Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

Shattered	By : TarnishedArmour Category: G through L > Labyrinth Views: 7714 -:- 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
- 41
- 42
- 43
Sarah woke inside the tree. She had no idea what time it was, and she was so hungry and thirsty that she was going to make bad decisions. She could feel it.
People like to say that bad decisions are made consciously, but it's much more difficult to do something stupid when one is well-fed and hydrated. The physical hardship of waking in a cramped space in armour didn't help.
She regretted her lack of a helm. When she was first searching the woods, she didn't want to impede her vision at all. Granted, Oliver's skills were excellent, but any helmet encroaches on vision, if it's worth its metal as a helmet. Sarah closed her eyes and listened closely to the sounds around her. She heard nothing out of the ordinary for the woods, so she crept out of her hiding place very carefully.
No one was near her. No one had seen her. She was able to move on. The loss of her pack was an unavoidable drawback. She didn't dare try to go back for it now. They were still out there. Waiting. Searching.
It was best for her to move as quickly and quietly as she could, to get as far from them as she could.
Not looking back, Sarah began walking in the late morning light.
=-+=-+=-+
Jareth petted the cat in his lap as he sat on his throne, listening to the case before him. He listened and made a good judgement, thankful it was the last of the petitioners for the day. Cats lounged around him casually, more than one curled up on and around the throne.
The courtiers didn't understand the sudden appearance of what seemed to be every cat in the castle. Wherever the king was, the cats followed. Several remembered his title and persona of Prince of Cats, but so few ever called upon that particular title that it had been relegated to a formality. Now, with the cats surrounding them day and night, the courtiers began to wonder.
Couric didn't need to wonder. He knew that Jareth was uneasy about the Queenrunner. He'd said that much, then stopped, just looking down at the cat between them in bed and petted it. Couric hadn't tried to change the attention from the cat to himself. After that one day when he'd cornered Jareth and demanded he look after himself better, Couric had become a close confidant of the king-as close as any. Their time together was pleasant, the touches between them usually generous, but there was a haunted look to the king these days, a desperation in their lovemaking.
Most dismissed the look as brooding or worried. Most attributed the king's withdrawn mood to the tensions rising still between the realm and her enemies. Most did not sleep next to the king. Most did not breakfast with the king, in a private dining room or in bed. Most did not know exactly how that face could reflect what the man was thinking and feeling from moment to moment. Most did not know how to search those haunting eyes to find the shadows that hid behind the almost manic gleam. Couric did know all of these things, and so Couric worried.
Oakheart, too, had gone quieter. Karen had asked only once, and was given the response that Sarah was drawing closer. She put it down to anticipation and the ever-present hope that Sarah would make it through. Oakheart had seen the effects of these last three walls on a Queenrunner before. He was not so sanguine as Karen.
Jareth, though, had a deeper knowledge of what would happen. Memory flashes plagued him as the day wore on, the only comfort coming from the cats around him. They knew, in the way of cats. The cats knew truth, as only cats could. They had been there all along.
=-+=-+=-+
He ran. Through the woods, across the river, down into the ravine. Out of the ravine. Backtrack over his path. He had run for six days. Six long days.
No water. No food. Only magic to sustain him.
Ribs were showing under the armour. Legs were getting weak.
Still, he ran. He could not fight so many, not in this condition. Chased. Hunted. Hunters closing in. Not close enough to fight. Just close enough-
The bolas took him by surprise when the long, weighted cord swung around his feet and tripped him. He saw a flash of fur and saw the gleam of golden eyes as he fell.
Too late-he was caught. Six hunters had caught him, held him. Others came, too. Thirteen in all. He could not fight off the hands, though he tried.
Slashing with dagger, gouging at eyes, biting, kicking-nothing stopped the relentless hands that had the weight of boulders within them.
He was caught.
=-+=-+=-+
Sarah fell for the third time going up the hill. It was steeper than it looked, the leaves and hidden roots making the going treacherous. So thirsty. So hot. Couldn't take off the armour, though. Had to keep going.
She was using her daggers like pitons, driving the blades into the earth and dragging herself up the hill.
They were behind her again. She could hear them. Starting to circle now.
Arms tired. Aching. Bruised from head to toe--not sweating.
That was bad. Needed water--cut off. Damn, no water.
She crawled and climbed and struggled to the top of the hill. Forcing herself to her feet by sheer willpower, Sarah began to run, a slow, shambling gait that reflected her exhaustion.
She never saw the men in front of her, stepping out from the trees. Until she collided with one of them.
Reality crashed through her. She was surrounded now. Five...seven...thirteen men around her.
After being chased, after hiding, after going without the food and water she so desperately needed, Sarah got angry.
She moved more quickly than her captors had expected. Two went down in a blur of blade and blood. Just as Sarah lunged for the next one, hands reached her and threw her to the ground.
=-+=-+=-+
The hands pulled at his armour, stripped him to the skin. Cruel laughter surrounded him, words in a language he didn't know. He tried to fight back with his magic. It was no use. He had worn himself down too far. He was theirs.
He struggled as he was dragged across the rough ground, bucked and kicked as he was braced over a fallen tree. No ropes were used, no ties, just the hands. The hands of those that bled from his wounds, that forced him to bend, chest down, over the tree. Hands that pried his legs apart. Hands that searched and found-and guided.
He had begged them not to do it-begged. Him. The knight, the magician, the man so proud-now he was helpless and he begged.
The men ignored his words, his pleas. The first pushed forward. He screamed when the first one tore him. Laughter laced his screams. He screamed as the second took his place, blood and other fluids making the way easier. Soft suggestions were hissed in a language he did not know.
He was turned over. He could see them now. Worse, they could see him, his shame. His pain. And they touched, let him feel some pleasure.
By the fifth, he was hoarse. He had no control over himself now, the blood and pain and pleasure-forced upon him. By the eighth, he could only moan. His knowledge, everything he had done before, cracked and crumbled slowly.
By the tenth, he was breaking. Still they did not stop. Still, he faced his tormenters. Still the pleasure they took in his pain was visible to him. Now he did not care.
By the last, he was no longer able to scream.
He was unconscious.
=-+=-+=-+
Sarah felt the hands tearing at her armour. She struggled, lashing out with fists, daggers, throwing dirt into faces, kicking, biting-and still she was stripped to the skin.
When the hands held her down and the first man knelt between her forced-apart legs, Sarah knew true, bone-deep rage. Every cell in her body flooded with strength borne of rage.
Her world turned red.
Reaching for her magic, she found only a trickle of energy, what she hadn't burned. It would be enough. She went slack for an instant, then the rage guided her. Deep and primal and unstoppable.
With a feral snarl, Sarah lashed out, marking each of her captors with her magic. She surged upward, ripping herself loose from the hands holding her down. She shoved her fingers into the smiling mouth of the man so intent upon rape, curled her fingers around his teeth and used his lower jaw to drag him nose-to-nose.
"I know you now," she snarled, her words harsh and quiet with rage. "I will find you. All of you. I will not kill you." She rejoiced in the fear in his eyes, the gasps of those around her. Gana do not tolerate true force. She used his jaw and swung his head to the ground, to her left side. The satisfying crunch of delicate joints snapping and the choked screech of pain made her laugh, even as the hands forced her to the ground again.
A sharp pain creased her skull.
Blackness.
=-+=-+=-+
Jareth remembered all. No one who ran to be King or Queen could forget, no matter how much they desired to do so. The memories could be pushed aside for a time. They would always return.
Far from innocent, Jareth had known much of pleasure and pain before the blood-priests had caught him. He had been a little over seven hundred years old when he had taken the challenge to become King of the Labyrinthine Realm. He had been a knight of the realm for over five hundred years. There was nothing of pleasure he had not experienced-few who lived so long as the magicworkers had not spent decades as perfect hedonists. And then, he had learned true pain, pain that was given where there should have been nothing but pleasure.
He had stayed in their hands for seven years before he learned, before he understood. The other five that had come this far had not understood. The others had been broken, but had not learned the ultimate truth. They could not understand what was before them.
Seven years he had suffered, tortured at the hands of the blood-priests. Until he understood.
But he was of the race of kings.
Sarah was still only human.
Yet he could not force himself to pity her.
He wanted her to suffer as he had. He wanted her to learn true pain. He wanted her to understand the cleansing nature of pain, the truths only agony could bring.
He wanted her to understand the great mysteries.
She would become high priestess to his high priest, Princess to his Prince, the Dark Lady of Cats.
Or she would forever be less. Consort, not Queen. Weak, not strong. Never whole again, forever.
Shattered.
- 41
- 42
- 43
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Shattered