The common area of the building was packed, the large group primarily made up of students filing out of the lecture hall. Some lingered in the reception area making conversation, and Jareth navigated slowly through the milling crowd searching for a particular perpetually harried-looking figure. He spotted the man standing with presumably another professor, and older woman dressed in a crisp button down and a flamboyant scarf. Jareth approached them quickly, feeling invigorated by the lecture and the echoing din bouncing off of the walls and high ceiling. He slipped his thin, fitted gloves off as he walked, tucking them discreetly into the pocket of his blazer.
"Jareth!" the man exclaimed, holding out a hand to clap to his shoulder as soon as he was within reach. His wispy grey hair stuck up at odd angles, which reminded Jareth of home.
"Doctor Cowden," He greeted, nodding politely at the man and turning his attention to the woman.
"This is professor Jillian Thomas, she's the chair for the Philosophy department here at NYU."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Thomas," Jareth bowed his head briefly and held a bare hand out to shake.
"Please call me Jillian. I'm only strict about formalities with my students and my ex-husbands," she grasped his hand and leaned in slightly, the edge of her lips turning up and betraying the serious expression she was giving him. "Are you in the medical field? These new surgical techniques with microtechnology are very exciting."
"Jareth has quite an eclectic set of interests, Jillian. He's the one I mentioned to you earlier."
"Oh, yes!" She smiled brightly at him. "The only other person who attends public lectures on topics like microtechnology for fun. Richard here says that we're kindred spirits. How did you like the lecture, then?"
"It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful," Jareth said emphatically, "These new technologies are just fascinating. I am ever amazed at the ingenuity of modern medicine."
"And how about the arts? Do you enjoy photography?"
"Very much," He responded, smiling. Photography was an art form he'd never had a chance to study. What a joy it was to have new things to learn.
"There's an open presentation of photographs at Columbia next week," she said, "Four of their students were given national awards for their work and they're each giving a short talk on the techniques that informed their series. Would you like to attend with me? We can have a drink afterwards and banter about common interests."
"I'd love to," Jareth tilted his head slightly, containing his excitement.
"It's a date, then," she said, handing him her card, "Contact me before the week's end and we'll work out the details. I'll have to abandon you in favor of a meeting for now, but it was lovely to meet you, Jareth. Take care, Rich." She tapped the other man's arm with her fingertips as she walked away.
"So now, what's new and interesting?" Doctor Cowden asked, leading him towards the exit. He pushed open the heavy door, gesturing for Jareth to take the lead. The sun hit his face pleasantly, and he responded a bit louder as the noise of the street overtook them.
"Many things, however I must say that for how vibrant this city is, I'm finding it a bit difficult to seek out social opportunities. The people here are very colorful, but very cold."
"It's true, New Yorkers are a unique bunch. I guess even the big cities in the UK are quieter. More polite, too. Honestly I found it easier to deal with Londoners for that reason, alone."
"Ah, indeed. Yes…" Jareth cleared his throat gently, shifting from one foot to the other and tapping his fingers to his hip from inside of his jacket pocket.
"Not Manchester, though. Ha!"
Jareth laughed, even though he truly had very little idea of what the man was talking about. Perhaps he should visit these places soon. He really ought to know these things.
"Let's grab some lunch. Do you like Ethiopian food?"
"I have absolutely no idea. Lead the way, good sir."
.
That evening Jareth sat in his comfortably furnished apartment, sipping hot rosehip tea and reading a novel recommended by the Oprah woman. He knew who she was, yes indeed! He'd taught himself to use the Google after observing all of the people using laptops in cafes and other settings. He'd gone to an electronics store and found one on display, asking the young woman employed there to explain the device to him. She had started rambling off information about rams and numbers that he was sure must be significant, but then gave him a strange look and started speaking slowly once he told her that he mostly just wanted to know what the thing did. He still hadn't quite figured out what sheep had to do with it.
He sighed as the female protagonist in the novel bade her male love interest to stay the night with her. That was another thing entirely, wasn't it? Romance. Ah, romance. He remembered the exhilaration, vaguely, the yearning and the sweet ache of it. A sadness sank gently into his chest, however, as he realized that he could not remember any of his past lovers.
"I am old," he said to the room, letting his head fall against the sofa back. Perhaps his time for new love had passed. He very much doubted that he could comfortably expose his nature to anyone of this world, and he certainly could not risk the danger inherent in it. One thing that he did recall quite clearly was the exquisite pain of being forced from the Celtic forests as a child, when his race fled to the Underground in desperation. He remembered the sting of cold steel at his neck before his mother had ripped him away, the absolute despair at the sight of his father's belly pierced with the same blade. He found it maddening that he could not remember the faces of his parents, but the color of his father's blood and the spray on the grass in the morning light were the clearest memories that he had of his childhood. The fear of it still clenched his heart when he thought of being found out. Mortal memory of his people may have faded, but he could not trust that their fickle hearts would not force history to repeat itself.
Jareth set his book down on the side table and closed his eyes, trying hard to remember his mother. The longer he spent in this world, growing, changing, engaging, the more he could remember. It was the way of his kind to fade to stillness rather than to end abruptly. A slow crawl towards nothingness, like the petrification of a branch that had stopped renewing itself, buried in the sand. He had tried to welcome the dimming of his light—dear goddess, had he tried!—but he could not. Instead he became restless, searching, struggling as his mind silenced, as his memories started slipping away. Perhaps that was why he was the last. He could not let go. He still wanted so much more.
A flash of color came to him, a distinct streak of golden hair resting against a woman's cheek. He saw her above him, heard the ring of her laughter and felt the warmth of her hand on his face. The smell of her lingered in his nose and the soft, comforting curve of her smile soothed him. My sweet boy, she whispered, my dearest little love.
Jareth touched the skin of his temple delicately, smiling at the warmth of his tears as they slowly dripped towards his hairline. When was the last time he'd cried?
.
"Okay, we're closing. Forty seconds," Sarah said, watching the screen intently as the meteorologist hurried to finish the weather segment. "Wrap up, Jamal, we have to cut to Newark."
"Fifteen seconds," she observed aloud and took a few deep breaths. "Five… two… and wrap. Thanks, Jamal. You're good to step down."
"Alright. Did Tina ever get here?"
"Yeah, she's in here with me."
"Tell her she's buying me lunch today."
"I have a headset too, you know," responded the woman fiddling with the soundboard over the tech's shoulder. "And my memory is just fine, I'm not that old. Yeesh," she grumbled, prompting a light chuckle from the man on the other end.
Sarah sighed and pulled off her headset, rubbing her eye and forehead tiredly. Tina looked at her for a moment and bobbed her head to catch the younger woman's eye. "You alright, hun?" she asked, strong Long Island accent peeking through her professional demeanor.
"Fine, fine. Just haven't been sleeping well."
"Family, finances, general existential dread? Man trouble?" Tina's eyebrows raised and she jutted her head to one side knowingly.
Sarah laughed a little harder than the situation warranted, feeling a slight release at the humor in the look on her coworker's face. Man, she was tired.
"A little of everything, I guess. I've had some weird stuff going on." Tina grunted in understanding. "And the kind of guy trouble that makes you want to kick un-neutered dogs."
"Ouch, poor puppies," Tina said, making a face. "Can't say I've ever had that particular urge, but I did once contemplate pouring bleach on every fabric surface in an old boyfriend's house, so I think I might know where you're at. Remind me never to ask you to dog sit."
"Ha," Sarah laughed harshly, an ironic burst of noise that may have sounded slightly hysterical. "No, I love dogs. Really I wouldn't. Maybe."
"It's alright, I don't have one. Just remember, honey. Men are scum. Take it from me. They're only good for one thing, and even that can be taken care of with a glass of wine and some AA batteries." Tina leaned one hip against a table and raised her eyebrows, a finger pointed sassily in Sarah's direction.
Sarah continued to chuckle breathlessly at her remark, rubbing at her eyes again. She looked up and asked, "Can you buy me a cinnamon roll? Please?"
"Sure, Honey. Let's go to the bakery downstairs, I think they have some today."
"My hero."
"Dang kids, eating me out of house and home."
"Sorry, ma."
Tina smacked her playfully on the arm before directing her out the door of the control room. "Better start saving up for the condo Boca you're going to buy me."
"Yes, ma."
"And call ya motha more often. You don't know when I'm gonna die."
"Yes, ma."
"Good girl."
.
Sarah got home from work that evening carrying the half-eaten remnants of an oversized cinnamon roll, feeling dead on her feet. She'd been tired all day, but work was a welcome distraction from the jumpy nervousness that had plagued her all night. She stepped carefully over the messy salt line at her door, careful not to disturb it. A yawn escaped her as she set her things down and sat heavily on the sofa, thinking about what had happened the previous afternoon.
She really didn't know what to think. Never had she wavered in her certainty that her experiences in the Labyrinth were real. There were times that Sarah had called herself crazy, tried to convince herself that it was all a dream, but she'd never really believed it. She'd witnessed too many little things over the years, things that wouldn't let her forget or talk herself out of the reality of the otherworld.
Sometimes it was just a feeling, a hint of the same electric charge in the air that she'd felt in her parents' bedroom when her wish was first granted. Sometimes it was a sound that somehow didn't belong amongst the ordinary noises of city life. Sometimes though, she'd catch a glimpse of a small leathery hand sneaking a treat from the glass display of a sweet shop, or what looked like the tip of a shimmering wing disappearing around the corner of a building, or perhaps an eye winking at her from a split in the bark of a tree. Every time it was just the briefest flash of something foreign to the concrete and steel around her, a minuscule touch of something more than ordinary.
Of course, she hadn't exactly been expecting a fully real Goblin King standing in Central Park, looking for all the world like he was just taking a stroll in the rain.
Sarah had tried to speculate over the years as to whether her solving the labyrinth was a significant event or just another day for him, and could never reach a firm opinion on the matter. How could she possibly guess at what his life was like, what these things meant to him?
Her friends from that episode had been no help, being that she'd never had the opportunity to ask. Only once had she made contact again. Hoggle had appeared faintly in her mirror after she'd whispered his name, looking a bit confused and wary of her. They'd had a very short, very odd conversation in which he'd barely seemed to recognize her. No other calls had been answered.
What could he possibly be doing in the city? Upon reflection, she realized that he genuinely did not seem to remember her. Sarah wasn't sure if she quite believed it, knowing the trickster nature of almost every fey creature described in lore and literature. Truly though, she didn't know much about him. She didn't know what he was, not really, and suddenly she realized that through her perseveration on his nature she'd neglected to consider who he was. She didn't know that, either.
Sarah took a deep breath and rubbed at her eyes for the hundredth time that day, feeling frustrated and confused. Well, there wasn't much to be done about it. She had no way of finding the answers to any of the questions running around in circles in her head, nor did she have the energy to even sort out her own thoughts on the matter. Making a firm decision, Sarah stood from the couch and grabbed a book from the overfull shelf on her way to the bedroom, planning on reading for a while before calling it an early night. She was going to put aside her uncertainty of the situation and live her life without looking over her shoulder constantly. There was a completely reasonable chance that the Goblin King's appearance had absolutely nothing to do with her, and if it did she had no way to prepare for it and no idea of what his motivations could be.
She'd leave the salt just in case.