Chapter VIII

"Things are always what they seem?" but that makes even less sense . . . Jareth couldn't understand it. He had distinctly heard the worm say "Things are always what they seem!" At the time, he hadn't even noticed it – automatically assuming that the worm meant to say "aren't" . . . That's what he was used to, that was one of the few rules he had lived by, he couldn't imagine it not working , having everything be exactly as it seemed . . . He hadn't given the phrase any thought until this very moment.

This very moment had arrived with an air of dramatic frustration and bewilderment. Grudgingly following the worm's simple directions Jareth had walked straight down the corridor and had stopped upon reaching a huge log. Not seeing any opening either left or right, he had almost gone back to get that stupid caterpillar, but realizing that it probably wouldn't care if he stepped on it, and not wanting to waste any time on invitations to tea, he leaned back against the wall in frustration.

Now he was standing opposite a large opening in the wall. This place was uncomfortably familiar to Jareth, from the trampled grass were he had started, to the opening. The same opening, in same wall, which had opened in the same exact way it had the first time – when he had leaned on it.

Taught quickly by his first experience, Jareth managed to keep his balance this time around, but it was still rather unnerving. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the wall only opened up when a large brick was pushed into place – in Jareth's case: unknowingly by his shoulder.

This is exactly what unnerved him, what he didn't like so much – everything was so very logical. No one but him had opened that wall – no magic, no one else's will. This was so unusual to the Goblin King that it was extremely unpleasant – he was used to magic. Used to the unexpectedness, bizarreness, suddenness, the smoke and mirrors that have been his life long companions. He felt comfortable surrounded by magic – it was in him, and usually around him all the time.

Except now. This world did contain magic; he could taste it in the air, feel it, but it wasn't the same sort of magic he was used to, and there wasn't nearly enough for his liking . . . for his comfort level, even . . . He found it hard to exist here – hard to breathe – the air was thinner . . . except that instead of lacking oxygen, it lacked the magic.

Guessing that standing here wouldn't get him any closer to the center, Jareth stepped gingerly through the arch, stooping slightly. Straightening up again, he found himself in yet another corridor, just as narrow as the first, but as far as he could see the two were perpendicular. As he stepped on a stone slab, barely visible amid the ever-present grasses, his quick ear caught a barely audible creak, and he looked over his shoulder in time to see the archway he just passed through close with a hungry snap. An amused look flitted over his aristocratic face. So they knew the rules of guest keeping in this place, did they? This he was used to – doors always closed behind the guests. Of course, they usually closed by his command, and not because some mechanism was set in motion by an overgrown button, but close they did, and there was nothing to be done about that.

Feeling the wind on his face, blowing through his light, feathery hair, Jareth looked up – noting that three huge, softly shimmering moons provided the added light he had noticed upon entering. He felt less enclosed here, somehow lighter . . . freer . . . Still wondering at the sudden change and what it could mean, Jareth started making his way through the sea of grass, down this new pathway. Glancing briefly to the side to try and orient himself, he froze, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes took in the sudden change in scenery.

First there was the mist – walls of it, swirling in continuous motion, changing their shape and contours, but definitely solid he reflected, stretching his hand out and encountering a cool polished surface. Great – even mist is too much for me to tackle now he though gloomily, stepping back and taking a broader view of the semi-transparent mass of impenetrable air in front of him. Where he came from, air was only dense when Jareth felt the need to walk on it . . . it became perfectly permeable when he whished to get through . . . As he thought that over, the word semi-transparent caught his mind. Semi-transparent? Semi?

He gazed again, and a hungry look came over his face. There was the castle. Straight across from him, he could see its contours through the misty walls. It wasn't that far! He would just have to get through . . . breathing in sharply, Jareth stared in awe at the twisting and turning paths of this Labyrinth. His was a game compared to this. The paths crisscrossed and snaked their way forward, seeming to be caught in an endless struggle for survival.

Above, watching their bloody battle from its many-pronged bastions and towers rose the castle. Illuminated by pale, ghostly moonlight, it beckoned Jareth, calling to him. And suddenly, the Goblin King knew – THAT is where he needed to be. He absolutely HAD to get there, and soon. Why? He didn't quite know why, but his whole being yearned for it, crying out - Jareth knew that he would do ANYTHING, absolutely anything to get to it.

"…tell me how much longer? How much longer?..."

Scared by his own passion for something he couldn't explain, scared for the first time in his endless life, the Goblin King stood with his gloved palms against the misty wall, trying vainly to get through . . . somehow . . . in some way get closer to that shimmering castle . . . Why?

For no reason at all . . .