Author: Some Scribbles PM
Sarah. Jareth. Sometimes the subtlest torments come as gifts. Be careful what you let yourself dream.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Suspense - Words: 1,123 - Reviews: 12 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 08-21-07 - id: 3737423
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth.
Sing to me the song of the stars.
Of your galaxy dancing and laughing and laughing again.
"Only Hope," Switchfoot
She would be irritated at being pulled into one of his dreams if every day life had not been quite so boring since her fifteenth birthday.
It would have been nice to say that she had rescued Toby and turned her back on the Underworld and never once looked back. But she still loved her imaginings, still wanted to act, still drifted off into a story and neglected the "real world."
Only now Sarah was aware that underneath everything she had once thought to be pretend was a deeper, darker reality. With each new tale she discovered she couldn't help but wonder: was there really a Beast to go with Beauty, did Cinderella's magic tree still breathe somewhere, and what happened to the witch after the dwarves made her wear those red hot slippers?
Because if one tale was real, then it only stood to reason…
Oh, but he had been more real than any other reality she had ever seen, and so had that maze (she didn't call it 'The Labyrinth,' even in her thoughts, because she had learned that names had power and she didn't want to take any chances), and the friends she had made there.
And who knew what reason had to do with a land of thirteen hour days anyway?
So even though it wasn't fair that she kept dreaming like this—Sarah was certain she recognized a certain gloved hand in it—because he had no power over her and surely directing her dreams was stretching the rules—
Well, Sarah had learned that life wasn't fair anyway. And really, she preferred having the dreams. Sometimes in the twenty-four hour world, it was easy to look at that time in the maze as an elaborate dream. She didn't want to forget.
And sometimes a shadow would fall across the sun and her heart would clench up and she would be there, just as she had been before, and she wouldn't know which way to move or where to go or what to do, but she just knew that he was watching her, waiting for her to fail. And she would not fail. So Sarah would shake off the shadow and walk on.
So when Sarah opened her eyes to a scent that was like nothing-in-this-world, she drew the quite logical conclusion that she was no longer in this world but she was in a new one. That hypothesis was only supported when she saw that she was lying down in her flannel nightgown on a field of blue daisies.
It was warm where it had been winter, and so the first thing Sarah did was roll up her sleeves. She didn't really see any reason to get up. It was only a dream and the scent from the flowers was quite pleasant. It was something light, tingling at the edge of her awareness, not too sweet but just—just right.
She folded her hands behind her head and watched the clouds chase each other.
"Dragon," she said aloud, naming the shape of a cloud. To her delight, the nebulous shape morphed to form a perfect replica. Not childish enough to be unwary, however, Sarah quickly named herself a protector—just in case. "Knight."
And one of the clouds shifted until she laughed with delight as she recognized the shape of Sir Didymus and his noble mount Ambrosius.
The gallant knight immediately saw his foe and raced to the challenge. The dragon reared up, breathing steam, but was no match for the knight whose lance found the weak spot between arm and chest. The dragon dissipated in a burst of vapor, showering down a light mist on the field.
The scent of the flowers increased at this watering, and Sarah smiled when the knight turned to salute her with a raised lance before vanishing.
She breathed in deep and called out to the clouds, "Castle," and she watched as one took shape. She spent the rest of the dream populating it, speaking out random pieces of memorized stories (Tristan or Lady of the Lake—she had moved on to more mature melodrama and was quite proud of herself for it) and watching the clouds act them out for her.
When she woke up in her bed to a dull February day the scent of the blue daisies faded as she inhaled the heat-scented room and grimaced when the faint smell of metal replaced that pleasant, light aroma. Sarah stretched in her bed, luxuriating in the remembrance of her dream before sitting up.
She wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of the room and found herself wishing for that field of blue daisies. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, her eyes widened.
Bastard. That bastard!
He had done this on purpose! He had purposely sent her a dream filled with a scent that would call to her, no, nothing deep, nothing seductive like the ball room with the princess gown, but something oh so subtle, something she would never experience again. Not without him. Not without wishing for it.
Sarah refused to curl up in her bed and cry and she swiped one hot tear away from her cheek with a fist. He was probably smirking at her, the arrogant son of a bitch.
Too late, he'd be singing, too late. You realized the trap too late.
She could almost feel him leaning over her shoulder.
Now I've got you.
He. Did. Not.
"You have no power over me," she whispered.
That sense of coiled presence lifted and Sarah planted warm feet on a cold floor.
She was going to take a shower. She was going to use some of that special jasmine body wash she had got for Christmas.
And she wasn't going to forget—oh no, this she'd remember—but she would not allow him power over her. This was the last time she would allow herself to accept one of his dreams.