A/N: Beta-ed by the many-talented syntheticaesthetic, patron saint of exhausted, hopelessly abstruse, and writer's-blocked authors. Or, at least, of this one.

Please note that I have changed the way I do trigger warnings. I have what I hope is a comprehensive key on my profile, and I'm going to try and list every common trigger in code. If you are or think you might be in danger of being triggered, you're encouraged to go look at the codes and take note of any that might relate to you—these codes are fixed and will not change. You're not recommended to go look up the codes for each chapter out of curiosity, b/c possible spoilers. If you see a long list of tw for a particular chapter, know that I'm trying to cast as wide a net as possible, and some of those are for things like "smoking" or "swearing" which many people don't find upsetting. If there's something not on the list that you'd like to receive warnings for, please let me know and I'll add it.

TW: referenced (i), (m), (p), (v), (ac), referenced (ao), (aw)

Chapter 8

Bring Me My Devil

"Oh my lord, here's a just reward:
bring me my devil just behind the door."

"The Kingdom of the Universe," Ashley Park.

And a hundred thousand times a day,
The yellow lights turn red.
And a hundred thousand miles away,
I'm turning myself in—
Oh Christ, I am.

"A Children's Crusade on Acid," Margot and the Nuclear So & Sos

Slowly, she turns around. There's a gentle rushing in her ears, like sand falling through an hour glass. Something ephemeral—something precious—is slipping away from her. She can almost feel the breeze of its passage. Convulsively, her hands seize as if hoping to catch it and arrest its flight, but it's too late. Whatever it is has gone and her hands grasp only air.

Twelve words. Nothing in the world should be that simple. Even as she'd spoken them, despite everything, some part of her hadn't really believed it would work.

Yet here he is, resplendent in his most imposing Goblin King finery: a rippling cloak and beetle-black armor polished to an oil-spill sheen. He should look absurd standing there, a dream creature transposed into the bright, clinical cheerfulness of the ICU, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the open window behind him. Yet somehow, he's the realest thing in the room—it's everything else that feels like the dream.

Inside her, a little voice begins to whisper its horror and its anticipation, its wonder and its pride and its absolute, damning censure. I did this. I did this. Me, me, me.

Sarah squeezes her hands even tighter, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. The pain is an anchor.

Focus.

He puts his head to one side and grins.

"Sarah. It's been an age."

"Five years," she says evenly, hoping to hell that the thundering of her heart isn't as audible to him as it is to her.

"Five years!" He shakes his head. "How time does fly. Although I must say, I much preferred the venue of our last encounter. For one thing, the floorshow was far superior." He waves a casual hand at Alisse's prone figure, at the whole unlovely array of monitors and IVs and medical apparatus.

Sarah gives a little gasp at the callousness of it. Even for him…

Brushing past her, he crosses the room in a few, easy strides and yanks open the door. He thrusts his head out into the hallway, humming his disapproval. "Yes, I can't say I think much of this as the setting for a long-awaited reunion."

Belatedly, she starts forward. "Get away from there! What if someone sees?"

He ducks back inside the room. "So cautious, Sarah! No one will see. I've stopped time."

She jerks back. "You can't have! You have no—"

"Oh, Sarah." He smiles fondly at her. "You asked a boon of me; I granted it. That gives me all manner of power."

Stay calm, instructs the rational part of herself, the part that guided her through many a medical emergency in her years as an EMT. Hold your ground. Think.

Whatever powers her wish may have given him, they clearly didn't include the power to snatch her off, or steal her soul, or claim her death, or whatever it is he wants with her.

Unless, of course, he's just toying with her.

She wouldn't put it past him, especially since his demeanor is so…strange. For all his forbidding attire, the Goblin King is positively buoyant. She's never seen him in such good spirits, and the sight sets alarm bells ringing in her head.

He flashes her a boyish grin. "You're looking…not well, exactly. A bit hag-ridden, if truth be told. But certainly better than your friend here." He clucks his tongue. "Poor girl. She used to be such a pretty thing, too."

Sarah stands frozen for a moment. To think, she'd always thought rage was hot.

"How dare you," she says, when she finally manages to speak. "How dare you."

"Oh, quite easily," he assures her, eyes crinkling in amusement. "And—" as if the thought has suddenly occurred to him "—with a good deal of style."

Something inside her snaps, and she lunges for him. She wants to shake the smile from his face and the laughter from his eyes, shake him until the teeth rattle in his head and his stupid, freakish eyes roll from their sockets, until he's boneless and broken and bleeding on the floor, begging her for mercy—until he feels some tiny fraction of the rage and pain and fear and helplessness that fill her. It won't be enough—it won't be anywhere near enough. But it'll be a damn good start.

He sidesteps her nimbly, and she stumbles against one of the visitor's chairs, missing one of the life-support machines by bare inches. She braces herself against the chair, biting down on her fist in horror. If she'd hit it—if she'd somehow damaged it…

She's trembling. For the first time in her life, she is a stranger to herself. This isn't her, this blind rage, this savagery. It can't be her.

Regulating her breathing with an effort, she lowers the hand from her mouth, and straightening, turns once more to face him.

Jareth is laughing.

"Pax, Sarah, pax! Let us see first to the matter at hand before we seek to amuse ourselves. You asked that the woman Claudine Rochefort be taken away." He spreads his hands with a magician's flourish. "I have done as you asked."

"I didn't mean—"

Sarah cuts herself off, shutting her eyes against a sudden wave of weariness. The protest was no more than a reflex. She had meant it, and, unlike with Toby all those years before, meant it in the full knowledge of what such a wish entailed.

"You take people's souls to pay this Tithe," she'd said and—

—his skin like fire in a darkened ballroom—

—"You could always wish me away a replacement," he'd said—

—the press and murmur of the crowd: "Tithe, tithe"—

—"A mortal soul is a valuable thing, but a living human? For the sacrifice of one living human, you would spare a thousand souls"—

—before her, a staircase stretching to the stars—

—"No one should have that kind of responsibility," she'd protested, and turned her face away—

—and above her, a silver sickle flashed in the hungry darkness.

She'd known it and still she'd spoken the words. She isn't even sure she wouldn't do it again. Not if there was the smallest chance it could help Alisse. And possibly—with a sudden resurgence of that savagery, she thinks back to the screaming rows all through high school, to Alisse turning up on her doorstep with a suitcase and an agonizing vulnerability in her eyes, to the exhaustion in Mrs. Rochefort's face and the calm acceptance in her voice as she told Sarah Alisse's life was in God's hands—possibly even if there wasn't.

What am I? she wonders sickly, staring into her hands. God, god, what am I?

He hikes up an eyebrow. "Didn't you? Perhaps you wish to run the Labyrinth and win her back?"

Yes! some part of her shrieks—the naïve, foolish, grasping-at-straws part, the part that thinks it's still possible to come out of this clean and whole and unbroken. Take it back! Unsay the words!

And she could…

But if she beat the Labyrinth again, what then? Mrs. Rochefort would be back and refuse the operation and Alisse would die and it would all be for nothing.

Sarah is silent.

"I thought not," says the Goblin King, silkily. He smiles, suddenly cheerful again, and flings himself into a nearby chair. "The woman, then, is mine. Now. To what do I owe the pleasure of this summons?"

"I didn't summon you." She stops, and revises the statement. "I mean, not for anything except to— to take Mrs. Rochefort."

So what if the words are ash in her mouth, as long as Alisse is safe?

"Oh, come now. You wish me, surely, to preserve the life of your friend? Should you wish to strike a bargain, I'm entirely at your disposal, Sarah."

"What?"

She stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then she shakes her head, though she fails to shake away the first prickling of unease.

"No, there's no need. She'll be fine now. The doctors can do the surgery. Her mother—"

"Will make a fine and valuable addition to this period's Tithe and I thank you for the trouble you've spared me in procuring her. But the daughter will die either way."

"No." Sarah takes a step back. "No, no, no," as if by denying it strongly enough, she can banish the chill certainty that is creeping upon her.

Because it can't be true. It's too awful to be true. To have gone through all that—to have wished Mrs. Rochefort away and refused the chance to win her back, only to find out it didn't matter…

"I saved her," she insists.

"I regret to inform you that while it's entirely within your power to do so, which is to say, within my power, your friend is still, at this present moment, marked to die. Within two days, unless I'm very much mistaken." The small smile on his face indicates just how unlikely he considers that possibility.

Two days. Not a week, as the doctors said, but two days. Which means…

…which means Sarah's stupid, desperate spur-of-the-moment plan will actually work. Without Mrs. Rochefort to tell them otherwise, the doctors will operate—and Alisse will die on the operating table.

It's so hideously plausible, that's the thing. Compared with the alternative of certain death, a one in three possibility of survival had been so obviously the choice of life, and somehow, in her single-minded battle of life versus death, she'd managed to overlook the fact that one in three is still really shitty odds.

Nothing's certain, she reminds herself, shoving down the hopelessness that rises in her like a black tide. Not yet. All you have so far is his word.

"How do you know?"

"The fate is written on her plain as day to anyone with skill enough to read it." He slides her a sidelong glance. "You could see it too, if only you knew the trick of it. After a few hundred years, you'll be able to read such things almost as well as I. For now…" He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, a tantalizing possibility, before continuing, "…you'll simply have to take my word for it."

"You could be wrong," she says stubbornly.

He could also be lying. He'd said his…kind didn't lie, but what proof was there of that?

Jareth flicks his eyes skyward. "I suppose it's just barely conceivable that after three millennia procuring souls for the Tithe, I could be mistaken. Some powerful magic, perhaps, has clouded my judgment, or the saltwater in the air has, for the first time in the lengthy history of my kind, been sufficient to dampen and deceive my Sight."

He rises from his chair.

"Come. Let's have no more prevarication. You summoned me here to save your friend's life—"

"No," says Sarah, "I—"

"You summoned me to take the woman in the hopes that so doing would be sufficient to save your friend. What does it matter if I'm the direct or indirect cause of her salvation, as long as she's saved?"

"How do you know that's why I wished away Mrs. Rochefort?" she asks, and bites her cheek. It's a stupid question, and they both know it—a silly, childish attempt to challenge his authority, to regain some tiny bit of control over the situation.

"Your friend lies dying in a hospital bed and you wish away her mother and expect me to believe the two are unrelated?" He smiles sharply. There is little trace of his earlier cheerfulness in that smile.

His voice goes soft. "Perhaps you wished the woman away out of the goodness of your heart? A randomly selected sacrifice to help the Underground fulfill its quota? Were you, perhaps, being generous, Sarah?"

He's pacing around her in slow circles now, as if he's scented blood in the water.

Sarah says nothing.

She's searching for the fire—the strength, courage, and conviction—that saw her through their previous encounters. It had been so easy to face him then, when she'd known who she was. Now—

Now she's knowingly and deliberately sacrificed one living person for another, and for what? The chance to barter away her literal soul as well as her metaphorical one? How could you ever come back from something like that?

"No?" he says. "Just a little token to pique my interest, then? Your kind used to leave us offerings, you know, once upon a time, to court our interest and our favor. Blood and wine and the fattest of the herd, and then, as times grew harder and humans, meaner, mere plates of bread and milk and honey. But it's been many a year since I've seen one of your kind sacrifice a living human just to call our attention." He stops just behind her and leans forward, breath hot against her ear. "How nice to see the old ways being kept alive."

"That's not what I me—"

She cuts herself off again. What does it matter what she'd meant? When has it ever mattered? All that matters—all that has ever mattered—is what she does. And what she has done tonight…

"No?" She fancies she can feel his smile against her hair. "But surely you must know my interest is already very much… piqued."

He traces the contours of her left arm from the shoulder down, gloved fingers hovering a bare inch over the skin—the ghost of a caress.

She goes to slap his hands away and he catches her by the wrists. She twists to face him, struggling to free herself. The self-defense techniques she'd learned in the wake of Kyle's death clearly aren't meant to be used against…whatever the hell it is that he is. She'd have better luck bending steel.

"Let go of me," she commands, voice icy.

"Ah, ah, ah," he scolds. "If you do me violence, Sarah, I will be forced to retaliate in kind, something I'm sure both of us will have cause to regret."

He smiles winningly as she tries in vain to break his hold.

"Let me go," she snarls.

He continues as if she hadn't spoken. "And to offer me violence after I've done nothing but fulfill your wishes and obey your so obliging summons… Well. It's not particularly honorable, is it?"

He releases her, and she stumbles back a few steps. Temper seizes control of her tongue. To hell with him and all his silver-voiced mockery.

"I see nothing dishonorable about using violence against a monster."

His face contorts, and for an instant, he looks every inch the monster she'd named him, all flashing eyes and pointed teeth in a bleached-bone complexion. Then—as if a switch has been flipped—he is once again beatific, a fallen angel in glam rock eyeliner.

"I forgive you for that, dearest. We will, after all, have all of eternity to fight and to forgive. Best start as we mean to go on, hm?"

He thinks he's already won, she realizes, sickeningly. That's why he's been so fucking cheerful. He thinks I've got no choice now but to give him what he wants. Then—and she'd thought her stomach could sink no lower, but she's been wrong about so many things tonight that it's hardly a surprise that she was wrong about that too—

He's right.

She closes her eyes.

"What do I have to give you?" she asks dully. "To save her life?"

His voice is almost tender.

"You know the price."

Her head jerks up. She does know the price, or at least, she knows a price.

"I wished someone away to you. For the Tithe. That was the price you asked for, wasn't it?"

A look of great condescension settles on his face, stilling the sudden fluttering of hope.

"I'm here at your behest," he reminds her. "You asked that the woman be taken; I took her. That this provides a material benefit to me means only that you need owe me no debt for the fulfillment of your wish."

"Then—then I'll wish away someone else!" she says, and bites her tongue. Could she? Could she really? But there must be someone. Someone cruel, and—and wicked. Someone who deserves it.

There's a queer sort of illness upon her now, a queasy churning in heart and head—a kind of nausea of the soul. God, she thinks again, what am I?

"I'm afraid," he says gently, "that offer is no longer on the table."

"Two people," she blurts, and claps a hand over her mouth.

His lips curve in a pitying smile. "You know the price, Sarah."

She knows the price.

"Come now," he says coaxingly. "Would it really be so bad, to pass eternity by my side? Think of the wonders I could show you."

She thinks back to his offer at the castle, all those years ago.

"And you'll be my slave?" she asks, bitterly.

A grin, slow and dark as molasses, spreads across his face. "Perhaps I will at that. For a while, at least. We'll have all of time for exploration, after all, to find out which roles best…suit." He pops the 't' on 'suit.' His expression is so lascivious it could be packaged up and sold in adult bookstores.

Sarah shuts her eyes. Not that it does her much good. She has a feeling that smile will be playing a starring role in her nightmares for some time to come. Worse is the squirming bit of warmth south of her navel, the way her toes curl involuntarily at the honey of his tone—her body is in revolt—and she knows that when the nightmares come, the horror won't be that she is unwilling, but that she is eager.

She opens her eyes. Jareth is watching her, patiently. Of course he is. He can afford to be patient. He already knows what she's going to say—the only thing she can say. But—

"I can't," she whispers, anguished. She's speaking not to him but to herself now, or maybe to the universe at large—a last, desperate plea, an empty protest against what she knows she has to do—what she will do.

He takes it as a refusal. His face shows astonishment, followed by something else that passes too quickly for her to identify.

"Even now, you won't give me your death? Not even to save the life of your friend? You were more than willing to sacrifice her mother." His words are cruel and cutting as ever, but there's something new beneath them—frustration? Something more?

"That was different."

He scoffs. "Yes, very different. How unreasonable to ask you to sacrifice yourself, rather than throwing yet another poor wretch to the wolves in your place. If," he adds, mouth twisting, "you can even call it sacrifice. After all, as you once observed, there's no knowing what will happen to the woman when she is Tithed, whereas you will never suffer the same fate. But really, I should've known to expect no less selfishness from you."

Sarah's throat is burning. "Mrs. Rochefort was—was a mistake. A terrible—" Her voice cracks. "—mistake. But to give you my—my—for all eternity—" She's almost pleading with him now. "I don't trust you."

It's a testament to the sheer inadequacy of language that she can think of no stronger word than trust, but something of her horror, the enormity of her revulsion at the idea of giving herself to him, for eternity, or even for a week—for an hour—must have bled into her voice or found expression in her face because—

He gives an exhalation that might in a creature less elegant, less eerily beautiful, be termed a snort, and ducks his head.

"You have no idea how deeply that wounds me."

And Sarah has seen deserts that would look damp next to his tone, but there's something about the set of his shoulders—the way his eyes stray from hers—the clenching and unclenching of his fingers…

It couldn't be…

"I think," she says wonderingly, "I think maybe I do."

He flinches, then flashes her a look of such blazing resentment that it's all she can do to hold her ground, but now she knows what's behind that look…

There's a crawling discomfort on her, but also a strange sort of exhilaration. She'd known he'd wanted her somehow, for something, although she'd assumed it was at best some kind of power play, something to salve his pride and humble hers. At worst…

Well, she's tried not to think about "at worst."

But that she has the power to hurt him, not just through words but through her dislike or disapproval—that he actually cares in some way what she thinks of him—has never occurred to her before. He certainly hasn't gone out of his way to win her over. At least, she doesn't think he has. It's so hard to tell, with him, what is mere natural perversity and what is active malice. Could he even have been wooing her in his own, twisted way? Impossible, surely.

Yet the way he had looked at her, like some wild creature with its leg caught in a trap… There was fury there, yes, but also confusion—pain—and, somewhere beneath all that, buried so deep that she's half certain she'd imagined it, a plea.

Release me.

Which means she still has chips on the table.

Which means…

Which means…

She's never quite sure afterwards how it happened—one of those strange, impossible flashes of inspiration, the kind you only read about in history books. Because all of a sudden there it is at the back of her mind, born in the space between one heartbeat and the next: the plan, fledgling and weak, but fully-formed and trembling with possibility.

Cautiously, she examines it more closely, learning the shape of it, its curves and its contours. Something begins to thrum within her chest, like an old engine sputtering to life. Her hands have started to shake, and she clasps them together.

Because it's audacious, yes, and risky—more than risky. To put it plainly, it's just about the craziest idea she's ever had, not to mention the most wildly overconfident. Her breath catches on the sheer temerity of it—that she could even think of raising the stakes to such a level…

But surely that's an advantage. He'd never take the bargain if he guessed what she's planning, but even he would never imagine her to be capable of such arrogance—such insanity—as to take the fate of an entire world in her hands. And after all, what has she got to lose? Only her life—or rather, her death. Only herself. Nothing, in other words, that isn't already at risk.

But if she can pull it off— If it works… Oh, if it works…

Life. Freedom. A way out. Not only for her, but for Alisse, for Mrs. Rochefort, and god knows how many others.

All she has to do is make the right bargain.

"Jareth," she says slowly. He jerks his head around to stare at her. Is she imagining the way his nostrils flare, the little shudder that goes through him at the sound of his name on her lips? "I think we might've gotten off on the wrong foot."

He lets out an incredulous laugh, and even through the nerves and the breathless excitement, she feels a sharp pang of pleasure at being the one to discomfit him for once.

"We haven't really met under the best circumstances, you know? I mean, you've got to admit, there hasn't been much about our previous, um, encounters that would let us really get to know—let alone trust—each other."

From the mulish set of his jaw, it's clear he doesn't think himself obliged to admit anything of the sort.

She presses on. "What I'm saying is… You're asking for something really big. You keep talking about—about eternity. About my death—that's my afterlife, right?"

He says nothing, only stares at her, jaw clenched, brows slightly knit.

"Right?"

He hesitates, then gives a brief, grudging nod.

Sarah lets out a breath. She'd suspected as much, but to have it confirmed…

"What I'm asking for," she says, once she's sure her voice will be steady, "is time. Time to—to get to know you. When we're not—"

She casts around for the right words, and her memory throws up a scene from their last confrontation. You've always fancied yourself the hero, haven't you, Sarah? She sees again the sneer upon his face, feels the bitter lash of his mockery. And she remembers, too, how he had once hurled his misdeeds at her feet—Everything that you wanted, I have done—and called it generosity.

And in some twisted way, she realizes, it was.

He really thinks like that. Good, bad—right, wrong—it's all just words to him, like parts in a play.

She can see now how much he'd loathed it, the way she'd cast him in the role of villain—how much it galled him to be reduced in that way. Not that it ever stopped him from playing the part to perfection.

Well, she can use that.

"When we're not playing hero and villain."

Something shifts subtly in his expression—a flicker of surprise, a certain sharpening of attention.

Emboldened, she continues. "I need time when we're not at conflict, so I can figure out whether I could—whether I can—spend eternity with you."

She watches his face work—she can see he's trying to decide whether or not to take this as an insult.

"I want to try," she stresses—lies.

He's silent for a long time. Her heart is pounding in her throat.

Because this is it. Her last chance. She's out of clever ideas. If this doesn't work… she's fucked. Upside down and sideways, for all eternity.

Come on, Goblin King, she urges him silently, fingernails scoring little half-moons of tension into her palms.

Finally, he speaks.

"How long?"

Almost giddy with relief and the first, faint glimpse of victory, she ventures: "A year?"

His eyebrows fly up.

"What a flattering estimation of my powers you have. But I'm afraid even I cannot hold the mortal world in stasis for a year while you make up your mind." He taps his lip with a long, elegant finger. "Perhaps a week—a month at most— But my duties Below…"

"What? No!" she says, with a little too much vehemence. The idea of being stuck here with him with all the world frozen around them… "No," she says, more calmly. "That would be ridiculous. I never—I wouldn't ask you…"

His eyebrows rise, if anything, even higher.

"What then?"

"I thought," she says, cursing herself for the sudden hesitance in her voice, "you could heal Alisse now. Sort of, like, a good will gesture. And then we could have our year."

His face closes down. Clearly he hasn't been taken in by her crafty use of 'our.'

"Yes, I imagine you did think that. And then, at the end of the year, should you decide you cannot bear to pass eternity by my side, you and your friend will stroll off into the sunset together, is that it?"

"No, no, of course not! In that case—"

She pauses, willing her heart to stop racing, her voice to remain steady, her breathing to slow.

Because this is it, the moment on which everything hinges. She has to word this next bit carefully—otherwise, the game is up.

She looks him in the eye. "In that case, I'll settle this year's Tithe myself."

He actually takes a step back.

"You?" His voice is incredulous. "You would wish away a full contingent of Tithe payments?"

Well, no. Of course she won't. She'll just have to figure out a way to end the damn thing for good—settle this year's and every year's Tithe in one go. But she can hardly tell him that.

"I could always choose bad people," she says. "Murderers and rapists and stuff. Couldn't I?"

"You could at that," he says, looking faintly and ever-so-grudgingly impressed.

He tilts his head, regarding her with a calculating expression on his face. She puts up her chin, before being hit with a sudden surge of doubt—defiant gestures aren't exactly on message—and turning her head away. He huffs out a laugh, as if he knows exactly what she's been thinking, and she feels her cheeks grow hot.

Strangely enough, it's that little assertion of independence—of challenge—that seems to convince him. Maybe she's been overplaying the whole conciliatory aspect. The Goblin King is many things, but a fool isn't one of them.

"Six months," he says at last, a trace of amusement still in his voice. "The Tithe is due in six months, as measured by your Aboveground reckoning."

It takes her a moment to realize that this isn't just information—it's an answer.

"Six months," she agrees, feeling light-headed—almost elated. She's riding high now, buoyed up on the confidence of these small victories. What's six months? She beat his damn Labyrinth in only ten hours—six months should be plenty of time to save the world. And if it isn't…

Well, she'll deal with that when it comes.

Dimly, she remembers that she'd once been horrified by this sort of responsibility, the uncertainty of it—that the last time he'd offered her this kind of power—over life, over death—she'd refused. How strange. Perhaps it's just that back then, her hands had been clean.

But that had been the dream of a child, to imagine that all she had to do was play a game and that would somehow undo the wrong she'd done. A simple tit for tat. She knows better now. You can't just solve a puzzle and fix everything that's been broken. Life is harder than that—uglier, more complicated—infinitely more interesting. There is no going back. There's only forward, and the choices you make to take you there. And in this moment of realization—it's almost thrilling, honest to god it is. How could she ever have run from this? Bearing this kind of responsibility—saving lives—saving the world… It's what she was born for. It's what she was made for. Nothing could be more natural. Nothing could be more right.

Speaking of saving the world, though, that might be hard to pull off if she's spending the next six months under his watchful and jealous eye. She needs to find some way to buy herself a bit of freedom—or, at the very least, some breathing room.

She casts her eyes about the room, searching for inspiration, and her gaze lands on Alisse where she lies in her hospital bed, cold and pale as marble.

"The time can't start right away though," she says. "When Alisse wakes up, she'll need me."

A perfect excuse. It even has the virtue of being true.

Then she realizes what she's been thinking. It hits her like a sucker-punch to the gut, knocking the air right out of her. When had Alisse become an excuse?

But Jareth is looking unimpressed, and Sarah presses on, ignoring the guilt—the shock and the shame which clamor at the back of her mind.

"What'll it be like for her, waking up from a coma to find her mother and her best friend vanished off the face of the earth? She won't know what's going on, she won't be able to pay rent—" It even has the virtue of being true, a voice mocks in her head and she breaks off in distress.

But Jareth appears to have unbent a little.

"I could make her forget about you," he offers. "Spare her the pain."

She recoils. "No!"

He taps his boot on the floor. "Six months is the time at your disposal. If you wish to squander some of that time playing nursemaid to your ailing friend, far be it from me—"

"You could always give me free passage—a way to come and go between your world and mine." She tries to make her voice light, as if she's merely offering a solution to a mutual inconvenience.

"Oh, I think not. You wreaked quite enough havoc in my realm during one supervised visit. I hate to think what would become of the Underground if a living Sarah Williams were given free rein."

He folds his arms, drumming his fingers and looking irritable, but there's a gleam of something like—could it be anticipation?—in his eyes.

"Two months, surely, will be time enough for you to console your friend and make your excuses? Two months, then I'll come for you."

"Two months," she agrees.

So, she has two months to find a way to move between the Underground and the Aboveground on her own, and four more to figure out how to put a stop to this Tithe business once and for all. Piece of cake, she thinks recklessly. Keep the challenges coming. Throw 'em at me.

He narrows his eyes. "And the mother? Or is she classed among the murderers and villains you have no qualms in consigning to my care?"

Her breath hitches. In the rush of triumph, she'd almost forgotten—

But no. She rallies herself. That's the whole point, isn't it? If—no, she corrects herself, when she stops the Tithe, she'll be sparing everyone who would otherwise be sacrificed, including Mrs. Rochefort.

But of course, he can't know that.

She forces a shoulder up in something approximating a casual shrug. "What's said is said."

He arches his brows. Once again, she is reminded that he is not a fool.

She turns her head aside and swallows. "Besides. Alisse is better off without her."

She glances back at him. He's looking at her speculatively. As she meets his gaze, his eyelids lower and a smirk begins to play about the corners of his mouth.

"As you say," he murmurs.

Her stomach twists.

It's true, what she'd said—that's the worst of it. All she had to do was speak her mind, and as the words left her mouth they became the justification for a woman's death.

Stop that, she tells herself sharply. They're just words. You're going to fix this. That's all that matters.

"So," she says. "You'll heal Alisse fully from her accident as soon as these terms are—" What was the word he had used, that night at the rave? "—are pacted. Then you'll give me six Aboveground months to decide whether or not I can spend eternity with you—"

"To decide whether or not you will give me your death," he corrects, sharply.

Damn. She'd been hoping he wouldn't notice that. Still, it doesn't much matter if the phrasing of the vow forces a choice when she already knows what her choice will be.

"—to decide whether or not I will give you my death, during which time—" She fixes him with a gimlet-eyed glare. "—you won't seek to force or coerce me or otherwise prevent me from making such a choice with a clear mind and a free will."

"An unnecessary clause," he interjects. "I have only such power over you as you give me, Sarah."

"Nevertheless."

They stand there for a moment in a silent battle of wills. Then he breaks eye contact, gesturing impatiently for her to continue. She does not miss the brief look of almost sulky disappointment which crosses his face.

Spoiled your fun, have I, Goblin King? she thinks, exhilarated. All that time working as a paralegal has clearly paid off. Maybe her father is right about a career in law—does it always feel like this, gaining concessions? Winning?

"You'll give me the first two of those six months to stay Aboveground and deal with my affairs. At the end of those two months, you may take me Underground. Within those six months, I'll make a choice: either I'll give you my death, or I'll resolve the current Tithe myself."

The Goblin King looks at her expectantly, as though waiting for something. When nothing more is forthcoming, he grins. It is not an appealing grin. His face is so white under the fluorescent lights that his jagged teeth look almost yellow in contrast—how could she ever, even for a moment, have thought herself attracted to him?

She has time, before he speaks, for a brief moment of panic. What could have made him smile like that? Surely she hasn't missed anything?

"So pacted," he says.

There's a surge of power. Sarah shudders as she feels it pass through her, echoing through her bones. Will she ever get used to it, this strange, alien magic?

Not, she reminds herself, that she'll have to. Six months. Six months, and then she'll be free.

She wonders why she doesn't feel more relieved.

Jareth strolls over to the bed, stopping when he's level with Alisse's hip. Sarah tenses, and he shoots her an ironic look.

"I'm merely fulfilling my end of the bargain as stipulated."

He extends a black-gloved hand over Alisse's unconscious form and squeezes it shut. When he opens it again, a small pile of glittering dust rests on his palm. Lowering his head, he blows on the dust, which spreads lengthwise over Alisse's body. It hovers in the air for a moment, a shimmering cloud with the exact contours of her form. Then, slowly, it sinks earthwards, vanishing when it comes into contact with her skin. For a moment, Alisse herself seems to sparkle. It makes her look…strange, inhuman, her skin alight with a twinkling, otherworldly luminescence. Then the effect is gone and she is the same as before, if a little rosier in color.

Jareth stands over her a moment longer, his hand outstretched, smiling a smile of catlike satisfaction.

"She'll wake as soon as the clock resumes."

He turns away, and, reaching Sarah in a few steps, takes her hand in one of his own and raises it to his lips. Shocked, she lets him. His lips brush her skin in a brief and burning caress before she remembers herself and snatches her hand away.

He smiles at her fondly, showing no sign of offense. "A pleasure, as always. What an admirable queen you'll make, such a shrewd negotiator as you have become."

Sketching a little bow, he turns on his heel and is gone.

The noise of the hospital comes roaring back, but Sarah stays where she is, frozen, struggling to process everything that has just happened. A sudden wave of dizziness comes over her and she half sits, half falls into one of the visitor's chairs, pressing a hand to her forehead.

The door swings open. Sarah looks up to see Ernie standing on the threshold.

How— To have gotten here so fast, he must have been right outside…

She looks from him to the half-opened blinds covering the windows into the hallway. It would have been so easy, given the magnitude of her distraction, to miss someone standing on the other side of the window… Oh no. Oh no.

Ernie turns his head back and forth, searching the room for something. Before her eyes, his face grows pale. He turns to look at her; his lips are trembling.

"What the hell is going on?" he asks hoarsely. "Where did Mrs. Rochefort go? How did you just—just teleport across the room? And what the fuck was that about gob—"

He stops short, cut off by a sudden beeping from one of the machines near Alisse's bed. There's the sound of footsteps in the hallway. A nurse hurries in, takes one look at the machine, and pulls out her pager.

And Alisse—

Sarah's breath catches.

Alisse is opening her eyes. She stares blearily around the room, before focusing on Sarah. She opens her mouth, but her voice is so little and croaky that Sarah can barely make out the words. By the time she processes them, she and Ernie have been swept from the room on a tide of doctors and nurses.

Out in the hallway, Sarah begins to laugh. She laughs and laughs until her legs give way and she's sliding down the wall and onto the floor.

Ernie crouches beside her, looking frightened and uncertain. "Williams? Sarah? Are you okay?"

She shakes her head, then nods.

"You're sending me mixed signals here."

"I'm fine," she gasps out. "Fine, fine, everything's fine."

"What the hell did she say to you to set you off like that?"

She turns a face streaming with tears up to look at him.

"She said—" She breaks off, hiccoughing. Her mind is in disarray; the past is a jumble and the future is fucked, but there's a smile like sunrise spreading across her face. "She said, 'I'd kill for a margarita: this is the worst hangover of my life.'"

A/N: Aaaaannnnd we're off! Out of the starting gates, it's Joan of Arc in the lead. Plucky little thing isn't she? But, if rumors are true, with a kick on her you wouldn't believe. Joanie is this season's favorite, ever since her unlikely defeat of reigning champion Magic Pants two races ago. But can she do it again? Last race was one for the judges. She's got a comfortable lead over Magic Pants, but is he outmatched or merely biding his time? Hold onto your hats, folks, because it's the race of the century!

(lol i know n0thing about horseracing can u tell?)

Anyway, we've finished our first arc ("Quaaludes and Red Wine"). Part two coming soon to an archive near you! (And don't worry, I'm not actually going to make you wait two months of story time to see Jareth again.)

Also, by soon, I mean "soonish" because I've just started a new degree and grad school takes precedence (or at least, it should). So, if there's a long(er) gap between updates, know that I haven't abandoned this fic, I'm just off trying to be an adult and will certainly get back to things over break at the latest.

Trying to keep tabs on my influences here, and Exulansis's depiction of Jareth ("I want you to be happy nearly as much as I want you to be mine") in Iron and Crystal was in my mind all through the second half of this chapter. If you haven't read Iron and Crystal, go hit it up now for your daily Dark Jareth fix. Delish. The first half of this chapter borrows much from the Gentleman with the Thistle-Down Hair, the tow-headed fairy antagonist from Susanna Clarke's brilliant Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell.

Soundtrack:

"The Kingdom of the Universe," by Ashley Park.

"Stupid Thing," by Nickel.

"Extreme Ways," by Moby.

"Glory," by Wye Oak.

Thanks so much to SarahlouiseDodge, HonoriaGranger, Jetredgirl, Sazzle76, Kellyn1604, kittyspike08536, Ebony-Dove, TheMadBunny, allisonfreedman, Dra323, FelineGrace, Nanenna, Talia, ASunInWinter, Sixseedseternalbond, and xoBrandyxo123. Your reviews make me so happy and inspired and (to whomever it may concern) I promise I'll stop responding to them drunk. (Sozza)

Give me your poor, your tired, your hungry—your laughter and your sorrows, your glee and your frustration, your questions, your answers, and your Mom's home-made apple pie.

Ta!

Silks