Title: The Owl King

Author: MidnightCat99

Summary: Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

Rating: K+

Author's Note: I meant to post this on Friday, but my internet wasn't working. Sorry. Anyway…Ha! Told you this chapter would be way longer than the last one. Hehe. Well, this took forever. I wrote a lot of this part over a month ago, but I wasn't happy with how my writing was turning out, so I kept changing and obsessing over silly little things. But anyway, I hope you like it. (=

Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth. The same goes for "The Frog Prince."

Chapter III

Bargain

"Sarah!" a shrill voice shrieked outside my door, accompanied by a series of sharp raps on the wood. "Open up!"

My eyes darted from the book in my lap to the window, wild thoughts of constructing a rope out of old shirts leaping to my mind. If I tie the knots just right…

"Sarah!"

Sighing irritably and abandoning all hope of escape, I placed The Labyrinth under my pillow, jumped up from my bed, and flung open the door. Charlotte, the oldest of the Triple Terrors by thirteen minutes, tilted her head back to look up at me, her pink lips parting in the Smile.

"It wasn't even locked," I said. Because someone hid the key. Again.

"But just barging in without knocking would've been rude," she responded sweetly.

"And pounding on my door till I answer is polite?"

She shrugged, the Smile still in place.

"All right, what do you want?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"To go play at Jenni's house."

I studied my fingers, picking at the neon nail polish. "So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Mom said to have you drive me."

"Did she? And she didn't even bother asking me if I had time to do it."

"She said you were probably only reading again."

Inwardly I seethed at the statement. Insult the hobby, you insult the book with which that hobby is practiced, which is entirely unacceptable. "Only reading? Since when is reading unimportant?"

Another shrug. "Can you take me yet?"

"I happen to be busy at the moment."

She tried to push past me into the room. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business." I crossed my arms and stood resolutely in the center of the doorway to block her entry. "Now leave, Charlotte. I'm not taking you anywhere."

She frowned up at me, her suddenly irritated expression a mirror of my own. "I'll tell Mom," she threatened, voice high.

"I'm trembling."

"I'll…I'll…" She fell abruptly silent, her small nose wrinkling, the tell-tell sign that she was deep in thought. I watched her, almost amused. Almost. Then her face lit up and the Smile returned. "I'll tell Mom about the trunkful of fairy tale costumes you snuck back out of our garage sale last month."

A quick spark of fear shocked my body into stillness, but then I dissipated the unbidden emotion and released a snort. "You don't even have proof of that."

"Actually, I do. You keep the trunk hidden in the nearby park."

I felt an explosion of heat race up my neck, flooding my cheeks. "You little stalker! You followed me to my park?"

"Your park?"

"I––" Embarrassment caused my flush to deepen. Silly as it might sound, I'd taken to calling the park located two miles from home "my park." When Karen's key-snatching habits made it clear several years ago that my bedroom hardly fit the requirements of a haven, I began to seek refuge in my park. There, without my irksome family to bother me, I was free to immerse myself in my fantasies, reading (and rereading) The Labyrinth and acting out my favorite parts, imagining I was the courageous teenage heroine who both defeated the wicked Goblin King and foiled her malevolent stepmother's plans to make her life a living heck. Since Karen was not an outdoors kind of person, I didn't have to worry about her following me to my alfresco sanctuary. And the triplets? Why on earth would they travel two miles merely to further torment their unfortunate elder sister? There were vicious, yes, but surely not to that extent. Apparently, I'd underestimated how far my troublesome siblings were willing to go to drive me up the wall. Charlotte had followed me, and if she divulged the hiding place of my costumes to Karen, I was dead.

Crud. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll take you." Snatching up my purse and car keys, I pushed through the open door and marched out to the garage, deliberately ignoring the seven-year-old at my heels, her face aglow with gleeful triumph.

Ten miles of driving, one trip to the toy store, and twenty-five wasted dollars later, I at last found myself back in my bedroom. One glance was all it took for me to realize something wasn't quite right. Someone's been in my room again.

My gaze swept the small space, searching for the source of the not-quite-rightness. All my stuffed animals were in their proper places in the cubby holes on the wall, even Lancelot, a frequent target of the triplets' kidnapping escapades. The shelves were lined with the correct number and order of books, and my array of knickknacks sat neatly on my desk as usual.

Finally my eyes fell on the bed, and instantly narrowed.

The blankets were ever so slightly out of place; the pillow was askew.

Trepidation and ire battling for supremacy within me, I sucked in a breath, placed one hand on the pillow, and tore it from the bed. The Labyrinth still sat underneath, just where I'd left it. Still, its scarlet cover taunted me, daring me to part its pages and search for signs of destructive actions at the hands of my siblings. I brushed two fingers tentatively against the vermillion novel, then berated myself for my cowardice and flipped it open.

Pages marred by purple marks met my eyes.

"Markers!" I exclaimed, flinging out the pair of syllables in utter repugnance. "Not just crayons, but permanent markers!"

Instinctively my hand plastered itself against my mouth to smother the inevitable outraged scream. I crushed my face to my pillow, releasing my vociferations into the unfortunate white cushion. Several minutes later I lifted my head slightly, just enough so that I was no longer in danger of suffocating myself.

Okay, Sarah, let's just count to ten. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7––ah, heck, forget it.

I rose from the bed slowly, lips parting to form a single word: "Toby." Of course it was Toby. The chaotic violet streaks running down The Labyrinth's pages could belong neither to Charlotte, who was at her friend's house, nor Blair, who actually possessed some artistic talent.

I stormed out of my bedroom. Time to punish the little Picasso wannabe. Flying down the staircase, I burst into the living room. Two blond heads popped up in unison at my loud entrance: Blair and Toby, the Triple Terrors minus their leader.

"Toby," I all but snarled.

The youngest triplet's face was the picture of innocence. "Yes, Sarah?"

Fury coursing through my veins like scalding blood, I snapped, "Why on earth would you color in my favorite book?"

His thin shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. The impenitency of the motion caused me to ball me hands into fists. "Charlotte dared me to," he said. As if that simple statement ended the conversation, the boy turned his attention back to his card game with Blair.

The rage had grown so hot that it almost physically, truly hurt. "Charlotte dared––Why would she––Oh wait, why would I even ask that?" My voice dripped with sarcasm, and Toby glanced up again. "Why do you Terrors do anything? Oh, I know! It's just what you do. It's all a part of your grand scheme to make my life miserable!"

"Sarah," he whispered, turquoise eyes clouding with tears.

I groaned and squeezed my own eyes shut. While Charlotte's power lay in manipulation and Blair's in intelligence beyond her seven years, Toby's lay in feigned innocence and delicacy. He was pro at playing China Doll, harmless and guiltless and prone to shatter at the slightest raised voice. This was how he elicited pity and escaped punishment for the scrapes that he, as a Terror, managed to get himself into time and again. His ability to spontaneously induce tears certainly didn't help matters much. Far too many times had I allowed myself to be tricked into letting the child off the hook. But not this time.

My eyes shot open again. The tears were dribbling down Toby's face now. And suddenly my resolve to continue extracting revenge for my soiled novel via a harangue crumbled like a sandcastle under a bowling ball. It was absurd, but I was incapable of yelling at a little boy spouting torrents of contrived tears.

"Tragic," Blair murmured sarcastically, toying with a dark blond strand of hair and arching one eyebrow at the scene. "Hey, don't look at me like that," she said in response to the glower I sent her way. "It isn't my fault that you chose not to lock your door."

"It's not my fault your mother hid my key," I retorted.

"Depends on your point of view," she said airily, studying the cards in her hands.

I returned my glare to Toby, who peered at me through his tears simply shrugged and opened his hands to show the deck of cards in his clutch.

"Wanna play Go Fish?" he inquired softly.

"No!" I spun on my heel and stomped out of the room. Really, had I expected my brother to offer so much as an apology? Of course he wouldn't have. Raised by Karen, the boy had never learned the significance of saying "sorry."

It didn't matter anyway. My book was ruined; what good could an apology do in the face of such tragedy?

As I dashed past the children on my way to the front door, I didn't miss the glance the two exchanged; it was a look of triumph, of satisfaction at another prank perfectly executed.

Flinging open the door, I rushed out into the blazing summer heat. "I hate this place!"

Like so many times in the past, I sought refuge in my park. Yes, my park. I paced beneath my favorite tree, frantically scratching at the violet blemishes staining my poor book like thick blood. Under my fingers' diligent labor, the brilliant purple marks began to fade to a lighter shade of mauve, but disappear entirely they did not, nor did they exhibit any signs of doing so. Ever.

I continued my futile endeavor to restore The Labyrinth to its former glory until…my finger pierced the page straight through. I blinked. A hole. There was a hole in my book.

"It's not…right!" Shaking with rage, my hands took on a mind of their own, jerking themselves upward and releasing the object in their grip. My eyes proceeded to join the rebellion, shutting themselves of their own accord. I waited for the muffled thump that signified the novel's return to earth. And waited. And waited. But…nothing. My eyes flew open, searching for the small red book in the tufts of grass at my feet.

Where is it? This doesn't make sense. It should be on the ground. What goes up must come down. Unless…

Reluctantly, I tilted my head back to stare at the overhanging canopy of leaves.

…it's stuck in a tree. Wow. I hurled that a lot farther than I thought.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned inwardly. That did not just happen. Casting a second glance at my book, which rested on a branch several yards above my head, I was forced to concede that yes, that did just happen. Silently cursing myself for my own stupidity, I stepped forward, grasped the gnarled trunk, and attempted to shake it, half-expecting the entire tree to vibrate and simultaneously laughing at myself for such ludicrous thoughts. Dizzily I squinted at the boughs overhead and imagined that they were trembling. In reality, the entire tree, particularly the branch holding my book captive, was maddeningly still.

All right. Plan B.

After pulling my long, dark hair into a hasty ponytail, I again placed both hands on the trunk. I darted another glance up at the tree, which was far too tall for my comfort. My book wasn't too high up, but still. It was high. Stupid acrophobia. Grasping the wood like my life hung in the balance––which, at that moment, did seem to be the case––I lifted one foot, placed it on a protuberant knot, and pushed myself up, immediately reaching for another handhold. Either the bark broke away from the tree at my touch, or my hand simply met thin air, but one way or another the next moment I was on the ground.

Never say I'm anything but persistent. Gritting my teeth, I stood, brushed my backside off, and had another go. The subsequent dozen attempts––yes, I did try twelve more times––produced similar results. When I landed on my rump for the twelfth time, I decided enough was enough. I certainly wasn't getting my book back this way.

Screaming in frustration, I delivered a savage kick to the darned overgrown plant. Naturally, I didn't so much as dent it, and my foot got the short end of the stick. I screeched again, this time in pain. I clutched my throbbing foot and hopped clumsily around on the other, fighting to keep my balance. Which, in the end, I didn't. For the second time in less than two minutes, I landed rather unceremoniously on the ground. My face twisted into a scowl. Screw trees.

My wind was whirling with thoughts of taking an axe to my novel's woody captor, when I felt a whoosh of air. I looked up to see a filthy barn owl alight on a rock a mere yard from where I was slumped. Screw birds too. Too vexed to wonder why a nocturnal bird was out in broad daylight, I glared at it, taking it its disheveled, mucky feathers and clashing brown and blue eyes.

Then to my amazement, the owl opened its mouth. And spoke. To me. In English. "Is something wrong?"

I gaped at the creature, rubbed my eyes, blinked several times, and repeated the process. Twice.

"Is something wrong?" the bird repeated. I watched it closely, then shook my head in frustration. Yep, that was definitely the owl's mouth moving to emit those words. Crud. I'd lost it.

"You're an owl," I stated stupidly.

"Yes," it acknowledged. "And you are a girl."

"Yes." So the talking bird had a sense of humor, did it? Great. Just what I needed: a bird laughing at me. "Um…owls don't talk."

"That's your opinion. I'll have you know that I am not quite what I appear."

I lifted a hand to shade my eyes from the blinding sun. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. Do you plan to answer my question?" it asked, but its tone was courteous rather than rude.

"And what was your question again?"

"'Is something wrong?'"

"Well…yes. My favorite book is stuck in that tree." I gestured upward.

Was that amusement glinting in the owl's eyes? No, it must be a trick of the light. Owls did not look amused––they didn't talk, either. "And how did it end up there?" it inquired.

I flushed, then reprimanded myself for doing so just because of something a bird had said. Honestly. "I, uh…well, it was the wind…"

"Ah, so the wind magically lifted the book from your hands and set it down in that tree?"

"No, it––Look, it doesn't matter how my book got up there. The point is that it's up there, I'm down here, I can't get it down, and why am I telling you all of this? You're an owl, for goblins' sake! It's not like you can help me. You're not even supposed to be talking!"

A moment passed in silence. Then the owl blinked and said, "Are you finished?"

I echoed the action. "Am…I…what?"

"Are you finished with your petty tantrum? Or do I need to plug my ears? I'd appreciate it you didn't make me do such a thing, by the way; it's not the easiest action in the world to complete, with these tiny ears and colossal feathers and all."

"Yes, I'm done," I sniffed.

The creature bobbed its head in what I assumed was a satisfied nod. "Good. Now, let's see about recovering your book."

I snorted. "Like I said, how are you going to help me do that? You're just a silly bird."

"Like I said, I am not what I appear. Please refrain from asking anymore insignificant, time-wasting questions now," it added quickly as I opened my mouth to do just that. I shut my mouth with an audible click. Being ordered around by a bird. What had the world come to?

"Now, as you seem to have forgotten––or perhaps not realized at all–I have wings. Therefore, I can fly up there and retrieve your beloved book for you. If––"

I shook my head, a cynical smile tugging at my lips. "I knew there had to be a catch. All right, what do you want? A mouse? A female owl?" I eyed the creature's filthy body. "Or perhaps a bath?"

"No," the bird replied, its voice hinting at annoyance regarding my last question. "I want to be your friend for a year."

I was quiet, allowing the animal time to burst into laughter and admit it was kidding. Instead, it merely joined me in my silence. "Wait, what? Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Entirely."

I swallowed a chortle. "Really? You want to be my friend?"

"Your special friend, to be exact."

I leaned back against the tree, folding my arms. "You do realize you're a bird, right? And I'm a human. Not the usual candidates for BFFs, you know." Especially when the human can't stand birds…

"If you don't want your book back, I can leave." It turned as if do so. Unbelievable. The owl was threatening me.

"Go ahead," I replied nonchalantly, calling its bluff.

Turning back to face me, the bird said, "Don't act as if it will be such a burden. Just agree to my proposal, and the book is yours again. Look at it, just sitting up there all alone." It motioned with its sordid feathers to said object. "It misses you. And you miss it."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get dramatic."

"You know you want me to get it for you," it went on as if I'd not spoken. "Really, is maintaining a friendship with a little bird for three-hundred sixty-five days so much to ask? I wouldn't think so."

"You wouldn't, would you?" I paused, a frown settling itself into my forehead as I studied the owl. All at once, I realized I was hallucinating. What other explanation could there be? This bird wasn't actually speaking to me. The triplets must have sneaked something into my lunch this afternoon. It wouldn't be the first time the bothersome trio had drugged me in some way. Though it would be the first time they'd made me hallucinate talking vertebrates…

"So, what's your answer?" The owl's low query dragged me out of my thoughts.

In that moment I arrived at another decision: Hallucination or not, I wanted my book back. Now. Within a matter of hours, the effects of whatever drugged food I'd consumed would wear off anyway; I might as well just agree to this silly animal's bargain. Clearly, that was the only way I was going to retrieve my novel. What was the worst that could happen?

"Okay," I finally murmured. "Get my book back for me, and I'll be your friend."

"Special friend."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Honestly, you sound like one of those little kids from Barney. Or the purple dinosaur himself."

With a flap of its dirt-caked wings, the owl shot into the air, swiftly rescuing my book from the felonious branch and releasing it into my waiting hands. A grin breaking across my face, I hugged the little vermillion novel to my chest.

"Yes! I was afraid I'd lost you." Out of the corner of one eye I thought I glimpsed something like an eye roll from the owl, which had resumed its perch on the rock.

"Ahem."

I fixed my gaze once again on the bird, irked by its interruption of my reunion with The Labyrinth. "What?"

"Our bargain?"

Laughing, I turned to leave the park. "Forget it."

Lost in euphoria, I failed to notice the mangy barn owl silently take flight and follow me home.

Author's Note: Haha, I just realized that I've had Sarah fall down at least once per chapter. You guys don't mind if I make our protagonist a little bit clumsy, do you? Feedback's appreciated! (=