Something tugs on my finger. I open my eyes, the world overexposed and blinding. I blink rapidly, but nothing stops them watering, flooding down my cheeks as if (purely for the sake of poetry) I am crying at the rediscovered beauty of the world. But I'm not.

My finger is tugged again, and I wipe under them with the edge of my sleeve. I follow the string tied to my finger to the river; the red and white fishing float dipping under the water, coming up for air. I waggle my finger gently as the fish bumps at the hook again. The float jiggles in response, and then my hand is yanked forward as the fish latches on. I fumble for the string as it begins to slip off my finger, the casually tied knot unravelling. I grab the string and reel it in, hand over hand, pulling the fish out of the river and through the lush grass. It flips and flops for a while, until I find a suitable rock, and hit it, neat and quick.

I'm still marvelling over my prize when a stick snaps behind me, and I whirl, string in hand, fish jumping into the air as if it's been granted new life. There's a boy standing at the edge of the river, golden haired, clad in fashionable riding clothes.

"You can't fish here," he says.

"Who will stop me?" I ask, and grin.

"It's the king's forest," the boy says. "You'll be fined for that fish."

"Haven't got any money," I say. I spread my hands out to show this, and the fish slides through the grass, slipping through a verdant sea. I frown down at it. The boy's eyes follow it with discomfort.

"Then," he says, confidence gone, "you shall be thrown into the prison until your time has been served."

"Says who?"

"Says your king!" the boy says hotly, high spots of colour building in his cheeks at this flagrant disrespect.

"I don't have a king," I say. "Lord and master of the universe, that's me."

Taken aback, he fumbles over a few words, tongue no longer obeying his commands. "That's treason," he finally says.

I roll my eyes, and turn around, crouching down to retrieve my fish. When I stand again, he's looking at me differently.

"Who are you, anyway?" he demands, and I spread my hands, and shrug.

"Who else do you know that lives alone in the forest?"

"No one," he snaps. "No one of any importance—" he freezes. I look down, seeing the fish revolving slowly between my hands, suspended in nothingness.

"Gideon—" he chokes. "Gideon the Sorcerer."

"That's me," I say cheerfully, and tug the fish out of the air.

The boy draws his sword and walks across the clearing until the blade is resting by my neck. I look at him, unconcerned.

"Can't magic steel," he says triumphantly, and I shrug.

"So the stories say," I reply.

"Is it true you pulled the still-beating heart of the last dragon from its chest and ate it, giving you the power to command fire?"

"Nope," I say.

"Is it true you drowned the white witch of Avalon and made a cloak from her hair that stores moonlight?"

"Nope," I say cheerfully.

He frowns. "Is it true that if the kingdom is ever threatened, you'll raise the land as a weapon against the king?"

"Nope."

"Is it true you spread rumours about yourself to make yourself seem more powerful so that people will fear you and leave you alone?"

"Yes!" I cry. "That one's true."

"Grant me a wish and I'll let you go," he says.

"What wish?" I ask.

He exhales, pushes his hair back, and stands up straight. "I want to belong," he says, and I tut.

"You want me to kill your father."

He stumbles over himself, strangled sounds tripping out of his mouth.

"You—you read my mind."

"I know who you are," I say. "Prince Jareth. First in line to the throne, but he just KEEPS. ON. LIVING, doesn't he?" I spin away from the blade, watching the forest turn round and round.

"Are you going to do it or not?" he demands, anger turning him into a petulant child.

"Why does becoming king make you belong?" I ask. "I'm king of nothing, and I belong in this forest just as much as old stumpy here." I slap the stump with my open palm, and Jareth flinches.

"You don't belong," he says loudly. "No one cares for you, respects you, knows you."

"I do," I say, and Jareth scowls.

"You're mad."

"I'm also a very good liar," I say, grinning. "It actually is true."

"What?" he asks.

"I will raise the land against the enemies of the king." I flick my hand out, and the ground begins to rumble. Jareth turns to run, but the ground below his feet vanishes, and he falls into a waist deep hole that closes around him, leaving him trapped. "But only if I want to."

"You can't do this!" he screams. "I am the crown prince—your crown prince."

"Crown prince of nothing," I say, tapping his head with a finger. He flinches.

"Don't worry, you won't perish. I'll visit you every day until you understand this place. Until you belong, to the trees and the grass and the moss. Prince of the fish, knight of the bees. Until you're ready to go. Then, perhaps, I'll let you free."

"I'm ready NOW!" he howls, but I walk into the forest, humming a cheerful tune, forgotten fish flip-flopping in my wake.