Exchange Fic #20: The Spell of the Black Swan, Part One
The actual identity of the writer will remain secret until all the submissions are in and posted.
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Title: The Spell of the Black Swan, Part One
Author: dmacabre
Recipient: wellhollywould
Prompt:A Jareth/Sarah fiction using the tale of 'Swan Lake' as a vague guide.
Plot Summary: Sarah begins a new life in a new city, but there are some things about her childhood that won't be left behind.
Author's Note: This is very loosely based on the ballet of Swan Lake and its background fairy tale. I tried to keep some of the basic elements of the story... with a little Labyrinthian twist.
Act One
A wild night out wasn't what it used to be, thought Sarah as she stood in line at the hot dog stand. In high school, it'd meant sleepovers, movie marathons and pizza. In college, it was clubbing and jello shots. But now...
Sarah handed over her money. "One with mustard and one without, please."
Sitting at her feet, Merlin made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a whine. She ignored him and grabbed a handful of napkins, heading for the park entrance just a few feet away. Sensing the proximity of delicious cured meats, Merlin trailed obediently in her wake.
The main square was a network of brick-paved paths and tidy plantings of asters and petunias. Sarah found a seat by the edge of the fountain and bit into her hot dog, licking absently at the mustard oozing down her wrist. The other hot dog, she unwrapped and placed on the ground.
"Bon appetit," she said cheerfully.
Merlin's expression was that of wounded reproach.
"Don't look at me like that. You know what mustard does to you."
The English sheepdog had an insatiable craving for people food that Sarah occasionally indulged. But when it came to hot dogs, she'd quickly discovered that while Merlin loved mustard, mustard most emphatically did not love him back. This wouldn't have mattered so much at home where he could be temporarily exiled to the backyard, but Jules would not appreciate the pungent miasma of dog stench in her cozy one bedroom loft.
Sorry, old boy, Sarah scratched his ears in apology. City life has its drawbacks.
Coming to the city had been Jules' idea. Sarah's old college roommate had landed a great entry-level position at a big advertising firm soon after graduation. The firm was looking for copywriters, she told Sarah, and this was the perfect opportunity. They could kiss their boring hometowns goodbye and conquer the world! It would be just like old times.
It didn't quite work out that way. With her athletic build and blonde hair pulled back into a killer executive bun, Jules had developed into a serious workaholic. Sarah had been in town a week and she'd barely seen her friend at all, much less gotten a chance to do any sightseeing. But today was Friday, and Jules declared the next forty-eight hours a work-free zone. They'd hang out and watch silly movies, look for a bigger, pet-friendly apartment, and maybe for old time's sake goth up and go clubbing till dawn.
But not tonight. Tonight, her friend had promised her sushi and a surprise.
Sarah tossed her crumpled napkin in the nearest trash can. "Let's go, Merlin. We have to make this quick, okay?"
There were a few twilight stragglers like herself in the park, mothers packing up strollers and rounding up children, joggers, the occasional tourist. Sarah made her way past the fountain and headed for the open grass, Merlin firmly in tow. She'd spent several mornings exploring the grounds, but this section of the park was her favorite. Beyond the square, half a dozen paths branched off in different directions. She took the one that meandered across a wide expanse of lawn toward the woods.
Sarah liked routine. She liked the well-worn and familiar-- it made her feel at home. There was something about this green space in the middle of the city that felt like a sanctuary from the noise and hustle. It reminded her a little of...
A faint prickle of embarrassment caused her to stand up a little straighter. Of course. She'd been an idiot not to see it before, but it bore some resemblance to the park near her childhood home, where she'd spent so many hours playing dress-up and reciting dramatic monologues to a furry audience of one. She glanced down at Merlin fondly. Those were the days.
The similarities were purely superficial. Lots of parks had fountains and trees and lakes, and it certainly had nothing to do with the Adventure. Sarah rarely allowed herself the luxury of thinking back on what happened then, and she never spoke the name of the place out loud. She supposed there could be no harm in it now, when she was so far away from home. What had happened in the Labyrinth had changed her. While her dad and Karen appreciated the slightly more feet-on-the-ground, sensible Sarah, they didn't appreciate the odd thumps and cackles of laughter that emanated from her room at night, the scorch marks on the carpet, or the inexplicable scatterings of red and yellow feathers all over the bathroom floor.
Fearing drug experimentation or a cult, her stepmother interrogated her with all the aplomb of a KGB agent. During a particularly weak moment, Sarah broke down and told her about everything. The resulting visit to a child psychologist was one of the most humiliating experiences of Sarah's life, one she was determined not to repeat. In the end, Sarah backpedaled like a champ. It was all a dream, she said, an unusually vivid one, and very confusing. She'd had a lot of them lately, full of strange adventures and strange feelings, especially about one particular-- and here Sarah choked on the next word-- boy...
The psychologist nodded knowingly. After a quick conference between the adults, they'd all gone home and Sarah endured an excruciatingly awkward talk about the birds and the bees. Several days later, a box of condoms mysteriously appeared in her sock drawer. Sarah never knew if it was her dad or Karen, and she didn't want to know-- death was preferable. But she'd learned her lesson: no more talk of labyrinths, goblins, or the weird new friends she'd made who came to visit her via the vanity mirror.
The nightly gatherings ended, and in time, even the mirror's reflection grew still. It wasn't outright capitulation, she promised herself, merely a strategic withdrawal. When dad and Karen stopped the worrying and sidelong glances, Sarah would call them again.
And then somehow, she never did.
***
The grounds were quieter the further she got from the entrance. By the time Sarah reached the duck pond, she and Merlin were on their own. She let him investigate the clumps of cattails growing along the water's edge and sniff his way down the gravel path past a lilac hedge. He'd been remarkably well-behaved during their stay, ingratiating himself with Jules within minutes of their arrival. She supposed he'd earned a good ramble. Glancing at her watch, she frowned. It was only half past six, but it felt later than that. The sun was setting, and the evening light was fading quickly.
To the east, a trio of hawks were silhouetted against the darkening sky, gliding in a watchful circle above the treetops. The largest one folded its wings and dropped swiftly, silently down. A thin cry sounded soon after, shrill with pain and fear. Sarah's hands tightened involuntarily on the leash. The two remaining hawks hovered only a moment longer before doing the same, vanishing into the trees and leaving the landscape as serene as it was before.
Sarah rubbed her arms to quell the sudden flush of goosebumps. She couldn't say why the scene bothered her. She wasn't normally a squeamish person, and her father had explained all about the circle of life when she was six years old and discovered D'Artagnan, her goldfish, floating belly up in his bowl.
All the same, there was something eerie about the situation. Did birds of prey usually hunt in packs? Sarah didn't know. Pulling her jacket closer, she let let Merlin drag her along the main walk toward the gazebo. Her imagination was running away with her again, and it wasn't going to spoil her night out. She curtailed her dog's explorations of the flowerbeds with a business-like tug of the leash, leading him onto the lawn. Once there, Merlin crouched on his haunches and gazed mournfully at his owner.
"Oh, all right," Rolling her eyes, Sarah turned her back and held the end of the leash at arm's length. "It's silly to be shy about this, you know," she said loudly over her shoulder, "I raised you from a puppy. And who do you think is going to pick it up after you're done?"
Behind her, Merlin whuffled low in his throat. He took his time. When he was finished, he brushed past Sarah's knees with an air of offended dignity, his head held high.
"Right," She slipped a plastic grocery bag over her hand with a sarcastic flourish. "Ah, the joys of having a canine companion."
The sun slipped below the horizon, and long shadows stretched across the lawn. Sarah shuffled around cautiously as she scanned the ground, wondering for the millionth time what life would've been like as a cat owner.
She glared at her dog. "What did you do, hide it?"
What happened next caught her completely off-guard.
Merlin let out a sharp bark and jerked the leash from her hand as he took off toward the tree line. Sarah made a futile grab for the leash as it trailed in the grass, but it slipped through her fingers as her dog darted out of reach. Merlin had grown more sedentary with age; the sight of him running was absurdly comical, like a runaway mop with legs. She stifled a yelp of laughter that quickly turned to alarm.
"Come back here! Merlin!"
The sheepdog gave no sign he'd heard. All four legs working furiously, he skimmed over the ground and more quickly than Sarah could've imagined, Merlin disappeared into the woods.
***
The wooded path was lined on either side by towering elms, their curving branches forming a leafy green tunnel. Sarah hesitated briefly at the edge of the trees. She'd been down this path a dozen times before during her afternoon walks, but it looked different now -- a place of shadows and secrets.
You could get mugged. Her internal voice of reason always sounded a bit like Karen when she was in full hand-wringing mode, exasperated and anxious. Wandering off into the woods after dark? For goodness' sake, use your head.
Oddly enough, Sarah didn't feel afraid. The woods were even more beautiful by twilight, with a dense carpet of leaves underfoot and the scent of honeysuckle and wild mint in the air. Wind rustled through the leaves. The petals of a white dogwood glowed ghost-white in the dimness of the understory. As her eyes adjusted to the low light she spied grey and yellow moths fluttering across the trail, and a round orb-weaver spider that hung from its web like a fat, black pearl. The faint murmur of other park visitors and ambient traffic noise had fallen to a hush. Gradually, the path widened into a clearing where a single lamp post cast a warm pool of light upon the ground. Merlin was nowhere to be seen.
Sarah called for him, her anxious repetitions of his name quickly swallowed by the growing dark. In the distance, she could hear the jingling of his collar and all her worries buzzed up anew. He wasn't an incorrigible puppy anymore, just a creaky old dog with a delicate digestion. If this was some silly goblin trick... she balked at the possibility even before the thought was complete. They wouldn't. Not after all this time.
"Merlin!" The call was louder this time, almost angry in her fear.
As if in answer, a screeching hiss sounded above her head, so close that Sarah instinctively ducked. The owl was a blur, swooping low over the path only to disappear again into the leafy canopy. Three more angular shapes flew close upon its tail, faster than thought. The cold rush of air in their wake seemed alive with whispers, a hoarse susurration that sounded more like the wind than human voices:
Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be...
Sarah retreated back against the trunk of a tree until the rough ridges of bark pressed into her spine. No, she thought, swallowing hard against the hot, dry ache in her throat. It's not him. It's not. She strained to catch a glimpse of the owl again, tripping blindly over roots as she scanned the treetops.
Further up the trail, the owl broke through the canopy again, banking sharply left, then right as it took a weaving flight path between the tree trunks. Sarah's stumbling walk broke into a run, as though she were the one being pursued. Lamp post and clearing were soon left behind; she was off the marked path, scrambling over fallen logs and pushing her way through the undergrowth as she fought to keep the birds in sight.
The hawks took it in turns, sometimes harrying their prey with beak and talon, sometimes falling back, but always driving it ceaselessly on. Sarah followed doggedly, but she was too slow. By the time she caught up, the hawks had cornered the owl in a large clearing where a lone oak stood beneath an open patch of sky. Hunched down on a branch, the owl snapped its beak angrily, the hollow clack like the gnashing of teeth.
She did not even give herself time to think. Sarah dropped to her hands and knees, pawing through the leaves until her fingers closed upon a rock. Weighing it reassuringly in her hand, she sent it hurtling in the air toward the circling hawks. Without waiting to see if she hit her target, she bent to find another rock, then another. The clearing rang with fierce, inarticulate shrieks of anger; it took Sarah a long moment before she realized the sounds were coming from her.
One of her stones connected hard. Sarah felt as much as heard the solid thump as it struck home, followed by the screech of a hawk as it broke formation and wheeled crookedly off to the side. The remaining two scattered in response, all three of them calling to one another as they winged their way out of sight. Sarah's shoulder muscles burned, the knuckles of her right hand were scraped raw. Still, she waited for the calls to fade into the distance before she opened her fingers and let her last stone fall.
The white owl huddled on the oak tree branch, wings drooping in exhaustion and its eyes narrowed to slits. It did not move as Sarah edged in closer.
She spoke the words softly, one hand resting on the trunk of the tree. "Goblin King."
The owl cocked its head to one side and stirred wearily, shifting its weight from one foot the other. Light, downy feathers framed the owl's visage, hiding a hooked ivory beak. Ink-black eyes slitted open briefly, waiting.
"Goblin King, if that's you--"
From far away sounded a long, mellow trumpet, like the call of a swan.
The owl hissed and clacked its beak three times in quick succession. Spreading its wings, it beat them angrily, rising up a little on the branch in preparation for flight. It looked down at Sarah and hissed again, softer this time and with all the desperation of a human cry.
"Wait!" Sarah still didn't know, not really. For a moment she thought she'd seen a glimmer of intelligence in the bird's eyes, something furious and lonely all at once. I'm dreaming. I've fallen asleep on a park bench watching Merlin play, and I'll wake up any minute now...
The owl took off, its great wings lifting it into the air without a sound. It looked like a creature of moonlight framed against the dark sky. The last of Sarah's internal protests choked off with the knowledge that sat on her heart like a lump of ice. She must say it now, in another moment it would be too late and the owl would be gone, she must say it, she must...
"Jareth!" Her voice cracked and broke on the word.
Almost above the treetops, the owl faltered in mid-air, then sharply wheeled. It dropped form the sky like a stone, talons outstretched and wings spread wide as it swooped down to the clearing once more. Sarah fell back as sharp talons raked across her arm. She cried out in pain and surprise, and something large crashed through the undergrowth, knocking her over so that she sprawled hard on her hands and knees. Some small, detached part of her brain observed it from a great distance: the shaggy form barreling through the clearing, the frenzy of barking. Merlin to the rescue.
The owl turned and again took wing, this time vanishing so quickly into the night that Sarah didn't see where it had gone.
***
Sarah crouched at the base of the oak tree for a long time, telling herself she was not crying, she was not crying, and it was foolish to cry over nothing. And what had happened was exactly that-- nothing. When she found the strength to stand, the blood had slowed to a trickle down her wrist. The sleeve of her jacket was neatly shredded, and four angry lines of scarlet marked the underside of her arm, three on one side, one on the other.
It was not as deep as she feared, but it wasn't pretty. Sarah let the torn sleeve fall back down over the wound; she couldn't do anything about it now. Night had fallen, and she could make out the faint glow of city lights to the east. She gathered her tangled hair and lifted it off her neck, letting the cool night air flow over her. Something soft and white drifted to the ground at her feet.
Sarah bent to retrieve it, knowing what it was even before her fingers touched it. The shaft was long and hollow, oddly light in her hand. When she held it closer, she saw that it was not pure white but ivory, mottled with a darker grey and tints of brown. With shaking hands, she tucked it into her jacket pocket for safekeeping. It was all she had left now. Maybe it was all she'd ever have.
Merlin's cold nose nudged her hand, pulling her back to the present. She swiped her sleeve across her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Come on, Merlin," she said, winding his leash tightly around her wrist, "Let's go."
Act Two
Sitting in the theater with her arm neatly bandaged and concealed beneath a light cashmere wrap, Sarah felt back to normal. No, she corrected herself, better than normal. A normal Friday night for Sarah Williams did not consist of borrowing Jules' black silk sheath dress and wobbling out to the waiting taxi in impossibly high heels. It did not include nibbling delicate slices of raw fish and pickled ginger at a sushi bar full of beautiful people doing the same. It certainly didn't involve sip after sip of chilled sake, cold and fiery sweet as it slipped down her throat.
Someone opened a side door in the theater and a cool breeze washed over the balcony. She drew the wrap closer. What happened in the woods was already a fading memory, one she determinedly pushed to the back of her mind. Merlin had scampered back home at her side as though he'd never left and in the city, no one spared a second glance for a bleeding tourist with a torn jacket. A hot shower, some antibacterial ointment and gauze, and like magic, she was as good as new. Sarah shivered. Maybe magic was the wrong word.
"I'm glad you're having fun," whispered Jules, squeezing her shoulder lightly, "When you came back from your walk, you looked like death."
Sarah forced herself to smile. "I felt like death."
The two shared a chuckle as the lights dimmed and a few latecomers hurriedly made their way to their seats. This was the second half of Jules' surprise: two tickets for the ballet, compliments of a client. Not the Bolshoi, said Jules regretfully, but the reviews were good and Swan Lake was a classic. Dressed to the nines with a bag of illicit gummy bears tucked in her purse for later, Sarah felt like royalty. The theater was a beautifully preserved historic building that smelled of lemon polish. Two white columns flanked the stage supporting a vaulted ceiling painted like the night sky. The old-fashioned box seats were curtained with a heavy crimson brocade, and the rails were all burled oak and polished brass.
As the first strains of Tchaikovsky stole over the theater, the curtains parted to reveal an elaborately painted background: sprawling green parkland with a castle beyond it, the tall spires gleaming white. A lone male dancer dressed in warm autumn colors appeared, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. Other dancers quickly joined him, weaving graceful patterns as they moved in time to the music.
Sarah resisted the urge to lean her elbows on the edge of the balcony. Even if she hadn't known the story, it was easy enough to follow along. The male dancer was a prince, heir to a great kingdom by the sea. On the eve of his twenty-first birthday, the king and queen announce that he must choose a bride. Upset that he cannot marry for love, the prince flees to the forest. Not the most heroic thing to do, Sarah supposed. Although roaming through the woods and shooting everything that moves sounds strangely cathartic.
She stealthily liberated a gummy bear from her purse and settled back in her seat. The story of Swan Lake had some of her favorite things: wicked sorcerers and enchanted maidens, treachery, betrayal, and a spell that can only be broken by true love. Looking around at the rapt audience, Sarah concluded with satisfaction that one was never too old for fairytales.
In the next act, the moon hung silvery bright over a mirrored lake. Gnarled trees stood on either side of the stage, casting shadows onto the backdrop and creating the illusion of a never-ending forest. Mist crept over the stage floor, softening and blurring the light. Sarah stiffened as a breeze caressed her cheek. Surely it was just someone opening a door again and letting in a draft. And yet... gone were the familiar smells of dusty curtains and furniture polish. This was the scent of a forest at night: the acrid tang of pine needles and dry leaves, the muddy, marshy smell of lake water as it lapped against the shore.
Separated from his companions, the prince wandered deeper into the wood, unaware of how the mist grew thicker and the trees closed in behind him. Three dancers entered the scene, masked and dressed in black, their cloaks streaming behind them like wings. Cruel bird-faces adorned each mask, with golden eyes and curved beaks. They darted in and out of the trees, circling the prince and trapping him within their dance. Sarah gripped her arm rests until her knuckles turned white. This was not part of the story, not the Swan Lake she knew.
The music grew dark and discordant, with kettledrums mimicking the sound of distant thunder. The melody slipped into a minor key and with each wavering note, the deep scratches on Sarah's arm throbbed in sympathy. Thorns sprang from the shadow-trees, slashing at the prince's face and hands and tearing his clothing until ragged bits of cloth fell away like a snake shedding its skin. Beneath them, he wore garments the color of ash and bone, and a ragged mantle that trailed in his wake like a wisp of smoke.
To her growing disbelief, Sarah's encounter in the park played out before her in eerie pantomime. The prince's bow was taken and broken in two, the arrows scattered. The dancers drove him from one end of the stage to the other until he collapsed in exhaustion, the white folds of his cloak gathered tight to his body. Screeching in triumph, the masked dancers descended--
A single French horn cut through the silence, its echoing note the lonely call of a swan. The moon went dark, shadowed by a pair of enormous black wings.
At first, Sarah could see very little. A cool grey light suffused the stage, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The scent of green rushes and water grew stronger, and then she appeared, a creature formed of smoke and shadow. She was too alien to be beautiful: tall and lean, the color of ivory, her thin face impassive as stone. Silvery hair fell past her waist, and her eyes were dark and rimmed with gold. Hundreds upon thousands of black feathers composed her gown, lying sleekly over her body and brushing the tops of her bare, white feet.
She plucked the moon from its painted backdrop and it shrank to the size of an apple in her hand. Her dark wings flexed slowly and deliberately; she folded them back until they rested in the curve of her spine like a second shadow. Kneeling over the fallen prince, she touched the shining sphere to his forehead, lips and heart, soft as a lover's kiss. The prince shuddered beneath the contact as though gripped in the throes of a nightmare, but he did not awake. Rising to her feet, the woman looked out over the audience, and when her gaze rested upon Sarah, she smiled.
Sarah Williams. The voice was cool and musical, like the sound of falling water. Long have I desired to see you.
Panic formed a cold, hard lump in the pit of Sarah's stomach. She forced herself to release the death-grip on her armrest and and reached for Jules' arm in the dark. There was nothing. Her friend was gone, Sarah's fingers met with empty air.
The woman's red lips parted in soundless laughter, and the thousand midnight feathers of her gown rippled gently as if stirred by the wind. The enormous black wings on her back flexed again, drawing up and around her until the prince was hidden from sight. She held the moon out at arm's length, steepled upon her fingers like a jewel.
Mortal child. If you want him, come and take him from me.
Quick as thought, the woman pursed her lips and blew as if to extinguish a candle. The moon light went dark, and the theater was plunged into blackness.
***
"Sarah."
Sarah jerked in her seat, sending her purse tumbling to the floor. She blinked up at the warm theater lights and the other patrons making their way to the exits, chatting good-naturedly about the performance. Jules stood before her, amusement and concern written on her face.
"Hey, wild woman. We should probably get you home before all this excitement puts you into a coma."
"No," Sarah protested, getting stiffly to her feet, "I'm fine. It was great. Really... different."
A quick glance at the stage told her nothing. It was dark and empty, with no sign of the dancers. A dream, she thought with no small sense of relief. I must be even more tired than I realized. But the feelings of unease lingered, and some part of Sarah remained stubbornly unconvinced.
"Did you think so? I thought the stage settings were very well done, but..."
Jules' talk was light and inconsequential, just the antidote for Sarah's unsettling dream. The two friends joined the line of people streaming out into the lobby, safely anonymous in the jostle of the crowd. Outside, it was beginning to rain. Water streaked down the glass doors of the lobby, and the occasional flash of lightning lit up the city skyline. She was going to suggest calling for a cab when Jules tapped her on the shoulder.
"This way," said her friend, indicating a hallway off to the left. "It'll be ages until we can get out of here anyway, and I have a friend I'd like you to meet."
The hallway led through a set of double doors and down a steep flight of stairs. Sarah clung to the handrail and wished she'd worn more sensible shoes.
"You know someone in the ballet?"
"Sort of. He's a cello player, second stand, first chair. Did you see him?"
Sarah hadn't.
"Tall, blond and a killer German accent, but shy." Jules tugged her skirt straight and gave her friend a mock leer. "Twenty bucks says I can rob him of his Teutonic virtue."
Sarah snorted, her unease dissipating under the familiar banter. "I am so not taking that bet."
Backstage was like being in the middle of a beehive, with swarms of stagehands and orchestra members talking and laughing as they made their way back to the dressing area. A tall young man with a mane of blond hair looked up and waved timidly in their direction, but was quickly engulfed in a herd of raucous horn players.
"Damn." Jules craned her neck to try and see where he'd gone. "Give me a minute, okay? I'll tell him to meet us at the bar around the corner, where it's quieter."
The thought of another drink held a certain appeal, but even more appealing at the moment was finding a bathroom. While Jules set off in search of her cello player, Sarah ducked past a stack of music stands and violin cases and went on a less romantic search of her own.
The basement of the theater was much older than the rest; exposed pipes ran along the ceiling, and the air had a cool, musty odor to it like the pages of an old book. She passed several dressing room doors, some standing ajar where members of the corps de ballet changed out of their costumes and brushed out their tightly braided hair. A trio of dancers slipped past her, talking and laughing amongst themselves and never giving her a second glance.
"Excuse me," Sarah reached out to tap the nearest one on the arm. "Could you point me to the bathroom?"
The girl glared at her as if noticing her for the first time. She was, Sarah realized with a start of surprise, nearly identical to her two companions. They stood shoulder to shoulder, same height and build, heads tilted at exactly the same angle. All three had eyes the color of polished amber, the corners dark with kohl.
"You don't belong here. You should leave." Her voice was guttural and hoarse, and she spoke in a halting manner as though English were not her native language.
Sarah matched her glare for glare. "I'll be sure to do that. As soon as I find a bathroom."
The companions whispered into the girl's ear, and she gave a contemptuous grunt. "As you will. It is the last door on the left. You cannot miss it."
She indicated a lone door at the end of the hall. Sarah noticed that her upper arm was encased in a bulky bandage, hanging stiffly at her side. The three dancers moved swiftly away down the hall, and the girl gave her one last sidelong scowl as they rounded a corner and disappeared. Sarah rolled her eyes, then shrugged. She and Jules could laugh about it later when they got home.
At the far end of the corridor, a single flickering light bulb dangled from the end of a cord. The door was old with a curved brass handle and flakes of black paint peeling off the wood surface. Sarah eyed it with deep skepticism-- it looked like an unlikely bathroom. If I open this and a janitor's mop falls out, I'm going to kick that girl's scrawny butt into the next zip code. She tried the handle, and the door swung open without resistance.
The room was dark and cave-like, and the only light came from half a dozen beeswax candles floating in a shallow glass bowl in the center of the floor. A large vanity table stood at one end of the room, and seated before it was a woman with snowy hair pulled back into a loose knot. Her black silk robe was tied with a scarlet sash; it puddled on the floor around her, revealing her bare, white feet.
"Oh," Sarah stopped short, pink with embarrassment, "I'm so sorry, I thought--"
"Not at all. I've been waiting for you."
It was the voice that made Sarah freeze where she stood, even as the door swung shut behind her. She knew that voice. She'd heard it in her head, while a woman with night-black wings held the moon in the palm of her hand. Too late, her gaze darted around the room. What she'd mistaken for carpet was moss, green and beaded with dew. Clumps of tall rushes grew in every corner, and all the furniture was carved out of twisted driftwood or stone.
Sarah groped for the door handle in vain. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I've got a friend waiting for me. She knows where I am."
At this, the woman laughed softly. "And do you know where you are, Sarah Williams?"
Sarah had to admit she did not. As the sorceress spoke, the room continued to transform. It no longer had any sense of walls or ceiling-- marsh grass and hollow-stemmed reeds surrounded them, and above them stretched a moonless sky. The bowl of water had become a deep gazing pool edged with stones, and floating on the surface were dozens of pale yellow lilies, luminous as paper lanterns.
"I will not keep you long. There is something of yours in my possession, I think."
Her tone remained light, but the words were unmistakably loaded. From the folds of her robe she drew forth a red velvet pouch, fastened with a silver cord. She held it out invitingly.
"Take it. It is a gift."
Sarah regarded the pouch with a deep sense of distrust. "No, thank you."
"Oh, but I think you will need it. You want him back, do you not? The Goblin King is a very pretty prize for a mortal girl."
"He's not mine." Sarah kept her words as flat and inflectionless as she could.
The woman sounded neither disappointed, nor surprised. "You won't come to his aid? Perhaps you are not the champion I believed you to be."
"He's more than capable of getting himself out of trouble, and even if he needed it, I doubt he'd want any help from me."
The sorceress smiled, letting her hand fall. "You are wrong on both counts. But perhaps you are right to leave him to his fate." She wound the silver cord around her fingers, drawing the knots tight. "It is not such an unpleasant one, after all. There are many of your kind who would give their souls to fly free as he can."
Sarah glared at the woman. "Of their own free will, maybe. I hardly think imprisonment was the fate he had in mind."
"Ah," her companion murmured in satisfaction, "There speaks the girl who would defend a helpless creature armed only with stones and her own two hands. Your Goblin King was proud, child. He thought himself too powerful to obey the rules which bind us all."
This wasn't what Sarah expected. Someone like Jareth-- like this fey creature, bound by rules? It was hard to imagine. Then again, running the Labyrinth was the challenge he'd set for her. It had rewards, penalties, pitfalls, and time limits. Maybe the Goblin King had his own rules to follow, too.
"How did he break them?" she asked.
"Why, by letting you go, of course. That was never supposed to happen."
"But I defeated the Labyrinth." She'd never said that out loud before, and it came out more like a question than a statement.
The sorceress gave her a look of sly reproach. "You took a bite of the peach. By our laws, you belong to him... forever."
"But..."
Sarah stifled a barrage of protests. You couldn't own a person like you could a stuffed toy. It wasn't right to expect her to abide by the arbitrary laws of some faerie otherworld when she wasn't one of them. She didn't know!
But you should've known. It isn't exactly without precedent, after all.
Sarah was grinding her teeth so hard, her jaw ached. "What do I have to do to free him?"
Her answering laugh was like falling rain. "First, you must find him."
The sorceress gestured quickly, a careless flick of her wrist. Sarah was not prepared for the windy tempest that nearly knocked her off her feet, the swirl of stinging dust in her eyes. She shielded her face, coughing and fumbling for the door, a wall... anything.
The wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun. When Sarah blinked past the tears and grit, she found herself standing in the doorway of an old storage room full of boxes and dusty stage props. The sorceress was gone, all of it was gone. Not caring if anyone heard, Sarah stepped back and slammed the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. Clutched tightly in her hands was a round object wrapped in deep red velvet. She untied the cord with unsteady fingers, letting it drop to the floor.
It was a crystal sphere, cracked and clouded and pale as the moon.
Part Two
****
Title: The Spell of the Black Swan, Part One
Author: dmacabre
Recipient: wellhollywould
Prompt:A Jareth/Sarah fiction using the tale of 'Swan Lake' as a vague guide.
Plot Summary: Sarah begins a new life in a new city, but there are some things about her childhood that won't be left behind.
Author's Note: This is very loosely based on the ballet of Swan Lake and its background fairy tale. I tried to keep some of the basic elements of the story... with a little Labyrinthian twist.
Act One
A wild night out wasn't what it used to be, thought Sarah as she stood in line at the hot dog stand. In high school, it'd meant sleepovers, movie marathons and pizza. In college, it was clubbing and jello shots. But now...
Sarah handed over her money. "One with mustard and one without, please."
Sitting at her feet, Merlin made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a whine. She ignored him and grabbed a handful of napkins, heading for the park entrance just a few feet away. Sensing the proximity of delicious cured meats, Merlin trailed obediently in her wake.
The main square was a network of brick-paved paths and tidy plantings of asters and petunias. Sarah found a seat by the edge of the fountain and bit into her hot dog, licking absently at the mustard oozing down her wrist. The other hot dog, she unwrapped and placed on the ground.
"Bon appetit," she said cheerfully.
Merlin's expression was that of wounded reproach.
"Don't look at me like that. You know what mustard does to you."
The English sheepdog had an insatiable craving for people food that Sarah occasionally indulged. But when it came to hot dogs, she'd quickly discovered that while Merlin loved mustard, mustard most emphatically did not love him back. This wouldn't have mattered so much at home where he could be temporarily exiled to the backyard, but Jules would not appreciate the pungent miasma of dog stench in her cozy one bedroom loft.
Sorry, old boy, Sarah scratched his ears in apology. City life has its drawbacks.
Coming to the city had been Jules' idea. Sarah's old college roommate had landed a great entry-level position at a big advertising firm soon after graduation. The firm was looking for copywriters, she told Sarah, and this was the perfect opportunity. They could kiss their boring hometowns goodbye and conquer the world! It would be just like old times.
It didn't quite work out that way. With her athletic build and blonde hair pulled back into a killer executive bun, Jules had developed into a serious workaholic. Sarah had been in town a week and she'd barely seen her friend at all, much less gotten a chance to do any sightseeing. But today was Friday, and Jules declared the next forty-eight hours a work-free zone. They'd hang out and watch silly movies, look for a bigger, pet-friendly apartment, and maybe for old time's sake goth up and go clubbing till dawn.
But not tonight. Tonight, her friend had promised her sushi and a surprise.
Sarah tossed her crumpled napkin in the nearest trash can. "Let's go, Merlin. We have to make this quick, okay?"
There were a few twilight stragglers like herself in the park, mothers packing up strollers and rounding up children, joggers, the occasional tourist. Sarah made her way past the fountain and headed for the open grass, Merlin firmly in tow. She'd spent several mornings exploring the grounds, but this section of the park was her favorite. Beyond the square, half a dozen paths branched off in different directions. She took the one that meandered across a wide expanse of lawn toward the woods.
Sarah liked routine. She liked the well-worn and familiar-- it made her feel at home. There was something about this green space in the middle of the city that felt like a sanctuary from the noise and hustle. It reminded her a little of...
A faint prickle of embarrassment caused her to stand up a little straighter. Of course. She'd been an idiot not to see it before, but it bore some resemblance to the park near her childhood home, where she'd spent so many hours playing dress-up and reciting dramatic monologues to a furry audience of one. She glanced down at Merlin fondly. Those were the days.
The similarities were purely superficial. Lots of parks had fountains and trees and lakes, and it certainly had nothing to do with the Adventure. Sarah rarely allowed herself the luxury of thinking back on what happened then, and she never spoke the name of the place out loud. She supposed there could be no harm in it now, when she was so far away from home. What had happened in the Labyrinth had changed her. While her dad and Karen appreciated the slightly more feet-on-the-ground, sensible Sarah, they didn't appreciate the odd thumps and cackles of laughter that emanated from her room at night, the scorch marks on the carpet, or the inexplicable scatterings of red and yellow feathers all over the bathroom floor.
Fearing drug experimentation or a cult, her stepmother interrogated her with all the aplomb of a KGB agent. During a particularly weak moment, Sarah broke down and told her about everything. The resulting visit to a child psychologist was one of the most humiliating experiences of Sarah's life, one she was determined not to repeat. In the end, Sarah backpedaled like a champ. It was all a dream, she said, an unusually vivid one, and very confusing. She'd had a lot of them lately, full of strange adventures and strange feelings, especially about one particular-- and here Sarah choked on the next word-- boy...
The psychologist nodded knowingly. After a quick conference between the adults, they'd all gone home and Sarah endured an excruciatingly awkward talk about the birds and the bees. Several days later, a box of condoms mysteriously appeared in her sock drawer. Sarah never knew if it was her dad or Karen, and she didn't want to know-- death was preferable. But she'd learned her lesson: no more talk of labyrinths, goblins, or the weird new friends she'd made who came to visit her via the vanity mirror.
The nightly gatherings ended, and in time, even the mirror's reflection grew still. It wasn't outright capitulation, she promised herself, merely a strategic withdrawal. When dad and Karen stopped the worrying and sidelong glances, Sarah would call them again.
And then somehow, she never did.
***
The grounds were quieter the further she got from the entrance. By the time Sarah reached the duck pond, she and Merlin were on their own. She let him investigate the clumps of cattails growing along the water's edge and sniff his way down the gravel path past a lilac hedge. He'd been remarkably well-behaved during their stay, ingratiating himself with Jules within minutes of their arrival. She supposed he'd earned a good ramble. Glancing at her watch, she frowned. It was only half past six, but it felt later than that. The sun was setting, and the evening light was fading quickly.
To the east, a trio of hawks were silhouetted against the darkening sky, gliding in a watchful circle above the treetops. The largest one folded its wings and dropped swiftly, silently down. A thin cry sounded soon after, shrill with pain and fear. Sarah's hands tightened involuntarily on the leash. The two remaining hawks hovered only a moment longer before doing the same, vanishing into the trees and leaving the landscape as serene as it was before.
Sarah rubbed her arms to quell the sudden flush of goosebumps. She couldn't say why the scene bothered her. She wasn't normally a squeamish person, and her father had explained all about the circle of life when she was six years old and discovered D'Artagnan, her goldfish, floating belly up in his bowl.
All the same, there was something eerie about the situation. Did birds of prey usually hunt in packs? Sarah didn't know. Pulling her jacket closer, she let let Merlin drag her along the main walk toward the gazebo. Her imagination was running away with her again, and it wasn't going to spoil her night out. She curtailed her dog's explorations of the flowerbeds with a business-like tug of the leash, leading him onto the lawn. Once there, Merlin crouched on his haunches and gazed mournfully at his owner.
"Oh, all right," Rolling her eyes, Sarah turned her back and held the end of the leash at arm's length. "It's silly to be shy about this, you know," she said loudly over her shoulder, "I raised you from a puppy. And who do you think is going to pick it up after you're done?"
Behind her, Merlin whuffled low in his throat. He took his time. When he was finished, he brushed past Sarah's knees with an air of offended dignity, his head held high.
"Right," She slipped a plastic grocery bag over her hand with a sarcastic flourish. "Ah, the joys of having a canine companion."
The sun slipped below the horizon, and long shadows stretched across the lawn. Sarah shuffled around cautiously as she scanned the ground, wondering for the millionth time what life would've been like as a cat owner.
She glared at her dog. "What did you do, hide it?"
What happened next caught her completely off-guard.
Merlin let out a sharp bark and jerked the leash from her hand as he took off toward the tree line. Sarah made a futile grab for the leash as it trailed in the grass, but it slipped through her fingers as her dog darted out of reach. Merlin had grown more sedentary with age; the sight of him running was absurdly comical, like a runaway mop with legs. She stifled a yelp of laughter that quickly turned to alarm.
"Come back here! Merlin!"
The sheepdog gave no sign he'd heard. All four legs working furiously, he skimmed over the ground and more quickly than Sarah could've imagined, Merlin disappeared into the woods.
***
The wooded path was lined on either side by towering elms, their curving branches forming a leafy green tunnel. Sarah hesitated briefly at the edge of the trees. She'd been down this path a dozen times before during her afternoon walks, but it looked different now -- a place of shadows and secrets.
You could get mugged. Her internal voice of reason always sounded a bit like Karen when she was in full hand-wringing mode, exasperated and anxious. Wandering off into the woods after dark? For goodness' sake, use your head.
Oddly enough, Sarah didn't feel afraid. The woods were even more beautiful by twilight, with a dense carpet of leaves underfoot and the scent of honeysuckle and wild mint in the air. Wind rustled through the leaves. The petals of a white dogwood glowed ghost-white in the dimness of the understory. As her eyes adjusted to the low light she spied grey and yellow moths fluttering across the trail, and a round orb-weaver spider that hung from its web like a fat, black pearl. The faint murmur of other park visitors and ambient traffic noise had fallen to a hush. Gradually, the path widened into a clearing where a single lamp post cast a warm pool of light upon the ground. Merlin was nowhere to be seen.
Sarah called for him, her anxious repetitions of his name quickly swallowed by the growing dark. In the distance, she could hear the jingling of his collar and all her worries buzzed up anew. He wasn't an incorrigible puppy anymore, just a creaky old dog with a delicate digestion. If this was some silly goblin trick... she balked at the possibility even before the thought was complete. They wouldn't. Not after all this time.
"Merlin!" The call was louder this time, almost angry in her fear.
As if in answer, a screeching hiss sounded above her head, so close that Sarah instinctively ducked. The owl was a blur, swooping low over the path only to disappear again into the leafy canopy. Three more angular shapes flew close upon its tail, faster than thought. The cold rush of air in their wake seemed alive with whispers, a hoarse susurration that sounded more like the wind than human voices:
Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be...
Sarah retreated back against the trunk of a tree until the rough ridges of bark pressed into her spine. No, she thought, swallowing hard against the hot, dry ache in her throat. It's not him. It's not. She strained to catch a glimpse of the owl again, tripping blindly over roots as she scanned the treetops.
Further up the trail, the owl broke through the canopy again, banking sharply left, then right as it took a weaving flight path between the tree trunks. Sarah's stumbling walk broke into a run, as though she were the one being pursued. Lamp post and clearing were soon left behind; she was off the marked path, scrambling over fallen logs and pushing her way through the undergrowth as she fought to keep the birds in sight.
The hawks took it in turns, sometimes harrying their prey with beak and talon, sometimes falling back, but always driving it ceaselessly on. Sarah followed doggedly, but she was too slow. By the time she caught up, the hawks had cornered the owl in a large clearing where a lone oak stood beneath an open patch of sky. Hunched down on a branch, the owl snapped its beak angrily, the hollow clack like the gnashing of teeth.
She did not even give herself time to think. Sarah dropped to her hands and knees, pawing through the leaves until her fingers closed upon a rock. Weighing it reassuringly in her hand, she sent it hurtling in the air toward the circling hawks. Without waiting to see if she hit her target, she bent to find another rock, then another. The clearing rang with fierce, inarticulate shrieks of anger; it took Sarah a long moment before she realized the sounds were coming from her.
One of her stones connected hard. Sarah felt as much as heard the solid thump as it struck home, followed by the screech of a hawk as it broke formation and wheeled crookedly off to the side. The remaining two scattered in response, all three of them calling to one another as they winged their way out of sight. Sarah's shoulder muscles burned, the knuckles of her right hand were scraped raw. Still, she waited for the calls to fade into the distance before she opened her fingers and let her last stone fall.
The white owl huddled on the oak tree branch, wings drooping in exhaustion and its eyes narrowed to slits. It did not move as Sarah edged in closer.
She spoke the words softly, one hand resting on the trunk of the tree. "Goblin King."
The owl cocked its head to one side and stirred wearily, shifting its weight from one foot the other. Light, downy feathers framed the owl's visage, hiding a hooked ivory beak. Ink-black eyes slitted open briefly, waiting.
"Goblin King, if that's you--"
From far away sounded a long, mellow trumpet, like the call of a swan.
The owl hissed and clacked its beak three times in quick succession. Spreading its wings, it beat them angrily, rising up a little on the branch in preparation for flight. It looked down at Sarah and hissed again, softer this time and with all the desperation of a human cry.
"Wait!" Sarah still didn't know, not really. For a moment she thought she'd seen a glimmer of intelligence in the bird's eyes, something furious and lonely all at once. I'm dreaming. I've fallen asleep on a park bench watching Merlin play, and I'll wake up any minute now...
The owl took off, its great wings lifting it into the air without a sound. It looked like a creature of moonlight framed against the dark sky. The last of Sarah's internal protests choked off with the knowledge that sat on her heart like a lump of ice. She must say it now, in another moment it would be too late and the owl would be gone, she must say it, she must...
"Jareth!" Her voice cracked and broke on the word.
Almost above the treetops, the owl faltered in mid-air, then sharply wheeled. It dropped form the sky like a stone, talons outstretched and wings spread wide as it swooped down to the clearing once more. Sarah fell back as sharp talons raked across her arm. She cried out in pain and surprise, and something large crashed through the undergrowth, knocking her over so that she sprawled hard on her hands and knees. Some small, detached part of her brain observed it from a great distance: the shaggy form barreling through the clearing, the frenzy of barking. Merlin to the rescue.
The owl turned and again took wing, this time vanishing so quickly into the night that Sarah didn't see where it had gone.
***
Sarah crouched at the base of the oak tree for a long time, telling herself she was not crying, she was not crying, and it was foolish to cry over nothing. And what had happened was exactly that-- nothing. When she found the strength to stand, the blood had slowed to a trickle down her wrist. The sleeve of her jacket was neatly shredded, and four angry lines of scarlet marked the underside of her arm, three on one side, one on the other.
It was not as deep as she feared, but it wasn't pretty. Sarah let the torn sleeve fall back down over the wound; she couldn't do anything about it now. Night had fallen, and she could make out the faint glow of city lights to the east. She gathered her tangled hair and lifted it off her neck, letting the cool night air flow over her. Something soft and white drifted to the ground at her feet.
Sarah bent to retrieve it, knowing what it was even before her fingers touched it. The shaft was long and hollow, oddly light in her hand. When she held it closer, she saw that it was not pure white but ivory, mottled with a darker grey and tints of brown. With shaking hands, she tucked it into her jacket pocket for safekeeping. It was all she had left now. Maybe it was all she'd ever have.
Merlin's cold nose nudged her hand, pulling her back to the present. She swiped her sleeve across her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Come on, Merlin," she said, winding his leash tightly around her wrist, "Let's go."
Act Two
Sitting in the theater with her arm neatly bandaged and concealed beneath a light cashmere wrap, Sarah felt back to normal. No, she corrected herself, better than normal. A normal Friday night for Sarah Williams did not consist of borrowing Jules' black silk sheath dress and wobbling out to the waiting taxi in impossibly high heels. It did not include nibbling delicate slices of raw fish and pickled ginger at a sushi bar full of beautiful people doing the same. It certainly didn't involve sip after sip of chilled sake, cold and fiery sweet as it slipped down her throat.
Someone opened a side door in the theater and a cool breeze washed over the balcony. She drew the wrap closer. What happened in the woods was already a fading memory, one she determinedly pushed to the back of her mind. Merlin had scampered back home at her side as though he'd never left and in the city, no one spared a second glance for a bleeding tourist with a torn jacket. A hot shower, some antibacterial ointment and gauze, and like magic, she was as good as new. Sarah shivered. Maybe magic was the wrong word.
"I'm glad you're having fun," whispered Jules, squeezing her shoulder lightly, "When you came back from your walk, you looked like death."
Sarah forced herself to smile. "I felt like death."
The two shared a chuckle as the lights dimmed and a few latecomers hurriedly made their way to their seats. This was the second half of Jules' surprise: two tickets for the ballet, compliments of a client. Not the Bolshoi, said Jules regretfully, but the reviews were good and Swan Lake was a classic. Dressed to the nines with a bag of illicit gummy bears tucked in her purse for later, Sarah felt like royalty. The theater was a beautifully preserved historic building that smelled of lemon polish. Two white columns flanked the stage supporting a vaulted ceiling painted like the night sky. The old-fashioned box seats were curtained with a heavy crimson brocade, and the rails were all burled oak and polished brass.
As the first strains of Tchaikovsky stole over the theater, the curtains parted to reveal an elaborately painted background: sprawling green parkland with a castle beyond it, the tall spires gleaming white. A lone male dancer dressed in warm autumn colors appeared, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. Other dancers quickly joined him, weaving graceful patterns as they moved in time to the music.
Sarah resisted the urge to lean her elbows on the edge of the balcony. Even if she hadn't known the story, it was easy enough to follow along. The male dancer was a prince, heir to a great kingdom by the sea. On the eve of his twenty-first birthday, the king and queen announce that he must choose a bride. Upset that he cannot marry for love, the prince flees to the forest. Not the most heroic thing to do, Sarah supposed. Although roaming through the woods and shooting everything that moves sounds strangely cathartic.
She stealthily liberated a gummy bear from her purse and settled back in her seat. The story of Swan Lake had some of her favorite things: wicked sorcerers and enchanted maidens, treachery, betrayal, and a spell that can only be broken by true love. Looking around at the rapt audience, Sarah concluded with satisfaction that one was never too old for fairytales.
In the next act, the moon hung silvery bright over a mirrored lake. Gnarled trees stood on either side of the stage, casting shadows onto the backdrop and creating the illusion of a never-ending forest. Mist crept over the stage floor, softening and blurring the light. Sarah stiffened as a breeze caressed her cheek. Surely it was just someone opening a door again and letting in a draft. And yet... gone were the familiar smells of dusty curtains and furniture polish. This was the scent of a forest at night: the acrid tang of pine needles and dry leaves, the muddy, marshy smell of lake water as it lapped against the shore.
Separated from his companions, the prince wandered deeper into the wood, unaware of how the mist grew thicker and the trees closed in behind him. Three dancers entered the scene, masked and dressed in black, their cloaks streaming behind them like wings. Cruel bird-faces adorned each mask, with golden eyes and curved beaks. They darted in and out of the trees, circling the prince and trapping him within their dance. Sarah gripped her arm rests until her knuckles turned white. This was not part of the story, not the Swan Lake she knew.
The music grew dark and discordant, with kettledrums mimicking the sound of distant thunder. The melody slipped into a minor key and with each wavering note, the deep scratches on Sarah's arm throbbed in sympathy. Thorns sprang from the shadow-trees, slashing at the prince's face and hands and tearing his clothing until ragged bits of cloth fell away like a snake shedding its skin. Beneath them, he wore garments the color of ash and bone, and a ragged mantle that trailed in his wake like a wisp of smoke.
To her growing disbelief, Sarah's encounter in the park played out before her in eerie pantomime. The prince's bow was taken and broken in two, the arrows scattered. The dancers drove him from one end of the stage to the other until he collapsed in exhaustion, the white folds of his cloak gathered tight to his body. Screeching in triumph, the masked dancers descended--
A single French horn cut through the silence, its echoing note the lonely call of a swan. The moon went dark, shadowed by a pair of enormous black wings.
At first, Sarah could see very little. A cool grey light suffused the stage, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The scent of green rushes and water grew stronger, and then she appeared, a creature formed of smoke and shadow. She was too alien to be beautiful: tall and lean, the color of ivory, her thin face impassive as stone. Silvery hair fell past her waist, and her eyes were dark and rimmed with gold. Hundreds upon thousands of black feathers composed her gown, lying sleekly over her body and brushing the tops of her bare, white feet.
She plucked the moon from its painted backdrop and it shrank to the size of an apple in her hand. Her dark wings flexed slowly and deliberately; she folded them back until they rested in the curve of her spine like a second shadow. Kneeling over the fallen prince, she touched the shining sphere to his forehead, lips and heart, soft as a lover's kiss. The prince shuddered beneath the contact as though gripped in the throes of a nightmare, but he did not awake. Rising to her feet, the woman looked out over the audience, and when her gaze rested upon Sarah, she smiled.
Sarah Williams. The voice was cool and musical, like the sound of falling water. Long have I desired to see you.
Panic formed a cold, hard lump in the pit of Sarah's stomach. She forced herself to release the death-grip on her armrest and and reached for Jules' arm in the dark. There was nothing. Her friend was gone, Sarah's fingers met with empty air.
The woman's red lips parted in soundless laughter, and the thousand midnight feathers of her gown rippled gently as if stirred by the wind. The enormous black wings on her back flexed again, drawing up and around her until the prince was hidden from sight. She held the moon out at arm's length, steepled upon her fingers like a jewel.
Mortal child. If you want him, come and take him from me.
Quick as thought, the woman pursed her lips and blew as if to extinguish a candle. The moon light went dark, and the theater was plunged into blackness.
***
"Sarah."
Sarah jerked in her seat, sending her purse tumbling to the floor. She blinked up at the warm theater lights and the other patrons making their way to the exits, chatting good-naturedly about the performance. Jules stood before her, amusement and concern written on her face.
"Hey, wild woman. We should probably get you home before all this excitement puts you into a coma."
"No," Sarah protested, getting stiffly to her feet, "I'm fine. It was great. Really... different."
A quick glance at the stage told her nothing. It was dark and empty, with no sign of the dancers. A dream, she thought with no small sense of relief. I must be even more tired than I realized. But the feelings of unease lingered, and some part of Sarah remained stubbornly unconvinced.
"Did you think so? I thought the stage settings were very well done, but..."
Jules' talk was light and inconsequential, just the antidote for Sarah's unsettling dream. The two friends joined the line of people streaming out into the lobby, safely anonymous in the jostle of the crowd. Outside, it was beginning to rain. Water streaked down the glass doors of the lobby, and the occasional flash of lightning lit up the city skyline. She was going to suggest calling for a cab when Jules tapped her on the shoulder.
"This way," said her friend, indicating a hallway off to the left. "It'll be ages until we can get out of here anyway, and I have a friend I'd like you to meet."
The hallway led through a set of double doors and down a steep flight of stairs. Sarah clung to the handrail and wished she'd worn more sensible shoes.
"You know someone in the ballet?"
"Sort of. He's a cello player, second stand, first chair. Did you see him?"
Sarah hadn't.
"Tall, blond and a killer German accent, but shy." Jules tugged her skirt straight and gave her friend a mock leer. "Twenty bucks says I can rob him of his Teutonic virtue."
Sarah snorted, her unease dissipating under the familiar banter. "I am so not taking that bet."
Backstage was like being in the middle of a beehive, with swarms of stagehands and orchestra members talking and laughing as they made their way back to the dressing area. A tall young man with a mane of blond hair looked up and waved timidly in their direction, but was quickly engulfed in a herd of raucous horn players.
"Damn." Jules craned her neck to try and see where he'd gone. "Give me a minute, okay? I'll tell him to meet us at the bar around the corner, where it's quieter."
The thought of another drink held a certain appeal, but even more appealing at the moment was finding a bathroom. While Jules set off in search of her cello player, Sarah ducked past a stack of music stands and violin cases and went on a less romantic search of her own.
The basement of the theater was much older than the rest; exposed pipes ran along the ceiling, and the air had a cool, musty odor to it like the pages of an old book. She passed several dressing room doors, some standing ajar where members of the corps de ballet changed out of their costumes and brushed out their tightly braided hair. A trio of dancers slipped past her, talking and laughing amongst themselves and never giving her a second glance.
"Excuse me," Sarah reached out to tap the nearest one on the arm. "Could you point me to the bathroom?"
The girl glared at her as if noticing her for the first time. She was, Sarah realized with a start of surprise, nearly identical to her two companions. They stood shoulder to shoulder, same height and build, heads tilted at exactly the same angle. All three had eyes the color of polished amber, the corners dark with kohl.
"You don't belong here. You should leave." Her voice was guttural and hoarse, and she spoke in a halting manner as though English were not her native language.
Sarah matched her glare for glare. "I'll be sure to do that. As soon as I find a bathroom."
The companions whispered into the girl's ear, and she gave a contemptuous grunt. "As you will. It is the last door on the left. You cannot miss it."
She indicated a lone door at the end of the hall. Sarah noticed that her upper arm was encased in a bulky bandage, hanging stiffly at her side. The three dancers moved swiftly away down the hall, and the girl gave her one last sidelong scowl as they rounded a corner and disappeared. Sarah rolled her eyes, then shrugged. She and Jules could laugh about it later when they got home.
At the far end of the corridor, a single flickering light bulb dangled from the end of a cord. The door was old with a curved brass handle and flakes of black paint peeling off the wood surface. Sarah eyed it with deep skepticism-- it looked like an unlikely bathroom. If I open this and a janitor's mop falls out, I'm going to kick that girl's scrawny butt into the next zip code. She tried the handle, and the door swung open without resistance.
The room was dark and cave-like, and the only light came from half a dozen beeswax candles floating in a shallow glass bowl in the center of the floor. A large vanity table stood at one end of the room, and seated before it was a woman with snowy hair pulled back into a loose knot. Her black silk robe was tied with a scarlet sash; it puddled on the floor around her, revealing her bare, white feet.
"Oh," Sarah stopped short, pink with embarrassment, "I'm so sorry, I thought--"
"Not at all. I've been waiting for you."
It was the voice that made Sarah freeze where she stood, even as the door swung shut behind her. She knew that voice. She'd heard it in her head, while a woman with night-black wings held the moon in the palm of her hand. Too late, her gaze darted around the room. What she'd mistaken for carpet was moss, green and beaded with dew. Clumps of tall rushes grew in every corner, and all the furniture was carved out of twisted driftwood or stone.
Sarah groped for the door handle in vain. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I've got a friend waiting for me. She knows where I am."
At this, the woman laughed softly. "And do you know where you are, Sarah Williams?"
Sarah had to admit she did not. As the sorceress spoke, the room continued to transform. It no longer had any sense of walls or ceiling-- marsh grass and hollow-stemmed reeds surrounded them, and above them stretched a moonless sky. The bowl of water had become a deep gazing pool edged with stones, and floating on the surface were dozens of pale yellow lilies, luminous as paper lanterns.
"I will not keep you long. There is something of yours in my possession, I think."
Her tone remained light, but the words were unmistakably loaded. From the folds of her robe she drew forth a red velvet pouch, fastened with a silver cord. She held it out invitingly.
"Take it. It is a gift."
Sarah regarded the pouch with a deep sense of distrust. "No, thank you."
"Oh, but I think you will need it. You want him back, do you not? The Goblin King is a very pretty prize for a mortal girl."
"He's not mine." Sarah kept her words as flat and inflectionless as she could.
The woman sounded neither disappointed, nor surprised. "You won't come to his aid? Perhaps you are not the champion I believed you to be."
"He's more than capable of getting himself out of trouble, and even if he needed it, I doubt he'd want any help from me."
The sorceress smiled, letting her hand fall. "You are wrong on both counts. But perhaps you are right to leave him to his fate." She wound the silver cord around her fingers, drawing the knots tight. "It is not such an unpleasant one, after all. There are many of your kind who would give their souls to fly free as he can."
Sarah glared at the woman. "Of their own free will, maybe. I hardly think imprisonment was the fate he had in mind."
"Ah," her companion murmured in satisfaction, "There speaks the girl who would defend a helpless creature armed only with stones and her own two hands. Your Goblin King was proud, child. He thought himself too powerful to obey the rules which bind us all."
This wasn't what Sarah expected. Someone like Jareth-- like this fey creature, bound by rules? It was hard to imagine. Then again, running the Labyrinth was the challenge he'd set for her. It had rewards, penalties, pitfalls, and time limits. Maybe the Goblin King had his own rules to follow, too.
"How did he break them?" she asked.
"Why, by letting you go, of course. That was never supposed to happen."
"But I defeated the Labyrinth." She'd never said that out loud before, and it came out more like a question than a statement.
The sorceress gave her a look of sly reproach. "You took a bite of the peach. By our laws, you belong to him... forever."
"But..."
Sarah stifled a barrage of protests. You couldn't own a person like you could a stuffed toy. It wasn't right to expect her to abide by the arbitrary laws of some faerie otherworld when she wasn't one of them. She didn't know!
But you should've known. It isn't exactly without precedent, after all.
Sarah was grinding her teeth so hard, her jaw ached. "What do I have to do to free him?"
Her answering laugh was like falling rain. "First, you must find him."
The sorceress gestured quickly, a careless flick of her wrist. Sarah was not prepared for the windy tempest that nearly knocked her off her feet, the swirl of stinging dust in her eyes. She shielded her face, coughing and fumbling for the door, a wall... anything.
The wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun. When Sarah blinked past the tears and grit, she found herself standing in the doorway of an old storage room full of boxes and dusty stage props. The sorceress was gone, all of it was gone. Not caring if anyone heard, Sarah stepped back and slammed the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. Clutched tightly in her hands was a round object wrapped in deep red velvet. She untied the cord with unsteady fingers, letting it drop to the floor.
It was a crystal sphere, cracked and clouded and pale as the moon.
Part Two