Chapter One
Sarah Williams tripped over the edge of the rug, cursing under her breath, all the while ensuring that her wine did not slop over and stain the antique Persian.
Not that Karen would mind now…
The thought was muddled in the dark. What once would have brought sharp pain instead was a dull ache.
Sarah held her glass, still nearly to the brim, aloft as she wove through the scattered chairs and mentally cataloged all there was left to do.
Funerals were expensive. Wasteful. And the guests? Never helped clean up, just left more food than three refrigerators could contain behind in their wake. At least they'd brought alcohol, too. Good Irish-Catholic folks, Karen's family. So were her fathers.
Her mother's Sicilian lineage gave Sarah her dark hair and piercing eyes. Everyone said so.
Sarah smirked. Her mother's demise had once been the worst pain she could imagine.
No.
Strike that.
She stopped right where she was, halfway up the stairs to her old bedroom, and downed half the glass of wine.
Wavering a little, gasping, Sarah grasped the handrail and pulled herself the rest of the way up to the landing.
Floral wallpaper. Cream carpets.
She intentionally dribbled some of the red wine onto the immaculate fibers. "Take that," she whispered.
She'd probably clean it up in the morning when she was sober enough to regret her actions.
Sarah had always had an impulsive streak, after all. Everyone said so, though none knew how close it had come to wrecking her and Toby's life thirteen years ago.
Again, not that it mattered.
"Everyone is dead, and I'm alone," she sang to the tune of White Christmas.
Karen had been the final holdout, but cancer had ravaged her and left her a skeletal thing that they decided to close the casket on. It was gone now, thank the gods, though it had sat in the living room for two days while well-wishers and viewers came to stare at—what? A glossy white box.
Sarah pulled her lips back from her teeth again. It was an expression Karen had hated. You look like a feral animal.
But that's what she felt like sometimes when these thoughts dogged her, and she could not seem to climb out of the darkness. A wounded animal.
Her door stuck a little, but she kept from sloshing her drink, pushing into the room, and was immediately hit with a blast of cold.
"Fuck," she swore, making her way to the window left partway open despite the swirling snow outside. Christmas Eve. A white Christmas, indeed, and—"A perfect day for a funeral," she grumbled.
The only ones to complain (who she had heard, anyway) had been the gravediggers, and most likely because she stayed at the gravesite far beyond what was customary. She watched them pile on the clods of frozen mud and dirt, the sound of it hitting the coffin like a ka-thunk, ka-thunk of some great ticking clock, the men's muscles corded under their long-sleeved flannels and breath frosting in the cold air. They had muttered about it being cold as balls and about being forced to do this all by hand instead of by machine as had become custom. But Karen had thought that was tacky after Robert's funeral and had forbidden it at any future Williams event.
Sarah struggled with the window one-handed, swearing as her fingertips grew numb. The wood groaned, then finally gave, slamming shut with a rattle that made her back away, fearful of shattered glass.
In the aftermath, the room was very cold, still, and quiet.
Sarah blew out a breath that plumed like smoke before her.
And then she heard a melody, a tinkling chiming song that meant for little girls who dreamed of being princesses.
And teenagers who dreamed of fantastical kings.
Sarah's head turned horror-movie slow to where the folded slats of her closet doors were partway ajar, the music coming from within.
And of all the things that she could think of, of all the horrors of the last thirteen years, she knew that this could be even worse, and yet—
Yet, she found her feet moving toward the space, skirting the cast-off hobbies of ten years of Karen having Sarah's room to do with as she would. Sewing machines, cross-stitch patterns, knitting needles, yarn, bolts of fabric, glue, glitter, and dozens of other collections were strewn across the spaces that Sarah hadn't gotten to yet. But she had been back here, back home, for nearly six months, and still, only the space around the bed could truly be called hers. The only spot she had carved out before the tedium and stress of caring for Karen in her last days dragged her down.
Now, the entire house was hers. Karen had inherited everything but then had no one but Sarah to pass it to, not and look like the Good Catholic she intended to be. Oh, she squirreled away a ton in "gifts" to her extended family, not to mention multiple funeral expenses and high medical bills. The cash on hand was less than the near seven figures it had been at the start of Sarah's bad luck, but it was still plenty. And then there was the house.
She intended to sell it, pocket the cash, and get the hell out of New England. The place held too many memories. Memories and dreams. And what use did she have for four bedrooms that she couldn't fill?
The music went on all during Sarah's musings. She placed her hand on the edge of the accordion door and hesitated, downing the rest of her wine before pushing it open.
A music box caught her eye immediately, enameled in pink and gilt edges still sparkling merrily in the dim light from the hallway. The ballgown figurine in the center turned in a slow, jerking twirl as the music played on.
Sarah relaxed as the song started winding down, the notes falling further apart. Something must have knocked into it. The wind from the open window, perhaps.
She bent down and picked it up, the heavy metal that would be difficult to find in today's market, perhaps in an antique store. Sarah frowned at the music box, setting her empty wine glass on a closed cardboard box labeled 'fringe' before twirling the enameled thing in her hand. Where had she gotten it? She could not recall.
"I wish I knew more," she breathed, hiccuping.
The music box let out a final chime and then went utterly still.
Wind blew from nowhere, and the hairs on the back of Sarah's neck stood on end.
Impulsive streak. She knew she had it. And now, after thirteen years of avoiding those two particular words, she had let them slip so casually.
She was sure she would see him when she turned, just as he had been before, just as imposing and shrouded in magic.
But when she turned around, there was nothing but an empty room and the glow from the hall. Nothing around but silence and the memories of all those who had lived in these rooms before.
Sarah tried not to be disappointed. Tried not to let this turn the wine sour in her stomach, but she would be a liar to herself if she did not admit that she was. Disappointed and tired. So tired.
She covered her face with her hands and then over her hair, balling it into her fists and pulling hard enough she gasped with the pain.
"Now, now," a familiar voice purred near the window. "None of that, precious thing."
Sarah whipped around, but there was no one there.
Heart pounding, breath coming faster, Sarah started to turn in a slow circle. "Where are you?"
Laughter, echoing like this was some cavernous ballroom, not her childhood bedroom stuffed with clutter. She bumped into a stack of boxes and sent them crashing into the space around her bed. Something touched her elbow, and she spun as chittering laughter ricocheted around the space.
Goblins, she thought drunkenly. Fuck, it's really him.
There was still no king in sight, though it was undeniably his touch, his laughter, that she heard. That voice that she would never forget.
Sarah tried for the door, but it slammed shut, plunging the room into utter darkness save for the weak starlight glittering off the blanketing snow through the window. That was faint enough. Spending a few moments on the door handle, she wanted to weep with frustration. It simply would not turn!
"Sarah," breathed a voice so close he must be right behind—
This time, when she turned, it was him, The Goblin King, with that smile that he had for her in the tunnels beneath the Labyrinth.
They were more of a height now, but he still had a few inches on her. Just enough to make her look up to meet that mismatched gaze. Those eyes glittered in the dimness, but they were just as vibrant as she remembered, the smile and features just as cutting, his hair something she wanted to touch so much she balled her hands into fists.
"What do you want?" she blurted, aware of her breath, probably reeking of wine and some of the garlic hummus she'd slammed back in a spare moment. Also aware that she wore funeral black but that her hair was a mess from her pulling on it for hours.
But the way he looked at her? His gaze raked over her, and what she saw there before he began taking in the dark attire was hunger, pure and simple. But then that little smile started to tilt down at the edges. "Why are you dressed for mourning?"
"Because I buried my stepmother today," she said, speaking just as suddenly as before. It was not at all like her. So much so that she was sure there was magic at play.
Some creature giggled between the stack of boxes, and The Goblin King cast a withering glare behind him, making the room fall utterly silent once more. "You get used to it, and them," he said to her when he'd turned back, then sighed and offered his arm. "Very well. Come along."
Sarah blinked. "Wha—"
"You spoke a wish for the first time in thirteen years. I could not have heard them before those thirteen years were up, did you know?" He sounded pleased with this fact, a glimmer in his eyes telling her he knew she had not spoken them before. "You are The Labyrinth's champion, and it extends to you certain protections." He breathed deep, leaning far too into her personal space, forcing her to back up against the wooden door. "Incredible. Despite your poor choice of alcohol—"
"Hey," she interrupted. "We broke out the good stuff for Karen."
He snorted. "If you say so. Well. Despite that aroma of red wine, you smell…" he smiled again, exposing sharp teeth. "It does not matter. Come. Your place is no longer here."
A chorus of chatter and laughter. The thunder of her pulse in her ears and the ache of her ribs as she began to breathe sharper made her head swim even more. "You weren't even supposed to be real," she whispered, holding a hand up to ward him off.
He captured it instead, tucking it into his elbow and patting it gently as though she were a recalcitrant child recently restrained. She tugged, swearing, but there was no breaking his hold. "I am very real," he said, his words making her still.
It was atrocious. Something deep within her wanted to hear every word and watch them pass his lips. She hated it.
"As is our betrothal," he continued as though remarking upon the weather or the color of the wallpaper. "Which has been too long unsealed. We will correct that this night."
Her stomach bottomed out. "What?" she asked again.
In response, he pulled her forward, but instead of a maze of boxes, it was a maze of a different sort that she next stepped foot, a boundless black sky above her speckled with a billion strange stars. Her view was only marred by the tops of the massive gray walls of the Labyrinth, sparkling in the starlight, their echo of the night sky.
"No—no!" Sarah yelled, trying to wrench out of The Goblin King's grasp. "I can't!"
"You can, and you will. Nothing remains for you there." He spoke so matter-of-fact that the strength seemed to sap from her.
So he knew.
"Of course I know," he whispered, pulling her close with an arm around her waist, drawing her slightly before him as he steered her along the path. "I have kept my distance, but you were never alone."
She shivered.
They were close enough that she brushed against him, felt his body heat, and could smell—something. Incense. Something familiar.
Sarah was so distracted that she barely realized they stopped before a massive fire until the heat before her seared more than what she felt from Jareth. She glanced around, startled to see an assembled group of probably more than five hundred—beings. They were, by and large, human in size and shape, but some were giants towering like mountains at the back of the ring. Many wore masks. Some of them were intensely familiar.
"The ballroom…" she said, lips numb. "That dress."
Lips near her ear and a voice only for her, so soft and warm that it raised gooseflesh along her neck and down her arms. "You wore a wedding dress and danced with a king. Did you think that meant nothing?"
"I was fifteen!" she hissed, attempting to wrench from him again, but his hold was fast. "I don't want this!"
"Accept the binding, Sarah. You have nothing else. But all you wished for could be yours and more besides." The arm around her waist tightened, and his voice lowered again. "Give me some of your time. Please."
The 'please' stopped the objections bubbling in her throat, and then there was someone speaking, standing so close to the fire that she feared for them and had trouble making out their features.
"We are here to observe the binding of King Jareth of the Goblins with that of the mortal Champion of the Labyrinth, Sarah Williams."
She recognized that voice and was stunned when her old friend stepped forward so that she could finally make him out. "Hoggle?" she whispered.
He looked at her sadly, then raised his voice once again. Scratchy but strong, he spoke to Jareth. "What groom gift do you bring in offering?"
Jareth held out the hand not splayed across Sarah's stomach, opening it palm-up to display a daintier version of the silver and gold pendant he wore around his neck. The luster of the metal caught in the firelight and seemed to glow even stronger, and she found herself wanting to reach for it. She licked her lips. The audience let out a collective sigh.
Hoggle nodded, then looked to Sarah. "And you? What bride gift do you bring in offering?"
"I—" she started to say she had nothing, but then The Goblin King's lips were at her ear. She repeated what he said, though she did not wholly understand why she listened to him at all. "I bring my mortality and fresh grief." She toed off her shoes, which still had grave dirt clinging to the soles, and pushed them forward with her stocking feet.
The crowd murmured loud now, and some leaned forward, licking their lips like this was some prized cut of meat she offered. What have I just done? She thought.
Hoggle gazed at her with a resignation that made her want to run, but Jareth still had a grip on her. "Your gifts are acceptable to the court," he said gruffly, then motioned them forward, pulling a silver cord from one of the many pockets on his clothes. It was silver like starlight and snow, glittering in a way that made Sarah brace for cold, but instead, the cord was soft as down and warm from the fire.
She barely realized it was around her wrist until the knot tightened down, snapping her hand against Jareth's so that their fingers entwined. This was not the gentle binding rituals she had seen among friends but something far older. She had hardly blinked, and it was around them, her left hand to his right.
"You are bound, one to another, from this night forth," Hoggle intoned, and moved out of their way. "Take your first steps together as fully betrothed."
Jareth stepped forward, pulling them both into the fire.
Notes:
Hi, folks.
Listen. I don't make the rules. I'm just the scribe.
Yes, there are several other WIPs that need finished and, yes, I'm facing some completion anxiety over them but, overall... this story wanted out.
I'm midway through chapter two. I'll be posting as I complete chapters.
xoxo,
~Crimson Sympathy