For three hundred and sixty-six days she had mourned him. On the three hundred and sixty-seventh, she rose from her bed and allowed herself to be bathed and dressed. She wore a dress made of green velvet, leaving off the black satin she had dutifully worn. She took breakfast once again in the dining room rather than her private chambers. She did what was expected of her.

A year and a day, she was told. That was all the outward mourning that was considered befitting a woman of her station. A queen. Beyond that was unseemly. After all, there were duties to which she must attend.

Bile rose in her throat as she thought of those "duties." She choked it down and passed quietly through the hall to the throne room. The doors opened for her and she stepped through and glanced coolly around the room at the sea of faces before her. The men stopped in their chatter and looked at her. She smiled politely at them: lords, generals, nobles and lesser kings, but behind her smile she seethed.

They were there for her, she knew. All of them jockeying for position, strutting about in their finery like peacocks. Casting in their lots to try to fill a position that was not vacant. Not, at least, to her.

But for the good of the kingdom, always the good of the kingdom, she would perform this task. Allow them to prance and fawn and try to charm her. To sing the praises of their own virtues, the glories of their lands, their own physical prowess. She inwardly groaned. The idea was repugnant. Half of the men in the hall were at least partially responsible for her heartache. The other half had just had not had the chance. They had cowardly hung back from the war that had waged, neither friend nor foe, offering no assistance when things had become so desperate. She supposed she hated them more than the ones who had actually been brave enough to challenge him.

Him. Her king. Her love. Gone.

He had made love to her feverishly the night before he marched out to the fields of war. Almost as if he knew he wouldn't return. The messenger had arrived only weeks later, bloodied and unable to look her in the eye.

The king was dead.

In despair, she had gone into her solitude, eating little and seeing no one, sleeping only when exhaustion overtook her. However, two months after the king was laid in the earth, the swelling of her breasts and belly made it clear that she must try to keep herself well. She choked down her food, allowed the Wise Man and the midwife to tend to her, and rested as was necessary.

The child had arrived only three months earlier, angel-haired with emeralds for eyes. He was a strong, healthy boy, bursting forth with a loud wail and bringing to her lips the first smile anyone had seen in months. The moment had been bittersweet, and tears of both joy and sorrow had slid down her cheeks as the prince had been laid upon her breast.

And now these men… she gazed coldly at them. How dare they? How dare they suggest, assume that she had need of them? That her son would call any of them father? She hated them. Detested them all.

But she was expected to choose one of them. To marry one of them. To take one of them to her heart and to her bed.

With a painted-on smile and cold eyes she approached the curved throne and sat down. She would perform her duties and nothing more. She greeted each of her guests with equal charm and grace. She welcomed them, thanked them, offered her congratulations on an end to the Great War.

As queen, it was her right and duty to set the stakes that would win her hand and the Goblin Throne. In past challenges there had been duels, contests of strength or wit or even of appearance. But as the widow of the fallen Goblin King, she knew what her test must be, the Labyrinth itself.

There was a titter among her guests, laughter and elbowing at the suggestion of such a simple challenge. The great champions of war no doubt considered the glistening maze beneath their skills and talents. It was a child's game. A piece of cake.

The queen narrowed her eyes over the swaggering crowd. The challenge was set. The first man through the Labyrinth would win both the Goblin Queen and the throne in which she now sat.

One by one, the men were led blindfolded to a different corner of the Labyrinth. The signal was given and the challenge commenced. She watched from the tower balcony as the runners stumbled through the deceptive maze. Each runner started out with bravado, marching forward into the glittering walls certain of his own victory. It took little time for their confidence to turn into frustration as the maze shifted and changed, driving them deeper into the depths and further from their goal.

She held her son and smiled as the orange sky turned purple then black and firelight began to dot the twists and turns of the Labyrinth. There were shouts of anger and despair as the runners began to see their folly in accepting her challenge. But they didn't stop. They plunged blindly ahead into the wild dangers of the cunning maze.

By morning, the field of players was largely empty. One after the other, the runners had been defeated, falling into the eternal darkness of the oubliettes or disappearing beneath the festering sludge of the Bog. A few had fallen victim to the Fire Gang who were now passing severed appendages around to one another and trying on new "ugly heads".

A handful of brave challengers remained, lords and knights slashing through the Goblin Forest and bearing down on the hedge maze. One runner caught her eye and she smiled. The Troll King. A burly man with a fiery red beard and little charm, the ruler of the Troll Kingdom wore a bloodied lock of her husband's hair in the folds of his tunic. A trophy.

She wanted him to win.

She whispered her request to the Labyrinth and the sweeping maze sent back her reply of consent. The Troll King would win. The Troll King would be the Champion. The Labyrinth complied, easing the ruddy man through her passages, past the dangers untold and hardships unnumbered.

At last, he arrived exhausted, but triumphant and preening, at the doorway of the Goblin Castle. She greeted him with a smile. Bowed before him. Proclaimed him the winner. He surveyed his prize, leering at her milk-swollen breasts and the curve of her ample thigh. She was mortal and finite, but she had borne one son and could bare more. A rare prize indeed among his kind.

A feast was proclaimed and the Troll King returned to his kingdom as preparations were made.

She made preparations as well. She spent hours in her husband's study, reading the books and scrolls he had left behind. She questioned the Wise Man and the crone who lived at the edge of the Junk Pile. She gathered their advice and her resources and bided her time.

On the day of the Great Feast she dressed in her finest, a gown of blood-red silk bedecked with garnets and rubies across the bodice. She plaited her hair and painted her lips the same color as her dress. She stepped in front of her mirror and knew that her bridegroom would be pleased.

Leaving her son in the care of his nanny, she transported herself to the Troll Kingdom where her husband-to-be awaited.

She gave him her sweetest smile as he took her hand and led her to the raised dais at the front of the great hall. The Troll King addressed his generals and his armies, all there per her request, and introduced her as their future queen. The Goblin Kingdom would be dissolved, he told the crowd. Her lands would be placed under the jurisdiction and rule of the Troll Kingdom.

A golden cord was brought forth and placed over their joined hands, signifying their union. The crowd cheered and the Troll King pulled her toward him. She didn't resist, but leaned forward and pressed her red lips firmly to his. He kissed her brutally, shoving his tongue into her mouth and scraping against her teeth.

When he finally released her, she stepped back and smiled. He mistook her smile for one of playful welcome and reached for her again, but stopped as the ice of iron hit his veins. He looked up at his new bride in horror and awe and swept a thick hand over his lips. The hand came back stained blood-red. The red of her dress and lips. Lips stained with color. Color mixed with deadly iron powder. He gave a little laugh and then fell dead at her feet.

The crowd gasped in horror as she reached down into the folds of the dead king's tunic and withdrew a lock of golden hair, matted with rust-colored gore. Without a word she stepped over the fallen king and down from the dais. She walked through the gaping crowd to the heavy doors at the entrance of the great hall. Stopping in the doorway, she spun on her heel to face them, the traitors who had ambushed and killed her beloved. With cold eyes, she took out the lock of his hair and began to spin a spell around it. A crystal formed in her hand, the color of night. She released the crystal, letting it bounce and roll across the marble floor and into the center of the room. Turning sharply, she swept from the great hall, banging the heavy doors shut and sealing them behind her.

She hesitated just outside the Troll Kingdom before returning to the Goblin Castle. The aftermath was exquisite. The palace of the Troll King fell in a giant cloud of white flame and blue ash. The generals and armies of the Troll Kingdom, sealed inside the great hall were devoured by the magical inferno and reduced to dust. There would be no one left to challenge her.

Satisfied with her vengeance, she transported herself back to the Goblin Kingdom. She retrieved her son from his cradle and carried him with her to the throne room. Atop the curved throne, she held the boy to her breast and looked to her subjects, the goblins. They crept forth from the nooks and corners of the castle and scurried out to sit at her feet.

"This is our kingdom," she told them. "One day my son will rule this land like his father."

She rose and stood over them. "Until that day comes," declared Sarah, "I am the Queen of the Goblins."

No one ever dared to question or doubt her again.

A/N: This is my take on a Halloween fic. Not really scary, but hella dark and twisted. This fic has actually been in my head for years, but I only just got it out the way I wanted it. I hope you enjoyed it and don't hate me too much for killing His Nibs. I've killed Sarah twice. It was Jareth's turn. Happy Halloween, Witches!

*Cover Art used by permission by HechiceraRip

~Fanny~