Disclaimer: a statement meant to cover one's ass. Labyrinth and all its characters are true but they are not mine in this form. They belong to the Jim Henson Company.
Through the window, perching on his branch, he sees her. The subjects of their kingdom have celebrated with her, and left, and she has zigzagged back across that grey, increasingly fuzzy line. She sits looking at the mirror, and her body is glowing. Lancelot is no longer hers, though the music box remains. She picks up the lipstick out of habit - then looks at it with abject terror and puts it down again.
You have no power over me, she said. He is immendely proud of her. That's his girl!
'Girl'?
No, not anymore. She knows who is in power now. He managed to coax her to the realization of it and this, if nothing else, satisfies him.
Does this mean he does not regret her departure?
Not so.
Though the essences of which he is made are ancient beyond measure, the particularities of his expression are, after all, determined by her, and she still has much to learn. Hence his frustration. He will always be older than her, and he will always have to wait for her to understand.
But all in all, time is inessential here, ephemeral. He is here and he always has been here, waiting at every single step. As her call woke him up, the story changed, so that he had always ruled this land. Between the two of them, they made it so.
Of course his temptation was born of his desire. Of course he plays to win. Of course he desires her.
If no one else in the world did, he still would. He can't imagine not doing so, and perhaps that is why he takes her rejection this time so stoically.
If Owl was a human, this would be sad, but he is not, and he knows that it is not the ending but the beginning. They danced, and there is no way back. She awoke him. He will not go to sleep again. What he knows and she does not, (at any rate, not yet) is that he does not rule the Labyrinth as much as he is the Labyrinth. He enjoyed the tapping of her eager feet, he remembers them now and waits.
The girl inside the room keeps staring in the mirror, being neither here nor there (oubliette?). As the days pass it will dawn her, that she did not leave the Labyrinth, and that she never will. And even if he wanted to release her, that is not the way of things. She would have to unlearn what she found out, an impossible thing.
The truth is this:
Sometimes, an owl is just an owl. Sometimes it is one of the kings of Fae in disguise.
Sometimes, it is both and neither. Presently, the owl hears the rustle of a mouse in the undergrowth, and takes off, knowing that change is the only given, knowing he is both of her and not. Lucky owl is true, but not bound by time. He can wait while she walks the long way round.
He is with her. Whatever is true is with her.
I'll jot more down as and if it comes to me. I think it may :) Extra points for those who spotted the musical reference in the last line (Artist referred: Eivør).