Chapter Eleven: Remembered Warnings
Sarah's mind floated through the hazy world that existed just outside of consciousness. She wasn't happy to be there; truth be told, she was pretty damn pissed that she'd fainted in the first place. She'd rarely ever fainted in her entire life, but when her hourglass had shattered, darkness had risen up to claim her. It was an odd thing to faint over really, Sarah reflected, but something was niggling at the back of her mind. She's been told something about the hourglass once, hadn't she?
The silhouette of a young man floated up from her memory. "A warning," he had breathed out, "a warning not to break."
Sarah had raised an eyebrow, confused then but suddenly fearing that she now knew what he had been trying to tell her. "Not to break what?"
The phantom drew closer and turned his head in all directions, as though looking for eavesdroppers. "Not to break contract," he lifted a wispy finger, and the image of a scroll appeared just above him. "Not to break glass," the scroll changed to reflect the image of her hourglass. "Never break glass," he shivered as his illusion splintered and sent imaginary shards flying everywhere. For a moment he stared at the tiny chips of magic, then seemed to collect himself. The other shadows had started watching at this point, and he seemed to hesitate at what he had to say next. "Not to break King," this time the illusion really did shatter, bits of chaotic magic imbedding itself wherever it could, and the others gasped, standing still and frightened. "Never break King," he whimpered. The pieces of energy that had not yet found homes began twisting together, forming a tiny maze in midair. "Or terrible things come again."
Sarah wanted to scream in frustration. At the time, the boy's warnings had been like riddles to her, but now that most of those events had come to pass she knew what they had meant. The contract and the hourglass were entwined, though she still didn't know to what extent; she only knew that by breaking one, the other had been broken as well. What was happening now was unclear as well; what had the princely Jareth hoped to achieve by breaking the hourglass, and what was going to happen to her because of it?
One thing was frightening clear, though. Jareth had broken apart in the past. "Never break King," the boy had said, "or terrible things come again." It had happened before, but why? No one, aside from the silhouette, had mentioned it to her; did that mean Jareth had managed to piece himself back together before his family had had a chance to notice? That thought lifted her heart a little; if he had managed to fix himself once then there was hope for him now.
But then why, in the last five years, had he not made an attempt to do so?
Sarah floated deeper into the blackness, weary, frustrated, and just a little bit scared.
Oran jerked to his feet in shock. Adrenaline had surged through him when the world had begun to distort; normally, he wouldn't have considered it unusual, but paternal instincts came to screaming life when an unknown factor entered the room where all three of his children were, one of whom could not protect himself. Shock quickly turned into confused amazement when the air stopped rippling enough to reveal an unconscious Sarah, then turned immediately to anger when he saw the fragment of Jareth that was holding her.
He rounded on Imm and Laim, who shrank from him slightly, but did not back down.
"There was a problem," Laim glared.
"And we solved it," Imm shrugged.
Oran clenched his jaw, thinking of the hundreds of horrifying ways that their plan, whatever it had been, could have gone wrong. As things stood, what with Sarah laying slack in the other Jareth's arms and the slightly uneasy look that had entered the Twins eyes, Oran had a feeling that things hadn't gone smoothly. "Pray that your scheme was well played, because it's Sarah who will suffer the consequences of poor planning," he growled.
Imm opened his mouth, but Oran held up a hand. "I want no explanations," he stated, turning to Sarah. "I understand why you did it even as I'm enraged over the fact that you did. But what's done is done," he took the girl into his own arms, holding her gently as he moved to the door. "I'll leave damage control up to you," he said, then left the room.
Imm and Laim regarded the amulet-Jareth warily. From head to toe, the man before them was drenched in black and midnight blue armor: metal and leather and magic. His anger snapped in the air around them, filling the room with restlessness, while something mean and untamed glinted in his eyes, chilling both boys to the core. This wasn't the image they had created. Their illusion had mutated, infused itself with a different set of Jareth's memories; it had gone from the carefree and fun-loving Jareth that they had known in their youth to the war-hungry and blood-lusting Jareth that had created the Labyrinth and the Underground in an unadulterated fit of long-lasting rage.
Imm and Laim both loved their brother more than anything else, but even they were afraid of the young King.
"I wasn't sure what you two were playing at," Jareth finally spoke, "but I had my suspicions after this cretin showed up at Sarah's door." Leo appeared at his feet, battered and unconscious. "I understand why you did it... But, my dear little Princes," he said, drawing in close and blithely ignoring their respective flinches, "I am not at all pleased."
"In our own defense," Imm replied quietly, "if we had known that there was something wrong with the human, that he posed any sort of danger to Sarah, we never would have involved him."
Laim nodded gently. "We only wanted to help."
Jareth regarded both of them for several intensely uncomfortable moments, but whatever decision he reached never showed on his face. Leo vanished silently as Jareth turned to the door. "If you'll excuse me, brothers" he said, halfway out the room, "I think I'd like to give Mr. Knight a personal tour of the older reaches of my Labyrinth."
"Wait!" Laim called quickly. "What happened?" he asked. "How did you change?"
Jareth turned around and silently regarded his comatose counterpart, eyes flitting over the bed-ridden and wasting image of the original. "You forget," he said quietly, "that, despite the fact that you were the ones to create this form, it is still a part of Jareth, and any part of Jareth can become a vessel for the real thing."
Imm pointed at the bed's occupant. "You mean you're really him?"
Jareth nodded, "More or less, but you must understand that my mind is adrift in time. The amulet-illusion that you created was frightened and enraged when he saw Leo holding a knife to Sarah, so he called upon whatever strength I had to give; fortunately, my mind happened to be back in the early days of my reign, so I was able to respond… appropriately." The Twins both began to grin, marveling at the shear mechanics of it, but Jareth held up a hand. "I can't hold this connection for very long," he warned then turned to the door again.
"Wait!" This time Imm stopped him. "How do we fix this? We don't know what to do, Jareth." he gestured vaguely around the room.
Jareth didn't turn around. "I think you do," he replied quietly. "You two have been putting broken things back together since before you could talk. When the time comes, you'll know what to do. But it will ultimately be up to Sarah to get things started."
Imm and Laim watched him disappear down the hall, fascinated with the brief, albeit anachronistic, appearance of their brother. Their short conversation had been like a lost letter that had finally been delivered: comforting and painful, promising and tragic. They both knew that there was no line they weren't willing to cross for their brother, but their part was already done. It was all up to Sarah now.
Oran sighed when he saw Amyl visibly startle. The butler was tall and somber, his chestnut colored hair always pulled back to emphasize the ram's horns that framed his head. He had served at Castle Aryn for countless years and had then moved on to serve at the Castle of K'shent Mier as well as the Castle beyond the Goblin City, depending on where Jareth was. He was a dear family friend, but at his very heart he was always a butler: calm and unmovable.
Yet he looked shaken at the sight of Sarah nestled in Oran's arms.
"Prepare a room," Oran requested quietly. "The Lady needs somewhere to rest."
Amyl looked as though he were about to ask what had happened, then pulled himself together. With his impassive mask back in place once more, he replied, "It is already done."
Oran's brow furrowed in confusion. "When?"
"Years ago, in fact," Amyl replied sadly.
His eyes snapped shut, weary and sad all at once. "Show me," he said quietly.
Amyl nodded but, uncharacteristically, hesitated for a second. "Is she really back?" he asked, gesturing to the unconscious woman.
Oran snorted. "Doubtlessly not by choice, but yes, she is back."
Sarah moaned, desperately trying to fight her way to consciousness. She was surrounded by a preternatural blackness, deeper than a normal fainting spell, as though she were being forced to stay unconscious. The blackness wrapped around her, cocooning but not particularly comforting.
Oran silently regarded the suite of rooms that Amyl had led him to. They were, strangely enough, in the same wing as Jareth's own, but not on the same floor. One floor above his eldest boy's lofty apartments was a spectacle of comfort rather than wealth or power. A cozy sitting room led into a high-ceilinged bedroom, both done up in earthy greens and tones of gentle blue; thick carpets and polished woods balanced the charming simplicity of a few framed watercolor paintings. Little knick-knacks peeked out from various places: an interesting book here, a curious decoration there. The rooms weren't completely devoid of Jareth's abiding sense hedonism—the bed linens and curtains could be no less than velvet and lace and, though most of the furniture was wooden, they were all stained dark and polished to a gleaming brilliance—but this one suite had been constructed with a gentler touch. His sole intent had been to create a welcome space for Sarah.
"It was never quite finished," Amyl broke the silence. He began to bustle about, turning down sheets, lighting a fire in the stone grate, and pulling the curtains closed. "We were going to bring some bookshelves and a desk into the sitting room, but," he broke off and shook his head, "we thought we would have more time. And afterward…"
"There didn't seem to be any reason to," Oran finished for him, knowing that these unfinished rooms had been a daily reminder to the butler that his king and friend was dying, that the final hours of Sarah's visit had irrevocably changed all their lives.
"Yes," the horned man agreed quietly, pale for a moment.
Gently, Oran settled the girl onto the bed. "I want her well taken care of, Amyl," he said firmly, his gaze lingering on the woman that none of them had truly ever expected to see again. "If any of your staff has a problem with that, they can take it to me, but I will not have her the subject of callous reception."
Amyl raised a brow. "I can appreciate your concern, but I must say that I am insulted by your implication."
He shrugged. "Not everyone has the desire or ability to be understanding; they know only that their king has become an invalid and they must lie to the entire kingdom about it. Some, I dare say, might even be bitter."
"But her fault was purely circumstantial," the butler interjected. "The Lady did only what she felt was right."
"You and I know that, Amyl," Oran sighed, "but do the chambermaids know? How about the footmen and cooks and groundskeepers, do they know? I fear they don't, and the situation is difficult enough without having to worry about a petty and misguided sense of revenge."
The somber servant nodded slightly. "You will find nothing amiss where the young lady is concerned, this I swear to you," he replied then, as was his wont, left the room in an eerily silent fashion.
Oran turned to the girl. If her face hadn't been so shockingly blank, he would have just guessed that she was sleeping. Distantly, he regretted having ignored the Twins' attempt at explaining; now that his anger had cooled, he was curious to know what had happened. "It's never really your choice, is it, Sarah?" the former king reflected quietly. "The Underground calls and you are unable to do anything but answer it."
Jareth cocked his head to the side as he stoically regarded the whimpering mortal before him. Leo Knight had already been broken of mind and battered of body, so there was little that the Labyrinth could really do to him.
Aside from one thing.
Jareth had let later expansions of the Labyrinth grow on their own—by then his rage had begun to bury itself and his attention had waned—but the oldest, deepest parts had been lovingly crafted. Originally it had been a defensive structure, but it had been built to stand against battle-hardened and world-weary soldiers. It took immense pressure to disturb men with such blatantly jaded hearts. But he had, and it was by those very same means that he now rid himself of the stunningly unbalanced Mr. Knight. Ensconced deeply within the heart of the true Labyrinth, he had allowed the mortal to wander for a while. His time in the borrowed illusion was short, however—he could feel every second pulling him back to abyss of his own body—so he had led the man to the flower garden.
The flower garden always looked innocent enough—exotic and colorful blooms mixing artfully with more common wildflowers—until it had fresh prey, that it. Vines and tendrils had wrapped around the mortal, adhering to his skin like a vile glue. Almost immediately, dark purple and black flowers had begun to bloom along his length, each one holding a vision for the captive Leo, a vision of some desperate dream that was about to be cruelly warped. The garden had broken proud men the likes of which hadn't been seen in centuries; for an already disturbed man like Leo… Well, the torture would continue long after what was left of him had shattered.
When Jareth was finally forced to relinquish his hold on the amulet's illusion, it was with a fiercely triumphant smile on his face.
Through the darkness, Sarah felt the amulet heat up and settle against her in a heavy weight. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but somehow she simply knew that the vision of Prince Jareth that Imm and Laim had created had been called back within the amulet. The heavy weight sent warmth coursing through her, waking up limbs that had refused to acknowledge her desires to move. With immense relief, she opened her eyes.
Then immediately slammed them shut again.
"It's been a wicked day for us all, I'd wager," Oran soothed from somewhere above her.
She had expected, for some crazy reason, to find herself in her apartment, possibly even still on her floor if Jareth had been feeling particularly spiteful. What she hadn't expected was to find herself surrounded by a room straight out of her fondest fantasies and being watched over by the father of the man that she had nearly murdered.
Sarah curled in on herself, ignoring Oran, and briefly considered throwing the covers over her head. "I'm just doomed to repeat history over and over again, aren't I?"
Note to Silvera: I hate to single you out like this, but you didn't leave me any way to contact you. I just wanted to explain that the reason you feel like there are plot holes in this story is because it's a sequel. If you haven't already, you really need to go read the first story, Dramatic Orchestrations.
A/N: Your author recently had a near-death experience, wherein she was literally six inches away from getting squished by a truck, because the driver of that vehicle was apparently on crack.
References to Dramatic Orchestrations: The italic text in Sarah's first section was taken out of chapter 17. K'shent Mier (which I've already mentioned once or twice) was from chapter 16. Amyl was from chapter 33 and 35.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Jareth, Sarah, or the Underground.