Return to the Labyrinth

Most of these characters are owned by, or derived from characters owned by, Jim Henson and others who aren’t me, more’s the pity. The title for this chapter comes from the closing lines spoken by the character of Robin (or puck) in Shakespeare’s "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." The full reference is at the end of the chapter. Of course, not all dreams are idle, weak and yielding, as we shall discover.

Please review, my loyal readers. Us artistic type persons desperately need encouragement from time to time!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed this chapter. It warms my heart, and I truly appreciate your encouraging words. A GIANT thank you to Ginny for her beta work, and Leia (Yomibitorazo), my cohort, who’s deviant mind always can inspire my own when I get stuck. (Psst for a glimpse into our joint deviant minds you can read my other fic, our silly fangirl fantasy Adventures of Leigh and Leia: The Labyrinth)


No More Yielding but a Dream

He flew a patrol of the Labyrinth in the form of his owl familiar, trying to shake something he could not name. The whispers of discontent were still plaguing him, but not wanting to delve too deep, he sought refuge in his duties. When the screams came they were a welcome distraction. It was the voice that drew him. Like a far away memory, its shrill fear struck a chord somewhere in his mind. No mortal ran his maze, although they had every reason to scream when they did, so who could it be?

He flew toward the sound, arriving at the walls of his private garden to a startling sight. A storm of magic confronted him. Never had he encountered such a high concentration of wild dreams. They swirled in a chaotic vortex of color, and at the center of the maelstrom was a figure he could not make out. He perched on the garden swing and returned to Fae form, his first instinct to do whatever he could to disrupt the magical turbulence. However, he quickly realized, the storm did not seem to be harming the garden. It was localized over and being drawn into the figure at its center.

He lounged back on the swing, watching as the roaring magic finally dissipated, fascinated despite himself. Once the air cleared he could finally catch a glimpse of the figure at the center of it all. The patchwork fur was a familiar sight, although an unexpected one to be sure. The wildling. His brows snapped down into a scowl. He had thought her long gone, although he should have known better. Just as he had predicted when he first found her, her arrival in his domain was the start of something strange. And now, he realized something potentially dangerous if such large concentrations of wild dream magic were involved.

He waited patiently for the furred creature to regain her senses. She was completely still, curled on the ground like a babe. He wondered if the huge influx of magic had somehow managed to kill her. But no, she stirred and stood, stumbling. Shaking, she looked around dazedly until she spotted him and froze.

“You’re still here,” he stated. She stared at him with wide eyes like liquid caramel. Such strangely intense eyes, so alive, for a creature made wholly of magic. She watched him like a deer watches a wolf eyeing her throat. It irritated him, and he didn’t know why, since he preferred his subjects to have a measure of fear for their ruler.

“So are you,” she managed to reply, her voice husky, almost hoarse. She swayed on her feet, still looking dazed, and no wonder. She had just been pummeled with an enormous amount of uncontrolled energy, more than he had seen in a very long time. He was a bit surprised she was in as good of shape as she appeared, if he was honest with himself.

“So I am,” he replied with a cold chuckle, leaping lightly from his perch, “But as it happens, I am the King, and I have always been here.” He glided toward her and she skittered back another step. He cocked his head, like a curious bird. “You do not know to bow before your King?” She seemed bemused by the question, but then paused to consider it. He could tell by the flash of her eyes that she had come to some decision. It intrigued him.

“Forgive me, your majesty,” she said softly, bowing from the waist, although he could tell it was an effort by the way she swayed. “You startled me, but I didn’t mean to show disrespect.” And still she watched him closely with suspicious eyes.

“You on the other hand,” he mused, as if she had not spoken, “were not supposed to have lived this long.” He stalked her, circling her like a vulture, examining her from head to toe. He was impressed at how she did not flinch, although he could see the wariness in her wide eyes.

The dark creature scowled, but Jareth could see her struggling to control her angry reaction. He could almost see her bristling. “If Your Majesty did not want me in your Labyrinth, why did you bring me here in the first place?” her lilting voice said calmly, but with a thread of demand in her tone. Jareth merely raised one eyebrow. Clearly his implication that she should not exist irritated her. A strong sense of self, this one had. That could prove a difficulty.

“I merely observe that experience would suggest your existence should have ended not long after it began,” he said mildly. “That you are still here is…curious.”

“I am honored to have caught your majesty’s interest.” She said dryly. Was that a note of sarcasm he detected in her voice? He could feel his lips twitching, wanting to smile. He circled her again, narrowing the distance between them with his circuit. She mirrored his movements in turn, backing up another step to keep them the same distance apart.

“Why do you shy from me? Do you fear me, little one?” His voice was a soft challenge, and she took the bait.

“No!” she barked, almost shouting. She stopped mirroring him and stood her ground, only following him with her eyes now. He had pricked her pride, had he? Her voice lowered again. “No, I’m not afraid of you,” she clarified, “I just…” She paused, as if searching for the words, before firming her jaw and continuing.

“I do not trust you, Your Majesty,” she admitted. Jareth gave an abrupt laugh. What refreshing honesty, and naiveté, this creature displayed. Did she know the insult she risked by even implying a Fey might lie?

“Have I ever given you reason not to trust me, my little wildling?” he prodded silkily.

“Your majesty has given me a name,” she replied pointedly.

“Indeed,” he bared his pointed teeth in a grin, “but you have not answered my question. Have I given you reason not to trust me, my Aisling?” He saw her eyes flash at the possessive, then narrow. She looked down, back up at him, then all around, as if searching for a way to explain. Finally she met his eyes with a challenge in her own.

“Your Majesty had me chased down by the wild hunt,” she stated.

He smiled and countered, “I dismissed them. Brought you out of the wild and into the safety of my Labyrinth.” He circled closer.

“Your Majesty speaks of me as a thing to be studied,” she shot back.

“You are unique in my realm. Is that not worth a little curiosity?” Another step. He found he enjoyed this verbal sparring.

“Your Majesty has deliberately tried to intimidate me.” Her chin notched higher, eyes flashing.

"And yet it has not worked," he replied softly, narrowing the distance yet again.

She paused, struggling for another reason. He took the opportunity to close the gap while she was thinking. “Your Majesty has a reputation for being unpredictable and volatile,” she finally said.

“Big words, for such a little wildling,” he commented, eyebrows raised as he looked down on her. He could reach out and touch her now, a fact she finally seemed to realize with a start as she looked up to meet his eyes.

“I hear things,” she breathed, wide eyes locked on his. She looked away, no doubt seeking a way to escape, before her lips firmed. She met his eyes again without fear as he towered over her.

“Then you must have heard other things,” Jareth said silkily, “I can be generous.”

“You can also be cruel,” she bit back.

“Do you really think your King such a villain?” he asked curiously, cocking his head.

She paused for a moment before delicately replying, “My caution is justified, your highness. Your Majesty is ruler of a realm that thrives on deception, trickery, and illusion.”

“So much you think you know,” he marveled. “Things are not always what they seem.” His voice was nearly a whisper. He reached out one gloved hand, hovering over the wild mane of hair on her head, but not yet touching. He could sense the magic humming around her, no doubt reacting to her agitation.

The creature seemed to pause at his words, as if taken aback. “That is true, Your Majesty,” she finally said, her voice husky, almost wistful. He wondered what she was thinking, for he sensed that there was more than one meaning behind her words.

He reached out with his own power, tasting the aura of magic surrounding her. It was even more powerful than when he first found her in the wilds, he noted. It tasted of human dreams, wild magic, some young, some so old he knew they had been around his Labyrinth for centuries. Far from weakening, as he had suspected, the creature had only grown more stable, apparently drawing lost dreams to her like flies to honey. But at the same time, her magic was uncontrolled. It was a riot of disparate dreams, unconnected, but for their connection to her. He could feel each one as it brushed against his own thread of magic, like the smell of a hundred different spices in the air.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he mused softly. His black gloved hand dropped down to lightly finger her hair. She stood frozen beneath his touch, watching him. The mane looked wild and unkempt, but it was as soft as fairy flax. He ran the strands through his fingers, watching them slide like colorful waves of silk over the soft leather of his gloves.

The shock, when it came, was small, but it reached through the leather, vibrating up his fingertips and into his arm. He snatched his hand back with a loud hiss, and Aisling jumped back with a yelp, eyes wide. Jareth recovered quickly.

With a rueful smile on his face, he shook the small static charge out of his fingers, stretching them to get the feeling back. Aisling was watching him as if he had grown a second head. No doubt she thought his behavior very strange indeed, but he found that he was absolutely fascinated by her. She could hardly know that he didn’t make a habit of fondling every subject in his realm. But…a new creature, born from magic, here in his Labyrinth. The more he learned, the surer he was that this…new evolution of magic…was something momentous.

They stared at each other in eerie silence for a long moment, each studying the other. Finally Aisling spoke in that rich, husky voice of hers. “Please stop, Your Majesty.”

“Stop what?” he asked idly, making a show of adjusting his gloves. His usual regal demeanor never faltered, despite the fact that inside his thoughts churned with speculation.

“Looking at me like that,” she growled, glowering at him now.

“Like what?” His voice was soft, probing.

The growl intensified markedly before she ended it in a huff. “Like you’re trying to figure out what to do with me!” she almost shouted. His brows raised at the outburst, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“But I am doing just that, my dear Aisling. I am trying to decide what is to be done with you.” He circled behind her again. She kept her place, but turned to keep herself facing him. Her expression was perplexed and not a little disbelieving.

“Why?” she asked bluntly, even a little desperately, frowning at him. “Why are you so interested in me?” He ignored her, trying to puzzle out the truth from what he knew. The silence stretched out, and Aisling shifted from foot to foot impatiently.

“Do you know why I gave you the name Aisling?” he asked suddenly

She frowned harder. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It is the old tongue. It means “little dream,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “And dreams never last, especially the small ones…except for you.” He mused to himself. “And yet, you are not so small now, are you, little dream?” He paused in his pacing, watching her closely again.

“What are you talking about?” she bit back. “I’m not a dream! I’m as real as you are!”

“No. No, little one. You have no idea what you are, do you?” He spoke softly to himself, not really looking for a reply from her. Of course she wouldn’t see herself the same way he did. Real was a relative term, he knew.

“I…I don’t understand. I’m…me. I’m just…me. Who should I be?” He could see her agitation increasing. “Why can’t you just answer a question?”

“I do not know either,” he continued calmly, “but I have a theory.”

She blinked at him, her mouth opening and closing for a bit. “A theory?” she asked weakly.

“Mmmm.” He turned on his heel and glided back to the garden swing. Throwing himself onto it he lounged back, pushing himself back and forth gently with one foot on the ground.

“What kind of theory?” she prodded, suspicion lacing her voice. He paused, wondering how much he should say. Then again, better that she learn sooner than later, he supposed. Especially if she were to be as useful to him as he hoped.

“Dreams,” he said, “are capricious things. They are the raw stuff of magic, but they do not simply pop into existence,” With a flourish of one hand a glistening crystal appeared, resting on the tips of his fingers. Aisling opened her mouth as if to say something, but he shook his head, one eyebrow raised in imperious demand. To his surprise she acquiesced, settling back to watch him warily. Just as he thought, she had a curiosity that overcame all other concerns. He continued. “Nor do they exist on their own…usually.”

He moved his hands, and the crystal danced from one set of fingertips to the other. Aisling’s eyes followed the bauble as if mesmerized. “They are channeled and formed within the minds of mortals.” The crystal stopped, and within its depths could be seen a sleeping child. Aisling inched forward until her nose was only a breath away from the globe.

“Fragments of mortal imagination, trapped in mortal minds, only active when they leave the bounds of reality in their sleep. That is where our magic comes from. But sometimes…a dream becomes lost.” The crystal popped, like nothing more than a glittering bubble. Startled, Aisling jerked back, her gaze flying to his. He smiled at her with pointed teeth and she blinked, easing back a step.

“Without the focus of a mortal mind, dreams become wild magic, unstable, even dangerous, and they do not play nice with the stable magic of the Underground.” He frowned, remembering numerous problems he had encountered with the phenomena. “There are many lost dreams in my Labyrinth. And they have always been a source of…irritation for me.” He focused once again on the creature before him. She seemed to actually be listening, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Eventually they die. All dreams do, wild or not. Some within days, and others…the stronger ones, can last centuries.” He studied her for a moment. “I didn’t think it was possible for them to do anything else. And yet…all it took was one dream, one small dream, stabilizing, becoming aware it existed,” he said, “and here you are.”

She contemplated him for a moment, mulling over his words. Finally she spoke. “And that’s what you think I am? A self-aware dream?”

He shook his head, “No, I think you are much more.” He leaned forward in the swing, bringing his eyes level with hers. “I think that the dreams that are lost long for their old existence. They want, for lack of a better word, a host. I think you have provided that for them.” He leaned back in the swing again. “The how of it still puzzles me,” he mused to himself.

They sat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts as dusk fell over the land. “I don’t think I really understand,” she said finally. “What does it all mean?” He shrugged, still pondering the question himself.

“In the short term,” he said, “it means you need to be trained.”

“Trained?” she asked surprised, “In what?”

“In the use of magic,” he concluded. He frowned at her. He hated having to explain himself, but supposed it couldn’t be helped in this situation. She had to be checked, and he had to convince her it was for the best. “Right now, you are like a sponge…absorbing wild magic as if it were water. But magic without control is a dangerous business.” He waved one hand negligently. “I expect you will draw more of these dreams to you, and I don’t want you dripping magic all over the place without direction…so to speak.”

She was staring at him with her mouth open again, he noticed, a confounded expression on her face. “Magic,” he said, with what he thought was enormous patience, although Aisling flinched, “is directed through intent, but some of these dreams have been on their own a long time. Until you learn some control over them, it’s possible they could grab on to any stray word, or even thought, and interpret it their own way. I’m sure I needn’t warn you that this may lead to some very undesirable results.”

Aisling gave one long, slow blink and shook her head. She frowned in thought, glancing toward the alcove that was the hidden entrance to the Labyrinth. He needed to settle this now, before she could think it through too much.

“We will begin tomorrow,” he commented. “You will come to my study after your duties are done in the morning.”

She frowned up at him, her eyes finally focusing again. “Do I have a choice?” she muttered querulously.

He flashed his pointed teeth at her in a satisfied smile. “I am your King,” he reminded her gently. She frowned harder, but nodded.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” she muttered.


If we shadows have offended,

Think but this (and all is mended)

That you have but slumbered here,

While these Visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, doe not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

And as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck,

Now to scape the Serpents tongue,

We will make amends ere long:

Else the Puck a liar call.

So good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.


Midsummer Night’s Dream

William Shakespeare