68A/N: This is my first foray into the Labyrinth fandom, so be gentle. It's a story I've had in mind for a few years and have finally been inspired to write. I've chosen not to give warnings/tag triggers because I don't want to give away any of the story in advance, but suffice to say, I plan to deal with some dark-ish themes beyond those in the source material (though nothing that will take it beyond a "T" rating, I think). I envision this as a novella-length work.
I'm writing this in the present tense, which is unusual for me, so forgive me if you find any tense errors.
Obviously, Labyrinth is not my property and I profit from it in no way.
Sarah thinks about the utter lack of surprise in the paths she takes now. Her slippers move over shiny travertine which reflects the overhead fluorescent glow back into her eye. She squints.
Straight, wide, and bright, the hallways intersect at regular intervals, at right angles, and there are signs everywhere.
Dayroom.
Dining Hall.
Visitor Check In.
It would be impossible to get lost here.
Everything is white, and clean, as if something has leeched all the color from the walls, the floors, the ceiling, the people. As if it has all been soaked too long in bleach.
She scratches idly at her cheek.
"No, Sarah." The kindly man at her side takes her hand and guides it away from her face.
Sarah's eyes trail down to her fingertips then, and she sees the fresh blood beneath her ragged nails. It is scant, and makes curved stains, trapped between nail and skin; three tiny, red smiles (pointer, middle, ring) when she bends her fingers to inspect them, and three tiny, red frowns when she stretches her hand out before her to regard it further.
Comedy. And Tragedy.
Once, she'd thought she might major in theater when she got to college. Like her mother. That doesn't seem likely now, though.
She pushes the errant thought away and looks again at her fingernails. The crimson beneath them seems out of place here, the one dark thing in this luminous, whitewashed world. She smiles before remembering she shouldn't. Her eyes drop to take in the tips of her white socks, peeking out from the open toes of her slide-on shoes, and she continues along the wide hallway with her genial companion, the man who had stopped her from picking the scab on her face; a man called Sam.
(He has a sign, too; a small rectangle embossed with his name, pinned just over his heart, its long edge perfectly parallel to the floor. It is the one ornament on his crisp, white uniform.)
"Sorry," Sarah whispers hoarsely, curling her bloodstained fingertips into her palm. "I forgot."
There are times when Sarah wonders what it would be like to be normal.
Her life before she had wished Toby away had surely been destined for the most middling sort of normalcy, but now, it is anything but. That she owes her current state (her long-desired escape from normalcy) to the most selfish, unthinking, cruel act imaginable is an irony that both amuses and shames her.
All the trappings of royalty: a palace in which to dwell; a kingdom at her feet; a bevy of loyal servants to carry out her wishes and whims; the richest of gowns to wear; the choicest of foods to eat; chests of gold and silver and gems; ropes and ropes of pearls, more than her two hands can hold; entertainments and masques and feasts; the unquestionable devotion of the one who had bestowed it all upon her so readily.
The one who had made her a queen.
Sarah slumps, a frown marring her face. The weight of all she has, and all she will have, presses down upon her like a boulder from the Northern Mountains. She covers her face with her hands and breathes deeply, in and out, in and out.
That she owes her current state to the most selfish, unthinking, cruel act imaginable is no irony at all. It feels more like…
Justice.
"Precious." Jareth's voice is like the finest silk, a sleek scarf which drapes over her shoulders, then wraps around her throat warmly, and just a little too tight. "Your petitioners await."
"Yes, my king," Sarah replies automatically. The ruler of the Goblin Realm smiles, but Sarah can see by the agitated way he twirls three shining crystal orbs between the fingers of his gloved hand that he is not happy. The unsatisfactory depth of her sincerity chafes him, creating a wound which will not heal, and when he is in his cups, Jareth rails that she lacerates him.
"I bleed!" he insists in these moments with breathtaking clarity, despite the impressive degree of his inebriation. "Do you not see it?"
The Goblin King's nearly hysterical tantruming is balanced by the earnestness with which he laments and Sarah sometimes wonders if perhaps he does bleed, in places and ways her human eyes cannot appreciate.
Once, she even thinks she sees a tear form and nearly spill over his shining lashes, but she can't be sure it isn't just glitter catching the candlelight.
She leans nearer to the mirror of her dressing table and inspects her eyes intently. Are they cruel?
"You are beautiful, my dear," the king assures her, and with a slight wave of his hand, her mirror goes black as if the glass backing is painted with coal dust rather than silver.
In the Goblin King's palace, every mirror is a magic mirror.
She rises from her cushioned stool and turns to face him. "I'm ready."
"Of course you are," Jareth replies, flicking his fingers so that the fragile balls he has been idly spinning jump into the air high above their heads. She watches as one by one, they pop like soap bubbles, showering both of them in tiny, sparkling flecks of glass. She would need to be careful when scrubbing her skin in the bath tonight. "Shall we?" The Goblin King offers Sarah his arm. As she takes it, the dressing table at which she has just been sitting shimmers, wavers, and then disappears into nothingness, as if it had never been.
Nothingness.
There are times when Sarah wonders what it would be like to be normal.
