Chapter Text
Tension, like a wire stretched too tight, hummed through the palace.
The skirmish began as a misunderstanding—an insult mistranslated between a goblin scout and a human diplomat. Steel was drawn. Magic sparked. By the time a raven reached the Goblin Court, blood had already hit the snow.
You asked to attend the emergency summit. The elders hesitated, of course. You weren’t fae-born. You weren’t trained in war or diplomacy, and certainly not in the subtle violence of court politics.
But Jareth said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
The next morning, you stood beside him at the long obsidian table in the war chamber. Across from you: human generals with stiff collars and sharper words. On either side: goblin lords who didn’t hide their suspicion of your presence.
And yet, you were the one who spoke first.
You began calmly, your voice soft but clear, slicing through the tension with disarming steadiness. You acknowledged the insult, but reframed it as an accident of language. You told a story of a childhood game misheard and misplayed, where understanding, not punishment, had healed it.
And then—when the arguing resumed, louder and more chaotic—you let your magic rise.
A flicker at first. A ripple in the torchlight. Then a scent in the air: lavender and parchment and warmth. You touched nothing, cast no spell—but something ancient curled at the edge of your presence.
A gentle compulsion. A memory of peace.
The room quieted.
“War,” you said simply, “is a pyre that asks children to gather kindling.”
A hush fell.
Even the goblin lords looked… still.
You did not look to Jareth as you spoke.
You didn’t need to.
⸻
That evening, after the summit had adjourned and the edges of war had softened back into diplomacy, you slipped into the Hollow Garden.
It was one of the few places in the palace untouched by glamour. No trickery. No enchantment. Just silver-leafed trees, pale flowers that bloomed only in moonlight, and a small marble bench worn by time.
You sat there, heart slowly settling, when you felt his presence behind you.
You didn’t turn.
“I thought they would eat me alive,” you murmured.
“They tried,” Jareth replied. “You made them choke on your grace.”
You smiled faintly, eyes still on the blossoms.
He stepped around you then, not in haste, not with power. With reverence. As if you were something fragile and holy. His silhouette was carved in silver light, shadows tangled in his hair, boots silent on the moss-covered stone.
He didn’t sit beside you.
He knelt.
At your feet.
You looked down at him, startled, and for a moment you forgot to breathe.
Jareth, the Goblin King—made of riddles and wrath and cold elegance—looked up at you like a man who had been lost in a labyrinth far more ancient than his own and had finally found the center.
“I never wanted a queen,” he said.
The words struck deeper than any spell.
His voice trembled, just slightly. “Not one chosen for me. Not one sewn into treaty and thorn.” His hand found yours where it rested in your lap, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist as though he was memorizing your pulse.
“I never wanted a queen…” he repeated, softer, “…until you.”
Then—still kneeling—he leaned forward and kissed you.
Once.
No heat. No claim. No desperation.
Just reverence.
A kiss that was not possession, but prayer.
When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours like they were pages in a book he longed to understand but dared not mark.
The silence stretched between you. Sacred. Unspeakably tender.
“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “Not yet.”
“I know,” he said.
“But I want to find out.”
He stood then, slowly, and offered you his hand again. Not as a king. Not as a captor.
As a man.
You rose and walked with him through the Hollow Garden—two shadows trailing moonlight behind them, beginning to walk toward something new.