Chapter Three
"Agh duwah, abuuuhhh…"
CRASH!
"Huh… ah, TOBY!"
Sarah woke with a start to find Toby standing by her desk, the drawer upturned on the floor and its contents scattered all over the place.
"Oh my- Toby!" Irene had come running at the commotion. Babbling cheerily, Toby went to her and was lifted into her arms. "What on earth did he-?"
"He decided to pull out the drawer and pulled it too far," Sarah muttered, wearily rubbing her head and clambering out of bed.
"Oh, Toby!" Irene scolded. "He's lucky it didn't fall on him, he could've hurt himself! I'm so sorry, Sarah," Irene sounded genuinely apologetic; she used a much softer tone than her usual stern one. "He's been up for almost an hour already and he was so excited; I didn't see any harm in letting him come in to wake you up on Christmas morning… oh, what a mess you made, you naughty boy…" She frowned at her son. Toby tilted his head to one side and gurgled happily, completely oblivious.
Sarah poked through the tangle of items on the carpet. A pen leaked blue ink all over her fingers. She scowled and tossed it in the wastepaper basket. "He didn't mean to do it," she sighed. A few months ago she would've blown her top over less than this, but she was more tolerant now. Being still half-asleep probably helped. "It's not that bad. The drawer needed tidying anyway."
Irene breathed a sigh of relief. Her stepdaughter could be volatile; she had become better of late, but Irene personally wouldn't have blamed her for being upset in the circumstances. "I'm sorry, honey. It's not the best way to start Christmas Day." Sarah silently agreed. "Don't worry about it, I'll help you clean it up later; grab your dressing gown and come downstairs. We'll wait for you before we start opening presents."
"Ok, I'll be down in a sec."
Once Irene and Toby had gone, Sarah got down on her knees and rifled through the pile of stuff. She hoped it was alright-
Her fingers found molded plastic. She pulled the statuette from the pile. It looked to be still in one piece; despite her misgivings about it, she would be upset if it were broke-
It was then that she noticed that the miniature crystal was missing. She swiftly scanned the carpet, then ran her hands through the pile of junk, looking for a glassy sheen-
Something rolled and bounced off a wooden ruler, making a soft tnk! and catching the light as it went. Sarah snatched it up. The crystal was round and smooth in her hand. Somewhat remorsefully, she lifted it and the statuette onto her desk. It was her fault it'd been broken. If she hadn't been acting stupid the night before and shoved it in the drawer-
Her hand brushed a book on her desk. 'The Nutcracker'. She had left it there the previous night. She remembered how the story started… the young girl's brother broke the nutcracker doll, and later that night, it came to life…
Really, this is getting ridiculous! Sarah huffed at her own foolishness for even thinking such thoughts. It was just a coincidence. So what if she had a brother who broke her toys, loads of other girls had brothers who-
You haven't exactly had the same experience as most girls, though, have you? She sighed again. Why did everything lately make her think of that time…?
Whatever. She looked gloomily at the mess on the floor. That stuff doesn't matter now. It's Christmas, that's what's happening now. I should enjoy today, and worry about this stuff another time.
From the living room downstairs, she heard the sound of tearing paper, followed by Irene's admonishments. Hastily grabbing her dressing gown and collecting an armful of presents which she had carefully stowed out-of-sight on her wardrobe floor, she hurried downstairs, where the festivities were about to begin.
He found himself standing in the Escher wing of the castle, in a small, square room with high walls rising on either side. Strange, he thought, this room looks too small. The Escher wing covered an almost infinite space with its multiple physics-defying dimensions; no where in it was there a room this small. He glanced up at the steep walls. There were staircases on all of them, but, to his alarm, none of them reached to the floor, where he was. He strode to one of the walls and went to step up it…
Both he and the wall stayed where they were. With a growing sense of urgency, he ran his hand over it, as though he were searching for something; the wall stayed as it was, impassible. He was trapped within this room. As if the room had been waiting for him to discover this, the walls suddenly lurched, and began to move inward. He hastily backed away from the closest one, but they surrounded him on four sides, moving relentlessly towards him. He returned to the centre of the room, staring upwards, turning this way and that, looking for some means of escape. There must be some way… after all, this was his castle, his realm, it was suppose to conform to his will, he should be able to change any aspect of it on a mere whim…
Something white fluttered against one of the walls overhead, catching his attention. He could see a white-clad figure standing on a high ledge above. They were standing too far away for Jareth to make out their features, but they seemed to be watching him impassively… their white garments billowed around them, from the shape of the silhouette seeming to have a bell-shaped white skirt…
Her… it was her… she was watching him, watching him lose, doing nothing to help him… she stood by, watching the walls close in on him, knowing he was trapped… she must be gloating over him…
He knew that his only means of escaping was to call out to her for help. The words seemed to stick in his throat, loosened by a growing feeling of panic, but still stifled by pride. The little good pride did him, helplessly flailing within the encroaching walls; he must look a fool in his eyes… Still, it was not a predicament he had put himself in, and he held no responsibility for it; he would not suffer the shame of giving in to her, he would not acknowledge it, could not accept it…
Though he told himself not to, his eyes were drawn upwards; she was still there, watching him, her figure standing in stark relief in the light from above, as the shadows seemed to approach him on either side. The ceiling was a white square above him, bordered by dark walls, the white of her dress just visible against it. Suddenly, the white square started to rapidly recede; he felt himself falling, as though the floor had just dropped from beneath him. Her distant figure dwindled swiftly, almost lost from sight… she was gone, he had stubbornly denied her and lost his last chance at salvation… pride was forgotten in despair, he raised his voice to call out her name-
He woke suddenly, sitting bolt upright in his throne, so suddenly that he almost toppled out of it. He unconsciously ran a hand over his face, feeling the sweat slide beneath his gloved fingers, breathing heavily. To his embarrassment, he realized his lips were still parted from when he had been about to cry out to her…
He glanced about blearily, fearing someone may have seen or heard-
The throne room was empty, save for the remnants of tattered paper and already-broken bits of the junk the goblins had considered to be 'presents' littering the throne room floor. He remembered now. The goblins had exchanged their paltry 'gifts'; not having had a Christmas before, they had been delighted by the mere novelty of receiving something, anything. These presents usually consisted of a broken weapon or tool one goblin gave to another, since it was useless and unwanted by the giver anyway; or perhaps some chipped and broken knick-knack salvaged from a trip to the Aboveground. The Underground bartering trade was flooded with such items, and the 'Junk Ladies', hunched under piles laden with, well, junk, had been doing a roaring trade in the lead up to the first Goblish Christmas. Bored by the fuss being made over worthless rubbish and his head starting to throb from the inane, excited chatter, he had made it snow again so the goblins would go outside and leave him in peace. He could hear a distant whoop and shriek as they staged a snowball fight somewhere beneath the castle walls, but otherwise the throne room was eerily quiet. And lonely. He often cursed the presence of the little nitwits constantly flitting at his heels and scurrying around the legs of his chair, but when they left him, their absence was certainly felt.
But that wasn't the only absence he felt. His mind flickered over the events of the dream… then he tossed them aside in defiance. It meant nothing, this dream. Melodramatic sentimentality, that was all it was. It was because of this damn holiday. Trust a human holiday to make his anguish felt. It was always the same. He ruled the kingdom as fairly as he could. He gave it all the time and effort it required, all the reserves of magic ability he possessed, and when his duties were finally over, he was left feeling listless, bristling with discontent. He gave and gave and gave to his little multitude of goblin subjects, but never received anything in return, save abject terror. And even that was only gratifying sometimes; it was starting to feel just a little bit old. He didn't know what he expected from that drabble. After all, they were a simple, unsophisticated lot, barely able to put together two spoons in their possession. Not without having stolen one or both of them from their neighbour. And they certainly wouldn't be clean. But once - just once! - it would be nice to have someone think of him without fear, without associating him with a swift kick or painful swipe of a cane…on this one day of the year, the season of giving, it would be nice to receive just one thing in return, however paltry… oh, he didn't want the wrench-with-a-twisted-shaft or plaster-cast-dog-with-a-chipped-nose that the goblins had given each other. He wanted even less than that. Just a genuine kind word, a little bit of thanks… after all he did here providing for them, governing them, moving the very stones of the earth and clouds in the sky when necessary… he could never expect them to repay him, but didn't he at least deserve something in return…?
"Y-your Majesty?"
He swiveled swiftly in his chair at the sound of the almost apologetic voice that spoke somewhere below his right ear. Hoggle was standing on the flags beside his throne, hands clasped respectively behind his back and a pensive expression upon his cragged features.
"What are you doing there, Heglet?" he asked in a stringent, almost defensive tone, donning his usual arrogance like armour. "I thought I told you feather-brains to go out in the snow I so generously provided as a Christmas present and to leave me in peace. Was that really too much to ask?" His tone implied that it hadn't been a question of obedience at all; he was quite used to having every command performed in total subjugation.
Hoggle fluttered nervously, looking rather like he wanted to turn and head for the door… then he drew something from behind his back and thrust it at Jareth with a nervous "H-here, your Majesty…"
Jareth stared. It was a package, wrapped in some indistinctly-hued scrap of cloth and tied with a barely-long-enough bit of red string. It was a tiny package, barely longer than his hand. But it was unmistakably a Christmas present.
"What is the meaning of this?" Jareth's voice had lost some of its commanding edge; he sounded doubtful. Hoggle, thinking he was offended, looked fearful. "I-it's the best I could do, Majesty. J-just a v-very small token of my thankfulness… I mean, after that whole thing… er, you know, how you warned me… well, uh, it's a gesture on my part, for not making me a prince of stench like you, uh, like you… well, um, there you go…"
Jareth listened to this spiel in amazement. When the package was proffered more insistently, he took it somewhat hesitantly. His ordeal hopefully through, Hoggle turned and walked away quickly as he could manage without making it too obvious.
"Er… thank you, Hoggle."
Hoggle stopped in his tracks. A huge grin spread across his face; then he swiftly remembered himself and scrambled out the door to safety.
I suppose miracles do happen at Christmas… he didn't hurt me, curse me, or throw me in an oubliette… and he got me name right!!
Jareth sat for a moment, just taking it in. A present. Someone had given him a present. He'd never had someone give him something – not purely by their own choice, not obeying any orders – in his entire life. He tugged away the wrapping. It was a small bottle of men's cologne. It was a cheap and nasty variety, the kind that people in the human world were disappointed to receive and never actually used. The bottle must've been dropped and rolled into the drains where Hoggle had found it on one of his jewelry salvages, Jareth figured; one side of the lid was dinted. It was hardly a desirable present, as far as actual possession went, but… it felt rather strange to receive it. He was almost… pleased with it. He looked at it in wonder. He hardly would've credited Hoggle… he had underestimated the little dwarf-goblin…
He sat in contemplation, not listening to the whoops of the goblins outside as the snow began to softly fall again.