Disclaimer: I do not own the plot or the characters from 'the Labyrinth', no matter how many stars I wish on. Damn Disney… lying so-and-so fairy… Oh, and now I have to tell you I don't own Disney and/or the fairy either...

In the last chapter the Goblin King seemed rather upset about Sarah's interference in his life, and about the High Council's interference in his own. I suppose the Goblin King hates when the rules are not his to make and break at will… When we last left little Sarah she was enjoying the old-world charm of a small Irish town, and trying her best to decipher Gaelic terms. A strange man approached her and offered her a tale. And, wistful thing that she still is, Sarah agreed to hear it, despite the protestations of her would-be guardian.

Fairy Rings:

His blue eyes, glacial and keen, focused on her pale face, and he let out a chortling laugh. "What do you know of Fairy Rings?"

Behind the bar Ayden lifted his eyes to the roof, and let out a silent prayer. For what Sarah didn't know, either a short tale or some other form of divine intervention most likely. Maybe encouraging the old man to tell his story hadn't been the brightest thing to do…

She shook her head, a strand of her long hair slipping from it's hastily-made confines. "Is it on the menu?" Ayden's laugh made her blush and scowl at the floor. Apparently it was not.

The old man shook his head once, sharply. "No Lass, it is not on the menu." His mocking tone would have hurt had she not already been imagining ringing Ayden's neck. Her fury allowed her to ignore the old man for just long enough that it passed without remark. How was she expected to know anything about Fairy rings? She was a fiction writer for goodness sake, and a hungry one at that!

"Well, that is fine and well, lass, as Mickie Finnegan was unaware as well. His blood was as green as the high grass in the wash, and so no one expected him to be without the knowledge. They all assumed that he knew not to go out into the woods and step within the ring of mushrooms."

His liver-spotted hands went to the front of his coat, where a pipe peeked out. Ah, so Sarah had found the source of the smoke earlier. With just a slight hesitation the old man dropped his hand again.

"Mickie was in a foul mood that day, as the woman he had chosen to wed was asked by another. He left the town, quite certain that his life was not worth living. In fact, he was probably in search of something wild enough to end his anger and his hurt. He thought he had loved the lass, you see.

"But destiny is wily, lass, and it had plans for young, heartbroken Mickie. As he went madly to and fro in the forest, just outside the village there," his hands gestured toward the windows, but in no discernable direction. "He began to hear weeping. He was about to go the opposite direction when he noticed something about the sobs. They were like water running from a waterfall, they were like the wind through the fields. And he could no longer turn away from her.

"It was a lass he found in the clearing, and when he stepped through into it, she turned to face him. He fell deeply and instantly into true love. It made the feelings he had thought to possess for the other woman seem callow and false. Indeed that was love, that feeling coursing through him for this beautiful stranger he had never seen or spoken to before.

"Her hair was like the sunshine, pure and golden. It was long, and fell in gentle waves down her pale, elegant back. Her features were sharp, keen with interest and perhaps something similar to what Mickie himself felt. It was her eyes though, lass, that lured him into the ring of mushrooms, her eyes that bade him kneel beside her and offer his handkerchief to stem the flow of her tears."

Sarah noticed that as he spoke, the old man relaxed more and more, and his firm grasp on English and the proper pronunciation of every syllable began to fail him. Ayden, who had heard this tale more than once, sighed and turned back to the end of the bar where the two young men were evidently attempting to drown their sorrows.

Maybe they should take a walk in the forest. Seemed to work for Mickie…

More to distract herself than to truly know, Sarah asked the first thing that came to her mind. "And what color were these eyes that capture Mickie heart and soul?" Her laughter died at his answer, and she listened in silence for a long time after.

"Amber, like liquid, molten sunlight.

"…And they did as lovers oft do, there without shame before any who cared to wander the woods. He couldn't know it then, but he had just made love with a Fey, one of those that dwell under the hill, beneath the fairy ring, in the Fey Kingdom. She left him that morning in the sunlight, vowing to him that he would see her again, and soon! 'Twas the only way Mickie would let her go, that vow.

"Several months passed, and then several more. It was a full year before Mickie began to lose faith in his true love, and her vow. When separated from the one that completes you, each second is an hour, each hour a month… the time is painful and endless." He reached for his pocket and his pipe again, cursing in that strange language in what might have passed for a whisper.

"It was a cold winter's day when there came a knock upon his door. Thinking it a beggar Mickie rose in frustration, with a scowl. What lay on his doorstep was far more astounding than any beggar could have ever been, and Mickie--"

"A child." Sarah spoke confidently, unsure how she knew. And without questioning it, the old man… Duncan… gave her a nod.

"'Twas the only remembrance he had of the lovely maid whom he had claimed as his own. The babe was a lovely bairn, a lass with hair as golden as the sunlight and as pale as the moonlight. One eye was blue, like his, the other true and pure amber. And he loved her more than his own life.

"There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes…" And his were so close to hers as they danced… those eyes that held her captive. One blue, like the thoughtful depths of the ocean, and the other like liquid, molten sunlight--

She fought the urge to curl into fetal position, listening to the old man, drowning out the image with all of her strength.

"He was a coarse man, Mickie was. He lived on but the simple coin he earned as a blacksmith, and in that rare time of peace his employ was not swords or armor, but simple horseshoes. It worked well enough to clothe and feed one man, but not a man and a girl-child, one who was in need of constant attention and food. He was unable to give her all she desired, and he wept bitter tears that any child of his love should be raised so."

"But he did the best he could. It isn't fair for anyone to think badly of him, even himself." Sarah wanted to kick herself. She couldn't recall the last time she had said something 'wasn't fair', but it was surely not within the last five years.

Duncan chuckled, shaking his head in mirth, those icy eyes no longer so imposing or frightening. "No one would ever say so, as Mickie showed his love for his young daughter every minute of every day. She came to work with him in the forge, despite his protests. She learned the value of hard work, and she learned that those beautiful women in town who worked not a day and were served on high were not as beautiful within as her father, coarse and raw, was. They were rude, and haughty.

"She learned that true worth was measured by the work you put forth, and the love you showed those you held dear. All the riches in the world could make a poor man rich, but they could not make him any happier where it truly mattered."

He paused so long that Sarah thought him finished, and smiled. Just as she was going to compliment his abilities as a story-teller, he reached for his pipe and stopped himself again. And his tale continued.

"Well one day, working with her father, the beautiful young woman--for she had indeed grown into a young woman of almost twenty winters--was injured. Never before had she been cut or bruised, and any minor injuries she had received in the cottage healed almost before they had been noticed. This injury, however, was fairly deep. A nail had pierced the soft slippers she had worn, and buried itself within her pale, dainty heel.

"It might have healed well enough, as the others had, but for the iron within the nail. Few enough know it, lass, but the Fey are deathly weak around iron. 'Tis the only metal that can bind them, the only weapon that can strike them down. And she was half-fey, this beloved daughter of Mickie the smith."

Ayden returned for but a moment before he was gone again, and Sarah was amazed at the food he had placed before her. Piled high on fried potatoes was cheese and corned beef and sour-cream. Her mouth watered, and she ate a good deal before she even thought to question what it was called, or the cost. She decided it didn't matter. She was too content to care, eating and listening to the story that had captured her attention.

"The village doctor came and removed the nail, but he could not stop the bleeding, and the doctor felt the deepest shame at the fact. All in the village mourned, because the girl was kind to them always, courteous to them as they passed, and she was as fair as moonlight and as bright and true as the very sun in the sky. They knew that she would soon die.

"He came then, the King of the Fey. He knelt at the young woman's feet, and closed the wound there by simply passing his hand over the hole." Sarah bit her lip, fighting the questions. He would tell her soon enough…

A knock sounded at his chamber door, and Jareth cursed under his breath. It had grown cold over the last few hours, the fire having been doused beneath the wine. He had stared up at the night sky for countless hours, counted the stars twice over. He knew them all, he had named them once, as a child, and all night through he had struggled to recall those names. Anything to keep him mind from her.

Sarah.

"What do you want?" Only one would dare knock on his chamber door, and Jareth was in no mood to speak with the little fool.

"S-sire?" The voice was timid, and feminine. Well, surprises were abound this night.

"Enter." He had spoken in curiosity, without realizing it. Deciding to make the best of the encounter, Jareth adopted the best eat-you-alive-and-make-you-like-it smile he possessed.

She was thin and golden, as so many of his people were. The Fey were either dark and mysterious-looking or golden and innocent in appearance. Few to none met between those worlds. This servant was no different. He chided himself for wishing, even for a second, for pure green eyes lit up in challenge, in even the merest moment's defiance…

She blushed to the tips of her toes when she broke protocal and looked at her king's face. The man could lead a Devoted to sin, she thought longingly. Her words were stuttered and rushed, so discomforted was she by his presence.

"A m-member of the H-high Council is h-here to see y-you, Your Majesty." The last word ended on a squeak, and Jareth could see her shaking from across the tower room.

He was so thoroughly disgusted at her fear of him that he dismissed her out of hand. And of course she was gone before he could halt her and question her about the reasons for their arrival. Blast and be-damn his temper!

His glare met it's twin in the mirror resting on his wall. It was the object he had broken most since his forced stay in the Underground. His hair was soft, and it spilled around him like a golden-silver halo. His eyes shifted from blackest fury to almost crimson in his blood-lust. The Owl within him desired the hunt and the kill. When presented with his mouse-of-a-servant, it made the Owl all the more persistent,

What was wrong with him? He smoothed his gloved hands down the front of his chest slowly, covering the expanse of his pectoral muscles, and then abdominal. They were firm and toned, and he had thought himself pleasing in form… The trailing hand stopped at his hip, giving him an arrogant appeal. He knew it did. Knowing that he was alluring only made him more desirable.

And yet she turned away, his Precious One, the only one that had ever mattered. Damn her… And Damn the High Council for punishing him for his father's mistakes!

That last curse reminded him that it's recipient--or at least one of the members thereof--were just down stairs waiting for him.

He took the steps at a steady, even pace. It was far better in his mind to keep the High Council on their toes, lest they think they had you at their feet. All Fey were tricksters, players of jests, and lovers of fine things. But they saw weakness and destroyed it. Crushed it like the cobblestones beneath their feet, with little to no care for those that suffered their wrath. The weak were meant to submit, or be destroyed. There could be no other way.

When Jareth saw the man in his castle he felt strange, was fury supposed to come so swiftly after it had been pushed back? Ah, but it had, whether it was supposed to or not. "Greetings Father."

"And to you, Goblin King." The other man smiled, his eyes blue with mirth. The title was spoken mockingly, reminding Jareth of the reason. He was not the Goblin King, he was King of the Fey, king of those beneath the fairy rings, king of those who ventured out and never found their way home.

But it had been the Goblin King Sarah desired to quest against, and Goblins she had sought to best. And so she had been given goblins. The complaints had rolled in for the entire length of her quest. They were absurd things, like a special brush for their fur, and polish for their hooves and horns. They asked these things of their king in a serious tone. He had made them coarse and beastly, the least he could give them in return was proper grooming tools.

"I doubt you came to speak to me about her. It seemed that subject was quite exhausted when last I spoke to the High Council about--"

Jareth was stopped in the middle of his sentence. "Things change." Galen's eyes were no longer blue, no, they were amber. Molten, bottomless amber. It was rare to see a Fey's eyes that hue, that sign of sheer and utter sadness. Jareth had only seen it before when Galen spoke of his love, Jareth's mother. Miranda.

He stood entirely still, his eyes studying Galen, his head tilted slightly in contemplation, his own eyes reflecting a gentle silver. It was a mask that he was comfortable wearing.

"The High Council has allowed you to pursue her, so long as she is within the reach of the fairy ring. So long as she is in Éire you may attempt to coerce her into returning." His voice was emotionless, and flat. It was the same task Galen had failed at so many years ago.

"She is in Ireland?"

But Jareth needed no confirmation. She had been pulling at his senses for too long now for him to question at it. No, she was walking almost above him now, he could almost see her. Almost feel her warmth. Soon, he promised himself, soon…

Author's Note:

All right I have to give credit to a reviewer of mine for that bit of inspiration about the Goblin's requests, because honestly I couldn't resist it. It was too perfect. I had a few reviews, and was glad to be added to some favorite's list, but I would die for more reviews. Honestly. And I am still looking for a beta, though no one has complained about my story development or any OOC-ness from Sarah or Jareth. I really hope you are enjoying the old man's tale, cause it hit me and the shower and I had to scramble out with soap all over the place and write it all down...My muses love to push me randomly at dawn…. Jerks.

Well, Sarah can't wait to hear the rest of the story, and I think Jareth is rather impatient to get Aboveground again, so I'll be working on the fourth chapter in just a few minutes.

--Chaotic Reverie