Soft warmth surrounded Sarah on all sides. She smiled softly and nestled deeper into the coverlets, riding the blissful half-conscious slipstream state that ran between awake and asleep on those rare mornings when had the chance to sleep in. Sometimes, when she was perfectly suspended between sleep and wakefulness, if she concentrated hard, she could dream about anything she wanted; if she just thought it hard enough and at the same time managed to just tip herself back over the edge of sleep, she would dream about it. Sarah had always been a little awed by this discovery that her conscious mind could, with a little luck, so directly influence her unconscious mind. It occurred to her that she should try this trick now. The time was just right; she was in the perfect state of mind; if she just concentrated on something pleasant, she could let go oh so gently and just drift into the perfect dream…
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't push herself over that edge. Something was bothering her, filling up her unconscious mind with a small tickling feeling of not-rightness. Sarah gripped the pillow in defiance, closing her eyes tighter and tried harder to clear her mind.
That was when she noticed the unusually silky-cool smoothness of the sheets against her skin and felt the weight of heavy coverlets above her. Her sheets were cheap cotton, not this satiny stuff, and her blankets were all packed away under her bed for the summer. Sarah frowned; though, being soft and warm and still half asleep, she was not overly concerned. She cracked open an eye.
The first thing she saw was a wall, covered by a heavy-looking tapestry, like one she had seen pictures of in one of her books on medieval history, except the embroidery on this tapestry did not look old or crumbly. It was densely packed with tiny stitches, the colors rich and the strange, intricate patterns twisting in an uneven, flickering light.
Then it was as if someone had flicked a switch and turned her ears back on- she became aware of the crackling, popping sound—a fire? Just over the edge of the bed, she could make out a patch of bare stone floor, polished so smooth it reflected flickering flames. Her frown deepened. She sat up.
All at once, she was suddenly aware of the enormous size of the room, the chill of a draft as she surfaced from under the blankets, a glimpse of the fire flicking in a huge, impossibly white stone fireplace—and then the sudden, undeniable sensation of someone sitting next to her. Sharply she turned her head—and screamed.
A pair of eyes, black, blue, and glittering, blinked quickly in surprise, then narrowed, as if irritated that they had condescended to react.
She stifled her cry quickly with a hand. It echoed briefly before dying out. Moments passed with the crackling fire the only sound to break the silence. The man's expression was unreadable. Her eyes flicked back and forth over him, searching for some flaw or inconsistency that would prove that this could not be real.
But she could find none. The Goblin King sat before her.
He was different than he had been years ago. Less ostentatious. No bizarre eye makeup, no glitter, and his hair was no longer so spikey and uneven. It hung around his face, long and blond but otherwise ordinary. His shirt was white and billowing but simply cut. His eyebrows, though, still veered upwards strangely, and his eyes were mismatched, just as she remembered. There was a less overt, but no less evident, air of the unnatural about him. Somehow, the subdued look combined with this aura of strange otherness made him seem even more alien.
Finally, his lips twisted up into a faint smirk.
"Not the reaction I usually get," he said dryly, "in these circumstances."
Something in his tone steadied her skipping heart and gave her back her voice. "And just what kind of circumstances are these?" Flashes of her last meeting with him were coming back to her. Her own words echoed in her mind: you have no power over me. She held onto those words, that feeling of triumph, let it ground her, block out her unease.
His smirk deepened as he sidestepped the question. "What a pleasure to see you again, dear Sarah," he said loftily, "After all these years. You're looking well."
"What am I doing here Goblin King?"
He lifted an eyebrow archly. "Perhaps you can answer that question for yourself, Sarah." His tone was light and teasing.
"Really? I don't think I can." As long as she was angry she didn't have to think. "I've made no wish…the word "wish" hasn't been part of my vocabulary since I beat you." She put a little more emphasis into the last few words than was strictly necessary. "Why am I here?"
His eyebrow went back down at that; his brow furled in irritation at her reminder of their last meeting.
"Perhaps I wanted to see you again," he said, striving to keep his tone light. "Catch up. Ask after the young Tobias."
"Seven years later? After you tried to steal him again?" He said nothing. "And you thought to best way to have a conversation with me was to whisk me away while I was asleep—what if I didn't want to talk to you? I don't; especially not in your damn bedroom!" She was surprised when she saw him flinch slightly at her words. His jaw had tightened. Was that a flush of color in his cheeks?
Another thought crossed her mind, and looking down at the thin t-shirt she wore as a nightdress, she hurriedly shielded herself with her arms. "God, and I'm barely dressed…I don't know what to say about any of this!"
"You seem to be finding words easily enough," he said. There was a slight hiss to his voice, an undercurrent of anger that froze her reply on her tongue. She swallowed and began again.
"What do you want with me, Goblin King?" She tried to keep her tone somewhat respectful.
He smiled then, and there was something in that smile, a flicker of something hopeful and expectant, that startled and then chilled her more than his anger had done.
"Call me Jareth," he said, his tone a little to earnest to be casual.
It was such a simple statement. Three words that could have been merely an olive branch, a courtesy…but his voice sounded so strained. There was too much warmth in it, and the request was so weirdly intimate.
More scenes from their final meeting were coming back to her now. Fear me, he had said to her—no, he had begged her. Fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave… Words, she had thought, to distract her and tempt her, nothing more. But now, Sarah felt as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Her stomach clenched.
"I…well…" She stammered, no longer sure what to say. The atmosphere in the room had changed somehow, become more dangerous in a way she couldn't articulate. The Goblin King's eyes burned into hers as she struggled to reply. His expression was growing dark.
"How did you get me here?" she finally asked, her voice soft and non-confrontational. She deliberately avoided calling him by any name. "I thought there were rules…I mean…" She trailed off.
He continued to look at her silently for a few moments before replying.
"You're not really here," he said. "Not entirely. This is all a dream…the closest a dream could possibly get to being real. It's the best I could do." He paused. "It took me a long time to work it out."
She had no response for that. She could only sit with the twisting in her stomach getting worse and worse as he continued to stare at her, brooding.
"Come now Sarah," he said finally, and leaned in close. He was inches from her face now, close enough for her to see the tension in the muscles of his face and throat, to feel his breath. His smirk had an edge of desperation to it. "Is it really so terrible to see me again?"
She did not reply. High, soft mounds of pillow behind her prevented her from leaning away, so she just sat there, uneasy at his closeness and thoroughly confused.
Suddenly he lunged even closer, bent his face over hers, and kissed her.