Artistic License
By normal standards, Ceinwyn is a perfectly nice person. She always donates her extra pennies to the lukemia jars in restaurants, tips waiters twenty percent (especially if they are particularly good-looking), and cedes her seat on the subway to the elderly and infirm. Her sweet little mixed breed puppy—adopted, of course, from a shelter—has more love and devotion than he could possibly need in two lifetimes. Her computer receives the kindest attentions an appliance could ask for. And her books are treated with more respect than even those in the British Library's air-conditioned display cases—yes, including the Shakespeare First Folio.
That is not to say, however, that Ceinwyn does not have a dark side.
In her impeccably neat office, on the thirtieth floor of an office building that claimed (rightfully so) incomparable views over Chicago, she sits cross-legged in a leather swivel chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. She isn't a beautiful woman, but some have called her striking. There is a vivaciousness in her more green-than-brown hazel eyes and smile that, thanks to five years of metal mouth, holds a certain attraction. Her fine, dark hair is loose on the shoulders of her red shirt—open-collared and low cut—and her legs, encased in a black pencil skirt, are finely toned from years of walking her dog and shopping at the Limited.
"Well," she says, twirling to face the visitor who is shifting nervously in front of her desk, "have we come to an agreement?"
The overly tall man straightens the lapels of his heavy overcoat. "I— I don't know if we should properly call it THAT, since I'm not getting anything I asked for."
"I create the rules," Ceinwyn shrugs, picking up a blue pen and scribbling a few more words on a nearly full piece of legal paper. "Now, Inspector," she continues, "I AM making a few concessions." Her pen doodles along with a few flourishes, at which point she pushes the pad away and rises from her seat. "You get a chance to tell your own story, wherein you won't be the bad guy."
"Can you at least show Jean Valjean to be the evil lawbreaker he truly is?"
Ceinwyn snorts. "Look, even I don't mess around that much with the story," she says, and at the Inspector's suddenly slumped shoulders and dejected expression, adds enthusiastically, "C'mon! You get a girlfriend and a few years of happiness."
The Inspector's brow furrows as the young woman puts an arm around him and begins leading him to the door. "But she gets shot at the barricade and I STILL jump off the bridge," he protests. "I don't want to be suicidal!"
Ceinwyn opens the door and pushes him into the hall. "Too bad. I like that ending."
With that, she closes the door behind him. Rubbing her temples tiredly, she moves back to her desk, shuffles through some papers, then flicks on her computer. "It's just been one of those days," she says aloud to no one in particular. "I don't know how normal authors handle this kind of stuff."
The intercom buzzes. "Ceinwyn, your two o'clock is here."
"Thanks, Bob. Send him in." She switches the intercom off with a sigh as the door swings open as if by magic. Into the spacious room steps a very tall man whose lithe and well-muscled body is shown off to perfection in finely tailored black slacks and an open-collared black dress shirt. His thick blonde hair is a little longer than the current style and wildly mussed, his eyes blink wide and grey, and he is, despite the sharp chin and deep-set eyes, a handsome man. The murderous scowl on his face does not lessen that quality—in fact, it makes him even more attractive, if one likes that kind of thing.
"Now, look here—" he begins angrily, marching toward the desk in a ferocious manner.
Ceinwyn paws languidly through folders that are scattered in a few prominent places. "Just a moment, Mr—" She glances up, eyebrows rising in unison and her voice changing subtly as she takes in his appearance. "Oh! Oh, Jareth, my King of the Goblins, how nice to see you! I'm so glad you decided to come!"
He is obviously taken aback by her greeting. "Um—"
"Have a seat." She gestures toward a plush chair in front of her desk, and as he settles himself into it, she moves behind him. "Now, then, Jareth," she begins, placing her hands on his shoulders, "I gather you've come with some— complaints?"
"Well, yes, I—"
She kneads his shoulders gently. "What exactly is the problem?"
Jareth relaxes slightly as Ceinwyn's fingers dig into the myriad tense spots in and around his neck. "Well, you see..." He stops.
"Call me Ceinwyn, I've told you a thousand times"
"Oh. Well, then— you see, Ceinwyn, I've been thinking—"
Ceinwyn stops in the midst of what could have become an excellent full-body massage. That is never a good sign, she thinks, and sighs, and finally moves to her own chair.
"—I know that I'm lucky even to have won Sarah, but I hate this whole thing about me being so powerless when it comes to her, and I feel kind of odd acting like such a— a—" he pauses and attempts to find the words.
"Lovesick puppy?" she suggests.
He looks mildly affronted, then nods reluctantly. "Yes, exactly," he says. "I just don't see myself as such a—"
"Wuss?"
"Uh— yes."
Ceinwyn tilts her head to one side, looking thoughtful. "You see, the thing is, Jareth," she says, sounding both sympathetic and businesslike in tone, "that's the way I WROTE it. And until I come up with an idea I like better, that's the way you'll STAY."
Jareth stares at her for a long moment, and his eager-to-please expression begins to melt into one of a more furious nature. "Look," he snaps, "I'm just NOT a nice guy, all right? I'm bad and I'm evil and—" He stops in mid-sentence when he realizes the woman opposite him isn't listening.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Ceinwyn smiles at him apologetically. "Were you talking to me?"
The Goblin King rises from his seat and stamps his foot. "You had me cut my hair, for God's sake!"
"I don't like uber-long hair on men."
He gestures at his face. "What about the distinctive makeup?"
"Come on, Jareth, this is the twenty-first century." Ceinwyn waves a hand idly through the air. "No one goes for that weird eyeliner thing anymore." She gives him an approving once-over. "You WEREan unfortunate product of the eighties factory, but I've caught you up with the changing times. And need I remind you that I did you the great favor of having Sarah choose you over a kind and compassionate—and human—guy her own age. Right?"
Jareth nods as if unwilling to concede the obvious point. "But I'm not frightening anymore!" he protests.
"Precisely. Who needs the scare factor? You're ANGSTY."
"Women are attracted to the bad boys!"
Ceinwyn stares at him for a long moment then bursts out laughing. "Yes, but only when bad boys can be changed by love!" she exclaims. "God, you sound like such a stereotype— Have you been reading those self-help books again?" Her gaiety fades as quickly as it appeared. She scribbles a few lines on her legal pad, then pushes the pad aside and, tapping the pen once against her cheek, gazes at Jareth again. "Now then, Goblin King, it goes without saying that I expect a major attitude readjustment."
"How're you going make me?" He glares at her. "Pull the old 'you have no power over me' line?"
She runs a hand through her hair. "I thought that was a given." Settling back in her chair, she smiles at him briefly and sweetly. "No, I was thinking of a more— tangible— threat. For example... I could have you stripped of all your powers and turned into a regular goblin."
He crosses his arms over his chest. "That doesn't scare me," he says.
"Okay, how about this? I'll just marry you off to some teenage Labyrinth groupie."
Jareth utters a short scream.
"Don't get me wrong, Jareth," she continues airily, "I LIKEyou. I LIKE to write about you. But you've got to make some concessions as well."
"I don't WANT to make concessions. It's not in my nature. I'm the freaking Goblin King!"
Her lips curve upward again. "Shame." She makes another note on her pad. "Well, then, it's been real, Jareth... wow, that's a statement laced with irony." She crosses her "t"s with another flourish worthy of Shakespeare. "Hope you enjoy your new wife. Her name's Tina, and she thought you were real sexy in the movie. In fact, when you sweep her away from her tenth grade English class, she willingly goes with you." She shakes her head disapprovingly. "What is it with you and fifteen-year-olds?"
He, meanwhile, has grown paler by the moment. "But then I've always heard compromise is good," he says quickly and gives her a rather sick grin as he backs towards the door. "I'll— uh— go practice my winning words, all right?"
"There's the spirit!" Ceinwyn watches him as he attempts to make a graceful exit and fails, running into the closed door. "I knew we'd get along just fine, Jareth. Next time you have any suggestions, you know where to find me!"
He nods and scrambles into the foyer, slamming the door behind him.
Ceinwyn turns to stare out the window, her thoughts tumbling like a dryer on high. Borrowed characters are so difficult to control, she says to herself, shaking her head. At least when you've created them out of thin air, they have no choice but to fall in line. But when someone else has laid the foundation... She remembers Hugo's Claude Frollo with a groan. ... No matter how faulty...
The intercom buzzes. "Ceinwyn, your two-forty-five appointment is here."
"Thanks, Bob." She switches it off and glances at her watch. "This better not take too long," she mutters. "It's almost time for Guiding Light."
Suddenly, the door flies open and an out of breath, deerstalker-capped (and very tall) Sherlock Holmes rushes into the room. He stops at Ceinwyn's desk and announces, "I'm gay!"
Ceinwyn grits her teeth, but the brief pause is over when she turns to her newest visitor, arms crossed over her chest. "Well, that's going to be a problem, now, isn't it?" she says with a condescending smile.