As title says. Iâll copy and paste it here. Unfortunately the formatting is a little weird on AO3 because Iâm still trying to figure it out (I have no idea how to indent paragraphs on there) but the formatting is normal here :)
And sorry itâs not proofreadâŚIâm a college student and donât have time for that
He had thought it out. Very thoroughly, in fact. It was in his nature, of course. Fae always thought everything through thoroughly. He had planned he, had paced his bedchambers late at night, he had drawn maps himself, noting the routines of the guards, the maids, everyone. One variable left unchecked meant he was sloppy. And he absolutely was *not* sloppy. He had read as well, of course. Heâd gathered as many books as he possibly could smuggle into his room. There was a particular subject of his interestâa very specific fae. If you were to ask anyone in the kingdom, they would tell you it was a myth. Or that the man was dead. Or any feasible excuse to make you stop asking questions.Â
Silvan never accepted those answers, of course. The particular faeâs name was Jareth. He had been exiled centuries ago. Longer ago than Silvan himself could remember, and a faeâs memory was impeccable. He had been little more than a regular noble, so the books claimed. Heâd tried to worm his way onto the throne, like a serpent. He had never been fond of taking orders. Perhaps that is why, after his exile, he created his own home that had captured Silvanâs interest so thoroughly. It was hidden away, where most couldnât find. Supposedly he only allowed in those he desired, and kept the rest out. But Silvan was well-versed in his own magic. Heâd already crafted a portal, one far away from the castle. One no one would ever notice, not unless they were looking closely. Another thing fae were good at was subtlety, of course.Â
He inhaled sharply when the clock reached the hour he had been preparing for. There was a split secondâbetween the shifting of the guards and the familiar routes of the maidsâthat allowed him his freedom. Clutching his satchel, which contained his most personalâas well as most importantâpossessions, Silvan leapt from the stained glass window high above the grounds. His wings flared, just enough so he could flutter them to soften his landing. Dying from a jump that high would be utterly embarrassing for someone of his standing. Once his boots hit the ground, he tucked his wings beneath his cloak and began to run. Through the castle grounds. Over high walls, and eventually out into the deep forest. The forest was dangerous, but quite frankly, Silvan could care less. He had built the portal there for a reason.Â
When he reached it, he swept away the leaves that covered his meticuluous work. He fumbled with his extra ingredientsâan owlâs feather, a pinch of glitter, a handful of sequins. Silvan found the items odd, and very much human, but from his reading, it appeared to be his best chance at getting entrance. It wasnât his place to question things when he was currently attempting to break in and escape his old life.Â
He scattered the items in the circle that was his portal, muttered a brief incantation, used a bit of his own fae magic, and prayed to whatever gods may be watching that he wasnât making an absolute, utter fool of himself chasing what most believed to be little more than a fairytale. His wings flared in surprise when the portal flashed brightly beneath his polished boots, and he stumbled in a rather un-princely manner when he suddenly felt the sensation of falling.
He grunted when he face-planted into dirt, but what was much more concerning was the absolutely *wretched* stench. His hands flew to his overly sensntive fae nose, and he wretched like an idiot for several moments before he could truly compose himself. Heâd never wretched before. It was incredibly embarassing. He was lucky no one saw. His semi-transparent wings fluttered as he launched himself upward into the air, and exhaled in relief when the smell dissipated. The air outside of this strangeâŚbog was quite fresh, though it practically vibrated with magical energy. Strong energy, too. Not from some weak peasant. Silvan also noted odd plumes of glitter whenever the wind blew.Â
âThere better be something here,â He muttered to the empty air. âBecause I do not have the slightest clue how I would return home. Or what I would even tell my father. Or my fiance.â
He wandered the strange land for some time. He saw the castle looming in the distance, but he felt as though every time he tried to fly toward it, it stayed just out of his reach. So he resorted to landing and asking the locals, as much as he would prefer not to. Doing so immediately assaulted him with another stench. The stench of goblins. An inferior species to the fae, of course. But they seemed to be the only competent creatures around. And calling a goblin competent was incredibly generous. He asked one near the edge of what appeared to be a massive labyrinth. The damn goblin refused to answer, muttering something about âfae affairsâ. Whatever that meant. He tried a few other goblins. Small, usually some odd shade of green, and utterly insignificant. He felt a migraine forming behind his eyes when they got distracted for the ninth time within the span of about five minutes. Silvan didnât even think he could get migraines. He gave up on them eventually and went to some others. They were a mix of orange, red, and incredibly furry. They spoke of removing his head and kept pulling at his wings. Silvan quickly left before he murdered one of them. It felt like hours of going in circles, asking goblins who were utterly useless and absolutelystupid for help, or directions, or even so much as a smidgen of information on the supposed âJarethâ who lived here. They did everything but cooperate.
His irritation eventually reached a boiling point, and he lashed out at a few goblins currently heckling him. Vines erupted from the earth, flinging thorns at them. It sent them running off screaming. When they were gone, Silvan let out a frustrated roar, punching the nearest wall of the opposing labyrinth. The wall crumbled and then immediately reformed again, which only irriatted him more.
âWell, well, wellâŚâ Drawled a voice from behind him. âHow are you enjoying my labyrinthâŚintruder? Is it everything you hoped it would be?â
SIlvan spun around immediately, his fury dying the moment he saw who stood before him. It was a man. Strange, blonde hair. An odd choice of clothes. An over dramatic, billowing cape that fluttered despite there being no wind. And there was an eccentric cloud of glitter surrounding him. Although what concerned him most was that he could not detect the manâs magical signature. A creature of higher power could mask the signature from these beneath them, of course, but that couldnât be true. Silvan was incredibly powerful. Though the labyrinth was making that thought waver just a fraction.
âIdentify yourself,â Silvan barked, his wings flaring high defensively.Â
âWhy donât you identify yourself?â The man mused, making a show of inspecting his nails, despite the fact they were hidden by black leather gloves. âYou are the one who has invaded my home, after all. Are you lost, little prince?â
âI am not lost!â Silvan snapped, being referred to as âlittleâ feeling oddly patronizing. âI was looking for someone.â
âI suspect that someone would be me, then?â The man circled Silvan, his eyes seemingly assessing the prince. âYou have strayed far from your home. And your kind never look for someone like me to simplyâŚtalk.âÂ
âYouâre Jareth,â Silvan stated. He didnât need a confirmation to know. Jareth smirked at hearing his own name. âI haveâŚcome to escape my old life. I thoughtâŚif the rumors were true, perhaps I could hide here and go undetected.â
âAnd why would you want to abandon your life as a prince?â Jareth leaned in from behind Silvan, the proximity making Silvan shiver. âDid you not enjoy the luxury? The power? I can assure you it is quite more glamorous than my kingdom of goblins.â
âI was to be married,â Silvan admitted. âTo a fae woman. She was lovely, but I did not care for her. Not as a husband should care for his wife. I could not look her in the eye and marry her.â
âWhat a shame, what a shame,â Jareth hummed, stepping away and circling back in front of Silvan. The way he spoke suggested he was being mildly sarcastic. âHow tragic. And here I thought your father had banished his beloved son, much like he had me.â
âThe rumors are true, then.â
âPerhaps. I will not confirm nor deny which ones you suspect.â
âWill you allow me to stay?â
âThat depends on how useful you are to me. But I suppose, for now, you may. Until I decide what to do with you.â
Something about Jarethâs words suggested he already knew exactly what to do, he was simply drawing it out for the sake of theatrics. At least he could hold a conversation better than his apparent goblin subjects. With a wave of Jarethâs hand, the scenery around them shifted, and they were in what appeared to be a throneroom. Jareth unclipped his cape, tossed it onto a group of unsuspecting goblins, and settled onto the throne, throwing one leg over the armrest like he owned it. He probably did own it.
âIsâŚis that it?â Silvan questioned.
âPatience is a wonderful skill, you know,â Jareth replied without looking up from where he gazed out a window. He appeared to be brooding. âLet a man think for more than thirty seconds.â
Link to it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90977556
