Return to the Labyrinth

Thank you to my Beta readers, Ginny and Leia. As usual, I don’t own anything but my original characters. Twiggy is MINE! HAHAHAHAHA!
Also, a wonderful reader sent me a poem suggestion the other day. Thank you so much! My stash of poems for the chapters is dwindling fast, so if anyone knows a poem that might fit, please do email me! I love that sort of thing!
The poem for this chapter is actually called “Cinderella”, by Sylvia Plath. But, and I must stress this, Cinderella is NOT the fairy tale this is based on. A couple people have already guessed though, and good for them! And don’t forget to review…you know you want to!

Cinderella

Jareth stood alone among a glittering throng and surveyed his guests with a distantly amused expression on his face. Of course this mask, shown daily to the world to hide his true thoughts, was itself hidden beneath a far more grotesque creation of plaster and paint. Only the cruel twist of his lips could be seen beneath the simple half masque, shaped to look like a goblin with a protruding, hooked nose and vicious red-rimmed eyes. There were others among the guests who were amused to play the part of Goblin, but all far more elaborately than their true king, with bright fluttering fabrics, flounces and jewels. They intermingled with costumed Dominos, Harlequins, Pieros, Columbines and other figures from the Commedia dell’Arte, along with dozens of different animal themed disguises.

Of course, the costumes were a mere affectation of glamour for most, concealing only when they wanted to be so. And even with the masque’s, there were many who were simply too recognizable to remain anonymous behind such flimsy disguises, such as the Goblin King himself. His pale, feathery hair stood out among the throng, as did the simplicity of his dress. White breeches with black boots laced to the knee, complemented by a sleek black doublet, embroidered with silver stripes. The billowy sleeves of his white shirt were stark against the black of his long cloak, held on by a delicate silver chain. His hair was framed by the tall, angular collar, like some sort of canvas created to display the fine shimmering strands.

Roarke appeared beside him carrying two glasses of ambrosia laced wine. He handed one to the King and the two men watched the revelry in some silence for a time. “I would call it a rousing success, eh Your Highness?” Roarke said, grinning from behind a wildly striped orange and black tiger masque. Jareth shrugged.

“I am not yet amused,” he murmured.

“Oh, come now, old cynic,” the Prince laughed, “The night is yet young!”

“And therefore promises only to become more tedious, I expect,” replied the King dryly.

“Bah, you love it, Jareth. Every lord and lady in the underground paying court to the Goblin King. Do not deny it.”

A shrug was his only answer, but a small smile played about his sculpted lips. Roarke took the opportunity to point out several of the more lovely Fae women to the King, expounding on their virtue, or particularly delightful lack thereof. Jareth merely grunted and sipped his wine.

“Have you spoken to your parents?” he suddenly interrupted slyly, “I believe I saw the lovely Lady Cassandra standing around looking particularly forlorn earlier.” Roarke grimaced, his normally sun-bronzed cheeks turning a dull red.

“I have not yet had the pleasure of speaking to any of them, no,” Roarke mumbled, downing his wine. His eyes darted around frantically for a moment, before alighting on one figure with a look of panic. “If you’ll excuse me, Jareth,” he said, and slipped off into the crowd in the opposite direction. Jareth chuckled evilly to himself.

No sooner had Roarke moved off than Amaranth joined the Goblin King in his silent reflection. She looked stunning as usual. She was bedecked in white fur and feathers. A fantastical white fox masque rested over her twinkling eyes and her long white hair was piled atop her head in a complicated arrangement of curls. She followed his gaze to see a short, dark haired woman wearing bright turquoise and black. Leila dressed as a bird of paradise, the common striving to appear exotic among creatures who had always been so by their very nature.

“That one is trouble for you, brother,” she said lightly. The sharp look Jareth gave her belied the casualness of the statement.

“Do you speak from what you have seen, or is it simply that you don’t like her?” he asked dryly, maintaining a relaxed posture.

“Perhaps a little of both, perhaps no reason at all,” she replied mysteriously.

“I did not think you cared one way or another about mortals, Ami,” he replied in turn. He was too practiced himself at being mysterious to be drawn in by his sister’s naturally cryptic responses.

“It is not that she is mortal that disturbs me, Jareth.” This was said with a soft sigh. He merely frowned at this and followed her gaze back to the young woman, who was preening before the avid eyes of a group of young-blooded fae. Other than a tendency toward narcissism, he failed to see what the problem was.

“My, my,” Amaranth murmured suddenly, and he was caught by the speculative tone in her voice. “That one does not look like Prince Roarke’s fiancé. I was sure she was a blonde.” Jareth followed her gaze to light on the jarring orange and black stripped cloak of Roarke’s costume, but he could not at first see the prince’s partner. When the couple finally swept around in a turn he caught sight of a lithe brunette in glittering silver, identity concealed behind a crescent moon half masque. Roarke was plying her with all the charm he could muster, by the looks of it. Jareth frowned.

“That is NOT the Lady Cassandra,” a gruff voice said from behind him. “I thought you were going to set my son’s head on straight, Jareth, not give him something else to run after.”

“Your Highness,” Jareth murmured dryly, looking behind himself at the giant bear of a man towering, and glowering, over him. Aillil, King of the Dwarves, was more often known as the Mountain King, in part because calling him the Dwarf King led to far too many sly inquiries among court ladies. Given his legendary temper, it was agreed that Mountain King was a far better moniker in the interest of social and political peace. The name suited him, for he was truly a mountain of a man, with dark curled hair and a swarthy complexion. He was another of those for whom a costume would disguise little. To this end he had forgone a masque altogether in favor of his own intimidating visage. “I am so pleased you could come to my little gathering.”

The large man frowned harder, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “And thank you for inviting us, yes, yes,” he rumbled, adding “Your highness” after a pregnant pause. His voice was as the low thunder of rocks down a distant mountain side. “Now about my son,” he pursued.

“Ah, yes, your son,” murmured the Goblin King, glancing at the dancing couple. “I am not his Nanny, Mountain King. I said I would put the Prince up, not ride herd on him.”

“Who is that woman he dances with?” Aillil finally gritted out, after a great deal of outraged sputtering.

“I have no idea,” Jareth replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He tried to change the subject. “How is your lovely wife, Mebd?”

“Not speaking to me again, as you well know, Jareth. Is that not your wee mortal mistress in my son’s arms?” The Mountain King would not be deterred from his course it seemed.

Jareth’s eyebrows rose, “I assure you it is not.” He sighed and held up a hand before Aillil could speak again, “But as you are obviously distressed over the matter, I will see what I can do, old friend.” He escaped into the crowd before the other King could pursue the matter further.

“Slippery as a cave snake that one,” King Aillil muttered. “Between my wife, my son, and Jareth, I’m downright sick of people not speaking to me.” A soft, throaty laugh from Amaranth drew his attention. “What’s so funny,” he demanded. She smiled softly.

“I am reminded of a poem from Above I once heard,” she replied. “by a man named Ogden Nash.

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.”

The Mountain King snorted, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“No doubts but you are wise beyond your ken, Lady Amaranth,” he replied, trying to maintain his fearsome glowering with great difficulty. “Perhaps I will take your advice and have at least one conversational companion back again.”

Amaranth smiled back. “I wouldn’t worry about that one,” Amaranth changed course suddenly, nodding to the woman in silver. “She poses no threat to your son, Your Majesty.” Before he could question her, she slipped away into the crowd.

Minutes later Jareth was softly charming the petite and lovely Lady Cassandra out on the dance floor. She was swathed in layers of pale yellow and pink, with dainty daisies threaded through her blonde hair. Her bright blue eyes stared fixedly from out her feathered masque at the Goblin King’s collar, her cheeks blushing gracefully at each word he spoke to her. Gently he maneuvered her through the dancers, until he reached the enthralled Roarke. Brushing by the younger man, he paused and gracefully suggested exchanging partners. The prince didn’t have a chance to respond before he found his arms encircling the one woman he had been successfully avoiding all night, and his partner abducted by his host.

Jareth smirked as he made the switch and danced away, turning his head just enough to keep an eye on the flabbergasted Prince. Roarke looked suitably terrified, and the Lady Cassandra looked cautiously hopeful as she gazed up at him. Of course, courtly manners won out in the end and the younger man swept his new partner into the waltz. Jareth nodded, satisfied that perhaps he could be left in peace for a short while at least, and turned his mind toward finding a way to extricate himself from his own new partner. He turned to examine the woman in his arms.

Her eyes were rich caramel as she stared at him with a speculative look, and a touch of caution. He studied her in turn, wondering which hopeful Lord he would have to fend off once they saw him dancing with their daughter. The quicker he disposed of the girl, the less would be the need to deal with such irritation, he hoped.

“I hope you don’t mind my taking you from your partner, Lady Moon,” he said politely. She smiled tentatively.

“What girl would object to trading in a Prince for a King, Your Majesty,” she replied demurely. Her voice was smoky and low, and vaguely familiar. He tried to place it, even as he gave a startled chuckle at her temerity.

“Indeed,” he replied, smirking down at her, “but the point was rather to trade the canary to the tiger.” She stiffened and blinked up at him for a long moment, then glanced at the couple in question as they glided past. He thought he might see a shred of disappointment in her gaze. Well, it was not his concern if her ego was bruised. His lids drooped into his usual expression of world-weary ennui as he swept her across the floor, looking for an opportunity to get rid of her.

“It was very neatly done, sir,” she ventured at last, “May I ask who she is?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement of her compliment. “The Lady Cassandra. His Fiancé,” he replied. She stumbled at that and her eyes widened, before delicate brows swooped down into a frown.

“Fiancé. But I thought…” she grimaced and shook her head, cutting the thought off before it was voiced. The crinkle of her brow brought on another wave of familiarity to Jareth, and he tried once again to put his finger on who she might be.

“Thought what?” he asked softly.

“Nothing. It’s not important,” she shrugged, and fixed her eyes on the open collar of his shirt, avoiding his scrutiny. The slight firming of her jaw, the graceful curve of her throat, and the huskiness of her voice all seemed to tease him with a chord of recognition. He frowned.

“Have we met before?” he asked suddenly.

“We have, Your Majesty,” she said cautiously, meeting his eyes again.

“I see. Care to remind me, Lady Moon?” His brows rose in inquiry.

“Years ago,” she replied, a sad smile stretching her lips, “You’ve forgotten I expect.”

His arms tightened on her ever so slightly and she caught her breath. He leaned in so they were cheek to cheek, his lips at the delicate shell of her ear. “I cannot believe you were that bad, Lady,” he whispered softly. She gave a little gasp and turned her head, leaning back so their lips were a mere whisper away, but not touching. She looked at them a moment before her eyes rose to meet his. Lambent heat had turned them from caramel to liquid amber. He knew there was no doubt an answering heat in his own eyes.

“I wasn’t,” she said, her voice catching, “I was very good.”

“Then I doubt I could have forgotten,” he said with a small smile, before sweeping her into a turn that separated them again.

“I don’t,” she muttered. His brows rose in interest.

“That smacks strongly of bitterness,” he smirked, leading her round the parquet floor.

“Just realistic, Your Majesty,” she replied dryly. He chuckled, wondering what he had done to cause her to be so…realistic. Any number of things he suspected, and not a twinge of guilt to show for it. Still, he found her intriguing now.

“Jareth,” he corrected her lightly.

She smiled sweetly, but would not take the hint. “I know.”

He frowned but decided to try a different route. “If I could see your face it would doubtless jog my memory.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, her smile growing mischievous.

“But you refuse to remove your masque.” It was not a question.

“Mmm,” she replied, tilting her head in agreement.

“And if I insist?” he pursued, eyes narrowing.

“The answer would be the same,” she blithely assured him.

He tightened his arms around her again, but this time she just sank into him. His face lowered until their lips were practically touching once more. “You would defy me?” he growled dangerously.

“If you insist,” she agreed breathily, before wetting her lips with a small pink tongue.

“I am King,” he reminded her arrogantly. Somehow her amused smile only served to whet his appetite. Who was this coy and teasing creature that he had so accidentally stumbled upon.

“And you are very used to getting your own way, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I am King,” he purred again, with a careless shrug. That secret, amused smile again floated over her face.

“But not my King,” she replied gently, drawing away from him as they came to a halt. He realized the music had stopped. The dance was over, and this time he found himself wishing it wasn’t. Before he could pursue the conversation further, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“May I have the next dance,” Aillil rumbled, bowing politely to the Lady in silver. She smiled and nodded, turning to thank him with a curtsey before moving into the Mountain King’s arms. Jareth frowned and watched them drift away among the other glittering couples. He was perplexed at the entire encounter, not to mention pleasantly aroused. He knew he should recognize the woman, but the memory stayed stubbornly buried.

A soft, black gloved hand touched his sleeve, and he looked over to see Leila smiling suggestively up at him. She wrapped both arms around his one and snuggled close to him. “Will you dance with me?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long moment, without answering, and studied her from head to toe. His eyes drifted to the silver garbed figure out on the floor. “No,” he finally said, peeling himself away from her grip and slipping away into the crowd. He did not see the shocked and furious look on Leila’s face, nor the pure venomous hatred when her eyes looked to the mysterious woman he had been dancing with before. He probably wouldn’t have cared if he had.

With a huff, Leila turned and stalked out of the ballroom onto the balcony overlooking the garden. She made her way down from the lighted terrace and onto one of the garden paths. Like a poison, the jealousy seeped through her system, and all she could do was imagine wrapping her hands around that silver slut’s throat.

She hadn’t gone very far among the manicured hedges when a voice stopped her. “Such a beautiful lady should not be troubled by such dark thoughts,” the man said from the shadows. The lights from the ball did not reach this part of the garden, which was lit only by the occasional flickering torch.

“Excuse me?” Leila muttered, peering into the shadows. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Your pretty face betrays you, my dear,” the man said with a chuckle. Leila realized she had a fierce glower on her face, and quickly smoothed it out.

“Who are you?” she asked suspiciously, not entirely without concern for her solitary state. The man stepped out from the shadows and bowed. She was relieved to see a perfectly normal handsome face with sandy brown hair.

“You may call me Morgh,” he replied taking her hand in his and brushing his lips across her knuckles. She shivered as a heavy bolt of desire swept through her.

“I’m Leila,” she breathed softly, leaning closer to him. He smiled down at her.

“Such a pretty name. Why are you so troubled, pretty Leila?” he asked silkily. He stepped closer, keeping hold of her hand.

She frowned, remembering Jareth’s cold dismissal of her. Her chin notched up. “My lover wouldn’t dance with me,” she said petulantly.

“Amazing,” he said, looking shocked, “If I were so lucky, I would not scorn you so.”

Leila leaned closer into him, thinking that he really was very handsome, and he obviously wanted her. She smiled seductively. “Really?”

“Indeed,” he said, a confident look in his eyes, and wrapped his arms around her in a deep kiss.

.:O-O:.

Jareth claimed the Lady Moon for another dance as soon as Aillil released her. He didn’t give her a chance to say yea or nay, but simply wrapped her in his arms and swept her off into the crowd.

“Why do you seem so familiar, and yet so strange to me?” he muttered, frustration coloring his tone. She tilted her head to look at him.

“I’m not the same person you met before. I’ve grown up I suppose,” she said softly. He watched her with shrewd, calculating eyes.

“Tell me more about the last time we met,” he urged in silken tones. She hesitated, and he could almost see the debate raging in her mind. “You cannot leave me so in the dark. How about one small question at a time, hm? Like a game. I will try to guess.”

She seemed to consider this before a mischievous grin lit her face. “Alright, Your Majesty. A game. I will answer three questions about my…our…the past, but I will not tell you my name, and I will not show you my face. Agreed?”

“And if I guess your secret, Lady Moon?” he asked, leaning in to her and brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. “What then is my prize?” He felt her shiver in his arms, and he smiled.

“What do you want?” she asked huskily. He drew back and saw a deep wariness in her eyes. He held her gaze with his own, and did not try to hide his interest.

“A kiss,” he said lightly. “Nothing too onerous.” She looked away from him and bit her lip thoughtfully. When she met his eyes again, there was a curious resolve in them that made him smile.

“Alright,” she agreed.

“Wonderful,” he smiled, and his sharp teeth gleamed in the soft light of the ballroom. He cocked his head to the side, considering for a moment. He thought of how well she fit in his arms. “The last time we met, did we dance?”

A small, shy nod. “Once,” she replied, “but it was a very short dance.”

“And where did we meet before?” he asked.

“Here, in your castle.”

“And did you enjoy our dance?” he purred, drawing her closer until the line of their bodies were pressed tightly together as they moved around the floor. Her eyes fluttered closed and her mouth parted slightly. A sweet blush could be seen rising from her throat to her cheeks.

“Yes,” she breathed. “It was frightening and thrilling and I enjoyed the dancing very much.”

“But only the dancing?” She smiled and shook her head lightly, a smirk on her face.

“Only three questions, Your Majesty,” she said scoldingly, “do you have a guess?”

He nodded in acknowledgement, an amused expression on his face. “Not yet. But I will discover your secret yet, Lady Moon.”

“I do not doubt it,” she replied, and her face was no longer teasing, her eyes deep and serious. He wondered at the sudden shift.

“And how are you enjoying my ball tonight?” He asked, drawing her even closer, wanting to chase away her somber mood.

She smiled up at him. “It’s wonderful. And terrifying.” His eyes gleamed in satisfaction and they danced in silence. Jareth maneuvered them toward the edges of the ballroom, so when the music finally finished they had relative privacy behind a screen of palms and draped fabric. He could tell the exact moment when his quarry noticed their isolation, for she stiffened in his arms and tried to back away. He followed her course, keeping one hand firmly on her waist, right up until she had backed herself into the wall. His other hand came to rest against the wall beside her head. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” she breathed. He grinned wickedly. She had had him off balance since opening her pretty mouth. He enjoyed turning the tables. He drew his hand up from her waist, trailing the black leather up along her arm to her shoulder. She shivered.

“I believe I will start by kissing you,” he murmured, letting his gaze travel to her lips.

“You didn’t win the game,” she insisted, although the breathy tone of her voice lent little force to the words.

“You never said I couldn’t kiss you before I won the game,” his thumb stroked her lips, and they parted, before trailing down the curve of her jaw. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, anchoring her in place, and moved in closer until the length of their bodies touched. “Consider it a good faith payment. A sample of what I intend to claim once I win.”

“You’re so sure you’ll win?” she asked, a catch in her voice.

“I always win,” he assured her. His eyes narrowed at the smug smile that graced her face. His lips closed over hers before she could come up with something else to say.
The kiss was gentle at first, but as soon as she relaxed into it he wrapped his other hand, that had been against the wall, around her waist and drew her tight against him. She was soft and pliable in his arms. He groaned softly, and she responded in turn, as his lips moved over hers. Finally he drew the kiss to an end, and leaning away he felt absurdly pleased at the foggy look in her eyes.

The great ballroom clock began to chime with strong, vibrant tones. Her eyes widened when she heard it. “What time is it?” she asked suddenly.

He shrugged. “Midnight I would guess. We have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves still,” he grinned down at her. To his surprise she suddenly stiffened and started struggling against his hold.

“I have to go,” she said. She succeeded in tearing herself out of his arms and began backing away slowly.

“What?” he asked, flabbergasted. She looked at him pleadingly.

“I – I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry, Jareth. I have to go.” And with that she darted into the crowd. With a vehement goblin curse beneath his breath, Jareth went after her.

Cinderella

The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span
The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,
And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince
As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

Sylvia Plath