Firelight cast flickering shadows across the walls of the chieftain's hut. Gribble sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, his striking yellow eyes fixed on Chief Gnarltooth, his grandfather. The old goblin's deep voice rumbled as he spoke, wisdom gleaned from countless years leading the clan.
Gribble's unruly mop of black hair fell across his forehead as he leaned forward, hanging on every word. Tales of bravery, of hard-fought victories against rival clans. Of the challenges of uniting squabbling goblins under a single banner.
Chief Gnarltooth stood tall and proud, corded muscles rippling beneath green skin crisscrossed with battle scars. His long beard more gray than black now, but no less impressive. He gestured with a gnarled hand, a simple iron band encircling one thick finger.
The day would come when Gribble would wear that ring. When he would wield the chief's spear and lead the clan to glory. For now, he was content to learn. To soak up the wisdom of his grandfather, the greatest chieftain the goblins had ever known.
Grubnik ducked into the hut, a freshly-snared rabbit dangling from one hand. Gribble's father moved with the easy grace of a born hunter, green eyes sparkling in the firelight. He crossed to the hearth and set about skinning and spitting the carcass.
Gribble smiled up at him, heart swelling with love and pride. No one could track prey like his father. No one was kinder or more patient. When Gribble struggled with a new skill - setting snares, or fletching arrows - Grubnik was always there with a gentle word of encouragement.
Grubnik looked up from his work, winking at his son. His strong, angular features so like Gribble's own. He often said Gribble had his mother's eyes though. Mika's eyes.
Gribble's smile faltered. He had no memory of his mother, taken by fever when he was still a babe. But he had the stories. Of her gentle heart, her clever hands that could coax healing from plants and weave baskets so tight they held water. Of the way her amber eyes danced when she laughed.
Grubnik caught his son's gaze, his own eyes softening with shared sorrow. He reached out and squeezed Gribble's shoulder, rough palm warm through the worn fabric of his tunic. A silent promise. I'm here. You are not alone.
They both looked up at the sound of heavy footfalls. Grimrock shouldered his way into the hut, his bulk filling the doorway. Gribble's uncle had a flat, brutish face, with small dark eyes that always seemed to be glaring. A puckered scar ran down his right cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanent sneer.
Where Grubnik was lithe and quick, Grimrock was all brute strength. Cords of muscle strained against too-tight skin, his green hide crisscrossed with pale scars. He wore a shirt of scavenged chainmail, the dull silver links straining to contain his bulk.
Grubnik's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Just jerked his chin in the barest nod of greeting before turning back to the roasting rabbit, jabbing at the coals with a bit more force than necessary. Chief Gnarltooth watched his sons, ancient eyes unreadable in the flickering light.
Gribble's belly churned. He didn't understand the tension between his father and uncle. The dark looks, the weighted silences. He knew only that Grimrock seemed to resent Grubnik. Resent that he would one day lead the clan, as the eldest son.
Grimrock's gaze fell on Gribble, as if sensing his thoughts. His eyes glittered, hard and black as obsidian. His mouth curled into something that was not quite a smile, baring pointed yellow teeth.
Gribble looked away, skin prickling. He suddenly wished he was anywhere else. Out in the forest, practicing with his little bow. Checking the snares for rabbits. Anywhere but here, pinned under his uncle's cold stare.
Grubnik cleared his throat, drawing Grimrock's attention back to him as surely as if he'd shouted. He gestured to the carcass on the spit, fat sizzling as it dripped into the flames.
We'll be eating well tonight, looks like.
Grimrock grunted, moving to take a seat on a low stool near the fire. The wood creaked alarmingly under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, to watch the cooking meat. The orange light flickered across the hard planes and angles of his face, darkening the hollows of his eyes to pits.
Gribble hugged his knees to his chest, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the fire. His gaze kept crawling back to Grimrock, to the resentment simmering behind his eyes. A shiver walked up his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.
Chief Gnarltooth settled himself on a hump of dark patterned fur - a throne in all but name. He leaned his spear against the wall and started picking burrs from his beard, clever fingers flicking them into the fire.
Your snares are pulling in more meat than Raggok's, Grubnik. Old fool's like to chew off his own foot if you don't take over trapline soon.
Grubnik looked up with a crooked grin, eyes glinting with mischief. Aw, don't be too hard on him. He only caught his ankle the once.
Chief Gnarltooth barked a laugh, chest shaking with mirth. He slapped a broad hand against his thigh, the sound ringing through the smoky air of the hut.
Grimrock snorted. His dark glare was locked on his brother, jaw muscles working as if biting back words that wanted to spill out. His fists clenched atop his knees, thick fingers digging into the rough flesh.
Gribble watched warily, chewing his lower lip. He wanted to ask what was wrong. Wanted to crawl into his father's lap like he used to when he was smaller, to feel the rumble of his laughter. But something held him back - some animal instinct that said to be still, be quiet, don't draw attention.
So he sat, holding himself small and silent, waiting for the tension to break. Praying to the spirits that it wouldn't come to blows. Not again. The last time his father and uncle had fought, Grimrock sent Grubnik through the wall of the smithy. Grubnik walked with a limp for days after, though he never spoke of it.
The spit creaked as Grubnik turned the rabbit, the skin crisping to a rich golden brown. Juices dripped and hissed in the flames. Gribble's mouth watered at the rich scent, despite the sour tangle of dread in his gut.
Grimrock leaned forward abruptly, snatching the spit from its cradle. Grubnik opened his mouth as if to protest, but bit it back at a look from Chief Gnarltooth. The old chieftain watched his second son through narrowed eyes.
Grimrock tore a haunch from the carcass with his bare hands, ignoring his father's grunt of disapproval. He shoved the meat into his mouth and chewed noisily, grease smearing his chin. All the while his hard gaze never left his brother's face, as if daring him to say something.
Grubnik looked away, grabbing a wooden trencher and slicing off a portion of rabbit with quick, precise motions. He set it in front of Gribble with a wink and a rueful half-smile. Eat up, pup. Gotta keep your strength up.
Gribble accepted the food with mumbled thanks, eyes on his lap. He picked at it with his fingers, appetite withered under the weight of the icy silence. Across the fire, Grimrock continued to tear at the carcass, cracking bones with his teeth to get at the marrow.
They ate without speaking. The only sounds were the pop and hiss of the fire, the wet smack of Grimrock's chewing. Gribble forced down a few bites, each one a dry lump in his throat. Dread sank icy claws into his belly and squeezed.
When the last scrap of meat was gone, Grimrock tossed the splintered bones into the fire and wiped his greasy hands on his breeches. He leaned back, idly picking at his teeth with a sharpened nail.
Yer can't baby the boy forever, Grubnik. His eyes cut to Gribble, glittering with malice. Kid's got to toughen up if he's to be any use to the clan.
Gribble froze, rabbit halfway to his mouth. Shame and anger burned hot beneath his skin, warring in his chest. He grit his teeth and stared hard at his plate, willing his eyes to stop prickling.
Grubnik's hands flexed, knuckles standing out white under the green. His voice was tight and controlled, barely above a growl. He'll be a fine hunter. Best we've seen in generations. Got his mother's keen eyes.
A hollow barking laugh. Sure, could shoot a leaf off a tree. Still wet behind the ears though, ain't he? All them stories you been fillin' his head with. Glory and honor and that rot.
A snarl rumbled up from Grubnik's chest. He set his plate aside with exaggerated care and stood, body coiled with tension like a snake about to strike.
Gribble watched his father with wide eyes, heart thudding almost painfully behind his ribs. He wanted to cry out, to beg them not to fight. But his tongue was nailed to the floor of his mouth, useless.
Chief Gnarltooth stood abruptly, faded eyes flashing a warning. Enough. Both of you. His voice cracked like a whip in the smoky air, freezing his sons in their tracks. There was a mountain's weight of authority in that single word, honed by decades of leadership.
Outside, now. Gribble, stay here.
Grubnik and Grimrock filed out into the night, shoulders tight with resentment. Gnarltooth followed close behind, a silent specter in a cloak of shadows. The hut's walls felt flimsy as parchment in their wake, too thin to block out the muffled argument bursting to life beyond them.
Gribble hunched over his plate, appetite crushed to nothing. Shame still burned in his cheeks, Grimrock's words ringing in his ears. Baby. Weak. Useless. Each one striking with the force of a blow.
He knew he wasn't the strongest, or the quickest. Other goblin lads his age were already joining the hunting bands, learning to shoot and track with the warriors. But he was trying. He practiced every day with his little bow until his fingers bled. He set his own traps, treated the furs himself. He would make his father proud. Would prove himself worthy to lead the clan one day, as his grandfather had. He had to.
The shouting outside reached a fever pitch then cut off abruptly. Gribble held his breath, straining his ears in the sudden silence. A lone set of footsteps crunched across the packed earth, growing fainter as they stomped away. Too heavy for his father's quick, light tread. Grimrock, then.
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Gnarltooth shuffled back in, looking older than he had only minutes before. New lines seemed to have been carved into the weathered map of his face. He sank onto his stool and stared into the guttering fire, shoulders slumped under a weight Gribble could only guess at.
Where's Da?
Gribble hardly recognized his own voice. Small and frightened, like a child half his age. He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
Gnarltooth sighed, ancient lungs crackling. Out walking. Grimrock too. Tempers are high, need to cool off.
He poked at the coals, sending up a burst of orange sparks. Gribble watched them dance and swirl like fireflies before winking out, thoughts still churning.
Gran?
A grunt.
Will Da really make me Chief someday?
Gnarltooth turned to look at him then, eyes clearer and more focused than Gribble could ever remember seeing them. He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees.
You got a good heart, pup. Just like yer mam. And that mind of yours... sharper than any blade. Grubnik sees it. I see it. Grimrock... he'll come around. But you gotta be strong, ye hear? For the clan. For them what depends on ye.
Gribble swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His grandfather was not a goblin much given to praise. Every word was sincere, and all the heavier for it.
Gnarltooth held his gaze a moment longer, ancient eyes searching. Finally he nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw there. Get yerself to bed, pup. Big day tomorrow.
Gribble jolted, remembering. The hunt. His father and grandfather were to lead a band of warriors deep into the Wild Wood, to bring back a stag for the Winter Feast. A dangerous journey, but a great honor. Gribble had begged to go, but Grubnik had forbidden it. Said he was too young, yet. That his time would come.
Gribble scrambled to his feet, head full of snares and arrows and stealth. He paused at the doorway, looking back into the dimness of the hut. Gnarltooth still sat by the fire, a weathered green statue, eyes lost in dancing flames.
G'night, Gran.
The old goblin lifted a hand in silent farewell, gaze never leaving the dwindling fire.
Gribble slipped into the quiet of the night, a strange heaviness in his heart. Overhead the stars glittered like chips of ice, impossibly distant and cold. A sickle moon hung low on the horizon, as sharp and pale as a blade.
He walked with his head down, watching his bare feet scuff the well-trodden paths between the huts. All around the sounds of the nighttime village rose up - muffled conversation, a burst of laughter, a high thin wail quickly hushed. The soft clucking of sleepy chickens, the grumbling of goats. The homey scents of cookfires and pipesmoke.
It was all so familiar, as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. And yet some part of him whispered that it could all be taken away in an instant, as ephemeral as dandelion fluff on a strong breeze. Nothing was certain, nothing was safe.
Grimrock's face swam up in his mind, twisted with contempt. He shook his head to banish it, shoving into his family's hut with more force than necessary.
He checked that his mother's little loom sat safe in its corner, the half-finished cloth protected by a scrap of hide. His fingers trailed across the warp, worn smooth by the work of her hands.
Then he threw himself down on his pallet, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push away the day, the fears that wanted to rise up and choke him.
He prayed that the hunt would go well. That his father and grandfather would return with a stag to feed the village, horns held high in triumph. He would not let Grimrock's darkness poison this, would not let it plant seeds of doubt in his heart.
Gribble pressed his face into the musty furs and dreamed of a day when he would make them proud. When no one, not even his uncle, could look at him and see anything but a strong leader. A chieftain to lead the Bloodfang Clan to greatness.
He fell asleep with that dream held tight to his chest, a fragile flame against the darkness of the night.
Dawn came gray and cold, pale light filtering in through the drawn hide window. Gribble startled awake, heart thudding behind his ribs. For a moment he couldn't place the unease that clawed at his belly, the dread that sat heavy on his chest.
Then he remembered. The hunt. His father and grandfather would be leaving today.
He scrambled out of bed, bare feet slapping the packed-dirt floor. Da, wake up, it's-
But the hut was empty, Grubnik's pallet cold to the touch. Of course. They would have risen long before the sun, to make the most of daylight.
Gribble grabbed his tunic, yanking the rough fabric over his head. He hopped on one foot and then the other, cursing, as he struggled into his breeches. If they had already left... but no, they wouldn't go without saying goodbye. They couldn't.
He burst out into the watery light, stumbling a bit on the raised threshold. The village was already stirring, the smell of cooking fires wafting between the huddled huts. Women with baskets hurried toward the foraging grounds. Children dashed underfoot, their laughter high and thin in the chill morning air.
Gribble dodged around them, heart pounding as he ran for the central clearing. Hunters gathered there before heading out, sharing bawdy jokes and boasts over their bows and spears.
Please still be there. Don't go yet.
He rounded the edge of a storage hut and skidded to a stop, heart in his throat. The clearing stood mostly empty, save for a few wizened goblins passing a pipe between them.
His gut sank, a sick twisting emptiness that threatened to crush the breath from his lungs.
Gone. They were gone. Without even a word.
He stood frozen, mind refusing to push forward into a day without their presence. The sudden realization that for the first time in his life, they would not be within the gentle circle of the village's palisades. That he could not run to his father if he scraped a knee or caught his hand in a snare. That he would not hear his grandfather's gruff bark of laughter when he made a clumsy joke over dinner.
The emptiness in his chest yawned wider, a dark gaping maw that threatened to swallow him whole.
As if in a dream, he turned and wandered down the meandering path that led to the village gates. He came to the edge of the wild wood, ancient oaks towering overhead, their trunks lost in the mist that pooled between them. His mind spun a dozen ways they could be hurt, a hundred dangers that might keep them from returning home.
He shook his head, grasping for the steadiness his father always seemed to wear like a cloak around his shoulders. He would be strong. He would make them proud. There was much to be done in the village, much he could learn from the elders in their absence.
With a last look over his shoulder at the forbidding wall of trees, he turned back toward the huts. He would check his snares, and oil his bow, and help with the smoking of the fish. He would keep his hands busy and his mind full, and pray to the spirits of wood and wind to guide his father and grandfather home safe.
Days passed, each one bleeding into the next until Gribble stopped counting sunrises. Every morning he scrambled to the top of the palisade wall, scanning the treeline for familiar shapes. Every evening he tossed in his bedroll, ears straining for the sound of feet crunching up the path.
But none came.
Gribble threw himself into the work of the village, as if by grinding himself down to bone and sinew he could push away the fear that gnawed at his gut. He checked traplines, hauling the small carcasses to the skinning sheds. Helped the village elders mix medicines and poultices, grinding herbs until his hands cramped and his eyes stung. Practiced with his bow until his fingers cracked and bled, ignoring the pitying glances from the other young hunters.
All the while, the village churned with rumor. Women whispered behind their hands as they gathered firewood. Men huddled around the evening fires, voices low and urgent as they stared out into the night.
What if they fell to cave lions? Or the mad hermit that was rumored to stalk the eastern reaches of the wildwood, killing any goblin that stumbled across his path? What if they starved, or froze, or were taken by the elves that sometimes crept from the high reaches of the mountains?
No one said it too loudly, but Gribble could see the question behind their eyes, in the careful way they avoided his gaze. What if they weren't coming back?
He shoved the thought away, burying it deep where it couldn't cut at him with vicious claws. He would know if something happened. He would feel it in his bones, in the deepest corridors of his heart.
But as days became weeks, the sliver of stubborn hope he carried began to fray and tear, threadbare under the weight of cold reality.
Grimrock lorded over them all, settling into the camp chair outside the chieftain's hut as if he'd been born to it. He spoke of new rules, new orders for the guards and hunters. Scowled at any who dared question him, hand resting on the bone-handle of his knife.
Gribble avoided him, unwilling to face the triumph that glittered in his uncle's eyes whenever they landed upon him. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that Grimrock had gotten exactly what he wanted. The leadership of the clan, the power that should have been his brother's. It was only a matter of time before he made it formal, before he took the chief's spear from above the mantle and named himself ruler.
The thought made something small and fierce burn in Gribble's chest. A stubborn coal of anger that smoldered and hissed, sharpening his grief to a cutting edge.
It was near a month before Gribble faced it, the knowledge sinking its fangs deep into his heart and refusing to let go.
They weren't coming back.
He sat beneath the towering oaks at the far edge of the village, their leaves whispering mournful secrets overhead. The wild wood stretched out before him, misty and impenetrable - a dark sea of twisting trunks and reaching shadows. It had swallowed his father and grandfather whole, never to spit them back out.
Scalding tears burned down his cheeks, dripping from his chin unchecked. His shoulders shook with the force of holding back sobs, each breath tearing at his throat like shards of broken glass. The pain of it threatened to shatter him, to break him open and spill his guts across the forest floor.
He fumbled at his side until his fingers closed around the small carving of a wolf - his father's final gift, pressed into his hands the night before the hunt. He clutched it to his chest, its edges biting into his palms until a dribble of blood ran down his wrist.
Not alone, his father had murmured, cupping Gribble's face between rough, calloused palms. Never alone, pup. No matter what comes.
But that was a lie, wasn't it? He was alone now. More alone than he'd ever been in his short life.
Gribble hunched forward, shoulders bowed under the weight of his grief. His tears fell onto the little wolf, darkening the cherrywood, the tang of blood sharp in the air.
He let himself cry then, silent and shaking in the shelter of his oak tree. Let the sorrow and rage boil through his veins, hot enough to scorch. Let it sink its teeth deep into the meat of him and shake, worrying at the wounds until they ran red with memory -
- his father's gentle hands, calloused palms enfolding Gribble's as he taught him how to carve a snare
- his grandfather's roaring laugh, the scratch of his beard as he pulled Gribble close
- the wistful smile on his father's face when he looked at Gribble, as if seeing someone else in the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose
Each one a shard of glass beneath his skin, embedding themselves so deep he would never dig them out. he would carry their weight, the aching absence of them, for the rest of his days.
But even through the haze of pain some stubborn spark in him whispered no. this could not be the end of it, the final note of their song. they had not raised him to lay down, to let his loss carve him hollow.
His father had taught him how to set his jaw, square his shoulders against the weight of the world. his grandfather had shown him that true strength lay in standing back up, no matter how many times you were beaten down.
Gribble clutched the wolf carving tighter, his knuckles straining white through the green. tears still spilled over his cheeks, but slower now, the first torrential flood ebbing to a trickle.
He would live, for them. he would grow, and fight, and one day lead, as they had wanted. he would keep their memory burning bright in his heart, a torch against the darkness. he would not let their lives, their lessons, crumble to bitter ash.
The sun dipped below the towering oaks, shadows unfurling across the loam. gribble straightened, every joint protesting. his eyes felt raw, swollen, his throat scraped clean. but beneath it a small ember of resolve took light, steadied by the weight of the wolf in his palm.
Gribble stood, brushing the leaf mulch from his breeches. he looked into the wild wood, at the twisting labyrinth of oak and shadow that had stolen his world.
I'll make you proud, he promised the waiting dark. I will be everything you taught me to be. everything you saw in me.
He tucked the wolf into his belt pouch, its slight weight a comfort against his hip as he turned back to the village. back to the huts and fires that seemed dimmer now, faded without the light of his father's smile, the warmth of his grandfather's laughter.
The days ahead would be hard, gribble knew. grimrock's shadow loomed, dark and hungry. the losses that gaped within him would never fully heal, not truly.
But he would endure. he would remember. and he would grow into someone who could bear the weight of his father's bow, his grandfather's spear.
He could do nothing less, to honor them. to keep their light alive, even as the rest of the world moved on, forgetting.
Gribble sought his bed as true night fell, his limbs aching and heavy. he thought of his father's hands on his shoulders, his grandfather's steadying gaze, and let their shades soothe him into sleep.
Tomorrow would come, as it always did, and he would face it. at first it will be just one day, without them. then two. then a season, a year.
Time would make strangers of his memories, wearing away at the keen edge of loss. but he would still carry them, faded but cherished, in some quiet corner of his heart.
A piece of his foundation. his history. it was their final gift to him, as valuable as his father's bow or grandfather's spear.
He would make it enough.