Disclaimer: I do not, nor probably will I ever own more than a copy of the Labyrinth DVD. Others own that--go them--and all I own is.... well.... err.......
The Price of Magics
The great, white barn owl stood and watched the great party inside the girl's bedroom with interest. A firey was juggling with a teddy bear, a doll and another firey's head, to the amusement of Sarah, Hoggle, Ludo and the rest. Sir Didymous played a raucous melody with a hand made set of pipes--a handsome skill that befitted a "proper knight of the realm".
At least, that's what Sarah thought.
If the owl, standing outside in the rain soaked tree and watching the party, could have laughed, it would have.
Sarah thought lots of things. The owl, watching her, wondered if she realized how much she had thought and how much he had pieced from her dreams. Everything in her bedroom--her personal lair--had become fodder. The tiny music box with the turning dancer in a pearly white ball gown had become a bit of a poisonous dream to distract her. The Escher print--a gift from her father--had been built into one amazing room. A bookend with a short, stubby creature with a long nose, the stuffed terrier with the eye patch, and the amorphous stuffed creature out of brown plush had been made into some friendly creatures.
Ahh, but the piece de la resistance had been the statue on her dresser. It had featured a tall, thin wizardly man in grey-blue tights and a loose shirt, offering a "crystal" marble, glued to its hand. The plaster had formed a wild bush of blonde hair and then slid down to form a cape that fluttered around the figures booted ankles. A slight imperfection in the cool eyes--the paint had chipped during one--created a slightly sardonic expression in the mismatched eyes. An anonymous sculpture meant to inspire a momentary, nostalgic impression of a powerful, young wizard. Of course, Sarah's heart--ever the romantic--had formed in him the exotic. A King of a magical labyrinth who would be both cruel and kind and mysterious--an impossible Labyrinth of a man. A fan of some famous singer's--not that the owl cared for such noise--she had even given him the voice of her childish dreams and a talent for music.
And Sarah herself--a charming mortal who loved tales magic, who acted them out in the park, who pranced around in long dresses with flowers in her hair--had provided it all.
The owl opened his beak in a hiss, laughing in its head.
Ahh, yes, that was the sweetest part of it. No one ever asked the price of such magics--no one ever considered exactly what they were getting into from the moment that they summoned him. Once they did, they paid.
And paid dearly.
The owl spread its wings, pushing off into the sky. This was part of Sarah's script too--the last, lingering look meant to represent the eternity of love and the endless second chances that love purchased. The white owl vanished into the moonlight--
--Then vanished completely.
The Force--for, indeed, it had neither name nor form of its own--slid through the silky summer evening. The energies for Sarah's dreams would sustain it for a while, but it never paid to wait too long to snack again on someone's dreams. This one had provided a rich landscape of cruelty and hardship and trials--a masterpiece, really, for a young, romantic girl to devote herself to. Perhaps he'd use that guise and name again. But probably not.
That was part of the game--to entice, bully, cajole and confuse the human for thirteen hours, drinking in all of the frustration, fear, anger and emotion that the victim could offer. But to make it entirely alien was to risk the bitterness of disillusion and disbelief. So, the Force would carefully create the dream world of familiar items--brushing each one with it's own darkness. Then, whenever the victim saw the item again--preferably a common item that could be found anywhere--it would remind them.
And start the futile dreaming again.
That was the sweet twisting of the knife. The sweetness of the adventure provided a heady rush of energy--the burning of rage, the smoldering of frustration, the sweetness of romantic dallying, the tartness of witticisms, the sour taste of failure. Really, either failure or success was ultimately the same.
Those who failed burned long and lasting. Every time that they saw the "reminders" in their every day world--the common picture or figurine that could be found in any novelty shop--they burned with rage and anger at their humiliation. A true delicacy was when they tried finding a way to avenge themselves--spending hours upon hours in books, rituals, and study that offered only more frustration and no answers. Pity that they burned themselves out so often--accepting whatever excuses this world offered them for their defeat.
Those who were victorious--they were a treat. A novelty. They, too, traveled through their compiled dreams and offering themselves up to assuage the hunger of the Force. But their victories were hollow. No matter how they won--by wit or by luck--they ultimately lost.
Take that last girl for instance. She would burn brightly, filling him with warm dreams and spicy fantasies. And quickly, those dreams would burn away. What could a world of concrete and steel have to compare with the shifting of a sparkling Labyrinth? What friend would outshine the friends created by her own dreams--friends who innately understood her because they WERE her? And what mate, no matter what shape that mate took, could even pretend to be able to compete with the Goblin King who knew her heart, her fantasies and dreams better than she did?
No, no one could. She would become cool with her real friends--more remote as their needs and dreams pressed down on her as opposed to her magical ones who asked nothing from her. She would become hungry for adventure and the next magical high that demanded her own unique abilities--then be crushed beneath the millstone of the workaday world. She would long for a special romance to spin her head--even as romance and love turned to ashes in her hands. She would seek the warmth and assurance of the magical place she thought she had discovered, only to be frozen in this real world. She would crave the dizzying heights and depths and find herself in a flat, grey plane. Hungry, cold and alone, she would turn to her dreams. But dreams didn't last long--not when the minimum limits are so high as perfection--and those would fizzle into a mere spark.
Those dreams, at first so bright and vivid, would be quickly doused. And, like a rose in winter, she would quickly wither away, even in her youth. But what did that matter? The Force could go on to the next one--spinning a web of dreams and fantasies and stardust--sip calmly from the burn and then move on.
The Price of Magics
The great, white barn owl stood and watched the great party inside the girl's bedroom with interest. A firey was juggling with a teddy bear, a doll and another firey's head, to the amusement of Sarah, Hoggle, Ludo and the rest. Sir Didymous played a raucous melody with a hand made set of pipes--a handsome skill that befitted a "proper knight of the realm".
At least, that's what Sarah thought.
If the owl, standing outside in the rain soaked tree and watching the party, could have laughed, it would have.
Sarah thought lots of things. The owl, watching her, wondered if she realized how much she had thought and how much he had pieced from her dreams. Everything in her bedroom--her personal lair--had become fodder. The tiny music box with the turning dancer in a pearly white ball gown had become a bit of a poisonous dream to distract her. The Escher print--a gift from her father--had been built into one amazing room. A bookend with a short, stubby creature with a long nose, the stuffed terrier with the eye patch, and the amorphous stuffed creature out of brown plush had been made into some friendly creatures.
Ahh, but the piece de la resistance had been the statue on her dresser. It had featured a tall, thin wizardly man in grey-blue tights and a loose shirt, offering a "crystal" marble, glued to its hand. The plaster had formed a wild bush of blonde hair and then slid down to form a cape that fluttered around the figures booted ankles. A slight imperfection in the cool eyes--the paint had chipped during one--created a slightly sardonic expression in the mismatched eyes. An anonymous sculpture meant to inspire a momentary, nostalgic impression of a powerful, young wizard. Of course, Sarah's heart--ever the romantic--had formed in him the exotic. A King of a magical labyrinth who would be both cruel and kind and mysterious--an impossible Labyrinth of a man. A fan of some famous singer's--not that the owl cared for such noise--she had even given him the voice of her childish dreams and a talent for music.
And Sarah herself--a charming mortal who loved tales magic, who acted them out in the park, who pranced around in long dresses with flowers in her hair--had provided it all.
The owl opened his beak in a hiss, laughing in its head.
Ahh, yes, that was the sweetest part of it. No one ever asked the price of such magics--no one ever considered exactly what they were getting into from the moment that they summoned him. Once they did, they paid.
And paid dearly.
The owl spread its wings, pushing off into the sky. This was part of Sarah's script too--the last, lingering look meant to represent the eternity of love and the endless second chances that love purchased. The white owl vanished into the moonlight--
--Then vanished completely.
The Force--for, indeed, it had neither name nor form of its own--slid through the silky summer evening. The energies for Sarah's dreams would sustain it for a while, but it never paid to wait too long to snack again on someone's dreams. This one had provided a rich landscape of cruelty and hardship and trials--a masterpiece, really, for a young, romantic girl to devote herself to. Perhaps he'd use that guise and name again. But probably not.
That was part of the game--to entice, bully, cajole and confuse the human for thirteen hours, drinking in all of the frustration, fear, anger and emotion that the victim could offer. But to make it entirely alien was to risk the bitterness of disillusion and disbelief. So, the Force would carefully create the dream world of familiar items--brushing each one with it's own darkness. Then, whenever the victim saw the item again--preferably a common item that could be found anywhere--it would remind them.
And start the futile dreaming again.
That was the sweet twisting of the knife. The sweetness of the adventure provided a heady rush of energy--the burning of rage, the smoldering of frustration, the sweetness of romantic dallying, the tartness of witticisms, the sour taste of failure. Really, either failure or success was ultimately the same.
Those who failed burned long and lasting. Every time that they saw the "reminders" in their every day world--the common picture or figurine that could be found in any novelty shop--they burned with rage and anger at their humiliation. A true delicacy was when they tried finding a way to avenge themselves--spending hours upon hours in books, rituals, and study that offered only more frustration and no answers. Pity that they burned themselves out so often--accepting whatever excuses this world offered them for their defeat.
Those who were victorious--they were a treat. A novelty. They, too, traveled through their compiled dreams and offering themselves up to assuage the hunger of the Force. But their victories were hollow. No matter how they won--by wit or by luck--they ultimately lost.
Take that last girl for instance. She would burn brightly, filling him with warm dreams and spicy fantasies. And quickly, those dreams would burn away. What could a world of concrete and steel have to compare with the shifting of a sparkling Labyrinth? What friend would outshine the friends created by her own dreams--friends who innately understood her because they WERE her? And what mate, no matter what shape that mate took, could even pretend to be able to compete with the Goblin King who knew her heart, her fantasies and dreams better than she did?
No, no one could. She would become cool with her real friends--more remote as their needs and dreams pressed down on her as opposed to her magical ones who asked nothing from her. She would become hungry for adventure and the next magical high that demanded her own unique abilities--then be crushed beneath the millstone of the workaday world. She would long for a special romance to spin her head--even as romance and love turned to ashes in her hands. She would seek the warmth and assurance of the magical place she thought she had discovered, only to be frozen in this real world. She would crave the dizzying heights and depths and find herself in a flat, grey plane. Hungry, cold and alone, she would turn to her dreams. But dreams didn't last long--not when the minimum limits are so high as perfection--and those would fizzle into a mere spark.
Those dreams, at first so bright and vivid, would be quickly doused. And, like a rose in winter, she would quickly wither away, even in her youth. But what did that matter? The Force could go on to the next one--spinning a web of dreams and fantasies and stardust--sip calmly from the burn and then move on.