A/N – Why does writer's block only strike one story?
Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. I'm just playing with it.
Chapter 21
Left with no real choice, Sarah took Bran home with her.
She felt ridiculously self-conscious, walking beside him. The streets of New York were loud, bustling and energetic, and even among the varied, often exotic populace, Bran stood out – it wasn't just his long robes, or his long, braided black hair, or the raven markings tattooed around his eyes and temples; he was alien. Other.
"So," she said, slanting him a sidelong look, "is this your first visit Aboveground?"
He paced beside her, hands in his pockets. She noticed that his eyes were always moving, his awareness spread over the whole, shifting street scene. "No. In my youth, I spent some time in Eire. However," he added with some irony, "that was a long time ago."
"Has…Jareth ever spent time Above?"
"Yes, in his wild youth –" he stopped. Across the street, she could see a woman, half-glimpsed, strangely obscured. With a start, she remembered all the times she'd seen strange, feral eyes in the rushing crowd, alien features quickly hidden when she looked again.
The woman was staring, frozen, at Bran, her eyes wide and fixed. A pale, slender man hurried up to the woman, his body language screaming out his protectiveness. He glared defiantly at Bran, but Sarah could see the fear behind the bravado.
"Why are they afraid of you?" she asked, puzzled.
"They are political refugees," he said. "They fear being dragged back into the mire. My presence here…" he shrugged. "They fear the Goblin King's influence."
Jareth's influence, and by extension his own.
"Don't you get tired of all those people looking at you with fear in their eyes?"
"No," he answered frankly. "I am Jareth's right hand, his enforcer – he gives an order, and I ensure that it is carried out. Sometimes it is necessary to inspire fear."
Sarah looked over at the defiant couple again. "I thought Winter was the enemy."
"I thought Winter was the enemy."
Bran stared at the woman who had once been the First Councillor of Ymesse. She had tried to assert Ymesse's traditional neutrality, hoping to avoid annexation by the two major power blocs, but had not been willing to fall in with the Non-Aligned.
Jareth had broken her, and rendered Ymesse's fertile fields and rich pasturelands utterly useless to any would-be conquerors.
Much, much later Bran stood over a half-filled soup bowl in Sarah's small kitchen, staring hazily down at the clear water. At present, it reflected only the metal walls surrounding it – waving his hand over it, he concentrated briefly, and the water shimmered and began to darken, the clear reflection hazing, dissolving and reforming into something quite different.
Stone walls formed, coalescing into the throne room of the Castle Beyond the Goblin City, sunlight flooding through the great arched windows. A vague impression of movement, of furious energy, and as he focused, he saw the Goblin King sprawled on his throne, tapping his riding crop against his thigh –
Past, present, or future? Scrying was never the most reliable method of divination, revealing as it did only glimpses of a much larger pattern. And Bran had never had much time for magic, making his living as he did with his sword.
"What's that?" Sarah asked sleepily, wandering out of her room in her scandalous nightclothes. Looking at her now, soft and vulnerable, he could see her beauty.
"A mirror," he answered, turning his attention back to the vision. But the castle walls had vanished, and all that remained were vague, indistinct shadows. "Normally it is done with a silver bowl, but –" he shook his head, "you have none."
"You're scrying?" She walked up beside him and peered down into the clear, empty water. "How? What do you see?"
"Nothing. Shadows, and mist – come." He moved over, allowed her to stand over the bowl and peer into the water. "Look. Let your eyes unfocus, and empty your mind of preconceptions; see."
She bent over the bowl, her eyes unfocusing, and he could feel the power gathering around her. Really, he should not be surprised at anything she could do anymore – she had found her way through the Labyrinth, she had gained the attention of Jareth, of Aethan, of Vane, of the rulers and policy makers of the Underground, and she had ripped apart the fabric of a thousand year truce. He would not put anything past her.
Even he could scry.
"What do you see?" he asked softly, not wishing to jolt her out of her trance.
Dante Andenais, the High King whom she had seen, briefly, at the Council of Lords, paced restlessly about a tent, while the black and silver wolf – Vane – watched in secret amusement. The High King was dressed for war, in bright, glittering chain mail, two ornate, filigreed brooches clasping his thick, scarlet cloak.
Crouched by Vane's side, dressed in miniature black and silver, was –
"Toby!" she shouted, jerking upright, ruining the reflection and thus inadvertently banishing the vision. "I saw Toby, Bran. He's with Vane, and with the High King."
"Yes," he admitted ruefully, "I rather thought that would happen. Vane has sold him to the highest bidder."
"You thought this would happen," she repeated fiercely. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He eyed her with acute dislike. "We did. Many times. You would not listen."
"Oh, don't start –" she began, her voice rising in frustration.
He cut her off. "How the hell did you ever get through the Labyrinth, Sarah Williams? You're rash, headstrong, convinced of your own –"
"I was upset and off-balance!" she shouted. "And you and Jareth made damned sure I stayed that way, didn't you?" Her eyes snapped with rage, and a miniature wind rose around her. "You deliberately kept me in the dark, fed me little tidbits when it suited you – and now you wonder why I didn't cooperate!"
His eyes, normally dark pewter, were now bright, almost glowing silver; his face was white and taut and his gloved hands clenched into tight, trembling fists.
"Oh, don't loom over me," she snapped. "I'm not afraid of you."
She waited for the obvious rejoinder, especially in light of the conversation they'd had earlier in the day. But he only breathed in deeply, a clear attempt to compose himself, and said, "Recriminations are useless, at this stage."
Apparently, it was the only apology she was going to receive.
"Look into the mirror again. What else do you see?"
Giving him a long, fulminating Look, she bent down to the bowl once again.
A huge, perfectly flat lake reflected the blue sky and the distant mountains like a great sheet of glass. Slowly, tremours began, ripples, destroying the perfection of the image –on the horizon, a vague, indistinct shadow grew closer and closer…
The scene shifted, and the huge, red-bearded King of Summer stood before a great white throne, a man she recognized as a much, much younger Dante almost at bay before him. By Cormack's side, as always, was Aethan, and across from him were Black Donn, the Winter King, and Vane, the four of them united in one purpose…
The scene shifted once again, and Aethan – as he had been, the last time she saw him - paced, frowning, stopping every so often to stare out the window into the distance. Behind him, Huw watched, his eyes narrowed, one hand playing with the jeweled dagger at his belt…
"Look again," Bran ordered her curtly. "It doesn't take much to see thatone as a traitor."
"But…"
"He was so nice?" Bran snorted. "So gratefully loyal? Perhaps he might have been, once. But he has his own vision of what should be – and you can be sure it doesn't match with Aethan's."
Sarah frowned, but looked into the water again.
And saw straight into the past.
"Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered…"
She saw a long, straggling, line of horsemen, many of them slumped and drooping in their saddles, their faces white and sweat-slick, blood trickling from their noses and sometimes their eyes. At their head was a much younger Jareth, minus his eye-markings, swaying in the saddle, but his face set and determined.
"I have fought my way through to the Castle…"
The horsemen, swords out and swinging, were fighting desperately against…goblins, they were, but much larger and much fiercer, their faces twisted with rage and hatred as they hacked and cut and twisted. In the distance was a high hill, adorned with the half-finished foundation of what would once be the Castle Beyond the Goblin City.
"For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great…"
Jareth knelt on the ground, doubled over in agony, his face twisted as the earth writhed and heaved all around him. She could feel the raw power in the air, taste the fundamental changes that were in progress as sudden colour broke out and flowed across Jareth's face, marking him, branding him forever.
And then –
A young girl stood before a fairy-tale king in the final confrontation, the great climax of her adventure.
"Only fear me, love me, let me rule you and I will be your slave," the King offered, everything a romantic heroine could want contained in a crystal lying on his outstretched hand. All she had to do was reach out, take it, and the fantasy could be hers.
But the young girl was brave, and strong, and she finally knew what was real, finally understood that nothing but her brother mattered. She gathered up her courage and recited the magic words she'd learned with such difficulty, knowing in her heart that such a chance would never come again –
"You have no power over me!"
No power over me…
No power over me…
The words echoed, mixing with the sonorous sounding of thirteen o'clock and the soundless, but powerful pressure of the King's last scream as he vanished into nothingness.
But this time, the vision continued, and she saw what happened to the King afterwards, as he knelt, shattered, amongst the ruins of his castle. She saw his chief adviser, his right hand, come to help him up, saw long, painful struggle to rebuild the castle, to restore the confidence of his people and shore up the damage to his reputation.
She saw the consequences of the young girl's determination and the solemnly recited words.
She broke out of the vision, gasping, her suddenly useless hands barely strong enough to support her weight on the bench top.
"You knew," she ground out, not turning to look at Bran. "You knew!"
"That Toby was not the only Catalyst? Yes. The peculiar nature of Jareth's arrangement with the Labyrinth was founded on sacrifice, strength of will, and a harsh, determined struggle – unfortunately, it seems you equalled Jareth's experience, in the magic's eyes."
"And you said nothing?"
Bran only sighed. He did not bother to refute the accusation.
Whirling, she ran blindly out of the kitchen, needing only to get out, get away – she fumbled wildly at her front door, her hands shaking, and when it finally opened she forged outside, slamming the door behind her.
"Excuse me," a soft, sweet voice said, interrupting her bitter self-reproach. "Didn't I see you earlier today?"
Sarah looked up from the park bench. It was the woman who had stared so fearfully at Bran in the street.
"Yes," she answered warily. "Yes, but I'm surprised you noticed me – you were too busy staring at B–"
"Don't say it," the woman said quickly, one hand flying up to cover Sarah's mouth. "You must know that it will draw his attention…"
Sarah frowned. Surely that only worked with true names, and she was damned sure that Bran was not his. Nevertheless, it seemed as though the woman had something she wanted to say, so Sarah nodded reassuringly. The woman breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew her hand.
She sat down, and leaned close in as if she had some great secret to confide. "You were with…him. I must tell you, dear, that he is an agent of the Goblin King." Her voice hushed when she spoke the words Goblin King.
"Yes," Sarah said dryly, "I'm well aware of that."
"Are you not afraid? Don't you know what he is, what he's done? He is a butcher, a merciless killer, and his master a heartless intriguer. The Master of the Labyrinth will stop at nothing to achieve his desires…"
Sarah was well aware of that, she didn't need this woman to tell her so. Instead, for some strange reason, she resented this woman's interference into her affairs…
"He gathered all the murderers, thieves and traitors of the Underground, and forged them into a terrifying army, fiendishly loyal, which he used to seize his kingdom by force from the original inhabitants." The woman's voice dropped even further, and she shifted so close that Sarah sidled reflexively away.
"He is terrible," she hissed, her eyes fixed and uncomfortably intent. Unsettled, Sarah moved further away, but the woman's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "Do not become involved with him, my dear. He will use you and discard you when he is done, and if you will not be used, then he will destroy you. Do you hear me, girl? He is the Lord of Lies, the Prince of Deception –"
"Yes, yes, thank you for the advice," Sarah said quickly, trying to free her wrist. "I'll be very careful, I assure you…"
"No!" the woman shrieked. "No! He has deceived you! He has tainted you –"
Sarah tried to pry the steel fingers away, without much success. The woman was as strong as an ox. She was indignant now – this crazy woman with her pack of half-truths, misinterpretations and insinuations had seriously pissed her off. It was one thing for her to abuse Jareth, but quite another thing for a virtual stranger to do so. She knew nothing of Sarah's strange relationship with Jareth, or of the complex truth of Jareth's character…
"Listen, you crazy bitch," she snarled, balling up her fist, "let go of me! I didn't ask you to interfere in my business –"
But the woman reached into her dress and withdrew a silver knife. Shocked, Sarah stood up, lashing out suddenly, trying to throw her off balance, but the woman dodged, and pulled her back with all the strength of the deranged. She screamed and threw herself at Sarah, the wicked blade raised to stab her –
"Help!" Sarah shouted, scrambling away, backpedalling. "Somebody – she's trying to kill me! Jareth!" she shrieked, barely dodging a wild stroke, "Jareth! Bran!"
She tripped on an exposed root and felt herself going down, the woman cackling and following her down, the blade coming down inexorably, and she knew that this was it. This time, she was dead.
One strong, capable hand wrapped itself about the madwoman's wrist, easily stopping the blade's descent, and then twisting – the woman's hand flew open, and the knife fell limply to the ground. Another hand tangled in the woman's hair, jerking her head up, and the first gripped her chin, and there was a sickening crack –
Sarah gasped, and then scrambled quickly out of the way, drawing her legs up as the madwoman slumped to the ground, her head twisted round at a very awkward angle. She stared at her, shocked, and then raised her eyes to see Bran watching her, his eyes perfectly flat.
"Did…" she swallowed, trying to breathe slowly to calm her heart rate down, "did you hear your name on the wind?"
"No," he said dryly, "I followed you."
A/N – You know, this would have been the perfect place to give my wildcard Winged Lady a proper send-off. Sarah and Bran see her on the street, she goes up to them and demands Sarah fulfill her debt, Bran refuses, and later on, in a crazed rage, she attacks Sarah and Bran kills her. Oh well. I rather liked her death in ch 14 so I can't complain. The unfortunate First Councillor of Ymesse will serve well enough to teach Sarah a lesson.
Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. Don't feel shy, lurkers.