It's funny, Jareth would later think, how you never know when it's the last time. The last kiss, the last touch, the last sweet words from your lover's lips. You never know. You don't know when it happens that you will never taste their lips again, never feel their arms enfold you, their fingers caress you, their voice speak your name. There are always more times ahead, more chances to touch and speak and kiss. And so maybe you rush it, just once, because you have something else to do, and after all, it can wait. But what if it can't? What if that one time that you hurry away to do something else, is the last chance you will ever have?
Jareth never spoke to Hoggle. He didn't even make it to his rooms.
At the top of the stairs, he turned in that direction, then went still at the cold touch of an iron blade pressed to his throat. All of his magic drained out of him at that one simple touch, and in that instant, he was as mortal as any Aboveground mortal man walking in his Aboveground mortal world on his Aboveground mortal streets.
"That's right, fairy-man," a familiar voice hissed in his ear. "Cold iron. You know what that means doncha?"
"What do you think you're doing?" Jareth demanded, keeping his voice carefully low so that his throat wouldn't press any deeper against the blade.
"We know exactly what we are doing, Goblin King," Raspiel said, stepping from the shadows. "And now, before we go, I want you to write something for me. A letter for your lovely woman."
"What kind of letter?" Jareth growled.
"Whatever kind he wants," Jonas hissed, pressing the blade a little harder, so that a trickle of blood ran down Jareth's throat. "Understand?"
Jareth hissed at the sharp pain. "Yes."
"Good," Raspiel said. "Now that we understand each other, how about that letter?"
"She'll come after me," Jareth told him, suddenly sure that this was true. "It doesn't matter what you make me write, she'll come."
"That's why you're going to write it," Raspiel said. "No dictation."
"What am I supposed to write?"
"Think of something. Something that will make her not want to come after you."
Jareth thought quickly, then sighed and tried to push Jonas' hand away. The boy's grip tightened and Jareth had to go up on his toes to keep from having his throat slit.
"Oh no, the knife stays," Raspiel said. "I wouldn't want you to suddenly get your strength back and try something foolish."
"You got ink and paper?" Jareth asked, resigned.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Raspiel said. "So let's go sit in your throne room, and compose something, shall we?"