Five
They ended up in a sort of drawing room, by a tremendous fire that produced no smoke. Each occupied a bizarre specimen of chair; Jareth's was curled and carved, of course, and as high as a throne; Sarah's was small and so plush she could barely stay on the seat. Each nursed a glass of wine and stared into the fire. To Sarah, it was all so benign and domestic, it was nearly ludicrous. All this time and trouble, and we have nothing to say to each another?
Everything in the room was ancient, decadent, charged with power. It called to her, subliminally, appealing to the drama she had buried deep within her soul. She had always dreamed of being surrounded by such magic. She could almost envision herself living here. If he knew that, he would probably offer it in that crystal of his, Sarah thought. And I might even accept. She stared vacantly into the blue heart of the blaze. Its wavering glimmer curved through the air before her as though reflecting a sphere of smooth crystal.
And suddenly, in the midst of the comfortable surroundings, blanketed in a cozy, fiery glow, she had an overwhelming vision of this same castle, ruined, and Jareth, pale and defeated, disappearing into nothingness as his promised crystal of dreams disintegrated at her touch.
And if I did, I would probably go mad … or worse.
Sarah rested her head on the back of the chair. Why hadn't she realized it before? It was quite a neat snare. Dreams seem so pure and bright on the surface, but she knew well that many, if dwelt upon too long, too shallowly, could become hollow and seedy … reveal themselves for the unrealities, the frail bubbles they were. She thought of the ballroom, of the mysterious men and women who had so unsettled her in their debauched elegance. Had they been dreamers once? Perhaps those dancers were the ones who had taken Jareth up on his offer, unconscious of the corruption within it. But capitulation made them unworthy of interest, so he simply set them aside in the ballroom for his own amusement, all the while pretending to grant their own.
Or perhaps he did grant it. They got to live their fantasies … but were they ever really aware of what their fantasies truly were?
Jareth stepped in front of her view, hands behind his back, facing the fire. His impossible clothes gleamed orange and crimson. Sarah rose and walked steadily to his side.
"Thank you for the dinner."
He was silent, but inclined his head slightly. A moment later came the dry comment: "I can tell you have more to say."
"Has anyone else ever come to your castle?"
He directed a sardonic smile into the fireplace. "Only when I choose."
She swallowed. "Why did you choose me?"
Jareth stood back and faced her for the first time. His eyes glittered in the firelight. "Why, Sarah? Isn't it obvious? You were the only one who ever made it through the Labyrinth. The only one able to resist the illusions I threw at you and accomplish what you set out to do." He looked away. "The average petitioner does not have the fortitude to face that which is beyond their understanding. Most break early.
"But you …" He broke off, suddenly staring at her with an intensity that she had always read about in novels with envy, but never expected to experience in real life. It lasted quite a while, and it was not so pleasant as she had hoped.
He picked up as though he had never paused. "You were the only one whose will and strength approached my own. Yes, you did defeat the Labyrinth." His gaze turned steely. "However, my dear, whatever you may have believed … you did not defeat me."
"Who said I had to?" she asked innocently.
Elegant eyebrows arched as he studied her.
"You said that to get my brother back, I had to solve the Labyrinth. And you just admitted that I did exactly that. And I got Toby back, safe and sound." It hurt her to say that, but after all, he didn't know the truth. "So why should I care if I defeated you? I didn't need to. It wasn't part of the game."
"Ah, but Sarah," he smiled, "there is much more to the Labyrinth than you think. I concede that you indeed found a path through my puzzle. However … you did not solve it."
"But why should I care now?"
"Sarah …" She felt the barest touch of his hand suddenly, on her arm, and it was terribly distracting. "Did you feel then … do you feel now … that there was something in your life left unfinished? Something that you glimpsed, but never fully understood? Longed to understand?"
"I was fifteen. I had a lot of silly dreams."
"And I offered them all to you, but you declined. You felt that you could achieve your dreams on your own. Did you, Sarah?"
She stiffened. "I did just fine."
"And you never regretted your choice?"
She was silent a long moment as his eyes burned in the dim room. She simply didn't know the answer to give him.
"You have known pain, I can tell," he said tenderly, a long finger stroking her cheek. "And sorrow. But what of joy? Excitement? … Love?"
His touch unsettled her, and she stepped back as the reply leaped out involuntarily. "Of course I have!"
"Of course. Perhaps Jonathan? What of Eric?" He seemed to glare at her. "What of Michael?"
Truly surprised to hear the names, she suppressed a sudden, violent ache. She beat it back with sheer force. "What of them?"
"Were they what you were searching for?"
"They were only … boyfriends."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
He grinned his feral grin. And this time Sarah saw something strange there that swept the names and the memories they had invoked right out of her mind.
The experiences she had had were with pleasant men, boys, really; kind and sweet and safe. The man before her was reckless, powerful, magical. He was cruel, capricious … she still feared him. But now she realized that even more than she feared the man himself … his temper, his whims, his power … she feared the essence of what he was. Jareth embodied a great, fathomless Unknown. And for the first time, in the strength of his gaze and the touch of his skin, she felt not a threat, not a challenge, not a barrier … but rather … an invitation.
Again she envisioned the crystal ballroom, but no longer as she had before, full with the knowledge of hindsight. Unbidden, the memory poured into her senses exactly as she had entered it that momentary night, the room glittering and sparkling with exotic, forbidden delights, and herself blissfully unaware of her own naiveté.
He strode toward her. Still caught up in her vision, she couldn't help it. She had always loved men who strode.
"There is something within you, Sarah, a longing, a yearning … but I can make you whole."
Delicately, he threaded his long fingers into the dark silk of her hair. It made her remember the wind on the plain … He was so gentle that it hurt. She shouldn't let him...
Jareth's fingertips brushed her skin, which quivered in response. He was looking down at her, his hair tumbling around their faces, cutting them off from the room, the world around them. Strands of it brushed her eyelashes. His coat swirled about their feet. The soft, deep sibilance of his whisper was barely audible; no, it was in her mind completely...
"Don't be frightened, Sarah …"
His fingers trailed down the center of her back, rippling the silk into waves of electricity. The veins of his arms pulsed as his arms tightened around her, twined around her waist, her back. He seemed impossibly strong, impossibly masculine. Their lips moved closer. Sarah's eyes were wide and soft as she looked into his, deep, unfathomable; they went down and down and she could see nothing reflected there, not even the fluttering firelight dimming around them. She could feel his embrace tighten, feel every inch of him that pressed against her body like a living fire … and she couldn't look away from the eyes that were so deep and dark, as though they were doors, holes in a cloudless night sky leading to another world altogether.
And he was everywhere around her … pulling her through.
She struggled within his embrace, but he would not loosen his grasp … it tightened still further. "No, Sarah, don't," he whispered, coaxing, persuading, in a voice of velvet. "Let yourself go. Let me …" His fingers dug almost imperceptibly but firmly into her muscles, willing them to relax at the forcing strain, but she managed with a great bruising lunge to twist herself away.
He stood back, rigid. "I did not mean to hurt you, Sarah."
"It's not …" Was it? " … I …"
She suddenly remembered a line from her Labyrinth book.
The king of the goblins had fallen in love with the girl …
No. Surely not. It was just another trick.
Jareth drew near her again, but his manner had altered. An ugly gleam now sparked in his narrowed eyes. He paced around her menacingly as she stood rooted to the marble floor, his sidelong gaze never leaving her face. The steps echoed in the empty hall, and the fire had nearly burned out. Once again the ballroom had shattered, but this time Sarah remained to face Jareth's anger. She couldn't stop shaking, and she cursed herself for it.
The footsteps stopped behind her. "Poor Sarah," she heard. "You still fear me." And there was a long interval of silence. She could hear him breathing, slowly and evenly. It struck her that she had could not remember ever hearing him breathe before.
Then with a start she felt his breath along her throat. "What happened to your love of life?" he hissed, a little too near her ear. "Where is that spirited girl who faced me down all those years ago, risking her very dreams in order to regain them? You had no fear then, Sarah. You thought you had conquered it." He stepped back and his next words fell upon her like cruel physical blows. "How much did it hurt when you realized you were wrong?"
With that all the pain she had ever known hit her at once like a torrent.
Birthdays and Christmases when the long-awaited calls from her mother never came.
The distant look in Michael's eyes as he called off the engagement.
The policeman's hollow voice on the telephone repeating that no one had survived.
"If I had kept him, he would be alive."
She faced him, her eyes utterly blank.
"He would be alive, and you would be as joyful and spirited as you were all those years ago. Your world is cruel, Sarah. But I could have made you all happy, had you let me."
She wanted to say, tried to say, Would that have made my father and stepmother happy, your keeping him? But she kept envisioning the funeral, the three caskets, the three pits lined up in the deep, black earth.
In the end, it hadn't mattered. None of it.
"You are lying," she whispered, damning the quiver in her voice. "You are lying."
"Then you prefer your life the way it is? A hollow shell of an existence, devoid of dreams?"
"Stop."
"Your family dead, your life in ruins, and you couldn't handle it. I expected better from you, Sarah."
"Stop!"
"You wanted your world, and so you have it. See what it has done to you."
"Stop it, damn you!"
His voice was bitterly cold. "Truth hurts, little girl."
With that she screamed, as she had never knew she could. It was a roar of pure fury and helplessness, and the castle itself trembled. The last thing she saw, though she never even recognized that she saw it, was the astonishment on his face.
She couldn't remember how she had gotten out of that room, or through which rooms of the castle she had blindly stumbled in her desperate flight to get as far away from him as possible. It wasn't until much later that the sobs quieted and she found herself lying near a bench in a cold night garden.
Her mind felt dull and burned. He had been right. He had been right. He had made her trust him, then flung her failures back in her face, forced her to face the miserable person she had become. She shrank from the memory, and she flung herself into her wretchedness, longing for the oblivion of despair that she knew was coming next. Wishing curses upon herself, Sarah waited to sink into hopelessness. There she could hide from it all. Be dead from it all.
Forced to surface through layered years of carefully honed self-torment, the thought came slowly, like a revelation.
But … I can't.
She felt shame, anger, regret. But no hate. She didn't hate herself.
She had almost forgotten what that was like.
Sarah sat up and leaned her back against the cold stone of the bench. Its chill surface, seeping through the thin fabric, stirred her blood to warmth and life. She remembered Jareth's cold words, and though they stung, now she did not flinch. Yes, he had been right. She had been weak. And she had fled from that weakness. She was still weak … she knew that. But now, although the pain still chilled her, she could see through it, over it. For the first time, her grief had boundaries, it had walls that could be climbed and conquered. And she realized, with a shock, that she owed that to him.
Jareth had known her weaknesses. He had pointed out to her what she knew the whole time. He had known just how she felt, and just how to use it to his advantage.
He had known.
She stood in the silent grass and breathed the moonlight that glittered on the emerald silk she wore. The dress. The dress was part of his plan. He knew her, knew how she could use it to hide, to play along with him. She had been right, after all. It was all a play.
The ballroom dancers floated across her mind in a dream of light and music.
Were they ever really aware of what their fantasies truly were?
It was time, time at last, for the final curtain. And for the first time in eight years, she knew what to do next.