A/N: The idea for this story is based off of the fact that in the film Labyrinth, we see a doll on Sarah's vanity that looks very much like Jareth.

It's been a while since random inspiration has struck me, so I just ran with it...

... R E F L E C T I O N ...

by mairzy

Silent and still, I watched you. Painted glass eyes reflecting, but doing nothing more than that. Images caught and bending, bursts of light and color. Nothing but reflections of the tears you shed, the ringing laughter that danced from your curled lips, the long moments you spent staring at her photograph and asking why.

Your eyes are not like mine. They are alive, glowing with passion. They are deep and full. They reflect, but not on the outside world like my cold eyes – your eyes reflect from your own private world, flashing with the deep drama only glimpsed by those living outside of your head.

I watched you for so long.

Sometimes, you would speak to me. Speak to me like you spoke to your mother's photograph. Lifting me up off your vanity where I stood, you would gaze into my eyes . . . your eyes so full of life searching my cold quiet ones for companionship and understanding.

Often you would read from a worn red leather playbook, looking to me for response as you practiced those lines you loved to recite.

When I reflected your eyes as they stared so deeply into mine, a piece of your world suddenly belonged to me. Lived in a moment across my painted eye as I reflected it from you.

Enough of you had been poured into me that I knew I was a part of that world in your eyes. As much as the physical world can become a part of a place inside the soul – but the life you gave me in your world was the only life I had. Leaning in close, you would look at me with that practiced expression of patient determination . . .

"Give me the child..."

How I longed to give you whatever you desired…. How I longed to give you all the dreams inside your heart! Those dreams inside your eyes. How could your eyes be so alive with a world that didn't truly exist?

Silent. Still. I only reflected what happened around me.

But something changed. Maybe that's why it happened . . . maybe it was because I was no longer still. I found that some of that life you reserved for me in your eyes was beginning to fill me, through your words was beginning to stir me. But the life you were giving me was not a life to be limited by this inanimate doll body . . .

An owl came to me that night as I heard you yelling at your brother. As I heard you calling out for your dreams to save you. Perhaps you had spoken to the beautiful white bird, perhaps you had called out to it the lines you so often rehearsed with me. Somehow, the owl became a part of the life you had created for me. Summoned by the life growing inside of me, it became my flesh and blood for almost 13 wonderful hours.

Was I not everything you had imagined I'd be? Did I not scowl and pout, smile and wink, punish and glower? Did I not enchant and seduce you while you fought against me? I gave you everything you ever wanted – I let you be the heroine you so desired to be! But I did not realize that the dream would wear eventually thin – that your quest would have an end. That this life you had been saving for me was so soon to be over, spent. I pleaded with you, tried to reason . . . but I understood as I saw that familiar expression of patient determination on your face that this life you had given me was even now what it always had been – a reflection.

Your eyes can be so cruel.

The life you had given me no longer was strong enough . . . the owl's life rushed back and its form returned. I found myself as I was before – still, silent, glass eyes coldly reflecting on your room from I stood on your vanity.

When you came, sat before your mirror and held me in your arms, I saw the world in your eyes closing to me. Opening a drawer you tucked me away and sealed me out of the new dreams your heart was beginning to weave . . .

I have been still and hidden away for so very long. There is nothing beautiful and wonderful to reflect from inside a forgotten drawer. I yearn to reflect you, Sarah.

I only need your eyes to be alive again . . .