A/N: This is my first Labyrinth fan fiction. I have been a fan of LABYRINTH since I was very young and admired its strange beauty. I have finally gotten up the nerve to write my own story and take a break from anime for a while. But depending on what you the readers think this could be my last. Hope you all enjoy!
Summary: Just because Sarah defeated the Labyrinth, doesn't mean that the story is over. Sarah enthralls herself in fantasy once more. But what she doesn't know is that her dreams were gifts from a particular unhappy King.
Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth or its characters. It belongs to Jim Henson and the hard working people who helped create such a wonderful story.
Basis for Comparison
I could've sworn that white mass of feathers blurring past me came from the sewer manhole—the long threads of white puffs smoking from between the cracks and finger holes. It had just rained and the smoking fumes rising from the closed hole takes a thick lumpy form. Like a large white man with no bones to hold him together, they continue to rise on all hours of darken nights, in the darken streets, of this darken city. But this darkness did not frighten me. It was my home. And it would never dare to hurt me. Even the shadows that stretched long and thin through the tree branches and connected into alleyways—they retreated back whenever I came by. I was a veteran of these streets. A soldier of familiarity and contentment.
It is my home.
My father always said my imagination was going to link me to madness sooner or later, yet it was my imagination that held me grounded. Grounded on a path of beautiful fuchsia petals and twigs of glittering dust, clouds of Hershey swirls that rained puddles of an undetermined sweetness. Combing grass-fingers that welcomed an afternoon nap, the sunshine as my blanket……..
I was currently unemployed—not that it bothered me all that much anyway. I'd rather spend my days in the city's aged library, dusting off the shelves to excavate whatever reading material I could uncover.
Unfortunately, the monotonous life style that humans call adulthood raked its dreary, gray digits upon the surface of my white skin. Brittle goose bumps flowered across my arm and neck—reality was pathetic and dry. Void of what I thirsted for. Thankfully, I was understood within the yellow paged, black printed, leather bound portals of fantasy and magic and heroism, with their knights and their dragons and sorcery. Not only was I understood, but accepted and cherished—as well as vice-versa. My library card never cooled, always clenched in either my own hand or that of the librarian who knew me by name within the first week I walked in as a young 11 year old. "A library, may be dark in certain corners, and thin layers of dust may have collected over the years, but that is where you find the best of books. The kind that only special people can find, deep in the pile of forgotten words of splendor. Tales that have not been told in quite some time and yarn that has yet to be spun. Enjoy it, young lady."
Stepmother never really supported me as a person, much less a daughter. I knew I was baggage, which I came with the deal of marriage to my father. She did help me with teenage stuff. High school, homework, dating (not that I did much of that)… I still didn't feel the compassion that I dearly wanted from a mother. Hell, my own mother was….
Anyway, my daydreaming…
This world saved me from her. Her tauntings, her mockery-- crying out that I wasn't "normal". "Normal" is unique to me apparently, because I was never enthralled with the concept of "normal". I thought it quite boring. Watching other girls in my classes swoon over boys and actors; fiddling with their eye shadow and lip-gloss. I didn't understand it. And I never wanted to become it. They twiddled strands of hair, batted their eyelashes, thrusted their chests…and for what…. to get a boy to stick their tongues halfway down their throats? I do believe in love, but that—what I witnessed 8 hours everyday, that wasn't love. At least not the kind of love I read about, not the kind of love I wanted for myself.
I saw no white steed with a gallant prince perched atop, no fading sunset and no orchestral ending right before the credits would roll up the black screen. Snow White and Cinderella got that, they all got that—how selfish of them to not let us all in on their bliss. I wanted that. I can't be the only on to want that.
But my father…
Heh, my father did encourage my stories. I remember telling such stories to Toby at night. He used to beg for them before his head hit the pillow. Dad and I would always find a way to make time for each other. Father would take me antique shopping on Saturdays, "Maybe today we will find a treasure, Sarah…" he would say. And I would always reply, "Just being here together is a treasure in itself…"
And we did find little treasures…
Feathered pens and inks, cracked hand mirrors—the aged bronze made them all the more beautiful I would think—purple and gold cloths from beyond the seas, necklaces and anklets…they were all gorgeous. But I never took my eyes off my father. I wanted to capture his face. A mental photograph that would never fade. The edges would remain white and crisp and straight in my mind—the picture clear and glossy. I loved that man. His rimmed glasses, his pointed nose, and dark hair. I loved him.
Eventually, he confronted me…
He confronted me about my daydreaming. "Dreams are wonderful things, but maybe it is time to focus on more than that…" I knew he worried about me and my professional future, as well as financial. He wanted to make sure that the foundation of my life was sturdy and concrete. Not a crack to be seen, not one droplet of failure was to seep inside and rot away all the success he tried so desperately to mold; ensuring it would remain strong and vigil. I understood that—I really did. But it was difficult to concentrate on the Pythagorean Theorem when my x's and y's would float off the paper, searing the ties they had with the lines already printed on the parchment. The math equations formed into pixies………..the nouns and adverbs grew wings to fly………longitudes learned to sing and………..
It was just hard. Once I get an idea for a wonderful adventure I would whip out a piece of clean paper (tapping it lightly to make sure it would stay grounded) and write in my tiny print the outline for my new story.
That about wraps up my high school career.
At 19 years old (soon to be twenty in one month and 15 days), I have yet to find a cure for my blissful disease. I still read whatever I could, I still found it hard to remain on one task without dreaming up a new far away land of once upon a time, I didn't wear make-up, and I hardly looked at men…
Stepmother sneered at the fact that at 19 years old I have yet to have a single boyfriend, but I did "date". At least I would try, but the men now are so…so…blah. I would like to have an intelligent conversation for once with someone of the opposite sex, a conversation whose depths would go beyond a "sure" or "yeah" or "have you heard so and so's new album…?" I would always shake my head at those stupid boys.
I should stop this rambling and get home; it looks like it will be raining soon.
What did I see tonight walking home from Marie's Antique Shoppe? That white something, which boggled my perception. It caused me to blink rapidly as I swiveled left and right to catch another clue in the cold night air. The sidewalk was damp and cool, the wind was chilly, and the air smelt fresh and sweet. It was all too tranquil.
But what I saw, or at least I think I saw—it didn't really belong there. Like a foreign prince on the border's of an enemy kingdom—that white something was out of place, felt out of place; strange. Yet it insisted on being there, whether or not there was a statement to be made or a thing to be said. Why was it there?
The rain came back around 11 o' clock tonight. The golden band I found in Marie's sat glimmering on my vanity. It had encrusted swirls and glittering embroidery. The moment I found it I knew that if I had it, I too could travel through the woods with elves, and trolls, and hobbits. Heh, there I go again. But it truly is a stunning piece of finger jewelry. I purchased it and pocketed it until I got home. Glazing past Karen, kissing father on his wrinkling brow, and ruffled Toby's hair to only whiz up the white stairs into my room—shutting it.
I flopped ceremoniously onto the very same bed I have slept in since I was ten, still so soft and oceanic. I let my hair loose from its braid and scratched my scalp. Today I was supposed to be job hunting—much to the delight of Stepmother Karen. I was doing a fairly good job, but…I saw the very same Marie's Antique Shoppe that Dad and I would always go in. And that's all she wrote. Of course I would never tell her this. She would fill the whole two stories of the house with hot steam, most of it protruding from her ears. But being fresh out of high school and not yet college bound, I remained distracted from what really needed to be done. Getting a job to pay for books…if I ever left for college.
But as of right now. I am on a leave of absence from school. Dad said he would give me a year to do what I want and figure out what I truly wanted to do in the future. But right now, I could travel thousands a miles away to Paris or London…maybe even to…
And I would NEVER have to leave my bedroom. I had my own flying carpet; my own frosted wardrobe-- who needed a plane ticket when all you need is a quite room, a locked door, and a soft pillow.
I took a deep breath. It is 11:45. Toby must be in bed now, and Dad and Karen watching late night news or something. I scratched my head once more and reached over to the small table next to my bed to gaze upon my ring once more. My fingers felt around the cool surface of the aged wood. The grain was smooth, yet sandy textured. Like a miniature beach sat atop the table and my hand, the wave ebbing and flowing across the shoreline. I continued to feel around.
I gazed up quickly, almost frantic.
I chuckled stupidly.
"Well, of course…"
I thrusted my legs forward to pull leap off the bed, "…I left it on the vanity, you fool…."
I took one step towards my vanity, and stopped.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
Swirling my eyes around the room I found nothing but solitude. I continued to the vanity table.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
"Tch, what in the world is…?"
I grunted softly and reached my arm out to grasp the golden band. My fingers came into contact with my prickly hairbrush and two dimes.
"I could've sworn that I left it here…"
Scratch. Scritch. SCRATCH!
"Why is my heart pounding?" My heard my voice faltered, nearly drowned out by the thundering rain outside my draped window. I felt a sudden tenseness in my chest, like my rib cage decided to clench and constrict my heart, ceasing its beating. I don't know WHY I felt the way I did.
"It won't stop…" My hand found its way to my throat grasping lightly, fingernails soon dragging lower past my collar bone and then to the valley of my breasts. My breathing was thin…I was scared.
I flung around to my window. Something was outside.
It was outside and it was white.
I know it's rather cliché, but I can't help it. I mean, I WOULD freak out if I was Sarah. So tell my what you readers think. This was originally supposed to be a one shot, but now I am not to sure. It all depends on whether or not it is good. And yes, I used obvious references from Lord of the Rings and The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardobe AND Aladdin. I do not own these tales, just my admiration for them.