Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth, Jareth or Sarah, I just enjoy writing about them

A/N: Originally inspired by a prompt over at the Labyfic LJ Comm, The Portrait of a Young Man

Darkest Before the Dawn

Chapter 1 - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

It began with the dreams, always the dreams - so vivid they roused him from sleep during countless interrupted nights.

His waking world was grey and sandstone and dust. He valiantly rallied and strived for colour and imagination, as in the days when the Labyrinth was frequented by runners - those naïve enough to imagine that wishing their pesky younger siblings away would have no consequences - yet all remained predominantly monochrome.

Until the dreams.

And the Girl.

She filled his mind with vibrancy and illumination, and most shocking of all - she was human. He didn't know her, had never seen her before the dreams started, but he knew enough to marvel at her; she was unique.

She lived in her own human world (incidentally, quite colourful in itself) yet rarely fully resided there, for she read extensively, and adopted the worlds in those books, acting out scenes with enthusiasm which burned so brightly that she seared his mind's eyes and roused him to wakefulness in the darkest hour of night.

The monochrome was different at night - muted shades of silver and grey, more peaceful - but he could find no peace.

He paced restlessly; leaving the stifling confines of his bedchamber he proceeded without thought along an already well-trod path. He could have made this journey sleepwalking - he knew the route all too well, for it was the path to his torment.

Endless stone corridors threw echoes of his tread back at him; although he walked carefully, the sound was magnified and eerie. He moved ever-onwards, the dim corridors illuminated only by candlelight, until he reached the dark oak door, encased within heavy ironwork. He retrieved the ancient key, concealed within an almost invisible crack in the wall, where idle hands would not happen upon it accidentally, and raised it slowly. It was so old and dull that it reflected no light, and his hand trembled briefly before he found purchase on the lock.

Very little roused genuine fear within him, but the room beyond this door made him distinctly uneasy. The door swung back on creaky hinges. His last visit felt far too recent, and he hoped he wouldn't feel compelled to return for the foreseeable future.

Why he subjected himself to this, he didn't know - some deep rooted instinct drew him back, time after time, often during the darkest night hours, the loneliest hours, when all creatures, even otherworldly beings, should be lost to the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

He crossed the threshold and thrust the candle aloft, throwing its warm glow across the small chamber. Yes, it was there - of course it was, it was always there, and would always remain so, that steadfast reminder.

He advanced cautiously, entranced as the candlelight danced over the heavy-set dark wood frame, intricately carved and engraved in gold.

Funny, he could never recall where this frame came from. The canvas within, that he could recall all too well. He remembered the day, a whole lifetime ago, when it had appeared in his chamber; a startling white, blank canvas, pure as freshly fallen snow, suggesting infinite possibilities for design, colour and composition.

Those days were gone, supplanted with the distaste and horror of the months and years that followed.

Bracing himself, he shifted the candle to his other hand, holding it closer, just short of burning the painting, for, whatever feelings it inspired in him, he couldn't, wouldn't dare, deliberately harm it in any way. He was too closely linked with it to risk damage beyond that which had already occurred during a life far removed from that of the Goblin King he had become.

He drew in a sharp breath as he locked eyes with the young prince in the painting. Like looking into a mirror, the Goblin King thought with irony. An entire age had elapsed since his face had resembled that immortalised in the portrait, although that he was the subject of the painting was undeniable.

The youthful face was half shadowed, but the aspect revealed to the viewer was adequate enough to reveal a great deal.

His (my?) expression wasn't always thus, the Goblin King recalled, still baffled as to how the painting could alter long after it's completion. In the very earliest throes of creation, the prince's expression was softer - open, inquisitive, and beguiling.

I flatter myself, but it is true, for those were the days before I truly knew the nature of my task here.

The knowing eyes of the prince, fathomless blue, glinted with remonstrance now, for all that had happened, all that the king had allowed in the years since he assumed full control of the Labyrinth. His mouth was set in a grim, knowing expression, and it was all too clear he did not like what he knew.

If the painted prince was disappointed, the Goblin King was infinitely more so, for he couldn't have been more accountable for that discontented, restless expression if he had painted the portrait himself. He hadn't, but nonetheless, he was it's subject and unwitting creator both. Part of him was literally in that painting, although he didn't know why. He clearly remembered the moment it started, his gradual creation of that painting, and now he wished the path had been different, or that he had changed course along the way.

Unable to face the young prince any longer, Jareth reconciled himself to mastering sleep once more, not overly eager to face down the demons of his past, or to foresee a future in which the portrait of the young prince may witness this king regaining some vestige of his earlier self-worth.

o~o~O~o~o

He slept.

And, inevitably, he dreamed…

It was the Girl again.

She wore a gown of flowing ivory, and walked beside a peaceful, sunlit lake. Clutching a well-read book firmly in her hand, she settled beside the gently lapping water to read. This story was new, but her enthusiasm was equal to the previous times he'd seen her. She sat alone in the parkland, and so read aloud from a tale of a troubled soul who desired to make amends.

The Goblin King awoke, certain for a moment the girl would be beside him, for she seemed closer somehow; he could make out her face and features, could almost hear her voice carry across the wind and the worlds.

He remained alone.

Although the girl wasn't real, or at least he didn't think she was, she gave him real hope - cutting through the blank, bored monotony of recent times, her wishes and dreams, her vibrancy, told him it was not too late.

There is still time…

His resolve settled - he must revisit that painting, for the time had arrived to acknowledge the past and plot a new course for the future…