Chapter Thirteen: So a Dream is Broken

In a darkened room, lit by only one waning candle, sat a dark king. His cloak hung
loose down his back and road a breeze as if transformed into some toxic liquid. Golden
locks that appeared so lustrous in the morning's sun, seemed almost dead, lifeless as he
merely pondered the mishaps of life.

Jareth placed a single gloved hand to his forehead, trying so desperately to decide
what needed to be done next. Plans concocted over many hours of careful deliberation
had faltered, and done so horribly, leaving him more detached from the girl than ever.

"The girl... her name is Sarah, and there is no denying what has been felt already,"
he remarked with a contemptuous scoff.

Damn her. She had thrown his entire soul into chaos with the mere presence of
spirit and life. Old wounds were reopened, with that defiance and spark of effervescence
that so many others completely lacked. They were all dead to him, to a Fae born king.
Those simple peasants who dwelled in the Underground and even the other mortals of
Sarah's world held not even a speck of her essence. All, save one other before Sarah,
whom had captivated his mind so many years prior.

Jareth turned to glance at the wavering candle. The flame had dwindled to a bare
flicker, only truly lighting a measurement of about a foot in all directions, which just
slightly touched his shadowed form. Other than that, the entire vicinity was cast in
shadows of ranging shades of darkness. The rocky walls, irregular and uneven in their
masonry, jutted and sloped in crude monstrous forms, as if Jareth himself was captive in
this castle.

"Prison," he muttered to himself and then willed the disturbing images of what had
been lost to leave him.

He could take her, and would do so with no more than a flick of his wrist. After
all, his power and magic far outweighed Sarah's speculations. She believed him to be
nothing more than a joke. In her eyes he was a common clown who could perform only
parlor tricks and produce a casual crystal from the depths of nothing. Certainly this was
one aspect of the broad spectrum of his incantations, but not the only 'tricks' he knew.

Jareth startled at the abrupt sound of harsh knocks upon the smooth wooden door.
The hour was well past thirteen, a time when he found he could at last be alone with
thoughts, those that would be best lost for all time. Of course, during the day he was the
Goblin King, and ruler of the Underground. His subjects looked to him for his expertise
and guidance, and of course, a figure of authority in their chaotic lives. Responsibilities
were abundant in his occupation.

"Enter," Jareth called out, and quickly swept his hand across a near by table. In an
instant it was covered with a wide spectrum of candles, all ranging in size, shape, even
color. The flames burst forth and illuminated his drawn face in a dancing orange hue.

The door swung, as if of its own accord. Although Jareth knew better, an
unconscious shiver stole up and down his spine. He remained seated and willed the calm
disposition to stay with him. However, in the now revealed door frame, there stood
nothing, only an inky darkness, as if the entire world ended beyond those rich wooden
pillars.

He could have bathed the entire room in a wash of bright light, revealing the
intruder, but chose not to take such drastic measures. At once the slightest movement
soothed his heightened nerves and he reclined once again against the plush chair. A figure
dressed in a uniform black, of course, would not be seen in such a time of night.

"Why do you come to me at this late hour?" Jareth questioned, though he never
turned to acknowledge his guest.

The figure, dressed in a full robe, complete with hood, that hid his mysterious
features, said nothing. He merely remained behind Jareth, hands clasped beneath the large
sleeves, and positioned directly below his ribcage. From within the hood, a flint of red
glistened from the light cast by the many candles. At once it died, leaving behind a
nothing that was horrendous.

"Speak, or shall I send for the guard?" Jareth inquired, knowing that, despite his
threats, the guard would never rise this late to do anything for their kingdom. Goblins
were quite fickle that way.

"My lord, your absence today sent a shock through the city," the man spoke with a
voice that reminded one of dried leaves, brushing across a bare asphalt road. It bore a
resonance of death, destruction, everything that Jareth's seductive tongue lacked.

At this Jareth at last turned to acknowledge the man. He noted the bowed head,
the downcast face, and slightly slouched figure. All else was hidden well beneath the
bulky attire this strange one chose to wear every day, and apparently at night as well.
Despite his peculiar mannerisms, the advice offered from this man was worth his weight in
gold.

"They can do without me. Shock, surely you exaggerate. I do not take lightly to
such falsifications," Jareth responded, turning his back on the guest and dismissing him all
in that one gesture.

The dark one moved, with the stealth of a feline. He was at once before the king,
still stooped, as if in humble praise of Jareth. However, there was no humility in his voice,
nor could any be witnessed embedded in the hard features of his forever hidden face.
Jareth himself had only witnessed the man's visage a few short times, when the Goblin
King demanded to see to whom he had spoken.

Such occurrences did not come by very often, and Jareth found that he had already
forgotten what this man looked like without the hood. A brief memory of dark hair, and
equally dark eyes flashed through his mind, though he did not know if it was connected
with this fellow.

"Forgive my intrusion, my lord, but your time has been limited in the castle as of
late. A royal advisor is good for nothing, if left in the dark," the man spoke slowly, as if
Jareth was nothing more than a child with a short attention span.

It was true, and Jareth acknowledged the man's bluntness with a scoff of
indifference. Royal duties were tedious, and his being gone was nothing of any great
concern, at least in his mind. However, obviously it was seen differently by others. With
a sigh he straightened himself and turned to look at the man standing before him.

"Harsh pains of the past repeat themselves, does it not seem so?" Jareth inquired.

The dark visitor only nodded slightly and waited for Jareth to continue with what
needed to be said. A half smile, contemptuous and sarcastic flashed across the king's face
in an instant.

"I met the woman upon earth, at least two centuries ago, and believed that she and
I would love forever. So are the dreams of youth... Time heals all wounds, or so I have
been told by callous lords from my past. However, time is a trickster, and in my case, it
brought those pains back through another, more perfect even than the first. She too
destroyed me, and now I must watch her destroy herself," Jareth stated and then waited to
hear the "advise" that everyone gave so readily.

The shadowed individual broke his statuesque stance and walked quickly to the
window on the other side of the room. The breeze still blew, sending faint tendrils of
perfume from some night-blooming flower against the man's darkened face. The call of a
bird, some distance away, signaled the coming of dawn, though the faintest trace of pink
and purple hues could not even be imagined on the inky horizon. Still, the calling bird had
awakened, and there was no denying the wisdom built into nature.

"So it is this woman that you have been visiting. I do not need to recite from
Underground laws to remind you that what you have done is forbidden. The Fae do not
interact with mortals upon earth...," his voice raised briefly as he continued in the lecture.

Jareth leapt from his position upon the chair to full unnerving height. He was
before the robed man in an instant and glared with cold fire. The advisor immediately
halted his words and shrank submissively away from his king. There was no telling what
could be done when Jareth's anger was aroused. The Goblin King's power was
immeasurable and more powerful than even the most practiced mystic or wizard.

"I do not need your rules and regulations spouted at me. Do you think I am as dull
as to not understand the consequences of my actions? I already have read the ancient
scripts of the Underground, have memorized laws so as to dictate them to villains brought
before me, for judgment. I am not naive as you think, Flagg!" Jareth at last brought forth
the man's name, demeaning the individual with the poor emphasis he had placed upon the
title.

Flagg cringed and willed himself not to react, to hold back the thoughts that raced
through his mind so often as of lately. His ancient face, ageless and shadowed, broke
momentarily into the light. However, in Jareth's current state the King did not notice the
flash of crimson embedded deep within those coal black eyes.

Mystics, wizards, warlocks be damned when matched with the Goblin King. Flagg
knew his limitations, though had almost believed when first arriving at the castle, that his
powers could outweigh those of Jareth's. Now, after years of careful and observant
service paid to the king, Flagg understand all too well that there could be no match for
Jareth. Now, however, there seemed to be a weakening in the Fae lord, through the
obvious emotions he felt for that woman.

Flagg smiled to himself as these thoughts and plans whirled about in his hateful
mind. He nearly shouted out in joy, perhaps allowing laughter to grace his vocal chords,
but held back. Surely Jareth would believe him mad and dismiss him, if such an instance
ever occurred.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," Flagg remarked, bowing before the angered king in
mock reverence.

Jareth watched, but grew tired of the endless charades displayed constantly, day in
and out. He waved his hand through the air and then walked back to his chair. There
would be no more talk of these events, and Flagg knew that it was time to leave the king
alone. He rose and carefully exited the room, his mind still wild with hundreds of
thoughts.

All the while Jareth continued to dwell upon the past, events that would never be
righted no matter how long he mourned and prayed for deliverance from the hideous sins
that were embedded in his soul. A guilt so strong constantly pounded against his being,
always reminding of what was lost, and that it was he who was to blame.

"Why Sarah? Why cast away such a fruitful existence. One so sickeningly short as
it is...," Jareth trailed off and then glanced at the flickering candles he had supplied to see
his guest.

Flagg's warnings were entirely disregarded, for Jareth himself had sent out these
same looming laws, upon those in his court who seek to charm a mortal woman as a
spouse. Countless times he roared with authority, casting aside any chance for such a
crossed love to occur. Now, the same ill fated emotion had claimed his soul, and Jareth
was helpless, unable to cast it aside.

* * * * * * * *

Sarah slowly raised her head from the cold ground. Her neck screamed in
stiffened agony, as several tightened muscles pulled against each other. She fought against
the dull ache and rubbed her shivering hand across the knots that fought to take over her
entire neck.

"Have I slept here the entire night?" Sarah asked herself as she glanced around at
the vaguely familiar surroundings.

Her clothing hung strangely upon her shoulders, as if it weighed far too much than
would be natural for a sleeping garment. She averted her scanning gaze to herself, and
gasped, barely containing a scream that yearned to break free. Her regular sweats were
nowhere to be seen. Instead upon her body was a magnificent, extravagant ballgown,
wrought from an intense crimson shade of material, and resplendent in the streaming
morning light.

Sarah placed a tentative hand atop an ancient table near by. A fine coating of dust
had found its way over this single piece of furniture, which took her completely by
surprise. Dirtiness was never evident in Fontridge prior to this morning.

"In fact," Sarah pondered as she sat stunned over the gray filth that now coated
her hand, "I have not seen a speck of imperfection until now."

Nonetheless, it gave a feeling of reality to the entire mansion. Until that time, she
felt almost as if the entire place had been constructed merely for the play, and truly was
not as ancient as it seemed. Glancing around this room, so magnificent in its forgotten
glory, she realized that there was much more to Fontridge than originally speculated.
Perhaps more than even she wished to know.

She dusted her hand and then slowly made her way to her weak legs. Every joint
in her body felt as if it threatened to buckle, defying her pleas to remain strong. However,
a night spent upon cold, rough ground could have horrid side-effects when even the
healthiest person was concerned. Sarah herself could not be considered ill, but rather
slightly set back by current events that infected her life.

Sarah was almost half surprised to see the door in its old place, and standing open
at that. She distinctly recalled, in a not to distant memory, this room lacking any and all
forms of escape, save the window. However, if her mind was still considerate enough to
remain trustworthy, she remembered Jareth and a piano, surrounded by a magical,
romantic spell, as well. He certainly was no longer in the vicinity, which would constitute
the reason for the return of the doorway.

After the minutes spent mulling over the appearance of her escape, Sarah finally
brushed the confusing thoughts aside and lifted her massive skirts to leave the constricting
room. Just being in there brought back awfully lucid sensations of a certain Goblin King
far too close to her. She shivered as she made her way into the dimly lit passageway.

"Peter must not make it back here too often," Sarah stated, glancing warily at a
rather large black spider suspended near a now unlit torch.

She could distinctly recollect the images of magical proportions of the night prior.
Such a mystical and even medieval scene had unfurled itself as she ventured further down
this passage, following equally as magic music, drifting all about. Sarah could nearly
convince herself that the music was still present, if she only closed her eyes and thought of
hundreds of emotions that had been hurled about at the mere sound of the mesmerizing
tune.

Then it came. Suddenly and attacking, and not as sweet as once had been in the
night's serene moonlight. Sarah snapped her eyes opened and instantly halted in mid
stride. Surely she had been mistaken, and had not heard the faintest catches of notes, a
piano, coming from further within the house. Of course, the keys had been plunked rather
carelessly, not as Jareth had stroked them, swaying to the music as if one with it. This
was not the same, but merely some fluke coincidence.

She instantly lengthened and quickened her stride. Her mind had already formed
countless explanations for the music, and was not ready to accept any one as of yet.
Again the faintest bits of a song, pausing between, and beginning again from the point
where it was left off. Whomever was playing, they were entirely butchering the sweet,
sad, melody.

Sarah paused behind the wooden doors, that led into the main greeting room. The
music was far louder, almost as if it laid right beyond this blockade. She almost yearned
to remain in the soothing dark, and nearly cool passageway, instead of dwelling with the
horrid actors and actresses who all believed themselves to be entirely perfect in every way.
It made Sarah disgusted just thinking about it.

She pushed aside her reservations and hurled the door open. If she was to make
an entrance, then it would be a grand one. Sarah strode out, barely avoiding the massive
doors as, obeying gravity, they swung back to their frame. A massive, ringing slam
resounded through the room, and Sarah cringed, realizing her poor decision and stupid
mistake as well.

Immediately the music, if one could really call the sharp and flat notes linked
together by several stifling long pauses of nothing, music, halted and covered the entire
mansion in an unnerving silence. Sarah bit her lip and casually placed herself in one of the
massive chairs that she had remained in the day before. Lucky for her the actors had not
been practicing in the greeting hall, but soon would be here, if only to see where the noise
had come from.

Sarah watched, and with a depressed sigh, waited for the first angered person to
show their face. She could take it, as she had taken everything else. However, the
memory of her garments struck her, and Sarah immediately glanced down to see the
shimmering red ballgown, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to wear,
and at that time in the morning as well.

"Wonderful," Sarah remarked under her breath and straightened a wrinkled train
near her foot.

"Sarah! Where have you been keeping yourself?" Gabrielle demanded in a
wonderfully friendly tone.

She hurried into the room, but halted at the sight of the aforementioned gown.
Gabby's eyes grew large and she glanced warily at her friend. Of course, the original
intricate hairstyle that had been a lovely companion to the entire ensemble, had flattened
and fallen back to a tangled mass of straight chestnut locks, which made Sarah appear all
the more crazy.

"It isn't what it seems, Gabby. You have to believe me on this...," Sarah stopped
as more tramped into the room, angered as they realized who had caused the entire
commotion.

From the midst of the crowd of about nine people, walked another familiar figure.
Peter strode quickly into the open, and at once observed what Gabby had already seen.
Yet, her look of shock was not found on his handsome features. Sarah acknowledged the
spiteful glares from others, and then witnessed the horrid change overcome Peter. He was
not merely angry, but rather infuriated.

He rushed forward and took hold of Sarah's hand. Others in the room whispered
small catches of gossip, and eyed the two rushing from the room. However, Sarah
struggled to regain control of her movements, which hindered their progress.
Nonetheless, he hurried her into the nearest room, and slammed the door shut.

"I didn't take you for a thief, Sarah," Peter accused, his eyes were a mix of intense
emotions.

Sarah shook her head in denial. She would have never taken anything. The dress
had been forced upon her, with magic! There really had been no way to deny it, nor
Jareth's advances for that matter. However, that was an entirely different subject
altogether. Sarah tried to say something, anything in reply to Peter's accusations,
however the entire situation only succeeded in fueling her anger.

Sarah placed her hands on her hips, regaining strength, vitality, and even
determination in that one assertive stance. It was with that, and a flick of her head, so as
to allow her chestnut locks to drift across her back and away from her set face, that Peter
recoiled and his fury dissipated, covered strangely with an odd, sort of stupor. He
remained vague, detached, and wavering just a bit.

"I would never take anything, Peter. How dare you even suggest such a thing!"
Sarah declared, vehement with every word.

Peter threw his hands into the air, and then turned, perhaps confused. He placed
one hand, oddly paled in contrast to his tanned features, on his forehead and sat heavily
atop the bed. He appeared worn, haggard, and considerably sick as well. Sarah's heart
skipped, a nervous worry gripping her soul in its cold clutching fist. The same fearful
concern traced a path down her spine, forming a shiver that raised hackles across her
flawless flesh.

"The dress, Sarah, it is not yours. It alone may be used by Kathleen, who plays
our lead, and none other. I see no reason why you should have acquired..." Peter started,
though the original conviction had already drained from his tired voice.

"It was given to me, as a gift, if you must know!" Sarah promptly shut her mouth,
understanding that she had now placed herself in a perilous predicament. Peter would
shortly question her comment, and leave her without a proper answer.

Peter, at last, rose from his sitting position, and approached her once more. Sarah
shifted uncomfortably as he drew nearer. She did not know how to act, and understood
even less about the situation. She merely wished to be let loose from the room, and
allowed to flee to her new chambers.

He reached out and took her hand gently into his own. Sarah swallowed and
looked at their interlocked hands, wondering why, at such a sweet gesture, she felt no
electrical shock of emotions. Instead she experienced only more confusion. That endless
train of doubt that never ceased.

Then, as if a mist of magic overtook the room, Peter was no longer there. Instead
she found herself seeing a mere blur of a man, an outline amidst grays of indiscernible
differences. Sarah squinted her eyes to see, but received no fruits for her struggles. She
did, however, find herself suddenly nearer to the apparition, as the distance between their
bodies was lessened.

The foggy shape drew his face nearer, and Sarah allowed it, for something felt so
very right, so very familiar in this. His lips pressed firmly against her own and she simply
sunk into the feelings of passion which were lit in her soul. Sarah pulled back slightly,
overwhelmed that Peter had made her feel that way.

Yet Peter's emerald eyes did not meet her gaze, rather she saw one of crystalline
blue and deepest chestnut. Jareth... His slender, sleek form cradled her close, as
intoxicating kisses plunged deeper and deeper into troves of unexplored pleasures. Her
mind fogged, and her senses warped, she allowed him to guide her ever backwards, until
resting atop the feather-down mattress...