《The Gift of Words》 Greeting To Marianne: I can only hope you get this letter somehow. By Thunter¡¯s Gunter, I hope so. I¡¯m not in a good way here. Might kick off before I make it out. Hopefully I¡¯ll think of something. I¡¯m just writing to let you know . . . well, to let you know that I¡¯m sorry. For everything. It stinking reeks, and it¡¯s all my fault. I let you down. I¡¯m sorry. And for what it¡¯s worth . . . I do love you. But let me back up. When you found me all those years ago, lying wounded on the fields of Demross, I knew my past had caught up to me. I was young and foolish, raiding the humes on the east coast, had been for years. The life of a sea grem. You know all about that; I told you when I was in recovery. The greatest gift you ever gave me was not my life, but your listening ears. That and the knowledge you passed on to me from the humes, like how to speak your language, how to write these words. How to be something more. I remember it so clearly to this very day, no matter if it¡¯s been . . . what, forty years? You¡¯re probably a grandmother now, with your own little brood of humes and their broods . . . it¡¯s all right, it¡¯s a happy thought. Where was I? Oh yes, your sparkly blue eyes. Your hair, just the color of pure Flourian amber. Delicious looking hair, I always thought. And I thought . . . well, I think you knew how I thought of you, however ridiculous it seems. But you never made fun of me. A hume girl, so strong and so kind, you utterly mystified me. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. I recall your thirst for research, your quest for knowledge. How you carried around bundles of scrolls in your pack and kept them in the driest part of that cave. I tried to eat one, and that was the closest I ever came to making you angry. I asked, in my very best humespeak, ¡°But then whats else do ya keep ¡®em around for?¡± We grems judge the value of hume treasures mostly by how they taste, after all. Like amber, or gold . . . oh, gold is the best. It¡¯s been years. Did I ever tell you it¡¯s the secret to us living so long? That¡¯s why we¡¯ve always done whatever we could to get at hume gold stores. Never meant anything by it. Not much, anyway. What am I saying? We eat you guys. Speaking of, I might should be getting to the main point of this letter . . . I really didn¡¯t want to have to tell you about any of this, but as I said, it¡¯s getting down to the bone here and I don¡¯t think I have long. I don¡¯t want to kick off with regrets like these, not if I could get them off my chest and somehow, some way, into your hands. You deserve the truth. Chapter 1 I suppose I can start with the battle at Slipper¡¯s Cove that day. Forty . . . one? Forty two years ago? I was there as part of Captain Rotter¡¯s crew, an advance team sent by our raiding clan. We didn¡¯t know about the troops, of course. Thought the village would be easy pickings. We usually just torched ¡®em, since that¡¯s the grem way on the coastlands. Post the archers, hide the knackers (the ones like me with scimitars), then attack with fire. Everybody hates fire. The grems are more organized than you¡¯d think. We¡¯re strategists at heart, just also . . . you know, cowards. So first we¡¯d down the guards with arrows, then loose the flaming ones into the town while the torchers and knackers burst through the gates. Took a lot of us to kick in the sturdier gates, so I think we had about a dozen on it. Being little has its disadvantages, you know? We kicked that honker in and burst through like a pack of red-eyed rats. Do . . . rats have red eyes? Maybe they do. Green-skinned rats, then. That works. Look at little old Finch, making figures of speeches. I¡¯m not proud to say we caught a bunch of the residents with their pants down, so to speak. I killed a couple. Houses were burning, humes were crying, little ones and bigger ones. The smoke smelled great, as usual. To folk like us, the humes are like big bullies hiding all the good stuff in their rich lands. So we come, we poke and stick, torch some stuff. We take, we celebrate. Nibble some of the gold. Simple folk, simple hobbies. But I know you didn¡¯t see it that way. And see it you right did, ¡®coz you were there. To this day I¡¯m not sure, but as the reinforcements poured in from wherever they came that day, as our noses drooped and grems cried out and fell to lances, I could swear I saw your face amidst the crowd. All I saw was one of the enemy, a weak one to kill. But I was too preoccupied with running. Grems don¡¯t fight bravely, remember? We still had archer support, and they let out more flaming arrows at the soldiers as we fled and came back for their flanks. We sliced at their weak points, and got jabbed in the face by gobstickers for our efforts. They returned our fire-tipped sticks with iron bolts. A fella never heard so much screaming in a lifetime of raiding. You know full well how terrible the sound is. Humes make wails and shouts, and we grems shriek through gnashing teeth. Hisses, screeches. I¡¯d never heard them blend with the screams of the humes in such a way. No, not blend. It was a jumble, a clash all its own, and no one was winning. But the real battle . . . someone was winning that, and it sure wasn¡¯t us. We fled and made for the beach where our boat was anchored, with two watchgrems posted. As my sweaty feet skidded in the sand, making for the ship on all fours, the enemy loosed their own fire ahead of us and lit pinholes on the rough, patched planks. They blossomed like flowers, the first I¡¯d ever paid attention to. I recall the strange feeling of despair, and a faint ringing in my ears. The hollowness of my life. Was I supposed to have lived for something? Nah. Somebody¡¯d have told me. The soldiers bore down on us, some on horses with sharp gobstickers spearing multiple of us through. I dove for cover, got one leg clipped by a stray hoof, tumbled a few times, sliced an arm on a dying clanmate¡¯s sickle. . . . At that point, I just lay panting, looking up to see the foot soldiers coming with their chain armor and dull grey spears. The clouds above, previously our chummy ally in the fight, now seemed to bear down on us. I made no sound, and tried to duck down as the big men swept their spears from side to side, checking for survivors. Thrusts returned sharp yowls of pain, shrill enough to make my ears wither. I didn¡¯t even see it when the soldier speared me. I didn¡¯t cry out, just tensed my back, waiting for him to pull the burning metal free. It¡¯d pierced my scrappy vest like rancid butter. I¡¯m sure my body jerked as my chest hit the ground again, but the soldiers took it as the dying throes of a pitiful creature. My mind grew dizzier, and I was vaguely aware that my brown blood was seeping out where it shouldn¡¯t be. Pain was squeezing me, more pain than I¡¯d ever felt. I don¡¯t know how much time passed before I gathered the strength to look up and saw . . . Stolen novel; please report. Only dying flames. Dully glinting metal. Brown-dyed sand, and the bodies of my grem crew. The noise had died down, and the soldiers had evidently left us for dead. So I did the sensible thing and tried to crawl to safety. Tried. My limbs weren¡¯t working properly, and I was leaving a fowl, slippery streak behind me. ¡°Come on, Finch!¡± I growled to myself. ¡°You can do it! Just gotta get away.¡± Although . . . only I knew what I was saying, because the grem words came out all wrong. I wasn¡¯t getting anywhere fast. My pitiful grem life was fading away like the last of the Sun¡¯s light. My knobby hands scrabbled in the dirty sand, mostly to no avail. And then . . . you were there. I heard you scream briefly, and it reminded me of the nightmarish battle¡ªthe gremslaughter¡ªthat had just finished, but then . . . then you sounded curious. All I could think was, ¡°One of them is still here. A female. Why?¡± I blacked out at some point as you drug me over to the cove. You must have gone back to wipe away some of the tracks and bloodstains so people wouldn¡¯t find us. When I finally shook awake, I was shocked to realize I was alive but disappointed to discover that my chest and back still hurt like fire, where a hole had been slit just under my shoulder blade and through to my armpit. You had me all wrapped up like a scumming mummy. My leg was almost all numb where the horse had trampled me. A painful look down showed me that someone had splinted it. Huh. A splint. I¡¯d seen those before, but rarely, since grems weren¡¯t much of the healer type. A gasp. ¡°He¡¯s awake.¡± The voice was small and feminine¡ªnot the type of voice I was used to hearing. Soon I saw your face in my vision, a face I¡¯d never forget. It took what little breath I had right away. ¡°Mr. gremlin? Uh . . . goblin? I¡¯m glad you¡¯re awake now.¡± That was what I assume you said. It was something like that. My humespeak was very patchy back then. I¡¯d have learned more of it in my raiding voyages, but I didn¡¯t know yet how many fun words your kind have. Nor why I would want to communicate with a hume. But without the fire and smoke, the screams and the frantic combat, in a quiet sea cave with water lapping in the background and the calm, flickering light of a single lamp . . . your face seemed downright angelic. Who was this angel what spoke with me, I wondered? Was it she who bandaged me up? Maybe she¡¯s a witch doctor. Nah . . . a witch doctor wouldn¡¯t have bothered with the bandages¡ªjust muttered some words and turned me into a frog. I¡¯d be all right as a frog. Better than all this pain. But you kept speaking to me, while I just stared. Eventually, I realized you were asking after my health and consciousness. I grunted, coughed, snorked my nose, and then nodded. ¡°All good,¡± I said in gremspeak, even though I wasn¡¯t. ¡°Just . . . wondering why you saved me, your angelicness.¡± The mystery girl frowned, staring intently at my face. Was she . . . trying to puzzle out my words? Then she shocked me by saying, in my language, ¡°Little bit. Speak little bit. I Marianne. Save you . . .¡± she seemed to grasp for words, making a gesture that moved from her slim chest outward. Like a gift. I got it. Somewhere in the back of my mind. You were having . . . mercy on me. The word wasn¡¯t even in my language, much less an idea I was used to. Something shifted and changed, and, to my surprise and shame, I felt tears welling up behind my red eyes. Don¡¯t let ¡®em out! Don¡¯t let ¡®em out, ya scrumbucket! The pretty angel will see. And you know the rest from there. We talked, you fed me, and I slowly warmed up to this strange human who¡¯d reached down to help an insignificant grem raider like me. You were a real hand at fishing, said your dad trained you. You even showed me the scrolls you kept neatly arranged in your big old pack, which you took out and wrote on every day. You wrote a lot about me, and my language, taking notes on my words and mannerisms. You taught me how to do the things you did, starting with what I could handle as a bedridden cripple. What made me really like you was how similar we were, though I didn¡¯t realize it at first. You were only a few inches taller than me, even though you said you were twenty years old, and scrawny as a reed. Still beautiful, mind you. But we were both outcasts. You, by the people who raised you, me by the strange justice I found in war. I never got what I deserved. You . . . well, you didn¡¯t either, that¡¯s for sure. You deserved so much better. Being the amazing girl you are, you raised yourself by watching the animals. Learned from villagers and monks what you could, taught yourself to read and write, and set out on a quest to study the world. I¡¯d never even heard of humes like you. I can only hope you settled down and shared your knowledge with folks. But let¡¯s move on. My guilt compels me. Chapter 2 When you took me in and healed me, Marianne, I was lost for words. I know I¡¯ve said it a hundred times since you taught me the phrase, but . . . thank you. Kindness isn¡¯t really something my people know. But what surprised me more was when you offered to take me with you once I was healed. To hunt and fish and travel together. It was never a life I envisioned, yet it was the happiest five years of my life and that¡¯s not even a contest. If I¡¯d stopped to consider it, I¡¯d have thought it funny that I never missed my homeland and family. But what was there to miss? I had no attachments back there. Nobody raided the humelands for their families back home. It was every grem for himself. In our days on the road, we avoided your fellow humans and kept mostly to the woods and wilderness, where you taught me your father¡¯s woodcraft. I taught you how to hunt with a bow, just as soon as I made one. We grem might seem backward, but we can certainly be clever, huh? We wandered into a village together just that one time, remember? You tried to dress me up as your child, which uh, didn¡¯t go as intended. After that, I was quite content to just stay and watch the camp while you bought supplies. One of the strangest things about traveling with you was watching you grow up, something I hadn¡¯t done for nearly twenty years. You only grew perhaps another inch, but that put you nearly a head taller than me, and you filled out a little more, reminding me that you weren¡¯t just a strange little girl who lived in the woods¡ªyou were a woman too. I know, I know, there are women everywhere. And we¡¯ve been over this, but I just . . . hadn¡¯t ever been around human women. I didn¡¯t realize how beautiful they were. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I didn¡¯t have any romantic intentions. Not yet, anyway. To me, you were a novelty that brought me back to my homeland, where the grem women baked hideous but tasty food and took care of us raiders while we were shoreside. They weren¡¯t the prettiest, nor the most well-mannered much of the time, but they were missed after a long raiding voyage. I was never married. But now . . . now I dreamed atimes of a different life, one where I met a cute grem girl and settled down. Didn¡¯t have to raid or nothing, but had plenty to eat. Somehow our lands were good lands in my dreams, and the gremstress particularly easy on the eyes. I think she looked a lot like you. Funny how that works. The years passed, good years. Years where we grew to depend and rely on each other, stuck around, watched each other¡¯s backs. Neither of us seemed to want to go back to society. Slowly, my affection for you grew, and I realized I more than admired you. Yet I¡¯m a grem, and you a human, so it¡¯s not exactly like those stories you used to tell of two smitten humes pining for each other. Just a strange attraction I couldn¡¯t get rid of. And I tried. It was a sense of love that went so much deeper than grem words could ever express. And then one day, five years after you found me, I awoke to find you gone. I looked and looked, but you just vanished without a trace. My first thought was that you were kidnapped by nefarious humes. Someone had surely seen your beauty and fancied you for himself, or worse . . . sold you. The thought never would have bothered a grem like me back in the day¡ªin fact, why should it? But it did, and for the first time I felt an odd feeling of jealousy. I couldn¡¯t say even now if that was a keep-the-treasure-for-meself kind of jealousy, or something born of real . . . what do you call it, virtue? I think that¡¯s the word. Whatever it was, it was strong. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. I went without food and sleep for days, wandering the forests, searching desperately for your tracks, begging the few passersby I came across for any morsel of info on your whereabouts. Shocked that I knew their language, the humes would only back away and hurry off, or curse me and beat me away with whatever passed for a weapon in those parts. I called your name at night, and when I drifted off to sleep accidentally, I¡¯d awake and realize I was still calling. Marianne. It was the prettiest name I¡¯d ever heard, still is, of that much I¡¯m certain to this day. But now it felt hollow, as though I was saying it over your burning bones, watching the memory of you drift away. In some of my dreams, that was the case. Slowly, slowly, I came to my senses and began to wonder if I was wrong about you all along. Not your kindness, not ever that. But . . . well, maybe you just couldn¡¯t stand me anymore, and were too polite to say it to my face? That stung even more, somehow. Maybe you¡¯d gone off to find work, or to trade with some merchants, or find a home . . . no, you would have returned by now and let me know. So what could it be? The voices began to whisper in my head: ¡°She¡¯s a hume. She cheats just like them. She hates you. Now you see it, Finch. She¡¯s a hume, and you¡¯re nothing but an insignificant, sniveling grem.¡± I¡¯d huddle on the ground under a tree or a leaky roof, and hug my scrawny legs, shaking my head. My hair had grown long, and was usually wet with rain as well as filthy with grime. The voices would paralyze me, as though I still lay on your makeshift bed back in the sea cove. You know, I used to wonder where you slept, and why you had an extra cot and sleeping sack, until I finally looked and saw the whole cave and realized you didn¡¯t have another. I whispered back, telling the voices they could take those taunting words and stick ¡®em up a troll¡¯s . . . oops, I forgot you don¡¯t like it when I talk like that. Anyway, I told the voices to go away. But my own grem nature accused me of being a fool. No, not just that, but I was angry and bitter toward you. Under the surface, beneath my pretend loyalty, I was eating myself. So angry. So sad. So afraid. Maybe . . . maybe now is a good time to come clean. I fear this bitterness and sorrow has eaten me entirely. I don¡¯t care anymore. No, I¡ªI have more to explain. I can¡¯t go down that trail yet. Marianne, if you¡¯re somehow reading this, I¡¯m not in a good way. I think I started out by saying that, but that was days ago. Maybe weeks. Something¡¯s been chasing me, and I¡¯m kinda in hiding. The locals are onto my whereabouts, and they don¡¯t like having a goblin in their neighborhood. Point being, I¡¯m actually wounded at the moment and not sure about my fate. I feel broken in so many ways. And . . . no, no, I¡¯m doing it again. Stick to the story, Finch. Come on. For her. For you, Marianne. My beloved, quirky, clever hume girl. Please be there. Please be OK. Chapter 3 I suppose I have to admit it now . . . I really don¡¯t know if this letter will ever reach you, nor how. It¡¯s been a week since I last touched it, but I¡¯m still kicking. Where even was I? Oh. Oh yeah. I . . . well, truth be told, I got over your betrayal, or so I thought. That¡¯s what I took to calling it, a betrayal. But long last, survivalism took over my life and my focus became hunting, eating, and staying on the move. I didn¡¯t want to get too far away, or so said some part of me, lest you come back some night in need of help. No, that was silly. Rumors. I¡¯d listen for rumors and ask around. Frankly, I¡¯d given up on you. I didn¡¯t bother asking around anymore. The part of me that loved you like family, I wrapped it in bitterness and anger and shoved it down. As I said, that only worked because I was on my toes at all times. The real reason I roamed around was to avoid capture. Everywhere I went, I stirred up instant animosity. They always, always wanted to kill me. They didn¡¯t always say it immediately. There¡¯d be looks and glances shared, all as though pretending I wouldn¡¯t notice. Skittish behavior, wary eyes. Inevitably, soldiers. Or just a group of tall men with pitchforks and spears. It was hard enough to stand up against one hume, much less an armed group. I had me bow and trusty knacker cutlass, but that was it. That and a warm coat you made for me. I kept that on me at all times, even when it was too hot to wear it. Before I knew it, I¡¯d lost track of the time that passed. Years. Summers scorched, winters blew in. It was so strange to live in the land of humes, an outcast surviving largely in the wooded frontier, sometimes the southern plains. I¡¯d done it with you, but that was . . . that was different. A different life. I saw this as the beginning of my new life. I kept track, though, as I heard tell of events and happenings in the surrounding lands. As little as I knew or understood these lands, I had a sharp memory and tended to take note when a warlord was stirring up trouble or someone¡¯s least favorite landowner took sick and died. I never wrote any of it down, despite you teaching me well. That would . . . dredge up bad memories. Eight years from the days when you first took me in, that was when I heard the shocking news. No, it wasn¡¯t the news that shocked me; the shock came after. A town had been set on fire by the Tola raiders, the no-good human tribe from the east. I recognized the name of the town, Hemwell, but that was about it. I was all set to avoid the goings-on when I met up with some fleeing refugees. In their haste and plight, they didn¡¯t bother to speak angrily with me, and actually said that they were on their way to find help for a woman and child. They asked if I could see what I could do. It seemed such an odd request that I actually stopped to consider it. Before I could help myself, I was saying yes. Yes? What a fool you are, Finch! I thought to myself as I ran off toward the village. The warriors are gone now, yeah right. Didn¡¯t make it any better. They said the flames might be out of control by now. They could have at least accompanied me. Every instinct seemed to scream at me to run the other way as I progressed toward the attacked village. Every instinct except . . . that one that I could neither place nor explain. The one you instilled in me. Or awoke? No raiders in sight¡ªthat at least was good. It was a dark evening, and at first I mistook the black smoke for more of the heavy clouds, but as I got closer, I made out the billowing trails and followed them to Hemwell. It was a small village, surrounded by a rather pathetic wooden fence. Strong enough to keep large beasts out, but not tall enough to stop humes and too large-gapped between planks to keep grems out. Most of the houses were in the latter stages of a blaze, where the fire¡¯s consumed just about everything and finally seems to realize it. I should know, from my torching days. Some were smoldering from successful efforts of bold remaining villagers to stamp them out. The raiders, thankfully, had already passed through, but they had left a right mess in their wake: screaming lovers, dying children, exhausted men who¡¯d stayed behind when the Tola passed through. They¡¯d left many bodies in their wake, and I knew just enough about them to know they¡¯d taken some who hadn¡¯t escaped. Not all of them, as evidenced by the remaining people . . . though most of them were wounded or dying. But one voice, one wailing cry, broke through, the cry of a little humeling. Normally I didn¡¯t pay attention to children, and I¡¯d certainly heard them cry before, but . . . no, it was its mother. I heard her too. It must be her, but where were they? I cautiously crept into the village, noticed by no one except a dying man who leaned against one of the few untouched houses. He reached out a hand toward me, but I cringed away. I think he tried to speak. Behind the house . . . there. The woman crouched on the ground, shielding her baby from the smoky fumes. No, she was nursing it. She looked up sharply as soon as she heard me, and I froze, trying to retract a gulp in my throat. Why did she look . . . then I recognized you. I gasped and ran to you. One hand on the baby, you made a shushing motion and I took the hint. You remember the day. Of course you do. I could swear my heart stopped when I got over my momentary self-denial and accepted the fact that you were actually there. I forgot how to breathe, how to walk, how to look away. I didn¡¯t know how to react. I just stood there, watching you. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°Finch,¡± you called to me, just loud enough for me to hear over the shouting and coughing and weeping. ¡°How did you find me, buddy?¡± Slowly, I recovered, at least enough to feel awkward at finding you in such an exposed state. Stupid of me to even think that, though, at this time. ¡°M-Marianne, what are you still doing here?¡± I demanded, trying to be quiet. The baby started stirring and crying again, and you turned and withdrew it, buttoning your smoke-stained blouse. I watched as you brought the child into my line of sight, and felt a hiccup in my chest. It was too strange for me to comprehend: your . . . child. Or someone else¡¯s, I wondered? No, that didn¡¯t seem likely, from what I knew of humes. Which wasn¡¯t much, of course. But who was the father, I asked myself? Were you married now? When you spoke again, it was to draw my attention to your leg, which had been an arrow sticking out of it. Can¡¯t rightly imagine how much that must have hurt, and how you put your little one before that pain. I gasped and rushed up, but you just shied away. ¡°It¡¯s not that bad, I just can¡¯t exactly walk.¡± All that nonsense. I gave no thought to all my anger and resentment I¡¯d built up toward you over those years. In fact, it seemed to have dissipated already, just seeing your faint smile. I readily scooped you up¡ªwell, not exactly scooped, but you know what I mean¡ªand helped you to walk, trying to take as much weight as I could off your wounded leg. Didn¡¯t bother with the arrow yet, since that¡¯s the way I¡¯d been taught. Still don¡¯t know how far we walked. I tried not to quiz you too much, but I wanted to know what had happened to the village, why the Tola attacked and how far gone they were, all that stuff. Of course, you weren¡¯t in much of a state to talk. If I¡¯d had a better grip on myself, I¡¯d have kept my trap shut. The baby sure didn¡¯t. Between the two of us, I know you had a miserable trip. Oh, and all the blood you were leaking from your leg. Finally, when you seemed too exhausted to go on, we stopped and you cradled the baby while I yanked the arrow from your thigh. I swear it pained me just as much as it did you, and that was abundantly clear from your face and silent gasp. I was crying, I know that. I bandaged it as best I could with what supplies I had on me. You slept there in the woods, and I spent most of the night awake, watching over you and making sure the little guy didn¡¯t crawl away. He was . . . what, a year old by then? I had no idea how to judge a humeling¡¯s age at that point, but I think that lines up. The next day, even after you¡¯d gotten plenty of rest, you looked just as exhausted, and not just because of your leg. All that blood lost. . . . No, something else that I suspected had to do with the kid¡¯s daddy somehow. You didn¡¯t say much to me, aside from expressing your gratitude. When I asked, you told me those travelers I¡¯d met were probably your only real friends in the village, and that you¡¯d been living there for only a short time. I didn¡¯t push for any more. There really wasn¡¯t a rush, and you were recovering from the raider attack in more ways than one. Living the rustic life with you felt like a breath of fresh, familiar air, though the humeling really put a damper on things sometimes . . . You eventually told me about the dad. How he was a traveler like you, and you met along the road and just . . . stuck together. I thought that was sorta strange, but hey, who was I to judge? What you didn¡¯t tell me was what had happened before that. Back when . . . you know. And . . . I¡¯ll admit, it was starting to bring back that black coal of resentment, like you were hiding something from me on purpose. I started to notice how you did so carefully yet . . . with uncertainty, not ill will. Didn¡¯t matter; it still hurt. Finally, I just asked you about it. I . . . well, you remember, I¡¯m sure. You looked absolutely panicked as soon as you realized what I wanted to know, and about to cry. I¡¯m sure I came off a lot more bitter than I meant, too. Then . . . you surprised me by sweeping me up in a hug. Lifted me right off my feet. And you were crying. Apologizing. It was like a dam burst, and whatever was holding you back fell away. You told me about it. How you went out expecting another day of foraging, only to meet the slavers. They captured and beat you, and treated you like an animal¡ªworse, from the sound of it¡ªthe whole way back to Tal¡¯Quvain. Once you started telling me the story, it was like you couldn¡¯t stop. I listened in shock as you told of the horrible humes and their whips, and of the slave camp outside Tal¡¯Quvain where you worked while they waited to take you to auction. Of the first master you got, that one with the nasty temper and all the wives. Of the sudden riot in the streets that gave you the opportunity to escape¡ªI couldn¡¯t help but cheer at that part¡ªand your desperate flight across the desert. I still don¡¯t understand how you did that. All I could think was you¡¯re amazing and that¡¯s how. Perhaps the gods were watching out for you. It was hard to imagine that you¡¯d been living such a crazy life without me. And after all that . . . an astonishingly normal life with him. The man you never named. I didn¡¯t press, because it didn¡¯t really matter. I knew wee Patrick¡¯s name, of course, since you said it many times per day. I really wish I could have been around to watch the kid grow up¡ªthough of course I got to do that later¡ªbut . . . I¡¯ve found life has a way of taking away things I never should have had anyway. Like you. But why did it have to tease me all the time? Being back on the road with you, child or no, was a joy that I will never forget. But it made sense that you had to leave once more. Just . . . still wasn¡¯t easy saying goodbye. Chapter 4 Now, I want to stop and acknowledge that I was a lot colder than I should have been. Especially as regards your dead husband. You did such a good job hiding your tears that I could almost forget what you¡¯d been through. Until I¡¯d hear you lying awake, sobbing to yourself. Sometimes I would say something insensitive, and I could tell by the look on your face that I had cut deep. And now, while I finally have the chance, I just want to say . . . I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ve lived so long now, and spent many decades in the humelands, and it¡¯s like they say: wisdom comes with old age. Perhaps humans learn it sooner. That was when I suggested to you that we find a village where you and the kid could stay. Little Patrick still needed his mother close by, and it was getting both tiring and dangerous to be on the move with him. You smiled sadly when I suggested it, but I could see your fatigue. You knew the same, that we couldn¡¯t keep running forever. And underneath that . . . the signs of a relationship near to breaking. So I saw you to a village that seemed good, made sure you found folk that would help you out and vice versa. You weren¡¯t helpless, and knew so much that could benefit them in return. I didn¡¯t say goodbye, neither had I told you my plans, but I slinked away, bound for I knew not where. I tried to tell myself I was doing what was best for you, and for the kid. He didn¡¯t deserve to grow up with a strange old grem, hiding from hume society. In truth . . . well, I can now say with confidence that I didn¡¯t do it for those reasons¡ªI was just looking out for myself. That¡¯s how we were taught from a young age in grem society: watch out for number one. Somehow, I¡¯d tricked myself into believing I wouldn¡¯t have to worry about you and Patrick anymore, but that was far from the truth. Didn¡¯t have to? Maybe. But it wasn¡¯t about that. I couldn¡¯t help worrying every night about how those humes were treating you. Fellow humes, I had to remind myself. They¡¯re her kin; what could they possibly do to her? But they were humes . . . never knew what humes would do. I returned to the village once to check on you, and I¡¯m pretty sure you never realized it, though some of the other villagers spotted me. I got to see the kid playing. He was five or six years old. Caused a strange emotion to rise up in my chest, my throat, and I still can¡¯t place it. After that, I turned and walked away, my conscience assuaged. I ended up journeying farther than I ever had, wandering aimlessly but also¡ªfor the first time¡ªwithout a tether. I ended up in that horrible desert and began to panic before I found my way to the city of Tal¡¯Quvain. They were . . . less than welcoming. Stolen story; please report. I¡¯d prefer to forget the time I spent imprisoned there, but it wasn¡¯t for anyone¡¯s business or benefit; just to keep me off their streets. I got lucky, you could say, since I wasn¡¯t killed on the spot by the city guards. Finally, they let me out, giving me nothing more than a hunk of bread, a skin of water, and a surprisingly apologetic, ¡°Sorry, little fellow.¡± I think they had watched my mannerisms over those years, and were surprised to see that I didn¡¯t act the complete barbarian, or two-legged animal, that we¡¯re made out to be. I couldn¡¯t say exactly how long I was in Tal¡¯Quvain, just that when I finally made it back to the commonwealth, it had been nearly ten years since I¡¯d seen you and Patrick at the village. I found myself near it, but I didn¡¯t go to visit. I felt older now, a true grem grandpa in all but that I had no actual, y¡¯know, grandchildren. Never had kids, of course. No, I went in search of a home. An actual home, somewhere in the mountains where nobody was going to bother me. Seemed to me I had finally earned that. Wandering was fine, living the nomadic life, but there were dangers and unpleasant surprises, not to mention the whole thing about me getting old. It¡¯s funny, but now I realize that I¡¯ve been getting old ever since I grew up. When a grem reaches his full size, it¡¯s just . . . downhill from there. Slowly. For humans, slightly less so. I found some gold and other things to nibble from time to time, which probably had a positive effect, but I¡¯d reached a point where I didn¡¯t really care anymore. No, I just wanted to live out the rest of my days in peace. But I had to go into town to get supplies, OK? Closest village was this one called Happenstance, and I didn¡¯t name it. I got recognized there by this girl who looked . . . oh, I don¡¯t know, between fifteen and eighteen years old? And yes, I say recognized, which was the weird part. She called out to me, ¡°Mr. grem, wait!¡± I turned around, all confused, and she asked, ¡°Are you Finch?¡± A villager walked by and spat my way, then another said, ¡°Mary, don¡¯t talk to things like that. He¡¯s not going to understand you.¡± Mary. My heart skipped a beat when I heard that name. I¡¯d called you that when you were younger. Didn¡¯t realize it was a name by itself. Or maybe this was also a nickname? ¡°What, uh . . . how ya know my name?¡± I asked the girl. ¡°Oh!¡± She clapped excitedly, clearly happy to be right. ¡°Well, you are the only traveling grem around these parts. I¡¯ve heard tell of you from travelers. My love from Farthen was the first I met who actually seemed to know you. He told me stories.¡± He knows me? I thought with concern. Just who was this boy? Hopefully a young man, and not some creepy middle-aged man. The girl seemed nice enough. ¡°Is that right?¡± I said, blanking on what else to say. ¡°And what¡¯s his name?¡± ¡°Patrick. Patrick of Farthen.¡± Chapter 5 Yeah. That was when it clicked in my head, and I realized I¡¯d seen an entire generation go by. Your son, he was grown up and engaged to a beautiful young girl. She wasn¡¯t much younger than you when I found you¡ªwell, when you found me¡ªand she even reminded me a bit of you. Unafraid of a creature like me. Bold. Kind, or so I¡¯d have guessed. Never saw her again, of course. I left Happenstance with two strange feelings: one, that my past had just reached out to grab hold of me; two, that I needed to get far away. I forgot about most of my supplies I needed, but that was just as well. I¡¯d do without, as I¡¯d done for nearly two decades. I couldn¡¯t help but wonder, though . . . what were you up to these days? Had you found another husband? Or gone off to wander the country like me, now that your son was grown? All those years with you, and I didn¡¯t know how a human parent was supposed to act. I mean, I knew how I would go about it if I was in someone else¡¯s shoes, but . . . I wasn¡¯t, so that was unfair. Oh, how I didn¡¯t know what my future held. Fast forward a few years¡ªonce more, it¡¯s a bit hard for me to gauge¡ªand I lived in a lovely hut in the mountains, surrounded by a high-altitude bog on the north, a long, rocky slope on the south, and misty ridges on the east and west. It was quite peaceful. Well, OK, I¡¯d had to rebuild after a bear wrecked my first house, but that was out of my control. I¡¯d like to think I was attuned to the animals well enough to understand them all at this point, or at least their motivations. That bear probably hadn¡¯t slept well. Of course, peaceful it might have been. Comfortable? Not especially; which was fine with me, but after years of it, my back began to crave the comforts the civilized world could afford. I was on my way back to Happenstance for perhaps the tenth time since my mountain life began, this time intent on seeking out the woman who made blankets and pillows and the like. What I found was no village, but a disaster-scape. Houses were thrown about by their feet, trees mown down, the few streets now scattered with debris as though the child of a giant had been messily playing. And you guys didn¡¯t have giants here. I later learned that this natural phenomenon was known as a tornado, an oversized whirlwind with the power to level . . . well, a whole village. At the time, though, I just stared in horror. Then I realized that there were voices calling. What followed was a numb half hour, maybe an hour, where I stumbled into the village and helped the few remaining villagers to free those who could be saved. One such villager was a mute boy who seemed to stare around sightlessly, as though not comprehending. Sakes alive or dead, I didn¡¯t understand in the least. The poor kid had tearstained running down both cheeks. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. In that hour, I was hit with a memory from more than twenty years prior, in the village of Hemwell. Me, stumbling into a destroyed village after a disaster, and finding . . . well, instead of you, I found a small boy. I asked him where his parents were. He was probably six or seven, by my reckoning, and should know what I meant, but he was in a state of extreme distress following the storm. He clung to me for some reason. One of the few men who would talk to me, even after helping them out with the search for survivors, showed me the house where the boy¡¯s parents had been: one of the most destroyed ones. We¡¯d found the kid in a better-kept house, where he¡¯d been protected from the terrible storm. I recognized both of them. And somehow, it wasn¡¯t surprising to me, just sad and fitting. I looked down at the boy¡ªand motioned him over, to the objection of the nice man. ¡°We found your parents,¡± I told him. ¡°And . . . I¡¯m sorry, but they¡¯re no longer for this world.¡± The boy looked like he couldn¡¯t cry any more, and indeed he didn¡¯t. Just stared in silence at the broken bodies of Patrick and his wife . . . I never even knew her name. She seemed like a fine person, kind of like you, Marianne. I¡¯m so sorry. I really am. You never knew he was dead. You couldn¡¯t know. And it almost felt like a betrayal of your memory to try to talk comfortingly to this kid, but . . . it was all I could do for him, for you. But no, it wasn¡¯t all I could do. I took the boy in. He came with me, and I took him up to my home in the mountains. His name was Quinn, and he was a quiet little boy. Timid but curious, just like you. He did well, learning quickly everything that I taught him. I loved the boy dearly, and we got along great as he aged. We hunted and fished together, built things together. Oftentimes, of course . . . often, I¡¯d see him sit and watch the sparkling sunset, or the rain, and just stare. And I knew what he was thinking about. And . . .Quinn, if you¡¯re reading this now, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry things turned out for you the way they did. Had I not run away to the mountains, your mother and father might be alive. Had I not run away years before, your grandmother might be as well. I saw the signs, and I suspected her disease, but . . . I just ran away. And I have this feeling that . . . that you don¡¯t mean it when you say I¡¯m the best grem dad you ever had. When you say you don¡¯t blame me. Sooner or later, I fear you will reach a point of no return and make a decision to be my enemy. So just kno¡ª Epilogue Quinn jerked the large knife out of his mentor¡¯s back, watching as the goblin made a last effort to wheeze out something intelligible between heavy breaths. The boy caught only the words, ¡°Wait . . . Quinn . . .¡± Finch tried to turn around, and Quin quickly took hold of his thin shoulder and jammed the knife between his ribs again¡ªeliciting a more desperate and final gasp. There was a strange instinct that made him want to hug the old grem as he did so, and comfort him as he died. But, scowling distastefully and disgusted both by both the sight of the diminutive man and what he had just done, Quinn wanted nothing less in the world than to embrace Finch. He jerked the knife out again, and this time, Finch slumped to the floor, dead. Dark blood, almost black, pooled from his chest and stained the chair he¡¯d been sitting on. A hand-crafted chair made with knowledge he¡¯d stolen from honest men, honest ¡®humes¡¯. Blood had flecked the parchments on which the grem had been scrawling as he died. Quinn glanced over the page briefly, catching words such as sorry, parents and his own name, Quinn. A hypocrite to the end. Quinn had liked the goblin. He really had. But over the years, he had found it truer and truer that he could not be forgiven for his crimes against Quinn¡¯s family. Moreover, Quinn had grown to despise him over the five years they¡¯d been together. Mostly for that book he carried around and wrote in, keeping it wrapped up and tucked away safely. Never letting him read it. But Quinn had stolen a look last night, and confirmed all the suspicions he¡¯d had. A glance over Finch¡¯s shoulder here and there had confirmed that it was a letter to his grandmother Marianne¡ªhis deceased grandmother¡ªand that the old codger was clearly writing it only as a sort of diary to assuage his guilty conscience. What a pathetic creature. Staring down at his withered face now, and his wispy white hair, Quinn wondered how he could ever have respected him. Ugh, why didn¡¯t I at least kill him outside? The dirt floor would soak up the blood, but still, it would leave such a mess. Quinn paused to blink quickly and gulp, trying to steady his breathing and push back the panic. He hadn¡¯t expected that part. It felt like . . . like killing a human. Not like his fellow villagers used to tell him back in Happenstance. WIth a shaky sigh, Quinn stepped around the body and peered at the scribblings Finch had most recently been penning. His script was messy, but in a practiced and almost artful way. The boy was certain he¡¯d taken it directly from Grandmother Marianne; it felt like hers, even if he wouldn¡¯t know it to see it. The written words were disquieting, and not what he expected, causing him to frown and flips through the leaves until he started from the beginning: This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. To Marianne: I can only hope you get this letter somehow. By Thunter¡¯s Gunter, I hope so. I¡¯m not in a good way here. Might kick off before I make it out. Hopefully I¡¯ll think of something. Quinn made his way to the remaining clean chair in the room and sat down, looking back at Finch¡¯s body with an upturned lip that was more thoughtful than disgusted. He deserved it. But . . . when did he pen this part? What had he been going through? It wasn¡¯t recent. Quinn continued reading. To his surprise, he found not the raving words of a madman, but the heartfelt confessions of a conscience racked by regret. The parts about the grem¡¯s romantic notions toward his grandmother made his stomach turn, but he could almost excuse it as innocent honesty. No, not honest. He¡¯s a grem, a betrayer and a liar. He continued reading. And reading. He would occasionally glance up, lip trembling, and whisper to himself, ¡°He deserved it.¡± Somehow, he found that notion harder and harder to justify with each handwritten page. Finch had abandoned Grandmother when she was dying of her disease¡ªFather had told him all about it back in Hemwell. When they arrived together in Hemwell, the place where Patrick grew up and Quinn was later born, Marianne had been suffering from a terminal disease that caused her discomfort and pain. And Finch . . . he¡¯d abandoned them. He deserved this. Right? Quinn reached the end of the letter, observing that the writing grew ever shakier and more rushed toward the ending, finally leaving off in a squiggle surrounded by droplets of drying blood. Quinn held the pages in quavering hands. I think . . . I think I just made a terrible mistake.