Hey,
Muahahaha! Yes, everyone, now that I've had time to adjust, somewhat, to my new food regiment and the hideous drugs I'm on are slowly not hurting as much (intestinal problems… yuck!) I have become overly energized and inspired. And as soon as I get inspired to write, a certain someone enters my brain and demands an audience… or more like he demands authority… but whatever.
Oh, and I just wanted to send a shout out to CoffeeKris, for not only being there by me through all of my Lab fan fic, but also stealing (Joking, just joking) my concept and creating a beautiful short off of it. I loved it, did I ever tell you?
Well, without further
ado… wait, I forgot the Disclaimer: I don't OWN the
characters, property, or original storyline of The Labyrinth.
Whew,
NOW without further ado…
He sat and stared into the empty space. It was a relatively quiet day, which surprised him. No little goblins running around, no hens clucking, no hen-pecking women. It was just… silent. However, there was a reason for that. For you see, there were no goblins to be reaking havoc yet, there were no hens to cluck, there was nothing, really. He stared at not the endlessness of the land stretching out before him, but at the possibilities. Long, long, long ago, that had been him. A creature prone to imagining, to wondering, to possibilities and futures.
He had sat for a long time, merely planning. His knack for plans was rooted in him from birth, most likely. Not that anyone knew him then. Yes, he was planning, not scheming mind you, for he had not yet learned that trick. No, he sat, and sat, and sat. If there had of been any observers, they might have mistaken him for a boulder or a statue. The leaves fell, the rain froze, the snow covered, the spring thawed, the flowers bloomed. And still he sat.
Finally, something clicked. Something strange and unknowable had been resolved, and he got up. Even though he had not moved in almost a year, he stood with the fluid, feline grace that would later intoxicate and thrill generations. But at that time, none were there to appreciate his elegance.
His eyes gave the land a final sweep and then they closed. Never before had the land been cultivated, never before had its magics been tamed, never before had it encountered someone of the likes of him. His magic was something new, something untried, something that even he had not yet fully explored. He somehow knew that once he tamed this land, he was stay here. He would imbue the land with something of himself, not enough to be used against him, but enough that it would understand him, obey him, companion him.
Suddenly there's a blinding flash of light, and in those days of unrefined magic, a spectator would have seen it, in all of its breathtaking glory. The webs of magic dancing through the air, spreading across the land, climbing into the sky, and then diving. Diving deep into the ground, tangling with the very magic that sustained this wild land. This land was magical, while not sentient, was different than the lands he had found before. Unlike the other places, this land had not been sun-bleached of its magic, nor had it been sapped by the trees and life around it. This land was as untamable as his own nature, and that might have been why it submitted; though one may never truly know why. The battle between the young man and the land was long and hard, and stretched over more time than he had sat. His magic slowly infused and intertwined with the magic of the land. Slowly, his own power increased from the continuous strain, and he learned his limitations, his gifts, his curses. Slowly, ever so slowly, it bent its head, as it never had before, not in shame or defeat, but in blessing.
The man finally opened his eyes and glanced out at the land, physically unchanged, but magically tied to his very being. There was so much work to do. He know heard and understood the quiet, still voice of the land. He knew what he had to do. Both he and the land were never going to leave here, and so, he planned how they might live together without becoming stagnant. Both wandering magics yearned for freedom, and yet, yearned more for some semblance of order, or… a home. It surprised him, at first, that his heart should yearn for a place to call his own. But over time he realized that subduing the land and the magics meant that he would need to rule it, and that made all the difference.
The planning, he had done, meticulously, for if he made even one mistake in his cultivation of this land, would render him impoverished of his magic, perhaps even forfeit his life. No, he had ever minutia planned for, every possibility expected, every catastrophe prevented. Then he called forth the magics, and slowly his dream took form, shimmering at first, but slowly solidifying out of the realm of dreams. As he created, it fought to regress, as he built, it fought to crumble, as he structured, it fought to break free. So he took compassion on the magics, on his very soul, and gave it a life of its own. That it might always be his but forever surprise him; always be there, but never retain the same dimensions or specifications. It was as much a living-breathing thing as he, but its flesh was wrought from the earth it exited, its blood, the magics that flowed through it, its mind, a portion of his soul.
Before the young man lay, the Labyrinth.
An excerpt from 'The Tome of Knowledge'
He smiled sardonically. How mesmerizing they had made it all sound, how grandiose and utterly boring! Putting the tome down he rolled his head back and gazed out the stone window high above. From the thin slit overhead, he could just make out a passing cloud, a slight breeze, a distant cry of a falcon or a hawk. Something nostalgic had awoken in him, for while he might scoff at how they tried to garnish the past, it was true in its facts. He breathed a silent sigh. Something inside him ached, ached for those day, when the world had been simple and magic free. Now, everything came at a cost, and everyday was a drudgery. He was an 'expert' now, no longer a 'novice'. He had explored the paths, memorized the details, missed the forest for the trees.
His fluid, feline grace had not left him in the eons that had passed since he had first been gifted with life. If anything, it had been honed, trained, perfected. His motions seemed something taken from a dream, something unhampered by gravity and possibilities. He prowled through the room, filled with the dusty smell of books and the light flooding in from the surfeit of windows. The air was still, and dust made small motes in the air as he passed. The books lined the walls, extending up a story or two, covering end tables, adorning the many, multi-tiered shelves organized throughout the back portion of the room. Their titles and subjects ranged from the obscure to the incredulous, the practical to the fanciful. And he had collected each one.
A slight pull, a tug at his conscious, alerted him to the meandering thoughts of his constant familiar. Yes, the Labyrinth was always with him, and today it had an idea for him. It understood his mood, and knew what would lighten his load, ease his retrospect, quiet his ancient soul.
A single book moved from its place. It was unremarkable as far as old books go. It cover flapped open so as to allow the book to glide towards its owner. It was perhaps the oldest of his books, the most loyal, and the one of the few that was not finished… and most likely would never be. The familiar volume landed on his outstretched hand, its weight the same as the day when he had used his magic to bring it into existence. The cover was nothing to draw attention. Its pages were not gilded, its writing not ornate. No, this book was beautiful in its simple elegance, in its honesty, and sometimes, in its humor. And if was for that exact reason that he would read it again, as he had over the years. So many times, so very many times.
The magic-written title was in simple black ink, What Goblin Kings Don't Do. Just the title brought a slight semblance of a smile to his face. Slowly, he opened the book.
This is an account of the behavior, thoughts, and specifications of the Goblin King, Jareth. May none doubt these words, nor any read them without permission.
Jareth had nothing to fear from this thinly veiled threat; after all, he had been the one to install it. The protection spells on this book were most stringent.
What The Goblin King Does Not Do (An Exhaustive List… As Of Yet, Unfinished.)
Does not allow himself to be governed by ANY ONE or ANY THING.
Does not retreat, he advances in a reverse direction.
Does not get beaten, he allows others to win.
Does not admit to defeat, he schemes on retribution.
Does not bend on knee, EVER!
Does not beg.
Does not request.
Does not roll his eyes.
Does not laugh, he purrs.
Does not speak in monotone.
Does not swagger.
Does not walk, he floats or prowls.
Does not plan, he schemes. Although, long ago he planned, once.
Does not become melancholy, he reminisces.
Does not display his emotions, he cultivates calculated expressions on his face.
Jareth put down the book. A very slight smile played at his lips. The Labyrinth had been right. For some reason, this ancient tome was healing to him. Not because he was so overly narcissistic, but because it was honest as no other books were. Plus, it had a very dry wit carefully woven into its being. He turned and strode nonchalantly to the books designated shelf space. Carefully, almost reverently he placed it back in its place. There would be another time to read on. Many more times.
His face set into a determined, chiseled image of himself. Yes, today was the day he had been waiting for. His strange mood brought on by the knowledge of what was to come. Soon, sooner than any would suspect, he would need the book again. Soon, he would waylay his very soul, and find it again in this truthful tome. Soon…
With that he departed the room, leaving it as if he had never been.
.:OoO:.
Well, what do ya think? Evil Smile. I'll leave you all to speculate what you will about what I'm going to do with this. Enjoy.
Shadow-D