Thank you all for waiting and reading! This is the first time I genuinely don't have time to write. Even if I have the energy to write, this is just a super busy time. So happy holidays, and enjoy! Xx
~.*.~ ~.*.~ ~.*.~
Sarah choked back a dry sob. She tried to struggle against the king's grasp, but his strong arms held her in place. He pressed his face into her neck and inhaled deeply, as if he were cradling a lover. Sarah stopped fighting, her arms limp in his iron grip. Then, the king released her, thrusting her hands forward and stepping back abruptly, as if he hadn't meant to get so close.
"I'll give you some time to yourself," said Jareth. "Preparations need to be made."
"Preparations for what?" Sarah asked, throat dry and hands clammy. She froze, staring into the Labyrinth as a starless sky hovered overhead, afraid that facing the king meant facing the truth.
"For the wedding of course."
Sarah whipped around. A sly grin spread across the king's face. His eyes were narrowed and head tilted down, as if beckoning her to a challenge. The lump in Sarah's throat blocked all words of shock or protest. Jareth's hands, clenched into fists, opened as if in presentation, as if physically manifesting a signal that revealed Sarah's future, which he had spelled out in one terrifying sentence.
Sarah finally gasped in a shocked breath, but she still couldn't find the power to move. Jareth turned and strode towards the parlor. Sarah awoke from her paralysis.
"Wait!" she cried, unlocking her knees. She lunged toward the cloaked figure moving away from her. "Wait!" she cried again.
She sprung forward, trying to grasp at the king and his cloak, but her hands fell through empty air. Sarah looked at her hands, helplessly, and stared at the thin film of glitter left behind. She twirled around, looking for something, anything, looking for an escape. She half-ran, half-stumbled, into the parlor and made a beeline to the owl door. She yanked at its handle, but it wouldn't budge; she was locked in. Sarah spun around again and backed slowly away from the locked door, as if the lock itself were an enemy. A cold sweat broke on her forehead, the walls felt as if they were closing in; she was alone, and she was trapped.
Soft carpet appeared under her feet, each step backwards less sure than the one before. She turned around and threw herself onto one of the sofas as heavy sobs wracked through her body, shaking her shoulders and filling the chamber with her cries.
Her sobs subsided into rapid, constant sniffling.
"I wish I could go home."
~.*.~ ~.*.~ ~.*.~ ~.*.~ ~.*.~ ~.*.~
Sarah's eyes shot open. Darkness veiled her sight. Her breathing was heavy through the thick cushions pressed against her face.
"It was only a dream," she mumbled, eager to unbury her face from her bedroom pillows. It was her birthday, after all, and she looked forward to her complementary coffee and croissant from that pastry shop down in town.
Sarah sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes. What time was it?
Her heart shot up into her throat. Panic clouded her vision. The parlor-prison spread out before her like a pit of vipers, and Sarah froze, not wanting to step foot into the dangerous room. She was in the Castle at the Center of the Labyrinth, she was a prisoner in the Goblin Keep.
Kidnapped. She was kidnapped.
Sarah gulped. Mouth dry and palms damp, she rose on shaking knees. She needed to find a lavatory, and the crick in her side said she needed to find a proper bed.
A single door loomed before Sarah. She assumed it would be a lavatory and/or bedroom, yet she couldn't help but feel a sinking in her stomach as she dread what lie beyond. With a trembling hand she took the handle and and pulled the heavy door open.
A single bed with midnight draping stood like a dark sentinel. The room could've been described as elegant. Yet, the dark palette and cavernous space cast a stale, sterile air that hung like old gossamer curtains. On the opposite wall of the bed, a single wardrobe of ebony wood stood at attention, like a second sentinel guarding its post. The pair of furniture pieces seemed to keep watch, the only two things in the room. Sarah gulped.
She peered around once more, nearly missing the doorway to her right. It was set deep into the gray stone walls, and shadows fell upon its already black wood. The torches behind her provided little light, and she stepped warily into the bare bedroom. Upon her entrance, torches around the perimeter burst into flame. Sarah yelped and jumped backwards.
"Really getting tired of magic," she mumbled to herself. She stepped back in the room and headed for the door, noticing quickly that she was in need for an entirely different sort of room.
The room was indeed the one she needed, and Sarah relieved herself in the dim lavatory. Sarah sighed in relief as she tried the faucet and cool, clear water flowed into the crystal sink; she checked to make sure water also ran to the deep, crystal tub—being stuck in the underground was bad, but being stuck without running water would've been worse.
The wardrobe held a rainbow of gowns, voluptuous and sleek. Under different circumstances, perhaps Sarah's jaw would've dropped. Perhaps she would've gasped, drawn a hand to her breast in surprise. But, all she could muster was an "oh," before shutting the door; her grim circumstances dampened every feeling.
Sarah jumped; the door to the foyer was creaking open. She tucked her head round the corner of the bedroom door, praying Jareth had found the mercy to send her friends to her. Perhaps a goblin with breakfast? Or a gold-skinned attendant?
Sarah's heart jumped as a black-cloaked figure swept into the room. The Goblin King stood there like a tower, sturdy and imposing. Somehow, his use of the door robbed him of his mystery; he usually appeared in a cloud of glitter, at the least. He stared at her, expectantly. While his forest green, velvet vest shimmered in the light, the black peasant's shirt, leggings, and boots against his onyx cape made him appear like a void. Sarah took tentative steps into the living room. He stared.
"Well, what do you want?!" Sarah snarled, his gaze burning into her.
"I was just enjoying the view."
Sarah looked down at herself. Her athleisure suddenly felt exposing. The king's eyes travelled down her legs to where her leggings stopped mid-calf. His eyes wandered up to her collarbones, protruding gracefully below her elegant neck, and across her shoulders, bare underneath the thin straps of her sturdy sports bra and flimsy camisole. Sarah shifted uncomfortably.
"I simply wanted to tell you that your handmaidens and lord and ladies-in-waiting will be up shortly. Today, you'll spend the day with them; I'm sure you need some time to get…aquatinted with, our castle. Tomorrow, you may join me in my throneroom. It's best you jump right into your upcoming role here."
"And what role is that?" asked Sarah, rolling her eyes.
"Your role as queen, of course." Jareth walked towards her. "Naturally there are certain things that will have to wait until after the wedding coronation…" He snaked his hand forward to stroke her hair. Sarah flinched and shuddered. "But, I don't see why you can't join in court life." Jareth reached for her hand, but Sarah yanked it away from him. He grabbed at it again, this time securing it. Sarah tried to pull away, but he backed her against the wall and restrained her hand in both of his.
"Sssh sssh ssssssh…" he hushed her. Sarah whimpered, but stopped fighting it; he was stronger. With one fist he held her hand tightly, with the other he stroked the top of her hand, tracing one finger delicately across her smooth skin.
"So lovely. So dainty. So, so lovely…" his voice trailed off as he lifted her hand to his lips. Sarah nearly gagged as his mouth made contact with her skin, but she did not avert her eyes. He pulled away, his lips hovering just above her hand, and pressed his lips down upon her hand once more. His kiss was more passionate this time. His lips travelled across each of her knuckles, and he moaned ever so slightly. Sarah turned her face from him.
"I don't need any ladies-in-waiting. And no decent person would attend to a hostage."
"I never said they'd be decent persons," he said low and menacing. "Adults aren't protected from the Faery Hunt, love. It's nothing new here. It's tradition." Sarah's racing heart sunk. "I bid you adieu. Perhaps we shall see each other at lunch," he said, flipping her hand over and placing one more kiss gently upon the underside of her wrist. Despite how completely unwanted the embrace, Sarah couldn't help but feel a flush wash over her as the tender flesh of his lips met the sensitive side of her wrist. The king turned and walked away.
"Wait!" Sarah cried, jumping forward. She grabbed onto his right arm, gripping it like a lifeline. "Jareth, wait, I don't want to be queen. Please, let me go. Please."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, love." Jareth turned to her and stroked her upper arms like a friend, like a lover, but Sarah felt only cold. No comfort would come from those cruel hands.
She shook him off. "Please," she plead once more.
"I'll see you later, pet." And with that, he swept out of the room.
Sarah's moment of shock passed, and she realized with a sinking heart the door had been open. She yanked at the now closed door and beat her fists upon it. She screamed and cursed.
"I will be free!" she finally shouted, backing away. The room was turning, her vision was spiraling. "I'm gonna be sick…"
She sprinted for the balcony and gulped in deep breaths of fresh air. She was experiencing her capture all over again. This couldn't be happening. The Labyrinth stretched out before her silently, while the fountain bubbled persistently from behind her.
The stillness was somehow comforting and ominous, as if all her emotions were tossing around in her like a roiling sea, none of them solidifying. The truth was too hard to accept, too hard to face.
She found herself sitting on the sofa, her mind trying to reconcile its situation.
"Oh, come now," she said to herself. "You found a way out of this last time, you'll find a way out of it this time. It sounds like you have plenty of time before the…" she gulped, "…wedding. Hey, more than thirteen hours, should be a cinch. I've got to get in contact with my friends."
A tiny clinking announced the turning of the owl-door's handle. Sarah gripped the pillow next to her, ready for whatever came next.
A whirlwind of colorful beings swept into the room like a hurricane. Their voices overlapped in an unending blanket of commands.
"Most certainly purple today."
"No rather pink."
"Where's the diamonds?"
"Purple indeed! And an updo."
"Certainly not."
"Or rubies?"
"We must first wash her face."
"Yes you're right. Leave her hair down.""
Before Sarah knew it, she was surrounded.
"Wait!" Sarah cried. "Maybe first some introductions before…before whatever is about to happen."
The crowd leered over her, each holding an item of clothing or jewelry like a drawn weapon.
"I'm Natalia," said the blonde lady-Fae to her left holding a brush.
"I'm Sephira," said the other lady Fae, her hazel eyes sharp and attentive. Her fingers held a dark purple dress with an almost white-knuckled grip.
"And I'm Pyotr. We are your ladies and lord in waiting. These are Kinsleigh and Dabella, your handmaidens."
The two, simpler dressed Fae to Sarah's right nodded their heads in gentle bows. Pyotr had silver hair pulled back in a curated ponytail so fine, Sarah wondered if it was a wig. The diamond necklace he held swung back and forth in his outstretched hand.
"Perhaps a little…" he looked her up and down with judgmental eyes. "…freshening up is first in order. Alas, we don't have time to wash your hair. See to it you powder her roots," he ordered Kinsleigh and Dabella. They handmaidens nodded again. In an instant, their hands were on her and ushering her into the bathroom. Mercifully, they shut the door behind them.
"Please," pled Sarah, holding her hands up defensively. "Tell me what's happening." The maids looked at each other and then back at Sarah.
"We're to wash you, and then we'll dress you however they tell us to," motioned (probably) Dabella towards the door.
"I can really, really take care of myself," Sarah said, slowly backing away.
"Please," said the other, most likely Kinsleigh, "let us help you." The Fae was now holding her hands out in a sign of safety, as if Sarah were a frightened kitten backed into a corner. Kinsleigh's eyes were wide with honesty, and her voice sang a melody of genuine care. Still, Sarah wasn't completely convinced—but what choice did she have?
They washed and moisturized her face, her hands, her feet. They brushed her teeth and glossed her lips. They combed and powdered her hair. It all felt so soothing, Sarah could almost consider it relaxing. Almost.
After spritzes of perfumes, dabs of oils, and smears of blush and eyeshadow, the handmaidens slipped her into a silken shift. Sarah grit her teeth as they pulled her clothing off her satin skin; their gentle movements did nothing to diminish the violating acts they carried out. Her nakedness lasted only for a moment, but this would leave a scar inside that would live on forever. The Fae ushered her towards the bedroom door.
"Can't I—"
She was out the door. Shame burned hot and crimson on her face. The air was cold on her skin and pierced the thin shift. Sarah shirked off the impulse to hang her head in humiliation and kept her chin level and gaze steady. This time, she braced for the swarm.
"Please," she pled. Her appeal fell on deaf ears as a dress was roughly slipped over her head. Her hair was yanked and styled. "I shouldn't be here—hey!" They pushed her down into a chair and lifted her legs up while Kinsleigh and Dabella forced shoes onto her feet. "I need to go home."
The lord and ladies in waiting pulled her around like a rag doll they loathed to share. Like a doll, they treated her as voiceless as a marionette dangling from strings of fate. Sarah found herself in front of the mirror. The silk dress of deep purple cinched behind her waist in an elegant silhouette. The material cascaded off her shoulders and off her breasts like gently flowing streams of water, streams that turned to river rapids as they bounded off of her hips. The shoes were anachronistic heels that would've been more appropriate at prom night, encrusted in crystals and looking too ridiculous next to the Fae's Baroque footwear to be considered beautiful. Two thick locks of hair were pinned behind her head in tight curls, a bold texture against the gleaming curtain of ebony that lay across her shoulders. Her powdered face and rouged cheeks were natural, her eyes and lashes were lined and colored delicately, but her brows ended in a bold swoop that curled skyward similar to the king's own brow makeup.
"Please," said Sarah once more. "Let me go. I just want to leave."
"That's not for us to decide, my lady," said Pyotr. The feminine melody of his voice was edged with false sympathy and even a hint if disgust. The shame that had burned within Sarah boiled hotter and turned to anger; how dare they expect her to play their game?
They pushed her out her the door and down the hallway.
Sarah wanted to scream at them, to curse and cry, but she tried to appeal to their humanity. Or fae-rity.
"Please, don't do this. Have mercy, I want to go home."
"Would that we could, would that we could," Pyotr said flippantly. "Alas, my lady, the king has taken quite a fancy to you. It's not for us to decide."
"And it's been ages since we've had a Faery hunt—and he didn't even invite us out with him," play-whined Sephira. Natalia giggled, a boarderline squeal that cackled to the rafters. Chills shivered down Sarah's spine. Every attempt to turn away, turn back, was met with strong grips that spun her straight and thrust her forward. Kinsleigh and Dabella were nowhere to be seen, they must've stayed behind.
Two giant doors of pastel pink loomed before Sarah, and they swung forward under Pyotr's push as Natalia and Sephira each grabbed one of her arms. Before Sarah could even try to tear herself away, they rushed her forward into a glittering ballroom.
Sarah gasped. Tens of Fae milled about in elegant finery, sipping drinks and laughing carelessly. A bar at the far end of the chamber was manned by a golden attendant. Far too many Fae lounged across settees together, draping themselves seductively across each other. All heads snapped in her direction, their gazes piercing her as Natalia and Sephira drug her forward; Sarah actually wished they wore their masks this time. What had been ominous and frightening in her peach-induced dream now seemed like a safety net; these bare faces were far too naked, far too exposed, and far too revealing. Their unveiled judgement slowly morphed into sly, nefarious smirks.
They trio came to a halt. Pyotr strode in front of Sarah, moving slowly and deliberately, as if warning her not to try anything. He reached his hand out to her, and her ladies-in-waiting released her; Sarah stared at his hand defiantly. He narrowed his brow, and Natalia coughed awkwardly as she lifted Sarah's hand and placed it in Pyotr's. By the time he turned and took his place at her side, a swarm had amassed.
"Welcome back," said one woman in a low voice.
"We thought you'd never return."
"My dear, you look ravishing."
Their compliments were anything but; each word was an empty taunt, a stinging jab. Not a single face showed kindness, not a single mouth wore a smile of compassion. Sarah was alone. Surrounded, yet completely, and utterly, alone.
"Let's get some punch, shall we?" Pyotr asked, his question more like a command. His grip of iron on her arm was masked by the graceful glide of his feet. He pulled her to the bar and retrieved a glass of punch for her. Sarah clenched her jaw. The sight of the sticky red liquid made her stomach turn. "You'll drink that it you known what's good for you." Pyotr's flamboyant facade hadn't dropped for a second—until then. His voice was low and intimidating, but he wasn't threatening her, he was warning her. His feminine voice, mellifluous melody, his flippant remarks and carefree attitude were swallowed up by a dark mask. His eyes glowed with a foreboding fire.
Sarah drank the punch. Whatever it was spiked with burned across her tongue, and she was glad for the false sense of relaxation it spread across her muscles.
"I understand it's your birthday?" asked a voice to Sarah's right. She couldn't match the voice to a face as the Fae swarmed once more.
"Ah yes," said Pyotr, "we have something special for you." Somehow Sarah felt "special" was not a good thing.
The clanging of opening doors boomed around the chamber as a strange grinding sound scraped across the floor. As the crowd cleared, Sarah saw the grinding sound was the rolling of wheels under a great weight.
On a rolling sat a tall, fat cake. It was covered with icing ribbons and frosting roses. The white and pink cake looked decadent, its many tiers piled high like Christmas gifts.
"Well, go on," said Pyotr as he pushed her forward. The crowd cleared a wide circle for Sarah to be alone with her cake. They all snickered and sneered, as if the opulent cake was something vulgar. Sarah didn't care; the cake was beautiful. It towered several feet above her—whoever baked it must've put in a lot of effort. She inched forward, a genuine smile lighting up her face. Let them laugh: she would have her cake and eat it too. It was her birthday, and even if the cake was meant as a disingenuous gesture, she would enjoy it.
SPLAT!
The cake exploded, splashing sticky, goopy icing all over her and her purple dress. The sugary, sweet smell filled her nose and stuck to every fiber of her gown and hair on her body. Out from the cake popped—
Jareth.
His back was turned towards her. He stood there in a long, purple frock of glitter that would make even popstar Prince jealous. The collar was high, hiding his neck, but his wild hair jutted out everywhere at crazy angles. The crowd around Sarah laughed like banshees, their faces twisting into insidious grimaces of hilarity. Jareth's hands reached towards the sky, and he bopped his hip to an unheard beat in a jaunty jig. Then, he spun around.
It was three goblins stacked high, three goblins in a purple trenchcoat frock and wig. They guffawed and cackled, throwing the wig at Sarah and scurrying away—not before lapping up some fallen icing.
Sarah cried it in disgust as they slobbered past her in a mad dash that splashed drool everywhere. The crowd laughed even harder as the thrown wig bounced off her, her hands thrown up to block it. Sarah looked down at herself dripping in icing, the thick stuff staining her dress and caking her long, loose hair. Sarah whimpered in shock and disgust, but Pyotr just laughed and approached once more to clamp his hand around her arm. The Fae crowded round again, and one man even reached a finger out and took a swipe of icing off her shoulder; he stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked the sweet stuff down.
Pyotr drug Sarah around the room from clique to clique. She wasn't even allowed to change. Pyotr and her ladies-in-waiting never left her side. Occasionally she would try to pull away, but his fingers would dig painfully into her wrist, or Sephira would snake an arm around her shoulders; this bright room was nothing but a dark cage. Sarah was grateful she didn't need to talk; the occasional question would bounce her way, but she was usually cut off by a joke or sarcastic remark. To be honest, the Fae didn't show much interest in her at all, even after the vulgar display of fake-Jareth exploding from the cake. Perhaps a social call wasn't the time to play with their new toy.
Much to her dismay, the whole day was spent there. The gentry did nothing but eat and talk and…well, Sarah tried not to notice when they were otherwise occupied. They're lithe, delicate bodies lounged across each other on finely upholstered settees. Those made loose with bubbly and punch leaned on each other and laughed at nothing. Some never left the buffet, and yet they were nonetheless thin as flower-stems. Some stared bored out the window. And some bounced from group to group when they'd exhausted conversation with current company.
Gold attendants with dark eyes wordlessly served; Sarah doubted they were human. Perhaps they weren't even magic, but animatronic. Maybe little gears turned inside their heads while hidden wheels helped them glide around the room.
Before Sarah knew it, the sky outside had darkened. Without explanation, the trio whisked Sarah away. Before she realized what was happening, they had opened the owl door and dumped her into her bedroom.
"Wait!" she cried. The outburst was instinctual. Actually, she had no plan for going elsewhere. If they had waited, she didn't even know what she would've done or said. She stilled her heart and relaxed her breathing; she would not let these walls close in on her. She'd keep her head.
"Tomorrow I face him," she muttered. What the day would bring was a mystery. Certainly he wouldn't hold a wedding ceremony so soon after her arrival; there was time. There was time to plan, time to find her friends. The proverbial thirteen hours were ticking, only this time Sarah didn't have a floating clock to tell her when and what. She'd have to play it by ear, she'd have to play it like a game—one she couldn't afford to lose.
