13th Rider Ch. 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Well... I do own a copy of the original Labyrinth novel that I bought last week *squeeeee* But that is all I own. *pout*

Author's Note: For my regular readers, you will notice that the chapters in this story will be shorter. I am trying some different things stylistically, and shorter chapters with more action is part of it. We'll see how long that plan lasts

As always, reviews keep me writing faster.

The Thirteenth Rider

Ch. 1 – What Dreams May Come

"Miss….Miss?"

The stewardess looked down at the ashen face of the young woman in seat 3F, restlessly sleeping next to a snoring business-man. She was a pretty young thing, with creamy ivory skin, a natural blush brightening her cheeks, upon which curled long, thick, ebony eyelashes. A bit too thin perhaps, thought the older woman, And the ear length bob is a bit severe, especially with the odd white streaks in it.

As the girl seemed to gasp for breath again, struggling for air, the stewardess reached out and gently shook her shoulder, "Miss… wake up, please."

Gasping, the young woman jolted upright in her seat, a scream dying on her lips as she found herself being shaken awake by a very concerned stewardess, her motherly face pinched with worry.

"Miss…are you alright? You were moaning in your sleep. Then gave this odd cry," the stewardess said, pulling back from the girl's arm, as the young woman cringed away from her, with wide green eyes shining brightly against her pale cheeks.

"I'm…I'm fine," the young woman replied, running slender fingers over her throat, as if feeling for something that wasn't there. With a delicate touch, she slid her hand over her face, peering at the stewardess around the tendrils of stark white hair that fell down either side of her face like a frame. Nodding, she tucked the white strands behind her ears. "It was just a bad dream…. Nothing more."

Stepping away from the strange young woman, the stewardess prepared to move back to the galley, only to stop short as she looked at the girl once more.

"Oh my dear," she muttered, her concern growing, "did you know your arm is bleeding?"

Her hand moving to her arm without thinking, Sarah looked down and flinched as her fingers grazed a long thin scratch that ran the length of her left bicep – a scratch that had not been there when she boarded the plane. Pulling her hand away, she peered at the crimson smear of blood that now colored her fingers.

"It's just a scratch," she says with a shaky smile, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt and that the stewardess would believe her. "Nothing to worry about."

Yet in the back of her mind she heard malicious laughter and an ethereal voice.

~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~

The fragrant air of the garden seemed to surround Sarah, as if trying to seep into her very pores, and after the dream on the plane, Sarah was more than happy to let it. Her grey-green eyes narrowed as she stood in the cottage garden, the neat flowerbed a riot of colors and scents that raucously fought for dominance, with none coming out the victor. To Sarah, her grandmother's garden always seemed to smell –

"Green…."

"Did you say something Sarah, dear?" asked her grandmother as she set the tea tray on the painted iron patio table.

Turning at the sound of the familiar voice, her grandmother's lilting accent acting as a panacea against the unease that had crept into her heart due to the dream. Sarah had never expected to have the chance to visit her grandmother in Scotland again, much less get to stay for more than a few weeks. Yet, here she was, with a graduate assistantship to a prestigious university, that was allowing her to not only spend the summer at an archaeological dig in the area, but to spend time with her beloved Nana.

Although Sarah hadn't been to her grandmother's home since she was a small child, she remembered every stone and every flower as if she had only visited last week.

"Green… everything is so green here," Sarah muttered with a weak smile, tugging her thick cabled sweater around her slender form before dropping into a chair with a cup of tea, one leg tucked up under her as she nibbled a cookie from the plate that her grandmother placed between them.

"Aye," replied her grandmother, casting a proud glance around the little garden. It was a small cottage garden, just the right size for the small, but neat and tidy cottage itself.

"It has been what we'd call a 'Fairy Spring'."

Sarah felt her blood run cold at her grandmother's words.

For years she had fought to banish all thoughts of the Underground from her life, unable to face the fear that 'He' would seek revenge – sure that even to think of her adventure or 'Him' would give him the power he needed for…. Well, she wasn't sure what he would do, but she was determined not to find out. And for the last ten years she had succeeded. She had ripped the magic out of her life stitch by bloody stitch in an effort to avoid some unknown pain; yet in the last 12 hours it hadn't just crept in, it had viciously torn a hole in her world once more. First with that dream and the odd scratch on her arm, a scratch that still burned with an eerie heat when she thought of it. And now with the mention of 'Fairy Spring.'

"What do you mean," Sarah managed to ask, vaguely amazed that her voice remained steady despite the way her heart seemed to be galloping in her chest. Steeling herself for the answer, she took a sip of the tea, letting the soothing warmth wash over her, hoping that in some small way it would chase away the fears that were tugging fretfully at her consciousness.

"Fairy Spring is just what my own gran called an early spring. She said it was when the wee fairies were busy early. Just look at the flowers, bloomin' wildly when by rights they shouldn't be coming to color for another six weeks or more," answered her grandmother, gesturing around her at the bold splashes of color that shimmered vibrantly, with an almost ethereal glow. "It's only the end of May yet my June flowers are in full bloom. Just look at that at the pansies by the kitchen door," she said, pointing at the multi-hued blast of color by the bright blue back door of the cottage. "And the petunias and mums shouldn't come out until nearly July. Yet here they are, bold as brass in May."

Mug of tea in her hand, Sarah wandered toward the garden gate that led to the road into town, her eyes drawn to the cascade of bright blue and purple flowers that twined around the white wooden arbor that arched high over the gate.

"What are these, Nana? I've never seen anything like them."

Sarah watched as Nana Miller looked up, her usually smiling eyes taking on a frosty hue as she gazed at the flower covered arbor. Slowly she rose, her mug of tea left forgotten on the table as she wound her way through the colorful flowers that filled the air with their heady perfume. Reaching the arbor, Nana Miller paused, her wrinkled face, once the toast of the region, now wizened beyond her years as her furrowed brow spoke of secrets that ought to remain buried.

"Those are the most special plants of all, but also the most puzzling. In all my years, I have never seen them bloom together," Nana Miller said, a gnarled hand reaching out to lightly caress a bright blue petal. "These blue flowers are blue poppies. They are somewhat rare in other places, but thrive in our soil here. And the purple flowers are called monkshood."

"I've never heard of those," muttered Sarah, leaning in close to sniff at the delicate trumpet shaped purple flowers.

"No dear, I doubt you would have. Tho 'round here they aren't called by those names 'cept by fuddy-duddy's like me. No, 'round here they are called 'Hunt Poppies' and 'Fae's Trumpet'." Nana smiled quietly, her fingers gently lingering on a purple bloom. "And you never see them bloom together because in the language of flowers their meanings are not compatible."

Frowning, Sarah looked at her grandmother, slender fingers still tracing the delicate petals of the flowers as they hung on the arbor.

"Meanings? Surely you don't believe that sort of stuff, Nana?"

"In these parts, it is best to believe both in what you can see and what you can't, because you never know which will save you when the time comes," replied Nana Miller, her withered lips pursed as she plucked a purple and a blue flower from the vines that twined around the trellis arch. "The fact that these two are bloomin' together means something, I'm just not sure what. You see, the monkshood or Fae's Trumpet means to beware, danger is coming. While the poppies represent immortal love."

Sarah watched as the purple trumpet flowers seemed to bob on the gentle breeze that danced through the little garden, their bright petals nudging against the deep blue of the poppies – though she didn't really see them, her mind flashing instead with images of the black clad rider of her dream. With each new image that ricocheted through her mind, her heart seemed to shudder in her chest, fear creeping through her body to dig its icy fingers into every crevice.

…Danger….Immortal love….Beware of an immortal love…. Her mind whispered as she fought the sudden wave of nausea inducing panic that threatened to engulf her. It couldn't be that. 'He' didn't really exist. She had to believe that.

But the sudden burn that spread through the still seeping scratch on her arm, suggested otherwise.

Out of the corner of her eye Sarah saw Nana Miller reach up, running her fingers over the ironwork lettering that ran along the top of the arbor.

"What does it that mean, Nan?" she asked, finding her own fingers itched to follow the slender trails of blackened iron that swirled against the white paint of the arbor arch.

" Ní bheidh aon dul gan grá," whispered Nana Miller, her voice hushed yet seemingly carried aloft on the breeze that suddenly wrapped around them, as if in a protective embrace, "None shall pass without love."

Her hand drawn toward the iron, Sarah traced the letters, pondering their meaning.

"That is lovely, Nana."

"Aye, Sarah. It is. Your great-great-grandfather Domniall himself forged those letters as a protective talisman. But the daft man did too little too late on that account."

Pulling her hand back from the iron, Nana Miller pressed a kiss to her fingertips, before tracing a cross against the central design of the lettering, a simple triskellion of three interlocked spirals.

"Protection?" Sarah found herself asking, knowing instinctively that the answer would not make her feel safe. Shivering, a soul-clenching feeling that threatened to rip her breath from her body, Sarah repeated Nana's gesture, relieved that the deep-seated sense of unease abated somewhat.

Taking Sarah's hand, Nana Miller led her back to the chairs. With a reassuring smile, Nana picked up her mug and settled back in her chair, her pale eyes washing over the hills that sloped in the distance, dotted with sheep peacefully feeding in the afternoon sunlight.

"Against all advice, Domniall insisted upon building his homestead in this very spot, because this is where his pregnant wife Rhiannon wanted it built. They were warned that this was a bad place to build because it fell right on a ley line, a line of power both in this world, and the world of the Fair Folk below."

At mention of the Fair Folk, Sarah felt her unease grow, her mind flashing to the feeling of the gloved hand around her throat.

"But our ancestors were a stubborn lot, and ignored the advice as superstitious nonsense. And for awhile, it seemed they were right. Nothing happened. The babe was born. The house was built, and nary a problem was encountered. Not even a pot of spoilt milk or sour bread. Then one night they were awoken by the sound of galloping horses and baying hounds racing down the moor toward the house. Domniall got up, readying his gun, and looked out on the moors, to see a mass of dark cloaked riders rushing toward his door. The Wild Hunt was coming and his house was directly in the path."

Pausing to sip her tea, Nana's silvered eyes seemed to fall once more upon the iron scrollwork that adorned the arbor arch.

"Domniall rushed for the front door and threw it wide, while Rhiannon ran for the back door. Within moments of them opening the doors, the hunt was upon them, the dark hooves of the Fae Host horses leaving deep gouges in the wooden floors, shaking the little cottage to its very foundations. Then they were gone. It wasn't until sometime later, after they had had a dram to settle their nerves that they realized the wee babe hadn't uttered a single cry, despite the horrendous noise of the hunt charging through the house. Rushing to the babe's room they found the crib empty."

Sarah's fingers tightened painfully around the handle of her mug as she willed her voice to sound calm, "Nana… who rides in the Wild Hunt?"

"The Fair Folk of course. And any human who comes across the hunt when they are riding best pray they aren't spotted or get in the way, or they become fair game for the hunters. But it isn't the riders or hounds you have to worry about, but the leader. The one with the trumpet."

Feeling her blood pulse with sluggish coldness through her veins, Sarah could barely believe it when her mouth opened, her words sounding foreign to her own ears as she voiced a question that could set her fears to rest or send her world crashing down.

"Nana….Who….Who leads the hunt?"

"Why, the Goblin King of course. The Lord of Nightmares and Dreams, himself," came the quiet reply.

A million bees seemed to buzz in Sarah's head as her world went black, her body sliding onto the cracked flagstones of the old garden patio, accompanied by the sound of breaking crockery - spilt tea darkening the stone as it rolled in steaming rivulets, to disappear into the ancient cracks.

The last thing she heard as she slipped from consciousness was the sound of laughter, and a voice like silken thread, winding itself into her heart and soul – You can run, but you will never be free of me, Precious. You. Are. Mine.

Then blissful silence.

Author's Note: I know they are supposed to be in Scotland...and yes, the translation of the words on the arbor is Irish Gaelic. It was the best I could do. So for any purists - just suck it up and deal. Fantasy reading is about suspension of disbelief, so suspend it already. That is all. *lol*