Hey everyone! Because I'm a terrible author and didn't update GSUV for ages, have a nice three-shot. This is property of Comical Freaka, who had the honour of being my thousandth reviewer :P

I'd love to hear your comments, because this is only my second fic written from Jareth's point of view, and I'm not sure whether I'm happy with it or not. I'll definitely be writing more from his side, I think...

Even Goblin Kings have bad days; and Jareth, prone as he was to mercurial changes of temper, had days that were worse that most. What it was that he did whilst closeted in his study for hours on end the goblins were not quite sure, but they all knew that when he appeared with a face like thunder and a rather larger amount of shoulder spikes on his armour than usual it was time to run.

Today had been particularly bad, and when he slammed the heavy door behind him the two goblins in the corridor squeaked in horror and disappeared in a shower of dirty chicken feathers. Jareth watched them go with narrowed eyes. He was torn between a dark satisfaction in their evident fear of him, and irritation that they hadn't stuck around to let him take his anger and frustration out on him. Irritation won, and he stalked murderously through the castle, attended by shadows far darker and thicker and more menacing than any real shadows had a right to be.

Things had not been going well for the King of the Goblins. For a start, there had been that debacle with Her — but he brought his thoughts up short well before they could even veer in that dangerous direction. It was forbidden (on pain of Bogging or, depending on the severity of the offence, Immediate and Horribly Painful Death) to discuss, mention or even think about That Day and its unhappy events; but it could not be denied that much of the unrest in the Goblin Kingdom stemmed from the ignominious defeat Jareth had suffered at the hands of —

He reigned in his thoughts once more, with such force that a nearby window shattered. He ought to be over it by now; it had been long enough — and besides, there were plenty of other things to be worried about. The Labyrinth was not well. There was an unrest, an emptiness at its heart that Jareth had been striving to pinpoint for months now, and that was on top of the mountains of paperwork that were necessitated by his elevated position at the Fae court. Then there was the strange lack of Wishers. Challenging Runners and claiming the Wished-Away was a strenuous job, but it was usually rewarding and it worried him that no one had called on him, that there hadn't been even the slightest whisper of The Words, ever since…

Scowling, he summoned a wine glass for the sole purpose of kicking it and hearing it smash against the wall in a shower of broken splinters. It was at this point that he realised, somewhat to his mystification, that the corridors were completely deserted. Usually there was at least a scattering of his subjects busily engaged in their latest mischief, drinking contests or some such nonsense; but the corridors were empty and silent, only a stray chicken quietly clucking to itself and some puddles of spilt ale signifying that the castle was inhabited at all. Jareth's bewilderment, and annoyance, grew as he neared the throne room and began to hear the unearthly noises issuing from it. An expression darkened his face that boded very ill for the hapless goblins causing whatever havoc it was this time.

About to fling open the double doors (they had in fact been installed for this purpose and none other), Jareth paused; perhaps it would be better to ensure his entrance did not fall flat. There was, in his practised opinion, nothing worse than bursting into a room unnoticed. To this end, he took a few unhurried moments to adjust his cloak (adding a definite quantity of Dramatic Flare by the simple expedient of lengthening it by a few inches) and polish his armour on his sleeve: when he was satisfied, he fluffed up his unruly hair, straightened his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and pushed the doors open with a deafening boom.

"WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE—"

He was in the process of roaring authoritatively yet with dignity (a tricky balance he'd perfected over the past few centuries) when the scene before his eyes sank in, and dignity and authority flew out the window and disappeared; "doing" came out in almost a whimper. Never in his life had the Goblin King experienced such a tumult of astonishment, fury, outrage, and pure shock; it rendered him utterly speechless for far longer than the average goblin mess did. He simply could not believe his eyes.

The throne room was in utter disarray. This might not have been so significant if its usual state had not been approximate to a reasonably clean pigsty; as it was, it looked rather as though some sort of explosion had taken place. There were suspicious stains on the ceiling, a haze of feathers in the air, and cushions scattered about haphazardly with no discernible pattern or purpose. On the wall opposite Jareth's throne, an enormous target had been (badly) painted onto the stone in what seemed to be red paint; the various circles were labeled "ten points", "for pointz", "eleventeen points" and "hundrid". Beneath this makeshift target was an assortment of objects, ranging from metal plates and smashed eggs to slightly dazed goblins crawling aside to avoid bombardment.

And at the other end, sitting — no, lounging — on his throne, in the process of loading the enormous catapult that stretched across the room with a strangely placid chicken, acting as though his imperative entrance hadn't even happened, was Sarah Williams.

Sarah, Champion of the Labyrinth. Sarah, the girl who had broken his heart and all but danced on the pieces; whose very name was treason to speak in the Underground (or at least within earshot of the King); who had caused havoc in the Labyrinth and among its inhabitants that was only now beginning to heal. Sarah, the only girl he'd ever bared his soul to, who was at this very moment ignoring his presence with a casual nonchalance that a part of him applauded even while his hackles rose.

She pulled the catapult — it seemed to be primarily constructed of a metal shield and some fifty socks — back as far as it could stretch, then let it go; Jareth watched in a kind of frozen horror as the chicken sailed gracefully through the air and, with a dull thud, landed bang in the centre of the target before slithering to the ground in a flurry of feathers. The goblins, intimidated beneath the appalled gaze of their monarch, let loose a ragged cheer that trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

Then, and only then, did Sarah turn her head and say, sweetly: "Oh, Jareth, I didn't see you there. How lovely to see you again."