"What Dreams Must Come"

(Sequel to A Forfeit of Dreams)

Written by K.L. Morgan

o

o

o

o

o

o

PART I

o

o

Tainted Love: CHAPTER EIGHT

o

o

o

Roksana was dancing.

Deep within the bowels of the Fortress, she was swirling her skirts to soundless music, making the dust of the abandoned ballroom kick up into soft clouds. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed as she lost herself to reverie. She spread her arms wide and spun, luxuriating in the emptiness that echoed all around her.

Once it had been filled with color and voices and song. Once she had danced here with others, surrounded by Incarnates in their blinding finery and otherworldly trappings. This fortress was their own, their sanctuary. All legends give their gods their own kingdom: Olympus, Asgard, Tir na n'Og. A plane of existence only they, and the chosen, could reach.

Not all the Incarnates lived in this shifting kingdom. Once -- once upon a time -- they had. But the dwindling of belief had eaten away at their borders until the lands around the Fortress had dissolved into mist and mysteries – rains of flowers, birds dying in arcs of fire – until only a thin crust of earth and rock surrounded the outer walls. Since then dozens had left, running back home to their lands of origin, to be closer to the warmth of their people and whatever worship remained. Roksana, with a few others, had stayed. Her own legend was strong enough to cross borders, was still known and loved.

Besides, only one person felt like home, and he sang to her with a voice like lost love.

So she danced where they had once danced together, surrounded by those who shared the same... distinction. Ugly or beautiful, graceful or gangly – humanity tended to create them in extreme images – all the Incarnates shared a certain indefinable quality. It had something to do with the way the light shifted around, but not quite on them, leaving them untouched by the reality of the moment. But even among these creatures Roksana and her beloved had somehow been set apart, a complete unit that (she knew) others could only envy. The circle of their arms had been its own world, spinning through the galaxy of the other dancers echoed in the sky-patterned floor beneath their feet. Spinning together like two of his crystal spheres.

But now her arms were empty. The ballroom was deserted. And the only sounds were her slippered feet gliding across the dusty marble, brushing clear star-paths through the grime of neglect. She was alone and her heart was hollow with it.

A ghost stepped out of the past and onto the ballroom floor. Frost-pale hair lay tousled across his forehead. His eyes were older, and the new set of his mouth lent a harshness to his features more familiar than the soft youth he had worn when she saw him last. The line of his shoulders spoke of weight, a burden reluctantly shouldered. Silently he extended his hand. It was wrapped in a frayed and dirty rag, the embroidery showing through the dirt proving it had once been part of a tapestry. She barely noticed it.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

As if she had a choice.

The man who’d invented the waltz had wanted beauty. He had plotted out the measured movements, sustained by a vision of partners moving as one being, their steps so intertwined it would produce a seamless journey across marbled floors, guided by soft and enticing music. But he had dreamed of humans – mortals whose learned grace was hampered by limited lives, bodies which slowly fell into ruin. He never imagined his dance, his brainchild, performed by beings that lacked such limitations. Or by two creatures who knew the rhythms of each others’ hearts with the familiarity of centuries – and used that as their music. If he had ever been able to see them dance his waltz, well... it would have stolen his breath.

They moved like the sun and the moon through the sky, chasing each other in a symmetry that was both natural and perfect. They stepped across the star-struck floor with surety and grace, tracing the currents of the cosmos. Every angle, every sweep, every turn was executed with precision. Roksana arched back into his embrace, so far that the masses of her dark hair nearly touched the floor, trusting that he could hold her. He did. He always did.

But then their rhythm broke. He passed her from one hand to another; she grasped at his hold and slipped. She caught at the loose end of a makeshift bandage unwinding from around his palm. It unraveled, and the momentum carried her, stumbling, further and further out of his arms. Unbalanced, she would have fallen, except that he belatedly closed his fist and the strip of cloth grew taunt, snapping her to a halt some feet away. They stood like that for a moment, suspended in space, as if listening for the music to begin again. Connected only by a thread.

"I’m sorry," she said awkwardly, breaking the silence. She dropped her end of the ragged fabric, letting it flutter to the floor. Jareth wound it back around his hand without speaking. Watching, Roksana’s eyes widened. She gave a little gasp, as if wounded. She strode forward to grab at his hand. He was stronger, quicker, but he let her take it. His gaze was unflinching.

She uncurled his fingers to their full length, exposing his palm. She stared, delicate skin becoming even whiter with shock and dismay. "What..." Her voice was a horrified whisper. "What is that?"

This made him look away, and sigh – the smallest breath of regret as he shut his eyes. "The price I paid."

"Jareth, when – " Her voice broke. She had to start again. "When did that happen? What happened?"

"It was a long time ago."

"Was it her?" She was suddenly fierce, demanding. Her nails dug into his flesh, and he gently reached with his other hand to make her let go. "Did she have something to do with this?"

"No." He sounded weary, now, as he finished wrapping his hand. "You know better than that."

"I do?" She was disbelieving. "What exactly do I know?"

He gave her a look. After so many years, that was often all it took.

True to form, it made her stop, her eyes soften as she thought back, thought hard. "I remember," she finally spoke, soft.

"I'm sure."

"When you made me leave," she went on, unhearing, "when you said you needed to walk the Labyrinth alone. Without me."

"Roksana."

"I didn’t want to go. We were fighting. I... I tried to... and you grabbed my arm."

"You don’t have to –"

"And I wondered why you were wearing gloves."

The room suddenly felt colder.

"You’ve been hiding it ever since then, haven’t you?" she asked, brittle. "For years. For lifetimes. And you hid yourself from us, made sure we wouldn’t ever find out. For all that time."

He didn’t answer.

"This means there’s more to this than that wretched girl. Despite the fact that she dragged you Aboveground. Or that you bonded her."

His eyes flickered to her face.

"Athan told me." Her mouth parted, trembled. "He thought it would help. He thought it would make me feel –"

"Athan doesn’t understand you," he finally interrupted. He sounded, for the first time, angry.

"No," she said, achingly soft. "You do. But you’re gone. Even in this moment. You’re not here with me. You’re with her. Thinking of her." Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Aging with her world."

He turned away.

"Jareth."

He stopped.

"I wasn’t enough?" Her voice was thin, a little tight -- she was trying to hold back tears. "We were happy. I remember that, too. I remember --" Her face crumpled. "So why not anymore? What did I do wrong?"

Her tears burned. Little licks of flame fell from her cheeks to the dusty floor, dissolving in sharp hisses. They seared her pale skin in long, languid lines that faded in moments, like a dream. He reached to trace a gentle fingertip along one. She jerked away from his touch.

"Don’t you dare," she choked. "Don’t you dare pity me, Goblin King. I don’t want the scraps of your heart." She took a step backward, voice strained to the breaking point. "Why should you be happy? What gives you the right?"

"I fought for her, Roksana," he replied evenly. "Any happiness I have, I won with my own two hands."

"I can see that." She spoke low, almost inaudibly. "But I don’t accept it."

His eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

"You think you can treat me like this. You don't think I'm a threat. Just a tame little bird." Her hands grasped at the folds of her skirt, white-knuckled. "But I am a predator as well, your Majesty. I am just as capable of hunting down your happiness." Her voice dropped, became intense. "I will tear it to pieces – with my own two hands."

She turned and ran before he could catch her, racing into the safety of the fortress’s twisting, turning hallways. She ducked her head, not wanting to hear if he was calling her back to his side. Eventually, worn down by the miles and miles of abandoned passageways that delved deep into the earth, her breath grew ragged and scarce. She sagged against a wall, cold stones stealing warmth from her body. She shut her eyes and thought of all the lands she’d traveled over, those of heat and haven: sharp-petaled flowers that blossomed like the sun, birds that sang to her in shrill, sweet voices, fruit that tasted like the sweetest season. And –

He crouched before her easily; sitting on his booted ankles among the dead, dry stalks of lost flowers. He held his hand toward her, and it in was one of her beloved golden apples, its skin the tawny color of the setting sun.

"Don’t you want it?"

"Yes," she sobbed to the memory, alone in the depths of a dark fortress. "I do. I want it so much."

---

He found Athan in one of the smaller rooms. The walls crumbled at the corners, letting an unnaturally bright, white sunlight slant into the otherwise dark space at harsh angles. It cut the shadows like a knife, leaving divisions of light and dark so sharp and precise they would draw blood, if you weren’t careful. Jareth stood safely in the doorway, but his own shadow was more adventurous. Feeling its soft touch along his shoulder, Athan looked up.

"How was your return?" he asked. He crouched by what looked like a pile of rubbish, thrown into the middle of the small room: a basket, frayed and broken into pieces, clumps of earth burned half to ash, slivers of dried roots and grasses. Wilted flowers.

Jareth didn’t reply, instead watching as Athan unconsciously toyed with one of the dead blossoms between gentle fingers. "Want to finish our game?" he asked abruptly.

Athan’s smile was wary. "It never finishes."

"Well." He shrugged one shoulder. "Let’s help it along."

Athan let the fragile petals fall back to the earth. "If you wish."

The next room they found was wide and reaching, stretching into darkness under ghost-pale globes of light that hung from the cavernous ceiling. The floor was broken up into regular squares of alternating light and dark tile, their surfaces worn velvety-smooth with age. Soon as their feet hit the cool squares, the shadows began to gather. Darkness swirled like dust, convalescing into murky epicenters scattered across the room. Some were grouped in clusters, others stood solitary in corners or spread out along the uneven floor. Shadows of all sizes and shapes. Their edges flickered like stars, fading and folding into themselves in an irregular rhythm.

The game itself would be just as irregular. There were two opposing sides, and pieces -- those shadows grouping like a universe of dark galaxies -- designated to each, but that was all the certainty it held. The shadows transformed when chosen, their positions suddenly shifting of their own accord. No one was sure if the game mimicked the players' lives, or their lives were influenced by the moves of the game. But it revealed much about the hearts of those who played the game -- which was why no one did, anymore.

"Same terms?"

"Of course."

Except the two who had always been reckless with their hearts. And other people's.

"It was your turn when we left off."

The corner of Athan's mouth quirked upwards. "How do you remember these things?" he asked, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

"That's the wonderful thing about losing -- and then regaining -- most of your memories. Everything's so fresh and new."

Athan barked a laugh and, with a carefree manner, laid his hand on a parcel of gathering darkness. Shadows peeled away quickly, as if torn off by a rushing wind.

It was Athan, sitting astride a snorting, fidgeting stallion that was obviously impatient to leap into action. The Athan on his back looked younger, somehow -- not for lack of creases in his sun-browned face, or any other kind of physical difference. But this Athan's eyes shone brighter, his smile was fiercer -- there was a burden of care missing from his face; the strength of his arms as he held back the stallion was too casual, and far more cruel.

"I've always liked your Knight," Jareth remarked casually. "Brings back memories."

Athan sighed and briskly slapped the horse's rump. So encouraged, it sprang forward, cantering only a few steps before it -- and its rider -- froze to immobility on another square. "Don't play the fool," he said shortly.

"I'm perfectly serious. You were a lot of fun back then."

"I was an idiot back then."

"Wasn't that what I said?"

Athan, refusing to smile, glared at him instead. "Your turn."

Shaking his head, Jareth took a small step forward. With a soft touch, he chose another dark nebula for himself. It shimmered, became a young woman in bare feet and tattered clothing, with a fire in her eyes -- literally.

"Now, that's interesting." Athan's voice held a ghost of the cruelty so apparent in his 'younger' self. "Last time we played this, she was your Queen. Now she's your Pawn?"

"Leave Roksana be, Athan. She doesn't need your interference."

"I'm sorry I told her about the bonding. I assumed she already knew."

"Well, she didn't," Jareth replied shortly. Courteous, he offered his arm, and the Roksana-piece smiled and twined her own around his, sinuously. Her laughter was hard and bright as he twirled her across the pale-and-dark floor stones, and she subsided into stillness in her new place. "From now on, leave her alone."

"Alright, fine. I'll just let the two of you rip each other apart, from now on." Turning away in disgust, Athan chose another piece. The shadows flickered, and fell away like rain.

"Damn me, did you really dress like that?"

Jareth looked over at the new game piece: himself, in worn jeans and boots, smooth leather jacket and fingerless black gloves. The Jareth-piece had a guitar case slung across his back. His head was down, slightly, hair falling over his closed eyes.

"Well," Athan continued dryly, not waiting for an answer, "I can't be too overjoyed you've suddenly become my Rook. Even if it is a welcome change from --" He paused. "Jareth?"

Jareth had stepped closer to the piece that resembled him. He looked at its gloved hands, and then his own, wrapped protectively in tapestry rags. He smiled.

"It's your move."

Turning on his heel, Jareth strode over to another patch of misty darkness.

"What, breaking out the Queen so soon?" Athan asked.

"I'm curious to see who she is, now. Aren't you?" Without a backward look, he chose the piece.

A woman with dark hair drawn away from a pale face. Strong features made her more than pretty: they lent her a vibrancy and a life that was only accentuated by her avid gaze. She smiled at Jareth, and it was not a nice smile.

"'Linda?" Athan spoke in shock behind him. "'Linda is your Queen?"

"I don't think she's my Queen," Jareth spoke, his tone acidic. Pieces could be known to turn on each other -- the uncontrolled elements of a player's life that ignited self-destruction.

"Nevertheless, she's part of your game now," Athan said. He sounded troubled. "But why would she --"

Ignoring him, Jareth gave the Queen-piece a gentle push. 'Linda raised an eyebrow at him and stepped regally aside. "It's your turn again."

"Wait just a minute -- this is not just between you and her, you know. She makes the others nervous."

"Your move."

Athan's face darkened. "Fine," he muttered viciously. With a stony expression, he reached into another swirl of shadows. They dissolved, as if under the sun, and left a young girl behind.

It'd been too long since Jareth had seen Aracelis. Time had eroded the memory of Athan's wife, as she once was: this slim, straight-backed girl with skin several shades darker than her husband's. Her hair fell down her back in small, sharp waves, the color of new copper. A soft, almost round face set with angular eyes and aquiline nose. Her mouth was too wide, upsetting the balance of her features. Revealing her startling youth.

The moment she appeared Athan's hand fell back to his side, heavily. The look on his face was startling: a mixture of unadulterated adoration, guilt, and terrible restraint.

"She was barely more than a child," Jareth observed. With a mild curiosity: "Did that deter you at all?"

Athan swallowed. His eyes never left the silacrum's face. "No," he said harshly.

"No, I'm sure you didn't notice," Jareth murmured. He contemplated his friend's face; the strain of Athan's clenched jaw. "What did you notice?"

"Her hands," Athan said shortly. "She was picking flowers."

"Yes... And you burst up out of the torn earth in a carriage of bone, drawn by horses breathing dark fire. I've heard the stories."

"It wasn't quite like that."

"It never is."

They both looked at the silacrum, the soulless imitation of a distant memory. A game piece. She couldn't move unless directed within the scope of their playing. Yet, even as she stood confined within her square, her arms reached out for Athan. For the only love she knew.

Jareth, unexpectedly somber, turned his considering gaze on his friend. "If you ignore her," he said softly, "she won't understand."

It was as if permission had been granted. One, two steps were all it took and Athan was lifting the memory of his wife into his embrace. She wound her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder with a sigh of contentment, cradled to his chest with his arm about her shoulders. His other arm slid under her knees to lift her away from the cold floor. Her dangling feet were small, and still grass-stained. Athan shut his eyes and turned his face towards her, lips pressed to her forehead. With that gentle touch a sort of peace filled him, the strain of his stance relaxing into surrender.

"It is quite a coincidence," Jareth remarked idly, "how I keep capturing your queens. I might begin to suspect you did it deliberately, just for the excuse to pick up another pawn."

Athan's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, looking over the head of his beloved. "Rot in hell, Jareth."

The damned in question laughed, shaking his hair out his eyes. "To each his own, my friend. And I wouldn't dream of intruding on your fair kingdom."

Athan's expression became haunted. His grip tightened around the child in his arms. "You can take it," he said bitterly. "I'm sick to death of this story."

"We can't be anything but what they make us."

"Do you really believe that?" Athan asked sharply. "Standing there in their clothing, aging according to their time -- in love with one of them! -- do you honestly believe we are completely subject to them?"

Jareth appeared unperturbed by this sudden attack. "You also loved one of their daughters. Did it change anything?"

"You know it didn't!"

"No," Jareth lashed out. "Instead of making you more human, she became one of us. And now the stories all talk of how she hates you for it. And she shuts herself away from all of us. Look at you now -- holding a shadow-doll to your heart." He shook his head, grim. "You made your choice." A bitter twist to his mouth. "We both did." He jerked his head towards the Aracelis. "Now make your move."

Athan turned away. He stepped across the checkered floor slowly, reluctantly, cradling a precious burden in his arms. His booted feet, moving as if weighted, scuffed the pale stones and left trails through the thick dust. He came to an abrupt halt, hesitating along the edge of some invisible boundary. He shifted his grip on the girl, hands sliding along the thin material of her summery shift. He set her down with infinite care.

There was a moment of stillness, a breath of calm as Athan's hand lingered against his beloved's cheek, standing as if lost in a dream.

"Declare."

Athan's mouth thinned. "Pawn promoted to Queen," he declared wearily.

Mist rose up from the stones at the silacrum's feet, curling against her ankles, wreathing about her form like a ravenous parasite -- ivy around an oak tree -- eating away at her self, corroding the distinction of her features. And then, as if a whip of wind had lashed through the room, the dark mist melted away, taking the memory of the past with it.

Leaving the truth behind.

Aracelis stood like a banshee on the hills: cold and distant and cruel. Her entire form was swathed in dark, heavy veils, falling past her hands and over her face. The fabric pooled on the floor, draped in folds around her body until she was almost completely lost to sight -- only the faint outline of her features could be seen, the shape of her hair as it was gathered above her neck. Athan had not laid eyes on his wife's face for a very, very long time. No one had.

Athan's hand was still outstretched, sun-brown fingers curved along her veiled cheek. This new Aracelis flinched away, turning sharply away from his touch. Athan dropped his hand.

"I need to ask," Jareth began after a pause, sounding almost subdued. "I wouldn't -- you know I wouldn't -- except that I must."

Athan was silent.

"Knowing what you do now -- knowing how it ends. How she suffers. If you had the chance... would you do it differently?"

"No," Athan replied, voice rough. "No. I couldn't lose her."

Jareth breathed in deeply, shutting his eyes. "Thank you," he said after a moment. "That's all I need."

He was walking away when Athan's sudden question arrested him: "You're going back, aren't you?" the Incarnation of Death asked.

"Yes."

"What changed your mind?"

Jareth studied the winding cracks, separating light from dark, as if they were an ancient language that would offer up tantalizing secrets. "I was wrong about her."

"How so?"

"I thought she'd left me to die. I thought it wasn't any of my choice. I thought she was vengeful and pitying, playing with me after I'd been so utterly defeated. I thought --" He paused. "I thought she was more like me." A shrug. "I made a mistake. One I shall be swift in correcting."

"It's been years for her. You know how time moves there." Athan's eyes flickered over his face. "Just look at you."

"I know," was the wry reply.

"What makes you think you can claim her again? What makes you think she'd come back to you?"

Jareth grinned recklessly. "Animal magnetism."

"Jareth."

He sighed, rocking back on his heels as he cast his gaze up at the crumbling ceiling. "I need her," he said simply. "More than anyone else could possibly need her." His eyes darkened. "She has no right to give herself to anyone else."

"Not a very generous attitude."

An arched eyebrow like an upswept owl's wing as he surveyed the silacrum, still standing silent. "I doubt either of us would be commended for our generosity."

Athan didn't smile. "Are you willing to risk her hatred?"

"Yes."

Athan looked back at the figure of his lost wife. "Good," he said bitterly. "Because you've probably earned it."

"I know that, too."

"Aren't you afraid of it?"

"I can work with it."

Athanathios looked, all at once, very tired. "It's your move."

"I'll wait."

"You'd better not." A rare smile. "You're in check."

Surprised, Jareth studied the layout of the room. "Well. Look at that."

"Move your King. See what's truly at risk here."

Jareth looked askance at the idea. "You just want to now my weakness," he said, faintly indignant.

"I think you should know, my friend. Before you start something you cannot stop."

"You're no fun anymore." Jareth strode over to the patch of swirling darkness Athan's new Queen now threatened. With a casual gesture, he threw off the shadows.

It was a child.

A tiny little girl, in fact, with a face still childishly round. Her dark hair was caught up in a braid and thrown over one shoulder. Pale skin was brought into sharp the daubs and swirls of paint on her cheeks, interconnecting to form intricate designs.

"Well, this is a... " Athan walked over, words trailing off. He frowned. "Those are some very -- very -- old runes." He stepped closer. "And in that style -- Jareth, who is this? They look like sacrificial --" He looked over at his friend. "Jareth?"

The king in question was white to the lips. "It's her." His voice sounded odd, as if coming from a distance. "Athan. It's Sarah."

Athan looked shaken. "No."

Jareth fell to his knees before the girl, bringing their eyes level. She smiled at him, looking as if she knew some wonderful secret, but didn't speak. She placed a small hand over his mouth with confidence, sentencing him to the same silence.

"Jareth." Now a tinge of panic crept into Athan's voice. "I think she recognizes you. She knows you."

Not looking up, Jareth placed his own hand gently over the child-Sarah's. His eyes were unbearably sad.

"Jareth."

The child-Sarah threw Athan a stern glare, and Jareth took her hand in his own and away with a sigh. "I know, princess," he murmured, soothing. "He's a loud, bad man. It's something we've all had to live with."

"Jareth!" Athan hissed.

"Her mother introduced us. Formally, I mean -- no mazes involved. She was a little younger then, but children remember." And then, angrily: "I should have remembered."

"Her mother? Why would her mother do that?"

"For the same reason she painted these runes on her face." Now his eyes were hard, voice harder. Her hand still in his, he drew it away from her for a better look. "And all over her arms, as well," her surveyed clinically. "She always was thorough."

"Tell me who her mother is."

Jareth easily picked the little girl up off the floor. She sat in the crook of his arm, head held high as he carried her the few necessary steps. He set her down within safety with a smile. One hand stretched out, tired to rub away some of the markings on her cheek. Gentle as he tried to be, she still winced -- and the runes remained clear.

"Damn," he said softly. "Sorry, princess. Had to try."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Jareth, tell me."

He straightened. "Thank you, Athan," he said calmly, not looking at his friend. "I did need to know that."

"Jareth."

His mouth quirked irritably. "I can't tell you. Stop asking." He threw his friend a hard glance. "Besides, you've already guessed."

Athan became desperate. "What are you going to do? If that's your Sarah, then she --"

"I know what it means, thank you."

"Don't you --"

"It's not important." Jareth turned, smiling brilliantly. "Nothing's changed. I meant to find her all along." He made for the doorway, throwing over his shoulder: "Now I just have a better excuse."

Athan caught at his arm. "Be careful. This isn't just about you, now. It could touch all of us."

"Why, Athan," Jareth drawled as he disengaged his arm. "Don't you have absolute faith in me?" He walked out without waiting for an answer, footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

Athan listened for a moment and then sighed, shoulders drooping. He laughed, softly and without amusement, shaking his head. "Well." He took in the abandoned game: wild Roksana pitted against an Aboveground Jareth, an impetuous Athan-knight scouring the land to protect his veiled and silent Queen, and a child dressed in dangerous runes while 'Linda stood in the corner -- watching, and waiting.

"Well," he said grimly, "it's set, now. It has to play itself out."

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

Author's Notes:

As always, a few short notes.

ONE: Replies to reviews will now be posted at my Livejournal community, which you can reach via the link in my bio. They're not up for Seven, yet, as my hands have been especially tendonitis-y lately and I want to take things slow. But they'll be there. Same goes for any unreplied-to emails that may have been sent me in the past few months, particularly if they were long, juicy ones. Those I keep under my pillow.

TWO: neversaynever beta'd this one, and what a FINE job she did. (I'm totally recruiting her to do the comic book tie-in prequel for what I plan to be my amazingly popular fantasy series. You can't, because I saw her first. Nyah.) But if you still see typos that she pointed out but I forgot about anyway, show me where and I'll be eternally grateful.

THREE: I'm taking a short break after the next chapter. Before you lynch me, read my LJ community post for an explanation why.

FOUR: As those of you in the Yahoo Group may know, there was originally going to be another chapter between the last and this one, concerning the moonlight girls of AFOD: Heart of Stone. It was giving me too much grief to be posted on time (or even close), but it will be posted as a separate WDMC side-story in the near-future.

As always, my love.