The Troublesome Triplets and The Flaming Pants
A side-story to Of Mortals and Dreams
By Falcon's Hyperdrive
Written 8/25/09 - 9/07/09
Two years prior to Of Mortals and Dreams
Bluey was always proud to provide her Lady Sarah with the latest interesting story from the Underground, and this was no exception. "An amusing tale about His Highness?" she repeated, a positively wicked grin growing on her goblin face. Oh, the Goblin King was going to be ticked when he found out what an embarrassing moment had been revealed to the one he fancied, the one he was always watching longingly with those crystals of his.
Sarah Williams nodded, trying and failing to conceal her interest. "I have all these funny stories about you goblins, but not one about your king," she explained, trying (and failing) to hide the fact that, really, she just wanted to hear a story about the King of the Goblins, and that she wanted to hear about another side of him for once, instead of the Fae who took wished-away children. Plus, she was sure Jareth (she would never speak his name aloud, and the word was forbidden in her hearing) had discovered plenty of embarrassing moments of hers, courtesy of his subjects and her trek through the Labyrinth, so she wanted to even the playing field a little bit.
Bluey's grin turned even more malicious and knowing. "And what about the chicken egg story, Milady?"
Sarah blushed. "Okay, hardly any," she amended. "But you know what I mean! Please, Bluey?"
"Relax, Lady, of course I'll tell you another. Now, have my triplets ever mentioned flaming trousers?"
"Yeah, they were talking about how some of Toby's stories could compete with 'the flaming pants' in funniness." She took a look at the maternal figure of the castle beyond the Goblin City, and adopted a nervous expression. "Should I be worried?"
"Not terribly so," Bluey assured her. "Now, it all started five years ago, with my triplets and their short-lived, quickly-extinguished-on-pain-of-death streak of pyromania . . ."
...
Five years prior
Ever since the triplets were born, the castle had been a war zone against their mischief. It didn't help that goblins in general (these called gremlins by most mortals) were mischievous by nature, but as soon as these three could walk and talk and plot their fellows' demise, they were the bane of everyone's existence, and arguably the most prankish goblins ever since the great Scraggle, whose name was forever memorialized as the best prankster in the history of the worlds. And that was just one goblin.
Needless to say, to have three goblins with practically a hive mind, and for them to not only work together very well, but to be extraordinary pranksters on top of that, this was the occurrence of the millennium, and everyone was sure their names would go down in history right alongside Scraggle's, and perhaps higher up on the list. They were living terrors, with devious minds and innocent smiles. The fact that they had made friends with the Lady was cause for much concern for certain individuals of the kingdom, but they were relieved to find that they never pranked her or her brother more than a tenth of their full capability.
As time went on, they took to spending even more time with their new friends. Where, then, one had to wonder, did their excess energy and mischievousness go?
The prank of the decade, that was where.
It all started innocently enough, if one could ever call a goblin prank "innocent." Pretzel wanted to steal the king's boots, but Squeak voted for finding a way to Bog their king instead. While that would have been perhaps the best prank ever, they knew they should wait until the end of their lifetime, when they had nothing to lose by risking death.
And then Ziggy suggested something to do with their latest streak, fire. Somehow, they had figured out how to torch something with the barest flick of their magic. They had been on a pyromaniac streak for more than a few months, so they knew it was about time they retired it for a while. Why not, Ziggy suggested, send it out with style?
And thus began one of the Goblin King's worst days ever . . .
...
Jareth woke up in the morning with a pleasant dull awareness of his surroundings, blissfully ignorant of anything remiss. For a few minutes, he simply lay there, his mind free of all worries, especially those to do with his goblins.
If he had only known . . .
Eventually, he forced himself to get up and face the day – again. And this is day what? he wondered idly, heaving a weary sigh. Sometimes, it sucked to be immortal.
He dismissed these thoughts, his mind focused on the tasks ahead. He had an audience this morning with some of his subjects, something about whose chickens were whose, and how many each had originally before someone broke the fence separating the two coops. He suspected he was going to be tempted to pull a Solomon before too long, threatening to split one in half if there was an odd number. And he would do it, too.
He stifled a yawn as he got dressed, foregoing magic and actually pulling the shirt over his head. What would one call such an act? Laziness? If it were laziness, he could have just used his magic, but then there was also the fact that such magic required a little focus, something one did not need too much of when putting appendages through a few holes. Whatever it was, is was a change from the ordinary, and something Jareth needed from time to time. Now, where were his pants?
It didn't take him long to get dressed, and he was soon on his way to the dining room, where he had a pleasant breakfast, with only one near-mishap with a panicky goblin in the halls. He paid it no mind, as such was a common occurrence in the castle. If he had only known that this goblin, whose name was Mizer, had found out what the triplets were planning, he might have been worried, or have taken precautions. As it was, however, he didn't know, and so he went on unawares.
After breakfast, he went to the throne room, where he listened to the goblins argue nonstop for ten minutes before his patience snapped. "Silence, you miserable twits!" he shouted at them, more than a little annoyed. "How many chickens are there in question?"
"Twelve," came the timid answer, and he nodded to himself. At least he didn't have to worry about the mess of splitting one in half. "One of you take six and the other take six if you can't be truthful about who had what. Or better yet," he amended, seeing the look one of the goblins had taken on at this announcement, "bring your neighbors here to testify."
They nodded quickly, trembling and wanting nothing more than to get out of there. They disappeared to do as he ordered, and he heaved a large sigh, exasperated. Being king wasn't all it was cracked out to be.
Unseen behind the doorway leading to the Escher Room, a goblin in yellow clothing snapped his fingers, a look of unholy glee on his face. Back in the throne room, Jareth had just been slouching down in his throne to relax when he suddenly leapt up, yelping. Then, with a look of shock and embarrassment, he pelted out of there as if his pants were on fire.
Which they were.
It took ten minutes for the laughter to die down.
...
Jareth couldn't figure out what had happened. One moment, all had been just swell – note the sarcasm in relation to this Chicken Debate – and the next moment, his pants had burst into flames! This was wholly unnatural, and altogether disconcerting. Not to mention humiliating . . .
He would have to figure it out later, he decided. Spontaneously combusting pants could possibly wait, but his subjects would soon return with their witnesses, and he wanted to get this case over with as soon as possible. Never once did the thought of certain triplets enter his mind, and he merely put on a new pair of pants to replace the charred remains of the old ones before heading back to the throne room.
There, he waited for the return of the combatants and sighed once more as they finally arrived, glaring silent insults at each other. Thus the interviews commenced, and he – finally! – determined who had what. With a growled warning that he had better not see them again anytime soon, he sent them off.
. . . Only for his pants to once again catch on fire. As he ran, once more yelping in shock, the goblins who had witnessed this burst into laughter again. Quite innocently, Squeak poked his head out of the stairway leading to the Escher Room and grinned.
...
Muttering obscenities to himself and anyone listening, Jareth stormed into his chambers, too irate to think clearly and transport himself with magic. He tore his second pair of charred pants off, tossing them next to the first two, and growled furiously as he stalked toward the closet. What was going on?
And then he stopped dead, something in the back of his mind abruptly clicking. Turning, he looked at the pile of trousers.
Why were there three? Only two had caught on fire. Surely he was just imagining things?
He blinked, he pinched himself, and he rubbed his eyes, but no, the pile remained three.
In the hallway, Pretzel ran to join his brothers, cackling insanely. Oh, the look on the King's face!
...
It had been a very strange day for Jareth, and he responded rather numbly to inquiries after his state of health. "I'm quite all right, thank you," was all he would answer. This, in case one didn't know how Jareth usually answered, was definitely not in the norm for him. Some of the goblins knew the triplets had something to do with this, so they weren't surprised at the fact no one had really seen them much at all. Finally, Bluey coaxed the king into explaining a bit about why he was so out of it.
"Twice today, my pants caught on fire. What's more, it didn't hurt me at all. But when I went to change the second time, there was a third charred pair!"
Wisely, Bluey said nothing about her boys' pranks, only smiling. "Don't worry yourself about it," she told him. "Just go on normally and find out another time."
He nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose before exhaling deeply. Then he straightened, a look of determination on his face. "Right, then," he said, looking around, "what's the next order of business?"
"Yay, king back!" cheered a goblin.
Bluey smiled. "It is past lunch, Your Highness. You have yet to eat. What shall I have the cook prepare?"
"Something edible," Jareth grumbled, still put out by recent events. He strode over to his throne from the Escher Room stairway, where he had been standing with Bluey, and sat down.
. . . Only to leap up again a moment later, cursing a blue streak. He conjured a crystal and threw it down, extinguishing the flames that had suddenly erupted and replacing the pair of trousers with an identical pair. Whipping around, he glared down at his throne. Had someone messed with it? How was it his pants caught on fire every time he sat down?
Reaching out tentatively, cautiously, he touched the seat, looking for enchantments. In the same instant, his trousers once more exploded in flame. He jerked back, cursing, and threw another crystal. Now staying well away from the throne, he eyed the traitorous piece of furniture. "Bluey!" he called, his voice tight with well restrained fury. "Who has tampered with my throne?"
She blinked up at him, bemused. "No one I know of, Milord."
"Hmm." To say he was confounded was an understatement. He stared at the throne, blinking every now and then, his mind mulling over who could have done this and how, and what exactly this enchantment was. He couldn't feel anything from it. Maybe he had to be touching it?
He reached out, and as his hand neared, his pants once again burst into flames. Quenching the fire and replacing the cloth, Jareth whirled around, furious. "Stop this!" he snapped, directing it at whoever was responsible for this. Then he paused, frowning. That last time, he had just barely been able to detect it . . . That magical signature . . .
Again, cautiously, he reached out for the throne. This time, however, he was ready for it.
The spell bounced harmlessly off the barrier Jareth had erected. Suddenly wary, the culprit backed off, but the damage was already done.
"You," the Goblin King snarled, livid. "Ziggy . . ."
The eldest triplet twitched, then slunk towards the door, trying to leave before he was seen.
Too late.
"Get back here, you miserable little twit!" Jareth vanished and reappeared to tower over the blue-clothed goblin, seething. "And where are your brothers, you imbecile?"
Ziggy stared up at him with wide eyes, too shocked to think or do much of anything, much less answer. Suddenly, his brothers, with their green and yellow, popped into sight next to him. "Hi, king!" they chorused.
Jareth clenched and unclenched his fists, nearly trembling with rage. "You," he growled at them, incensed, "will pay for this."
Suddenly concerned for their health, the triplets shared a single look. Turning back to Jareth, they grinned broadly. "Kay, bye, king!"
Jareth let out a growl as they vanished, knowing all too well where they had gone to. "Don't think you're safe!" he shouted, as if they could hear him. "You will get yours."
Turning around, he blinked at all the faces peering up at him, and noted the stifled giggles.
"Laugh," he warned, his voice deathly quiet, "and you die."
Heads bobbed quickly, and those struggling to hold in their laughter pelted out of there, trying to get out of hearing range before they lost control.
Jareth stalked to his throne and dropped himself into it, glowering. "Worst. Day. Ever," he muttered.
Bluey smiled up at him, taking no responsibility for her sons' actions. "If you say so, Your Majesty."
He paused, then scowled down at the hunchbacked goblin. "I say so."
...
Back to present
Sarah was shaking with laughter as Bluey finished. "So that's why they stayed here for a couple weeks!"
Bluey cracked a grin. "Indeed."
"And now I know why they couldn't settle between looking scared to death and laughing until they couldn't breathe." Sarah swiped at the tears of laughter emerging. "Oh, kudos to the triplets for that prank. I am definitely adding that to my book."
Smiling, the goblin nodded. "And what shall you name it, Milady?"
Her laughter now under control, Sarah grinned down at her informant. "Oh . . . I'll think of something."
The End.