A/N – It's been five months since I updated this? I'm very sorry, but I wanted to get Footprints out of the way. Now that it's finished, I can concentrate on other stories. This chapter is only short, but I thought that any update would be better than nothing at all.

To make up for the short chapter, I have included a list of characters at the end. Hopefully it will be of some use.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue me.

Chapter 9

"I wish that Aethan would come and take me away, right now!"

The words cut like iron through Jareth's mind, jagged and vicious, weakening and demoralising, just as, no doubt, his lord father had intended. Gods damn her, that she would believe Aethan's smooth lies over everything that Jareth had ever offered her…

Suddenly, the pain was more than just mental – he looked down at his hand, clenched and white-knuckled, blood welling up where his fingernails had bit into his palm. Quite deliberately, he made himself relax his grip, loosen the tension in his body and in his mind, and slowly, incrementally, rein in the temper that was such a curse, even now.

Far off in the distance he felt the unmistakable signs of a powerful Fae crossing over, tracked with his eyes – although he could not possibly see it – the way his father took, the way he would return, with her.

He could not resist the temptation of a crystal, but before he could look inside, a messenger tapped tentatively on his door, bowing, saying that Lord Bran wished him to see something, down near the castle gates. Banishing the crystal – and all that it represented – before his good sense could be overcome, he left his brooding behind and went out to see what had Bran so troubled.

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Bran watched him come down the stairs, wondering at his skill in dissemblance; the girl's words had echoed throughout the whole kingdom, free for all to hear, and yet not a single hint of displeasure showed on the King's face. One would think, watching him, that he was not in the least put out about the girl's choice of protectors - 

Bran sighed. Perhaps that was not the most appropriate word. To be fair, the girl was not conversant with all the customs of the Underground, or what interpretations would arise when she so boldly Called upon Aethan…

"What's going on, Bran?" Jareth demanded impatiently. Ignoring his testiness because he understood the cause, Bran took no offence, merely stepping aside to let Jareth see something that should be self-evident.

There was a creature cowering on the ground, flinching in fear from the spears of the two guards – sidhe Exiles, not Goblins – standing over it; when Jareth came into view it lifted its head pathetically, whimpering fearfully. But when he showed no signs of giving in to compassion, the pathetic plea in its eyes turned to feral hatred, all the fear morphed into rage, and it spat poisonously before a spear butt caught it in the gut, sending it back, writhing and hissing, to the ground.

Languidly, the King lifted a hand to stop the guards from chastising it further and examined it with what seemed to be casual disinterest. Contrary to Aboveground legend, denizens of the Unseelie were not hideously twisted and misshapen, but nor were they fair to look on, according to the standards of the Seelie. They possessed a beauty all of their own. However, faced with the shining glory of Jareth, Bran and two other sidhe, the creature seemed ugly, and was all too aware of it.

"A hag," Jareth said flatly. "I have not seen one in centuries…"

"Certainly not so far south of Winter," Bran added, eyeing Jareth askance. He knew that tone of voice, and it boded absolutely no good…

Jareth stared down for a few moments at the captured hag. It – she? – glared sullenly back, jealous of his light and beauty. "Who sent you," he finally began, "and for what reason?"

No answer.

A short, peremptory gesture, and the guards moved in; a few blows, a few kicks, and a few well placed fists later, and the hag was far more cooperative. Again, the quiet, implacable question came. "Who sent you, and for what reason?"

Still no answer, but the defiance was strained, now.

The casual, detached mask hardened, the eyes glittered cruelly, and the two guards took a few cautious steps back from their own Lord. A fluid gesture, a clenched fist, and crystal shards rained down upon the wretched hag, and it screamed…

Bran remained carefully – rigidly – impassive, but Jareth watched avidly, enjoying the legitimate outlet for an earlier rage. Eventually, the screaming stopped, and the hag – babbling with relief and eagerness to please – told him everything he wanted to know, and a great deal more besides.

When he was finally finished, the hag crawled over to Jareth's feet and rained kisses on his boots, whimpering and pleading brokenly. Brushing it off, he turned and headed back into the castle, leaving Bran to deal with the leftover mess.

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Sarah stood at the entrance to Aethan's country estate in the heart of the Summer Country and stared in awe at the garden, a vivid tumble of colour running riot, overflowing with a mixture of heavy, intoxicating scents that hung in the air almost tangibly. The house itself was small, cosy, and quaint – it was every fantasy she'd ever had about an English cottage, but even more beautiful and magical than she could have imagined.

Aethan himself had preceded her through the gate, and when he turned back to see what had distracted her, he was struck by the picture she made, standing there with such innocent, delighted eyes. Thousands of years ago, another woman had stood where she did, with just such an expression on her face, and he had known that he would never love another as he had loved her…

For the first time he could see what Jareth saw in this mortal woman.

"Please," he said, intruding as gently as he could on her wonder, "come inside and tell me why you have summoned me."

The joy in her eyes was replaced with scepticism, but she stepped over the threshold willingly enough. "My brother has been taken," she said bluntly. "I want him back." There was iron-hard determination in her voice, and in her stance. He could not help but admire it.

Nevertheless, his sense of humour came to the fore. "I assure you, I did not take him."

She scowled impatiently, dismissing his flippancy. "I know that. But you can help me find him."

"You know where he is?" She seemed so very certain that it piqued his curiosity. How had she found out? What price had she paid for such knowledge?

"Yes," Sarah said, frowning. "It is a place called Winter's Stronghold."

Winter's Stronghold? Of course…!

She saw it – saw the split second of surprise and realisation, instantly covered over. Aethan was not sure that he quite liked knowing she could read him so easily. 

"You know where it is?" she asked, a mixture of relief and curiosity in her voice.

He sighed. "Yes, I know it."

He watched the resolve form in her eyes, but before he said anything further – and before she could voice the inevitable request – he moved further into the house, into an elegant sitting room. Pulling on a cord, he sat down and invited her to do the same, easy, elegant grace in every movement he made. They settled into their chairs, Aethan keeping the conversation to small talk, now, ignoring the signs of Sarah's frustration.

The servants having been given a day off, it was left to Huw to come in with the tea tray, and if he resented the role Aethan's need for discretion forced him to play, he showed no sign of it. Dispensing cups of tea with all the gracious expertise of long practice, he took one of his own and settled into a chair to join the discussion, just as he had been ordered to.

Sarah scowled at Huw as Aethan introduced him, but was oddly reassured by his almost-human appearance, soothed by the small sign of normality in this strange land.

"Huw," Aethan drawled dryly, "this is the Lady Sarah. Her brother has been taken and she has come to me for assistance."

Huw raised a brow, took a polite sip of tea. "Surely we have no influence in the Goblin Kingdom…"

"It was not him," Sarah interjected tautly. "She said he was taken to a place called Winter's Stronghold."

There was a slight pause, and then Huw – blithely dismissing the revelation of Unseelie involvement in this affair – seized on a very interesting point. "She?"

Sarah explained.

Aethan closed his eyes and rubbed wearily at the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the onset of a headache.

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The boy was quiet, now, his eyes huge in his face – he had grown up; of course he would not so trusting as he would have been as a babe, ten years ago. Nevertheless, the power was there, subdued and submerged by the boy's fear. He could feel it, like warmth beneath his skin, pulsing weakly with every rapid beat of the boy's heart…

"Hello, Toby," he said. "Welcome to Winter."

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A/N – Character list:

SARAH and TOBY – hopefully we all know who they are.

JARETH – Goblin King; former youngest and best-beloved son (disowned) of Aethan.

BRAN – Jareth's right hand and second in command.

OWEN and CAEDE – brothers; members of the Exiles – renegades and pariahs to whom Jareth gives asylum in return for allegiance.

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AETHAN – the shadowy main counsellor of Cormack Ruagh, the King of the Seelie. Father of Jareth.

HUW – Aethan's aide.

A Nameless Sidhe Baron – useful to Aethan's plans, eliminated when no longer needed.

CORMACK RUAGH – the King of the Seelie, King of Summer.

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The Messenger – an emissary of the High King.

The High King – Dante Andenais, the High King of the Underground. A figurehead, and effectively powerless – for now.

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The Anonymous Kidnapper – a third player, an ambitious denizen of Winter, of the Unseelie.

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The Winged Lady of the Bridge – a wild card.