I am not a man.

No woman conceived me; no man begat me. I have never known the comfort of the enclosing womb nor suckled tenderly at a woman's breast. My eyes have not seen the soft, fuzzy form of human face in the dim light of an infants first hours in the world. My ears have not heard the pleasured cries as enraptured arms enfolded me in a warm embrace. I was not born; I simply am.

I have never known a home nor pined for the lack of it. Neither mother nor father raised me, yet I am not an orphan, for I have no parentage to lack. I have never craved a mother's bosom to weep in on a dark, moonless night; nor have I cried out in terror when the rolling thunder ripped the sky above my room. No father taught me to be a man with gruff voice and fearsome mien. No heavy hand chastened me in my youth when stubborn rebellion crept upon me, ousting my superiors and challenging their authority; I have never known submission.

Neither have I known the intimacy and aggression of a sibling's presence. My identity has never been threatened by rival kinship. I am alone. Myself. Self-sufficient and independent.

I am not a god.

Though ageless, I was born of time and consequence. Though powerful, omnipotence escapes my grasp. With tireless skill and effortless dominion I rule my microcosm with dispassionate equanimity. I had a beginning and if I have an end, it is beyond my ken. I think, perhaps, I shall exist until time itself tires and, decrepit, fades from all mortal memory. Birth does not obliterate the possibility of immortality.

In truth, I am neither man nor god.

Though some have called me Fae—and I have, in truth, taken on their appearance to suit my need—I am not a faerie child, for even they are born of the passionate embrace between man and woman. Such was not my birth. I am the child neither of lust nor of procreational necessity. No sweet seduction was my forebear: the sheen of sweat coalescing on a bronzed forehead, dripping from the heated flesh onto a delicate satin couch. Bodies writhing in passion to the rhythm of their aching need—the threshold of their desire just beyond reach until the final thrust brings them both to consummation, and to parenthood. My origin is of old and beyond carnal urges.

I am born of magic.

I am a child of energy and power: no more, no less. Child is generous, for in my infancy (if indeed you may call it that), I was no less powerful than now, only more ignorant. There was never a time when I could not speak and act to influence my environment—a mewling, helpless babe such as I have often stolen from the mists to bring to my domain. I needed no one to help me understand my cosmos. My first act as a created being was an act of power, of might, and of lasting significance. Never did I loll about in human fashion, needing a mother's nursing or a father's strong presence in the fearful hour. I neither eat nor sleep, for such are the requirements of frail creatures; magic knows neither hunger nor thirst nor tiredness. My only sustenance is my existence.

I am born of need.

I was born neither of human will nor of a man's lust nor of the selfish desire to replicate oneself to stay the fear of death and insignificance. My mother is magic and my father, the mists of time. Though not the effect of genetic duplication, protection and self-preservation were the circumstances of my birth. Even magic can be penurious.

In the hour of her need, magic created me as guardian and preserver of her sanctity. I have neither kin nor family, for there are none like me in the history of time. I am the one and only king and lord of magic: magic's incarnation. Magic brought me into existence to protect and preserve, and in the face of the receeding of the faerie mists, my power grows and my once vast dominion has become a stronghold against the encroaching human world. With magic on the defensive, I protect its existence. Magic gave me birth and now I give it life.

I have no equal.

Humans fear me and to them I am as a god. I stole their children to populate my kingdom. They sent me their unwanted ones, their ugly and outcast and unwittingly increased my power a hundredfold. I was awful in their eyes, one to be feared, dreaded, whispered about behind closed doors but never called upon directly. None has dared challenge me, though of late, they have begun to forget me.

The goblins worship me. I am their King and they are my minions and the denizens of my kingdom—the kingdom that is also my progenitor. Once the unwanted castoffs of the human race, now distorted, gleeful imps whose only joy is mischief and wild abandon. I transformed their shame into power, their self-loathing into pride. Those who once rejected them now shrink away from their devilish pranks. For good or ill, I am their Lord and Master. They call me king and I protect the mists from their disorder. One might even call me their creator, for though they existed before me, I have overseen the rise in their population, daily adding to their number from among the rank and file of humanity.

I am a master of magic and ruler of the Underground kingdom. The goblins revere me and the faeries respect me. I am their equal in power, if not in reputation. None have entered my kingdom and returned to tell the tale. I am a master of trickery; deceit and mischief bedeck my halls like so many glittering garlands. Power is my crown and my signet, impassivity.

I am the winged darkness, the stormless thunderbolt and the sultry lilt of music in the night.

I am Jareth, Labyrinth King.