Yes, me again. This is for all you Labyrinth people out there. You know who you are. I can see you, sat in front of the computer, aching to read a good labyrinth fic. Well, guess what? You've found one! Enjoy, and as always, you like, you review. Please? I love reviews! They're wonderful.

This story is dedicated to my good friend Soraya who I converted to Labyrinth-iness. She now drools over Jareth like the rest of us. It's only a short amount of time til the whole world realise the wonder that is the Labyrinth. Oh, and don't sue me. I don't own Jareth etc, but I do own Wren Craft. Please don't steal her? She likes being where she is. (Contact me if you want to use her, she might say yes ;))

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Take Me Away

Chapter One: - Rainy Days and Foolish Words

"Hey." She turned around cautiously and glanced at Jack, who was sitting behind her. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand, which he thrust at her before looking up attentively.Wren unfolded the paper slowly, unsure what may be inside. She didn't trust any of them, but Jack was unknown territory. He was a sheep, only following where the others lead.

There upon the crudely lined paper was a message: -

Wanna go out Saturday nite? If you folks agree, any way?

Love, Jack

She looked up again at him. Sure he wasn't much to look at, but she could do much worse. Besides, she hadn't been asked out before. He was smart too, but not so smart he was noticed as a potential victim. Hesitantly, she turned around again, and saw he was watching her intently, with his muddy eyes. His pale blonde hair was gelled into spikes and he was grinning.Wren ducked her head, in a small nod, noting how his face lit up.

Suddenly, he began to laugh. Heavy, cruel laughter, controlled by a fist as he tried to contain himself. He peered over to the other guys who were all laughing silently, eyes streaming, slumping side ways, mouths cracked into jack-o-lantern like grins. Sinister and hollow.

She really should have known. He was laughing at her. Of course it would be hilarious that she, she wanted to go out with some one.

And then she looked back at Jack; hate in her misty eyes and they accused him icily: How could you?

"Oh my God!" Hastily whispered Jack, chuckling to himself, at her expense.

"You thought I was serious! Pathetic!"

Wren choked back a sob as the words spilt over her classmate's lips and tore through her flesh. Sharp and painful, they ripped deep gashes in her chest, her whole body shuddered as she felt them embed in her wildly beating heart. Quickly, she span round, hearing the scandal spread through the class right under the teachers nose.

So it was every day for the pastten months and counting… still counting and hoping it would fade away from memory, Wren fought to keep emotionless.

After all… wasn't she 'The Ice Maiden'?

A cruel nickname chosen by the crawling worms that stole her wits and confidence slowly over the months. They called her 'The Ice Maiden' because she had grown so used to the bullying that plagued her every day she showed no emotion in her face. But they saw it in her eyes.

To be truly honest she was petrified of these worms, and they knew it.

Every day would start the same. The same whispers. The same mocking glances her way. The same comments on her hair, face, shoes… anything that wasn't dictated by the school to merge in with the brainless crowd. Each remark struck her pride with acute force, making her hurt deep inside. At home she thought her cheeks would wear out from the tears she had shed behind the privacy of closed doors.

Her parents had no idea. They were always working, so she fell in to herself. Even if she worked so hard with her studies and almost worked her fingers to stubs upon her laptop at night, diving into the world of fantasy to escape the pain of her injured esteem, she still couldn't truly let it go. It was like a needle in her heart. You might think that she was being foolish, and that she should just stand up to them. Maybe she was. She had read enough letters in magazines to realize she was not alone and that there were ways of dealing with bullying. That is if your parents or school cared. Just by herself, she couldn't fight the rising wave of assault she got, until she felt like running long and hard until she ran herself out and collapsed into a ball, broken, exhausted and crying from lost joy.

But somehow she endured for months. Wren wasn't a brave girl. She didn't pretend to be. But she was stubborn. A strange sort of stubbornness that comes from hurting for so long settled over her as she tried in vain to blank out her attackers. If they were going to make her life hell, she wasn't going to let them enjoy it all that easily.

Wren winced. Another 'popular' girl had barged past, digging her book edges in to Wren's back, making her jerk away, suddenly.

She crouched low over her blotted work, hoping it wouldn't start up again. The sneers at her movements, the comments on her 'lank' hair, or her posture, were sure to come soon. And come they did…

"So… Wren… erm. We were thinking. Just how much grease is that in your hair? I bet you could start your own fast food shop with it." A girl called Michelle whispered in her ear as she passed. The bell had rung a few seconds before, but she was being held behind for some reason.

Surely it wasn't to do with the standard of her work? On the latest writing paper she was sure she had done well. Really well, actually.

Maybe the school had noticed how depressed she was and was willing to help her with her bullying? Wren's spirits rose. God knew she had tried to get their help before. All they had told herto ignore themand that it would soon be over.What did they know?

"Miss Craft?" Mr Barkthrew gruffly mumbled to Wren, and she nimbly stood and shyly made her way to the desk.

"Yes, Mr Barkthrew?" Timidly voiced Wren.

"Your paper…" Wren's mind jammed. No. It couldn't be. She had done so well!

"… You got an A as usual, but I wanted to ask you. Where did you get the inspiration?" He observed Wren suspiciously through bloodshot and heavily lidded eyes.

" The tale pangs of copying, Miss Craft, and I will not tolerate it. How did you come up with such a convincing story? I expect you to tell me, you know."

His large red face tipped to the side and he glared at Wren. His fat, podgy torso only just fitting behind the desk, his snug suit bulging obtusely.

"Miss Craft?" His voice was taking on a dangerous tone, and Wren backed away.

"Sir, I wrote it! I don't copy. I've never copied a story." Wren gasped, unable to say more. She already sounded like the rest of the class, whenever they used second hand material.

"I see…" Wren didn't like what that seemed to mean.

"I shall be informing the head teacher. Here is your paper. Now get out before I change my mind. I should in all honesty shred that piece of work," Wren paled, " But on this occasion I won't."

He finished scolding Wren, and she heard a titter outside. She turned to leave, walked through the door way and almost fell on top of five girls in her class.

The vipers had heard everything. They all spluttered in to withheld laughter and began to point their perfectly manicured fingers at her.Wren coolly pushed past them all as they stood in the dingy darkened corridor.

"So… Miss Perfect isn't so perfect after all, hmmmm?"

Michelle chirruped, a cruel leer gracing her make-up plastered face.

"So what was Mr Barkthrew getting so flustered about Wrenny? What have you done? What's that?" She snatched at the story suddenly, and Wren gave it up, not wanting it to rip and knowing that Michelle would get her hands on it sooner rather than later.

"My, my, my… You have been busy! This is so detailed… Oh what a shame." She roughly seized a handful of the painfully precise work and promptly tore it in two, savagely grinning. Her pristinely white teeth flashed and her eyes scanned Wren's face for dismay.

"I seem to have been a little clumsy… Silly me!"

She tore it again, her mouth gaping open in mock horror.

"Oh… what's this?" Michelle began reading the half torn paper in mild interest.

"…Until the girl could no longer bare it. She lifted the child over her head and screamed, "Goblin King, Goblin King, where ever you maybe. Take this child of mine far away from me!" She eyed Wren with malice.

"Well, she's a poet too, ladies." She said to the girls behind her back, and they burst in to uncontrolled laughter.

"I must admit, you're more pathetic than I imagined! What else have you written then?" She looked down again.

"…I wish the … goblins? …" She snorted at this. "…Would come and take you away… right n-"

"Give me that!" Wren grabbed the page, ripping it more, but she didn't care. Dropping the ruined paper to her feet, she abandoned the corridor, leaving those rats and her spoiled homework behind her. She reached for her beaten bag nearer the end of the corridor, took out her 'ugly' coat and ran for the door. She wouldn't let them see her cry again. It only gave them more power.

Outside it was raining heavily, the rain-washed pavement grey and glistening beneath Wren's feet. As the moisture fell on her uncovered hair her tears came. The rain was soothing to Wren. She could pretend she wasn't crying, and that people were not walking home with her because of the damp. It was nice to make believe now, and the world became a different place.

Wren had never been out with a boy, even at the age of forteen. She knew plenty about them, as she watched over the years. They had grown taller, their voice deeper, their attention always turned to the prettiest in the class. Naturally Michelle.

Wren knew she wasn't pretty. Well, if she made an effort she could look nice, but it wasn't in her. All the eyelash fluttering, and the hair flicking and the stress of what to wear to so-and-so's party next weekend, seemed childish to her. Nothing could compare to escaping into a book, away form the sting of the world. Which, as you should know by now, is what she frequently did.

Her eyes had grown used to the painful glare of the laptop screen, glistening with unlimited promise. What could she write about, she wondered. Soon her eyes would flash with sudden inspiration and her fingers would race across the keys. She cursed herself whenever she made a mistake, as she always did, and went back to spell check, losing her line of thought. She daydreamed of these stories along the way to her house, but the gentle pang of regret over her latest work tugged at her mind. There was always the copy on her computer, but the words of her teacher who hadn't believed her astonished cries rang through her headuntil she was dizzy. How could someone think that of her?

Hadn't she done enough over the years? She worked so hard, only to get the name Swot, Brainiac or Nerd branded upon her. And then, whenever, heaven forbid, she would get a question wrong or acted out of place, she was condemned to shrill laughter or shrieks of triumphant glee at her mistake.

No. She didn't deserve it, but she had learnt over the months that nobody got what they deserved in reality. The good guys lose, because they play fair. They have no secret push up or cheat. They have only themselves in this oppressive and bleak world. And Wren wept for herself, although, not long after these tears came, her eyes ached and her tears turned cold and full of hate.

Wren was forced, headlong back to reality, and she felt sharp needles of ice crash against her bare legs and pale face. Hailstones had begun to fall and pushed Wren into a sprint for home. All the while being cascaded with cold, fierce missiles that stung her vulnerable flesh. Her wet school uniform clung to her like a second, sombre grey, skin, and she shivered violently. Small goose bumps riddled her skin, and her shoes where full of water as she arrived at her front porch. The dim electric light had short wired years ago, but she still longed for it's gentle glow through the drizzling rain, regardless.

Maybe her parents would be home? Maybe they would have fixed the porch light? Perhaps they would remember that she had asked them for a new load of floppy disks, as she was running dangerously low on hard-drive space.

But no. As she shunted to a halt outside the front door, she looked up expectantly at the little orb above her and found it dismally cold and devoid of light. She sighed. It was never lit. Sadly she rummaged in her bag for her rusty house keys. She found them at the bottom of her bag and scrapped her hand on a lost compass that she could only find if she stabbed herself with it.

It was one of those quirky things she had learned to treasure, like the milk float going past on a Saturday morning, rousing her from her sleep, while she lay still, listening to the peace and quiet of an empty house. Her parents always left before the little vehicle showed up, and came back late at night, so Wren felt she was alone most of the time. And that was exactly how she liked it. Calm and silent, the pastel walls of her parents house did not insult or hurt her, but stared resolutely back at her, as did the furniture and paintings.

Sweet serenity she would call it.

Although, as the hours wore on and the ticking of the clocks became more and more intense, she did get lonely. She longed for someone to talk to, to share secrets with, to giggle with at odd things they said or did or thought. These longings often ended in aching eyes and dripping cheeks, and Wren would get frustrated at her swinging moods.

Jangling the keys merrily, pretending she was happy, she was screaming inside. In all truth, Wren's parents were quite wealthy, but Wren would give up even her precious laptop for one friend. But it was hopeless to dream. Dreams never amounted to anything in her life.

She rammed her keys in to the heavy lock, scrapped the mechanism, and shoved her right shoulder against the door.

"Ah!" Wren took in a sharp breath through her clenched teeth as she fell into the hall way, the wooden floor whacking her left knee and she brought it up to stop her fall. Her bag fell onto her, winding her as she rolled on to her back.

She had forgotten. Her right shoulder had been the same shoulder Michelle had smashed into a wall in the cloakroom yesterday, and it was still tender, as it had bruised badly.

Cursing her own clumsiness, Wren made to stand up. As she hauled herself to her feet, her bag swinging dangerously on her arm, she felt a twinge of pain in her knee.

Damn it! Another thing to look out for! She thought irritably.

She fought off her coat, getting it caught in the straps of her bag, which were flailing around as she danced to and fro, in a vain attempt to detangle herself from the mess.

Urgh! I really don't have time for this. Now I'm pissed off!

She flung her arms up in despair, ripping the coat from her shoulders and depositing the attackers next to the sofa. She would deal with them later; no doubt her parents would come through the door and see them first off.

Wren decided to write a little to vent her frustration into her story, this way only fictional characters got hurt as they expressed her anger.

Hmmm, She pondered, I wonder what the King of the Goblins would look like in a paddy? She chuckled to herself, holding on to that thought. It had been such a long time since she last laughed.

Soon, however, she remembered her lost masterpiece, Labyrinth.

She had worked on that for weeks, and had only just finished it in time for the dead line. Now it probably lay scattered on the dusty floor in a darkened corridor at school, or crushed in a disgusting trashcan with old lunches and sticky wrappers all over it. Wren almost cried out in fury at that thought, and the notion of a moody Goblin king throwing things at his squirming subjects couldn't lighten her mood.

Climbing the carpeted, mahogany staircase, Wren dragged her worn feet to each step, counting as she went. Thirteen. 'Unlucky for some', and 'some' was exactly who she was.

But, as Wren made her painful way into her room, carefully trying to bend her knee as little as possible and failing, she thought about the rest of the story to The Labyrinth.

She noticed how similar she was to the young girl who stole the monarch's heart.

Sure, she thought. I'm no beauty, and I don't have a wicked stepmother or an annoying little brother, but I'm still sick of some things in my life, and would very gladly wish them away.

She stumbled suddenly, and hit the doorframe, making her mouth gape in a silent scream of pain.

I can't believe I did that! Oh, it's not fair! I hate myself!

She slumped on to her bed and massaged her sore joint, sucking in her breath if she woke a fresh wave of throbbing.

A barrage of tears enveloped her as she remembered the look on Jack's face as she nodded. That face would be burnt into her eyes so she would always see it when she fell asleep. He had hurt her so much.

"Well at least I'm not a slave I guess." She muttered to herself as she stretched it out, busily wiping away tears fiercely.

"I bet I'm so bland that nothing would happen to me if I said 'I wish the goblins would come and take me away, right now.'" She sighed, shaking her sorry head.

"Well then, I suppose you've just lost that bet, my dear." A deep, velvety voice filled the small room, sounding like it had just been poured from a pitcher.

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