Chapter 3
Sarah watched the moon rise, later that night, from the window of her home office. She leaned back in the chair at her desk. Not brooding – not brooding – but thinking. Thinking, looking at her calendar and –
She swirled the heavy tumbler in one of her hands, gazing at its golden color in the dim light of her desk lamp. Nothing quite like single malt scotch for stress relief. Blinking, she focused on her calendar.
Tonight – nothing. Nothing Wednesday night. Lyn's wedding on Thursday night. Nothing Friday night …
The calendar stared up at her, pristine, except for a few neatly-lettered appointments. She stared back.
Am I really going to do this?
His voice crept through her mind. Three … nights of your time, Sarah. In which you can persuade me to do your bidding …
Persuade me …
Sarah sipped at the scotch, and thought back to Jareth. The revulsion had muted, somewhat, after a few hours and a drink or two. But his face –
Shuddering, she abruptly rose and walked over to the bookshelf opposite her desk. Jareth. She had thought him a dream – and now here he was, insinuating himself into her thoughts, worming his way into her life – and not just hers … Sarah frowned. Aaron could see him as well. And Aaron was – she thought back to his chart – certifiable …
And he could see Jareth. Aaron could see Jareth; Aaron was enmeshed in schizophrenia … then …
What did that make her?
She took a gulp of her scotch.
She will lie. She'll never say that she can see me. She will never admit it. Because if she did –
"I'm not crazy." Sarah bit her lip, as the words escaped her mouth.
Shaking her head to clear it, she looked over her books. Jareth – what was he? She grabbed a book at random, and read:
Whereas the personal unconscious consists for the most part of complexes, the content of the collective unconscious is made up essentially of archetypes.
The concept of the archetype, which is an indispensable correlate to the idea of the collective unconscious, indicates the existence of definite forms in the psyche which seem to be present always and everywhere. Mythological research calls them "motifs"; in the psychology of primitives they correspond to Levy-Bruhl's concept of "representations collectives," and in the field of comparative religion they have been defined by Hubert and Mauss as "categories of the imagination." Adolf Bastian long ago called them "elementary" or "primordial thoughts."
Sarah blinked fuzzily. She set down the tumbler, leaning against the bookshelf to keep her balance.
There exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does not develop individually, but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become conscious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents.
Her old favorite. Sarah turned the book and squinted at the title in the darkness. Carl Jung, "The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious," 1936. Translated by R.F.C. Hull. Edited by Joseph Campbell.
She smiled half-heartedly. The pages still bristled with Post-It notes, from where she had written her senior thesis. And her notes for History of Psychology. All these years, and she hadn't cleared it out – she put on her internal analyst hat, with Dr. Michaels' voice: Do you feel, Dr. Williams, that by cleaning and sorting through your old books, you would be bidding farewell to part of your life that, perhaps, you do not feel is finished? An unfinished chapter, if you will?
Sarah let her eyes wander over the second shelf – the Archetype Shelf. Campbell – The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Frazer – The Golden Bough. What a phase that had been … Her smile faded. The Heroine's Journey. The Heroine's Journey to find some other male authority figure to tell her what to think, more like –
Persuade me to do your bidding …
She shoved the Jung back, with a grimace.
A clunk made her jump. The tumbler had hit up against the edge of the shelf, and was teetering, close to falling.
Sarah grabbed it.
Poor Andrew Lang. The Red Fairy Book now had a large splash of scotch spreading on its cover. She dabbed at it with her sleeve, then gave up. The Blue Fairy Book. The Red Fairy Book. The Green Fairy Book … the first hint of Archetype mania – but now she'd grown up … One of these days, she'd have a garage sale …
The idea that Jareth was a fairy – Sarah wove her way back to her desk, and sat down, brooding. Too easy. But what, then?
And why had he come to her?
She gazed out the window. Her reflection glimmered in the glass, faint and ethereal.
Pale skin, just beginning to be lined, around the mouth, and the corners of the eyes – I've grown up – Eyes that were guarded, beneath dark brows.
She had grown up. She had a career – a glance to her right brought the bulletin board to her attention – the photos of children from her study group. Pictures of former patients – of Toby, hugging a golden retriever and grinning – her father and her stepmother – her own mother, alongside a silver-edged playbill –
Sarah looked back out the window. Why now?
Revenge? Amusement?
I suppose it could be entertaining enough …
Her skin crawling at the memory of his voice, Sarah realized that she had absolutely no idea why he had come –
An age-old bargain – one I have made with countless others. Some wanted knowledge, some wanted the world …
Knowledge. Could that be it? Could this be like the Labyrinth, to her – another puzzle to put together, another mystery to solve, another knot to untie … could it?
Growing – or changing … I guess what I'm trying to say is thatI think it was a cool dream to have …
The Labyrinth had changed her, irrevocably. It had marked her as a seal would clay. It had set her on the path to her current career, and, in her mind, her victory had been a turning point …
Could it be time for another?
Sarah stared out the window, until – she inhaled as her reflection shimmered, and vanished. She glanced up. A thick bank of clouds had drifted over the moon.
The window began to dissolve in silver streaks of rain.
Feeling strangely blank, Sarah left the tumbler on her desk, walked away and gave her teeth a cursory brush, and fell into bed. For a long time, she could not sleep; and then, when she did, she could not remember her dreams.
The next morning brought time-honored routine. Sarah jogged to the grocery store, and walked back with two paper bags. She walked to work, taking the long way in an effort to clear the scotch-induced cobwebs from her brain. At work, she checked in on her patients, and sat silently through the first departmental meeting of the day.
Am I really going to do this?
"Dr. Williams."
She turned. Dr. Michaels stood behind her chair, frowning to himself. "A moment of your time, please."
Sarah walked with him, up to the psychiatric ward. He swiped his I.D., felt for the doors with a practiced movement and eased through them, his cane clutched to his side. His mouth was tense; his nostrils pinched with – anger? Worry?
"Right here."
Sarah looked at Aaron, lying in a bed.
The boy's breathing was a shallow wheeze. His eyes, purplish-black around the lids, were closed. Electrodes ran from his temples to machinery in the corner. Aaron twitched in his sleep – grunting, whining like an animal – wait –
She stared at the monitor.
"How long has he been like this?"
A hesitation. Then: "For the last twelve hours."
Sarah whirled to Dr. Michaels.
"That's impossible!" She didn't know her own voice could sound that shrill –
"I know." The older man's own voice was weary. "By everything I have ever studied, or seen, this is impossible. The human mind cannot idle in REM sleep for hours upon end – at some point, the cycle must continue, or a breakdown will surely result –"
Her teeth were clenched. "So wake him up –"
Dr. Michaels stared at the direction of her voice. "We cannot. We've tried everything – it seems to be a sort of dream-coma." His face was sober. "I do not even have a term for it."
REM sleep. Sarah gnawed on her lower lip. The sleep of dreams. Part of the natural cycle between deep sleep and wakefulness – but the mind would always oscillate between REM and non-REM –anything else was unnatural –
Sleep deprivation drove the strongest insane. But too much REM – what would that –
Sarah caught a flash of light in the corner of her eye. Freezing in place, she flicked her gaze to the side, and saw –
– reflected in the beaten metal of a storage cabinet, a sweep of leather tatters and bejeweled velvet, glittering and fluttering in place – and a pair of eyes looking back at her, focused and intent –
She turned her head to get a better angle, and looked again. Nothing.
"– and there is nothing we can do but hope he will emerge in time. I will keep you on call for the next few days, with your permission, Dr. Williams."
"Of course," she murmured.
Dr. Michaels stumped away, flicking his cane before him. Sarah gazed at Aaron.
He mumbled something under his breath, and then his entire body tensed – and he shivered. Two tears slid down his cheeks.
Sarah closed her eyes, and turned to the door.
The rest of the day was normal.
At five o'clock, her appointments were done; all that remained were evening rounds and, barring a consult, the next hour was hers. Numbly, Sarah went to the on-call room. She dashed water on her face, and looked into the mirror.
Are you going to help poor little Aaron?
"Shut up," she hissed. Her head was pounding.
She fumbled at the sheet on the on-call cot, and slipped off her shoes. A nap would help. Surely a nap would help clear her brain, help her focus –
Sarah slipped away into sleep. And dreamed.
– there was the Labyrinth, gleaming in the sun, its intricate coils and turns glittering like an tiled pattern on a marble floor –
it's further than you think – and time is short –
– she took a step down, and another, down down tumbling down the hill and she had sand in her shoes –
come on, feet –
– and there was the gate to the Labyrinth, ancient and dour – vines coiling around it, and one of the vines rippled and changed and reached out to her, and wrapped around her arm –
hello – I like you – you feel like spring – you smell like the sun -
– she looked into the gates – but they weren't gates anymore – they had changed into one immense, beautiful silver mirror, and she smiled at her reflection –
hello - I'm Sarah who are you?
– and at the silver snake coiling around her shoulder and stretching up to lick her ear –
peek-a-boo –
– and her reflection changed into Aaron – Aaron staring back at her, and crying – a snake wrapped around his throat and undulating through an eye socket into his skull – because he was a skeleton –
– she looked down. The bones of her hands were trailing strips of dried flesh. The chains at her wrists glittered silver and the snake bent to kiss her mouth –
"God –"
Sarah shot up in bed, bathed in a cold sweat. Her heart was hammering in her throat.
"Just a dream. Just a bad dream," she breathed, fighting for control.
She could still hear Aaron, crying.
Am I really going to do this?
She opened her mouth and spoke the words surprisingly easily – "Yes. Yes, I am."
– and, easily enough after all, the decision was made.
Sarah went through her evening rounds with resolve burning in her stomach. She checked over her patients, one by one. She gave Mrs. Johnston Risperdal. She gave Rachel Duvall Valium. She looked for Ben, but didn't see him – and then she found herself on the front steps of the hospital.
Shrugging her coat on, against the nip of the wind, she began to walk, staring at the pavement. Patches of rain still remained from the storm of the night before. In the light of the rapidly setting sun, the puddles looked more like dark red wine than water. A car horn made her glance up – she saw a truck bumping the curb in front of a bakery.
There was a park across the street. Sarah considered it, and made her way slowly through the crosswalk. She looked in through the locked gates at the first haze of green grass, at the ornamental fountain edged in gold by the lamplights just flicking on. Then she sat down on a bench at the gate, and stared across the street.
"You got the order yesterday, and you're telling me it's not ready?"
"It wasn't my fault – I don't know what went wrong, but you could break a tooth on the rolls – hard as stone –"
It wasn't a sound that alerted her to his presence, as much as a change in the air – a slight breeze and a strange electric charge – but then she heard a muffled sigh as he sat on the bench, next to her.
There was a long pause.
Then he spoke.
"Well?"
Sarah shivered in her coat at the chills that uncoiled down her back at the sound of his voice –
"Three nights. No more. And you can't make me do anything against my will. You have no power over me."
Jareth laughed softly. "You are so good to remind me. Of course I don't. I have no power to make you feel anything, say anything, be anything or do anything that you do not wish for. Is that not a comforting thought?"
She ignored his sly tone. "Then why are you here, if I didn't call you?"
"Ah, but we had an appointment."
"You still have no power over me."
"Yes … and that means that you will have to be all the more … persuasive with me, Sarah dear." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Doesn't it?"
Sarah felt like throttling him. She settled for speaking at a clip. "And you will stop tormenting children who have run through your Labyrinth, and lost. All of them."
She heard him inhale, and braced herself.
When Jareth next spoke, his voice was icy. "You ask a great deal of me."
"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you." She stared across the street, watching the bread truck drive away. "This is how it's going to be."
And then Sarah clenched her hands in her pockets as she sensed him move closer, and as he draped an arm behind her shoulders. His voice felt like a spider creeping over her earlobe.
"What an interesting person you have become, Sarah. Changed in so many ways, yet unchanged in essence. Still crusading. Still rescuing. We shall have to discuss this most fascinating part of your psychology, hmm?"
Sarah turned to glare at him, and her breath caught in her throat. His sunken eyes, so close, flamed at her from deep within his pale and twisted face. She took in his matted hair – oh God is that something crawling in it – and dirty jacket, the sores on his jaw and mouth, and the grime on his hands –
Jareth bared his teeth in an ugly smile. "Still ready to persuade me, Sarah?"
She gagged at the sensation of his rank breath slithering over her face. "Why are you like this?"
A shrug, and a smirk. "Perhaps it suits my fancy?"
"Perhaps –" Sarah snarled – "perhaps you're trying to make this as difficult for me as possible, you bastard –"
"Really, Sarah," Jareth drawled, drumming his fingers on the bench behind her. "All you have to do is wish that I appear more palatable, and it will be done."
"That's it?"
He smiled. "That's it."
"Oh, what a relief." She kept her voice high-pitched, in mockery. "Except – wait a second – if I did that, you might just decide that your beauty is only enhanced by your throne room, and then you'd take me away – no, Goblin King – I'm too old for your tricks – wait. Wait." Sarah felt her breath coming harder. "You're trying to distract me."
She watched him sneer. "Poor dear. Are you confused?"
Her temper flared. "You won't distract me. No more torturing children who have lost the race in the Labyrinth."
Jareth exhaled sharply, and took her hand. His fingers, long and spindly, were disturbingly hot –
"Shit," Sarah breathed, her doctor's instincts coming to the fore. She wrested her hand free and placed it against his forehead. "You're running a temperature –"
"Not at all, sweet." He plucked her hand away again, and interlaced their fingers. "Just the way I was made."
Sarah stared down at their fingers – her rosy ones, his white beneath caked filth –
"Aaron was our original negotiating point." His voice was oily. "As for the others … well … persuade me, Sarah." Her stomach lurched as he kissed her hand. "Seduce me to your point of view – that is true diplomacy …"
Swallowing, Sarah rose to her feet. She gripped his hand and tugged him to stand beside her.
"Let's get this over with."
Jareth sniffed. "I'm not sure I like your attitude."
"I'm sure I don't like you, Goblin King. Deal with it."
They walked, silently, and side by side, down the street, and back past the hospital. Sarah looked at its doors, then peered at her companion, and fought an instinctive urge to bolt. If anything, he looked worse in lamplight than he had in the dirt of the alleyway and the dusk by the bench ...
The hospital faded into the gathering gloom. Four long city blocks past it, and they came to the cathedral – and there – Sarah felt her heart leap – there was Ben, sweeping the steps.
"Hello-o-o, Doctor!" He clapped his hand to his head.
She half-waved. "Hello, Father."
"Missed you at evening rounds!" Ben's voice was brassy, echoing on the stone as he whisked the broom to and fro.
"I know."
"And let's see – did you keep my commandment? Thou shalt not adorn thyself with any pretty thing, lest thou outshine Father Benedict Romani at the Wedding of the Century, yea, verily, four and twenty hours hence –"
He chortled, and slung the broom over his shoulder, and raised his head to grin at her –
– and Sarah saw him pause.
She glanced at Jareth – who was craning his neck to get a glimpse of the cathedral's spire in the darkness. The angle of his jaw was almost unnatural – Sarah shivered, and turned back to Ben.
Her friend was staring. He looked pale, in the light of the lamp at the massive cathedral doors. "Um."
Sarah blinked. In more than ten years, she had never known Ben to be lost for words –
"Sarah?"
His voice was hoarse. She tilted her head. "Yes?"
"Remember the wedding – there's –" he swallowed. "There's a wedding tomorrow night."
"Yeah, I know." Sarah gave him a wry smile. "I'm your moral support, and your designated prompter."
"Right …" Ben's voice trailed off.
Jareth had finished surveying the cathedral. He flicked his gaze over Ben, dismissed him, and then traced his fingers down Sarah's arm, and plucked at her elbow.
Sarah felt dread hollow out her gut.
"Night, Ben."
She walked away, Jareth trailing at her side. When Sarah looked back over her shoulder, she saw Ben staring after them both.
Sarah dawdled over the walk, already long enough, back to her apartment. But Jareth seemed content to match her pace, looking at the brownstones and fenced-in gardens with quiet interest, and watching her with eyes slitted, like a cat's. Soon enough, though, they were at the foot of her building. She fumbled with the keys, and opened the door. Jareth caught it, and held it for her; Sarah fought to ignore him as she walked up the steps. She suddenly felt conscious of his sheer presence – of the way something about him, some vibration or echo, poured into the concrete and metal of the stairwell like water into a glass – he floated at her side like a shadow –
They reached her apartment. Sarah flung open the door, turned on the main lamp, and veered to the right immediately, taking refuge in her kitchen. Jareth padded into her living room on noiseless feet – she saw him look at the couch, and the overstuffed chair, her coffee table and her bookshelves –
He turned to one side and then went still, staring up at the painting above her mantel. Light sparkled on its simple golden frame, and reflected off the sheer glass covering it.
There was a long pause. Sarah busied herself with opening and shutting cupboards, first at random, and then – so thirsty – then to get a cup for some water –
"Very pretty." Jareth's voice was judicious. "Dali, isn't it? Have you had it long?"
Sarah saw where her fingers were white-knuckled around a glass that she had taken from the cupboard. "Not that long, no." What was it, again? She glanced at the painting, from her refuge beyond the bar separating the kitchen from her dining table. The Last Supper. A wispy combination of mountains, and the sea, and clustered, translucent disciples – a framework topped with a disembodied torso and arms that had always made her think of some divine helicopter –
"A friend gave it to me." Ben. She ran water from the tap, and filled the glass. "For my graduation present – when I got out of medical school."
"Ah." Jareth lapsed into silence, still looking at the print, his head tilted and his face intent.
Sarah carefully sipped some water. Then Jareth turned to her, and smiled – and suddenly every cell in her body recognized him as some bizarre, spidery, alien and unreal nightmare creature in her home – her stomach curdled.
"Do you –" her voice sounded feeble to her own ears. "Do you want some water, or something?"
Still smiling, Jareth shook his head.
"Fine." She turned to one side, and drained the glass of water, and turned back –
– and gasped in surprise, and dropped the glass into the sink; she heard it break but could not take her eyes away from Jareth's, from where he stood on the other side of the bar, within arm's reach, looking right back at her with those eyes –
"I – I didn't hear you," she managed.
Jareth said nothing, but his smile broadened.
"Damn it," Sarah spat, looking down at the glass, and throwing a dishtowel over it. "Say something."
"What would you have me say?" His voice was low.
"I don't know. For God's sake," she glared at him – the smile had vanished from his face, and his eyes were hooded – "what do you want me to do?"
"Nothing you do not want to do, Sarah …" His eyes were suddenly hot. "That is the beauty of this entire situation. I have no power over you. Anything you do is from your choice alone."
She bit the inside of her cheek, seething. Then a sudden idea came to her.
"Fine. Professional courtesy, right? Riddle me this, Goblin King. I had a weird dream today – tell me what it meant."
Jareth spread his hands – still filthy – "Try me."
"It was –" Sarah looked away from him. "It had a bit of the Labyrinth in it."
"Hm." He sounded amused. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Oh, shut up and let me finish –"
"Sarah."
That lilt with which he said her name. How could she have forgotten it? Sa-rah. The same, from so long ago …
"Sarah. Princess."
She started, and took in a deep breath to protest, but he held up a hand. "Your name means princess, lovely –" the intimate tone made her skin prickle – "… surely I may call you by it?"
Sarah clenched her hands together, to keep them from shaking.
"Why not?" Her voice was brittle. "What the hell."
"Very good." Jareth spoke softly. "Now – show me your dream."
"What?"
"Sarah. Princess." His eyes, fixed on hers, were shadowed in the dirty pallor of his face – she took a deep breath and felt the floor beneath her quiver –
"Show me your dream …"
The floor melted away. And then
– there was the Labyrinth, gleaming in the sun, its intricate coils and turns glittering like an tiled pattern on a marble floor –
it's further than you think – and time is short –
"Goodness. Did I really sound like that?"
Sarah started, and turned around where she stood – to see one image of Jareth, fading away with a clock over his shoulder – and another one, large as life and dressed in full Goblin King regalia, grinning at her.
"Jareth?"
"Yes?" He shook out his cape, and shadowed his eyes with one hand, gazing out over the Labyrinth.
"This is my dream." Sarah paused. "Isn't it?"
"Yes," Jareth breathed. "Yes, my dear. My beautiful princess – my clever, brilliant girl – you dreamed this. All of it …" He turned on the spot, arms outstretched, and his smile shone brighter than the sun. "Such consummate skill. Were I to turn green with envy on the spot I'm sure I would only fit perfectly into this color scheme –" he waved at the orange and russet sky, and laughed.
His voice buzzed in her ears. Sarah shook her head to clear it. "I wasn't up here the whole time, though. And I wasn't talking to you …"
"But I'm here now." Jareth laughed again, and caught her hand. "You invited me. Lead on!"
Sarah remembered, and then
– she took a step down, and another, down down tumbling down the hill and she had sand in her shoes –
come on, feet –
"How adorable …"
"Shut up." Sarah grunted. "Now I've got sand in my shoes, and I think that's a rock – ouch –"
"So take them off." Jareth's voice was strangely giddy. His grip on her hand tightened.
It made sense. Sarah shrugged, and kicked off her shoes, and wiggled her toes in the sand. It felt heavenly.
"What next?"
"I think I turned," Sarah frowned, concentrating – and then
– there was the gate to the Labyrinth, ancient and dour – vines coiling around it, and one of the vines rippled and changed and reached out to her, and wrapped around her arm –
hello – I like you – you feel like spring – you smell like the sun –
"You do, you know."
Sarah blinked, from where she was looking at the snake, and turned back to stare at Jareth, who had both his arms crossed over his chest.
"I do what?"
"Feel like spring. Smell like the sun." Jareth smiled, slowly, and paced towards her. "It is like nothing I have ever experienced."
"Jareth …" She kept her voice calm. "I'm not sure I like snakes – in dreams, I mean."
"Why ever not?"
Sarah rolled her eyes at his grin. "You know why not. Haven't you read any Freud?"
A snort. "What a pompous bore. Really, Sarah …" he trailed off, and lowered his voice to a whisper in her ear – "Sometimes a snake is just a snake."
Sarah blinked. The snake, undulating up and down her arm, looked up at her and nestled into the curve of her neck.
"And this one seems to like you. Charming girl."
"I'm not a girl, Jareth," she sighed. "Do you have to do the baby talk?"
"Not at all …" he murmured. Then, in one quick movement, he bent and kissed her throat.
Sarah jumped. "What was that?"
"That?" Jareth stepped before her, and took her elbows. "That was a kiss."
"But –" she fought for words. "That wasn't in my dream."
He gave her a sly look. "You did invite me along. And now it appears as though you are changing your dream. Such skill is rarely to be seen." He smiled, and leaned back against the gate. "What next?"
"The gates turned into a mirror." And they were – shining and rippling into silver, at Jareth's back.
"Oh?"
"But –" Sarah frowned. "I can't see my reflection, if you're blocking my view."
"Really."
"Yes. Really –" Sarah huffed, staring at him. "You're impossible. Move!"
Jareth's smile turned lazy. "Why should I move?"
"So I can finish my dream."
"Sarah. Princess." Her name rolled off his tongue; he seemed to savor it as he looked around, smiling. "You have an exceptional talent for weaving dreams … I wonder what use you will make of it …"
"What use?" Sarah frowned. "I analyze dreams already. I took History of Psychology – I –"
He flicked his fingers in dismissal. "Picking over the magic of sleep in order to piece together a meaning is a different thing altogether than creating those same dreams. Besides, when it comes to symbols …"
Sarah froze, as Jareth pushed off from the mirror, and took a step toward her. He reached to her shoulder, and uncoiled the snake from her arm.
"Sometimes a snake is just a snake, Sarah …"
Then silver blurred between his fingers, and instead of reptilian coils, a beautiful flower twined around his hand.
"And a rose is a rose is a rose …"
Jareth held out the rose to her.
And as she reached to take it, he wrapped the long, gloved fingers of one hand around her wrist, and drew her to him.
"You feel like spring …" he whispered. "You smell like the sun."
She stared into his eyes, beautiful, as blue as the sky and as depthless – and glowing with the gold and silver magic of dreams ... any closer and she would not be able to draw back from them ...
"I wonder what you taste like, Sarah …"
His lips were so close –
"I have wondered that for so long …"
Sarah stared, holding her breath, as he closed his eyes, and parted his lips to kiss her.
– it was so soft, and sweet, that she wondered how she had ever dreamed without dreaming this –
you feel like spring – you smell like the sun –
– he stepped in closer and traced the cool, gloved fingers of his free hand along the line of her jaw, tipping her head to a different angle, and her blood caught fire as he slid his tongue into her mouth –
you taste like the beauty of a rose in bloom, and the ripest fruit from the tree in the middle of the garden – my beautiful dream weaver – look what I'm offering you –
– she looked into the gates – but they weren't gates anymore – they had changed into one immense, beautiful silver mirror, and she smiled at her reflection
hello – I'm Sarah who are you?
– and at the rose which brushed her ear with a petal and whispered –
peek-a-boo –
– and her reflection changed into Aaron – Aaron staring back at her, and crying – a figure stood before him and she could only see strands of shining silver hair and trailing leather and rotting velvet as a black gloved hand twined the rose around the boy's head and pressed the thorns into his eyes –
– she looked down. The bones of her hands were trailing strips of dried flesh. The chains at her wrists glittered silver and the rose turned into a snake and bent to kiss her mouth – at her mouth – Jareth was kissing her mouth – Jareth –
"Jareth –"
Sarah gasped, and tore herself away.
And opened her eyes – and she was back in her kitchen.
Shaking, she raised a hand to her lips.
On the other side of the bar counter, Jareth looked at her, wordlessly. His eyes were veiled.
"You –" Sarah choked. "You did that – you went into my dream."
"With your permission." His voice was low. "Yes. I did." A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Would you like to hear what it meant?"
"No." She felt her head shake back and forth. "I don't want to know."
"Ah, Sarah – princess –"
"And don't call me that!" Her voice cracked; she slammed her hands onto the counter and glared at him. "Stay out of my head. My invitation for you to come into my dreams is hereby revoked, permanently!"
He was silent.
Sarah looked down, to where her hands were shaking. She caught the dishtowel by its edges, in the sink, and carefully gathered the broken glass. Pulling the four corners of cloth together, she brought the glass to the trash can.
Then, unable to bear the quiet, she whirled on one foot and snarled.
"So what now, Goblin King? So sorry you won't be able to screw with my mind anymore – what else will satisfy you?"
Jareth took a few steps towards her; she fought the instinct to back away. He raised one eyebrow, and sneered, and then dropped into one of the spindly chairs that circled the dining table. "You have a marvelous imagination, Sarah. I trust you can use it on this physical plane, even as you do in the world of dreams."
Sarah's gorge rose. She knew what he meant, but just looking at his face made her feel –
"Poor little Aaron …" the Goblin King whispered, peeking up at her through the matted hair falling over his forehead. His eyes glittered. "What will become of him?"
Biting down hard on her lip, Sarah walked to him. Then she raised one hand, and trailed it over his jaw. She saw his eyes drift shut.
I can do this.
She gritted her teeth, and bent her face to his, and brushed his mouth with hers –
She felt a piece of his skin flake off beneath her hand – and something from his lips oozed onto hers as she kissed him –
"Fuck –" Sarah spat, jerking away, and recoiling until her back hit the wall by the door.
Jareth laughed. "My thoughts exactly. Come, come, my dear …" He rose from his chair and walked towards her, grinning. "You're brave enough. You can see this through." She pressed into the wall as he leaned one arm above her, looking straight into her eyes, his own glinting with malice. "Think of the children."
"You son of a bitch –"
"Sarah." His smile turned cold. "I am nobody's son."
"Whatever you are," she ground out. "I am not kissing that disgusting mouth of yours again."
Jareth took her left hand in his free one. "And to think I just called you brilliant, my dear." He kissed her palm, and began to trace its contours with his tongue – her stomach roiled and she tried to yank her hand away, but his grip on her wrist was painfully tight. "Tell me …" Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her palm growing slick – "Tell me, Sarah …"
And he pulled her hand down to his shoulder, and then lower – and lower –
Sarah's eyes flew open – she jerked her face away from him, biting her lip.
"Sarah …" His voice drifted across her ear. "When did I ever imply that I wanted you to kiss my mouth?"
He rocked against her hand, and she swallowed, fighting to keep her voice calm. "In my dreams, I think."
A grating laugh. "Yes. In your dreams. But this is reality, isn't it?" Jareth moved her hand in his, slowly, and pressed the rest of his body against her. "Your choice of stark naked reality – where I most certainly have no power over you … so persuade me, my dear …"
His mouth brushed over her cheek; she could feel the hot rasp of his quickening breath.
"Persuade me …"
Sarah closed her eyes.
Am I really going to do this?
I can do this …
She reached out to one side, and turned off the light.
.
Notes:
The whisper: "Sarah ... Princess" got stuck in my head thanks to Mrs. Mulligan in Seeing the Shadows, by CailleachOidhche.
Thanks to thistlebush and Imbrium for their keen eyes.
Chapter 4 may take a bit more time to appear. But appear it will, never fear. Please review!