A/N: This is a repost of an old fic I had previously taken down. (I'm in the process of reposting all of my old stories.) Special thanks to undergrounddaydreams for beta services!

PRINCE CHARMING

He wanders, escaping dark thoughts, fleeing isolation. No matter how far he travels, though, they trail behind him, clinging to him like a cloak billowing in the wind. And yet, for a moment, while he is away from the discordant babble of goblins, the cacophony of clucking fowl, he can almost forget his eternal monotony.

He crosses Above—an indulgence he is discouraged from. Eons before, when he was newly ascended, he followed every counsel, every rule with wide-eyed naiveté, ardently believing in his sovereign duty. As the years pressed, however, the veil of honor fell away exposing a blackened revelation: he'd been banished to the backwater kingdom, as forgotten as the unwanted children stolen by his goblins. The oubliette had been crafted so well, he walked into it willingly. On the heels of this understanding, the laws he once upheld became iron shackles, weighing on him, chafing him until he broke them all.

Until he broke himself.

As he steps over the threshold between realms, he doesn't bother with a glamour. Sometimes, he comes in another form, an owl soaring through the night sky glittering with stars. Sometimes, he appears as a mortal, half-hidden in the shadows as he observes the short-lived beings carrying on day to day—loving, fighting, laughing, weeping. He wonders what it would be like to count his life in decades rather than millennia, where each breath would draw him ever closer to an inevitable end. Would he care, then? About anything?

The sky is clear, bright, painting Above in vibrant color. He closes his eyes, inhales the potent aroma of vitality. It's almost like magic, glowing in his periphery, beckoning to him like a siren on the high seas, but when he stretches for it, it slips away. He makes the attempt every time, though, unable to accept that anything he wants could be denied him for long.

He strolls through a mortal burial ground, sliding his gloved fingers over the granite headstones. He visits here often, despite the morbidity of it. Death is something he both will never know and knows already. His physical form will continue indefinitely, but he dies in other ways, suffocated by the tedium of his existence. He sits on the manicured lawn before an ornate gravestone with sculpted, trumpet-blowing cherubs. Shriveled flowers droop in the built-in vase. With a wave of his hand, the blossoms change from grey-brown to rich vermillion. He hasn't given them life—not really—but merely reversed time in the bubble he creates around them. When he leaves, taking his magic with him, they will wither once more.

Alberta Marie Coffman lies deep in the earth beneath him. According to the dates chiseled into the stone, she had been but seven mortal years when the light left her eyes. A child full of promise. He pities her, wonders what sort of goblin she would have made had she been wished away to him. Surely that would have been a better fate than eternal night. Such fragile creatures, these humans.

But then, when drawing breath, they were countless times more alive than he—as though knowing their own mortality compelled them to wrest every passion, every pain, every joy from their experiences. They lap up life like thirsty adolescents, savor it as a fleeting feast. The notion is foreign to him, he whose world is never-changing. He knows no passion, no pain, no joy—only fatigue and boredom. Only loneliness when he deigns to acknowledge it. Even the anger he once bore toward those who had exiled him has become a pale thing, gauzy and indistinct—an obligation of a feeling, nothing more.

His brooding thoughts are interrupted by a tiny sharp intake of breath. He glances up, raising a brow at the child peeking over the headstone—a girl with long, shining dark hair and sad green eyes brimming with tears. Her rose-bud mouth falls open as she stares at him. There is something innocent, beguiling about her, made more beautiful from muted aura of grief wrapped about her like a tattered cloak. He doesn't speak. Perhaps she is nothing more than the apparition of the child whose body rests here.

She steps around the stone marker, the dark skirt of her dress swaying with the movement. She leans against the granite, presses against it as if to anchor herself. He is tempted to touch her, to test her solidity. The silence protracts between them, freezing the moment as though the world holds its breath in anticipation. He can hear the thrumming of her puerile heart, but she is not afraid. Instead, hope blossoms on her features. His brow furrows. His presence elicits fear, horror, dread—never hope.

"Are you Prince Charming?" Her question is whispered, so quiet he isn't certain at first that she spoke at all.

Prince Charming. He turns the name over in his mind, examines it against what he knows of mortal folklore. Isn't that the unfailingly moral protagonist in every fairytale, riding into danger on an alabaster horse to save the princess from a dastardly villain? Jareth smirks. Prince Charming. Not a moniker suited for the king of the goblins.

He considers denying he is this hero, but curiosity overtakes him. "Do you need a Prince Charming?" he asks. Under the gaze of those fervent eyes, he thinks he might be willing to shed his natural egoism and come to her aid.

She shakes her head. "Mommy does."

"Does she?" He leans back on his elbows. Helping this exquisite child is one thing, helping her mother another. "And what can Prince Charming do for her?"

The girl sags against the stone, her chin dropping to her chest. "Kiss her and wake her up."

He cants a brow, his mouth curving in a sardonic grin. "And live happily ever after with her?"

"You don't have to," she whispers. "Just wake her up." She looks at him, her eyes pleading. "Please?"

Something stirs within his chest at her haunted expression, something beyond pity. The strange emotion tastes bittersweet. He tilts his head, studying the girl. What mortal magic does she possess to inspire this unnamed feeling in him? Might she evoke more if he encourages her?

He draws his legs beneath him, stretching until he stands over her. "Where is she?"

The girl turns, points to the building on the far side of the grounds. "She's sleeping in there." She reaches a hand toward him, and he stares at it for a moment before taking it. The sensation of her small, slender fingers in his palm is extraordinary. Again, he is beset with the unfamiliar emotion—almost as though they are bound together in kinship. Odd, but not unwelcome.

As they draw closer to their destination, there are others milling about, clad in dark colors—mourners. He suspects he won't be able to give the girl her wish, but he is hesitant to end their encounter. Instead, he hides his unusual appearance beneath a glamour. He weaves the façade to match the drab attire of the group, to blend in with them.

The girl looks up at him and gasps. "You changed." A smile stretches across her lips. "I knew you were him."

He returns her grin, even knowing her hope will be crushed when he's revealed to be something other than the hero she seeks. For this moment, he wants to play along, to be a part of her fantasy. For this moment, he wants to forget what he is—a dejected king whose sole purpose is to take, to ruin.

"Sarah!" someone calls after them as they push through the crowd into the building. She doesn't pause, but pulls Jareth down the hall, her short legs pumping in a near run.

Sarah. His grin broadens. It's an appropriate name for a girl searching for a prince. Sarah. Princess.

"In here," she says, pulling open a heavy door. Inside, there are rows of cushioned chairs set up—all empty. On the far end is a silver casket, open to reveal the profile of a woman in repose. He waves a hand, locking the door behind them. Sarah's footfalls are tentative, reverent, her grip tightening in his as they traverse the short distance to her mother.

"Kiss her and break the spell," she whispers, releasing his hand. He feels cold, bereft of her touch. He glances at her, marveling at the power she exudes—a power she seems wholly unaware of. She nods toward the casket, baring her little white teeth in a wide, eager smile.

He steps closer, examines the mother little Sarah would have him save. The woman's dark hair frames her face in loose curls around the satin cushion. He notes her strong resemblance to Sarah in the curve of her nose, in her full lips. She is a model of what Sarah will become—a pale-skinned beauty. Did she possess the same enchanting gifts as her daughter?

Sarah looks up at him, her face radiating a faith in him so brilliant he is forced to turn away. He clutches the casket as another foreign emotion seizes him. Fear. Fear of her disappointment in him. Fear of her anguish. For a heartbeat, he is tempted to give her what she wants—to turn back time around her mother, giving her the semblance of life as he had the flowers in the graveyard. He couldn't sustain the illusion, though. Sarah's devastation over the lie would be too much to bear.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to her level. "She isn't under a spell."

She stares back at him, crestfallen. "Yes, she is." Tears swell in her large eyes.

He shakes his head as he reaches for her hand. He places it against his chest, tries to ignore the peculiar effect of her touch. "Do you feel that?"

She nods. "It's your heart."

"Yes." He removes her hand and presses it against her chest. "Do you feel that?"

"My heart," she whispers. Her eyes drop to the floor as she begins to understand.

He lifts her, sets her hand on her mother's chest. "And what do you feel, now?"

Sarah pulls her hand away, buries her face in the folds of his suit. Her slim body shakes with silent sobs. He carries her to a chair, holds her, strokes her hair as she spends her tears. Who is she to summon such tenderness from an unfeeling immortal? What is she? Certainly no mere girl.

Someone bangs against the door, rattles the handle. Sarah stands, wiping her eyes. He scrutinizes her face, memorizing the details before releasing the lock on the door. A tall man bursts in. "Sarah!" he shouts, jogging down the aisle. "What are you doing in here?"

Sarah turns to Jareth, but he is already gone—viewing her in a crystal from the confines of his chambers. "I… I wanted to be with Mommy."

"Oh, honey," the man says, his voice choking. He gathers her into his arms. "It's okay to miss her."

Jareth lets the clear orb slip from his fingers. It vanishes before it can shatter against the stone floor. Jealousy courses through his veins—jealousy for the other man who holds Sarah, who is allowed to bask in her glowing presence. So many vivid emotions experienced in but an hour—already dimming, fleeing him as though they are as unnatural as the brief fallacy of life he gave the withered bouquet. If he stole her away, kept her, would he always be alive like her? Or would her vitality be smothered in his realm, snuffed out by the weight of an unchanging eternity?

He crosses to his desk, picks up a bottle of ink and pulls out the stopper. With a quill in hand, he begins to write. He spins a tale of a girl who needs no Prince Charming. He details the dangers untold she suffers through, the hardships unnumbered, as she searches for the baby brother stolen from her by an all-powerful king. Battle-worn, she prevails against her foe—becoming her own hero. Perhaps it is vanity that Jareth casts himself as her nemesis, but he wants to be a part of her story—if only in her imagination.

Satisfied with his work, he holds his hand over the parchment, transforming the pages into a thin red book. He trails a finger across the title. Labyrinth. In the next breath it is gone, now in the possession of an enthralling little princess named Sarah.

He thinks he'll forget her. He's wrong.

When the call comes, at first he is confused. Surely it couldn't be the same girl who had bewitched him some years before. Sarah, full of hope, full of faith in all things magical, could not be so cruel as to wish her brother away.

The girl stands before him, on the cusp of womanhood, almost grown into the beauty her mother was. He cannot deny that this is his Sarah, the child who moved him with her grief and her belief that he had power over death. And yet, she's not his Sarah. She's petulant, self-centered, whining about fairness.

He's disappointed. He wants to erase this new image of her, leave his memory unmarred, but what's done is done. He falls into his role as baby-snatching Goblin King—no longer caring to be anything but what he is for her sake. This Sarah does not evoke tender feelings, but anger instead that she grew to be no different from any other ordinary mortal.

Such a pity.

Perhaps he is harder on her than previous runners. Throwing a snake at her when she doesn't remember him. Stealing her time and sending the Cleaners after her when she has the insolence to call his labyrinth a piece of cake. He usually can't be bothered with any mortal who attempts the maze. If they succeed in reaching the castle in time, he returns to them what he took. If they don't, he sends them, empty-handed, back from whence they came. He does nothing more to impede their journey than the dangers his labyrinth already offers. He doesn't taunt them, doesn't watch each step they take in his crystals.

He doesn't care.

But he can't stay away from Sarah. He's compelled to check her progress, to interfere when she seems to rise to every challenge. He's merely bored, tired of playing the same game for centuries. Nothing more. It certainly isn't because as she travels deeper into his life-sized puzzle, she casts off the shroud of sullen adolescence and glows once more with that ineffable quality which drew him to her in the first place.

She calls the wart-riddled gardener a friend, and Jareth seethes. That coward helps her under duress, runs at the first sign of trouble, and he earns her friendship? What of a king who held a weeping child as she came to terms with her beloved mother's death? Nothing. The crystal in his hand becomes a peach, perfect and ripe.

She once wanted a Prince Charming. He'll give her one now—out of vengeful spite.

Only, he's forgotten her power. He designed the illusion to imprison her as her time trickled away, but as they dance together, he is the one who wants it to last forever. He is swept back to the moment when, leaning against a headstone, she begged him to wake her mother with a fairytale kiss. He becomes alive again with her touch, becomes something more than an antagonist in her green eyes.

The moment is shattered when she swings the chair. He awakens in his chamber, a tumult of conflicting emotions hammering in his chest. How does she do that? How does she turn him inside-out with nothing but a look?

She will be gone soon, either as the conqueror or the defeated. He panics, not ready to lose these unique stirrings her presence creates. He stalls, sending the goblins after her, hiding her brother in a room of endless twisting stairs. As she meets each task head-on, he swells with both pride and dread.

He was mistaken before. She is his Sarah. And he doesn't want to be her villain anymore.

Fear me. Know me. Love me. Accept me. Do as I say. Stay with me. And I will be your slave. You alone have the power to bring me to life.

You can have everything that you want. I'll move the stars for you.

But the course is set, the ending predetermined long ago when he penned the story for her. She recites the words he wrote. "You have no power over me."

He is destroyed. Lost again without her magic.

Before the tide of emotions can recede, he hastens to his desk and scribbles another tale. This one does not come easily for it is not a gift he's giving her, but one he wishes to give himself. Each word slices him open, lays bare a soul he was unaware he had until she stumbled upon him. Each sentence peels back millennia of isolation, revealing a half-existence he can no longer accept.

His hand quakes as he splays fingers over the pages. In a heartbeat, they change into a thick volume with a black leather cover, the title inlaid in golden calligraphy. The Goblin King. It vanishes, leaving him empty in its wake.

He wants to forget the girl. He can't.

The name, Linda Elizabeth Williams, is etched on the simple grave marker. Loving wife and mother. Parted from us, but forever in our hearts.

He thinks of her daughter, a little girl with soulful green eyes, a teenager with a defiant chin. Parted from him, but forever in his heart. He is numb once again, fatigued, indifferent, alone. A single feeling prevails, however, as deep as when he first experienced it.

Loss.

No matter how far he travels, it lingers, relentless. No matter how time has stretched on since she left, he is as fractured, as destroyed. He considered more than once turning back the years, to prevent their first encounter, or to succeed in keeping her in the second. But they would only be dreams, the countless what-ifs he could live before he released the magic. All illusions to be shattered.

A gasp cuts into his musings, and he glances up from where he sits, cross-legged, on the grave. Sarah is halted mid-step a few feet away, a satchel swinging from her shoulder, a bouquet of roses in her hand. She's no longer a child, no longer adolescent. He lets his eyes travel her form as he appreciates how well she's grown.

Her brow furrows as she comes closer. "What are you doing here?" Suspicion dances in her eyes. He would always be the wicked baby-stealing king in her mind, wouldn't he? Not that it was far from the truth, but he had wanted to be more for her once.

He sighs, stretching his legs. "Remembering." Remembering his awakening at her hands. Wishing he could undo what she has done to him.

She tilts her head, studies him. He turns away from her piercing gaze. Images assault him, memories of her tear-stained wishes, her courage in the face of a daunting challenge—and new thoughts of his fingers twined in her hair as he tastes her for the first time. She is like the almost-magic he senses in her world—vibrant vitality wholly untouchable. Just as he keeps reaching for that undefinable power, he cannot stop reaching for her.

"You're him, aren't you?" she asks in a hushed voice.

He glances at her, his expression caustic. "Whom? The Goblin King?" He shrugs. "You already know who I am."

She shakes her head, kneeling before him. She arranges the roses in the hole that serves as a vase, then sits back on her heels. "No, I meant you were the man I met the day of my mother's funeral."

A lifted brow is the only answer he affords her. He is guarded, waiting for the moment she walks away, taking the air with her, stealing life from him.

"It's funny, I didn't realize that until now," she says, almost to herself. She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping slender arms around them. "You were different then—different from when I wished away my brother."

"As were you." He recalls his disappointment, his anger, his desperation at their last encounter compared to his wonder, his awe when she was a child.

She nods, a half-smile playing on her full lips. "I was a bit of a brat."

"Hm." Returning her smile, he doesn't disagree. "I was rather deplorable."

She laughs, the sound vibrating the air with life. He wants to press his lips over hers, to capture her alluring spirit. "You were no Prince Charming, that's for sure."

"It's never been in my nature to play the champion." He lays back, his hands beneath his head. He counts the minutes until their encounter reaches its inevitable conclusion.

"Did you write them?" she asks, and when he frowns, adds, "The books."

"Yes." He closes his eyes, inhaling her scent. Lavender and soap.

"I studied literature in college. Your stories made me fall in love with the printed word."

He says nothing. He intended for her to fall in love—but not with dusty tomes. That he was unsuccessful doesn't surprise him. Their previous interaction bore an honesty which took him years to understand. They are opposites, light and dark. She is the hero to his villain, the angel to his demon. According to the storybooks, they are forbidden to love one another—forbidden to spend their lives together in anything but conflict.

It's been millennia since he's followed any rule, and he loves her in spite of the admonitions against it. But the moral protagonist would unfailingly keep to tradition. He no longer hopes she will embrace him as he begged her once before.

"You know what I love about fairytales?" she asks, her voice nearer than before. His eyes open and he finds her close enough that he could brush his fingers against her cheek. He almost does.

"What is it you love about fairytales, Sarah?" Does she blush when he says her name? No, it's a mere trick of the light.

"The most interesting character isn't Prince Charming." She grins. "Sure, he swoops in and rescues the princess—usually with a kiss. But he's kind of boring."

"Ah," Jareth interjects, "but he is the hero. What every girl dreams of."

Sarah shakes her head. "Not every girl."

He smirks. "You wished for Prince Charming once."

She chuckles, shrugging. "But I got a Goblin King instead." Her expression sobers. "I'm glad it was you."

He strokes her cheek, moved by the sincerity in her tone. She leans into his touch. What a cruel thing she is, feeding the flame of his desire before she douses it with a goodbye.

"I love interesting antagonists," she says, "especially this one." She opens her satchel and pulls out a book—his book. She holds it against her chest with both hands, her thumb caressing the well-worn spine. "Why me?" Her question is nearly inaudible, and in a breath, she is transformed into the little girl again, pure and guileless.

There is no answer, no basis of comparison for him. More than once he's wondered if another child with large, innocent eyes would have summoned from him a desire to live, to experience rather than exist. Would another pubescent girl have swept away his fog of apathy? Could another mortal woman cup his deadened heart gingerly in her elegant hands and resurrect it with a mere smile?

He only knows that Sarah has done these things. His Sarah.

She lowers her eyes. "You don't have to answer."

His gaze is drawn to her neck, to the rapidly pulsing vein exposed by her bowed head. He ignores the fleeting desire to feel the throbbing rhythm under his tongue and, instead, studies her face. She is nervous. He frowns, perturbed by this unfamiliar expression on her features.

On impulse, he clasps a hand over her wrist, places her hand against his chest. His every essence lurches beneath the contact, stretches toward her as if his soul could dwell within her—to consume her and be consumed by her.

"What do you feel?" he asks, his steady tone masking the tension in his body. He's never wanted anything like he wants her—not even his freedom from banishment. Denying this desire—any desire—is unnatural. He isn't moral, selfless, or generous, despite his proclamation to the contrary years before.

Her lips part with a faltering breath as she glances at her hand. "Your heart," she whispers.

"No." He shakes his head. "It's your heart." He laces his fingers with hers.

Sarah's eyes grow wide, wet with unshed tears. She is breathtaking, and his tenuous restraint snaps when a single teardrop glides down her cheek. He cups her head, pulls her down to him. "You breathe life into me." He presses his lips against hers. Everything collapses, falls away as they kiss—replaced by a kaleidoscope of blinding color. He is shattered into a thousand bits as a torrent of emotion storms through him—want, need, hope, love. He is rebuilt when she deepens the kiss, wraps her arms around him.

When they finally part, the air constricts, siphoning his breath away. Her expression is unreadable as she looks down at him. Several heartbeats pass under her gaze before she turns away wordlessly. His hope is severed by her reaction, leaving pain and anger in its stead. Anger at her for turning his world. Anger at himself for wishing for more. Always wanting. Never having.

"You're going to take me away, aren't you?" She keeps her face hidden as she speaks.

He sits up, her question awakening his primal instinct to take, to possess. After touching her soul, letting her commune with his, he can no longer fight his nature. He needs her. "Yes."

She sighs and nods. "And my family? Will I ever get to see them again?"

Jealousy tightens his chest. He doesn't want to share her. "Perhaps."

She glances at him, wearing a tiny smile. "Then what are you waiting for?"

His anger dissipates, and a grin creeps across his lips. "I will never be some magnanimous knight in shining armor," he says, pulling her into his arms. "You'll be running away with the villain."

"You know, a villain is just someone else's hero, Jareth." His grin deepens at the sound of his name on her lips. She leans against him, her head resting in the hollow of his neck. "Besides, you already knew how this story ends." She points to the book. "You wrote it."

He laughs. The sound is strange, honest and unfettered, lacking his usual malice or bitterness. He tips her chin, kisses her as he transports them to his realm. A new emotion swells within him, radiating from every corner of his being: exultation.

One day, he will discover how she has such power over him, just as he will find a way to wield the not-magic of her world. Until then, he will bask in her mystery, revel in the vivid hues created by her effervescence.

Forever.

~FIN~

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts. XD