Aiiie. This was a long time coming, and rather short, and slightly different in tone, and… the next chapter is a toughie. Thanks to those who've not given up on me yet!

Many thanks to Lixxle who beta'd and worked some of her magic on this chapter. As should be fairly obvious.

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Fact one : The Goblin King was a dangerous, devious, complicated adversary with preternatural powers

Fact two : Jareth was a petty, infuriating, pain in the butt, Sarah thought viciously.

This was all his fault. She just knew it.

Because seriously, seriously, what were the odds that this one particular morning, half the tittering, dirty, grinning Goblins in the castle seemed to be gathered in the one corridor that lead to the throne room – she could see it, straight ahead and a few steps down through a stone archway, some thirty feet away - and were all clustered together, like small, faintly malevolent and rather novel-looking garden gnomes, and completely bunging it up to make way for...

"A chicken race?" Sarah repeated flatly.

The goblins all nodded excitedly. One pulled a finger from his left nostril with a wet popping sound and used it to point to a greasy string of sausages near Sarah's bare feet.

"That's the start," he said helpfully. "And that's the finish," he said, pointing to a rather pathetic strand of very old and chewed up Christmas tree tinsel at the end of the corridor. When he smiled, rather proudly, Sarah noticed bits of tinsel sticking out from between his yellow front teeth.

Sarah looked around at the chaos and crossed her arms over her chest. "And you just happen to be having the chicken race today," she said suspiciously.

They nodded simultaneously.

"Right this moment."

They nodded again.

"In this corridor."

Another collective nod. A too-large tin helmet that had a look of the common collander about it fell to the floor with a metallic boink.

"You wanna bet?" asked a squinty-eyed goblin.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Bet?"

Squinty nodded. "You choose what chicken will win. Dere's chicken one, chicken two, chicken gaggle, chicken too many, chicken headache.."

A graduate of the King's College of Goblin Mathematics, obviously.

Sarah looked down at the chickens. Overall they seemed unaware that they were meant to be racing; one was asleep, two were making a break for the staircase, and another was pecking happily at a small puddle of ale, swaying rather unsteadily on her feet, and clucking what sounded suspiciously like a sea shanty. Only one seemed ready to race; she was eyeing the finish line intently while sharpening her beak on the stone floor.

In spite of her rather stressful predicament, Sarah's curiosity got the best of her.

"What about that one?" She said pointing to the intense, beak-sharpening chicken.

There was a collective shudder. "… Rosalinda"

A goblin reached over to pat Rosalinda on the head. She rewarded him by going for his jugular.

Sarah studiously ignored the carnage and turned to the goblins who weren't getting mauled by poultry. "So, you guys can actually tell them apart?"

Squinty squinted. "Tell what apart?"

Sarah blinked. "The er, chickens. So you know which one wins?"

The goblins exchanged perplexed looks. "The one that wins is the winner chicken," one pointed out, in a slow and careful tone.

It seemed a bit embarrassed on her account for being so very slow, and patted her rather consolingly on the ankle.

"I… right."

I am getting talked down to by knee-height creatures whose overall intelligence varies between that of mouldy cheese and selectively inbred guppies, Sarah noted disbelievingly.

Obviously, it was going to be one of those mornings.

Squinty tapped her on the knee. "Go on, bet. You's can win the choklit."

A grubby fist held up what, in another life, may had been a Mars Bar. It had been melted and re-melted an infinite number of times and was now curled up into the chocolate bar equivalent of the foetal position. Overall, it looked about as appetizing as a paperweight dipped in earwax, but the goblins cooed over it reverently. Sarah carefully filed away that piece of information. Should she ever want to ferment a palace revolt and turn Jareth's idiotic minions against him, a trip to the nearest candy store ought to be enough to guarantee her role in goblin history.

… That's assuming I even get out of here in time, and he takes me back Above…

"Or you can get mystery prize."

Sarah blinked and focused again on Squinty. He was holding up a large stripy sock that contained something that was wriggly and smelt like an odd combination of salmon and running shoes.

"What is it?" Curiously, Sarah poked the wriggly sock with her finger.

"AGHH!" yelled the contents of the sock. "Enough pokeypokey-edy wakka wakka, you freakin' ass monkey-.."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Hey! It's a-"

"—mystery prize," Squinty supplied helpfully.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "No, it's a—"

"MYSTERY PRIZE!" the goblins yelled, their hands over their ears.

Sarah willed herself calm, and reminded herself that she'd beaten the whole damn Labyrinth when she was fifteen. All she had to do was apply corkscrew goblin thinking to the situation.

And the throne room was one clear dash away, once she got past the goblins…

"Fine. Can I join in the race?"

"You?" asked Squinty incredulously.

"Yes."

There were frowning looks of confusion. Sarah was beginning to understand why she'd felt that Jareth had pestered her all the way through her run back in the day. Even her bratty fifteen-year-old self must have been a welcome change to this lot.

Squinty frowned. "This's chicken race."

Watching the goblin visibly struggle to make the logical connections was like watching a dull series on America's Funniest Home Videos: in fact, only very slightly funny, and painfully slow in reaching the blatantly inevitable conclusion.

A goblin with a face like an unfortunate root vegetable looked at her up and down. "…You ain't no chicken."

The goblins surrounded the obvious genius who had spoken up muttered and 'oohed', proud of their brilliant comrade and glad that someone had pinpointed the problem.

"Yeah!"

"Thas'right."

"No feathers."

"Not a chikkin."

"Notachikkin can't race in chicken race!!"

Sarah smiled, her most chicken-y smile. "Course I am! I'm black, see?" she said, plucking at Jareth's silky shirt. Convenient, that…

A few goblins cast thoughtful looks between her and the, indeed, dark-coloured birds currently wandering aimlessly over the flagstones.

The same skinny swede-faced goblin spoke up. "You're not a chicken, you're…" he waved vaguely in the universal sign for a female figure with serious balance problems.

Sarah discreetly but sharply kicked away one pudgy goblin whose confused scrutiny was bringing him far too close to her. Nothing like being peered up at by two dozen grubby critters, most of them under two feet tall, to make a girl feel sassy and confident in no knickers.

Still… She tossed her head and folded her arms, giving the goblins her best snooty Goblin King impression.

"I'm a queen chicken. We look different. The Goblin King doesn't look like you, does he?"

That one seemed to have some effect.

One goblin nodded, convinced. "Goblin King's tall. Chikin Queen's tall."

That sealed it. The rest of the crowd nodded, accepting the logic.

That is, all except Turnip-face who gave her a suspicious squint.

"Really?"

Sarah was mildly impressed. Her eyes narrowed in a look that Toby would have recognized as "That's IT, young man, Playtime Is Over".

"Cluck. Cluck," she grated out.

If, before becoming the small retarded farm poultry familiar to mankind, the chicken had a wild, giant ancestor, that strutted fearlessly through the prehistoric jungles with razor-sharp beak and a murderous glint in its beady eye, and whose 'cluck' struck terror into the heart of our shaggy forefathers – that was the kind of chicken Sarah sounded like.

And a cranky one, at that.

The goblins, as a whole, backed away. The chicken they had designated as Rosalinda looked up, intrigued.

Sarah figured it was as good a chance as any.

Bursting into action, she jumped over the last few reluctant Goblins ( - oh gods I've just flashed them, haven't I? - ) rushed through the startled chickens (narrowly avoiding getting her leg pecked by aforementioned Rosalinda) and dashed down the corridor.

There were sounds of panicked squawking, and goblin confusion going on behind her.

"Hey! You can't go yet!"

"You has to wait till we yell 'ready set chicken!'"

"I bets on queen chikin!!"

"Not fair!"

"Run, chikin queen! RUUUUUNNNNNN!"

This is all Jareth's fault, Sarah cursed mentally, in time to her running. And I am going to kill him.

****

She stumbled into the empty throne room. After the jabbering ruckus in the corridor, now out of earshot behind her, it was a haven of tranquil goblinless-ness. Dust drifted lazily through shafts of honeyed morning sunshine, coming in through odd cookie-cutter shape holes punched in the stone walls and ceiling. Threadbare cushions, sticks, crockery, bits of battered armour, fluff and black feathers… lay abandoned carelessly here and there in uneven piles, looking a bit forlorn. Sarah scanned the central pit and the queer hatches and niches and outcrops along the walls warily; but all in the tall room was quite still and silent. It seemed well and truly deserted. The thought brushed Sarah that this was perhaps a bit odd, but then she saw what she was looking for.

Still catching her breath after her reckless dash, she padded across the rough, dirty flagstones towards the stone diais and its bizarre throne. She'd only glimpsed it, the first time she'd come through the castle, on her hurried way to that crazy Escher room… Mounting the large stone steps, Sarah couldn't refrain from running a curious hand along the curved frame. Whatever creature had provided the single element of polished ivory that made up the back and arms of the Goblin King's throne was just yet another Labyrinthine mystery. As was the fact that His Highness didn't seem to have any cushions or padding on the stone seat – a fact that Sarah, having once sat through a three-hour theatre performance in a reconstructed Roman auditorium, figured was an extremely poor royal decision and, along with what she had just sampled of his subjects, probably went some way into explaining Jareth's general bad disposition.

The conjured mental vision of Jareth glowering on his throne made her a bit nervous, and reminded her of her very uncertain position at present. She left off her examination of the seat to finally look past the diais at the worn velvet drape on the wall behind it, and what she had caught sight of from across the room, in shadows and just visible below a fall of cloth: the large, dark bronze clock face…

The dry sound of hands slowly clapping rang out sharp and mocking in the stillness. Sarah jumped and whirled around.

"I'm terribly impressed, Sarah. Up all night, and still in top form and winning the annual chicken dash championships?"

Jareth smiled at her from across the empty room, leaning against the now-closed door to the corridor she'd arrived from.

"And congratulations on your sudden promotion to poultry royalty," he added amiably.

Standing stock still, in his far-too-revealing-on-her silk shirt, Sarah stared back at him, hands unconsciously curling into fists, half a dozen different hot emotions boiling in her.

Time-wise, she now knew she was safe, to her very great relief; although it had been a rather close call, that was one victory over him, which meant she could handle this confrontation equally …but then there was that infuriating smirk of his that drove her nuts, and there was that hot way "up all night" had sounded in his voice, and there was the fact she was now distractingly remembering what he was referring to, and the fact his shirt really was too short on her and he was clearly enjoying the view, and the fact that he was such a taunting and aggravating bastard and that it was all his fault that she was stranded half-naked and that she'd had to argue with goblins and race with chickens and to top it all off -

"…Like you didn't have _any_ other shirts", she grated out furiously.

His pale hair glowing white where it caught the sunshine, Jareth grinned lazily, lounging in the doorway in his back heeled boots and black leggings, with his arms crossed, and his bronze pendant resting insolently on his otherwise bare chest.

"It just so happens I felt a particular desire for that one this morning."

Sarah's thoughts were running a swift riff along "YUM." through "ack, that is not playing fair…" and "like he couldn't just snap his fingers – OOH, that_provoking_aggravating_ son_of_a_...GAH!!".

She took a deep breath to master her exasperation. "Well, I'd like my own clothes back before I leave, please, Jareth."

"Before you leave, hmm." Jareth began to walk casually towards her, sparing the clock behind her a brief, dispassionate glance. Sarah watched him warily as he mounted the steps to join her up on the diais and, in one fluid movement, poured himself onto the throne. He looked far more comfortable than was right for someone sprawled on bare stone and bone, and a sense of ease and unquestioned power settled about him like any royal ermine cloak. Sarah found herself facing the lose-lose dilemna of stepping back and down a step away from him, or standing her ground, rather unnervingly close to Jareth's lanky, feline body on the seat and his… smile. She stubbornly chose the latter.

Jareth, somehow managing to slouch gracefully, nodded towards the clock and gave her a rather cool look.

"You still have to bear with me for a little while yet."

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AN. Oh, they are off again. They are so off again.

Cut scene by Lixxle I really had to share – I quote - Jareth bound (naked with very itchy rope), and dragged away (roughly...over pointy rocks and sharp appendage-damaging sticks) by fieries, yelling "My kingdom for a Snickers!".