Exchange Fic #22: Mobius
Modnote: outinthestorm's fic was also written by one of our noble volunteers. Thank you, Mystery Pinch-Hitter! :)
The actual identity of the writer will remain secret until all the submissions are in and posted.
****
Title: Mobius
Author: lady_rhiyana
Recipient: outinthestorm
Prompt: Details are everything. In the final confrontation scene of the Labyrinth, we see the clock for a split second, turning backwards. Sarah sees it, but doesn't take any notice. Maybe she should have.
Rating: PG
Plot Summary/Author's Notes: It is not a matter of where, he says, but when.
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
Her last, defiant words echoed as she fell, as the Goblin King’s fantastic Labyrinth shattered around her. Somewhere the clock tolled thirteen o’clock; she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, had half a second to note that the hands were winding backwards -
And then she landed heavily on hard, stony ground, stumbling to her hands and knees to catch her balance. When she pushed herself back up to her feet, she saw that she stood on the slope of a hill overlooking a long, wide plain. Overhead the night sky blazed bright with unfamiliar stars, constellations she had never before seen replacing the familiar starscapes of the Northern hemisphere.
“Now where am I?” she asked, hugging herself and shivering a little in the night breeze.
“I’m afraid it’s not a matter of where, Sarah, so much as when,” the Goblin King’s hateful voice answered her.
She spun around. He stood a little way off, staring down at the plain below. His tattered owl-feather cloak stirred and shifted in the breeze, a disturbing illusion of life; finally, he lifted his gaze to hers. She drew in her breath - his eyes were haunted, almost despairing, when she had only ever seen them glittering with triumph and malice.
“What do you mean, ‘when’? And where’s Toby?! I beat you fair and square - now give me my brother and send me home!”
“Ah,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up, “if only it were that simple.”
She opened her mouth to question, to storm and argue and demand - but was distracted by movement on the plain. Below her, from one end of the plain, a great host emerged; stern, haughty riders carrying tall lances, pennants streaming out behind them in black and grey and silver, a diffuse light illuminating them as they passed.
“What is this?” she breathed. “It’s like a dream.”
From the other end of the plain rode another great host, joyful, proud warriors in all the shades of summer, russet and gold and leaf-green.
The Goblin King shifted restlessly. “Somewhere - somewhen - I have returned to, again and again, to no avail.”
Sarah frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This time, we are not caught in your dream, Sarah - but mine.”
**
He’d had every intention of trapping her. Even as she struggled to remember her lines, he’d slowly turned time in on itself and wound the clock back. But he’d not - quite - finished his working before she spoke her final words -
Instead of trapping her in a never-ending time loop, held fast by adolescent dreams and fantasies, he’d ensnared them both and dragged her down into his own madness.
And so they stood overlooking the Field of Forgotten Bones, where the last days of Summer came to a brutal, bloody end. Jareth could not count the number of times he had returned to this place, to this day, and tried to change the outcome - all in vain. He could reorder time. He could turn the world upside down. But still he could not change the past; what’s said is forever said, and what’s done is forever done.
He was trapped here, caught in his own web, his deepest sorrows and obsessions laid out for the tiresome human girl’s edification and amusement.
Only, as the vision played out before them and the two opposing hosts came together, as the shock of their meeting was enough to make the very earth shake and the noise rose hideously into the air, Sarah did not look as though she was filled with wonder and excitement.
**
The battle was horrendous. Even from her vantage point far above the plain she could hear the roaring and shouting, the nails-on-the-blackboard screech of metal against metal, and the screams and cries of the wounded. It was nothing at all like in a book or in a movie; it was a brutal shock to all her senses, a ghastly vision of mud and blood and death overlain with the pungent metallic reek of blood, so strong she could taste it like iron on her tongue.
Below them, on the plain, the russet-, gold- and green-clad host was hard-pressed, slowly giving way to their stark and sombre opponents; soon enough, their centre was broken and even Sarah could see the battle was lost. The summer-bright host broke, the rearmost troops throwing down their swords and turning to flee; the retreat quickly became a rout, and the grim black and grey and silver host harried and pursued and slaughtered them without mercy as they tried to reach the safety of the hills.
It was not until the Goblin King drew closer and drew a long white finger over her cheek that she realised she was weeping.
“Do any of them reach safety?” she asked him hoarsely.
“Some,” he answered, “a very few.” There was something - sardonic - in his tone that she did not understand; not until the sound of hoarse breathing and stumbling footsteps drew her attention.
One of the bright summer-clad warriors came up the slope towards them, one hand pressed to his side with blood welling between his white fingers. He lifted his head when he sensed their presence, and Sarah started.
It was the same face, sharp, angular, with feral mismatched eyes staring out through a mask of spattered blood. It was the Goblin King’s face, across the space of centuries -
And then somewhere a bell began to toll, once, twice, three times - over and over again, until she realised it was a clock sounding the hour. With every sonorous tone, the world around them grew more and more insubstantial, the colours bleeding away until everything was grey, wispy and almost transparent.
She turned to the Goblin King. “What happens when the clock strikes thirteen?”
Though the world was slowly fading, the Goblin King was still solid flesh and blood. “I assume that we will return to our respective realities. No doubt your brother is waiting for you.”
“Oh.” She had a sudden sharp longing for the familiarity of her home, the mundane human world where natural laws could not be bent out of shape on a whim. But - “Will I remember all this?” she asked, her voice trailing away into nothingness.
Even as the clock struck thirteen, Jareth flicked a crystal into being and crushed it into glittering dust. With a twist of his wrist, he blew the dust gently into her face.
“No,” he said.
**
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
Her last, defiant words echoed as she fell, as the Goblin King’s fantastic Labyrinth shattered around her. Somewhere the clock tolled thirteen o’clock; the low, sonorous tones gave way to the lighter, more civilised tones of her stepmother’s elegant grandfather clock.
She came back to reality in the old, familiar living room of her own house. It was midnight, and even as she double-checked to make sure that yes, the clock’s face did only have twelve numerals, she heard the sound of a baby crying.
Toby.
She drew in her breath, released it in a long, relieved sigh. She had won. She had faced down the Goblin King in his stronghold beyond the goblin city, and she had defeated at his own game, learning a very sharp, valuable lesson in maturity and responsibility in the process.
And if, afterwards, she remembered that the clock wound backwards just before her moment of triumph, she dismissed it as unimportant.
***
The actual identity of the writer will remain secret until all the submissions are in and posted.
****
Title: Mobius
Author: lady_rhiyana
Recipient: outinthestorm
Prompt: Details are everything. In the final confrontation scene of the Labyrinth, we see the clock for a split second, turning backwards. Sarah sees it, but doesn't take any notice. Maybe she should have.
Rating: PG
Plot Summary/Author's Notes: It is not a matter of where, he says, but when.
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
Her last, defiant words echoed as she fell, as the Goblin King’s fantastic Labyrinth shattered around her. Somewhere the clock tolled thirteen o’clock; she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, had half a second to note that the hands were winding backwards -
And then she landed heavily on hard, stony ground, stumbling to her hands and knees to catch her balance. When she pushed herself back up to her feet, she saw that she stood on the slope of a hill overlooking a long, wide plain. Overhead the night sky blazed bright with unfamiliar stars, constellations she had never before seen replacing the familiar starscapes of the Northern hemisphere.
“Now where am I?” she asked, hugging herself and shivering a little in the night breeze.
“I’m afraid it’s not a matter of where, Sarah, so much as when,” the Goblin King’s hateful voice answered her.
She spun around. He stood a little way off, staring down at the plain below. His tattered owl-feather cloak stirred and shifted in the breeze, a disturbing illusion of life; finally, he lifted his gaze to hers. She drew in her breath - his eyes were haunted, almost despairing, when she had only ever seen them glittering with triumph and malice.
“What do you mean, ‘when’? And where’s Toby?! I beat you fair and square - now give me my brother and send me home!”
“Ah,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up, “if only it were that simple.”
She opened her mouth to question, to storm and argue and demand - but was distracted by movement on the plain. Below her, from one end of the plain, a great host emerged; stern, haughty riders carrying tall lances, pennants streaming out behind them in black and grey and silver, a diffuse light illuminating them as they passed.
“What is this?” she breathed. “It’s like a dream.”
From the other end of the plain rode another great host, joyful, proud warriors in all the shades of summer, russet and gold and leaf-green.
The Goblin King shifted restlessly. “Somewhere - somewhen - I have returned to, again and again, to no avail.”
Sarah frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This time, we are not caught in your dream, Sarah - but mine.”
**
He’d had every intention of trapping her. Even as she struggled to remember her lines, he’d slowly turned time in on itself and wound the clock back. But he’d not - quite - finished his working before she spoke her final words -
Instead of trapping her in a never-ending time loop, held fast by adolescent dreams and fantasies, he’d ensnared them both and dragged her down into his own madness.
And so they stood overlooking the Field of Forgotten Bones, where the last days of Summer came to a brutal, bloody end. Jareth could not count the number of times he had returned to this place, to this day, and tried to change the outcome - all in vain. He could reorder time. He could turn the world upside down. But still he could not change the past; what’s said is forever said, and what’s done is forever done.
He was trapped here, caught in his own web, his deepest sorrows and obsessions laid out for the tiresome human girl’s edification and amusement.
Only, as the vision played out before them and the two opposing hosts came together, as the shock of their meeting was enough to make the very earth shake and the noise rose hideously into the air, Sarah did not look as though she was filled with wonder and excitement.
**
The battle was horrendous. Even from her vantage point far above the plain she could hear the roaring and shouting, the nails-on-the-blackboard screech of metal against metal, and the screams and cries of the wounded. It was nothing at all like in a book or in a movie; it was a brutal shock to all her senses, a ghastly vision of mud and blood and death overlain with the pungent metallic reek of blood, so strong she could taste it like iron on her tongue.
Below them, on the plain, the russet-, gold- and green-clad host was hard-pressed, slowly giving way to their stark and sombre opponents; soon enough, their centre was broken and even Sarah could see the battle was lost. The summer-bright host broke, the rearmost troops throwing down their swords and turning to flee; the retreat quickly became a rout, and the grim black and grey and silver host harried and pursued and slaughtered them without mercy as they tried to reach the safety of the hills.
It was not until the Goblin King drew closer and drew a long white finger over her cheek that she realised she was weeping.
“Do any of them reach safety?” she asked him hoarsely.
“Some,” he answered, “a very few.” There was something - sardonic - in his tone that she did not understand; not until the sound of hoarse breathing and stumbling footsteps drew her attention.
One of the bright summer-clad warriors came up the slope towards them, one hand pressed to his side with blood welling between his white fingers. He lifted his head when he sensed their presence, and Sarah started.
It was the same face, sharp, angular, with feral mismatched eyes staring out through a mask of spattered blood. It was the Goblin King’s face, across the space of centuries -
And then somewhere a bell began to toll, once, twice, three times - over and over again, until she realised it was a clock sounding the hour. With every sonorous tone, the world around them grew more and more insubstantial, the colours bleeding away until everything was grey, wispy and almost transparent.
She turned to the Goblin King. “What happens when the clock strikes thirteen?”
Though the world was slowly fading, the Goblin King was still solid flesh and blood. “I assume that we will return to our respective realities. No doubt your brother is waiting for you.”
“Oh.” She had a sudden sharp longing for the familiarity of her home, the mundane human world where natural laws could not be bent out of shape on a whim. But - “Will I remember all this?” she asked, her voice trailing away into nothingness.
Even as the clock struck thirteen, Jareth flicked a crystal into being and crushed it into glittering dust. With a twist of his wrist, he blew the dust gently into her face.
“No,” he said.
**
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
“You have no power over me!”
Her last, defiant words echoed as she fell, as the Goblin King’s fantastic Labyrinth shattered around her. Somewhere the clock tolled thirteen o’clock; the low, sonorous tones gave way to the lighter, more civilised tones of her stepmother’s elegant grandfather clock.
She came back to reality in the old, familiar living room of her own house. It was midnight, and even as she double-checked to make sure that yes, the clock’s face did only have twelve numerals, she heard the sound of a baby crying.
Toby.
She drew in her breath, released it in a long, relieved sigh. She had won. She had faced down the Goblin King in his stronghold beyond the goblin city, and she had defeated at his own game, learning a very sharp, valuable lesson in maturity and responsibility in the process.
And if, afterwards, she remembered that the clock wound backwards just before her moment of triumph, she dismissed it as unimportant.
***