The End of Sleep

by AlisonHarvey

Three centuries after she defeated Jareth, the reborn Sarah Williams is forced to flee to the Labyrinth, oblivious to her past...and to what she means to the Goblin King.

3. Time and Truth

The End of Sleep

by Alison Harvey

Disclaimer: Characters from the movie Labyrinth belong to Henson & Co. All else is mine.

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Cleopatra:

Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that's not it:
Sir, you and I have lov'd, but there's not it;
That you know well: something it is I would,
O! my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.

--Antony and Cleopatra (I.iii.106-111)

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Chapter 3: Time and Truth

It was wasteland. The earth stretched flat to the horizon, sere and brown. Where it was not dry as dust, it glimmered in strange shades, auras that seeped into the air in twisted skeins of color. First, plague had devastated the good citizens, killing them where they stood. Then, later, when the antidotes had been used to vault the corporations to power, the sickness wars, the drug wars, the haze of nuclear and chemical destruction had all claimed their toll.

President Chie ruled Eamerica from what remained of Boston, a stone city rising from the incinerated girders of the steel-and-glass city it had once been.

Technology still existed, but Chie's power came from the magic she had harnessed, holding each stone surer than the super-polymers her research teams had developed. It was the ethereal that built the crooked towers, soaring skyward like twisted fingers, magic that brought seawater flooding through new-cut canals in swirling, blackened eddies, and strength of will that bent the ley lines, like the buried boulevards of Paris, to the center of the reborn city.

All magic needs a focus. The ley lines traced a path to the highest tower of the city, reaching to the clouded sky with jagged stones. Inside, a dark staircase curled around itself as it climbed.

The room at the top of the tower was circular, the better to let magic flow without colliding upon itself. It was bare stone, with no decoration, so nothing could soak up the magic. The protection was two-fold. Magic would not be wasted, but neither would it be absorbed, to be released later, accidentally and unwanted. The Falconer had learned this lesson. His teacher never had, which was how the Falconer had ascended to the right hand of Chie. It was a position he jealousy guarded, and one he had no intention of giving away.

He stood in the center of the room, in a carefully drawn chalk circle of protection. A young boy shivered inside the circle with him, but the Falconer ignored him. His hand tightly clutched the back of the boy's neck; the boy's hands were bound behind him with iron cuffs. His hands moved, twisting inside the iron so that no stretch of blistered skin touched the bands for long.

The boy turned his head constantly, smelling the currents of the strange magic his master was calling. He tilted his head as if to see the crackling energies spinning around him, but it was a futile move. His milky eyes spun without seeing. He had neither iris nor pupil in that opaque gaze.

The Falconer had long ago learned that eyes that saw were liabilities in his tools.

He was also blind to the currents, but that was because his sight was turned inwards, seeking the boundaries between worlds. His breath was shallow and infrequent, his body as still as the boy's was active. His other hand clutched his prize, a single hair. It was black, but that might have been the grime that covered it. He had searched the chapel in which the two rebels had vanished for days until he had found it.

Without a portal spell--and damned if the notes and summoning objects the rebels had used hadn't vanished along with them--he was forced to take the long route. Without a connection to an object of the otherworld, though, he could never have found the long, cold pathway of the void between worlds, where minds without protection vanished.

In the darkness he traveled behind his closed eyes, a black shadow drew near, mouth opening to reveal jagged slivers of a deeper darkness. It sniffed soundlessly, and then lifted its head to bay to the everlasting night. The boy shivered more violently, shrinking away. The Falconer started a quick patter of incantations, retreating behind the boy. The hound drew closer, mouth gaping. The magician chanted faster, careful to keep the boy between himself and the closing monster. With the last spell, a shield rose, with the Falconer safely inside as he prepared to leave. The hound lunged.

Beside him the boy sagged, limp. His foot dragged against the chalk, breaking the circle. The iron cuffs brushed against his captor's finger as he fell.

With a gasp, the Falconer's eyes flew open. He released the body, lip curling with disgust as it slumped to the ground.

He would need more next time. He had been so close, and every predator he evaded became one less to sate the next time. There were defenses in place: old weaknesses re-stitched and, judging by the sudden surge of dog-monsters, new guards, but he could work a way around them. If he could, he could follow the path easily. He rubbed his free hand against the other to break the ice that rimed them, wincing as he touched the raw patch left on his index finger by the touch of iron.

Chie would never see his escape coming. If she had, she would have stopped him from free use of the native talents he found while serving her. This mortal world would not hold him for long. Somewhere, somehow, he would find the hole in the Goblin King's defenses.

And then he would be home.

-----

Sarah woke in darkness, curled up on top of the raw silk of the comforter. Her inner clock had reasserted itself while she had slept; she knew, without stirring, that it was time to start her day.

The temptation to burrow deeper under the covers and lose herself in oblivion was hard to resist, but at the same time, impossible. Her body knew it was time to wake, and acted accordingly.

"I need light," she said, softly, to the room. The curtains opened hesitantly, letting her eyes adjust, until she could see red-orange land sloping away from her window.

Two goblins had brought her a small pile of clothing before she had gone to bed the night before, apologizing that they couldn't find any more. From what they said, she suspected they had been hastily cut down from the Goblin King's clothing, but she refused to entertain that thought. What mattered was that they were clothes, and clean.

She dressed quickly, working her way into her own undergarments, mended with near-invisible stitches; loose slacks; and a long-sleeved shirt of a creamy fabric, rough-woven but soft and light against her skin. The slippers from yesterday were still her only footwear, but they had a thick sole, and the current incarnation of the Castle Beyond the Goblin City was immaculately clean.

Her rumbling stomach led her to leave her room, despite how safe and comforting it looked compared to a castle where the Goblin King lurked. She frowned, trying to remember how Hoggle had led her to the kitchen. The hallway's doors loomed invitingly, but she ignored them as she made her way to the staircase. She descended the stairs slowly, looking at the central trunk for any sign of the hidden door Hoggle had opened last night.

Sarah had nearly given up when she saw a tiny scrap of white snagged against a piece of bark. She leaned over and recognized the lace paneling of the nightgown she had worn yesterday. It had torn on the rough surface, marking it in defiance of the otherwise uniform surface. When she pressed her hand flat against the bark the lace had caught on, it cracked open. She pushed through into dim light and walked to the following wall, where the single portrait guarded the passageway to the kitchen.

When she touched the seed of the pomegranate, only a single vine came through, poking her gently on the shoulder. She brushed it away, smiling as it curled slightly around her fingertip before withdrawing. Then the painting disappeared, revealing a plain archway that led directly into the kitchen. Evidently the plant didn't feel like playing.

The goblin server shuffled in a moment later, bowing and ducking his head repeatedly. She managed to make out that breakfast would be ready in a moment, and did she have any preferences?

"Eggs," she said. "And do you have any toast?" She thought some more, Sarah William's memories temporarily replacing her own. "And coffee, if you have some."

The egg yolks were marbled with blue, and the toast looked like it had never heard of flour, made out of some not-quite-substitute instead, but the coffee was excellent and smelled authentic, and there was a bowl of fresh honey to spread on the not-toast.

The coffee finished, she put down the cup. At the precise moment that the ceramic clinked against the table, the Goblin King strode in.

Sarah doubted his appearance was a coincidence.

She stood up. "Here, I'll let you sit down. I'm just finishing here and I should be getting back to my room. I didn't mean to intrude, I was just hungry. Sorry, I'll be leaving you now. . . "

She was babbling. But every word she threw between them was another wall against last night, against the remembrance of how she'd invited him to prove this wasn't some dream, and the still-electric, mortifying moment when he'd proven it with the touch of his lips. No, this place was many things, but dream was not one of them.

The Goblin King did the one thing she didn't expect.

He smiled, a curiously gentle expression that for once didn't appear to conceal a second meaning. "Good morning, Sarah. Don't trouble yourself to leave: I know you have questions for me about yourself and Tommy."

She didn't, not at all, but this sudden change in attitude was startling. Her hand was still on the back of the chair. Grasping it, she sank slowly back into it, watching him warily.

"I want to know how long we can stay here." She wanted to know much more, starting and ending with the ring, and his claims, but she couldn't interrupt this moment of truce. This would be enough for the moment.

He smiled at her from his seat across the table, sipping from a cup the goblin had brought him. "You should know by now that both of you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish." He was dressed in black, a shade so rich that it seemed to drain the colors from the surfaces surrounding him. The leeching of color was disturbing, and hard to watch. She could almost feel the same magic tugging her in, tempting her to drown herself in that void. His hair shone like candle flame above the span of darkness.

"We can both work for our keep. We wouldn't want to live just on your generosity."

He steepled his fingers, bringing index fingers together in an elegant fold. "Tommy has magical ability, which is rare in both worlds. I would like to train him so that he may assist me."

"You've already started doing that," she said shortly. "I don't think I could stop him if I tried."

"Then we're agreed that I will make sure his magic is brought under control. The same offer extends to you, of course."

Sarah looked up, eyes wide. "What?"

He smiled. She saw the tips of pointed teeth. "Your world is regaining magic. You have a minor talent. Fire, I would guess. Nothing more than flame conjuring. I could teach you, if you wish."

"I've had enough of magic," she said. "The Mekuza and Chie have their pet magicians, and I don't want to know anything about that."

He shrugged. "Your choice."

"Then if you want Tommy's magic, what can I contribute?"

His eyes flicked away, then back. The sudden loss and recovery of his attention was shocking. "I suppose we must consider the possibilities. You should spend a few days testing the different domains of the Labyrinth, to see if anything calls to you."

She was surprised he hadn't taken advantage of the moment to suggest a different role. It seemed unlike him.

He smiled at her from behind the edge of the glass, as beautiful today as he had been terrifying the day before. She could still remember the feel of his hair between her hands, the warmth of his skin against hers.

She jerked her head sharply. Thoughts like that were dangerous. She was more than her memories. She was herself.

If Jareth saw her discomfort, he gave no indication. He had paused, looking at the glass he held. Beneath his gloved hands, it began to tremble, fluttering as if made of thousands of sewn cloth patches. Slowly, beneath his hands, it collapsed into a rain of tiny translucent butterflies with faceted, crystalline wings. They were soundless in the air, but she could feel the smallest of breezes drifting towards her.

The cloud moved slowly until it hovered above her head. She raised her left hand to brush against the wings of one. It settled on her little finger, walking over the back of her hand and her remaining fingers with tiny pinprick legs until it rested on her thumb, fluttering delicately. She brought it near her face to better see the delicate patterns of its wings, shot through with tiny tongues of flame.

It brushed itself against the line of her jaw with only the barest of touches; she had brought it too close. Lowering her hand, she blew gently on its wings, sending it away it to rejoin the cloud hovering around her with frantic wingbeats.

"Why are they still here?"

He regarded her calmly, his eyes glittering. "They wait to know what you want with them."

She looked at the empty table. "I would think you'd want your glass back."

At her words, the butterflies stirred into action. One by one, they descended, lowering to the table. The first landed in a circle, the next filling it in. The remaining creatures landed in a growing spiral, slowly settling into the shape of the glass. With each soundless landing, crystal wings beat more slowly, lethargically. In the space of a few seconds, they had stilled. The glass stood before her, ordinary, with none of the beauty each individual butterfly had shown. She lifted one hand to touch the cool glass, pulling it away in regret.

Jareth looked at the glass, then at her. "See? Your word sufficed."

She stood up, uncomfortable with something hovering just behind his pleasant expression.

"You said I could look around?"

He nodded and stood as well, beckoning to her with black gloves that looked like the same material as the clothes she wore. There were no coincidences in this land.

"I can begin the. . . tour immediately, if you would like."

She backed away, towards the door. "That's nice of you, but I was hoping to go with Hoggle instead."

He matched her stride, keeping close to her, that pleasant smile still fixed on his face as if he couldn't sense her fear. She knew he could, and bit the inside of her lip to jolt her back. She needed control.

"Now, why would I do that? Hoggle couldn't possibly take you through all the places you'll need to see."

He took another step forward; she stepped back to feel with one hand for the archway and came instead in contact with blank stone.

"Leaving so soon? We just started speaking."

"Then I can go by myself, thank you."

He caught her left hand, held it. The touch of his glove was as light as wingbeats against her skin.

She looked at the bridge between them, and remembered his strange exhilaration when she had held the butterfly. Words from her research as Sarah Williams drifted into her mind, unbidden.

Even in his land, there are rules that may keep you safe. Without invitation, the Goblin King cannot touch any trespasser.

It was too late to help Sarah Williams, but it could help her now. She yanked her hand out of his. "You can't touch me. I didn't give you permission!" She stepped backwards. "I didn't know!"

"Sarah, Sarah," he said, shaking his head, already reaching for her again. "You did know. Surely some part of you remembers."

She shook her head, frantic. "No. I mean, I know now, but not because of you or anything I remember. It's not there! I didn't know!"

He let his hand drop to his side. His face hardened. "Very well."

She backed up again, but this time felt the breeze from the open door instead of wall. She vanished into the doorway, his cold expression lingering with her long after she had run far, far, away from the Goblin King.

It was only when she paused, out of breath, that she saw where her flight had led her. She was back in the long hallway that her bedroom opened out to, the hallway that stretched as far as she could see, a thousand doors disappearing into the distance, each one unique.

She couldn't see the doorway Hoggle had pointed out as her own: carved from pleasant-scented brown wood and ornamented with a brass handle. In fact, none of the doors seemed familiar. Instead of deep red gems or sandstone, the ones in sight all glimmered with a metallic, oily sheen, with square doorknobs of slate-grey. Did they move of their own will? Or was she confused because she had run too far down the hallway before realizing where she was? She couldn't see which end held the staircase, but knew her door had been near it both yesterday and today.

She started retracing her steps in the direction she had came, then stopped.

"I don't want to go back to my room," she said to herself. After all, nothing waited for her there. Staying in her room was unexciting at best, and at worst, begging a casual visit from the Goblin King. If she kept walking, he would at least have to go to the trouble of finding her.

She turned to the nearest metallic door, which was a coppery color, its slick patina shining with warm-hued rainbows. There was a small geometric zigzag etched on the otherwise dull knob.

"I don't want to be killed," she said to the air, wishing it even harder. There was no response.

She pulled it open. A wind rose, sending a spray of sand into her face. She wiped at her face, squinting through the dust storm. In front of the door was the top of a hill of red-gold sand, with only a single tree in sight. It was skeletal and brittle, with no leaves to mark it as living. A clock hung forlornly in the air beside it, ticking away thirteen hours with a derelict, abandoned air. It was worn and pitted, with only a few strips of gilt to show it had once been gold. The faceplate was deeply scratched.

Beyond the hill, though, was a tangle of red walls that led to a craggy mountain. Perched at the top of the mountain was a castle that Sarah knew. It had haunted her dreams the past nights.

She made it halfway through the door before she stopped. She didn't know if the door would still be there if she let it close, and she didn't think the sand would hold it open. She took off one of the slippers instead, and wedged it between the door and its frame. Then she took off the other and held it carefully as she walked to the tree and its clock.

The sand was warm, and soft, not coarse like she had expected.

There was a square cushion under the tree, the same red hue as the sand it lay on. Unlike the aging clock, it looked new. As she sat down on it, facing the old vision of the Labyrinth, she felt a faint tingle. Whoever had placed it there had used magic to keep it safe from the elements.

The wind howled in the tree branches, but the sand it kicked up passed by her without touching her. More magic. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, looking at the Goblin Castle.

Jareth had said what she was looking at now no longer existed. So if he was telling the truth, what she was looking at was more like an artwork than a real place. She wondered if he came here often. The cushion and its protective spell suggested that he planned to return. Why would he save the memory of this place? She remembered their time here. Curled up on the hill overlooking the Labyrinth, she felt much more Sarah Williams than she had any other time except in dreams. At the base of the hill, the wind kicked up dust devils. They whirled in elaborate dances near the fountain and the gates.

She looked until she thought she saw the hedges, and wished she could see a hulking orange figure. Maybe that clearing was the bog, but Sir Didymus's challenges couldn't be heard from here. The gates were closed and the ivy walls were immaculate, but Hoggle wasn't in sight.

Which was ridiculous. Hoggle was inside the new Labyrinth, not this memory, and Didymus and Ludo were gone. Hoggle had told her. But looking out over the twists and turns below her, she wanted desperately to be back in that simpler time. When there was a villain, and she was a storybook princess. . .

. . . Not someone the Goblin King had known for lives, that he wanted back.

She pushed in her mind on the locked doors she felt there, but they resisted. Whoever she had been, she was only herself now, with one other set of memories to draw on.

See? Jareth had told her. Your word sufficed.

Whatever he had been trying to tell her, she felt lost.

She stared at the Goblin Castle and the city at its feet, wondering in which of its rooms she had danced with its king.

He had lied to her. She knew that. But he had also told her truths, important ones. If he had twisted the stories in some places it was more to do with a view colored by his perceptions than malice.

He had offered her everything, twice. She wondered if there would be a third and last time, the chance storybook princesses always had. She wondered if she would be changed if she could remember all her past selves. She wondered if she would choose to stay with him. He scared her, fascinated her, and drew her pity. She didn't know him. . . but she didn't even know herself.

Right now, she only wanted to be safe. She didn't want all this confusion.

She stood up, brushing at the sand clinging to her ankles, and retrieved her shoe, stepping back into the hallway. Hopping on one leg, she put the other slipper back on, again watching with curiosity as it shrank to fit her foot.

She looked at the other metallic doors, each one shining with a different set of fractured rainbows. Realization hit her.

She threw open the pewter door to see a ballroom, fresh-lit candles waiting in tall candelabras amidst swaths of glittering fabric.

Shining aluminum led to a dank tunnel with scattered cobwebs, and a forgotten tricorn hat.

Dull zinc unmasked staircases crammed end over end, where she could almost hear her frantic footsteps as she ran.

Beaten gold revealed a suspended platform of shattered walls and hopes, dusted with feathers and fragments of broken crystal. Words echoed in the air.

Stop! Wait! Look, Sarah! Look at what I'm offering you. . .

She slammed it shut, face white. He had kept all of them. Every place where they had met was here, pristine. Maybe, just maybe, he was telling more of the truth than she had thought. The metallic doors showed her smeared, distorted reflections of herself.

Her heartbeat slowed. She remembered something important.

"Where's Tommy?" she said, and thought she felt the air thicken. "I'm. . . going to walk down this hall," she said, not sure how to do this. "I want to find the door that will take me to him."

She began to walk, footsteps swallowed by the endless line of doors. As the metallic doors disappeared, she calmed.

A chime rang in the air, more insistently until she slowed. She laughed. "That's my cue?" She looked at the door it had indicated.

Light glowed softly from the crack between double doors marked from hinge to latch with elaborate scrollwork of gilt leaves, reflecting from the grooves of stem and fringe with a slight gleam. In the twilight of the winding corridor, the warmth drew Sarah against her will. She paused, about to touch the left-hand door, remembering yesterday's wreath of vines. Her touch might set off some response that wasn't gentle, and neither Hoggle, Jareth, or even Tommy was around to help her.

Instead she stepped as close as she could without touching the surface, and looked into the gap, trying to see what lay through them. She could feel heat waft up from the wood, and realized, this close, that it was vibrating softly, like a hummingbird's heartbeat.

"Beautiful," she said, and could have sworn the door quivered slightly in reply. She was sure when it opened the tiny bit more she needed to see into the room beyond.

"Thank you," she said after a moment. She brought up her hand and pressed it flat against a fan-shaped leaf the size of her hand, and stood there, letting the murmur of its pulse seep into her skin. Then she bent forward again until her hair brushed against the doors.

Inside, she could see Jareth, a black-clad figure in relief, leaning far too close to Tommy. And Tommy was holding the source of that bright glow in the palm of his hand. A ball of light the size of a fist laid in what she thought was his palm; she could barely see her friend and ward except as a slight decrease in the light. He was glowing as well, but not as strongly.

She slid her head further across the wood until her ear was close to the crack, straining to hear the soft murmur of the Goblin King's voice.

". . . not enough control," he said. "You're letting it spill out over you, showing it to the whole world. Think about the light in your hand; now push down it, yes, close it up, don't let any of it escape. . . "

Tommy's voice, strained. "It hurts. It doesn't want to do that." He was raspy, forcing out the words against whatever task was consuming him.

The Goblin King, more patient than she could have imagined. "It will always want to do that. But in order to use it, you have to focus it. Close your eyes and concentrate. Picture something heavy doing it for you. . . water, pushing on all sides, or a stone wall being built around it."

The glow started to dim.

"Yes, that's it. Now, focus. Don't speak. Just press it in."

The light barely spilled out of the doors now, just enough to catch Sarah's chestnut hair and turn it auburn in the fading light.

"Now picture it hardening beneath your fingers. Be careful now, this is the tricky part. It took me a long time to get the knack of this, but you're older and should be better at making sure it's completely even."

She could barely hear Tommy's whispered question. "What happens if I don't?"

Jareth's response was dry. "It explodes. Frequently in whatever form it feels like. Remind me to tell you about the time it caused flocks of very tiny chickens to invade the castle. But now. . . " He trailed off into expectant silence.

Sarah could feel the tension of the moment, even if Jareth's bantering tone hadn't tipped her that whatever was happening was far more important than he wanted Tommy to believe.

There was a shiver in the air.

Then Tommy's voice, querulous. "Is this. . . ? Is it good enough? Did I do it right?"

Silence, then a reply suffused with warm contentment.

"It's perfect."

Sarah exhaled, a smile creeping over her face.

"Now you have it. Push outwards, to see if you've left any stray pieces."

She felt that shiver again, but knew this time it had somehow found her.

"You should come in," Tommy called to the door, and she knew she was caught.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the doors, stepping through with a brief stab of guilt. She was more than the girl she'd been when she'd crossed into the Underground, and both Sarahs knew that she shouldn't have been eavesdropping. Like everything in this strange new world, she was helpless before her impulses, tugged in new directions by each upwelling desire.

She stopped in the doorway, startled. This was no room; this was a garden grown wild around a still pool, with blue sky overhead and a diffuse sun beaming down. Tangles of flowers in every shade of green, from the white-pale of unfurling leaves to the deep black of night blooms, grew from just inside the radius of the doors to the pool by which Jareth and Tommy stood, waiting expectantly. The flowers were waist-high where she stood, gaping, but there was the slimmest of paths, carpeted in lush midsummer grass, winding its way to the pool, which reflected the sky perfectly. Tall trees with turquoise trunks and limbs garlanded with tiny yellow-green flowers like small stars started at the far end of the pond and wrapped around the far sides of what she thought might be the edges of the room, blocking her view.

Even Tommy, dressed in green slacks and a sleeveless shirt, seemed to be a natural extension of this place, his loose hair swaying in the same breeze that played with leaf edges. Only Jareth seemed wholly alien in his close-fitting, high-collared shirt, black pants tucked into shining boots. The wind passed over him without touching him. He stood apart, gloved hands clasped in front of him, with predatory silence.

If he had known she had been listening at the door, his face didn't show it.

She started to walk forwards, but the edge of the door beneath her hand vibrated uneasily.

"What?"

"No shoes," Tommy called. His hands were by his side, empty now. Beside him, Jareth was silent, his face unreadable.

She stepped out of the slippers, which sunk into the ground like quicksand. She hoped they'd reappear later.

The grass was soft and springy beneath her feet, cool like thick moss. Each step she took released dizzying smells into the air that made her light-headed and almost euphoric. She pushed through the wilderness, making her way to the pond where the small boy and his dark-clad watcher waited.

The flowers grew taller as she approached the pool, rising quickly to her shoulders before she pushed her way through the last blossoms with a shower of pale green pollen and the smell of ginger.

For the second time, she stopped. The pond wasn't reflecting the sky; it was the same opaque blue, pearlescent and fathomless. She dropped to her knees before she could reach Jareth and Tommy, reaching to dip her hand into the liquid blue. It slipped through her fingers like air, dropping soundlessly back into the pond without a ripple. Her hand sparkled where it had held the water, like the dust of a butterfly's wings. Beneath the distortion, her skin seemed older, more wrinkled.

Tommy smiled as she got up, looking down at her hand. She turned it over, palm down, and the dust trickled into nothingness with the same smell of ginger. The age spots disappeared into her skin, veins sinking down as her skin filled out again.

"D'you like it?" he asked, running up to her.

"What is it?" she asked, staring down at the still water.

"Time," he said. "I was going to stop you, but you figured it out." He grinned. "I asked

Jareth if I could go swimming in it, but he told me that would be a bad idea."

She shivered, thinking of what could have happened if she'd found the room by mistake.

Tommy grinned. "Got something to show you."

His energy was contagious, enough so that she almost forgot the lurking figure of the Goblin King, who had yet to acknowledge her presence.

"Show me then," she said, smiling back at him and pointedly ignoring the other person present.

He held out his hand and squinted. There was a brief, dazzling flare of light that rapidly condensed into a solid, glassy sphere. It rested innocently on his palm.

A crystal.

She stretched out a hand, paused. "Can I?"

Tommy looked over his shoulder, and then nodded. She let her fingers touch its slightly warm surface, gently pressing to test its strength. It gave slightly, but didn't break. Although it looked at first like the ones she had seen the Goblin King, there was some trick of the light, the way it reflected off the crystal, that made her sure it wasn't quite the same. She didn't know if it was inexperience or the quirk of a different magic.

Her fingers closed around the sphere as she prepared to pick it up.

"Don't." A black glove curled around her wrist, her only warning that the Goblin King was now behind her. Once she knew, she could feel his presence looming behind her, a shadow in this place of airy day. She let go, and looked at Tommy in apology.

A sudden strain crossed Tommy's face. He pressed his lips together tightly, closing his eyes as the sphere flickered in and out before becoming solid again.

"Until he has learned to control his magic better, he can only maintain that focus while it remains in contact with his hand."

She didn't face him, looking straight ahead at the placid pool. "I'm sorry. If I'd known, I wouldn't have done it."

"Now you know."

"She didn't mean to," Tommy said. "I shoulda told her."

"Tommy, I can feel your control slipping." The boy's eyes flew shut. "Turn around, Sarah," Jareth said. "You'll distract him. This learning is crucial."

She was not yet immune to the power that sang through her when he used that deep, crisp tone. Unwillingly, Sarah faced him.

"As for you," he said, frowning down at her. "It disturbs me that I can't feel your movements around the Labyrinth like I can Tommy's. I need to be able to find you if necessary."

So he had been watching her as she touched the lake. She was outraged by his assumptions, even though she herself had worried about the same when she went exploring earlier that day.

"I don't need your guard," she said.

"Foolish girl. There are places here where you could die and we would never know." His voice was sharp. She was sure it was deliberate. His eyes narrowed. "Don't argue with me about this."

He held out his hand. Resting in it was a necklace with a tiny teardrop of amber. She picked it up by the tiny silver clasp, suspending it before her. It glowed with quiet warmth that made her think of the doors.

"I'll wear it," she said, "if it would make you more comfortable."

A stiff nod was her reply.

She eyed the clasp, remembering her worn-down nails. Realized that she could never put it on herself. Thought for a moment about the consequences of what she was considering. He'd told her it would keep her safe, and she felt afraid and confident by turns in this changeable, fickle place. This, she had to believe, was not a ploy to gain more privileges.

She took a deep breath. "Would you help me put it on?" She turned again to face Tommy, using one hand to push up the heavy fall of her hair while the other cupped the necklace behind her. Standing there, the breeze dancing across her bare neck, she felt acutely exposed. She didn't trust him, not yet, but she would allow him to do this.

He picked it up with only the faintest whisper of leather against her palm. The chain fell around her neck with a quick chill, the warm pulse of the amber settling into the hollow of her collarbone. There was the slightest pressure against her nape as the clasp came to rest.

"Thank you," she said quietly, grateful that he hadn't used the opportunity to touch her. There were some advantages to magic. And he'd played fair, for once. She could feel another barrier give way to this proof.

There was a sudden tenseness in the air. "I am pleased you're wearing it."

She turned around again, caught in that icy regard. "I'll leave you to finish with Tommy. I didn't mean to interrupt."

He shook his head, and she could breathe again. "No. I meant to find you." Unexpectedly, his lips quirked into a smile. "You were never properly introduced to the heart of the Labyrinth. Would you like to see its current incarnation?"

The years stretched out as a veil between them, and she remembered that heavy pool of time just behind them. "What did it look like before?"

The smile vanished; his lips thinned. "It was a room of staircases."

The Escher Room. A flood of memories swept past her, nearly drowning her in the deluge. She remembered Jareth, taunting her. She remembered running after Toby, sure she'd lose him before the final seconds rung out. She remembered the wreck of the room, and the offer Jareth had made to her. With a struggle, she locked away Sarah William's memories. Sarah was regretting ever taking that damned crystal from him the first night. When he gave her his full attention like this, something dark and deep swirled up, a growing ache that raced through her like drugged wine, slowing her reactions to him at the time she wanted them the sharpest.

"I'll take your word for it," she said dryly, her voice at odds with her inner turmoil. Sarah Williams was locked firmly away for now. There was decades of longing in the woman's memories, and she certainly didn't want to share them.

It occurred to her that Tommy looked remarkably like Toby, who had told her a selective remembrance of his time with the Goblin King, the memories frozen in his mind by the exposure to magic. Jareth had meant to keep Toby as an apprentice, once Sarah lost. Now he had Tommy instead.

"I didn't ruin it?" she asked, some part of her relieved to learn it had survived. It had had a stark beauty of its own, mirrors turned on mirrors.

"You could never destroy the heart of the Labyrinth. Only your perceptions of it changed."

They were drawing near to dangerous territory, and she could feel them both circling it. She backed away as quickly as she could.

"I'd like to see it again," she said, drawn to the idea of being in the room again. "When can I go?"

He looked at her, seemed to come to a decision.

"Now."

The tip of a black-clad finger touched her arm, and the world dissolved.

-----

Sarah blinked, dazzled. In the eyeblink of travel there had been absolute darkness; now she stood in a vast white room of smooth stone. It was cold beneath her toes, and she regretted giving her slippers to the time-pool garden.

She turned, slowly, aware that Jareth stood a polite distance away while she looked. The room was perfectly round, and the white stone was seamless, lighting the room with its soft glow. No shadows existed in that perfect spill of illumination. As she watched, the light dimmed, and then brightened. A few seconds again, it did the same.

"A heartbeat," she said, crossing to the wall. She put her hand on it gently and felt a surge of heat as the next pulse came.

"Not quite," said her guide. "But the idea is similar."

She looked up. The ceiling was much farther away than she had thought and trying to find it made her dizzy. Her eyes kept sliding on the shining stone. The flash of heat beneath her hand brought her thoughts abruptly back, and she turned to look at the Goblin King.

"Why is it so empty this time?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Empty?"

She gestured, circling her hand. "Last time it looked like a deranged circus funhouse. Now it's this science-looking place, empty. Why?"

He stepped back two measured paces, indicating a spot on the floor with a graceful sweep of his arm. "Only empty if you do not look. Touch."

Suspicious, she crouched down where he had pointed, placing her hand flat against the stone. This time, there was no surge of warmth. Instead, the temperature dropped so quickly that her hand ached and then burned with cold. She snatched it back, cradling it, looking up at him in anger. "What. . . ?"

"You're not looking," he said, his own eyes trained downwards where she had touched.

She glanced back down. There was a perfect negative of her hand against the pristine stone, a solid blackness that did not glow like the rest of the room. As she watched, the handprint began to separate into inky trails that writhed against the stone, spreading outwards in thick swirls. She frowned, watching as the black whorls moved faster, spinning underneath her feet as they snaked to the walls. There was a pause. The light flickered. The black lines froze.

Sarah stood up, spinning around as she tried to look at the whole design. There was a pattern there, she could feel it, but it looked like a tangled mess from where she stood, full of random loops and double-backs and strange angular designs side-by-side organic curlicues and waves.

By her foot was the end of a single line. She looked again at the design, realized that there it was the only endpoint she could see.

She crouched down again, touched it with her finger. Nothing happened. Standing, she looked to Jareth, who was bent down on one knee examining a part of the design, murmuring something beneath his breath. He looked up questioningly.

"What is this?" she asked.

"The Labyrinth," he replied. His mismatched eyes watched her closely.

She stilled. "I don't see the pathways."

"That's because the lines show only the path, not the walls that contain it."

She looked at the whole design, spilling to the walls of the enormous, glowing room. "But. . . " She looked down again, at that tiny line that ended in the center of the room. "There's only one way to the center."

"To this room," he said. "Yes."

The walls seemed to fade, and ghostly echoes of staircases rose in her mind, haunted by a melody she'd never quite heard. She shook her head, clearing the images.

"But where are the other ways to the center?"

He pushed up from his knee and stood, one gloved hand clasping the other, eyes shining with amusement. "Why would there be other ways?"

"There's. . . "

"Sarah," he chided. "Remember. You once knew, even if you claim you don't remember."

She didn't remember. Instead, she stared down at the pathway, a horrible thought surfacing in her mind.

"But if there's only one path. . . I could have gone any way, all along. . . and. . . "

". . . And ended up in the center of the Labyrinth." He walked to her, boots whispering against the stone. He gestured to the stopping point of the line. "You would find, if you chose to walk this Labyrinth again, that you would always end up at the center. There are never false turns. Only one path from the beginning to the end."

The tangles and curlicues and loops of the twisting line mocked her. "But it looked like the path divided. . . "

He smiled. It was not a comforting smile. "Looks can be deceiving. There were no false turns, only the illusion of such."

"But how could you stop everyone from winning!" she blurted out.

The smile faded. "It is about the journey, not the route one takes. Instead of false turns, there are obstacles to overcome. Those unfortunates that do not complete it do not lose their way. They instead fail to confront whatever the Labyrinth chooses as the battleground. You must be strong enough to face both fears and failures and survive. "

"Like I did," she said.

"Only you could have passed them," he said. "It was a final test."

Her eyes widened in shock. "What?"

He stepped closer, fidgeting with the cuff of his black glove. The light drained where they stood, but neither cast a shadow. The lines of the Labyrinth map curled closer to them, drawn to the Goblin King. "I chose the Labyrinth a long time ago. I sent the legends to the mortal world, seeding each generation with the stories to guarantee each would send me those most drawn to the tale. Many came. Few made it far."

He stopped pulling at the glove. "Only you could have completed the Labyrinth I constructed; passed the tests I set. None made it to the center for centuries." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, and she was caught in the darkness of his unequal pupils. "Until you came, brash and young and centuries late."

He paused, and she remembered the rush of wind against her as she fell through the broken stone of the staircases, plummeting towards the endgame.

"And won."

She remembered the caress of feathers against her cheek, and the aching sense of regret that mirrored what she had seen in his eyes that day.

The same regret she saw in him now.

"You twisted the rules," he continued, and she saw wry admiration cross his face. "And rejected my offer. I underestimated the strength of devotion you would have to the child, and the lack of recognition you showed. It had been a thousand years for me, after all. I assumed that your amnesia would end with my punishment." He frowned. "Imagine my shock when it did not."

He looked away, breaking the connection.

Regret crashed through her, quickly distilled into anger. It wasn't her fault if the damned Goblin King had missed his chance. He had never told her the truth that time. She sensed other things hidden in his stories, other half-truths left undiscovered.

"Why am I here now, then?" she questioned, hand sweeping out to point at the elaborate patterns of the Labyrinth. "Why were you waiting for me? Why did you design all this for me? You don't seem to be telling me about your past lives."

He ignored the first questions, answering only the last. "I have no lives to tell you about." He gave the tiniest shrug of resignation. "I was given long life instead."

Sarah stepped up at him, hair falling back behind her as she tilted her head up to stare at him, her gaze demanding even more than her words. "And what gave you that right? What gave you that authority, Goblin King?"

He met her look coolly, the same lack of yielding reflected back at her. Golden hair shaded his eyebrows, masking their eloquence. "Did I ever say that it was a gift?" He didn't step forward, but she felt, somehow, his presence widen, and she realized he was pushing outwards with his magic.

She opened her mouth, then closed it sharply enough that her teeth clicked together. Tightening her lips, she shook her head once, quickly.

"I never claimed," he said, "that my measure was any greater than yours."

"Goblin King," she threw back at him, "ruling your petty kingdom with your magic and your damned crystals."

"The same magic and same crystals that saved you and your brother from being slaves, or worse," he said, the sudden flash of emotion once again masked behind that smooth, inhuman face. "And you come from a world full of unequals, do you not? Why does it surprise you to find me in a position of authority here? Should we not be subject to the same division of talents?"

They both knew her unspoken answer: Sarah wanted him to be ordinary because she felt herself so. And because it wasn't, after all these years, fair.

"I gave you your chance," he said softly, menace at last sliding free of the velvet that had sheathed it today.

The feeling of his magic vanished, leaving her cold. Looking at his sharp features, she wondered perhaps if she'd at last found the limits of his tolerance. And perhaps in her hasty rejection that night, she'd made herself another enemy.

The Goblin King wears a thousand faces, Sarah William's writings offered her. Beware of him when he seems most gentle and persuadable, for that is when he knows he has you. But the long-dead woman's memories offered nothing more than a text Sarah Tomolino already knew by heart.

He stepped back, drawing his clasped palms apart until a crystal rested beneath them. He rolled it carelessly between his long fingers, clearly anticipating her reaction.

She was less quick to cringe than before, but it still came.

His fingers stilled. Slowly, he pressed his palms together until the bauble disappeared. Crossing his arms, he waited.

She was afraid to ask what it might have contained, and knew from the sudden eagerness in his stance that he knew it as well. There was ancient pain etched on his face, lines marking impossible age.

Abruptly, her anger disappeared into the serene room, broken once more into a regret that made her ache. She almost stepped forward, almost held her hand to him. But whatever lay between them, it wasn't quite strong enough.

Sarah cleared her throat. "I'm. . . sorry. That I keep doing this. That we keep ending like this."

Her eyes met his wordlessly, and then she looked down.

There was a long silence.

"Your kind were given many short lives instead of one full one," he offered, his voice softer than she'd expected. "Your gift was the ability to forget each one in turn, that you could start each new turn unhindered by more than the vaguest guidelines of the past. We were given only one chance to live, but our lot was to remember all of it, that we might learn and thus not waste our unbroken time. I have yet to see proof that either gift was, indeed, a gift at all."

A sneer twisted his lips, but it was half-hearted and quickly faded. "We have all done much that we might forget. And I have watched your kin stumble around blindly, time after time, when the knowledge from their past lives might have led them to greatness."

She looked past his shoulder, where she could only see pure white reflected back at her. "Then this knowing of mine. . . is wrong. I shouldn't have it" She blinked back tears that seared her eyes, blurring him to harsh strip of gold-capped darkness. "Why did you do it if it was. . . wrong?"

"It was permitted," he corrected. "You were never meant to rejoin that cycle once you met me. You were supposed to stay with me as my companion, and I would have made you one of us."

"Without my permission?" she cried, feeling the beginning of disgust.

"With your permission," he answered. "Your memories are still incomplete. You hide from them, because you are afraid what you would find."

"You say I chose to do this. . . to stay. . . "

"To be with me. You understand."

She threw up her hands, flinging herself away in a blind stumble. "No! You're just saying this! You just want to take advantage of your own mistakes!"

Her next words slipped out before she could stop them, flying out of her mouth too quick to call them back. "And you would have given me my past lives back as well. Made me who I am against the rules. Abomination." She couldn't watch him as she spoke. She searched for a door without her burned-out eyes, palm sliding down cool stone, searching. She wanted it to be there, so it would be there. If she wished hard enough.

"You were living your first life, Sarah. You met me, and chose to stay with me when I offered."

"But you already said this wasn't more than a thousand years ago. Where was I before?"

"The Great Divine," he said, but she knew whatever word he'd said was not what came to her. This phrase, though, resonated strangely in her mind, hurtling around memories as if searching for the one to which it belonged. The pendant warmed, almost burning her skin where it lay.

She looked over her shoulder from where she sought the door seam to see him watching her with far too much interest for such a flippant comment. Panic gave way to something stronger.

"You tried that deliberately," she said. "Don't ever do that again. They're mine to find."

"Sarah," he said, just as her fingers slid into the invisible hollow of the seam, She tugged the door open, stepping through without fear into the blackness beyond.

Nothingness was welcome to what she left behind.

Behind her, the Goblin King looked down at where he stood on the center of the labyrinth pattern. "Twice in one day," he said dryly. "Lucky me." His brow creased thoughtfully as he considered where he stood in relation to the center of the pattern. It had not been where Sarah had stood, although the casual observer would notice they'd been on the same space on the floor.

The labyrinth had shifted beneath his feet. As its master he could read the nuances with a practiced eye.

Whatever he saw caused him to clench his fist angrily and bend half over for a closer look.

Then he strode out of the hall, hair tousled by the speed of his passage. The door disappeared as the wall sealed itself behind him. Slowly, the map of the Labyrinth faded, leaving the circular room empty, lit from within with cold brightness.

-----

She had found herself in another round room, a plain one, with doors to the north, west and east. She chose east, hissing as the handle burned her with heat. She held on stubbornly until it opened enough for her to slip through, and chose random directions as she walked down unfamiliar corridors, furniture shrouded in great swathes of fabric.

At last she found herself in a low-ceilinged hall with spotlights and sharp right angles, with strange, jutting walls that seemed to have no real order. The projecting walls had velvet curtains that half-covered paintings, allowing her only to see a corner of canvas at a time, with maybe a worked frame or gleam of glass covering.

A painting of dark red blotches slapped on a pale, eye-hurting green made her stop for a moment. Beyond the cloth that hid the right side, she was sure the spatter of paint drops formed some sort of shape. She reached for the fabric, about to push it away. The velvet was shockingly cold beneath her fingertips, as cold as the floor of the Labyrinth's center had been when she touched it. The pendant warmed against her collarbone, reminding her of its giver.

"Don't," warned Jareth from behind her. She jumped, looking over shoulder to see him lurking behind her, face set. His arms were crossed. "Retrieving you would be difficult from a painting such as that."

"Then just leave me there," she snapped, turning back to the painting. The numb obedience of the last hour had faded, and his warning only made her move faster. She was determined not to listen to his bluff.

Jareth grabbed her wrist, holding it locked as he pried the cloth out of her fist with his other hand. As the velvet rippled away from her grasp, he held her at a careful arm's length. "I understand this is difficult for you. Try to get it through your empty head that you are Sarah Williams, hard as it seems for to grasp an actual thought. Furthermore, assume, for once, that others may know more than you. I know something of what drove you here. Trust me when I say the past years have been far worse on this side of the gateways." He stared at her for a long moment, arms trembling in exertion. But to keep her from hurting him? Or to keep him from her?

She realized she didn't know, and shuddered.

Jareth acted immediately. "You are safe here," he said, dropping his arms.

"That's not what you think." It was a goad, not a real guess, but the sudden tight clench of his jaw confirmed it. It was enough.

"Why are we not safe here?" She looked at him in accusation, her anger at her own weakness sharply focused. "In her time, you were powerful enough to protect humans who fled to you."

His eyes darkened as arrogance, never far from the Goblin King, reemerged with a vengeance. "It is not my protection that is the issue, Sarah!" His voice was harsh, forcing her backwards as if she'd been struck.

How stupid could she be? Part of her was very aware that she stayed here only at Jareth's sufferance. But her stubbornness, especially that old pride that had beaten him the first time, kept rising to the surface every time she saw him. He had been uncharacteristically mild, at least until she had baited him. He would never be nice, she suspected, but this was as close as she would get to seeing it, and she had already blown it at least twice today.

He was walking away, obviously expecting her to follow. "I will take you back to your room, and send Hoggle if you wish to walk about."

With one last look at the painting, she followed him.

-----

The Falconer's thoughts were perfectly logical, given the premise. When confronted with void-walking nightmare hounds with a taste for trespassing souls, there were really only two solutions. Either build an impervious barrier spell, or throw enough bones in the dog's path that he could slip by unnoticed.

The Falconer did not have a personal talent for shielding, or a coven of magic-users to borrow that proficiency from. What he did have was a nearly unlimited supply of talented, captive, and untrained magicians, more than enough to serve as sources. The rest were surplus, stockpiled for a need like this one. They were talented enough to be appealing bait, but not trained and therefore easy to coerce into crossing into the void.

The choice of methods took no time at all.

Forty-three adults and children stood in the chalk circle, drawn at the base of the walls to hold them all. The youngest was three, the oldest sixty-two. They spoke six natural languages; two artificial and one extra-range coding that involved the use of colored lights as modifiers. They were a diverse group in height, weight, skin color, intelligence, education and wealth. Some were rebels and one was one of Chie's formerly dearest friends, until said friend unexpectedly came down with a bad case of telepathy. They had only two characteristics in common: the strength of their manifested talents and the sightless, opaque eyes that were the first gift of the Falconer to all his acquisitions. They stood, silent and bespelled, forming a second circle inside the chalk circle.

Inside the concentric rings, the Falconer stood, eyes closed and hands raised as he probed the fabric of the way between worlds. Now he pushed, now he pulled, sometimes making slashing motions with his hands. His mouth moved, forming words that echoed in the void. A frown creased his brow. The way in was exceptionally protected now, although he was sure he hadn't been discovered in his earlier attempts. Still, there was a weakness somewhere. He knew it. He just had to find it.

The hounds in the dark smelt the magic, heard the chants, and began to search.

Forty-three sightless slaves shivered, rattling the iron chains that bound them together.

-----

There was a knock on the door. Looking up from the heavy tome on her lap, Sarah forced a smile. "Come in!"

To her delight, Tommy walked in. "Hiya," he said, grinning as he scrambled onto the bed beside her. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Whatcha looking at?"

"It's a history book," she said, shrugging one shoulder at the stack on the bedside table. "The Goblin King gave me a few." He had actually sent two goblins to bring them, which was good, since she might have thrown the books at him if he'd given her the chance.

Tommy wrinkled his nose. "History of what? Sounds boring?"

She smiled wryly. "I don't know where, or what. It's a battle between goblins and elves. I'm not even sure if it's a real story or not. But it's something to do."

He looked at her, puzzled. "But why don't you walk around?

"Because I don't want to speak to the Goblin King."

"And why don't you call him Jareth?"

"Because I don't want to."

He sat up from where he had been sprawled across the pillows. "Did you two fight or something?"

Pain slashed through her with his simple question. How could she explain what lay between the two of them? She had cast him as her archenemy but fled to him for protection. She had been stung by his words and actions but had also seen the raw emotions that spilled through his control. She was afraid of him, but she couldn't forget the midnight waltz, or last night's encounter. She was afraid that all she felt for him was stolen from another life, and none of it from this own. She couldn't even begin to describe the mess she was in to another person.

Sarah closed the book, considering what to say. "Maybe. I mean, yes."

"You shouldn't. He's neat."

She was surprised by how quickly he had dropped his suspicions, and anger chased confusion away. "He doesn't understand us. He's just shuffling the two of us around, playing with us. Don't you see that?"

Tommy looked at her with guileless blue eyes. "He's teaching me magic. And this is better than any place I've ever been before. Did you see the flying horses?"

She stiffened. "He's been showing you around?"

"No, I've been with Catsqueak. And sometimes Hoggle. They're teaching me to play goblin poker tonight."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh, are they?"

"You can come!" He tugged at her shirt. "Hoggle wants to see you. He told me to ask you. That's why I came by."

She was jealous that Tommy was spending time with her friend, and all she had was the constant appearances of the Goblin King. "I think I'll stay here tonight, thanks." She wanted to, but didn't want to attract Jareth's attention in any way. Staying in her room felt safe, for now.

Tommy was standing on the bed now, taking in the closed drapes and mustiness of the room. "Why don't you at least go to the garden with the pool? It's nice there. I can give you directions. And Jareth doesn't go there much. He told me so. He only brought me there because he thought it might help my magic."

She remembered how Tommy had seemed to belong underneath the blossom-laden trees and Jareth had looked so out of place. It was easy to believe that he didn't normally go there. And it had been peaceful under the trees, with the blue sky above and the blue pool at her feet. More importantly, the longer she stayed in the room the more she invited another visit from the Goblin King.

That decided her. She slid off the bed. "Okay. Tell me how to get there."

Tommy explained as she put on the slippers, chattering happily about the neat things she'd see on the way. She listened more carefully to the directions, cutting him off as he began to talk about the stables again.

"Let me make sure I have this," she said slowly. "Down the hallway, until I see a black door with a black handle. Then two rights, and keep walking until I reach a hall with lots of heavy drapes?"

He nodded. "Walk through it. It's long and it'll take a while. But when it ends, you'll be able to see the door to the pool."

She smoothed the sleeves of her shirt, letting her fingers trail down the material. Goblin King's or not, it was still amazing to have the luxury of fresh, clean clothes. Reaching behind to make sure her braid was still intact, she nodded to Tommy.

"Come get me when you'd like to eat." She tucked the book under her arm. "I'm off."

"Bye!"

His directions were simple enough to follow, although they had sounded vague when she'd first heard them. There was no other black door in sight, and the right turns were close enough to the door that she wasn't worried she'd missed one.

A few steps into the passage that Tommy had mentioned she realized where he had sent her. Focused lights traced bright circles on the floor. Heavy velvet drapes covered walls, muffling the sound of her footsteps. The walls leaned towards the ceiling, lending the space the feel of a mausoleum. Each soft footfall felt like an intrusion, and she half-expected alarms to scream and guards to rush as she wandered down the broken line of the hallway, looking at each revealed sliver of painting.

She could see the other end of the corridor now. Just a bit further, and she could be reading against a tree, the still pool at her feet.

Jareth had told her it would be dangerous to look at the paintings. But right now, she didn't feel like listening to him. She could feel the room waiting, watching, guarding. Whatever treasures it held, it was something she was not supposed to see. She had read that in the warning in his face, his quick attempt to get her away, and his refusal to answer any more questions about the painting.

Perhaps whatever was held here could give her answers.

She stopped. The corridor was long, but the paintings were widely spaced. The crazy corners and confusing walls made it hard to tell, but she was almost sure this was near where she had been when Jareth appeared.

She walked to the nearest painting and started in surprise when she recognized the red blotches of the work she was looking for. She grabbed the icy velvet and flung it back before it could freeze her fingers, determined to see what it had protected.

The splatter of paint was chaotic on the side the drapes hadn't covered, but as it moved from right to left they coalesced into a pattern. Together, they formed a face profile with high cheekbones, and long, streaming hair, tilted out of proper position until it was nearly a three-quarters sidelong glance.

It was her face, magnified through the genetic structure of a different culture and lifetime.

And it looked very, very old.

The outswept hair, the formerly random splashes she had taken for abstract art, formed something else at the edges where paint dissolved into canvas: a running wolf, weaving in and out of the strands as it chased its invisible prey.

As she looked, the wolf turned to her and growled.

Sarah jumped back. The wolf began pacing back and forth on the canvas, worrying tiny braids worked into the long hair of her other self. She had thought it was painted with dark red-brown paint, but a more primitive part of her realized that the pigment was the brown-red-rust of old blood. Even as she watched the wolf move, unable to look away from its hunt, the paint began to liquefy, beading up through the canvas until it gleamed wetly in the harsh spotlight.

Then the face turned, blood running through the grainy canvas--cured, scraped hide--until a seamless oval face with empty eyes gazed out.

The wolf snapped.

Sarah reached a trembling finger to touch a lock of the girl's hair, crying out as the blood ran up her finger.

A moment later, she was gone.

-----

The Falconer's hands froze. In the tower, his hands gripped empty air, white-knuckled. Where his mind wandered, he grasped something else.

He could feel wild magic, suddenly unconfined. Strong magic. Powerful magic. The backlash pushed at the flimsy containment held taut between his hands, snapping the weave fiber by fiber until it was paper-thin. It subsided, but the damage was already done. All it would take was one last push and it would be broken.

He could feel the power of the world beyond beginning to shimmer beyond that fragile protection. No sniffer could find this point; no spinner could mend it. He held it in his hands, quiescent.

He took a deep breath.

There was a noise like the muffled crumpling sound of a collapsing paper bag, and a roar of inrushing air as the top of the tower collapsed. The falling stones buried the forty-three bodies lying still in the broken circle. Each corpse was nut-brown and desiccated, hands curled defensively in a sudden, futile last fight against the draining of their magic.

It was said that Chie fainted when the Mekuzae told her he was gone.

-----

Half a kingdom away, visiting an isolated part of his realm, Jareth looked up in sudden surprise. Panic chased across his face, but the grain factor quoting the expected yields did not notice.

"And, sire..."

The confused factor looked at his lord, who was now staring up at the sky, head tilted to better listen. The factor cocked his green-scaled head but heard nothing more than the production sounds of a busy farm combine.

"Sire?"

Smoke drifted on the wind from a nearby trash bonfire. The Goblin King reached out and grabbed a handful of smoke, rubbing it between his hands until a bit of parchment appeared. He read the scrawled charcoal glyphs hurriedly before turning to the factor.

"Other matters require my attention."

Before the factor could stammer his understanding, Jareth had vanished. The paper drifted downwards, separating into coils of blue smoke before it could hit the ground.

---------------------------------------

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Author's notes:

Wow, over a year to finish this. I never want to go that long again and I'm trying very hard to have the final chapter out before September. Thanks to everyone out there for all the lovely reviews--they always remind me to open up the latest draft and type a little more. As always, concrit is more than appreciated.

And a final million thanks to neversaynever, who cheerfully tackles my rough drafts and polishes them up so pretty.