He was cold. There has been substantial debate over whether or not the fair folk have souls. But for a moment, he believed that he had one, if none of the others did, and had awakened in a rather unpleasant afterlife. Then the gray mists resolved themselves into the smoke stained stones of the ceiling of his own throne room. Jareth, surprised and pleased to find he was not dead, levered himself up onto his elbows.

That boy was truly remarkable. Tugging off his right glove, he raised a hand to his face. His hand felt only the smooth contour of his jaw. Not even a scar.

"Remarkable," he mused aloud.

"I sent him off," a merry voice said behind him, "I have news to impart, your majesty."

Jareth turned his head, and his silver eyes narrowed to see the comically inflated figure of the bridgekeeper lolling in the throne, toying with a tiny purple crystal, and grinning.

"You overstep yourself, Lord Amadaun," he said, irritation apparent in his tone, "Both in giving commands and in your current position. Give your report and be gone."

Pouting theatrically, the heavy figure of the bridgekeeper dissolved into that of a much younger man. The brown eyes glittered black in a lean face, and the gingery hair brightened to the red of a fox's tail. But in his own lithe form, he stayed in his place on the throne, "Ah, but your majesty, the duty of a fool is to hold up a mirror to his masters, and allow them to see their own absurdity."

He danced the small crystal across the backs of his knuckles; "Perhaps I should get some snugger breeches… and some goblins to kick, to make the illusion complete."

Jareth was standing by now, and he folded his arms across his chest. "I have never been amused by your antics, my fool. Have you anything of import to say, or is this an oblique request for me to find a worse place to put you than the bridge?"

"Tsk… and after I've done such a favor for you. You really need to learn to laugh at yourself," he chuckled. "Not ten minutes gone, I met a young lady, who, although not remarkable, seeing that she has no gift for magic, interests me strangely." Stretching, the Amadaun rose to his feet, and bowed, with a flourish, to Jareth. "Your throne, your majesty."

Jareth seated himself, cautiously. The sense of humor of any Amadaun is robust, tending to the explosive, and this one was worse than most. "You mean Katherine Williams."

"Oh, I do indeed, although I did not always mean such. I have seen the path of her life, and an interesting route she has yet to travel, through failure to loss to destruction, from song to singing. And though she has entered the wrong path, it is yet hers, and leads her inevitably to destiny"

Jareth pressed the tips of his gloved fingers to his face, "I desire plain speech in my court, fool."

The Amadaun laughed aloud at this, revealing slightly pointed teeth, "Court, indeed! Oh, I should cede my title to you, Lord of the Pun. But since you ask ever so kindly, I will tell you. This," and he twirled the amethyst crystal on his hand, "Is the once true name of young Katherine Williams, aged two-and-twenty, of the City of Angels. Catch!"

Catching it easily, Jareth scrutinized the tiny purple sphere. "And she gave it to you freely?"

"Taking my mark from my master, I left a great deal unsaid, but yes, she did."

"Interesting," he said, shortly.

"Indeed, yes, to have the power of your opponent condensed into a tiny, easy-to-carry package. And what will you do with it, good King Jareth? A weapon? Not, mind, that you will need a weapon. She's stepped off of her path, now."

"What are you jabbering about?"

"Well, the fair Katherine is on the fair Kathy's road, isn't she? And if you stray from your proper path in the underground…"

"Ah, I see. Very well. I thank you for your good service, Amadaun. You have my permission to depart."

The Amadaun swept an even deeper bow, the red silk of his shoulder-length hair actually brushing the ground. "It is always my pleasure to serve you, your majesty."

Smiling and whistling a tune of his own invention, he walked out of the chamber. As soon as the heavy door closed behind him, the smile widened into a grin, showing his sharp teeth, and his black eyes glittered madly. "Oh, I'll serve you all right, Jareth. Just wait and see," he whispered.

~*~

Eric sat uncomfortably in a plush velvet chair in one of the antechambers of the court. His short legs dangled. This room was less rustic than the throne room, but the décor was still immense, gothic, and calculated to intimidate. He was cold, and had put his jacket back on.

The fat man had hustled him out of the room without so much as a "by your leave," not that Eric had bothered to protest. The Goblin King had been terrifyingly still, his breathing barely noticeable, after the healing, but Eric had not been afraid. Inside he knew that all would be well. And his emotions had been in a welter.

Magic. Wow. Not just some tricks with a crystal, but actually mending wounds with the power within him. It was unbelievably cool, and he wanted to do more and more… but doubt was beginning to set in. Earlier that morning, Kathy had talked about how the X-men and Harry Potter had problems because of their special powers. Would something like that happen to him? Would Mom, and Dad, and Kathy be afraid of him? (He wouldn't mind if Jared were afraid of him, at least a little. Jared was a typical older brother, and Eric had gotten a lot of Indian burns off of him.) Would they send him away? Would they hate him?

Suddenly, super powers didn't seem like such a good idea. He wished Kathy would get here soon, and then they could go home, and together they'd figure out what to do. The sound of a closing door pulled him from his reverie, and he hopped out of his chair and trotted over to the tall figure of the Goblin King.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I am… okay," replied Jareth, "Thanks to you." And to Eric's great surprise, the older man inclined his head in a bow.

"It was nothing," said Eric, blushing beneath his freckles.

"No? You saved me, when letting me die would have been a much more expedient and simple way to assure your return home."

"What's expedient?"

"Never mind. The point is I owe you a boon… that means a favor," Jareth inserted, forestalling the question forming on Eric's face, "And a great one, to pay my wightgild… that means the cost of saving my life. Come with me."

And following along, taking two steps for every stride the Goblin King's dusty boots made, Eric did. They walked through close to twenty rooms, many of which were deeply peculiar. One was packed with chests brim-filled with jewelry. Another was packed with chests brim-filled with penguins. Jareth walked through both of these with the same distracted expression on his face, nudging the penguins gently aside with his boots.

There was a music room, and a conservatory filled with orange trees and steam. The next room was filled with nothing but bottles, all of which were tightly corked and waxed, with swirling vapors eddying inside them. And finally, they came to a door of age-blackened oak, bound with rusting iron fittings. Jareth, taking care not to touch the metal, opened the old lock of this door with a key made of copper.

This room was circular, smaller than most of the others, which meant it was no more than twenty yards across. It was still, clean, and had the hushed ambiance of a museum. In glass-and-oak cases arrayed in close order around the chamber were a wide variety of items. Placed together in one case were a genuine Hopi Kachina doll, an emerald necklace, and a helmet from the Norman Conquest with a bent nosepiece.

Eric looked up at Jareth curiously. "These," said Jareth, "Are the most powerful magical objects I have collected in my lifetime."

"There's a lot of them."

"I've lived a long time."

"How old are you?"

"I'm really quite old by your standards. Let's leave it at that. Any one of these is worth a King's ransom… a Goblin King's ransom, in fact. And in return for your help, you may take any one that you like."

"Seriously?"

"Of course."

"Sweet!" Eric darted off through the room, peering with unvarnished avarice at the cases, his earlier hesitation forgotten. Jareth repressed a smile. The boy was a wizard in more ways than one. None of them could resist a free lunch.

"What does this do?" asked Eric, pointing to what looked like a shoe for a very small horse, made of a matte black material.

"That is…" Jareth searched his memory, "That is a love magnet. Carry it in your pocket and it makes women fall madly in love with you."

"Ew. Never mind."

"Someday you'll regret that statement, I assure you."

"If it's so great, why don't you carry it with you, then?"

"Well," smirked the Goblin King, as the faint reflection of his perfect body, chiseled features, white-blond hair, and immaculate tailoring glinted in the glass of a nearby case, "I don't need to. But the choice is yours. Keep on looking if you like."

Eric did. And passing through the chamber, he found his eye drawn to an old bronze sword with a willow-leaf blade. It was unadorned, and scratched, though brightly polished and kept on a bed of red velvet. He paused, and hovered over the case. "What's this?"

Strolling over, Jareth drew his breath in between his teeth as he saw the child's selection. "That is the sword Fragarach, the Answerer. It's an Irish sword, and was forged in the Last Alliance between your people and mine, against… well, against an enemy of both our kindred. The first to carry it was Lugh the Allcrafted, who forged it. The last was Setanta, who was called Cuchullain. After he died, there was no hand in the world who could bear the spirit that was in it, and at the Queen's command, it passed into the hills."

Eric did not recognize the names, but something strange was in Jareth's voice, and he looked at the battered old blade with awe and respect, "I… I think I'd like to have it."

"I'm afraid that you've lit on something that I cannot give you freely. To me it's a sword, no more, no less. But to you… you're a mortal boy, though a strange one. And no mortal since Cuchullain's time has been able to carry it, though many have tried. If it will go with you, then it shall be your gift. But the choice belongs to the blade."

"How will I know what it wants?"

"You'll know." With the copper key, hey opened the glass case, and took the sword out. Cradling the blade on his forearm, he offered the hilt to Eric, who reached out shyly and took it.

"Is something going to happen?" he asked, sounding worried.

"Evidently not. It would have resisted you already if it was going to. Fragarach is yours, Eric Williams. Be worthy of it."

The boy held the blade in both hands. "It's heavy," he said, gently extending a feather-light touch to the edge. "OW! And sharp."

"Sharper than you think. It's the blade of the Air, and is as sharp as the bitterest wind of November. With it, you're the master of the four winds."

"Jeez. Mom never lets me play with sharp objects. She says they aren't safe, and I could hurt myself."

"Well, so you have. It's a very valuable lesson. I doubt you'll be touching the edge again, will you?"

"No, sir."

"Come along, then. I'll see if I can't find you a scabbard. And perhaps I can teach you something of how to use your new tool."

"Well…" Eric hesitated, "I probably ought to go back and watch Kathy in the crystal."

Jareth did not want to upset the boy at this critical juncture, and whatever was going to happen to Katherine next would undoubtedly be upsetting. So, with a smile on his face and in his voice, he laughed, "Your dutiful nature to your sister is admirable. But watching her will not make a whit of difference to her success or failure. A short lesson in swordsmanship will take no time at all, and then you can go back to the crystals. Agreed?"

"Agreed," smiled Eric. As the two walked through the halls, he reached up a hand and took Jareth's gloved hand in his. The king felt an abrupt stab of shame.

This boy thinks I am his friend. I snare him in the underground, conspire to keep his power under my control… and all he sees is that I gave him a gift, and that I aided his sister, and that I am willing to be his teacher in the arts that terrify and exalt him. Was I ever that trusting?

A rogue thought flickered in behind this.

He should have been my son.

~*~

(Notes: Fragarach (Sword of Air), the Lia Fail (Stone of Destiny), the Gae Bolg (Spear of Destiny), and the Pair Cadeni (Cauldron of Rebirth) are the four treasures of the Tuatha de Danaan (the old gods of Ireland). Forged by Lugh the Allcrafted for a battle with the evil-eyed lord Balor of the Fomori, it was later given to Cuchullain, the hero of Ulster. It was taken out of the world after his death and held in trust by the Sidhe (Fairies), with the understanding that mortals would be needing it later. It is pronounced FRAG-uh-rack. Don't you just love pillaging mythology for your fanfics? Saves so much time and effort.

Also, an Amadaun (pronounced AM-ah-dawn, more or less) is a fool, adviser, and messenger to a court of the Sidhe. They're dangerous servants, sometimes able to kill mortals with a word. They're typically very wise and prophetic.)