A/N – So, Jareth and co. have found their new world. But can they make it their own?

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. But having said that, there's a fair bit of leeway to explore… I have also borrowed the idea of witchwood as the material of choice in sidhe swords from Tad William's great series 'Memory, Sorrow and Thorn'.

CHAPTER 5 – The Labyrinth

Jareth crouched down, running his fingers through the grass, testing the soil and the earth underneath. It was good land, rich, and fertile – the rivers were cool and clear, untainted by the iron in the mountains, and the forests were thick and bursting with game. There were small, strange creatures in the forests and the fields – cousins to the smallfolk, so far as they had been able to gather – and the usual birds and beasts of an uninhabited land, but no higher life forms.

Other than the ever-present goblins.

Primitive, belligerent, and often vicious, they grouped together in clan-like groups, all incestuously linked by centuries of shared atrocities, blood feuds, and senseless bloodshed. They fought incessantly amongst themselves, but the moment an outsider stepped into their quarrels, they would join forces and turn on the common enemy.

After the first few days, Jareth's followers gave up on the idea of taking advantage their incessant squabbling, once it became clear that there was something else that made the goblins potentially deadly –

They had a very high tolerance for iron.

The old, hallowed sidhe tradition of divide and conquer was useless, if there was a chance that the goblins – united against them in unexpected tradition – had weapons that could inflict fatal wounds. Under other circumstances, Bran would have given the order anyway and relied on superior intelligence and planning, but they were only thirty, and the goblins swarmed in their thousands…

"We cannot fight them," Bran had said, at their nightly councils 'round the fire. "There are too many – primitive or not, they do not need exceptional intelligence to overwhelm us by sheer weight of numbers. Our magic can only kill so many at a time."

Toggle, the insubordinate dwarf who'd had firsthand evidence of sidhe vulnerability, had snorted. "Surely not," he'd sneered. "Surely your bright brilliance will be enough to have 'em bowing down in sheer awe."

Some of the more prejudiced sidhe had eyed him unpleasantly, muttering amongst themselves. Bran had given Toggle more and more responsibility after the terrible journey through the Iron Pass, to the point where he had become Bran's second in all but name.

"Enough, Toggle," Jareth had said, with less than his usual authority. He was still suffering from the after-affects of the iron poisoning, suffering occasional dizziness and nausea, and a throat scraped raw from constant coughing. But then, they all were – all of them except the smallfolk. Like it or not, they needed their strength. "If we cannot fight them, then we must somehow find a way to bargain with them."

"Bargain with lesser primitives?" Cullen, a former petty thief had exclaimed, horrified.

"Yes. They are sentient beings, are they not? Then they trade, and negotiate, and bargain amongst themselves, just as all other small and wild folk do in the Underground. We can communicate with them, and find out what price they put on their land."

Most of the others, of course, had been in favour of simply taking what they wanted by force. It had taken a graphic demonstration of what iron axes could do to a sidhe body to convince them – the lesson coming at the expense of the unfortunate Cullen, who had thought to countermand Jareth's orders and go after the goblins himself.

Bran had caught him, and delivered him up to the tribal leaders for punishment.

That singular combination of Bran's ruthless discipline and the goblin's ruthless viciousness had served to persuade the band to Jareth's way of thinking. It had also served to open the channels of communication with one particular tribe, and all their tangled webs of alliances and family groups. Trade – of a sort, conducted as it was in primitive pidgin – had been established, sidhe finery and foolery for essential minerals (bronze, not iron) and food, and sidhe magic in return for the closest the goblins ever came to proprietary rights –

The right to defend a piece of land against all who would take it from him.

So, Jareth had acquired the overlordship of whatever land he could take for his own. Together, he and Bran had found a rich, fertile stretch of land overlooked by a high hill – looking at it now, silhouetted against the sinking sun, he could see the fortress he would create, strong and sure, a shelter against the terrible events Outside. And he would need to build some kind of defenses soon –

It was good land, and there were others who sought it.

Overlordship, here, was only as strong as the grip on your sword. And Jareth's grip on his witchwood sword was useless, against iron. Force was useless, in this strange new land he had determined to make his own – but Jareth was sidhe, and the sidhe were, at heart, creatures of magic.

Inhaling deeply, smoothly, he dug his hand deeply into the soil, feeling the cool, thick richness of it, feeling the water running through it, feeling the endless cycle of death, life, and rebirth that it cradled and supported. Questing, he sent his senses down into the earth, seeking out the magical bonds that held this land together, the deep, deep beating heart –

There. There it was.

Dark, and dank, stinking of earth, water, grass, and decay, it was untouched, pure, uncontrolled wild magic in its natural, most primitive state. The power of it rocked him, shortening his breath, raising the hair on his arms and on the nape of his neck. It was alien, other, and he wondered at his presumption in thinking that he could harness it, that he could control it and turn it to his will.

He reached out to it –

It reached out to him –

It poured into him, flooding through him, surging through his blood and his bone and the small, bright core of him that was his magic, but he was not strong enough to contain it, not strong enough to encompass it –

The power kept on coming, pouring endlessly into him, overwhelming him. It burned, and seared, and scoured, and he screamed…

Finding its vessel imperfect, the magic sought to change him.

Bran heard the screams first, and came running into the meadow, weapon drawn and ready for anything. But when he found Jareth, he saw nothing – no threat, no enemy, nothing but Jareth convulsing on the grass. Others came pounding after him, swords drawn –

"What is this?" Toggle whispered hoarsely, reaching out to touch their thrashing leader. Bran grabbed his arm, stopping him a few inches away, and then staring in horrified fascination as their hands rippled.

Slowly, the rest of them shuffled further back, putting a prudent distance between themselves and whatever was happening to Jareth. In the last few weeks, they had become more comfortable with the idea of their new land, after the horrors of the mountain passage and the indignity of dealing with goblins. But this was something altogether different.

As they watched, Jareth's back arched and twisted, and his head was thrown back, his neck corded with taut, straining muscle, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a snarling, grimacing howl. His face shimmered, and stretched –

And the land shuddered and rolled beneath their feet.

Staggering, crying out in terror, the band of companions grabbed onto anything that would give them stability. Bran, flailing and ungainly, reached out to Jareth, and tried to shelter him. He gripped his hand, hard, and held on as tightly as he could –

Magic smashed into him, overflowing, overwhelming, and suddenly he was everywhere, everything, his awareness omniscient, his consciousness suddenly ancient, and all-pervading.

It was too much.

The world vanished, and he fell.

The earth shook, rolled, and twisted while terrified beings – whether sidhe, or smallfolk, or goblins – fell to the ground, their eyes tightly closed against the upheaval and chaos around them. It was simply too much, the cataclysm – too much for them to encompass, and so they shut themselves against it and retreated deep within themselves, seeking only survival.

But Jareth, who had tapped into the magic first, was changed. As the earth was reshaped around him, so was he too reshaped, his soul stamped with another force –

A binding.

An obligation.

A Covenant.

And then, once it was done, the magic subsided, and the heaving earth settled into its new position, leaving only echoing silence behind.

He woke, with a gasp.

His whole body ached, ached like it had never ached before, and he sat up with a long, agonized groan. His head pounded, and the air was blindingly bright, even with the pall of dust hanging in the air.

He choked, coughing harshly, his chest heaving as he fought to control the small convulsions. Breathing hoarsely, he struggled to his feet, not recognizing his surroundings – surely, it had been a green meadow before?

Now, there was only stone and rock, endless twisting turns of it thrown up by the earthquake, like folds rippling crazily in all directions.

Gods of Earth and Sky, what had happened here?

What had he done?

All around him, thrown about like discarded dolls, were his companions. Toggle, ungainly legs twisted the wrong way, was lying on his side, whimpering. Snicks, the small scout, was crouched over, rocking back and forth, back and forth, burying his head in his arms. Others were shaking, clearly terrified, or simply staring, their eyes wide and blank.

Bran lay half on his back, his thick hair trailing in the dirt, tangled with grass, twigs and blood –

He was not moving.

"Bran!" he shouted hoarsely, scrambling over to kneel by his side. Frantically, he checked the other man's pulse, hands racing over the pale, clammy skin, slipping over the thick, crimson blood.

"Wake up," he said, his throat tight and choked. "Wake up, wake up, wake up…" Thumping on his chest, he tried to stimulate the heartbeat, but there was nothing.

And then Bran gasped, his chest rising, his eyes flying open –

"Whut hab you done?"

Snagtooth, the shaman of the Red Claw tribe, looked on in horrified awe at the tall, white shining stranger.

"Whut hab you done?" he demanded, his voice snarling and guttural with fear, stumbling on the alien syllables.

The dark one, the white one's shadow, tried to get up, to put himself between Snagtooth and the white stranger, but the other put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down, rising to his own great height.

Snagtooth looked up, and up – and then he froze.

The white stranger had had devil's eyes before, but now they were outlined by shimmering colouration, winged up at the edges, and they glittered with impartial cruelty; he had been powerful before, but now something deep, dark and almost uncontrolled stirred restlessly beneath his skin.

He looked at Snagtooth, his expression unreadable, and then he turned his attention to the earth, twisted and reformed around him, and to the moaning, shivering men behind him. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth hardened.

"I have stamped my claim," he said. "And now you may take this land from me, if you dare."

A/N – Feedback is greatly appreciated. Please tell me what you think; thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter.