Author's note: Labyrinth is not mine, and neither is Jareth. I'm just borrowing him for evil purposes. Ienan is solely my character, small part that he plays in this. This little story was inspired by Velvet Goldmine in general and a couple of lines in that specifically ("That's Jack Fairy" - "Who's Jack Fairy?"). As always, I love feedback!
"You have no power over me."
And then it was all gone. The power, the fame, the devotion of others. He had not realized how much he loved it until it was gone.
He would walk sometimes and look at the changes in his former kingdom. There was a new king in the castle now, and it was his kingdom. He did not know who the king was, or where he had come from, and he did not really care. He knew then that it did not matter. He had fallen, and this king would fall one day too. They would all fall, like stars from the sky. But it would make no difference. There were always more stars. Someone would always be waiting for their chance to have the power and the fame and the devotion.
He would walk among the goblins, and they would not even acknowledge him. Once in a while, a goblin would give him a strange look and remark to him companions, "That's Jareth."
The others would look confused. "Who's Jareth?" And they would run away, the moment forgotten, to pay homage to their king.
It was a long while before he looked in a mirror again. When he did, he was surprised to see that he was not so different. He seemed tired, listless, stretched. But it was his face that looked at him, his mismatched eyes, his cruel lips. It was Jareth.
But the glamour had gone.
So he remembered. He remembered the glitter and the shine, the prestige of being king. Of being popular, or at least having the power to pretend to be.
One day, he met a man who sat in a garden. The man was grey and unsmiling, and his face was deeply lined. Jareth got the impression that he was not as old as he seemed.
"Hello," said the man, his voice crackling and quiet. "None have entered my garden in many years."
Jareth apologized, because he did not know what else to say.
"No need," the man told him. "It's nice to see another face after all this time."
The man seemed tired and listless and stretched, and Jareth was frightened to know who he was. "I should be on my way," Jareth said.
"I am Ienan," the man said, taking no notice of Jareth's comment. "You don't know who I am. No one knows who I am anymore. But once...once I was a king. King of this very land. And I was powerful and famous. My subjects adored me." He laughed, thinly and emptily. "And now...I sit in this garden and wait. Wait for someone to come along who knows who I am...who remembers the glamour."
"I'm sorry," said Jareth. "That's very sad." He could say nothing else, for he did not trust himself. Every word the man spoke had pierced his heart. "I'm sorry...what did you say your name was?"
"Nobody," the man said. A wind blew threw the garden, and he shivered. Jareth noticed that his clothes were in tatters, grey rags they may have once been regal robes. Quickly, before regrets could come, he took the cape off his own shoulders and handed it to the man. It was dingy, but still in one piece.
The man smiled as he pulled it around his thin frame. "Still have your pretty finery, I see." He looked at Jareth for the first time, and Jareth saw that his eyes were mismatched. "Still tall. Still proud. Poor boy. You'll never get used to it." He got off his bench and shuffled away.
Jareth left his former kingdom that day, not looking behind at its shiny new gleam. It had been reborn for another ruler, and he had no place in it. He would not wait around for someone to remember what he had once been.
He wandered through other lands, taking refuge anywhere he could and never staying anywhere for long. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a commoner, nobody special, and after some time, it ceased to bother him, at least very much. He missed the glamour, but he searched hard for something to replace it.
He did not succeed, but he existed. Life was not ordinary, but it was not exciting. He simply moved through it, pretending that he had always been what he was. That he had always been no one.
But some nights, the moon shone brightly and it reminded him of moonlit nights in his castle, when he was everything. He remembered the parties that had been held in his honor, he remembered the tokens given to gain his favor. He remembered the exhilaration of having the power to make anyone act as he wished. He remembered the glamour, and he longed for it to return.
And no matter how far he traveled, or who he met, he knew that he would remember it forever.