Disclaimer: Lucasfilms, Henson Studios, etc, own The Labyrinth.
The sound of about one hundred twenty-five pounds of air being abruptly displaced – something like a pop coming from its bass register – announced Sarah's arrival in her bedroom. With much less melodrama than she'd employed in her earlier years, Sarah threw herself facedown onto the bed.
Jareth had dropped her into the study and suggested that she do just that before teleporting right back out. And for a good hour, she'd applied herself. It pleased her that it was easier to study here in the Underground than it was Above, where all she did was think of the Underground. But something was missing when Jareth wasn't there to jolly her along, or badger her along, or irritate her out of studying altogether.
And with that disturbing thought – that Jareth was crucial to any part of her life – she popped up off the bed in search of something distracting to do. Perhaps she could explore the rest of the castle, or goof around in the Escher room some more. She turned right as she left her chambers, aiming for the main staircase that lay beyond a handful of alternating turns.
It had been a good week since the castle had shifted around without Sarah's say so. Either Sarah had gotten more authoritative, or the sudden focus of her magic made the castle nervous; either way, its corridors more or less behaved themselves. Mischievous defiance only showed in the switching of a gray flagstone for a plank or two of rotting basement wood, but the halls never made wholesale changes anymore.
Imagine her surprise, then, when she found herself stopping suddenly at a short, thick, lichen-covered wooden door. A well-worn path in the moss on the stone floor and a telltale fermenting-bread odor indicated that Sarah was standing outside the wine cellar. Rather, the sign hanging wearily from one nail indicated that it was a wine cellar; the smell implied a much larger selection. The strength of the scent suggested that that selection had been opened and spilled more than once, too.
With an irritated huff, Sarah considered having another argument with the castle. Two weeks ago, the concept of doing so would've given her a monstrous headache – and not the Power Headache that came with crystals and blue fire – but now, it was conducting the argument that would cause the headache.
It was something of a psychic thing, Sarah supposed. The castle, like the Labyrinth, didn't really have a voice, but it managed to speak to her nonetheless; in turn, Sarah didn't know if the structures could read her mind, but she ended up speaking aloud to them anyway. This frequently left her in the position of literally talking to walls. It certainly didn't help that the Labyrinth's mental voice 'sounded' like it belonged to a smartly smug teenager. The castle's shy prepubescent stutter was pleasant in comparison.
Regardless, she thought, huffing again, They're both impossible! I'm not in the mood today. Her face set in lines of resignation, Sarah put one hand out toward the moldering door, and it swung obediently open for her. It didn't even creak or groan. Instead, a wave of cool air smelling heavily of fermentation washed over her and immediately retreated, leaving just a tendril to curl against her face. The castle obviously thought she should be here, and like an overworked, weary mother coming home to nagging children at the end of a hard day, she relented without a peep.
The lanky blond boy, all bones and burgeoning muscle, didn't even flinch when Jareth appeared silently from nowhere. He'd come nose-to-jerkin with Jareth more often in the last four hundred years than he could count. Dewander – that was his name, given to him by his adopted mother – merely tilted his head back, nodded once, and asked, "Shall I announce you to my Lord and Lady?"
Before he could answer, a gentle, middle-range woman's voice said from somewhere above, "Has Jareth finally come? You'd think that without a kingdom to run, he'd have found time to visit his dear parents some time ago!" If the words couldn't prove the woman's identity to a random bystander, then the drawling, dry nature of the voice certainly would. It seemed – and became abundantly apparent if the two of them were in the same room for more than five seconds – that Jareth had learned his manner of speaking at his mother's knee.
"No need, Dewander," he answered with a smirk. "My thanks."
"Anytime, Your Ma- Lordship."
"Admirable recovery." The smile he offered was the kind of smile given to a ten-year-old boy by his idolized college-bound older brother.
"It's the only slip I've made in three hundred years; it'll be the last." Dewander's quick brown eyes narrowed in determination, showing some of the years that lay behind them.
"Good man," Jareth answered, reaching down and ruffling the boy's riot of blond curls. He craned his neck back, gazing up past three stories' worth of reddish stone. There, standing on the balcony that overlooked the courtyard of slightly less reddish flagstones, was Jareth's mother. "Mother, may I?" he called up, grinning at a joke that he was certain only he would understand.
Lady Ahra, who had stood quietly above the exchange, barely lifted an eyebrow that was so blond that it was nearly invisible. Only a lifelong study allowed Jareth to see that her expression had changed at all. "Oh?" she asked. "Are you sure you're done, then? Don't let me rush you, dear. I'm certain Dewander could manufacture some other diversion in order to shirk his duty."
Jareth's eyebrow went up, too. "His duty is to block the door to the castle keep?"
"Oh, yes." Jareth's trained eyes caught the slight smile on Lady Ahra's pale lips. "His latest adventure prompted me to order him to stand silent and still for a full ten minutes." Her smile widened minutely. "He shall have to start all over."
Dewander's betrayed wail of, "Aw, Mum!" sent echoes bouncing gaily around the courtyard. A baritone rumble of laughter came from the open doors behind Lady Ahra, indicating that the lord of the keep was also in residence.
"Shall we make it twenty?" the Lady inquired coolly, resting the fingertips of one long-boned hand on the stone rail of the balcony. That stone, too, was reddish, but at least it was a polished reddish marble rather than the rougher-hewn blocks that made up the castle itself.
In response, Dewander gasped, "No, ma'am!" and swung back around, facing stoically away from the keep. A slight pout marred the expression of grim determination on his round face.
Jareth smirked back up at his mother and repeated, "May I?"
A gentle nod sent Jareth teleporting up onto the balcony. Lady Ahra held out her hands – long, spidery, white things that betrayed her great age – and answered, "At least you asked this time."
"After last time?" Jareth laughed, kissing the knuckles of both his mother's hands before drawing her into a gentle hug. "How could I dare?"
The Lady, a bit short by Fae standards, rested her cheek on her son's chest. For all that she was a cool, self-contained woman – every bit the noble that she'd been raised to be – Ahra would indulge herself with her family. The hug went on a little longer than her son would've liked, but since that is the way with all sons of loving mothers, it mattered little. Jareth waited as long as he could and then patted her shoulder when he wanted to be released.
"No one could accuse you of having a faulty memory," she drawled, stepping back and folding her hands. "That was when you brought my other little troublemaker to me." A quick downward nod indicated the silent Dewander.
The man's voice, which had laughed earlier, said from behind them both, "And what she's carefully not saying is that that was the last time you visited, too."
Jareth turned and greeted his father warmly, "Hullo, My Lord Father, O Lord Brannich, Master of the Fens and Fortunate Consort of the Infamous Eternal Beauty, Lady Ahra!" He swept a grand bow, flinging out both arms like spread wings, and grinned up at his father.
The older man stalked forward and reached his son in three strides. They clasped forearms in the manly, friendly way of Fae who trust each other; then they shared a brief, fierce hug and separated. Brannich was beginning to look as spindly as his wife, but it was clear that he had carried some weight before his age had begun showing; he looked only like a tall human with fine, short-cropped silver hair; a white beard; and a prominent, wafer-thin nose. Jareth had spent many a year regretting that the only things his father had contributed to his appearance were the nose and the hair; there were a few youthful scuffles that could have turned out better if Jareth had also had his father's former bulk.
"So what brings you home, my boy?" Brannich asked, resting a still-heavy hand on Jareth's shoulder. Jareth's own tendency to invade other people's personal space had also come from his father, a trait that he'd turned much more easily to his advantage – especially when dealing with the fairer sex.
"What else?" he sighed, arching an eyebrow and looking very much like his mother while doing so. "A woman."