light content warning for this one, there's death, violence, and mild gore
Chapter Three: Cruelty
Rowan left the blacksmith's, a slight spring in his step in spite of the gloom of the late morning. His village seemed brighter, more upbeat, somehow more alive than usual, though that might have just been the added adrenaline. He didn't let himself get excited too often; life in the Misted Vales was too dangerous and unpredictable for that, but he figured he could let his guard down for the day.
Mr. Kade, the local blacksmith, had finally agreed to let Rowan begin serving as an apprentice, starting tomorrow. Rowan had been begging the old smith for a job since he was fifteen, and now he was finally going to learn to craft tools, armor, and – this is what excited him most – weapons. Finally, he'd be able to take an active stance in the war against the blight and the giants, and he'd be able to keep his mother and sisters safe.
The wind was cool against his face, a welcome sensation against the excited flush that had come over his cheeks. A group of children ran through the streets, caught up in a game of tag or hide and seek, and their shrieking giggles added to the oddly joyful feeling in the air. The scents of something warm and sweet floated from the bakery down the street, and it felt to Rowan as though nature itself was celebrating with him. He listened for a moment, feeling the breeze against his skin and hearing the light song of a bird somewhere nearby. He hadn't heard a bird in weeks!
He heard something else, a low rumbling like thunder in the distance. A storm? It was hard to tell, it was always cloudy around these parts, which made it more difficult to predict the weather. The only totally accurate way to do so was with the aid of a wizard, and seeing as most of them had been wiped out by the giants, that wasn't exactly viable.
Others had noticed the thunder too. The birdsong had stopped, as suddenly as it started, and Rowan noticed the small creature as it fluttered away, a few stray feathers floating to the ground. He saw a couple of heads turning the direction of the rumbling. Strange, it hadn't subsided, even after a few seconds. If anything it was getting louder, more rhythmic, almost like.....
Footsteps.
Rowan's breath caught in his chest, but before anything, he heard a cry go up from the western watchtower:
“Giants! Coming this way, from the Northwest!”
That was the push he needed. Rowan broke into a full sprint towards the tower, pushing past the chaos that had already broken out in the streets, as mothers called for their children, merchants tried to pack up their things in a haste, and the few warriors of the town rushed towards the edge of the village.
Finally, covered in a layer of sweat (whether from fear or exertion, Rowan couldn't tell), he reached the tower. No guard stood at the door, which let him fly up the winding stone staircase with no restriction. He reached the top, where Beren, the watchman, looked to the horizon with a hardened expression on his face. He held a massive warbow in his calloused hands, and his dark eyes were clouded with something, fear or acceptance or anticipation.
“Where?” was the only word from Rowan's mouth, when the dark-skinned man pointed in the distance. Rowan squinted for a moment, then he saw it.
They were a little over a mile away, and roughly fourteen in number; women standing around 100 feet tall and clad in armors of leather. They carried weapons so large that Rowan felt chills just looking at them; the smallest knife he could see was the length of a fully-grown man. They walked slowly, at a methodical pace and clustered together, but anyone could tell they were making a beeline straight towards the village. They'd be on top of them in a matter of minutes
“Rowan,” the watchman said in his deep, calming voice. He laid a hand on Rowan's shoulder, and he managed to keep his voice steady in spite of the approaching storm. “Find your family,” he said in a quiet voice. “We will endure this.”
Rowan nodded, though he felt deep down that the old watchman couldn't have been more wrong. He quickly turned, and ran.
“Mama! Jodi!”
Rowan's screams went unheard against the screams of the other villagers and the rumbling footsteps of the giants, which grew louder every second. The ground shook, and dust filled the air.
“Mama! Jodi! Please, where are you?”
He thought he heard someone call his name, he strained his ears trying to make it out, but he grew distracted by the sight of old Mr. Kade, towering over the cacophonous crowd and pushing through with a massive spear in his hands. He was going the opposite direction of the crowd, towards the giants, and the sight of the man drew many an eye.
At least, until the sight of the first giantess came into view at the edge of the village. Then everyone froze.
She was ruggedly beautiful, an athletic woman who stood level with the watchtower, with tan skin, short brown hair, and a scar over her left eye. In one hand she held a warhammer as long as she was tall, with a head big enough to crush a carthorse beneath it.
In the other hand was a figure, tall and muscular, arms pinned at either side of his body by the woman's fist.
Beren.
Rowan – and the crowd – could see the kind old watchman squirming and struggling. They could hear his yells of defiance as he cursed his captor, and they saw the cold expression on the giant woman's face as she considered the warrior in her hand.
The crowd watched, frozen in horrified fascination, as other giant women appeared at her sides, with their massive weapons in hand and the disgusted expressions on their faces as they looked over the people of Rowan's home. They could see the anticipation and hatred in the cruel brightness of their eyes, and in the way they flexed their fingers against their massive weapons (yet still not as large as the weapon of the first giantess), waiting for some kind of signal.
The giantess at the front, who held Beren like a child with her doll, was still for a moment. It was evident that she was the leader of the party, judging by the glances from her companions and the massive size of her weapon. All that could be heard now was Beren's strained screams and the low, deep breathing of the giants as they waited... waited... waited.
Then the leader calmly placed her thumb over Beren's face, and pressed down, tightening her fist.
There was a dull snap and crunch, and Beren's screams fell away. A few dark drops fell from that horrible fist, and there was a moment of tense, sickening silence.
Rowan had known Beren all his life. He told the village children stories, taught the boys to use a bow and the girls how to swing a sword. That limp, bloody thing, falling to the ground as the giantess opened her hand, couldn't have been Beren....
A hand gripped his shoulder from behind, and he heard the voice of his mother, shaky but determined;
“Time to go. Come on.” Rowan felt a quick birth of relief; at least his family was safe. There was still a chance they could make it out of this.
Of course, right at that moment, the giantess said something, and her kin surged forward. The screams of the crowd pierced the air, and Rowan felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach as he reached for his mother's hand, but was jostled back by the panicking crowd.
The next few minutes were a blur. Afterward Rowan would only barely recall the scent and sight of something burning, the squelching, crunching sound of his fellow villagers being crushed underfoot. He would somewhat remember a bolt of brilliant blue lightning, and an earsplitting bang followed by an scream that was nearly as loud. He would vaguely recall the leader of the giantesses calling out “You know the drill; kill the men, take the women,” along with the surreal sight of shadows like hands, hands big enough to hold even the largest of men with room to spare, reaching down and plucking people up from the ground.
He'd remember ducking and weaving, tears leaking from his face as he tried to stay calm and find his mother, and he could remember the terrifying sight of gargantuan feet ripping through houses like they were made of sand.
He wouldn't remember how he made it past the wreckage flying through the air, or how he got the massive cut on his forehead. In fact, of all the things that happened on that terrible day, he'd only remember three things as clear as day:
FIRST.
He'd remember the sight of his little sister getting plucked into the air by the back of her dress, her legs kicking frantically and her blond hair flying in the wind as she was dropped into the bag of a giantess dressed shoulders down in steel armor, and he'd remember his mother, coming up out of nowhere and pushing him into the flaming wreckage of a nearby building. Rowan would always remember how his mother met his eyes, an unspoken order to stay put upon her weathered face as a ironclad hand wrapped itself around her waist and jerked her from the ground. He would never forget the horrible minutes that passed, the sounds of screaming and crying slowly subsiding as the remaining townsfolk were either kidnapped or crushed underfoot like bugs. He'd never forget the scents of death in his nose as he crouched, shivering, in the remaining corner of the wrecked house.
He sat there holding back tears and sobs, the sounds of thunder-like footsteps and crackling houses ringing in his ears as the giantesses tore through the remaining buildings, each one searching for any humans who'd hid in their houses and either killing them on the spot, tossing them into her bag, or popping them into her mouth without hesitation. He saw it happen twice, through the gaping hole where the upper floor of the house had been, in ruined houses just beyond the one Rowan hid in, cowered in. Two people he'd known, little more than a bulge down a throat and a burp.
He sat there in silence, praying to all the gods that they wouldn't find him, that his mother and sister were still alive, that he'd make it out of this somehow.
SECOND.
He remembered how the air had left his lungs as a shadow passed over the spot where he hid, and how he'd begun to shake uncontrollably as the sound of breathing, low and yet loud, filled the air around him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed himself as far as he could into the corner, and covered his hand with his mouth, as the outline of a great head came into view just above him.
There was a moment of silence, and Rowan slowly opened his eyes, unsure of what was happening.
He nearly fainted when he saw.
She loomed above him, a dark-haired giantess on her knees as she peered down into the scraps of the house. She had a wild sort of beauty, despite her massive size, with full lips, a freckled face, and dark eyes that held such melancholy in them they almost made Rowan feel pity for her.
She looked straight down at him, her face unreadable, the only thing audible save for the rumblings in the background being the quiet sounds of her and Rowan's breathing, and the muffled sounds of struggling coming from the bag at her side. Rowan's heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew more shallow with every second. It was purely the adrenaline rushing through him that was preventing him from vomiting right in front of her. A small part of his brain thought, somewhat stupidly, that that would be embarrassing, to vomit in front of such a beautiful creature.
“Thalia,” a lilting, feminine voice said from somewhere behind them both. “We need to get movin', that lightning spear hurt Ryette pretty badly. You find any more of 'em?”
The dark-haired giantess – Thalia, her companion had said – was silent for a moment more. Then, to Rowan's utter surprise, she said, in a deep, almost soothing voice.
“No. Let's go.”
Without warning, the giantess moved. She stood up to her full height, towering over Rowan like a goddess from the stories of old. Rowan saw her glance in his direction for half a second, before she walked away, her footsteps shaking the ground and bringing Rowan dangerously close to losing his breakfast.
Slowly, the rumblings of the warband faded away, leaving the air eerily silent.
After a few more minutes of waiting, Rowan peeked his head around the corner, taking in the sight of the town.
It had been reduced to little more than rubble and scraps. Smoke rose from the few ruins still recognizable as buildings, the rest now piles of charred wood, stone, and ash. Dark stains, lumps, and smears were visible against the ground; Rowan didn't want to think about what they had used to be.
The village was empty and silent, save for the soft sound of Rowan's own footsteps as he trudged through the dust and destruction. His breathing was ragged, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he walked past the imprints of massive feet and hands in the dirt.
He came to the edge of the village, and froze.
There they were, far enough that he could barely even see the glint of their weapons. How did they feel, knowing they just altered dozens of lives and ended dozens more? How did they kill so casually, so effortlessly, almost carelessly?
Rowan fell to his knees, and vomited on the ground in front of him. He tried to hold back the tears, to maintain the steady attitude he'd cultivated since he was only eleven years old.
He failed.
THIRD.
Rowan sat there, weeping. He wept for everything he'd lost in mere minutes – his family, his home, his future. Emotions filled him like a dark miasma, like a weight too heavy for any boy of eighteen to carry. He felt loneliness, he felt despair, he felt the black pit of fear, and he felt something he'd never felt before in his life.
He felt hatred.
He looked at the figures in the distance, and he hated every last one of them. And it was that very hatred which filled him more than anything else.
He felt it spread through his limbs giving him strength to stand on shaky legs and curling his hands into rage-filled fists.
He felt it in his hot, angry tears and in his forced, ragged breathing. He felt hatred coursing through him with such power and vigor, and he swore that they would pay. All of giants, and anything else that dared to stop him. Everything would burn, so help him, as his own home burned.
That hatred, was what fueled him as he limped out of his village, across the lonely fields, and into the nearby woods. He took his hatred with him, but he also left a tiny piece of it behind at the ruined village.
That little piece of hatred sprouted and grew, like a thorn-covered flower wreathed in shadow, and it was that hatred which grew like it grew in that boy's heart.
The flower was darkly beautiful; but it looked out of place, wrong, almost, as it grew throughout the village, flourishing from the hatred of the giants and the boy they had harmed.
It grew twisted and warped, creeping into the cracks and crevices of the ruins, like a malicious corruption, an evil infection.....
The flower was, as Lyra and Tristan would discover, like a foul, shadow-borne, hate-fueled Blight.
Chapter Two: First Steps to Friendship
Lyra was having a nightmare. She dreamed of an endless war, a pointless battle fueled by a rivalry fueled by things that should have been forgotten long ago. She dreamed of fire and lightning, clashing eternally in the heavens while the world broke. She dreamed of destruction and chaos, of decay and disease that festered and bred in the cracks of the world caused by that endless, pointless, hopeless war.
She dreamed of the cracks growing, laughing, spreading wider and wider still as hatred seeped within and drove everything further apart, a dark, tentacled miasma, reaching ever further in its will to consume all; this great evil Blight which threatened to consume the whole world.
She dreamed of the cracks already forming among her own people; the bitter, hurting wives, sisters, and daughters who in their hurt chose to hurt others, spreading their hate as they wreaked destruction upon the humans; and the few who begged for peace and were dubbed traitors by their kind. She dreamed of the great dark cavern between giantkin and humankind, a yawning abyss that would surely consume them all if they could not learn to cross it–
“L-Lyra? Lyra! Wake up, please!”
Her eyes fluttered open as she heard the anxious cries of her charge. She sat up quickly, looking around for any signs of obvious danger.
“What troubles thee, little one?” she asked after a moment. “I can sense no danger. Why dost thou cry out? Art thou hurt?”
Tristan shook his small head, and Lyra realized with a start he was quivering.
“I-I'm not hurt,” he said after a moment. “But....”
The human boy glanced at something just behind her. Lyra turned, and realized with a chill that the trees near her feet had been split and knocked over. She realized she must have kicked unconsciously in the throes of her nightmare, and had put the human boy in great danger.
“N-Nightmare?” The small voice of the human boy shook her from her disturbed thoughts. She looked down. His face held a look of such fear and apprehension, her heart nearly broke as her eyes met his.
I offer thee my most humble apologies if I have caused thee any distress. It is the duty of one such as I, who layeth claim to the role of maiden, to ensure that her charge is safe no matter what.”
She gently laid her hand in grass before him, a heavy feeling settling over her heart as he took a half-step backwards.
“Y-You don't have to apologize,” Tristan said with a smile that was clearly forced. His bright blue eyes were wide with poorly-concealed fear.
“Little one...” Lyra wanted to comfort him, to say the right words or do the right thing to reassure her little charge that she wished no harm towards him, but she could think of nothing.
She retracted her hand and laid on her side awkwardly, aware of an uneasy silence between them now. Again she wished she knew what to say, how to overcome the inevitable fear and anxiety on the small boy's part, but but her lips remained shut, and she remained silent.
It had been a little over a week since their meeting in the Misted Vales, and they'd made some progress on their journey. They were a day or so away from a human settlement Tristan had pointed out on his map, at which Lyra hoped to speak to the locals and tell them of their quest. She had hoped that Tristan's presence would inspire a call for peace, but she had to be sure that Tristan really trusted her, which had proven to be easier said than done.
Tensions were high on both their parts. Despite the lack of confrontation from either of them, there was a constant sense of disquiet between them both, a fact which maddened Lyra to no end.
It didn't help that traveling alongside a human was somewhat difficult, at least in the physical sense.
Tristan had at first tried to walk alongside Lyra as they made their way, claiming he was quick enough to keep up (he was not) and nimble enough to keep safe (he was not). Lyra, unconvinced, was therefore constantly on edge, afraid that she'd take one wrong step or careless motion and crush her little charge underfoot. She'd insisted upon carrying Tristan as they traveled, either in the palm of her hand, upon her shoulder, or within her pockets, much to the little one's chagrin. Though Tristan concealed his fear whenever they spoke, Lyra could tell he was just as nervous as she was, if not more. She could see it in the way he cast furtive glances whenever he thought she wasn't looking, and in his high-strung, stuttering manner of speech.
Lyra couldn't blame him. Tristan was barely the size of her middle finger, and was somewhat small and slight in build even for a human. To him, every little movement she made must have been terrifying, let alone the sight of her reaching for him, leaning close, or inspecting his body for wounds. Lyra herself felt nervous whenever her fingers brushed against the human's warm skin, feeling for broken bones or bruises. How easily she could bring him to harm with little more than a thought.... it frightened her just as it frightened him.
Lyra understood it would take time for her companion to get used to her, regardless of how desperately she wanted to connect with him. She would be patient, and gentle, and reassuring, as she always did, but she couldn't help but wonder if too gentle was a thing. Lyra had caught a few embarrassed looks and flushed expressions from Tristan as well as the nervous glances. She had considered that Tristan fancied her, and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. To be sure, she found feelings of a kind blossoming towards Tristan; his small size concealed a kindhearted, curious spirit and a recklessness that seemed rather disproportional to his height (it was a miracle Lyra had only found him with a broken arm, she thought. Only four days ago had she caught Tristan attempting to steal the eggs from a blight-touched vulture, nearly falling from a withered tree at least thrice before running towards her screaming as the monstrous bird swooped down at him). All of this was wrapped up by a cute face framed by dark curls and a smile that, even when marred by fear, melted Lyra's heart every time she saw it. She'd come across many humans in her travels before, but Tristan was the cutest by far.
It was a bit of a conundrum for Lyra. On one hand, it was completely normal for a hero and a maiden to share feelings towards each other (if Tristan held any feelings for her at all, that is). Yet it was certainly unusual for a maiden to be able to pluck up her hero between two fingers and cup him in the palm of her hand. What's more, she wasn't sure she had a crush on her little companion, more of an admiration or appreciation. How desperately she wished to get to know him, for their companionship to become a true friendship!
Yet instead they sat in silence, a bridge of unease between them and neither of them brave enough to take the steps to cross it.
Well, Lyra thought. If I am to change anything, I must take that first step.
Tristan looked so small to her; even as she lay on her side she could have rolled over and smothered him with her waist alone. But she had to try.
“Um,” she said in a quiet voice, as not to scare the boy too badly. “Tristan.... I would ask something of thee.”
The human boy glanced at her but said nothing. Lyra took this as a cue, and pressed on. “Um....well.... if we are to be companions on this journey, I would hope that there would be no tension between us. Thou countenance has been laden with fear since we first met,” she said in a gentle tone as a shadow came over Tristan's face. “I would hope to relieve thee of thy worries as we travel on–”
“Have I been being weird?”
The outburst startled Lyra a little, but she smiled when she saw the bashful expression on Tristan's face. The question confused her a bit, however.
“I-I've been trying to get used to it, I really have,” Tristan said, his voice nervous and shaky. “I know we pledged ourselves to the quest, and that I've been an awful companion, and I'm sorry, it's just so strange to have spent so much time alone on a quest everyone said was a foolish endeavor and a naive, stupid dream, and boom, suddenly someone shows up out of the blue and not only says she'd like to accompany you, but actually wants to serve as a maiden? And I know I'm starting to ramble but really, Lyra, this has been a very strange few days for me, especially because you're a – well, you're a....” Tristan suddenly paused, and Lyra noticed a slight blush come over his face.
“A giantess,” she prompted.
“Yeah,” the human said, nodding hastily. “That.”
There was something in his voice, something he was hiding, but Lyra chose not to pry. She had gotten him to open up a bit. That was promising enough.
“Do not feel ashamed, little one,” she said in a comforting voice, slowly moving her hand closer towards him. “This has been strange for me as well. The path of one who pursues hope is always fraught with uncertainty and confusion. To encounter one such as thee, a human of such young age who would willingly leave his home and all he knew, and would willingly travel alongside the age-old enemy of his people, is astonishing to me. I consider myself blessed to have encountered thee, little one.”
Slowly, gently, she brushed her index finger down his tiny back, figuring it was the best she could do for a reassuring pat. She felt Tristan's body tense up, and her heart froze. Did he still feel such fear, even now? But then, to her joy, she realized Tristan was slowly relaxing, his shoulders slumping and his breathing slowing. Their eyes met, and Lyra saw fear, yes, but also a quiet sort of hope, peaking through all fear and uncertainty.
“Blessed?” he asked quietly, and Lyra's heart sang as a tiny, shy smile came over his lips.
“Yes,” Lyra replied quietly, nodding earnestly. “Blessed, little companion of mine. So please, do not be afraid. I swore an oath, to protect thee and guide thee. I would not let any human come to harm in my presence. Especially not thyself.” She allowed herself a grin. “Thou art mine, in a sense. My companion, my partner.... my friend.”
She gently rested her index and middle fingers over the boy's shoulders, figuring it was the best she could do for a comforting embrace. A warmth spread through her as she felt Tristan reciprocate, hugging her fingers against his cheek.
“Friends,” he said after a moment. “I... well, I like the sound of that. Friends.”
“Tis a simple sort of beauty in the word, no?” Lyra agreed.
They remained like that for some time, enjoying each what little touch of warmth they shared against the coldness of the Misted Vales. Then, Lyra sat up, and gently laid her palm out before him once more.
“Come hither,” she said. “Let us embark once more.”
Her hand was at least twice as long as Tristan was tall. Lyra still marveled at how there could be an entire race of beings that were so small. Yet Tristan had hesitated once more, his eyes looking downward at the palm and fingers that dwarfed him.
There was a moment of silence, long enough that Lyra had just resolved to retract her hand, cursing herself for moving too fast – then Tristan took a step forward, meeting her gaze with a excited sort of nervousness upon his face.
His steps were light, almost imperceptible against the flesh of Lyra's palm. It almost tickled her, but that may have merely been her excitement tickling her instead of the sensation of little feet walking against her hand.
Tristan slowly bent down until he sat, neatly snuggled in her palm. She had an entire life, in the palm of her hand... and what was more, that little life had placed himself there willingly. She hadn't scooped him up hastily, she hadn't plucked him up despite his protests, no, he had taken his life, and placed it Lyra's hands – literally.
She felt a soft tapping sensation upon her palm, and looked directly at the little traveler, forcing herself from her thoughts.
“If we're to be friends,” Tristan said, now wearing a mischievous grin, “I'll have to teach you to speak like a normal person. All those thee's and thou's are giving me a headache.”
Lyra raised an eyebrow, and lightly prodded him in the ribs, but she was smiling all the same.
“We shall see, little one. I am happy to see that thou hast developed a sense of wit in learning to trust me.”
Tristan grinned. Lyra grinned back, and she felt it in her spirit, something ancient and unknowable. She couldn't explain it even if she tried. But there was something in sharing a smile with a friend, something that she would protect as fiercely as she would protect the little life she held in her hand.