Author's Notes: I fiddled with this chapter quite a bit before arriving at this final version--what I estimate to be the fourth draft, and the hardest chapter to write so far. I revised, deleted, hacked it up into pieces and tried to stitch it back together. Brutal, but it had to be done. It felt like the story was moving too quickly. Yes, I can imagine some of your reactions. Too quickly? Hah!
You'll have to take my word for it.
Chapter Seventeen: The Path of the Dead
The rider was dressed all in white. White breeches that fit her like a second skin, open-necked shirt, and a snowy cloak with the hood pulled well over her face. She bent low over her mount's back as they sped along a desolate road, the bleak, treeless landscape winding away behind them. To either side, towers of jagged rock burned black against a sickly yellow sky, the crags wrapped in a choking fog that swirled past the horse and rider.
She was not aware of her surroundings at all, she only felt the dull, pounding rhythm of the horse's hooves on the road. Doom, doom, they seemed to drum, like the hammering of her own heart. She could think of nothing but riding as hard as she could, toward a destination and a purpose she did not yet know. After a time, they came to a wide river with waters like the very night. The current ran swift and deep past its banks with no sound until it vanished into the mist-wrapped beyond.
The rider dismounted as easily as if she'd been in and out of the saddle all her days. Her step brimmed with a confidence she did not feel, as sure and proud as a warrior's. Although she did not reach up to touch it, she knew that a plain circlet of iron with a single sapphire set in it bound her brow. The chill weight of it and its ominous presence was a constant whisper, an inaudible dark song that was an unwelcome distraction. The rider could not be turned aside now. She had a quest to fulfill.
"Boatman!" her voice rang out across the water. "Come and earn your keep!"
There was a long silence, but with little splash the ferry pulled out of the mist, manned by a stooped man in a tattered cloak. He lifted a pale face to her, hollow-cheeked and thin-lipped, with watery blue eyes set deep into his skull. The man hesitated but a moment before falling to his knees.
"My lady!"
The rider looked down upon him, fear and doubt kindling inside her like a cold fire. "I have gold to pay my passage."
And she did. Without realizing how it had gotten there, she now held a gold coin in her gloved hand, worn thin as a wafer with age, but bright as the sun.
"I can accept none from you, mistress." The boatman got shakily to his feet, his head still bowed as if he dared not meet her eyes. "Command me, and it shall be done."
Sarah lowered her hood with grim determination, black hair braided tight to the back of her head.
"You will take me across the river."
It was a dream. He stood on the banks of the river Merandanon at night, watching its waters tumble soundlessly on and on. A procession of people cloaked all in white wound their way through the trees, walking past him as if he wasn't even there. The women wore tiny silver bells on their fingers which they rang so the sound carried clear over the water. The men held flaming torches high, and each person wore a curious painted mask. Some had horns and hooked noses, others had twisted leers and haunted eyes, each more mournful and grotesque than the last. The torchlight flickered across them, and their expressions seemed to writhe and change in the shadows.
Last of all in the procession was a group of six, cloaked and veiled in pale gray so that Jareth could not tell if they were men or women. Between them, they bore a gold litter draped in crimson silk, upon which lay a figure whose face was covered with a cloth of purest white. The procession stopped by the water's edge before a slim boat made of reeds and the six waded out into the river, placing the litter softly upon it as if their burden would break. With gentle hands, they set it adrift, the current carrying the boat and its burden swiftly away. The six lifted their heads and keened softly to the wind, lovely, androgynous faces faintly outlined beneath their gauzy veils. The men and women followed suit, a low wail raising from each throat until it became a bleak chorus.
"Who is it you mourn?" he asked one of the women, catching her wrist as she passed by.
She looked at him, gaze impassive behind a mask painted a pale violet with a single midnight tear under one eye.
"Don't you know?" she said. "The Goblin King is dead."
Jareth dropped her wrist, suddenly sick with fear and cold. The mourner walked on past, raising her slender arms. The chime of hundreds of silver bells sweetly pierced the night.
Dead.
On the other side of the river was a road, and Sarah followed it past the gates of the dead city to a large timbered hall. The doors stood open, and Sarah shivered as she passed between them. She had seen such a place in her dreams... hadn't she? The hall was wide and obscured with mist, but it was no ordinary fog. As she walked past, the swirling vapors took form and Sarah could see hollow-eyed faces and reaching hands. She walked faster, and the wraiths closed in on her from behind, from all sides. Swallowing her fear, she ignored them until she came to the end of the hall. There stood a tall man in chalk-white armor, a sapphire the size of a walnut set in the pommel of his sword. His helm was that of a half-skull, covering all but the lower half of his face and the dark hair that fell over his shoulders.
"My Queen."
Sarah hesitated, frowning. She was certain she knew this man, and yet she could not remember him at all. Was it him she'd come all this way to find?
"My lord?"
"I have waited long for this moment." Smiling, the man gestured and between his fingers appeared a deep red rose. "Take your place by my side, rule with me. You will be my equal in all things, no head shall remain unbowed and no door unopened to you."
No door unopened... Something about that set off a tiny alarm in Sarah's mind, but she could not think over the sound of his voice. He held out the rose to her and its cool fragrance reminded her of moonlight. She would be Queen of all the world... Isn't that what she wanted?
Sarah stretched out her hand to take it when the sight of her upturned palm caught her cold. A thin red scar traced from just below her first finger to the bottom of her palm where it met the wrist. Her eyes widened at the sight of it and brought back to her an image of blood staining the reflection of the moon in dark waters. The memory of it burned like fire and suddenly everything was clear.
She dropped her hand abruptly, clenching it to her side.
"Give me the Goblin King."
The armored man did not move, but the rose in his hand withered away to dust before her eyes.
"You play a dangerous game, my lady." he said softly.
"I remember who you are, King of the Dead." Sarah said, lifting her chin. "And this is no game."
The King of the Dead gestured, and the mists thinned. To his right was an archway that led out into a courtyard, a small oasis of life and light in the darkness of the underworld. In the center of the courtyard was a great slab of stone rising out of the ground, and lying on it was a fair haired man dressed in stark black from head to foot. His gloved hands were folded on his breast, clasped around a silver sword with black silk streamers bound to the hilt. His eyes were closed in seeming sleep.
Shading the stone bier grew a tall tree with blossoms of purest white. Its slender branches bowed and swept the ground as if it mourned, dropping its petals like tears. Sarah bent over the Goblin King, but he did not move. She touched a strand of his silver-gold hair and called his name softly.
The King of the Dead took a step within the walled garden, and the grass bent with frost under his boot. He stretched out a bare hand, and a chill blast of snow stung Sarah's face and hands.
"Forget him, Sarah." said the King. "Take my hand, and you will have all the power you desire and more... Power even to save the Labyrinth, if that is your wish."
Sarah paused. Was that true?
"No mortal or immortal would be your match. You could rule this land as it was meant to be ruled, in peace and prosperity. You could even grant those who have gone the gift of life."
Behind him, the ranks of the wraith court parted to reveal a looming figure outlined in the darkness. Shadow-grey and indistinct, it shuffled forward soundlessly. Sarah squinted to try and see what it might be. Then she gasped, feeling as if all the air had been squeezed from her lungs.
"Ludo!"
Ludo's shade could not speak, but he lowered his shaggy head and lifted one hand before the icy mists swallowed him once more. She strained to catch sight of her friend, but he was lost in the cold and the dark. Sarah thought her heart would break.
"What have you done to him?" she demanded.
"Done?" The King's voice echoed with hollow amusement. "You mistake the situation entirely, my lady. The creature has suffered no harm under my hand, nor will he."
Sarah barely heard him, she was trying to fight back her tears. Did Hoggle and Sir Didymus know? Why hadn't they told her?
The shadowed eyes behind the skull-helm regarded her intently. "The creature is my loyal subject now, but I would yield him to you, Lady of Light... if my conditions were met."
"And those conditions?"
She heard rather than saw the smile in the King's reply. "Come with me and rule beside me. Leave the Goblin King."
"I can't." Sarah's reply was quick, but wavering. She cast an anguished look back at the Goblin King who lay still as death, white petals scattered over his black cloak.
"He cannot save the creature." the King of the Dead reminded her sharply. "Only you can do that."
Sarah looked back at him. "Ludo would live again?"
"A long and happy life as any a beast could live."
Whatever had befallen Ludo, she had one chance to save him, and one chance only. She risked another glance at the Goblin King, who lay unmoving on the tablet of stone. Dark lashes contrasted against his pale cheek, and another falling petal grazed the lean line of his jaw. Does he dream? Does he think of me at all?
The King of the Dead bent toward her, sensing her distraction. His breath was a frosty cloud, and with a fingertip he brushed down the length of Sarah's arm to the bare skin of her wrist. His touch burned with a bone-shattering cold she could feel to the pit of her stomach.
"You must choose, Sarah."
The choice should have been easy, and yet it was not. Ludo was her friend, he needed her help. What was the Goblin King to her? He had tricked her, lied to her, called her his enemy.
Beloved...
Sarah shook her head fiercely to clear it. She'd been a hopeless dreamer, a foolish child lost in childish fairytales. The one person he least desired to see, he'd called her. And yet, there was something about the way he said her name...
Sarah grew dizzy, and the chill of winter crept a little closer. Indecision and doubt tore at her, tooth and claw.
"There is nothing for you here, Sarah." The King of the Dead's whisper was like a winter wind. He held out his hand once more. "Time is fleeting in my kingdom, my queen. He has caused you pain, but it would vanish from your thought and memory."
The Goblin King had brought her nothing but pain, thought Sarah. But no, that wasn't true. She could not deny he had fought with her, ridiculed her, challenged her again and again. She'd hated him for it.
But it had made her strong.
The King of the Dead mistook her silence. "Do not waste your regard on this one," he said, quiet contempt mingled with pity. "You are not for him. He does not love you, Sarah, no matter what he might say."
Sarah's gaze snapped back to the King.
"He never said he loved me." she answered, with dawning realization. "He's never spoken of it to me at all, never uttered a single word all this time. But I..."
She looked down at the sleeping Goblin King. In this dreaming death, he looked like some dark angel fallen to earth, bereft of wings and wrapped in morbid slumber. Jareth... She'd tried to avoid saying his name, even in her mind. But now it haunted her, would not leave her alone until she spoke it-- even if only deep in the silence of her heart. Sarah tried to swallow past the burning lump in her throat. She was pulled between fate and destiny, between death for one and life for another. It was a judgement only she could make, there was no other alternative. We always have other choices... a voice whispered in her head.
Sarah looked down once more at the Goblin King. Faint lines etched his face and brow as if his dreams were not peaceful, and where his shirt opened at the throat, Sarah could see a faded ring of bruises around his neck, so light they were the palest of violet shadows against his white skin.
"My fate is bound to his." she said simply. "I choose him."
Something between a sigh and a groan emitted from the King of the Dead, and his outstretched hand began to tremble, flesh melting away until it was only a withered claw. Piece by piece, his armor fell to the ground, revealing wasted limbs that crackled to ashes. Sarah covered her face with her hands so that she would no longer see the gruesome transformation.
His mouth open in a wordless cry, the King's lips shrivelled and shrank back to expose grinning bone, disintegrating slowly until that too, was dust. The wind picked them up and carried them howlingly away as his ivory breastplate fell with a hollow thud. Last of all was the King of the Dead's helm, the sockets stark and empty. It hung in the air for a long moment before falling to the ground, then gave a brittle crack and broke in two.
Without quite knowing why, Sarah wept.
They were running low on fuel. The last of the furniture that could be salvaged from various rooms of the castle had been chopped and thrown in the kitchen fires, and no more could be had for it seemed the whole of the castle grounds were frozen solid. Sir Didymus, not long kept abed from his adventures, had ventured out at first light with a foraging party, but they'd found little to burn and even less food. Hoggle blew on his cold fingers and for once, didn't begrudge the presence of goblins packed tight around him like peas in a pod. Everyone huddled together for warmth now, and there was little speech or conversation.
"So this is how the world will end," muttered Hoggle. "In ice..."
But Sir Didymus refused to appear let down. Hunkered down against Ambrosius' back as the furry dog dozed, the little knight turned a small cloth-wrapped bundle over and over in his hands, a stubborn expression on his face.
"All is not lost."
Hoggle grunted. "I wish I could be as optimistic as you, but I don't see how. Maybe Jareth could conjure up a roaring fire in every room, but I sure can't. What wouldn't I give for just a bit of magic right now..."
The little knight blinked and stealthily tucked away the little bundle. Hoggle didn't miss the uncharacteristically surreptitious act.
"What is it you've got there, Didymus?"
Didymus smoothed the front of his doublet and burrowed deeper into Ambrosius' furry side, giving an embarrassed cough.
Hoggle threw him a suspicious look. "Didymus, I asked you a question."
"I suppose thou didst indeed," said the little knight vaguely, "But I didn't suppose thou truly expected an answer."
"For the sake of argument, let's say I did." said Hoggle sarcastically. "Now are you going to tell me or not?"
Sir Didymus glanced around at the roomful of unhappy goblins and lowered his voice so that only they two could hear. "Suppose... Just suppose I had in my possession... just the smallest bit of magic?"
"I'd say that fall down that hole must've cracked more than your staff."
"I swear it on my lady's honor," protested Sir Didymus. "It may be the last bit of it in all the Underground, and it might just be what will get us all out of this regrettable situation."
"Then why not use it? What on earth are you waiting for?" demanded Hoggle.
Sir Didymus looked at him in perfect seriousness. "Why, the return of the king."
A/N: Forgive me, Mr. Tolkien! Also, Hoggle's remark about how the world shall end is an oblique reference to the Robert Frost poem, "Fire and Ice".
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