Disclaimer: Labyrinth, the story/movie, including its characters and elements belong to The Jim Henson Company (ah, angst).
Beforehand blah-blah-blahs: Initially, this short tale was supposed to incorporate the life of Sarah and Jareth together after she accepts his offer (instead of declining). However, things change, and perhaps it has become a weaker piece due to this adjustment, but I'd rather stick to the actual ending for my first submission. Happily-ever-after stories can wait for the time being. I humbly apologize for the angst (although, I do not think it is particularly moving, just, well, angst-y). After reading so many uplifting Jareth/Sarah fanfictions, I was feeling a little put out, so to say. Thus, I birthed this splendid little concoction of mine. It's a bit longer than I anticipated, and this aspect may weaken it overall, but I've reread it several times, and I have found, decidedly, that it will do for my first piece. Criticism (constructive, of course) would be nice, but I won't twist anyone's arm over it. Enjoy!
Desire
In the beginning, there was desire. His heart, enamored by this beautiful child, pursued Sarah to the ends of his twisted scheme—his elaborate plan to love her for all of eternity. And she would have him, he decided. He showered her with gifts and promises of fulfilled dreams; his tokens of affection were discarded with little care by her, and he longed ever more for the day she would be his entirely. She thought him cruel—incapable of true love. He laughed at her foolishness, appearing insensitive to untrained eyes. Oh, how he loved! Indeed, she created him to beg for her every touch, her every whisper. And he did.
"Wait," he had pleaded, but she did not listen.
"Look," he had offered her, but her eyes were thankless.
"Stay," his heart desired, but she did not relent.
And he had fallen—unmade by his maker, who he loathed to surrender to the ordinary future of the Aboveground. Yet, he had, unable to lure her back with his despair. So, he waited—entrapped in his world of illusion. Hope was not enough; his tears turned to ash, and his promises to dust. He could not have her. She was no more the impulsive child he so attentively attended. Instead, she blossomed into a fascinating young creature—stubborn beyond measure. And there was desire. The years trickled on, faster now than they once seemed, and he went to her. No more did her eyes turn to him with astonished fear, but cool indifference. She grew tired of his games—of his passion and deception. The chase was lost, but he did not have the desire left for another. And so, he walled up his heart, determined to retrieve what was lost with treachery. But she was no longer moved by his malice; his hold on her had evaporated into idle time—into a past long forgotten. But not by him.
Lost to memory, he decayed in misery from within, but he did not fade. He continued to watch, ever hopeful for her—his Sarah. And in his observations did he find that she very much did change. There was another; and he fumed, betrayed. She grew to love this man, as she should have loved him, and he longed to beg her once more, but she had banished him from her thoughts. He could not touch her. In his absence, she had a child, much like the one she had sent away—irritating and needy. He waited for the time to come, but she had learned to be grateful. She would not send him away to the Goblin King although he wished she would. And he was left to his own devises. He craved many things—to see her again, to have her look only at him. But those times would never come. Not for him.
He no longer haunted her dreams; she slept in peace. His desire turned to a dull ache which he was certain could never be unearthed by any woman other than her. She woke, once again, with lively eyes and a smile to match. And his heart twisted at her happiness. Oh, what hold she had on him! He resented the day she had created him. There was no contentment being enslaved by a woman as cruel as the lonely days and nights he had endured. His hope rested on her boy, but he did not enjoy stories of goblins and goblin kings. His book—his world—was left untouched upon a lonely bookshelf where no eyes ventured. Even she did not consider, for a moment, to look at the abandoned corner. She preferred logic now; her days of fantasy drew to a silent close, and his desire faded into darkness. And she was satisfied. But he was not.
The years melted by, and his heart grew heavy as he watched her transform into an obedient wife. But that would not last long. She tired of her husband's needs, and he of hers. As quickly as they had grown together, they fell apart. She was without love, but not without company. The man left; the child stayed. But the boy was just as selfish as she was in her days. They fought every hour—every minute—of every day, and the child promised to leave her. When it was time, he did. They did not talk after that day. And he, silently watching, was angered that she chose this life over what he had offered. His desire subsided to little more than an itch—never satisfied. She was alone. As was he.
In her sadness, she turned to him—he who had waited centuries for this moment—and she would call his name, but he did not appear before her eyes. He was furious with her, and he no longer sought to please her. But he had no choice. It was her wish, and he was bound to her—just as she had made him to be. He would appear solemnly at her window only for a moment before she caught a glimpse of him. It was the ultimate game of hide and seek for them, and he, out of resentment, never allowed her to see him, but she could always sense his presence. At these times, he wished for all the pain in the world upon her; he could not forget the hurt she had inflicted upon him. After months of disappointment, she refused to say his name out loud. And, for that, he was relieved, but never happy. Loneliness destroyed her, as rejection had destroyed him. Her face grew old and tired, and her body betrayed her. She aged quite quickly in those years. But he did not.
Over the years, he noticed this change. She was unbelievably sick, but he would not help her. She would not live out the month, the neighbors said. And he believed their cruel gossip. On the last night, she called out his name once more. It was barely a whisper. And out of obligation, he returned, finally revealing himself to her. A light shone in her eyes at that moment that he had not seen for eternity, but his face did not betray his flickering love. He was blank. Her hand reached out to beckon him forward. So he went.
"Please," she had pleaded, and he had listened.
"Sit," she had offered him, and he was thankful.
"Listen," her heart desired, and he complied.
They spoke only briefly. Bittersweet, he thought. He said little as did she, but it was enough to fill in the cracks of his broken love. She smiled so sweetly; he did not. His face remained impassive, almost uncaring. He desperately tried to focus on the times she refused him, but failed miserably. What he wanted most was to remember his Sarah, the girl who bested him at his own game. And, still, he would not smile. So, he smirked. But that did not fool her; worldly experience had taught her better than to be offended by his smug grin. If anything, it pleased her. And he was surprised. Breaking eye contact with her, he saw, from the corner of his eye, that same red book on the side table beside her. His face softened. She had not so easily forgotten her journeys with him—her battle against him—as he anticipated. They sat in silence for a long while, contemplating each other. And he knew that she, for the first time, enjoyed their time together. So did he.
"It's not fair," she had finally sighed, peering at him with bottomless eyes.
She touched his face, still youthful over the long years. And, sitting by her side, his desire returned in a wave of heat through his veins. Her wrinkles and age spots disappeared to his eyes, and he saw, for the first time in centuries, that headstrong child he so desperately yearned for—the girl who had cursed him to love her forever. And, for him, there would be no other. There was forgiveness in that moment, and all else disappeared, overwhelmed by his renewed affection for her. She would never know how much. And when she passed, he did not grieve, but rejoiced for her release. Again, she was out of reach. He longed to chase her once more. And he would.
He watched her for a time, thinking only of his anticipated reunion with her, and he smiled a little smile. Determined to look upon her face again, he readied himself for the death which would eventually come to him. After all, he would be with her. And, this time, she would have him, he decided. He allowed himself to touch her one last time; his fingers brushed against her cold lips before fading into nothing on his return back to the castle beyond the goblin city. His fiery passion, once lost, was restored. And, in the end, there was desire.