Chapter 17 Pansy
Pansy
When the question of which people suffered the greatest losses during the Great War arises, it is oft answered too quickly, without giving thought to what “greatest” truly means in the circumstances.
Is it the largest number in total? Or is it one qualified by proportion?
The answer to our initial query changes, depending.
While the Realm’s goblin population saw the largest total decrease as a result of the War, it is the Realm’s halfling population that was nearly cut by half.
Yet, sobering though these two facts may be, as answers they prove equally flawed.
For what the quantification of loss fails to account for is that in the realm of grief there can be no competition.
LESSONS IN LOSS: AN ELVISH REFLECTION ON LILLISHIRE AND THE GREAT WAR [TRANSLATED]
Standing there, staring into the dull black of the empty tunnel, Ren’s retreating form already long gone, swallowed by darkness as cold and desolate as the regret clotting in her throat, Pansy swore she was about to shatter. Her happiness already had.
To think that only a few short hours ago it had felt so assured, as enduring as the sun’s ever-cycling path across the sky.
But now she realized that it too was nothing but a fragile, precious thing.
The moment she’d slackened her grip, it had slipped through her fingers, more fleeting than a hot breath in winter.
Worst of all, she only had herself to blame.
“It’s all right, Pansy,” her mother said, pulling free of the crowd. “You can come home, live with us.” Her hand touched Pansy’s elbow, familiar but not in the way Pansy wanted; the skin was too soft, too plush, the callouses she remembered nowhere to be found.
Jerking her arm away, Pansy said, in a voice like broken glass, “I don’t want to come back to the village! I want to live here! With Ren!” I didn’t mean what I said. I was just…
Angry. Stupidly angry.
“Is the spell still in effect?” asked one of the other villagers, sending all heads turning back to Agvaldir – the wretched man.
“It’s not a spell!” Pansy snapped, practically spitting the words as she whipped around, viper-quick.
“Ren’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
My life is better not in spite of them, but because of them.
And maybe none of you will ever understand why, but surely you can understand that I’m happy!
If you truly care about me, shouldn’t that be enough? ”
No one had an answer for that, not even her mum and dad. Only Blossom, stepping into the void Pansy’s mother had left behind, managed a soft, “Of course it’s enough.” But her voice was a solitary one, too soft on its own to pierce through the wall of unease the rest of Haverow formed beyond.
So, Pansy continued, riding the wave of heat cresting through her chest, equal parts impassioned and vicious.
“You know, Ren didn’t even want to live here at first. All those vegetables out front, the ones Agvaldir and his men destroyed?
That was the reason Ren stayed. Because they knew without the extra food they were growing here, their clan wouldn’t survive the coming winter! ”
It shouldn’t have been a revelation; just like it shouldn’t have been a revelation for Pansy when Ren had first told her.
Still, her words drew more than a few startled gasps, and when she paused to take a breath, the wide-eyed stares she found waiting for her proved that she’d struck a chord.
As she’d suspected, the concept of someone going hungry was so anathema to halflings, and not even the oldest of prejudices could hold up against it.
Picking up the discarded flower crown, Pansy hugged it close and said, “We halflings like to talk about how family is the most important thing for us. How we’d do anything for our families. But from what I’ve seen, the person who’s embodied that value best isn’t a halfling. They’re a goblin.”
“Pansy, perhaps that’s a little unfair…” her mother started to say, but Pansy wasn’t listening.
“I left Haverow because I constantly felt like I didn’t belong.
I was the puzzle piece left in the box, the one doomed to never quite truly fit.
Because everything I did was wrong. Who I was was wrong.
I was told this again and again. Maybe not in those exact words, but the message was just the same: Stop asking questions.
Stop looking for more. Why can’t you just be content at home like the rest of us?
She parroted the comments, their sharp edges excruciatingly familiar.
“And then there was Ren, who by all accounts was supposed to hate me. I was a halfling and they were a goblin; what other end could our story possibly have? Except, Ren accepted me when my own people wouldn’t, and I understood, for the first time, what caring for one’s family is supposed to be like.
Funny how it wasn’t a halfling who taught me that lesson. ”
Pansy’s words seemed to reverberate in the ensuing silence, so thick one could surely cut it with a knife. And through it rumbled a current of shame, snaking through the crowd in a flurry of downcast stares and flushed faces. They’d heard her. For once, they’d truly heard her.
One beat. Then another. And, finally, Agvaldir broke the silence, letting out a derisive scoff.
“You have no idea what you’ve found, do you?
” he asked. “This old cottage isn’t just a burrow – it’s a barrow, a tomb.
It took some time to figure out, of course.
Ten-day upon ten-day spent cooped up in the lowest floors of the capital’s library, puzzling out those strange runes of yours.
But, as always, I uncovered the answer: they’re a lock. ”
“A lock for what?” asked a voice, unpleasantly familiar.
Mrs. Millwood. No surprise she was here, positioned near the back, closest to Agvaldir, her short, slightly hunched form swallowed by his ever-lengthening shadow.
Although she’d doubtless taken comfort in his presence, she now turned a wary eye to the runes at his feet.
A lock is there for a reason, Pansy could imagine her saying. A magical one all the more so.
“To keep out would-be grave robbers, I imagine. If I’m correct – and I usually am,” Agvaldir added with a too-sharp flash of teeth, “the person entombed here, on the other side of this stone door, is none other than Wolf Banefoot, a person I believe we’re all familiar with.”
As titters of excitement ripped through the crowd, washing away the weight of Pansy’s words as quickly as a sudden springtime flood, a cold pall settled over her shoulders.
For the first time, she hated Wolf Banefoot, resented him for the mere act of existing.
She’d been so close to turning the tide, to ripping off the yoke of the past, with all of its hurt and preconceptions.
And all Agvaldir had needed to do was spout off about Wolf Banefoot, and suddenly it was like Pansy hadn’t said a word!
But wait…
The fire building inside her stilled, the flame retreating to a dulled coal. Because Wolf Banefoot wasn’t just Wolf Banefoot any more; he was also Aconite, the goblin folk hero.
Immediately, all the cottage’s strange idiosyncrasies made sense, understanding crashing over her in a wave.
Pansy seized it, hope swelling inside her anew.
If her experience wasn’t enough to sway the other halflings off their well-trodden path, then perhaps a beloved hero could give her a much-needed hand.
“You’re certain this cottage used to belong to Wolf Banefoot?” she asked, stepping closer. The crowd parted around her, allowing her passage.
Agvaldir, no doubt thinking she meant to challenge him, turned his nose up at her.
“Of course I’m certain,” he snapped, bristling.
“Halflings have never produced a finer warrior than Banefoot. It’s fitting that his gravesite would be honored thusly.
Proof that halfling wit and fortitude can accomplish great things.
Granted, sometimes a bit of guidance is required to turn these particular energies in the right direction. ”
Pansy ignored the implied insult. “Then haven’t you noticed something strange about this cottage?” she asked, still striding towards him, one deliberate step at a time. “Doesn’t it seem like two types of homes in one? A halfling burrow and a goblin cave?”
“The work of that little goblin friend of yours, no doubt,” he sneered, upper lip peeling away from his too-white teeth.
Pansy shook her head. “Oh, no. Ren and their clan did surprisingly little to the place, actually. This is entirely Wolf Banefoot’s original design. I’m sure Grandma suspected this. She read me those stories. She wanted me to have the cottage.”
Agvaldir scoffed. “Ridiculous. What halfling would design such a home?”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” murmured someone in the crowd.
“Me neither,” concurred another halfling. “It’s far too dark down here. Not to mention dank.”
Pansy, however, remained undeterred. She pressed on. “Maybe not a halfling,” she agreed, inclining her head. “But what about someone with both halfling and goblin ancestry?”
In truth, she half-expected Agvaldir to laugh at her – and not just him, but a good portion of the room as well. From their perspective, what she was suggesting was downright unthinkable. However, there was no laughter, only a current of disgust. And Agvaldir was its herald.
He recoiled, the corners of his mouth pinching down, souring his sneer into something far more judgmental. “Don’t be disgusting,” he spat, knuckles flaring white along his gnarled staff. “That’s like suggesting a goblin would rut with a human.” Some of Agvaldir’s men laughed.
“I’m not being disgusting,” Pansy countered, now so close that she had to crane her neck to meet Agvaldir’s gaze. “Whatever your opinion might be, it doesn’t change the fact that Wolf Banefoot and Aconite, as the goblins call him, are one and the same.”