DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thirty two…thirty four…
Thirty seven…thirty nine…
Forty…

There was night and there was day.

There were no clocks, no metronome of hands ticking away amid the cries and wailings of the condemned— only shadows. Creeping and stretching along the floors, conquering the corners, and taking residence in the shallow nooks of the halls. The ever-shifting darkness served as a fickle sundial to those who cared to measure their unusual movements. Time was a nuisance, an overabundance of minutes and hours passing aimlessly, sifting through desperate fingers like water from a stream. Those trapped within the Estate could not possess nor calculate it with any sort of accuracy but were made to bear the intermittent intervals that were at one moment eternal, and the next fleeting. Time was a villain, an enemy from which there was no escape. Given enough, the most level and sane of minds would shatter.

The Estate knew precisely how to capitalize on such an adversary.

Little more than a month had passed, or so Sarah had been told. Her treatments, as they were often called, snatched away any proper accounting of her days in Hell, leaving a rough estimation of pained wakefulness and agonized sleep. Whilst routine and discipline were preached exhaustingly each Sabbath; scolding the congregations for their idleness and demanding each to make better use of their time, the Estate seemed determined to ignore such counsel. Had there been the barest hint of structure, the claws of madness could not sink so deeply— so swiftly— into the mind, as a hot blade slicing through butter. Far worse however, than the inaccuracy of her incarceration were the cruel, sluggish hours sitting amid the chaos of lunacy, where nothing stood between herself and the others.

The lunatics.

They were cruel. Loud. A few by nature, others by medical design. They would poke at her when she passed by, laugh at nothing and everything, grab at her, sometimes capturing fistfuls of her nightgown with near-tearing force. She had been dragged to the floor by a delusional, too-large woman who, believing herself a mutt, proceeded to slide her fat tongue across her cheeks and brow as a dog would its beloved owner. Two guards were needed to pry them apart. Another woman, whose name Sarah had not learned, made a game of snatching her fingers and dragging them into her toothless mouth like a suckling babe.

Toying with the fraying edges of her sanity with long, spider leg fingers, madness begged her to submit to its depravity, whispering darkly in the night through the veil of her dreams. It would be too easy to give in, to fall into the void that beckoned, but she refused to succumb. He was real, and she was not mad. That knowledge propelled her from one day into the next, solidifying her feet against the torrential, shifting path. Her skin remembered the effervescent feel of his fingers tracing along her jaw, the warmth of his gloved hand holding hers, the weight of his lips pressing insistent against her own, and the deep timbre of his voice.

The impossible man had been real— not so very long ago.

She was never gifted with an accurate accounting of her days spent below in the dank cellar where the dark was thick as smoke and the air too close to breathe. In that bantam stall where she lay curled against the cold, her mind falling in and out of consciousness as rats feasted on her flesh, Sarah could do little to count the passing hours. Even her injuries were unreliable; whilst her toes had ceased to bleed, now covered in thick dark scabs ringed with purple-brown bruises, the cross, stretching along the length of her foot, was still much too tender. Her every step was a wretched limp, filled with acute aching as she hobbled her way through her prison.

It was a pain Sarah had become familiar with, and in the deepest crevice of thought, hidden behind a locked door, was the faintest flicker of gratitude. True, her feet were not the singular source of her anguish, her body was littered with bruises and welts hidden beneath the course, heavy linen of her uniformed bedgown. The incessant scratching of fibers against her frosted skin, the persistent ache accompanying every stretch, the throbbing that had yet to leave her skull all culminated as an anchor to the shores of her sanity; even as the whispers of hysteria threatened in the dark still moments before sleep. Before the nightmares consumed her once again.

The Goblin King is dead.

You murdered him.

Murderer.

The image of her sin, of that night— of him— was always waiting, lingering in the quiet, stalking her as a beast to its prey. Her dreams of the mismatched eyes and their mercurial owner were once enticing, dripping with temptation, luring her ever nearer until the tension became too strong and she woke breathless. Though few in number, the weight of them bore down on her, slipping into her life, captivating her in the waking hours and eventually begging her to make her first wish.

Like the Goblin King, those dreams were gone now, replaced with horrific memories of her heinous crime— however accidental. Spellbound, she lay trapped in the clutches of remembrance and slumber, with no escape. However fast she ran, however loud she cried for aid, she could not free herself from the painful claw of her nightmares. Trapped within a harrowing labyrinth, she ran until stitches ripped in her side, desperate to find the Goblin King before it was too late. She was always too late. Deeper and deeper into the maze she went, faster and faster she sank into despair like a heavy rock under the crashing waves of a torrential storm, swallowing her into its gaping maw. A wish could not raise the dead.

Yet, beyond hope, Sarah wished.

One wish. One wish made in the final seconds before sleep or pain could claim her. A single wish made after the aged nose of a nun wrinkled in distaste as she locked the heavy oak door ensconcing Sarah in near pitch darkness. Curled atop the stained and knobby mattress that smelt of stale, crushed straw, the boulder-lumps digging deep into her muscles, her body aching, battered and bloodied in the name of medicine, Sarah cried out for the impossible man, whose name she did not know. Weeping into the night, she said her right words only once before succumbing to her fatigue or the generous dose of laudanum, where her mind proceeded with its torture.

She had borne witness to his agonized whimpers and mewling groans as his body became crooked and bloody. The maddening sound of his bones shifting beneath tearing flesh reechoed in her mind with unparalleled accuracy whenever silence engulfed her. His crimson blood stained every surface of her dream-scape, matting his pristine feathers, crashing against the pebbled shore to mingle with the lapping water. Her own hands were slick, the stain burned deep into her flesh never to wash clean.

Sarah hated dreaming.

She hated remembering far more.

Blinking away the tears that were always at the ready whenever her thoughts strayed to the now dead man, Sarah fought to remain present. Do not think of him! Not here, not now! You must repent! Dragging herself, with herculean effort from her thoughts, Sarah tried to focus on her enforced prayers, the phrases slipping past her lips in a monotonous recitation.

"Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, as it was, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen." It was hollow sounding, dry and insincere as her eyes wandered about the beautiful chapel, glancing to the high-arching ceilings before sliding down the plastered walls where an over-sized Christ hung upon his cross, his blank eyes boring into the room.

She glanced away quickly.

A lone sunbeam broke through the thick, English fog, spearing the frosted stained glass windows with prideful determination. Sarah watched as one beam became three, then four, their lines crisp against the cold, brumal air. The beautiful streams of light cast a myriad of colors across the stone floor where she knelt in prescribed supplication. It was a beautiful distraction that she welcomed with open arms, her hand opened of its own accord to balance the emerald ray of light in her palm. Slowly, her fingers closed as though she might capture the light and its tiny breath of warmth.

That small, brilliant radiance draped a weighted quilt of much-needed comfort across her shoulders. Even if it could do nothing to warm her trembling, spindly frame, the unexpected luster was a balm to her senses. Closing her eyes, red and weary from her troubles, her chapped and pallid lips hinted a smile as her chin lifted ever so much to the Heavens. She was weightless, floating on a cloud of peace as the burdens and horrors of her days faded with that single touch of light.

A visceral crack rebounded against the silent stone forcing Sarah to cry out. Her hand recoiled to her breast, as white pain rippled against the back of her thighs. Heat burst across her flesh radiating through her muscles before she toppled forward onto all fours. Her fists clenched, as she hissed, her legs trembling beneath her.

"Finish your prayers!" barked the elderly sister, who leant heavily upon an old, twisted cane. Her yellowed teeth gritted as she snarled down at Sarah before shifting her weight to brandish the weapon once more. "Get up and finish your prayers." The woman growled, striking Sarah's back with far greater force than expected from one so aged. "Your prayers, girl!"

Whimpering, Sarah pushed upward, settling her weight tentatively against her heels in a small effort to hide her flesh from the bite of the cane. The pain hummed, throbbing as she knelt upon the course, grooved floor.

You must repent- cleanse your soul. Clasping her hands, the rosary hanging between her wrists, Sarah's lips resumed their fervent movement, the light breaths puffing against her interlocked fingers as she proceeded.

"Voice your prayers, you impious girl!" The cane smarted against her shoulders and Sarah yelped, rocking atop her knees. "The Lord will not hearken to the silent prayers of a sinner! You must voice your repentance with purpose and choler!" The cane smarted again. "Do you not wish to be healed? Do you not wish your soul to be saved?" The woman tightened her grip upon her weapon, her knuckles creaking with age and the sheer force of her hold. Pursing her lips, the heavy wrinkles deepened as her eyes poured unbridled, molten abhorrence upon the cowering girl.

Sarah stuttered, earnestly pushing the words from her trembling lips, but the sound remained much too quiet. The tangible hatred of the weathered sister hung like a shroud, bearing down upon her rounded shoulders, trailing behind her, black as tar. It was a curious thing, her gross ire for the Williams girl, having no notable genesis, her arcane loathing dominated their every interaction. Whatever her perceived grievances, each encounter in the small chapel.

"Ungrateful and selfish little wretch!" The woman's nostrils flared and she swallowed her distaste audibly. "If the Savior could suffer for your sake, the very least you can do if offer him your fervent attention." Another crack of the cane. "Finish. Your. Prayers." Each word punctuated with a vicious rap and braying cry.

Over and over, blow upon blow cracked against tender flesh until Sarah screamed, the piercing sound vibrating against her with shattering force. Having lost the will to kneel after the second strike, Sarah lay contorted, with her arms crossed firmly to shield her head, and her knees tucked under, against her chest.

Breathless, she surveyed the girl with crazed disdain, her own eyes wild and black with rage. The pathetic form of the huddled, whimpering girl, cracked the glass façade of her religious zeal. Her arm lowered, the rigid knot of her posture did not unravel, but loosened as she leant against her staff, a faraway look pinching her brow.

Blinking furiously, her eyes darted about the room. Though she had done no harm, nor committed any sort of crime, she could not help but feel quite the opposite. Blushing, she cleared her throat, her hand rose to caress the heavy cross hanging about her neck. "Well," she huffed, her voice far away. "You will pay for your hubris." Glancing to the hollow-eyes of Christ, her chest puffed in righteous umbrage, the barest of nods tipped her head. Basking in the gentle reverence of the chapel, her irascible opprobrium nearly forgotten, she offered a silent prayer.

"Kneel, you ungrateful child." Making the sign of the cross, her full, spider-wrinkled lips turned upwards as a scowl weighed her brow. Locking her gaze on the girl as she struggled to peel her body off the floor, the darkly dressed nun clenched her fist around the crucifix, the sharp edges dug against her palm. "Your soul cannot be saved if you are not fervent in your prayers and earnest in your pleadings with the Lord. You have forgotten the sacredness of communing with your Father in Heaven, and your soul has suffered greatly."

Sarah did not look to her, having risen to her knees once more, the rosary still entangled about her hand, her reddened eyes stared unseeing at the crown of thorns adorning the Savior's head. A prickled, murmuring hummed along the expanse of her undoubtedly bruised back, and she wondered for a moment at the sharpness of the tiny chiseled thorns, and the imprint left in their wake.

"You shall remain here, my child," Sarah nearly gagged on the sentiment, knowing it was less than sincere. "For like unto Christ in the Garden, you will pray through the night— alone. Perhaps the endless hours on your knees will curb your obduracy." Placing both hands atop her weapon, her voice jovial as a spring bride, she smirked. "From the first bead, if you will. Start again."

Behind a locked door, in the farthest room in the cellars, the faint glow of the fast-setting sun drew long orange lines along the stone walls briefly illuminating a pair of lovers pressed against the solid wood barrier. The room smelt dank, and raw, it was not pleasant by any means however, neither seemed bothered by the musty smell or the cold, wet stone.

"Sister Agatha is expecting me, I cannot linger." Came the meek, husky voice of Edith Milburn, as she pulled her lips from her partner, her whole body aflame. "Tell me you missed me, Louis." she begged, as he pulled the dark covering from her head. Pins ripped through her straw-blonde tresses to clatter messily to the floor, but neither paid them heed. Dragging her lips away, she tried to see through the ever-darkening room, to study the towering form demanding her full attention, but failed.

With her next heartbeat, his lips were on hers laying claim to their passion. He tasted of brandy and something she could not name. She could sense, more than feel her own hesitation as she battled with her desire and sin. Even if the passion was fleeting, and she unwilling to give herself fully to him, she would savor what pleasure she could, basking in the feel of being wanted. Desired. Falling into the rough feel of his mouth moving against hers. Long gone were the tentative pecks, and airy brushes of flesh, he kissed her with desire. Untamed need pulsed through her veins as he commanded her, taking what little she would give with great abandon.

Breaking away with a gasp, desperate to take back the breath stolen in the fire of their kiss, Edith panted in his arms. Overwhelmed, she pried her hand from his bruising grip, and laid her palm flat against his chest halting their progress. Edith was not accustomed to such attention, her interactions with the opposite sex were at best, limited— the predominant company being that of the Priest and his brother and the occasional kin of a lunatic. Never had she garnered the attention of a man— how could she? Hidden away with frocks, sisters of God, and other equally undesirable children, Edith had never ideated about something so frivolous— so common— as romance, forbidden or not.

However she captured the eye of Louis Praet, would forever remain a mystery. Her features were much too common, too plain— her smile could never spur a man to war. She was no great beauty, nor was he a born Adonis. Beyond the hallowed walls, in a lifetime where she had not taken her Vows and sworn herself to God, their affair would not raise a single brow— they would be another pair in a crowd of thousands. The reputation of forbidden fruit was not lost on Edith. She was the apple in this decrepit garden, and whether he was the serpent beguiling her into submission, or the pliant Eve merely taking what little was proffered, mattered not.

Smiling gently, she brushed her fingers gingerly along his stubbled jaw, savoring the rough texture against her fingers.

Snatching her wrist, the man slammed her body back against the unforgiving door, then bowed forward, plundering her mouth greedily. Pressing his body along the length of hers with a low, dark growl, he moved his lips along small line of skin between her collar and her chin nipping as he went.

She whimpered, whether from tenderness or desire he did not know. Nor did he care.

"Louis…" she sighed, "Louis, please!" Biting back the wanton sounds threatening to echo about the chamber, Edith grew stern. "STOP."

Growling, he lifted his head from her, a dark grin just visible in the growing darkness. "Come now Edith, I am sure you won't be missed." He purred against her, his hand sliding along her waist to snatch her hip, dragging her closer. Desperate to relieve the coiling tension winding within his loins, Louis slid his mouth to shell of her ear, nibbling on the lobe.

The room was nearly pitch, the shadows snuffed the last of the waning sunlight as Louis allowed the darkness to flood his vision. It was far easier to submit to his fantasy now that his eyes could not betray the wandering thoughts of his imagination: blonde faded to umber, curling and twisting into disheveled ringlets as green replaced blue beneath thick, dark lashes. He could almost catch the faint scent of roses and lemons, the barest memory kindled the fire burning beneath his skin. He groaned audibly.

She mewled.

Louis pressed himself along the length of her before reclaiming her lips to silence her protestations. His fingers kneaded the sensitive flesh at her hip, the other rising to tangle in her flaxen locks, deepening their kiss. He was insistent, demanding. Heat pulsed in his veins, the sound thrumming in his ears as he continued his onslaught. Slowly, his fingers unclenched, loosing the pin-straight strands as though they truly were the imagined curls of his fantasy. Sliding his hand along the edge of her jaw, down the high collar to trace over her hidden clavicle, his fingers skated over the rise of her breast.

Edith recoiled.

"STOP!" The command was sharp. "Louis, stop." Her hands flattened against his chest, and with more strength that he believed her capable, she shoved him back. "Sister Agatha is expecting me. I cannot be late."

Stilling so perfectly, he could have been mistaken for marble, his brow wrinkled as his breathing halted. Unbeknownst to his partner, he blinked furiously trying to cast away the maddening visage of the fragile beauty and the myriad of sensation swelling around him. He had nearly lost control. Had the girl not stopped him he would have laid her bare on the icy stone, heedless of the damp, of the musty fetor as he claimed an illusion.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, he ground his teeth, biting back the curse waiting on his tongue. Louis sucked in a gargantuan breath, his temples pulsing as his fevered desire finally began to ebb. Pulling himself up to his full height, he stepped back allotting her some necessitated distance. He heard, more than saw, the movements of her hands as she righted her hair and the heavy cloth covering. Narrowing his eyes in amusement, Louis wondered if she somehow managed to gather all the scattered pins from the floor, though he very much doubted she would.

When the subtle rustling faded into the usual clamorous silence of the asylum, Louis dared a step forward. "What does that old crone have you doing this evening?"

Edith startled at his voice, frowning into the dark, where observed her silhouette. "You should not speak of her so." She chastised, "I am needed in the chapel."

"The chapel? Whatever for?"

"I am to replace Sister Florence." She explained, with an air of annoyance.

"You are wasting your evening in the church— at this hour?" Scoffing, he folded his arms across his chest, "It will be empty, the candles snuffed." He moved closer, fumbling to cup her face in the musty shadows. "I can hardly think you will be missed—"

"Louis," she whispered as she caught his wrist, halting his progress. "Sister Florence is waiting— I am to replace her. She was detained by an obdurate patient and missed the evening meal." Edith placed a hand on his chest, with the barest effort pushed him back one, maybe two paces. Were her face visible, he would have seen the disappointment pouting her lips and the uncertainty pinching her brow.

Adjusting the wrinkled cravat at his neck, the guard stared confused at his paramour. "Dear old Aggie is leaving you to the mercy of an unruly madman?" His voice grew dark, bitter. In the stolen room, where even the growing moonlight could not penetrate the dark, Louis growled.

"Sister Agatha." She corrected, "I assure you it is hardly worth your concern. The girl is merely paying penance through a night of prayer." Sighing, she smoothed the front of her frock, her fingers tracing over the large crucifix hanging just below her breasts. His silence was unnerving, the hairs at the nape of her covered neck rose to attention, but still he said nothing.

Unnerved, she was suddenly filled with thick, sticky guilt that clung like day-old porridge along the walls of her stomach. Her fingers pressed firm against her embarrassment-flamed cheeks, quelling the unwanted expressions the threatened to crack her lackadaisical guise. Never had Edith been more grateful for such penumbra.

Turning to face the door she had been pressed so firmly against minutes before, the slighted woman threw open the heavy door with far less flourish and flair than she had hoped. The orange glow of the torches blurred her vision, forcing Edith to blink through narrowed eyes as she moved through the narrow corridor. One hand wrapped crisp around her cross, the other bawled at her side, she held her chin aloft, determined to maintain her secrets.

Not six paces into the hall, his voice lifted to hang between them. "Are you expected to linger?" Running a hand through his auburn hair, his fingers dislodged the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

"An hour or two." Looking over her shoulder, refusing to fully turn to the man who piqued her distress, she added softly. "Only until the night guard arrives— I am expected to assist with lock up, and be present for evening prayers."

Nodding slowly, he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back offering an air of nonchalance. "Even the most genteel behind these walls are still loons." His head cocked to the side, the pulsing light that danced in his eyes cast shadows along the edges of his face both softening and callousing his features. "Do be careful." He said, his brow rising, as his voice fell to a whisper. "I find myself— er— that is to say— I find I would be—" he paused as if searching for the word, plucking at the invisible strings of anticipation as if she were an instrument await a melody. She turned fully to face him, her eyes wide, waiting. With two sharp steps, each punctuated by the click of his boots, he closed the gap between them. Reaching for her hand, still balled into a white-knuckled fist, he slowly, deliberately bent to kiss the pale taut skin. Peering up from his stooped position, he grinned. "Remiss without your company."

Edith could not help the skittering of her heart, nor the schoolgirl blush tainting her cheeks. Effete foolishness would be the death of her, but she was helpless to stop the rolling storm now that the clouds had been fed. Laden with the water of possibility, she need only prick them like the sharp, jagged mountain peaks to release the straining tempest of her damnation.

Her heart tattooed when he straightened, his fingers idly tracing the veins of her hand in the faintest caress. "You will be cautious, won't you?"

Beaming back at his concern, she could not hide the small, breathy laugh as it tumbled from her lips. Rolling her eyes, her head shook in amusement, "I am pleased by your concern but-" Edith stepped forward as her heart swelled. Touched by his vexation, her hand rose to settle against the strong, wide line of his jaw, her thumb absently smoothed the path her lips wished to follow. "I will be perfectly safe, I promise. Besides, it is only the Williams girl—"

The smile faded from his eyes before he could think better of it, and he swallowed the remainder of his reaction, tossing a mask of curiosity atop his face. "The Williams girl?" He parroted, desperate to maintain a steady tone, even as his heart buzzed exhilaratingly beneath his chest. Clenching his jaw to dam the torrent of words- of questions crashing against his psyche, Louis closed his eyes. To the woman who still held his cheek with calm aplomb, he appeared to savor the warmth of her touch. Sliding like the last rays of sun into the watery horizon, his eyes had closed as he tried to take command of his secrets. His desires. It was only after her hand withdrew from his skin, that he was able to add a voice to his thoughts.

"Yes. Sarah Williams, a mere slip of a thing, really." She said, her hand making a dismissive wave near her shoulder. "It was you, I believe, that brought her to her cleansing. It was weeks ago, I doubt you remember—" her laugh was gentle and delicate. Sensing his unease, she frowned, "You've no need for worry. I am merely to observe as she continues with her rosary. Apparently, her prayers were less than sincere." Dropping her hand she stepped back, "the girl is as docile as a carp!"

"If that is true, then why should you be detained for hours, the rosary hardly takes so long, even by the most foolhardy of sinners?" There was a disbelieving bite to his words, though it he had not meant it to be there.

Pulling her brow into a gentle frown, her expression thoughtful. "It is my understanding that she is to remain in solitary prayer until dawn."

"Dawn?"

Pursing her lips, her expression grew sad and her lips pursed. Dropping her eyes to the stained-stone floor, she added with a melancholy sigh. "Sister Florence was very cross." Chewing her lip in the thorny quiet, Edith bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, before glancing over her shoulder at the waiting door. "I really must go." Rising to her toes, she placed the barest kiss against his stubbled cheek. "Goodnight, Louis." With a smile, she spun on her heel and raced down the narrow corridor to the heavy, iron bolted door waiting at the end of her path.

Louis loosed the breath he was holding, his heart hammered wildly in his chest. Fate had always been a cruel mistress, taunting him from the shadows, seducing him with a varying array of possibilities. He could not contain his incredulous laugh, nor the excitement flooding his senses. For weeks uselessness sagged his broad shoulders and curved his spine, his chin hanging in crestfallen dejection. How he had longed for a glimpse at his tarnished beauty, for her nearness, her touch!

One touch. One idle brush of a finger against the tender, perfect flesh of her leg had sustained him through these many weeks. He was desperate to feel the heat of her skin against his fingers, her weight in his arms.

Louis Praet was no fool. He could do nothing save the countless glances stolen from afar, and the myriad of fantasies haunting his dreams. An overabundance of patience had ensured this moment would come, in truth he had begun to lose hope. Now, in this darkened corridor, with the symphony of madmen crying out their displeasure, Louis smiled.

He would wait no longer.

A/N: I keep leaving you all like this… and really I must apologize! I am so excited to hear what you all think! Please, for the love of the characters— please REVIEW! I love hearing from you all, it honestly inspires me to continue!