Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Jim Henson and their respected owners.
Traitor of Dreams.
Chapter 4.
Creep into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.
- Matthew Arnold
Eyes filled to the brim with saltine tears, which refused to fall from a beautiful, wan mask. The delicate façade remained stoic, remote. Dark tresses of ebony cascaded around the ivory face, giving an illustrious contrast to the shaded beauty. Pale lips stayed firm, emotionless.
She bowed her head in abject silence, quietly lingering upon what had transpired. He had frightened her. She reluctantly admitted the harsh fact, even when it cut her pride to do so.
Pride. She mentally balked at the word. It was a poor weakness, a poor weakness, which caused her enormous regret. Had she learned to display a little more humility, she wouldn't be here—trapped in these cumbersome circumstances.
This nightmare was beginning to feel less like a dream and more like reality. That, in its self, was more than she could bear.
It went beyond all reason that she could feel pain, taste the dusk upon her dry lips, even cry. Dreams did not obtain such qualities. No, they harboured nothing more than past recollections of the human mind—a memory—nothing more.
And yet, she felt that this was more than a mere delusion. The concept of the Labyrinth actually being real carried a dire certainty—her childish quest actually happened. And her foolish wish caused her brother to be abducted by a dangerous enemy.
The thought of causing her brother unnecessary pain, wrenched at her stomach. Guilt filled her soul like a spreading plague, the icy fingers of Death severing the delicate silver cord.
Never. She did not wish her brother away; it was only a dream, which her subconscious thoughts conjured up during the night. Her brother was safely tucked away in the wrinkled, soft-linen sheets of his cradle. And she had conveniently fallen asleep by her dresser.
She remembered the events clearly, small droplets of morning dew glazed her windows, the dawn's amber rays idly poked through dingy grey clouds, a light breeze disrupted the verdant leaves from the old oak outside. Yes, her morning was like every other morning—normal.
There was nothing that could contradict that she dreamt it. There were no goblins, no traces from the party after her victory, not even a fragment of crystal opposed her logical conclusion.
And for three years, she believed that conclusion. It was hard to believe it to be a dream at first, but after the wear of the passing years, her vivid memories of the mystical Labyrinth had begun to fade. She could barely remember her friends that helped her through the illusory fantasy.
Sarah stared at her surroundings with visible apprehension. The door was locked, she was certain of it. She glared at the barred stained glass window with growing anger. This was not a room for guests; it was a prison, a prison where she felt trapped, helpless. The Goblin King would have been more merciful if he had thrown her into an oubliette.
Grabbing handfuls of dark hair, she pulled them in front of her face. The subtle act was something she did when the sense of desolation pulled at her mind. Like biting nails, the disheveling of loose hair was more of a stress reliever. At least it calmed her frantic thoughts.
She had to escape this elaborate prison, but how? The door was locked, the window barred. Guards, albeit of the dim-witted caste were most likely patrolling the halls. And as always, the ever-watchful eye of the Goblin King would be on her. Her chances of a successful escape were slim.
It would be easier to find a way out of an oubliette, than abscond this complex edifice. Even if she were fortunate to reach the Goblin City, there was still the Labyrinth to conquer, and it was doubtful she would be lucky to find her way through its deceitful passageways this time.
And this time she would have to do it by herself. She had no one to aid her, no comforting words or advice, nothing. And for the first time since awakening to this cruel nightmare, Sarah realized she was alone in every possible way one could be. And the realization was painful.
Escape was out of the question. She would have to accept defeat, and allow her enemy to overpower her and the remaining hope she harboured. The Goblin King had the winning cards this time, gaining everything from a providential hand. The gamble was lost to her, and she, had to submit her winnings—her life.
It sucked to lose in a dream, or better yet, in a dream of your own making.
An unwilling smile materialized from the thought. It was strange to find her dark sense of humour at such a serious time. She had placed herself at the level of laughing at a funeral, not that she actually found joy in someone's death, but it was a fitting comparison, nonetheless.
Perhaps by accepting defeat, she would win and return home. Perhaps by losing, she would win the most important thing—her freedom from this nightmare. It could not hurt to cast her pride aside for once and see if the outcome would be different.
Biting her lower lip, Sarah conceded to her abrupt decision, and turned to the large, wooden bookcase. She eyed the dusty leather books in visible wonder. There was no doubt that these tomes were centuries old, the wear and appearance proved their authenticity. Rich, dark colours of burgundy, navy, and hunter green protected the fragile pages; gold lining displayed the titles.
At least there was one small comfort with being a prisoner; she had the opportunity to read. The fragile volumes may even hold valuable information about the Labyrinth and its inhabitants, or rather, a means of escape.
A new spark of ambition filled her, and convinced her to not give in just yet. There was still a slim chance of defeating the Goblin King once again, and this time there would be no rematch. After this game, she would set aside this phantasmagoric delusion, and move on with her life.
Grabbing the thickest volume from the shelf, Sarah turned to the vacant bed and sat on its velvety exterior. It was always comforting to relax on soft sheets and read. To Sarah, it was the closest thing to euphoric bliss.
Her glazed eyes were filled with ardent hope that an answer laid within this book. She idly traced the gold letters, letters that were alien to her. With a moment's hesitation, she opened the navy tome, and began to read.
Letters, which were somewhat akin to the Elvish script one would find in Tolkein, filled every page. Her eyes squinted to read the small, delicate text. It was like comparing a set of arcane runes to the modern alphabet—damn well annoying and time consuming.
Her attempt to decipher the obscure text was in vain. She could find no comparison, no likeness between English and this foray of scribbled words. A deep sigh of despair filled the room as she closed the book and threw it near the edge of the bed.
She shut her tired eyes, and rubbed her aching temples in a circular motion. Her futile effort wasted an hour's worth of her time, getting her no closer to freedom. She clenched her teeth in livid anger. The ass was probably watching her right now, laughing at her failure. He probably even placed that bookcase there to tempt her.
Damn him.
Damn the Labyrinth and all of its disgusting inhabitants to the dingy, utilitarian bowels of the Underworld. Their souls would find no peace of mind within the stygian depths of a pitiless hell. It would be a fitting punishment for them.
"And dare I dream a dream of all dreams," she muttered to herself. "Where I, would be a prisoner of mine own making."
Sarah closed her eyes in silent defeat. Turning her attention away from the bookcase, she retreated to the soothing embrace of velvet. She inhaled the faint scent of roses within the soft fabric; smiling from the small comfort it gave her. At least her prison had a few conveniences.
Her mind drifted in a sea of succor, as her awareness dimmed, leaving her oblivious to the world around her. Darkness clouded her vision, and an array of pleasant thoughts soothed her mind. Visions of achieving fame brought a smile to her ashen lips. The silence droned within her psyche, leaving her in a state of idyllic tranquility.
With her state of mind sated, Sarah fell into a peaceful slumber, the cares and worries about her situation were utterly…forgotten.
****
"…It was the Greeks love of war that turned love in to a boy, and woman into a statue of stone, and away fled every joy," a voice muttered to the silence.
Mismatched eyes stared at the prone form in the crystal bauble with deep intent. Dark strands of hair cascaded against the taupe satin sheets, contrasting the delicate fabric. Ivory skin was intertwined with the sheets, the soft ruffle seen but not heard through the crystal.
He turned his inequitable gaze away from the crystal, unable to control the unknown fury welling inside of him. It was not just anger he felt, but more of an unnamable feeling, emotion.
It certainly wasn't adoration.
Jareth rolled his eyes at such a concept. Gods, it was bad enough to even watch the wench, let alone believe in something that wasn't there. Sarah was not kind, nor was she noble.
She was just…Sarah—a little witch who took everything for granted. Oh, he watched his adversary from time to time, seeing if her life was as miserable as his. Did she regret her actions? Did she feel any remorse for anything? No, she merely believed her childish actions were figments of her imagination.
Imagination.
He snorted at her foolish confidence. It would be a pleasure to shatter her last strand of faith. She believed in thought and in reason. People in the human realm were truly mindless moralists that assumed they understood everything—even things they could not explain.
The Dark Ages were certainly good times, he silently mused. People in that era believed in things they could not see or explain, having a deep conviction—and respect—for the unknown. But that was long ago, and blissfully before the Age of Reason.
Age of Reason. Ha! What did that period prove other than an uprising of revolutions and growing infatuation of cutting upon rotting corpses? Versalius was revered to be the Father of Modern Medicine, when he was nothing more than a grave robber. People reveled in having godlike power, destroying others with radiation and bio-chemical diseases. Sarah's world would soon be a wasteland—much like his.
It seemed that the irony could be cut with a dull knife, seeping its plaguing wound into a dead river, and carrying it to the edge of an endless void, filling it but never to the brim.
He watched her once more, the sad undertones within her expression revealing a weaker version of the woman—girl—he once knew. He watched the rise and fall of her chest; the sudden shudder caused by a slight chill, the small tremble of her lips, and even the silent tear falling from a closed eye.
She blamed him for placing her into this situation, for teasing her with the useless books, for making her his captive. A disinclined smile breached his pallid lips. Oh, it had been humourous to see her frustration, her ire when she could not read the faerie script.
Truly, the books had lay idle there for decades. And yet, he had not intentionally sought to tempt her with them. Sarah would be even angrier with him if she actually knew what were in those ancient texts… Better saved for another day, he thought.
Angering her was wonderful, but some things needed to be saved when the moment was right. In this case, sometime when his adversary least expected it. Catching Sarah off guard was truly something to look forward to. It would be interesting to throw metaphorical punches at one another once more.
Once more.
The thought of a rematch was both bitter and sweet. Bitter, where he lost the first round, but sweet in the knowledge that she would fall faster and harder than he did. Sarah's loss would be like tasting sweet ambrosia from a silver chalice. Perhaps losing the battle was worth winning the war, and by the gods he would have his enemy's cry of defeat ring throughout his kingdom.
Sarah would fall.
And with her defeat, he would save his kingdom—no matter the cost.
His revelation was set, and only Death would break him from it. He smiled at the irony of such a trivial aspect. The Fae seldom succumbed to such a fate; only in myths were his ancestors affected, and that was only in rare occasions—if at all. No, his kind never fell victim to the bitter sting of mortality.
And that was why the Fae detested the weaker, mortal race of Men. How could an immortal, whose youth and vitality could outlast the ages compare to a weak, insignificant being that aged and inevitably, died?
Most scorned the mentioning of such a pestilence, which consumed and tainted the world above. Man and the great society he created through strength and intelligence. Bah! The Height of Industry and the Modern World could make the smallest troll wretch with unrepentant ire.
Man congratulated himself too much upon less-than-average achievements. Oh, if only humanity realized that they were so insignificant compared to their immortal predecessors. Technology would dim in comparison to magic, their cities a picture of decay compared to the illustrious beauty of the Silver City.
The realms beyond the Labyrinth held beauty, laughter, and music. His distant cousins—along with myriad unrelated acquaintances—dwelled within a realm of lavish parties and unending intrigue. The social events, the scandals, everything appealed to the Fae.
If he could compare the Fae to humanity, he would have to admit that both races were very similar during the Regency Era in Europe, where good breeding, land, and titles were what made a man. Connections with the right individuals allowed one to enter the social arena, and become someone worth merit.
Alas, he was not so fortunate to be part of that realm—he abandoned that long ago…
Biting his lower lip, he cast his morose thoughts aside, and gazed at the crystal once more. Sarah lay in the same position, unmoving. He noticed a slight frown upon her brow, the setline on her mouth proved she was not content in her rest.
She was still wearing the same garment from her world. The wrinkled fine-linen shirt clung to her slim form, the knee-length skirt caressing her upper thigh. Jareth mentally rolled his eyes. Even unconscious, Sarah could be indecent.
An impish gleam lightened his dark eyes, as a vile plan brewed within his mind. He forced the crystal to disappear, as he, too, vanished within a cloud of violet smoke.
The pursuit of unnerving the royal hell out of his adversary was about to begin.
****
The feeling of desolation crashed against her beleaguered form, forcing her to succumb to its endless torment. Darkness clouded her vision, leaving her blind and vulnerable to an unknown enemy. Like the harsh pain entering her soul, the darkness inundated her, infecting her essence with an indescribable wickedness.
She felt tainted, impure. The dark possession of her soul left her grave, as if she were lost to the Fates' devious designs. She imagined the ancient sisters and their arcane methods of punishing mortals.
With their serrated, metallic scissors, the siblings severed the precious silver cord that bound a soul to its body. They were masters of tormenting the living, deciding who to take, and who to cause grief. Death was their messenger, leaving him to finish the chore.
Her useless eyes tried to penetrate the opaque darkness, but failed. She inclined her head, feeling shame well up inside of her. She felt like she was five again, helpless and frightened with no hope of anyone rescuing her from the darkness.
Unwanted memories flashed through her mind's eye. A child no more than five, confined in a dark corner of a closet, tears running rampant from her hazel eyes. No light penetrated the vast void of darkness, only eerie sounds outside the barrier dared to pierce the shadows.
Voices filled with hatred and anger chanted in a harsh mantra of rage. The lighter, more feminine voice subjugated its oppressor with petitions of wrath, while the other calmly threatened its decrees.
It was almost indiscernible to understand the muffled conversion. The only understanding was that both parties were arguing over something, something important, something related to her.
Another tear fell from a hazel eye, as a sudden sense of remorse filled her tiny soul. She caused this argument. And now her parents were dealing with the consequences…
Why couldn't she have stayed in her room, and been a good little girl like her mother said to be? Why did she have to walk in and see her mother kissing a man who wasn't her father? And why did she have to tell her father the moment he walked through the door? Why was she such a terrible daughter?
Inclining her head in silent defeat, she shut out the world around her, and fell asleep, only to find comfort in her dreams.
The vision of imaginary creatures from her beloved storybooks came to life, and gave her solace when the rest of the world left her in the cold, dark world in which she lived.
Rolling fields expressed their verdant splendour with a myriad of wildflowers. The sky was a deep azure, and the sun was bright, radiant. The warmth of the sun's vibrant rays caressed her pallid cheeks, as a light trail of wind teased her hair. She felt sweet abandon from this remote field, where she was far away from the pains in her life.
Sarah hesitantly smiled because of the artificial comfort, a smile, which ended as something—or someone—jerked her away from the sweet reverie, and back into the real world.
"Sarah."
She felt her name echo within her mind, the harsh, yet gentle utterance shattering her sense of control. Tensing as a pair of gloved hands clasped her shoulders, she forced her eyes to stay shut, to not gaze upon her captor.
"Sarah, look at me."
Again, her name came out like a soothing, tender whisper. Ah, yes, his majesty could mask his irritation wonderfully, so wonderfully that she was tempted to submit to his placid command.
Restraint filled her, pleading for her not to obey. The last fragment of pride forced her to play out her artful bravado, perhaps even compel him to leave. Triumph coursed through her soul the moment she felt his gloved hands leave her shoulders.
"I refuse to play this game, my dear," Jareth murmured in her ear. "Open your eyes."
But to no avail, she refused him. He frowned at this small display of arrogance. Sarah had enough audacity for two people, he faintly mused. She reminded him of…him. No wonder they were always at a stalemate, a stalemate, which could never be breached.
Pity.
He sighed, leaving the bed. "And to think I was going to let you out of this prison. Apparently, you want to stay here with me."
"What?"
Jareth turned a fraction, his blue eye meeting a pair of enlarged hazed emerald. "Why I was going to be civil, and release you, of course." He spoke to her, as if humouring an idiot. "What did you think I was here to do?"
"You're lying," she muttered under her breath. "You hate me, and you want to torment me until the day I die!"
Clutching his chest in synthetic shock, Jareth stepped away from her. "Such a harsh judgment, Sarah," he addressed with mock hurt. "I'm deeply hurt to know how cruel you believe I am."
She tilted her chin. "I bet you are."
"Why do you hate me so?" he questioned, his back turned to her. "What have I ever done to make you detest me?"
"What have you done?" Sarah gave an unladylike snort of disbelief. "You captured my brother; made me go through a damned labyrinth to find him; almost had me killed; drugged me, and then after I defeat you, you come back for revenge! Why?"
"Revenge?" Jareth turned, and stared at her with icy, mismatched eyes. "Yes, you could say that. Considering the fact that you asked me to take your brother, and make your wildest dreams come true. I did everything to please you, and you threw it in my face!" He cast his gaze to the stone floor. "We've had this conversation before, I believe. I refuse to be repetitious."
"You still haven't answered why."
"Why?" He mimicked her, his deep voice edgy and tinged with ice. "It's rather simple, actually. It may be petty of me to desire revenge, but you are no saint yourself. You carelessly destroyed the Labyrinth, and now it's time for you to make amends. Do you remember when I said that all you had to do was fear me, and I would your slave?"
He did not give her time to answer. "Well, whether or not you fear me, you are my slave. You will do everything I tell you. Starting now."
Sarah bit her lower lip. Rising from the bed, she forced herself to his side. Smiling sweetly, she muttered, "Your highness, you can kiss my ass!" She did not stop after uttering the blithe comment, but sealed it with a small kiss on the side of his cheek.
She watched his mocking grin fade, his teasing eyes glaze over with consummate ire. Oh, he was pissed! Royally, in fact. Turning, she gracefully walked away from his enraged form. Perhaps her refusal would make him realize how hard she would make her stay. But her delight diminished the moment she felt his powerful-gloved hands grasp her shoulders.
The unexpected force caused her to stumble, and fall to her knees. Staring at the stone floor for comfort, Sarah refused to look at him. She felt the anger radiating from his tense figure, and knew her actions caused his fury. God, why couldn't she keep her damned mouth shut for once? Didn't her past, reckless actions teach her anything?
"You look good in that position. So good in fact that from now on you'll stay in it!" His boots clicked heavily against the stone tiles. "This room is far too customary for a lady such as yourself. I believe the servants' quarters will be sufficient for one of your exquisite taste, don't you think?"
Sarah refused to answer.
"Still so prideful, I see." He gazed at her flaccid figure with disdain. "Why must you be so stubborn in everything? There will be no peace, no understanding between us? Such a pity."
And with that, he turned away from her, as if she were nothing more than a pile of discarded ash upon the floor. He eyed her warily, watching her unmoving form. Why did she have to be so obstinate, so willful? Why couldn't she just bend to his will and submit? It would be easier if she did. Of course, Sarah was never compliant, and her hasty actions spoke volumes of her.
His cheek still tingled from her spiteful kiss. The thousand stinging sensations—both pleasurable and painful—caused him to falter in her wake. No, he refused to fall for that foolishness again. Whatever his comical intentions for her were, were now cast aside, his purpose serious.
If Sarah desired to spite him with such grace, then by the gods he would put an end to it. She always played the part of a selfless martyr, or courageous heroine. It was time to let her play that part and realize her pitiful display of valor was nothing more than a childish notion.
Glancing at her once more, he retreated to the doorway. With deep reluctance, he opened the locked door, and finally spoke, "Sarah, come with me." He turned to the threshold, willing the torches in the corridor to light. "Don't force me to repeat myself, child."
Sarah coerced herself to look at him. Deep, impenetrable anger coursed through the verdant depths, as she scanned his backside. Forcing herself to rise, she bit back an oath and walked to the door. "I'm not a child," she grumbled.
A golden brow arched in question. "Oh, really? Well, you are compared to my age, child."
"Better a child than a geriatric."
A deep, rich laugh filled with cynicism escaped him. "A child with an extended vocabulary. Who would have thought? Really, Sarah, you do surprise me at times…" He chuckled, and gently caressed her cheek.
Sarah flinched from his gentle touch; the audacity behind it turned her stomach. "Don't touch me!"
"There is nothing wrong with a master comforting his scorned servant. Besides, I very much doubt anyone would come to your aid and throw me in a prison for such a small act. There are worse things, Sarah," he muttered gravely.
Something akin to despair tainted his eyes, forcing him to look away from her. Sarah watched as if transfixed by the sudden change in him. The sense of dejection resonated from him; showing weakness, despair. Before she could probe further, he interrupted her inquisitive thoughts.
"Come with me."
He did not give her time to refuse. Clasping her clammy hand in his, he ushered her down the frosty corridor. She watched helplessly as he guided her through a maze of hallways, forcing her to follow like a second shadow.
Sarah did not risk a glance at her new master. The idea of being his slave still troubled her weary mind. Instead, she focused upon the castle's architecture. The gothic designs corroborated well with the colourful tapestries and furnishings. She realized for the first time that Jareth's castle was truly beautiful. It was a shame she did not notice it on her first visit.
Her mental wonderings came to an abrupt halt when she almost collided against his stern back. She forced her eyes to look at the floor and not at his questioning gaze. His abnormal eyes seared her flesh, as if burning her with a blazing torch, her skin becoming black and turning to ash.
Jareth stared at her intently, his steady gaze probing her restless figure. He knew he intimidated her, he could see it in her downcast expression. Although her stoic mask did not convey unease, her haunted eyes did.
She feared him.
A mental smile curved his lips. This slip of a girl was afraid of him, of what he could—would—do to her. She feared for her safety, her life, and her innocence. He could corrupt her soul and send her to an everlasting stay in the fiery depths of Hell.
God, it would be a pleasure to damn her to such a fate—a fate, in which, she had damned him to.
For three years she placed him in an endless hell, where he endured more than that of flames and demons. No, Sarah left him in this dark, deadened void without a slant of light to calm his weary soul. She condemned him to suffer, when he only sought to please her.
Well, here she was, in a hell of her own making, and it felt so sweet to see her suffer as he had. Sarah did not even understand the meaning of suffering. No, not when she was loved, comforted, and cared for by a doting family. Even the stepmother got along with her.
Sarah had everything, whilst he had nothing, nothing except for a broken-down kingdom, and an idiotic court of goblins. No one was ever concerned for his welfare. Not even as a child…
Impatience wracked his nerves, forcing him to display a moment of unprecedented indignation. Sarah watched; eyes mesmerized by his lack of composure. He looked so frustrated, so tangible, as if he were almost human. But it was a lie, a brilliant façade in which he sported in, taunting and tormenting his unsuspecting victims. No, the Goblin King would be nothing more than the cruel, malevolent being he was.
He took pleasure of seeing her in pain.
He would torment her if he witnessed her lose the last of her confidence. He would tease her for being so naïve. And he would callously laugh at her tears, all of which she deserved, and also prompted him to do.
Action and reaction; cause and effect. She brought this upon herself. And now, she would suffer the consequences of her rash actions, whether they were intentional or not.
"Ah, here we are," he said in a dry tone, shattering her thoughts.
Jareth turned, giving her a quizzical look. "Is there something on my face, or do you find it appealing?"
He had the audacity to smirk. Sarah cast her attention to the open doorway. Inside it, she noticed the room was in complete darkness, not even a small candle penetrated the dense obscurity.
"What is this place?"
"Ah, I see you're changing the subject on me. Not fair, Sarah."
"And here I thought I was the only one repeating myself! It appears you also find the world unfair to your high standards."
He conventionally rolled his eyes. "I was alluding to you, dear. Of course, I do not find everything fair, but at least I accept it without complaint. Unlike some…"
"Your blows are harsh, Goblin King. Thank you for trying to humour me." She turned and eyed the room once again, a tired and wary expression clouding her features.
"I wasn't trying to. Really, I don't desire to pass off as being considerate—or God forbid, kind."
"There's not one kind bone in your body…or whatever you're made out of. Fairy dust, perhaps?"
"Cute. Very cute, Sarah." Jareth smiled, revealing a pointy set of teeth. "And so close with your guessing. I must commend you for it." He paused for a moment, tapping the edge of his stubborn jaw with a gloved finger. "But you have only observed a portion of me. Well, the portion obscured, anyway." He caught her wan hand in his, feeling a slight tremble from it. "Where would your analysis go if you were enabled to venture further?"
Nothing was said between them, as the question was left within the cool air. Sarah's eyes widened, her cheeks slightly flushed. But she refused to give him the benefit of seeing her falter from such an overconfident statement. Mirroring his cheeky smirk, she laughed. "I would go blind from such a marvelous sight, my lord. Truly! Besides, I very much doubt I would have such an honour since I'm merely a slave to you. Trash, really."
"That you are." He gave her no indication whether he honestly agreed with her or not. His vacant expression revealed nothing, except that he briefly considered her words.
"So this is where I'm staying," she muttered, trying to break the growing tension between them.
He gave a curt nod.
"Then I shall be here if you need me." She gave him not time to answer. Instead, she walked blindly into the dark room, carefully feeling around for the nearest wall. She stepped on—or rather in something. Silently grimacing, she trudged on, forcing herself not to appear apprehensive in front of him.
Jareth watched her, eyes steady. He noticed her step in some unknown residue, left over by the kitchen staff. She would have a jolly time cleaning the gunk off of her shoes.
He watched her try to gather her barrens. Gods, how she refused to look like an ass in front of him! Even in uncertainty, she had to save face, and rival him.
But she already had—ten times over, in fact.
Sarah did not have to bowl him over with her careless actions; her words were enough. He was still considering her meaning about being a slave. It was merely a jab to his pride, but the intensity behind it left him in deep reflection.
It did not matter.
Setting his dark thoughts aside, he forced light into the dense room. Tapers on the center table and hanging chandelier, lighted instantaneously from his mental command.
Her watched her expression change from sweetly bemused to absolutely horrified. A gasp escaped her the moment she set eyes on her surroundings. This could not be the servant's quarters; this had to be Hell.
Grime covered the sandstone tiles. Rich, deep colours of greens, browns, and even a hint of puce covered them, leaving to one the imagination of what they looked like underneath the filth.
Cobwebs hung like decourated tapestries, the dead, entrapped insects giving an added effect. But the deceased décour was only an opening presentation of the foully attractive eating hall. The table was the center attraction.
She frowned from the very sight of it. Molded remains of food, spilled wine, which had soured and stained the table, and unidentified pieces of fur and hair graced the table's surface.
"Oh my God," she heard herself murmur.
"This is where my court dines. Fabulous setting, is it not?" A golden eyebrow arched in query.
"How can you eat here?" She asked, before she could stop herself.
"Why, Sarah, don't you find this hall to your liking? Really, I thought you would find it extravagant, compared to that boorish setting I had you in."
She eyed him circumspectly. "You are so cruel."
He smirked. "I told you I could be. Now you see that I was not lying."
"…I hate you."
"I know. But try to at least appreciate that I did not toss you into an oubliette, or some other terrible location." He glanced at the table, and nodded. "And to answer your question, I don't dine with my servants. In fact, I rarely eat."
She studied his severe gaze, which was a mixture of indifference and honesty. And yet, his expression remained impassive. How could he be so austere, so stoic? Of course, he had been in existence for centuries, possibly eons. He was bound to have acquired the skill to remain inscrutable.
Nodding in agreement, she turned her attention back to the hall. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I must retire for the evening, I fear."
He regarded her silently. "There is a door to your left. In it you will find a small room, which should have a small bed. Of course, I have not been in this room in fifty years, so I cannot attest to the room's conditions." Turning away from her, his hand clasped the doorknob. "I will leave you now. Goodnight."
Before she could say anything, the Goblin King was gone. She felt a strange sensation of disappointment from his abrupt departure. Of course, it was only disappointment in not taking a bottle of soured wine and dumping it all over his gaudy attire.
The Goblin King was such an asshole.
Sarah emitted a profound curse from the thought of him. God, he was so arrogant, not to mention having the audacity of a wild boar. His Highness could toss himself into the nearest fire and burn like a martyr for all she cared. Look where he tossed her. She would gladly take an oubliette any day.
But this was her room now, and she would have to make due with it. She would accept this hand she was dealt.
She found herself walking to the door he had indicated. Looking at its stained features, she grasped the rusted bronze handle, and opened it.
"Damn it," she cursed. "Damn him for making me stay in this hovel!"
She eyed the dilapidated room with remote disdain. It was not as bad as the dining hall, but it was terrible, nonetheless. Dust covered what little furniture the room offered, the bed looked to be in dire need of repair, its sheets were dirty, wrinkled. A prison cell would be better than this.
Massaging her aching temples, Sarah crossed the damp room, instantly smelling the faint scent of mold. With a clenched hand, she wiped the dust and rubble from the sheets and eased herself on the bed.
She waited for the bed to buckle underneath her, but found it sturdy enough for her weight. Exhaling, she fell back on the sheets, refusing to move under them. She closed her eyes, and for a brief moment, she could see herself in her apartment, sleeping under familiar sheets.
A smile caressed her lips from the warming thought. Home. Yes, she could feel its warmth and proverbial surroundings, not a nightmare she unwillingly stumbled into. Oh, and what a nightmare it had been! Who would have thought one could feel so tangible, so realistic?
"You're such an idiot, Sarah," she scolded herself. "Your insane fantasies have finally caught up with you! And to think, you believed it to be real, when it's nothing more than a dream!"
Her smile instantly faded when she felt the bed falter and collapse, knocking the breath of out her. Unwilling tears fell from her eyes, displaying a sliver of weakness.
Yes, what a dream this was…
****
Author's Note: Well, here's Chapter Four! And to think I got this posted before the year was out! I believe I'm doing better on not being so neglectful—not to mention the chapters are a little longer! Anyway, many thanks to those who have read this fic so far! Chapter Five should be posted soon—when I have time to write, that is! Oh, and Happy Holidays to everyone, too! ^_^
Faraday: Many thanks! I'm glad you like the fic so far!
Jessie Deal: I shall continue until I have an extreme writer's block, or actually finish it—the latter, which I personally hope happens! I've kept this story on the shelf for so long… ^_^
LadyRhiyana: I'm happy you remember this story! It's so fun to write embarrassing thoughts that no one else would know, and yet, the reader does! And Jareth has *much* in store for Sarah, trust me!
Kali: Thanks! I can only hope my writing improves. I look over my chapter and silently shake my head in dismay. I'm truthfully my own worst critic, because I'm usually not happy with it… More's the pity… But flawed or not, I will continue this story! =)
Nocturnally-Damned: I hope I didn't make you wait too long for the chapter. There is great tension between them, and it's so wonderful, is it not? ^_^ It's probably one of the best parts to write in this story. I just hope it does not become too repetitious…
Achesilvestri: Just as I promised, here it is! I hope you like how I portrayed Jareth in this chapter! It's a great pleasure portraying him to be such a royal asshole! I can promise there will be more arrogance and cruel remarks along the way!
Again, thanks guys for reading and reviewing! ^_^