Hey everyone! Yes, I know it's been a while but college student, so finals. And plus with the crappiness that has been this year my writing mojo's been lower than usual. So, here we have a story explanation for it. And before anyone asks: no, this isn't exactly made up. This is really how my brain functions and all references are things that have actually happened in my life. I really can't explain how much this movie shaped who I am as a person. No words could ever capture the depth of how much this movie is a part of me and thus, why a certain nonexistent event hit me so hard. But you're here to read so we'll get to that instead.
Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth
It's quiet, it's always quiet when it happens. Usually it's late at night, when sleep is trying to crawl into the corners of her mind. She feels it, the prodding at the fringes of her mind, and no matter how many times she's gone through this, knows it won't end with her falling asleep anytime soon, knows that in all likelihood she'll be staying up even after it's over, mind racing and whirring and stressing, she –in her half-asleep daze- responds. Besides, she knows if she doesn't respond, he'll find some way to get to her. The state he always chooses to strike is one where she's already in the throes of his domain. She'd rather he bother her while she's already awake, because she values the sanctity of her dreams.
He appears to her, in her mind's eye. Sometimes, he's as real and solid as she's always imagined him to be, other times he –much like her consciousness- is both there and not there. Semi opaque and semitransparent like she's been led to believe spirits always are when viewed by humans. Sometimes, she can see him when he's not there, when her eyes are open and staring into the darkness or when she's blatantly staring into space: thoughts elsewhere. And yet other, other times all she has of him is his voice.
She can feel when he's there, his presence brushes at the center of her imagination, her creativity, one of the cores of her very being. When no one is around to hear, she'll speak aloud to him, but sometimes there are people there and so the conversation exists solely within her own mind.
He asks what she is doing, and she flippantly responds that she was either trying to go to bed, or talking with him. Sometimes, if she's really aggravated, she'll mutter obscenities under her breath at him. When that particular bout of pleasantries is over, then come the questions. Always the questions.
"What do you dream of?"
"Depends on the night. Sometimes, there's a story, most of the time it's straight up random weirdness. But I thought you would have known that already. Aren't you supposed to be the Lord of Dreams?"
"Very funny you impudent little mortal. I have no desire to enter your dreams."
"So why bother asking?"
"Merely trying to make conversation, after all I am partially a construct of your own mind, influenced by the media I'm from."
"And yet you're way more annoying than you should be for something like that," she retorts.
There's a beat of silence, and she's waiting for what she knows is coming.
"Any plans to write anytime soon?"
"I'm working on it."
"You've been "working on it" for quite some time now. And ignoring other projects in the process."
The last comment is said quite pointedly, and she know what he means is that she's been ignoring projects involving him and his ladylove: and as he's once told her those unfinished projects leave him in a kind of subconscious limbo which itches and irritates him in ways he cannot begin to describe. She doesn't respond.
"Honestly, for someone who's as obsessed with me as you are you don't seem to be showing it much."
"I'm not obsessed," she protests.
"Right," his tone is sarcastic, "It must be some other girl with two copies of the DVD one of which she played nearly every week for an entire summer, a large online collection of related items, a worn t-shirt with my face on it, who collects owls, religiously follows fan-comics that feature me, and blows kisses to a miniature figurine she has of me while planning to acquire several others."
She's pinking in both embarrassment and anger, "The definition of obsessed has been modified for girls like me. I'm not obsessed."
"You're wearing an owl pendant. One of several you own."
"This was a gift," she protests, turning on her side trying to get comfortable again.
Another beat of silence passes between the two. She is pointedly ignoring him after his previous argument of her description of "obsessed".
"Do you really think if you just lay there they'll get done?" he asks her.
"Sometimes," she answers honestly, "I have a bit of a heavy workload, in case you haven't noticed."
"A workload you put on yourself when deciding what classes to take." He reminds her.
"Yeah, yeah," she grumbles."
"You haven't written for quite some time," he remarks, "Lesser beings might think you've abandoned them."
"You know I haven't," she counters, "With everything that's been going on, I just haven't had the right motivation to write."
"I can empathize, somewhat, but I can't say I understand."
Her chuckle is bitter, "You are a Fae, aren't you?"
"Who's to say?" is his reply, "That's the popular consensus at any rate."
"I know," she tells him, "I always try to do you justice, don't I? to give you your happy ending? Of course I would research you."
"Indeed you do," there's another pause and then he says, "Now, would you care to tell me the real reason you haven't been writing?"
"I," she fumbles, "I don't know what you're talking about."
She can feel his nonexistent gaze narrowing at her. He knows she's lying, he's just trying to find the cause of it. She can feel when he's figured it out, but she hopes like an idiot he will just let the subject drop. Of course, he wouldn't.
"That?" he asks almost incredulously, as though it's a surprise, "It's been nearly a year since it happened. Why are you still so worked up about it?"
"Whether he knew it or not, he was my muse," she explained, "Creating until his last breath, always something different, always something unique. So much like him. I, I loved him, as crazy as that may sound. I loved him as a fan, I loved him because of you. I loved him because even when he stopped, no one could forget him. And because of that, I sometimes think we forget just how fragile we humans are. That not even fame, protects us physically. The memories claim to always be there, but eventually they too fade, leaving nothing behind but dust."
"How maudlin," he drawled, "But you created right after you heard the news. You labored for nearly three months to bring something to express your love, your admiration-"
"The pain was incredibly fresh then," she explained, "And it wouldn't have been right to mourn alone. But now," she sighed, "All it brings up is a sense of hollow emptiness, and I lose my will to write."
She feels eyes studying her.
"Haven't you accepted it by now?" he asks.
"If I had do you think you'd be here?" she quips.
"Perhaps, but you just said this is the course that all humans take, why do you so willfully deny your reality?"
"Because," she hesitates, knowing the words might hit a nerve with him, "because… it's just not fair!" she laments, "For the longest time, I had forgotten. I had forgotten, and when it came back it felt like a piece of me that had been missing, and yet still there, had finally come back. It feels like I'd only just gotten him back, gotten you back and then… then that happens."
There's a huff of laughter he quickly stifles, but not in time to prevent her from hearing.
"Mind if I ask what your basis for comparison is?"
"You already know," considering he is, in part at least, formed from her own mind, her memories –ones that are too difficult to put into words- are his to access.
He also knows that this, what they're doing right now, is a coping mechanism for her. It always has been, ever since she was a little girl whose only friends where the ones only she could see. He knows of the hours she's spent going on adventures without leaving her room, traversing the playground and having in-depth conversations about issues she's seen them deal with. When she fears the outside world, she retreats into herself, and works out her problems by having friends who she knows can understand her completely and not judge her, as they are extensions of her own mind. He knows how hard she's tried to find a real-world counterpart, and to a point: she's succeeded. But old habits die hard.
He sighs then, "How big a part of you am I?" he asks, genuinely wanting to know if she'll put it into words.
"I have, fragmented memories of my younger years," she tells him, "I think I must have been three or four. I was being babysat, and we were watching a movie, your movie. We didn't get too far before it was time to go home, but I remember the last thing I saw before I left was you: filling up the screen, filling up the room with your presence, your other-worldliness. I was entranced. But I never knew your name, so I couldn't ask for you.
"And so the years went by. Over a decade after that night I was reading, and something someone had said struck me. I did a bit of digging and found you and from then on there was no turning back. It hasn't been long since then, and I guess you never want to see your heroes die. So, I choose not to accept it."
"Instead you write your own version?"
"Attempt to," she corrects, "And it's coming along. I'd love nothing more than to get published, but I write for me more than I write for anyone else."
"Flattering as that may be I'm not sure I appreciate being ignored for that."
"I may return, someday, when it hurts less…" she looks behind closed lids to where she imagines he would stand if she could see him, "Does the pain ever go away?"
"It depends," is his answer, "Some mortals have a faster turnaround rate, you have a deep connection with what you've perceivably lost, and let's face it: you've never handled death well anyways."
He has a point there. Death has plagued her life, hanging over her head since before her birth in one case. Most distant relatives of hers chose her younger childhood years to die. She did much traveling solely for the sake of funerals. Seeing the bodies never got any easier no matter who they belonged to. It's even more painful when she has memories associated with them.
And yet, the macabre fascinates her as much as fantasy does. She has never seen the dark as evil like so many have. In fact, she finds comfort in it. But there's a digression for another day.
"You didn't answer my question," she reminds him, "Are you even qualified to answer?"
"Fae die too, you know." He informs her.
"Is it less difficult?" she asks, "I mean, you guys don't die naturally right?"
"Not in most cases," he answers, "Very rarely does any Fae live long enough to die of old age. More often we are cut down in battle, or sometimes, we feel we've lived long enough and want to move on. Eternity is a heavy burden, not for the weak-hearted. And some of us face the choice between either dying, or going completely insane."
"How come you haven't?"
"Who's to say that I haven't?" he asks in response.
"Point," she allows, yawning and it echoes in her mind's voice, "Maybe someday the pain dulls, but there's always a scar to remind you of it."
"More than likely," he affirms, "Especially in your case."
She enjoys the almost companionable silence that falls between them. Idly, she registers the soft, even breathing of her roommate, she must have finally gone to bed.
"Why do you so enjoy writing about me in the first place?" and she knows he's not referring to all her published works, though by this point they far outnumber any other subject she's written for.
She shrugs, though the motion is lost under the heap of blankets she's buried herself under, "I wanted you to get your happy ending," she says honestly, "I never thought you were evil, not in the sense I think of it anyways. You always seemed so heartbroken, every time. Tell me, when did you fall in love with her?"
"I always watched her," he begins, and she remembers how the girl ignored a barn owl in the park, during daylight hours and how odd that had been, "I rule over a kingdom of inane idiots, some entertainment has to be found somewhere. I thought she was an interesting little mortal, but for the longest time that was it. I found it odd she would eschew the power that comes with age that so many of her peers sought, and choose the treasures of the past instead. It wasn't until that fateful night, when I tried to use her dreams against her, and I found myself enchanted instead. I suppose that, just as I am part and product of your mind, I was something similar to her. I couldn't beat her because the only way to do that was to offer her what she wanted, and like most young people, she didn't know what she wanted. And so nothing worked. But the more time she spent, the less I wanted her to leave. I suppose it was over the course of those eleven hours that I fell in love. But why do you care?"
"I enjoy romance?" she tries.
"Mmhm…" he hums.
"They haven't forgotten you know," she tells him, "I doubt they ever will. Isn't it funny? How certain things that are panned by critics always seem to be the things people enjoy most?"
"You could say there's a certain merit in all things. Even things that turn out bad, or become infamous. If nothing else, you learn to refine your palate and defend your opinions with facts."
"I suppose," she muses, "Listen, I want you to know that the reason I'm writing that inspired piece is partly because I want to tell it, and give you the ending you deserve and have no one be able to refute it. I haven't forgotten about you. And I will come back, eventually… For now though?" she shrugs again, "I just can't."
He wants to argue that she in fact can and merely chooses not to. But he can also see how she tires, and knows that if he keeps this up her speech will begin to slur and her thoughts will become incoherent nonsense as she drifts into sleep. He decides that this is enough, for now anyways.
"You're tired," he points out the obvious, "Go to sleep. We'll pick this up some other time."
"'Kay," she mutters sleepily. She senses him ready to leave, or retire in some corner of her mind where he won't be a bother. But before he can she reaches out one last time, "Jareth?" she calls.
He pauses, "Yes?"
"Thank you, for being there. For inspiring me, for helping shape who I am."
"Thank you," he replies as he lets her fall, "For keeping a villain in your heart."
Reviews are lovely, thank you. Also, any questions can be directed to my tumblr piercingthorn on tumblr. Love you all! Until Next time Happy Holidays and all those lovely things.
