Chapter 20

Scorpions of the Mind

The Labyrinth was trying to get his attention. Jareth could feel the whisper of her somber will against his own, a sensation not unlike the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder...but he ignored her, choosing instead to center his focus on the balanced rhythm of his steps, the careful measurement of breath in his lungs, the cold weight of polished steel in his hand. It was a dangerous business, he knew, to disrespect the Labyrinth so…and subconsciously, he was shocked and a little embarrassed by his own petulance. But the events of the day—the mad, marvelous, inexplicable, and ominous events of the day had driven him to shelter in a particularly stubborn plain of self-pity, and for the time being he possessed neither the strength nor the desire to leave it. Let her speak if she truly wished to, he would be unable to stop her. As it was, however, she seemed content to leave him to his sulking, though he doubted that she would allow his behavior to persist for long.

Jareth clenched his teeth and glared the length of his blade. The air before him shivered visibly with magic, conjuring the hazy silhouette of a similarly armed opponent that acted and reacted with all the grace and skill of an accomplished swordsman, granting the king a suitable target for his efforts as he tried to banish his aggressions with some good old fashioned shadow fencing. He was only killing time, really, having already addressed his troupes and lain out plan after plan in preparation for the girl's arrival. Every goblin in his retinue was engaged and ready, either stationed at the gate, patrolling the walls, or constructing makeshift barricades throughout the city. So far as the king could see, there was little for him to do now but wait.

Selfishly, he knew that he ought to spend these last precious hours with the children, as he may never again have the chance to enjoy their smiling eyes or listen to the music of their innocent laughter. But he also knew that his head and heart were in a volatile place, trapped in a growing state of despondency…and he didn't want to subject the children to it. He didn't want to poison them with his presence. The little ones would sense such horrid darkness in him, he knew—especially that shrewd Calpurnia—and he wished for them to carry only happy memories of him back into the world above, even if such memories could only be recalled as fading dreams. What a fool he had been…daring to imagine that he might call them his. Doubtless he would have made a terrible father. He was already a terrible king, for God's sake. A terrible king…and a terrible fool.

"Focus, Jareth," he hissed to himself, finding that he was nearly blinded by the sorrow brought on by the thought of the children. "Forget them, idiot boy." But he could not…and he knew that he never would. He was doomed to walk through whatever remained of his life with their little faces burned into his memory, along with Sarah's, along with Jarethkin's…along with Lara's. Ah, if only reality could simply cease. He could not avoid it forever, he knew…but for now, he wished at least to dull its treacherous edges.

Jareth observed dully as his magical opponent offered a salute before forming up in a graceful en guard. When the illusion's blade struck for Jareth's chest, his own weapon was ready (if only barely), and the duel recommenced. The sounds of his exertions echoed ominously around him as he worked to hone his long neglected swordsmanship skills. God knew he needed the practice…though perhaps the thing he needed even more now was rest. This weariness he was experiencing was a dangerous one, he knew…one that muffled reason whilst intensifying pain. It was the kind of manic exhaustion that would not allow him to rest, similar to that he had known all those years ago after he had conjured miracle after miracle for his Sarah. He seemed to have managed better then. But now…now he felt as if he were about to rattle to pieces. He felt as if there was an anguished howl building up inside him, one that manifested as a dull, straining ache somewhere deep in his chest. If he allowed it to intensify…if he allowed the cry to escape him…he feared he might shatter completely. And so, he sparred on.

The room within which Jareth had chosen to sequester himself was one of his father's design and entirely unique unto him, though Bartimeo had once (in something of a passionate fury at the discovery) informed the king that his father's creation had since been very closely replicated by some 20th century Aboveground artist. Jareth had seen the images (Escher, the man was called) but found himself unimpressed. Escher's designs, though doubtlessly inventive for an Abovegrounder, could hardly hold a candle to the previous king's splendid work. No, by Jareth's estimation, the Room of Stairs and Impossibilities (his father had been notorious for granting long-winded names to such places) was far superior to anything that this Escher could have dreamed up. The Room was a marvel of architecture, a wonderful paradox of shifting perspectives and dizzying altitudes. Jareth could not stop himself from looking back with a broken-hearted fondness upon the memory of his brilliant father taking his toddling son by the hand and guiding him patiently across the many ups and downs and gravitational impossibilities, teaching his timid feet to defy reality. As the years passed and Jareth's abilities had grown, so too had his father's confidence in him, eventually leading the two of them to spending many a happy afternoon at swordplay in this very room. Had the old king known then what kind of man Jareth would become? What would he think if he could see the state of his son now?

As he practiced, as he danced his way along the many staircases and platforms and upside-downs and arches, the king always did his best to keep his back to the center of the room. Therein, he had enchanted one of his scrying crystals to suspend itself in thin air, its magical eye trained on Lara Tyler and her growing band of renegades. Further torment rested in the risk of glimpsing the face of his enigmatic young foe…but Jareth assured himself that it would be remarkably unwise to allow her to pass her short remaining hours unsupervised. The girl had a nasty habit of presenting strange complications at every turn, even now having gone so far as to inherit her predecessor's small army of misfits to her aid. Jareth couldn't help but wonder if the Labyrinth hadn't had something to do with that as well.

"Why, uh…why was you talkin' that way before? About Sarah, I mean. It almost sounded like…like you know her or somethin'." Hedgewart the soon-to-be-permanently-unemployed Gatekeeper's gravel-rough voice shuffled its way out of the crystal's depths to grate on the Goblin King's waiting ears, causing the poor sovereign to grimace. They were chatting again. Did they never stop chatting? Jareth's eyes narrowed as he punctuated the dwarf's gruff tones with the whip and whistle of his blade. Given the choice, that was not the voice he preferred to hear….

"Well…I don't know her, exactly…."

There. Those were the timbres to soothe a tortured soul, though he found to his disappointment that they only served to fuel the growing ache in him.

Focus, Jareth. Parry, riposte, square up, en guard, pret, and…allez!

"I just…" The girl trailed off, and the king could too easily imagine those stormy eyes growing distant in obedience to beckoning memory. Loathe as he told himself he was to spare her even a shred of attention, he listened. "I know of her, you might say. I'm familiar with her work. She became an actress, you know, and a storyteller and—"

And a wife and a mother…. Jareth's next lunge was clumsy, causing him to curse aloud and form up again.

"Oh, I know all about that," the dwarf said, a smile in his voice. "She was always askin' us to tell 'er stories and sing 'er songs. She used ta write 'em all down and memorize 'em and then she'd act 'em out for us. I used ta love it…when she'd act 'em out for us…."

"So…you've been able to keep contact with her? Even after she completed the Challenge?" The girl's voice had gone soft with wonder…and, Jareth thought, with traces of forbidden hope. Of course…selfish little Lara wanted to have her cake and eat it too. He wanted to swoop down upon her, to seize her by the shoulders and shout in her face until she realized that the only way to her heart's desire was through him, that keeping this world meant keeping him as well. If only that were true….

"Course," the dwarf said. "It's a big part o' tha Champion's Grace."

"Grásta an Chraobh," Bartimeo II said, the Fae Gaelic rolling elegantly from his reptilian tongue. "That's the Faery term for it."

"Grásta an Chraobh?" the girl repeated clumsily. "What is that, exactly?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" the king mused bitterly, re-executing a particularly difficult maneuver inspired by Capo Ferro.

"It's part o' tha reward granted ta successful Champions. Technically, we isn't s'posed ta talk about it, though," Hogbrain grunted. "Not until ya win, anyway."

Jareth could sense that the girl wanted to pursue the topic, but clever Bartimeo, anticipating her protestations, headed her off. "Rules are rules, Thursday's Child. Have patience. When you win, you will understand."

When she wins…. Those words were cold and dreadful, and hearing the girl's new name on the dragon's tongue made the king wince. Snatches of echoing memory threatened once again to drift through his mind like poisonous vapors, but he banished them all with a slash of his blade.

Lara, choosing tact over impulse for once, consented to a change of subject. "You helped Sarah with the material for her books…didn't you, Hoggle?"

"You could say that. We all did."

"Ludo miss Sarah," the great forest troll rumbled sadly.

"Has it been so long since you've seen her?"

"None o' us have heard from her in a while…" the dwarf mumbled. "S'been a few years now."

Just how many times had Sarah's wishing called open the connection to his world over the years? Wishing always for her ragtag friends…but never for him. And he himself—having been so blatantly declared powerless over her—could never approach her, never make contact save by her explicit invitation….and such an invitation had never been made. Jareth remembered how he had once considered intervening with her joyful little reunions with his subjects, how he had imagined sending swarm or gale or goblin hoard to rain his fury over her happiness, but then…even he couldn't muster the coldness of heart for such actions. For all the pain Sarah Williams had caused him, he could never bring himself to hurt her in return. Had he always been so weak?

Lara continued her ignorant babbling. "Well, that's no good! She's alive and well, surely you could—"

"Thursday's Child…." Bartimeo's voice was gentle, yet firm. Not quite a reprimand, but a warning nonetheless, his tones suggesting that she was missing something important. As per usual….

"S'not that simple," Higgle said. "Besides...we, uh…we won't be seein' 'er again anyway."

"Why not?!"

"Cuz'…cuz' of you."

The girl was horrified. Jareth could sense it as clearly as if the feeling were his own and he wanted so to relish it, but there went that heart of his again…wishing to put her at ease. The thought of her pain tasted like ashes on his tongue.

"Because of me?" Lara blurted. "How—"

"Not Lara fault," Ludo interrupted firmly, surprising the king with his depth of understanding.

Gallant Sir Didymus, apparently having finally taken notice of the dark shift in his companions' conversation, made his own voice known. "What seems to be the matter?"

"Never said I blamed 'er!" Hogwart protested, ignoring his friend's question in favor of trying to save face, the coward.

"Dear God, what have I done?" the girl whispered, the frailty in her beautiful voice finally shattering Jareth's resolve. With an exasperated snarl he banished his ethereal fencing partner and thrust out his left hand, opening his fingers and willing the crystal to him. The orb wizzed obediently to his waiting palm, taking on such great speed that it stung him through the leather of his glove as he caught it. Chest rising and falling heavily from his abandoned exercise, the king stared at the image of his tormentor. She looked almost as exhausted as he felt, her face drawn and paler than usual with unfriendly shadows forming beneath haunted grey eyes. The sorrow in their depths was like a blade of ice between his ribs. You've done this to her, Jareth. You're draining the life out of her.

"Lara…" Bartimeo said. "As the new Champion and Sarah's successor...all her titles and honors will pass to you. Once you complete the Challenge, she will no longer have access to the Underground…nor the Underground to her."

"But, that's not fair!"

A bitter smile pulled at the corner of Hodge-podge's mouth. "She used to say that a lot…"

"I don't want Sarah to lose her gifts."

The king almost laughed aloud. "Why ever not, fool girl? What is it to you whose live's you ruin?"

"Will she keep them if I lose?"

Was she mad? Could she possibly be fool enough to consider forfeiting her own victory for the sake of a woman she had never even met?

"You cannot lose!" Sir Didymus barked with a sharpness. "T'is folly even to consider such a thing! You must persevere for the sake of thy niece and nephew and that is all there is to it!"

"Gotta win," Ludo agreed.

"I know that…. Of course I know that. I'm...I'm just so sorry, all of you. The last thing I want to do is rob you of your friend."

"My lady, please," Sir Didymus said, drawing his peculiar steed up beside the girl and reaching out to lay his tiny paw on her arm. "I cannot bear to see thee abuse thyself so. Pain is oft the price of love, you know. And we three knew that we could not keep our Sarah forever."

Lara's gaze was soft as she regarded Sir Didymus, and Jareth could see that she was moved almost to tears by the wisdom in the little creature's words. What he wouldn't give for those eyes to look upon him in such a way….

"He's right, Missy," Hoggle said. "It was bound ta happen someday. Besides, Sarah kinda gave up on us anyway."

"Thy words needn't be so harsh towards our old friend, brother," Sir Didymus admonished gently. "Sarah is safe and well, and most importantly: she is happy. I, for one, am more than content with her happiness alone…even if it means that she has forgotten all about us."

A profound silence settled over the little group then, the faces of each of them reflecting somber expressions of veneration over the diminutive knight's display of chivalry. Jareth did not even try to quell his own admiration for such strength of character. That. That was how a man should be. Honorable, selfless…and good. He felt his heart fill with shame as he considered himself and his own actions in comparison, and for a moment the feeling almost overwhelmed him. So, then. Here am I. Jareth the First. Or am I Jareth the Fool? King of Goblins, Master of Wishes, son of Erik the Dreamer…yet I am not half so good a man as that ridiculous creature.

"Truly, Sir Didymus," the girl said at last, her voice all velvet warmth and solemnity. "I do believe that you are the noblest creature I have ever met."

"I—oh. You—you flatter me, my lady, I…." The little fellow cleared his throat, obviously flustered by the girl's adulations. "I say, we mustn't all stand around gawking like addlepated poppinjays! Onward! We have but to clear the next rise and our destination will be in sight!"

Jareth had seen enough, heard enough. With a curt wave of his hand, he banished the crystal to oblivion. Banished the faces, the voices, the shame. The silence that expanded slowly through the great chamber pressed itself against his skin, threatening to smother him with its stillness. Perhaps he should have let it. Only God knew what awaited him after all this was over…. And victory or no victory, Jareth could not shift the dreadful knowledge that his own demise loomed closer now than ever.

"O full of scorpions is my mind…" he quoted painfully, pacing backwards until his back pressed against the chamber wall. After a moment, he allowed himself to sink slowly to the floor like one already defeated, stretching his long legs out in front of him and tipping his head back to rest against the roughness of the wall.

I am too tired for this…, he thought, closing his weary eyes. Too old. And she is too young. Too young for me…too young for her name.

Thursday's Child. Oh, curse that name. Curse that name and curse the day he had first heard it uttered. If she truly was the Thursday's Child, then everything was indeed changing and he was quite possibly in more danger than he had been in centuries. Remarkable, he mused wearily, how only a few hours could upset the scales so…and she the unlikely catalyst of it all. Lara Tyler. Thursday's Child. His very own angel of death.

Why are you brooding so, my son?

My son. It was the first time the Labyrinth had called him that, and it woke yet a deeper sadness in him that he wanted no part of. "Haven't I a right to do so?"

You have the right, but lack the reason.

Jareth, angry now and feeling reckless, opened his eyes and accosted the Labyrinth. His voice, though laced with fire, betrayed his flagging strength. "Oh, I have plenty of reason. Need I spell it out for you?"

Speak, dear one, if it will help to ease the pain.

The tears that prickled like a threat behind his eyes made him angrier still. So many words from her today…. And must she always be so infuriatingly patient? "To begin with, Lady, I am betrayed. Long have I considered you my closest ally, yet now I find that you have conspired against me. And with my enemy, no less."

The Thursday's Child is not your enemy.

No, but she is grace and she is life and she will be my ruin. "Perhaps you have forgotten? She was mentioned in the White Hart's prophecy. It was in the only stanza which addressed my…my death. Shall I recite it for you?"

The silence that was her response was laced with sorrow, but Jareth spoke the words anyway, his tremulous voice echoing his fate all throughout his father's masterpiece.

"The day shall come, for time must pass

When thou art doomed to breathe thy last

And all thy life be reconciled

Upon thy knees for Thursday's Child."

He let the words hang bitterly on the air for a moment, the taste of them leaving him feeling chilled and hollow. "You see?" he whispered. "She will be present for my final judgement. Perhaps she has even been sent to pass it herself."

Sent by whom?

"Who knows? Heaven or hell, what does it matter? The White Hart was incapable of lying, you know that. His words have haunted me all my life, though they never made sense to me before today."

Perhaps you mistake the whisper of change for the instrument of destruction.

"She means the end of me, Lady. Whether it comes about by her hand is neither here nor there."

Prophecies are rarely understood before they come to pass.

There was truth in her words, of course. Had it not been proven time and again throughout history? He was reacting prematurely and with a significant lack of evidence, he knew that. He knew…. And yet, as Jareth lingered gloomily in the silence of the Labyrinth's wake, he felt his heart sinking like a stone through frigid water, leaving him certain of only one thing. He was a dead man. One way or another, he was a dead man. He used to believe that he did not fear death. Indeed there had been a day or two during the great silence before Lara Tyler that he had almost wished for it…almost. What had happened to change his mind? Why now did he cower in the face of a thing that had never even given him pause before? And then he realized that perhaps the truth of it was not that he feared death so much as…loved life. He had loved it dearly all along, despite the pain it caused him. Why must he only be made aware of the fact now that he was doomed to lose everything? Why must the one to remind him of life's beauty also be the one determined to snatch it away? How could Fate tantalize him with so many glimmers of hope, only to dash them to pieces before his eyes?

So many questions... But, what does it matter, Jareth? There is no victory in this for you. She will either condemn you…or she will leave you. Simple as that.

The mere thought raised a pain in his chest that was so sharp it nearly made him cry out. Suffer it, fool, he snarled to himself, closing his eyes against the anguish whilst he waited for it to subside…closing his eyes against that rising threat of angry tears. You just suffer it. The worst is yet to come. If this was the kind of pain that awaited him in the yawning silence of a future without Lara Tyler, he knew he would never overcome it. He no longer possessed the strength to endure in a crumbling world full of waxing darkness and dying magic and empty years of waiting. If the anguished decades of solitude spent in the wake of Sarah Williams' success had nearly killed him, he now feared that his straining heart could take no more. Besides...for all he knew, death could already be in his body, silent and undetected up to now. Perhaps those cold hands that Jareth could feel pressing so cruelly against his lungs belonged to the Reaper himself...

Are you really going to give up so easily?

Oh no...not again. Not her. Jareth opened his eyes and found to his chagrin that his conscience had indeed been hijacked once more, and the grinning image of the young Champion had been cast up from the depths of his imagination to torment him. She looked healthier than her physical counterpart, his mind's eye having restored the color to her cheeks and lifted the weariness from her shoulders. The phantom leaned against the wall beside him, grey eyes sparkling down with a playful innocence.

Won't you at least give me a proper challenge? I think I've earned as much.

He wanted to tell her that she had earned the world itself, but as it was he could only gaze at her, finding himself once again without words.

The girl simply clicked her tongue and shook her head sympathetically. Poor Jareth... If your father could see you now... She crossed her spectral arms and studied him thoughtfully. Are you moping because you're going to die?

Her words stung him a little more than he would have liked.

You can't run from prophecy, you know. Sooner or later, it must come to pass. The phantom moved to stand at his feet then. Is this how you imagine it? she asked, pointing a condemning finger toward his chest and rising to her full height as her visage shifted before his mind's eye. In place of a simple girl there now stood a vengeful goddess with eyes like violent stars and expression cold and unwavering. Jareth almost trembled. He felt his heart leap and crash within his chest as she glared her luminous scrutiny down upon him and he could not free himself from the knowledge that the flesh and blood version of this terrible angel might soon stand over him in just such a way (perhaps that very day), passing judgement for his sins whilst he breathed his last on his knees before her, cowering like a dog under the silver fire of those unforgiving eyes. But...beneath the terror, he felt a strange thrill at the idea of her holding so much power over him. And perhaps...if he truly must kneel in the end...kneeling for such a one as her mightn't be so dreadful a thing after all.

Tell me now, Jareth, the apparition said calmly, returning to her original form and offering a brilliant smile as she lowered her hand. Do you really mean to linger here and wait for death to claim you? Or do you have the courage to come and find me for yourself?

The imaginary girl vanished then, leaving him alone to consider his future. She was right...of course she was right. What good was there in fighting the inevitable? No one could live forever. Better to meet death face to face than hide away in his castle like some sort of coward. And…if his death could be one of his choosing, let it be with her. Let her judge him. Let her slay him, even, he did not care…just let him be near her when it happened.

Laboriously, he got to his feet, almost laughing aloud at his own frailty. How swiftly he was turning into a feeble old man! That was Lara's fault too, but he resolved to give up on blaming her for everything. Smiling bitterly, he tried to work the stiffness from his limbs. The cold of the flagstones beneath him seemed to have worked its way into his very bones, inspiring him to summon a slightly heavier cloak than he had previously been wearing. This chill was a deep and unseasonable one…and he could not help but wonder if perhaps his own body wasn't beginning to believe the deathly whispers that had been running almost nonstop through his head. Nevermind, Jareth. Time to seek out your angel of death.

He sensed the Labyrinth's concern over his change in demeanor as he prepared himself to leave, but when she pressed nonverbal questions into his head, he merely raised a weary hand. "Don't...don't worry. I only want to be near her."

It was the truth and the Labyrinth believed him.

It took a bit more effort than it should have to muster enough magic to transport him all the way to the Field of Forgotten Dreams, and he very nearly staggered upon his arrival as a wave of dizziness threatened to rob him of his balance. He caught himself and stood very still, waiting for the spell to pass and wondering sardonically if he mightn't accidentally kill himself through over-exertion before ever Lara had the chance to condemn him herself. Talk about pathetic... Inhaling deeply, the king straightened up and took in his surroundings, the bleakness of them influencing him to draw his cloak more securely around his shoulders. How well this wasteland matched his state of being. This was a place of hopelessness, of loss, of sorrow...just the place for a creature as wretched as he. How charming, Jareth. The perfect location for a sweet little tête-à-tête with your executioner, eh? He almost wished that Lara needn't pass this way...that she could be spared the hideous sight of it all. Such carnage was an embarrassing reflection of the disrepair in his kingdom...yet another way in which he had failed his poor father.

Jareth wandered the junkyard for a time, listening for the girl's arrival and wondering how best to approach her again. He wanted to be able to convince her that he was unchanged, to challenge his fate fearlessly and with all the strength worthy of a king. But it was no good. He was not the man he used to be, and in his current state, he didn't know how he would bear up in the face of even the slightest fire... Despair whispered at the edges of his thoughts yet again as he drifted aimlessly through the shadows like a somnambulist lost in a dream. Seeking any means possible through which to exorcise such dark feelings, the king held out his hands with palms upturned and raised them slowly, calling up the very mists from the earth and willing them to take his sorrows from him…willing them to do with them what they pleased.

Author's Note: I have returned! I know...I know...I've got a terrible habit of turning up like a bad penny every year or so…a bad penny, but hopefully not an unwelcome one.

Anyway, this chapter was a bit cold and melancholy…. Jareth certainly is struggling, isn't he? Poor boy. Perhaps he's forgotten that his is a world in which nothing is what it seems, eh? Let me know what you guys think ;)

I would like to take a moment to personally thank my recent reviewer Guest for such glowing words. You made me smile so much, I'm not sure if I can properly articulate how much I appreciate your praise. You've reminded me of what a joy it is to share my work, and knowing that even one person enjoys what I've done makes every effort worthwhile. So, thank you! From the bottom of my heart :)

I love you all, my Readers. I mean that.

Blessings,

FireDancer