Author's Note: This is a short story that interrupted my regularly scheduled writing plan.
Disclaimer: Labyrinth and all of its characters are owned by Jim Henson, et al. The only thing I own is my imagination.
"One picture is worth ten thousand words." - Chinese proverb
GK~GK~GK~GK~GK
Jareth closed the door to his study with a grateful sigh. The Labyrinth Challenge was over; the Runner hadn't even made it past the hedge maze before her thirteen hours had run out. The goblins, who always gleefully anticipated another Battle of the Goblin City every time a new Labyrinth Challenge began, had gone home to their ramshackle houses in the city disappointed and grumbling. The brownies had come out of hiding and begun the vigorous cleaning of the castle required after the horde had been present for any length of time.
Jareth had just come from presenting the Wished-Away to her new family; the childless Fae couple had been overjoyed to receive her. A female Wished-Away was rare, and highly prized - female Fae who had once been human didn't suffer the sorrow of infertility that afflicted most females born as Fae. The infant, now being fed Fae food, would complete her transformation in a few days.
Jareth kicked off his heeled black boots, and buried his toes in the thick, soft cream carpet that covered most of the stone floor of his study. The light of the setting sun entered the room through the large window opposite the door, making the wood-panelled walls glow golden. He flicked his hand at the massive stone fireplace that dominated the right side of the room and a crackling fire appeared in the grate. He shrugged off his jewel encrusted, midnight blue cape and left it in a pool of fabric and gleaming gems next to his boots while he crossed to the massive mahogany desk.
He sank into the blissful embrace of his elaborately carved chair. Upholstered with plump cushions of jade green velvet, the chair had been crafted exactly to his measure. After thirteen hours on the hard, unyielding stone of his throne - multiple cushions having been shredded by the horde during multiple Challenges, he'd finally conceded defeat on making it more comfortable - sitting in his chair felt wonderful. He stretched, rolling his shoulders to release the tension of the day.
He froze mid-stretch when his eyes landed on the Aboveground-style envelope perfectly centered on his desk. Stacks of paperwork, correspondence, ledgers, and books lined the three outside edges of his desk, but he always kept the center clear for whatever he was currently working on. His desk had been clear before he left his study to answer the Summons; therefore, someone had invaded his sanctum during the last thirteen hours. His eyes flashed with anger.
"Well, well," he smirked maliciously, picking up the envelope. "Who has earned themselves a trip to the bog, then?" Turning the envelope over - whoever had placed it had accidentally done so upside down, no doubt because they were rightfully terrified to be in his private space, and were acting in haste - he discovered his name written across the face of the envelope in flowing cursive.
His upswept eyebrows raised further in surprise. Not even his family addressed him in missives by only his name. His anger forgotten and his curiosity inflamed, he slit the envelope open with a knife he kept on his desk and pulled out the card inside. An insert fell from the card and landed face down on the desk. Flipping it over, he was confronted with a circular image of himself at his most intimidating: in his black armor, hands on his hips, a stern expression on his face. The painting was exquisite and captured him perfectly. It was flanked by two other images - one of them appeared to be an equally accurate sculpture of Wise Man and his Birdhat, and the other was a replica of a dress on a dress form - a dress that he could never, no matter how hard he tried, forget.
He ran one gloved finger over the image of the dress. "Sarah," he whispered, his heart aching, the old sorrow settling in his stomach. It had been ten years since he'd last seen her, ten years since their confrontation, ten years since she had revoked his power over her. Ten years of being unable to see her in his crystals, ten years of being unable to visit her Aboveground, ten years of being banned from her dreams.
His eyes flicked to the top of the insert. Labyrinth: A Celebration of the Art of Sarah Williams, it proclaimed in metallic silver print. Underneath the central images, the same print provided a date for a Gallery Opening Reception. Heart pounding, he hastily opened the accompanying card, and quickly read the note, penned in the same flowing cursive as his name.
I really wish you'd come. I need you. Love, Sarah
"Your right words indeed," Jareth chuckled, as the warmth of a nearly unbearable hope flooded his being. He read the note again, slowly, savoring her words. I really wish you'd come, she had written, inviting him. I need you, she had stated, granting him the power to visit her Aboveground. Love, Sarah, she had declared.
Did she mean it? he wondered, his brow furrowing. Or was it simply an Aboveground convention to sign notes in this manner? He tried to squash the hope swelling in his chest; after all, she'd rejected him before. He'd learned to live with the pain of his shattered heart; he couldn't bear a repeat performance.
He pulled off his gloves and ran the fingers of his right hand across her words, trying to gauge what Sarah had felt when she had put her pen to paper. First, he had to wade through the emotions of the person who had delivered the missive; Hogbrain, Jareth identified the intruder, as he mentally tasted the dwarf's fear. Maybe he wouldn't bog the wretched dwarf for invading his space after all.
He had expected the messenger to be Sir Didymus, since the knight was currently the Lord Martial of the Goblin Army and had unrestricted access to the castle grounds. The duty Didymus would have felt delivering Sarah's missive would be easier to move past than Hogwart's terror. He probed deeper, searching for a whisper of emotion that belonged to Sarah. The traces were faint, meaning that she had written the invitation some time ago. Jareth felt fading uncertainty and hope, veined with another emotion too diminished for him to read.
He looked back at the insert. She remembered him in enough detail to paint a perfect portrait. That was cause for hope, wasn't it? He would hope, and he would go, and if it didn't go well, he'd bog the horrible dwarf permanently. He grinned at the mental image of Hoghead frantically scrubbing away bog muck to no avail.