His Majesty's Birthday
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Jareth woke to sunlight streaming through the windows, though it did little to fight back the chill of winter. A castle, although beautiful and spacious to live in, was always drafty. He stretched and called for a servant to stoke the fire in the grate, and that was when it occurred to him: it was his birthday. A sort of bittersweet half smile graced his face. It seemed that the years of his long life would continue. As it was, this was still his birthday, and he was still awake, and he hadn't had breakfast yet. He would take it privately, in his waiting room.
When he had finally eaten, he dressed in the poet's shirt, leather jacket, and gray pants he had worn in the tunnel all those years ago, when Sarah had run his Labyrinth and he first looked at her with new eyes, and she had actually looked at him. It was still her favorite of all his outfits, and so he wore it for her. He truly smiled then, as he briefly thought over the years of memories they had together. He shook himself from his reverie, reminding himself that he still had duties to attend to. A king could never quite rest, his kingdom always in need. He could reminisce later when he saw her.
It was his birthday, after all.
Morning court was the same as usual, humdrum and full of petty arguments and asinine demands. No, you could not claim his chicken, even if it wanted to feed in your yard. Yes, an additional road through the wastes would be helpful, but it can't run only to your territory. No, you can't eat that, it's poisonous. No, you must share the food from the storehouse, it doesn't matter if he called you a bog-slurping toad, everyone has the right to eat through winter.
It was rather draining, which made the afternoon walk through the gardens, even if they were covered in snow, that much more relaxing. He abstained from lunch, choosing a moment of peace over the pomp of the royal dining room. When he walked down the kept pathways, clutching his fur cape about him, he was grateful for living in a land of magic. It meant special flowers that would bloom even on the coldest of days... Sarah's favorite. Their petals were a deep wine red save for the tips, which were pure white. He stopped to gather a small bouquet. He'd take them with when he had dinner during his visit with her.
The walk was refreshing, if short, for he had to return to the castle and his duties once again. Being king did have its benefits though, such as receiving gifts from the neighboring countries and from his own subjects as well. He, of course, was rather fond of gifts. Though they caused a great amount of noise when gathering, and it often resulted in a headache, he loved his subjects nonetheless. From the smallest goblin to the largest fae, they were his people, his kingdom, and he would make a point to thank each one when they bestowed their gifts on him, as best he could. He began to see his people, and their love for him and the kingdom, more clearly when Sarah took up her crown and looked after the subjects. She would read to the little ones, walk through the towns, discuss problems with the people in their element. She didn't shy away from them, she wasn't born to royalty but instead fought for it, earned it. He was still learning.
The subjects gathered in the grand hall, and every head bowed when he entered. Each being presented their gift, and in hushed tones wished him a happy birthday. He gave each a smile that was genuine, if not felt completely in his heart. Holidays made him a little melancholy, a little more wistful. The memories pushed in, and he began to feel overwhelmed. Too soon, much too soon. He gestured for his advisor to handle the rest of his subjects, and to see that they all had their fill at the grand banquet in his honor. He wouldn't be attending. He had somewhere else to be.
It was his birthday, after all.
He swept from the room, making apologies, and understanding glances followed behind him. Whispers echoed; "fifteen years…" "he'll never be the same…" "I doubt he wants to be…" but he ignored them, and he made his way down to the kitchens. Already, there was a basket waiting, and the bouquet he had picked earlier. He grabbed them quickly and left, leaving no trace save for the faint sound of his steps. He made his way through the gardens once again, but this time his pace was faster. In an hour or so the sun would start to set, and he wanted to reach his destination before then. He would not take flight this time, no, he would take the well-worn path on foot. She waited for him.
Within half an hour he finally reached the grove, his feet a little sore from the journey. No matter, he would be seated soon. He threaded his way through the trees until he spied the lone Sourwood Tree at its center. Now bare for winter, it gave no shelter from the cold. Still, it was beautiful, for it was the one that marked her grave. He reached out and lovingly stroked its gray-red bark. It had grown much since it had been planted. He would visit every summer on their anniversary when the leaves were green and the blooms fragrant, and every fall on her birthday when the leaves were splashed with crimson and it looked as if it were on fire. He could think of no better tree to represent her, to be the guardian of her resting place.
"I have missed you," he whispered into the woods, the wind carrying his words high above their branches. When he placed the bouquet at its roots, it began to snow. The gentle flakes landed in his hair and lashes, dusted his fur cape. They kissed his cheeks, like a small blessing from his beloved. He laid out the thin blanket that had covered the basket and set up his meal. He ate as though it were a ritual, silent and solemn. The memories returned with every moment, and this time he let them flow into him, through him, and out once again in the tears that fell. He was strong for his kingdom, but he could mourn here, show how weak he still was. He didn't know if it would ever change. Through the years the hurt never seemed to dull, only change a little.
When he finished, he leaned against the tree and sighed. How he wished it was still her embrace he felt, instead of the hard bark that poked through his cape. It seemed that mortals, even fae-touched mortals, could not outlive his kind. He had tried, with every breath he had, to wish her back to himself. That wasn't how his powers worked, though. He was bound to forever grant other's wishes but was never allowed his own, no matter how desperate he felt. No matter how ardent the prayer. So, Sarah remained parted from him, in a place he could never seem to reach. He stayed like that as the sun met the horizon, the sky painted in shades of gold and peach. He remembered how she would lean against their balcony railing, watching the sun until it was fully put to bed. It was her favorite time of day. When the sun disappeared and the darkness closed in, he finally rose and gathered his things. He would walk the same path back to the castle alone, and no one would disturb him the rest of this night.
It was his birthday, after all.
Author's Note
I own no characters, nor any setting from the movie, I only borrow them on occasion. The story is my own, as are all the feels.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story.
I hope it moved you as much as it moved me to write.
This one-shot was written in response to the LFFL January writing challenge.