Jareth, the King of the Goblins, as he had been for a hundred years, curled his hand into a fist. He shook it at the mirror, but dare not break it. He had kept the mirror from his childhood from harm faithfully, and having fall prey to his temper would destroy years of upkeep. The mirror really served no purpose here, except as a scrying instrument, or an interesting decoration. The man ran his gloved fingers over the distorted faces of the creatures framing it in defeat. His childhood had been replaying before him for hours, and each moment, each memory that came back to him made him more angry at the starry eyed youth he had been. When he had first become king, Jareth had been hopeful, even happy, in spite of the circumstances, that he could guide people in the labyrinth. He laughed out loud, despite his solitude. What a fool he had been. There was no room for hope and happiness when one was trapped in a Labyrinth for a hundred years. No wonder he had killed Daemion so easily…he must have been anxious to leave. Jareth laughed again, dryly, and settled back to watch more of his past in the mirror that had started it all.
The boy had been walking for hours. There was no way out, he had decided, and he was going mad. There had been four dead ends in the last half an hour, with three of them entailing some sort of pit or poisonous gas. It was mere luck that he was even alive. He had lost all his belongings to the last pit, and was left with only his map that was tucked away in his back pocket. The map served little purpose here, as it was a map of the inside of the castle, but Jareth felt better having it. At least he would have a way to navigate once he got out of the labyrinth and into the goblin village. If the goblin king had helped Jareth, he did not know it. He was frustrated and frightened and near tears when he slumped onto a large rock near the side of the path. He was out of the stone walls, and into a sort of forest now, but it really made no difference, as the underbrush was impregnable. He had to stay on the path, or at least within a few feet of it, and even if it was possible to wander from it, he wouldn't. His journey these last few minutes had been plagued with moans and howls that were enough to made a grown mad afraid, much less a boy. Jareth closed his eyes, and rubbed his dirty hands through his hair. Laying back on the rock, he quickly slipped into a troubled sleep.
When he awoke, he was no longer in the woods. The air was clear and there was blue sky overhead. He was lying on the ground, and as he sat up he could see what looked like a large turtle strolling around the bend. It's back was shaped and colored exactly like the rock Jareth had fallen asleep on.
Still half asleep, he shook his head and laid back on the ground. He remembered then, that he had had a very peculiar dream. It was something to do with the sky, and as he looked up at the flawless blue, he tried to remember it. The images were just on the edge of his mind, but he could not reach them. Sighing, he got up and looked around. He couldn't see the forest at all anymore, there was just miles and miles of fields. The grass was long, about waist high, but it was divided neatly for the path. The trail bent back and forth, and this puzzled him, because he could see that there was nothing obscuring a straight path. He looked to his right, at the turn that the creature he had fallen asleep on had walked by, and then he looked straight. If he squinted, he could see the trail making another bend far away, but still straight ahead of him. It would be more practical to just cut through the grass. He began to walk a few steps of the path, when voices stopped him.
" I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jareth!," they giggled. There seemed to be at least three voices, but they all spoke at once. Jareth looked around and could see nothing.
"How do you know my name?" he asked to the air.
"Silly boy!," They laughed again, "You wear your name in everything you do! Every move you make screams your name!"
One of the voices separated now, and it was distinctly feminine.
"It is a rare gift, Jareth!", She whispered.
"Who are you? Where are you?"
They laughed again. Their voices were all around him.
"You can see us, if you try. You are magical!"
Jareth now remembered a part in his book. It had talked of creatures that made themselves invisible. The chapter had said that even when you think you are alone, there were creatures all around you in the labyrinth. There were people who could see the creatures, but they possessed a certain skill and control. Jareth doubted he had that kind of control, but he tried, just as the voices had said. He concentrated on the sound of the laughter, and sure enough, three tiny green fairies were hovering around his head. They were no bigger than one of his fingers, and their delicate wings were clear, like a dragonfly's.
"Oh!" he whispered, holding out his hands. One of them sat, crossing her legs in his palm. He stood looking at her for a while, until she spoke, and it scared him.
"You don't want to cut across the grass!"
Jareth jumped, but recovered and asked why, politely.
"Because of the grass, and the mud!"
"I don't really mind getting a little wet and dirty, in fact, I'm already both."
"It's not that!" She chirped and flew off his hands. The other two had gone, and she flew away quickly, blowing him a kiss. "Stay on the path!"
He put his hands on his hips, and looked at the field again. It was brightly sunny and there were flowers in the tall grass, dew sparkled, and nothing at all seemed wrong. He shrugged and stepped carefully into the grass. Fairies were known for their practical jokes, anyway.
He walked a few steps carefully, slowly, but there was nothing unusual in his walking. After about ten minutes, he lost all nervousness, and began to smile as butterflies flew up from the flowers.
Then the grass started to grow irritable. It began to weave itself into knots, catching Jareth's feet, tripping him and making it harder to walk. The sky became cloudy and the wind picked up. It was beginning to grow dark, and Jareth was starting to wish he had listened to the little things, as every step became harder and harder. The grass began to twine up his legs and into his shoes, until, in desperate earnestness, he tore off his shoes and was horrified to see them swallowed up by the earth. He tried to run, and was able to for a few moments by the loss of his shoes. The path was just up ahead, no more than two hundred yards, and if he could just get to it, he knew he would be safe. It started to rain, and the mud began to accumulate, sucking his feet down. There were centipedes and worms writhing in the earth and Jareth could swear that the grass was snickering.
He reached a point where he could move no longer. The path was right in front of him, firm and strong despite the rain. He began to struggle as the mud and grass pulled him down towards the crawlers that waited eagerly.
"No!!" He yelled….and then he remembered his dream. It all came to him suddenly, in a flash of lights and sound. He had dreamed that there was a white owl, that it was him. There was the sun and the moon and the rush of air in his ears. The goblin king's gift. An owl.
Without quite knowing what he was doing, Jareth reached inside himself. He ignored the scuttling bugs and drenching rain. He pretended the strangling grass did not exist. Then he reached inside his mind with the same concentration he had used to see the fairies. He found in the darkest corner of his mind a small white feather. The memory of himself as a child, finding an owl feather in the grass, his mother explaining him what it was.
That's an owl feather, Jareth. Remember it. There used to be stories of people who could turn in to animals, but the favorite was a white owl. It was supposed to be lucky, guiding people through the night.
Jareth held onto that memory, pushing it into every corner of his being. He could see, feel himself growing feathers, his body growing smaller, more compact, his senses sharpening. The mud released its grip, because suddenly, there was nothing to hold on too.
And Jareth the white owl flew off away from the storm, following the path into the heart of the Labyrinth. The Goblin Castle, where he was sure he would find his mother.
There was one thing that Jareth knew about the labyrinth. One thing that never changed. At the center of the giant maze there was a castle that belonged to the king of the goblins, and surrounding that was the goblin village. The goblins that lived in the village ventured on occasion out into the labyrinth, to harass the weary traveler or the labyrinth creatures, but they mostly stayed in the village. A favorite goblin pastime was to spend the day, and even the night drinking and gambling, and they often gambled on the fate of the newest wanderer into the labyrinth. The goblins had little skills save one, they were remarkably perceptive. They sensed the discomfort within their king Daemion as he had returned from his excursion. They knew that the winds of change were blowing, and when the change began to roll in, so did goblin dice.
Jareth flew quickly in search of the castle. The beating of his wings was exhilarating, and each new air current that guided him filled him with happiness. There had been several times when he was nearly lost in a happy daze, flying in circles around in the breeze. His mission was becoming more obsolete as he whirled effortlessly in the wind. But then he flew over a lake, or pond with its waters so glassy that he could see each feather that extended into the dusty pale sky. In the reflection he again saw the face of a woman, with an expression so pained and sorrowful it made Jareth upset just to look at her. She pointed with a long arm and disappeared, leaving him with a new determination to enter the castle that peered down at him from black cliffs.
The goblin village was smaller than Jareth had imagined, indeed, the book had described it as a great stretch of streets and communities. Instead it seemed to consist only of s few pebbled roads, and house stacked precariously on top of one another. There was smoke and laughter in the air and torn banners and clothes draped the rooftops. Jareth was unimpressed, until he got a good look at the castle.
It was enormous, dwarfing the village so it looked like a moat around its edges. It was made entirely of black and gray rock, with glassy obsidian lining the rooftops and walls. There were wooden doors in four places around its outer walls, one the spilled forth a rusty, decaying drawbridge. Chain draped the walls and neglect only served to make a more ominous appearance. It was an intimidating castle, though it looked to only be in use in some areas, with the majority of the others rusty and decaying. There was a small curl of smoke from the largest, tallest tower and it was here the owl flew.
Jareth watched the last scene and shook his head. He had forgotten much of what life was like for him in the World, but remembered the strange consistency of the stories.
"The tallest tower.." He whispered to himself, and sighed. "How long…?" He wondered aloud, for the millionth time that week, that day. "How long must I stay in this prison…alone?"
Jareth didn't fly up to the room that was lit. he was more sensible than that. He knew that he had to figure out how to become a boy again, and that might take some time. He flew in through a small window and ended up in a staircase. The stairs were stone, and the passage was large and deserted. It was dark and the owl's eyes picked bugs from the walls and rats from corners. It was as good a place as any to attempt the transformation. And attempt it he did. For a long time. Jareth stretched his wings straight and thought of hands and fingers. He hopped about on the floor for awhile and pictured walking. Nothing seemed to be working. It was all he could do not to let out a squeal of frustration, as his claws clicked impatiently on the stone. After a while he began to tire of his failures and paused, his large yellow eyes shutting slowly and his feathered chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. He thought of all the hours, maybe days that he had been in this world. With no food and the only water he dared drink miles apart. He thought of why he had come, to search for his mother, whom he knew his father loved dearly. He began to think of all the human parts of Jareth; his love for his mother and father and his books, his desire for knowledge. Using these memories that now seemed so distant he pulled the boy Jareth out from the owl Jareth and was human again. He sat there, slumped against the wall, exhausted and hungry, but knowing that this was the climax to his story.
Wearily, he got up and began to climb the stairs, step by step. His legs began to ache, and he wondered why he had chosen such a low window. As he walked he began to recite a poem, moving his sore legs to the beat. The air was thin, and cobwebs made his words scarce and choppy, but still he repeated what he remembered.