Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun did not rise the morning you were given away.

It was a sky of ash and low clouds, the kind of gray that swallowed sound. Your kingdom’s gates stood open, not from surrender, but ceremony. Rows of soldiers in silver and green lined the road, their armor polished but their faces solemn. Even your father did not meet your eye as he placed the veil over your head.

You were dressed in pale linen, no jewelry, no blade. Peace offerings are meant to be soft. Harmless. You did not feel harmless, only hollow.

The wind tasted strange as the carriage rolled toward the stone archway beyond the old border. No one had crossed it in over a hundred years. Not since the last treaty was broken. Not since the Goblin King withdrew into his crumbling realm and the stories began: children stolen, time twisted, monsters behind mirrors.

The stories always said he was cruel.

You expected sharp teeth and cruel laughter. Something cold and ancient.

You did not expect silence.

The Goblin King waited beneath the archway with only three attendants and no army. He was tall, unnaturally so, wrapped in black and silver—like a starless night poured into velvet. His hair was pale gold, his eyes sharp, unreadable. But not unkind. His expression was neutral, distant. As though this exchange were merely… necessary.

Like you.

You stepped down from the carriage. The ceremonial bell tolled once. Your feet crunched gravel. You did not stumble.

You heard your father murmur the ancient words. “We offer one of royal blood, in the name of peace.”

Jareth stepped forward.

He stopped a few feet away. His gaze rested on the veil hiding your face.

You thought he might lift it. He didn’t.

Instead, he said softly, “Are you ready?”

His voice was smoother than you expected. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… contained. Like something dangerous, kept leashed.

You swallowed. “Does it matter?”

For the first time, something flickered across his face. Not amusement, not sympathy—but recognition. Like a mirror had tilted and caught his reflection.

“No,” he said. “But I asked anyway.”

You stepped toward him.

The veil fluttered in the wind, revealing your chin, your mouth. His eyes lingered there for only a second. Then he turned on his heel and led you through the archway.

Behind you, the world remained silent. No applause. No cheers. Only the sigh of the wind and the fading sound of your name, spoken like a memory someone had already let go.

⸻

The world changed the moment you passed beneath the arch.

The sky darkened. Trees twisted into unfamiliar shapes. Moss glowed faintly beneath your boots. Magic thickened the air like fog, clinging to your skin. The realm of the Labyrinth.

Jareth didn’t look back at you once.

His stride was long, purposeful. His attendants—a hunched goblin in regal rags, a tall woman with eyes like candle flames, and a boy no older than twelve who carried a crystal orb—walked several steps behind him, saying nothing.

You followed, veil in hand now, unsure whether to break the silence or hold it sacred.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped until Jareth turned.

“We don’t have to walk the rest of the way,” he said, and gestured.

The crystal in the boy’s hand began to glow. A swirling portal bloomed midair—mist and shimmer and memory. You’d heard of fae travel, but never seen it. It looked like music might sound if it became a shape.

“I’ll step through first,” Jareth said.

“Because you think I’ll run?” you asked, not unkindly.

“Because you’re mortal,” he replied. “And that means rules apply differently to you here. If I go first, the portal will stay open long enough.”

“And if you didn’t?” you asked.

The boy snorted. Jareth raised a brow. “Then you’d likely be lost in a pocket of time for the next century.”

“Charming.”

He actually smiled. A small, wry thing.

Then he vanished into the light.

You exhaled and followed.

⸻

The Goblin Palace was not what you expected.

It was vast, yes. Strange, yes. Full of staircases that led nowhere, windows into stars, rooms that changed each time you passed them. But it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was… lonely.

A place built for one.

Your bedchamber was grand but spare. A carved fireplace. A canopied bed. A desk with ink and parchment. A wardrobe of silks you hadn’t worn before.

Jareth showed you the room personally, said only: “No one comes here without your permission. If they do, tell me.”

You nodded.

He lingered a moment longer.

“I will not ask anything of you tonight,” he said. “Nor any night, unless it is given freely.”

Then, before you could answer, he was gone—leaving the scent of winter roses and something older in his wake.

You sat on the edge of the bed long after.

You were alone. In a kingdom of magic. Married to a man of riddles and shadows.

And for the first time in hours, you felt something strange stir beneath your fear.

Curiosity.

And the oddest thing of all—the memory of his eyes, watching you not like a possession… but a puzzle.

Chapter Text

You were summoned at twilight.

A fae attendant—neither goblin nor human—appeared at your chamber door just as the sky outside turned bruise-purple. He bowed low without making eye contact, as though the very sight of you offended him.

“The King requests your presence,” he said, not invites. You were a bride, yes. But a bride offered, not chosen.

You followed in silence.

The castle was a living maze. Walls seemed to breathe, flickering with candlelight that bent in impossible directions. Stone twisted into arches shaped like thorns and vines that bloomed only when you passed. The stairs groaned beneath your feet as though they remembered other queens—except there had been none. Only you.

The Court awaited in a long, cavernous hall that opened like a mouth. Every inch glittered. Gold-veined marble lined the floors, but it was warped and cracked, like a mirror fractured at the seams. The ceiling vanished into darkness, its height unknowable. Around a raised dais sat the Goblin Court—lords and ladies of shadow, glamour, and glimmering menace.

They stared.

Not with wonder. Not with welcome.

They looked at you like a disruption. A loose thread in their tapestry. A human.

Jareth sat at the head of it all, draped across a black marble throne. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just watched you like he was waiting to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t.

The herald announced your name in a tongue you didn’t understand. There was a pause. And then the games began.

A woman with emerald skin and silver horns stepped forward, her dress so sheer it looked like smoke. “Tell us, mortal girl,” she purred. “What would you trade for power? Your name? Your shadow? Or the truth of your heart?”

Laughter rippled through the Court.

You offered a faint smile. “My name’s already on record,” you said. “My shadow follows me, not the other way around. And the truth of my heart?” You tilted your head. “I imagine that’s what you’re all here to find out.”

A ripple of surprise. One of the goblins—barely taller than a chair, with mismatched buttons for eyes—snorted into his goblet.

The horned woman’s smile faded.

“Sharp tongue for a soft creature,” said a male fae with obsidian eyes and a crown of broken mirrors. “You’ll find riddles are our currency here.”

“I’ve always been fond of riddles,” you said gently. “They’re just truths in prettier dresses.”

That earned a few amused murmurs. Someone clapped once—sarcastically. Another leaned close to their neighbor and whispered, too loud to be subtle, “We’ll see how fond she is after a fortnight.”

Jareth said nothing.

He watched. Silent. Unreadable. Like he wanted to see what would happen when they pressed too hard.

And they did.

They circled you with questions disguised as conversation. Some asked about your realm—what your people ate, what mortal dreams tasted like. Others made remarks veiled in silk: How long will you last? Will you still smile when the Labyrinth opens its jaws?

You answered with the grace your tutors trained into your bones, but also with your own steel. Never cruel. Never cocky. But not small either.

A goblin child scuttled forward with a cracked lute and asked you to sing, laughing as if to mock.

So you sang.

Not loud. Not flawless. But sweet and clear. A lullaby from your homeland. The language foreign to them, but the feeling unmistakable.

Silence followed.

Even the laughter faded.

When you finished, the goblin child blinked up at you, cheeks flushed. “I liked that,” he mumbled. “Even if you are a princess.”

You smiled softly and bowed. “Then I’ve done something right.”

At last, Jareth stood.

He said nothing to the Court. Not a rebuke, not a praise. Just stepped down from the dais and offered you his arm.

You hesitated.

Only a second.

Then you placed your hand in the crook of his elbow.

He led you out without a word, and the moment you passed the threshold of the Court, the stone doors shut behind you like a sigh of relief.

⸻

The hallway was quieter. But you didn’t let go of his arm.

“I’m not sure if I passed their test,” you murmured.

“There was no test,” he replied, voice low. “Only cruelty in formalwear.”

You glanced at him. “And what was your role, then? Observer? Or judge?”

He slowed his steps but didn’t look at you. “You handled them better than I thought.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Now he stopped.

You turned to face him fully. The corridor was lit by pale orbs that floated near the ceiling, casting faint gold light across his features. His eyes, strange and striking, were not cruel. But distant. Detached.

“Would it have been too much to say something?” you asked softly. “To stop it?”

He didn’t flinch. “You didn’t need me to.”

You waited, but he said nothing more.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

You drew your arm away first.

“I may be a pawn,” you said, keeping your voice calm, even, “but I am not disposable.”

The faintest flicker crossed his expression—regret? Recognition?

“I never said you were.”

“No,” you agreed, stepping back, “but you didn’t say I wasn’t either.”

And then you turned and walked away, back toward your chamber, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing through the twisting halls.

Jareth did not follow.

But long after you disappeared from view, he stood in the empty corridor, staring at the place your hand had rested on his arm—like it was something he might never feel again.

Chapter Text

The castle never truly slept.

Even in the depths of night, it pulsed—soft and strange and alive. The walls breathed in silence, the corridors stretched and curled like something ancient shifting in its slumber. Candles burned without wicks. Shadows moved with no one to cast them.

You couldn’t sleep.

Your bed was too grand, too cold. The drapes were silk, but they pressed too tightly around the canopy, like a tomb dressed in lace. You had tossed, turned, flung off the velvet coverlet—until finally, barefoot and quiet, you’d slipped into the hallways with only a robe pulled loosely over your nightdress.

You didn’t expect to find anyone awake.

Especially not him.

The music found you first.

Low, meandering, full of longing—it spilled like smoke from behind a cracked wooden door down one of the winding westward corridors. You followed it, drawn by something you didn’t understand.

The room was dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through stained glass. And there he was.

Jareth.

Alone at a grand, dust-flecked piano. Not dressed as he usually was—in sharp edges and ornamented glory—but in a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled, hair loosely tied at the nape of his neck. His long fingers moved slowly over the keys, coaxing out a melancholic tune that you somehow recognized, though you couldn’t name it.

For a moment, you only watched.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

This was not the Goblin King who sat on marble thrones, who let you be torn apart by veiled cruelty without blinking. This was someone else. A man carved out of silence and sorrow. Still beautiful. Still otherworldly. But… smaller, somehow. More human.

A misstep on the floorboard betrayed your presence.

The music stopped.

His head turned slightly, pale profile catching the light.

“I don’t recall summoning anyone,” he said, voice smooth but not sharp.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you said, stepping inside the room. “Your castle doesn’t make it easy.”

A beat of silence. He gestured, without rising, toward a chair by the window.

“Then sit. Or wander. I don’t bite without cause.”

You obeyed without asking further, easing into the chair. The room smelled of old parchment and cedar wood. The piano loomed like a creature itself, sleek and ancient.

“Do you play?” he asked, his gaze drifting back to the keys.

“Only enough to be dangerous,” you murmured. “Mostly, I just listen.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But close.

He returned to the keys, letting the silence stretch. Notes tumbled out, softer now, as though letting you in on a secret.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said after a while.

“Likewise.”

You looked at him, unsure what he meant—but his attention was on the piano again.

Then, quietly, he said, “Tell me, mortal bride. What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?”

You blinked. “A riddle?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept playing.

You smiled faintly.

“Man,” you answered. “A child crawls, an adult walks, and the elderly need a cane.”

He stopped mid-chord.

Then—there it was.

A small, approving smirk. Gone as quickly as it came, but real.

“Well done,” he said softly.

You tilted your head. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it?”

“No,” he said, fingers ghosting over the keys again, “I hoped you would.”

That surprised you.

He played a new melody—lighter now. Curious. A question without words.

After a pause, you rose, slowly approaching the piano’s edge. You stood at the far end, not close enough to intrude, but near enough to watch his hands move across the ivory keys.

“Do you come here often?” you asked.

“When I need silence loud enough to drown the rest.”

You nodded, understanding that more than you could say.

The music lulled again. You rested your fingers lightly on the edge of the piano.

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

He glanced at you then, those mismatched eyes unreadable. “I don’t know you.”

“And yet, you offered me riddles.”

“Riddles,” he said, “are invitations.”

You met his gaze and something inside your chest tightened. This wasn’t kindness yet. Not warmth. But it wasn’t cold, either. It was something fragile, forming.

“I’ll take that as progress,” you whispered.

He looked at you a moment longer, then returned to the keys, playing you out like a lullaby.

That night, you slept soundly.

And Jareth, alone once more in the dark, stared at the keys long after the music had faded—wondering why, for the first time in centuries, he’d wanted someone to hear the song.

Chapter Text

The palace grounds were as strange and enchanted as the labyrinth that surrounded them.

You discovered the garden by accident, or so you thought. In truth, nothing in the Goblin Kingdom truly happened without intention—it only gave you the illusion of choice. Still, on that day, you wandered beyond the familiar courtyards and stone paths, drawn by the soft rustling of wind in vines and the faint sound of wind chimes that sang without touching.

The air shifted as you passed through a narrow ivy-covered archway. It was like stepping through a veil.

And there it was.

A hidden garden, untouched by seasons or time. No flowers bloomed here. Instead, glass blossoms clung to winding trellises, and mirrored petals swayed like leaves. The garden shimmered—not with sunlight, but with memories.

Mirrors grew on stalks like roses. Polished silver leaves caught the wind and whispered things too faint to name.

You approached the nearest mirror. Its surface rippled like water, then settled into a vision—you, years younger. A child in your old room, lying on the floor, surrounded by hand-drawn stars and paper crowns. You were reading aloud from a fairytale, wide-eyed and certain that somewhere, somehow, the world still held magic.

Your throat tightened.

You stepped past it to the next. This one was darker. It took longer to clear.

And then—

Jareth.

He was standing alone in a hall of stone, looking out over a kingdom that bowed, but never touched. No throne beneath him. No crown. Just a man surrounded by a hundred goblins and still impossibly, utterly alone.

There was no cruelty in his face. Only weariness. And the faintest trace of sorrow, so tightly wound it looked like armor.

You took a step back.

“I wouldn’t linger,” came his voice behind you.

You turned to find him standing just outside the archway, arms crossed. He wasn’t dressed in his usual regal finery—no high collars or sweeping cloaks. Just a black shirt and dark trousers, boots dusted with gravel. His expression was hard to read, carved in stone. But there was tension in his posture, in the way his jaw clenched.

“I didn’t know this was off-limits,” you said gently.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not exactly.”

You studied him. “Then why does it feel like I wasn’t supposed to see that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped into the garden, careful not to touch the mirrored vines. He stood in front of one of the taller glass flowers and looked at his reflection without really seeing it.

“These mirrors don’t lie,” he murmured. “They show what we’ve buried. What we wish and regret and avoid.”

“That’s a dangerous kind of truth.”

A faint smile touched his lips, bitter and knowing. “The only kind worth anything.”

You watched him, not afraid, not accusing. Just… curious. And still gentle, even now.

“Why do you keep this place?” you asked.

His gaze slid to you. “Because forgetting is worse.”

You nodded slowly. “And yet you hate it.”

“I hate what it reminds me of.”

He looked away again. The wind shifted through the mirrored garden, stirring reflections that weren’t your own. A younger Jareth. A woman with silver eyes and a broken crown. A crumbling tower. A night sky without stars.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quietly.

“You didn’t.”

He exhaled, sharp and short.

“You came here chasing fairy tales once, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “How did you—?”

“I saw it in the mirror.” He glanced at the bloom still playing your childhood. “You wanted to find something more.”

“I didn’t expect it to look like this,” you admitted.

He arched a brow. “Like me?”

You smiled faintly. “Like a castle of shadows and glass. Like a king who never says what he means but plays riddles on pianos in the dark.”

That earned the smallest chuckle—dry and unexpected.

“You should be frightened of this place,” he said after a beat. “And of me.”

“I was,” you said honestly. “But then I realized—being frightening isn’t the same as being cruel.”

Something flickered in his expression. He didn’t answer.

You stepped past him, back toward the ivy arch. Before you left, you paused.

“I think the mirrors only hurt when you look at them alone.”

And then you were gone.

Jareth remained in the garden long after you’d left. He stood before a mirrored petal that showed you again—older now, in this very castle, offering him a small, patient smile.

He didn’t smash it. He didn’t run.

He simply stood, listening to the wind whispering through the glass.

And for the first time in a long while, the memories didn’t win.

Chapter Text

The masquerade was a spectacle of impossible beauty.

Held in the grand ballroom beneath a domed ceiling of moving constellations, the celebration was meant to honor the formal unity between the human and fae realms—a living tribute to peace. But you could feel it in the air like smoke and perfume: this wasn’t peace born of love. It was truce by obligation. A chessboard lined with pretty masks and velvet smiles hiding teeth.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in the finest fae silk that shimmered like mist over midnight. The dress was the color of stormclouds, the neckline intricate with glass beads that caught the candlelight. Someone—likely Jareth—had left it on your bed without a note. There had been no fitting, no conversation. Just this: an offering to wear or reject.

You wore it.

Your mask was lighter—silver filigree shaped like wings curling above your brows. The servants braided your hair with twilight pearls and pinned a single crystal comb behind your ear. You looked at yourself in the mirror and saw someone else: not quite a queen, not quite a prisoner. Something in between.

The ballroom was alive with music and illusion. Floating candles drifted along the ceiling. Goblins in formal garb served drinks that glowed in their cups. Fae lords and ladies glided across the polished obsidian floor, masks concealing more than faces.

You searched the crowd for Jareth and found him near the far side of the room—throne-empty, of course, because he never sat for long. He wore black, as always, but tonight it shimmered with hints of sapphire. His mask was simple, sharp-edged, like the bone structure beneath it. Even in a sea of fae beauty, he stood out like a shadow at sunset. Regal. Remote. Watching.

Not you.

He didn’t look at you. Not once.

Not as you were introduced to sycophants and courtiers who smiled with all their teeth. Not when one of them, a young fae noble with golden curls and emerald robes, approached with more boldness than sense.

“You must be the human queen,” the noble purred, bowing low before taking your hand and brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “Though I must say, you wear the crown like a fae.”

You gave a diplomatic smile. “You flatter easily.”

He laughed and leaned closer. “Not easily. Just truthfully. It’s rare to see our king so quiet in the presence of beauty. Makes me wonder if he knows what he’s acquired.”

You stiffened, but your smile didn’t falter. “Acquired is such a strange word for marriage.”

“Oh, but that’s what this is, isn’t it? An arrangement. A convenience. Perhaps the king simply hasn’t appreciated the gift he’s been given.” His voice dropped as he brushed a lock of your hair back—without permission.

The moment his fingers touched your skin, the air changed.

Sharp and sudden. Cold iron wrapped in silk.

Jareth was no longer at the far end of the room.

He was beside you.

A hand—his hand—curled lightly, possessively around your waist. Fingers rested at your hip, not gripping, but firm. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Leave,” he said to the noble, quiet and absolute.

The courtier’s smirk vanished. “Your Majesty—”

“Leave. Now.”

The noble fled like a shadow at sunrise.

The silence he left behind was louder than music.

Jareth didn’t look at you, not yet. He simply kept his hand where it was, as though planting a flag. His mask hid most of his face, but you saw the tension in his jaw. The set of his mouth. A man who never touches suddenly breaking his own rules.

You turned your head just slightly toward him.

“You don’t dance,” you said softly.

“I don’t share,” he replied.

And just like that, he walked away, his hand slipping from your waist with reluctant grace.

You watched him disappear into the crowd, heart pounding.

Later that night, long after the final song had faded and the masks were abandoned on tabletops like forgotten truths, you found something waiting for you in your chambers.

No note. No grand gesture.

Just a single black rose resting on the pillow.

Velvet petals tinged with shadow. A flower that shouldn’t exist. Thorned, but beautiful. Wild, but placed with intention.

You picked it up gently, the scent rich with magic and something darker—something like longing.

He gave you no kiss. No words. Just this: a warning, a promise, a mark of something that now belonged to him.

And somehow, it was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky, stretching shadows long across the palace grounds, when the itch beneath your skin became too loud to ignore.

You weren’t sure what pulled you toward the Labyrinth that day. Curiosity, perhaps. Defiance, more likely. No one told you not to enter it—not outright—but the warning sat unspoken in the way the goblins avoided it, the way the fae whispered of it like something sacred or cursed. It called to you like a question without an answer, a door without a key. And you’d always hated not knowing.

So you went.

No guards followed. No signs marked your steps. You crossed the threshold of the Labyrinth as one might cross into a memory—half-aware, half-daring. The towering walls of mossy stone greeted you like old sentinels, vines creeping like veins across their surface. The path curved gently at first, luring you inward with a false sense of ease.

Then it began.

The air thickened.

The sky dimmed.

And the walls began to shift.

You turned once—twice—then a third time, only to find the path behind you had vanished. Where once had been sunlight, now there was shadow. Stones whispered your name. Not mockingly. Not kindly. Just… repeating it. As if trying it on their tongues.

You quickened your pace.

And then you heard your father.

His voice. Not in your head. In the Labyrinth. Laughing gently, telling one of his old stories. The kind that had soothed your childhood nights. You stopped walking. You couldn’t breathe.

“Dad?” you whispered.

Silence.

Then something else: the cry of a baby.

You turned and saw a cradle. Just sitting in the center of the path. Pale wood. A soft blue blanket.

Empty.

The next path took you past a shattered mirror. In its jagged surface, your reflection whispered your worst fear:

“You’ll never have a child of your own.”

Your breath caught.

Then came beetles. Dozens of them, skittering across your path, up the walls, across your shoes. You screamed, stumbling backward, slapping them away though they vanished the moment you touched them. Were they real? Were they ever?

The ground tilted. The walls breathed. The Labyrinth whispered:

“You’ll fail. Like always.”

“No!” you shouted, clutching your head. “None of this is real—none of it!”

But you ran anyway. Blindly. Tripping over roots that hadn’t been there before. Falling onto stone slick with illusion. Your palms scraped, knees bruised. You curled in on yourself, sobbing, hands over your ears, wishing for silence, for light, for something real—

“Y/N!”

His voice didn’t echo.

It struck like thunder.

And suddenly, the illusions stopped.

No more voices.

No more cries.

Just footsteps—fast, sure, heavy with something you’d never heard in Jareth before.

Fear.

He reached you as the sun broke through the clouds again, casting golden light along the Labyrinth’s edge. He was dressed in something simpler than his usual regalia—a plain black tunic, loose at the collar, hair wind-tossed and wild. His expression was tight, eyes wide with fury and something deeper beneath it.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped—not cruelly, not with mockery. With something far more fragile.

You couldn’t speak. Only cry. Sobs racking your body, your face buried in your hands.

And then he was kneeling in front of you, not a king, not a fae lord.

Just Jareth.

He reached for you—not with command, but with care—and pulled you into his arms. Your body crumpled against his, and he held you tightly, silently. Your tears soaked through the fabric of his tunic, and still he said nothing.

Only when your sobs quieted into hiccuped breaths did he speak, voice hoarse at your ear.

“Don’t ever walk it alone again.”

You nodded against his chest, hands fisting the soft black fabric like it was the only solid thing left in your world.

He didn’t offer explanations. Didn’t dismiss your pain. He just held you. One hand gentle against the back of your head, the other around your shoulders like a promise.

The Labyrinth had tested you.

Jareth had found you.

And something between you—untouchable, unnamed—had shifted again.

Not by magic.

But by mercy.

Chapter Text

The Labyrinth changed everything.

Since that night—since he found you collapsed and sobbing in the shifting maze—something had shifted between you and Jareth. He was no softer, not exactly. But he was… present now. Watching more carefully. Speaking with a touch less distance, though the sharp edges of his wit still remained like the glinting facets of a blade he refused to sheath.

And now, he was teaching you.

You weren’t sure who suggested it first. Perhaps it had formed in the silence between your shared stares. Or perhaps he’d grown tired of you being so breakable in a world spun from trickery and shadow.

Regardless, this morning, he’d summoned you to the highest tower of the Goblin Castle.

The room was circular, lined with arched windows that poured golden light across ancient stone. Dust motes danced like spirits in the air, and in the center stood Jareth—half-lounging against a weathered pedestal, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

“Welcome to your first lesson,” he said, voice dry and wry. “Try not to set anything on fire.”

You blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Most students do. By accident or vengeance, I don’t judge either.”

He moved like a shadow made of silk—graceful, slow, dangerous. You’d never met anyone so beautiful and yet so difficult to read. It was like trying to catch moonlight in your hands: always slipping just beyond grasp.

He explained the basics first—rules that governed the Underground. “Glamour is perception,” he said. “It doesn’t change truth, only veils it.” He conjured a silver apple in his palm, gleaming and perfect. You reached out to touch it—and your fingers passed through mist.

“Illusion,” he explained, smirking. “Looks can lie. Sounds can deceive. But intent? Intent never does.”

He circled you as he spoke. Not a predator, not quite. A hawk, maybe—testing your reflexes, watching how you stood, how you thought.

“You won’t survive in this realm on kindness alone,” he said quietly at one point, too close behind you. “Your words are sharp, but your soul’s still soft.”

“And that bothers you?” you asked, not turning around.

A pause. “No. It worries me.”

You did turn then.

“I’m not a child, Jareth.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, shadows sliding across his cheekbones. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

You were already breathless before the lesson even truly began.

He had you practice focusing your will—channeling intention into motion. You stared at a glass orb for what felt like hours, willing it to move, until finally, in a frustrated breath, you muttered, “Move already—”

The orb shattered.

You gasped, hands rising as if to catch something too late.

Jareth was suddenly there, hand catching your wrist before it lowered.

“Interesting,” he murmured, not looking at the glass but at you.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one does. Not the first time.”

There was something unreadable in his eyes. Not suspicion. Not pride.

Wonder.

“I’ve never used magic before,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “Perhaps. But it’s used you.”

His fingers—cool, elegant—released your wrist slowly. “Try again,” he said, gesturing toward another orb already forming from thin air, conjured by a casual flick of his hand.

You focused, breathing slower, steadier. This time, you didn’t speak. You simply willed.

The orb didn’t break.

But it floated.

Only an inch off the pedestal. Wavering like a held breath. But it floated.

When you looked back at him, expecting some sardonic remark, you found him staring at you.

Staring like he was seeing a secret the world hadn’t earned.

Like you were the moon rising over a kingdom of shadows.

You stood taller under that gaze, heat in your chest. You felt beautiful. Not in the way the fae had dressed you or paraded you—but in your own power. In your own skin.

And still, Jareth said nothing. He simply walked past, shoulder brushing yours like a hush.

But that look stayed with you long after the lesson ended.

And you, in turn, stayed in his thoughts far longer than he cared to admit.

Chapter Text

The air shifted the moment she arrived.

Queen Lysandra of the Sapphire Vale—a name that carried the weight of a dozen dead treaties and a history steeped in fae vanity. She swept into the Goblin Court with a gown spun from midnight and sapphires, her presence like frost: stunning, chilling, and meant to silence. Her laughter echoed like a blade sharpened on bone.

You stood beside Jareth when she entered the throne hall. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not at first.

“My, my,” she drawled, eyes sliding over you. “So it’s true. You married a mortal. I thought the rumors were exaggerated.”

You held your ground, chin high, hands folded before you. “They rarely exaggerate my kind.”

She smirked, stepping closer, circling. “No crown, no magic lineage. Just… a girl. What do you even bring to the Goblin Court, dear?”

“I wasn’t brought. I chose to stay.”

“Of course you did,” she said sweetly. “Who wouldn’t want to live in a castle of crumbling stone and goblins with manners fit for a pigsty?”

The court laughed softly—carefully. Watching Jareth, who still hadn’t spoken.

Lysandra turned to him at last. “You used to have taste, Jareth.”

He finally looked at her. “And you used to have a sense of timing.”

There was a flicker of tension in her smile, but she recovered quickly. “Is she even aware?” she said, gesturing lazily to you. “That I was promised your hand before the old pact? That I was meant to be your queen?”

You didn’t flinch. But it stung.

“She knows whatever matters,” Jareth said coolly. “And what doesn’t.”

You were grateful, in the moment, for the vague defense. But it was just that—vague. He hadn’t denied the promise. He hadn’t named you his.

After the formalities, you excused yourself with grace. No one noticed the tremble in your hand until you were behind your door.

Alone.

You sat on the edge of your bed, the stone-cold silence pressing down on your chest. You’d held your head high in the court, given clever retorts without showing the bruise beneath your pride.

But now…

Now, you broke.

Silent tears fell before you could stop them. You weren’t made of silk and shadow. You weren’t immortal or ancient or powerful. You were a human girl—standing in a world that would always see you as less.

Placeholder.

The word rang again.

You wiped your eyes, furious at yourself for caring, and stood.

It was long past midnight when you made your way to the observatory.

The castle’s highest tower curved into the stars. Glass panels arched above like a crystalline dome, and through them the heavens spun—slow and ancient. Jareth stood at the center of it all, cloaked in black, silhouetted by starlight. He didn’t turn when you entered.

“I didn’t come for comfort,” you said softly, voice still hoarse.

“No,” he murmured. “You came because it’s quieter here.”

You walked to the railing, letting the silence stretch between you. The moonlight bathed everything in silver-blue.

“She’s beautiful,” you said.

“She’s cruel.”

“She knew what to say.”

“Yes. That’s her talent.”

Another pause.

“She called me a placeholder.”

His jaw tightened. You saw it. “You’re not.”

“But you didn’t say that.”

“I didn’t say many things.” He turned to face you, expression unreadable but less guarded than usual. “I was angry. Not at her. At myself. Because I knew what she meant to do the moment she walked in.”

“And you let her.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The walls in his eyes cracked, just a little.

“You’re not a placeholder,” he said, voice low, steady. “You’re the only choice I didn’t make.”

You blinked, not understanding.

“And the only one I wouldn’t undo.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. Warmer. Holding you both.

You stepped closer. “Why didn’t you choose me?”

“Because I would’ve done it for the wrong reasons. Duty. Peace. Power.” He let out a breath. “But fate chose you instead. And you’ve made this realm more than I ever could have asked for.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The stars turned. The silence wrapped around you like a soft cloak.

And in that still moment, Jareth didn’t reach for you. He didn’t kiss you.

But he saw you.

Not as a mortal. Not as a bride by treaty. But as a force. A presence. Someone who had faced down mirrors, magic, queens—and hadn’t broken.

“I’m sorry,” he added quietly. “For not speaking sooner.”

You nodded.

It wasn’t forgiveness yet. But it was something.

And when you left the observatory, your steps were steadier. Not because the world had shifted.

But because he had.

Chapter Text

The tension between you was no longer quiet.

It hummed in the space where words used to live—in lingering glances, in the way his hand sometimes brushed yours and lingered for a fraction too long. In the way your footsteps always found his in the halls, the way his voice softened only when speaking to you.

In the way you both kept dancing around the truth like it might break the spell that tethered you together.

The chemistry crackled in the air like a storm not yet broken. When your fingers brushed passing a book, when he helped you from your seat at court, when you walked side by side through the marble gardens and your hands nearly—nearly—touched.

And always, always, he pulled away before the thread could tighten.

You let it slide at first. Fae were old, you told yourself. Cautious. Careful. And Jareth was a labyrinth in himself—twisting paths, hidden truths, masked emotions.

But one night, when the halls had quieted and the court slept, you found yourself in the moonlit library again. He was already there, standing near the high shelves, reading a tattered volume bound in blue leather. His coat hung loose over his frame, hair unbound, silver and gold catching the candlelight.

You hesitated at the doorway. Then stepped forward.

“You always find the quietest rooms,” you murmured.

“Perhaps I’m hiding.”

You raised a brow. “From what? Your court? Or me?”

That got his attention. He looked up, sharply. But his expression softened when he saw your face.

“Both,” he said quietly.

You crossed the room slowly. “You’ve been…distant.”

“I’ve been deliberate.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.”

He didn’t respond. You stood before him now, the silence swelling between you, filled with things neither of you had said.

“Every time we get close,” you said, voice low, “you flinch. Like I’m a wound you don’t want reopened.”

His jaw flexed. “You are not a wound.”

“Then what am I?”

“You are…” He exhaled through his nose, looking away, eyes unfocused. “A risk.”

Your heart clenched. But you didn’t retreat. “I don’t want a crown, Jareth. I’m not asking to be your queen. I just want the truth.”

His eyes met yours. And this time, they didn’t hide.

“I told you once,” he said slowly, “that fae only love once.”

You nodded.

“I didn’t tell you why.”

Another beat. Then:

“Because it consumes us. Fully. It marks our magic. Our minds. Our souls. There’s no undoing it. And if it ends, if the one we love is lost… we become something else. Twisted. Hollow. Dangerous.”

You held your breath, heart pounding in your chest.

“I’ve seen what happens to fae who love unwisely. Who love too deeply,” he said. “And I am not gentle, or kind, or safe. I am not good.”

He stepped back as though the truth burned him.

“And I am not sure I deserve it.”

He didn’t say I love you.

But he didn’t need to.

Because the way his voice broke around the edges of that word—deserve—said everything.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Took a breath. Then stepped forward again, gentler this time. As though touching a wounded animal.

“You say you’re not kind,” you said. “But you are. In your own way. You’ve protected me. Taught me. Listened.”

You paused, voice softer.

“You’ve never lied to me.”

His eyes flickered. “I have. Just not with words.”

You smiled, faintly. “I know.”

He looked down, his expression shadowed.

“I used to think you were made of riddles,” you said. “But you’re not. You’re made of silence. And sorrow. And solitude.”

Something in his gaze fractured.

You reached for his hand.

He didn’t stop you this time.

Your fingers laced together, and though his hand was cold at first, it warmed slowly under yours.

You didn’t ask for more. Not yet.

But he didn’t let go.

And when he walked you back to your chambers that night, it was in silence. But no longer in fear.

You’d seen the man behind the king.

And he’d let you look.

Chapter Text

The summons came at dawn.

Not a request. A command.

The Goblin Council—elders draped in centuries of tradition and entitlement—assembled in the dark marble chamber lined with flickering torches and eyes that burned with expectation. You sat beside Jareth, though the throne next to his never quite felt like yours. Not in their eyes. Not yet.

“We are grateful the treaty holds,” one of them began, a gnarled voice sharp with politeness. “But peace is not a moment. It is a legacy.”

Another leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “An alliance is only as strong as the blood that binds it.”

You knew where this was going before they said it. Still, hearing the words made your blood run cold.

“We expect an heir. A child of both courts. To ensure this peace outlives its architects.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You stared at them, your voice flat but burning. “You want to bind peace with a child born of obligation?”

“It is tradition,” another elder croaked.

“It is disgusting,” you said calmly.

Jareth, until now a statue of ice beside you, stood. His voice rang like thunder. “Enough.”

All eyes turned to him.

“I will not reduce my wife to a vessel,” he said, each word deliberate, deadly. “Nor will I father a child as a political insurance policy.”

“She is human,” an elder protested. “Time will not wait. If not now—”

“I said enough.” His voice didn’t rise, but the flames in the sconces flickered, dimmed, then burst brighter.

The council fell silent.

Jareth turned, the folds of his long coat trailing behind him like shadow, and held his hand out to you. You rose without hesitation and took it, your palm pressed to his—anchor to anchor.

Neither of you said a word as you walked from the chamber.

⸻

Back in your quarters, you paced. Furious. Frustrated. Violated.

“They spoke of a child like she’d be a crown,” you said bitterly, facing the hearth.

Jareth stood near the window, silent for a long while before finally turning toward you.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked up.

“I should’ve seen it coming. The whispers. The expectations.” His jaw clenched. “But I will not force you into anything, not now. Not ever.”

You walked to him, hands trembling slightly—not with fear, but with feeling. You searched his face for any flicker of falsehood and found none.

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve always wanted a daughter?” you said, voice quieter now.

Jareth’s expression shifted. Not surprised. Just listening.

“Not because of duty. Because…” You paused. Words thick on your tongue, tender and aching. “Because I wanted to raise a little girl the way I never was.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move away.

“I wanted her to laugh loudly and never be told she’s too much. I wanted to teach her to dance barefoot in grass. To let her paint her dreams on the walls. I wanted her to know magic as joy, not danger.”

Your voice cracked.

“I wanted her to feel safe. Wanted her to grow without the weight of someone else’s war on her back.”

Jareth was utterly still, his eyes impossibly soft.

“And now,” you added, nearly a whisper, “they want her future to be chained to a throne. One she’ll never be able to step away from. And I can’t—” You bit your lip, breathing hard. “I won’t give her that life.”

Silence hung between you, not empty but charged—thick with truth, pain, and something else. Something warmer.

Jareth reached forward. His fingers didn’t grasp or command—they simply waited. You let him take your hand.

“I would never ask you to bear that,” he said, voice velvet and storm. “Not for peace. Not for them.”

He touched your cheek lightly. “If there is ever a child between us, it will be because you want it. Because we choose joy over obligation. Light over legacy.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself breathe.

This wasn’t just a marriage of politics anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

This was two broken pieces learning how to soften around each other.

And maybe—just maybe—begin to dream.

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.

Chapter Text

It begins with whispers.

You hear them in the corridors—servants falling silent when you pass, sentries tightening grips on spears with a shade more suspicion than usual. The Goblin Court, already a nest of tension and pride, sharpens its claws when it thinks no one is watching.

You are always watching.

You’ve learned to wear your quiet like armor. You’ve learned that a queen doesn’t need to shout to be heard. But tonight, even your silence is not enough to keep the storm at bay.

The attack comes not in grand ceremony, but in shadow.

You are in the Hall of Echoes, walking back from a late meeting with a border envoy, when the lights flicker. Cold rushes your spine—not magic, not glamour. Malice.

A cloaked figure lunges from behind a pillar, blade gleaming silver and poisoned green.

Your scream catches in your throat, but before steel finds flesh, a blur of black and storm intercepts. Jareth.

He crashes into the attacker with deadly precision, his movements a blur of rage and grace. There’s no warning, no ceremony. Only his voice, low and wrathful:

“You dare strike what is mine?”

His fury is not hot, not explosive. It is icy and precise—a scalpel, not a hammer. He disarms the would-be assassin with a flick of his wrist, then freezes him mid-breath with a pulse of fae power that makes the air itself vibrate.

The corridor fills with light—guards pour in. The assassin is dragged away, paralyzed, eyes wide with frozen fear.

Jareth doesn’t look at them. He looks at you.

You’re still on the floor, trembling, your hand clutched at your ribs where the blade nearly found home. He kneels beside you in a blur, gloves forgotten, fingers gentle against your wrist.

“You’re safe,” he says, not as a question but as a demand to the universe. His voice is low and shaken, as if the idea of you not being safe is something the world wouldn’t recover from.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “I—I didn’t see him coming.”

“But I did,” he murmurs, his brow pressing to your forehead for the briefest moment. “And that’s all that matters.”

—

An hour later, the Grand Council is summoned.

Torches line the ancient chamber like soldiers at attention. Jareth stands at the center like a wrathful shadow made flesh, his cloak trailing like stormclouds.

You are seated on the Glass Throne—your body steadied, your heart not yet. The same throne they mocked you for sitting upon. Now you sit as a woman they failed to break.

Jareth doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the silence churn until it chokes.

Then he says, “There has been an attempt on my queen’s life.”

The word—queen—rings like thunder.

The council shifts. Some pale. Others sneer. One brave enough to speak begins to say something about “unfounded accusations.”

Jareth raises a single gloved hand.

And then he unleashes hell.

“No more riddles. No more veils. I know who ordered it.” His voice cuts like obsidian, cool and absolute. “I’ve seen the letters, the secret meetings. You used her—my bride—as your scapegoat. You thought her softness was weakness. You mistook her silence for stupidity.”

His smile is a blade. “You forgot who chose her.”

Murmurs rise. One councilman stammers, “Your Majesty, she’s still human—”

“She is still here,” Jareth snarls, stepping forward, his hand landing on the armrest of your throne like a claim. “Which is more than I can say for your cowardice.”

Gasps echo. No one dares interrupt him now.

He continues, voice soft but lethal: “Let tonight serve as reminder. You are not the only ones who can play games in the dark.”

The chamber is deathly still.

Then he turns to you.

He kneels.

Not theatrically. Not for show. But sincerely—one hand on his chest, the other gently, reverently placed on your knee.

“You sat on that throne even when they sneered. You walked this court with your head high even when they spat. You are not a placeholder. You are not a treaty.”

He lifts his chin. His eyes, storm-bright and unguarded, meet yours.

“You are my queen.”

The chamber doesn’t applaud. They wouldn’t dare.

But no one moves. No one dares question it again.

And as he rises and stands beside your throne, you realize that something has shifted—not just in the court, but in you. The throne no longer feels like glass. It feels like home.

You grip his hand as the chamber clears. He squeezes once. And when he looks at you, there’s pride in his gaze.

Not because you survived.

But because you refused to break.

Chapter Text

The coronation dawns on a sky the color of smoke and amethyst—neither sun nor moon claiming dominion. It is a liminal hour, fitting for a ceremony that does not belong to either realm. A queen crowned not by lineage, but by fire and choice.

You are dressed in shadows stitched with starlight.

The gown is unlike anything worn in your father’s court. Midnight black, woven with threads of silver that catch the light like frost. A collar of obsidian fans delicately behind your neck. Dark jewels—onyx, moonstone, labradorite—adorn your ears and fingers, their gleam subtle but otherworldly. Your crown is not gold, but wrought from ancient metal and curling vine, set with a single, jagged crystal at its center.

A piece of the Labyrinth itself.

You do not feel like a girl anymore.

You walk into the Hall of Crowns, where no queen has stood beside the Goblin King in centuries. The Goblin Court is waiting, dressed in finery that ranges from the breathtaking to the grotesque. They whisper behind hands, blinking golden eyes, twitching ears, clicking talons. But none dare speak ill of you now.

Because you have faced the Labyrinth and lived.

Because you survived an assassination attempt and rose taller.

Because Jareth walks beside you—not ahead, not behind.

Beside.

He wears ceremonial black with a silver sash, but his usual flair is subdued, refined. Still, he is unmistakably regal. His eyes, twin shards of stormlight, remain fixed on you as you approach the dais carved from mirrorstone and root.

The ceremony is not spoken in Common tongue.

It is sung—soft and strange—in the ancient language of the Underground. The High Chancellor recites the rites with a voice like wind through hollow bones. There is music, but not from instruments. The Labyrinth hums beneath the floor, the stones vibrating faintly with old magic.

You are presented not with a scepter, but with a riddle.

One whispered against your palm: What grows in silence, commands without force, and cannot be stolen, only given?

You answer without flinching.

“Respect.”

The ground stills. The Labyrinth accepts.

The crown is lowered onto your head.

And the moment it touches you, the court bows.

Not just out of duty.

Out of awe.

Jareth watches with his jaw set, his hands behind his back. For the first time since you arrived in this strange, cruel, enchanted place—you feel taller than him. Not because he has shrunk.

Because he has made room.

Later, as you stand on the balcony overlooking the shifting spires of the kingdom, the crowd below cheers in a dozen languages. Goblins dance. Fae sing. Even the air smells different—like midnight roses and burned sugar.

You turn to face the court one last time.

They quiet.

“I came here veiled. Unarmed. Alone,” you begin, your voice calm, crystalline. “I was not chosen by love. I was chosen by circumstance. But I do not regret it.”

Your gaze flicks to Jareth. You smile—not gently, not coyly, but with full truth. “Because in all of this, I found my other half.”

A sharp sound—barely audible.

Jareth’s breath catches.

For all his masks, all his riddles, he is undone by that single phrase. His hand lifts halfway toward you before falling again, as if unsure what to do with the feeling now coiled around his heart.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t need to.

You’ve already claimed him.

The rest of the court doesn’t see the flicker in his eyes—the soft, broken gleam of something ancient and vulnerable made real. But you do.

He had worn his crown like armor.

Now, you wear yours like an extension of your soul.

The ceremony ends.

But the kingdom has just begun to shift.

Chapter Text

The coronation ends, but the air between you and Jareth does not settle. It hums. Charges. Lingers like the final note of a song not ready to fade.

He says nothing as he leads you through the winding halls of the palace—down corridors you’ve never walked before. The Goblin Court, the murmuring servants, even the Labyrinth itself seem to fall away as the stone underfoot grows darker, smoother. Ancient.

You end at a set of doors carved from pale wood, aged and whispering. He pauses before them and glances at you, his expression unreadable. For all his power, all his poise—he seems almost… unsure.

“This way,” he says softly.

The doors open.

His chambers are nothing like you expected.

There is no cold opulence, no glittering ego. Instead, the space is warm, strange, and full of quiet contradictions. Books spill from crooked shelves. A crystal terrarium glows softly on a corner table, full of moss and bioluminescent fungi. The hearth crackles, unlit by fire, but by a spell that casts shifting stars against the stone.

And above the fireplace mantle, centered carefully—an old, cracked mirror. Imperfect. Human.

“This is where I keep the parts of me I don’t show,” Jareth murmurs.

He crosses to a slender cabinet of dark glass and opens it. Inside sits a single vial.

It gleams with something iridescent. Shimmering. Alive.

You step closer.

“What is it?” you ask, though part of you already knows.

“Liquid love,” he says simply. “Fae alchemy. A vial is gifted to each of our kind when we come of age. We’re told to keep it safe. To drink it only when we have chosen who we will love. Not desire. Not admire. Love. Once it’s consumed… there’s no undoing. We love only once.”

His fingers curl around the vial. He doesn’t lift it just yet.

“I never thought I’d use it,” he says, voice quieter now. “I assumed it would gather dust. That power would be my only companion. That love was a myth mortals clung to like bedtime stories.”

You look at him. And you realize he’s never looked more real.

“Then why keep it?” you ask gently.

His eyes finally meet yours. “Because some part of me hoped I was wrong.”

He raises the vial slowly.

And without hesitation—no flourish, no performance—he uncorks it and brings it to his lips.

You watch, breath held.

The liquid disappears down his throat like starlight swallowed.

At first, nothing happens.

Then his hand trembles.

A flicker—barely visible—passes through his eyes. A softness. A cracking open. Like something long buried has just surfaced and taken its first breath in centuries.

He exhales shakily and steps closer.

“I thought loving once would terrify me,” he admits. “I thought if I ever gave my heart away, it would destroy me.”

You tilt your head, searching his expression. “And now?”

He takes your hand in his.

Warm. Steady.

“Now I know,” he says, “that loving you is the only thing I am certain of. The only truth that does not change when the Labyrinth shifts.”

You stare at him, stunned and aching.

“Are you still afraid?” you whisper.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles like a vow being written in silence.

“Not anymore.”

Then, slowly, reverently, he brings your hand to his lips and kisses it. Not for show. Not out of habit. But like a vow being sealed.

He steps forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

And then he leans down and whispers something—not loud, not dramatic.

Soft. So soft it brushes your skin like velvet.

You don’t quite hear it. But you feel it.

Later, you will realize what he said.

“You are the heart of the Labyrinth now.”

And you’ll realize he meant it.

Chapter Text

The morning broke soft and slow over the Goblin Kingdom.

Mist draped itself along the twisting hedges and ivy-cloaked towers, curling around windows like a curious cat. The sun had only just begun its lazy climb, spilling gold through the pale blue veil of dawn, and within the quiet of the royal chambers, all was still.

Except for the gentle rise and fall of two small chests breathing in sleep.

Joan lay nestled against your side, no more than two years old, her tiny body molded to yours with the peaceful insistence of a child who had never known fear or cold. Her breath was steady, mouth open slightly in that way toddlers sleep, and her pale blond hair splayed in messy halos on the pillow between you.

You smiled as your fingers absentmindedly smoothed a curl from her cheek.

There was something sacred in this—the stillness, the safety, the warmth. The weight of her body curled into yours was an anchor to something real, something you once only dared to dream of. You’d been raised among walls and duties and should-nots, told to prepare for a life that would never belong to you. But now?

Now, there were soft mornings and sleepy children and no expectations beyond love.

Your smile dimmed only slightly when you noticed the other side of the bed was empty.

The sheets were still warm, folded back neatly, and the soft scent of him—cedar, leather, and magic—still lingered like an embrace on the pillow.

You sat up slowly, careful not to wake Joan. But your gaze was already drawn to the gentle glow filtering through the tall doors leading to the balcony.

Jareth.

He stood silhouetted against the rising sun, the faint breeze tousling his pale hair. His usual layers of finery were replaced with something soft and loose, a dark tunic you’d had tailored for him last Solstice, the sleeves pushed up as he gently rocked the newest star in your sky.

Little Ada.

Cradled in his arms, wrapped in a blanket of starlight-threaded wool, she blinked up at her father with those wide, wondering eyes the color of dusk before the stars come out. Her tiny fist curled against his chest, and Jareth—so often the sharp edge of a sword, the riddle unsolved—looked utterly undone.

You padded to the doorway, silent.

He didn’t turn, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I heard you wake.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “You left me with the wild one.”

“She sleeps better with you.”

“And Ada?”

“She was hungry. Then restless. Now… curious.”

He turned then, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms. His smile—rare, real—was for you alone.

“She keeps looking at me like I’m supposed to have all the answers.”

“Don’t you?” you teased gently, reaching to brush a finger over your youngest daughter’s downy cheek.

Jareth huffed a soft laugh. “Not anymore. I gave them all to you.”

Your heart swelled. You stepped forward and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, lingering. “She’s beautiful.”

“She has your mouth.”

“Poor girl,” you said dryly.

“She will never want for anything. Except, perhaps, silence,” he added as Ada let out a high-pitched squeal and a rather undignified hiccup.

You chuckled and took her from him, cradling her to your chest. She yawned, her tiny fist curling into your nightgown. You pressed your lips to her forehead.

Inside, a soft shuffle sounded behind you.

“…Mama?”

Joan’s sleepy voice was followed by a thump and a stumble as she toddled to the balcony door, still half-asleep and dragging her blanket behind her like a tiny royal train.

You turned just in time to scoop her up with your free arm. “Good morning, little star.”

She blinked at you, then at her father. “Can we go to the pond today? The one with the pretty flowers? You said we could when it got warmer.”

Jareth raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“You did,” Joan declared seriously. “You said ‘yes, but only if you’re very polite’ and I was very polite yesterday.”

“She was,” you confirmed. “Even thanked the kitchen sprites.”

Jareth smirked. “Well, then. I suppose I’m outnumbered.”

Joan leaned her head against your shoulder and reached out one finger to gently touch her baby sister’s swaddled hand. “I’ll show Ada the pond. She’s never been.”

“Not yet,” you whispered, smiling. “But she will.”

The three of you stood there for a moment—four, really—on a quiet balcony that overlooked a kingdom built on magic, memory, and now… hope.

You never asked for this life. Not the throne. Not the crown. Not the strange realm of riddles and thorns.

But you had chosen this family.

And they had chosen you.

You spent the rest of the day at the pond.

Joan chased dragonflies while Jareth used his magic to make lily pads sing jazz (badly). Ada babbled at the reeds and cooed in the sunlight. You sat on the grass and watched your husband lie flat on his back, letting Joan pile flower crowns onto his head as though the Goblin King hadn’t once been feared across a thousand realms.

And you laughed.

You laughed until you cried.

Because this—this soft, golden day—was the life you always wanted to give your children. A life of freedom. Of joy. Of love that didn’t have to be earned or feared.

Later, when the girls were bathed and fed and tucked into bed, Jareth pulled you into his arms and whispered, “Thank you for choosing me.”

You smiled into his chest and whispered, “You were always the answer. Even when I didn’t know the riddle.”

Outside, the Labyrinth shifted. As it always would.

But at its heart, it held a family now.

And a queen who had once walked in alone—and never would again.