He couldn't make heads or tails of his surroundings. The images of his room came through him as if in a dream. He felt like a formless being, trying to comprehend a world of solidity. He could touch it, he could feel the bed underneath him, the clothes on his skin, but he couldn't understand what he was doing there.

He never thought she would really forget him. He always thought that the book had been there for a reason, that there was some higher purpose for this chaotic story. Perhaps there never was. Perhaps it was the work of some mischievous, omnipotent being that just liked to watch him suffer for amusement.

He could have been so much more. He could have been a good king, a wonderful husband with a large family, or just a common farmer. He could have been kinder, he could have been less ambitious. He wanted to. He wanted to learn how to live like the man he really was on the inside. He wanted to be the kind of man that Sarah had always deserved.

The door to the room flew open and Sarah came shuffling in. She fell to the floor before him, her lost eyes pleading. She was in a worse condition than ever before, all loose ends and misplaced hairs. As she locked her eyes onto him, he felt it all rushing back, the sensation of life, hot and sickly. It filled him like smoke filling his chest, and he clutched at his heart in agony at its suddenness. A gasp fell from his mouth, and he tried to catch his breath to no avail.

She crawled to him, clinging to his pant leg, her eyes begging. "No more," she whispered painfully. "No more."

His voice came out painfully. "Sarah, you have to stop this."

She shook her head, her dark eyes watering. "I can't stop it. It's done. It's done."

"Yes you can!" His voice was raspy, passionate. He grabbed her hands, and they were burning hot. They sent a tingle up his spine. "You have to be the one to stop it."

"No!" She pushed away from him forcefully. "This is all mine, it's mine! I made it, I made it perfect."

"This? This is your idea of perfection?" He stood up, his eyes wild. "This is a world of misery! I have lived four hundred years, Sarah, and never in my life have I felt so dejected! This game is over!"

"It's never over!" She screamed so loudly her face went blood red. "It's not over until I am ready for it to be over! You deserve everything that I have done to you! EVERYTHING!"

He knew she was right. He deserved it all, and much more. However, her need for vengeance was chilling. Though it was only the dark side of herself that carried it out, it was obviously something she had craved. He felt like he had been given the gift of reading minds, only to discover that everyone hated him.

But he had to stop the madness. He had to find a way to make everything right again.

She began sobbing, her face stretched with tears. She came to him, showering him with kisses, tugging sadly at his jacket. "Let's forget it all." She pressed against him urgently, unattractive in her neediness. "Just have your way with me."

He pushed her away, dually drunken by her smell and disgusted by her demands. "This isn't what you want, Sarah. You're sick. You would hate yourself more than you already do."

His words slapped her, so she slapped him back, leaving a red sting on his cheek. "How dare you. You have no idea how I feel."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed her firmly against the wall. "I know more than you'll ever know. No man is more familiar with self-hatred than I am. Don't fool yourself."

"You don't know me," she snarled. "You never cared about what I really wanted. You did it all in your own time, on your own schedule. I've never really been anything to you. I'm just an idea of a person."

"That's not true," he breathed, fuming more with the hot anger she radiated with each moment. "I know you better than anyone. I've always watched you. I watched you before your meager thirteen hours in the labyrinth. For the last four years I watched you from a distance. Everything I've done, I've only done it for you. I was born for you. I am dying for you right now. I've done many things poorly, but if you have the nerve to deny my love with such rash abandon, then I wonder if you were ever worth all the love I've poured over you."

"You've always been a liar. I know what you really want. You're like all the rest, you have sweet words ready for your moment, the moment you take advantage, take what you want." She ripped her shirt low, exposing her undergarments. "But you don't have to take it, I'm giving it to you. Just take it. Use me."

Between her breasts hung the large amethyst stone, pulsing a furious purple black with the rising of her emotions. If only Jareth could make her give it up... it was what was doing this to him, to her. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to control himself against its darker impulses, against making him into someone he did not want to be. She was so close, her smell so infuriatingly intoxicating, and he had been so long without a woman. But maybe, maybe he could make it stop.

"Fine, is that what you really want?" He pressed her roughly against the wall, grabbing her thigh tightly, biting her neck impatiently.

"Yes, that's what I want," she whispered, her eyes rolling back in satisfaction.

He ripped the shirt open more, grabbing her breast firmly, losing control of himself. No. This is not what I meant. I had a reason.

But for a moment he was lost in it. Their lips met angrily, animalistic and wet, tongues lashing in long pent up passions. He pulled her hair back, demanding in his affections. His lips met the chain of the necklace. He reached up as her hands groped at his body drunkenly.

After he ripped the necklace from her, he shoved her away, disgusted with himself. With all the anger left in him, the little bit of power he had remaining in his body, he thrust the stone against the wall, where it shattered and dissipated.

He turned back to her, disheveled, sorrowful. He had never regretted doing anything so fully. It was only a moment, but he knew he had violated her. There was a time when he might have been more prone to such behavior, when Kaleb inhabited his body. Something told him that Kaleb probably already had given her such a treatment, but with the proper resolution. But this time he had fought it with everything in him. This was not the way he wanted it to go.

When did anything go as it should? At least he had taken the necklace from her. Maybe there was some hope.

She sat against the wall, crooked at an angle, her head hanging down, her hair limp in her face. She seemed defeated in her overwhelming silence and stillness.

But that didn't last for long. A light moan escaped her lips, almost a cry... until it turned into a laugh. She laughed so hard that she slid to the floor, holding her sides in painful mirth.

It sent chills down Jareth's spine. He watched her in horror until she finally spoke.

"As if..." she choked, "I would keep a real piece of the amethyst with me. Even if I did, it wouldn't affect me to have such a small piece destroyed." Her face lost its villainous smile and sank into darkness. Her eyes hazed over, her gaze went through the walls. "You can't separate what's inside of you." She looked up at him with sobering purpose and raised her hand. Between her fingers there was a slip of paper, torn at the edge. "And you can't get anything by me."

His eyes widened. He patted down his jacket, looking to the inner pocket for the paper with the spell. It was gone.

He looked back up at her, surprised that she didn't seem more satisfied. She opened the paper and read it casually, not even looking up at him as she spoke. "I can't believe you would try to spoil all my fun."

The paper disappeared between her fingers, into nothingness. Her eyes fell away, into the darkness of herself, into her grief. Tears fell gently from her eyes, until her body finally shook with sobs. She dropped her head into her hands dejectedly, curling up to her knees. "What have I done?"

His heart was racing, the rollercoaster of emotions making him weaker in his already weakened state. The sound of her tears carried with it the heavy weight of all of life's sorrow, so achingly real that he thought it might shatter his eardrums. She cried got all the years of misspent youth, for all the little girls who lost a pet, for all the mothers who lost their children, for all the tragedy that ever was and ever would be. They were hers and hers alone and yet so terribly everyone else's—she was a goddess crying the great rivers of life that separated this and that, tomorrow and yesterday, the waters of now. The pain in her voice testified to the validating pain of life, but there was no testimony to the joy of life within them.

He fell to his knees at her side and wrapped his arms gently around her, brushing her hair with his fingers in languid strokes. "Shh. All will be well." His voice was empty of everything, except for the overwhelming love he felt for her, the strong desire to see her well. He coaxed her with all the gentleness left in him, and she fell into his lap.

"There's too much pain," she mumbled between sobs.

"There's joy too, that I don't think you can feel," he whispered.

Her hair spread in dark rivers over his lap, but fell to her face as she lifted up her head. "No. There never was any joy. No one is really allowed any joy."

He put his hands to each side of her cheek and stared into her eyes with delicate fire. "Even if it were all pain... I would endure it for an eternity of having you in my arms like this."

Her eyes were bloodshot, almost all pupil, the flesh around them pale and sickly. Her cheeks were flush, her hair wet and stringy in her face. The beautiful seductress that had posed before cameras and crowds for days now was gone, left only with a shell of a spent woman. She stared at him with weak purpose, looking on the verge of a testimony, a resolution, a conclusion to the story.

"Because it is all pain..." She rose from him, wiping the tears and snot from her face undaintily. "You cannot have me."

Something had happened to her, sobering her, bringing her back to her former senses. The emotions spent, the logic came blazing forth clear and true, a dedication to a previous task. She made a motion with two fingers, and the glamour was cast—she was beautiful, prim, neat, self-assured. Jareth knew the truth—there was a bloodshot, tearstained woman underneath. He had lost all power he had to do anything about it.

He had lost again.

##

Jareth sat for some hours, going over the encounter in his mind. He wondered futilely, as he had many a time before, what time of day it was. From what he could tell of news reports, it didn't much matter. It seemed to be perpetual night just about everywhere.

He idly turned on the television, hoping some twisted remake of an Aboveground movie would inspire him on a means of escape. It was during a commercial break that a familiar face appeared on his high definition plasma television screen.

"Jeremiah," he spat.

The old man looked at the events on the screen behind him, as if inspecting who it might be that Jareth would dare speak so emphatically against. A creature car salesman gesticulated wildly at his back, demanding that the viewer could, "Save, save, save big on new car deals."

"How do you like the accommodations?" the old man said almost seriously.

"I knew better than to trust you. You have been the source of every mess in my life."

"You always were a moron," Jeremiah conceded. "Involved in affairs too large for your small mortal mind to comprehend. I certainly would have been much happier had fortune gifted me with a more intelligent brother."

Jareth's brow furrowed. "Please don't tell me you waited five hundred years to tell me we are related."

"Maybe it was worth the look on your face."

Jareth gave him a disinterested half-frown. "For one, my mother had no other children, much to her dismay. For two, I have to wonder who is the moron for waiting until now to gloat? I am way too old at this point to be taken in by your nonsense." He proceeded to fix a stray hair in the mirror next to the television.

"Why not, you've been taken in for two weeks. And we're not really brothers, but half-brothers. Didn't you ever wonder who your father was? It was not exactly common practice for human women Underground to choose the single mother lifestyle. No Saturday soccer and trips to the skating rink."

Jareth proceeded to turn off the television. It merely flicked itself back on. Jeremiah was now flanked by a number of scantily-clad women playing volleyball somewhere sunny. Jareth was surprised that there was sunshine anywhere, let alone humans left.

"It's a taped tournament," Jeremiah explained.

Jareth nodded. "Ah."

The scene changed to a forest, where a woman dressed in commoner clothing was hanging linens out on a line.

Jareth raised his brow as if to say, "So what?"

Jeremiah seemed disappointed in the lack of satisfactory reaction, so he surprised Jareth by reaching a hand out of the screen and pulling the man onto the other side.

As thankful as Jareth was to be out of the stuffy room, he didn't much relish being forcibly put in Jeremiah's company. He was quickly distracted by his irritation when he realized the woman hanging linens on the rope was his mother. It may have been nearly five hundred years since he had seen her, but he still bore the same affection for her he had those many years ago.

He walked closer to observe, but understanding the nature of such magics, did not endeavor to interact with her. She was much younger than he had ever known her to be. He peered into the windows of the ramshackle hut and saw her two parents within, the mother knitting and the father fixing a cupboard to the wall. They seemed sour, unpleasant people, hardened by a rough life.

He observed her in the early morning light, the sun lying softly on her smooth skin. There was the touch of something wild in her, something unattained. She seemed poised for anything, and yet so limited by her surroundings, by the nature of life itself. It was a much more vibrant version of the spirit he had seen living underneath all the layers of protection and sensibility she had developed as his mother. He wondered what might have happened to her to make her the dour, sensible woman he had known as a boy. She had always held her past and her inner secrets close. It had not made him love her any less passionately. He still felt a fool for those years ago he had convinced himself a good idea to leave her behind to seek his fortune as a sorcerer. He had not seen her since that day and had always suspected a bad end. The truth was, he did not know what had happened to her, partially because he had become so selfish around the time of her disappearance and had barely thought to seek her out. And the moments he had felt curious, he had also been eaten away by such a guilt as to be pushed away from a search.

He knew Jeremiah knew this fact, and was looking for a reaction from this semi-reunion. "Come, now, aren't you moved by the sight of your mother?"

Jareth just gave him a half-scornful look in reply as he came closer to the woman to examine her. She did not show any sign of noticing his presence or attentions.

"So, what's your point?" Jareth said, looking up from his reverie. "I'm very busy these days with imprisonment, I don't have time for your distractions."

"You'll see."

Before Jareth had an opportunity to be irked by his mysterious reply, Jareth's mother turned her head toward a sound deep in the forest. She laid down the muslin sheet she was about to hang up and picked up the edge of her skirt, stepping timidly into a streak of sun. Her blonde hair lit up angelically.

Jareth found himself sharply taking in the air at the sight of her innocent beauty, and also fearing for her. Though she stepped forward with some reserve, her face was glowing with curiosity and youthful invincibility. He found himself thinking, "Be wise, stay back. You are too young to go into the wild to investigate alone." He didn't have the mood about him to laugh at the irony of him worrying for the young abandon of his own mother.

He knew it was a moment in the past, and that it did her no good for him to follow, but he did so anyway. The sound revealed itself to be the sad, hollow music of a lightly-blown set of pan pipes. The music sent a shiver down his spine, as he knew from much experience that the sound of faery music rarely ever led to a good end. Yet he checked himself, remembering that he was alive, a testament to the fact that his mother did indeed survive whatever it was that awaited her at the end of her investigation. He could hear the steady steps of Jeremiah as he followed him from afar.

Finally they turned a corner and revealed a small, overgrown clearing where the roots of a large tree protruded from the ground. A tall, spindly faery man sat on the edge of the largest exposed root, his bark-colored skin making him almost blend in with the tree. His long, pointed ears extended over his head, and his thin figure was adorned only in leaves.

Jareth watched his mother closely, who seemed utterly entranced by the fae music. She stood transfixed for some minutes as the tall man finished his song and looked up at her. Then, he took Jareth by complete surprise by looking at him as well. He smiled slightly and nodded. Jareth's mother seemed to take this gesture as meant for her.

"Faery man, your music breaks my heart," she said as she approached him slowly.

"It is the only music I can play, maiden." He rose, towering over her, lithe. "Only the young can hear it, and those with a beautiful heart worth breaking."

"Your words trouble me, yet I must still know your name," the woman pressed.

"Lanconer, lady," he said, bowing slightly. The name sent a panic shot through Jareth. The Lanconer was a male faery siren that lured women off to the faery wilds, never to return. He knew from faery stories that these women rarely survived, as their sanity slowly dissolved in the non-mortal surroundings.

"I have heard tales of you, Lanconer," she said, not for a moment hinting at any fear. "I find it hard to convince myself that one who could play such a lovely song could do the things my people say."

He reached for her hand, and she surely gave it. "I only give the wild hearts the gifts they most desire. But, my dear, I must declare that it is all true. You are taken in by the song I am destined to play, as all the others."

"But I must beg to differ," the young woman answered. "I have merely been waiting for you to play this song. I have dreamt of you before. I am not here because of the song, but because I must see you with my own eyes."

He looked at her closely, glassy brown eyes like that of a doe, reaching into her to discern her intentions. Finally, he spoke in quiet tones, like that of leaves rustling. "Well, that is different, isn't it?"

He put his other hand about her waist and leaned in low to kiss her, wooden lips softening at the touch of her own young, pink mouth. Age had made Jareth lose his shyness, and he continued to watch in amazement at what he was certain was his own conception.

The time seemed to pass doubly quick as the ritual of love continued. Her parents had come to seek her out and passed through the clearing a few times, but did not see her. Only animals seemed to understand that there was something special about the area, and while none watched, they always seemed careful to step around the union. He watched his mother become more spent as the time went on, almost completely lost from herself. He knew it was the faery magic at work, that would take hold of her and make her unable to return to her life. Yet he could do nothing to get her attention.

Finally he noticed a shadow moving behind the large tree. Eyes emerged from the darkness, then a small figure of a demon boy whose skin showed the unhappy union of wood and lava rock. Jareth suddenly realized this boy had been watching all the time, but Jareth had not recognized him as he had formerly been so well concealed among the brush.

His mother cried out in pleasure, and the young demon boy's eyes sparkled with jealousy. He leapt from the tree branch he had been standing upon, and landed amidst the two lovers, as if trying to prevent something.

Jareth understood immediately. It was the young Jeremiah, and he had sensed the moment of conception and had become jealous of the idea of having a brother by this human woman.

"Foolish boy," the Lanconer said quietly without visible signs of anger, stepping away from Jareth's mother.

The woman suddenly seemed to come to her senses. "The song was too strong for me. I thought I could resist." She gathered up her dress and pulled it to her chest in sudden humility.

The Lanconer merely nodded somberly, seemingly saddened by the circumstance. "You were no different, in the end, my lady. And now I am afraid great sorrow will befall you."

She did not seem to know how to respond. She stood a few more moments, uncertain.

"Thank you for a lovely week, maiden. Go to your family." The man nodded and stepped back, merging into the trunk of the tree he had been sitting on at the beginning of the encounter. Even Jareth was amazed to learn that the fast-moving time had in fact been a week passing. But such was the way of faery magic, and it always turned the physical world on its head.

Jareth watched as his mother put on her dress, her eyes suddenly dulled with an immense heartache, the sure signs that the faery magic had taken a deep hold. She sat in the clearing for several minutes, surveying the scene in awe. She felt the twigs and leaves in her hair, days of dirt caked on her cheek, the cold that had seeped into her bones. Finally she gathered the energy to rise and walk back toward her home.

As she approached over the hill, she saw the firelight from the window of her family's home, filling her with a great longing for its warmth. She knew that there would be anger for her disappearance, but hoped and felt that it would be outweighed by relief. She let out a deep breath when she saw her father throw open the door to the house, having watched through the open window for several days in hopes of her return. He ran toward her in excitement, suddenly slowing as he came in a close enough proximity to get a better look at her.

"You—you're different."

"Oh Father, I am so glad to be home—"

He began to step away, just as her mother was leaving the house to see what was going on. She ran towards her husband and looked at her daughter, confused at his unwillingness to embrace her. Then she looked at the girl, and her face fell, too.

"You've been taken by him," she muttered, tears beginning to well.

"I'm fine, Mother," she answered, though she didn't feel it to be true.

"You are dead to us, now," Her father seemed destroyed by his own words, speaking out of tradition more than sincere feeling. "You must never return here."

"But, Father, please—"

"Go!" He waved her away sternly, escorting his sobbing wife back to the house.

The girl stood outside of the house, feeling more lost than she had after the departure of the Lanconer. Yet she knew the resolve of her parents and their firm attachment to tradition, and knew that they had closed her off as surely as it seemed. She walked away from the scene, an empty shell. When she reached the nearby brook from which she had hauled water many a time, she examined her face with the help of the moonlight, and finally knew why it was that they could tell she was different.

On her breast there was a light brown mark, like a warped and twisted triangle with an orb in the center. The mark of the Lanconer. The symbol on the necklace that Jareth had worn all those years, that his mother had given to him before he left on his journey to seek out the crystals.

As she looked into the stream, it seemed she could see the future reflected in its waters: the burning of her parents' home, the scorn of every human she was destined to meet, and the birth of her son as she laid alone in a clearing of the forest, with nothing but a rusty knife to cut the umbilical cord. She was too numb to cry, too destroyed to make sense of the sudden carnage of her life. She merely curled up near the water quietly, doing her best to fall asleep despite the pressing nightmares that would await her.

Jareth had watched all that had passed from the shadows, more affected by the tale than he might have initially imagined he could be. He wanted to comfort the young woman and tell her that all would be well. Yet he knew the nature of the prison sentence that her life was to become, and no pity or comforting words could abate that kind of darkness. And it was almost an insult to offer them. To think that all of this had been his mother's tale, and he only now knew it.

Jeremiah stepped from the shadows smugly, satisfied by his half-brother's blossoming depression.

Jareth looked at him with a solid hatred that needed no words. As he turned his head, the scene changed and Jeremiah disappeared.

Suddenly he was standing in the middle of the main room of the house that he and Granen had shared for three years. He couldn't guess what Jeremiah's game could be this time.

"Cozy," Jeremiah evaluated from the rocking chair in the corner of the room. "Still, I think your real estate agent could have done much better."

When Jareth turned to look at him, he was gone, leaving the rocking chair to sway lightly in his wake. Jareth ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, wondering what to do next. Then he realized that his hair was much longer, and in a ponytail. He stepped toward the small mirror across the room and was greeted by a slightly younger version of himself. It was as if he had traveled back in time. He looked out the back window and saw Granen in the greenhouse, picking beans from one of their plants.

A knock on the door broke Jareth from his spying. He could only guess what annoyance awaited on the other side, yet he was the pawn in this game and could see no other choice but to open it.

He became very still after opening the door and finding Sarah on the other side.

"Jareth," she said quietly. "I've been looking for you."

He was torn. He didn't know if he should be pleased or terrified. After the experience with his mother, he feared that a similar ending would befall Sarah after this interaction. The difference was that Sarah could see him, and Jareth would definitely have remembered seeing Sarah in his home had she ever visited.

He looked at her closely. She seemed different. There was something missing. She walked lighter, her eyes twinkled more. At least, more than he could ever have recalled.

"Sarah." She took a cue from his awkwardness and broke the barrier with an embrace. He wrapped his arms around her in quiet amazement.

"You never had to leave. I would have been there for you, you know."

He was unsure of what role to play. It was the usual case of being thrust into Sarah's presence under surreal circumstances.

"I can't believe I've really found you," she said, surmising him with sincere excitement. "When you left those years ago and never returned, I was afraid something might have happened to you. Even though Sage swore you'd be fine."

He looked behind her nervously.

"Are you okay? Is something the matter?"

"I'm fine, it really is wonderful to see you," he said distractedly, "it is just that I think we are being watched."

She smiled strangely. "Oh. I see."

He furrowed his brow, but before he could really process her reaction, she kissed him passionately, wrapping her slender arms around his waist. Despite his fears, he returned the kiss, forgetting for a moment that everything was much more awry than affairs would seem.

She pulled back lightly. "We are going to be very happy together, you'll see."

Jareth started to respond, "I—"

She put her finger to his lips. "You do deserve happiness." She turned around and walked back toward the door. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Why don't you pick some flowers for me while I talk to the coachman?"

Her mischievous grin warmed his heart, and he felt himself enjoying this strange fantasy despite himself.

She closed the door behind her, and he walked to the window to watch her walk down the path. When he pulled aside the curtain, she was gone. No coach, no horses, no Sarah.

He could feel Jeremiah's presence at his side, looking with him out onto the empty expanse of the front lawn.

"How simple it would have been," he clucked. "But, you see, you are right to not remember this day, because this day never happened. A little misunderstanding with the coachman. Oh, look! There's Sarah's coach in the distance. I don't even think she saw your little house. Too bad."

As described, he could see a tiny horse-drawn coach on the distant road, passing the road that led to his home. And he did remember seeing the coach once before, on a day much like this one, while he was looking hopefully in the distance, daydreaming of his return to Sarah's arms. He had mistaken it for the grocer's carriage, as it was too far away to make out the markings on the carriage that would indicate the property of the queen.

Jeremiah pulled a spell out of his coat pocket. "Hmm. What a handy spell. ‘Tear apart that which should have never been joined, or put together that which should never have been asunder.' I think the first point has been fully achieved, hasn't it?" He waved the paper around tauntingly. "I can't believe you actually thought you could keep this from me. I'll just leave you awhile to think about your foolishness." With that, Jeremiah disappeared.

Jareth looked out the window, and the carriage was gone. He thought of how eager he had felt to pick flowers for his love. It didn't really matter to him that things could have been different anymore. Things were what they were. And something about what Sarah would have said to him brought him comfort. "We are going to be very happy together, you'll see." Not to mention the fact that he had deliberately altered the spell, knowing Jeremiah would steal it down the road.

He opened the door to breathe in the fresh air of his old homestead. It had been a good, warm place, with good soil and happy wilds. It had mostly quieted his heart—only his separation from Sarah caused him sadness. And he had indeed been growing a garden for that day he would see her again, to bring her blossoms someday from his very own garden, flowers that reminded him of her smooth skin, her sparkling eyes, her courage and strength. So there he went, and he decided he would pass the time by picking those flowers for her as she had requested.

Underneath the lilac is where he found it. He hadn't been sure where it would manifest, or what it would look like. It was his symbol of personal power. He didn't have the power himself to cast such a spell, but he had known Jeremiah did, so he memorized the spell that would help him separate from Kaleb successfully, while planting a false one on his own person that would gain the ends he required.

He brushed some dirt aside and lifted the talisman up. The symbol of the Lanconer. The talisman his mother had given to him as a boy. All this time he had sought power elsewhere, and this sentimental item had been the source of his true power.

He put it around his neck and hid it under his shirt and walked back into the house. Granen had moved to the kitchen where he was cooking the freshly picked food from the garden. The smell of spices filled the house. Jareth relished in it a moment and sat in his once favorite rocking chair to gather his thoughts.

Jeremiah thought he had stripped something from Jareth in revealing his path, but he had actually given him something—a full picture of his past and how he came to be who he was. He could see that his mother had also engaged in a destructive, youthful whim, and while it did not excuse his own behavior, it did remind him that he was entitled to his mistakes. For once he could forgive himself. For once in hundreds of years, he could truly see that he was only human. Well, for the most part.

He tried to move something across the room, but it only stirred slightly. While he felt the air vibrating around him once again, he still felt cut off from the power. He was out of practice. Still, the fact that he could feel the magic again was cause for hope, and he knew in time his skill would return.

He walked to the mirror across the room, almost sad to depart so soon. He missed the comforts of the old house, and the friendship of Granen.

"Hmm, I wonder if I can remember how?" he mumbled quietly to himself, trying to conjure a vision of someplace Aboveground. So many places he had been in that world had changed after the transformation, and the only place he seemed able to peer into was his old cell, probably due to its relative familiarity and to-date unchanging nature. As much as he hated going back, it was probably best for him to pretend to be a captive a bit longer, so he could play his new cards at the right time and place.

He picked up the mirror and held it over his head, dropping it so that it swallowed him whole before shattering on the ground. He didn't see Granen jump in the other room at the sound, or hear him curse as he dropped a pan in the process, but he could imagine the scene well enough.

He wished he could see the look on Jeremiah's face when he realized Jareth wasn't where he thought he had left him.

##

They had managed to go undetected, despite Fred's frequent belching and wandering off. Scotty was about at the end of his rope trying to keep track of the bumbling fool, who was still freshly drunk thanks to the rat's hospitality.

Scotty grabbed Fred by the collar one more time and dragged him around a corner to get out of the view of a passing minion. "I swears, you keep this up n'I'll be droppin' ya in tha nearest loo."

Fred swayed a bit, grinning broadly. "Loooooo… What a funny word that be."

Scotty just rolled his eyes and started pulling him down the corridor toward the shiny doors of the elevator. "Here's an odd door. Wonder where that leads?"

"Down down down," Fred answered. "I seen one'a'dese afore. It's got a box inside."

Scotty looked at him askance. It was rare Fred was forthcoming with any real wisdom, but the fool seemed to know what he was talking about.

"How d'ya open the box?" he asked.

Fred gestured upward. "Magic button."

"Well, how'n blazes we gonna get up there?" He scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked around for something to help.

"I'll think'a somethin'," Fred answered.

"You never thought'a nothin' yer whole sorry life. I'll think'a somethin'."

Suddenly Fred began gesticulating wildly. "Oh! Oh, I got it."

He took a deep breath, while Scotty watched him bemusedly. Then another intake, and another, until the gnome was almost bursting. Finally, he licked his lips and let out the most atrocious belch to ever cross the delicate bridge of the ear canal. Scotty flinched, somewhat repulsed, despite the fact that he had become used to the gnome's behavior.

However, his disgust transformed into amusement as a bubble emerged from the gnome's mouth, growing in size until it was large enough for him to step into. Looking satisfied, the drunk gnome floated lazily up to the button and carefully pushed his arm through the bubble and pressed. Within moments the elevator arrived and the doors opened.

"I dun't believe it!" Scotty exclaimed. "You dun something useful." He stepped over the threshold and waited for Fred to float inside.

"Which one will I press?" Fred asked as he looked at the mass of numbers on the keypad.

"Hmm." Scotty analyzed the keypad, noting the missing one and thirteen. "That's odd." He scratched his chin a bit, surveying the little room. He noticed a panel on the ceiling. It was small, but not too small for them.

"C'mon down'ere and get me, Fred." The gnome did as bid, and Scotty managed to crawl in without popping the bubble. "What's this stuff made of, anyway?"

"Whiskey, strong stuff, aye?"

The circular shape made it hard for them to keep from bumping into one another. Scotty sighed in exasperation as he finally gave in and smooshed into the other gnome. His face contorted as he got a whiff of his breath. "Heavens, you be eatin' bad cheese, or what? Let's hurry and float on up there b'fore you kill me with yer foul odors." Fred responded with a dainty passing of gas, then giggled. Scotty's eyes bugged out as he waved about frantically, shouting, "Gah! If you do that agin I'm liable to murder you in cold blood, right now! Just get goin'!"

He motioned toward the panel, and after stifling his mirth, Fred did as bid. It took a couple of tries before they got the panel open, bumping into it until it flipped upward and out. They bounced out the other side just as the elevator began to make the journey down.

"Shoulda stuck with Mr. Rat," Fred said. "He had such good cakes."

Scotty was turning green and gasping for air. "Mr. Rat only had access to a couple'a floors, Fred. We have ta find something useful for Jareth ta get free."

"Where we goin' anyway?"

"We're gonna see if we can find the missin' floor thirteen."

They floated up and up, past the shiny elevator doors for each floor, beside which the number of the floor was spraypainted in a gothic font.

They reached twelve, and then… Then fourteen. The only thing between the two was a little nest sitting in the corner of the shaft. A little blonde-haired pixy was sitting in the nest, filing her nails.

"Excuse me, Lady, but where is the thirteenth floor?" Scotty said, tipping his hat.

An airy giggle escaped her lips. "You're silly. You know I can't tell you that."

Scotty frowned and put his hat back on. "C'mon, you trinket, this is serious business we be on."

She went back to filing her nails. "I know." She blew the filings off. "It's serious to you, at least."

Fred seemed transfixed and swayed a bit at the sight of her.

She looked at him and smiled. "Your friend is cute."

"He's drunk, you mean," Scotty answered with a frown.

She hopped up from the nest and fluttered toward them, dropping her nail file carelessly. "Alright, I'll help you. I'm in for a bit of trouble."

"Pretty," Fred belted. The girl chuckled and flitted around them, then across the shaft toward where the door should have been. She looked at the wall from different angles before deciding on something. She motioned for them to follow her, then she flew into the wall at a slight angle and disappeared.

Scotty and Fred followed behind, but popped their bubble when they went in too briskly at the wrong angle. The girl whipped out just in time to catch them, one to each hand. She flew back into the wall and dropped them onto a polished floor, behind a plant.

"That was close. Thank you for saving us," Scotty said, his face going back to normal coloration now that he was free from Fred's gases.

The pixie bent toward Fred and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He turned bright red.

"What were you doing in there, anyhow?" Scotty asked the pixie, trying not to be offended that she hadn't kissed him, too.

She shrugged. "I'm supposed to be working with the other surveillance pixies, but it was so boring. I got away and hid in the elevator shaft. I was thinking of going to find something to do when you guys showed up." She pinched Fred's cheek. "Thanks for rescuing me from my boredom."

"Sure," Fred answered, then belched. The girl giggled, then belched too.

Scotty just rolled his eyes. "Great, another'n," he mumbled under his breath.

"What's yer name?" Fred asked.

"People call me Liona."

Scotty pushed past them and peeked out from behind the plant. At the center of the room was a large purple amethyst. "So, this is where she keeps the power stone. What's the deal with the first floor? Why is that one not marked?"

The pixie climbed onto the rim of the planter and swung her legs to and fro. Fred climbed up clumsily to sit beside her. "That's a new thing. It used to be easy to get to, but it's starting to reflect things down there she doesn't want anyone to see."

"Like what?"

"C'mon, I'll show you."

"Wait, wait. Our friend is trapped, we need ta find a way to get'im out, first."

She grabbed each of their collars before he could protest further. "Nah, don't worry about him."

"And why shouldn't we?"

"He's the Goblin King, he'll figure a way out."

"How did you know who he was?"

She smiled broadly, dragging them to a little mail tube on the sides of the room. "Lemme tell you, he's quite a kisser!" Then she shoved each of them in, where a "whoosh" of air sucked them in, sending their screaming forms wriggling down a mess of tubes that led to the first floor.

They landed in a huge catacomb with high ceilings. In the center was a giant lake, in which was reflected the castle in Sunset City. The castle seemed to have a throbbing purple heart that could be seen through the walls of the structure, about where the thirteenth floor would be.

A dryad was sitting in a nook, combing her hair, her ample breasts almost floating in the water. She looked up at the trio, unphased by their sudden appearance.

"Hi, Liona."

"Hello Frieda. I was just showing my new friends the lake."

Scotty tipped his hat to the lady, then looked away shyly, trying hard not to look at her breasts. Fred, on the other hand, was drooling like a buffoon. Scotty whacked the back of his head, hard.

"Whaddya do that for?" Fred belted.

Liona pinched Scotty's ear. "Really. It's only natural."

"I always said ya fairies had no family values."

Liona rolled her eyes and nodded to Frieda, who waved her arm across her breasts and was newly shod in a light, golden chain mail top that clung to her form.

Scotty rubbed his ear tenderly and said, "So, this lake dun appeared outta nowhere, and it's showin' the castle on the other side, what's the big deal?"

"Correction," Frieda nodded. "This lake has always been here. It's frightful dull. I come in and check on things from time to time. I'll be glad when this is all over, I can go to a different post."

"Who put it here? Why en't no one seen it before?"

"People see what they want to see," Frieda said, yawning. "New Yorkers especially." She swam closer to them and climbed onto a large rock that protruded above the surface. "I figured they'd send someone… larger to perform the ceremony."

"What ceremony?"

"The rejoining of the worlds, of course. My liaison said we were getting close to the time, I wish he'd told me it was today."

"Who's your liaison?"

"It doesn't matter. Why don't we get started?"

"We en't here fer no ceremony. We're just tryin' to help our friend."

"Ah, yes, the Goblin King. He doesn't need your help, I'm sure."

"People obviously en't talkin' about the same man. Have you see him? He's a pitiful specimen, I doubt he could be changin' his own pants without help right now."

"Sure, I've seen the Goblin King."

She waved a hand over the water, and an image of Jareth appeared, crawling through the television in his room and surmising his surroundings.

"He's got some color to'im," Fred nodded.

"What he be doin' crawlin' through the TV?"

She waved her hand again, and the image disappeared. "He has his powers back."

"Well, I'll be damned! He can wrap this all up quick, and I can be back home in time for dinner."

The dryad shook her head. "It's not that simple. He's still weak, and it is going to take a lot more than him, even at the peak of his power, to bring this to completion."

"Well, oh wise, knowing breasted one, got any advice, or you just gonna make me more depressed?"

"You don't have to be a smart aleck, I'm as ready as you are for this to all be over." A scroll materialized in her hand, and she passed it to Liona. "First, go bring the little brother to the palace, he's a key player in all of this."

Scotty looked at her suspiciously. "Wait a minute, this is smellin' like a trap."

"The only thing that smells here is your foul friend," the dryad answered. "You can do what you like, it will all be finished one way or another, I get to go home either way. I'm just trying to help you out."

"What's the scroll for?" Liona asked.

"After you get Toby here, you go meet Leah and give her this. She'll know what to do."

Liona opened it to read it. "There's nothing on here!"

"It's for Leah's eyes only," Frieda yawned. "And it's time for my nap. Good luck with everything. You're gonna need it." She disappeared under the water and didn't re-emerge.

"Dryads are so damned bossy. Drives me nuts," Scotty said, putting his hat back on. "Let's get outta here."

Liona grabbed each of them by the collar and headed back up to the mail tube system. "Whatever you say, boss."