AN: Oh man, what have I done? I've gone and started another story is what I've done. Good grief. I just couldn't leave "Survive" the way it was. And then this idea hit me and I had to go with it.
Disclaimers: I don't own own anyone in the Labyrinth realm. Jim Henson, Productions does. Lucky people...
Seeking Help...
She held the faded cranberry book to her chest and took one last quick glance at the other book in her lap. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to block out the sound of crying that filtered up the stairs into the attic. Again she was crying and this was the only think she could think of. Only he could help her heal. Only he could make her happy again.
She clutched the book so tightly in her hands that her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath, eyes still closed, her long dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She tried with every fiber of her being to believe. To believe that everything that she had read was real. That he was real. She took another deep breath and opened her mouth to speak.
"I don't know if you can hear me. I don't even know if you are real. But I wish that the Goblin King would come to me.....right now! Please?" she added for good measure.
Jareth heard someone summoning him. Occasionally someone would summon him. Some poor soul wishing for their brother or sister back. Wanting to challenge his Labyrinth again so that they could regain what they had lost. It struck him as amusing that only the ones who lost ever called for him. But then again only one had ever defeated him and she had never called again.
The voice seemed to echo on the wind. The wind that brushed against his face, blowing his silky blond hair back from his face. He listened to the voice and realized it was a voice he did not recognize, yet there was something very familiar about it. He closed his eyes, listening to the voice over and over again, trying to figure out why it should be familiar. It was nagging him. He couldn't figure the voice out and that was disturbing to him. In seconds he was no longer a shadow against a full moon, he was an owl as white as snow.
She let the book fall from her grasp and she was ready to begin crying herself. She could still hear the sobs coming from downstairs. She had failed. It was the only thing she could do to help her and she had failed. Tears filled her green eyes as she rose from sitting indian style on the old creaky floors of the attic. She had failed. Angrily she tossed the cranberry book across the attic where it hit the low, sloping ceiling with a thud. She was getting ready to throw the other book too when a wind swept through the attic. She could hear the rustling of what sounded like clothing behind her and she turned very slowly.
She gasped, dropping the book on the floor at her feet. He stood tall and menacing with a look of royalty and arrogance to him. He was beautiful with his pale, glittery skin that looked as smooth as fine porcelain, his wild, blond hair that cascaded down his shoulders in varying lengths. He was dressed in black. A black open fronted silk shirt with a ruffly collar and some strange metal object dangled over the pale flesh of his chest. A high leather collar around his neck with a cape that tapered from it. The cape was black on the outside, with different lengths of fabric and the inside was a shimmering dark turquoise. He wore tight black pants that were tucked into shiny knee high black boots. His hands were encased in black leather. His brows tilted up at the ends with pale pink makeup between the ends of the brows and the triangles of black that extended up from the corner of each eye. And his eyes...one was a crystal blue and the other was hazel. They widened as he gazed down at her. The descriptions in the cranberry book failed miserably when it came to describing him. Only the faded blue book with bent corners from being shoved too quickly into dresser drawings came close the describing the man who stood before her.
His eyes widened as he took in her appearance and his breath caught in his throat. Standing before him, but so much younger, was nearly an exact copy of the girl who had once defeated him. The girl who had stolen his heart and left him to spend the past twenty years alone in grief, striving to survive. But this was not her. There were subtle differences is his memory served him well, but there was no mistaking that this girl looked almost exactly like Sarah....
Disclaimers: I don't own own anyone in the Labyrinth realm. Jim Henson, Productions does. Lucky people...
Seeking Help...
She held the faded cranberry book to her chest and took one last quick glance at the other book in her lap. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to block out the sound of crying that filtered up the stairs into the attic. Again she was crying and this was the only think she could think of. Only he could help her heal. Only he could make her happy again.
She clutched the book so tightly in her hands that her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath, eyes still closed, her long dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She tried with every fiber of her being to believe. To believe that everything that she had read was real. That he was real. She took another deep breath and opened her mouth to speak.
"I don't know if you can hear me. I don't even know if you are real. But I wish that the Goblin King would come to me.....right now! Please?" she added for good measure.
Jareth heard someone summoning him. Occasionally someone would summon him. Some poor soul wishing for their brother or sister back. Wanting to challenge his Labyrinth again so that they could regain what they had lost. It struck him as amusing that only the ones who lost ever called for him. But then again only one had ever defeated him and she had never called again.
The voice seemed to echo on the wind. The wind that brushed against his face, blowing his silky blond hair back from his face. He listened to the voice and realized it was a voice he did not recognize, yet there was something very familiar about it. He closed his eyes, listening to the voice over and over again, trying to figure out why it should be familiar. It was nagging him. He couldn't figure the voice out and that was disturbing to him. In seconds he was no longer a shadow against a full moon, he was an owl as white as snow.
She let the book fall from her grasp and she was ready to begin crying herself. She could still hear the sobs coming from downstairs. She had failed. It was the only thing she could do to help her and she had failed. Tears filled her green eyes as she rose from sitting indian style on the old creaky floors of the attic. She had failed. Angrily she tossed the cranberry book across the attic where it hit the low, sloping ceiling with a thud. She was getting ready to throw the other book too when a wind swept through the attic. She could hear the rustling of what sounded like clothing behind her and she turned very slowly.
She gasped, dropping the book on the floor at her feet. He stood tall and menacing with a look of royalty and arrogance to him. He was beautiful with his pale, glittery skin that looked as smooth as fine porcelain, his wild, blond hair that cascaded down his shoulders in varying lengths. He was dressed in black. A black open fronted silk shirt with a ruffly collar and some strange metal object dangled over the pale flesh of his chest. A high leather collar around his neck with a cape that tapered from it. The cape was black on the outside, with different lengths of fabric and the inside was a shimmering dark turquoise. He wore tight black pants that were tucked into shiny knee high black boots. His hands were encased in black leather. His brows tilted up at the ends with pale pink makeup between the ends of the brows and the triangles of black that extended up from the corner of each eye. And his eyes...one was a crystal blue and the other was hazel. They widened as he gazed down at her. The descriptions in the cranberry book failed miserably when it came to describing him. Only the faded blue book with bent corners from being shoved too quickly into dresser drawings came close the describing the man who stood before her.
His eyes widened as he took in her appearance and his breath caught in his throat. Standing before him, but so much younger, was nearly an exact copy of the girl who had once defeated him. The girl who had stolen his heart and left him to spend the past twenty years alone in grief, striving to survive. But this was not her. There were subtle differences is his memory served him well, but there was no mistaking that this girl looked almost exactly like Sarah....