Thirteen. The clock rang out its ominous warning. Time was up.
"Damn," Jareth cursed, drawing a small silver blade from his belt.
He had been so certain of this one, the clever young prince with his dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. It ached to know that, upon the final toll of the clock, Jareth would have no memory of the quick-witted young man.
Perhaps it was better this way. After all, Prince Saresh would soon have no memory of his former life, of Jareth, or his attempt to defeat the Labyrinth, just like all the other Labyrinth runners who had failed before him. His beautiful, tall frame would shrink, his golden-brown skin shrivel and sag until the creature he became would be unrecognizable, even to Jareth. His failure to complete the Labyrinth doomed the Prince to become a goblin until a Champion could defeat the Labyrinth.
Or at least, so Jareth hoped. In truth, there was no proof that the Champion, Regent of the Labyrinth, could restore the fallen Saarah. Jareth could only hope that, once the Champion was found, their power would fix all that had fallen into ruin. He was certain the young man was one of the Saarah. He had an adaptive mind and seemed to delight in the Labyrinth's riddles and tests. He had come so far, and yet, in the end, had failed to reach the castle at the Labyrinth's center.
Such a pity. He would miss their banter. Of all the Labyrinth runners, Prince Saresh seemed to realize just how trapped they both were by the Labyrinth's magic, he in the role of desperate hero in a race against time and Jareth in the role of sinister villain determined to stop him. In truth, Jareth did all in his power to subvert the will of the Labyrinth, helping the runners as best he could through indirect means. For Prince Saresh, he had orchestrated that the Prince's path would cross with a goblin in possession of an enchanted chess piece that, when dropped, would roll in the direction of the castle. Unfortunately, Saresh had lost the piece escaping from a rogue flock of Fireys. Jareth had entertained the notion that, once the Labyrinth was defeated he and Saresh might have become friends. If not for that one stroke of bad luck, Saresh would be standing before Jareth now, the Regent of the Labyrinth and King of the Goblins, finally able to take on the much larger problems threatening the Goblin Kingdom.
What's done is done, he thought, dragging the tip of the blade against the flesh of his arm. Bright red droplets of blood welled in the wake of the knife's path, the newest addition to a patch of thin, silver scars that marred the otherwise perfect skin of his arm. He grimaced at the unsightly marks, now eleven in total. It was a crude system, but thus far he had not discovered a better way to protect himself from the forgetfulness that followed the thirteenth hour. By delivering a fresh wound before the final stroke of thirteen, he ensured that he kept a physical record of the fallen Saarah, even if he couldn't remember their names or faces. In addition, the pain of the cut and fresh blood helped to draw his attention to….
…to…
The last note of chiming clock hung in the air, wavering for a moment, and died.
What was I doing, again, Jareth thought, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the thick fog that seemed to have settled over his brain in the last…minute? How long have I been standing here, he wondered briefly, before he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his arm. He hissed at the sight of fresh, red blood trailing in a small rivulet from the cut on his arm.
Cursing, he tore a bit of fabric from his silk shirt to bandage the wound. A shame, he thought, pulling the makeshift bandage tight, I really liked this shirt. As he finished tying off the bandage, his eyes were drawn to the bloody knife on the table before him.
My bloody knife, he realized, recognizing the blade. I injured myself, and it appears I did so on purpose, he thought, remembering the older scars that accompanied his fresh wound. How many were there again? 10?
A note sat folded on the table next to his silver knife, the words "Read Me", written in his own elegant hand, across the back on the note. It appears this was not the first time he'd forgotten in this fashion. Picking up the note, he crossed to the window seat where he sat and unfurled the note he could not remember writing.
"To my forgetful self,
If you are reading this note, it appears we've failed again..."
