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Shattered	By : TarnishedArmour Category: G through L > Labyrinth Views: 7713 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Based upon the work of Jim Henson; specifically Labyrinth, copyright 1986 by Jim Henson & associated parties. I do not own or have legal rights to Labyrinth, etc., or make any profit from them. *Individual disclaimers for other works in

Chapter List
- 36
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- 38
Sarah shook the dust of the Elvenwood from her shoes and hotfooted it to the next town, almost afraid to turn around, lest she find herself back with those damned purple berries and all those eager, well-taught elvenwoodlings. She was ready for the next town, the next adventure-so long as it didn't involve being a rather overgrown plantholder. Literally.
***
Cooling down after working with Couric on his dancing, Karen saw Oakheart standing by the door. He had become something of a fan. In fact, several people came to see her dance, since the castle was open to the citizenry. The public areas, where her studio was located, were constantly filled with tourists. More than one person of several different races asked her if she would begin teaching dance, to which she replied she would, but only after she had learned more about the realm. The inevitable questions came, and the answer was always a surprise to the one asking: Karen was an immigrant. At her age. From the mundane world.
In days that had followed the rather bizarre comparison between humans and elves, something Karen preferred to avoid thinking about, Karen remembered a few questions she had about the elvenbrood and why so many elves, flowers and woods, were out and about in the kingdom. Since Couric was showering and changing into afternoon court attire-Jareth was holding an afternoon judgement court, since the petitions had become backlogged enough that he absolutely had no choice. Oakheart, relieved of his duty after sending out summons to those involved, was more than glad to avoid Jareth in his court. He may be secretary, but he was not and would never act as justicar or seneschal.
"Very nice," Oakheart said. "What is the name of that tune? It is pleasant, not slow, but somewhat…sad?"
"It's called 'Autumn Leaves'," Karen replied, grinning. "That was the instrumental version. Hang on," she turned and spoke to the crystal-radio, "Autumn Leaves, Nat King Cole."
The music flowed into the room, with the beautiful, clear tones of the singer echoing sweetly to the corners. Oakheart listened, entranced. When the song ended, he looked at Karen, curiously.
"Summer kisses?" The summer meant many things to an elf, but had nothing to do with kisses. "And how do red and gold leaves falling remind one of a kiss? It…makes no sense."
"It's music," Karen replied. "Does it have to make sense?" She was baiting him, and they both knew it. They also knew that they enjoyed arguing and debating immensely. Oakheart enjoyed Karen's arguments, which ranged from the devastatingly apt to the wildly insensible. Karen loved hearing Oakheart try to defend a position she wasn't really interested in attacking-or defending.
"Of course it must," Oakheart said, drawn into the debate already. "Otherwise, it is a meaningless group of sounds that has only some pleasantness to redeem it. Then if falls from music to the status of simple accident."
"In that case, most music is accidental," Karen responded. "Or do you contend that the birds are really declaiming the trees and berries they like?"
"That's silly…" Oakheart rejoined. While Karen stretched out, the argument raged. Somehow, the topic turned from the music itself and the requirement that it make sense to the relationship between the singer and her absent audience.
"Winter is never a good season," Oakheart cried, "much less when one is lonely! The man is in agony over his lost lover, just as miserable with the memory of her as he was wit her leaving!"
"Nonsense," Karen snapped back. "The memories are wonderful, their joy in one another's touch, the way they spent days in the sun-he wants all of that again."
Couric had been standing, dressed for court, but waiting to hear the rest of the debate. He couldn't resist adding in his own two coppers.
"Of course, there is an alternate explanation," he drawled. Two heads snapped to face him, glaring eyes of blue and green-gold demanding more. "They are together, but the romance is dead in winter-no interest." He moved to the door, knowing he had to get while the getting was good, adding, "Maybe the audience is an elf." With that, he dashed from the room and headed to the throne room, curious to hear about some of the cases that Jareth had complained about the night before.
Karen watched as Oakheart fumed. Elves, it seemed had long fuses most of the time, but when those fuses were done, the anger lasted just as long. Long after court was over and dinner was done, he was muttering something in elvish, which sounded a great deal like leaves and branches brushing together. Ordinarily, this would be lovely, but there were some very harsh phrases thrown in that sounded a great deal like goblinish. She waited for the unusually riled elfinwood to settle down and then asked a question. They were walking in the gardens, a pastime both found enjoyable of an evening. The pixies were settling into their holds and buds, the fairies were asleep, resting for their midnight dance, and Toby hadn't returned from his week with Robert yet. He would be back in two days.
"Well? Is that true?" Her head was cocked to one side. She was curious.
"Is what true?" Oakheart ground out, his fists clenched so tightly he was throwing splinters. He'd have to make sure they were swept up before he retired. He forced himself to relax, which was no small feat for one of the same blood as the Oaklord.
"About being able in winter, of course," Karen said. She was curious. "And why aren't elvenwoods in the forests?"
"It's not true," Oakheart replied, "and once an elvenwood can impregnate a female of another race, he must leave the wood or become one of the caretakers. Caretaking is…painful."
Karen nodded, remembering what she'd read about the caretakers who kept the forest in good condition, which included marking trees humans could cut down and even setting controlled burns for irreparably diseased or ruined parts of the wood.
"But why?" she asked. "I read the entire book on the elvenbrood, but I didn't quite understand all of it."
Oakheart sighed. "The elvenlords do not tolerate lesser elvenwoods adding to the population. The resulting elves are not…strong enough to survive, not like a real elf. Their trees can't be transplanted, either. Even though an elfinlord may seed some three hundred elvenflowers in a year's time, the elvenbrood is not a huge portion of the population." He saw Karen's incomprehension. "It all goes back to our, well, roots. We are as the trees that sustain us. Trees have a certain life-span, and, though an elventree may be longer-lived because it is sustained in part due to the elf's magic, there are limits. Even the elvenlords do not live like magicians of other races. No elvenlord alive now has seen more than four hundred years, and no elvenlord will see seven hundred-except the one you call the Joshua tree. That lord is ancient, but he does not seed often, preferring to stay alone and away from the rest of us."
Karen nodded, beginning to understand. "So, if the…seedlings are to be strong, the elvenwoods must leave the forest and the…propagation to the elvenlords."
"Removing elvenwoods from the forests is a way to get us away from the temptation to try an seed an elfinflower. We entertain ourselves with women of almost any willing race-with the exception of a few. Attraction is not a requirement, but it certainly makes things enjoyable." Oakheart shrugged. "We can have children with other women, so there's no real deprivation."
"That's why there are so many half-elves running about," Karen nodded. "That makes sense." She paused and thought for a moment. "But the women are not…"
"Elvenflowers may carry a child from another race, but most prefer to avoid such. Should an elfinflower begin to want to join her roots with another and produce a child, she generally returns to the elvenlords." Oakheart grimaced. "Given what I've seen and learned of mammalian birth-processes, I must say I don't blame them for avoiding the whole thing."
Karen pursed her lips. "It's not all horrible," she replied. "Some parts are actually…nice. Others…not so much." She shook her head and changed the subject. "So, you never answered my question. Are you able in winter?"
"Of course. I'm able at any time." Oakheart grinned at her. "I am a hardwood, after all." At Karen's confusion, Oakheart grinned. "Wood doesn't like to bend, Karen. I am as I am-all the time."
"So you can…"
"At any time," he confirmed. "But we don't like going around advertising the fact, so we tend to put the issue in doubt." Oakheart sighed. "I have to go down to the lakeshore when no one's around. Too much attention otherwise."
Finally gathering the meaning of exactly what he said, Karen started laughing. "Oh, that's just priceless," Karen chuckled. "So you really can perform with any female."
"Attraction is important," he grimaced. "And no, I'm not going to elaborate on that. I'm fairly certain you know the processes by now."
Karen smirked. "Probably better than you do."
Oakheart raised an eyebrow. "Care to wager on that?"
"What's the stakes?" she replied, enjoying his company even more than she had before she knew so much about the elvenbrood.
Oakheart grinned. Karen waited.
That night, Karen realized that she had learned a great deal about elven society through that book and her conversation with Oakheart. It wasn't all strange and sick, though there were times when her stomach would roll and her head reject what she read. That reaction, she figured, was just a part of being human in a realm filled with many races that were far from human.
She found out that the elves that stayed in the Elvenwood were young enough they couldn't impregnate a woman, but old enough they had all the urges of a full-grown male. A fully grown elf male was not permitted in the wood. They had to go out and make their way in the world, each aspiring to become an elvenlord, seeding the next generation of that particular species of elves. Only the strongest and best would be able to produce the seed of the Great Tree that would house him. She had not gotten a clear picture of what that meant, but Oakheart told her it wasn't his personal goal. He knew it was necessary to be able to seed proper elves and not simply add ordinary trees to the forest, but he had no desire to take on the rest of the duties, like instructing the caretakers and preparing the lessons for the saplings.
All in all, elves were probably the strangest creatures she had read about. She had only read about a few of the races, elves, pixies, fairies, and magicians. While the creation of an elf-child was disturbing to her human sensibilities, the rearing of said children was actually fascinating.
Elves were intimately connected with their tree, emerging from said tree as a full-grown elf. The nursery was carefully tended and the trees learned everything that was given to them in their water and nourishing additives. The sheer amount of magic it took to sustain the nursery was staggering, but the outcome was rather interesting. Elvenflowers were limber and graceful, deceptively delicate in appearance, for they were made of the same wood as their tree. Their hair was soft as petals and shaded to match the flowers or fruits of the trees, be they dark or bright. Though their skin was smooth and unblemished, it reflected the shades of wood within the barky trees. All in all, she figured that, other than the ickiness of it all, they had it pretty good. Most elvenflowers left the wood for a time, going out into the world to learn and bring back their knowledge for the nurseries. Some, however, never came home, preferring to marry or find work outside of the wood.
The elvenwoodlings, as they were learning, practiced assiduously at various tasks, the preparation of an elfinflower for seeding being among the favourites, but not the total of their learning. Brawny and obviously strong, their skin reflected the colour of the wood of their trees, their hair usually dark, earthy colours. Elfinwoodlings learned quickly. Many elvenwoods were hired for jobs ranging from the menial to the most complex and delicate. One old elfinwood was a renowned architect, another a master instrument-maker. He could literally grow the wood for the instruments with his magic and from his own hands. The instruments were in their most raw form, but the quality of his work was unparalleled. Musicians who received or bought an instrument from his shop treasured it like a human would a Stradivarius-perhaps more. Oakheart, a secretary to a lord, was no exception to the rule. His particular talents lay in his steadiness, his reliability, his strength of mind and body, and his willingness to do his job and, at times, force the king to do his. Elves were fascinating people, if one could get past the whole reproductive bit.
The seeding she could live without, but then, at least it wasn't an actual pregnancy. Karen couldn't have another child, even here. She had been told that no healer could make it safe for her, no amount of magic could keep the child and her both safe and alive through to term. But if she just couldn't bear it, if she chose to, she could help seed an elfling. The child would be hers, as much as it was the elflord's. While it still rattled her brain and made her want to cringe at the thought, she still knew it was a viable option in the years to come. From what she could see, she looked younger and felt better, than she had in years, since she had gotten so sick in New York that she had to leave or face never being healthy again. Her magic was getting stronger, more dependable. She knew she would enjoy a very long life.
Still, as cultures went, she was not enthused with the elves' particular acceptance ritual, but she had been assured that there was much worse possible, depending upon the race involved. A werewolf, for instance, would actually bite and force one to change. Then the new wolf would either have to give birth to a cub or sire a cub and raise it. She hadn't read about the goblins yet, but she was trying to put that off for a while. The goblin guards and servants around the castle did not exactly inspire confidence in the gentility of their acceptance rituals. Neither did the gleam in Jareth's eyes when she mentioned the goblins and Sarah's path through this part of the labyrinth.
So on the one hand, elfling birth, such as it was, disturbed her. On the other hand, a fully-matured elfwood was quite a pleasant companion. From what she heard around the castle-and she was listening now, even if she wasn't playing the game yet-they were also wonderful partners. She wasn't sure she'd want the attention of elvenwoodlings, which tended to be brought to the woman in question in a pack, but an elvenwood was usually alone.
There were some negatives possible, like getting splinters if she scratched too much, or the sheer heaviness of a male made, literally, of blood-enriched wood. Elvenwoods were hard-bodied, not because of any particular exercises or training, but simply because they were made of wood. Elves were living, bending, breathing wood, life-giving sap laced with blood, the resulting fibrous tissue thick and stretched to be latticed over even stronger bone. And they were unique in their magics, too. For instance, if an elf needed something made of wood, like a basket, all he had to do was direct his magic and it would sprout from his fingertips in a matter of moments. There were limits-no elf could create a wagon-but the dozen little things that people found they needed were readily available to the elf.
Elves were, despite their exotic natures, astonishingly beautiful, whether they were in the robes that hid their forms or nude. That had been no small part of the attraction of Oakheart. He was quite easy on the eyes-as all well-formed and well-seeded elves must be. When she thought about it, she had never seen an ugly tree, not one that was healthy. There were other attractions, like the way the elves assiduously cared for their home wood and the several stretches of forest they were responsible for throughout the kingdom. Elves protected the vast forestlands in the northern sections of the realm, though they carefully pruned out sick or rotting trees and setting controlled burns to clear out brush and replenish the soil in badly nourished areas with many sick trees, they did not like to cut down any of their non-sentient kin.
As for his lifespan, an elf would live as long as his tree. Once he left the wood, and the elventree that sustained him was magically transported to live in a field or garden nearby wherever the elf chose to live. As Oakheart had introduced her to the parts of his culture that were not really well-known outside the Elvenwood, she had been able to consider all she had learned about this race.
Between her own research and the friendship that was slowly growing between them, Karen found she actually liked Oakheart. Combined with all of these things, he had a wicked sense of humour.
The wager they'd teased about hadn't actually been formally made or accepted. The idea, though, had begun to intrigue her. Karen was divorced, she was occasionally enjoying Jareth's company, but she wasn't back to her pre-Toby and pre-marriage ways yet. She wanted Toby to have plenty of time with her before she introduced some particular partner to him. She'd seen what the constant changes had done to some of the children of other dancers, and she refused to do that to her own son. Granted, he didn't exactly have a stable family unit right now, but she didn't have to make an effort to destabilize what equilibrium they'd found.
But when she did start playing the game of desire and attraction, Oakheart would definitely be one she would consider as a playmate. There were others, too, and she was taking careful stock of her place here. She couldn't be a guest forever. Jareth was being quite generous.
There was this little, niggling feeling that she needed to get in gear with the magic even more than the dance. For some reason, it was getting to her. There was a need to do more, to learn faster, to excel.
***
Tanaka and Hiroko met with their captains. The pirates still attempted to harass trade between the labyrinth and the island. The merfolk who looked to Tanaka and Hiroko were troubled, for there was something about this that boded ill, and it wasn't coming from the seaport kingdoms.
With a promise to continue looking for the source of their discomfort, the merfolk had continued escorting the merchant vessels to and from their ports of call. This was something beyond their ken, and it was building in intensity, like a storm.
They needed to get their houses in order, for there was something in the air, under the sea, that pushed them onward, faster, ever faster.
Tanaka and his wife, his warlords, wondered if they indeed would have time to secure the ports before the storm broke.
***
After a three-day journey, Sarah walked into Pix-Hold. She absolutely enchanted by the light, airy feeling of the giant garden.
She danced with the pixies, who told her exactly how to become a pixet herself, at least in name. The pixers were out with the wildflowers and thorny shrubs, like the holly. The pixets took care of the inner garden, the flowering plants and the roses. The acceptance was easy, even if it would take her the better part of a week.
Sarah had to live among the pixets, carry pollen from one set of flowers to another, and help keep the weeds at bay during the daylight hours. During the night, she would dance among the flower she had dusted. The dance would help the flowers grow and respond to her work. If she succeeded in pollinating the field she was assigned, and danced so joyfully the flowers responded quickly, she would be a pixet. She couldn't use her magic to dust the flowers, but she could and did use her size and reach. The pixets buzzed about her lightly, some taking their larger size to keep her company while they worked.
As trials went, it was not only easy, but fun.
***
Jareth rubbed his forehead. Court was over, and he had met with his generals immediately afterward. The meeting was over, and his generals were assessing the readiness of their troops. All of the men, especially Didymus, realized what this meant.
Should they acquire a Queen, they would also go to war.
It was a bittersweet thought for the aging knight that so loved Sarah.
Sir Didymus had stayed behind, deliberately separating himself from the other generals. He did, he knew, have some precedence with the king.
"Yes, Al?" Jareth asked, using the old, familiar form of the man's name.
"Jareth, I wonder if you realize what Sarah does not know about the Queen's position in your armies." It was about as blunt as the old fox got, until he got truly angry. When that happened, he was very direct and did not take care with his formalities.
"She has learned well, Al, as well as any of us." Jareth sighed, then added, "No, she doesn't know. I can't tell her, nor can anyone else. It is something she must learn once she is Queen, if she makes it."
"If any could, it is my lady," Didymus replied, almost insulted at Jareth's doubt.
"I have thought so before, old friend." He rose and stood beside the knight. "Have you seen the portrait gallery lately?" he asked.
"No," replied the knight, thinking. "No, I have not. Lead on, Jareth. I shall ride."
"Walk beside me, Al. Let me show you my family again, and my consorts." Jareth's voice was strained, sad. He knew the odds of Sarah's success, even if Didymus did not. He alone knew what awaited Sarah, and he could only hope. There was no certainty.
With that, Didymus and Jareth began walking down a long hall, into a room that seemed to be a maze of walls, each wall hung with portraits of kings and their families from long ago until the present.
"Here, my father," he said, pointing to a painting of a regal-looking man. Beside him sat the beautiful, golden Queen Janna. Around them were miniature portraits of their children, both the living and those long dead. This was the portrait directly to the left of the one immediately before the door, the portrait of the current king. In his portrait, Jareth wore his best, most intimidating clothing, the background flat black. Arrayed around the large portrait was a bevy of smaller canvasses, all of lovely women, his consorts. Only his Queen and his children would join him inside the lonely frame. It was obvious by the sadness in the eyes of these women that they had survived the labyrinth, but had not been strong enough to face the final challenge successfully.
"Do you know how long I have wanted a Queen, Alphonse?" Jareth whispered, staring at the many women he had loved and lost to their own inability to bend and cope. "I have envied you, old friend, for your love and your family."
"Jareth," the old knight replied. "Trust me in this. Sarah will succeed. She had the will to best you, without her champions behind her. She has the will to survive the trials."
"They are nothing like the knightly tests," Jareth said, shuddering. Didymus listened, hearing in the voice of the slightly older man what had been so long carried without complaint. "Once she passes the twenty-first wall, she will be alone, and I will not be able to go to her or respond to her in any way, not matter how loud she calls. I cannot tell her this-no one can. Then, after she has been completely self-sufficient for three walls, she will face the last thee walls, the ultimate challenge. She will be utterly, devastatingly alone. Everything that she has endured throughout the trials will be as nothing compared to the last three walls she must pass." He smiled, pain and memory filling him. He knew the truth she would be forced to face. He knew the understanding she must come to in order to simply survive as Queen, however broken. To be more…he did not dare to think of it, much less to hope. "Do you know what she said to me, old friend, when she bested me? She said her will was as strong as mine." He whispered, as though speaking to his portrait and the lovely women long gone, not to a living, breathing friend. "For her sake, I hope it is true."
Didymus closed his good eye. He hated seeing his old friend suffer so, but there was nothing anyone could do for him. Nothing, and no one-except Sarah.
Somehow, it all came down to Sarah.
"She is not the only one who bested you, though, Jareth. Yon consort-Ismara. She did win back her sister." It was an attempt to distract an old friend from something he did not understand. "Surely they did all say the same words."
"No," Jareth replied, smiling. "Only a few knew that particular version of the tale. Others had other ways to win-and they did. You know," he mused, "of those that try, about half succeed. Then again, less than half who make the wish even try. So yes, they bested me, and so have hundreds of others," Jareth forced himself to lose the mood. He walked down to a portrait he knew Didymus liked to see when he visited. "Ah, here we are-my sister's family. Do you like the portrait?" he asked, having walked down the line to the auxiliary branches.
Didymus studied the portraits and smiled. "Now there is a woman with a stubborn streak," he said, looking at the picture of Marta. "How is she?" Jareth let himself be distracted by this conversation, trying hard not to think of Sarah and where she might be in his labyrinth.
Didymus watched his old friend as they wandered through the maze of royal portraits. They shared memories and speculation about previous kings, some related to Jareth, most not. He knew Sarah would succeed, the same way he had known Jareth would. They were strong. Vital. Stubborn. Knightly.
No one could see the future. There were no clairvoyants and fortune-tellers were simply guessing, but Didymus had learned long ago to trust his gut about such important matters. He had known Jareth would be king, and here Jareth was, King.
Now, he knew Sarah would be Queen, and he waited to be proven right again.
If only Jareth would believe as he did, the burden would be so much lighter. But then, that was the nature of hope. One feared it, even as one embraced it.
***
Sarah walked on, past Pix-Hold, humming and skipping as she walked. Pixies were great.
Even as she felt light of heart, she felt she needed to hurry on. She had spent a total six weeks in the Inner Lands. She figured she was some 19 ½ months into the challenge, and she didn't want to spend a full three-and-a-half months finishing up. Every day seemed to drive her onward, faster. She needed to do better, do more…she had to get through this. Quickly.
There was something in the air, in the land itself, calling her ever onward.
She was not tired. She had slept in Pix-Hold after fulfilling her duties there. No, she was restless. Needing…something. Wanting. Something.
No, not something. Someone.
Jareth.
Looking at the bright morning sky, wanting to hurry to the next town, she picked up her pace into a light jog.
Hopefully, she would find the next town by sundown.
=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+
A/N: "Autumn Leaves"( original French lyrics by Jacques Prevert, English lyrics by Johnny Mercer, music by Joseph Kosma)
The falling leaves drift by the window

The autumn leaves of red and gold

I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long

And soon I'll hear old winters song

But I miss you most of all my darling

When autumn leaves start to fall
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