1. Bump in the Night

Dorothy woke from her favourite dream. The one where she was still young, and Gordon was with her. Though back then she thought they were both terribly old.

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes, and pulled the heavy woolen blankets over her shoulder. The fabric was rough and scratchy, but nights alone in the Midderlands were cold. And even on a mild summer day like this, she'd be shivering without a few extra layers.

She wondered idly why she'd woken up to begin with, drifting back to sleep, when the faintest scratching set her eyes snapping open.

Turning so she could listen out with her better ear, she strained to hear any noises but there was naught but a soft breeze and the creaking walls of her old home. In amidst the now steady thumping of her heart.

Long moments passed, her elbow and neck aching under her own propped weight, as she waited and waited, hoping all the while to hear nothing at all.

By the faint silver light, leaking through the tattered curtain of the nearby window shutters, it must have been a full moon.

That meant goblins, and worse monsters, would be roaming much farther than they otherwise might.

Satisfied she was just imagining things, as she had many times before, Dorothy decided to lay back down. But her bladder started complaining, so she staggered up and out of the bed instead.

She paused at a hook near the door, where rested a heavy iron pan that she'd never used for cooking. Admonishing herself for being so afraid over a little noise, she let the pan be, and headed towards the kitchen.

Most folk kept their piss pots in their bedroom, but Dorothy had never liked the idea of using it in front of her husband. Ten winters might have passed since he'd left the waking life, but after seventy winters all of her habits were now long set. Along with all her aches and pains. Though new complaints were often to show up like as not.

Her son had told her, after Gordon died, that she ought to move to Vendrick or Timilir or somewhere safer. But Robert had never much liked the idea of them staying in the Midderlands when they were both among the living either.

Not that the boy had any problems growing up here, but once he'd left for Vendrick his ideas has changed. He decided he'd been raised in a very dangerous place indeed.

But by Dorothy's reckoning she was much more likely to be robbed in a city than she was to be savaged by monsters. To her mind, all the talk of the Midderlands being infested by goblins was just another excuse he wielded to avoid coming to see his mother. She'd not seen him since he settled down with that singer and her belly swelled.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Dorothy made a sour face, remembering that their boy had not even come to watch his father burn on the pyre. He'd just sent a messenger with a little letter. Words so indistinct they could have been scrawled by any stranger.

She shivered, finding herself suddenly cold and suddenly sorrowed, as she hiked up her garments.

Dorothy wiped an idle tear from her eye and smiled defiantly to herself. She had lived a good life. A long life. Spent more winters than she deserved with a loving husband, though of course she would have happily lived a score more. Maybe she wouldn't see her boy before she died, but that was all right.

She'd always wanted a girl, as well, but after the first child, they'd met with misfortune after misfortune. And even for a hard woman those losses hit very hard indeed.

But they'd loved their boy. And fed him. And kept a roof over his head. And no marauding clan of goblins had come and snatched him or his parents away in all the winters they'd lived here.

Dorothy headed back to bed, keen to return under the warmth of scratchy covers, her bones creaking along with the floorboards each step of the way.

Pausing in the hallway, she stared despite the dark and despite her old eyes, at the small wooden plate that hung in the corridor. It wasn't art most folk might say, but it was one of her favourite things. An etching of her and Gordon, back when her husband stood straight and broad and back when her hair was deep black and fell past her shoulders.

She could barely see her eyes or features, but she could still remember that afternoon as if it was the morning before. Standing beside her husband, smiling despite sweat stinging her eyes, while the whole village lined up under a wicked sun to get their portraits made by a travelling artist.

Waste of coin and time, she'd thought back then. But now it was only one of two ways she could see her husband's face. The other sketch was only the size of a hand that she kept by her bed.

She'd marvelled at the details and fine lines of that one, but as she got older the picture got less and less distinct. Though that was the way of most things.

"I've lived a good life," Dorothy whispered to herself, almost in reassurance. "I've lived a good life," she repeated with more vigor. "I've--"

A gargling scream.

"Stop!" a childish voice distantly pleaded. "Stop! Stop! Leave be me!"

Deeper mocking laughter and garbled words answered the pleas.

Dorothy's blood turned cold. By the high pitch and broken language, they were goblins. By the sound rising louder, they were heading straight towards her home.

Her heart began to thump so heavy that she feared it might give out.

She took a final look at her husband, seeing him both vividly in memory and barely in the darkness. 'Keep our heads down,' he'd say.

But Dorothy had lived a good life. She'd lived a long life. So she reached out for the cold handle of the heavy iron pan.