Sulking by Jareth

The Goblin King was sulking.

Of course, he'd deny it, if anybody, goblin, dwarf, Fae, elf, whatever, happen to mention it. It wasn't his posture that gave him away. After all, he NEVER sat upright, "correctly" in his throne, and he frequently had his hand on his chin while thinking. AND he also frequently held his riding crop while doing so.

One tip-off was the expression on his face, although you'd have to be a brave chicken (or very very fool-hardy) to try for a close look.

Another was the weather in the Labyrinth itself: not an outright storm, but building clouds and unpredictable winds.

And, oh yeah, there was the appearance of the armor. The FULL ARMOR. Black, with spikes. And his most sturdy goblin-kicking boots. (*see disclaimer)

For at this moment, various mortal bromides circled in his mind, as indistinct as the mist within one of his crystals before it would show the image.

"Third time pays for all…"
"Bad things happen in threes"
"Third time's the charm"
"Three strikes, and you're out"
"Knock three times on the ceiling…" (** see disclaimer)

What if everything with her was his third chance? How many chances did he have with her? Or what if he only had one chance?

And what if that one chance was already gone???

No wonder he was sulking.