Author's Note: The characters of Jareth, Sarah, Toby, Hoggle, Ludo, Didymus, etc. belong to the wonderful Jim Henson company, and I claim no rights to them. The goblins are another story, but any resemblance to any real goblins, living or (while improbable) dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional... except for Shove, because he wouldn't leave me alone until I put him in the story.

The funeral was packed with her mother's old friends and colleagues. Actors and actresses of all walks of life turned out to say goodbye to the beautiful woman, and many of them, later, remarked on how much the daughter had surpassed her mother in beauty and grace. Sarah heard none of it, she was far too busy marveling over the number of goblins who had turned out for the funeral, and who, it seemed, were on their absolute best behavior. They stayed out from underfoot, and stood about in the corners and cracks of things, watching with big, solemn eyes. But they weren't watching the mourners at the casket, or the priest's dreadfully long sermon. They were watching Sarah, and she was having a hard time ignoring all those eyes turned toward her from so many directions. But she kept her back straight, and her shoulders squared, and she greeted those who wanted to say something to her about her mother with all the politeness and dignity that she could muster. The only time she almost lost it was when her mother's ex-fiance approached her to offer her his condolences. It was odd, she thought, but there was something in his eyes, and the way that he smiled that reminded her of Jareth. It seemed that she and her mother had similar tastes in men. She thanked him, and let him hug her, and then she put the sad smile back on her face, and turned to the next person and took their hand and murmured something gracious, but her thoughts were somewhere else, thinking of a pair of mismatched eyes frowning down at her.

At the cemetery, she stood quiet and still beside her mother's agent and manager, and regarded the casket quietly. She had never really known her mother, she had been this glittering smiling person who Sarah had wanted to be for years, growing up. She had been beautiful, and people had loved her at first sight, men had fallen for her in droves--one of the reasons why her marriage to Sarah's father hadn't lasted. But she'd never really been her mother. Her phone conversations were always about which play she was in, or what party she was going to, or what part she was up for, and could Sarah please wait until Christmas and then they'd see if there was time for her to come visit? It made her a little sad to think that this lovely butterfly of a woman was gone, but she did not feel overwhelmed with grief as she thought she should have.

"Even the animals loved her," said her agent, inclining his head toward a nearby tree. Sarah glanced that way and saw, up in the branches, a snowy white owl watching the proceedings. It turned its head toward her and ruffled its feathers, and she felt the weight of its dark gaze on her as she approached the casket and laid a single red rose on top of it. After everyone had left, except for her and Richard, her mother's manager, she looked up at the tree again. It was still there, watching her.

"Your mother left you some things," Richard said, and she reluctantly turned back to him. "She told me once that she was glad she'd had a daughter, so that she could leave you her things. She knew you'd appreciate them."

Her things consisted of about thirty thousand dollars, and a collection of dresses, jewelry, and costumes she'd kept from the shows she'd been in. Sarah wasn't sure what to do with the money. She had her own apartment, and her salary was enough for her to live on. There wasn't anything she needed, either, so she put the money in the bank and figured it would keep until a rainy day. The clothes she went through, choosing some to keep and some to give away to various charities that would benefit from auctioning off her mother's things. Some of the jewelry she kept, as well, a pair of silver earrings, some hair combs, and several lovely necklaces. The rest were also given to different charities. The costumes she donated to several different museums, one she sold to a private collector, but a few she decided to keep. She wasn't sure why, but the flowing princess skirts, and bodices reminded her of her dreams, and so she carefully put them away, in sealed bags, so they wouldn't get dirty or damaged. One in particular she'd almost tried on, it was a beautiful white dress, with huge puffed sleeves, and silver and gold lace and trim all over it. The skirt was huge. It was her mother's wedding dress, from the play version of "Beauty and the Beast," and Sarah's breath had caught when she'd seen it. She remembered the conversation with her mother, when she'd told her of an "idea" she'd had for a wedding dress, and her mother had laughed and said that she was going to borrow the idea for her play. It was perfect, an almost
exact replica of her dream dress, and as she stroked the skirt with trembling fingers she could almost hear the music playing around her.

She did not sleep much, during those weeks following the funeral, and when she did she did not dream. It wasn't until her bereavement leave was over and she was back in school, once again caught up in the schedule of classes and homework and disobedient pre-teens that she finally shook off the insomnia. It had been a long day, and when she'd come home, she'd showered and put on a silk robe, made herself a cup of tea, and curled up in a chair to read for a bit before bed. She'd been reading an obscure old text on the warring Faery Courts and comparing it to several modern novels, but she found herself flipping through the yellowed pages absently. She paused on a page with an illustration of a crystal sphere, and stopped to read the text there.

It concerned the Labyrinth, she found, surprised, and used it as an example of the Fae's love of games and challenges. It described how those who would venture into the Labyrinth often found it conforming to their own dreams and fears, for the Goblin King was adept at reading these and using it to his advantage. Ironically, those who sought the solution to the Labyrinth often created their own puzzle, and so pitting themselves against it was much like pitting themselves against themselves. What further amazed her was the mention that those who ventured into the Labyrinth did so alone, and made their journey alone, for there could be nothing in the Labyrinth that would help them, since all of its inhabitants were loyal only to their King. How, then, had she convinced Hoggle, Ludo, and Didymus to be loyal to her, if their loyalty was so solid, she wondered. Perhaps, she thought, it was only that no one else had ever tried to befriend those within the Labyrinth.

The light in the room was dim, and Sarah found herself blinking stupidly at the book, where it lay on the floor. It must have slid off the arm of the chair, she thought, sleepily. Outside, a storm was brewing, and lightning flickered in the distance, through the windows. She stood up and stretched, then took her tea cup into the kitchen, rinsed it out, and put it aside to drain. She turned out the lights in the living room, and stood at the window for a moment, letting the breeze cool her face.

The sound of pages flipping startled her, and she turned around quickly.

He lounged in the chair she'd been sitting in earlier, one slender booted leg hooked over the arm of the chair, flipping through the book she'd dropped. The moonlight caught in his wild mess of hair, and touched his black clothing with silver. Idly, he tapped one of the pages with a gloved finger before looking up at her with a smirk.

"Come, come," he said, "don't tell me you didn't mean it, again." His voice was low, with a hint of gravel in it, the accent clipped and sharp. She closed her mouth, where it hung open, and wrapped her arms around herself, realizing that she was woefully underdressed for this
meeting.

"What," she said, when she found her voice. "What didn't I mean?"

"You wished I'd let you be my friend," he said, somehow making it sound sarcastic. "As if I needed any. But as I'm bound to honor your wishes, here I am." He inclined his head mockingly, and regarded the book again. "My, my," he murmured, "they do make me out to be quite the monster."

"Not all of them," she said, and wondered vaguely whether she should approach him or stay where she was. He was not threatening her, or trying to intimidate, yet she felt curiously loathe to move closer, as if that might be inviting his attack. She wasn't sure she was awake, she could be dreaming, but it felt real enough that she wasn't quite willing to trust it. It was hard to know whether her dreams were ever entirely her own, anyhow.

"No?" He said, looking at her again with those curious eyes. He didn't move, but his body was tensed for it, she could see it in the way the muscles of his thighs flexed beneath the tight breeches, and in the line of his back.

"No," she said, and she did move, then, but not towards him. Instead she crossed to the bookshelves that lined the wall, and pulled a slender book from the shelf. When she turned back, he was standing quite close behind her, and she jumped a little, then forced herself to relax. She held out the book and he took it without touching her. His eyes shone in the moonlight. He opened the book, and the pages fell open to the spot she'd marked with a ribbon placed between the pages. He read it quickly, flipping the next few pages faster than any mortal could read. At one point he snorted indelicately, then a hint of a smile played about his expressive lips. Abruptly he snapped the book shut and took a step toward her. She moved back, only to find herself pressed against the bookshelf, and he came forward again, reaching out to place the book back in its spot, his arm cutting off her exit. "No," he said, so close to her she could feel his breath against her cheek, and she caught herself staring at his mouth, at the way his lips moved, and the glitter of his sharp, white teeth. "Not all of them," he murmured, and the hand that had replaced the book stroked her damp hair away from her face gently.

Then he was back in the chair without warning, lounging insolently once again and smirking a little as she shakily came to sit on the couch across from him. "What do you mean," she asked, her mouth dry, "'bound to honor' my wishes?"

"You know very well what I mean," he mocked. "One of your 'rewards' for defeating me. An unending supply of wishes. It seems I'm your slave whether I win or lose."

"I don't want you to be my slave," she said.

"Oh, you don't?" He went very still, only his eyes moving as he searched her face. "You spurned my offer to be your slave once before, as I recall. You're wiser, now, I think. Of course, neither you, nor I have much choice in the matter." His voice was bitter and sharp.

"I don't need a slave," she said. "I need..."

"A friend?" he mocked. "You've got a treacherous dwarf, an addle brained dog, and a stupid beast, not to mention them." He motioned with one gloved hand, and she saw several small, grotesque heads dart quickly back into hiding. "Why would you ever want me when you've usurped the goodwill of my entire kingdom?"

"If you're done being insulting," she said.

"If you wish," he smiled coldly, and folded his hands across his flat stomach. He was so beautiful, she thought, so wild and fey, so dangerous. What was she playing at?

"I just thought you might like someone to talk to, now and then," she said lamely.

"Why would I want that? I've an entire kingdom of subjects who will talk to me whenever I damn well please. And what could we have in common to discuss? The weather?" Again, he smirked.

"Well, what do you talk to the goblins about, then?" she countered.

"I--," he paused, then narrowed his eyes and shut his mouth so quickly she heard his teeth click together. "Clever girl." Abruptly he got up and paced over to the window, the moonlight and lightning illuminating his hair and turning it into a halo of silver and gold around his head. Quietly, she came up beside him, and watched the lightning play on the horizon. The trees rustled softly in the breeze, the leaves glittered in the pale moonlight, and somewhere in the darkness below her window she heard a goblin teasing a cat. When she glanced up she was in time to see him wince as the goblin knocked over a trash can and the cat went screeching off into the night. "It looks like rain," he observed sardonically.

"Yes," she said and watched him as he passed a gloved hand over his face. He looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. His eyes really were incredible, she thought, feeling suddenly exposed in her thin silk robe. What did one do when one was friends with a Fae Lord? "Are you thirsty?" she asked, uncertain. He smiled a little, a predatory sort of smile.

"Absolutely parched," he said, his eyes on her lips. She bit the lower one nervously.

"I have tea," she said, "how do you take yours?" She started to turn away, but he put out a hand and touched her hair gently, rubbing a lock of it between gloved fingers.

"Black," he said, "with lemon." Then he released her and turned back to the window. She stepped backward slowly, then turned and went to the small kitchen, watching him from the corner of her eye as she did. He did not move the entire time she poured the tea and sliced the lemon, and set the cup and lemon on a saucer. When she approached, however, he turned, his face expressionless again, and took the cup and saucer from her graciously, without touching her again. "Thank you," he said, and she nodded quickly, then faced the window to watch the lightning again, inexplicably embarrassed at the idea of watching him drink. It seemed such a private thing, all of a sudden, so intimate, to drink tea in another person's presence. They stood that way, for a while, watching the storm grow closer, and when she heard the cup clink down on the saucer, she turned to him and accepted the empty cup and plate he handed her. This time, he watched her as she went back to the kitchen, rinsed his cup and threw away the lemon, and then returned to the living room.

"Is it so difficult?" she asked, smoothing her hands over her robe and regarding him carefully. "Being my friend?"

"Oh, no," he said. "It's a piece of cake." She smiled, and the corners of his mouth twitched, which made her laugh. He looked surprised then, and then laughed as well, a full bodied laugh that sent shivers all the way to her toes. He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. He raised it to his lips, and brushed them over her fingers, a smile playing around his mouth. "Goodnight," he said, "my friend." And then he was gone, and she was left with the sensation of his mouth on her skin once again.

Author's Note: Thank you so very much to everyone who has reviewed this so far. As I said, I don't usually write fan fiction, so a little encouragement keeps me at it. Also, I do not want this to reek so badly that even the Bog of Stench would throw it back, so please, tell me if it starts to smell funny. For those of you who were looking for Jareth, I hope this will satisfy your tastes for now. I'm trying my best to keep all characters in character (which is easier with Jareth, but really hard to do with Sarah. I'm beginning to understand why so many people write her so badly, she's hard to capture, but well worth it when you can). I'm still working on this, never fear, but my updates will be sporadic, based on whether or not I actually have internet access and a working computer. Again, thank you, and please, keep reading and reviewing.