A/N: Be sure to note the date at the top of the chapter. Chapter One was dated January 2, 2011.

Chapter Two: A New Life

423 Days (January 22, 1999)

Jareth sprawled in his throne, a battered paperback in his hands. The room was full of goblins; he was accustomed to the cacophony. There were patterns in the noise that after long enough had come to sound like music; those patterns had even inspired the occasional composition. He had worried about that, at first, but after a while he wrote it off as overactive imagination, or maybe just too much brainpower. He had never been able to learn not to think, but he could focus better if part of his mind was occupied with something else. He had been focused on the book, but at a break in the narrative, he allowed his mind to drift the direction it had so often wandered these past years.

Sarah. She was the only thing, the only person, he had ever been able to focus on to the exclusion of others, frequently with conversation and nearly always with her touch. He lay back, drawing a crystal into his free hand, and thought of her, finding her easily. She was with that dwarf, he saw, and frowned. They were playing some game that seemed to involve a great many semiprecious gemstones, and she was laughing, her eyes shining with pleasure.

Once, the sight would have darkened the room, but he had seen her laugh like that, and had been its cause, often enough in the past days to dampen the jealousy that once had nearly ruled him. And though part of him longed to have her near at every moment, balm for hundreds of years of loneliness and eleven years of silence, he knew also that they were better for these brief partings, and that she would be glad to see him, this evening, when he came for her. Today would be exceptionally Long, and so would the night be. And the night held the promise of things that dwarf was not built to imagine.

Sarah had been after him, recently, on the subject of the dwarf. "He could be a valuable ally," she had said, "if you two would get over disliking each other." The irritating thing was that he could not get the thought out of his head. The dwarf was the most complete personality in the Labyrinth, apart from Sarah and Jareth himself. He would never improve, but he was intelligent enough to recognize signs of decay. A useful ally, indeed, especially if Jareth ever had a reason to journey Above for any length of time.

Jareth was not accustomed to being wrong, but Sarah challenged him at every turn. It was frequently exhilarating, but often exhausting, and occasionally frustrating, especially when she was in the right.

Well. If the little scab wanted to make amends, Jareth would hear him out. He turned back to the book.

Nine hours, twenty-six minutes, and ten seconds later, he was deep into the book's climax when the sudden quiet of the room drew his attention. Then the whispers started: "the girl! The girl!" He waited to hear The One Who Asks Questions punctuate the cries with a heavy, "What girl?" before looking up. The One Who Knows the Answer hissed at him that it was "The girl who cuddles with the king, you fool," and Sarah looked briefly annoyed.

"Sarah." He extended a hand, drawing her attention, and she approached to take it, stepping carefully around the goblins in her way. It was endearing, the way she was so gentle with them, even when she was annoyed with them, and even though she knew that they did not object to being simply pushed around. She would be wonderful with children. He pushed away that painful thought, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the throne, and she leaned in for a kiss. She smelled like the outdoors, sunlight and old grass and dust, and she tasted of salt, of the honest sweat of exercise. For a moment everything else faded away, and there was only her; he thought he could spend eternity sampling her variety.

He pulled himself together as she snuggled into his shoulder, bringing the book around behind her head to continue reading. She sighed, and closed her eyes.

"This author builds an intriguing world," he said, his thoughts returning to the path they had been on before her entrance, "but he overburdens his story with obscure vocabulary." He frowned at the page. "I speak excellent English, but even I require context to discern what is intended by the description of these beings as 'ornately and garishly caparisoned like a royal cadre.' Additionally, the description would be more effective if it were more exact. He gains nothing by his verbosity."

"'Gains nothing by his verbosity?'" she parroted back. "I think he's rubbing off on you. What are you reading?" Sarah twisted around to look; he took the opportunity to plant a kiss behind her ear, enjoying the way she jumped and then leaned into him. "Ah. I have mixed feelings about that series… the world-building is great and the plot interesting, but the main character took it right off my re-read list. The rape…."

"He is not a good man," Jareth concurred, "but neither has the world been kind to him." The main character was a normal man, asked to take on a burden and a duty far beyond that which should have been demanded of him. Although Jareth knew that he himself had chosen to stay, had chosen this duty, he could relate. There had been times when he had resented his lot; many times. And even that act which caused her to despise the protagonist… Jareth would never tell Sarah how hard it had been to rein himself in, those tortuous days before she finally accepted him. All the sweeter, when she is willing, he had told himself, and do not give up eternity for the present; even then, waking in her bed, with her in his arms, had moved him like the sweetest torture, love and desire too long denied.

"Mm." Sarah laid her head against his shoulder again, and again he stopped to indulge in the softness of her body, against his; the warmth of her breath at his neck. My Sarah. His empty hand came up to stroke her back, and she snuggled closer, her nose pressing into the skin of his throat.

They stayed there, in silence, as he finished the book, another sixteen minutes and four seconds. He might have thought that Sarah slept, but for the fingers that occasionally stroked his chest, or played with the laces of his shirt, a minor distraction from the text. Still, he was content, if she was. She sat up when he shifted to put the book down.

"Well?" she asked.

"It is as I said before," he answered. The book bore strong marks of Tolkien's influence, as well as strong imagination on the author's part, and perhaps other fairly recent influences as well.

"But is there another link? Does it help?" She asked this after every story that he finished, even though most of the time, the answer was no.

"Have you seen anything in the Labyrinth which is reflected in this story?"

"I haven't, no, but you know it better than I do. And you know what you've recorded in your ledgers, over the years." It was true. He had piles of the things—more than he wanted to think about. The fact that he could not recall a specific, recent link did not mean the story was not or could not be connected to the Underground; his memory was good, but not infallible.

She was frowning at him. He leaned forward, and kissed her. She opened to him with a little sigh, sweet surrender, and all his worries and thoughts and even the ever-present, itchy timesense backed into the far corner of his mind as he let himself drown in her. My weakness. He lost himself in the feel of her soft lips, the caress of her tongue, a kiss that made demands and then answered them, but that also fanned the embers of that flame that had burned in him ever since her journey through his Labyrinth, ever since she had danced in his arms and looked at him with both innocence and desire. Mine. Before that dance, he had loved her; then and thereafter he also wanted.

Her hands came up to frame his face, her fingers stroking gently across his cheekbones and up into his hair, caressing his ears in passing, and he pressed her closer, hungry now. The book was forgotten; it fell from his hand, and he registered but ignored the squawk of protest from the goblin it bonked on the head as it fell behind the throne.

"Beloved," he breathed, against her lips. "Come." At the brief distraction, he noticed that the kiss had lasted eighty-seven seconds.

"Yes," she answered, and he transported them in the moment, catching her against his chest as she stumbled at the change in position. He loved this strength, this little power over her, that he could guide her, that he could keep her well and safe as they moved through space. Someday she might have that power as well; he wanted it and feared it in equal part. Mine. Mine.

He had brought her right to her bedroom; she never closed the doors, anymore. His hands stroked down her sides to cup her bottom, and she arched against him as he lowered his mouth to taste the skin of her throat, salt and heat and sweet softness. Her fingers curved against his back—she'd got under the hem of his shirt—and he groaned with pleasure as she touched and then dug into a tense muscle, soothing away a knot. She laughed, softly, and kissed his ear, supporting him with one arm around his waist as the other hand worked over him, seeking more sore spots. He helped her, leaning his arms on her bedpost for balance and support.

"Just lay down," she whispered, sliding her hands up to pull the shirt over his head. He was happy to be her slave, in this; he let his legs give out and dropped onto the bed on his stomach, as gracefully as he could manage. "It's the way you sprawl on that throne," she continued, her hands working slowly down his spine. "Have you ever thought to replace it with something more comfortable? Something with, say, padding?"

Had she asked him that before? Probably not. He tracked her fingers and counted seconds and noticed the soft cotton of her skirt against his bare skin. She wore skirts more often, the longer she stayed. He never asked, but she knew he preferred it. Two minutes and five seconds into her massage, she moved down and grabbed his buttocks, one in each hand, and he dismissed his pants and his boots with a lazy wave. She laughed, and pressed a kiss to the base of his spine, digging her fingers into the muscle. He did wear clothes with fastenings, now, sometimes, because she liked taking them off, but he hadn't thought to see her so early, today.

She leaned over his back, kissing the base of his neck, and he rolled, a little, to capture her with one arm, pushing her onto her back and leaning over her. One heel traced up his calf. She had kicked off her shoes. He kissed her again, rougher, more urgently.

A sense memory tingled, past the feeling of her lips. He had noted earlier that she smelled of dust and grass and sun and outdoors; he remembered now that this was how she had smelled the first time they made love. She had been in the Labyrinth that day, as well. She had been looking for him. It was the first time he had been the pursued, rather than pursuer. She chose me. It still astonished him.

They stand in the hall, where he had transported them, and she is pressed against him, standing far closer than the magic required. She had said she had something to tell him, but she seems frozen, or perhaps in no rush to move forward. Will she deny him again? No. She will tell him. After all the pain and hiding, the time for secrets is through. Forty-eight seconds, they have been standing here, and yet she does not move, she does not speak. But he can feel her growing tension, hear her pounding heart. Is she afraid?

No. Not fear. He is watching her eyes now, darkening, and she is staring at his mouth, not blinking. She is breathing faster, and her fingers tighten against his spine, and suddenly he finds himself not just willing for but actually fighting for control, fighting to stand still, to wait for her, to do anything other than shove her against the wall and fuck her until she likes it. Sixty-seven seconds, now.

He knows he is losing the battle, knows it shows in his face, but she shows no fear. It is more than his imagination; she wants this too. She wants him, too. Say your right words, beloved. Before I lose my mind. But knowing she wants him frays him just a little more, and like a wave crashing on the seashore he is moving to kiss her, even if she hates him for it, even if it destroys their tenuous happiness. But as his lips seek hers she moves, too, and then she is kissing him, fierce and relentless as the undertow, and nothing has been ruined, after all.

In his arms, Sarah gasped, her hands clenching at his shoulders as he stroked a thumb across her bare nipple. The only one who makes me lose time; even when I remember her I forget…. But it was catching up, now, seventy-three seconds he'd been remembering as he undressed her, as he drowned in her kisses, past and present mingled. He dropped his mouth to her breast, a moment, relishing the taste of warm sweet skin, the way the sensitive nipple puckered and changed at his attentions, the way Sarah rewarded him with a moan, her hand coming up to hold the back of his head.

"So beautiful, my love," he whispered as he dropped lower, removing her remaining clothing, breathing in the scent of her desire. He could taste her already, scent and memory, as he had tasted her that first day and so many days since.

He has never been this vulnerable, with another; never so lost, never so disarmed. He wants to tell her, wants her to know that more than loneliness moves him, that he has wanted her so long, that she is the most wondrous creature he knows, that he is hers forever. In some strange way his mind is clearing, now that she is kissing him back, now that she is holding him as tightly and as desperately as he holds her. He tries to say it, tries to tell her that they can stop, a little, if she wishes, but she will not permit it. Never did he imagine that she could be his match for passion. He cannot stop; she demands that he continue. Your slave, beloved. As ever. "Don't stop," she breathes, and he is lost.

"Don't stop!" she begged, her voice echoing his thoughts. His tongue had been working over her, two minutes and forty-six seconds, her arousal heavy and sweet in his mouth, on his chin, her hips thrusting, though he held her down. He pressed harder, holding her still, and resumed his attentions, drawing her to the edge of bliss, that edge he could hear in her voice, feel in her trembling thighs, see as her sex swelled with blood, taste again on his tongue. One more touch, with a bit of heat, and she was gone, over the edge, her scream music to his ears as her leg clenched behind his head, holding him in place. He could feel her muscles tense, and twitch, even as her leg released him and he rose to claim a kiss. She reached between them, as he moved, her hand closing around him, stroking gently. There, too, was a memory, that first caress that had nearly undone him, but he pushed it aside, this time; she deserved his full attention, when he made love to her. He would not be distracted by anyone, even their past.

He allowed her guide him close before he took over, hooking her leg up over his hip to ease his access and deepen the angle. He closed his eyes as he brought their bodies together, as she thrust up to help him; this was always wonderful, always new. Mine. Together. Always.

She smelled like sun, and sweat, and sex, now, as they lay, entangled in each other, on the rumpled covers of her bed.

"Mmm," she hummed, nuzzling into his neck, "I'm glad I came back early."

"Why did you? I expected to retrieve you later."

She shrugged, and snuggled closer. "You shouldn't have to come get me every day; it's not fair. And I want to learn more ways through the Labyrinth, which I don't if you're always popping me around. And…" she tucked her head into his neck, her arms and legs tightening around him, "I missed you."

I missed you. He kissed her hair; his fingers tightened where they rested on her arm, on her hip. I missed you.

"So," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. He rolled onto his back, as she looked down at him. "You never did tell me if there were any connections in that book." Ah, but neither had he said there was none. Had she caught it? "Even if there aren't Labyrinth connections, what about your Dreams, or other Underground links?" Still, he must disappoint her again.

"Nothing other than the obvious, and that tenuous at best."

"The obvious?" He waited. She would make the connection. "Oh, the ring."

"The ring." He nodded. "A true retelling of the Völsungasaga would serve much better. A mere ring of power is not enough to truly bring a story to my attention." The last such had been some one hundred and forty years ago; he had felt the connection, and done his best to encourage it, but he had not been able to get Above, to hear the work itself. It was harder, when the connected kingdom was gone.

"Are you going upstairs tonight?" she asked, pulling him away from faint memories of his family's home, where he had spent so little time.

"I am. The author lives, unlike your Tolkien; perhaps I can reach him." It was still afternoon in America, where the man resided. She began to sit up, but he stopped her, pulling her down again. "We have a few hours yet, beloved."

Save your plans for longer days; they will keep, he had told her, the night she had returned to him. If only they could save them forever; if only they could simply be.

A/N: So, does anyone know what book Jareth was reading? Don't worry; we aren't going to review everything Sarah brought back with her. Still, if you can guess, you get a virtual cookie, or possibly a bigger prize, if only one or two people know it.

The Völsungasaga is one of the two major epic poems and myths which are the source of the material for Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle operas; the other is the Nibelungenlied. They both contain several characters out of Norse myth.

On updates: I know I said this would be the 28th, but I won't be able to get to a computer tomorrow or Friday, so I figured early was better than late. The next update will be January 4, 2013.