A/N: HOO BOY, that was even longer than expected. It's been a rough couple of months, both personally and, ya know, geopolitically. This story remains a big passion project, though, and I'm optimistic about being able to pick up a more regular posting schedule again. Thanks for sticking with me this far: your comments give me such naches, I can't even.

This chapter is a little weird, because I'm actually planning on revising it—all the plot points will stay the same, there's just a character that needs some more fleshing out, but I've been stuck on it for months and I need it off my computer yesterday so I can get back in the swing of things. Plan is to bundle the revision with the next chapter, and I'll put a summary of the changes at the beginning of chapter 10 if you're not into the whole re-reading shtick. Just a heads-up.

Anyway, WELCOME TO PART II. We're about a quarter of the way through the story now. Parts II & III constitute an expansion in almost every sense: plot, character, setting, tone, lore... Part IV ties all the threads together (including the blood and hair, guys, I'm glad you haven't forgotten about that because it's coming back but not for a little while yet) and takes us down the rocky road to our conclusion. RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU ARE EXCITED FOR CHARACTER GROWTH, ADVENTURE, AND EVENTUAL CONSENSUAL SMOOCHIES(/sexy timez)!

So, on the one hand, expect a bit more humor. We'll be returning to the Labyrinth. It will be whimsical. How could it not be. On the other hand, Sarah is entering as an adult now, and she's going to be seeing and dealing with a lot of new things and the world/culture of the Underground has some pretty dark/horrific elements. There will be sex, and not just the fun smutty kind. There will be violence. Rule of thumb: if you're a Game of Thrones fan, nothing here will faze you. If you find GoT utterly horrifying, maybe best quit now. If you're somewhere in the middle, keep reading, but please use the trigger warnings as needed. Also feel free to message me here or on tumblr ( whenas-in-silks) with any questions.

TW [See profile for details]: referenced (i), (l), (q), (ac), (aw), (az)

Thanks as ever to my incredible beta syntheticaesthetic, as well as my deeply adored incandescent for jumping in and saving my sanity with auxiliary betaing services, and an extra special thanks to my good (RL!) friend R, who despite having zero interest in fandom, David Bowie, or Labyrinth sat down with me and helped me not only patch a plothole, but do it in such a way that it made the whole damn story stronger. Of course, that patch isn't actually in this version, but it will be in the update and everything will be sunshine and rainbows forever! Also, thanks to everyone who checked in and gave me polite nudges during the long hiatus (kittyspike, sazzle76, meemalee, and FelineNinjaGrace). Ya'll rock.

PART II: Still Alive

Chapter 9

Childhood's End

You set sail across the sea
of long past thoughts and memories.
Childhood's end, your fantasies
merge with harsh realities.

"Childhood's End," Pink Floyd.

Someone like you
should not be allowed
to start any fires.

"Win," David Bowie.

Now

Sarah doesn't want to be here.

She's sitting in one of the visitor's chairs in Alisse's hospital room, struggling to focus on the conversation, which fades in and out like a radio with a bad signal.

"—not believe the shit they try and pass off as food here," Alisse is saying, casting herself back against the pillows.

"This from a woman whose idea of a balanced breakfast is Easy Mac and bottom-shelf bourbon." Ernie sits in the chair to Sarah's right, apparently at ease. But then, he has that luxury. He's not the one about to put the torch to a decade-old friendship.

The voices begin to blur once more as Sarah's heartrate increases, as the dread creeps over her, stifling her. I don't want to be here, I don't want to be here, I don't want to BE HERE.

She'd wanted to wait—ideally forever, but at the very least until Alisse got out of the hospital. But as Ernie had pointed out, they didn't have forever, they had two months, and they still didn't know when Alisse would be discharged, and—here he had lowered his chin and peered at her over the top of his glasses, gaze unwavering, voice firm with a conviction that went beyond the need for justification—Alisse had a right to know. All of her arguments and entreaties had withered in the face of that conviction, the ease of it, a supreme confidence in his moral judgement that was so familiar and yet so remote from her in that moment that she'd had to turn her face away (and don't think about that now, don't think about it)—

"…much longer they're going to keep you here?"

"Just a few more days for observation, I think. I'm seriously considering just checking myself out. I mean, I feel fine."

"Still no idea what happened?" Ernie flashes Sarah a brief but significant look.

Her stomach clenches.

"Nope. Kind of crazy, really."

Sarah swallows; she doesn't need Ernie's second, pointed glance to know that this is her cue. She parts her lips but her mouth has gone dry as cotton. All of the moisture in her body seems to have been diverted to her palms, which are sweating enough to irrigate a damn desert.

The silence stretches out. Alisse glances from Ernie to Sarah, her gaze inquiring.

Ernie clears his throat.

"Been getting a lot of visitors?"

Sarah lets out a surreptitious breath.

"Oh yeah, lousy with them," Alisse says, relaxing back against the pillows. "Some people from work, a few from school…"

"Nina mentioned she'd been by."

Alisse pulls a face. "Yeah. It was just about the most awkward twenty minutes of my life. I was seriously expecting her to break out the healing crystals at any moment."

Ernie sighs. "Would it actually kill the two of you to get along?"

"Probably!" Alisse says cheerfully.

"So, Sarah, me, Nina, some people from work and school. Anyone else?" Ernie presses.

Alisse frowns. "Why, someone you were expecting? … Oh."

Sarah realizes what he's getting at a split second after Alisse does. The bottom drops out of her stomach as she watches Alisse's eyes hood, the corners of her mouth tighten—and isn't it a knife to the side, how much she resembles her mother in that moment.

"Claudine hasn't been by, if that's what you mean."

Sarah lets go of the breath she's been holding. "Alisse, I'm so sorry. They asked me for next of kin, and it was right after the accident and I wasn't thinking and I just—"

She cuts herself off as Alisse gives a little twitch of the shoulders, shaking off the apology like a horse shaking off a fly.

"It's not like she's been around to bug me, anyway." Alisse pulls a face. "I mean, I'm glad, I don't want to see her, I don't want anything to do with her. It's just—"

Her mouth twists savagely. "It doesn't make any fucking sense. When she kicked me out, I thought— I mean, three years and nothing from her, and then… this happens, and she's dropping everything and flying halfway across the country and taking everything over, and the minute I'm not dying she just…vanishes? They told me they tried calling her hotel room and her house in Ohio but there's nothing, she's just gone, and I've never understood her and I hate that I'm even wasting time trying but it's just— just why?"

She raises her eyes to Sarah's, and Sarah understands why Ernie had been so insistent about telling Alisse the truth. Because she knows that look, that roiling mixture of bewilderment and hurt and anger and doubt, and over and through it all, the shame of feeling anything at all. That's what it looks like, when the magic comes and leaves you in its wake, an abandonment all the more painful—and all the more haunting—for being inexplicable. That much, at least, she can do something about.

"So. About that…"

Two Days Ago

Ernie had cornered her the minute they'd left Alisse's room that first day.

They'd been allowed twenty minutes before Alisse was whisked off for more tests, and all that time, even through the tears and the laughter and the explanations, some part of Sarah lay coiled tight as a spring, readying herself for flight.

She made it halfway down the corridor before Ernie called her name, but she'd planned for that too. She stopped, letting her shoulders droop and lifting one hand to her cheek as if to dash away a tear. Then she straightened and turned around, face twisting into a rueful smile.

"Hey, do you mind giving me a sec? It's been a hell of a day and I just need a minute to…" She gestured vaguely towards herself, allowing the smile to slip a fraction.

There was a back exit just a few corridors down from the woman's bathroom. If she could just get away—buy herself some time to think...

"Oh, um…" Just as she'd predicted, the emotional appeal threw him off balance; she could see it plainly on his face, suspicion warring with sympathy. "Yeah, that's fine. I can wait."

She breathed a sigh of real relief. "Thanks," she said. "I won't be long. Meet you in the waiting room?"

She realized her mistake when he stiffened, eyes narrowing. "That's fine, I can wait here."

Her eyes flicked nervously towards the bathroom, clearly visible from their spot in the hallway. Not a viable escape route.

"I, um, don't think they like people loitering in the hallways. Maybe it would be better if—"

"How stupid do you think I am?"

"I, um—sorry, what?"

All the warmth had left Ernie's eyes. "What exactly do you think is going to happen? Even if you did manage to sneak past me, I know where you live."

She raises a hand to her forehead, aware of pressure building there. "I know you do."

She'd have to get a hotel, of course, somewhere out of town, off the highway. Yes, that sounded right—a drive to clear her head, and then somewhere safe to spend the night—safe because strange, because new.

"Ernie," she began, "I don't know what this is about, but—"

"Don't you?" His voice was uncharacteristically high, with an edge to it she'd never heard before.

"—but whatever it is, can we not do it here?" She pressed her hand harder to her temple, feeling the pulse hammering away beneath her skin.

Her chest tightened as the walls in the corridor began to creep in close around her. She needed air—she needed to breathe.

Concern surfaced on his face and he took a step towards her. "Sarah, are you—"

If she had been cleverer—stronger—more worthy, she would have taken that concern and used it, but this was too raw, too real and instead she pulled away. She caught a glimpse of the hurt on his face.

"Parking lot," he said after a moment.

They made their way to the parking lot in silence. Sarah's car came into view, and, half out of habit, she reached into her pocket for her keys. Quick as a flash, Ernie stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

"Don't even think about it."

"Ernie—"

"You're going to tell me everything that's going on, and you're going to tell me now." His voice was shaking, and she realized for the first time that it wasn't anger that drove him—or, not just anger—but fear.

She drew in a lungful of cool air, willing her mind to unfog, her pulse to slow. "Ernie, I—"

He didn't even wait for the lie. "Don't you dare try to bullshit me and say it's nothing. I know what I saw!"

"Well, I don't!" she shot back.

"I saw you, arguing with Mrs. Rochefort, and then she just vanished, and you were suddenly on the other side of the room, and Alisse was miraculously all better when she should have been dead!"

Each item was a lash—the evening flayed of all context and complexity, even her choices stripped away, leaving only their consequences, stark and bare as bone. That last word, though—even Ernie seemed shaken by it.

"I didn't mean—" He broke off, face stricken, and swallowed. His voice, when he resumed, was quieter, less urgent. "I'm sorry, I'm handling this badly, I know, but—" He made a brief, abortive gesture, as though he'd started to reach out to her, then thought better of it. "I'm not your enemy, Sarah. At least, I don't think I am. Whatever happened—whatever's going on—it's obviously eating you up, and I want to help, but you have to let me in."

She had relaxed a fraction, but at his last words she flinched back as a vision unfurled in her mind and she saw herself lying anatomized on a table, secrets laid open and bare to the world…

She wrapped her arms around herself.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She was faintly astonished at the evenness of her voice, as if every last shred of her calmness—her control—were being measured out in those few syllables. "It's been a pretty upsetting day for both of us, and I think we both need to go home and get some rest."

"No."

Something seized within her chest. Her eyes flew up to meet his. "What?"

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until you tell me what's going on."

Her heart had begun to pound. Trapped, something sang out within her. Trapped, trapped!

"Well?"

She wondered what would happen if she just rushed him, or maybe if she turned on her heel and bolted. He was taller than she was, but she was in better shape—she could probably outrun him. And then— And then…

The blood was roaring so loudly in her ears that she almost missed his next words.

"This isn't going away," he said, voice grown hard once more. "However much you might wish it hadn't happened, I'm not just going to forget—"

Her head snapped up.

"Wish?" she echoed. "Wish?"

A laugh escaped her.

Because of course, there was that. There was always that—always him, only a wish away. All she'd have to do was call, and he would come and—and wipe Ernie's memory, or—or, yes, re-order time, unstitch history, rewrite reality, anything, anything to make it not have happened.

Her breathing was growing shallower.

And it was wrong, it was wrong, of course it was wrong, but it would be so easy. He might not even charge her much for it, not if she spun it right. (She pressed her palms to her forehead.) After all, this was probably some kind of—of Underground security breach. He had as much reason to want this dealt with as she did—they were natural allies…

And that was wrong too, all, all wrong, but the words stuck in her throat so she was half-afraid she might choke and her head was full of noise and—

"Sarah?"

She looked up into Ernie's face, which suddenly seemed a very long way away, as though she were seeing it at the end of a tunnel. Then the image blurred and she felt a coolness on her face. She touched her hand to her cheek and pulled it away wet.

"Sarah, are you okay?"

I've sprung a leak, she thought, inanely.

Then she turned her head aside and was violently sick all over the pavement.

Somehow, as if she were expelling the panic and all the pent-up emotion along with the contents of her stomach, her mind quieted as she knelt there, retching. She became aware of a presence behind her and a weight lifted from her neck, and realized Ernie had come up behind her and was holding her hair back—realized too that he was positioned almost a full arm's length away from her.

And she'd recognized the fear in him before, but it was only then that she realized, her body trembling with the aftershocks: It's me. He's afraid of me.

"I—I think I'm okay now," she told him, and instantly he dropped her hair and moved away, and she knew she was right. She felt a wrench of something that was probably shame, or possibly sorrow, but somewhere along the course of that godawful day she must have lost a certain emotional sensitivity, because mostly what it felt like was exhaustion.

Slowly she straightened, pushing her hair back from her face. She couldn't bring herself to look at him yet.

"I'll tell you everything," she said, voice rough, defeated. "I will, just—not tonight. Give me until tomorrow."

"So you can get your story straight?" His voice was surprisingly even—almost sympathetic.

"No!" She shook her head vigorously, and then stopped as another wave of nausea came over her. "I mean, yes, but not like that. You don't understand."

"You're not exactly making it easy," he pointed out.

"That's because it's not easy. I— for fuck's sake, I thought it was over. It's been years and years and I thought— I've never told anyone, do you understand? Not anyone. And now it's come back and everything is—is—and I can't—I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I will tell you, I will, just—just give me until tomorrow. I'm so tired, Ernie, I can't—just—Please. Tomorrow."

Ernie hesitated.

"Just tell me this. Mrs. Rochefort disappearing. Was that—did you have something to do with that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"And Alisse's recovery?"

"Yes. Ernie, for Christ's sake—"

"All right," he said. "Tomorrow."

She was on his doorstep at 9am the following morning.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, before he even had a chance to ask what she was doing there eight hours before they'd planned on meeting. "I figured I might as well just, you know, get it over with. Like ripping off a band-aid. Can I come in?"

They'd sat in the kitchen, two mugs of tea steaming untouched on the table, while she told him about the slim, leather-bound volume she'd found tucked at the back of her bookshelf when she was fourteen, and about her stupid, impulsive wish and everything that had followed.

She'd thought it would be hard, after all those years, to finally speak the truth aloud. But it was as if the story had been crouching for years just behind her teeth, and in its eagerness to escape, had seized control of her tongue and begun to tell itself. At times, she felt like little more than a spectator—at others, like a castaway, helpless in the flood of her own confession.

When at last she'd fallen silent, Ernie leaned back, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling.

"Huh," he said. Then, apparently feeling this wasn't enough: "Wow."

"Well?" she asked, fingers balling.

"Sorry. It's just… a lot to take in." He shook his head slowly. "That's… definitely not what I expected you to say."

"Oh? What were you expecting?" She'd meant it to sound wry but it came out brittle—anxious.

"I don't know what I was expecting. I thought you were going to tell me you were part of the FBI or the Illuminati or something. I thought you were going to come out as one of the freaking X-Men. This is…"

"Would you rather I was one of the X-Men?" Sarah asked, feeling strangely defensive. After all these years of silence, that she should finally tell someone her story and he should think it was the wrong one…

"It would've been a lot easier to swallow," he said frankly. "What you're telling me… magic crystals and animate hedge-mazes and soul-stealing goblins, it's so far out there in left field I honestly can't even begin to…" He shook his head. "It's unbelievable."

"Is it?" Her voice was low, fingers twisting in her lap.

He looked up sharply.

"I'm…not sure," he said slowly. "Honestly, I thought there was a pretty good chance you'd try to lie to me, but you'd have to be completely insane to come up with a story like this. Which," he added, "is a possibility of course, but it doesn't explain what I saw. Of course, I might have been hallucinating too, but that doesn't explain Alisse's recovery, or Mrs. Rochefort going AWOL… And then, when it comes down to it, it's you telling me. So, no, it's not unbelievable."

She stared at him for a moment, struggling to parse his words. Then she let out a great, shuddering breath and sunk her head into her hands.

"Oh my god," she said. "Oh my god."

"I'm not saying I do believe you, exactly. But for now, I'm operating under the assumption that you're not lying or crazy." Ernie sat back, running a hand through his hair. "Hell. We're going to have a lot of work to do."

Sarah was half in a daze, still trembling with the shock of being believed, but at that she raised her head. "We?"

"Of course, we," he said, giving her a look of fond exasperation. "I mean, if it turns out you are nuts, you'll need someone there to look out for you, and if you aren't, well…" He gives a wry quirk of the lips. "You're going to need all the help you can get. Speaking of which, you'll want to get Nina onboard ASAP. This is right up her alley. She might even know something about this Goblin King already—"

Sarah lurched to her feet. "Sorry, just—just give me a moment," she said, then turned on her heel and fled to the bathroom, where she promptly burst into tears.

After a few minutes or so, she heard the sound of a throat being cleared and looked up to see Ernie standing in the doorway.

"Hey," he said, "Uh, can I get you anything? A hug? A glass of water?" He pauses, looking at her tear-stained face. "A mop?"

Sarah made a choked noise somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. "No," she said, gasping a little, "no, I'm fine." She dragged a hand across her stung and swollen cheek. "I don't even know why I'm crying."

"You've been under a lot of stress," he pointed out, not unkindly. "It's a pretty common reaction."

She gave a jerky nod, and blew her nose with a wad of toilet paper. "I should be good in a few minutes."

"Sure," he said, taking the hint. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

She drew in a few deep, shuddering breaths. It wasn't stress, not exactly—she knew that much. It was just that the writhing knot of emotions in her chest had kept swelling until she hardly knew what she felt, only that she had to find some way to express it or burst. She hadn't even known until she got to the bathroom if she was going to cry or vomit.

"This really isn't sustainable," she muttered, getting shakily to her feet and going to the sink. At this rate, she was going to die of dehydration before she got around to saving the world.

She splashed her face with cool water, patted it dry with a hand towel, then walked back into the kitchen.

"Okay," she said, voice almost completely steady. "Let's get started."

Now

Sarah pulls the door to Alisse's hospital room shut behind her and stands stock still in the hallway, eyes closed, fingers still wrapped, white-knuckled, around the door handle.

"Williams?"

Somewhere on the other side of the door, Alisse is weeping.

The sound of it makes her skin crawl and her stomach heave and her knees tremble, and she knows it's wrong for her to still be here, eavesdropping on this private grief—this grief she had caused—but she can't bring herself to move. Standing here, listening to those choked and muffled sobs… it feels like a penance.

It doesn't even matter that Alisse is crying for the wrong reason—crying not because Sarah had sacrificed her only living relation as part of some twisted bargain, but because she thinks her best friends have chosen this, the most vulnerable moment of her life, to play some sort of cruel practical joke.

Alisse reached up, clutching her head. "I don't understand," she said, voice suddenly soft, sounding lost and bewildered and very, very young. "Do you think this is funny? Let's all fuck with the chick with head trauma?"

"No." Sarah's voice had gone hoarse. "No, of course not."

"Then why?" Alisse turned her face up to look at her, and Sarah was horrified to see unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

Sarah had tried to answer, she'd tried, but all she could think of to say was, "I'm sorry."

And she'd sat there and watched as something vital drained from Alisse's face. Her voice when she spoke was flat and dull. "Get out."

"Sarah?" Ernie's voice again, this time accompanied by a hand which places itself tentatively on her shoulder.

She jerks away from the touch, releasing the door handle as if she'd been burned.

"Let's go," she says, roughly, not looking at him, and takes off at a punishing pace down the hallway. She can hear him following—even with his longer legs, she can tell he's struggling to keep up, and the knowledge gives her nothing but a faint, dull satisfaction that settles in the bottom of her stomach like a stone.

Out in the parking lot, she comes to a stop, shielding her eyes. The sun glares low and red on the horizon.

Ernie comes hurrying up behind her.

"Sarah," he says. "I'm so sorry."

Sarah doesn't answer.

"I—I didn't realize how—"

"Yeah," she says, voice low and even, simmering with an anger she'd only just noticed. "I think that's pretty clear."

"This was my fault. I made a miscalculation."

And how she hates him in that moment, a blistering, sickening resentment, for his deference and his remorse—for his knowledge and his presence—for witnessing—witnessing…

"A miscalculation," she echoes, voice savage with mockery. "Tell me, what has Alisse ever said or done that would make you think she would take this kind of thing well?"

Ernie swallows. "I knew she wouldn't like it, I just—" He lifts his eyes to meet hers. "I thought she would believe—" He cuts himself off abruptly, but she can see the answer written on his face. I thought she would believe you.

The pain of it breaks over her like a wave, like the answer to a question. There's something almost soothing about it. This is, after all, nothing more than what she'd known would happen if she'd ever told anyone her secret—known for years and years, which is why she'd kept it locked tight inside her chest for so long, hidden even from herself. It was only Ernie, with his earnestness and his determination and his implausible faith, that had allowed her to hope—

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

It's not Ernie's fault, any of it. Not really. She knows that. She was the one who made the wish. She was the one who had allowed herself to be persuaded. She opens her mouth to tell him that, that it's all right, that he isn't the one in the wrong, but somehow she can't bring herself to say the words.

Instead she says, "I know we were supposed to meet up with Nina, but I'm not really feeling… Do you need me there or do you think you could…?"

"No," he says hastily, "no, I've got it. Honestly," he adds with a slight smile, "I'm not too worried. This is Nina we're talking about. Believing in impossible things is practically her hobby."

Sarah nods. "Let me know how it goes." Then she turns and begins heading towards her car.

"Call you tomorrow then?" Ernie calls after her.

She waves a hand in acknowledgement, and keeps walking, Alisse's last words still echoing in her ears.

Ernie had already left the room, but Sarah paused in the doorway, looking back at her friend where she sat hunched in her hospital bed, rail-thin and terribly alone.

"I—" she'd said. "I just wanted to— I never meant to hurt you. Never."

Slowly, Alisse had raised her head. There was something almost dreamy about her gaze.

"I just can't believe," she'd said, voice soft and laced with an emotion that was not anger or hurt but something far worse—something like resignation, "that you found some way to make this about you."

She dreams of the hospital—not as it is in real life, but warped as through a crystal, a refraction of a memory. In her dream, everything seems stretched—etiolated—the walls taller and ever so slightly tilted, the rooms long and narrow. The light is paler, somehow, and shadows fall strangely, as if in obedience to some peculiar physics all their own.

She's looking for something in her dream, as she pads down interminable corridors lined with shut and silent doors. Occasionally she'll pass a cluster of people, arranged in some familiar hospital tableau—a pair of white-coated doctors conferring over clipboards, a nurse in a surgical mask wheeling a patient on a gurney. They neither move nor speak, only watch her through glittering eyes set deep in impassive, masklike faces, heads turning in perfect synchronicity to track her passage.

As she walks, things gradually begin to change, the hallways growing larger, more spacious. The light, too, is different, although she can't say how. She sees no people now, although this does not surprise her.

The door sits at the end of the corridor, a massive slab of wood, bulging and cracked with age. Yet it opens at the merest touch, swinging back and flooding her vision with light.

Shielding her eyes against the glare, Sarah steps across the threshold and finds herself in the middle of a vast plain in high summer. The sun burns high and brightly overhead; the grass is dry and scrubby and crunches beneath her feet. Before her stretches a great staircase, three yards wide and built of yellow stone, worn and polished with use. She sets a foot upon the first step. The stone is warm, warm as the touch of the sun on the back of her neck.

The earth falls away as she climbs. After a while, she begins counting the steps, but loses track somewhere in the seventies and has to start over. She stops for a moment to catch her breath, resting her hand on the step above her. There's a roughness to the stone that she hadn't felt before. The sun is growing hotter.

She resumes climbing. The stone is harsh—untried—beneath her feet, and the sun beats down from overhead. A breeze comes and she turns her face into it. It carries with it the smell of sand and parched earth. Still she climbs, breathing labored, as her limbs grow sluggish and weary. The heat of the sun is like nothing she's ever felt. She can feel her hair frizz and her skin begin to crisp. Her mouth is dry as bone.

Her foot slips, and now she's on her hands and knees, dragging herself up the endless staircase, and the light and the sun blinds her burns her chokes her and she can't see she can't see she can't

…

…

…

The temple is cool, sheltered from the desert heat by thick stone walls, and dark but for the single, bright square of sunlight flooding in from an opening in the roof.

"The Bull of Heaven is dead."

The words, spoken in a rolling, musical contralto, are so strange—so unexpected—that it's a moment before Sarah realizes they've come from their own lips.

"He was a good servant to you, lady."

A man kneels at her feet, face raised to hers. It's a beautiful face—large, liquid eyes and sun-bronzed skin—but there's something almost uncanny about its sculpted contours and too perfect curves—something inhuman and unsettlingly familiar.

And what a strange thought that is, for how should his face not be familiar, when he has been her lover and her consort since the earth was young?

"A 'good servant.'" Her lip curls. "What does it matter if he was a good servant or a bad? He was mine, and he was taken from me." The words, again, are unexpected at first, but with them comes a blast of such blazing fury that she feels herself swept up by the feeling. Fury, and beneath that, something flat and blank and helpless.

The man—Tammuz, her memory supplies—bows his head, accepting the reproach. After a moment, his eyes slide upwards to meet hers.

"They say a mortal slew him."

"They say," she snarls, and there it is again, stronger than ever, that blank, helpless feeling flopping around inside her like a dying fish. She turns from him, striding away across the room. "They might as easily say the sun rises in the west."

Behind her, she hears him rise and follow her. He wraps his arms around her stomach and nestles his face against her shoulder. "Shall I make the sun rise in the west for you?"

She smiles, arching her neck. "My Tammuz." Her voice is soft, caressing. "Find out who did this—find out how they did this—and bring them to me." Her smile hardens and she flexes her fingers, feeling the claws which lurk beneath the surface. "I will eat the living hearts from their chests."

"It shall be done."

"I know it." She turns in his arms, cradling his face in her hands. "But before you depart, there is one more way you can serve me."

And then he's on his knees before her again, brushing her robe aside, and his lips are on her and the warm, wet swipe of his tongue—

Sarah wakes with a gasp. At some point in her sleep she must have rolled onto her back, and her hand has worked its way beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms. She snatches it away, face burning, and her color deepens as the air fills with the smell of her own arousal.

Don't be such a prude, she tells herself, rolling onto her side. It was obviously just some sort of weird, vaguely creepy erotic dream. Not even the weirdest one she's had (or the creepiest, if it comes to that). Nothing to be ashamed of, and certainly no reason to feel like…like some sort of voyeur.

She shuts her eyes resolutely, but there's something about the dream—some niggling sense of familiarity that won't seem to leave her alone. The face of the man from her dream—what was his name again?—swims slowly to the surface of her mind. A pretty face—a bit too pretty for her taste, if truth be told—but there had been something about it that had stirred her—she presses her thighs firmly together—even as it repulsed her—an almost rigid perfection of the features, as if the face he wore was nothing but a beautiful mask, covering up something unknown, something indescribably other…

And she realizes where she's seen a face like that before.

She lies there frozen—helpless—as the last scene from her dream unspools in her mind, only now it's not a dark head before her but a blond one, and she tries, she tries to stop picturing it but all she can see is a pair of sly blue eyes canting upwards to meet hers while his hand slides slowly up her thigh, the fabric of her skirt bunching beneath leather-clad fingers…

Sarah sits bolt upright in bed, flinging back the covers as the mattress groans in protest. Her breath is coming in pants, and her heart is pounding—pounding with fear, she tells herself, with confusion, with loathing, with anything—anything—but…

Yanking the blankets from the bed and wrapping them around her, she shuffles into the kitchen. On the stove, she heats up some milk, topping it off with a generous slug of brandy, then stretches out on the living room couch. Gradually, the liquor and the reliable soporific of late-night television take effect, and she falls asleep to the sound of infomercials and re-runs of Cheers. Her sleep is fitful and uneasy, and she wakes aching and exhausted, but if she dreams again that night, she doesn't remember it in the morning.

A/N: So, a lot of OC stuff this chapter, but we did have two confessions, one and a half nervous breakdowns, one broken friendship, one mysterious dream, and a fragment of a sexy Jareth fantasy? Yeah, sorry, apparently I'm constitutionally incapable of fan service. I actually wrote out Sarah's Jareth fantasy in full, just to see if I was capable of writing smut, and then scrapped almost all of it because it was totally gratuitous and OOC at this point in the story. I've toyed with the idea of revising it and posting it as a kind of one-shot easter egg on AO3 though, so if that's something you'd be interested in, let me know!

Songs:

"Childhood's End," by Pink Floyd.

"How Low," by José González.

"Subterraneans," by David Bowie.

Thanks so much to Honoria Granger, lizlizard12, FelineGrace, xoBrandyxo123, SarahlouiseDodge, Sazzle76, Kellyn1604, Ebony-Dove, kittyspike08536, squidgy05, OtherworldlyStarlight, KBates, Mistress DragonFlame, Whack-the-beetle, Maxime Saindon, and guests for reviewing! Sorry for being crap about replying—I'll be better this time around. Ya'll are such joy, really—I'm so invested in this story and I still can't get over the fact that there are other people who actually give a shit about it too. I realize it's been ages, but if you're still around and reading I'd love to hear from you!

Also, if you're on tumblr, come hit me up whenas-in-silks, cuz I need more DB/Labyrinth on my dash please and thank you.