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Falling --COMPLETED	By : jinx1764 Category: G through L > Labyrinth Views: 10231 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Labyrinth, don't make any money, this is a work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
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"You're certain you don't have a broadsword or perhaps even a saber?" Jareth eyed the black weapon Chet had handed him; it felt cold and dead in his hands, unlike a fey-forged blade. He missed the hum of living quicksilver vibrating in his grip, its magic-infused metal singing out for battle and blood.
Thinking of quicksilver reminded him of his siblings, bloodthirsty Jenea especially. She would understand his reluctance to handle such an unpleasant object since the glory of battle existed within a bond with one's weapon. Alare, however, would prefer not to handle any weapon due to his pacifist nature, unusual in a fey and not well-respected. Alare was fortunate he was a second born son, thereby protected by Jareth's position and rare compassion.
His heart panged with homesickness. My sister, my brother, I wonder how you fare in my absence? Only a few days Aboveground and he missed them terribly. Guilt welled up in a bitter, acid wave when he realized he'd hardly thought of Jenea or Alare until now; he'd been too busy dealing with … everything. He hoped they dealt with Underground politics well, hoped time continued to move slower in comparison to the Aboveground or else he might return to find his siblings ousted by greedy neighbors.
"You got something against M-16's?" Chet asked, yanking the rifle out of Jareth's loose grip and rattling it in his face, pulling him back to his current circumstances. "This is a prime piece of kickassery!"
"Fuck ya!" Len said, hovering behind the older man. "Kickassery!"
Chet rolled his eyes, his grip white-knuckling. "Len …"
"If you say so," Jareth replied.
"What don't you like?" Chet rotated the well-used, well-cared for weapon in his grasp, looking for defects. "Looks fine to me."
Jareth sniffed and crossed his arms. "It's … dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes, the materials used to forge this weapon are inert," Jareth made a disparaging shooing motion, "I feel nothing, no connection to this … thing."
Chet stared for a second, then laughed. "You've never fired one, have you?"
"Never fired one?" Len echoed. "Oh man, that's crazy!" Both Jareth and Chet ignored Len's toe-bouncing enthusiasm.
"I don't see what difference that makes."
With a wide grin, Chet thrust it back into Jareth's reluctant hands, refusing Jareth's attempt to shove it back, resulting in a reverse tug-of-war. "Look, Goblin King …"
"My name. Is. Jareth." He ground out mid-return-push.
"Whatever." Chet shoved the M-16 into Jareth's chest hard enough to make them both grunt. "You really need to fire it 'fore you talk 'bout no connections and crap."
Len nodded eagerly. "Oh yeah, fire it! It's fucking awesome!"
"But …"
"Nope, yours now." Chet raised his hands from the weapon, forcing Jareth to clutch it with an awkward scramble rather than drop it. He doubted Sam would appreciate a damaged weapon, no matter how dead it felt to him. "And Len's excitement aside," Chet angled a thumb at the screens which Sam had been watching intently since before they arrived. "We ain't got any more time to argue. The barbarians are at the gates."
"The Vultures …" Jareth said softly.
"Just learn the accursed weapon, boy, and defend the Nexus," his father said. "It won't feel pleasant, but the dead iron won't harm you."
"Very well," Jareth turned the M-16 over in his hands, examining its dull nooks and crevices, "instruct me on its usage."
"Great!" Chet turned, picked up another item from the shelves and handed it to him. "In that case, I'll let you have this."
Jareth's heart sped up and he eagerly accepted the wicked blade, the M-16's carry strap slipping over one shoulder. His fingers wrapped around the smooth metal handle as he eased the knife from its sweat-patinaed leather sheath and weaved it skillfully through the air. While it didn't have the impression of a fey-forged blade, he did feel something alive within the mortal steel as if the old blade had drank blood before and keenly thirsted for more. He grinned, sensing his bloodlust rise and saw Chet smirk. Jenea would be proud; Alare would shiver.
"This is a well-forged knife," Jareth said.
"Yep, it's a Bowie knife. They were a common enough thing before The Shove, but harder to find now, especially a top-notch one. I thought a man like you would appreciate it." Chet quietly watched Jareth admire the best knife in their inventory. Sam had been saving that one for some reason or another, never would say why, but Chet decided it needed to go to Jareth once he asked for a saber because a well-made Bowie knife in the hands of a trained saberist made an extremely deadly weapon.
"Alright," Chet clapped his hands, "time for a quick, down and dirty field lesson on M-16 usage."
Reluctantly, Jareth secured the Bowie knife in its sheath and ran his belt through the loop. Settling the heavy blade on his left hip, it felt like a long lost friend come home again. A short time later, during Chet's lesson on modern Aboveground weaponry, Hurricane Sarah arrived and commenced arguing with Sam. Everyone in the room pretended to continue their activities while they observed the leaders fight, none more than Jareth.
Knowing Sarah was the Nexus was well and good, but discussing it privately with Sam caused him to realize his obvious connection to her. After all, he was the Keeper of the Bridge; of course he would be bound to the Nexus, but in what manner? He needed to study and analyze Sarah in hopes to understand how to … well activate her Nexus powers. He must be open to her.
And I can't very well allow her to be killed beforehand, or myself.
Therefore, her first words to Sam, so poignant and sad, touched the part of his soul he held in reserve. Few but his family and intimate friends knew of his capacity for tenderness, as king it was necessary to hide it. Now that he deliberately observed, Jareth heard the shattering of her humanity, felt her radiating vulnerability. In that instant, years dropped from her hardened face and the young teen who begged for her brother's return replaced Fixer. Unable to stop his compassion, Jareth ignored Chet's rambling about the wonders of M-16s and concentrated on her.
Exquisitely exposed by her few phrases to Sam, Jareth compared her fractured beauty to a damaged quicksilver blade. A fey-forged blade must be heated and folded a thousand times before its quenching in magic. If an error is made at any time during the forging process, a flaw in the blade is introduced. The great beauty and strength of a fey blade may hide the flaw for many years, only to cause a fatal ending for the wielder when it unexpectedly failed.
She is such a blade—beautiful, powerful, and deadly but fatally flawed. Jareth rubbed his thumb across his first finger, worrying the skin as he thought. The question is: Exactly what happened to create her flaw? And can it be healed?
When she met his speculative gaze, he was surprised to find a strange sort of reception. Not a welcoming sort of look, but neither hateful rejection either. Perhaps something of Sam's speech had filtered past her stubborn defenses. Could she ever see him as anything other than the hated Goblin King who destroyed her world?
"Only time will tell, my son."
I know, Da. Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. I know, but we have little of it.
Thunderous explosions rocked the complex, knocking everyone off balance. Jareth pulled himself up, one-handed, by the weapons rack and shook his head clear.
"They're through the entrance!" someone yelled and Jareth felt a hand grab his collar.
"We've got to join the others downstairs!" Sam shouted at him. At least it looked as though Sam shouted, his face was flushed and his teeth bared as he bellowed inches from Jareth's face. But Sam's words were muted as he if spoke through water.
"What?"
Sam yanked on his shirt, pulling it askew around his shoulders and clearly said into his ear, "Follow me!"
Tamping down his inner king, Jareth clutched his newly acquired M-16 in his right hand and stumbled after him with the rest of the armory's occupants. They rushed to the main entrance to help fortify the rest of the defenders already in place. Every resident old enough to manage a weapon formed a multi-layered defensive line at the end of the entrance tunnel, the perfect bottleneck.
As they ran downstairs in a spiral, Jareth caught glimpses of the battle already underway, the dim lighting doing little to shroud the horror of human violence. Racing with the pack, he tried to locate Sarah but the crowd was too thick and his own sensitive eyes and ears were overwhelmed with muzzle flashes, shouts, cries and the general din of battle. He knew this cacophony, was intimately familiar with its more medieval fey cousin who preferred swords, horseback and magic. The sound and light effects differed slightly but the end result did not.
"Sarah! Sarah!" The clamor ate his voice as he exited the stairs into the mass of humanity clashing in the main entrance quad. He spun in place, unable to see her for the blurring crowd. Where is she? His last view was of her tacit acceptance, her eyes softening towards him, then the explosions, then …
"Sarah!" The M-16's grip felt slick in his right hand, the weight of it dragging at his arm. Though he knew it was lighter than most of his weapons back home, its literal dead weight pulled its muzzle towards the dirt floor. Chet's lessons slammed in his mind.
Always hold it upright, across your chest, ready to fire…
He pulled it back into proper position.
Make sure the safe's off before you shoot…
Jareth glanced down, felt his right thumb center on the textured button and pressed it flush to the stock's surface.
Line up your sights with what you want to hit and place your first finger over the trigger…
The curved metal of the trigger was smooth and reassuring as he searched for a target.
And whatever you do, don't shoot friendlies!
His innate fey bloodlust, sparked earlier by the Bowie knife, thrummed in his veins when the sight, sounds and smells of battle consciously struck him, peeling back his veneer of civility. Tangy mortal blood and sweat teased his nose, making his heart and groin throb. His people, so naturally violent, constantly struggled with the temptation to succumb. Now that he allowed his mind to concentrate on the mortal weapon, the reality of battle washed over and drowned him, overriding his rationality. With a rumbling growl, Jareth zeroed in on one he knew to be a Vulture, a harsh featured man cutting the throat of a younger one near the tunnel's edge. As he ran, Jareth brought the M-16 up to his face and aimed true, his ancestors' bloodlust screaming for violence against the perpetrator.
"Arrrrgh!" Several feet from his target, he squeezed; the trigger depressed cleanly. The weapon spasmed in his hands, power numbing them as it coughed out his fury in an almost uncontrollable stream pulling up and right, blossoming a crimson line over the Vulture's torso. The evil-doer, spattered in fresh blood from his victim, jerked up in time to see a Goblin King in battle mode running him down seconds before bullets tore him apart. Jareth stood, panting over the gasping, gagging man.
The Vulture twitched and groaned, his life leaking out too slowly for Jareth's liking. He switched the M-16 to his left hand and unclipped the knife from its sheath with his right, sliding it out. Light reflected on the highly whetted blade, catching the Vulture's attention. The surrounding noise receded for Jareth as he tunnel-visioned, his jaw squared and his eyes glittering.
"N-no … p-please …" the man, dressed in unwashed clothing and bits of human souvenirs, stretched up a trembling arm, his fingers coated in fresh and dried blood.
Jareth cocked his head to one side, his voice frozen. "You would beg for mercy?"
"Yes!"
Deliberately, he placed his booted foot on the man's chest and pushed. The Vulture gargled and squirmed, clawing at his leather-encased shin. Leaning down, Jareth pressed the hair's-breath, sharp edge of his knife to the man's throat until he felt it cut his sun-thickened skin. The Vulture's hands flew from Jareth's boot to the knife, eyes boggling.
"Fey don't believe in mercy," Jareth said as he finished the slice with one firm, downward and outward stroke. Blood spurted, the hot fountain hitting his face. Jareth blinked to protect his eyes and licked the salty prize from his lips. Another sort of lust roiled in his loins, stirring his ancient birthright when the mortal blood absorbed into his system. He stood, shuddering, as thoughts of conquest and domination filled him.
Sarah!
"Sarah," he whispered, his rational mind snapping back. The continuing battle crystallized in strident detail; he turned from his victim, searching for her. So many fought, they blurred; difficult to distinguish one from another other than the Vultures seemed to be wearing human parts as adornment.
"Typical cannibalistic behavior of pointless humans," his father said with a heavy, disparaging tone.
No more violent than most fey, Da.
His father gave no answer.
Jareth fought his way through the throng, cautious to strike only those he deemed Vulture, his knife warm and syrupy with mortal blood. The M-16 was slung across his torso, out of his way but close at hand. Chet was right. Its power, dead or not, was addictive to his fey temperament. His bloodlust sang it usefulness and itched to experience the pounding again, but his rational mind feared injuring innocent humans, specifically Sarah. No, the knife, formed like a short saber, was far better to such close quarters. Meanwhile, he internally battled his passions, fought to keep a clear head between the bloodlust and the sexual desire inflaming him with every kill.
Time elapsed and Jareth soon stood amongst the survivors, the last of the Vultures either killed or run off. Moans and cries circled him; he lowered his outstretched arms, the muscles burning and clenching. His stomach protested the lack of food as his adrenaline trickled off, and he felt deep exhaustion settle, triggering a pointed migraine behind his eyes. Falling where he stood sounded blissful.
I must find Sarah first.
It turned out to less challenging than he feared, though just as stressful. Sarah's cries drew him as if he were tethered to her. Unerringly, Jareth stumbled over and around bloody and broken survivors to her side. She crouched next to another severely injured woman, whom she embraced tightly. The other woman's breathing grew shallower as she spoke; she was not long for this world. Hesitant to interrupt her, Jareth waited and listened.
"… God, Holloway, why?" Sarah cried.
"Sarah … listen." Holloway gasped, pulling at Sarah's shoulder. "Toby …"
"Toby? What about him?" Sarah's voice raised an octave.
"He's …" Holloway shivered, her eyes fluttering. "They … took him."
"Oh God." Sarah's face blanched.
Jareth tightened his grip his knife's tacky handle. Tobias lives? He's kidnapped? By them?
"Sorry," Holloway whispered with her last breath, her body going lax in Sarah's arms.
Tears clearing tracks over her dirty, bloody cheeks, Sarah looked up to see Jareth scowling down, his right hand squeezing the Bowie knife until it shook. Coagulating gore oozed from the curved tip to soak the packed dirt floor between them.
"We'll get him back, Sarah. I swear it."
Holding back a sob, her breath hitching at the rear of her throat, Sarah stared at the horrific vision of the warrior Goblin King glaring down at her, red and black imprinting upon her soul, and smiled.
"I know," she said with a moment of perfect contentment.
Jareth grinned.
- 12
- 13
- 14
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Falling --COMPLETED