A/N: Updates! And there's more drama and worrying to be done! You're welcome for that. Hold on to your hats people. And thankyou, as always, to everyone who reads and reviews and comments and shares the love for this movie and this silly little fangirl story. I adore you all. I have probably got another 2 or 3 chapters to go!

Chapter Eleven: Beyond

He was about to die on the other side of that doorway and she couldn't stand it.

"Fuck this," Sarah growled, ignoring the hushed protests of the others. "Stay here."

They did, out of some newfound respect for the command in her voice. Ludo whined softly, of course, and Hoggle cursed low while holding onto a quivering Didymus. But neither they nor Wick made any move to follow her. Long ago they'd told her to call should she need them and now was not one of those times. There was nothing a pack of tame goblins and a servant Elf could achieve in a room full of bitter powerful Fae and she wouldn't drag them down with her.

Stepping through the vines Sarah kept her gaze low and took discreet steps behind the backs of the onlookers. Blood pounded so aggressively in her ears that she was sure the sound would give her away. Jareth's name being spoken by unkind voices drove her onwards with careful urgency. No use being noticed too soon, she told herself…until the metallic scrape of something made her look up. A man was gripping Jareth's hair steadily with a silver dagger in his hand. Jareth himself was silent, reserved, oddly beatific in the sober lighting. He broke her heart.

She ran.

Noise exploded around her but there was no time to care. She flew across the space left between them, pulled along by love and fear and the painful need to protect Jareth from silver death. Sarah threw herself at the other Fae with all her strength, ripping him away from Jareth. He was heavier than she expected and stronger, crushing her into the marble so the air left her lungs in one breath. Dazed, panting, she kicked and pulled at the weight on top of her, fighting to wrestle the dagger from his grip. There was no time for conscious thought. Save him save him save him beat the mantra through her mind with every thud of her heart. They twisted together, the black haired Fae holding tight to the dagger as Sarah was rolled onto her stomach beneath him. She had one hand on his wrist, nails ripping into his skin, and the other pushing at his chest from behind. It was awkward and painful and she could hardly breathe. Someone took hold of her arm, tried to pull her away –

And then crimson pain slashed through her back and she was blind, blind with agony and screaming at the sinew and skin that split to make room for the blade.

Tears sprang to her eye, but with relief rather than suffering. If the dagger was in her then it couldn't touch Jareth. Her cheeks were wet, dress was wet, there was so much blood and so many tears – falling into his embrace was sheer bliss; it felt like years since they'd been asleep in each other's arms.

"No," his hoarse voice lamented, rousing her from a coughing fit. "Sarah, what did you do?"

What did she do? Even in unbearable pain she found the strength to be irritated. She snapped at him. He'd been about to do the exact same thing for her!

"Sarah, how is this any better?"

What did he think of her face? Did she still look anything like herself? Or had she changed so much that a few lines of ink made no difference?

He was too quiet. She grew impossibly cold beneath that thoughtful gaze. It made her think of nightmares, of Jareth's blood splattered over the ground while she sat safe in a cage.

I love you, she thought idly, in a world just beyond speech. He fumbled behind her back but she paid little attention, captivated by his face – until fire erupted inside her with the tug of the dagger. There was no life and death, no up or down, no light no dark only blinding hot coals searing her from the inside out – she shivered uncontrollably and dug nails into his skin without seeing the half-moons left behind.

I love you, again, this time a plea for him to stop the pain, turning limp against him.

"Live my years," he said. "Take them all, Sarah Williams."

A chill swept over her to rival the fever burning within.

The possibility of breaking a vow burned like a thousand fairy bites; she knew that actually doing so would be most unpleasant.

"Your Majesty?" Jini enquired loudly, clearing her throat.

Mira smoothed over her ruffled features and ignored the horrific sting of the mark on her wrist. "What?" she snapped, betraying that calm façade.

"You need to make a decision," Ezra told her impatiently. "What do we do with him? Do we continue the ceremony?"

Resisting the urge to glare at the Elder, Mira took in the scene before her. Jareth and Sarah Williams lay unconscious on the floor in a bloody mess. The chamber was a shambles, with everyone craning to see and eyes looking at her expectantly. Brynn was watching the sleeping human with a disturbed expression, having wiped himself clean of her blood. She'd known the woman was a brave fool, but to do something like this…it infuriated her. How close they had been to restoring everything, how soon she would've been in control once more! And now she'd spoiled it again, forcing Jareth's hand. The pair were absolutely intent on making martyrs of themselves.

Then let them, she thought bitterly. Death is too easy an option for dedicated fools.

"No," she declared firmly. "He will not be killed."

Ezra's eyes widened, as expected, and her mouth opened wide. "But –"

"He is banished," Mira interrupted forcefully, gaze on her son. "I banish Jareth El'Maven to the Above from this day until the Last. And Miss Williams…" she flicked empty eyes over the limp body of the woman who had become a permanent thorn in her side. "Will learn what true sacrifice feels like."

The air was rich with different smells, most of which were unpleasant: cigarette smoke, gas fumes and grease. The noise was unbearably chaotic: cars rushing by in toxic gusts of wind, the clamour of busy crowds, sirens screeching, dogs barking, music thumping somewhere in the distance. People swarmed like bugs through the streets, blind in their urgency to be anywhere but where they were, often bumping into him without apology. The place conjured a word in his mind that came with confusing distaste: city. Just why he should despise a scene he barely remembered was beyond him, only that it had something to do with being the last place he'd visited in this world.

That in itself was an odd thought: this world, as if there was another. But the blonde haired man with eyes that didn't match and a bleeding hand could not remember any other world or anything beyond his own name. He was called Jareth; he knew that much. Everything else fluctuated. Cars and food vendors and street lights were no mystery to him but seemed as if they should have been. He stood clutching his hand at the entrance of a dim alleyway, unable to explain why it felt like he didn't belong. It nagged at him like a half-remembered name, a forgotten story hidden somewhere in the back of his mind.

Every now and then someone would glance curiously at his odd attire – tight black pants and flowing white shirt beneath a crimson vest and cloak – and balk at his face for some reason, shuffling on quickly. Jareth closed his eyes and leaned into the concrete building that towered over him, oppressive and foreboding. He was painfully confused, certain that he hadn't existed this way only a moment ago. The deep cut in his palm throbbed and he winced, holding it to his chest, concerned by the amount of blood dripping from his enclosed fist. He really needed to do something about it.

A gentle thump against his boot made him look down: a large round ball had rolled to his feet. The shape made him think of much smaller ones made of crystal, a flash of memory fading before he could reach for it.

"You going to kick it back or – whoa. Is that blood?"

The voice held an accent similar to his own and belonged to a small boy, a leggy thing with shaggy black hair and holes in the knees of his trousers. His eyes flicked between Jareth and the ball, staring with a mix of curiosity and wariness, a colt ready to flee. He seemed to be weighing up how much he really wanted the ball back. Jareth blinked tiredly at the boy. A question. He'd been asked a question. Is that blood?

"It isn't mine." An odd answer to come from nowhere, without recalling the source of the information. With one hand he tugged the cloak so it covered his blood stained clothes.

"Whose is it then?" The boy had one hand pressed against a telephone pole, poised as if ready to push off in a hurry.

Jareth shrugged. "I don't remember. Would you like your ball back?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

With difficulty he bent and scooped up the ball in one hand, tossing it to him. It was then that the boy noticed the blood dripping from his hand.

"That's yours, isn't it? Are you hurt?"

"Apparently," Jareth replied dryly, growing agitated at his own confusion. "Unless I've forgotten about some lost tendency to bleed without reason."

"Are you homeless?"

It was an innocent question, posed without pity or judgement. "What makes you think that?"

The boy shrugged, spinning the ball in quick grubby hands. "There's a lot of homeless people around here. Dad says London is infested with them." His nose wrinkled in distaste, apparently disagreeing with the thought.

"Your father sounds unpleasant."

The boy nodded. "Mum doesn't like him much either. Why are you dressed like that?"

"It's all I've got," Jareth answered plainly. "Is that where we are? London?"

"Blimey, you are a nutter, aren't you?" the boy laughed gently. "Yeah, we're in London. What happened to your hand?"

"I don't remember," Jareth replied, becoming increasingly impatient. "Look, I don't suppose you could be of any use and find me something for my injury?"

"Like bandages? We've got them at home." He scrutinised Jareth carefully, cocking his head to one side so that his shaggy hair fell into his eyes. "But I don't know…mum says not to talk to strangers. She'll be cross. And you are covered in someone else's blood."

"Yes, why doesn't that frighten you?" Jareth asked curiously. It worries me.

The boy shrugged again, a limp one-armed gesture. "Something about you I guess. I don't know. You look like the good kind of nutter." He spun the ball a few times, thinking. "I could bring some stuff to you, if you like. For your hand."

"That would be very much appreciated," he replied earnestly, feeling pinpricks of tension at his temples. "Shall I wait here?"

"Yeah. I won't be long; my flat's not far off."

"What's your name?"

"Christopher."

"Thank you, Christopher."

He shrugged again. Did all little boys do that so often? Were they so unburdened by the weight of the world that they could cast aside so much so easily? Christopher disappeared without another word and left Jareth to his musings. His wound throbbed. Trying to inspect it, he glimpsed a fairly neat cut the width of his whole palm before blood spilled forth and he had to close his fist again. It was worryingly deep. He had no clue where it had come from. Wrapping the edge of his cloak around the fist, Jareth found an upturned crate in the alley and took a seat. Dipping his head back, it was difficult to blot out his unpleasant surroundings even with his eyes pressed shut tightly. There were far too many scents to wrinkle the nose and too much noise for him to find an ounce of calmness. Nobody else seemed interested in noticing the strange man on the milk crate, which was something he felt uncertain about. Were there no kind people in this…London, save for children? The notion of being completely on his own was dismal, yet he didn't think there was much these busy blank faces would do for him at any rate.

An hour crawled by and still the boy hadn't returned. At least Jareth guessed it was an hour. His sense of time seemed to be askew, a thought that worried him deeply for some reason. The sun was starting to set; the whole drab street was lit with feint amber. Jareth stood and paced, quelling his impatience by counting footsteps back and forth along the alleyway. More time passed by, more people threw harried glances his way, and still Christopher was nowhere to be seen. The air took on a distinct chill; Jareth wrapped his cloak snugly around himself and pressed fist to his chest without looking at it. The wound had started to throb continuously and he had no desire to go prodding it.

He considered just finding some other kind of help, leaving the alley, but what if Christopher appeared just as he left? The pain in his hand was becoming distracting; it was difficult to make a decision about what to do. He sat down again and pulled his legs up, huddling beneath the cloak. Dashing King Jareth, he thought bitterly without any clue where the title came from. Forced to wait on a grotty little boy for help. If only they could see me now. Who they were, exactly, he had no idea. But being angry seemed to help divert from the aching of his hand. Each throb sent a fresh wave of unease through him. He was lost and aimless in a grim city with someone else's blood spattered across his odd clothing. He didn't need a proper memory to know that heading into public this way might catch unwanted attention. His headache worsened, his hand pulsed and his stomach began to rumble. The night wore on, the street noise eventually lulling him into a fretful sleep.

"Hey. Wake up."

There was a light pressure on his shoulder, the ineffectual hand of a boy. With a groan Jareth blinked at the brightness around him. The air was cool, the sky a dull blue, the street packed as ever with people scurrying along. How long had he been asleep? It felt like no time at all, yet his back was stiff, the tips of his ears were cold and his wound was on fire.

"What kept you?" he asked mildly, blowing damp hair from his face. Was he sweating? He felt warm despite the chill in the air.

"I'm sorry," Christopher replied sincerely, dropping a knapsack at his feet. "Mum called me in for tea and I'm not allowed out after that. I had to wait 'til everyone went to work so I could come back this morning." His clear green eyes narrowed, head tilting a little to the side. "You don't look too good. How's your hand?"

"Dandy," Jareth coughed, clearing his throat, sitting up with a pained stretch. "What did you bring?"

Christopher knelt at Jareth's feet as he began digging through the bag, pulling out a fistful of medical supplies. "I got some stuff that mum puts on me when I get hurt; it really stings but it's good for you. And some plasters and a bandage roll and some clean wipes." He thrust them unceremoniously onto Jareth's lap and continued rifling through the bag. "I nicked some of my brother's clothes for you too, since you said you don't have anything else. He's away at college so he won't know." A crumpled pair of black trousers and a navy sweatshirt were ripped from their hiding places and dumped beside him, along with a denim jacket and a flaky pastry that had left crusts over the whole collection. Christopher eyed Jareth warily. "Did I do okay?"

His stomach growled at the sight of the pastry, but he smiled patiently and gestured for the boy to help him with the medicine. "You did wonderfully Christopher," he assured him. "Thank you very much."

Clearly pleased, the boy set about unwrapping Jareth's hand from his cloak and preparing a wipe. The pair of them hissed at the sight of the bloodied palm, drenched in crimson and looking a little swollen. "Are you sure you don't want to just go to the doctor?" the boy asked.

Jareth shook his head. "I'll be fine. I just need to clean it and have a pick at that delightful pastry you were kind enough to bring." He had a feeling that heading toward any figure of authority would lead to trouble.

Unsure but glowing with the praise, Christopher reached out for Jareth's outstretched fist and began cleaning it. He steered clear of the wound itself for the time being, intent on wiping away the old blood first. Jareth clenched his teeth and tried not to squirm but each bump of his fist was like being stuck by a hot needle. Even underneath the blood, his skin was faintly redder than he recalled it being before.

"Do you remember anything yet?" Christopher enquired, his small mouth set firm in concentration.

"Not a scrap," Jareth replied with a shrug and a barely concealed grimace.

"You don't suppose you're a superhero, do you?"

The question took him by surprise to say the least. "What makes you think that?" How in the Fates' design did he know what a superhero was anyway?

He shrugged, pausing to collect a fresh handful of wipes and the antiseptic. "It sounds like an origins story to me: you wake up with no memory except your name – which is what, by the way?"

"Jareth."

"See, how wicked is that? Plus, you have those markings on your face and those weird eyes…and that blood probably came from battling with your arch nemesis who wiped your memory. And you have a cape."

"It's a cloak," Jareth corrected, amused and stunned all at once. He had a vague suspicion he'd never been considered a hero before.

"And if you lost," Christopher continued, growing more excited by the word, "Then that means the bad guy is still out there! And you have to uncover your old memories so you can beat him!"

"Ouch," Jareth hissed as the boy's grip tightened on his fist in enthusiasm. "Do be careful, super boy. I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself."

"Sorry," he said fervently, relaxing his hold. "But I still think that'd be pretty neat."

"Quite so."

The boy held a fresh wipe but paused in the act of unfolding Jareth's fist. "Um…I'm going to clean the cut now."

"Yes."

"And…it's going to hurt."

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm a big boy, Christopher, I think I can handle –"

Whatever he could handle, the boy never found out. The words dissolved into an agonised, guttural moan as the antiseptic-drenched wipe was pressed firmly against the cut. Knives were splitting his skull, blades raking along his skin and oh how it scorched him! The only thing that brought him back to reality was the terrified expression on the child's face, clearly worried he'd done something wrong. Guilt suffused with physical torture and made Jareth grit his teeth and force a smile. "You're doing perfectly, Christopher," he bit out. "Thank you."

"It's…still bleeding an awful lot, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Jareth breathed, sharp tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps we should just wrap it up for the time being, hmm?"

"Okay." Christopher began unpeeling a few plasters, only to realise they weren't big enough to be of any use.

"A bandage will do just fine," Jareth assured him, quick to avoid letting the boy feel inadequate. It wouldn't do to have his only confidant burst into tears, not when there were still so many favours to ask. And there was something about seeing the boy frown that he had a deep aversion to. Breathing through another bout of agony, Jareth thanked him again once the wound was wrapped snugly with the bandage. Flexing fingers, he sought out the pastry next, the raw pit in his stomach growling. Christopher handed it to him with a concerned expression.

"You sure you're not going to pass out?" he asked, watching as Jareth closed his eyes and consumed the snack in absolute concentration.

"A little more food and I'll be good as new," he replied, licking his fingers.

"There wasn't much in, so that's all I brought. But I have a few quid if you'd like to get chips."

He nodded instantly, not even entirely certain what 'chips' were – but a memory of crunchy golden something sprang to mind. "I suppose I should change my suspicious attire first…"

"Probably," Christopher agreed, scrutinising him with a mild grin. "You do look a bit of a nutter like that."

Scanning the alley, Jareth spotted a stack of crates and boxes he could use as a shield between himself and the street. Not that anybody seemed to have noticed a small boy and a tall thin man conversing in the lane anyway. Collecting the clothing with one hand, he stooped and attempted to remove things one-handed. It was difficult to say the least. His cloak seemed to be attached by pure free will, with no visible sign of a button or strap. Eventually, after half-tearing the vest off in frustration, he was able to wriggle out of the billowing shirt and cloak all in one. By the time he'd pulled on the sweater and jacket, hand jarring with each movement, he looked at the trousers and decided his own tights were really not odd enough to worry about removing. Returning to Christopher, he tugged at his jacket collar irritably. "I feel like a fool in this. Am I meant to?"

"Well it's less weird than a blood-stained super hero cape," the boy quipped, packing up his knapsack and shouldering it.

"It's a cloak," Jareth replied emphatically, meeting him at the lip of the alley. "But I see your point. Where to from here, little man?"

They looked a strange pair, a scruffy young boy and a shaggy haired man in absurdly tight pants and boots. But nobody seemed to linger too much on their faces as they disappeared into the crowd.

Perhaps London was just the place for an odd thing like himself.

The fact remained that things were not so tidy as he'd hoped. Her Majesty just did not understand the position he was in. As a newly appointed Goblin King, Brynn Fel Vaden should have been celebrating his victory over the hordes. His monsters – yes, his, now – should have fallen quiet in respectful acceptance of their new leader. But the reports brought to him were troubling: a disturbance along the West Wall, stories of fights breaking out between the creatures, discontent throughout the City. His Kingdom was divided. Over whether to accept its new King. He could understand their reluctance given the dismal way the ceremony had concluded. In most ways he was the perfect for the role of Goblin King: a clear logical thinker, unyielding as stone, respectful of the sanctity of Fae law. The goblins knew that His Majesty Brynn Fel Vaden would abide by their customs down to the syllable and not shy away from a single duty.

But what he hadn't done was deliver them their prize: the bodies of Jareth El'Maven and Sarah Williams. The hordes believed in rules upheld, traditions respected. To deny them the bodies of the failed ruler and the human that caused them so much strife was a great insult. It was a mistake, the last one needing amendment in order to obtain true control over the realm once more. If he could just deliver the necessary justices, he would have a Kingdom united.

The obstacle in the way of such success was different, to say the least, and sat before him now. Sarah Williams bore striking resemblance to a Fae noble with her facial markings, sleek dress and stiff posture. Or at least she would have mastered the look, had her dress not been torn and bloodied and her marks smudged. There was a most obvious point that belied the sad truth of her humanity, and it was in her eyes: they showed far too much emotion.

Brynn hadn't had an experience with a human for many long decades. Yet there was nothing else it could be; why else would she show so little interest at his arrival? She was straight-backed in the chair, one hand enveloping the other in her lap, fingers tracing a circle around her left wrist. For all that poise and determination, there was a definite expression of something soft around the edges, a light in those green eyes that considered him distantly. His own scrutiny was far more incisive, cutting to the core of the matter at hand with no more expression than a half-attempted frown.

"The Queen won't let me kill you."

Sarah Williams looked down at her wrist, seemingly concerned with the way it glowed inconsistently from moment to moment. "No," she replied distantly, sounding both curious and unsurprised all at once.

"I don't understand why." He didn't like not understanding things. Why would her Majesty not see the pointlessness of her chosen path? He needed the girl to die. Not out of any intentional malice, but from practical necessity. His was a hard soul, honed by steel over centuries. Not at all malleable and pliant like Jareth's had been.

"Of course you don't," Sarah replied quietly. A fan of dark hair fell across her face. She made no attempt to move it before speaking again, so that he had to listen closely to catch it: "None of you morons understand anything worthwhile."

He refused to bristle at the comment. It took much more than silly human insults to goad Brynn into reacting. "Explain yourself," he commanded patiently.

Sarah held up her wrist to him and suddenly he saw in her eyes something a little more inhuman. "She wants to punish me," she said bluntly. "I wanted to die for Jareth but she won't let me. She wants me to live without him. Because it hurts more."

This seemed a poor excuse for denying him the right to appease the hordes. "That's a vow mark on your skin. Who did you take up a contract with?"

She didn't answer, tucking hair behind her ear in silence. The marked wrist fell into her lap once more. Clouds passed over her face and the pain in her voice was obvious even to him as she spoke next: "Jareth's dead, isn't he?"

That was a surprise to him, yet he kept an unreadable face and clasped hands behind his back. "He may as well be," he answered shortly. "Who did you take up a contract with, Sarah? Was it the Queen?"

But she clearly wasn't listening. At his words she'd clenched both hands tightly into fists, becoming rigid and aggressively intent on him. "What's that supposed to mean?" she breathed in a quick rush. "He's still alive?"

"Has nobody told you?"

"I woke up in my room, Goblin Ki –" she choked, the term getting caught halfway out. "I haven't spoken to anyone since I woke up here. All I remember is you stabbing me –" that said with a ripple of disdain – "And Jareth talking to me, and then I woke up in my room." Whatever had held her broken in the chair earlier seemed to have been replaced with hope. It drove the girl to her feet with its vehemence, that very human light shining once more in her eyes. "But I don't have a stab wound. What the hell happened? Where's Jareth?"

It was quickly becoming apparent that she would not be answering his questions until she got her own answers. "You shouldn't have returned," Brynn told her. "He'd have been far better off."

"You were going to kill him!" she hissed angrily.

"A mercy, considering the fate that has befallen him thanks to your interference."

"Can you stop bullshitting and just tell me what happened?"

"The Queen banished him to the Above, Sarah Williams. Jareth is a mortal with no memory of his life as a Fae and not a single thing to his name."

He's alive.

He was trapped up in her world, without money or memory. She would probably die here, or be kept as some morbid prize. There was little chance they'd ever see each other again…and yet all Sarah could feel was total relief. Jareth was alive. A sob escaped her and she covered her face to keep Brynn from seeing that she was laughing. Laughing, because these goddamn Fae were so ridiculously pretentious that they thought it was better to die than live in the human world. Their arrogance had kept him safe. Morons, Sarah thought, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable joy. They're all total morons.

The King seemed to think she was crying. "You understand what you've done now, don't you?" he asked her in a tone just short of patronising.

With an effort Sarah calmed herself, smoothing away a bitter smile. If they thought they were punishing him enough, then she wasn't going to make them believe otherwise. Laughing in the King's face would probably make him realise that more needed to be done to Jareth. Pretending to wipe away tears, Sarah had a moment to think about just what she'd heard. "Jareth's a mortal?" she sniffed. "How is that possible?" But a snippet of memory flared in the back of her mind: live my years. Take them all, Sarah Williams. The look on her face must have betrayed her. The King met her wide-eyed gaze with knowing, piercing grey eyes. The man could make stone seem warm. "Jareth," she murmured, sinking into her chair again.

"What my predecessor did goes against every moral convention in my people's world," he replied disgustedly. "To heal another is acceptable…but transference…to a human…it violates the nature of our existence. No, worse, it spits on it!"

His voice had risen to a booming cadence, fists clenched tightly. It was the first time he'd shown any sort of emotion and the sight made her wary.

"What exactly did he do to me?" she asked carefully, hand reaching up to caress the pendant around her neck.

"You were a moment away from death," the King explained sharply. "And the fool used his immortality to keep you alive, mocking the very foundations of our society. Nobody in the Domain is more important than a Fae. Without us, there is no Domain." He had started to pace, cracking knuckles, throwing furious glances at Sarah. "Now he's no better than a human and we have lost one of our own, one who could make Contributions to the Harvest." As if realising how much he'd revealed of himself, the King forced his feet to stop mid-pace and turned back to Sarah. "Transference has not been so much as whispered for centuries," he said in a milder tone. "We aren't even sure how he knew about it."

Sarah did. She knew Jareth like she knew the sun would rise every morning. "He loves to read," she told him quietly. "He has thousands of books and he was a scholar when he was young. I'm sure he read it somewhere."

It was difficult not to feel intimidated by the accusatory expression aimed her way. Yet Sarah smoothed a hand down her leg and returned that unnerving eye contact. He would not have the satisfaction of knowing she was uneasy. "And you, Sarah Williams," he said, pointing a finger at her. "You have far too much power for a human amongst wolves. You have unravelled a thousand of the webs in our life just by existing. So tell me: what is the nature of your contract? Why does the Queen deny me your death?"

"I made a deal with her," Sarah explained, exuding nonchalance as well as we she could. Just to annoy him. "I told her I'd get Jareth's confession but she wasn't allowed to hurt me, or him, and that she had to return me home, reinstate my existence and –" she broke off. And pardon my friends. What happened to the boys? She didn't want to ask, couldn't bear the answer right now. And then, on the heels of that thought: Jareth's Above and I'm not. I don't exist at all for him. I never existed in the first place. "I wouldn't worry about your goblin problems," she told him quietly, inspecting the mark on her wrist again. "This has been playing up since I woke. I think…I think it means she's going to go back on her promise. She's not sending me home." Without looking at him, nails digging into the glowing mark as if she could tear it away, Sarah sighed. "Looks like I'm all yours, your Majesty." Jareth would have come up with some smart-ass comment at that, she thought, filled with deep longing for the beautiful smug bastard.

"But for what purpose?" he asked. "You are no use to me alive, Sarah Williams. It's a fact most unfortunate for the both of us."

"Well until you figure it out, can I go take a bath?" she asked wearily, running a hand through her mussed hair. "I feel like shit." And nobody would hear her crying in the bathroom if she ran the water fast enough.

"You may do what you want, for now," he replied dismissively, apparently just as sick of the conversation as she. "So long as you stay in your quarters."

"But the library," she protested, the first thing to come to mind. "My books are there! And my typewriter, and –"

"Don't presume you aren't just a prisoner here until I can resolve things, Sarah Williams," the King interrupted coldly. "I owe you nothing. You are an inheritance from my predecessor, a mistake to be amended. Until I can do so, you will stay in your quarters."

The sudden command in his voice made her skin prickle with realisation. She was more a prisoner now than she'd ever been with Jareth, at the total mercy of a man with a horrific job to do. And worse, a man who wasn't softened by feelings for her. Torn between deferring to his obvious control and kicking him swiftly where it hurt, Sarah settled for matching his impassive stare. "Yes, your Majesty," she replied with a sniff, getting to her feet. "May I be excused?"

He nodded and she went looking for clothes to change into, ignoring the fact he hadn't yet left.

"Miss Williams…" his voice called. If she didn't know any better she'd say he was hesitating.

She looked over her shoulder at him and raised a brow. He was all calm features and cool elegance, not a hint of wavering confidence.

"I know you're only human, but I must admit…you surprise me. When you die, I will consider it an honour to be the one to end your story in our Domain."

Sarah blinked. "Uh, thanks," she responded lamely.

With another nod he straightened his vest and abruptly vanished.

Was that a compliment as well as a promise of death? "They're all insane," she muttered, unable to stop the shiver than ran through her body. "The whole damn lot of them."

There was a song stuck in his head.

It had something to do with the world falling down, a cadence that seemed irritatingly familiar though he was certain he'd never heard it before. Perhaps it was delirium, Jareth thought distantly as he wolfed down another mouthful of chips. He did feel a touch feverish. The cool air in the café was making him shiver like he'd plunged into icy water.

"You'll sick up if you don't go slow on those," his companion commented, watching Jareth, chin in his hands. "That's what happened to my mate Ian once. He was real hungry, and he ate too much too fast, and he was sick all over the lunch table."

Swallowing, Jareth waved a hand at the waitress and she hurried over to refill his water jug. He'd noticed that people seemed to be quick to jump at his commands. The lady who'd taken their order had almost broken her ankle rushing back to the kitchen to fetch him some tea. What was it about him that seemed to exude authority?

"Are you listening?"

"Hmm? Oh, Christopher, yes – sorry – I'm just absurdly hungry."

"I noticed," he remarked with surprisingly dry wit for a small boy. "Why is everyone jumping about to serve you?"

Jareth shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, little man." He drained his cup of tea, finding he didn't quite like it so sweet – Christopher had dropped the cubes in like they would be snatched up by goblins if he wasn't quick enough.

"I'm sticking with the super hero thing," the boy said, dipping a chip into the puddle of sauce he'd acquired. "Even policemen listen to super heroes."

A wave of heat overwhelmed Jareth; he wiped sweat from his brow with a napkin. "Of course you're sticking with that," he muttered, closing his eyes. "You're a persistent little fellow aren't you?"

"You sure you're okay?"

"Fine and dandy."

"You look awful."

"I could say the same of you: scraggly hair, scuffed shoes, torn pants…" he opened his eyes in search of the salt shaker. "I would think you an urchin boy if I didn't know any better."

At first he didn't answer. Then, in an odd voice: "What are you doing?"

"What?"

Christopher was staring at him strangely. At first Jareth didn't know why until he realised he'd thrust out a hand for the salt shaker across the table, as if to summon it to him. How strange. Why would I do that? He let his hand fall quickly, glancing around though there were few patrons besides themselves. With a raised brow Christopher passed the salt to him. "I…I don't know why I did that." With a heavy sigh he wiped his forehead again, waving the napkin across his face like a fan.

"Jareth…what are you going to do?"

It was a rather sombre question from a shaggy haired schoolboy. He was feeling far too flustered to come up with a suitable response.

"You don't have any money."

"None at all."

"Or family."

"That I know of."

"Or a home."

"It would seem that way." Jareth splashed his burning face with water from his glass and eyed his bandaged hand with a frown.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"You say that so often…" Jareth muttered, palm pressed to his forehead. The boy looked to be floating out of his chair, the food on his plate swimming out of focus. He shook his head firmly to clear it but that only made things worse. A sharp ache took up residence in the front of his mind, pulsing in time with the throbbing of his hand.

Vaguely he heard the sound of Christopher calling for help, and felt the touch of someone patting him on the back.

"Sir?" a female voice enquired. "Sir, can you hear me?"

Flames. He was on fire. "Live without the sunlight…" he whispered, teeth chattering. Snow. He was swimming through icy waters. Shaking, always shaking. Always hurting. Standing up would help. He just had to get moving to clear away the dizziness.

"Sir, I don't think –"

He stood up and promptly fainted.

Keel had never been in love but that didn't mean she didn't know what love felt like. She knew it to be the quiet humming of her heart in moments spent with her mother. It was the rush of crisp wind against her soul when she drew her sister into an embrace. Love made her laugh at the antics of her younger relatives, children learning about the world. And above all else Keel understood that love made her fierce. It was the grinding of her jaw and the spark in her eyes that defied anyone to try harming those she held dear. Keel Eri was a wildly protective Elf.

Which was why she had a goblin pinned underfoot in her home.

The night was a raucous mess. Her cousin Wick was sprawled on the floor coughing violently; a puny little goblin was scrabbling at her boots with feverish enthusiasm and demanding she fight fair. Another one, enormous and hairy, was groaning pathetically and knocking everything to the floor with his great swaying arms. The nasty thing beneath her firm foot was shouting muffled abuse into the floorboards.

"Friends!" shouted the beast behind her, his rank smell wrinkling her nose as she glared at all them all.

Though she vaguely recalled these creatures from the Castle to be her cousin's acquaintances, she was confused and angry. What was her fool cousin doing, appearing in her home at this hour with goblin hands wrapped around his throat? Much as she thought of him, she could not understand the trouble Wick seemed to find for himself. Nevertheless, having pried off the attacker instantly Keel now wondered just what to do with the others. Pressing her foot harder into the creature's back, she growled low in her throat.

"Friends don't strangle one another until they lay dying on the floor!" she roared, casting a worried eye on her cousin, who still bore the gaunt look of a creature abused.

Breathing deeply, he rubbed at his neck and sat up. "I don't understand what happened…" he said hoarsely, meeting Keel's gaze.

"I have saved you, cousin, that's what happened," Keel replied darkly. "It seems I will forever be your saviour because you're fool enough to make friends with the wrong people."

"Warrrghagghh!" came a muffled shout from beneath her foot. With a free hand Keel reached down and plucked the tiny goblin from her leg, holding him by the scruff.

"Unhand me at once, my Lady!" squeaked the foul-smelling creature. "And remove your respective boot from my companion's person! Allow me to explain the circumstances!"

Keel blinked at him. She tensed at the great weight that settled on her arm. It was the immense goblin with a pleading expression on his deep set face. He touched her arm with gentle care and an imploring whine. Reluctantly she eased her foot from the goblin on the floor. "Explain," she hissed impatiently.

"Never has Hoggle ever been so mistreated in his life!" shouted the goblin, slamming a lumpy paw against the floorboards. "I ain't never seen the likes of it, throwin' an innocent ol' Dwarf to the ground just like that without no warnin' or nothin' –"

"What my alarmed comrade is trying to say, dear Elf maiden," said the tiny one with a loud clearing of his throat. "Is that we are not the monsters you fear us to be. We are friends of this goodly young Elf and sought only to protect him from danger."

"By choking him?" Keel snapped.

"I weren't goin' to hurt him none!" replied the floor goblin just as sharply. "We was in the Palace and Sarah had just run off to save the King's neck. There weren't no way we was gettin' outta there alive if I didn't pretend to threaten yer cousin so he'd transport us away! I saved the bloody fool's life! Now get – off – me!"

Sceptical, Keel sought out her cousin's gaze for confirmation. She may as well have asked a stranger. His bruised eyes, momentarily bright with fear and some semblance of a real soul, had glazed over again. He stood by the rough wooden table in her house and stared at the scene before him as if just happening upon it. "Wick?" she called, catching his attention after a moment. "Is this true? Were you in the Palace?"

"Yes Miss," he responded mildly, straightening his vest. "I was sent to take Sarah Williams home to the Above." He blushed in shame. "But I admit we were side tracked. We were scaling the City Walls when we were attacked…and I accidentally transported us to the Palace." He wrung his hands as if fearing her disapproval. "And then sir Hoggle here saw fit to threaten me…and now we're here. I apologise for the intrusion. I really should get back to seeing Miss Williams home safely."

She was filled with powerful fury seeing him in such a state. Even in the days before being Severed Wick had never been quite able to master subservience. His Servant Self had always contained a spark of some dormant rebellion from the old blood. Now he wore the most defeated soul she'd ever seen. Even having the breath strangled out of him did nothing to change it. Rage flooded her until she was quivering enough to shoot sparks from her fingers. The air crackled thickly around her. She released both goblins from their hold and went to her cousin. Though he gave nothing in return she embraced him tightly, brushing her fingers across his temples when she pulled away. I am so sorry, my blood. His smile was distant and clearly unfazed.

"Sarah ain't goin' home, yer brainless beanpole!" shouted Hoggle behind them. "Fates above who knows what's happened to her by now!"

"What did she do?" Keel asked.

"The Lady Sarah hast forsaken Fae culture once more and attempted to rescue the Goblin King from his fate," said the little one, patting the big one comfortingly when he groaned. "Were I not forced to leave so suddenly I'd have stayed to the end to defend her!" His ears drooped. "Now, I am very much afraid she has been left to the mercy of those terrible creatures."

"The hordes?" Keel enquired.

"Fae," spat the big one with surprising vehemence.

"She walked right on in to the King's trial," Hoggle groaned miserably. "Why didn't we stop her? We should 'ave stopped her!"

"Twas not how the Lady wanted it to be, Sir," said the small goblin. "You know as well as I that she was intent on rescuing his Majesty."

"Well we 'ave to see that she's all right, no matter!"

"What you ought to do first is apologise to sir Wick," replied his companion. "Granted it was necessary to spare him further abuse from his superiors, but we did give him and his poor relation here quite a fright, sir Hoggle."

"I am not afraid," Keel spat, which was more true than anybody could understand. "And you aren't the ones who owe my cousin." She was looking at Wick: at his split lip, the purpled bruising on his nose that was yet to heal, the stark line of his cheekbones that had never stood out so prominently before. And love was burning through her veins like fire, the ferocity of her need to protect him overwhelming thought for anything else. "The Queen is the one with the debt to repay."

"Your Majesty, surely you see my reasoning now."

Brynn was not a beggar. He did not make pleas or grovel at the feet of others. Mira knew this just as she'd known it of Ezra, his ancient relative. Fel Vaden faces did not know how to portray desperation. Yet the King's newest course of action could fall under no other guise: the man was entreating her.

And, looking over the ledgers of the Labyrinth and Goblin Realms he'd presented, Mira had to concede she understood. The Labyrinth goings-on barely interested her – what humans got themselves caught up in mattered little to her. But the reports from the realms of the hordes…they were a different story. Uprisings in the City; escapees terrorising neighbouring farmlands; communities questioning her leadership; threats made against the new King…the control she'd been working so hard to regain was in danger of slipping away.

And simply because she wanted to punish a little human. Mira was aggravated with herself: she'd let emotion make the decisions though she'd sworn never to do so. Perhaps she hadn't learnt enough from her mother's mistakes after all.

"And you're certain it's her they want?" Mira asked with a thin-lipped expression, holding a scroll in hand. It was tempting to throw it violently aside in her current mood.

"Jareth is gone, as far as the hordes are concerned," Brynn replied, taking a step forward as if he could sense her resolve wavering. "It's the girl they want. The one that started it all in the first place. They're out for blood, your Majesty. And it must be hers."

Mira closed her eyes, so familiar now with the itch of her vow mark that she could almost ignore it. Almost. "Very well," she spoke quietly. There would be pain to suffer for breaking the promise, but nothing she didn't deserve and couldn't handle. I am what I must be, she thought. I do what must be done. "Give her to the hordes," she instructed at last.

It was weird contemplating your own death when you were only twenty-five. It was even weirder realising that you were actually a little bit okay with it. Was this how Jareth felt? Sarah wondered this restlessly, curled into her side on the bed, tracing the insignia on his pendant. Had he been lying there warm against her skin and thought about all the good that would come of his death?

"He's alive," she murmured aloud into the pillow. The air in the room felt still and thin, sending her deeper into the nest of blankets. "And he'll stay that way. He doesn't remember me but that's fine. He'll figure out how to get by and he'll have a nice life." Now completely hidden under the covers it was difficult to see the pendant. Her thumb ran along its smooth silver surface as she talked herself into accepting whatever fate she might be about to meet. "Dad never had me…and Toby and Alice will be spoilt brats. But that's fine too. They'll know better when they're older. And they won't ever have to face the goblins. That was the point of all this in the first place, remember Sarah?" It was a small comfort, listening to the whispered tones of her own voice. Anything to distract from the gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach, a hunger she couldn't even begin to fill.

In the brief moment of silence that passed, dangerous thoughts began to surface again. Worries about what had happened to Wick and her goblin boys; nostalgia for the life she hadn't quite started to live; all the years she'd wasted on other men when Jareth had been there waiting. "How can I die now?" she murmured hoarsely, clutching the pendant tight to her chest. Tears wet the pillow beneath her cheek. "How is this it?"

As much as she wanted to know in her heart that it was for the best, she couldn't help knowing other things too. That they'd probably feed her to the goblins, because that was just something those twisted fucks would do. That it would hurt being eaten alive. That she'd probably never find out what had happened to her friends. "It's okay," she forced out through heavier tears. "There's nothing else you can possibly do, Sarah." Drawing her knees right up to her chest, she lay beneath the covers and tried to breathe deeply. She was doing quite well before her wrist started to burn. "All that matters is that everyone else is safe," she said firmly before realising she was in more than emotional pain. Her wrist pulsed angrily with feverish heat for a few seconds; she hissed and threw the covers back, gasping at the rush of fresh air. "Son of a –"

The mark was gone. Not a bump or scratch was left to say it'd ever been there at all. Tentatively she tapped the blank skin with a finger. There was no more pain. Oh, that couldn't be good.

"That's it then," she announced to the empty room.

And much as she wanted to be the strong, brave martyr, Sarah Williams couldn't help feeling completely helpless.