It took approximately ten seconds for her world to crumble around her, for the distant, nagging feeling she'd had to be fully realized.

Those seconds trickled by, as if time had slowed down to a stop for Sarah, benevolently letting her catch up. Her gaze flicked from the warrior who had broken into her realm to Belinda, and then to the spear in her grasp. The dreams she'd had with lions roaring in the background all those years ago, her burning home, Belinda's odd expressions all fell into place.

Sarah was not meant to be the stag. She never had been.

"No," she said, as if denying it further would accomplish anything at all. She should have seen it—should have let herself realize it—much sooner. Another glance at Belinda told Sarah that the weaver was far away again, picking at the threads of fate and time she had access to.

"Lo, warriors, saints, and sages; from out the vanished ages," Belinda recited before shaking her head and opening her mouth again. "To the land of no return, to the road whence there is no turning…"

Sarah wanted to grab Belinda and shake her, to beg her to speak plainly for once. But Belinda was tangled up in a web partly of her own making, and could not be compelled to make sense when there was none to be made in the first place.

She stepped away from the forest, drawn out not by her own volition. A solid thunk and the quivering of a tree branch signaled the end of her adversary's patience, short that it was. Above her head, having missed by inches, was an arrow embedded a third of the way up the shaft.

The warrior had not missed; it had been a warning: join the fray or be cut down like a coward.

Her feet took her closer to what was her own probable doom, but she felt numb. At her wrist, her thread burned—no doubt a working of one of Belinda's sisters, like at least part of the mess she found herself in.

"Quit your stalling, so that this can be done," shouted the helmed warrior, and Sarah was only a little surprised to hear how feminine the voice sounded. She licked her lips and held her hands up in a placating gesture.

"We don't need to fight," Sarah said, hoping that pretty words would be able to save her again. Say your right words…

"We do," the warrior said instead, pulling back hard in her bowstring. "They promised a cure for my brother."

Sarah heard in the woman's voice the same desperation she'd felt herself when she thought Toby was in danger. With a start, she was reminded that this woman, set up to be her enemy by an uncaring fate, had a life all of her own.

"Please," Sarah started to say, her muscles already tensing underneath her. She was already moving by the time the arrow was released, and it missed her by a hair's breadth. Part of her—the trade for her mortality that still remembered Ishtar—wanted to rush in, to close the distance between them and end the encounter. Running was for those too weak to defend themselves.

But the rest of Sarah remembered her promise to do what she could to win, even if the prospect was even more bitter now than before. According to those pulling the strings, she was the villain; the irony was not lost on her.

The horned warrior drew, pulled, and released again, and only missed Sarah by chance. She was fleeter of foot than she had been before, and she owed that to the endless paces Jareth had put her through.

She remembered her breathing, how to best work her lungs, how to work through the pain that would build up in her muscles. At least this ground was mostly flat, and she wouldn't have to dodge trees and underbrush…

A feint to the left saw another arrow gone, head buried in the earth. Sarah had no idea how many the warrior brought, but she knew—hoped, rather—that she would run out sooner rather than later.

"Stand and fight! Coward!"

An arrow whistled as it sailed by Sarah's ear, and she swore she felt the fletching brush by her hair, far, far too close for comfort. She held her cheek, not sure is the was imagining the sting or not.

Sarah ignored the taunt and spared a precious second to glance at the archer. She'd nocked another arrow, but seemed hesitant to fire it. Maybe, just maybe, Sarah's luck was starting to turn around.

Or not.

Her foot found what might have been the only rabbit warren in the field, and her ankle buckled under her with a sickening pop. Her eyes watered, but she refused to let herself fall down

Ignoring the pain in her leg, she gritted her teeth and dashed in a wide arc, still too far for a spear to do any damage, but just right for a bow and arrow…

A glint of sun on metal stopped both her feet and what little logical thought she'd maintained her hold over. The sight brought her stumbling to a stop, and she wished she could kick herself for not demanding that Jareth stay out of the fight. He raised his sword—the same one with the strange inscription—and all of Sarah's attention was focused on its upward swing. If Sarah allowed this to happen—if she allowed him to interfere—then not only would he be bringing one of those reviled prophecies to fruition, but he would further cast her in the role of villain. Both of them.

Whether it was pride or vanity that fuelled her actions, she did not know.

Sarah opened her mouth and, still holding her spear, raised her voice to tell him—beg him— to stop. The arrow found its mark before she even realized it had been released. Sarah staggered back, the breath stolen from her lungs.

All noise but the blood rushing in her ears and the sound of her ragged attempts at breathing were silenced. When she looked down, it was to see the feather end of an arrow blooming from her Celiac plexus, right below where her lower ribs joined up.

Dark spots flickered in her vision. She ran hot and cold at the same time, and recognized this in a clinical, detached sort of way. I am dying. I am going to die, she realized. And then, she thought: but I am not supposed to die.

She wondered how much of herself would transfer to the next unlucky soul to be graced with godhood, or if Ishtar would swallow her up again. And then she realized: dying, for gods or whatever half creature she'd become, was not the same as it was for mortals. Ishtar was not dead, but only through a technicality; Sarah might just fall victim to the same technicality herself.

The second arrow hit her in her right shoulder, sending Sarah spinning. Her arm went numb, and she wasn't sure if she still held her spear or not, could no longer see to look.

By the time Sarah hit the ground, she was what she would have called dead.

The helmed warrior was dead, her drawing arm nearly severed from her torso. The familiar weight of his sword helped to slice through skin and muscle, making it impossible for her to fire another arrow. One more sweep stilled her heart for good.

Still, it was too late; Sarah was already on the ground. He could see, even from far away, that her eyes were still open, still staring wide into the sky but unseeing.

Knowing a foe was dead would have, at one point in time, brought him satisfaction. But there was no succor to be found here, nothing to assuage the hurt. Sarah, as he knew her, was gone-had been gone, though he did not know it at the time. All beings were cyclical, in their own way, so it was probable that Sarah would come back, in some form. And no doubt, she would be made to follow whichever path the Weavers set out for her again.

Jareth narrowed his eyes, watching as one of the three witches in question kneeled by Sarah's side. The other two might have been beyond his grasp, and he doubted that he would ever cross paths with them. But this one…

This one, he could do something about. Sarah could be well and truly avenged. In his hand, he gripped the sword tighter, and in a matter of moments he was at Belinda's side. Sarah, he refused to look at.

"You can't kill me," she said patiently, as if explaining it to a child. Jareth only readjusted his grip.

"And even if you could-which you can't-it would be an exceedingly stupid thing to do. So." Belinda glanced up at him, raising a single eyebrow as if daring him to try. It couldn't hurt to try.

Could it?

He narrowed his eyes at the witch.

"You will bring her back," he ordered. "You will use what is left of your powers to bring Sarah back, or I will-"

"I can't," Belida said. "Wherever she is, it's up to her, now. If she wants to come back, and has the strength to do so, then she will. But if she doesn't want to, or can't…" Belinda motioned to the arrow in Sarah's chest. "There's no medicine in any age that could fix that. I'm sorry, for what it's worth, that it had to be like this."

Jareth blinked down at her and then dropped his sword; it fell harmlessly in the grass beside them. Sarah's face was still warm, he noted as he smoothed her dark hair back. Still warm, but her eyes were already glazing over. He closed them one by one, ignoring how his fingers shook and that Belinda watched all the while.

"You knew it would end like this. You, witch, let her think she would be the victor." And Sarah had been so certain that the little handwritten scraps of paper had held the key to her destiny that she hadn't even wanted to learn to defend herself. Stupid girl, he thought to himself bitterly. Naive. Trusting. He snapped the arrow in her shoulder where it met her skin so it could not serve as a reminder as he looked at her. Blood and gore had never particularly bothered him-not when he was a kingslayer, and not when he slew the Weavers' champion, but looking at Sarah bloodied and pale made bile rise in his throat.

Belinda shrugged as if she didn't care, but avoided looking at the body between them.

"I was pretty sure, yes. Not completely, but certain enough to plan for things. She should be finding Taliesin soon, and then… Well, then we will see if she is strong enough to come back."

Jareth contemplated the two women in front of him, both living and dead. He twirled the broken arrow in his fingertips, and then he drew his lips back in a facsimile of a smile.

"You might not be able to die, but if she does not come back, witch, this I swear: there are worse things than death, and I will make you experience every single one."

Belinda looked at him then, really looked at him, and searched his face as if she thought she might be able to detect a lie.

"I know," she said simply.