A Story About Goblins
Jan. 5th, 2021 04:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feotakahariIt comforts me to imagine how I might kill you.
You’ll be first, chosen one. Last would be more satisfying, but even in my fantasies, I couldn’t beat you in a fight. The only way I could do it is if I caught you by surprise. When you’re standing over the goblin king’s corpse, your quest completed, your god satisfied, I’ll approach you from behind. My dagger will find the weak point where your helmet meets your cuirass. If your god is real, you’ll meet him before you know what’s happening.
I wonder what he really thinks of your quest to end this war? Is he the one who grants you your “holy” flames, or do they come from some other source? I’ve heard the screams, and smelled the cooking flesh. I don’t see anything “holy” in what I’ve helped you do to my own kin.
I’ll be merciful, compared to you. I won’t give you any chance to scream.
-- -- -- --
“Whatcha thinking, Ortus?” you ask.
My name is Ortrus, two Rs. It’s a traditional goblin name. But I’ve long since stopped trying to correct you.
We’re sitting around a campfire, about three miles north of a ruined human town. None of us could bear to stay the night there. The corpses are old, and the smell has faded, but the sorrow feels like it seeped into the very ground.
“I’m thinking about war,” I tell you.
“Oh. I didn’t mean to pry. You were just so quiet.”
You’re so childlike, even after all the people we’ve killed. Of course, they weren’t people to you. The humans in that town, those were people, before the goblin army butchered them. But the goblins you’ve killed, those were just sacrifices to your god.
“We’ll have our revenge,” the wizard interjects. “We’ll make the goblins pay for what they did.”
“The goblin king,” the warrior corrects.
“If that’s how you want to look at it,” the wizard says.
-- -- -- --
You’ll be second, wizard, and by far the hardest. I can only hope you’re too shocked to react to the chosen one’s death. Your ice could freeze my bones before I so much as blink. But my dagger is swift, and its enchantments will pierce through any wards you might muster. If I hurry, I’ll stop you from speaking your spells.
Have you considered that I might betray you? To the humans, I look almost human. All my goblin mother gave me was a hunched back and a drawn face, like my skull is too big for my skin. But you lizardfolk were known as monsters just a generation or two ago. It’s quite recent for humans to say “person” and mean you. Perhaps you retain a touch of suspicion, an awareness of how blurry the divisions can become.
I hope you don’t. If you do, then you’ll live, and I’ll die.
-- -- -- --
“We stomp the king, we end this,” the chosen one says. “And if another goblin king starts more trouble, we stomp him too.”
“How many goblin kings will that make for?” you ask. “The goblins are many, and the swamplands are poor. So long as they want more land, conflict is inevitable.”
“That’s the queen’s job,” the warrior says. “We stop the war, she makes the peace.”
“And then what?” you demand. “She’s not going to give them land. They’ll still want more, and they’ll still try to take it. They won’t stop until they’re forced to stop.”
“We shouldn’t fight each other,” the chosen one attempts cautiously.
It’s an old argument, and it always goes round and round in circles. I’ve listened to it far too many times.
“Ortus, where are you going?” the warrior asks.
“Anywhere that isn’t here,” I say.
-- -- -- --
I can’t spare you, warrior. You’ll want revenge for the wizard and the chosen one. But at least it will be a fair fight.
The villagers call you a knight. It’s not something you ever called yourself. You were a miner before the war, and the queen hasn’t exactly had a chance to offer you a title. But you move naturally in armor, and swing your axe as readily as a pick.
Me and my magic dagger, versus you and your skill and practice. I wonder which will win? It would be fitting if you were the one who killed me. Out of all of us, you seem the best equipped to find a future where no more humans or goblins have to die.
-- -- -- --
I like the forest. Is that odd, for one like me who was born in the swamps? I’m good at moving without noise. Not so much as a twig snaps under my feet.
But I could hear you from a mile away, warrior. Your armor weighs you down. Following after me, to make sure that I’m all right. You can’t leave well enough alone.
“None of us think of you that way,” you tell me.
“What way?” I ask, just to hear you say it.
“Like a monster.”
“Like a goblin.”
“You’re my friend, Ortus,” you tell me. “You’re Hannah’s friend, too. Shass, maybe not, but she’ll come around eventually.”
Hannah. Shass. I’ve been thinking of them for so long as the chosen one and the wizard. It would be harder to imagine how to kill someone called Hannah.
“I just need to think,” I tell you. “I’ll come back when--”
My eyes must have given me away. I see the motion behind you, and you move to dodge the strike of a hammer.
A goblin soldier, here? No, she doesn’t look like a rank-and-file soldier. She barely knows how to swing that hammer.
Lucky for you. If she hit you, she could kill you.
I could kill you.
Dagger-blows and hammer-blows don’t look much alike, but there’s no need for them to find your body. If I strike you from behind, I could run away. Claim we were set upon by a squad, and only I made it out.
Just two heroes left, to save humans and slaughter goblins. Two heroes who’ll need to die in the end.
I stand petrified, pondering, until your axe cuts through her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you tell her as you stand over her body. I hate you because you mean it.
You turn to me, your axe still smeared with gore. “You didn’t help me.” Quieter, understanding. “You couldn’t help me.”
“I’ve seen too much death today,” I tell you. Maybe it’s even true.
-- -- -- --
It comforts me to imagine how I might kill you. In my darkest moments, I admit that imagining is all I’ll ever do.
I could say I still need you. Three heroes stand a better chance than two at killing the goblin king. There’ll be time to kill you after the king is dead.
(I don’t dare add myself to that count. I can’t call myself a hero.)
Or I could say I like you. I could say I want you to survive, no matter the cost. I’ve kept up the pretense to you and the others. Why not lie to myself as well?
I’ll always have an excuse. The wizard is right about that much. After this king, there will be another, and another. There’ll always be some reason it’s better to let you live than to kill you.
The truth is, I’ll never kill you because that’s not the path I’m on. I chose to kill my kin, because I thought it was for a purpose. If I ever stop--if I ever turn my dagger against anyone else, or no one--I’ll have to face the thought that maybe none of it helped anyone at all.
-- -- -- --
“I won’t tell the others about this,” you tell me.
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“I’ve never had to fight humans,” you say. “I can’t imagine how much this must hurt you. You’re a brave goblin, Ortus. Braver than all the rest of us.”
That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.
You’ll be first, chosen one. Last would be more satisfying, but even in my fantasies, I couldn’t beat you in a fight. The only way I could do it is if I caught you by surprise. When you’re standing over the goblin king’s corpse, your quest completed, your god satisfied, I’ll approach you from behind. My dagger will find the weak point where your helmet meets your cuirass. If your god is real, you’ll meet him before you know what’s happening.
I wonder what he really thinks of your quest to end this war? Is he the one who grants you your “holy” flames, or do they come from some other source? I’ve heard the screams, and smelled the cooking flesh. I don’t see anything “holy” in what I’ve helped you do to my own kin.
I’ll be merciful, compared to you. I won’t give you any chance to scream.
-- -- -- --
“Whatcha thinking, Ortus?” you ask.
My name is Ortrus, two Rs. It’s a traditional goblin name. But I’ve long since stopped trying to correct you.
We’re sitting around a campfire, about three miles north of a ruined human town. None of us could bear to stay the night there. The corpses are old, and the smell has faded, but the sorrow feels like it seeped into the very ground.
“I’m thinking about war,” I tell you.
“Oh. I didn’t mean to pry. You were just so quiet.”
You’re so childlike, even after all the people we’ve killed. Of course, they weren’t people to you. The humans in that town, those were people, before the goblin army butchered them. But the goblins you’ve killed, those were just sacrifices to your god.
“We’ll have our revenge,” the wizard interjects. “We’ll make the goblins pay for what they did.”
“The goblin king,” the warrior corrects.
“If that’s how you want to look at it,” the wizard says.
-- -- -- --
You’ll be second, wizard, and by far the hardest. I can only hope you’re too shocked to react to the chosen one’s death. Your ice could freeze my bones before I so much as blink. But my dagger is swift, and its enchantments will pierce through any wards you might muster. If I hurry, I’ll stop you from speaking your spells.
Have you considered that I might betray you? To the humans, I look almost human. All my goblin mother gave me was a hunched back and a drawn face, like my skull is too big for my skin. But you lizardfolk were known as monsters just a generation or two ago. It’s quite recent for humans to say “person” and mean you. Perhaps you retain a touch of suspicion, an awareness of how blurry the divisions can become.
I hope you don’t. If you do, then you’ll live, and I’ll die.
-- -- -- --
“We stomp the king, we end this,” the chosen one says. “And if another goblin king starts more trouble, we stomp him too.”
“How many goblin kings will that make for?” you ask. “The goblins are many, and the swamplands are poor. So long as they want more land, conflict is inevitable.”
“That’s the queen’s job,” the warrior says. “We stop the war, she makes the peace.”
“And then what?” you demand. “She’s not going to give them land. They’ll still want more, and they’ll still try to take it. They won’t stop until they’re forced to stop.”
“We shouldn’t fight each other,” the chosen one attempts cautiously.
It’s an old argument, and it always goes round and round in circles. I’ve listened to it far too many times.
“Ortus, where are you going?” the warrior asks.
“Anywhere that isn’t here,” I say.
-- -- -- --
I can’t spare you, warrior. You’ll want revenge for the wizard and the chosen one. But at least it will be a fair fight.
The villagers call you a knight. It’s not something you ever called yourself. You were a miner before the war, and the queen hasn’t exactly had a chance to offer you a title. But you move naturally in armor, and swing your axe as readily as a pick.
Me and my magic dagger, versus you and your skill and practice. I wonder which will win? It would be fitting if you were the one who killed me. Out of all of us, you seem the best equipped to find a future where no more humans or goblins have to die.
-- -- -- --
I like the forest. Is that odd, for one like me who was born in the swamps? I’m good at moving without noise. Not so much as a twig snaps under my feet.
But I could hear you from a mile away, warrior. Your armor weighs you down. Following after me, to make sure that I’m all right. You can’t leave well enough alone.
“None of us think of you that way,” you tell me.
“What way?” I ask, just to hear you say it.
“Like a monster.”
“Like a goblin.”
“You’re my friend, Ortus,” you tell me. “You’re Hannah’s friend, too. Shass, maybe not, but she’ll come around eventually.”
Hannah. Shass. I’ve been thinking of them for so long as the chosen one and the wizard. It would be harder to imagine how to kill someone called Hannah.
“I just need to think,” I tell you. “I’ll come back when--”
My eyes must have given me away. I see the motion behind you, and you move to dodge the strike of a hammer.
A goblin soldier, here? No, she doesn’t look like a rank-and-file soldier. She barely knows how to swing that hammer.
Lucky for you. If she hit you, she could kill you.
I could kill you.
Dagger-blows and hammer-blows don’t look much alike, but there’s no need for them to find your body. If I strike you from behind, I could run away. Claim we were set upon by a squad, and only I made it out.
Just two heroes left, to save humans and slaughter goblins. Two heroes who’ll need to die in the end.
I stand petrified, pondering, until your axe cuts through her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you tell her as you stand over her body. I hate you because you mean it.
You turn to me, your axe still smeared with gore. “You didn’t help me.” Quieter, understanding. “You couldn’t help me.”
“I’ve seen too much death today,” I tell you. Maybe it’s even true.
-- -- -- --
It comforts me to imagine how I might kill you. In my darkest moments, I admit that imagining is all I’ll ever do.
I could say I still need you. Three heroes stand a better chance than two at killing the goblin king. There’ll be time to kill you after the king is dead.
(I don’t dare add myself to that count. I can’t call myself a hero.)
Or I could say I like you. I could say I want you to survive, no matter the cost. I’ve kept up the pretense to you and the others. Why not lie to myself as well?
I’ll always have an excuse. The wizard is right about that much. After this king, there will be another, and another. There’ll always be some reason it’s better to let you live than to kill you.
The truth is, I’ll never kill you because that’s not the path I’m on. I chose to kill my kin, because I thought it was for a purpose. If I ever stop--if I ever turn my dagger against anyone else, or no one--I’ll have to face the thought that maybe none of it helped anyone at all.
-- -- -- --
“I won’t tell the others about this,” you tell me.
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“I’ve never had to fight humans,” you say. “I can’t imagine how much this must hurt you. You’re a brave goblin, Ortus. Braver than all the rest of us.”
That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.
