The goblin stumbled and fell, one hand still clutching his goblin spear. His skin, once a healthy ashen hue, now wriggled with red wormy lines, slowly spreading over his body until he was a solid red color. He did not draw breath, and he lay silent and motionless.
One by one, the other goblins crept from their homes, gathering around him, whispering. One brave goblin inched forward, a stick in hand to poke his fallen comrade, but something stopped him mid-poke. He dropped the stick and scurried back into the crowd.
He was lightly drowsing on his throne, when the quiet woke him. It is a strange thing, to be disturbed by a silence, but over the course of his near infinite reign, Jareth had found silence a rarity. He opened his eyes slowly to the sight of a cluttered but empty throne room. Goblin and chicken alike had vanished with only a few scattered feathers and spilled mead the only testament to their all too annoying presence.
He rose, crossing to the window.
In the city streets below, a crowd of goblins and chickens had gathered in a circle around a tiny speck of red. The speck, he realized as he cast a bit of his magic out, was no speck, but a goblin. Or rather, it had been a goblin, but now? Something dark rippled out from the goblin's body, invisible and cold and definitely evil. It sent a shiver through him like an icy wind.
In a heart beat, he willed himself to the goblin's side, kneeling, ignoring the gasps of his subjects.
"What happened here?" he asked reluctantly.
His magic told him nothing, only that like a vile infection, dark magic had infiltrated the goblin's every pore.
"No one knows, your highness," came the reply.
The crowd murmured in agreement.
"What happened?" he repeated, eyes flashing, "Quickly now, or I'll tip you all head first into the Bog."
"He fell down," one of the goblins whispered, "And now he doesn't move."
"Skin turned red," another said.
"What's wrong with him?"
He frowned. He had never seen anything like this, and that alone he was hard pressed to admit. It was no illness he could cure, no curse he could banish. He pulled off his gloves, flexing his fingers before he held them over the goblin's prone form. The life force was gone, and yet there was something there. It rippled in and out of reach as though crossing dimensions or fading in and out of reality.
The goblins started to edge away, still whispering. Dark magic was definitely at work; but that knowledge would do little to help him reverse its effects. Rising with a flourish, he turned to address the crowd.
"From this day forward," he decreed, "You will not travel beyond the Labyrinth nor will you come near this creature. Do not touch him. Do not poke him. Do not light him on fire. Do not come near him, or even look on him."
The chickens squawked and scattered, feathers flying. The goblins gasped loudly, their eyes widening with fear as they scrambled back from the goblin's body and their king. Jareth smirked for a moment. Indeed, he was frightening.
But then...
Behind him, Jareth heard a low snarl and the scraping sounds of metal against stone He turned, deftly sidestepping whatever it was that suddenly charged.
The red goblin, no longer prone and still, stood hunched over, turning slowly, his eyes glassy and vacant, one hand dragging a goblin spear behind him. Slowly, it raised the spear, taking one step towards him. The spear wobbled in it's hands, and as the goblin lunged, Jareth willed his would be attacker head first into the Bog to wallow in stinky misery for eternity.
Or at least, that was what he meant to happen. As he hurled his magic, the goblin continued towards him, the goblin spear sinking into the flesh of his shoulder.
Jareth cried out, first from the burning pain, a sensation he hadn't felt in...well...ever, and then from rage. His magic failed. The stubborn goblin resisted his will, and a big bloody spear had invaded royal flesh. Wrenching free, Jareth kicked the goblin hard, tearing the spear from it's grasp before burying it in his attacker's brain.
The goblin sputtered and collapsed, dark blood spilling out around him, staining the cobblestone. Jareth fought to slow his breath, his chest heaving as he pressed one palm to his shoulder. Blood trickled down his arm. The goblins stared at him, at the dead goblin,a t the darkness staining their city street. It spread, red wormy tendrils reaching for them as they scuttled back out of reach, cobblestones cracking and aging as the curse invaded and conquered.
Something was terribly wrong, Jareth realized, and yet he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. One of his subjects, braver than the others, crept towards the curse, stick in one hand. He prodded one of the tendrils, kneeling to get a better look. The other's cried out, shouting to him to get back, but he poked the tendrils, the cracked cobblestone a second time. The curse shot out, wrapping a bloody tendril around his arm, staining his skin red as he screamed, breathed his last and died.
The goblins ran, while Jareth, despite the pain pulsing through his body, teleported back to the castle, to his safe haven, his bespelled chambers to tend his wound. Doubt, for the second time in his immortal life, flooded his mind. He saw a flash of that girl, the vision of her as she searched her memory, as she shattered his world. And then nothing. Darkness claimed him.