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Only Illusions
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My ire only partially abated; I storm my way from the dungeons to the throne room. The rapid staccato of my boot heels strikes upon the flagstones, reverberating through the passageways of my castle. And it is
my castle now; its former identity as the Castle beyond the Goblin City as insubstantial as the mists which surround it continuously. It requires a lot of energy to keep illusions consistent and physical. I spare myself the effort when I stay indoors.
I could have easily teleported the distance in the immense fortress, but the physical exertion allows me to displace some of my eternal frustration simmering and prickling below the surface of my skin. Unlike my predecessor, I did not fill my castle with goblins to kick; however, I better understand why he did. To be confined without hope of parole while possessing the power of creating realistic, physical illusions. It does things to one's sense of right and wrong after a time, the need for release, for meaningful interaction. Eventually you crack and conjure your first companion. Mine was Hoggle.
"Sarah," his raspy voice calls to me from the end of the hall. Never able to get Hoggle's voice correct, I endlessly re-conjure his simulacrum. "You weren't down with that rat again, were you?" He asks as he hustles closer in that peculiar, waddling gait.
"Don't question my activities!" I snap at my only version of a true friend in this hell.
"You know he ain't good for ya." The dwarf admonishes as he falls into step next to me, taking two or three hopping strides to my graceful, long legged bearing.
"Since when did you become my parent, Higgle?" I say glancing down at him with a frown. His eyes were downcast. Deliberately ridiculing him, even the part of me that used to cringe when Jareth butchered his name him hardly flinched. After all, this wasn't
really my friend. This was only an illusion I created, therefore, my abuses and insults didn't matter. This thing, this
artifice, didn't possess real feelings or emotions; it only felt what I crafted it to feel, endued it to be. Why then did it look so sad?
"I'm just worried about you, Sarah," he tells me as his ridiculously large lower lip quivers. "You've been spending more time with ... him ... and I don't think that's good for ya." Stopping mid-step, I spin on Hoggle with my hands on my hips and scowl. Fear plain in his eyes, he jumps back and wrings his hands.
"Oh you don't, do you?"
My swagger stick reappears in my hand without my conscious calling, and I began slapping it against my leather clad thigh hard enough to sting. Having noticed this new habit of mine some time ago, I felt no pressing reason for modification as it gifted me some physical release. And something in the way Hoggle's eyes follow the brisk, sweeping motion of the stick ... back and forth, back and forth ... lulls part of my aggravation. As if he fears I might use it on him any moment, and what if I did?
"I'm sorry, Mistress," he says quickly, "I should've said anything," he adds in a hurried mumble.
"That's right, you shouldn't have." I lean down at the waist to his eye level, and say in a threatening tone, "My business is my own. I don't care to have your opinion on the matter."
"Yes, Mistress." He nods frantically, keeping his eyes downcast like a good little dwarf.
"You forget yourself, Hogbrain. Shall I have to remake you again?"
"No, Mistress!" He cries out. I heard the abject terror in his voice, as if illusions felt fear or pain ... absurd! This was becoming a serious problem with Hoggle. Every time I conjured him anew his personality struggled for more independence. I wanted a supportive best friend, not a nag! If this persisted I might consider discontinuing Hoggle altogether. Facing an eternity with his interfering would finish driving me around the bend.
"Then keep this," I poke his obvious facial protrusion with my stick, "out of my business."
"Yes, Mistress," he bows and scrapes, backing away down the hall, "anything you say, Mistress." Standing upright, I watch him worm his way from my sight. How did I ever consider him my best friend? Now the thought of anyone as a best friend sickens me, talking about our feelings and our mutual experiences. I have none of those things.
I am a seriously damaged individual, but at least I'm not blind to my disability. Nosce te ipsum and all that rot. I just don't care anymore. Why should I? There's no one here to impress; no one here to offend or worry except me. Not like I'll hurt anyone here with my fucked up psyche; and besides, I really only want to hurt a particular someone, and he's not here, so who cares if a little bit spills over. We'll call it practice for my special day.
Good mood solidly evaporated, I heave a disgruntled sigh, spin on my heel, and continue my walk to the throne room. I planned on scrying the Above today, as I do when the mood strikes me, but it will likely take more effort now that Hoggle's little speech disturbed my concentration. Perhaps, for later, I'll devise a suitable surprise punishment. I smirk. Yes...I'm feeling better already.
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I stare into the swirling depths of my over-sized scrying crystal supported by a tripod in the style of cast iron. The irony amuses me as I once believed Jareth to be Fae, thus vulnerable to iron. After reading the abandoned tomes, I believe him to be human; or at least previously human. For reasons unknown, by persons unknown, he was banished to this place of in between. Little else is written about him or by him in the castle's vast library, but this I have surmised from random nuggets of information.
Within the crystal a puncture finally forms in the veil separating the worlds, clarity is granted to my eager eyes, and I sigh. The Above is vibrant and alive and
real. Everything this place is not. I bask in the random glimpse granted to me as my control often falters with my rising emotions. Directing the beam of magic to see what I desire is difficult, and the world is so different that I wonder if it has truly changed or have I?
Strange cars with only three wheels zip along highways. Bluish-black reflective panels line entire roof-lines, or I see the scalps of skyscrapers which look to have fields of grass. Focusing the beam shows me people scurrying about wearing odd clothing: colors and designs more extreme than a Pollock abstract, shinier than aluminum, and more revealing than the skankiest, airport strip bar dancer.
What happened to my world? How long has it been since my last scrying? After my brother, Toby, died, I ceased tracking my family, and in my grief I lost the desire to scry for a long time. Eventually, however, the need for revenge drew me and I started again, but not as often. I aim the magic at this now foreign place, searching for Jareth. Look-a-likes I follow until they prove me wrong. Occasionally I peek into lives from sheer voyeurism, yet after so many years not one inkling of the Goblin King. Imagine my mounting frustration, until today.
"Who is that? Go back!" I instruct the crystal; it pans obediently to a blond headed man walking away.
"Do you see him?" Using my stick to point at the familiar figure, I ask Sir Didymus at my left.
"Verily, my lady," he replies, nodding; the feather in his cap fluttering at his vigorous motion.
Sitting forward on my cushioned throne, I peer keenly into the sphere; the magic trails behind the lithe, well-dressed man better than any professionally trained blood hound. Unlike his bystanders, he is not dressed garishly. How unusual, rather anachronistic even.
"It's him!" I shift closer, my gloved hand flattened to the crystal's surface, "Jareth, I'd know you anywhere." My stomach clenches, along with other lower portions of my anatomy. Such a dichotomy of sentiment he inspires within me as I watch him carelessly stroll down the sidewalk of some major city.
"Verily, my lady," Sir Didymus repeats, nodding. That's all he ever says. More cautious by the time I created him, I made sure his courtly ethics were eliminated with much of his potentially disapproving personality.
Ignoring the puppet fox, I quickly scan the view for clues to Jareth's location. He approaches the main entrance of a large building and the marquee comes into focus. I read the name aloud, hearing the excitement in my voice.
"Museum of Fine Art, Houston." At last! I smack my hand against the crystal, the leather sounds dull upon the glass. "I've got you, Goblin King!" I practically growl as he mounts the building's steps, one hand reaching for the door before he stops and looks over his shoulder to stare directly at me through my scrying crystal. Chills chase each other from the base of my neck, down my back, and I hold my breath.
Can he see me? He mouths something indecipherable, his ruthless eyes glittering visibly, then grins wide enough to show his canines; my crystal instantly shrouds in blackness, hundreds of fracture lines form, and expand. Immediately conjuring a barrier, it shields me from the blackened shards exploding outward with an ear-splitting crash.
"NO!" I shout in useless denial, staring at the huge debris field of destroyed crystal. Sir Didymus...I glanced to my left. He did not survive the onslaught, shouldn't there be blood? I toss a vanishing crystal at his shredded body. I will have to conjure another agreeable knight, later, when I've dealt with the rage and lust boiling upwards with my gut. It burns my veins, as if I drank a caustic fluid which merges with my blood rather than killing me, searing from the inside out.
Oh, how I wish it would kill me.
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