GODGEAR - JOURNEY TO SAVE EDEN

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the tiny room, the walls peeling and worn from years of neglect. A soft breeze stirred the threadbare curtains as the smell of hospital disinfectant lingered in the air. It was late, the silence in the room thick and oppressive. But Jareth was used to it. Silence had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember.

The chair he sat in creaked under his small frame, his hands clutching the edges with a tightness that belied the stillness of the room. His legs swung restlessly, unable to find comfort. Every breath he took was thick with the sterile smell of the hospital, masking the sickness that seemed to seep into every corner. His mother was fading. He could feel it in the way her breaths came more shallow, in the way her once-vibrant face had paled into a ghost of the woman who had been his whole world.

"Jareth," her voice was weak, fragile—a whisper that barely made it past her dry lips. But even in her frailty, her eyes remained filled with love. She turned her head toward him, her face a haunting reflection of the illness that had stolen her strength. "Jareth, my son… You've been so brave."

Her hand, once steady and full of life, trembled as it reached out to him. The movement was slow, but Jareth moved without hesitation, his small fingers wrapping around hers with all the strength his young body could muster. The warmth of her touch was all that remained—her love, her presence. It was the only thing keeping him from slipping into the abyss of loneliness that threatened to swallow him whole.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice strained, thick with a sorrow that tore at his heart. "I didn't want to leave you like this. I wanted to see you grow up. To watch you become strong… to see you become a man."

Jareth's heart squeezed painfully. Tears welled in his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. His throat was tight, constricted, as though the weight of the moment had taken his voice. All he could do was hold her hand, his young heart aching with the desperate need to keep her here, to never let her go.

"I love you, my son," she continued, her voice faltering, her hand becoming colder with every passing second. "You'll always have my heart. Always..."

Her breath was shallow now, the words growing weaker, until finally, they came to a halt. His grip on her hand tightened, his body trembling, but there was no response. No breath, no warmth. The silence that filled the room was deafening, a void that swallowed him whole.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered one last time, and then her eyes fluttered closed.

Jareth felt it in his bones—the finality of her death. The warmth in her hand slipped away, replaced by an unbearable cold. Her chest no longer rose and fell with the rhythm of life. His mother was gone.

The world around him collapsed in an instant. He was eight years old, and suddenly, he was alone. The weight of that truth crushed him, a heavy, suffocating force that stole the air from his lungs.

And then, the tears came—hot and relentless, burning through the dam he had built up around his heart. He didn't know how long he stayed there, by her side, clutching her cold, lifeless hand. The sorrow was all-encompassing, a pain so deep that it seemed to tear him apart from the inside. His mother—the one person who had ever loved him, who had protected him—was gone. And he was left behind, a child without a family, a boy without a home.

The days that followed were a blur. The orphanage took him in, but it wasn't the same. It never could be. No amount of food or shelter could replace the warmth of his mother's love. And the children there—they only added to the loneliness that gnawed at him. The bullying, the isolation, the harsh reality of growing up alone—it all weighed heavily on his young shoulders. But none of it mattered. Not really. Nothing could fill the hole in his chest. Nothing could erase the memory of his mother, her face fading with each passing year, her voice a distant echo in the back of his mind.

Years passed, but the silence remained.

It wasn't until he was older, after years of struggle and survival, that he realized the full extent of the emptiness inside him. The world had hardened him, but the scars from his mother's death never truly healed. They simply became part of him, like a second skin that he couldn't shed.

But through it all, there was one thing he held onto. One thing that kept him moving forward, even when the weight of the world seemed unbearable.

Her last words, whispered through labored breaths, had stayed with him. "I love you, my son…"

And even now, as the chaos of the battle around him threatened to tear everything apart, he heard them again. His mother's voice, soft and tender, as though it had never left him.

"I love you, my son…"

It was her love that had kept him alive, that had given him the strength to keep fighting, even when everything seemed lost.

And then, suddenly, a different voice, one that had never been far from his thoughts, rang through his mind.

"You are my son too, Jareth."

The words weren't his mother's this time. They were the Goddess's. He felt them like a wave of warmth crashing over him, a sense of belonging, of being seen for the first time in his life. The Goddess, with her power, her grace—she knew his pain. She had watched him struggle, watched him survive all these years, just as she had watched over so many others.

"I know your memories," her voice echoed softly in his mind. "I know your sorrow, your loss. You have been through much, Jareth, but you are not alone. You are my son too."

Her words, spoken with such compassion, broke the last of the walls he had built up around his heart. Jareth's breath caught in his throat, the weight of the years of pain and loneliness crashing down on him as the tears he had long ago buried finally spilled over. His body trembled with the force of emotion, and for the first time in so long, he didn't feel alone.

"You are not alone," the Goddess continued. "I have chosen you. You are my son too, my chosen one."

Jareth's heart ached with this new understanding. The Goddess had not only chosen him to be a hero, to carry out the tasks before him. She had seen him—not just the warrior he had become, but the broken child he had been. She had embraced him, just as his mother had, just as any loving parent would.

For the first time in his life, Jareth understood. He was loved. He was cared for. And that love, that understanding, became the fire that burned in his chest.

The weight of the battle faded for a moment, and in that moment of clarity, Jareth knew what he had to do. The fight wasn't just for survival anymore—it was for those who had believed in him, for the Goddess who had chosen him as her son.

With renewed strength, he rose to his feet, his heart steady despite the battle that raged around him. He was not alone. He had never truly been alone.