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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
- 5
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It didn't take him long to walk to the fringes of the town where a two-lane, rural highway stretched out from the early, afternoon sun. The crystal blinked its approval of the bleak eastern option, though the western choice was just as deserted.
I'm fortunate to have the strange sun at my back for now, he mused as he began his journey in earnest. It helped lessened the already growing pain transferring from his eyes to his skull, but didn't eliminate it.
Jareth did his best to focus on his steps rather than the hopeless environment surrounding him. Soon, his long legs devoured the road, weaving around a cluster of randomly positioned cars left to rust and rot in the alien atmosphere. They appeared severely aged, and he wondered if the changed light and air corroded them faster. They were many things changed in the Aboveground, many things he feared now beyond him.
Shoulders aching, he shifted the duffel bag several times trying to locate a comfortable spot. Unfortunately, the migraine burrowing behind his eyes due to his extended exposure to the overly piercing sun and sky precluded any real comfort. And, bloody hell, his feet hurt. He was unused to relying on physical exertion for travel. Usually a wrist swirl or a finger snap and voila...
Squinting, he scanned the area. He needed to locate shelter. But after walking most of the day, he only found abandoned vehicles and dusty desolation extending to all horizons. At least that's all the flickering light allowed him to see, much past a quarter mile and things blurred and wavered. He regretted being unable to locate a pair of those sunglasses humans valued for eye protection. A pair would probably do nicely to cut the bizarre glare forcing his eyes to dance and twist around objects, each minute increasing the ice-pick pain.
However, once given to ignoring his discomforts, his greater concern was the realization of the continued lack of humans. Oh there were various small animals scattered throughout the blanched grasslands; he spied them flying, buzzing or slithering away at his disturbance. But all human civilization appeared as dissected husks of technology - useless and forlorn, aging and neglected.
Pausing to examine one particularly large, narrow vehicle, whose color may once been sickly yellow, Jareth peered inside the folding door hanging only by its upper hinge. It squeaked and rained old dust when he pushed it open. The driver, long dead and mummified by the heat, sat slumped over the over-sized steering wheel. More skeleton than body now, Jareth was unable to tell if it had been male or female by its standardized uniform.
Perhaps this poor soul had sunglasses which he no longer requires.
He cautiously crept on-board, and the entry stairs creaked and shifted under his weight. Holding his breath, he froze when the floor settled several centimeters before it held. Too close...
The rampant dust left no inside surface unaffected; layers upon layers of it powdered the industrial designed seating and pointless square windows. Grimacing, Jareth felt a moment of extreme distaste and an involuntary desire to sneeze before refocusing on the driver's hapless remains. The driver's head lay smashed against the black steering wheel, inconveniently facing away.
"Well, my good man, I do hope you favored eye protection because I'm in dire need of it."
Reluctantly, he stretched out one hand - again missing his gloves when his fingers contacted the brittle straw of the dead driver's hair - and bodily shivered at the feeling. Manhandling the dead was considered highly disrespectful (bordering on criminal) by the fae, and this one act would be enough to gain him censure if others were to hear of it.
Having to reconcile his physical need to scavenge with his ingrained revulsion, his entire body pulled taut like a bow away from his single hand's questing. His eyes would've abandoned him as well if they could've figured out a way for him to search blindly. Pushing, shoving, moving over the body's dry, craggy surface, his fingers walked a path while his eyes watched the edges.
"Bloody hell, you didn't wear ... ah ..." Once he gingerly swept the crusty, breaking hair aside to reveal the corpse's leathery, shrunken face, he didn't find any sunglasses. Instead, the now clearer line of sight showed the invaluable glasses lying just out of reach on the floorboard on the opposite side.
"No wonder they're still here. No one else found the buggers." Or no one else dared moving the driver's bulk to claim them. Shoulders slumping and lower lip slipping out in a resentful pout, Jareth stared at the treasure just beyond his expedient reach.
"I really, really detest not having my magic," he said to any and all interested. Several minutes of the wind's constant, insouciant whistling through the partially opened bus windows was his only response. One determined plop of his duffel on the floorboard later, and he zeroed in on his prize. Cultural taboos and physical nuisances were not about to stop the Goblin King from claiming his rightful due.
Bloody hell, he needed those sunglasses...
A short time later, Jareth scrambled down the bus steps, and ended up on all fours, dry heaving on the ground. With his bag tossed to one side, he held the sunglasses in a blanching grip in one hand while he supported his upper weight with the other. For the first time since arriving in this hellish Aboveground, he felt chills and shivered as the heaves gradually receded.
"Good gods, I pray I don't ever need to do the like again," he whispered to the asphalt. Once the worst passed and his composure returned, he stood to his full height and studied the glasses. He found himself happy with the result - a sleek, black design with dark wrap-around lenses. He slipped them on and smirked. Oh yes, very happy indeed as the horrid glare was immediately reduced by half. Not all the pain was eliminated, but he could live with this, already the flaring headache dulled.
"Well done, old boy, well done indeed!" Now to proceed onward - he consulted the stone again and it blinked its usual rhythm leading him east. Resuming his trek, he wondered if he ever might see humans while en route to the new nexus. If so, what manner of changes had they endured in conjunction with their new world?
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As the day was unbearably hot, the night was equally cold, delivering a special brand of agonizing torture. Previously, with his magic, the travails of atmospheric temperature variance troubled him not at all. Should he feel the slightest bit of distress, his body easily adapted (either automatically or by his choice) to the surrounding environment, suiting his optimal needs. Without magic, unfortunately, he was at the whim of nature's extremes.
Shivering and miserable, he huddled in the corner of a ramshackle pile of brick ruins, a thin blanket tight around him. Jareth spend his first night without a fire or hot food (he possessed neither a lighter nor any knowledge of how to start a fire without magic). He'd often read Aboveground fiction regarding a person's "teeth chattering" and thought it nonsense. He knew better now. If one got cold enough, one's teeth most definitely chattered, painfully and uncontrollably, eventually causing the jaw muscles to cramp and spasm. Which hardly mattered, he had no one to talk to and barely anything that required chewing.
Speaking of ... his stomach growled, reminding him of the single (disgusting) granola concoction he consumed hours ago which neither dampened his hunger nor satisfied his taste buds. Another shiver raced through him having nothing to do with the cold. Whatever its flavor (yet undetermined as the label mysteriously read - "harvest medley") he did not look forward to eating another - risk of starvation be damned. It had tasted like rotten tomatoes sweeten with honey.
He spat into the powdery dirt again for good measure, even though his tongue felt dry with early dehydration. The rancid taste lingered like a crown-hungry courtesan the morning after. Maybe he needed to hunt for a toothbrush and paste too. He heard tell of their usefulness, perhaps his luck might hold.
If this could be called luck so far.
He shivered more violently as the night's chill settled into his bones.
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"What've we got here?"
"He sure ain't no Empty."
"Nah, looks too shiny and weird."
"And half-assed, I ain't never seen no Empty try to find shelter, let alone suck at it. What kinda stupid is he?"
Strange voices filtered past Jareth's unconsciousness, coaxing him to the surface. He wanted to respond, but for some reason his body refused to obey his commands, even his eyelids felt glued shut.
Why can't I move? His heart raced as he panicked inside his disobliging body.
"He's likely dead, let's strip'em and get movin'." Jareth felt his entire body rock from firm jab in his upper torso.
"Fucking hell, Len, he's ice cold!"
A sliding sensation made Jareth's head spin, and he ended up on his side with a thump hard enough to finally jar his eyes open. Bright light bathed his vision. He saw a blurry vision of two pairs of boots, scuffed and tattered, inches from his face. An attempt to speak ended with his realization of his numb lips. His entire body lack feeling.
"Dumb bastard's probably been out all night."
"Look, he's lips are moving!"
"Oh hell, Len, he ain't dead, but near to it."
"Think we could just leave him here?" Jareth heard a frustrated snort, and watched one pair of the boots stomp a short distance away, kicking dust up in the dim light.
"Are you fucking kidding me? If Fixer found out we left a possible survivor..."
"Alright, alright ... so we take him."
"Shit ... shit, shit, SHIT! So much for the rest of our scavenging."
"Right, I'll get the horse."
Jareth saw the boots leave, and then blinked several times to clear his eyes of accumulated dust since he couldn't move his arms or hands for the job. A certain dull sensation started in all his major muscles as he lay on ground warm from the morning sun. A minute or an hour might have passed when Len and Chet finally returned, griping about their lost opportunities and leading into his limited view what look to be the gangly legs of a horse.
Several minutes of excruciating manipulation and lifting of his useless limbs and body by the two men, and Jareth felt them drape him, face down, over the restless, bareback mount. Its jolting prances caused his slowing warming nerves to shriek, and a muted scream strangled in his throat.
"Don't forget his bag, Len."
"Yeah, yeah..."
"Maybe Fixer can figure out what's up with him."
"Assuming he warms up."
"Dibs on his shades if he stays a cube."
"Long as I get everything else that Fixer doesn't claim."
A rocking, shifting motion in one steady direction informed Jareth of the horse's departure, likely being led by the two men. Panic swelled in his throat. Who was Fixer and what would be this person's intentions? If he could only move and escape; if only the numbness weren't peeling back to expose waves of burning pain; if only he had his magic, if only...
How the bloody hell do I get out of this?
His gradually warming and awakening body jerked along with the sharp gait of the horse. Every minute the cold retreated, his torture increased. Yet some part of him recognized the reality of his survival through the night possibly being due to his fey nature, magic or not. He may not know a thing of living without magic, but he knew human bodies were infinitely more fragile than feys. A human wouldn't have survived the night the way he spent it.
As the full heat of the day chased away the early morning cold, Jareth gradually felt the numbness in his hands give way to a burning pain. He attempted to move them with blind, uncoordinated twitches which sent sparks of deeper pain up his forearms. A few moves later and the burn settled into a buzz on the edge of his nerves.
"Chet, hey Chet, his hands are moving!"
"Shit, he's warming up too fast, find somethin' to tie him."
A few moments later the horse stopped and a slim binding was tightened around his wrists and ankles. Fortunately the thick leather of his boots protected his legs, but his wrists weren't so lucky. Whatever Len and Chet used to secure him cut deeply into his skin, interrupting circulation. Slumping further into the horse's unpadded contours, Jareth resigned himself to meeting Fixer.

A/N: wolfmoonshadow: Well, I'm flattered to know you've read all my work. I'm curious if it's just my fanfic or if you've read any of my original work, too. Still, even if it's just my fanfic, it's a huge compliment to have followers of any genre. And super thanks for saying you find them entertaining and well-written (although if you didn't I'd doubt you would've kept reading, lol!)
As for "Falling" - I'll spoil you and any else who's stuck with me so far. J and S WILL GET TOGETHER. They WILL have a happy ending. But this is a slow burn story with lots of UST which starts from them literally hating each other. This Laby fanfic is so far off the usual path that many seem to find it either love it/hate it. Things really start getting really exciting in the next chapters and it just gets better from there as the rating increases. :o)
- 5
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- 7
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Falling --COMPLETED