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

ACT II

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rage…
Despair…
Amnesty…

Sarah Williams understood pain.

Far too many hours spent atop her knees scrubbing the floors of forgotten rooms and the corners of a decaying hearth had taken its toll upon her thin frame as the sun took its leave beyond the horizon. Climbing laboriously up the creaking stairs, her footfalls were heavy as she shuffled forlornly to her worn and lumped mattress, where she prayed sleep would claim her instantly. The dawn would illuminate the myriad of sores her exhaustion had not seen: raw patches on her hands where the lye had singed, the array of cuts stinging from the trimming knife at the shop, scabbed blisters across purpled knees, stripped callouses revealing bright pink flesh.

Ritualistic pain endured with every rising sun.

Her father's carelessness leading collectors to rage at the door, the ever-looming threat of prisons and alleyways hanging on their lips. Enduring the weight of a shattered reputation and broken home. Selling her body—her soul— for the promise of protection behind the walls of a gilded cage, where the privileged would spit at her back with gleeful laughter. The crack of her lip beneath her father's hand, the feel of his boot in her ribs, the sound of his drunken bellowing, the knife point of his slander: that was pain.

Waiting at the edge of the woods beside a crystalline lake for an impossible phantasm beckoned by a wish, the ache of doubt pressing against her lungs. The fear of discovery. The burn of the cold on her cheeks as she searched the dense tree line, the frost prickling at her naked hands, pushing through the worn fibers of her threadbare cloak, seeping deep into her bones. All the while knowing that she was not his to keep and nor was he hers, it would be over before it began.

That too was pain.

Her gormless wish, horrifying and murderous, was an entirely new breed of suffering. Stabbing dull and rusted knives of guilt into her bleeding heart, renting her soul until she knew death would be preferable to this unending nightmare. The crushing weight of her secret, of her shattered heart hanging in her breast, whilst her features remained unchanged to the outside world had been unbearable. The silence that followed each wish, confirming her worst fears that he was in fact dead by her hand— her words— was agony.

The moment the whip kissed her back, Sarah understood: she knew nothing of pain.

The whip was a newfound and overwhelming torment, the spires of suffering towering into the night as if to touch the stars. In all her life, she could not have imagined such excruciating, relentless torture as the bite of the tails, the hiss of the iron. She could not accept nor reason with this pain, only endure it. Sarah could not remember how long it lasted, only that a sudden blackness had welcomed her with widespread arms.

In that void, Sarah Williams wished for death.

Feeling her soul lost to the ever-burning pit of Hell where the vilest of demons clawed at her spine, tearing it vertebrae by vertebrae from beneath her flesh, the minutes were lost to her as she wept in her prison. Her throat burned, raw from the screams she could not contain as she slid into the snapping, gnawing teeth of her pain. Howling roared around her, thrumming against her eardrums in an erratic rhythm that threatened to drive her mad, the sound like a lonely, wounded beast.

Curling around her agonizing throes like a dragon with its hoard, her body shook like the last leaves of autumn trapped in a snowy storm. She whimpered as another galling wave crashed against her nerves, dragging her deep below the depths of consciousness where her minutes were lost once more. Her mind shifted like wisps of clouds, ephemeral and fleeting tufts that evaporated at the barest touch or lingering glance.

Time blurred, waxing and waning until she felt herself floating weightless, surrounded by warmth and a fleeting familiarity. Until that too was stripped away, replaced with coarse cloth against her terrorized flesh as the howling returned. A voice, small but potent, demanded she fight, but her limbs simply would not comply.

The barest touch against her cheek jolted her very core, even within the darkness she screamed, pulling away from the contact. She could feel her lips shaping the words— the words that had damned her so completely. How could she think them after all they had done— knowing he was gone?

Once more the touch returned, more insistent, coaxing as the pressure moved to her jawline. Her head was lifted from its resting place and for the first time she noticed the voice of another, the words muddled and faraway, as a warm putrid liquid was poured down her throat. She coughed, the jarring movement setting her back aflame, and she cried out, gasping for breath.

A hand smoothed along her brow, the voice whispered, much closer now, but the words were still lost to her senses. Something cool and smooth pressed against her temple, the sensation dissolving softly into her pores spreading like hot tea through her veins. Drop by drop the soothing sensation filled her, like the sands of an hourglass, the vibrant pain saturating into the dull grey of morning mist. The monument of her heartbreak lifted from her breast, and her lungs opened greedily, swelling almost painfully before deflating, pushing every ounce of woe and tension, agony and guilt from her being.

The world faded away once more.

Slow as the rising tide, Sarah felt each voracious stripe along her back as her medicines drained from her body. Fire radiated through the gaping, oozing wounds coated in a thick, sticky paste that smelled of honey and bark. Her fingers twitched atop the smooth sheets, as she tried to orient herself, but the task seemed too great for her broken body. Too afraid of what she might find in the world of wakefulness, her eyes remained shut as she kept one foot in the well of her torpor.

She was not alone.

A quiet rustling confirmed the presence of another, who ambled about the space with clinical precision, no sound too jarring or misplaced. The soporific melody lulled her into the realm of calm, where the water rippled in the breeze, bringing the memory of moonlit paths and pebbled shores.

Hours or perhaps minutes later, the song changed as a new sound reverberated about the room: footsteps, determined and sure. The stride confident and powerful, followed by the soft hurried steps of another, trailing somewhere behind.

Fear returned. Sickness rolled through her veins, pooling in her achingly empty stomach, and she bit back the tears building at the corners of her eyes not wanting her wakefulness to be known. Thrumming wildly in her breast, her heart threatened to break through her ribs.

A distant voice broke through the hurricane of her delirium, "Why does she still sleep?" The chords belonged to a man, deep and stern.

"Her injuries required a much greater dosage than previously thought." A woman answered, her voice filled with the softness only age could provide. "It is only natural her body reject the medicines…"

"Is she healing?" The man demanded, a growl rolling on his words. There was a strange stillness, and the woman grew quiet, the timbre of her voice too low for Sarah to hear. The man's resulting displeasure was all too clear. "I want to know the moment she wakes… you can manage that, can't you?"

A delicate clamor confused her dulled senses making it impossible to orient herself in the room. Still she did not open her eyes. The pair began arguing as they paced further away from her, and Sarah was able to relax once more into the welcoming arms of sleep.

Sarah…

The ache returned to her breast, and so too did the fire on her back. Wakefulness was a newfound Hell she had not realized existed— knowledge she wished she did not possess. Her flogging had come on the accusation of a wish whispered in a palace of martyrdom by a man of God she did not trust. The wish was a lie, a falsehood spoken for the sake of destruction and obedience.

A single lie that nearly killed her.

Trembling against the orchestral crescendo of fear paralyzing her limbs at the very thought of her injuries, Sarah dampened the prickling feather pillow with her tears. For the first time since her scourging, she dared to peek at her temporary lodgings, and the risk being seen by occupant within. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the dimly lit space with exhausted slowness.

The room was as ordinary as she.

Before her sat a vacant chair she was certain would creak under the barest strain. From her limited view, she could see the usual trappings of a healer's home: a large shelf stocked with an array of bottled ingredients, dried herbs hanging from the rafters above a large table, a kettle simmering over the open fire. Whatever lay behind her was a mystery, for she dared not turn to look and laid back upon her borrowed bed with a grimace of pain.

How long had she been here? When would the physician deem her health sufficient to return to her room? What would they do to her now that she had been scourged? Where was her nursemaid?

Where was Father Elswick?

"Madam! Madam!" a frightened voice called from somewhere outside the room, making her jump. The owner was young, too young for Sarah to determine the gender as the sound grew closer. "Madam, please! Help!"

The door behind Sarah burst open, and her eyes slammed shut not wanting her consciousness to be discovered by the woman being beckoned. "Hush, child!" The nurse called out, appearing from some unseen location, "Has the devil come for ya?"

Sarah frowned, before quickly resetting her features. Why had the child come to the Estate for help? Were their circumstances so dire they would risk stepping foot through the gates of Hell? Was there no one left in the world to help them? Or were they perhaps kin?

Squinting her eyes, her teeth ground fiercely together as she grimaced, the embers of her pain flaring with each ticking moment. The effects of her salve were ebbing and her swallowed groans grew harder and harder to repress.

"Help! The bairn's coming!" The child cried with a small, watery voice. "You must help!"

"Collie, I am a healer," The woman answered with an exasperated sigh, "run along and fetch the midwife. I have my own charge to look after." She began to move around the room, her footsteps slow and clustered, were accompanied by the gentle clatter of busywork.

"She… not…there!" Collie wailed, sniffling after every word. "Can't… find…her!"

Dangerous and slow, like a poison creeping through her veins drop by drop, a revelation tinted her blood, embedding deep in her brain. Escape; you cannot stay here! One side of the door offers hope, the other, death. Latching to the truth like a parasite, the gears began to turn, the tentative brush strokes painting the canvas of her imagination with glaring black ink. Escape.

Biting her cheek, Sarah listened with rapt attention.

"Collie— er—" she could feel eyes on her back, even through the crackling layers of pain as the woman pondered her decision. "I— I—" another moment passed, the child began to whimper audibly, pleading softly through their tears. "Hush, Collie, I'm thinking."

The child moaned.

The woman cursed as something slammed against the table, her defeated sign audible. "Come on then...but we must make haste. It'll be my hide that's tanned if we're caught!"

Her words were accompanied by a squeal of delight, as the child clapped enthusiastically, muttering ardent words of gratitude as they shuffled out of the room. Their retreating footsteps punctuated by the low thump of the closing door.

Escape!

Sarah held her breath, waiting for the woman to return. Wait… wait… Her heart hammered in her breast as she counted the seconds as though a clock ticked from its nesting place on the wall. There were no such sounds. The room remained silent. Death within these walls… or a chance of life beyond them.

Go now!

Gathering her strength, she pressed her palm into the mattress lifting up awkwardly from her side. Nausea prickled against her throat and she gagged on her whimper as fresh tears slid along her cheeks, dripping into the sheets. Glancing carefully over her shoulder, Sarah stared at the door far longer than she ought, indecision weighing heavily against her thoughts.

Life or death… make your choice!

Setting her feet against the floor, Sarah stood with great privation, her body swaying on the spot as she tried desperately to gather her bearings. Terror ran through her like ice as her vision faltered. Agony threatened to crush her under its thumb as her vision faltered, her head lulling heavily atop her neck. Shakily her hand stretched before her, feeling for obstructions as she limped gracelessly across the floor. A sob lodged in her throat as sweat beaded along her brow. She shook so badly now she could not think, her sense of direction teetering on the edge of delirium, but still she pressed onward.

Stumbling over her own deformed feet, bare on the cold stone floor, Sarah walked with faltering steps, her fingers brushing against foreign objects that rattled and clinked as she passed. Peering through the pulsing ache, drumming behind her eyes, she cried out as her hand pressed firm against the door, the torrent of her tears cascading to the stones.

The door was far heavier than she expected, the tattered muscles of her back bellowed in protest as she pulled at the wood. Wrapping all ten fingers around the black iron ring, she bent her knees and slowly leaned her diminutive weight back onto her heels. Her back bled anew, hellfire racing along her spine as the door creaked inch by inch until at long last she could abandon her efforts and slip through the narrow opening into the waiting grey.

Snow covered the ground, the once white blanket now darkened, dented with the smattering of muddied footprints and prowling beasts. The air was wet, a shroud of mist hung low in the sky, painting the world in teardrops, as though it too were mourning her suffering. She tasted the cold long before she felt it, the crisp, bright moisture that clung to her lips as she swallowed her first breath beyond the walls of the asylum.

Through the fogged haze of her troubled and exhausted mind, Sarah surveyed the gravelly road sprawling before her. The path was narrow and close, framed by walls of stone, nothing looked familiar— but why should it? She had not been conscious for the journey, nor had she been granted the privilege of looking out the windows— whatever lay in the world outside her prison was yet to be discovered.

Sarah did not look back.

Stepping forward, her bare foot sunk into the snow, the crisp white flakes burning the exposed flesh. Hissing sharply, Sarah tried to ignore the throbbing ache as the cold sank deep into her muscles. Sarah shivered, pushing through the dense curtain of her pain, hardly aware of where she was going. She refused to remain immobile, the very idea jarring her nerves as she walked with deliberate, hastened steps desperate to be free of the snow.

Sarah drifted forward with outstretched hand searching for any point of contact, sobbing audibly when she, at last, found it. She drifted forward, her fingers trailing along the wall, clinging to the uneven surface like a lifeline, as though it might keep her buoyant in the waters of her suffering. She frowned, wondering if she was going the wrong way. Altering course, she turned slinking into the heavy shadows of an alley, the pang in her feet becoming far greater than that of her back. The weightlessness of hope dissolved in the pit of her stomach, turning into the angry hooked talons of tenebrose fear.

Were there no vagabonds on the streets save for she? Were there no women promising a piece of themselves for a few meager coins, or thieves prowling in the shadows?

Throwing away those thoughts, Sarah trudged on, her head swaying atop her shoulders as her body trembled with lethal force. Her eyes were heavy, her throat tight. How far had she gone? Glancing behind her with a wild hiss, Sarah frowned at the muddied footprints marking her path like a painted trail screaming her escape. Hot tears warmed her cheek for a moment, before freezing against the biting wind.

This was a mistake.

Agony enveloped her as she leaned more heavily into the stone wall, grinding her chattering teeth against myriad of pains encasing her body. Hollow and black, the sickening hole in her breast gaped, whispering vicious taunts of deserved penance and retreat.

Life or death…

Straightening the barest fraction, her wounds coated in frosted salve and blood wept from the unwanted motion. I would rather die here… than return to the Estate! Whatever lingered in the frozen unknown, waiting behind the shrouded alleyways, and lamp-lit streets could not be worse than the fate waiting behind the doors of the Estate.

Grinding her teeth, Sarah pressed onward.

The shadows thickened as the night grew dark and Sarah stumbled out of the alley with graceless steps as sensation faded from her toes. Had she gone far enough? Tossing a glance behind her, Sarah gasped as pain erupted along her back, she was alone. Were she being followed, surely her pursuers would be swift and not toy with her as a cat to a mouse? Feeling unseen eyes roving her person, their phantom hands tracing along her wounded back, Sarah hastened her steps, unaware of the first bloodied print in her trail.

The air was frigid, the ground frozen.

Blindly she pursued her imagined course, the faint breeze cutting through her coarse nightgown as a cold, cloying fog crept across the roads. Unlike any she had known before; a living breathing entity that possessed the night, as a demon to its host. Unaware of her actions, a gentle song took wing. The tune stolen from an opera she had heard years ago but had never seemed to forget, echoing softly into the still, quiet night. The hushed eeriness of her surroundings made her skin crawl and her humming grew louder as she waited for some great thing to strike her down and leave her bleeding on the roadside, to feast on her flesh until dawn. Her fear freshened the force of her injuries, and suddenly she was all too aware of the liquid dripping from her back and the blood painting her raw footsteps.

A scuffling at her left sent her barreling into the nearest wall, her hand clamped over her mouth and her back pressed flush with the rough surface. Hot tears streamed from her eyes as she awaited discovery, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as the sounds drew closer, the peculiar crunching of snow underfoot, punctuated with an operose sigh. Choking on the sob threatening to burst from her lungs, Sarah pushed harder against the wall, silently begging that it swallow her whole.

Nearer still they came.

Her chest throbbed from the merciless pounding of her heart. I cannot go back! Her entire being began to shake, Please! No! NO! Her eyes misted as the exertion proved too much for her mangled body, her teeth began to chatter and her knees grew weak. She was tired. Too tired to run— to move. For a fleeting moment fear had washed away the burden of her injuries, and she squandered them hiding in the pathetic alcove devoid of shadows.

Suddenly the moment was gone, replaced with the gnawing, burning throe of each laceration upon her back, and the brilliant, malady that was her frostbitten feet.

Closer now.

Five more steps…

Her vision fogged, delirium chiseled away at her senses. Let me die…please. Sliding along a rough, wooden barricade, her body crumpled in a broken, bloody heap, her tears frozen upon her cheeks as blackness surrounded her.

Festooned with hundreds of tiny candles perched in elaborate chandeliers hanging like glittering clouds above the gathered assembly, the marble floors reflected the flickering lights with ebullience. Towering columns of pearlescent marble lined the walls, spaced evenly across the checkered floor. Great bowls of hand-blown glass lined the walls between pillars each brimming with fresh blooms, their sweet, heady fragrance mingling with the warm scent of beeswax. There was no music apart from the gentle murmuring of the crowd as they stood in wait. At the head of it all sat the throne, a magnificently carved seat of Mauritius ebony, fitted with plush, black velvet.

For all in attendance, the King was the picture of blasé indifference, twirling a crystal with absentminded dejection. His leg slung casually over the ornate arm, his posture lax as he stared over the bowed emissary at the base of the stairs to the impressive crowd, each waiting anxiously for their scheduled audience with the mercurial man.

The representative was handsome and poised. The picture of sophistication, his deep cocoa skin stood in stark contrast to the white marble making him the focus of all in the room. His clothes bespoke money and so too did his manner, as he addressed the monarch, unbothered by the crystal rolling to and fro atop a single gloved hand. Lost in the monologue of his grievances, the man was oblivious to the faraway look in the mismatched eyes as he addressed the crown.

"My Liege, please look upon this humble servant with kindness, I beg. I have no doubt that in your inestimable wisdom you will be able to bring untold riches to each corner of the world. I only hope that my master might be the means by which greater fortune will befall the crown."

The King's focus was not on the tawdry man, but rather the insipid woman shoving through the tawdry throng, her humble grey dress remarkable in a sea of color. Whatever propelled her steps as she crossed the back of the room, he could not say, but her frenzied trepidation was all too clear even from a distance. Racing to the last pillar on the left side of the hall, the woman moved with certainty to hidden space behind it, disappearing entirely from his view.

Slowing in his grasp, the crystal lulled over his fingers, his eyes flitted from the pillar to the emissary who was still very mush absorbed in his own flowery speech. "Your lands have been gracious and bountiful, and for that my master sends his respects, and, in truth, his envy. He is, as many would say, a genius…"

With controlled slowness, the King shifted to plant both his feet firmly on the floor, leaning forward to rest a forearm atop his thigh, the crystal still in his grasp. His free hand closed into a fist as he struggled to recollect his wayward thoughts.

The strange woman to his court was curious, and his attention took the bait as a fish to the lure dancing in the current. He could not move his gaze from where the woman had vanished, an excitement prickling anxiously across his skin. As the crystal resumed its course, spinning idly in his adroit hand, the King could not help but wonder what grievances brought her to his court.

Languorously, the King slid his gaze to the garish man, his mismatched eyes insouciant as the ball continued its lissome ballet over his gloved fingers. "Your Master's accomplishments are impressive, I will grant you that, but his meretricious loftiness is not a reason for my concession. If his talents are as you claim, then certainly he has no need of me."

Flustered, the obstreperous messenger frowned spreading his hands wide in defense. "I fear I have erred, forgive me, Your Grace, for mixing my words." Bowing his head he offered a circuitous rationalization of his previous ramblings, his hand pressed flat against his heart in a show of sincerity. "My master is not asking for aid, nor supplementation, but a merger. An alliance, if you will— to forever link your two great houses."

The woman emerged.

The crystal stopped. The pale hairs on his neck raised as ice crashed over his body, paralyzing him where he sat. His jaw clenched as the woman turned to face him, her bright cerulean eyes red and glistening, her once caramel skin the color of ash. Turning around, she bowed, pressing her lips against the hands of his adviser, who had appeared as suddenly as she from behind the pillar, before fleeing the Hall.

Why is she here?

The adviser moved to lean against the pillar in a mock-casual pose, his head purposefully turned away from the throne. The King's eyes flashed to Emere, his lips a thin line cutting his sharp features. Glaring as if willpower alone could force his friend to meet his gaze, the King scowled, his vein pulsing at his temple. Why is she here?

Resisting the urge to grind his teeth was proving a greater task than he anticipated. There was no subtle way for a man of his caliber and countenance to practice such a noxious habit, and it took every ounce of his self-restraint to keep his features neutral. Minutes passed, slow and torturous, every second felt in the pulsing of his heart and the strain in his taut muscles. WHY IS SHE HERE?!

At last Emere met his eyes.

The King's brow lifted, the silent question passing between them.

Emere shook his head.

The King stood.

The crystal shattered.

A/N: Sorry that took a while, sickness had run rampant in my house and it appears that I got the worst of it! I know I could have (should have) been writing, but… I did not. I know the whole ACT ONE thing has thrown people for a loop but I promise it will eventually make sense. Admittedly, I had not planned on dividing the story into ACTS but my beta-bestie (BB) made far too many good points for me to ignore. In the spirit of truthfulness, I also pondered (very seriously) ending the story there, despite all of the plot and progression I had planned, part of me thought, "end it here, do it. DO IT!"

You have my BB (and friends) to thank for the change of heart. I am excited to write more, truly I am, I simply got too much in my head and worried I did not have the skills to write all that is yet to come. Again, thank my BB!

So after that long rant… PLEASE REVIEW! I get giddy over every single one… so please keep it up! I love you all! I will post soon!