Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune-without the words,
And never stops at all
- Emily Dickinson
There was an owl.
Sarah regarded it reservedly, standing on the snow-frosted steps that led up to her apartment. It stared back unblinkingly.
The young woman drew her coat around her more tightly as a cold gale raked across her skin, shivering. She wanted to go inside. But this…this was intriguing.
Curiosity kills, Sarah, her conscience warned.
I am no cat, she retorted.
"Are you…? I mean, are you…" Somehow, the question she wanted to ask (hello, my fine feathered friend, do you happen to be a magical, tights-wearing King in disguise?) shriveled up and died in her throat.
It was well past sunset, the only light coming from the dingy little lamp post in front of the complex, so it wasn't too unbelievable that an owl should be out and about on his own business. But this owl was so white, so pale, and seemed to emit a soft glow of ethereal light. And the dark eyes set back into the pale face were intent, shining, fixed on her like there was nothing else in the world it could have found more fascinating.
Not to mention it seemed to have a vague air of amusement at her difficulty speaking. Owls certainly couldn't express any emotion, she was sure.
Another gust swirled through the buildings. "It's freezing out here."
A ruffle went through his feathers, making him momentarily fluffier than usual before they settled flat again.
"Shouldn't you be at home?" God, she hoped her neighbors weren't watching this conversation. "You know, getting warm, or something? It's really way too cold to be out hunting tonight."
No matter what you may be hunting for, she finished silently.
The owl made no attempt to respond, but (was it just her, or…) his eyes sharpened, as though he had sensed what had remained unsaid.
Unnerved, Sarah turned. "Go home. I don't know whether or not that's a hollow in a tree or a tower in a castle, but you're not welcome here."
A.N.: Oh Sarah, wouldn't you be so put off if this turned out to be a real owl. But I'm not that evil...Jareth, however, I can't speak for -snark snark snark-
The chapters will get longer! Read and review, pretty please.
Sarah and Jareth (no matter what form he chooses to appear in) belong to Henson. I take no credit for that lovely tight-in-the-trousers brainchild.