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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The rod begins to bow,
Little by little,
The metal groans and bends.

Nauseating effort quieted the unease swirling like rotted ale in his gut. The rope of his patience was waning, pulled to the very limits of its fiber; it creaked and groaned from the immense pressure. He stared through the diamond-paned windows, watching as the street lamps came to life one by one. The lighting sticks bobbed along the twists and turns of the city, balanced atop the shoulders of the leeries as they went about the night's work. Thick petals of snow fluttered silently to the earth, glistening in the gentle golden glow of the lamps.

It was not the first snowfall of winter. Two had preceded it, but they had been little more than a dusting of flour atop a loaf of bread. Three hours of timid drifting and the snow was deep enough to swallow a shoe. The scene beyond his window was an idyllic painting meant to be savored, but he could hardly bear the sight.

He had been a youth waiting atop his horse for the bloodiest battle in centuries to begin the last time he felt such suffocating worry. Where is she? It was the ever-present thought in his recurring nightmare. Where was his Riddle? Where was the impossible girl and her impossible dreams?

Spinning on his heel, he moved from the window to stand before the roaring fire, snatching his forgotten whiskey from the mahogany mantle. Tossing back the amber liquid, a stray drop skated along his newly-stubbled cheek, mingling with his pale whiskers.

He paid it no mind.

Unblinking he stared, sweat collecting on his brow to drip down his back, but still he did not move. Instead, he breathed in the hot air, savoring the heat of the flames against his face, chest, feet, tasting both soot and despair. Dancing ribbons of orange and white swirled over and around the blackened logs, each popping and crackling as the heat consumed their essence. He was mesmerized, soothed by the swirling colors even as sweat began to dampen the remaining bandages beneath his wrinkled linen shirt. The salted perspiration irritated his salubrious wounds. Clenching his fist, he fought against the tingling itch.

Where was she?

Growling, his fist clenched again, shattering the glass in his palm. The sharp sting of alcohol burned as it seeped into his fresh abrasions. Blood trickled from his closed fist, collecting along the ruff of his sleeve. Closing his eyes, he allowed the pain, little as it was, to soothe his festering vexation. Sighing heavily, he wiped his brow with the back of his arm, matting the fine hairs to his temple.

Sarah had not wished him back. Nor had she called to him in the bonds of slumber; a fact far more troubling than the injuries incurred by her ill-spoke and unwitting wish. The pestiferous voice mumbling incessantly at the back of his mind would not let his worry be a fleeting fancy. He was much too experienced, and far too invested in his Riddle to believe that all was well.

Sarah was in danger.

It was not a fact, but rather intuition that guided his thoughts. Not two weeks prior, he was certain he could not have answered her summons, his body still suffering the effect of her words. Far slower than he and Emere would have liked, the familiar warmth of his magic returned little by little until at long last he was whole.

Should Sarah call him now, uttering her whispered wish under the shroud of night, the spider-cracked lantern held aloft as she searched the tree line for his snow-feathered form, he would answer. Her beryl eyes bright, filled to the brim with a melancholic hope as she chewed her lip, the color more lambent than that of a fresh primrose. Wind would rouge the tip of her nose, and dust along the freckled apples of her cheeks, and despite the heavy cloak, patched and faded from years of overuse, she would still shiver under the crisp starlight. He would appear upon pearlescent wing, hold her and stare into those eyes just to make sure she was safe.

Driving the jagged shards further into the calloused skin of his palms, the Goblin King winced, the sharp ache driving the images away at once. Crimson continued to seep from the wound, the edge of his sleeve now sodden, overflowing onto the flagstone hearth, his mind transfixed by the falling droplets and the distinctive patterns left in their wake. Years upon years of rigorous training instilled by his father, who insisted that instincts were far more accurate than the Faceless Seers, and the agonizing hours spent in the fray of battle had taught him to trust the strange sensation itching at the nape of his neck.

Sarah was in danger.

The door to his chambers creaked softly upon its hinges as Emere ushered himself inside. Consternation pinched his lips, his usually well-groomed mustache was in disarray, as though he had been scrubbing his face repeatedly with agitated strokes. The man looked weary, his usually tanned skin had a sallowness about it, making him appear almost etiolated as he fell into a seat by the fire. His usual formalities and decorum forgotten as he leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees as his fingers entwined. He was loathe to speak.

"You still have not found her." It was not a question. Bearing the weight of uncertainty, his shoulders sagged as his uninjured hand gripped the mantle tight, his other rested atop the wood, creating a new place for his blood to collect.

A piteous, soft muttering came from the occupied chair. "I am doubtful we will, my friend." Swallowing the rock of failure lodged in his throat, the crestfallen adviser frowned deeply. "We are limited in our dealings with the mortals— what little knowledge we have gathered is useless at best. Your little human was seen in the first weeks following your…" he gestured to his king, letting the unspoken memory trail into the fire. "Well… that. There has been talk of a carriage and an Estate." He said rather glib, as though disbelieving his own words, "little else is spoken in regards to Sarah Williams. Almost as though she vanished like a thief in the night."

"She did not vanish." Glancing over his shoulder, but still unable to see the man seated almost entirely behind him, the king queried. "Why would a carriage be of import? Or an estate for that matter?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but…" Emere paused, his hand rubbing the scruff on his chin, a thoughtful look clouded his eyes. "It was spoken of in hushed tones— the Estate, I mean— as though it were forbidden. The carriage is neither here nor there." He sighed heavily, replacing his limbs to rest on the arms of the wingback chair. "I do not know what the estate is, or what it means in regards to your Riddle. However, if there are answers to be had you will find them there."

The King's nod went unnoticed, as the adviser rose and moved to the sideboard at the far wall of the room. He could hear the sloshing of liquid and the dramatic gulps as the man downed not one, but three shots of Goblin Whiskey. Allowing his shoulders to droop, Emere refilled his glass once more, his free hand hanging limp at his side.

Even in the darkened room, with the fire at his back, the purple bruises under his tired eyes were evident. For nearly two months he wore the robes of both nursemaid and adviser, juggling his duties with steadfast determination. What little sleep he had managed to steal, for indeed it was stolen in the oddest hours and the shortest intervals, had only just served to keep the exhaustion at bay. For as soon as the King regained his senses, Emere had been put to the onerous task of finding the girl and ensuring her wellbeing.

A task he foolishly believed simple.

Sarah Williams was a ghost. For three weeks after nearly wishing the King into an early grave, the girl had vanished without a trace. Her belongings, which he himself had searched with more fervor than care, had been neatly packed in a worn and splintering trunk waiting at the foot of her four poster bed. Emere had not been comfortable searching through the girl's personal effects and loitering in the place she called home, and he had not been shy in his protestations.

Fae could rarely walk the mortal plain for more than an hour or two before their magic felt the siphoning pull of the mortal world. The eternal absence of spellcraft was unhealthy, but far worse than the stultification of power, was the unbridled fear summoned by the mortals at the barest whisper of their existence. Dread and superstition were the greatest weapons in the mortal arsenal, every man, woman, and child carried them heavily upon their backs as an archer with his quiver. The stench drove them in masses to the pyre and the noose, their torches held aloft as they marched the sinners onward to their deaths.

Fae do not do well beyond the realm of the Underground.

Stalking to the fire, needing the heat to soothe his fractured nerves and ease the discomforting pity in his heart, Emere stood beside his king. Glancing to the pale, weary man beside him, his brows shot to his hairline at the pooling trickle of blood dripping from the mantle to the stones beneath. Fetching a handkerchief from the desk near the sideboard, Emere returned, frowning at the sulking figure.

"While I am glad to see that your strength has returned, I cannot say I agree with your methods of analysis." Without further preamble, he pulled the hand away and began his initial examination of the lacerations. At least five shards protruded from the open gashes, each coated in a thick, warm layer of blood. The wounds were deep and even with the assistance of both magic and herbs his hand would remain bound for at least a week, though unlike mortals he would require no needle and thread. "If you missed your injuries, I would have been delighted to add to your fading collection." Smirking he was rewarded with a wan smile, the first he had seen since the man flew through the study window, drenched in sweat and blood.

"Thank you, my friend." His words were filled with quiet sincerity, though his face was still pinched with the deep lines of worry. The words were not simply a thanks for his improvised bandages, but for rather for the herculean efforts on his behalf concerning the whereabouts of the impossible girl. Pulling his oddly wrapped hand free of the adviser, the king dropped heavily into the now occupied chair, the wood creaking under the sudden force. "How do we find this estate?"

"I could not tell you." Emere sighed, snatching his abandoned tumbler from the mantle, then taking the seat across from the king. Sipping lightly from the glass, he slid further down in the seat, dropping his head to the back of the chair. "I know what you are going to ask, and I must insist that I cannot!" His voice grew angered, though his position did not change, "I have spent too much time in the mortal realm as it is, my body— my magic— is suffering. I am suffering!" Running a hand through his already disheveled hair, Emere whispered. "Without a wish, your Riddle is lost."

Closing his fist around the impromptu bandage, he welcomed the burning ache that accompanied the tightening of muscles and pinching of wounds. "She has not wished…" the truth fell away from his lips as a deep crest wrinkled his winged brows, his voice nearly silent. "Nor has she dreamt of me or the Labyrinth." Shaking his head in disquietude, he rolled pinched his lips, rolling them together as he thought. "Sarah is in danger… I can sense it." He rubbed his unwrapped hand against his chest, "I feel it, Emere. I feel her absence as keenly as a blade in battle. From the moment she started dreaming of me I felt the summons at the edge of my magic. Night after night she called to me until that fateful day when she wished… Emere I have never known her mind to be silent and now that is all I hear."

The familiar white light touched the tips of his fingers as he lounged worryingly in the armchair, his elbows on the arms for support. A single, perfect glass orb perched atop his hand, held steady for a moment before the mesmerizing routine began and the ball rolled along and around with ease. The impossible, fluid motion eased the thrumming in his skull, if only just. Shimmering beneath the glass lay the image of Sarah, her lips pulled in an unbridled smile meant solely for him. The soft glow of the lantern highlighting the delicate contours of her face as the faintest blush tinged her cheeks.

It was a memory he recalled fondly. And often.

Glancing over to the man sprawled in the opposite chair, the Goblin King could not help but smile. Emere finally slept. His head tipped back, mouth slightly agape as a faint snore began to rumble from his chest, the tumbler had not yet fallen from his grasp, but he suspected it would very soon.

Pity, it would ruin the set.

The king closed his fist, shattering the ball to glittering dust, shaking the errant thought from his mind. His precious Riddle was no longer dreaming! Sarah is in danger! Find her! Find her! The raging thought made his chest thrum painfully once more. He had to find her! Each day spent longing for her wish was like awaiting a deluge in the desert. How was he to find her? Entering her dreams without a summons— without a wish— was impossible. She was a champion of the Labyrinth, she had retaken the child, and forgotten her hours in the Underground as she was always meant to, and just as before she was gone. How could he find the girl never meant to be found? If only he could enter her dreams, beg her to wish him back! The very notion was imposs…

No…

The idea was absurd, he could no more enter her dream than she could leap into his! While he did not explicitly abide by the letter of the law, he certainly did not abstain them either. He had told her once that even he, a king, was bound by rules and on their last evening together he proved as much during their tête-à-tête. Beholden to the rules of his magic, of his crown, he was loath to put them in jeopardy— and yet… the thought remained. He was the King of Dreams and Nightmares, and if Sarah were dreaming what harm would it do to gander? He had entered before— why should he not enter again?

The Goblin King did not break rules— he bowed them.

Sarah had long since lost feeling in her legs.

The constant buzzing of ill-used limbs had finally ceased, leaving an empty void from her waist downward. That, however, did not stop the cold from permeating her skin. Her teeth had been chattering for hours as she tried desperately to continue her vigilant prayers. Each vertebrae of her spine ached from the force of her trembling as the muscles around her heart burned from the effort to keep her warm. Though she had not seen her reflection, she knew her lips were tinged with blue, and her nose, cheeks and ears were red as a beetroot.

Teetering on her knees, Sarah struggled to remain upright as her body rocked to and fro in her effort to remain conscious. Exhaustion had weakened her every faculty, her lips could barely shape her words, her eyes burning as her lids sank lower and lower. Jolting violently, her head shot back as her eyes flew open in an effort to stave off the inevitable.

Frailness drowned her where she knelt, and she toppled forward under the crashing wave of languor, her hands almost failing to catch her. Another monstrous growl rolled in her core as thirst continued to burn her throat. How long since her last meal? How long since she had been well and truly cared for? Swallowing the thought, her head gave a minute shake as she tried to redirect her thoughts.

Sarah remained as she was, frozen on hands and knees, her body trembling as another wave of fatigue unmoored her. She felt it move beyond her reach, slipping through her fingers as she felt herself slide into the welcomed darkness of sleep; her body ached from the fight against wakefulness. When her arms wilted beneath her, she toppled forward, her cheek slapping hard against the uneven stone, the rosary sprawling from her open palm. Sleep did not take her then, instead it danced just beyond her reach.

Fighting to clear her mind from the discomfort pulsing with every heartbeat, tears spilled down her cheeks for the first time in hours as her throat grew tighter. The eerie quiet of the empty chapel surrounded her, beckoning her submission into the world of slumber, her willpower faltering as her blinks grew farther and farther apart. Eventually she succumbed, and fell into the darkness, the tear tracks still damp on her cheeks.

"Sarah."

The sound was nearly lost in the raging sea of her tumultuous slumber as her heart missed a beat. "Sarah…" the whisper beckoned again, the soft rolling timbre begging her attention. "Do you hear me?" Had she been more aware, she would have felt the pressure of his worry tingle against her skin as familiarity surfaced. Pity her sleep was equally burdened by the exhaustion of her wakefulness.

Her name reechoed once more, presaged choler painting her name in shaking, dark letters. The canvas sagged beneath the imagined weight of the phantom intonation as spiders raced along her spine making her shiver painfully, despite the cold. The overwhelming desire she was loath to fight swelled within her, demanding she respond. Trembling, her lips parted, but only a weary hum slipped past the dry, chapped skin.

Palpable relief flooded the near-pitch room, like the glittering ribbons of sunshine snaking through pregnant winter clouds. That minuscule warmth becoming a blazing fire against the frozen, frosted air.

Fluttering slowly, her eyes opened to survey the tilted room, her heart crashing to the pit of her empty stomach. Had she slept— was this a dream? The ice of the stones burned against her cheek, seeping through the thin, uniform nightdress, chilling her very core. The ameliorating sunbeams retreated behind the black-grey clouds, the loss squeezing her heart painfully in her breast.

Sprawled prone, having remained in the exact position in which she had collapsed, Sarah twitched the fingers of her right hand, still entwined with the thick beads of the rosary, the cross imprinting painfully into her palm. Though her limbs seemed capable of some movement, she possessed not an ounce of motivation to make use of them, choosing instead to remain upon the floor.

The prickling needles of fear stabbed against her goose-pebbled skin; lackadaisicalness was a punishable offense, and thus far Sarah had managed to pulverize the delicate eggshells beneath her feet. Should someone find her as she was, somnolent and speechless, there would be hell to pay. One taste of the whip had supplied enough memories to last a lifetime—her scars still tender to the touch. Were she discovered as she was, Sarah would be a feast on an Inquisitional banquet.

Sarah could not bring herself to care.

"Sarah?" The voice returned, loud and insistent. Jostled, her heartbeat thrummed, her eyes darting about the room, but still she did not rise. Slamming her eyes closed against the incoming storm of her transgression, Sarah swallowed the stone wedged in her throat. She was terrified. Her answering whimper seemed to placate the disembodied sound, for the next words were a gentle sibilation. "Where are you?"

"I am here." Her voice was airy, and nearly as disembodied as the other. Vanishing as instantly as it appeared on the edge of her lips, the barest of smiles glimmered before disappearing into a weary, morose frown.

A gentle rumble of near-silent laughter spread a flame of warmth across her chest, and her heart eased a fraction at the gentle sound. "Of course you are." Sarah was certain she could hear the smile in the languid baritone, and her mind took the liberty of pairing a handsome face with the soothing sound. "Please, you must tell me where you are."

"I am here— I did not leave. I swear it." Panic threatened in her still-fragile voice. "I m-must…finish…the prayers. My prayers." The sound coming from her throat hardly belonged to her as she struggled to string her thoughts together as exhaustion fogged her mind. Her eyelids grew heavy, sinking against her will and she fought valiantly to keep them open.

"What of the lake? Will you go there soon?" the gentle probing sounded hopeful, tinged with a starkly restrained thrill.

"No!" Her eyes shot open, the empty chapel filling her view as her breaths became rapid, and her heart raced. Choking back the tears she was certain would break the crumbling dam of her resolve, Sarah spoke in sibilated finality. "No, never again."

A long, eerie silence encompassed her, the cold settling deeper into her bones as her eyes grew heavy once again. Sleep sang to her, the siren song wrapping like a thick, velvet ropes around her ankles, pulling her along the murky depths into the utopia bliss of sleep.

"Sarah, please, you must tell me where you are."

Groaning as the ropes unwound from her limbs, floating away and beyond her reach, Sarah pouted. "I told you. I am here, in the chapel." Furrowing her brow, her eyes squeezed shut like a willful child on the edge of a tantrum.

Equally annoyed, the voice responded. "Of course you are, my dear."

Flying open, as though she meant to catch sight of a wandering angel, Sarah lifted her head a fraction, trying desperately to ignore the stabbing pain throbbing behind her eyes. Placing her head against the icy stone, her eyes flew around the space, unseeing, her memories flashing violent as a summer storm.

"I…know.. you." She breathed almost wistfully, the faintest breath lifting into the air in disbelief.

Only after he spoke her name again did she comprehend the exact familiarity of the phantom voice. The sound filled with longing as it wrapped softly around her senses, holding her in its warm, rich timbre. Sarah recognized this voice. It had haunted her dreams for months before she had silenced it with her foolishness. But this could not be! Sarah was dreaming. The man whose voice danced in her mind, teasing at her memories, could not belong to the Goblin King— that would be impossible!

"You… you shouldn't…" The gaping maw of exhaustion stretched wide, unhinging like a snake to a mouse as she rocked precariously on the edge. Sleep beckoned and she was unwilling to fight against the alluring pull. "You aren't here."

The countless wishes, offered in the stolen minutes before slumber (others begged in desperation and fear) remained unanswered for as long as she could recall. The man she had broken— bent with her careless words, was lost forever, and she was left to grieve him alone. It was illogical to think his voice was reverberating within her mind; that he was there whispering in her dreams, calling to her as he had once done.

But Sarah was not dreaming.

The alluring voice was nothing more than a desperate memory, called forth by the last vestiges of her fragile sanity as she lay teetering on the edge of sleep. Lethargy was dangerous, and she had been denied rest often enough that it clung to her person like rusted iron shackles locked tight around her wrists and ankles. Day after day her movements grew more and more sluggish, the weight becoming harder and harder to bear.

While certainly not the first time she had been haunted by the voice of her victim (he had called to her often in the depths of her nightmares, and in the soft moments of wakefulness before true consciousness took hold) never had his voice sounded so crystalline, so like she remembered. From the moment his battered bloodied form took wing, Sarah had missed him, her chest aching from the loss. Gritting her teeth against the renewed pang in her heart, Sarah tried to push the burning, raw longing into the back of her mind but it was no use. The damn of her emotions threatened to burst as her mind turned over the few, but undeniably precious interactions with the Impossible Man.

"Sarah, you must wish me back."

"I-I… I can't."

"Wish me back."

The voice was a lie, she knew, but she welcomed the sound of it nonetheless. Sarah welcomed the deception, savoring the balm it cast over her nerves as she lay shivering on the stone. "No," she whispered into the dark, her voice breaking from disuse, "you… aren't r-real."

"Sarah, please, make your wish." It was not a request. Sarah could almost imagine his lips pressing into a thin, hard line as a light flashed in the back of his mismatched eyes. He would use his imposing height to press his advantage, his head cocked to the side, daring her to defy him.

A small v formed between her brows as she frowned, "I have." Her mouth had become heavy, the words too much for her drifting, addled mind to bear. "I have made my wish… night after night… the— my right words." Each blink became longer, the effort to raise her eyelids growing more and more distinct. "I never stopped."

"Wish again, Sarah. Please. Wish me back."

"Y- you are not…real."

"Sarah, please— please wish me back!"

Sarah was slipping, she felt herself start to slide back into the darkness. The soothing, calming darkness that promised reprieve from her torment, from the cruel trick of mind. Reprieve from the echo of a voice she longed to hear, if only one last time. With sad finality, Sarah mumbled her words before catapulting into nothingness. "You are dead."

A/N: Hello my lovelies! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I do! Please tell me your thoughts! I know I say it a bunch, but seriously reviews make writing easier. What can I say, reviews up my confidence! Please, please review! I love you all! Until next chapter…