Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. Don't own the song—"Can't We Try?". Don't own Labyrinth or any of the characters. Don't own the book "Amano"—or any of the beautiful sketches. Wish I did.
Sarah grimaced at the teary-eyed face with the red nose that was reflected back in her Earl Grey tea. She had shot up out of her bed--bolt awake--at 2:30 a.m. and hadn't slept since. It had poured rain all week--flooding out what she laughingly referred to as her back yard. Her editor had called and wanted major revisions on two of her manuscripts--two weeks before her next deadline. It had been exactly a month since Karen and her Dad had died in a tragic car accident. Her best friend had gotten married last weekend to a nice fellow and wouldn't be back from Tahiti for another week. She had a raging case of writer's block and even her painting and illustrations hadn't been up to par. Now, she had to pay the rent, the power was off in her over-priced apartment due to the storm, and now she had been stood up.
So, she buried her sorrows in a slice of strawberry cheesecake and a cup of Earl Grey tea in the back of the little bookstore cum coffee shop. A few other patrons were loitering about--some waiting for the rain to let up and some relishing a good book and some finishing up their coffee before braving the treacherous, slick New York sidewalks. But otherwise, she had the entire corner of tables that was tucked between a shelf of "Fantasy" and "Science Fiction/Other" books was hers alone. Sarah had flipped through a coffee table book of sketches titled "Amano"--listening idly to the tail end of a synthesized version of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" over the Muzak--and then found one print that brought tears to her eyes.
At first glance, it was a simple black and white picture of a slender, beautiful man--almost effeminate man--with a large brimmed hat and flowing cape. The hair was carefully penned in fine strokes, wildly fanning around his face. The washes of black ink were sublime in their simplicity--and like every sketch in the book, it was breathtaking. At first, she hadn't paid much attention to the studies, more interested in the vegetable fairies and goblins, but now, this sketch pulled her back to stare for a bit. It was "shibui" as her art teacher would call it--a puzzling Japanese concept of beauty found in simple lines and colors without sacrificing necessary details. Not too fancy, not too plain.
Sarah was engrossed in her study of the lines and flowing colors, not noticing when a slender, blonde gentleman with a jumbo cup of Lemon Honey Delight, a honey bun, a sketch pad and mismatched eyes sat down a few tables away to watch her. His eyes--one an icy blue and the other deepest black--were bruised from lack of sleep and lightly rimmed with red. He was pale as well--almost as pale as his white simple peasant's shirt. His hair--obviously rebellious and naturally wild--was tied into a neat queue and he wore long khaki slacks with muddy riding boots.
They sat there for some time, nibbling their sweets and sipping their tea. The man picked up his sketchpad and began sketching as the woman continued flipping through the book, engrossed in the continuing studies in black and white.
I see your face cloud over like a little girl's
And your eyes have lost their shine.
You whisper something softly,
I'm not meant to hear.
Baby, tell me what's on your mind.
Jareth watched as she frowned, swallowing her tears like a little girl trying to be brave in the face of tragedy. She whispered something he didn't quite pick up. Perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps she didn't even know that she had spoken. She mourned softly, her grief deep. She spoke encouraging words to others, comforted their sorrows and listened calmly to their rages. But she never seemed to find someone of her own to confide in, as if she had a secret consort and needed no one else. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the idea that she kept someone else closer than he was. He could spend the rest of eternity delighting in her for that privilege.
I don't care what people say,
About the two of us from different worlds,
I love you so much that it hurts inside.
Sarah stared at the lovingly sketched man curled up close to a mahogany haired woman. What was that woman thinking? What was she feeling? Was she regretting leaving her family behind? Sarah grimaced--she had crammed her last 3 years of high school into 2 with summer classes and skipping the few that she could. She had sent out a flood of manuscripts everywhere she could think of--stories, short stories, novellas, articles, reports, and reviews--and finally, two months after she turned 18, had boarded a plane for New York.
Karen had argued long and hard about her move to New York. It had only been when she had finally wrangled a contract for three short stories from a little, unknown publishing house, that Karen had agreed to advance her the money for a plane ticket. Sarah jumped at the chance, working furiously at the three short stories and still submitting everything she could to everywhere she could. Finally, a literature magazine probably read by only a handful of English majors had hired her on full time. It hadn't pulled her out of her attic apartment that she had--until recently--shared with her best friend--but it was a start. The three short stories had sold well enough--were praised by the right critics--and slowly Sarah had started to see some consideration for her work.
And she loved a king. If that wasn't bad enough, he was a Goblin King—a king of dreams and spinning crystals. He was so far out of her reach that if she were reading about it, she'd laugh.
Are you listening?
But no matter how much she buried herself in her work--often falling asleep at her keyboard--she couldn't bury her heart. She knew that she had fallen in love long ago--the burning, bursting, dancing love that would last for a lifetime of regrets. --Jareth, the mysterious Goblin King and Lord of the Labyrinth-- she thought. She still loved him with all her heart--even when her heart shattered with her last careless words. A thousand times she had tried to write out her experiences and a thousand times she had crumpled the paper, deleted the words, or abandoned the journal. No matter how she tried to twist it, her heart broke in a thousand pieces and she couldn't finish it.
Please listen to me, girl.
Jareth watched as Sarah studied the pictures in her book, sipping her cool tea and frowning. Her heart was breaking--again--only a few feet away from him. He felt his pencil crack in his hand. How could he approach her? She had gone from a study of innocence to a study of modern strength. He had watched over her--watched her bury herself in schoolwork, watched her write and watched the stories flow from her fingers. He had read them all. He had watched as she left for New York, as she argued with her stepmother before she came here. He had watched as she applied to attend a local state university a few nights a week, wrote boring literature reviews as a day job, and tried to cope with her life in general.
He had been there, watching, when she had gotten mugged her third evening in New York. He had stepped out then, taking vicious pleasure in beating the man's face in with his fists. Sarah had grabbed up her worn leather purse and fled when he turned around. Even with the man lying at his feet, moaning and holding his face, he felt the clawing need to destroy him for daring to hurt Sarah.
And she had missed it all.
Can't we try just a little bit harder?
Can't we give just a little bit more?
Can't we try to understand?
That it's love we're fighting for
Sarah cradled the cup in her hands, smiling softly to herself. She had felt warm and protected with Jareth. He had taken care of her, watching over her in her trek through his fantasyland. She knew that she wasn't ever in any true danger--even from the cleaner's crazy contraption. He was witty and had a razor sharp intelligence that intrigued her and a dry sense of humor. Yet, he was mindful. Even when his peach drugged her, he had created a fantasy ball instead of nightmares. She felt pretty enough, but in the dress he conjured and from the searing look in his eyes, she felt beautiful.
Can't we try just a little more passion?
Can't we try just a little less pride?
I love you so much, baby,
That it tears me up inside.
Jareth smiled softly in her direction, carefully focusing on his sketch. She was thinking something good, smiling softly and warmly. She had been scared the first month or two here, the noise and smog smothering her in confusion. Now, in her own way, she was more beautiful for having grown a set of claws. She had taken self-defense classes, carried some awful concoction around to keep her safe, and had become more street savvy. But instead of her busy city life drowning the laid-back, friendly warmth, her charm intensified. She had carefully nurtured the broken spirit of the girl she was living with--a girl who had run away from abuse and a house of drugs and begun a career of stripping, a girl who should have been wished away to the Labyrinth rather than what she endured--until it had found safe haven and flown the nest. She helped out her landlady, gave generously to charities, and often was on the phone, soothing those who were in pain.
I hear you on the telephone,
With God knows who,
Spilling out your heart for free.
Everyone needs someone they can talk to.
Girl, that someone should be me.
Jareth watched as Sarah answered her ringing cell phone. She chatted softly, flipping pages, her voice musical and soothing like a lullaby. She buried her own pain, offering sympathy and empathy to whoever it was. For a second, he was angry. Why couldn't she call on him--just once more? Just once allow herself to be comforted and spoiled and allowed to forget her problems. But, as he started a delicate bit of shading, he felt the anger fade. In a perverse way, he loved her more for that--she was a giving person. A listener who paid attention and wasn't merely sitting in silence and thinking up what to say next. A person who gave generously of herself and her resources without thinking about what she could get back. She didn't indulge in gossip or idiocy, but had a wry sense of humor that picked up on the absurd.
So many times I've tried to tell you,
You just turn away. (How did I know?)
Sarah heard her friend sigh heavily, finished talking about her boyfriend's car accident and broken leg. The well of tears was dry for the moment, and her friend hung up with a happier chirp. Her thoughts returned to Jareth. Ever since she had returned with Toby, she had changed. She had feasted on ripe peaches in their season, every syrupy bite a bit bitter with memories. She often lit candles and hung crystals around her room, padding around in lacy nightgowns. She called often on her magical friends, hoping for a word or an appearance. She wrote long letters--litanies of love and self-doubt and then more love--to him. She even, in a spate of studying English, wrote sonnets. She studied music as an elective, trying her hand at composing before playing the romantic words of others. She even left the window to her bedroom open, hoping for an owl to perch on the immense peach tree outside. In desperation, she sprinkled the ground with birdseed, hoping that the squirrels would induce the owl to visit.
My life is changing so fast now--
Leaves me lonely and afraid.
Now, there wasn't room for a peach tree. There were no owls--just fat pigeons. And she sighed in her cup of tea, wishing for one more chance. She wished she could dance one more time with the Fireys, chat once more with Hoggle, play chess with Sir Didymous. In the space of a year, a single year, she had been forced to all but stop calling on them as she adapted to the hustle and bustle of big city life.
In a whimsical mood, she glanced around. There were only a few people left--including one stretched out in a chair with a sketchpad obscuring her view of his face. Something--between the illustrations in her book and this man who was studiously sketching--reminded her of Jareth. With a sigh, she pulled out a beat up notebook from her oversized purse and began writing again. No one here would point at her and stare or laugh at her busily sketching and writing.
(Don't be afraid--no.)
Jareth felt more than witnessed her sudden hesitancy--her sudden fear of being mocked or attacked--as she pulled out her notebook. Then, like the flicker of a firefly, it vanished. No, love, don't be afraid, not of me nor of anything, he whispered to her in his head. I would give my life for yours.
Can't we try just a little bit harder?
Can't we give just a little bit more?
Can't we try to understand
That it's love we're fighting for?
Jareth lowered his sketchbook warily. She was writing now. Absorbed entirely in her page, she didn't look up as he watched her. She was smiling now--perhaps because of him? He almost snorted, sipping his chilly tea. She didn't even notice he was there, watching as she glowed over her words. As long as she didn't notice him or didn't care he was there, then he was content to be at a distance. Would she be angry that he watched her? Would she be glad to see him? Would she have missed him? He frowned into his oversized mug. Maybe none of those things. Maybe he was the only one who felt this way. Maybe that's why she sat there--she cared little about him. But if she would just reach out--the smallest token of acceptance--then he would love her, adore her.... No matter how tiny the gesture it would be enough....
Can't we try just a little more passion?
Can't we try just a little less pride?
I love you so much baby
That it tears me up inside
Sarah felt the words flowing out of her like a dam bursting out. Her fingers almost burned as the words tumbled out. Everything she wanted to tell him, everything that she had ever wanted to tell him. Her words tumbled around, desperately clawing inside her to get out. The planets aligned and the stars moved as she poured her heart out. Sarah neither knew nor cared about anything more than the paper and pen, her surroundings smearing into vague bands of color. The words begged him for some small sign. Some small generous word in return and she would love him a thousand fold more, she would worship him as he asked her to so long ago.
Don't let our love fade away.Jareth cursed in his head as his pencil snapped again. His hand shaking at the thought of disturbing this scene, he slipped out to hunt up another one. Holding his breath, he prayed that she would stay--just a few moments more. Or she could move around--just don't bolt away.
Don't let our love fade away.Sarah felt the beginnings of the tide fading. She had a brief thought of the man standing and leaving, but took no more notice as she flipped yet another page and continued scribbling, cursing as the ink skipped and stuttered.
No matter what people say.The proprietor grumbled softly at having to hunt up a pencil, but finally found a chewed on yellow pencil. Jareth took it gratefully, not noticing as he smiled and rolled his eyes.
No matter what they say.Sarah glanced at her last paragraph. Her ink was running out. The last pen she had stashed in her purse and it was running out. Please, please last just a bit longer. I'm not done yet!
I need you more and more each day.Jareth crept closer to his original chair. It felt closer to her than he had in ages. She had stayed there, where he could watch her.
Don't let our love fade away.Don't fade--don't stop, Sarah begged the pen, feeling the waves of words continuing.
No matter what people say.
Jareth pointedly ignored the other man's sneering whispers to the cashier. If it were a goblin shop, he'd tip the beggar into the Bog two or three times for sneering at Love.
Don't matter--don't matter what they say.
Sarah heard the muttering. In silent concert with the artist, she ignored him as well. Jareth would tip the beggar into the Bog for sneering at Love.
Can't we try just a little bit harder?
Can't we give just a little bit more?
Jareth worked frantically to get the last details in the sketch. It was perfect--almost worthy of her. How to get her to see it?
Can't we try just a little bit harder?
Can't we give just a little bit more?
Sarah felt the words wind to a close. It was long, wordy, and probably had spelling errors. But it was her heart--written on paper for him. How to get him to see it?
Can't we try just a little more passion?Sarah folded the papers into thirds, finishing her tea. Her fingers tingled softly, and she was spent.
Can't we try just a little less pride?Jareth set down the pad, aware that his Sarah was going to leave. It was too late to do a strategic exit--she'd notice him right off. With a sigh, he vanished.
Love you so much baby--Sarah put the folded sheets and put them on top of the assorted junk in her purse. With a start, she realized that she was the only one in the place--even her silent sketch artist companion had left. She was grateful to him, even to the ridiculously expensive coffee table book, for releasing those words from her heart.
It tears me up inside.Jareth reappeared outside, hiding in the shadows of an alley, waiting for her to walk past on her way to her apartment. Then he realized his sketchbook was still on the table. His precious diary of Sarah's life—the life he hadn't been able to share with her—was gone. For a moment, he regretted leaving the sketchbook behind, but he was grateful--would pay the price ten times over--for the little slice of her time.
Sarah paid for the book and was going to step out into the rain when the owner called to her.
"You know the guy who was in here? He left his pad," the owner grumbled.
"Err... no," she blushed.
The owner snorted. "You sure?"
"Umm.... yes?" Sarah looked confused as the owner passed her the pad.
Can't we try just a little bit harder?The open page was a delicate drawing of her in a flowing white ball gown, waltzing with a tall man with wild blonde hair in a metallic coat. Sarah flipped through the pages--every one was a study of her. While she was sleeping, while she was singing, while she comforted Toby, while she cuddled a kitten, when she let down Ludo, when she got her first acceptance from a publisher. Every sketch was her face, her likeness. Every so often there was some note--"Sarah gets her first check! Hooray!", "Sarah dreams so softly, smiling. Does she dream of me?", "Sarah packs her statue that looks like me in her shirt for the move. I wish that I were that statue!", "Do you remember Ludo? He misses you, Sarah."
Can't we give just a little bit more?Sarah walked out, studying the pages with tears in her eyes. Her little pages seemed to small--so little--compared to the care and endless vigilance that this pad showed. "I wish the Goblin King would get my letter, right now," she whispered, in awe at the endless care of a sketch of her kissing Hoggle and the intricate detail of a picture of her, bent over a box of dishes when she moved in.
A sudden wind picked up, rippling through the pages of her letter and yanking them out of her purse. Sarah glanced up, watching the pages fly away like gleeful birds. A sudden gust blew them into an alley and she tucked the pad under her trench coat and then tore after them in pursuit.
Sarah rounded the corner with a skid, her aging sneakers squealing. Jareth stood there, glorious even in the dark, rainy alley. Her pages fluttered to him, folding up and landing in his hand in one packet.
Can't we try to understand--"What are you doing here?" Sarah whispered.
"I....." The Goblin King studied the pages in his hands. "I wanted to see you, Sarah."
That it's love we're fighting for?Sarah flushed. Pulling out the sketchpad, she carefully dusted it off, closed it and offered it to him. "I found your sketches."
Jareth raised his hand. "I want you to have it--to remember me by." He turned, his shoulders dropping. "If you want to."
Can't we try a little bit harder?"Oh, thank you," Sarah whispered, hugging it to her.
She had turned to go back out of the alley and walk away when she heard him gasp. Turning around, she saw him staring, wide eyed, at her writing.
Can't we try a little less pride?"Do you mean this?" he demanded softly.
I love you so much baby
It tears me up inside.
"With all my heart," she whispered in reply and with a burst of glitter, they vanished together.