The Chapters of Life

Chapter Twelve: I Will Remember You

I will remember you

Will you remember me?

Don't let your life pass you by

Weep not for the memories

.

I'm so tired but I can't sleep

Standing on the edge of something much too deep

It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word

We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard

.

Sarah McLaughlan, I Will Remember You

He could have sworn the walls moved.

He whipped around, breathing harshly, but there was nothing except the walls, cold and unmoving.

Feeling that icy shiver creep down his spine, he turned around, more slowly. Every little sensation he felt, imagined or real, was grating on his nerves, and his breathing was uneven. Why did everything have to be so goddamned dark… and so stark?

He strode forward, determined to get to the center, if only to get the hell out of here.

A movement caught his eyes, and cursing, he swirled around to face behind him, only to stare at a dead end right in front of him. The walls had cut off where he had come from, so that he could not turn back. He gaped at it for a moment in disbelief, then backed up quickly, as if trying to get away from the moving walls.

His back hit the wall and he turned his head in panic and shock. What had – but he had just been facing this way, and it was a path – and now there was a dead end at his back, and in front of him…

He was trapped.

"No." A whimper in his throat that he had not even recognized was growing. "No, no, no, no…"

Would you like to get out?

His hands clutched at the closing walls. His nails tore as he scraped the surface, shaking and screaming silently.

The walls were now only centimeters away from him. His breath caught; he couldn't breathe at all.

Would you like to get out?

His eyes slid closed. A vision played behind them.

Two young fey princes, playing in the gardens, transparent orbs floating around them.

A mother, sitting in the corner, smiling to herself as she watched her sons prowl among the roses.

A father, a king, who has just stepped into the garden. "Well, well, what have we here?"

Both princes turn to him with huge grins. "Father!" They both rush to the goblin king, who chuckles as he picks the younger son up.

"Have you been good today?" The king looks at the young boy in the eye, in his tiny mismatched eyes.

"Very good," the boy promises solemnly. He gazes up at the king, his father, in open admiration. The stately posture, the regal armour, the cloak…

Just like him, he wants to be just like him when he grows up.

The father sets the boy down on the ground, then pats the older brother on the head. "And you, have you been good?"

"Very, very good," he answers with enthusiasm. He gives a punching motion into the air. "I've been practicing my magic, and my swordplay, and since I'm going to be the goblin king after you, father, I'm planning on working very hard!" Grinning, he grabs his younger brother, and the two grapple for a moment, before he puts the smaller boy into a headlock.

"And me?" the younger boy gasps as he fends off his brother's hands from his throat. "What about me?"

"Nothing – " his brother begins, grinning wolfishly, before suddenly catching his mother's look, and swiftly changes his words. "Nothing but my most trusted advisor, of course."

The boys finally separate, both grinning at each other. The younger boy sticks his tongue out. "Wouldn't want to be king anyways, who'd want that boring stuff?"

"It's not boring!" The older boy indignantly turns to their father. "Father – "

"All right, enough, you two," the mother finally intervenes. "Stop making such a racket and go in. It'll be time for dinner soon."

Suddenly, the younger boy reaches up, and snatches something from the father's belt.

The father returns his attention to his son with a smile. The prince is holding a crystal in hand, staring into it. He looks up at his father. "What is it?"

"It's a crystal, nothing more." The father crouches, so that they are eye level. "It's clear – you can see through it – but things get distorted when you do, see?"

The prince is mesmerized by the glassy orb.

"Jareth, your father needs it back now, so he can go back inside and rest," his mother chides gently.

The young fey's head jerks up at that. There is something wrong – something wrong – wrong –

"Jareth."

His mother's voice…

"Jareth…"

His eyes opened slowly. His breathing came fast, harsh, as if he'd just run a hundred miles. He looked to his side. Both ways, before and after him, were clear now, no walls stopping him.

Something felt heavy in his hand, and he glanced down to find a crystal. He lifted it to gaze into its depth.

Abruptly, he dashed it across the narrow path, the crystal hitting the opposite wall and shattering. One of the shards cut him across the cheek, leaving a little wound from which blood seeped through. He didn't bother to wipe it away, instead walking, running, sprinting down the path, desperate to get out.

Would you like to get out?

There were two doors in front of him.

Each one was graced by faded images on its surface. The image appeared to be like that of a playing card, symmetrical, so that one could turn it completely upside down, and the picture would still appear the same. A shield, with intricate designs, was in the middle, while a soldier's face with a pointy hat graced it on both sides.

He stared at them, not knowing what was happening, then tensed as he felt something behind him. By now, he knew what it meant: the walls were moving again, closing in on him, caging him. He did not turn around.

He refused to be intimidated by a goddamned maze.

He walked up to the doors. One was red, the other blue. He placed his hand on the red one, the one on the right, flat on the surface.

Immediately a vision flashed across his eyes.

"Faster!"

The swords clash. The two opponents parry furiously for a moment, before one of them finally steps back. "Good. That's it for today."

The young fey prince takes off his mask wearily. "Must I do this? Magic does not require any weapon."

"That is true. Swords are useless with magic, as are guns and other weapons. Blade and bullets are too easily stopped with magic. However…" his brother suddenly lashes out with his sword, and the fey prince clumsily blocks it, throwing the mask aside and bringing up his own sword.

They cross swords for a moment, then the older prince steps away. "For now, your magic can't stop swords. And there may come a time when you have to rely on means other than magic – for instance, if you were going to fight someone who was your equal or superior in magic, having any kind of additional skill would come in handy indeed."

The prince is tired, but he listens with care. His brother will be a great king, he knows. Their father is a stern and mighty ruler, but his older brother will be a king worthy of the kingdom that is his inheritance.

"You were at it for long enough, you two." His mother enters the room, looking calmly at the two fey men. "Take some rest, and come back later."

Both of them grin at their mother. "All right," he says courteously, beginning to take off his own mask.

A great king, a great queen…

A great queen…

A queen…

His eyes opened, slowly this time. Lifelessly he stepped back from the door. "Why do you insist on showing me this, I wonder?" he spoke aloud, emotionlessly.

The labyrinth did not answer. It felt no need to answer to one who had no power over itself.

He moved to the other door, then placed his hand on the blue surface in the same manner.

The fey king rubs his eyes. "You don't know what really happened," he speaks.

"No, you're right," the goblin king answers, just as quietly – but in a much, much colder voice. "You're right. I don't know."

"Goblin king-"

"I don't know," he snarls. "I don't know if what they had was love, even fleeting, or just desire – or just lust on my father's part, nothing more. I rather suspect the last. What does it matter? I was just one of the many, just one who happened to get lucky."

"You don't know," the fey king insists. Then he sighs. "But then – it's not your fault, that you never learned what happened, is it? It's not your fault that you never got to talk to your father –"

"If I ever did get to see him," the goblin king growls, "I would be too busy killing him for what he'd done to ask any insipid questions about whether he cared. He obviously hadn't."

The fey king's voice is low. "And what do you suppose your father would say to that?"

"Nothing. He'd be a dead king." Indifference.

"Then you would be a lost orphan, who had just killed a king."

He stumbled back, his back damp with sweat. "Why?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

The wall was still at his back, and there was no way out except through one of these doors. He wondered if it made any difference which door he chose. Something told him that his choice would matter; ever since he had been jerked from his bed and thrown into this laybinrth without so much as a word of explanation, the Run had been so complicated and sinister that he didn't think it would let him go that easily.

His choice mattered.

So, which way? Right or left? Blue or red?

Then he knew. Blindly, he reached for the door knob, and entered through the blue door, leaving behind the walls that were retreating back now that he had made his choice.

Would you like to get out?

The moment he'd stepped through, he wondered if he'd made a mistake.

He was in a dark room, with no light whatsoever. The momen the door had shut behind him, he could not see a thing. He froze, then tentatively reached out his hand to see if there was anything in front of him…

Then Anna is standing in front of him, smiling so sweetly.

She had been his first love, hadn't she? It was so long time ago – such a long time ago – too long.

It had been when he still thought he was a normal human.

They'd gone on picnics, hiking, and horseback riding. Her dark hair always flowed out behind her whenever they raced their horses, her cheek flushed. He'd loved her with all the passion a youth of twenty years could.

Her mother had loved Anna as well, but for some reason, when he'd confessed to his mother that he wanted to marry the girl, she'd pressed her lips and gone white. Concerned, he had not pressed the issue – until she told him two days later that he couldn't, shouldn't, ask her to marry him.

Then he'd gone frantic, asking her why, why he couldn't, why, but his mother refused to answer, just turned away. He'd went after her, desperately, bombarding her with questions. Finally, he asked if it was because of his father, his father whom he'd never seen nor met, though he did not know why.

She had only looked at him, suddenly looking ages older, before simply saying, "Maybe."

It had infuriated him, and he'd demanded to know why. She'd never answered him. It was the first time the mother and the son had been estranged from each other, the two who only had each other, always living together.

"My love?" Now Anna is giving him a quizzical look. "Are you all right?"

He looks up from where he was lying under the tree. There is a small smile on her face, the ring shining in the morning sunlight.

His hand touches his own on his finger. He opens his mouth to answer. "Yes, I'm all right, just thinking for a moment…"

He jerked back. It was only dark in front of him, and he was almost glad, glad that there were no more ghosts haunting him. "No," he managed to gasp out.

Anna had married another, after a few months, and she was happy at her wedding. It was only after over twenty years later that Jareth had learned why he couldn't, shouldn't, have married her. By then, Anna had had five children, and was a middle-aged woman who spent her days bustling around managing her household.

His mother, whom he had forgiven because he could not bear not to, was aging, her once charming beauty fading rapidly.

He still looked like a passionate youth of twenty.

He wasn't human. He'd realized it by then. He was something else, and he didn't know what. And he could only watch as his friends and acquaintances faded away with old age, while he remained a restless youth of twenty.

Except he hadn't, had he?

Now that the illusion, the dream, was broken, the memories were clawing at his mind, demanding to surface, and he fell to his knees, beaten down by his memories.

He blindly reached out again, trying to find something to grasp in the darkness. The damned walls had moved again, and there was nothing behind his back anymore – and there was nothing, nothing to be heard save his own harsh breathing, nothing to be felt save the floor beneath him that seemed to be falling, nothing to be seen save the memories that crowded his eyes –

And he wanted something to hold on to.

He is smiling as he finally opens his eyes to the applause.

He stands up, gives a bow to the audience, then closes the piano. As he comes down the stage, a young girl, young enough to be his daughter, is gazing up at him. "You play so well," she says in a wonder.

He chuckles a little as he picks her up and puts her sitting on the table, so that they're eye-level. "Thank you," he says, mockingly, but good-naturedly.

"How long have you been playing for?" Wide, innocent eyes.

"Since I was younger than you," he answers, ruffling her hair.

"That's a long time."

He smirks. "Not as long as you think."

"Let's not do this, shall we?" he spat.

Something was boiling inside him; hot temper was rising in him, for the first time since he'd been dragged into the labyrinth. His harsh words seemed to echo forever in the darkness, but he did not flinch. "I know what you're doing," he spat.

Would you like to get out?

"Shut up." His voice trembled just a little, but he stood up on firm legs. "Shut up. Just shut up."

Would you like to get out, though?

He went on, despite hating the shaking in his voice, despite the great temptation to give in, despite the need to forget, because he was desperate to chase away the darkness of the oubliette.

Strange, that he had to face his memories in a place of forgetting.

"You're showing me my dreams," he ground out. "All those things I dreamed of. Anna. Being a pianist, and fitting in, and being admired. Having a father, a brother, a family. Having my mother back." His voice choked a little. "All those things I dreamed of…"

He gave a short laugh. It did not help with the insanity that was probing at his mind.

"And all those dreams are without the goblin king," he spoke, as much to himself as to the labyrinth.

The labyrinth was quiet, for once.

"That's why I can't choose them – my dreams. Because I'm not the goblin king in them."

Silence.

"Gods know I don't want to be." His voice shook.

Would you like to get out?

"Shut up." He pushed himself up. "I'm going to the centre."

He took a deep breath, reach out with his hands once more, waiting to push his dreams away once more –

and found his hand curling around a door knob.

He recoiled, as he came face to face with a man who could have been an older version of him, a much, much older version.

"I'm dying!" The man raged, scraping his fingernails down the walls in a wild craze.

His hand involuntarily went to his other hand, where the nails were still sore from being torn loose.

"Help me, damn it! Save me!"

The labyrinth was calm. It's time for you to go. You cannot be saved. Though it could not be seen, its presence was nonetheless all too obvious.

"I'm your king!"

Kings can be replaced. The whisper seemed to echo forever.

Suddenly there was a burst of flames, and an agonizing shriek of pain.

He stepped back, horrified, as the man slowly withered away, until there was nothing, nothing.

The labyrinth was patient. It waited until the very last of the ashes were gone, then it looked, for the heir of the king that had just lost control of itself.

That had been his father. He had just witnessed how his father had died.

He had no idea what its basis for comparison was, among all the bastards his father must have had. But he had been chosen.

He took a deep breath. Took the door knob again. Turned it. Opened the door.

Blinking, he stepped out.

In front of him was the castle. In front of the castle were all the denizens of the goblin kingdom, all watching him wordlessly.

They knew.

He knew.

A new goblin king had come into power.

And there we are!

I do hope you enjoyed this chapter, because it's partly responsible for the little delay in updates. This isn't the most edited chapter I've had in this story, but it comes quite close. Something kept nagging at me to add just a bit more, a bit more... and it still feels not enough. Not the chapter, oh no, I think there's enough jumbles of recollection in there. But there's a lot more of Jareth's background that I'm rather itching to write, but if I add any more flashbacks to this story, it'll just become ridiculous in regards to plot and pacing. I'm wondering whether I should do oneshot or a very, very short story...

Oh, and one more thing: Thank you to everyone who read, and who read and reviewed!! The response to last chapter has absolutely flabbergasted me and left me with a little heartattack. The only thing I'm capable of saying is thank you so, so much, and love you all! :)

Hmm, one last thing, I guess :P For every chapter I update, I'm planning on ranting/rambling about each one in my livejournal. So far, the journal's been more for me than anything else, but I guess I'm pushing myself to get out a bit more. So, er, here it is: you're pretty much the first person I've told I have a livejournal, and it may have some things that might interest you if you like this story! I'll be careful not to put any spoilers, but if you feel like wasting a few minutes of your time, come over and play! My ID is the same - idnh-azuresky - and there should be a link to it in my author page.

Thanks again! :) Hope you'll continue reading this story!