Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

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Chapter 1

Moonlight

The whisper of silk skirts brushing one another, sighing with longing. The heaviness of a thousand gems sewn onto her bodice, twinkling in the candlelight like a thousand stars. Perfume hung in the air, heady and full of promise, and the taste of champagne and peaches lingered on her tongue. She could hear music.

And through it all, under it all, the feeling that she was searching for something she'd forgotten -- this terrible sense of loss. The grandfather clock loomed over the dancing throng, its short hand approaching twelve o'clock. There was something important about midnight. Yet she could not remember, and she still could not find what she was searching for in that dizzying sea of masked faces.

And a hand upon her waist, guiding her through the crowd. That hand was sure and confident, gloved in black leather. She was dancing in someone's arms, arms that held gently and yet securely. Arms that held her protectively from the leering faces. Yet his face was a blur, dark and forgotten.

A tapping at the window woke Sarah from her dream. She was in her bedroom, the planes of the room washed in the darkness of night, unlit by elaborate chandeliers. The masked faces faded. The glittering ball gown was only a set of striped pajamas, and the music was the moaning of the wind through the leaves of the apple tree outside her window, batting its branches against the glass. There was no hand upon her waist.

Slipping her feet out from under the covers, she crossed the room and flung open the window. The night air was cool, banishing the last wisps of the dream. But the terrible sense of loss remained.

Sarah sat down on the window seat, drawing up her knees so that she could rest her cheek against them. Moonlight streamed in through the open window, a pool of pale blue on the carpet, and her shadow, blurry and indistinct. A glint of silver as the breeze brushed against the gazebo figureine, setting off hesitant strains of its melody.

The gazebo alone had escaped the scourge of childhood. Each time, she made up her mind to throw it away, the forlorn princess in her silver gown, and the haunting almost remembered music seemed to reach into a part of her heart, begging to remember. In the end, she never could, a memento of a dream that came true once, even if only for a little while.

A glimmer of red in the mirror, an action glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned, nothing was there. Everything lay still. Had she only imagined something -- or someone -- scurrying into the safety of darkness? Or perhaps a beckoning hand? I need you, Hoggle she thought, hugging her knees. The thought took her by surprise. Where had it come from? She repeated the thought out loud, a prayer, a forgotten childhood talisman against fear. "I need you Hoggle. I don' t know why, but I need you."

Only the silence responded.

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"Toby, don't wander too far!" she called to the laughing boy of eight, running after the ducks in the park. A shaggy sheepdog followed, his tongue lolling as he bounded over the grass in reckless abandonment. The boy paid her no attention, and Sarah merely shrugged her shoulders, knowing full well he'd return when he ran out of bread crumbs. The air rang with his shrieks of delight as the ducks came at his call.

Sarah spread her blanket under a willow and took from her bag a book. It was a paperback, small, thin, and drab. She opened it to a dog-eared page.

"Excuse me...." Sarah looked up from her book. A young girl of about twelve years blushed furiously. "Excuse me, are you Sarah Williams, the actress?" The word was spoken with the reverence of a title, as if she were a princess, or even a queen.

Sarah smiled, remembering full well the same awe she had treated the members of her profession in her younger years -- the adoration she'd held for her mother and her costar Jeremy. They had seemed as bright as stars in the sky, just as beautiful and equally untenable. "I am," she replied kindly. The girl blushed even more furiously (was it possible?) and produced a notebook and pen. Graciously, Sarah took it, opening it past pages of adolescent scribbles and magazine clippings to a blank page. She personalized it to -- "Lizzie," the child said humbly, "Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Lizzie" -- with a brief message about staying true to one's self, and signed it with a flourish. She handed it back.

At this moment, a young boy bounded over to them, sandy brown hair falling in his eyes. "I'm sorry, is my sister bothering you?" he asked, setting a hand down on the shoulders of the young girl. Lizzie pouted. Not a boy, really, Sarah thought. He was well into his twenties, tall and well-built, obviously comfortable in his own skin. Yet it was the easiness of long years of athleticism, not the arrogant confidence of... she lost the thought. She shook her head.

"Not at all," she replied, giving Lizzie another kindly smile. The pout vanished."

"Lizzie, go play with the ducks," her brother commanded. When she opened her mouth to protest, he added in a tone of absolute finality, "Now." Huffing and grumbling, she obeyed.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he said almost accusingly, "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I used to come here a lot as a child, but now I live in the city for work," she replied. "I'm here with my brother."

"Your brother?"

She pointed. "Toby Williams, who's also playing with the ducks."

Comprehension dawned on his face. "You're Sarah Williams, the actress."

"Guilty." She laughed, a silvery bell-like chime.

"Well!" he declared. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, leaving it messier than before. "I'd never thought I'd run into you of all people here in this park. I'm Christopher Andersen. Call me Chris." He stuck out his hand.

Reaching up from her seat, Sarah shook it. His grip was firm and calloused, the hand of someone who enjoyed the sunlight.

Without an invitation, he dropped onto the blanket beside her. "Are you only in town for the weekend?" he asked.

Sarah contemplated him. He was dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, a windbreaker unzipped over a t-shirt. He seemed unaware of any transgressions, completely at ease in the ignorance of youth. He was okay. "Yes," she said. "I'm going back to the city tomorrow. I won't be back until Thanksgiving break."

"Oh." He was clearly disappointed. "And I suppose your family will want you all to themselves tonight then?"

"Yes." It was Toby who answered. He had returned when he'd seen a man plop down onto the blanket next to his beloved sister. Even worse, an unfamiliar man, who was clearly leaning in too close. He glared balefully at the stranger, one hand buried in Merlin's shaggy fur. The dog, however, sensed no danger and merely sat down on the grass happily. "Sarah promised to tell me a story tonight."

Sarah smiled, a dazzling smile. It was neither apologetic or rueful. "I promised to tell Toby a story," she told Chris. "It was very nice to meet you."

He was already climbing to his feet. "It was," he agreed. "Maybe I'll see you again, when you come back for Thanksgiving. See you, Toby. Goodbye, Sarah."

"What did he want?" Toby demanded, when Chris had left with his sister. Lizzie was waving her notebook excitedly. He glared at their backs.

"Nothing," Sarah said distractedly. "Just a neighbor, I think."

The suspicion in Toby's eyes subsided, a little. However, he didn't leave her side the rest of the afternoon, laying his head in her lap as she read to him out of her book, about a princess who had been kidnapped by the goblins under her castle.

The gloom of dusk stole upon them. The autumn evening was cool and brisk, reverberating with the promise of adventure. In the distance, the bell struck seven, yet the sound of bells did not bring the sense of panic they once did. No thunderstorm took her by surprise. Sarah shut her book.

"Dinner time, Toby," she said.

The boy rubbed his eyes, sitting up from where he lay with his head in her lap. He loved when Sarah read him stories. When his parents read, they were simply reciting words, disconnected from the story, something apart from themselves. But Sarah would bring the story to life, her voice full of expression and tones and nuances, and they would live the story. She used to tell the most amazing stories about goblins and an ever-changing maze, until one day, she'd simply stopped. When he'd asked her for the story again, the one about the King of Goblins, she'd looked blank. He'd never asked for the story again.

Holding hands, they walked home. A white owl watched them go past, and a strange anxiety, almost a fear, made Toby hang tighter onto his sister's hand. When they rounded the corner, the owl was still watching them, its head cocked to the side.

Three hours later, she tucked Toby to bed. The room was guarded by various stuffed animals, stuffed animals that had once watched over Sarah in her youth. Lancelot the Teddy Bear led the vanguard from his place of honor, tucked under Toby's chin.

"Do you think we'll ever see Jareth again?" he mumbled sleepily.

Sarah paused -- almost froze, almost -- in the middle of pulling the covers up over him. "Who?" she asked.

Toby was asleep already.

Silently, she pressed Lancelot against the sleep boy, as if the teddy bear could ward her brother like the fabled knight that was its namesake. The name had awakened several emotions within her, yet it was fear that gripped her the most tightly. Fear for Toby. Fear for herself. And also, inexplicably, a strange excitement -- or was it nervousness? Almost like the butterflies in her stomach when she went on stage, this strange exhilaration that left her breathless and afraid to move for fear that the moment would pass. Yet she could not remember knowing anyone called Jareth. Such an old-fashioned name too.

Outside, the wind whistled and moaned, and she seemed to hear it call her own name, tossing it upon the tumultuous air. "Sarah! Sarah!" it cried in despair. Shivering, she closed the window and drew the curtain, shutting the cold dark night. Switching the light off, she closed the door after her.

Her hand lingered on the doorknob. No, she was being silly. Why should she suddenly worry that Toby had vanished?

From the window seat in her old bedroom, the moon was a silver orb in the sky. The little dancing figure spun in her gazebo as the music box played its haunting melody. Her book lay on the floor, forgotten as she stared at the full moon.

I'll place the moon within your heart....

She dreamed of the opulent ballroom again, its heavy chandeliers hung with strings of crystals that, when she looked at them closely, were actually strings of bitter tears. The same haunting music played in the background, guiding the steps of the masked dancers milling around her, guiding her steps. Someone was holding her in his arms, gently, tightly, lovingly. She snuggled closer, relishing the softness of velvet under her fingertips. Music surrounded them, distant, haunting, alien, and familiar. They swayed to its cadence, oblivious to everything.

A hand smoothed her hair, trailing along her jaw. The hand was gloved in leather, soft and sensual. "Trust to you dreams, Sarah. Trust to me," he murmured. His voice was deep and compelling, each word a caress.

"I do," she murmured. "I do believe in you. I do."

But the world was fading, crumbling into dust at her feet. She stood in absolute darkness, dust in her arms as her mysterious dance partner also collapsed and dissolved. Only the sound of his voice, calling her name, remained. She woke up with tears on her cheeks.

The voice was her father. He and her stepmother had returned.

She'd fallen asleep on the window seat. As she pushed her hair back from her face, white petals fell down in a shower onto her lap. They had drifted in through the window and clung to her hair, where they shone like little white stars in the darkness of her long black hair.

Outside, a white owl regarded her from its perch among the apple blossoms. It was so still, blending into the pale flowers of its surroundings. It watched as the girl (really a young woman) went to the door of the bedroom and spoke with someone, an older man, before shutting the door.

Leaning out to shut the window, Sarah paused. The night breeze brought the scent of apples, teasing her hair and brushing against her bare skin. Something pressed against her, pressed against her tongue, words that were waiting to be said. She felt that if she knew just what to words to say, something exciting and magical would happen. Something wonderful. But what were her right words?

As if it read her thoughts, the white owl took flight in a flurry of feathers and white flowers. With a gasp, Sarah fell backwards, her arms raised, but the owl was flying away, no longer visible in the darkness of the night.