Thank you for the exciting influx of reviews everyone! I think that was the most I've ever had for a chapter!
Shiroikami, you were review number 100 - and so I added you to the story as thanks!
And a huge thanks to qiana who has been paying close attention: "At the end of the day I will ask you one question". And this question was: "what is my name?" How come he never asked? Did you forget about it or did he?
SPOT ON. Yes, I totally did forget (sacrilege, such an excellent opportunity for Sarah x Jareth banter!) so I have now gone back and edited it in. I can promise that it is not integral to the plot, so you have not missed anything if you have already read these chapters without it... but it IS Jareth x Sarah banter, so maybe you want to check it out anyway ;D
**Beta bettered - thanks (as always) to the magnificent nothingnothingtralala
And now for something completely different...
Serra hid behind the loft haystack and hoped that her father would not find her.
He had violent hands when he was in his cups and it was a rare day when he was, presumably not. She could hear him yelling for her from the back porch, but had no idea what had put it in his mind to come and find her today. Usually he was a self-entertained drunk, only home when the tavern closed for the night or the infrequent holidays when it did not open at all, because decent people had better things to do. Not that there was much decent about the bars' regular patrons; even her father was not on the bottom rung on that ladder.
He was not a bad man, but he was not a good man either, despite the fact that Serra loved him and hoped that she could make him good. Perhaps he had been a better person when her mother was still alive, but she had died when Serra was born and so they would never know. It was never his intention to hurt her, or so he said, but he would often strike her when she would not validate his wild tales or flights of fancy. He claimed that his imagination was too great to remain in his head alone, but Serra knew better: he was a liar, plain and simple.
She waited until she heard him go back into the house before she relaxed. He was easily bored with the search, or likely he had already forgotten what he had been looking for in his inebriated stupor. She was safe.
She slipped out of the barn and ran over to the mill by the river. Not far downstream was the gypsy camp she was headed for, sanctuary from the bland existence she woke to face every day. The children there had been telling her stories of the foreign lands they had visited, some of which Serra suspected had been made up, but all of which were wonderful. As always when she approached the camp she began to feel trepidation. The townspeople often called the gypsies demons and tried to chase them away, but it never lasted. They just didn't understand that some people aren't made to stay still. The same small mindedness had led them to calling Serra a witch when she sang in the garden or collected herbs to stop the house from smelling of ale and stale vomit. As always it was that thought that decided her as she pressed onward towards the camp of wagons and brightly coloured tents. However, the camp was not as she had left it.
Serra stopped to stare at the folded fabric squares which had once been structures, her ears aching from the unusual silence of the camp. It was empty, in pieces or packed away as if there had never been a small city of cloth lodgings lining the bank. Her heart was racing in the unexpected quiet.
"Ah, Serra!" called a tall willowy girl. She had suddenly poked her head past the wagon draperies, and now jumped down to approach Serra. "We were hoping you'd come calling in the morning so we could bid you farewell."
"Farewell?" echoed Serra, confused. "What do you mean farewell? What's going on, Uka?"
"We be moving on now," she grinned, "to the next town."
Serra was stunned. The Shiroikami were moving on so soon? They'd been here for little longer than a month; how could they already be moving on?
"No," she cried. "You can't go; I'm not ready for you to go!"
"That's the way of our folk," shrugged her friend. "Gypsy are all like the wind, Shiroikami are more capricious than most: troupe leader says go, we go."
Serra stomped her foot angrily, feeling her blood heat. "No, you can't!" she yelled. "Tell them to change it, it's not fair!" Inside of her body something recoiled, an odd sliding feeling which was distant and close all at once. A shiver ran up her spine, chased by the peculiar thought that she was being selfish. She ignored the unexpected pang of conscience. This wasn't fair and she had little enough joy in her life as it was. Soon enough the feeling subsided, but she was aware that her body felt too small for her, pulled taut over the bones of her indecision.
"Yes, we knew that you would feel robbed by the loss of us," agreed Uka. "We prepared something for you, to keep us in your heart."
The girl clutched a necklace from her own breast and, lifting it from her neck, proffered it to Serra as a gift. It was a curious thing – pewter, silver? The metal chain held a pendant with a runic looking design, curved like the point of an arrow.
"Is it some kind of magic?" asked Serra, accepting it from her friend. She rather felt it should be, considering this was all she would be left with once the troupe was gone.
"Always you look to find magic! It is no more than a trinket my friend, something to hold a memory."
Serra slipped the necklace around her neck, admiring it in the sunlight. She was overwhelmingly disappointed to be losing her refuge in the gypsy camp; this token was a poor reminder of what she had lost. If it stored any memories they were bad ones, if the troupe had really cared about her they would have stayed, or perhaps, better yet, they might have taken her with them.
All too soon, the last of the troupe stragglers had packed their belongings and were eager to move on and re-join the companions who had already gone before them. Grimly, Serra waved the wagons off as they trundled back onto the beaten path leading to the next city, her mouth a tight line of displeasure.
She did not head home until it was past dark, spending the remainder of the day sitting on the bank of the river, skipping stones and looking for flowers. When she found the fresh faced growths she crushed them beneath the heel of her threadbare shoe, treading them down deep into the dirt: now you're just like me, she thought. At home there was weaving waiting for her, piles of it ignored for weeks on end now, the only income she or her father ever saw. Like the petals of each bloom she wished she could destroy it all beneath ready feet… if she had the power to do so she would.
Another shiver ran up her spine, and she wondered at it as the night was fair; if not she would have been forced home long ago by cold.
When she did return she expected to find the house dark, her father either unconscious or out; but today had been a day full of surprises, and her home was lit up like a beacon. The yard surrounding the porch was swarming with townspeople, their combined, dissatisfied murmuring an angry buzz in the pleasant night air. When they saw her approach they turned as one to convene upon her, a mass of cross faces and sharp eyes.
"Here she is!" yelled one. "Get her to tell us where the horses are!"
"Where have you and those thief scum hidden them?" screamed another woman, half hysterical.
"Demons," muttered an older man, glaring at her. "Most likely they'll suck the blood right out of them, not like us God fearing folk are they, abnormal is what they are!"
Serra stared at the sea of faces, completely at a loss. Amongst them stood her father, sober enough to stand at least, and sweating heavily.
"I told you all she ain't had nothing to do with it," he spat.
"Then where has she been all day? In cahoots with them, that's where. We all know she likes those gypsy types," accused a young mother, clutching her babe to her chest.
"Because she's a witch…" whispered a male voice from behind her, but when Serra turned no one looked more or less likely to be the perpetrator of the comment.
"What is everyone talking about?" she croaked, feeling the weight of their hungry eyes upon her.
A tall man in the suit of an official guardsman stepped forward, and the crowd parted to give him access. His blue breeches and jacket were pristinely pressed and he wore a gold badge of office on his chest in the shape of a burning sun: the king's sign. This was no normal keeper of law, he was a spokesperson for the king's ruling, a personal guardsman, and if he was here something was very, very wrong.
"Are you Serra Miller, this man's daughter?" he asked, inclining his head towards her father. Serra felt it was rather obvious that she must be, considering.
She opened her mouth to answer, but found it dry and empty. Swallowing, she turned her face to meet the guardsman gaze, and nodded.
"Charges have been laid that you are in league with the gypsy troupe, the Shiroikami, who have been confirmed as horse bandits making their way across the country. Men have been sent after them, but a great many of the kingdom's horses, including this province's, have already been captured by the group. I bring the law to you who have been named as a possible conspirator in their midst. The charges laid at your door demand death by beheading."
The crowd cheered.
Serra felt a sense of unreality wash over her, as if the earth below had tipped beneath her feet and she might fall into the sky at any moment. She felt light and detached, an urge to vomit rising in the pit of her stomach.
"She ain't no part of any of this, she's a good girl, a Godly girl. Folk here know that deep down; she's done no wrong to you people," her father cried.
"She's a witch," hissed the hysterical woman from earlier, "she probably summoned those demons here!"
Serra felt her head spin. "No," she mumbled, but the words fell on deaf ears.
"Look at that necklace on her, might as well pin the devil to her chest. Some manner of esoteric enchantment on it no doubt!" shouted a new voice from the chorus of cries.
"Witch!"
"She's definitely a witch!"
Serra listened to the faceless cries and felt her blood heat in her veins. They thought she was a witch: she only wished it were true; if it were she'd have punished them all for accusing her in this way. Hot tears stained her cheeks as she turned to them, angrily.
"If I was a witch then why would I waste my magic stealing your horses?" she screamed.
For the first time, the crowd fell silent.
"Who knows why a witch does what she does?" muttered someone, and it was all it took to reignite the ire of the mob.
"No, she's right!" she heard her father shout. "Her power's far too great for something like this, you should see the sorts of things she can do!"
Serra closed her eyes. This would be the end. Whether it was ale or just the compulsion of a lie, he had made her a witch – her own father.
"Like what?" laughed someone, egging him on.
"Oh you should see her," he bragged, "she works a spindle like an angel; she can even spin straw into gold!"
The crowd erupted into laughter.
"Why aren't you a rich man then?" provoked the same voice again.
"Well, we never had much straw to start with, and then the spinning wheel broke, didn't it? We didn't have any gold left to buy a new one to spin more gold, sad state of affairs really."
As the mob fell about sniggering the guardsman clamped a claw-like hand around her wrist securely.
"I'll be taking you into the king's custody now; you'll be taken from here to the castle, to await your trial and execution." Serra noted that he did not present her with the possibility of innocence; execution was expected.
As he led her to his carriage the townsfolk followed them. She was a small town girl; she had never been in a carriage before, odd that this should be her first encounter with one. As they drove away, she watched her father till he was out of sight; he had forgotten her already, swallowed by his own lie. She saw him miming the action of a spinning wheel, and then indicating the shape of a spindle, no doubt full of golden thread in his story. He would notice soon enough when the money ran out, but it would be far too late by then.
It took them three days to reach the palace.
It was plenty of time for Serra to consider her relationship with the gypsy folk; had they left her holding the bag? Had their departure seemed rushed, a little too timely considering these new accusations?
It didn't really matter whether they were guilty or innocent of the crimes set upon them, it changed nothing for Serra, and her time with them now felt stained by all that had come after it. Each day she looked down at her necklace, a constant reminder of either betrayal or poor luck, and she knew not which. Each day she cursed them anew, holding the pendant tightly in her hand and staring fixedly out of the carriage window, her eyes unfocused and full of angry tears.
It was another three days in a holding cell before her trial hearing. She marked them off on the cold stone wall with the sharp edge of the runic arrow at her breast. She knew that there were dungeons under the castle, but they had not put her there, and she knew she should be thankful for that. She would never see them, however, and almost longed to live out her days in that putrid swamp of darkness, simply so she could live out her days. Sometimes she thought about her father, sometimes she dreamed about him, and sometimes she dreamed about the headsman, and he wore her father's face.
Finally they brought her before the king.
A steward stood by his throne, holding a parchment documenting her crimes. The guardsman who had accompanied her on the journey here had no doubt returned to more important duties: she was truly alone.
The king was still young, surely no older than eight and twenty, and he wore the years well. She had been told he was a frivolous man, or rather, she had heard such speech about him when she had visited town; but his face was stern and commanding and there was no evidence of that here. He was dressed ostentatiously, but then he was a king, and could afford to dress however he liked. His crown rested jauntily across his brow, sparkling with rubies as fat as the pebbles on the lake shore by her home. A sword rested on his knee, as if he might draw it to strike her head from her neck at any moment.
"The accused has been declared a conspirator with the gypsy troupe responsible for the kingdom's horse thefts," intoned the steward. "She is also…" he coughed then, loudly, making both Serra and the king start. "She is also a witch."
Great…
Beheading would be a blessing; being burned at the stake… well… she knew which of the two she preferred.
"A witch?" asked the king, raising an imperial eyebrow. "What witchcraft is she accused of?"
The steward stood silent. This obviously was not on his roll of parchment, and he found himself at a loss because of it. He was staring at the paper so hard it was as if he was willing it to appear, to offer explanation to his liege.
"Spinning straw into gold," sighed Serra. It was probably a crime to speak to the king directly without some sort of prior permission, but they were going to kill her anyway; how much worse could today possibly get?
"And can you?" asked the king, "can you spin straw into gold?"
Serra paused. She hadn't expected him to be anything other than horrified at her unholy magic, or of her speaking to him in general, but he looked… interested? Was this the frivolity she had heard him accused of?
"With a spinning wheel," she answered, which was neither yes nor no, simply more of the story she stood accused of. She had mustered the courage to speak to a king; lying to him was something altogether different.
The king laughed which, all things considered, was probably the right response for such an outrageous tale. Another woman in her village had once been declared a witch, they said she gave all the chickens in the village the evil eye and they had stopped laying eggs soon after. That seemed like something a witch might do; spinning straw into gold was something for a fairytale.
"Alright then," chuckled the king, "I suppose there's no harm in it."
He was still smiling when they led her back to her cell room with the three scratches on the wall. Serra was none the wiser as to what her fate might be. Nobody came to kill her, but nobody came to free her either. It got late. She was on the brink of sleep, the cell wrapped in long shadows, before someone finally came to explain what was to become of her. Except they didn't. Instead, they brought a large spinning wheel and placed it in the centre of the room, then later returned with two large bales of straw and threw them onto the floor next to the spinning wheel. The message was clear enough, prove it, but was the proof detriment or compliment to her situation? Not that it mattered, she wasn't a witch, and she couldn't even use a spinning wheel, let alone spin straw into gold.
One more night of life, then beheading; surely they wouldn't burn her if she was proving not to be a witch? Not the kind that could perform alchemic miracles anyway…
Serra sat awake in the dark. Eventually she made her way over to the scratches on the wall and added one more, proof that she had been alive once. She did not know if she'd have the chance to add it during the day, for they might come early to check on her progress. When her eyes grew heavy she tried to make herself comfortable on the straw, pulling it from the bundle and scattering it across the stone floor. It was itchy; long sharp spikes of it scratched and poked at her, irritating her soft skin and proving itself worse than the cold stone for comfort. She pretended not to notice.
"I'm not sure that sleeping on this problem is going to resolve it," snickered a voice in the dark.
Serra shot up straight, her gaze flying to the barred window in the door, looking for the speaker.
"Here, precious," grinned the voice in the dark, and she turned to find she was no longer alone in the small cell.
Sitting atop the still intact bale of straw was a strikingly handsome man. His face was a picture of perfect symmetry. If she had thought the king was dressed flamboyantly, then she had been mistaken. This individual, however, managed to do it without a great compliment of rich fabrics and precious stones; he simply oozed extravagance. The moonlight had dyed his hair in her fashion, silvered in the dark of the cell, and he leaned lazily back on his perch, like a man bored with what he saw.
He could not be there.
"Are you a demon?" whispered Serra. She wasn't really sure why she whispered; it just seemed like the thing to do.
"Do I look like a demon?" he asked.
"I don't know what a demon looks like," admitted Serra.
"Neither do I," shrugged the man. That had to be as much of a denial as could be expected, she supposed.
"What are you then?"
He smiled – even in the dark she could see his lips twitch with mirth.
"The Goblin King, your king, your destiny."
"You're not the king!" cried Serra, "I met him today and…"
"And there are other kings," he finished.
That was true enough, but why would the king of some other country be here in her prison cell, and how? She had never heard of a place called 'Goblin.'
"How did you get in here?" she asked suspiciously.
He sighed. "Magic, obviously."
Serra frowned. "Then you are a demon!"
"No, love, ground we've covered already, remember? Really… they said human, they didn't say stupid."
"I'm not stupid!" yelled Serra; she had understood that much of what he had said, at least. Their conversation had been steadily rising in volume, and it was making her incredibly nervous.
"Pray tell, how have you gotten yourself into such a situation then, hmmm? Spinning straw into gold to avoid certain death; hardly clever."
"How do you know about that?" she whispered. Suddenly she felt afraid. Too many odd things were happening and being said in succession. How was she to make heads or tails of any of it?
"I've been watching you, obviously."
How? thought Serra.
"Why?" she asked.
"Well, I've suffered a great deal for our love already pet; since it's already been decided, I thought I should at least find out what I'd gotten myself into."
"Love?" shrieked Serra. "I don't even know you."
"But you will," he avowed, "you will be in love with me, we will be in love with each other."
"Says who?" growled Serra. It must be a short courtship indeed, considering she'd be dead tomorrow.
"Says my kind, they can see such things. They showed me your face in a crystal, my destiny. This is despite the fact that you're human, and not a very impressive one at that. Despite the fact that it's practically unheard of for my kind to fall in love; and I assure you I railed against it greatly when it was first declared. Considering the reception it heralded amongst my people, fate being the tiresome thing that it is, it has been accepted, but hardly appreciated."
Serra wasn't sure quite what to argue first. She had been insulted, had it suggested that the being before her was not human (but not demon either), and told that her fate was mapped out and completely out of her hands. Well… she'd known the last point reasonably well for the last six… close to seven days now; but that was an expectation of death, not otherworldly, offensive lovers.
"This is all very good and well," muttered Serra, "but fate being what it is, your people seem to have got it all wrong. Tomorrow morning I'm going to be beheaded, or burned, or both. This will make it remarkably hard for me to fall in love with you, although you're welcome to pursue my scorched remains if that is your wish."
"There is a solution to every problem, precious," he replied.
"What, you have a whimsical talent for spinning straw into gold?" she snorted.
The self-proclaimed king eyed the pile of straw with distaste. "I'm sure something along those lines could be arranged, if that is your wish. However I think you dream of bigger things than pleasing tawdry provincial kings."
"Like being whisked away by magical kings to their distant kingdoms?" she drawled.
"Why not?" he smirked, cocking his eyebrow haughtily.
Serra paused to think. Everything about this was ridiculous, but what did she have to lose?
"How would I get there?" she asked in a tiny voice, half expecting him to laugh and tell her it was all part of some cruel joke.
"You wish yourself there, obviously."
She looked up at him, unable to gauge in the darkness whether he was in earnest.
"Then I wish..." she hesitated. What if he were a demon? What if she was handing him her soul on a silver platter? She looked down at the necklace around her neck, catching pale shafts of moonlight in the dark. This might be her one chance to get ahead, to be above those who had trodden her down in life, her father, her village; even people she had thought were her friends.
"…I wish you would take me away with you... right now."
"Done," he grinned.
In the next moment the room was empty, the moon the only witness to all that had occurred. All that was left behind was the spinning wheel, the straw, and four solid lines, etched into the stone wall.
A/N: I'm VERY worried about the reception for this chapter, it is an interlude from our known story, this will go on for at least a few chapters before we close and return to 'business as usual'. Hopefully you're bearing with me, if I could have all of the 'accepted dreams sequence' as one chapter I would, but it would be a terrible monster and you'd have to wait forever for the update.
Credit for the chapter title to 'Laserbeams' by the band 'Wintersleep', I thought it was rather well suited.
So, because I seem to enjoy complication, we begin our 'story within a story'. One of the reasons I wanted to write this fic was because the actual Rumplestiltskin tale really bothers me. What kind of a king demands something impossible of someone and threatens them with beheading? Then later changes his mind to a reward of marriage, and who in their right mind would accept said marriage from the threatener? I have already resolved one such issue here, watch me iron them all out before we are done *kekeke*
This is what I'll call 'part three' of our tale, there are four parts in all so we are very much on the downward spiral. *COUGH* I have started another Labyrinth fanfic (why do I hate myself?) but will not start posting it until this one is done and dusted to make sure this is my focus. The new story is quite different, I had no intention of visiting the Labyrinth again so soon, but the idea hit me out of the blue and has been very insistent. I hope to post the first chapter with the last chapter of this story to ease the pain of an ending with a beginning!
As always thank you for all your support and love!
Smiles1998: I do rather like keeping you all on your toes! All those 'what ifs' are terrible tantalising.
Melimay: I'm sure it will surprise no one that I just had to use that line again, it's only fair, after all.
. : Naaaw genius, you're making me blush! You want more - your wish is my command!
arynwy: He has been quite generous with her, but can she see past her distrust?
Shiroikami: Woo, review number 100! And what a review! It is certainly not my birthday, but this chapter is my present to you.
TheUnquietDead: I like that I shocked a few people with that one! New chapter incoming.
qiana: I'm not sure I've kissed and hugged you (electronically, obviously) enough for your contribution, thanks for being on the ball :)
obsessive360: I think there's a bit of evil Slytherin in each of us (or maybe I only tell myself that to feel better?) We're on the answers arc now, I will (probably) not introduce any more questions...but I promise nothing.
Honoria Granger: Thanks for the lovely review as always! I like to give you all a nice chunk of chapter to chew over while I work on the next.
Aleta Wolff: They are definitely both a bit lost at the moment, I have some work to do bringing light to all this darkness!
Wudelfin: 'she deems worthy of her love and devotion' - can I just say this line resounded with me long after reading your review. I am of the opinion that there are far too many female protagonist out there in recent popular literature, who question why their significant other likes them/loves them/finds the interesting. I am a strong believer in self love and thinking you are deserving of love - therefore considering your love a gift given to those worthy to receive it! Thanks, this review, and the sentiments within, made my day.
Kayla: Thank you and welcome!
Willownightwolf: Welcome to the collective!
Strykingshadows: Thanks, it makes me happy that people think they're true to character :) have a cookie!
Kaytori: Oh no, I have most decidedly not missed it, it will not be Sarah but Serra who uses it ;) I have this planned as a little bit of ironic comic relief in the future. Ah yes, the fuath... In my encyclopedia of fairies (yes I own one because I'm obsessed) it says they are malicious or dangerous spirits who had a close connection with water... but when I looked later on google they seemed very much to be 'water spirits,' more than anything. Since I hadn't had any luck with fairies in the vein of either mirrors or memory (not unseelie fairies anyway) I decided to push on with fuath as I didn't want to delay the chapter any longer, since she was first reflected in water, hopefully that significance helped make it work... Anyway, admittedly I'm a bit dissatisfied with the choice - if anyone has an alternative fae with a relation to either reflection or memory which is malicious, I'd love to hear them!