Authors' Note: We have not forgotten the promised shopping trip, or the intrigue surrounding Sarah's coronation, or even the already-written chapter about Sarah's next magic lesson with Alix. Or the fact that that word about Sarah and Jareth has been quietly spreading among the urban fae in New York. It's just that the story gets a bit dense here. Bear with us - all will be revealed in due time.


Jareth grumbled under his breath as the tailors measured him again, and held fabrics up to him, and carried on technical discussions about seams and darts and cuts of clothing. Much as he loved finery, his interest was aesthetic, and he had little curiosity about the minutiae of clothes-making.

Della had seated herself on a nearby table, swinging her feet idly as she kept watch over her son. "So that is the little fifteen-year-old who beat you so soundly," she mused. "I confess I'm quite impressed with her spirit."

He'd scoffed at that description of Sarah, but preened a little when Della referred to her as spirited. "She is spirited. Also determined, and brave, and somehow she manages to keep a heart that can soar with wonder despite the city she lives in and the career she chose."

"And she gave you a quite a thrashing, if memory serves" Della replied, circling that point stubbornly. "Tell me, son, how much of your desire for her is simply wanting to claim victory in whatever way you can?"

Jareth scowled fiercely at her, but not even he could look imposing with a seamstress measuring his inseam and muttering through a mouthful of pins. Della only shook her head at him. "I love you, Jareth," she told him. "I see you with the eyes of a mother who adores her only child, but I am not entirely blind. You are a man, and a king. Conquest is always in the minds of such. So answer my question."

Grudgingly, he muttered, "Perhaps … a twentieth of it. If I wanted only to rule Sarah, to repay her for sacking my city, I would've counted her dreams as my triumph."

"Her dreams?" Della arched a brow.

"Sarah returned to the Labyrinth in her dreams," he reminded her. He had complained to his mother in years past, about the obstreperous runner who won and then wouldn't stay gone, but he'd never spoken about the other dreams. And for Sarah's sense of modesty, he wouldn't go into detail. "For some time I was vexed, that she was able to return at all, and then that she was able to avoid me. But eventually it was me she dreamed of. Her run cast me as the villain, and also the seducer. It was in that role that she eventually dreamed herself back into my arms."

"And your bed, I've no doubt," Della said dryly.

"By her choice, and her initiation," Jareth pointed out, unable to keep the barest smirk at bay. "After an initial indoctrination, she found mortal boys rather unimpressive."

Della sighed and rolled her eyes. "The charm of boys is their naivete. It is no bad thing to be worshiped, after all. When a woman seeks skill, she looks to men. Which you are considerably older and more experienced than she, even now."

"She holds her own in the game of love, most especially now," Jareth replied. "I do not want a starry-eyed girl to swoon over me, Mother. I've experienced that far too often, on either side of things. I want a woman of courage and fortitude – that woman. Sarah is magnificent."

"Why? Why her, son? It seems to me that half your relationship consists of bickering." Della didn't sound accusatory, just curious, but he bridled anyway.

"I wonder whose example I follow in that," Jareth growled. "We bicker because we have differing opinions, and honor each other enough to voice them. I enjoy jousting with her. Most of my interest in the current runner is being able to play against Sarah without her being the one in danger."

Della was quiet for a long moment, while the servants did their work. Neither she nor Jareth worried about having such discussions in front of them – all their lives they had been surrounded by servants. It was expected that they would keep silent about what they overheard, for gossips could be bogged or exiled. Or, in less gentle realms, executed.

The seamstress was marking marks in chalk on the half-finished coat, deciding precisely how it should drape, when Della spoke again. "I must tell you … such a combative sort of love is not always easy. Your father and I are not quite as much at war as you and Sarah seem to be; we were not so, even in our early years. We bicker playfully, for mutual amusement. Neither of us enjoys conflict quite as much as you do."

"Sarah and I are not always this quarrelsome," Jareth said. "There were many years of dreams in which we got along quite well – and not all of those dreams took place in bed. We treated each other as equals, and still do. She will fight me when she thinks I am wrong, and I respect that about her. Sometimes she must be convinced. Sometimes I must be. Sometimes she can be a pigheaded idealistic young fool – but then, so can I, even though I am supposed to be older and wiser."

"That you can, my boy," Della laughed.

"We are sorting out issues as they arise, but we both enjoy the process. And we'll continue sorting. We have loved each for nearly fifteen years, Mother. I will not relinquish her now because she does not bend to my will. Hell, if she did yield easily, that might be the only reason I would abandon her!"

"You never did like to do things the simple way," Della sighed.

"If I wanted easy and simple, I would've fallen in love with Lyselle," Jareth muttered.

Della sneered. "Lyselle of Galeraessian? Her? Son, I thought you had rather better taste than that. She was bedding your lover Urylas, wasn't she?"

"As it turned out, yes," Jareth replied. "She fancies herself his one true love. That Urylas had no interest in true or lasting love, she's never believed. In any case, we served each other well. I tried to use her to break the curse, and to forget Sarah. She admitted she was only using me to get a throne."

Della tossed her hair over her shoulder, scowling. "Galeraessian is an ambitious kingdom. Her parents toady to the High King every chance they get, and unfortunately they think the best way to advance their cause is to attempt to drag down everyone else. Any bit of court gossip that reaches their ears is forwarded where it can do the most harm. I cannot fault them for spoiling their daughter, not when I spoilt you, but at least you have some couth."

Jareth scoffed; she surely damned him with faint praise, but then a calculating light shone in Della's gaze. "Jareth, I must have misheard you. You bedded her twice? Gods, all men are fools. At what point did you realize there's nothing of substance in that pretty head?"

"Mother. She was convenient." Jareth glared, and she only arched a brow. "Besides which, there is some calculation in her. She did mean to take my throne."

"Lyselle would not last a month here," Della said flatly. "She would be goblin-fodder. Not that you have the best sense of tact, but she would manage to botch the job royally. Wait – Lyselle was at the Champion's Ball, wasn't she? Why do I suddenly believe that she was the reason why you and Sarah both briefly quit the floor?"

He sighed. "So that's gotten into the rumor mill, has it? Yes, she was. I think Lyselle was using means both mundane and magical to cast doubt in Sarah's mind. We've discussed the issue, and Sarah knows she has no competition from that quarter."

"There will be no such foolishness at her coronation," Della said sternly. "If Sarah is the one you want, forever, then you'd damned well better convince her of it before that crown touches her head. And speaking of forever – does Sarah know?" She tilted her head, birdlike, to ask that.

Another sigh at that, Jareth looking away. "Not yet. There is so much to tell her, Mother. I suspect she knows in her marrow, as Umardelin gives her that much. But we have not addressed it."

"You'd best," Della warned. "Truly, you had best. Sooner, rather than late. This is why I question you, son. It is no small commitment that you both make. And it has consequences for those you love and who love you, as well."

His look to her was pained. "I know … but Mother, I love her. What else can I do?"

"Only love her, as you already do, and to the best of your ability," Della sighed. "I know that true love will not be denied. Enough, my son. Let us talk of less consequential things … such as the menu for her coronation. Have you told Sarah about the eel pie course?"

Thiel had been pressed into service as guard, and looked utterly miserable as he slumped into a chair in the fitting room. "Someone bring me a cup of wine," he said to the servants. "I'll need it to survive this. By the gods, I loathe costuming."

Sarah was about to make a comment to him, but felt a sudden weight thwack against her shoulder. "You forgots me!" Neesk complained.

"I did not, I was just letting you sleep," she soothed, and reached to pet him. Neesk nipped her hand, and she yelped, but didn't swat him. It was impossible to be angry at a half-pound goblin pouting on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Neesk. I promise, I didn't forget you."

"Don'ts forgets me," he muttered, but he let her pet him that time, and seemed to settle.

"Right," said the tailor, approaching Sarah with measuring tape in hand. "Off with this, milady. Can't measure through gowns." And so saying, he reached for the nape of her neck, where the dress was buttoned.

"Whoa," Sarah yipped, shying back. "A moment, please. Excuse me, my future father-in-law does not need to see my underwear! Thiel, turn around first."

He rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. "One, I've been charged with watching you. Two, unless humans have changed a great deal over the centuries, you've nothing under that gown I've never seen before. Three, you have met my wife. Lovely as you are, Sarah – and my son is indeed a lucky man – none compares to Cadelinyth."

"And four, you're still not seeing me next to naked, father-in-law. Turn around or I'll blindfold you," she said stubbornly.

He shrugged, chuckled, and turned the chair around. "As you wish. Far be it from me to offend a lady."

Somehow it was different with the servants, probably because the tailor was clearly only interested in her measurements, and was muttering about color and fabric under his breath. Neesk climbed to the top of her head, clinging to her hair, and she figured with resignation that he couldn't get much of a view from there. Sarah had been fitted for costumes before, and knew to hold absolutely still, so as to avoid being jabbed with a pin or two.

Thiel had gotten his wine, and was sipping it slowly. "Sarah, if you insist that I not look at you, you'll have to speak," he said. "Otherwise I am not fulfilling my charge of making certain you're not sneaking off to intercept the runner."

Sarah sighed. "Fine. Um … Umardelin has the Labyrinth. What's Etaron's claim to fame?"

"Little enough of fame," he admitted reluctantly. "Etaron is an old land, carved out of the wilds by an ancestor of mine. This was long ago, when humans were only just learning to make weapons of copper. The founder of the land was a minor noble in the High King's court, and neither he nor his descendants took sides in the various wars of succession. Perhaps the most notable thing about Etaron is that we have several connections to your world. There is a rath – a ring-fort – which links Etaron directly to Eire, as well as several trees that stand in both realms."

"Wow," Sarah said, thinking of all that ancient age. "Is Umardelin that old?"

"Older," Thiel replied. "Well, Umardelin as a kingdom is not quite so old as Etaron. The current High King's father fixed its boundaries and installed a king of his choosing, calling it Umardelin, sometime around the dawn of the Iron Age. The Labyrinth itself is truly ancient. I believe it once had a bull living in the center."

"Really?" Sarah gulped, knowing her Greek mythology. They were talking about really, really old history, and the Greeks were actually the most recent of it. And Jareth meant to see her crowned queen of this.

Then Thiel turned her mind from it all by casually saying, "I admit, for such a realm, I'm surprised that Umardelin chose a human – a modern human, at that – for its queen."

She took a deep breath. It was a conservation she had know was coming; she was just loathe that it had to be addressed now. "Okay, so it's probably best to just get this out in the open," she began, and he cocked his head to show he was giving her his full attention. "What's your problem with humans, King Deruthiel?"

"I don't have a problem with humans," he protested. "Some of my finest warriors are human."

He must've been shocked by her laughter, for Thiel forgot himself and turned around. Luckily Sarah was currently draped in fabric. "You don't even realize how that sounds, do you?" she replied, still chuckling.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, with such a comical look of confusion that she broke into fresh laughter.

Once Sarah got control of herself, she decided to just lay everything out for him. "All right. Let me explain. So in humans, in America especially, we have a big problem with racism. Partly it's historical, partly it's cultural, partly it's socioeconomic, and it's way more complicated that this, but it boils down to people thinking that lighter skin is better than dark skin. That white people are smarter, more civilized, more moral, while black people are lazy, stupid, and usually criminals."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Thiel said flatly.

"Yeah, I know," she sighed. "But. When it's just one guy saying that black people are useless, he's prejudiced. When he's a landlord and he refuses to rent to black people, he's discriminating against them. But when across the entire country, black people make less money than whites for the same jobs, and when they get longer prison sentences for lesser crimes, that's racism. It's not just one person, it's a whole system devoted to keeping down the 'lesser race'. Mostly so the 'superior race' can go on enjoying privileges they never earned, and never have to think about how much they rely on the 'lower races' to do all their manual labor. I mean, we used to have outright slavery."

Thiel shook his head. "Disgusting. And this is relevant to me how?"

"Substitute 'human' for 'black'. Or low fae and high fae," she replied, already wincing a little. Fearless Sarah, Defender of Right and Wrong, rides again. Now to just stay in the damn saddle. Again, she had meant to bring up this topic, but not this soon. But now that it was out, it was best to just go forward.

To his credit, Thiel sat in silence and thought about it. When he at last spoke, it was in chastened tones. "It does not escape me that everyone from the kitchen staff, to the maids, to the tailors presently working on your gown, are either human or low fae. This is as true in my kingdom as in yours. I have no illusions about that. The high fae alone could not successfully run a kingdom. Not only do we lack some of the smaller magics that make daily life possible, the sheer amount of infighting among us would be disastrous."

"Smaller magics?" Sarah said gently. "I understand that dryads are low fae, but they have healing and fertility magic. How is that considered small magic? Sure, Jareth's glitterstorms are impressive, but I'd think fertility would be more important."

"True," Thiel replied.

"It's even in the language," Sarah said. "Why on earth are you called high and low fae? It's systemic discrimination. And Thiel, one of the things about racism in humans is that when you call someone a racist, the first thing they say is, 'I can't be racist, some of my best friends are black!' But if you ask them, you'll find out that what they really think is that their black friends aren't like most black people. They think they're almost like white people."

"I see," he said, even more quietly.

"So, are your human soldiers almost as good as fae?" Sarah asked, and flinched as the tailor poked her with a needle. She wasn't sure if it was purposeful or not; this couldn't be a comfortable conversation for the silent majority of servants in the room.

"No," Thiel said, rather sharply. "They are better than fae. Humans often make better warriors. Your lives are shorter and your hearts burn hotter. But I see your point."

"How many times have the low fae revolted against high fae rule?" Sarah asked, and Thiel nearly fell off his chair.

"Who told you there were rebellions?" he snapped.

"Well, Jareth told me his predecessor got eaten by goblins," she shot back. "But other than that, no one needed to. I just have a degree in psychology, the workings of the mind, and a working knowledge of history, Deruthiel. I know what happens when people are oppressed. Sooner or later, heads roll and regimes topple."

He stood up to pace then, and Sarah squeaked as the tailor whipped away the marked fabric, leaving her in bra and underwear. Thiel wasn't paying any attention to her, however. When he finally glanced her way, he respectfully averted his eyes. "Yes, there were revolts. Most of them were probably justified. There have always been fools who think it necessary to rule by fear and cruelty. I do not oppress my people, Sarah, and I resent the implication that I do."

"There are good kings in the world, there always are, and I never said you oppress them," she quickly replied. The tailor handed her a cloak, which she draped over herself while quick adjustments were made to the fabric he'd marked. "But fae culture itself oppresses them, and that's not right."

Thiel looked at her very seriously. "I'd be careful where you say that. The High King would not appreciate it. And I do not wish to see my son take his realm to war over you."

"Okay, point. I'm one human against thousands of years of fae history. But in my kingdom, no one talks shit about my people. Human, fae, goblin, hybrid, I don't care. They're mine and they will be respected. Just the same way you respect me enough to listen when I call you out on your prejudice."

"Yes, well, I imagine most people find it very hard to disrespect you, Sarah Williams," Thiel replied with heavy irony. "I take your meaning quite well."

"Another thing," she continued. "I understand this stuff. You're not a bad man, King Deruthiel. I'll bet half your problem with the goblins is that the pure-blooded fae give you grief about your father being human. And you love your father, don't you? You don't think he's a lesser creature, and your mother didn't either, or she wouldn't have had you by him. So when, say, Iswyniel calls you a half-breed, you take it out on the low fae. Yeah, you're only half fae, but that half is high fae from an ancient kingdom. So keep the vermin in their place, because at least they're lower than you. Am I right?" When she finished, Sarah fought the urge to wince again. There was such a thing as too much honesty; what had made her mention the 'half-breed' thing? He'd muttered it to her during the song, and she'd heard the bitterness in his voice even despite the liquor. Sarah couldn't help hoping it wouldn't make him stop listening.

Thiel, for his part, had gone very still, staring intently at her, and Sarah abruptly realized that Thiel's hands were clenched into fists. His eyes were black as ink, and she felt as if a storm was approaching. According to the story, Thiel didn't have much magic … but did that matter, against an untrained human? Not to mention, his father was a Celtic warrior, and he was armed, a dagger at his belt. Neesk stood tall at the top of her head, growling ferociously, and all the servants froze.

She gave Thiel the consideration of softening her voice, but did not back down. Would not. Could not, and be true to her own nature. "And Jareth gets his temper from you."

Thiel let out a breath, and shook himself with a sigh. The thundery feeling in the air vanished. "Jareth gets his control of his temper from me," he replied, his voice rough. "Note that I said nothing, made no threat. And you, Sarah, get your courage from the gods themselves, because you call out before witnesses what my own wife would not say to me in private, and you do it unarmed and nearly undressed. I commend you."

She shrugged. "Thiel, I want to know you. I want to understand you. I love your son, and I want to love you. But I have big damn issues with anyone treating me like Jareth's little human pet. To be completely blunt, I've come too far and worked too hard to put up with that shit. Better that we get it settled now."

"I think you understand me rather too well at the moment," he told her. "Still. You have a point. And you are no man's pet. I recognized that at our first meeting, even drunk."

"You are more than what they call you," she told him, as she'd told dozens of children in her career. "You are worth more than that. I don't give a flying fuck what the rest of the fae think of me, or say behind my back. I'm human, I'll deal. But they will respect me to my face. And so help me, they'll respect you, too. You are the King of Etaron, your son is King of Umardelin, and for all their high pure blood I don't see any of them over here taking on the Labyrinth. They don't have the courage you or Jareth do.

"The thing is, Thiel, people who are prejudiced based on something like race or species? They do it because they're afraid. They're afraid that they're not good enough, so they put that off on someone else, make themselves feel better by making other people feel worse. I've got zero respect for that nonsense. Live by your own integrity and your own actions, and judge yourself only by your own standards."

He shook his head slowly. "If this is how you carry yourself as Champion, I shudder to think what a power you will be once crowned. Promise me, Sarah, you will not start a war against the High King."

"No, no worries there. I think Jareth's little experience was enough for all of us. After what I've read and heard, just thinking about him scares the crap out of me," she replied instantly.

Thiel managed a chuckle at that. "As you should be frightened. And if you consider me properly chastened, I'll have a glass of something stronger than wine." Though when a page stepped forward to take his empty glass, Thiel did tell the boy, "Thank you."

As far as Sarah – child of liberal, diverse, democratic New York – was concerned, that was a major win.

When they met back up in the audience chamber, Della kissed Thiel's cheek. "I see you survived, love. Did she manage to keep you awake?"

He laughed, and embraced her. "You have no idea. I hope our son enjoys conflict – that one knows how to hold her own in a debate. And she has little inclination to bow before tradition."

She raised an eyebrow at that, probably guessing the topic of their conversation. "Well then. Fortunately, according to Jareth, her stubborn nature is one of her chief attractions."

"Good. I wish him joy of it," Thiel replied.

They moved apart, and she linked her arm through his to head over to where Jareth had summoned up a seeing-crystal. "About tradition … she does know she must yield to the High King?"

"Him, she's afraid of," he replied.

"Wisely," Della said, with relief.