The crying is driving her crazy. It's like nothing she's ever heard before. Loud, high-pitched wails bounce down the hallway with chaotic force and assault her ear, even though she has shut her door with a vow not to hear. She's seated at her vanity table, staring into the mirror. The noise causes her lips to press themselves into an angry pucker. The muscles she uses to form the expression actually ache with her intensity. She glares at herself, then through herself, the reflection of her eyes flashing back at her, urging her to put an end to this.

The reflection, and the overlapping laughter that doesn't sound quite human. Then, she hears a whisper, soft and seductive.

'Are you an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby?'

She jerks her head to look at the photo taped to the bottom corner of her mirror: Sarah with her mother and Jeremy. She would swear that was where the voice had come from, but the picture is just a picture, flat and silent, showing the impish smile forever frozen on her lips while Jeremy and her mother gaze down at her with loving looks.

Loving.

Now, there's a laugh.

Frustrated, she rises and paces, then notices something is amiss. Lancelot. His cubby is empty. Her favorite bear is missing.

(She thinks about the first time she ever saw Lancelot. As her mother was introducing her to Jeremy, he'd brought a gift out from behind his back with a smile, saying, 'I'm told little girls are fond of teddies.')

Her rage is blinding and she grabs the nearest object, a music box topped by a figurine dressed in a shimmering ball gown. The white-clad lady will twirl in time with tinkling music when the key is wound, but she is still and quiet now.

As quiet as the grave.

The music box had been a gift as well; a recent birthday present from her mother, arriving in the mail nearly three weeks late with a small note ('Sorry I can't be there, darling. We're in Italy another month at least. Jeremy sends his love'). It's a thing for a younger child, really, with its spinning doll and tinny tune; something Sarah is too old for, though she often thinks her mother only remembers her as the little girl she left behind rather than the teenager she is. With a shriek, Sarah hurls the box against the mirror, shattering her own snarling reflection and causing the figurine to snap off its heavy base. The white lady comes to rest atop a bed of ruined shards and stares up at Sarah.

"You have no power over me," the girl whispers. Only that faint, inhuman laughter answers her.

The next thing she knows, she's gawping at the empty crib, unsure how she even got to her parents' room, or when. Toby is gone but the laughter remains. A stranger stands before her, tall and imposing amid a shower of glittering glass which has burst from the panes of the French doors and turned to sparkling dust. Lightning flashes behind him and Sarah gasps.

"You're him, aren't you?" she asks in tremoring tones.

Sarah bolts upright, panting, patting wildly at the bed around her. "Toby!" she calls, breathless. She whips her head back and forth, searching, but she's alone. Dreams that feel more like memories begin to dim in her head and she remembers where she is.

"Just a dream," she murmurs to herself, over and over. "Just a dream. Just a dream."

Her heart thuds dully in her chest as she reaches toward her bedside table, running her fingers over the top until she feels them graze what she wants: her locket. Clasping it, she drops back down to her mattress, her head cushioned by her goose down pillow. She holds the locket before her and opens it. It is lit from within, part of the enchantment it bears, so that she has no trouble seeing Toby's face as he smiles back at her, all ruddy-cheeked and tow-headed.

His eyes are changeable, alternately blue, then green, just like the waters of Antigua.

Like July.

Like his father.

"Tobias," she whispers, and smiles sadly to herself.

The queen stares at the picture until the sunrise through her window lightens her room and her goblin servants arrive to dress her for the day. She insists on wearing the locket, though altogether different jewels have been set out to complement her gown. She waves them away and fastens the necklace herself.

"Where is the king this morning?" she asks Sir Didymus later, as he is escorting her to the throne room where her petitioners await. The fox-terrier seems perplexed at first.

"My queen, he is still on his tour of the border fortresses in the south. He is not due back for at least another fortnight."

Sarah squints. "How long has he been gone?"

"Nigh on a month now, your majesty. Are you… do you feel quite well?" His tone is touched with worry. "You have only to command me, and I shall be happy to dismiss the petitioners and…"

"No, I'm fine," she assures her faithful knight, and the locket feels heavy against her breastbone where it rests. A month? Her brows draw together as she tries to recall it, but all she seems to remember is a strange, narrow bed in a plain room. (That's not all, that's not all, you liar. The mirror and the crib…) Sarah shakes her head. It makes no sense at all. She tells herself it's only her strange nightmares which have her out of sorts.

"As you say, my queen," the knight replies and though Sarah can practically feel the skepticism radiating from his body, he bows as she ascends the thirteen steps to her throne.

That afternoon, Sarah walks through the gardens with a pair of Jareth's wolf-guards trailing a respectful distance behind her. Her mind dwells on her latest dream. When she closes her eyes and pictures herself sitting at her small vanity, it's almost as if she's really there, staring into that mirror again, her reflection surrounded by the two-dimensional testaments to a glamourous life, mementos taped around the edges of what her eyes can see.

Smiling, smiling. Perfect white teeth, eyes like July rendered in shades of gray. Printed praise and accolades. 'Opening Night Triumph for Broadway's Brightest Stars.'

Triumph.

The queen opens her eyes and continues to drift, fingers absently grazing petals, thorns, moss, her eyes on the path ahead. She moves through a little-used iron gate set in a high stone wall, the east entrance to his majesty's private garden. She wishes to see what wonders it holds today (this garden is as inconstant as the king himself, sometimes almost frighteningly beautiful, and at other times, as bleak and forlorn as the blackest of Jareth's moods). When she pushes through, it appears as if smooth stones are all that grow there now. Gone are the colorful blooms that spring from the ground and cascade down the walls, wafting their sweet fragrance through the air. Instead, gray granite slabs in neat rows fill the garden and as she draws nearer, she realizes what they are.

Gravestones.

Her heart skips and flutters, and she halts, one tingling hand reaching up and clutching at her locket. She doesn't understand.

"My queen…" a guard calls from behind her, but she ignores him and walks on, her pace quickening to keep ahead of her escort because she must see. She has to, and she does not wish to be stopped before she can. The guard shouts at her once again, imploring her to turn back, and she begins to run, entering the field of stone and plunging toward its center, the hem of her gown whipping the identical markers as she passes them.

The headstones' appearance and arrangement remind her of a military burial ground, all sharp lines and order, each stone precisely placed; each a carbon copy of the next. All save one. There, at the center of the yard, stands a unique monument, one that dwarfs all the others. Rather than a plain, flat slab, this one has shape, and bulk, and art. The uniform headstones climb only to the height of Sarah's knees, but this one, well, its white marble base alone reaches her waist. Rising from the base is a sort of low lectern or altar. Draped over the altar is an angel, her head bowed in grief, her arm thrown across her eyes.

She has seen something like this before, in another life. On a school field trip, perhaps, to an historic cemetery. The memory is fleeting, and when she tries to grasp at it, it dissolves and she can't be sure it's even a memory at all.

Sarah rounds the monument; she has approached it from behind. When she faces it head-on, she sees there is an engraving on the base.

Tread carefully, it reads, for here lies one loved beyond measure, a most cherished son.

Tobias.

She gasps and stumbles backwards until her heels strike one of the smaller stones and then she falls to her knees, staring up at the angel whose face is hidden from her.

"Oh!" Sarah cries. "Oh!" Her hands fly to her mouth as if to stop her from saying something she will regret. She sees the earth near the base of the monument is disturbed, like it has been recently dug up. And then she remembers it has been; that she had clawed at this very ground with her fingers not so long ago. Only then, she had been digging at the base of a cluster of bowing peonies, not this marble statue.

"My queen," one of the wolf-guards says, extending a paw to her, "let me be of service."

She swallows and accepts the paw, allowing the guard to pull her to her feet. As he leads her around the monument and back toward the iron gate, she glances at the statue only to see the angel's head is no longer bowed with her face hidden, but has turned so that her cheek rests against the cold marble of the altar. She is looking at the queen, her face plainly visible now.

And the face which stares back at Sarah is her own.

Sarah trembles, and the gravestones begin to swirl slowly about the garden as the ground shifts beneath her feet. She has time to wonder if this is perhaps an earthquake, or if some sort of whirlpool is forming around her, and then her world goes black.

"Don't tell your mother I let you have champagne," Jeremy says, winking at Sarah. He's slipped her a glass, one of those narrow, crystal stems used for bubbly wines.

"Oh, she won't mind," the girl replies, taking a sip and giggling. "It's Dad you have to worry about."

"Then definitely don't tell your father," Jeremy laughs.

They are at a party, held in one of those old New York homes that have been in the same family for generations. It's a producer's house, or an investor's. Sarah has never really been sure what the difference is. The play has been a smashing success and everyone whose anyone in the theater world has turned out to toast Linda and Jeremy and the director and anyone else remotely connected to the show. Sarah is along for the ride.

She'd wandered through seemingly endless connected drawing rooms and parlors, admiring the art on display and exchanging pleasantries with the various guests who recognized her as Linda Williams' daughter. At last, Sarah had found herself quite lost, and so she remains, until Jeremy discovers her and gives her the champagne. She doesn't tell him that she's already had a glass. Or, two. Her cheeks feel quite warm and her toes are numb.

"I'm very good at keeping secrets," she tells him in a stage whisper, then cocks an eyebrow as she grins at him.

Sarah feels bold tonight. Perhaps it's the champagne, or perhaps it's the way her borrowed silver cocktail dress clings to her and makes her feel so grown up. Perhaps it's the heels she's wearing, strappy and glittering. She'd only bought them that morning after Linda had pressed a credit card into her hand and sent her on her way, telling her that under no circumstances was she to wear those ratty ballet flats she'd brought in her overnight case.

"Are you indeed?" Jeremy asks, and steps closer, using a finger to sweep a lock of hair from her forehead. Sarah's pulse quickens at the touch. She swallows.

"Yes," she replies, but it comes out more like a question. He's looking down at her with his changeable eyes and she cannot tell if he's annoyed or amused or… intrigued. His hand drifts down to her shoulder and his warm palm rests there as his thumb softly traces the path of her silver spaghetti strap. It's slightly loose because she's a size smaller than her mother, and a bit shorter, even in her new heels.

"Perhaps we'll see," he murmurs. "Later."

Sarah turns her head away and finishes her champagne.

"I've sent word," a familiar voice says. It sounds as if it drifts in from another room and it catches Sarah's attention. She leaves Jeremy and tries to follow the voice. "He must come."

"I don't know if that's a wise idea, he needs to…"

"He must come."

"Yes, well, no doubt he will, and duty be damned."

"She is his duty."

"But not, I think, his only one."

Sarah has wandered into a dark corridor, following the voices, but whoever is speaking seems to drift ahead of her, just out of sight. A pinprick of light appears in the distance and she aims for it. It grows larger as she approaches and soon, she sees it is a door. It is open into a well-lit space. She steps through.

She emerges into Dr. Prevarant's office. Squinting, she looks down at her feet but instead of her new silver shoes, she sees white cotton socks peering out from open-toed slides.

"Sarah," her psychiatrist greets, "right on time."

She looks at him, but it's not him. Or, rather, it is, but he's not disguised any longer. Gone is the neat blonde ponytail. Gone is the starched white coat. The Goblin King sits in the executive office chair, clad in his blue velvet frock coat with the almost comically high collar. His hair defies gravity as it sprouts off his crown like the starburst halo around a saint's head in a religious painting.

Saint Jareth, patron saint of goblins and girls who waste their days dreaming of romantic nonsense.

"Why are you here?" Sarah demands sharply.

"Well, you tell me, precious. You brought me here."

"Me? I didn't…"

"Oh, but you did, Sarah."

She moves forward, her footfalls silent on the commercial carpeting. When she reaches the desk, she drops into one of the chairs set before it, as she has done a thousand times before. As she does, she notices Jareth has been reading something. A book lays open on the desk before him.

It's her old journal! The one the doctor had kept locked in his desk drawer!

"You have no right to read that!" she cries. He answers her with an infuriating smirk.

"Don't I? It seems it's almost entirely about me."

"That's not even true," she hisses, snatching for the notebook. Jareth sweeps it out of her reach with one gloved hand, making that annoying 'tsk' sound as he does.

"Sarah, where are your manners?" He raises one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow in admonishment, then holds the book out before his face in dramatic fashion. "And you should know, you can't lie to me, darling. Look, just here, you write, 'I thought he was going to kiss me then and there, but he didn't. Part of me was relieved, but another part of me was disappointed.' And then, further down the page, you write…"

"That's not about you!"

"Isn't it?"

She glares up at him, but he's not him anymore. He's Dr. Prevarant. In place of Jareth's cruel smirk, the doctor wears a look of concern.

"Sarah," the psychiatrist says in a soothing tone, "it's only natural for you to be angry. You don't have to be afraid to express it. Not here. What your mother did…"

"What my mother did?" the girl echoes, incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

"The way she treated you. The way she made you feel. It's no wonder you sought approval elsewhere. But what happened to you wasn't right or fair. It's okay to acknowledge that."

"My mother loved me!" Sarah shrieks, but even she can hear the desperation in her voice.

"What's not to love?" Jeremy whispers. "My bright, pretty girl."

He's close, so close it's hard to tell where he ends and she begins. She's crying a little; she doesn't know why. He's so warm, and he holds her tight. It feels good to be wanted. It feels good to be held. But a part of her is ashamed. And a part of her is afraid. She sniffs, her breath hitching.

Won't her mother be angry?

"Hush, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips pressing against hers. His fingers slide into her hair and he pulls her head back, exposing her neck. His lips trail there, and he whispers again, "Hush."

"You were angry, Sarah. You were angry with her, and with him, too," Dr. Prevarant is saying. "And you had every right to be."

Sarah shakes her head and sits up straight, grasping the edge of the doctor's desk. "How can I be angry with her? I'm just like her. Everyone says so."

"No, Sarah. You are nothing like her. If you were, you wouldn't have needed her so badly."

She bites her lip, staring down at her lap as she considers the doctor's words. When she looks back up, she's staring into Jareth's face once again.

"But what I did…" she starts.

The king smiles indulgently and shrugs. "What did you do, precious? What could you ever have done that would've compared to her sins?"

"Her sins?"

"She sacrificed her only child on the altar of fame."

"And what did I do?" Sarah whispers hoarsely.

"What you did was mercy."

"I'm the bad thing," she continues as though she hasn't heard him, staring down at her hands. Her palms and fingers are crisscrossed with cuts, some deep, some shallow. The blood has long since dried.

"No!" Jareth roars.

Sarah jumps, but she cannot stand. She's tethered, somehow, and she cannot rise from the chair.

She blinks away the bleariness and stares at her wrists, fastened to the wooden arms of a chair. She feels as though she is emerging from a deep sleep, like some enchanted princess in a fairytale. Soft restraints hold her in place. With effort, she lifts her head and looks around.

"Ah, good morning, Miss Williams!" a chipper voice calls. "It's nice to see you awake." The voice belongs to a nurse in scrubs. She's holding a clipboard and jotting notes on it. Sarah can hear the way the ball point scratches over the paper with every stroke. The nurse reaches out and places two cool fingertips over the girl's radial pulse and looks at her watch.

"No," Sarah groans. "Why?"

"It's just vitals, Miss Williams. No reason to work yourself up over it." The nurse smiles.

"I mean, why am I back here?" Her words are slurred and raspy but the nurse has already left and there is no one to answer her. Or, so she thinks.

"That's a very good question, precious."

Sarah turns and there he is, the Goblin King, in all his over-done finery. He's leaning against a drab wall, arms crossed over his chest, ornate cuffs dripping lace from beneath the sleeves of his red satin waistcoat. He looks so incredibly out of place beneath the flickering and buzzing fluorescent lights of the St. Mary's dayroom, it takes the girl a moment to make sense of him.

"You're supposed to be touring the fortresses on the southern border," she hisses.

"And so I was, until I was summoned back. You needed me, according to Sir Didymus."

Her head feels heavy and she has trouble holding it up. "Why am I back here, Jareth?" She jerks futilely against the ties which secure her wrists to the chair.

"Misplaced guilt would be my guess."

She scoffs. "You don't even make sense."

He laughs, the sound of it rich and reverberating. "I make no sense? Well, then, my dear, let's hear your reasoning! Why do you choose to come to this place?"

"I don't… choose."

"Of course you do." He looks at her as though she is the most stubborn child he's ever met, his expression part amusement, part consternation.

"No," she says, drawing the word out, "if I could choose, I wouldn't be bound like this and I…" As she says it, the restraints fall away, and Jareth chuckles. "Wait… how did… Did you do that?" She glares suspiciously at him and rubs her wrists before rising from the chair.

"That was you, Sarah. Now, can we please leave this dreary place behind and continue our conversation in a more comfortable setting?"

"I…" Her eyes narrow. "Are we in one of your crystals?"

"Hardly." He glances around, taking in the details of the dayroom. "I would never waste magic on any place as depressing as this."

"No? Then how about this?" And then they are in Jareth's garden, standing before the weeping angel monument. "How much magic did you expend on this boneyard?"

"Again, this is you," the king says as he studies the inscription on the base of the monument, "though I would guess the inspiration is the same."

"Misplaced guilt?"

"Mmm," he hums, nodding.

"But it's your garden!"

"Which changes whenever you enter it," he points out.

"You're saying I do that."

He nods again.

"You're saying… I created this graveyard?"

"You willed it into existence. Just look at the markers, you'll see."

And she does. She moves along the rows, reading the inscriptions. Her father's name, and her mother's. Jeremy's. The friends from her childhood that she'd left behind, Mandy and her brother Luke. Things she'd once valued that fell by the wayside, like drama club and soccer and school work. Cherished books she'd given up reading, Anna Karenina and The Count of Monte Cristo. Shakespeare's plays, Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. Her relationship with Karen. Her painting and drawing. Everything she'd sacrificed, or ignored, or discarded when she'd made Jeremy the focus of her world. And everything she'd lost in the process.

Her freedom.

Her hope.

Her innocence.

She circles back around to join Jareth in front of the weeping angel.

"What about this?" she says, nodding at the engraving on its base. Tread carefully, for here lies one loved beyond measure, a most cherished son.

"More misplaced guilt."

"How can you say that?"

Jareth nudges at the small mound of disturbed dirt with the toe of his boot. "You can dig and dig, but you won't find him."

"Because he's buried back home," she seethes. She hadn't been allowed to attend the funeral, of course. She'd been in custody by then, locked away and medicated.

"Oh, no, my dear. No."

"What do you mean, no?" Sarah demands, grabbing the Goblin King's wrist.

"You have to choose, Sarah. I warned you about this, years ago, when you told me you wished to wait. But you've had your three years, and I've had mine, and now, you must choose."

"Years ago…" The queen grunts in frustration. "You make no sense at all, Jareth." She releases his wrist and storms off toward the gate, wanting to leave this place far behind her.

"Sarah, enough of this damnable obstinance!" he calls after her. In a few strides, he has caught her and he grabs her shoulder, whipping her around to face him. "Enough of this self-indulgent guilt and self-imposed exile!"

"I don't know what you want from me!" she cries.

His face softens. "You know perfectly well, darling." He slips his gloved hand against her cheek, his touch gentle and his eyes imploring. "You have only to reach for the truth. You can choose…"

"She sacrificed her only child on the altar of fame," Dr. Prevarant insists.

"And what did I do?" Sarah glances at the doctor, but he's not the doctor, not really.

"What you did was mercy. That wasn't your child."

"It was, it was." She's crying. "Oh, Toby…"

"That wasn't Toby. You know it wasn't. You could sense it, couldn't you? That night. Something was wrong. You knew it. Toby was already gone."

"He was, he was gone." She's nodding now, slowly. She remembers. "The crib was empty. At first, it was empty."

"You'd wished him away. To me."

"Yes. I remember. And the goblins were hiding in the shadows, laughing at me. I remember. I wanted him back!"

"Of course you did, of course you wanted him. Our son. Why wouldn't you?"

"Our son?" Sarah looks up at him then, expecting to see Jeremy, but it's Jareth whose speaking.

"But I couldn't leave my son in that world, to be raised by those people. And neither could you, or else why would you wish for me to take him away?"

She's shaking her head. Something doesn't seem right. "The shrieking… he was screaming and it was making me so angry…"

"That wasn't him, though, was it? Think, Sarah. Toby was gone, and that thing that appeared in his place, you knew it wasn't right. Sickly and old, disguised but not well enough. His shrieks weren't like anything you'd ever heard before, and the eyes were wrong. The eyes. Don't you remember?"

She remembers the jagged shard in her hand. And the little whales, and that thing grinning up at her from the crib while the goblins laughed and danced all around. There was no July in his eyes. They were like obsidian, hard and glittering and black.

"A… changeling," she whispers, looking at Jareth, and then they are no longer in the garden, but in the great hall. It's filled with orchids and snow drops and banners of white satin hung from the ceiling. The king smiles at her, the pride in his look unmistakable.

"You don't think I'd let you harm my son, do you?" He bends and places a kiss on her temple. "You don't really think you'd even be capable of such a thing?"

She looks around. There are people everywhere, dressed in their finery, and candles burn brightly all around, casting a glow over the whole scene. The music swells and the king sweeps her away in his arms. A waltz. The floor is empty, save for them, and everyone looks on as they murmur to one another.

"No. I… couldn't. He had your eyes."

"Have you chosen, sweet Sarah?"

"It was a dying thing, it was mercy." Her voice becomes surer, more steady as she pronounces the words.

"Yes."

"And I didn't harm Toby."

"No. You never would."

They spin and spin, and the flowers and banners and people and music are dizzying and beautiful.

Sarah groans. Her head is pounding. Her eyes flutter open and she's staring at the ceiling of her chamber in the Goblin King's palace.

"Oh, your majesty," Sir Didymus says with palpable relief. "You had us so worried."

"What?" she croaks and props herself up a little with her elbows. A goblin servant presses a cup of cool water to her lips. She drinks deeply, then coughs and drops back down to rest her head on her pillow.

"She's stronger than you know, Didymus," the king says, his tone filled with an easy confidence that does not quite reach his eyes. His gaze tells the queen that he has been worried as well.

"Jareth?" She's confused. "Oh, I've had such strange dreams. And such nightmares… Weren't you away? On a tour?"

"I was," he agrees amiably, "though it seems you were determined to have me back here in time for your birthday." The king chuckles. "You could've just asked, you know. I would've been happy to oblige. As it is, you've given Sir Didymus several new gray hairs and Lord Draimen is fit to be tied since he has to complete the tour of our border fortresses on his own."

"My… birthday?"

"Yes, my sweet. Happy birthday." He leans over and kisses her forehead. "Well, it's not for a few days, and I had planned a quick trip home for it, as a surprise, but I suppose I'm just as happy to be here a little early. Especially now that I see you are indeed well."

"Am I?"

"Oh, yes. Very well."

The pounding in her head abates some and she notes that she actually does feel well. It's as though there has been a dense fog in her mind, and it clears, all at once. She sits all the way up then, and tells the assembled crowd that she wishes to dress.

"Perhaps your majesty should rest a bit longer," Sir Didymus suggests. "You had quite a nasty turn, and…"

"Nonsense!" Jareth says. "The queen has been in her sick bed near a week and if she desires to leave it, then she shall!"

"A week!" Sarah wails. "So long?" It's no wonder her limbs feel uncommonly stiff.

"It's no matter," the king replies, cupping her chin in his hand. "You're fit enough now, and we have all the time in the world."

Her brow wrinkles, but she nods, and her knight and king leave her so her servants may set about making her ready. When she is, she finds Jareth waiting in the corridor just beyond her door, set on escorting her.

"Until you get your sea legs," he teases, offering his arm. She takes it gratefully. She wants his company. She has many questions and thinks only he can answer them. He leads her to his private dining room, and tea has been laid out on the table for them with platters of sandwiches and little cakes and fruit.

"Jareth, I'm not entirely certain I understand what's…"

"Yes?"

She sighs and glances around. The room is charming white place where she has dined before, with dazzling crystal and a soft breeze rustling the sheer curtains which hang across the tall windows. Her throat itches as though a soft sob tries to form there. She swallows it down.

"I want this to be real."

He smiles. "Then, it is."

She shakes her head. "That's not how it works."

Jareth laughs, but the sound of it is not unkind. "What is real, precious? What makes something real? Only your belief that it is so. I've tried to tell you that for years. It's your choice, love. Why not choose to be happy?"

Sarah sips at her tea, lost in thought.

Sometimes, she feels as though she is walking a tightrope and if she leans too far to one side or the other, she will plunge to her death.

Sometimes, she feels as though she forces Jareth onto that tightrope, and though he traverses it skillfully, there is a fear behind his grace that speaks of her cruelty.

'…and I will be your slave.'

"You must try the lemon curd, my dear. It's the perfect balance of sweet and sour."

"Jareth… When I was… asleep, I dreamed of you."

He laughs. "I'm not surprised."

"I dreamed you told me that Toby was our son."

The king stills for a long moment, scrutinizing her face. He licks his lips. "And so he is."

"But... how can that be?"

"You know very well how it can be," he chides, "my bright, pretty girl."

"He's my brother!" she insists.

'I want my brother back, please, if it's all the same.'

"Not this again," the king grumbles. "You were doing so well, Sarah."

"I… came to the Labyrinth, that first time, looking for him."

"You did. You came looking for your son. For our son. His presence here was the only thing that allowed you to come. His blood could bind you to the Labyrinth, because it's also my blood."

"Jeremy…"

"A wretched disguise, just like that boring doctor." He shrugs. "But, I do live to serve you, however tedious it may be at times."

"You said it was my childish beliefs that allowed me to stay; that when I became an adult, I'd be expelled, unless I bound myself to the realm. Unless I agreed to marry you."

"You would've been expelled eventually, Toby or no. You had to be bound by more than our child. That child. He's part human, after all. His blood isn't strong enough to hold you forever."

"So, the whole belief of children thing, that's a lie?"

"No, not a lie, precisely. Those beliefs do have a certain power. And it was what you needed to hear at the time. It was the only way to explain it to you without…"

"Without telling me the truth!" she screams, knocking her chair over as she stands.

"You weren't ready!" he shouts back, rising himself and staring at her across the table. The crystals of the chandelier seem to tremble with their combined rage and bright prisms of light shoot haphazardly around the room, causing Sarah to squint.

"I wasn't ready?" she barks, holding her hand before her eyes to shield them from the blinding light. "More like you weren't ready to face what you'd done!"

The room grows very quiet and the light dies down.

"All I did, Sarah, was love you, and cherish you, and grant your every every desire, no matter how foolish or cruel or mad."

"I was just a girl," she sniffs.

"You were. Just a girl. And I made you a queen."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Jareth snaps, placing his hands flat on the table and leaning down to look into her eyes. "But you called me, Sarah. You commanded me. I have only ever been your slave, but you judge me for your own sins." He shakes his head, his look bitter. "And still, despite it all, I have loved you and cared for you and obeyed your every whim."

Sarah doesn't know what to say; what to feel. The truth falls into place all around her, trapping her in its grip, and she cannot deny what the king is saying to her. Tears form in her eyes and she gulps in a breath in an attempt to keep them from falling.

"Where is he now?" she whispers. "Where's Toby?"

The Goblin King straightens, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat and smoothing his hands over his lapels. He glances down at Sarah and works his jaw as though he is considering what he can say to her. There seems to be some mistrust in his air, and it stings.

"Do you think I'd harm my own son?" she asks him sadly.

The king clears his throat. "He's with Draimen, in the south. He's being fostered by the Prince of Selkeys and he joined us for part of our tour."

"The Prince of Selkeys? You sent him to live with strangers?"

"Not strangers. Allies. And that is the way things are done here, as you well know. The boy is nine, and it's high time…"

"Nine!"

The queen looks stricken.

"Sarah, sit down." When she does not obey him, Jareth rounds the table and grabs hold of her arms. "Sit down before you faint." He rights her chair and guides her gently into it.

"Toby is nine." She says it as if to convince herself.

"I know it's a lot to comprehend all at once, my dear." The king sighs. "This is what comes of binding yourself to the realm and not fulfilling the contract. I warned you about this."

"You warned me…"

"Sarah, when we're married, everything will right itself. Believe me, we'll all be the better for it. Especially you."

"If Toby is nine, then I'm…"

"You'll be twenty-four in two days, yes. You've spent six years in this state, and it's time it ended."

"Six years…" Her voice trails off. She looks at him, and cocks her head. "I asked for three."

"As did I. And you agreed."

Understanding dawns on her. "Have I been a raving lunatic for the last six years? Oh, God, did Toby see?"

"Never, darling. I protected him, you needn't worry. And you weren't a raving lunatic. Not the entire time, anyway."

"When can I see him?"

"He'll travel as part of the Selkeysian delegation for the wedding."

"And when is that to be?"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember. The wedding was set for the day after I was to return from the border tour. Now that I'm here early, I suppose I can see to the last-minute details since you don't seem to be up to it."

"A week from now, then?"

Jareth nods, and then drops to one knee in front of Sarah, taking her hands in his.

"You see now, don't you? Why it's so important? The choice, as ever, is yours, darling one, but you see now."

She does. She sees. She sees as she's never seen before.

"I choose you, Jareth. I choose you, and our son."

He smiles and lowers his head, kissing her hands, and when she looks down at him, all she sees is the back of his bowed head, and not the row of glittering, sharp teeth that are bared with his grin.

Later, when the queen sleeps again, Jareth slips into her bedchamber on silent feet and pulls a crystal from the air just over her lips. He stares into it, his brow drawn in concentration. There, inside the glass bubble, sits a girl with dark, disheveled hair, her jaw slack and her wrists bound by soft restraints to an ugly wooden chair with a vinyl cushion. She stares blankly at a dingy wall with strange, dark eyes that are somehow wrong.

A/N: A year in the making! This was supposed to be a quick little story. Thanks to everyone who stuck with me through it, even though it was meant to be a novella-length and grew to more of a novel-length. Though this is the end of the story, there will be a chapter 26 which will list some of the hints and symbols sprinkled throughout, as well as a list of the different ways the ending can be interpreted, if you're interested in that sort of thing.