Disclaimer: Labyrinth is not mine

Hello! Well, here it is! The sequel of Mr. Owl! Homework is not that tough this week and I was able to post this. I hope that it meets your expectations!

Mr. Owl is pretty much canon, but this one deviates from the movie. It focuses on Little Sarah and what would have happened if she had wished herself away to the goblins.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed One Last Time! I was very happy to know that you liked it. Hope that you'll like this one too!

Oh where, oh where has my little owl gone?

Oh where, oh where can he be?

With his eyes mismatched and his feathers all brown,

Oh where, oh where can he be?

She was running away yet again.

In the part of her mind not preoccupied with avoiding ravaging cars and tumultuous crowds, Sarah wondered if she was doomed to flee for the rest of her days. If life carried on like this, if her every prayer continued to fall on deaf ears, there was no doubt about it.

A passer-by pushed passed the little girl, knocking her to the cold gravel road. In his haste, he did not turn back to see if she was all right or maybe he didn't really care. A recklessly speeding vehicle swerved to avoid her, its inebriated driver yelling expletives in her way.

Sarah gingerly wobbled back to the sidewalk, nursing a scraped knee, her breath expelled out of her lungs from the fall, but that was not on her mind at the moment. The obstreperous cacophony of the late evening town was very confounding. The uneven, clashing sounds muddled her perception and the ability to think straight had abandoned her. The only thought she had registered was that she had no idea where she was.

Lost. She was completely and utterly, lost.

A queasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, as she tried to discern her current location. A portly cop stood nearby, munching on a much needed snack, and a box of warm doughnuts nestled safely in his arms.

She shied away from him, ambling on the opposite path. 'Mr. Policeman, sir' was the last thing she needed now; he would only bring her back to where she started from. 'Mr. Policeman' won't understand – she had learned long ago that adults never did. He couldn't possibly comprehend the reason she 'ran away,' or why she was so determined to reach her destination.

More importantly, he would never agree with her that the ultimate weapon of destruction man can ever dream of had already been created, and had existed long before he invented anything else: words.

Words had always held a perennial sway over the course of events in History – they had created or destroyed kingdoms, started or ended wars, and broadly, somehow responsible for why the present is as it is. Long, panegyric words of extolment can effortlessly win those who easily wield to flattery, while a few carelessly thrown phrases can break the spirit of the tender-hearted. Speech was a prerogative more oftenly misused than not.

Sarah knew that some words shouldn't be taken too seriously especially when they are said in a moment of anger. But why do they still hurt so much?

Surely her mother didn't mean it when she said that she didn't want to see her again? Mothers are supposed to love their children no matter what. Yet her mind was cruelly replaying the things her mummy had said over and over again. Mummy didn't seem to love her when she said that.

"Mummy? Mummy, may I leave?" Sarah remembered asking. "I'll only be gone for a while."

Her mother, who had been entertaining herself by blowing smoke rings in the air with her cigarette, suddenly threw her wineglass on the wall, managing to shatter it to a million pieces.

Sarah stared at the crimson liquid which was slowly dripping on the carpet, relieved that the fragile glassware was not hurled in her direction. Would her blood mingling with the wine make the red stand out more?

"I couldn't care less," her mother had slurred, the alcohol in her system impairing her speech. "Who would want a stupid mute child like you anyway?"

It's just the wine. The wine was talking, not her mummy. Mummy loves her.

Linda Williams staggered to the counter, pouring herself another drink. Holding her cigarette between her teeth, she rummaged through her diamond-studded purse.

"Here," she said, tossing a handful of coins at Sarah's feet.

Sarah had stared at the floor uncomprehendingly and back at her.

"Are you deaf as well as deaf?" Linda demanded. "Leave! I don't want to see you again. I don't have a daughter as stupid as you."

Tears prickled at the back of her eyes. Sarah had only meant to drop by the drug store to see if she could get her mother a remedy for hang – hang-over? Was it called hang over? She couldn't understand why it was not called 'hang-after'; the sickness happened right after drinking, right? Those 'hang-overs' were really nasty from what she heard.

Sarah stared at the fistful of coins in her hand. There was barely enough money to buy a loaf of bread but she didn't want it. She knew it was foolish, but somehow, she thought that by spending it to satiate her own needs, it would be admitting defeat; that she was finally believing that her mother didn't love her anymore.

Had she been a bad little girl? Sarah made sure to eat her vegetables and followed her bedtime. Maybe her mother stopped loving her because the law books chucked at her hovered mysteriously in the air before landing softly on the ground. Or maybe it was because the bullies now seldomly teased her and were frequently talking about 'goblin nightmares,'

Sarah didn't have anything to do with it, swear! She was just walking around when the pile of sickly green goo fell out of nowhere on top of Melissa and Joanna, two of her classmates who had pushed her down the mud puddle prior to that. They smelled really bad afterwards. She knew nothing of the little blue worn which plopped on Anthony's sandwich, the boy who enjoyed pulling her hair.

Sarah had to smile at that. He had screamed shriller than a girl, which seemed very pointless since the odd worm ignored him and curled up on itself, comfortable on the still-warm sandwich. There were other tricks, though they were harmless. Nevertheless, the victims of the pranks had complained to their parents, blaming Sarah for the incidents, and thus landing her in a lot of hot water. No matter how hard she told them that she was innocent, they hadn't believed her.

She had no proof, but Sarah had a sneaking suspicion that the snickers which always followed her were responsible.

She looked around, vastly relieved to see that her aimless wanderings landed her in more familiar surroundings.

The sun was preparing for its nocturnal slumber, its august rays painting the sky a florid red-orange and promising that it will come back tomorrow. She liked the way shadows slunk out from where they came from, summoned by the slanted shafts of light. And along the streets, people pass by as if they hadn't noticed.

She wrinkled her brow in thought. Maybe they did not. Adults seem too busy to observe the little, nonsensical things that make the world beautiful. A thing needs to have sense in order for them to pay attention to it.

Something caught her eye at which she grinned, finally finding a way to release the money her mother had given her without actually spending it. Skipping cheerfully, she stopped in front of a dimly lit alley and gazed with solemnity at the person occupying it.

"Here ya go, lady miss," she said, dropping the coins in the empty plastic cup. Her stomach grumbled lightly in protest. She hoped that nice lady with the baby did not hear it.

It made Sarah's heart swell when the woman's grimy face split into a broad smile. No one smiled at her nowadays. The infant sleeping in the lady's arms stirred and cracked open an unfocused eye.

"Bless you, dear child."

Sarah nodded and turned to leave, anxious to get away. The poor lady reminded her so much of her own mother when daddy was still with them. She couldn't help but feel resentful, for the baby was so lucky to have a caring mother.

"Little girl! Wait!" Fumbling around the pockets of her frayed garments, the mother brought out a small object, thrusting it into her companion's small hands.

It was a bracelet. The plastic stones were cool against her palm, and Sarah closed her fingers upon it.

"Oh no, lady miss. It's yours; I can't possibly accept it –"

"It was given to me by a friend once," she winked. "It's time I give it to one of my own friends. Who knows? Maybe one day, you'll bestow it to one of your own."

Sarah stared at the bracelet which was fastened to her wrist. Friend. The lady had called her a friend. And someday, Sarah is going to give it to one of her own friends, too!

To whom should she give it? There was this nice old lady at the bakery who always talked to her and gave a free piece of pastry whenever she stopped by. There was Mr. Walters, the old man next door who had lost his beloved granddaughter. "Me fault, me fault the lass's gone," he said sadly when she had asked about her. He was lonely, living in the cold, damp house all by himself, so Sarah would often visit. The neighbors would say that Mr. Walters was cranky and unpleasant, but the little girl thought that anyone would be cranky if they had 'roo-matism' in their legs and needed a hot water bottle at nighttime before going to bed. He was really nice when he talked to her. He had been a chef, and Sarah especially liked the custard creams he made.

And of course, there was her very special friend.

She stopped, noticing that she had arrived at the park. By now, the sun had completely set, and the flashes of lightning warned her that it was not going to be a quiet night.

Had it really been a year since she had met her little feathery acquaintance? It seemed longer than that. She wanted to see him again, but she never did. There were times when she heard the rustle of wings, or a low hoot, at which she would turn around and look, but find no one there.

She sat in the shade of the oak near the glade, the tree which had often comforted her before. This was the place where she first met Mr. Owl; would he come tonight to comfort her?

The oak tree would not judge her, so she allowed the tears to fall from her stinging eyes, burying her face in her hands. A minute had passed, and she looked up, half expecting to see someone there.

There was no one.

It seems to Sarah as if everyone who grew to like her all eventually left, either by choice or by force. First one who ever did was her mother. The person at home wearing her mummy's clothes and looked like Mummy was not her Mummy. Mummy was kind, and kissed her goodnight, and she won't ever hurl a wineglass at the wall or drive little Sarah away.

Mummy left when Daddy went to a 'vacation.' Sarah did not understand: if Daddy went away for a vacation why was he taking the lady who likes pinching Sarah's cheeks with him? Shouldn't he be taking Mummy instead? Mummy looks like she needed a break – she had so many shows and interviews that she barely got any sleep.

The lady at the bakery store left, as well. Even though she had promised Sarah that she would come back, Sarah did not know whether the lady is as good as her word. Mummy and Daddy once promised her that they would never leave, but what happened to that promise?

Mummy had forbidden her to visit Mr. Walters. She said that it was improper for a little girl to visit an old man. Sarah missed him, and the stories he told about his granddaughter who was a lot like her and was well liked. The last thing Sarah had heard is that Mr. Walters had a heart attack and was in the hospital, and she had no way of knowing if he was still alive.

Gone. They were all gone.

"Are you gone too, Mr. Owl?" she whispered sadly. "Were you just a piece of my imagination?" If he indeed was real, he was no better than the adults who left her. She instantly felt guilty when she thought that. Mr. Owl had been nothing but kind to her, and gave her a very nice book.

The wind hummed a dolorous tune, urging the trees to dance along. Overhead, the skies rumbled its disquietude, clouds threatened to flood the earth. But there was no Mr. Owl who came to her in moments of distress, no one to tell her that it was all right.

She bowed her head in resignation.

Sarah took out a little worn leather bound book and stared at its cover.

The Labyrinth. Did she dare hope that such a place exists? Sarah didn't know what was real and what was not anymore. Reality and Fantasy appeared to converge at some point. She had once believed that parents, both mothers and fathers, had no capacity to dislike their children, and that the cruelties little boys and girls experienced were only seen in books, but that did not seem to be true now. One thing she was sure of is that happy endings only belong to fairytale heroes.

Last year, she had been reluctant to say the words for hope still kindled its ebbing flame in her heart. Now that Mr. Owl was gone, the hopefulness was disappeared, too, replaced by a gnawing despair whose magnitude was slowly eroding her already fragile trust.

She had nowhere else to go.

"I wish that the goblins would come and take me away…right now."

What do you think? Please review!

Unfortunately, our long tests is scheduled next week, and followed by another round of exams, so I will be pretty busy. Wish me luck! If I do well, I will post the next chapter quickly.

I've got a dilemna: What age should little Sarah be? Five? Eight? And what should she call Jareth? It will not be rude if she called him by his first name, right? What mischiefs and troubles would a little girl wreak in the Labyrinth? Please tell me what you think. Suggestions are welcome. Thank you!

Chapter two:

"You're him, are you? You're the Goblin King!"