Disclaimer: Do not own 'the Labyrinth', that belongs to Jim Hensen and some other lucky folks. Nor do I own David Bowie, but we can all dream. And some of us do. (Hehehe…)

When last we saw our beloved Sarah she was just pulling herself out of an anxiety attack, bound and determined to shake her 'imaginary' companions from her memory. She is looking forward to her vacation in Ireland. And the goblins are looking forward to it, too…

Ayden's Áit:

Scrubbing her face with warm water had helped more than Sarah would have liked to admit, and she felt a lot better after her shower. The bathroom had been far more modern than she had at first suspected it would be, and it's brass fixtures became more dear to her in those few minutes than she liked to admit. She hadn't really considered what she would do if the little bed and bath hadn't had modern plumbing, but she doubted it would have gone well. She had never been a morning person on the best of days, but the thought of having to draw her own bath out of a pump-well was not a pretty one by any stretch of the imagination.

She was comforted by those cream walls, with their large borders of dark wood carved into large, entwining roses. It matched the little wash-table perfectly, and it was obvious that the entire room had been furnished at once, so unlike the rest of the cottage that Sarah had seen. Antiques were nestled in with new art pieces, modern plumbing and electricity mingled with candle light over dinner.

She tugged on a thick, dark emerald sweater, gazing out the bathroom door to the bay-window in her room. It was one of the only places for miles that had offered a balcony, and so she had taken it. The view was well worth it, even though it was slightly obscured by fog.

She tied her long, thick dark hair back out of reflex. It was impractical to leave it down, she told herself. She didn't want to go into the reasoning too deeply, the last thing she wanted was another trip back into her own memories. They were too much for her to sort through on any day. It is not something to do on vacation, she told herself soothingly.

Deciding that the fresh air would be good for her, Sarah left her room. She didn't care that the owner would look askance at her, and speak in her strange native tongue. The words were soothing, in a strange way. No, it was the curiosity that hurt.

The woman had asked her about a tour, about the sights, and Sarah had turned all offers aside. No, she would move around in silence for her stay here. It was what she wanted, what she preferred. It had been the look in Miss O'Fallon's matronly eyes at her final request that made Sarah wary of seeking the other woman out.

Cover or remove the mirrors.

Miss O'Fallon had complied, and the faded paper told the truth of her efforts. Here and there new wall-paper glared out, triumphant, free of it's mirror-induced exile. And the mirror in the bathroom and over the dresser had been covered in long, thick dark sheets.

The stares that she had received were a fair trade, Sarah decided, for her sanity. Better they think her crazy than the sight of her own reflection to drive her there truly.

Before she left the room she sent a final glare at the music box, seemingly innocent in it's place beside the small, antique looking alarm clock. The Princess in her beautiful gown stared out at the empty room long after Sarah closed the door, her small, painted eyes seeing that beyond the thick sheets Sir Didymus paced, his jaunty hat skewed, his posture rigid. He would have warned his Lady, had she but looked…

There was music… there was always music, Jareth thought bitterly. Below him his subjects sang and danced, their tongues as agile as their feet. Their songs drifted up to him, as always, but he was no more interested in their merriment now than he had been last week, or the week before that. No, there was no music in his life now, none but the fading strains of a long forgotten waltz.

A feral snarl rent the air and he lashed out with his hand, shattering a prized gem to the floor with out a single care. It's amethyst depths reflected him in thousands, allowing him many faces to glare at simultaneously. Good. Maybe after he was done hating himself a thousand times over he would find peace. Though he truly and deeply doubted it.

He sighed, tossing his long hair over his shoulder and out of his way. Without effort he waved a hand, bringing the precious gem back together, making it whole again. He glared around the Study, looking for something to distract him. But it had grown obvious, maybe painfully so, that there was nothing for him here that he hadn't already destroyed and re-created.

Well, there were some things, but they were treasures, almost relics now.

Without consent his hand stole to the pendants upon his neck. The golden disc was as familiar as his own skin, a small piece of his power, a single drop of the life the labyrinth had been made of. His own mortal life. The newest pendant was still growing used to him, it's power vastly different from his own. Maybe that was why he had kept it, despite it all--

He laughed at his own folly. No… He knew why he had kept it, and it had nothing to do with magic, or the thirst to possess it. He caressed it slowly, feeling it even through his glove. The grooves were smoothed with time, still present even after six mortal years of his touch. Some nights he had lain awake in his chambers staring at it pensively, wondering what she was doing…

He knew only that she lived. He had held her as long as he could, sustained her with his warmth and his hope until mortal medicine could heal her. He had felt each sliver of lass for her, taken the pain for as long as his magic could, dimmed by the veils between worlds. It was all he could do for her. She wouldn't wish for anything, and so he could not offer it.

It was a lot like the enchantment cast over his Kingdom, he thought bitterly. It changed to fit the one who had been placed within. Even his subjects were transformed to the wisher's ideals. Even the King was changed to suit the desires of the challenger.

Sarah had made him somewhat human, and in doing so she lessened him, made him different than he was. Without her glamour cast upon him, his hair was silver and gold, a blend so complete that they were one and the same. His eyes were neither blue nor gold, but rather both, and a thousand other colors at once, shifting with his mercurial moods. His clothing took on a more practical nature, serviceable leather replaced sequins and sparkles. Ah, but what she hadn't changed mattered to him the most. Beneath the superficial physical changes, she hadn't changed the man he was.

His subjects hadn't been so lucky. They had been changed from their glorious, beautiful Elfin, Fey selves into Goblins. Ignorant, smelly, illiterate Goblins. And while he had laughed, they had never been so pleased at a challenger's departure. So pleased were they, in fact, that they seemed blind to their King's mourning.

The true goblins kept the portal between the mortal realm, and the realm that Jareth ruled. Many places were thin, the veils barely in place. True, they weakened with time, but the realms drifted as science grew more advanced, and Dreamers grew fewer and fewer. Though the veils were faltering, the threat was lower than ever, because those capable of finding the veils, and slipping through them, were dwindling.

Jareth dropped his hand from the peach pit strung round his neck, the white ribbon suddenly irritating his skin. He snatched his hand back, looking thoughtfully at the leather of his gloves. They were there to minimize sensation, as Fey were sensitive creatures, but they had failed to protect him from his disturbing memories. It seemed nothing could.

He took his bottle of wine over to the large window seat, and reclined, like a great bird spreading it's wings. He drank deeply, thinking of flight, and freedom… He could not touch her life again. The realization dragged him back from the brink of freedom, the owl within him shrieked in fury. Ah, but the edict of the High Council was final.

Unless Sarah wished, she was forever forbidden to him. As long as she was in the mortal realm, she was to live a mortal life.

He had pleaded with them, threatened them, made promises, offered challenges… and they had denied them all. They had taken Sarah's memories of that night, and they were shocked when she still touched them, still managed small slivers of recollection. But despite their failure to deny the Dreamer her memories of their world, they denied Jareth her world. No longer could he traverse it, as a man or an owl.

They said he couldn't be trusted to walk in her world without seeking her out. He couldn't be trusted. In a fit of rage, one his Owl fully appreciated and echoed, he pitched the entire bottle, end over end, into the roaring hearth.

He hated that the High Council had been right. He couldn't be trusted in her world. It was like offering mankind fire, and expecting them not to touch it, to seek it's warmth… It mattered not to Jareth, in the slightest, that he was sure to be burned.

"Well good afternoon to ye, miss, and Fáilte go Éirinn." Miss O'Fallon smiled widely, and Sarah smiled back slowly. She had no clue what the woman had said to her, but it didn't sound like any curses or slurs should. In fact, the woman sounded genuinely pleased to see her.

Seeing Sarah's mild confusion the woman laughed. "I said Welcome to Ireland, Miss. Here we call her Éirinn, land of our fathers."

Sarah smiled at the large woman who was dusting paintings as they rested on the walls. Brilliant watercolors were next to black and white pictures of flowers, their glass shiny and hard in comparison to the soft canvas displayed by the other. And still, in this place, they fit together.

"Miss O'Fallon? I was looking for somewhere to go out for a bite to eat… I mean… I would take dinner here, but I want to see the village, and…" Sarah looked away, her voice failing in her embarrassment. She always managed to make a mess of things! She chided herself silently.

The other woman just laughed. "Oh, ye shouldn' fret so often. Well, there are many a place to go, but I'm thinking you'd like Ayden's Áit. It's a little pub about ten minutes walk through the village. Me nephew owns the place. Tell him Maeve sent ye and he will take good care with ye."

"Oh, thank you. I don't mean to be any trouble."

"None at all, lass. Feicfidh tú céard atá tú ag lorg ann, a chailleann. Tá mé cinnte de.*" Her eyes twinkled, and she nodded once before moving into another room to resume her dusting. Sarah, quite lost in translation, merely shook her head and headed out the door.

The day was bright and cold, and Sarah laughed a little to herself. Two of her least favorite things, rolled together. Determined to have a good day, she ignored the weather, and looked around. The little city was amazing, it's roofs weren't thatched any more, but they were shingled. The walls of the houses were made of stone and wood, not the poly-carbonate nonsense that was used in America. She knew that they were supposed to be safer, but she liked the appearance, and the feel of these cottages much more.

The streets were paved, though truth be told it was rough still. The sidewalks were cobblestones, and she smiled at them, cheered by the simplicity of it all. She noticed the change slowly, from homes to businesses. The streets got better, and there were more people. From very young to very old, and all that stemmed between, they all seemed occupied. No one wandered, like her, aimlessly. Or at least so it seemed to Sarah. She almost missed the pub, so entranced was she with the buildings and the inhabitants of the town.

The sign was plain over the door, the bright green paint plain as day against the polished cherry-wood background. Ayden's Áit, it proclaimed proudly, the print jaunty and bold, even though it looked like it had been done by a calligrapher's hand.

Sarah realized she must look like a fool standing outside staring up at the sign in full view through the darkened windows. She ducked her head and came into the smoky room, her eyes watering in response instantly. Seeing her distress someone called out in Gaelic, and the smoke began to clear.

She moved just in the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkened atmosphere. Dark and warm. She smiled to herself, and wondered what this place was like when it had a decent crowd. If it ever had a decent crowd. It just seemed empty now, like a delicious fruit with no one to pluck it…

Peach. It was there, right in front of her, an offering. A supplication. She only needed to reach out to take it, and all would be--

"Fáilte a Ayden's Áit." Sarah blinked, clearing her face of the frown. She had almost had something. It was obvious suddenly that the man in front of her had been speaking, and she had missed it. He laughed deep in his chest, and offered her a smile. Sarah knew that other women had pooled at his feet for less than that. He was handsome, and she doubted his appeal extended only to Americans.

Taking her silence and then her blush as ignorance of the language, he shook back his dark hair. His blue eyes laughed with her, rather than at her. She was too pretty to be lost in dreams so soon. No, not here in his pub. She deserved a few moments of stolen pleasure. She looked like she had few enough.

"I said welcome to Ayden's place. 'Tis the name of my pub." His voice was smooth and deep, and Sarah complained silently that she wasn't in the slightest bit attracted to him. She remained as broken as ever, attraction was something she never felt, not even when she wanted to.

"So that makes you Ayden? I'm Sarah…" To cover up the foolish question, Sarah plowed forward. "Maeve sent me. Told me to tell you she sent me."

Now that she could see better, she decided to scan her surroundings. It was an old habit.

The pub was larger than she had first suspected it to be. It had a long polished-oak bar with about fifteen stools, all of which were empty but two. A couple of young men sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own dreams. There was a large, empty place separating the bar from what seemed to be a stage. Her suspicions were confirmed. Upon further inspection she noted the piano, the drums, the odd guitar, and a flute of sorts. There were booths along the far wall, and tables scattered around the edges, each with faded covers tossed over them.

"Ah, Aunt Maeve… So then, Sarah, you're a tourist. American?"

Sarah looked back at the man, Ayden, as she nodded. "Is my accent so easy to place?"

He shook his head, pulling out a menu and offering it to her with a smile. "Not truly, I'm just good at placing Yanks." He paused, then met her eyes. "It wasn't a slur, just a term for Americans, I do promise." His smile was sincere, and so she decided to believe him.

A loud curse was heard from behind the bar, and Ayden shook his head. When a smattering of Gaelic and curses flowed for a moment, Ayden sighed.

"Well then Sarah, I'll have to be attending that problem. I'll be back in a few moments. Why don't you go over the menu and see what you find, eh?" With a charming smile he disappeared through a set of double doors into what she assumed was the kitchen.

Sarah looked down at the menu, and felt laughter welling up in her chest. The blasted thing was in that other language too. So much for her cravings for a cheeseburger and a Coke.

An older man approached the bar, his hair gone grey, his proud carriage slightly bent, but not diminished. His eyes were sharp, silver blue, and they cut into Sarah where she stood. She hadn't paid much attention to him as he had sat in a booth by himself. He didn't look dangerous, but Sarah still fought the urge to run. There was something familiar about him, something she couldn't place.

"Well… isn't that interesting." His English was almost perfect, only a hint of the brogue remained as he seated himself beside her. "Never seen one taken by the Fey returned to our world again. And yet here you sit."

Sarah wanted to protest, but something halted her tongue. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city…

"Now leave her be, Damon." Ayden's teasing warning stopped the sentence in it's middle, and Sarah felt bereft. "I don't think the lass would care for one of your tales."

"But I would. I'm a writer in America… I love stories."

Author's Note:

*You'll find what you're looking for there, miss. I'm sure of it.

Special thanks to ChilaliSnowbird for the interesting and encouraging review, this chapter is up partially to say thank you for actually reviewing. And I agree with you opinion about ego stroking.

All right, there's chapter two, out and complete. I am still looking for a beta, but as time goes on I feel the need less and less… lol… Again, please review, because if you don't tell me what you think and what you want there is very little chance I'll add it on my own.

Jareth is still a little testy. He wants me to just get the good part. Oh well, sacrifices must be made for good storyline developments. Until next time

-Chaotic Reverie