Chapter Text
How did you get here?
“Is something wrong, dearest?”
Around you, the room spun. People danced and sang. He did too, didn’t he? Yet somehow, he didn’t.
“Well?” he asked with a voice like smooth velvet, “ Is something the matter?”
You shook your head, and above you, like a looming eye, a black mass gathered. Why would that be here? You didn't know what it was– no, it was safe here. Everything was as it always was, and you were grateful. Ever so grateful, even if the hand on your waist gripped you like a snare, and the air smelt like dusty old fabric.
Is that why it felt so familiar, like a story you once read?
The room spun, and despite yourself, you clung to him. It was such a lovely ball (so, why did your heart pound?) and the music was glorious(it felt as if it were trying to drown your thoughts). You leaned against his chest and searched for a steady beating, only to hear a ticking of the clock. Your eyes snapped towards the lace covered walls and shadowed curtains, and the slow circle you two spun slowed to a stop, yet the ticking kept on. Where was it coming from? Why did it feel important? It always was, in the stories you read– what stories? Something, something, a taste of sweetness, on your tongue. You strained to listen and heard a voice whispering. A viscous drop fell at your feet, and inside, someone yelled, someone sobbed, yet the dancers continued. Curling, circling. There was nothing wrong here. It was all the same.
There would be no leaves changing colors, or air that turned cold.
The voice whispered again– what did it call? It called something sacred, and on your tongue, sweetness bloomed, and tangy juice traveled down your throat, and something fuzzy, like peach skin, tingled in your memory.
“Precious?”
You turned towards him, and the perfect mirage made your stomach twist. His hair was too straight, and as you scrutinized him his skin shifted like paint pooling on a canvas. His skin was cold, and he smelt of books left too long to sit outside. Though, how could you know? What were you comparing him to?
His gloved hands stroked your cheek, and you remembered how you couldn’t take them off earlier. Gently, he nudged you back into the dance, and while you didn’t know the steps, your feet flew forward anyway. You spun underneath the chandelier’s wintery glow, past the tangle of people on the cushions– and, hadn’t you two danced this path before?
No, no, there was no use of questions. There was nothing but The Masquerade, the dance, passing on and on.
The voice murmured. It spoke of sunshine warming your skin and the crunch of autumn leaves. It whispered that scared word again. Your scrunched your eyes closed. You didn’t know of those things. You didn’t know of heels clacking against a stone floor or hair that shone like silvered sun-shine. You didn’t recall glitter clinging to his cheekbones or teeth as sharp as the moon’s knives, and his smile like a crooked dagger. You were content with this storybook illusion, even if this Goblin King didn’t have a dimple, or enchantingly odd eyes.
You did not remember anything. There was nothing to remember.
Around you, the dancers wound to a stop. Silence descended. The voice whispered again. It spoke of bookstores and forests overgrown, of open windows, of light. It uttered that divine word, the one that tugged at your heart strings. You took a step towards it, but his grip on you tightened. His skin melted, turning and burning– etched pencil lines, a charcoal sketch, a being made of words, before he turned to flesh once more. Necks snapped towards the noise of the voice as it called out, and you knew it, despite yourself. Despite your hate for it.
“Darling?” The Goblin King asked.
It was safer here. You knew here, and you did not know the voice speaking of dreams, ones that you had. You did not know what that ticking was, what it meant. You did not know of stories or fairy tales. You did not know, you could never– how could you? Why would you?
You did not know of the sweet man who came to you, who offered to take you away. You did not know of the labyrinth who wished to make him happy. You did not, you did not.
The voice cried out, and despite yourself, despite yourself, you stepped towards it. It grew, and the dancers cocked their heads, listening. You felt it, no– where she was. Where was she? Again, she called out.
Finally, The Goblin King yelled, “Get that damned thing!”
The silence burst into a cacophony of shouting, of noise, fabric shredding, and old dresses and cloaks flew into the air as you fought against your captor. Teeth glinted underneath stark light, too straight, too narrow. Not real, never real– their hands were too narrow, no their legs were, and their voices invaded, whispering promises thicker than syrup, while others chased down the voice.
Where was it, that voice?
You struggled forward, and two people grabbed your arms and began to pull, swaying you as the music began to play once more. It was heavy, so heavy, the beauty of it all. Weren’t they beautiful, those promises, like seeds within dark winter? Your limbs turned to sludge as you sank underneath the weight of them, and they surrounded you, hands intertwined, as they danced around your body.
Promises, promises, always, promises– sweet decrees of love and unbound words, always, always, the sameness, the completeness of the circle. What a comforting shape it was, what a comforting sight, watching them spin around you, hands intertwined. What a lonely shape. Singular, like the stars deep within space.
The voice whispered.
A black drop fell on your face.
The voice called.
You wrestled yourself up. The dancers hissed, and their siren-like coos turned to screeches. Faces blurred in and out. A voice– her voice, continued to whisper that word that pulled at your bones. A hand, wearing an old glove, grabbed yours and dragged you into a dance. It was so cold, so cold, yet you knew of the chill. The voice whispered again, loud and clear like a bell. You blinked and pulled away, only for a clawed hand to snatch your hair. It rang again, her voice, and the dancer holding your hostage wrapped an arm around your throat, dragging you backwards. The others encircled you, their laughter echoing, interlaced sweet singing.
The crowd parted, and one of the masqueraders came forward, holding her in their hands. The Goblin King took her, and with a flick of his wrist, he dangled her in front of you.
“Is this what you were looking for?”
There she was, with your eyes, mouth and face. How much of her had you inherited from your mother, your father? How many times had you scowled at those features?
“To think, she was so insistent, stomping around like an utter nuisance!” He looked at you and dropped her onto the floor, kicking her with his boot, “Now get rid of her, so we may return to our fun.”
She looked up at you, and you couldn’t quite tell what she was saying. Yet, how could you destroy her when she uttered it so clearly, like a bell? What was she saying?
“Do as I say, girl,” the King sneered, “Don’t get any ideas.”
She repeated herself.
Above, the looming eye cracked like a storm. You could go back. You could– wasn’t it easy, to forsake the word she uttered? Wasn’t it easy to forget what you liked, and wouldn’t it be easier to forget the shy man who took you to a secret garden?
In front of you, The Goblin King waved a gloved hand, and in his palm appeared a mask covered in pearls and lace. It spoke of moonlit evenings coated with spring’s promises. What else did it speak of? Your hand reached towards it, that comfort, that balm, and as you did, an ebony drop fell upon its snow-like surface. It spread like ink in water, and soon, the familiar noises encroached. Hissing, scratching and the sound of a belt buckle, jingling.
“Don't you want it?” The King asked, “Isn't this what you always wanted?”
On your tongue, you tasted rotten peaches. You smelt the old musk of things left to rot. You looked down at her, and her small lips warbled. How come she never gave up on you? How come she was here?
She was here, she was here! That's what mattered.
Your eyes turned towards the mask again, and around you, the dancers crooned promises. They sounded like diamonds falling into your lap and lips caressing your neck. Yet, still, on your tongue, you tasted rot. You'd eaten the forsaken peach, hadn't you? You’d been tempted by its familiar skin, but she was still here. Your eyes locked with those of The Goblin King. She was still here. She was still here!
You stomped on the foot of the person holding you captive and they let go. The world rattled like a pressure cooker ready to implode, and people screamed as the ballroom descended into chaos.
It never happened this way, in the stories.
People pushed past you in a futile effort to flee, while others scrambled to obey the King’s orders as he demanded your capture. Like lighting, a bang rang out, and a flash of red caught your eye. You stopped. It was the only thing that was still.
Before you could stop yourself, you trudged towards it, dodging panicked ball-goers and fleeing from would-be captors. When you reached the red spot in the ballroom, you realized it was a door. Despite the screaming around you, you grabbed the knob and pushed it open to reveal a room.
Candles flickered to life as you stepped in, and a lithe man sat on an ornate chair, surrounded by platters of uneaten fruit. A stout, redheaded woman drew him on a large sketchpad, her fingers stained with charcoal. She stopped drawing, and turned to you. Her dark eyes scrutinized you for a moment. The door behind you closed as you pressed against it, and underneath your fingertips, you felt a leatherlike texture.
“Hello,” she finally said, and her voice had a soft, strange lilt to it. Her lips scrunched, and for some reason the gesture felt familiar as she asked, “Who are you?”
At your silence, she rolled her eyes and returned to her drawing. She might’ve muttered something underneath her breath, but somehow, the reaction felt comforting. It reminded you of someone, but who?
She rolled her eyes again and let out a dramatic huff, “Why are you still here? How did you get here anyway? No one is supposed to find me!”
“Who are you?”
She sputtered at your question, “Who am I? Who am I? I asked you first! And you shouldn’t be wasting your time, asking pointless questions!”
“My time?” you asked and stepped further into the room.
The man sitting in front of the woman blinked to life, and as he did, his skin shifted into dripping, colored plates.
“We aren’t supposed to interfere, dear,” he mumbled.
“Well! I can’t help but interfere if she’s just going to stand there and gawk! Hasn’t your mother ever told you about closing your mouth? I’m sure a fly’s going to fly in there if you don’t!”
Your eyebrows pinched. You frowned.
“Well, at least you’ve closed it.” she muttered, and the way her eyebrows knitted reminded you of someone .
For a moment, the curve of her cheek echoed in your memory, and as she scowled, you saw the curve of his lip and the shape of his neck. You weren’t supposed to remember him, nor the way he carried himself, stubborn and resolute, yet you did, and you knew that he was not the Goblin King out there that searched for you.
“Are you his mother?” you asked.
“Who’s?”
“ His.”
She glared at you. Her eyebrow twitched, and she turned to the man before her, who sat still and empty in response.
“It makes sense,” you added, “you look just like him!”
“No, my son takes after his father–”
“So I was right!” she said nothing as you continued, “You both have a dimple! And you both scowl just like that! My Goblin King is always scowling! I’m surprised he hasn’t got more wrinkles!”
He had a family. Just like he had a favorite color. Just like he had a romance collection. Just like he had a name. What was it? You knew it, didn’t you? How long had it been denied to him, his name?
How long had you been denied yours?
The door creaked open, and a figure emerged. You knew her, despite how small she was. Here you were, the version everyone wanted: quiet and demure, but there she was, the part you made. You’d seen the part of himself he made too, hadn’t you? The man who liked owls and who was a sweet, yet spoiled thing.
Your eyes met hers. She stepped closer. How could you accept her when you’d forsaken her?
“(Y/n),” she whispered.
That’s what she’d been calling– your name. It felt as freeing as an open window and the sunshine. Kneeling, you offered your open hands and she hesitated. Behind her, the door opened further to reveal that storybook figure. In the candlelight, his royal blue suit twinkled with broken mirror shards, and in them, you saw the colored swatches of the room. As he came to a stop in front of you, his visage made your stomach clench. There wasn’t a hair out of place, and you couldn’t help it as you turned to the doll of a man sitting at the ornate chair. His hair was the same– free of frizz, silky straight, and as he smiled, his teeth were too straight.
“Come back and dance with me,” The King crooned.
You kept staring at that strange man. He was too straight, too narrow– there were no curves to his figure, no cracks within the facade.
He continued, “I will forgive your foolishness if you destroy that thing you hold. You will have no use of it here.”
There it was, right there, that life, the one you always lived– as easy and tempting as any peach. You’d eaten it, tasted it, and let it consume you in return. There was no going back now, there couldn’t be. Beneath you, the floor cracked, and smog like liquid slithered into the shadowed room. It hissed and pooled at The Goblin King’s feet. It crawled up the walls, and noises radiated it from it like the beginnings of a familiar hurricane: popping grease, radio static, and the hiss of a beer can.
You dreamt those things, didn’t you?
So, what did that mean? It couldn’t mean anything. Why would it?
“Well,” The king’s voice grabbed you, “What are you going to do?”
“(Y/n).” the small part of you whispered.
You cradled her close, held her against your chest, and as you did, you remembered how small and warm that barn owl you knew was. You remembered how he smelt of autumn air, and his teeth were sharp, just as his words were, but his talons never pierced your skin.
He told you his name once, in a dream. You felt it, brimming on your lips. It prickled on the edge of your tongue, and your mouth traced its shape. Closing your eyes, your lips quirked as you thought of Your Goblin King impatiently tapping his foot as he awaited for you to recall it.
It was there, right there, just outside of the darkness. It weaved around you, whispering. You knew that noise, that song, that promise, but could you live it anymore? How could you, when he–
Like winter’s thunder, his name cracked on your tongue, “Jareth. I want Jareth, not you, Goblin King.”
The man laughed, and the darkness around him tittered in response. His face shifted, melted, and the shadows around him crawled up his boots. His flesh changed color, flashed, and as he opened his mouth, you heard the crackling of bones.
“Do you really think you deserve him?” The Goblin King asked as all the lights within the room were extinguished, and his voice tumbled– you heard the perch of Jareth’s sigh, the roll of your brother’s o, your own voice, and then your mother’s loud and clear, as the darkness consumed him whole, ““Do you really think you deserve to be happy, after all you’ve done?”
People screamed– then, silence. You couldn’t tell where the void began and where you ended. It was as if you were inside a thick, wet maw, waiting. Waiting for what? Around you, something twisted, something gripped your legs, and cold fingers dug into your warm flesh. The floor opened into a mouth, and you understood how little red felt when she was consumed by the wolf.
You couldn’t scream, and you couldn’t move as you went down.
Down, down,
Down.