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Return to the Labyrinth	By : Gaeliceyes Category: G through L > Labyrinth Views: 20725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 22
- 23
- 24
Chapter 23 is here! Huzzah! And it took me less than a year, which is six months less than the last update took. I won't go into details of my absence. If you wish to know, I invite you to read my profile. In the meantime I would like to dedicate this chapter to all my readers, but most especially Solea. Happy Birthday Solea! I hope you like your present!

As usual, thank you to my betas Ginny and Leia. The poem for this chapter is called “The Poison Tree” by William Blake.

<center>The Poison Tree</center>

Aisling came to floating on a cloud, or at least something that closely resembled one. The room blazed with light. She blinked up at a carved mahogany canopy draped in fine velvet curtains so deep a green they were almost black. There was no sound but the soft crackling of flames. She couldn't remember where she was, or how she got there.

O, God, she ached; from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Her shoulder was on fire, throbbing with every beat of her heart. When she turned her head the pain spiked and she groaned. A moment later the Goblin King strode into the room looking like some marble Adonis, clad only in a pair of gray breeches. He looked furious. Oh, yes, now she remembered. She'd seen Jareth's naked backside.

He stopped just beside the fireplace, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side as he examined her through narrowed eyes. Aisling found herself more distracted by his sculpted chest than by his scowl. Was the smooth, hairless expanse natural or did the Goblin King manscape? Not really an appropriate thought that, considering why she had made the effort to find him. There was an edge of hysterical laughter to the thought. She held back the urge to giggle, wondering if she'd hit her head. She closed her eyes for a long moment, struggling to still her foggy thoughts. She opened them again and tried to turn her head to see him better, but he snarled softly and she froze.

“Lie still. You are by far the most stubborn creature I have ever had the misfortune to know,” he growled through lips pressed grimly together. Her natural inclination being contrariness, Aisling shifted, pushing up on her elbow on the uninjured side. The pain flared again and she gave a tiny gasp. Jareth was at her side in an instant, sitting on the bed and leaning over her, providing gentle, but insistent, pressure, to push her back down into the pillows. She tensed, but his fingers dug into her arm painfully.

“Aisling, look at me. Attend!” He took her chin in his other hand and she had no choice but to meet his green and gold sorcerer's eyes. They looked like burning jewels in his pale face and she couldn't tear her gaze away. He brought his face close to hers, close enough to kiss, and her throat dried up completely. “You will heed me on this, little dream,” he said softly, voice a dangerous silken caress, “If you attempt to rise once more, I will tie you to the bed. Do you understand?”

Her body did not dislike that suggestion as much as she thought it should. He did not repeat his question, but waited silently. Only once she nodded, slightly, and mumbled her assent, did he release her and stand back up. He glanced at her sharply, once, before leaving the room again.

Aisling waited several minutes, watching the flames dance and feeling the sick tension of her mission twist inside her. She was just considering risking his ire by disobeying him when he returned carrying a tray. He set it on the bedside table, resuming his seat beside her on the bed as she examined the contents with caution. There were two steaming bowls, one with a cloth soaking in it, the other with a spoon. The smell made her mouth water. However, the pile of clean bandages, needle and thread did not do pleasant things to her stomach.

Reason finally caught up with observation and she looked at him. “What are you doing?” she squeaked as Jareth began removing the linen at her shoulder.

One brow rose insolently, his expression implying it was an obvious question. “Changing your dressing. You tore your wound open...and you bled on my floor.” She hissed in pain as he peeled the last layer carefully away from her wound. She noticed the once white fabric was dark and stiff with blood, both old and new. Jareth dropped it into an unceremonious heap on the tray. She felt panic tighten her throat at the thought of him tending to her.

“No, you shouldn't...you mustn't do it yourself...” She twisted under him, but his hand shot out to grab her uninjured shoulder, hard. She stilled instantly, chest heaving. She blinked back the tiny, dancing sparkles of black and gold that had begun to edge her vision. Perhaps trying to move really was a bad idea. She couldn't tell him anything if she passed out again.

“Do you think me incapable?” He asked in a tone of polite menace. “I assure you I am not. Niela is busy, and as my other subjects have obviously failed to keep you in your place, it falls to me to make sure you obey.” He released her shoulder, turning his attention once again to the exposed wound. She gritted her teeth against the stabs of pain, despite that she could tell he was trying to be gentle as he cleaned the area.

“No. You don't understand...” her voice was rough and urgent, nearly a whisper, but loud enough in the too quiet room. The weight of time passing seemed like a solid thing on her chest. She had to get him to listen.

“Ah, so now I am dimwitted as well as incompetent?” His voice was a little chillier than it had been a moment before.

“No, that's not ...” she sighed, struggling to put into words the urgency of what she had to tell him. She gestured toward her shoulder with her bandaged hand. “This isn't important. I have to...”

“I will decide what is and is not important, wildling.”

“But...”

“Do you really wish to test my resolve on this matter, little one?” His eyes gleamed as he stared her down. He flicked a glance down at his hands, then back up at her. Her breath stopped when she saw he now held a length of white silk rope, which he was running slowly through his nimble fingers. A cackling sound drew her attention to the mantle where the raven perched. It danced from foot to foot, head cocked and watching her. It's eyes sparkled as if laughing at her predicament. It appeared a far cry from the frightened bird that had woken her up.

“I need no help from you,” the King snapped. The bird's feathers ruffled indignantly, but it hunkered down and fell silent. “Well?” he asked with eyebrows raised.

Aisling just shook her head mutely and settled back. He was in no mood to be reasoned with. She would have to wait just a little longer for him to listen. She focused instead on breathing through the pain and watching him from beneath lowered lashes. It wasn't often, she realized, that she could just look at him. For several minutes the only sounds were the fire crackling and the cloth being dipped into and wrung out over the bowl of water.

“As I thought,” he murmured finally, radiating satisfaction. At that moment she realized a greater danger than the one to her overstimulated senses. The firey's teeth must have damaged the cloak before tearing into her shoulder. Had they damaged the illusion too? Her whole body stiffened and dread lodged in her throat.

“What?” she choked out.

“Just here,” his fingers hovered over a spot on her shoulder. She wrenched her head over, trying to see, dreading the sight of pale white skin gleaming beneath the fur. She barely registered the searing pain before Jareth's unforgiving fingers grasped her chin and forced her head away again. “Are you dim, little one?” he asked, disgust in his voice. “You are twitchy as any wild creature. I was only confirming that you had torn your stitches, as I suspected.”

She did not hear him. She was both relieved and dismayed at the sight that had greeted her in that brief glimpse of her wound. Her shoulder looked just as if some wild animal had been gnawing and tearing at it. Several gashes, long and deep, made uneven lines of angry red. The fur had been trimmed away from the edges of the torn flesh, which was as dark and leathered as her hands and face. There was no hint of pale pink to give her away.

“I will have to leave it open for now. My sewing skills leave much to be desired, but Niela will be here soon enough to see to it.” He loosely wrapped her shoulder with the clean linen. “I think now you had better eat.”

“I can feed myself,” she snapped irritably.

“Did I say otherwise?” he asked mildly, eyes twinkling. “Let me help you sit up.” He had already wrapped his arms around her before she could protest, not that she could find the will to do so. Breathless with tension, she fought her initial flight response and tried to relax as he lifted her up against the headboard. The embrace may have been impersonal on his part, but she relished it. His fine silken hair tickled her cheek, and her nose was filled with the scent of spice and musk, uniquely Jareth. She closed her eyes, ignoring the pain of her shoulder, and kept them closed even after he had drawn away.

She felt his weight leave the bed, and opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, his brow wrinkled and lips pursed as he contemplated her. It was only a flash. His face smoothed out into its usual hauteur as soon as he saw her eyes open. He handed her the bowl of soup from the tray. “Eat,” he ordered, before turning away. He draped himself languidly over a chair by the fire and watched her with slumberous eyes. In fact, if she didn't know him better she would have thought him asleep.

Jareth forced himself to lounge as he watched the wildling begin to eat. There was an unfamiliar sensation in his chest, concern with perhaps a touch of fear. It vexed him and made that spot between his shoulder blades itch with discomfort. When he had awoken to see her watching him sleep with those wide, liquid eyes, he had at first been irritated. Until he noticed the dazed look in her gaze and the lines of pain bracketing her mouth. He hadn't been quick enough to catch her when she slipped to the ground.

As soon as she passed out, That Damned Bird began flying about the room in a panic. He couldn't dismiss the pesky beast, it was not his magic. He told himself it was only natural to deposit her on his bed. It was the closest surface and the bird quieted down right after. It had been little enough effort to ring for the tray, no secret desire lodged behind it, except perhaps for peace and quiet. His gaze drifted to the night dark sky beyond his window. The last thing he wished in the middle of the night was for Nel and half the staff to be trooping in and out of his suite. No, better to see the wildling settled and let Nel tend her in the morning.

A small sound drew his eyes back to Aisling. She was sitting very still, eyes half closed, staring at the bowl. “Why have you stopped eating?” he demanded.

Her eyes rose to meet his, and he found himself momentarily caught in the amber of her gaze. Then she blinked, and the spell was lost. The wildling straightened her shoulders and firmed her jaw. Jareth felt his lips quirk at her obvious attempt to shore herself up.

“I find I can't eat another drop until you let me tell you what I've come to tell you,” she said decisively, with only a little tremor at the end. His eyes narrowed.

“Eat, or I will make you eat,” he said softly, even as he wondered to himself why he was so hellbent on making her do so.

Instead of meekly accepting his orders she just shook her head. “I came to tell you something urgent,” she said as if he had not spoken.

“I fail to see what could be so important you risked yourself.” He stood and began stalking toward her. She blinked, but he was strangely pleased to note how she did not shrink away. She held ground, shoulders back and head high. Still, she rushed to get the next sentence out before he reached the bedside.

“Leila's been attacked.” That stopped him in his tracks.

“What are you talking about?” He demanded, brow plunging into a deep scowl.

“I think Leila's been attacked, by nightmares from beyond the wall. Maybe dead...”

“You think,” he murmured. “And what precisely would make you think that.”

“I could...I could show you,” she offered. One kingly eyebrow rose and he found himself intrigued despite his irritation. He waved one imperious hand at her to indicate his acceptance.

He watched her glance around the room covertly, as if looking for something. Finally her gaze settled on the bowl of red-tinged water at her bedside. Her good arm, with coincidentally her injured hand, started to reach across toward it, but stopped when she caught of his displeased glare. She smiled weakly. “Could you...?”

“My, what bloodthirsty tastes you have,” he commented lightly. “No wonder you haven't finished your soup.” He deftly switched out the bowls.

“I'm not going to drink it,” she snapped, eyes crackling. Jareth simply looked amused. Her high dander didn't last long. She looked down into the bowl for a long moment, teeth worrying her lower lip.

“Are you reading the future?” he asked mildly.

“No,” she breathed, an odd note of sorrow in her voice, “the past.” She lay one gnarled finger lightly on the surface and the once clear water was suddenly clouded with roiling, half-seen images, tinted a sullen red. Surprised, loathe though he was to admit it, and intrigued, he leaned forward, towering over her. She started, barely a flinch, but her hand lost contact briefly and the liquid sloshed lightly, returning to its translucent state. She glared up at him, but he merely shrugged and raised his brows inquiringly. He smiled blandly when she shook her head and then perched on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Your mirror ability?” he asked softly. She nodded. She had told him of course, that she could see what her dreams had seen in mirrors, shortly after she discovered it. At the time it had seemed a quaint by-product of her dream magic, but hardly the sort of high magic control that he had been interested in teaching her. Perhaps he should not have dismissed it so quickly. If she was developing true mirror magic…

She touched one fingertip to the water once more. The images did not race past this time. Instead the surface shimmered and then resolved into an image of the labyrinth as seen from above. “I sent my Raven to follow her...after we talked about the shadows...” She hesitated. “It reminded me of something I'd seen, something that might have been a shadow, with Leila...weeks ago. I'd forgotten until you told me about them...”

On the path below was Leila, walking arm in arm with a brown haired man. The image shook, and the view changed frequently, no doubt as the raven flew from perch to perch. The couple reached a small hill and sat in the grass. They were kissing, caressing, when suddenly a squall of Shadows came boiling up from the cave at the base of the hill. They reached with many clawed hands for Leila, who, her face a picture of confusion, soon started screaming.

As the violent imagery progressed, a small, at first indistinct feeling unfurled in Aisling's chest. She barely noticed it, so intent was she on her task.

The whole thing happened very fast, too fast to follow each savage blow, which was perhaps a mercy. Glimpses of blood running down her face now, flashes of it dripping from her clawed fingers. Moments later her body was obscured by oily shadows surrounding and covering the struggling girl and all they could hear were screams and wicked laughter. Then one Shadow creature raised its head and looked up at the raven wheeling overhead. It screeched and the scene whirled away as the raven-dream fled.

She was breathing hard by the time it ended, obviously tired from the effort. She sighed, looking down at her reflection in the bloody water. It was then she realized, with a dawning sense of horror, that she was smiling, and in the back of her mind there was pleasure at the sight of her enemy laid low. As quickly as she noticed it, it fled, leaving only a sense of sorrow and disgust...and fear.

Jareth struck with the speed of a snake; her wrist was suddenly caught in the vise of his fingers. She couldn't help the cry that escaped her mouth, terrified that he had seen her look of satisfaction. The amused tolerance from moments ago was lost from his face. Lights sparked out of the depths of his eyes.

“Where is this?” he hissed. The bowl of water tumbled from her lap onto the floor and her eyes widened in fear.

She made a small animal noise of pain. “You—you're hurting me,” she said, voice low.

“Where?!” he demanded. She didn't understand his urgency, his sudden intensity, he could see by her eyes. He tried to reign in his reaction, but his hand tightened still, and he shook her ungently.

“I don't know!” she cried, too injured to pull away from him, although she tried nonetheless. “The raven can show you! I know not! Jareth, please!”

He was already bounding away from her, some part of him taking note as she cradled her wrist in her injured hand. That Damned Bird, of course. “With me, pest,” he sneered at the now agitated dream. He didn't look to see if it followed. It would. He strode out onto the balcony and leapt over the rail, the motion propelling him fluidly into the night air. Moments later the white owl and the black raven raced away from the tower and into the night, leaving Aisling alone with disquieting thoughts of her reaction to Leila's death.

He regained some control as they flew. It was always thus when he felt the wind through his feathers, the intent focus of the predator cooling his thoughts. Could he trust this vision she had shown him? The ramifications were dangerous if so.

They soared over field and hedge, stone wall and rushing brook. They did not fly as far from the settled parts of the kingdom as he would have liked before they saw the horse, Leila’s usual mount.

She was heading for the Goblin City at a breakneck pace, tossing her head in fear. There was no rider. The raven cawed urgently, drawing Jareth's attention away from the terrified steed and they flew on.

They finally landed at the base of a hill -- the hill -- one among many such craggy offerings in the rough landscape. Chunks of bedrock thrust through the soil like fists, only patchily covered with green, mostly rough scrub with the occasional hardy tree. It was a bleak and beautiful terrain, and nowhere near The Wall.

Jareth gestured for quiet from the bird once he was on his own two feet again. The contrary thing just ruffled its feathers and grumbled quietly at him. He surveyed the hill, and found a grassy path to the top. He went slowly, quietly, but he did not hide. They had come in from above, and he had seen no sign of the nightmares when they approached. What he had seen, well, it bore closer scrutiny.

He had expected a scene of carnage. Given the bloody vision that Aisling had shown him, there should have been some evidence of the violence, a pool of blood, savaged flesh, something. And yet the only thing on the hill was the body. She lay face up, dead eyes staring blindly at the rose-red fingers of dawn blushing the sky. She might have been carved stone for all the color that was left to her. Her once raven hair was like ash, her grass green eyes were grey-veined marble. He crouched by the remains and touched one finger to a strand of her hair. It crumbled like ash, the flakes blowing away in the wind.

The rest of her would be just as delicate, he knew. It had always been thus when the nightmares feasted on mortal dreams. The wind picked up and bits of her dress began to drift away in delicate flakes. He watched them dance on the breeze, devoid of sparkle. He felt no sorrow for Leila’s death, and the horror did not touch him, for he had seen worse in his long years, but there was a touch of remorse beneath the anger. Once more he had failed to protect someone residing in his kingdom. Once more the enemy had got the better of him.

He stood back and produced a crystal with a twist of his wrist. He tossed it gently into the air above Leila’s body. At the apex of its climb it burst, and a shower of glittering crystal drizzled down like mist. As it settled it encased Leila’s remains, becoming a delicate crystal coffin. With a negligent flick of his wrist a door opened to the castle. The crystal construct rose from the ground and traveled through. Jareth looked at the raven.

“Go back to your mistress,” he said softly, “I have other tasks to attend to.” The pestilential bird simply stared back dubiously, as if trying to decide if it was wise to leave him. “Now,” he hissed irritably, and with an offended caw the bird followed the coffin. The door winked closed behind it.

He stood for some time after he was alone, staring out over the highlands. In one direction the rocky landscape rose bit by bit toward mountains. In the other the craggy rocks marched on toward fertile fields and prairies. The Wall was not within site. It was a good distance to the east, he knew, hidden deep within the bog. The trees were not even in view from this vantage. With unerring knowledge, he turned toward it.

There was a smudge on the horizon, an ever present haze that darkened the sky just beyond the wall. That was nothing new. He turned away, back to the setting before him. He stalked down from the height of the tor, examining each inch of ground that he walked. When he reached the bottom he circled it, but found nothing that he was searching for.

Oh, there were signs that the nightmares had been here, now that he looked. There were specks of lifeless grey among the grass, even some oily residue on the rocks, but beyond the immediate vicinity there was nothing. It was as if the shadows had materialized out of the air and disappeared back the same way. He could find no evidence of where they had come from, or how they had gotten from their prison to this spot. He had been so certain that all the cracks in the wall had been repaired. How could they have escaped? How did they get here without leaving a trail?

He knew where they originated though. Foiled in his investigation and frustrated he took to the sky and flew toward the bog. This time he did not stop at the wall, but flew beyond it. He shook off the prickly sensation of flying through his own wards and headed for a stone circle standing alone on the barren grey plain.

When he landed and transformed into himself, he was outfitted in full battle regalia. His breastplate was black, scrolled in silver. His cloak was black spider-silk, whipping behind him in the wind.

“MORRIGAN!” He bellowed.

The ground shivered with a faint tremor and in the distance a cloud of smoke billowed, growing larger as it approached. As it drew closer a black steed materialized within, a man astride, wearing only an open white shirt and grey breeches. He drew to a rearing halt on the opposite side of the circle, then vaulted down to the ground and stared at Jareth unblinkingly, hatred simmering in his gaze. His hair was black as soot, with gleaming, tight, black curls just brushing the nape of his neck and the edge of his jaw, but his skin was a sun-kissed gold and his eyes were a familiar mismatched gold and green.

They stood wordlessly, a contrasting pair of statues surrounded by massive sentinels of stone. Moments later a low and sultry laugh sounded in the air, followed by a shadow materializing and coalescing between the two men, eventually resolving into the vague form of a woman. A neck-ruffling laugh came from the shade as she drifted back beside her dark companion.

“What’s this, my sweet? A visitor? How delightful.” The shadow that once was Morrigan hovered several inches above the ground. Where her feet might once have been a mist simply tapered off, swishing and whipping like an agitated tail. One hand trailed across the man’s cheek and he tilted his face into the caress.

Jareth did not respond, although his nostrils flared and his lips pinched. He watched them with a narrow gaze, but kept his body relaxed, his head tilted arrogantly.

“I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me. To what do I owe the honor, O Great Goblin King?” Her voice started pouty but ended in a silken hiss, a whisper on the wind, and a low sigh.

Jareth remained impassive, only the steely glare of his eyes betraying his ire.

“Oh, the silent treatment. Perhaps then I should guess?” She said gleefully. Her hands clapped together like an eager child. “Perhaps you missed my sterling companionship?” She floated toward him, her head tilted up. If she had a face it would be looking into his. “No?” She laughed lightly and twirled around, her misty skirts swirling behind her. She looked coyly over one shoulder, then her whole body followed, turning to face him and floating away backwards. “Well then, perhaps it's the darkness that draws you here. Perhaps you are plagued by an increasing infestation of shadows?” Her voice grew harder, thrumming with dark power, as she spoke.

Outside the circle a dark mist began to rise from the ground. It gathered into a pulsing fog of deepest grey, and within it swirled and drifted shadowed forms. The sound was like that of rustling leaves, soft and sibilant and eerie. The fog stopped at the outside edge of the stone circle, pressing against some unseen barrier.

“Ah, my pets arrive. Look, my sweetlings, we have a visitor.” There was a strange, shrill hissing from the shadows, more felt than heard, almost like laughter. His jaw clenched.

“You are losing ground, Goblin King,” she said. Her head cocked to one side like a bird. “How long do you think you can keep me here?”

He moved then, prowling the edge of the stone circle. Across the way, the other man kept pace like some dark reflection. Between them, Morrigan arched her back and stretched her arms languidly, sinuously, overhead, obviously pleased to have garnered a reaction.

Jareth bit back a growl, instead merely baring his teeth in a predatory smile. “Only forever; it's not long at all.”

“Oh, sweet boy, how naïve. Your pathetic purgatorial prison cannot possibly hold me forever. And when I am free,” she paused and gave a low sensual chuckle, “Ah, but when I am free I will leave you wrecked and ravaged.” Morrigan let out low hum at the thought, her voice turning as smoky as her form, and then she writhed. “I will savor your wretchedness when all that you hold dear lies dead and ruined at your feet. I will bask in your despair when your kingdom is left desolate by the nightmares you dare to believe that you can control, interred behind your warded walls and air.”

Opposite him, the man who was not Jareth gave a rumble of approval, briefly drawing the King's gaze to him, noting with disgust the light of agreement in his shining eyes. Reigning in his revulsion, he coolly advised, “If such lies help you to pass eternity then please feel free to continue to deceive yourself so.”

“Why lie when the truth is so much more delicious?” she laughed wickedly.

“Mmm,” he agreed, smiling a sharp smile in return. “And how are you enjoying your reality? The bittersweet taste of your exile? For myself, life is quite satisfying.”

“Enjoy it while you can, Goblin King, I can smell your defeat in the air,” she hissed, her emotions swinging quickly from delight to rage and back again.

He laughed lightly. “You can smell nothing. Nor can you taste, nor feel. You're a ghost, madame, a pitiful spook who has no impact upon the world around her.” He paused as though considering, then added thoughtfully, “Even at your height, you were hardly a match for me.”

“And yet here you stand in my domain, looking for answers like a lost child,” she said softly.

Jareth frowned. “You're an irritation, nothing more.” He waved a hand through the air as though swatting a fly.

“I think you enjoy being agitated by me. Why else would you come here and risk exposing your weakness? You're losing control of your little fiefdom.” She spread her arms, taking in the swirling shadows outside the circle. “The shades and the darkness may be trapped and waiting in the forgotten places now, but soon the sun shall set and your doorstep shall fall to shadow.”

“You are powerless here, witch. And you will remain so, at my pleasure.” He sighed, relaxing slightly. He need not have come. Whatever trick she used, it was an aberration, nothing more. He turned to the man, so eerily alike and yet so different. He stared at him, his gaze guarded, yet strangely intent. His voice was soft when he spoke.

“But you Melchior? You need not remain here. I have said as much before.” His eyes snapped with sudden rage, quickly subdued into a mask of indifference very similar to Jareth's own.

“Brotherly concern after so long?” he bit out, his voice icy, “It is a bit late for that, don't you think?”

“Mel…” Jareth took one unconscious step toward him. He caught himself and stopped, folding his arms. “Do you not see the kind of creature she is? Have you not seen the error of your ways?” He knew immediately those were the wrong words, but it was too late to grab them back.

Melchior stiffened, the rage filling his eyes once more. “The error of MY ways? And what about the error of yours, dear brother?”

“I did what needed to be done,” Jareth replied.

Melchior laughed, but there was a manic edge that would terrify most people. “She, at least,” he pointed to Morrigan's shade, now floating still and quiet, watching the performance, “is honest in her treachery. She does not dress it up in pretty disguises like loyalty, duty, or,” he sneered, “love.”

For the first time during the whole confrontation the barb struck home. Jareth's eyelids shivered faintly, the biggest reaction he had yet to give. It was practically a flinch. Melchior flexed his pale, elegant hands, but made no other move. “At least I KNOW I cannot trust her,” he said softly.

“Rot here then, for all I care,” Jareth gritted out in an empty voice.

Melchior laughed nastily, “Finally, an honest response from the oh-so-in-control Goblin King.”

Jareth raked him with a contemptuous gaze, then glanced at Morrigan. Her shoulders seemed to be shaking in silent laughter. He bowed to them both with a mocking flourish. Morrigan curtseyed back. Melchior stood stiff and fuming. “I bid you goodbye,” Jareth said, his familiar sly smile back in place, “I won't be seeing you again.” As quickly as he arrived, he launched into the air, soaring high above the swirling shadows of the plains.

Morrigan and Melchior watched them go, one in hate, and the other in anticipation. “Oh, but you will,” she whispered, “Sooner than you think. Time is short.” She started to laugh, and the chilling sound followed him halfway back to the castle.

<center>:.O_O.:</center>

On the outer edges of the great maze, between the endless corridor and the whipping willow forest, Hoggle was grumbling about the unfairness of his self-imposed exile. He whined as he weeded. He pouted as he pruned. He snarled as he seeded. He threw every sort of insult he could think of at the unsuspecting head of Sarah Williams and that Damned Jareth.

“Why,” he moaned, for the hundred thirty-fourth time, “Why did she have to go and ask the right question?” He fumed as he fumigated. He stomped around a half-broken plinth and something crunched beneath his foot. Momentarily startled from his bitching, he lifted his foot in disgust and used a convenient stick to scrape off the remains of a fairy. “Good,” he growled, flicking the nasty residue away.

He took up where he had left off in his internal ranting, continuing on his way. He had not gone far when --- Crunch. Step, crunch, crunch. He stopped, blinking down at the ground in growing surprise. Several more fairies lay in contorted poses on the frozen ground. Strange, he didn't remember spraying here recently.

His eyes rose to look ahead of him. The sparse trail of tiny bodies disappeared beneath a stand of tangled undergrowth. Curiosity momentarily getting the better of him, curse it anyhow, he knew he would regret this, he crept toward the bushes. The maze was strangely silent around him as he pushed the greenery aside.

He barely noticed the leaves and branches crumbling beneath his hands when he emerged on the other side. His brief moment of curiosity was replaced with a shaking terror. He stood on the edge of a clearing done in shades of grey. The ground, the trees, every blade of grass and trembling leaf was drained of color and vitality. It stretched before him into the distance, but that was not the worst. It looked like a war zone, hundreds of fairy bodies strewn across the ground, most of them horribly mutilated or in pieces, as grey and lifeless as the forest around them. From what Hoggle could judge, it looked like an entire colony.

Stumbling back through the bushes, he found himself bent over, trying to control his involuntary need to vomit, and being unsuccessful. When he stood he was still shaking. All thoughts of why he had fled left his head as he turned and began a shambling run for the castle.

Less than an hour later, Hoggle ran into the throne room, huffing and puffing. The King was not there, he was told by the first pair of goblins he met, so he would just have to wait.

“But I HAVE to tell someone!” he cried, “It's important! A matter of life and death!” The two fuzzy, purple goblins stared at him blankly before blinking at each other.

“He say important, Snick,” said one gravely, playing with the barb at the end of his tail.

“But Kingy not here, Snack,” said the other, scratching his bulbous nose.

“Then who else?” asked Snick. They cocked their heads in an exact reflection of each other and then jumped up grinning.

“We know!” they shrieked in unison.

“You come with us, we take you to Important the Second!” said Snack.

“Yes, yes. We take you to the Ash Lady!” said Snick gleefully.

A short time later he emerged from the castle and sat on the steps, frowning thoughtfully. Aisling had been as surprised as him when the goblins brought him to her, babbling about the life and death of matter. She was comfortably settled in a small room off Jareth's in the King's tower. Despite her uneasiness at her role of message receiver, she listened to his tale and promised to bring it to the King. Somehow he believed her.

He was still angry, he assured himself, but it had bothered him to see her looking so weak, her mouth lined with brackets of pain. He sighed, wondering irritably how long it would be before he found himself getting in trouble to help her again.

“What happen to hole when cheese is gone?” a chirping voice asked from behind him.

He jumped and looked behind him where Twiggy was looking forlornly at a half-eaten piece of swiss. He scowled.

“That's a stupid question. Bugger off,” he barked.

Twiggy glared back. “Yeah, well Hoggle stupid dwarf.”

Hoggle gritted his teeth in irritation. “I ain't no stinkin dwarf. I'm an enchiridian. And I can tell you that's the stupidest question I ever heard, and I heard a lot.”

Twiggy jumped up and shook his cheese at Hoggle menacingly. “Then stupid and stinky Inridin!” he shouted. He stuck his delicate forked tongue out and blew a raspberry before racing away into the castle.

“Yeah, you're probably right,” Hoggle sighed dolefully.

The Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake
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