I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

Jareth had been plagued by nightmares for days - visions that felt too vivid, too real. 

Each night, they dragged him into a suffocating abyss, filling his mind with fragmented memories that did not belong to him. He would wake, gasping, drenched in sweat, only for the dreams to return the moment sleep claimed him again.

But this night was different.

Jareth can feel it.

The darkness was heavier, pressing on him. His breath came slow and shallow, his body frozen in place. The air around him felt thick, clinging to his skin like cold mist. 

Somewhere in the distance, the whispers stirred, slithering through the void like unseen serpents.

Then came pain.

A sharp ache bloomed in his head, sudden and violent. It pulsed, growing stronger with each passing second, as though something inside him was unraveling. 

Jareth gritted his teeth, his hands clawing at nothing, trying to ground himself, but the pain only worsened. His heartbeat pounded in his ears - too fast, too loud - drowning out everything else.

The whispers grew louder.

At first, they were distant, mere echoes in the abyss. But then, they shifted - coming closer. Wrapping around him. 

A voice of a man - deep and cold, murmured just beyond his reach, the words blurred yet unmistakably there. It seeped into his mind, brushing against his ears like icy fingers.

He tried to turn away. 

But he couldn't.

The murmurs pressed closer, insistent. Urgent.

His head throbbed, each pulse of pain sending shudders through his body. His temples twitched, a burning sensation flaring beneath the skin. 

The voices were right next to him now, hissing, whispering - 

And then, a breath.

Cold. Right against his ear.

-

Jareth jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, breath sharp and ragged. His pulse pounded as he pushed himself upright, his eyes struggling to adjust. 

The air was thick, the space around him suffocatingly dark.

Then he realized that he was lying on the floor. He awkwardly stood up slowly.

He looked around and noticed that he was not in his room. 

Where is this place? What am I doing here?

The pale moonlight trickled through a narrow window, barely illuminating the unknown chamber. Stone walls loomed around him, cold and silent. 

And in front of him, standing with his back turned was a man.

The dim light reflected off his black armor, casting eerie glints against the shadows. He stood before a wooden table, his hands moving with purpose over the surface. A sword lay there, its blade catching the moon's glow.

Who is he?

The murmuring continued.

The man was whispering something onto the swords - symbols, runes, words Jareth could not understand. 

The sound of his voice wove through the air, an incantation of some kind, rhythmic and deliberate.

Jareth' breath caught in his throat. He had no idea where he was. No idea who this man was.

But he knew, deep in his bones, that something was terribly wrong.

Jareth' hearth pounded in his chest, his breath shallow as he stared at the armored figure before him. 

The murmuring had not stopped, the man's hand still tracing strange symbols onto the blade, his voice weaving an incantation that sent a chill through the air.

Fear gripped him, but he forced himself to push it aside. He disregarded what the man was doing, even the armor he was wearing. He just needed answers.

"H-Hey," Jareth called out, his voice hoarse, unsteady. "I... I'm sorry if I barged into your place. I didn't mean to. I must've had too much to drink last night and ended up here by mistake."

The man did not react.

Jareth swallowed hard. His voice felt small in the eerie silence between the murmurs. He tried again, a little louder. " Uh... if you could just tell me where I am, maybe help me get out of here, I'd really appreciate it."

Still, nothing.

The man continued his work, his fingers gliding over the sword, his muttered words never breaking their rhythm. The glow of the moonlight against his black armor made him seem almost unreal, like something pulled from a dream - or a nightmare.

A sense of unease twisted in Jareth' gut. Why wasn't the man acknowledging him?

Annoyance flared beneath his fear. Was he being ignored?

Jareth took a deep breath and stepped forward - 

Or at least, he tried to.

His body did not move. His legs would not respond.

Panic surged through him as he tried again, willing himself forward, but his feet remained rooted to the ground as if invisible chains held him in place. He tried to raise his arms, but even they felt locked in position.

"What the hell...?" His voice was barely a whisper now. 

A cold realization seeped into his bones.

Something was keeping him here.

Panic clawed at Jareth' mind. His body refused to move, no matter how hard he struggled. What was happening to him? Why couldn't he escape?

Then, the murmuring stopped.

The silence was suffocating.

His eyes snapped back to the man in the black armor. The figure had stopped whispering, his hand frozen over the sword. 

Slowly, unnervingly, he began to turn his head toward Jareth.

Jareth' breath hitched. A cold, primal fear wrapped around his chest like a vice. His instincts screamed at him to run, to look away - 

But before he could see the man's face, reality shattered.

The world around him fractured like a glass, breaking into countless shards that dissolved into nothingness.

When the pieces fell away, he was somewhere else.

-

A vast throne room stretched before him, its towering white pillars reaching toward an unseen ceiling. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, the kind that weighed heavy on the soul. At the far end of the chamber, an enormous throne loomed over the space, carved from black obsidian and adorned with intricate gold engravings.

Standing before the throne was the man in black armor.

Jareth' eyes widened. 

It was him again. 

His presence was just as ominous, his armor still gleaming under the dim light.

But now, he wasn't alone.

A second figure sat upon the throne - a man with a blurry, indistinct face, his head hanging low as if weighed down by exhaustion... or resignation.

Jareth' stomach twisted.

The man in black armor lifted the sword - the same sword from earlier, now glowing faintly with an eerie aura.

Jareth' breath caught in his throat.

And in one swift motion, the blade sliced through the air.

The seated man's head separated from his body.

The sound of the strike echoed through the chamber. A dull, sickening thud followed as the severed head tumbled from the throne... rolling... rolling...

Until it stopped at Jareth' feet.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. His heart pounded violently against his ribs. He wanted to scream, to look away, but his body refused to move.

He was trapped - forced to witness a horror he could not understand.

Jareth didn't know how to react. His mind was screaming, but his body refused to obey. He remained frozen, speechless, unable even to let out a sound.

The severed head lay at his feet, its lifeless presence sending waves of cold terror through him. The chamber around him felt vast and empty, yet suffocating at the same time.

Then, slowly, the man in the black armor turned to face him again.

Jareth' breath hitched. His heart pounded so violently it felt as though it would burst from his chest. 

He wasn't able to see the man's face earlier. 

But now he could see his face clearly. A familiar face -

A face similar to his own.

It stared back at him.

Jareth heard a scream escaping from his throat.

The world twisted.

His vision blurred, his mind spinning in chaos. The throne room, the pillars, the corpse on the throne - all of it warped and melted away.

When his sight cleared, he was no longer standing.

He was on the floor. His perspective was low, unnatural. His vision swayed as if he were being rocked back and forth.

Then it hit him.

His head was moving.

No - his head was severed.

Terror unlike anything he had ever known crashed into him. Above him, in the exact spot where he had been standing moments ago, stood the man in black armor.

 His doppleganger.

The man peered down at him with a twisted, blood-soaked grin. The eerie smile stretched across his face, dripping crimson as if the act of killing had been nothing more than an amusement.

Jareth wanted to scream again, to wake up, to escape this nightmare - but he had no mouth to cry out.

Then, the final horror unfolded before him.

The man's brown eyes shifted, the warmth in them vanishing. They turned a deep, glowing emerald green. The pupils narrowed into slits - cold, reptilian, unnatural.

The man tilted his head, his smile widening, his body tensing as if he were ready to lunge at him, to swallow him.

Then - 

He woke up.

His body jolted upright, his breath rugged, his skin damp with sweat. His heart thundered in his chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that refused to settle. The sensation of rolling, of blood pooling around him, of that sinister grin - it all clung to him like a sickness.

It had been a dream.

Hadn't it?

He clutched his chest, trying to steady himself, but the memory of that face - his own, yet not his own - refused to fade.

Jareth gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. His hand clutched at the silken sheets beneath him, still trembling from the nightmare that refused to leave him. His head ached, his mind clouded with confusion.

But something was wrong.

He sat up slowly, his eyes scanning the dimly lit chamber. A large, luxurious bed beneath him. Velvet curtains swayed gently from an open window, where the pale glow of the moon poured in. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, and the furniture - polished wood and gold trimmings - spoke of wealth beyond his understanding.

It was elegant.

But unfamiliar.

This wasn't his room.

Jareth felt a cold dread seep into his veins. His fingers tightened around the fabric of the bed as he cursed under his breath.

"When will this nightmare end?" he muttered, his voice shaking. 

For a moment, he remained still, waiting.

Waiting for the man in the black armor to appear.

Waiting for the nightmare to continue.

Waiting for the world to shatter again.

But nothing happened.

The room remained silent. 

No eerie murmuring. No shifting visions. No presence looming over him.

Just him and the crushing quiet.

Jareth furrowed his brows. He had been so certain this was another dream. And yet... something felt different this time.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing himself up. 

He can finally move.

But the moment he stood, his balance wavered.

His body felt wrong.

A sharp dizziness struck him as he tilted forward, his limbs sluggish, uncooperative. His footing failed him, and before he could catch himself, he collapsed onto the floor.

Pain exploded through his right arm. A searing, agonizing sensation, so intense it forced a strangled cry from his lips.

He lay there, stunned, gasping through clenched teeth.

Pain.

Pain that was too real.

If this was just another dream, why did it hurt so much?

A horrifying thought crept into his mind.

What if... this wasn't a dream anymore?

Jareth gritted his teeth as the pain in his arm throbbed, sending sharp waves through his body. He clenched his fingers into a fist, testing his sense of touch. The floor beneath him was cold, smooth - marble, perhaps. His breath came ragged as he pushed himself up with his left arm, his muscles trembling as if they did not belong to him.

His gaze darted around the unfamiliar room. 

Golden chandeliers flickered above him, their light casting long shadows across intricate carvings on the ceiling. Heavy curtains draped over tall windows, allowing only slivers of moonlight to seep through. The bed he had fallen from was enormous, its dark wooden frame carved with symbols he couldn't decipher.

Jareth took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His heart pounded. Was this still part of the dream?

No - the pain was too real. The texture of the floor, the weight of his body, the distant scent of burning incense - none of it had the hazy, surreal quality of a dream.

A rustling sound caught his attention. He turned his head sharply, his pulse quickening. Beyond the farthest curtain, a shadow moved. Someone was there.

"Who's there?" His voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar even to his own ears.

The figure did not answer. Instead, the curtain stirred again, and soft footsteps echoed in the silence.