DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Forgotten ballrooms
Hardships unnumbered
Rivers of sanguine wine

The Goblin king was furious.

A day and a half with nothing save his thoughts for company had proved to be as much a mistake as his attending the Gala. One horrific scene after the next taunted him with such vividity that he nearly drove himself mad with the looming possibilities of her whereabouts. Over and over, the cruelest sibilation found its voice, reciting an insidious mantra with sulfurous delight.

Your Riddle is dead.

Snarling through the wave of servants materializing before him as if summoned by an unheard bell, the King batted them away. Fleeing to the nearest stairwell, his voice trumpeted against the tapering sett. "Find me Emere."

Those gathered knew better than to make chase, each recognizing the infamous fury sewn into his very essence. The obsequious lot flew through the palace, borne upon a tide of self-preservation and panic.

Prowling along corridors that emptied before him, the King removed the vestiture of his station. Bounding forward, his cravat and coat fluttered morosely to the floor below. A pulsing vein at his temple warned of the obdurate migraine skirting the framework of his skull, as both cuff links rang against the stones. Desperate for solitude, he pushed further into the castle, wanting nothing more than reprieve from the merciless thrall of worry and doubt. Intentionally seeking lorn passages, he skirted a corner and closed his eyes, desperate to silence the demons of his unbridled malaise.

She bled as you drank.

Spinning, he roared, slamming his fist against the unyielding wall, a string of curses dripping from his lips. Leaning his forehead to the cold, coarse surface he breathed out slowly. You will find her dead in a forgotten snowbank. Blindly, his fist lashed at the stone again...and again. And again. Gasping, he fell to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest as the erratic thrumming of his heart drummed in his ear.

An invisible flame ignited against his tattered flesh. The carnage of his rage split the seam of his knuckle, splintering the bones—now exposed— into speared fragments. With detached bemusement he extended one digit at a time, studying his fingers with masochistic focus. His ministrations forced the sanguine wine to flow and pool.

He smiled.

Blood had been present throughout much of his life; the pulsing in his veins through battle, the cooling carcasses of fallen foes, the bloated wrecks of traitors hung high in gibbets. Yet now, in this moment, the only blood he thought of was hers. It was not the river flowing uninhibited along the carnage of her back as her head hung limp against her shoulder, the pool growing ever larger beneath her knees. Unpredictability, his mind sent forth the image of her kneeling on the starlit shore. His hand cradling her own, her smile glowing in awe at a mere parlor trick.

Your Riddle is dead.

Having supped his fill of the malicious whisperings of his guilt, the King sauntered to his feet, resuming his march. Idleness would only serve to deepen the well of his self-loathing. Guided by instinct and the intimate familiarity of his grand domain, he moved unbothered by the pitch. His cheeks flushed red in spite of the stagnating breath of ice trapped within the illusioned couloirs and forgotten stairways.

He could not be certain when he had conjured it— but the proof of his magic rolled oscitantly along his undamaged fingers. The visage of her wrinkled brow as she dared a question, filled the shimmering crystal with perfect, agonizing clarity.

Slipping silently from his hermitage into the modest anteroom, he stopped short, his usual grace forgotten. Sarah— his Sarah— stood, at her feet a basket laden with the dirtied linens of laundered rooms. She was on her toes, stretching as far as her arms would reach, to free a candelabra of dust and cobwebs. His mouth opened, and an instant later the woman turned, revealing mature features set against bourbon skin.

The orb shattered against his palm.

In the days since her disappearance she had been everywhere and nowhere. He found her eyes in the gaze of strangers, her scent on the midnight breeze as he paced in his restlessness. Her smile haunted him to distraction, as sphere after sphere held her likeness, until those too died in his grasp.

"Leave me!" He barked, setting the woman off kilter. She gasped, uttering a string of curses under her breath, before her eyes caught sight of the intruder. With a swift apology, and an odd sort of curtsy, she scurried away, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

A dozen or so crystals exploded against the nearest wall as he loosed his anger. His hand burned, crimson droplets littered the floor, but he paid them no mind. His restlessness was an insatiable demon demanding his attention, snarling in the shadows despite its continued feeding.

All he desired in this moment was a room. A space free from the prying eyes of curious servants, where the last remaining chain of his control could be unlocked. Behind those walls, his troubles could remain entirely his own; so too the destruction left in his wake.

Another flash of anger spiked, and he grabbed hold of it in a vice grip, his eyes darkened in welcome. Agitation as he had never known twisted through his body, every muscle straining beneath his skin. The tremolo of his hands was undeniable as he stalked through the nearest doors.

He was disappointed to find yet another servant.

His annoyance drew his eyes downward. Studying the handiwork of his unbridled temper, his frown deepened. He would need a healer— again. Had he not suffered them enough? Growling at his own foolishness, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to serve as a makeshift bandage. The linen bloomed instantly in crimson.

You let her die.

Bile rose in his throat unbidden. The King's rage crescendoed as he saw her— another mimetic Sarah. Looking skyward, he bellowed incoherently in an effort to expunge the writhing coil of anger twisting about his throat. Succumbing to self-indulgence would only fuel his imagination— conjuring an image that could never be. Supplanting one vice for another, he allowed his rage to return, keeping his gaze locked on the space just above her head. Breathless, he exhaled, "Leave me…" the words barely audible even to his own ears.

The woman did not move.

He stalked forward, looming behind the terrified servant with murderous calm. "Get. Out." Blood pounded at his temples and the sclera of his eyes clouded with thin red veins.

Again she defied him.

Blinded by the force of his agitation, he bent forward wrenching the girl unremittingly to her feet. Distracted by the chorus of demons who chanted mercilessly of his failures, he did not register the spindle daggers of her nails as she fought against him. That old familiar hate bubbled in his chest as he tightened his grip. His fingers flexed, dimpling the fabric beneath his ire.

"I wish you were here, now!"

Sound itself fled from his ears, replaced by a distant roar, a flood of memories engulfed his senses, drowning him in the past. Buried beneath the immense weight of the unexpected onslaught, the Goblin King staggered at the sheer force with which the wave broke.

"What have I done… Forgive me… Forgive me."

Heat consumed his mind, bleeding unerringly into his veins. Sarah? The very idea was an infection— unstoppable and all consuming. For a fleeting moment he wondered if the flames of Hell had finally reached him, incinerating from the inside out as the shell of his body remained wholly intact. Long buried thoughts and nightmares surfaced as every inch of his skin tingled with renewed fascination of those long-cherished memories. Look at me… his pulse beat unrelenting at his temple, Look at me!

"Sarah..." he did not feel the word leave his lips. In the deepest corner of his soul, something rushed forward, greeting him like an old, familiar friend. The sound of her name, whispered though it was, stole his breath. An unnamed beast that had been stirring since his first step on the lonely shore growled. The cumbrous chains keeping it at bay snapped with such violence he felt the reverberations against his spine. "Sarah?" He dared again.

The girl did not react.

Doubt punctured his lungs, stealing his pulse and the last surviving vein of hope. "Sarah…" His eyes were wild under a furrowed brow, his voice sharp like the mewling of a wounded beast. With all the grace of a spider drawing ever nearer the trembling fly, the King knelt breathless at her side.

Her eyes lifted and for a single moment of his pointless existence all the rage, darkness, and despair was replaced with hope. Sarah. His muscles twitched with the need to touch her— to prove her veridity— for surely this was a dream. A fantasy borne of guilt and raw saudade. The moment passed and his elation was overwhelmed by concern and confusion at the cracking of her voice.

"You..." she whispered, her eyes still locked on his towering form. "Y-you were dead... I kill-" Her voice shook as she choked on the confession. "I killed you."

He could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he fought against the urge to cry out in relief. "Emere would not give you the satisfaction." He moved a fraction closer, his voice lifting as his smile deepened. "While I applaud your efforts, you will simply have to try harder."

Her lips trembled before a stifled, melodic chuckle danced along the air. The sound broke free of its restraints, blossoming into the glorious laugh he had almost forgotten. His own palliative mirth joined the chorus. For a heartbeat, he could feel the October chill against his cheek, the smell of a stagnant lake, crystalline beneath the stars, mingling with the burning oil of a broken lantern.

The siren song of reminiscence obscured his eyes, and he failed to notice the moment her joviality cascaded violently from the cliffs of her relief. He smiled as she wept. Horror-struck by his own selfish yearning for the past, now marked by blood, a cloud of shame stole his breath. The King stretched his fingers, his arm hanging uselessly as he debated the consequences of his touch.

The choice was taken from him as Sarah dropped her head against his chest. Warmth spread from the point of contact like water in the desert, but still he did not touch her. Rooted as the forfending gargoyles perched high atop the castle, the King knelt motionless as her palm pressed flat against his sternum. Wrinkling his waistcoat with her fingertips as if to prove that this form was indeed corporeal.

"I've gone mad." She whispered, the barest smile evident in her awe-stricken voice.

"This," he responded in kind, "is not what madness looks like, I can assure you." Sighing, he dropped his face, resting his cheek atop the crown of her head. Relief washed over him, flooding his sinew with an inexplicable energy he could neither explain nor control. For a long moment, one that seemed far greater than the actual passage of time it encompassed, they were bound by this simple act of mutual touch.

Before long, her stillness trickled to a soft and erratic trembling, disrupting the once pleasant cadence of her breathing. He listened for the sound of her sobs, bracing for the lancing pain that would stop his heart. Only his Riddle did not weep. She laughed. A small, but very audible huff of amusement that remained trapped behind the hand at her mouth. Thrown violently from the pit of his dour thoughts, the Goblin King could only stare dumbfounded.

"Perhaps you are mad."

He was rewarded with a smile. Tenuous though it was, the sight as welcome as the thaw after a long and merciless winter. Shifting to once again meet his gaze, her expression filled with a curious, but familiar edge. With a gesture he remembered all too fondly, Sarah hesitated, her fingers resting at her lip.

Tentatively, she touched a lock of his hair, reeling as though she expected to be rebuffed. Her green eyes darted to his, round and terrified. The small v returned between her brows as she studied the golden strands. Swallowing back the varying apologies and numerous reassurances, the King closed his eyes, his expression a marriage of umbrage and solace. He did not see the moment her courage returned, but he felt the subtle tugging of his unkempt locks, and the brush of her fingernails along the beard he had yet to relinquish.

"Y—you're alive!" The glorious declaration was trailed by another breathy laugh. The quiet returned, settling softly, amicably between them as each savored the mere existence of the other. With a cruel and involuntary slowness, Sarah allowed her exploration to reach its summit, sliding her hand to settle along the sharp curve of his cheek.

The instant her flesh made contact with his own, his eyes flew open, locking with her watery, reverential smile. A gentle flame ignited the skin beneath her hand. Welcome warmth hummed along his jaw, down the straining column of his neck to settle invitingly against his chest. In all his years he had never known a single touch to be healing, and yet he found himself restored— invigorated— beneath her rough and calloused hand.

Then it soured.

The warmth became putrid, molten iron against his flesh, and his breath filled the bellows of an invisible furnace with a twisted and unnatural wind. His vision reduced to a pinprick as a lightning bolt of pain erupted against his bones, sudden and blinding.

Before his body could recoil, the door flew open with practiced carelessness, heralding the arrival of Mrs. Karim in a shroud of obsidian twill. "Have you—" The aged woman nearly tripped over her smartly-heeled shoes as she dropped into an awkward and hurried curtsy. "Your Grace," she said, nearly breathless, her eyes fixated on the newly separated pair. Much to her credit and position, the woman did not allow her expression to deviate from its routinely severe neutrality. "I do hope there hasn't been trouble… Your Grace?" Her eyes slid again to the girl on the floor, before a false, but pleasant smile tugged her lips.

"Indeed," he was on his feet now, allowing his presence to take full command of the room, the visceral pain shed like a second skin. Returning to himself— or rather the same Goblin king who had demanded answers on a frostbitten shore— he allowed a fraction of his anger to spill through the cracks of his control. "There has been an egregious error, and I am curious who is responsible?"

"An error, Your Grace?" The woman balked, horrified.

"This woman is a guest in my castle, and yet I find her here..." his voice remained light, but to those who knew him well, that tone was a threat.

"A-a guest?" The older woman whispered disbelievingly, her eyes darting every which way as she wildly searched her memory for an explanation.

Agitated, the King took a predatory step forward, "Am I to be parroted the entire evening?"

"Of course not. Forgive me, Your Majesty." She said, fully abashed. Reclaiming her self-assured stature, Mrs. Karim spoke with calm authority. "With all due respect, Your Grace, this woman was hired to assist whilst we are understaffed… and she has done just that. Without complaint, I might add."

"Hired?" A bitter taste rolled over his tongue, "Hired?" A troubled breath caught in his throat as he glanced back at Sarah, who now stood, head bowed behind him. Her eyes staring downcast, as though she were nothing to him but a scullery maid. "Am I to understand a woman was plucked senselessly from the streets—?"

"Certainly not, Your Grace!" The Housekeeper visibly blanched at the accusation, her nostrils flaring as she leashed her temper. "I would never be so careless! She was hired from the Layflower, with a glowing recommendation from Le Femme, herself. It was arranged through the proper channels, of that you can be certain, Your Grace."

His lips parted, but he did not speak. She fled to the Layflower? His mind cruelly shaped the image of Sarah drawing the licentious gaze of pungent, elephantine toffs as her pearl-white gown stained red with her blood. How had she moved about the room when a half empty water glass had nearly been her undoing? Had she been made to flirt? To play coy with the guests as her body feebly attempted to stitch itself together?

"Gadise sent her with you?" His voice was far too biting for such a simple question, but he offered no apology.

The woman opened her mouth as if to answer, but stopped, her head tilting thoughtfully to the side. "Well… no… Your Grace, she did not." Blinking repeatedly as her thoughts organized, she rubbed her lips together until she could be certain of her answer. "In fact, I did not make the arrangements at all, Your Grace. I was merely consulted for my thoughts regarding our need for outside help. The Layflower has always been the first consideration, I did not see cause for alarm." Her finger lifted to tap absently at her jaw, her eyes closing for a moment before she spoke. "I did however, order the hackney— on account that Master Havron forgot."

"Emere?!"

The woman nodded slowly, sensing the sudden tension crawling along his spine. Unconsciously, she took a step back, swallowing her next words with deliberate care.

"This was his doing? He sent for her?" A dark, humorless laugh rolled from his lips. "He knew…" Grinding his teeth, his eyes rolled upward to stare unseeing at the dark beams and unlit chandelier as he filled his lungs with a toxic and vengeful breath. The bastard lied! He lied! His skin turned to ice, growing colder as his anger surged. At his side, his hands coiled into tight fists. He let me believe she was… his breathing became a monster's hiss as another venomous laugh grated against his teeth. The rhythm of his magic shifted, the low thrumming redoubling to an obstreperous roar, burning a trail through his veins. His body was shaking; he could feel the ropes of his control unraveling thread by thread. Emere knew… he knew!

A deafening whimper gutted him.

His head snapped back. His breath, his heart, even time itself stopped, equally shaken by the small, horrified sound. In a blink, time recommenced with a backward surge, sweeping him into a vortex of memories and echoes he had no desire to revisit. Pivoting with nauseating speed, the vice on his heart cinched.

Sarah was trembling.

Hunched forward, her arms were locked in a death grip about her middle as she drew in slow, stuttered breaths. Her eyes were frantic, sweeping over the room as though some unseen viper lay waiting in the shadows with poison dripping from needle-edge fangs. For an instant, a fragmented heartbeat, her desultory gaze burrowed into him, pulling the small hairs to stand on end as his skin, sinew, and bone were buried beneath the weight of her dread. Then it was done. Her cheeks flamed, painting her narrow throat in a brilliant shade of summer rose as her eyes fell again to the floor.

The King stood transfixed.

The Housekeeper, who wore her acerbation with all the pride of a decorated soldier, stared with her usual frown at the drear creature quailing over one shattered crystal. The King, though often bilious, was never so thoughtless as to maim a servant— or guest.

Not one to brighten the flame of his anger, regardless of her own misgivings about the strange Pearl and her status within the palace, Mrs. Karim wisely held her tongue.

"See that a room is prepared..." his lips felt languid and his words slurred as the spell ended and he was returned to the forgotten ballroom, and his lost Riddle. The King realized, somnolently, that he had no idea how long he had been staring. The thought was discomforting. He cleared his throat, enticing his voice to reclaim its usual cadence. "In the South Wing." The clarification surprised even himself, for in the days of his searching, he had not thought to consider where she might reside once— if— she was found.

He wanted her near. Safe.

"Mrs. Karim?" He called, twisting sharply on his heel, worried she had taken her leave. Of course she had not. His shoulders slacked, and he released a short breath, taking a handful of measured steps nearer his waiting servant. Inclining his head to the woman, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Has she belongings… from the Layflower?" He hated how the question tasted on his tongue.

The woman blinked, "I cannot say, Your Grace."

"No matter…" He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, his face falling with presage. Though no longer trembling, Sarah stood with her eyes disturbingly fixated on the floor, her fingers twinning in agitation. She was afraid still. Her posture was so tense, so strained, he could feel his own muscles clench in response. He noted with horrified astonishment, the drowning fabric of her gown, and the sharp, protruding bones tugging beneath her skin. How very small she had become, when she had loomed so large in his mind.

A profound silence enveloped him, the sort he experienced in his dreams, when the dark, fathomless ocean swallowed him and he began to sink. Deaf, mute and helpless. He did not entertain his curiosity for her circumstance— he could not bear to. Instead he returned his focus to Mrs. Karim, who had yet to leave the ballroom. "I— we— will take my meal in my study this evening; the staff needn't wait on me."

"Shall I send for a healer, Your Grace?" She asked, her eyes drifting calmly to the stodgily tied bandage.

"Hm?... Oh!" He lifted his hand noting how truly saturated the cloth had become. "Oh... yes, thank you." He moved the offending limb behind his back, "I do not wish to be disturbed otherwise."

"Very good, Your Grace." Her features remained neutral, but he could feel her unspoken disapproval nonetheless. He applauded her taciturn odium—tiring though it was— as the last of her skirts vanished behind the heavy doors.

At last, they were alone.

They were alone just as before, and yet… the air was charged with a different, thicker emotion, as though the very walls sensed the gravity of such a moment. Had his castle known that he had dreamt of this? Could the stones feel the thunderous beating of his heart as he swayed on leaden feet? "We have much to discuss, you and I." He had not drawn closer, nor even looked in her direction before the words tumbled unconsciously from his lips.

Suffocating a groan rising at the back of his throat, he drew nearer. The echo of his first step rang like cannon fire. His second was surer. His third was the stride of a king, commanding and strong. He did not simply walk, he marched.

Until Sarah lifted her eyes.

He had known men— soldiers— returning from battle in a state of permanent shock; their minds forever reliving the sounds of slaughter and victory. Fusiliers, especially, had suffered. Deafened by the explosions, stunned to muteness by the sheer force of the blasts. Sarah's eyes wounded him thusly. When she turned on him, the suddenness— the power— of her stare had thrown him. Her mouth thinned, her healing lips pressed firm. Instead of widening with interest as they had so many times before, her eyes narrowed with caution. She said nothing, merely waited. Those were not the same eyes of the woman sobbing on the shoreline, shrinking from view.

This was someone else altogether.

A/N: I hope this was worth the wait! I am really excited about what comes next! Tell me what you think!