No Choice At All
Author: Bella (email@example.com)
Short Summary: Sarah Williams: Wife and Mother. Shaped by those titles, she lives in suspense of the Goblin King breaking her adult and disillusioned world. Jareth could do just that in his reckless pursuit to better the girl in a game of choice. A five part, short work.
Rating: PG, for now
Archiving: All I ask is to let me know where to find you and my story. Contact me through my email provided.
Disclaimer (Applies to all chapters.): No Choice At All is a piece of fan fiction, written with the authoress' respect and appreciation of Labyrinth, its creators and those who own the rights. The characters, settings, and history of Labyrinth are borrowed. The plot devices and story line created by the authoress are her creative property. No profit is being made by the writing of this piece of fan fiction.
Special Thanks to: Lady Silma, who reintroduced me to Labyrinth and its fandom.
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She dreamt of golden baubles and fair faces, of laughter and forgotten places. Air was sweet upon her tongue, gardens green and lush. A timid sun rose over the rolling hills and open gates, showering rays as soft as moonlight upon her skin. Riddles ran through her mind.
One door leading to certain end.
One door leading the same way and back again.
Choose the right, never choose the left. If she had gone that way . . .
But they were liars, these laughers bestowed with sweet tongues and golden faces. She began to remember of these forgotten places, gardens shriveling under the brightening and bleeding of the sky, hills rolling as rocks were given voice. And the open gates closed behind her.
She was trapped in His Labyrinth again.
"No!" Sarah Williams bolted from the bed. Shaky hands rose to her throat, clutching the twine there and the silver pendant made slick by her fretting flesh. Her breath rasped within her ears as her heart beat behind her eyes.
Sarah turned back to the bed; reluctantly crawling over the twisted sheets and blanket towards the figure huddled beneath undisturbed covers. She reached out a hand, pausing, listening, glancing about herself, waiting for drawers to open and close with a crash, bedcovers to crawl. None came. Decidedly, she snatched forth to the covers and the man lying there.
Her husband looked back up to her, bleary eyed . . .eyes as wide as an owl's.
"Sarah, you have to stop doing this," he grumbled as he turned over, pulling the blanket from her nerveless fingers.
Sarah sat back heavily upon her heels, looking down at the dark man lying in their bed. His form ran the length of the bed and his girth was strong and substantial without being flabby and overbearing. His presence was reassuring in the night, and in theory during the day. He was a very imposing figure to those who gave just a wayward glance, and to those that stared too long. He was comforting, reassuring, and real. Her heart began to slow and breath steadied as she gazed down at the unknowing man.
"I'm sorry," she breathed, a sigh of relief, reaching forward to push the dark hair from his brow.
But heart, breath, and movement stopped as the shrill tune of a music box whispered into the air.
"Jonathon," she said to herself, pushing back off from the bed and rushing to the door.
"Where're you going, Sarah?"
She turned but a moment, head worrying this way and that, between the questioning of her husband and the ghostly tune.
"I'm going to check on the baby," she said, easily pulling the door open, as it was never truly shut.
"Don't wake him up again," he said. "Babies need their sleep. I need my sleep. You need your sleep. Why can't we all just go to sleep?"
Yet, Sarah did not hear him over the slap of her feet against the wooden floors, legs straining to rush but not run. No, no more running. The sound of the music box became familiar and clearer as she approached the open door. She pushed through it as if it were not there and immediately ran to the source of the sound, high upon a shelf and far from her son's pudgy hands.
A small, porcelain figure danced around herself, swathed in a crisp, yellowing dress, hair hiding her face since some fall at Toby's hand, within the dusty glass orb that played on as she turned and turned. Sarah hated that box, hated its music, hated its memories. She hated it but could not bear to rid herself of it. So she stowed it away on some high shelf in the nursery -the very shelf she was looking at now- as some final spite to the memories she could not rid herself of. It said, "You have no power over me." And the music box had been silent since.
Yet, now it sang on and the figure danced.
She clawed at the lower shelves, reaching up to grasp the music box. Her hand wrapped around the cold metal base.
And the music stopped.
Sarah stilled, weight heavy upon the shelves as they creaked. The tiny figure was turned to her, face obstructed by the dark bushel of hair. But she would have sworn that it was smiling knowingly down on her. Quickly, she let go of it, as if stung, and stepped back from the shelves. She worried her hands before her, taking cautious steps back, eyes intent upon the figure and glass she was caught within.
She should have never placed the damned thing in her son's room. Never. How could she have dared place such a tainted thing in the same room as Jonathon? It was tempting, it was taunting, and it was daring.
She turned swiftly to the cradle across the room, furthest from the window and closest to the door. Her hands clasped upon the plastic railing, eyes widely looking down on the angelic face peacefully a slumber. Sarah smiled at the sound of his gentle, even breathing, watched the slow rise and fall of his breast. His light blanket had been disturbed and was scrunched about his feet towards the end of the small mattress. She quickly pulled the blanket back up to cover his form and tucked it around his sides and curled legs. He liked being tightly swathed during his sleep but she didn't wish to wake him. Her brow furrowed at the thought. Jonathon never kicked off his blanket, never traveled in his sleep. How he finally fell asleep was how he awoke. Her hand hovered over the blanket that she had just tucked around the child. She watched her fingers shake as the baby yawned and shifted.
Sarah drew a loud, shaky breath.
Within her son's hand was one white feather.
Sarah fell to the floor with her back to the cradle, knees drawn to her breast, and closed her eyes against the tears as the music box played again.
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