It shouldn’t have been a revelation; just like it shouldn’t have been a revelation for Pansy when Ren had first told her. Still, her words drew more than a few startled gasps, and when she paused to take a breath, the wide-eyed stares she found waiting for her proved that she’d struck a chord. As she’d suspected, the concept of someone going hungry was so anathema to halflings, and not even the oldest of prejudices could hold up against it.
Picking up the discarded flower crown, Pansy hugged it close and said, “We halflings like to talk about how family is the most important thing for us. How we’d doanythingfor our families. But from what I’ve seen, the person who’s embodied that value best isn’t a halfling. They’re a goblin.”
“Pansy, perhaps that’s a little unfair…” her mother started to say, but Pansy wasn’t listening.
“I left Haverow because I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. I was the puzzle piece left in the box, the one doomed to never quite truly fit. Because everything I did was wrong. Who Iwaswas wrong. I was told this again and again. Maybe not in those exact words, but the message was just the same:Stop asking questions. Stop looking for more. Why can’t you just be content at home like the rest of us?She parroted the comments, their sharp edges excruciatingly familiar. “And then there was Ren, who by all accounts was supposed to hate me. I was a halfling and they were a goblin; what other end could our story possibly have? Except, Ren accepted me when my own people wouldn’t, and I understood, for the first time, what caring for one’s family issupposedto be like. Funny how it wasn’t a halfling who taught me that lesson.”
Pansy’s words seemed to reverberate in the ensuing silence, so thick one could surely cut it with a knife. And through it rumbled a current of shame, snaking through the crowd in a flurry of downcast stares and flushed faces. They’d heard her. For once, they’d trulyheardher.
One beat. Then another. And, finally, Agvaldir broke the silence, letting out a derisive scoff. “You have no idea what you’ve found, do you?” he asked. “This old cottage isn’t just a burrow – it’s abarrow, a tomb. It took some time to figure out, of course. Ten-day upon ten-day spent cooped up in the lowest floors of the capital’s library, puzzling out those strange runes of yours. But, as always, I uncovered the answer: they’re a lock.”
“A lock for what?” asked a voice, unpleasantly familiar.Mrs. Millwood. No surprise she was here, positioned near the back, closest to Agvaldir, her short, slightly hunched form swallowed by his ever-lengthening shadow. Although she’d doubtless taken comfort in his presence, she now turned a wary eye to the runes at his feet.A lock is there for a reason, Pansy could imagine her saying.A magical one all the more so.
“To keep out would-be grave robbers, I imagine. If I’m correct – and I usually am,” Agvaldir added with a too-sharp flash of teeth, “the person entombed here, on the other side of this stone door, is none other than Wolf Banefoot, a person I believe we’re all familiar with.”
As titters of excitement ripped through the crowd, washing away the weight of Pansy’s words as quickly as a sudden springtime flood, a cold pall settled over her shoulders. For the first time, she hated Wolf Banefoot, resented him for the mere act of existing. She’d been so close to turning the tide, to ripping off the yoke of the past, with all of its hurt and preconceptions.And all Agvaldir had needed to do was spout off aboutWolf Banefoot, and suddenly it was like Pansy hadn’t said a word!
But wait…
The fire building inside her stilled, the flame retreating to a dulled coal. Because Wolf Banefoot wasn’t just Wolf Banefoot any more; he was also Aconite, the goblin folk hero.
Immediately, all the cottage’s strange idiosyncrasies made sense, understanding crashing over her in a wave. Pansy seized it, hope swelling inside her anew. If her experience wasn’t enough to sway the other halflings off their well-trodden path, then perhaps a beloved hero could give her a much-needed hand.
“You’re certain this cottage used to belong to Wolf Banefoot?” she asked, stepping closer. The crowd parted around her, allowing her passage.
Agvaldir, no doubt thinking she meant to challenge him, turned his nose up at her. “Of course I’m certain,” he snapped, bristling. “Halflings have never produced a finer warrior than Banefoot. It’s fitting that his gravesite would be honored thusly. Proof that halfling wit and fortitude can accomplish great things. Granted, sometimes a bit ofguidanceis required to turn these particular energies in the right direction.”
Pansy ignored the implied insult. “Then haven’t you noticed something strange about this cottage?” she asked, still striding towards him, one deliberate step at a time. “Doesn’t it seem like two types of homes in one? A halfling burrow and a goblin cave?”
“The work of that little goblinfriendof yours, no doubt,” he sneered, upper lip peeling away from his too-white teeth.
Pansy shook her head. “Oh, no. Ren and their clan did surprisingly little to the place, actually. This is entirely Wolf Banefoot’soriginal design. I’m sure Grandma suspected this. She read me those stories. Shewantedme to have the cottage.”
Agvaldir scoffed. “Ridiculous. What halfling would design such a home?”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” murmured someone in the crowd.
“Me neither,” concurred another halfling. “It’s far too dark down here. Not to mentiondank.”
Pansy, however, remained undeterred. She pressed on. “Maybe not a halfling,” she agreed, inclining her head. “But what about someone with both halflingandgoblin ancestry?”
In truth, she half-expected Agvaldir to laugh at her – and not just him, but a good portion of the room as well. From their perspective, what she was suggesting was downright unthinkable. However, there was no laughter, only a current of disgust. And Agvaldir was its herald.
He recoiled, the corners of his mouth pinching down, souring his sneer into something far more judgmental. “Don’t be disgusting,” he spat, knuckles flaring white along his gnarled staff. “That’s like suggesting a goblin would rut with a human.” Some of Agvaldir’s men laughed.
“I’m not being disgusting,” Pansy countered, now so close that she had to crane her neck to meet Agvaldir’s gaze. “Whatever your opinion might be, it doesn’t change the fact that Wolf Banefoot and Aconite, as the goblins call him, are one and the same.”
“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’tstealanything! 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.”
