Love Potion No. 9

Ch. 3: To Tell the Truth

Author's Note: I'm still working to get back to 50 Shades of Fey. I've got the next chapter plotted out (and yup, someone's gonna be in trouuuuuuble...but it isn't who you think!). In the meantime, this little plot bunny has been eating at me, so I'm going to write on it while I get my head back into 50 Shades.

As always, please review :) I love seeing what y'all think. Next chapter promises Sarah and Jareth action!

Jerra's eyes clenched tight at the world-bending feeling of being transported, her stomach lurching disconcertingly at the sensation. She'd been in the Goblin Kingdom for five years, but had only had the dubious 'pleasure' of being transported twice – this being the second time. The first time was when the King had stumbled upon the ring of thugs in the Outer Wastes who were taking turns at the young pixie, while she was chained in the back of a rickety old wagon.

She nothing of her first transporting experience, and very little of what transpired leading up to it. If she were honest with herself, that was probably a blessing in disguise. The pixie had been picking jumping mushrooms in the forest near her parent's home on the northern shore of Mistfell Lake, when a man in dirty brown breeches and a leather jerkin stepped out of the bushes. He carried a coil of nettle rope in his hands, his black eyes narrowing on her, while a twisted smiled pulled at his lips. Then a second man stepped from the bushes, carrying a filthy looking sack. She remembered trying to back away, only to be stopped by a third man, who grabbed her hair roughly, jerking her backward until she was looking up into his heavily scarred face.

"We'll get a pretty penny for this one at the markets in Djusteppe," he laughed.

Jerra didn't even get a chance to scream, before she was struck hard on the back of her head. She woke up some time later, naked and bound in the back of an old wagon. The sky was dark, but she recognized the path they were on as a disused merchant trail that wound through the hills of Aieren, leading toward the Djusteppe Plains. She lost track of how long they travelled along the rocky path. With each bounce of the wagon wheels on the road, the iron manacles tore at her flesh, leaving bleeding tracks and pus-filled sores from the poisoning of the metal. Considering what they could have done to her, Jerra was almost thankful that they seemed to want to sell her at the markets, so none of them had laid a hand on her, except to beat her.

Some days they remembered to feed her, carelessly tossing scraps of rotten flesh at her. Gagging she would pick up the meat and drop it over the side of the wagon, which only angered them further. They would scream and rant at her, threatening to force her to eat it, and each time she would refuse – she was Pixie. No meat would pass her lips. If she were lucky it might rain and she could catch a few drops of the refreshing liquid upon her swollen tongue and parched lips.

One night the thugs decided there were other ways they could taste her 'charms' that would not lower her selling-price. She remembered screaming and trying to fight, but being without proper food and water for so long, she was no match for them. The last memory she had of the thugs was the scarred face of the one called Talun, just before he roared in pain, a long, vicious blade protruding through his chest. A dark figure in black dragonhide armor had descended upon the clearing like the mythical 'Cleaners' she had been told inhabited the lower tunnels of the Labyrinth. He roared loud enough to silence the animals of the forest, as he whirled through the small encampment, the bone-rending clangs of metal blades terrifying her. Curling as small as she could in the back of the wagon, Jerra clenched her eyes tightly and prayed to the Goddess that the beast who was so easily destroying the thugs, would have the kindness to kill her quickly.

She was so terrified that it took her a moment to realize that the screaming and sound of swords striking bone and flesh had stopped. Her keen Pixie ears tilted, scanning the area for movement. The struggle may have been over, but someone was still there. She could hear a body being moved, then a low guttural growl in a language she had heard only once before – Gobylin – the language spoken only by elder goblins who advised the notorious Goblin King and one other being – The Goblin King himself.

Cracking an eyelid, Jerra gasped seeing a figure in black leaning over her, his face haloed by feathery blonde hair, tipped randomly with blood red. Seeing the oddly mismatched pupils, framed by the steeply arching eyebrows of the High Fae, she knew exactly who had saved her and to whom she now owed a blood debt – and the knowledge chilled her to the core.

Her savior was the Goblin King.

"Are you injured?" he demanded, his tone curt. Seeing her wide-eyed look, he shook his head in irritation. "Of course you are. Stupid question, really" he grumbled, berating himself and leaving Jerra even more dumbstruck to hear a king scold himself in a such a manor.

A feathery cloak appeared from nowhere, the downy feathers caressing her bare flesh gently as he wrapped it around her, before bending to free her from the rough iron shackles that bound her. Seeing the damage that the mortal metal had caused the young Pixie made him snarl. "Damn them, there will be scarring," he said sounding somewhat apologetic as he tenderly bound the red and festering flesh. When he was satisfied that the wounds would come to no immediate harm, he gave her a gentle smile. "Come, I will take you to a healer," he said, scooping her carefully into his arms. Then Jerra's world twisted in upon itself and she knew no more.

True to his word, he delivered her to a healer, but not just any healer. No. The Goblin King delivered her to the healer to the royal family of Avalon, the personal healer of the High King and Queen. And there she was fostered until she was old enough to choose a kingdom in which to live.

In hindsight, the fact that she had fainted the first time she was transported by the Goblin King was a blessing. Her second experience was far more disorienting.

When the world unfolded from around her, Jerra's head spun, making it impossible to open her eyes. Gasping she gripped the sides of her head, a dizzy moan spilling from her lips. She clenched her eyes tight against the roiling feeling inside her body that made it impossible to tell what whether she was facing up, down or sideways, as the room seemed to be in motion, moving and swirling under her feet. If it weren't for the firm grip of the Goblin King's hand on her arm, she likely would have fallen in a heap upon the stones. As it was, the moment she cracked her eyes to figure out where she was, the room spun with such force that her knees wobbled, then buckled entirely.

"Sit, Jerra," the Goblin King instructed her, his tone warm, but firm enough to let her know that there would be no arguing – not like she was had any intention of contesting such a sensible order. With a sharp snap of his fingers, a chair from a nearby table slid across the stones and gently nudged the back of her knees, essentially forcing her to sit upon it.

Feeling numb, Jerra sunk gratefully into the chair, still holding onto her head as if it would spin around her shoulders if she didn't.

"Take slow, deep breaths. I'm told it helps," suggested the Goblin King, finally releasing her arm.

Jerra took a long shuttering breath, filling her lungs fully. The world seem to settle a bit with each breath she took, until her head finally stopped spinning – for the most part. Blinking, she took her first look around and was pleasantly surprised. She had expected to be taken to the formal receiving room, or even the dungeons. Her first impression of the room was that it was definitely a place of work. The wall near her was filled with bookcases and filing drawers of heavy wood, each one seemed near to bursting from the papers that spilled from them. One end of the room was taken up by a humongous fireplace, with an elaborately carved stone mantel and surround, depicting creatures of all types that inhabit the Labyrinth and the Goblin Kingdom. The other end of the room was filled with warm afternoon sunlight, as the whole wall looked out onto a balcony. Through the open curtains and balcony door, she could see the Labyrinth rolling and twisting off to the horizon. In front of the window sat a large desk, the top of which was covered with yet more stacks of papers, quills and blotting papers scattered willy-nilly, alongside pots of ink and maps.

It was only when the Goblin King draped himself casually across the ornate leather desk chair that she fully realized where he had brought her. This was no mere library or the work room of the castle steward, or the King's advisor. No, this was the Goblin King's own office, where the 'real' work of the kingdom was undertaken.

"Now then, my dear Jerra. I believe it is time for you to unburden yourself to your King," the Goblin King said.

His crystalline eyes narrowed as he looked at her, tapping his steepled fingers against his chin. Jerra felt her stomach sink at the intensity of his gaze and the stern tilt of his lips.

"Um…I… don't understand, Sire…," the small Pixie stammered, feeling a cold lump settle in her throat, threatening to choke her on the lie.

The sound of laughter from the Goblin King was the last thing she expected to hear.

"A lie, girl? And not even the courtesy of a good one?!" he chuckled, his eyes fading to their usual merry shades of blue. "Come now, Jerra. Do you think I've gone soft in my advanced years?"

"You're not that old, Sire," she muttered, feeling her cheeks burn under his studious look.

The Goblin King tilted his head in the owlish way that belied his birthright. As he blinked at her, his eyes flashing golden and predatory for a brief moment, before shifting once more to crystal blue, like the lakes of the Mistfell Mountains of her homeland.

"I may not be 'old' in the traditional sense, yet I am old enough to know when one of my subjects is lying to me, Jerra," he replied, the amusement fading from his tone as his words became sharper. "You have been importing magical goods of questionable quality from the Aboveground without a warrant from the Crown. This is an offense punishable by hard labor in the rock mines along the Dwarven Borderlands, girl."

Gulping, Jerra nodded. She had known since she and Sarah first discussed the idea, just what the penalty might be should she ever be caught. Of course, she wouldn't go alone to the stone mines, her accomplice would be interred there as well. Fighting to swallow the lump in her throat, Jerra blinked, her eyes stinging with the effort of holding back the tears. She didn't beg when the thugs assaulted her, she wasn't about to beg for leniency from the Gobin King.

As if sensing her distress, Jareth waved his hand, a fine linen handkerchief appearing in the air in front of the diminutive female. "Relax, girl. I have no intention of sending you to the stone mines for importing some hedgewitch magic from the Aboveground. You and I both know that while I may be a terror to those who would seek to abuse my lands or my citizens, to those that are loyal to my Crown, I can be quite generous," he said, giving her a quiet yet thoughtful smile. "Besides, the only harm that has come of you peddling the magical trinkets is that you are parting gullible goblins from their money."

Plucking the handkerchief from the air, Jerra scrubbed at her violet eyes, sniffing nervously and nodding. "Thank you, Sire. What would you have me do to atone?"

The Goblin King unfolded himself from his chair and smoothly glided around the desk, leaning lightly against it as he regarded her, a sly smile playing at the corner of his lips. "What I want is simple. I want you to tell me who you have been importing these items from."

Jerra felt the blood drain from her face. Somehow she knew this would be what he would want, but to hear it for herself still came as a shock. "I…I don't have a partner, Sire. I've been sourcing them from various shops that the mortals call 'new age'."

All gentleness faded from the Goblin Kings expression and he growled, "That's two, girl. Lie to me a third time and I might change my mind about the mines!"

Cringing, Jerra ducked lower in her chair, twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. "But Sire…"

"I've examined every one of the pouches that the castle goblins have and they all bear the same magical signature, so there is only one person making these," he snapped testily, his entire countenance seeming to pulse with irritation.

"I…I…can't….Your Majesty… I gave my word that she would not be harmed or revealed in this arrangement. She knows of the Underground, but I swear she speaks of it to no one. She is loyal, Sire. I promise. Please… I'd do anything else…even serve my sentence in the mines," she pleaded, her voice cracking at her last words.

Frowning, the Goblin King shook his head. "No, Jerra. You will not be sent to the mines, although I am disappointed that you would dishonor your blood debt to me by not only lying to me twice, but refusing to give me that which I am within my right as King to demand of you." He glared at the Pixie for some time before returning to his chair and drawing out a blank sheet of parchment bearing the royal seal. Picking up a quill he dipped it in the ink pot and began to write.

The room was silent except for the rhythmic scratching of the Gobin King's quill across the fine parchment, and the still panicked breathing of the frightened Pixie. After several minutes the Goblin King blotted the parchment, then carefully rolled it up. Holding it closed, he dripped a thick pool of purple wax upon the join, then firmly pressed his ring to it, sealing the parchment with the royal crest of the Goblin King. Rising once more, again he moved to Jerra, the deep thud of his boot heels upon the stones seeming to echo in time with the Pixie's heartbeat.

"Since you will not divulge the name of your 'partner in crime', I have no choice. Take this to her. It is an official summons. You and your partner are to present yourselves at the Lughnassad Festival Open Court. At that time I will officially grant you both a pardon. Then following the closing court of the festival, we will sit down and hash out a proper warrant for the importation of foreign magic," he said, offering the Pixie the sealed summons.

Jerra's mind raced as she took the scroll. She could not possibly refuse her King a second time, but there was no way she would be able to convince Sarah to present herself in accordance with the summons. Sarah had been adamant that she did not want her identity to be known to the Goblin King, as he would surely want to know how she and Jerra met – and she did not want to reveal that she had found a way to traverse the mists between the worlds, unaided by Labyrinthian portals.

"But…Sire…."

The Goblin King's eyes narrowed upon the pale face of the Pixie. "Don't try my patience, Jerra. You have refused the blood debt you owe me and lied to me. Think very carefully before you deny my wishes on this."

Glumly she nodded, feeling a heavy weight settle in the pit of her stomach. "Yes, Sire."

"Good. Now go. I expect to see you and your partner bright and early for Lughnaasad Court. If you are not here, I will send out the High Court Guard to retrieve you both for formal trial at the High Court," he said, his blue eyes sparkling mischievously at the way the young Pixie squeaked and her face turned pasty. "Ahh…I see that you finally understand just how serious I am about this." Nodding briefly at her, he turned his back and moved to his desk chair once more. "You are dismissed, Jerra…but remember…you belong to my Kingdom, and I know everything that goes on in my Kingdom."

Jerra jumped up from her chair, clutching the parchment in her sweaty palm as she scurried from the room, a petulant voice in her mind laughing, "Hah! If you knew everything you'd know who my partner was."

Cringing inwardly, Jerra wasn't sure who's wrath she'd rather face – the King's if he knew she was working with the girl who bested him, or Sarah if she found out Jerra had (however briefly) considered betraying her to the King.

At times like these, she was glad that her true allegiances lay elsewhere. The only downside is they put her in this precarious position in the first place.

The little pixie didn't stop running until she was tucked up in her little cottage outside of the Goblin City, nestled between Roaring Spring and Firey Forest. When she reached her home, she carefully shut the door and sealed the windows, her bare feet silent on the wooden planks of the flooring, worn smooth and glossy from years of use. When the cottage had been sealed from prying eyes, she approached the small mirror with the faded golden frame hanging above her wash basin. Slowly she swirled a fingertip along the center, murmuring softly in the language of the Ancients.

Gwyr lian wuan garra.

Faint swirls of purple and blue began to shift across the mirror, as a familiar pair of eyes appeared, the rest of the face shrouded by the mists.

"Mistress… I have news, which may change your plans," Jerra said, the Goblin King's handkerchief still clutched tightly in her hand.

~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~~J/S~

The frantic footfalls echoing back down the hall as the Pixie scuttled frantically from his office, made Jareth smile, pleased at the knowledge that he had gotten her to understand just how serious her predicament was. True, he would be within his right as King to sentence her to the mines, in truth he would do no such thing to Jerra. She had suffered enough in her short life. He remembered the way her limp body felt in his arms after her attack, and the shallow breaths she took, as her body neared the point where her soul would be forced to move from the physical plan and flow beyond the veil. Pixies, by their very nature, were fragile creatures, but Jerra had been through something horrific – something she had refused to speak of, even to Hialean the healer for the Royal Family of Avalon.

Although Jerra never spoke of it, Jareth knew what he had seen and he would not risk sending the Pixie to the mines, where she might experience far worse.

Still, she needed to be reminded that he was the King and his word was law.

Leaning back in his chair, Jareth shut his eyes and opened his senses, tracing the threads of the Labyrinth as they covered the kingdom. The Goblin City and outer villages surrounding the castle were quiet and lazy – which was to be expected after the carousing that always accompanied Lady Sarah's Victory Day – aided in no small part by the special casks left in each town and village - A gift for his people. As much as he hated the fact that she had beaten him, he admired her for it and saw no reason to discourage the celebrations. Even the Goblin King had celebrated, although his celebration was far more subdued than those of his people. Rather than taking to the streets to dance and sing, the King had retreated to his private tower. There, wrapped in the downy feathers of his cloak, he allowed himself to relive every moment of her Labyrinth run. Relive them and mourn that which he had lost.

Some might call it torture – a pointless exercise in self-flagellation. But in Jareth's mind it was no less than he deserved for impulsively giving his heart to the girl. That hadn't been part of the plan. The plan was, as it had always been when a runner got to the end – offer them their dreams again and 'sweeten' the deal in some way. For most runners, offering them riches and power was enough. However Sarah was different. All through her run, the Goblin King had monitored her actions, mulling over every decision she made, while subtly teasing his mind through her emotions and dreams. Riches and power would not sway the girl. Had she been fully-grown he might have tried to seduce her into his bed, a tactic which worked more often than he'd care to admit. He might have felt guilty for it, if it had not been for the fact that he had to do nothing, it was all an illusion anyway. For a brief instant they would feel as if their 'dream' was true, then it would fade and they would find themselves alone in a dungeon cell. While he might offer them the promise of his attentions, it was always an empty promise.

Then there was Sarah.

As the final seconds ticked down, he knew that seducing her was not an option. She was young and innocent, too pure a dreamer to sully in such a way. He wanted to blame the Labyrinth for what happened, but now he wasn't sure how much of it was the desire of the Labyrinth to keep the beautifully innocent dreamer, or his own longing for a companion on the throne – but in the end it didn't matter why he did it, only that he did. In the end, he offered the blasted girl himself. And in those words… 'fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave', the Goblin King gave a sacred oath. An oath which now bound him to Sarah, until she either accepted the offer, or formally freed him from his obligation.

Of course, the fact that she said those damnable words further compounded the problem.

You have no power over me.

Oh, how he hated those words.

The moment she said them, he was bound from going to her unless she called specifically for him. She had effectively barred him from ever getting free of his oath to her – and worse still, she had no idea what she had done, or what it would cost the Goblin King. For the truth of the matter was, no matter how much Jareth did not want to admit it, he had spoken his heart to the girl, so even if she somehow managed to find her way to the Underground and formally free him from his obligation, he would be never truly be freed. Fae males would only declare their love once and in so doing, entered into a magical contract – the only children he might then sire would be those of the woman to whom he had given his oath.

And for Jareth… that woman was Sarah.

Sighing deeply, Jareth opened his eyes, feeling a hard lump in his hand. Puzzled he looked down at his clenched fist, then slowly uncurled his gloved hand, revealing the small red linen pouch he had found abandoned in the throne room. He tugged at the thin pink cord that held the pouch closed, then upended the pouch on his palm. A pink crystal, carefully sculpted into a heart. Six rose petals. And a small stub of a red candle, engraved with a marking he could not decipher.

Decipher it or not, he knew what it was for.

Love.

If he could find some way to have Sarah free him from his oath, then he might still find love. Of course, no children would come of it, so there would be no direct heir to the kingdom. Other kings would be horrified that he would seek love if no legitimate heir could come of it, but Jareth wasn't like other kings. At the end of the day, he could nominate one of his nephews or nieces to take on the kingdom. What he longed for most of all was someone to love and love him in return.

Toying with the contents of the pouch, Jareth smiled sadly. "Someday, I'll be free to love again," he murmured, his voice a mere whisper, swept away by the warm breeze of the late summer afternoon, as it drifted through the open balcony doors.

Jareth dropped the crystal heart, rose petals and candle stump into the pouch, then pulled the laces tight once more, before tucking the little parcel back into the top of his boot.

"Where Fae magic won't work, perhaps a little mortal magic will," he mused, picking up his quill and turning his attention to the stacks of correspondence scattered across the top of his desk.

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