Hey all! Author here... obviously. Since I started this story two years ago, I feel like I might have lost a little in the later chapters in comparison to what I started out with in the beginning. It's a pretty common thing, I think, to lose what you had when you started a story. To remedy, I've gone back through and edited the story for grammar, as well as contextual errors. Some areas have been rearranged to make more sense, or dropped altogether. The original story is still here, though the more I write the more the characters take over and want to take the story somewhere else. I would be a horrible author if I didn't listen to the characters, so the ending is changed drastically from what it once was supposed to be, and as a result I think I need to make the middle bits more consistent with what will happen. The changes will only be slight, so slight you probably won't notice if you've already read it once. Thank you to the original readers and supporters of this story - I promise I will finish it, even if it takes me a while. Real life can be, well, too real sometimes.

Mostly-original AN:

This story is presented from the points of views of several characters to give you the best depth possible for understanding the story. While I could have done an omnipresent style, I feel that the differing perspectives of the characters is what will help you better understand motivations and ultimately the characters themselves.

As a disclaimer, I do not own any part of Labyrinth or the characters, though I do think David Bowie is the sex.


Sarah rolled over in her bed. Her stomach wobbled, and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore the waves of feeling sweeping over her. Her arm folded up over her eyes to block out the sun filtering through the curtains, trying to remember the dream she had been having. It had been wonderful, she had been at a wonderful ball, dressed elegantly, and there had been a masked man, darting in and out of the crowd. All she could remember was the strong desire to find him and dance with him, but the feeling was overpowered by something else, the desire to find something she couldn't really put her finger on, and betrayal at this masked stranger, disgust. Her stomach lurched again and she couldn't ignore it, she practically fell out of bed trying to make it to the bathroom in time.

From the cozy, sunlit bedroom, the distinct sound of wretching could be heard, of someone miserably bent over a toilet trying their best to sound graceful. Sarah had always possessed a strange kind of grace, one that her dad had always told her she had gotten from her mom. He had also said she had gotten her mother's sense of imagination too, which Sarah used more in her acting than anything else. Her current play was the biggest she had ever been in, and drew the reviews of magazines and newspapers from all over the country. Sarah Williams-Brown was a famous actress, the star in a hit show about a small-town girl who, while struggling with the death of her estranged father, falls in love with the unlikely hero and plucky comic relief.

Patrick Brown, who had starred with her in one of their college plays oh-so long ago as the gentleman who falls in love with the fair maiden, woke to the sound of the toilet being flushed. Sarah's slim form pressed in-between the sheets and she put her arm back over her eyes, but the dream was gone, and she sighed, resigned to her day. It was early rehearsals for her, and Pat would be going to work later, and they would maybe meet for lunch, and then later would both get home and have a quiet dinner before bed. Then again… Pat's hand was tracing her outline and she smiled, rolling over on her arm to face him. He never made things boring, that was for sure.

She smiled and leaned in for a kiss, her brunette hair sweeping over her face, and he tucked her locks behind her ear. When they were in college, he had been the most romantic, most thoughtful of all the boyfriends she had given the time of day. He was as creative as she was, and even more spontaneous. He treated her like a princess, loved her like a goddess, and did his best to make her happy. They had been friends before they fell in love, and that was important to Sarah. He could respect her and give her space when she needed, and that was important too. When she first realized she loved him, she could have sworn that she heard someone cry, and it felt like somewhere a heart was breaking, but a gentle breeze blew that away and she forgot about the memory of the face that almost appeared with that sob, and it was over.

Now, two years later and well into a good marriage, Sarah's past was all but a shadow in her mind. Pat's acting was taking him into movies, while she clung to the stage, each relishing in their performance space and audience. Her past… Sarah had only ever told Pat what she thought really happened, about the doctors and medicines, about how she had awoken from a long, foggy dream and how she tried to put her foolishness behind her. 'Besides,' she had said as they had cuddled after she told him all she remembered, 'that's not even possible. No wonder my parents were so worried.'

Of course, Patrick only heard what Sarah wanted to tell. Even though she was honest, about her parents coming home to discover she had hit her head after a tumble, and how she had 'hallucinated' about a giant labyrinth, and creatures, and a man who's image was quickly fading from her memory as she explained the story even to her parents. Of course, even after her spill she continued to see the creatures, and they had adventures, and shared stories, but her parents couldn't see them, and being worried about their daughter sought help.

After much fuss, Sarah was convinced that they weren't real, that she was suffering from hitting her head, and that it was all a composite from her imagination, toys, and stories. For a time, she didn't want to believe it, but after an extended stay at a clinic, and none of her friends appeared when she called for them like usual, she resigned that perhaps she was sick and needed help after all. A few more months on medication had set her right as rain according to her doctors, and she went on at school to continue her acting as she had been working on it before. Her 'personality changes' that were elicited by her 'tumble' – which Sarah at the time attributed to her time spent in the Labyrinth but later gave up on – were almost a one-eighty from where she had been before that fateful night. These changes worried her parents, but in the long run they were glad for her growing up.

After her ordeal and suffering, and really due to the medications she was on, Sarah started to forget the things that she had been so adamant on believing in. Perhaps it was giving into the rational thinking pressed upon her by others and believe it to be the truth, replacing the actuality of her past, or maybe it was watching the video of herself talking to thin air, holding on a detailed conversation. Whatever it was that had been in her mind before was gone and buried. Sarah was not the same, dream-ridden girl who had wished away her baby brother – who she was still very fond of and pampered whenever she could – but a reasonable, quiet-tempered adult who had a calm fierceness about her.

Such is life, some would say, to put away childish things when we become adults. So Sarah had put aside her childish things and behavior in favor of a more subdued adulthood.

Pat knew some of why Sarah talked in her sleep, why she dreamed the same thing over and over, why she could never quite remember the details, but since she didn't know the missing pieces, neither did he. It was frustrating for the both of them, because he wanted her to be happy, and she wanted to remember the exact details of it all, but as time passed, it became more and more like smoke on the fading horizon. Her fantasies and dreams were just wishful thinking, while her career, her marriage, her passion for theatre, those were real and she could touch them… Her fingers wound themselves around Pat's and she blushed softly as he kissed her hand.

"Breakfast this morning my sweet?"

"No," she sighed, listening to the angry grumble of her empty, but queasy, stomach. "I think I'll grab something at the sound stage. But I'll enjoy a cup of coffee with you while you eat, if you don't mind me getting ready while you cook."

"Sure thing." He kissed her lips softly and then was gone, padding out the door of their expansive home and down toward the kitchen.

It was and had always been his domain, the kitchen, since he could cook miles ahead of her, around her, and always took joy in fixing her something. She never went hungry, that was for sure, even when they were first married and things were tight. She got out of bed again, her stomach lurching as she did so, and as she made her way to the bathroom she could hear the sound of something being fried in a pan, and the wafting smell of bacon teased her nose.

Sarah considered a bath before she started the shower, and enjoyed the hot water rolling down her back. Her nausea was feeling better already, and it was as if she hadn't felt ill at all… what a silly way to start the day. Besides, she had felt ill for the last week and had managed to make it through work and all very well, why did she have to throw up today? Tomorrow was performance night and she couldn't rightly fall ill. Her understudy was good, but the producers of a few Broadway shows were going to be there and it was important that she be her best.

The hot water was delicious and she washed herself slowly, still thinking about the dream she had. Why was it always the same dream, why did it relate to a head injury she had almost ten years ago? It wasn't like it happened yesterday, or like any of it was real, but it felt so real in her dream, as though she had been standing there. It was disturbing that the things that so many people had told her weren't real kept appearing in her dreams. She would have to make a note of seeing her therapist before too long, so that she could ask what the dreams meant.

Slowly, carefully, Sarah got out of the shower. It was her favorite time of day, when she could be alone in the running water, thinking. She loved to think, and the water helped a lot, for whatever reason. It was always such a sad moment when the hot water ran out. She could smell fried eggs and toast cooking, probably a typical 'Pat breakfast' as she called it – he never did anything small, and he never overlooked anything. He was a very romantic guy, and she did love him, but sometimes he was so overbearing it was ridiculous, but despite it she still found herself irrevocably attracted to him, crazy in love with him.

She wrapped her towel up around herself, drying her long hair with a second towel, when she hit a slick spot on the floor and headed toward the toilet with such speed that it was dizzying. In a ninja-fast move Sarah shot out a hand and caught herself on the edge of the bathtub, which pulled her arm in an awkward position behind her back that would probably require ice later. She fell a little and her temple hit the edge of the tub in her save, but her reach had saved her from knocking her head on the toilet, floor, and cracking open her skull. The impact was minor compared to what it might have been.

She seethed quietly and lifted herself up, shaking slightly. It was more shock than actual pain, but she still decided to look to see if it was going to goose-egg, bruise, or just leave a red mark. A trembling hand wiped away the steam that had formed on the glass and she peered closely, making sure that it wasn't anything serious. Just as she was satisfied with what she saw, and pulled back to get a full reflection, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a crinkled face, bulbous nose and wispy hair. She turned around, frightened, recognizing the little man from one of her dreams, but there was no one there. She turned back to the mirror, afraid it would still be there, and it was. It smiled again, and said simply, "Sarah."

She screamed and tore out of the bathroom, landing in her bed and pulling the covers over her head, still screaming. She lay there, naked and trembling, until Patrick arrived, soothing her with his baritone voice and convincing her that there wasn't anything in the room, and that she needed to come out so he could see what was wrong. She cried a little when he finally pulled the covers from her head, and she glanced around wildly. Her terrified behavior was so unlike the woman he married that Pat clung to her, holding her until she calmed down enough to tell him what happened.

"Do you… think you might have done damage when you hit your head, do you think it might be bringing up old hallucinations?" His voice was soft and gentle in a way that was reserved for very special occasions, and it made Sarah listen and lean against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

"I don't know," she told him quietly. "I don't know."