Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Labyrinth except for my ideas about it.... and even that's debatable.
A/N: This is my first attempt at a long fan fic, so please be kind and review. I love feedback, and ideas, so gimme. Please! Also, anyone want to beta? E-mail me.
The purple shadows of twilight had wrapped the gardens of Rosethorn in shadows and mist. The twisting paths that meandered through the overgrown gardens and woodlands of the estate were silver pale trails through the darkness, and the stillness of the evening wrapped everything in eerie serenity. In the sky, the half moon glowed as the last lingering rays of the sun caressed its surface, and the first stars flickered into life.
Making her way through the gardens as the evening deepened, Sarah breathed in the serenity and peace of her home. She had found Rosethorn five years earlier, when the fame that had come with the success of her plays and books had first become overwhelming, and from the moment she had stepped into the vast gardens she had sensed that this place was home. A strange feeling, perhaps, for the whole place radiated a sense of otherness that had put off many buyers, but Sarah had understood immediately that Rosethorn was a place where the old magics were still strong, a welcome change from the impersonal noise and filth of the crowded cities she had lived in for so long. She had bought the estate, and it had become her haven, a sanctuary from a world which had merely grown harder to bear as the years passed.
As she walked, Sarah considered her home. Many who had lived at Rosethorn in the past had complained that the woods contained strange creatures which howled lonely cries into the night; had muttered that the twisting paths through the hedge mazes and herb gardens changed and tricked the unwary; had sworn that the sandstone and timber house at the heart of the estate was haunted by restless spirits, but none of this bothered Sarah. The woods she wandered freely, hearing only bird song; the paths that tangled others under her feet straightened and led her swiftly where she wished to go; and the spirits that infested the house, and spirits there were, treated her with respect and cast blessings over all she welcomed within. The magic that pervaded Rosethorn was kin to the magic that dwelled within her, and it bowed before the will of one who knew still the old stories and the old ways, who left out milk and bread for the Fae, who sang to the restless spirits on All Hallow's Eve and who, most importantly, bore the mark of the Labyrinth burned into her very soul.
Checking a sigh, Sarah turned back towards the house, thoughts of the Labyrinth as ever troubling her on this day. Fifteen years had passed, and still she remembered the 13 hours she had spent in the Goblin Kingdom with a clarity that was sometimes frightening. Few other memories in her life glowed with that brightness, each moment recorded perfectly, each detail present if she merely closed her eyes. The dreams were worse. Every scent, every touch replaying as she once more ran the twisting paths of the Labyrinth, and she had learned long ago not to sleep on the anniversary of her victory. It was hard to remember now that she had once believed the words she had spoken to break His spell, believed that they had applied not only to the intimidating villain of the piece but to his world as well. She had been foolish and arrogant and blind. She should have remembered that no-one returned from the Otherworld untouched. The Labyrinth had left its mark on her.
As had He.
A low, harsh sound, not quite a laugh or a sob, erupted from Sarah's mouth as that thought slipped in unbidden. She tried not to think of Him, of the marks He had left, fingerprints on her soul that would never fade. And He had not known, could not know, that in the moment when she had at last realised why He had marked her so deeply, she had almost broken, come so close to death that it had taken all her brother's love and all the fire and defiant stubbornness she had left to keep from simply willing herself into the welcoming oblivion. She had survived, but not without scars, not all of which were emotional.
Without thought, she clenched her left hand into a fist, feeling the scar tissue pull painfully across the back of her hand. The price she had paid for losing control, of herself and the magic which now flowed in her veins. Under her command, the magic was a powerful tool and, after fifteen years, she wielded it well, but she had never forgotten the painful lesson.... Without focus, magic was a forest fire out of control, harming the wielder and all around her. It was not a lesson she would ever forget.
With an effort, Sarah pulled her mind from the dark thoughts threatening to consume her, focusing instead upon the positive outcomes of her jaunt in the Labyrinth. She had friends who had never once failed to be there for her, a brother who had grown into a companion and a successful career. A slight grin tugged at her mouth. Sarah Williams, acclaimed author and playwright..... She shook her head. She had always thought, when she was little, that she would be an actor like her mother, but as she had grown older she had realised that she no longer longed for the limelight, for the thunder of applause. She was pleased that her stories had been so well received, but sometimes wished that they had not been quite so popular. She valued her privacy, and the success of her early work had made it hard to keep her solitude. Five years on, her reclusive nature was generally accepted, though an occasional nosy reporter would pop up after she had something new published. She had become quite adept at getting rid of them.
The house suddenly appeared before her, and Sarah hurried up the stone steps and into the kitchen. Putting the kettle on, she fumbled in the cupboard for coffee, then frowned when she realised her favourite cup was not where she had left it. Growling under her breath she made her way into the study and stopped, a stab of surprise and terror freezing her blood as she took in the lean form silhouetted against the window, blonde hair gleaming palely in the moonlight as he stood, feet shoulder width apart, staring out the window.
Jareth!?