Chapter 17 Pansy #2
“How do you know this?” asked one of the halflings, a beacon of genuine curiosity amid a dark sea of rejection.
Pansy smiled. At least there was one person willing to listen. “It actually becomes pretty self-evident once you start comparing the stories about Aconite with the ones we know about Wolf Banefoot. They’re practically identical.”
“So, the goblins have stolen our stories along with our livestock. There’s nothing novel about that,” Mrs. Millwood said with a scoff, her pinched face a brand across Pansy’s vision.
Heat flashed through Pansy, peaking in twin points across her cheekbones.
“They didn’t steal anything! Those stories belong to them just as much as they do to us.
Think about it! Halflings and goblins have always lived near each other.
Is it really such a ridiculous proposition that something other than ire might bloom between our two communities?
Why do we treat mutual hatred like a foregone conclusion?
The reality is we halflings have more in common with goblins than we do humans, orcs, elves or even dwarves!
When the larger peoples wage war, it’s not them who die out on the fields of battle. It’s us.”
Silence echoed in the wake of her words, so all-encompassing that one could surely hear a pin drop.
And though no one dared speak, the crowd nonetheless rippled with uncertainty, disquiet bubbling across their expressions.
They understood what war did to people, what it did to their community, their loved ones.
Yet as inescapable as war’s shadow was, its source had always proved far more nebulous, impossible to grasp. Until now.
“What a gross oversimplification.” Agvaldir tutted. “The safety of the Realm isn’t resting solely on the backs of halflings, I can assure you.”
“Then why are you constantly in Haverow trying to recruit? And why do you allow it?” she asked, now turning to Mrs. Millwood.
“You know deep down that’s exactly what he’s doing.
His excuses about protecting the adventurers that join up with him are paper-thin, at best; plausible deniability in the absolute barest sense.
So, I have to ask, if people like my grandmother are such an embarrassment, such a blight, then why do you allow wizards like Agvaldir to continue making them?
When a child breaks every single one of their toys, you don’t just give them another one!
And make no mistake, that’s all we are to him: toys, to be used and discarded at his pleasure. ”
Mrs. Millwood went pale at that, her bloodless lips moving soundlessly, like a fish plucked from a pond. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t have an answer. Until now, she’d probably never even thought of it like that, too blinded by her own childhood worship of the wizard who’d once saved her village.
“Men like him care about us just as much as a dark lord cares for the goblins pinned beneath their thumb,” Pansy continued, seizing her newfound momentum.
“So, why have we turned our anger against the people least deserving of it? We should be banding together, finding strength in the common ground we share. I promise, unity between halflings and goblins is possible. Just look at this cottage!”
A snort came from behind her. Agvaldir.
“I don’t have time for this,” he growled, his kindly veneer worn as thin as his patience. Raising his staff as high as he could manage without jabbing one end into the ceiling, he called upon his magic, now rising around him in a crackling swell.
Within seconds, the runes at his feet began to glow.
“Stop!” Pansy cried, shoving herself into the sliver of space between Agvaldir and the tiny dais.
She didn’t care that the air there was thick with magic, wild and hungry.
It lashed at her outstretched arms, scouring painful welts into whatever skin it could find.
In that moment, all that mattered was keeping Agvaldir away from those runes.
Her efforts were not appreciated in the least. Agvaldir let out a snarl of frustration, pausing his spell just long enough to press one enormous palm against the flat of her collarbone and shove her aside.
Pansy did not stumble so much as fly backwards, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as she landed in a heap several paces away.
Perhaps Agvaldir had forgotten that she was less than half his size when he’d pushed her; or maybe he simply didn’t care.
Either way, Pansy’s head throbbed where it had cracked against the ground.
And though it had thankfully been a patch of soft earth rather than hard stone or rock, her vision nonetheless swam as she pushed herself up onto dirt-caked elbows.
Everything around her seemed to have slowed, her awareness stretching like hot caramel on a spoon.
Somewhere, her mother screamed. Her father too, actually.
They were both moving towards her now, with Blossom not far behind, pushing their way through a shell-shocked crowd, a horde of moon-bright eyes fixed only on her, unblinking.
“Mum… Dad…” Pansy mumbled, eyes scrunching shut against the nauseating lurch of the world tilting on its axis.
Except, it wasn’t her mother who slipped an arm around Pansy’s shoulders, supporting her as she gave a worrying wobble. No, the hair was the wrong color: dark, instead of red. And the face was more defined, with a nose Pansy had always thought was so cute.
“Ren…” She sighed, reaching for them. “You came back.”