"You've had plenty of other lovers, my lord," insisted his royal advisor Rosin, a rather hooknosed stocky goblin. "What makes this new woman so different?" They were having a confidential chat in the royal bedchambers. Jareth sat upon the green canopy bed while Rosin was settled in a wooden chair identical to the ones in the dining hall.

The king hadn't meant to call on his advisor this early in the day but...he'd been unable to contain his fury at the direction matters were going in. The girl's spirit wasn't meant to be so fiery! Her eyes weren't supposed to see him this way. She wasn't supposed to control his emotions so.

And yes, he'd had many lovers over the centuries of ruling the kingdom. Elven and human alike, all sharing his bed for unnumbered nights. They'd been for physical pleasure of course! They hadn't stuck around long enough for him to notice even their names at times. But this girl was for queenship. For obscure reasons even to himself, he wanted her for the long run. Hell, she'd been here for less than a fortnight and already he'd grown a certain attachment to her he couldn't identify. No, he didn't know what made her different.

He told Rosin so. The goblin clucked his tongue and made a small note on his miniscule notepad. The goblin king briefly wondered what he'd written but didn't press the matter. He didn't really care.

With some trepidation, Jareth sent the advisor away and studied his future mate's activity in a crystal ball. Kestreal was in her room now, slumbering. Did she really need that much sleep? This worried him slightly, but he shoved that thought to the bottom of his mind. There were bigger fish to fry. He looked for Toby. The youngling was wandering the bank of the creek just outside the palace. Alright, good. Both were safe. Now he could take to the sky.

The king assumed his owl form and floated off into the distance, ready for trouble.

The elven kingdom was bubbling over the proverbial pot with anger. Their ample land was becoming more and more sought after for the troll race, a group of large, stupid creatures that thought with their weapons rather than peanut-shaped brains. Jareth felt for them, he really did, but asking for assistance in this ridiculous war of theirs was simply too much. His people were a simple race themselves; violent, yes, but simple! They were small, were they not? Why would clever beings such as elves expect small goblins to be a great asset to an army?

Jareth was being a bit of a voyeur that afternoon by flying over the Elven Palace in the great country of Casail and viewing the gathering army. The entire castle of elven legend was built from the earth itself, supposedly preserving magical properties useful to rituals. A huge crowd of elf and fairy (why?) alike gathered 'round the High Platform before the palace. An impressive bunch, he admitted. The creatures were similar in appearance and definitely lovely on all counts of the word: tall, slender, pointed and pale. It seemed an unwritten law that all had to had soft voices and long silken hair. He could hear them speaking with his keen hearing and listened in.

"Listen all!" called a raven haired elf Jareth recognized as a military leader by the name of Kursor. "The goblin fiends have refused our requests for the final time! Tomorrow we invade their territory and seek out army hands by force!"

The crowd of beautiful persons cheered rather loudly for a sentient race, the king thought. An aging female elf sent a series of golden sparks into the sky, nearly roasting the goblin but succeeding in singeing tail feathers. He made a mental note to seek avengeance for that on a later date.

"Ahem," purred a high, flaughty voice that he vaguely recognized. "My people are glad to assist in capture of the fae traitor, King Jareth, using any means necessary. He is a blood traitor to us all!" The king wondered what personal wrong he had done to this particular female, and looked to find the owner of the voice.

It was Slatia.

Her maroon eyes shone with an unfamiliar emotion that afternoon that barely veiled her "sweet" disposition. The Fairy Queen was working against him with the elves. How quaint. Inside, Jareth was fuming. Not for being tricked really, but for the fact he hadn't picked up on it! The slag! I'll bet you fancy yourself welcome in my kingdom the next time you pop in for a visit, he thought nastily, glaring at the fae. I'm sure you'll find yourself without a head instead.