An Lámhainn Mallaithe Seo

She'd always heard that the morning after would be awkward, but she'd never imagined it would be terrifying.

Sarah woke early, which, given her exhaustion after running the Labyrinth, surprised her. She didn't know if Toby's soft whimpering or the damp, sticky liquid on her hands that roused her from her slumber; either way, she rose and wiped her bleary eyes as she shuffled through the dark to comfort Toby.

How strange, she thought, how bizarre, the difference eleven hours can make. I wonder if I've grown or I'm just tired… there's no sense of betrayal anymore. As she stared down at her baby brother, bemused and bewildered, Sarah felt a previously unknown fondness, a protective love for her sibling—the same sibling she'd denied being related to this time yesterday.

She reached down to stroke his cheek and froze.

The dampness on her hands appeared to be dark streaks of a half-dried, unknown liquid. Sarah moved closer to the window, squinting in the pre-dawn light, and nearly screamed. She raced to the bathroom and turned the knob on the sink, thrusting her hands beneath the piping-hot water and scrubbing furiously. She felt the scorching heat burn her, but extracted her hands only when she believed them to be clean.

Backing into her room, Sarah noticed two things; firstly, dawn overtook the pale shadows she'd moved through earlier, and secondly, she could see exactly where she'd slept on her bed because her sheets were stained with blood. The gore sunk into the bedding, a bloody photo-negative, with droplets and smears that Sarah assumed she'd made by twitching while she slept.

Numbly, she sank to the floor and shrieked.

She slept on the couch that night, shaken and disturbed by the morning's events. Her father worried, her step-mother fretted, Toby cried, but Sarah balked, refusing to tell them what she'd seen, what she still saw whenever she touched anything. She wouldn't have slept at all, but fatigue claimed her as the day progressed and she unwillingly succumbed, fighting against nightmares and terrors in her sleep.

She thrashed her way through the night and stained most of the couch in her struggles.

A week past, a day more. Eight days since she last slept, nine days since her travels through the Labyrinth, Sarah broke down.

"Why?"

He watched her with an odd mixture of pity and glee, eyes alight with mischief and madness. How hadn't she seen this before?

"You want to know about the blood, yes? It's mine. I did not give it to you, but the blood is mine. You leak my blood. How fitting! But you don't understand.

"I'll explain." At that, the Goblin King fell silent, and Sarah—as far away from the King as she could manage—feared he wouldn't continue. Worse, she feared he would.

"Toby is yours. You won him, but before that, he was yours. I challenged you for possession of him, and you won. In defending your claim, you became his Guardian.

"It has been so long," he sighed, "since I encountered another Guardian.

"You fought well," he praised. "Much more skilled than I thought, and so naive… but that carried you through, hmm? I'll admit, I've never seen anyone wield ignorance or innocence as stunningly as you, but then again, I am jaded."

"But the blood—"

"I'm getting there, don't rush me. It is my blood and I'll explain it when I wish to, not a moment before. Patience, Sarah." He paused again.

"I have the same problem, of course. Worse, actually, since I Guard many more than you do, a whole Kingdom, the Labyrinth, the wished-away. So many lives, so much blood. I wear gloves… it seeps out sometimes," he mused, distracted, "but they usually do their job. Do you want a pair? Here, take mine." He peeled off the leather, suddenly at her side and grabbing her wrist with his uncovered hands. He left a dark crimson mark when he released her; Sarah winced at the mark and the eerie heat and wetness trapped against her skin.

"I know, they feel horrible, but that is our burden," Jareth murmured. "The price we pay for normalcy. At least you won't see it anymore…" He lifts his own hands and considered them, frowning. "I haven't seen these in years." They are covered in welts from where the leather rubbed, steaming slightly from his body heat and dripping blood and sweat. Sarah stared, transfixed.

"I'm sure your family thinks you're crazy. To them and the rest of the world, you are. I understand, though, and if you ever need me, you need only to call. Remember, you are a Guardian.

"I wish," he grinned wryly, "that Fate hadn't thrown us together as rivals. It gets awfully lonely, being a Guardian. The loneliness will creep in soon enough; it usually comes in a generation or so."

He disappeared, leaving her confused and alone, but his voice whispers back, "You'll live forever, Sarah Williams, and your beloved Wards will see you only as they die. Even now, you're fading…"

New note: Thanks to Maq, I have fixed all (I hope) of the tense errors.

Oro: A take on the legends surrounding the banshee... Should I be worried that a good dream inspired this? Or how easily I write insanity? Humm. Let me know if you're confused, I may tweak this a little more.

The title literally translates to This Bloody Glove, according to my online Irish-English dictionary.

Sweet dreams...