her, turns her around until she is dizzy, and each gasp for air stabs her ribs.

"Let me go, Jareth –" The water rushes around her knees.

He kisses her, his mouth hot in the cool night air. "No."

The water has come up to her waist.

"Please – please reorder time – take me back with you, and I'll tell myself – I'll change everything – I'll set you free –"

His kisses are as smooth as the running water; he whispers with its voice. "Yes – I will take you back with me –"

"No –" Sarah tries to pull away – the river tugs at the heavy cloth of gold. She sees loose golden ribbons whisk away in the dark. The water rushes around her breast, flowing over Jareth's gloved hands as he caresses her.

"Jareth …" she slurs. "Please – there must be something I can do – something I can do – for you to let me go …"

His cheekbone is sharp against her face as his breath burns her ear.

"Kiss me."

Sarah flails in the dark water – she wrenches her arms around his neck, and clings to him, and kisses him in desperation –

And shuts her eyes tightly as she feels him fall backwards, and feels the water close over her head with a splash.

No –

His mouth moves beneath hers, and the pleasure and horror that shudder through her at his touch are so hot that if she opens her eyes, she is sure that the water will be boiling …

– and she feels his body tense, and they are back above the surface – only this time the water has risen almost up to her neck, even though she is straddling him, her knees locked around his back, and she wrenches her mouth away from his and stares down at him, at his hair streaming out like silver snakes in the black river -

"Stay with me, Sarah." Jareth's eyes glow through the dark, like opals on velvet.

"No –" she chokes.

He takes her head in his hands.

"Stay with me here."

And he covers her mouth with his, and twists his body to plunge her beneath the water, and she is sinking beneath him, coiled around him and falling like a stone through the darkness …

She cannot breathe.

No. Her own cry comes from a distance. No. No!

Sarah felt rocks nudge her back. She tried to breathe, and couldn't – it was too cold, and Jareth's mouth was locked on hers.

Slowly, with a great effort, she moved one arm from where it floated in the stream at her side. Moved the arm, and her hand, and touched Jareth on his forehead.

Part of Sarah noted how white her fingers were – how her nails were blue in the flickering light from Jareth's crown. She tried to bend her fingers – and could not.

She pushed slightly, and Jareth drew his lips away, and looked down into her eyes as she inhaled, shuddering.

"I can't –" The words were slow; her tongue felt as thick and heavy as cement in her mouth. "I can't breathe …"

Jareth reached up and took her hand with one of his. She saw her own flesh glow stark white against his black glove; her necklace flashed gold where it twisted through his fingers.

He stared at her, his eyes flinty.

"Say my name, Sarah." His voice hissed with the cold wind, and echoed off the stones.

Sarah tried to speak. Her lips could not move. It was too cold to move.

"Sarah …" Jareth bent to her ear; she heard the uneven rasp of his breathing, and she felt his free hand rest at her waist, and then move to one of her knees, hooking under it and easing it to the side. "Say my name. Come with me – nothing will hurt again if you just come with me."

She closed her eyes. Opened them, slowly. Tried to speak.

"Erlkönig –" Sarah gasped.

"No –" Jareth shook his head; ice fell from his hair onto her face. She saw his teeth glint as he smiled, and kissed her frozen hand.

"Not that name – the other one. The last one."

Sarah did not say anything, as she watched him lower his mouth to hers and suck the gelid blood from her lips, and as she felt him sigh with pleasure.

"Listen carefully, my Sarah." He shifted his body – she felt dread settling on her, as heavy as his weight.

Jareth kissed her, and murmured, "Do you hear it?"

… jetzt faßt er mich an …

His eyes smiled down at her, lit with a terrible fire. She heard music from far away. Coming closer.

… now he takes hold of me …

Unable to bear the look in his eyes, Sarah turned her head away – slowly, feeling as though she were made of ice. She felt him kiss her cheek, her neck, her jaw –

She gazed into the darkness, her eyelids heavy. There, crumpled in her right hand, was the translation. And there –

Sarah blinked.

There, perched on her hand, was a small bird, with golden wings.

It tipped its head, and chirped at her.

And then she heard another melody, faint and forlorn, a song winding its way to her from a great distance.

Fremd bin ich eingezogen,

Fremd zieh' ich wieder aus.

If the quiet wisp of sound had a form, it would be a simple piece of yarn.

I came here a stranger,

As a stranger I depart.

The bird held a piece of bright yarn in its beak.

So when it fluttered its wings, it was easy enough for Sarah to close her eyes, to leave Jareth whispering in her ear, to unchain herself from her body and fly after the bird – following the thread of song through mists, through a forest, seeking a hall set round with stone …

Flying through time, to a place she had already been, to the sound of a song she had already heard.