Puppets
Sarah's not what she seems...and even she doesn't know it.
A captive soul, dreams made mortal, dancing in a spinning crystal that hung in dry, harsh desert world. He first saw her standing alone, looking into the sky, seemingly deliberately staring into his crystal. Her pale face was turned upwards like the delicate inside of a seashell flipped over to reveal a startling array of colorful emotions—for nothing Sarah did was blandly, without passion. Even when she was standing still, there was a light in her eyes, gazing at distant futures and dreams that did not fade in the daylight.
Distracted, he refused her entrance into his attention as he sought the one who had said those words and guaranteed himself an unusual day. The young brunette was unknowingly resting her slender weight against the opposite side of a stone wall as his target, who was slumped down in an image of drunken defeat that was radically different from the youth across from him, so much so it was a comical portrait of contrasts.
But her oddly knowing eyes haunted him, and to dismiss the fanciful notion an mortal had indeed seen his crystalline spy—a horrifying thought, that humans had somehow developed their largely unused sense—he sent another sphere out to the park he had found her in. The playful way she acted out story-scenes and plays, sometimes looking over her shoulder as though gauging his reaction, trouble him deeply, and warranted further investigations.
At least, that was what he told himself.
.
.
A woman-not-yet, a child-no-longer, she seemed to be fiercely holding onto receding years, something he could have told her was futile for a mortal creature, though she held out with more success than he'd have expected. Why, he did not know, for all others around her sought adulthood's finality, but not her. She bore a child's impetuous nature and a child's wisdom, seeing through what was presented into what really was—though not why; a child could never understand the complexity of life as an adult could.
She tempestuously fought the feminine intruder to her household, who said one thing but did another, and held herself aloof from the child resulting from her union with the head of the household. It was because of this woman he finally learned the girl's name; the man always called her pumpkin, sweetie, and other such endearments. The woman only called her Sarah.
Sarah. It was a gentle name, but old and strong and surviving many generations to be used again and again despite the fads. The very sound of it reminded him of her ever after.
Sarah.
She retreated inwards from the world, but only long enough to bring her fantasies out of her soul, drawing them up like a flower unfolding and spreading them about into the air until he could almost see the characters she spoke to, feel their replies. She had a gift for phrasing things in such a way that they revealed more of her creations' personalities than a picture did. He liked to listen to her, when he was not attending his duties, doing age-old work.
And lately, he was rarely working.
Amused by her voracious love of fantastical stories, a notion came to him, and he wrestled with it, pacing back and forth in his throne room, around and around her crystal until the sphere seemed to dance and sparkle with reflected light, although it stood still. Finally, he admitted defeat, for the act was already decided for; he had only been able to delay himself from fulfilling it.
He sent her a book, a story made up entirely by him, populated with familiar creatures in a well-known land. It would give her what her heart truly wanted.
He never stopped to admit to himself why the particular plot he chose came so readily to his mind. If he had questioned himself, he might have said it was because she spoke often of the truest, strongest feeling of mankind, and this would appeal to her most. But he never stopped to question himself.
He didn't dare.
.
.
She followed his script wonderfully, having read it frequently in the short period of time before she unwittingly activated its unsuspected power. She even danced the dance, but not once did she ever read between the lines or see beyond the surface.
Not once did she look deeper.
Even when she looked into his eyes, as he allowed her too on several mostly speechless—for her—occasions. She saw nothing but the role he played.
Granted, he did not truly love her then, for his kind did not feel such things easily, being too long-lived to take such emotions seriously. But her forever was no time at all to him in his lonely splendor, and he would have gladly spent the moments on her fascination, unraveling some mysteries for her and teasing her with others. But it was not to be.
She chose as she must, and it followed logically from her core-being, to do the Right Thing. She even sacrificed of herself. How foolish he'd been, not to have foreseen that. How arrogant, to think he could change who she truly was. She was in love with a world not her own, and did not seem to belong in the one she was born into, but at heart she was only petty, not hopelessly cruel. A youngling, yes, but too far into maturity for him to sway her with selfish desires. But too young, yet, to see the why of it all.
She never stopped to wonder why, even though a grain of its truth was hidden in some of the first words of what became their story. No, it never occurred to her to even wonder why, let alone ask it.
He fell into despair as he shape-shifted and flew away, and the sphere containing possibilities-made-certain dissolved at her no-longer-coveting touch. But as she celebrated her victory, he could not help but look back.
Then he knew for certain something was wrong: his kind never looks back.
What was this power she possessed, to make him forget himself and pride, and to regret? He did not regret, not ever, life was too long for it. But his eyes returned to her time and again, and he wondered how she fared so well without dream's her now sometimes-sad eyes, she was not nearly so wasted as he would've liked, to salvage a bit of his pride.
She had won, so why was she occasionally to be found re-reading the book in depression? And why was she doing as well as she was, though she was no longer whole? Contradiction was defined by the name "Sarah Williams".
Sarah, Sarah, earthly mystery. He intended to solve her.
.
.
"Curiosity," said Davro, winding something around and through his fingers, "is the strongest compulsion among us." The thread, silvery in color, kept fading in and out of perception, and he knew full well Davromin Vtar-Lak toyed with it in order to remind him who held the power. Jareth schooled his expression to reveal none of his disdain at this obvious show, for nothing would please the emperor more.
Davro let go of the thread that bound all his people to him like puppets and it disappeared entirely. He clasped his hands before him, in his lap, and gave his Goblin King his full attention. "You have not been in my presence since I banished your father—not by choice."
Jareth said nothing.
"What could possibly bring you to me now?"
"You have my request for an audience," Jareth said shortly, still standing before his seated ruler with a spine so straight you could use it as a ruler to mark lines. His wildly spiked hair caught the sunlight and made his face seem even paler against his black clothing. In a gold-lavished room, he was a white crystal in black cloth, and no where near as interesting to look at as the exotically sharp-featured being before him in cloth literally made of gold with ebony finery and silver embellishments. His tense posture was either aware of this, or simply merely angry.
"Yes," Davro said, raising a hand to touch the side of his index finger to his lips thoughtfully under watchfully narrowed ice-blue eyes. "I recall your birth, Jareth. Your mother was a humanoid Goblin, who retained her shape at the last Goblin King's will, but was unquestioningly enslaved and reduced in perception by her servitude. A lovely doll."
"Sire," he bit off.
"You have worked hard to overcome this, and my people,"-his people, not Jareth's-"have accepted you out of...curiosity. You have served well, despite your humanish blood. But to chose another human—one not even properly enslaved—to bear your interest and your heir...?"
"No," he corrected frostily, not moving except to curl his upper lip slightly. "I wish to be free of this fascination. I fea...I feel a curse may have been placed upon my person, to render me distracted. To what purpose, I do not know."
"Entertainment, perhaps," suggested Davro, sounding unconcerned.
Jareth did not dismiss this possibility. "I am," he began, then paused, eyes flickering in doubt for the first time.
Davro tilted his head back questioningly, then leaned forward. "You are my servant. I do not care for others to play with what is mine."
The Goblin King considered this reassurance, eyes downcast, and finally continued with obvious reluctance in his slow words. "I am besieged by unnatural emotions regarding this girl."
"The girl who bested you," Davro clarified with a faint smile.
"...Yes."
"Ah." He leaned back once more, flipping his wrist carelessly at Jareth, fingers splayed. "Continue."
"I...regret...how things ended between us." The words might have been pulled from him like teeth, so hard were they to loosen and free.
"It's always a disappointment to lose a game," Davro said understandingly, which made Jareth look up at him suspiciously. The emperor gave him an overly bright smile. "And for her to not even have the decency to acknowledge what you offered her." When no response came but the slanting over sunlight across the wall as time played out, he continued. "I shall offer you this, Jareth."
Jareth raised his head a bit, hands at his side tensing, fingers curling slightly, ready more to fight than to take a friendly offer of help.
"I can offer you two choices. One, I simply remove these...this affliction, from you. But you will be no closer than before to securing an heir to your kingdom, since my court is uneasy to allow you to wed one of our own. In time, I suspect the Goblin Kingdom will be run entirely by mortals," he sighed as though it were of no more concern than possible rain ruining a picnic, "who have tainted by our land with long life and elemental magic. Surely they will not have even your abilities—but enough to manage their duties and your denizens. I wonder if they will extend the care that you do?" he mused.
Jareth, who had said nothing to this monologue, watched him with distrusting eyes, no doubt catching the threat.
"Or...I can simply allow you to wed this human girl—she had proven herself quite capable of charming the locals into defecting and following her wishes. For a human, she is rather a catch, as they say."
Still no response.
"You could do worse," Davro pointed out. "Our people were most heartily amused by her." An flattening of brows was all that Jareth gave him in return for this stab. "They would watch her with the same interest they watch you with. That will be enough. And since it would be done with my blessing, any plot to endanger your position with rebellion is neatly side-stepped."
"I will...consider your counsel," Jareth said in a careful tone, displeasure tightening his lips.
"I will await your answer," Davro said genially, "by no later than tomorrow evening."
.
.
"A wedding?" said Lifra, running her hands through his deep auburn hair soothingly. He leaned back against her and she folded her arms around him comfortably, herself resting in turn on a plumply cushioned low sofa before the fireplace. The flickering flames provided the only light in the room, casting all beyond it into shadow. "How surprising. Even if I could speak at will, I doubt I'd have not been speechless." Her legs, spread around his form, shifted slightly, wrapped in a silky green evening dress. He stroked one thigh.
"Yes, Jareth does make everything difficult," Davro agreed. "I've been tormenting that young girl with glimpses of Faerie since her toddler-hood in order to create a particular blend of old-soul and innocence. No doubt I've ruined her for her own world, but it was worth it to find a worthy bride for Jareth. The fool must know he'd never have another's hand. But then, he didn't even realize it was his very own human blood rendering him susceptible to human emotions, weakening him to love's trap. Ah, such a fool, but still he is my citizen."
"And the others?" Lifra asked, resting her head against his and returning to her own curiosity. "There were three others you touched with semi-Sight also. Did he ever notice them?"
"No, in fact," Davro admitted. "They were not placed properly at the right time. Most resistant to my subtle prodding, trying to stay grounded in their own realities. One became mad," he amended.
"How unfortunate."
"She was not to be," Davro shrugged indifferently. "The others will shortly recover, suppressing all they have seen and suspected now that I am not there to prod them along in the right direction. No loose ends to the yarn of the story. Just as well; they didn't have her way with words—a most necessary skill for a queen."
"Had you been one of your own subjects," Lifra said with a hint of huffy insubordination lying under her tone like a rock under a rug, just visible as a little lump at the right angle, "you would've killed them for meddling with the humans uninvited, be it for the good of one of your own or not."
"Still that rebellions tongue of yours," said Davro indulgently, not moving an inch. "Or I shall do more worse than the seal for silence you have and cut it out entirely."
"You never will," Lifra kissed his hair, but wisely refrain from further comment on that subject. "A pity Jareth is never to know of this; he might perhaps be more grateful."
Davro snorted and pulled himself into an upright position, half-turning to face her. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word. His stubborn human blood resists reasoning, as does his father's pride passed on to him. No, he shall not know of this, but I shall nevertheless have in his head an awareness of what he owes me. He will make every move from now until her death with this in mind."
"I am pleased for you," Lifra purred, leaning forward.
He bestowed a kiss upon her soft lips and smiled. "An empire doesn't rule itself; the emperor must make all the puppets dance in time or the show would be ruined."
Conversation then was silenced for a brief time as the puppet-master indulged himself with the one willing and knowing puppet he had, who danced for him happily, entirely on her own.
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A/N: This idea came to me while I was editing the "Does...?" fic (it's coming along grudgingly), of a emperor who for once is actually acting for Jareth's own good without our dear Goblin King's knowing it. And of course, I provided yet another reason why Jareth would've noticed her and how she would've gotten the famous book. If Jareth seems ooc, I apologize—he is standing before his own ruler, whom we can see likes to toy with people, torn by an emotion he's unaccustomed to and uncertain if he wants it to continue or not. That would unsettle anyone, I should think.
Hope you liked it. I wrote it in about an hour and a half, and have no beta, so please forgive typos. And PLEASE REVIEW! This is an author's life-blood, a nice review—and for me, the lengthier the better, so talk as much as you want. : )