The dreams of mortals are precious things. They are the projections of everything from our idle, whimsical thoughts, to our greatest desires. They're the place the last of our dying wishes go to shine their brightest, even when all last hope of actually fulfilling them has faded. Their power is at its strongest in the young, when magic is at its most real, and before the world has taught us that anything is not, in fact, possible. There are limits to our perceptions and our abilities – but never in our dreams. They are the greatest gifts we give to ourselves, and as such, they are to be treasured. The Goblin King knew this better than anyone.
Keeper of memories, granter of wishes, he had felt the pull, the power of many a young mortal's most heartfelt desire. Magical creatures such as he fed upon those dreams; he drank of them like the sweetest wine, and embraced the new rush of power that swelled within him. A single human child's belief in him could keep him hale and hearty for longer than their brief mortal lifetimes would allow them to witness. More than once, as a repayment of sorts, he had offered a gift to a youth he had deemed special – stronger than the rest, somehow. The dreams they exuded called to him the most. The offer was a simple one: all of their dreams made real, in return for their continued belief in him. Love, fear, hatred – whatever the chosen youth held in their hearts and minds for him, as long as he was remembered, the Goblin King would only grow in strength – and all for such a small payment. Some children had made a bargain with him without a second thought, greedy for all the riches and impossible magic he offered. Others had been too afraid to accept such power.
Only a single one had dared to tell him that he held no such power in the first place.
Sarah Williams. The power within her dreams, her sheer imagination would have been enough to keep him strong and youthful for centuries. To Jareth's great dismay, the girl also possessed the strength of mind to realise it. There would be no deal, no welcome boost to his magical abilities, when she had stripped him of his authority and asserted her own. She had defeated him, and even weeks – and, yes, damn the gods, even months – later, Jareth had still not forgiven her for it. He sulked, brooded and schemed, but still, in time, he forced himself to move on. There were, of course, plenty of other dreamers to be discovered, and so many more sources of power to be harnessed. Eventually, the wise and powerful Goblin King thought no more on the dream that had gotten away – the headstrong girl who had dared defy him. It was her loss, truly. By turning down his most generous offer, cutting him off from her power, she had also denied herself the chance to live her dreams – something surely only a fool would do.
Never for even a single moment had Jareth believed that she would find her way into his dreams instead. By turning down his gift, she had given him one of her own without quite meaning to. It was an unwelcome gift – a curse – that Jareth was most eager to be rid of.
You could say, if you were in a particularly playful mood – and the gods knew that Jareth himself was not, as of that afternoon – that the king who knew everything had never even dreamed such a thing to be possible. It simply had not occurred to him that, without even knowing the limit of her own power, a mere mortal could hold any sway over his own private thoughts. Of course, he had known the girl held a special strength – any human who had the courage and fortitude to best his labyrinth was bound to make him sit up and take notice – but she had gone home. Aboveground, the realm where technology was king and true magic had all but died outside of wishful thoughts, she should have been powerless in any way that truly mattered. It had been a grievous, but at the time, wholly understandable error on his part.
Certainly, she had the strength needed to summon her pesky little friends to chat to once in a while, but Jareth had suspected that even that would fade as the years went on and she grew older. A teenage girl reaching womanhood would have precious little time in her life for a mangy rodent, a walking shagpile, and your average garden-variety, snivelling hobgoblin. At first, Jareth was proven right. As Sarah Williams grew and grew, the last traces of the Underground that clung to her seemed to shrink to almost nothing. She called out her friends' names less and less, and Jareth's not at all – they had not parted on the best of terms. Oh, certainly, he had felt the occasional prickle of magic wherever he was concerned – a hushed, meaningful whisper of 'him' or 'that guy' in reference – but Sarah had never dared speak his name aloud. It was a minor annoyance, to be deemed so unimportant, but he was done with the girl, and so he allowed himself to ignore it. With hindsight, he supposed he had let himself be lulled into a false sense of security, spending his days finding other bones to pick at. A man, even an all but immortal one, could be forgiven for allowing himself to drift along the river of time.
In all, it took roughly four years, six months and eleven days following Sarah Williams' sudden departure from the Underground for her true power to manifest itself in the most embarrassing way.
It began as a day of rest like any other – a glorious Sunday, and the one day of Jareth's hectic week he insisted on enjoying total relaxation, and a goblin-free castle. There were absolutely no exceptions to this last rule, and the grinning Goblin King took an almost perverse pleasure in patrolling the silent and empty walkways of the place he called home, rousing any stubborn stragglers with a wave of his hand, and a sudden and smelly Sunday morning soak in the Bog. Even a king is allowed the odd moment of gleeful whimsy, and on that particular morning Jareth felt most whimsical indeed. As he shipped off another wailing goblin to the Bog with a crack of his riding crop and a cheery whistle, he started to consider indulging in another afternoon of his most secret and guilty pleasure.
His fascination with the strange world Aboveground had resulted in the procurement of one of the largest television screens in existence, along with a top of the line VCR and a slew of VHS cassettes of varying entertainment quality. Though Jareth had soon grown weary of the cutesy and colourful range of Disney branded films – a godforsaken realm of utter shite, where the heroes always triumphed and the villains always lost, and poorly – he took pleasure in locking himself away to enjoy various American action, drama, and comedy films. He enjoyed the soundtracks – the music scene Aboveground was so different to that of his realm – the unsubtle love scenes, the fighting and the humour, but most of all the glimpses he was given into a strange world beyond his reckoning. One recent viewing had been a title called Risky Business, and Jareth found himself put in mind of a certain scene as he walked his lonely halls. In the film, the toothsome protagonist had found himself alone at home as well, and had celebrated with the most ridiculous dance, whilst wearing only a shirt and his underthings. It had been a great source of amusement.
Oh, to be alone and free. Jareth could relate to the protagonist's excitement. He pictured himself then, shed of his tall boots, heavy cape and tight breeches, skidding along the stone floors of his castle. He saw the way his shirt would billow out around his spread arms, the subtle forward thrust of his crotch as he slid, his entire body a show of worship to the gods of dance and debauchery on this day of true relaxation. The thought made Jareth pause in his stride and grin, tapping at one sharp canine with the smooth leather tip of his riding crop. It was a ridiculous, yet wholly enjoyable scene, painted in vivid colour in his own private daydream, never to be acted upon – and especially not as the sharp tingle of a summons came over his body. A human had spoken the name of the Goblin King, and as always, Jareth was bound to heed the call.
With only a brief flash of annoyance at being called upon on his precious day off, Jareth reached inside himself to summon his powers of transformation; though he could travel at whim, his owl form was but an extra touch of magic to unsettle those brave enough to speak of him. To his great surprise, Jareth found himself torn from one world and dragged into the next before he had the chance to sprout a single feather. There was a sudden crackle of magic, a rush of cold air around his legs, and then the bewildered Goblin King was stumbling into the bright, electric lights of the Aboveground with not a clue as to who had pulled him there.
It took a dizzying few seconds for this new world to come into focus, and in that time Jareth heard more than one awe-filled gasp. It placated him some to know that, even without intending it, he had still managed to make his customary imposing entrance. The gasps came from behind him, and so with an attempted menacing swirl of his cape, Jareth turned to face his audience, be they friend or foe. To his greater shock, he found he recognised the dark-haired goddess standing there, wide-eyed and pale before her mirror. She was a ghost of his past, reminding him of the passage of time. Only a hint of the girl who had bested him still clung to this woman's face, but there was no mistaking her eyes.
"Sarah?" he blurted – gasped – before he could stop himself. It was most unexpected, and most unbecoming of a king. Jareth cleared his throat and made another attempt to throw back his cape – and where was the blasted thing anyway? He settled for tossing back his head and staring down at his unexpected summoner. "Why have you called me here?" he asked, seeking indignation rather than petulance with his tone, and on the whole succeeding. "Are we finally bored with our dreary mortal existence? Do you wish to change your mind? I'm afraid it's too late for such things, my dear Sarah. Such a pity." He could almost taste the malice he left his last words marinading in, and yet Sarah seemed almost unaffected.
The changes in her were almost unsettling. She was older – almost twenty by now, he guessed – and beautiful in a way that startled him, with her thick, dark hair, cool green eyes, and those full, dusky lips that already took up far too much of his attention. Jareth didn't yet dare to let his gaze move any lower, content to look upon her face as, in contrast, she drank all of him in. Even in her shock, there was still that unwavering sense of confidence in her, and the bold way she looked at him made Jareth very much want to return the favour. Before he had the opportunity, he found his attention stolen by the mirror she was standing before, spying movement. Within the mirror's glassy depths, he recognised a congregation of familiar faces from his realm, all staring at him in slack-jawed surprise. Jareth cocked his head at them with a sneer.
"And what are you miserable lot doing here?" he went on. "Don't you all have holes to crawl back into? What are you all staring at me like that for?"
The snickers had started up by then, Sir Ratbag, the giant carpet, Hogbrain, and a handful of soldier goblins all doing their best to suppress their laughter.
The lush mouth that had caught his eye turned up into a grin. "I think the more pressing question, Goblin King, is: what are you wearing?"
Sarah's voice was fuller than he remembered it, of an almost musical quality, slightly husky, but in a pleasing way. Her words were soft, a distraction, but all at once the realisation struck him hard. Jareth felt the breeze somewhere around his calves again, and he looked down, dreading what he might find. It was worse than he expected. Somehow, he had been dragged here directly from the recesses of his mind – and now, as he had been in his thoughts, he found himself a little under-dressed. Even when not tucked into his breeches, his billowing white poet's shirt came down to almost mid-thigh, but there was no shirt in all the known world that could hide the fact that he was practically bare underneath it.
As in his daydream, his feet were clad in long, thin white stockings that could almost be called socks – a la Risky Business – but his own choice of underwear was far skimpier than had been given approval to be shown on film. Though he would remain thankful that he had even seen fit to wear the things when he chose so often to go without, the tight yet flimsy material covering the family jewels were cut far higher upon the leg – and upon the arse – for decent company.
For the first time in perhaps a century, Jareth felt the tell-tale heat of a royal flush heating his noble cheeks. Though such a startling scenario was made to be handled with as much dignity as a king could muster, there was precious little to be had with his bare thighs on show and a cool breeze tickling his nether regions. He was not a shy man, but anyone faced with such an intimate audience of assorted creatures might have undergone a little shrinkage right there – a fact he was glad the tails of his shirt just about managed to cover. An audible gasp escaped the blushing Goblin King, and it was then that the true laughter began – and clearly their giggling ringleader had taught them a few Aboveground songs of her own.
The hobgoblin – Hedgewort – pointed a gnarled, stubby finger. "I see London …"
The fox-rat captain picked up the chant with a yip of triumph. "I see France …"
The rug-monster lifted a giant, hairy paw. "Ludo see kingy's …"
With one brief look at each other, the goblins piped up with pure, unadulterated glee. "Dance, magic, dance!"
With a flick of his wrist, the humiliated Goblin King was locked away in his private bedchambers, the last echoes of laughter still ringing in his ears as he spelled his regular attire back into place. His face was on fire, his mind a whirl of subjects who must be put on trial for treason and various vile punishments that must be put in place to put the world to rights again. To be seen at anything less than his best was an outrage, and whilst he had no doubt that at least one person in that bedroom liked what she saw, given the look in her eyes, there was nothing in this realm or the next that would make him tolerate being laughed at.
He had no clue as to what had happened, no idea as to how a mortal girl – woman – could have had the power to summon him without his permission, let alone how she'd managed to pull him from his embarrassing daydream. His dreams – even those of the lazy daydream variety – were his own, private and never to be seen by anyone else. He was no mere puppet, for his thoughts to be paraded against his will for the entertainment of others – least of all the smirking girl – woman – who had already bested and humiliated him. No, he would not dance for her, no matter how charming her smile had been when she had looked upon him.
His appearance had been unintended – he realised that now as his mind began to turn and to study, twisting the entire encounter back and forth under his scrutiny as though it were one of his crystals. She was surprised to see him; it was possible that the girl – that wretched woman – did not even know until the very same moment that he did, that she held such power within herself. Such a power was unthinkable – or at least it had been until only a few humiliating minutes ago. The consequences could be enormous. There were a hundred questions on his mind, the most pressing of which being how to stop the entire mess from happening again. He had to find out, striding through his castle with tenacious purpose – and woe betide any stragglers he found lurking amongst the stone corridors this time, in his current temper. None could know of this. He had advisers, servants, flunkies who would fall over themselves to do his bidding, but he could not risk the humiliation. Finding a solution was a task he trusted only himself with.
At last, he found the room he was looking for. The irked Goblin King spent the entirety of his day of rest locked away in his private library, sitting cross-legged upon the highest shelf and poring over tome after tome of lore and rules and spells. Each one ended up read and discarded beneath him, tossed to the floor without care as he moved onto the next. By the time evening rolled around – a time Jareth registered with only an impatient flick of his wrist to light the room to read by – he had built up quite a pile. None of the books held the answer he needed. The frantic need to know, to understand how his power had been reduced to all but nothing, did naught to alleviate his growing headache.
Tossing the latest thick volume aside – and wincing at the solid thunk the book made upon his stone tiles and upon his aching head – Jareth slid down from his bookcase, his magic cushioning his heels as he landed upon the floor. He knew he'd been at it for far too long; his eyes throbbed within his skull, and his vision began to swim and dance before him. Spelling a clock face into the air before him, he grimaced at the time. He could toy with the hours, he knew, to give himself more of the day to read by, but his whole body sagged under the exhaustion of it all. It wasn't every day the world as he knew it was turned upon its head. It wasn't every Sunday afternoon that a mere mortal proved her power to be just as great as his.
There would be no more research that day – no answers to soothe his troubled mind. The day was done and darkness had already rolled in. Rolling his sore shoulders, Jareth heaved a deep sigh. There was only one thing for it: bed. With but a gesture of his hand, he stood at the centre of his grand bedchamber, staring down at silken sheets and velvet coverlets with a vague sense of unease tugging at the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it had only been a one off; just because she had seen him in one of his unguarded moments did not necessarily mean she could see inside them all. Regardless, he had no choice – he felt too weary right then to stay awake indefinitely. It was time to sleep.
Perchance to dream.