Disclaimer: Labyrinth belongs to Jim Henson and co.

Chapter Title: from "O' Sister" by City and Colour

The face of the Goblin King shone with a thin sheen of sweat, visible only in the faint flickering of the sole torch. The Brownie jailors watched with beady black eyes as his head lolled this way and that without any clear purpose. He was unaware of his movements, of where or who he was and had been ever since the fever dreams had descended. They had dragged him down with their heat and their wicked claws into places he feared to tread. Much like the labyrinth itself, his mind had its fair share of oubliettes; dangerous pits that needed to be approached lightly, on tiptoe, lest he fall into one and shatter.

But weak and delirious, he no longer had the strength to avoid them. They rushed to the surface, taking over his mind like a dangerous disease.

In the fever dreams, he was a child once more. A child, a prince hurdling down the stairs of the castle, cold wind in his hair and eternal summer in his eyes. Back in those days, he had breathed in the air of mischief, tearing about with the awkward, spindly legs of a newborn foal. Goblins had been pushed aside left and right, the creatures pausing only to shake their heads at these antics. They'd borne their young prince no ill will. He was only a few decades old. There would be time enough for discipline later. Or so they'd thought. For a child as talented as he was in constant need of supervision.

He would devour volume after volume of spells and incantations, coming forth each day with a new and devious trick. One day he might turn the cook bright yellow, the next make it so that all of the bars of soap smelled of unicorn dung. Everywhere he'd gone, trouble followed. Followed with the special, vicarious light that shone only on the most talented.

A delight he had been to kings and courtiers from kingdoms near and far. He could enchant them with spellbinding illusions far more complex than any of his peers; there was not a guest who came through the doors that left unimpressed. They had patted him on the head and passed him something sweet to eat.

The prince had been loved throughout the Goblin Kingdom by all but one. His father, King Septus, was less than impressed with his whimsical magician of a son. This the prince knew. There were times when he was practicing his magic when he had felt his father watching him. It had not been the good kind of watching either. Not the proud, steady observation of an approving mentor. No, there had been something…dangerous about the way his father watched him. With eyes that had burned into his back as though, in staring long enough, he could smite this child from the earth. The prince hadn't like these moments; they made him feel strangely empty, like all of his insides had suddenly dissolved.

When the feeling became too powerful to endure, he would approach his father, beg him to instruct his weary son in pursuits that were more pleasing to him. Then Septus would nod, clamp a firm hand on his son's shoulder and lead him to a different part of the castle. A darker place, where footsteps were made to echo, but screams did not carry. A shiver would pass through the Goblin Prince whenever he walked these halls. A shiver that could only be suppressed by the flagrant desire to impress his sire.

And in the darkest, dankest room of the castle, where chains rattled from the ceilings, and sludge caked the floors, and where the sun had never touched, young Jareth had cut his teeth on spells of darkness. He had watched as a small goblin was brought in, trembling pitifully. The creature stank of fear. Or had that been him? He had glanced back at his father, to the man whose grin cut through the darkness like the point of a carving knife. What had he meant to do in bringing him here? What could such cruelty towards another creature ever hope to teach him?

"It will teach you to be strong," his father had breathed back, seeming to read his son's mind, "To be a man. How can you expect to rule if our subjects do not fear you?" His father had leaned closer then, whispering in his son's ear what he expected him to do. The prince had swallowed the lump in his throat, turning to face his would-be victim.

Show it its fears. With sweaty palms, the prince had summoned a crystal, a slippery thing that had almost slipped his grasp as it rolled to his fingertips. And gazing into the opaque orb, he had summoned a most frightening illusion.

The goblin's screams rang in his ears for days after. An always-there reminder of the darkness that now swirled permanently at the edges of his vision. It was possible that, given time, it could have grown to swallow him completely. Would his father have been pleased? The young prince could not be sure. For there was something that pulled him back from the tantalizing pit of night. A single source of light so overwhelming that it could drive away every terrible thought he had ever had: his mother.

Her face radiated perpetual sunshine, her hair flowing long and lustrous over her shoulders like strands of beaten gold. Her eyes were not cold and harsh as his father's, but kind and prone to finding the goodness in all creatures. She kept as many goblin maids around her as she did ladies in waiting, treating each of them with the same amount of measured respect. As though they were the queens instead of her.

Jareth loved better than anything to spend his days in her rooms. There was always music there, and new books to read, and courtiers to entertain. When she was not too busy tending to her guests, she would brush out her son's unruly hair with her gilded combs. He remembered intensely the distinct pleasure of each bristle running along his scalp, tickling and massaging in dual part. And when it was finished, his mother would tie back the longest strands into a low ponytail secured with black ribbon.

"How handsome you look," she would croon, standing behind him in the mirror. And he would beam at his own reflection, despite the fact that a few untamable strands still stood up at the front. If it was good enough for Mother, it was good enough for him.

There were days spent in her company in which the prince thought it impossible to ever be unhappy. He learned, quickly, what a youthful folly that was.

Sometime in his first century, his mother sat him down and explained that he was to have a younger brother or sister. He had only blinked in response, uncomprehending. It took him a moment to express his displeasure.

"Babies are stupid," he had huffed out. His mother's face had shriveled in an instant. It was the first time he had seen her look so wounded. He was ashamed to have been the cause of it.

"Don't say that, Jareth. Having a baby is wonderful, magical thing," she told him. But there was something in her tone that almost made it seem as though she were trying to convince herself just as much as him. Not wanting to upset her further, Jareth had agreed, promising that he was excited to meet his new sibling.

Over the next few months, he had watched as his mother changed. Her stomach ballooned in front of her, a comical sight to Jareth on most days. He began to delight at the prospect of having a permanent friend to play with. One which became all the more real when his mother allowed him to place his hands on her swollen abdomen to feel the baby kick. He could not help but giggle when he felt the very definite pressure push against his hand.

"Does he kick very often?" Jareth asked. He had made no secret of hoping for a younger brother, though his mother insisted on reminding him that it could be a girl.

"Constantly," his mother had replied. Jareth tried not to notice how tired she looked when she said this. She was still beautiful to him, even with dark rings under her eyes.

Beyond the physical changes—which were abundant enough—Jareth began to notice other changes within his mother as well. She was sharper in her responses to him, less inclined to give him her apt attention when he performed a new illusion. And there were times, not often, but enough to take notice, when she seemed frightened. Of his father. She would flinch slightly when he entered the room, sometimes even to such a degree that she would squeeze Jareth's hand with excessive strength. On other, more frightening occasions, she would ignore his father's presence completely. As though she were entirely unaware of his presence there. This would enrage the king to such an extent that he would slam his fist down up the nearest table, demanding the attentions of his wife and son. Only then would his mother rise, go to her husband, and right whatever he had misplaced with his outburst.

Jareth began to worry about her, and one day finally drew up the courage to ask her if she was feeling alright. Without looking at him, she had replied in the slow, dreamy way she had of talking: "I'll be better once it's out of me."

Her words did little to soothe the Goblin Prince. He disliked the way she referred to the baby as an "it." He knew that it was impossible to tell if the baby was a boy or a girl, but using "it" did not feel right either. But there was little he could do about it, other than to hope that his mother was right. That things would return to normal once the baby was born.

How foolish his hopes had seemed when, in the middle of the night, he had awoken to his mother's screaming. For many minutes, he lay in the dark of his room beneath the covers, wishing that it was only his imagination. It was only after the screams became louder and more frequent that he began to cry. It seemed ages before his old goblin caretaker came to collect him, making soothing noises in his ear as she rubbed his back.

The little prince did his best to stifle his tears. His father would be waiting after all, and he had long since made it clear that he did not think it fit for the heir of the Goblin Kingdom to shed tears. By the time he was presented to his father, there was only a faint puffiness around his eyes, but Jareth could see that the king knew. His disapproving glance made fresh tears spark at the back of the prince's eyes; it stung to hold them back.

Father and son entered the queen's chambers together, Jareth taking care to quiet his footsteps so as not to disturb his new sibling. But when at last he saw his mother, he could contain himself no longer. She was sitting up in bed, holding a small bundle close to her chest, beaming down at it like the sun shined within her once more. His heart clenched at the sight, and the Goblin Prince ran to her side.

At once she turned her smile at him, beckoning for him to sit beside her on the bed. Once situated, she had leaned close, showing him the contents of the tightly swaddled blankets. The baby was…small. Certainly the smallest thing Jareth had ever seen. And fragile in some inexplicable way that made him almost frightened to sit too closely.

His father did not seem to share the concern. He stood gruff and uninterested at the bedside, looking down on the scene with little less than a glare. "What do we have, wife?"

"A daughter, my king," the queen replied, clutching the bundle to her breast once more and refusing to look away from her child's face.

"Humph," came the unamused response. The king circled the bed once, as though to inspect the child from all angles, before stopping to place a hand on her forehead. Without another word, he swept from the room.

Undeterred, Jareth sidled up to his mother once more. "She's…beautiful," he had exclaimed in wonderment.

"She is." Tears that Jareth could not quite pinpoint the cause of stood in the queen's eyes. He pressed closer, wiping them from her face with his thumbs. She smiled at the gesture. "We'll love her enough just the two of us. It's better that way."

She had pulled her children close then, promising them both every happiness. Trapped there, breathing in the mingled scents of baby's breath and mother's milk, it had been impossible not to believe her words. And believe them he had in the weeks that followed. He spent as much time by his mother's bedside as possible, helping in whatever way he could. His baby sister cried often, but it was no matter to him. He could quiet her with his ever hypnotizing crystals or a carefully chosen song. The gentle spell of his youthful tenor was always enough to rock her to sleep. His mother thanked him profusely for his aide, often taking the chance to sleep at the same time as her daughter. There were times when Jareth wished she would stay awake to talk to him, but he knew it was important for her to rest in order to regain her strength. It was nearing on a month since the birth, and the queen had yet to leave her bed for more than a few minutes a day.

It was another two weeks before the prince began to be shoved from the room to make way for the healers. Every day it seemed a new one arrived, offering some new way to treat their ailing queen. Jareth did not like the way they looked at her. Like she was some dying thing deserving only their pity. And always, always they spoke in whispers. As if he were too dim-witted to glean what they were saying. He was a big brother now; hardly a child anymore, and a prince besides. He knew what they were whispering about, and he knew that they were wrong. Mother would not die. She just needed her rest.

The weeks of sickness dragged on until both prince and princess were permanently barred from the room. The nurses tried to separate the two children, but Jareth would not have it. They had already taken his mother from him; they would not take his sister too. He was the only one who could sing her to sleep.

"Don't worry, Delicia," he had whispered to her one afternoon. "We'll see mother again soon."

How quickly a promise could come true. The very next day, one of the nurses came to collect the prince and princess and deliver them to their mother's room. Relieved to finally be reunited with her, Jareth had run ahead, stopping only when he saw what awaited him on the bed.

"Jareth," his mother sighed, as delighted to see him as ever. But that was the only familiar thing about her.

Hallow cheeks and sunken eyes greeted him. She gave a halfhearted smile, her thin lips curling outwards to split her narrow face almost in half. She looked skeletal, and feverish, and old. And her hair—her beautiful, golden hair—lay limp beside her in an unimpressive braid. The prince faltered in his approach, tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes.

"Mother, what's happened to you?" he whined, fighting the infantile urge to suck on his thumb.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she said in response, opening her arms wide to him. It took him less than a heartbeat to launch himself into her embrace, pressing his face into her neck as though to hide behind her. How warm her skin felt against his cheek. Too warm. The tears came faster. She shushed him and stroked his hair, pushing him back just far enough so that she could take his sister in her arms as well.

The three of them remained in each other's company for the rest of the day. For once, the Goblin Prince said very little. A sense of finality had permeated the scene, one which left little need for words. Even Delicia remained quiet, as though she had developed a preternatural sense of knowing that this was an occasion which called for silence. As the sun set, though, Jareth found courage enough to ask the question that burned at the front of his mind.

"Mama…what is going to happen to us?" He felt his mother stiffen beside him. She sat up as best she could then, determined to look him in the eye.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Jareth," she said, the last of her strength seeping out of her eyes as they burned into his. "I won't be with you for very much longer, so I need you to remember this now. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he whimpered.

She waited another moment to ensure she had his full attention before speaking. "Love is the most powerful kind of magic there is. You may not have me for very much longer, but you will have your sister. And the two of you will need to look after one another. It's important that you never forget that."

"Mama, please don't go," he begged, holding fast to her arm. He could hear the nurse at the door and knew their time was short.

"I don't want to go. I want to stay and see you and your sister grow up."

"Then stay. You don't have to go. Please, Mama, please!" He clung to her with all his might, but the nurse was incessant. She pried him away, reminding him that it was well past his bedtime. The prince did not care. He did not think he would ever sleep soundly again. But in time, the nurse got her way. Jareth was herded from the room, even as his mother called after him.

"I love you, Jareth. I love you both. Remember. Remember what I told you."

She was gone by morning.

Jareth was directed straight from his bed to the throne room, where the thirteen hour vigil would take place. His father was there already, kneeling before the glass coffin that contained all that was left of Jareth's mother. His father seemed barely to notice that his son was in the room. He seemed not to notice anything at all. Delicia's bassinette had been set up beside him, the child already having worked up a deafening wail despite the early hour. Jareth moved towards her first, but his father interceded, snatching him by the wrist.

"Let her cry. It means she's strong."

The prince took his place kneeling beside his father. He would have liked to cry, but knew it would only beget him a slap on the back of his hand. How odd that crying could be seen as strength in his sister and weakness in him. But, dutiful child that he was, he did not shed a single tear in all the long thirteen hours.

She must weep for me, he thought, glancing at his sister. I can shed tears only on the inside.

When it was over and he was free to go to her, Jareth looked down into the red face of the screaming infant. He wanted to pick her up, to comfort her in any way he could, but his father beat him to it. The king hoisted his daughter into his arms, holding her above his head to marvel at her.

"Strong, I tell you. Strong enough to kill her own mother with her birth alone."

Jareth felt sick. "It's not her fault," he had tried to insist.

"Just think," the king continued, "of how powerful she'll be. Killed a queen before her first birthday."

Strains of jealousy were beginning to break through the prince's nausea. "We don't even know what her powers are yet," he huffed, indignant.

But even as he spoke, something in the room began to change. There was a chill in the air. Frost began to collect on the windows despite the sunlight, and ice crept up the throne room walls. Delicia shrieked louder than ever, squirming in her father's arms like she never had before. And as the ice gathered, the king began to laugh. A dark, throaty laugh that chilled Jareth more so than the frost that surrounded them.

He shrank away from his father and sister, backing up until he bumped into the raised coffin. The glass had frosted over several times, making it impossible to look within, but Jareth pressed his hand to the lid anyway. It was the best he could do to clutch his mother's hand.

The cold continued to spread through the air, seeming the freeze everything in the castle exactly where it was. To Jareth, it felt like he would never again know warmth or sunshine. Like everything he had come to cherish had been rooted out by ice and replaced with a frigid emptiness. Strange how life could change so abruptly in the space of a day. How a heart could turn icy in a matter of hours. Strange, strange how everywhere he looked, he saw only the absence of what was not there rather than what was. How cold…

And the strangest thing was: the feeling never quite went away.

"Get up," a voice urged. The fever dream came to an abrupt end, the palace walls melting away to prison ones. And the round-faced baby sister he once knew was transformed into the woman before him now.

"As you wish," he replied, doing his best to seat himself with some level of dignity. When he had managed it, he waited for her to speak.

She blinked at him once, obviously confused as to why he had not pressed the conversation further. "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

"Not unless you feel inclined to tell me, sister-dear."

Her eyes narrowed on him in her suspicion, though she tried, as ever, to mask it. "What's gotten in to you? Finally resigned yourself to your fate?"

"Not quite," he admitted. "If you must know, I was reminiscing. Thinking about old times. Memories…"

His sister visibly stiffened at that. "Why would you want to do that?" Her voice was quiet, just on the edge of seething.

"They weren't all bad. Before Mother died—"

"Before I was born you mean."

"—And when we were children. You weren't always such a terror."

"Goodness sake's, have you gone mad? I was terrible to you as a child."

Jareth let out a sigh that turned into a laugh. "Yes, I suppose you were most of the time. Do you remember when the Troll King came to visit?"

"I might recall a certain amount of mischief surrounding the event," she mused, the barest hint of amusement showing in her eyes.

"Mischief?" Jareth stared back at her incredulously. "You tricked me into a broom closet and froze my shoes to the floor! And after Father had lectured us all week about the importance of punctuality. It took me three hours to escape, and by then my feet were completely numb. I ran out of the broom closet and straight into the Troll King."

"You didn't make half as much a fool of yourself as I expected you would."

"I knocked him into a barrel of Elf-made wine, staining a doublet that had been in the family for generations."

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten that bit." She laughed then. A genuine laugh, one that was free of malice. It was a magical sound, like the tinkling of bells during the first snowfall of the season. It brought back with it some of the easier days of their childhood, when he had still been able to make her laugh with abandon. He had almost begun to believe he would never hear it again.

It was almost a shame that it was only a part of his plan.

"Delicia," he began, interrupting her smiles. "When did it go wrong between us?"

All semblance of happiness was wiped clean from her face. Her eyes were hard once more, and her jaw clenched. "It was always like this."

"No, it was not," he ventured, monitoring her reactions. Careful now, he coached himself, She needs to feel sympathy, not pity. "I cared for you once. And I believe that you cared for me as well."

"Once," she enunciated, not looking at him. "Perhaps."

"Well why shouldn't it be like that again?"

"Hah," she exclaimed, "You think we could forgive each other our grievances so easily? You have gone mad."

Jareth bit his tongue; he was losing his grip on her. Not entirely surprising given his state, but still, it was a lapse that could cost him. You'll have to try harder than that if you want to fool her. Letting out a forlorn sigh, he spoke again: "Mother would have hated to see us this way."

There! he thought, noticing the way her fist clenched. He continued to watch her as she tried to collect herself.

"I suppose I wouldn't know," his sister eventually replied. "I don't actually remember her."

"You look like her," he blurted out in response, immediately regretting it. Delicia locked eyes with him, a slightly panicked look lingering beneath the cerulean irises.

Bastard, he cursed himself. You were supposed to keep her calm, sentimental. Now she'll run off faster than you can say 'oubliette.'

But his sister remained where she was standing, barely seeming to breathe. Her eyes had drifted from his face down to her hands, the thing fingers weaving together. "I'm nothing like her," she whispered.

"You—" Jareth began, thanking the stars he had been given another opportunity, but she cut him off before he could proceed.

"Nothing like her. Mother was timid and weak. I killed her without even having to try."

"Is that what Father told you?"

"It doesn't matter what Father told me. It's the truth, isn't it?"

Jareth ignored the question for the time being. He needed to use the opportunity she was providing him. "Delicia, you don't have to believe everything he tells you."

"Why shouldn't I? He is the High King of the Underground. His word is law," she countered almost as soon as he had spoken. "And he was right, after all. Mother was weak. She left before I could string two words together."

"I'm sor—"

"Don't," she snapped at him. "Don't you dare say that. 'I'm sorry.' Pathetic," she spat, circling the room once more. "I don't need you to make apologies on her behalf. I was better off without her. Stronger. No one is as strong as me."

"Sarah is," he flung back at her, casting the last stone he had to throw.

It had the desired effect. Delicia took a step back as though he had struck her, her mouth falling open even as she did. "What did you just say?"

"Sarah is as strong as you," he plowed ahead with all the more bite. "Stronger probably. She can turn nightmares to daydreams in the blink of eye, and she'd walk through shards of broken glass as though they were flower petals if it meant getting what she's after. She's stronger than you…And I think you know it. That's why you're so determined to be rid of her too, isn't it? You're frightened of her."

"I'm frightened of no one," she swore.

"You're lying," he accused, "and not very well." He paused a moment, wanting to get the next part right. When again he spoke, his voice was softer, gentler. "I think you've grown tired of this game, sister. You're casting spells without intention, so to speak. But it's not too late to take it all back. You can put an end to this, now, without consequence."

"It is," she breathed. "It is too late." She put her arms around herself, rubbing up and down like all the centuries of ice that she had laid down had finally caught up to her. Had he not been chained to the wall, Jareth might have reached out to her.

"It's not," he cautiously promised. He was growing frustrated with his inability to get through to her, and frustration was an emotion he could not allow to get ahold of him. His plan was a precarious one, and now more than ever, he needed to say the right things. "Sarah will forgive you. She'll understand. The two of you…aren't so different really."

Delicia's head snapped up at that. "What do you mean?"

"Her mother left her as well. If anyone could begin to understand how you're feeling, it would be Sarah. She will forgive you," he said again, hoping to drive home the point.

"You won't," came her reply.

Jareth was shocked by her response. It sounded so honest. Which gave him more than enough cause for suspicion. Delicia was disingenuous as a matter of habit. Surely he had not broken through her walls so easily. Could she be trying to manipulate him into thinking she still cared about his approval? Had the whole conversation been nothing more than an act to lull him into thinking that he had gained an advantage over her? Or—worst of all—could she be telling the truth?

The questions he posed drove him to high points of anger and low points of guilt, but in the end, they all boiled down to one fixed pondering that had been grating on the fringes of his sanity for years: Why does she always have to be so infuriatingly frustrating?

"Ask yourself, sis: Is there anything you've done that I would not forgive you for in exchange for letting me out of here?"

He had misspoken, and in that instant, they both knew it. Delicia's eyes widened, for a moment seeming to fill with hurt. Then, an almost imperceptible shift occurred, and she retreated back within the safety of her frozen heart. She smiled.

"So, this is what it's all been about?"

"Delicia, I—"

"No, no, no. No need to explain. I understand perfectly," she giggled to herself. "All this talk of sentiment and memory…It was really just of means of tricking me into letting you go. I don't know how I didn't see it before. How silly of me."

"Listen to me," he begged, kicking himself for making such a dire error. "I was not lying to you. Let me go now, and I will not seek to retaliate in any way. I'll see that Sarah is kept safe somewhere in the Aboveground where she cannot hurt or be used to hurt you. It's not too late."

But his sister was paying him no more mind than a change in the direction of the wind. She had produced a crystal and was staring into it with amused fervor. "You asked me, dear brother, if there was anything I had done that you could not forgive me for. And now that I come to ponder it, I do believe there is." She tossed him the crystal and disappeared.

"Delicia? Delicia!" he called after her, half desperate and half enraged. "What did you mean?" he muttered to himself as he tried to get a clear image of what was going on with the small orb.

Then, he saw it. It was Sarah standing in the middle of a frozen plane. She was crying, the air fogging in front of her as she released short, panicked breaths. His grip on the crystal to tightened to such a degree that it would have cracked if such a thing were possible. She was trying to move now, edging her way closer to the outstretched hand of her companion. Jareth watched—waited—with bated breath. She was almost there. So close…So close.

She fell through. It took less than a second between the ice cracking and her head sinking beneath the water. Less than a second for it to swallow her whole.

Come on. Come on. Swim! Jareth prayed to himself. But she did not resurface. Not after three seconds, and not after ten. It was as if the river had swallowed her whole. And all that was left to see was an endless field of ice.

"Sarah," he shouted at the unfeeling glass. Even as he did, he knew it was no good. She could not hear him. And unless she called for him...

"Delicia," he called, louder now and ever more frantic. "Delicia, come back. Come back, and we can fix this. It's not too late. It's not too late!"

Too late, he thought as he collapsed back against the wall, more exhausted now than ever before. He continued to call their names in his mind, but always the echoes of 'too late' came back. They were lost to him.

A/N: Ahhhh where have I been?! A thousand apologies to everyone who has been following this fic. I wish I had a better excuse for this dreadful hiatus, but what it really came down to was a lost muse. But I've been working on getting it back, so hopefully I'll have more frequent updates from here on. Many thanks to you all for your continued support.