Fragile Things: I
A/N: So, I figured out what was wrong with my numbering system: I was entirely missing chapter 11. I'm such a dork. I'll try not to get this story out of order ever again, because I do know where I'm going, I swear it!!
Oooo, and I just got Neil Gaiman’s collection of short stories, Fragile Things. Love it! Everyone must read “Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire” as it is one of the most brilliant short metafiction stories ever!
Boundaries of Mirkwood
Chapter 20
“Fragile Things: I”
Gwar the Ur is not himself. It can see pink—it hadn’t noticed pink before.
It sits in blood, covered in black blood, but it feels no rush of satisfaction. It is not sated. Only pain and confusion, terrible confusion remains in its mind. It doesn’t know why it sees so much in the dawn.
It had run and run to the River Running. There it meant to cross the river and the boundary of Mirkwood near the place mortal men camped—but not too close as to arouse their interest—to slip by unseen, unheard, in silence. Invisible. Nothing.
But in its confusion—it was well confounded before, make no mistake—its addled brains did not connect the foulness of the air to the waiting orcs. Gwar had not expected them, they were not a part of the master’s original plan. Yet there, taking shelter in the rocks at the edge of the water were orc, all stinking of mice (they’d had some fun with men, it was true). At the fore stood Molluk the Knot, one of Gwar the Ur’s seconds, grinning. Showing its rotten, yellowed teeth. Grinning as if he is leader of all orc, not Gwar the Ur. It could see it in its eyes, in the band of orc behind him.
“It is Gwar the Ur,” Molluk said, “or is it Gwar the Traitor? Here I hold words from Nothing—” and Molluk would, being of only nine orc in Middle-Earth which could read, “—saying a traitor would come by this way having fouled up his mission and fled like a coward.”
“Gwar is no coward!” It had roared back, though its voice—its voice was different and it hurt its throat to correct it. It stood to its full height; it felt taller than before, ever. Molluk’s grin faltered at the sight, but the orc did not move its stance.
“It is master’s most faithful, it is Orc General. It would be dead before it was traitor!”
Molluk grinned again, again, again! “Nothing said Gwar left his band to die and all the pretty elves—” he spat “—got away and the spiders won’t do as they’re told.”
Gwar could feel its heart beating out its rage, its frustrate, frustration mounting it lied, half believing the lie itself. It fell, falling down with the lie. “Nothing! Nothing?! Gwar served master millennia before Nothing: Nothing is the traitor! Nothing followed us, Nothing filled the spiders to brimming with mistrust, Nothing wanted the pretty elves to itself, it needs them. Gwar knows the secrets of Nothing’s magic ink and paper is in the elves (for this is true: Gwar spied with his own eyes!). Nothing was greedy and Gwar saw! Why else would Nothing send letters to you, Molluk, and not to master; not let master order hisown orc? Why does Molluk obey Nothing and not master?”
Now Gwar could see the way the other orc fretted. Those orc, they never were much for logic. Thought was difficult, once so difficult for it. These orc found it no easier, shifting and fretting and scratching their heads and fretting, fretting and Gwar hated it, for the lie could not be taken back to master, never, never could pass orc lips.
Molluk only grinned. Gwar suspected, suspected Molluk knew the lie and how far Gwar could go. “S’only fitting for a traitor to switch blame. But Nothing also sent letters you were soft. Nothing was exact, said you let one go.”
“Gwar ran the woman through!” Gwar drew its weapon, showing its bloody blade.
“It’s easy enough to test.” Molluk whistled, the rest of the orc stomped, stomp, stomping their feet and jeering, shoving a creature forward. A mouse. A baby mouse by its size.
“Kill it,” Molluk ordered and grinned. “Kill it if you are an orc.”
There was blood on the mouse already—blood had leaked from its nose—and its eye was black and smelled of piss. And fear, blind fear that should have raised—razzed—Gwar into a frenzy, such a rush and satisfaction. It could not feel it. No rush. Only—only a curious ache it could not, cannot, understand.
From the periphery, Molluk grinned, and Gwar saw the taunt in his eyes. Molluk did not care who betrayed master. Molluk, under Gwar’s, command rightfully feared Gwar, rightfully obeyed Gwar. But with the letters, Molluk had seen his chance to topple Gwar as surely as Nothing had intended.
Molluk was old, very old, old enough to lead, though not as old as Gwar the Ur. No orc was ever so old as Gwar. So old. So tired.
Gwar expected to rage. Gwar would have raged. But it did not. It snatched the mouse by the hair and dragged him to Molluk and cut Molluk to pieces before he, Molluk, could raise his hands, it moved so fast. So fast without the usual ache in its joints.
The orc cheered, stomping and bellowing and certainly (it was so clear, the way the thoughts occurred to it now) letting the other mice know where their snatched young was. The orc finished tearing Molluck apart, the death of the cause for disorder in the pack an affirmation of their common union in bloodlust. It kept dragging the sniveling mouse and the other orc let it, as the mouse now belonged to it, as it owned their lives.
It left the shaking mouse at the river to follow the current home. It didn’t want a mouse. It didn’t like the way the mouse smelled. The mouse fell to the ground where it was dropped and shook, staring at it, like it’d never seen an orc before.
“Go home to your mother!” It hissed and the mouse scampered.
And there was not much else to do. It could now allow the orc to return to the master and tell. Nothing would know. Master always knows.
It killed them. It killed the orc by the river, walked back to the middle of camp and killed them all. So easy, and it finds it does not care. Nothing in it cares or wants that anymore. It doesn’t know why not.
Now there is nothing but blood and corpses and his voice sometimes coming from its mouth. What was Gwar now? What was it now? Gwar was broken. It didn’t understand. It could only run past the boundaries, away from the oncoming daylight and. . .hope. Hope it did not have to go back.
Oooo, and I just got Neil Gaiman’s collection of short stories, Fragile Things. Love it! Everyone must read “Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire” as it is one of the most brilliant short metafiction stories ever!
Boundaries of Mirkwood
Chapter 20
“Fragile Things: I”
Gwar the Ur is not himself. It can see pink—it hadn’t noticed pink before.
It sits in blood, covered in black blood, but it feels no rush of satisfaction. It is not sated. Only pain and confusion, terrible confusion remains in its mind. It doesn’t know why it sees so much in the dawn.
It had run and run to the River Running. There it meant to cross the river and the boundary of Mirkwood near the place mortal men camped—but not too close as to arouse their interest—to slip by unseen, unheard, in silence. Invisible. Nothing.
But in its confusion—it was well confounded before, make no mistake—its addled brains did not connect the foulness of the air to the waiting orcs. Gwar had not expected them, they were not a part of the master’s original plan. Yet there, taking shelter in the rocks at the edge of the water were orc, all stinking of mice (they’d had some fun with men, it was true). At the fore stood Molluk the Knot, one of Gwar the Ur’s seconds, grinning. Showing its rotten, yellowed teeth. Grinning as if he is leader of all orc, not Gwar the Ur. It could see it in its eyes, in the band of orc behind him.
“It is Gwar the Ur,” Molluk said, “or is it Gwar the Traitor? Here I hold words from Nothing—” and Molluk would, being of only nine orc in Middle-Earth which could read, “—saying a traitor would come by this way having fouled up his mission and fled like a coward.”
“Gwar is no coward!” It had roared back, though its voice—its voice was different and it hurt its throat to correct it. It stood to its full height; it felt taller than before, ever. Molluk’s grin faltered at the sight, but the orc did not move its stance.
“It is master’s most faithful, it is Orc General. It would be dead before it was traitor!”
Molluk grinned again, again, again! “Nothing said Gwar left his band to die and all the pretty elves—” he spat “—got away and the spiders won’t do as they’re told.”
Gwar could feel its heart beating out its rage, its frustrate, frustration mounting it lied, half believing the lie itself. It fell, falling down with the lie. “Nothing! Nothing?! Gwar served master millennia before Nothing: Nothing is the traitor! Nothing followed us, Nothing filled the spiders to brimming with mistrust, Nothing wanted the pretty elves to itself, it needs them. Gwar knows the secrets of Nothing’s magic ink and paper is in the elves (for this is true: Gwar spied with his own eyes!). Nothing was greedy and Gwar saw! Why else would Nothing send letters to you, Molluk, and not to master; not let master order hisown orc? Why does Molluk obey Nothing and not master?”
Now Gwar could see the way the other orc fretted. Those orc, they never were much for logic. Thought was difficult, once so difficult for it. These orc found it no easier, shifting and fretting and scratching their heads and fretting, fretting and Gwar hated it, for the lie could not be taken back to master, never, never could pass orc lips.
Molluk only grinned. Gwar suspected, suspected Molluk knew the lie and how far Gwar could go. “S’only fitting for a traitor to switch blame. But Nothing also sent letters you were soft. Nothing was exact, said you let one go.”
“Gwar ran the woman through!” Gwar drew its weapon, showing its bloody blade.
“It’s easy enough to test.” Molluk whistled, the rest of the orc stomped, stomp, stomping their feet and jeering, shoving a creature forward. A mouse. A baby mouse by its size.
“Kill it,” Molluk ordered and grinned. “Kill it if you are an orc.”
There was blood on the mouse already—blood had leaked from its nose—and its eye was black and smelled of piss. And fear, blind fear that should have raised—razzed—Gwar into a frenzy, such a rush and satisfaction. It could not feel it. No rush. Only—only a curious ache it could not, cannot, understand.
From the periphery, Molluk grinned, and Gwar saw the taunt in his eyes. Molluk did not care who betrayed master. Molluk, under Gwar’s, command rightfully feared Gwar, rightfully obeyed Gwar. But with the letters, Molluk had seen his chance to topple Gwar as surely as Nothing had intended.
Molluk was old, very old, old enough to lead, though not as old as Gwar the Ur. No orc was ever so old as Gwar. So old. So tired.
Gwar expected to rage. Gwar would have raged. But it did not. It snatched the mouse by the hair and dragged him to Molluk and cut Molluk to pieces before he, Molluk, could raise his hands, it moved so fast. So fast without the usual ache in its joints.
The orc cheered, stomping and bellowing and certainly (it was so clear, the way the thoughts occurred to it now) letting the other mice know where their snatched young was. The orc finished tearing Molluck apart, the death of the cause for disorder in the pack an affirmation of their common union in bloodlust. It kept dragging the sniveling mouse and the other orc let it, as the mouse now belonged to it, as it owned their lives.
It left the shaking mouse at the river to follow the current home. It didn’t want a mouse. It didn’t like the way the mouse smelled. The mouse fell to the ground where it was dropped and shook, staring at it, like it’d never seen an orc before.
“Go home to your mother!” It hissed and the mouse scampered.
And there was not much else to do. It could now allow the orc to return to the master and tell. Nothing would know. Master always knows.
It killed them. It killed the orc by the river, walked back to the middle of camp and killed them all. So easy, and it finds it does not care. Nothing in it cares or wants that anymore. It doesn’t know why not.
Now there is nothing but blood and corpses and his voice sometimes coming from its mouth. What was Gwar now? What was it now? Gwar was broken. It didn’t understand. It could only run past the boundaries, away from the oncoming daylight and. . .hope. Hope it did not have to go back.
Subtitles
- Darkness and Starlight
- Abigail of Wellington
- Niobe of St. Andrews
- Arielle of Cedar Brook
- Yumiko of Shinjuku
- The Banks of River Running
- Stiff and Stark
- Screams in the Dark
- The Red Bird
- Many Meetings
- Night Fight
- Yumiko's New Friend
- A Mind of One's Own
- Running in Circles
- The Price for Revenge
- The Coming Night
- It Speaks English!
- Fragile Things: I
- Lull