Disclaimer: I do not own the Labyrinth, that belongs to the Jim Hensen company. But I do own a computer, so I'm gonna borrow Jim Hensen's characters until he notices they are missing. Hehe

In a desperate attempt to keep Sarah from the eventual claiming Duncan intended, Jareth struck a wager up with the exiled Fey: They would compete for her affections until there was one clear winner. Meanwhile Sarah has no idea what has happened, but she will find out soon enough…

In the Night:

The night was thick and cold. When he had finally emerged from the trees, it was with a great sigh of releif. The rain was already soaking through him, and he shivered. So, this was what rain felt like, weighing one down, soaking them until their only thought was for warmth and safety and comfort…And Sarah. Jareth shook his head, sending a pelt of rain to the sodden, sucking mud he trudged through. That last one was probably a desire only he felt.

He had been in the rain before, Jareth mused, trudging toward the distant light. It was just beyond his sight, the strange shape in the dark. But when one had magic, if the rain touched them it all it was easily repelled, forgotten, and never soaked in.

The closer he came, the less encouraged he felt. It was a private residence, no doubt. It was too far away from the other buildings to be anything else, and he doubted that the owner would relish the thought of muddy, sullen company.

But the rain came down harder, with bits of ice now, and he knew he had no other choice. The single window that was lit was also open, and he caught the vague impression of long dark hair and pale skin. But, he told himself, it was probably just a dream of his, just what he wanted to see. Sarah-mine, my Precious One…

The gate was closed, the little latch rattling in the wind and rain. Though he knew it was to keep wanderers and vagabonds out, he told himself that neither applied to him. With frozen fingers he opened the latch, knowing that his leather gloves didn't keep his hands warm at all. They had been long discarded, stuffed into the pocket of his tunic, which was tattered and torn by thorned bramble growing at the bases of large trees.

There were pretty little stepping tones the color of moonlight in the soggy earth, and he lifted his head slightly, seeing that just ahead was the door step, and the relative shelter of the overhang of the roof. On either side of the walkway and the door grew flowers, all in jewel tones of red and blue and yellow. He found that most of the plants could be found within his own Labyrinth. Though he would never admit it, the fact that this place was similar to his own home made him a little less fearful and uncomfortable.

The door itself was thick oak, and he pounded on it rather than knocking. His teeth chattered endlessly, and his skin was beginning to turn blue. He knew enough about medicine to know that this was not a good sign. He needed warmth, and he needed it soon.

When he was about to raise his fist again he was greeted by a plump, frowning woman. Her hair was dark red and pulled away from her round face with strange round contraptions. She was in her nightgown, it appeared, though her robe was thick it was not entirely shut. On her feet were white, fuzzy slippers. She seemed upset at first, but as he thought of what to say, she seemed to soften. A moment later he was in the house, bundled in a towel and three blankets before the roaring fireplace, having cups of 'hot chocolate' forced upon him.

He still hadn't spoken.

"Now ye don't look like a vagabond te me, but then again I've been wrong afore. So then, lad, what are ye doin' out in the cold and the rain?" Her question was delivered in a lilting tone that he found vaguely familiar. He supposed it was because his father used it so often.

"I don't know… I can't remember anything." The lie was simple enough. It made the most sense. He was glad he had thought of it beforehand, because he knew that he was still too cold to have lied on the spot convincingly enough.

"Ye can't recall why ye were out in the storm?"

"I can't recall anything, Ma'am. I know only my name, and not even the full of it. I've been wandering in the storm since before it started, trying to find my way out of the woods. I understand if you don't believe me, but--" Jareth was cut short by her clucking.

"Now what reason do I have te doubt ye? Ye don't seem like the type te take advantage of an old woman's charity. Yer welcome te wait out the storm here, lad, and we shall see if ye can recall anything when it passes. Though it may be a day or more afore it goes any farther than the garden gate. 'Tis a wicked storm, this, and unlike any I've seen in a few years." She rose from the chair she had been in and moved toward a door on the far wall, opposite the door and just past the entrance of the staircase. "I'll go and see what I have fer clothing in yer size. I will be back."

The promise was almost enough to make Jareth flee. The woman wanted to know things that he couldn't tell her, and he wondered if she wouldn't be better off without him here. True, he needed a place until his task here was through, but he hated to impose on anyone, and this woman wouldn't even let him rise from his place before the hearth to fetch his own blankets.

She had returned, he thought, lowering his head into his arms. Gods help me… what am I to do? His prayer was punctuated by footsteps too light to belong to the plump woman who had opened her door and linen closet to him so willingly.

"Miss O'Fallon?" The voice was hesitant, and feminine. It was the answer to his prayers. As Jareth looked up he saw her descending the staircase, more beautiful than he had even dared to dream her. She was wearing a silken robe, and her feet were bare. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her features still softened by dreams. She was not dressed provocatively, no indeed, nor was she doing anything particularly arousing. But just the sight of her made him uncomfortably aware of the wet confines of his pants.

He wanted to rise and go to her, to ask her why hadn't called to her friends even once, why she didn't seem to recall him in her dreams. But he just sat there in silence before the fire, watching her make her way slowly towards the door. When he could no longer see her behind the large sofa, he closed his eyes, and imagined her. But no amount of imagining could do her justice, and so he stopped the attempt.

"I knew it was a dream. He isn't real. Stupid Sarah…" Her voice was soft with sleep and harsh in her self-loathing.

"Never stupid, Sarah." His voice had come out of nowhere, and he clenched his eyes shut, hoping that his rebel tongue, speaking without his permission, wouldn't do him more harm than good.

She felt her heart pick up in her chest and begin racing, just as it had when she had seen him through the window. The elusive person she had been having flashes of memory about. Did she know him? Would he know her? Would she finally get the answers she had wanted for so many years?

She rounded the couch slowly, seeing him in the real world for the first time.

His hair was matted and tangled, but she could tell that it was long, and usually well kept. Despite it's current state, it shined. She suspected that it would never have been let to get this way if he had any say in it. He was swathed in thick blankets, so the rest was hard to discern. He was even facing away from her. Still, she was sure. It had been the voice she recalled, the one that had pulled her through her panic atacks with soothing words of comfort. He had to be the one she remembered.

"What did you say?" Her voice was soft, almost timid. Though if she was honest with herself, this was the most dangerous, bold thing she had done since she was sixteen.

"Oh, Sarah, I see ye are making the acquaintance of our newest guest. What was your name again, lad?" Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at Miss O'Fallon's approach. She had been so eager for him to speak… well, now she would have his name.

"Jareth, Ma'am."

"Jareth." Sarah repeated it, not knowing why she did. It was an echo of his own tone, and she wondered why he sounded so victorious. He lifted his head and their eyes met, and she understood perfectly. Oh, he had won… He had won, after all.

"Wake up, lass, wake up now…" It was motherly it it's concern, and Sarah smiled in her sleep. It had been so long since she had heard that tone, felt that concern. But it wasn't her mother's voice. No, this one was musical, and too concerned to worry about the thickness of an accent.

"What…?" Her weary question seemed to put the woman--Miss O'Fallon, Sarah realized with a sigh-- at ease.

"Och, there ye are. I was a wee bit worried, lass, when ye fainted. Fainted! Right there in the middle of the livin' room. 'Twas lucky that ye landed fair on top of the lad. I'm sure he made a comfortable enough bed to the fall." Mischief danced in the older woman's eyes, and for some reason Sarah didn't like it. She had remembered something, and it had hurt so bad and stunned her so deeply that she had actually fainted.

She knew Jareth. She had been standing in front of him, and he was offering her a crystal. It had been dark, a tunnel or something. He had lifted those eyebrows--strange to her, now-- and waved his hand, moving the arms on a clock. Not fair, she had protested. Oh, she had loved that phrase when she was younger…

He had looked different then, so much older. In the living room, bereft of the difference in age and the distracting sparkle he had always seemed to prefer in his clothing, Jareth had looked like her dream man. She snorted, not noticing that Miss O'Fallon was still there, and now frowning.

Maybe he so resembled the man of her dreams because he had been the man in her dreams.

"I'm sorry Miss O'Fallon…"Something caught Sarah's attention, sending a shiver of dread through her. Staring into her eyes were another pair, dark green and terrified. "What is that mirror doing uncovered?" Her voice was shrill, her eyes wild.

"I am sorry, Miss Sarah, but the coverin' fell to the floor when we carried ye in. I was so worried for ye that I didn't even think te put it up again…" Maeve O'Fallon was truly sorry, and so Sarah didn't protest. Rather, she moved closer to the little mirror. Her reflection, now foreign to her, was almost mesmerizing.

She had been rounder as a sixteen-year-old. Her features less defined, her hair shorter and somewhat lighter. It was almost black as pitch now, falling ion long waves to her lower back. She crawled forward, marveling at the lithe muscles in her pale arms, at the fluid grace in which she moved.

Seeing the young woman's fixation, Miss O'Fallon stepped in front of the mirror and smiled. She didn't know what was wrong with the woman she was renting a room to, but it was obviously something that had kept her away from her reflection for quite a while.

"Do ye know the lad, Miss Sarah? He has a touch of amnesia, he says. Thinks he might have hit his head, but we couldna find a bump. He said ye looked familiar to him, thought he knew ye from the States." Her voice was a little watery, as though she knew that she was trying to distract Sarah and failing. "If ye know him then ye wouldna mind talking te him, maybe helping' him where ye could te recall something'…?"

"I don't know. I think I know him, but I have a… a medical condition." She hated the term. "I have acute anxiety, and whenever something strains me I have an anxiety attack. I had a traumatic event a few years ago, and so my memory is probably no better than his."

"Ah, well… Then I suppose ye would like me te refuse him, then? He has asked to stay for a little while, til either he can find something of his past or gainful employment, whichever comes first. But ye paid good money te have the place to yerself, Miss, and I wouldna ask ye--"

"He can stay. Of course, yes, if he has nowhere else to go and you don't mind the extra expense. It's your home, Miss O'Fallon." Sarah sighed and stretched, her mind still straining toward the stranger hidden in the mirror. That stranger knew the man downstairs. The stranger knew the secret memories and dreams.

"Well he will not be a bother, I assure ye. While he is to be stayin' here he will be doin' odd repairs to the place. Ye recall how I told ye the stairs were creakin' something awful… Seems he knows how to fix that. I suppose 'tis as fair a way as any te earn supper and keep him out of yer way." Miss O'Fallon turned and threw the fallen sheet over the mirror, giving Sarah one last vague impression of a pale skinned, dark haired woman. With a gently offered smile, Miss O'Fallon turned to leave the room.

"Thank you for getting me to my room, Miss O'Fallon."

"Och, lass, I couldna have lifted ye. 'Twas Jareth. Carried ye as though you were as delicate as a feather and three times as dear to cost." She paused, smiling over her shoulder at the young woman in the bed. "And I'd get to know the lad if I were ye, Sarah. If I didn't know him afore I would pretend I did." With a saucy wink the older woman swept out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

Sarah waited a few minutes before she got the courage to do what her mind was urging. She edged off of the bed slowly, moving deliberately toward the dresser. The vanity mirror was obscured by thick sheets, and she knew that if she didn't do this now she might never do it a all. Slowly she opened and closed her fists. Once. Twice. And then she grabbed the sheet and pulled, her eyes closed tightly.

She took three calming breaths, and then three more. And then she opened her eyes, and it all made sense again.

Author's Note:

Well I'm pleased with it, for now. They will interact more, maybe actually have a conversation next chapter. Hehe… and now Sarah is getting some of her memories back. Will that help the Goblin King win her heart, or lose her for him forever? Guess you'll just have to stick around to see.

Sarah's a little busy at the moment, but she and Jareth are looking forward to the next chapter. From here on out it gets a little mature, rated 'M' for a reason.

Any questions, comments, or ideas are more than welcome, please please review!

-Chaotic Reverie