Waiting. It seemed he was always waiting for something, whether it was his lady-love, Sarah, or merely the crystal moon in its changeless path across the velvet sky; waiting was ever his lot.

Jareth, only son of a forgotten king, granted himself the minor indignity of reclining against the smooth, cool stone of the cavern wall. The cold pulled the heat from his skin, giving him ease, clearing his head. He knew Sarah was close. It was a thought that excited him even as he found it wearying. How much longer would he have to dance with her, hold her close, smell her fragrance, feel the silky strands of her hair against his face, all the while knowing it was as ephemeral as the flowers Labyrinthacae produced seasonally. Such torture made light of the much smaller punishments inflicted on his goblins, and put their king in a very foul mood indeed.

And yet... such moods were a luxury, and one he could ill afford at present. With a grimace, he shrugged it off.

Down here in the depths of C'em-re-tog, magic was uneasy; it itched. It coiled restlessly over and under itself, relentlessly seeking egress. Thin veins hummed through the walls, through the floor, and tunneled up through the ceiling toward the world above, and twisting around and sometimes through those veins ran the roots of Labyrinthacae itself, endlessly delivering the remnants of magics big and small.

Somewhere in that swirling pit, the silver fire he had pulled from Sarah blended with the leavings from the goblin brewery (slogan: It's the magick!). The sharp remnants from thousands of crystals melted with the sap from his private fruit trees into a mess both hot, sticky, and utterly vital to the health of his kingdom.

And its monarch.

As his excruciatingly irritating dwarven gardener would say: Aye, there's the rub.

He sighed again, dramatically, perversely wishing for an audience that would appreciate his dilemma. Not that there was any such thing to be found in the Labyrinth, goblins being more fond of straight-up comedy than determinedly ironic drama. Having his hand forced regarding Sarah was something he could never find amusing. It would most assuredly ruin all of his carefully-laid plans, and ensure that she would once again view him as a two-dimensional villain, ruled by ego alone.

If only there were another way...

This time she wouldn't think he was trying to kill her. No, this time, it would be so much worse.

As Sarah drew near to the awkwardly-angled post, a small opening at its base revealed itself to be a narrow stairway winding down into blackness. The steps themselves were roughly hewed from the rock beneath the castle, and had clearly been sized with goblin feet in mind. Sarah placed her own feet carefully, and still had to brace her arms against the walls, palms flat against smooth, damp stone, to keep herself from slipping.

Damn, she hated confined spaces.

She moved slowly but steadily, anxious to reach the base -wherever that might be. She'd thought at first that the stairway was pitch black, but as her eyes adjusted, she found that she could see, albeit not well. The walls seemed to have thin filaments of light - like the fiber-optic cables inside the tacky Christmas tree Gi had bought for their apartment - running through them. It was enough for her to see her feet, thank God.

That's all I need, thought Sarah as she moved, placing her feet as carefully as she could, gasping a bit when she misjudged the width of one particularly narrow step. If I break my neck here, I'll never see him again.

Toby. She was thinking about Toby.

Mostly.

Shake it off, Sarah. Just keep moving. Surely she must be nearing the bottom by now. How far down had Jareth taken her last time? The time he nearly...no, don't think about that. Not now. The air was growing warmer, wasn't it? And maybe a bit brighter? The threads of light in the walls seems to be growing thicker, or maybe just more numerous. She could see a bit ahead of herself, though the stairs continued to wind in a tight spiral as though built in a hollow cylinder of rock.

Moments later she noticed a kind of low hum, deep notes rising and falling, curiously muted. Her fingertips, still on the rock walls, picked up a vibration that matched the sound. Heart beginning to pound, she picked up her pace as best she could. Something about that sound made her nervous -too many movies about cave-ins maybe, though the walls here seemed sturdy enough. Still, she began to be overcome by the feeling that there wasn't quite enough air to breath. Sweat began to form under her arms, and her head began to pound in time with her feet.

Come on, come on! Where was the end? Could this be another illusion? Had she been passing by openings all the way down? But no, not with her hands on the walls. It was impossible; she would have noticed. Wouldn't she?

And just like that, she reached the bottom.

At least, she was pretty sure it was the bottom.

Probably.

The stairs came to an abrupt end at a rusty iron door with a garish, copper knocker -oversized and crafted to resemble a crowned fox with a scepter in its teeth.

"Huh," said Sarah, reaching for the scepter. "If you open onto more stairs I am most definitely going to cry...or scream...or both." She pulled it forward and it moved smoothly, the metal oddly warm in her hand. With a thunk she let it fall back against the door; once, twice, three times.

The door remained closed.

Of all the possible outcomes, the door simply not opening had not occurred to her. Of course it would open. It had to open. Hadn't the goblin crone said that Jareth was waiting for her? It's not like she could have taken a wrong turn...

"Come on," said Sarah, forgoing the knocker now and pounding directly on the door with her fists. "What the hell is the..." Her voice dwindled into silence as her eye caught on another protuberance shaped like a rabbit's tail and placed conveniently at mid-hip level: a doorknob.

"Oh, no," she whispered, "it couldn't be that easy..." Her fingers grasped the tail and turned...

...and the door swung open with the barest hind of a creak. With a sigh for patience, Sarah stepped through.

"Stupid to have a knocker if the door is unlocked anyway," she mumbled, but silence was her only reply.

Hoggle had followed Gi back into the house, but once inside he stood around awkwardly, not sure what to do. Gi had excused herself to use the bathroom, instructing Hoggle to "make himself at home", a phrase one would never hear uttered Underground because it would be construed as, essentially, an invitation to move right in and make said home one's own.

Somehow he was pretty sure that's not what she meant. Still, he decided it couldn't hurt to poke around the tiny kitchen and maybe help himself to a cup or two of ale. He hoped he could find some that wasn't being kept in that shiny ice-box with the light inside, and with that end in mind he began opening cupboards and drawers, reaching up as high as he could one moment and then bending down so far that his backside bumped the counter behind him in the narrow space. He swore briefly but meaningfully when a pile of pot lids cascaded down onto the floor, cursing his clumsiness in this new body whose center of gravity was not where he was used to.

"Mr. Vine?" called out Gi, still in the bathroom. "Are you all right? What was that noise?"

Hoggle frantically stuffed the lids back into the cupboard and shoved the door closed with his hip. "Um...nothin'! Everything's fine out here! Jus' lookin' around!" The cupboard door bulged against him, and he gave it one last, vicious shove before daring to step away. Thankfully, it held. With a sigh, Hoggle retreated from the kitchen, choosing a comfortable-looking armchair in the living room to collapse into instead. Maybe Gi could find the ale when she came out.

But when Gi finally emerged from the bathroom, all thoughts of ale vanished from Hoggle's head. Sweat erupted on his forehead in response to a heat that swept him all at once, head to toe.

"A...ah..." gasped Hoggle, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them and making them water; his vision blurred. He blinked, rubbed a damp sleeve across his face, and blinked again. Viewed through the haze, his hostess, blue hair gleaming in the brassy light from the overhead fixtures, was clad only in a smile.

"What is it? What do you need?" A soft hand reached out and touched Hoggle lightly on the shoulder.

A great shudder shook his body, a spasm that made his very bones feel as though they were cracking and shifting, twisting beneath his skin. He lurched backward, his body rising from the chair, and slipped down hard onto the floor. "A... ale!" gasped Hoggle. "Please." He rubbed his eyes again with an arm gone painfully stiff and knobby; his knuckles felt swollen and his skin tight and leathery.

Gi stepped to one side, leaning down and around him to rummage in a paper bag tucked beneath the setee. "Sarah never remembers to restock the fridge. Here we go." She pulled back with two garishly labeled bottles and dropped one gently into Hoggle's lap.

Hoggle clutched it like a lifeline, afraid to look up.

"Were you expecting that, Mr. V...Hoggle?"

He did raise his eyes then, prepared to look only at her face, but on its way there his gaze managed to take note of the fact that she was indeed, attired. She had changed into a short pale robe that perfectly matched her skin tone. It covered her decently, but somehow still managed to leave very little to the imagination -not that he had much of one anyway. He swallowed, raised the still-capped bottle to his mouth, then set it back down sheepishly when no liquid emerged. On the cusp of opening it, he registered her question. "Expecting what?"

Gi deftly twisted off her own cap and took a hearty swig. She was sitting on the floor across from him, feet tucked beneath her. The smile she gave him was wide and kind. "That's your real body, isn't it? I remember from the mirror."

"Wuh?" Hoggle was torn between wrestling with the bottle cap and studying the strangely familiar fingers that grasped the bottle's neck. Could it be? He stopped fighting with his ale and looked down at his bottle. The bright red tunic and leggings that Jareth had dressed him in following his transformation to a fat human now sagged over his limbs. He snaked a hand up to pat his chin, pulling it back sharply as though burned when his fingers encountered not the heavy whiskers he had expected, but his very own, leathery bare skin. The bottle slipped unheeded from his now slack hands as shock drained the last of his energy. He sunk down in the chair as though it were the Bog itself, sucking him in. "It's true," he whispered, and felt his heart clench within his chest. How did 'e know? How did 'e know the very moment when changin' me back would hurt the most...

"Hoggle? Are you okay?" Gi picked up his (thankfully) unbroken bottle, opened it, and pressed it into his hands. "Drink this; you'll feel better."

She hovered over him like a mother goblin until he had managed a hearty swig, then resumed her seat, face watchful and intent on his.

Hoggle realized she expected him to say something, but his throat, despite the ale, felt sticky and thick. He cleared it experimentally, then chased that with another gulp. "I'm fine," he said curtly, then leavened his short words with a small smile. "Jus' hurt more'n I expected."

Gi seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Her face was luminous above her own bottle, which was almost empty. "So you were expecting to change back. I wasn't sure..." She cocked her head like a little bird, watching him carefully.

Hoggle waved a hand carelessly in the air between them. "O' course, o' course. It's time, that's all. You didn't think 'ed leave me here forever, did ye?"

Gi's face fell. "You're leaving? Now?"

Hoggle dropped his eyes, studying his bottle instead. "Well very soon, I imagine." He let out a long sigh, and shifted his bottle from one hand to the other. "It's me busy season, ye know." It was odd though, when he thought about it, which he really rather wouldn't, but still...

"What about the vine? Isn't it likely still here?"

Hoggle just shook his head, his thoughts all a-tumble like yearlings on a rock pile. "I don't know. I just don't know."

Outside, the wind shifted and snow began to fall. At the front windows, the curtains twitched as though from a sudden gust. The sun went into hiding behind a thick mountain of steely gray clouds, prompting the automatic streetlights to pop on although it was still a good hour before sunset. Between the wind and the sudden dark, Hoggle felt anxiety creeping like a tendril of Labyrinthacae along his spine. His eyes kept sidling across the room to the high window, then back to the shadowy foyer and finally to his own restless hands. He took a swig of ale, barely tasting it. It wouldn't be long now, he could feel it in his bones.

Another swig. He waited.