#aaand just like last time updates will happen wednesdays 'til done~

[gerbiloftriumph]

The Size of Hope

(also on ao3)

Mordon isn't certain what to make of the fairy tale king his goblin friends captured, and King Graham has no idea what to make of the huge and clumsy goblin who keeps running into his path. The two warily team up, but neither one belongs in the goblin kingdom, and some pain runs deeper than either expects.

(Gen canon-expansion fic putting scrapped fragments from the subtitle file back into the game. Full fic warnings: bruising, canon-typical violence, self-hatred, abuse, Goblins Do Not Make Good Friends)

~*~*~

1/5

(1: Seen)

~*~*~

The king wasn’t what Mordon expected.

The picture in the prize-winning book, so proudly displayed on the pedestal in the royal library, showed a skinny old man in a robe with a drooping face and limp hair. The man they’d brought in wasn’t anything like that. He was skinny, yes, but he wasn’t wearing a robe, and his hair wasn’t gray, and he had a sort of energy to him that the king in the story didn’t seem to have. But he did have a shiny hat, and Mordon supposed that was all you needed.

Anyway, it wasn’t like his friends were all that good at playacting their beloved stories. Mordon privately thought their tattered dresses and cracked wooden swords and lopsided hats weren’t worth the effort when compared to the pictures in the books. They couldn’t get the details right half the time. This man was just as bad at playing stories as the rest of them.

Still.

Even if he didn’t match the picture, he still was the human king. And the king in the story had been terrible. Had let the piper lead the rats away and then locked the gates against him and not let him take his reward, and Breaking Promises was the worst thing someone could do. (Well, big promises like rewards of a kingdom. The other goblins insisted that breaking promises about letting Mordon play with them didn’t count.) So they’d locked the king in the deepest cell, in the maximum security basement with that magical unicorn. They’d even whispered if they should chain him up like the unicorn, just to be sure, but the king in the story had been mostly foolish and “finite,” whatever that meant. In the end, they trusted to the locked door. It was a good way to protect themselves from his cruelty and deception. It made the story right.

But Mordon peeked through the bars, sometimes, carefully. When he was sure the king wouldn’t see him. And the king didn’t seem all that dangerous. He paced in circles and he scrubbed his hands through his hair (dark, wavy, not at all like the book, but sort of like the hair Mordon kept hidden under his helmet. That made Mordon happy, like maybe he and the king had something in common, like maybe Mordon was worth something if he shared a trait with someone so important). Mostly, the king curled up on the little mattress clutching his stomach, or the jar he’d put one of the glowing lizards in, or the shiny crown that still glittered even though the king himself looked so grimy. He hummed to himself, or repeated strange rules that Mordon couldn’t follow, or—Mordon’s favorite—whispered familiar stories.

Stories ruled their lives in the goblin kingdom. But Mordon never seemed to fit in them. He was the wrong size for most of the costumes, and while he’d always wanted to play the hero, he was usually cast as the villain. Or, more often, not involved at all but made to go fetch something one of the players needed, or move something a player needed moved, or do absolutely anything except play.

He liked listening to the king tell stories. Even if they were quiet. Even if they were probably just a means to pass those unending hours locked in darkness. They were still famous tales, soft and warm, with edges tousled and earmarked and gentle. He didn’t linger on the violent parts like the goblins liked to, and his human voice was lilting and kind compared to the growls of his friends. Mordon liked to lean against the cell door (he wouldn’t unlock it, wouldn’t come in and sit on the mattress next to the king, no matter how much he wanted to, because that would be dangerous), and forget about the stone armor that chafed his arms, and the bruises from when his friends kicked him, and the tight feeling in his chest whenever he thought too hard about what the human king saw above ground, away from the damp caves.

Maybe the king was weaving a deception now. Some horrible web that would lead to destruction. But Mordon thought maybe the deception was worth it if it stopped him earning another bruise or four for a couple hours.

~*~*~

Sometimes, Graham felt like he was being watched.

He told himself he was being paranoid. He had been kidnapped. By goblins. What did he expect? He glared at the glimmering salamanders lining his cell. It was probably just them, blinking at him in the gloom. Yes, that was it.

…no, that wasn’t it.

There was something in the hall. He was sure of it. He never caught sight of anything, but he could sometimes hear that gentle scrape of stone armor as someone snuck around in the darkness. Once or twice he gripped the cold metal bars of the locked door and craned his neck, trying to see, but…nothing. Whoever it was could stay very still and very quiet when they wanted.

He rubbed the bruise on his hip. He had tripped and fallen when the goblins had dragged him down here, but his hands had been bound behind him then and he hadn’t been able to catch himself. He’d hit the ground hard. The bruise still stung if he put any decent pressure on it, but it was more of a mild annoyance at this point, the edge of the pain softening. Based on that slow easing of pain (time was otherwise meaningless in this relentless dark), he guessed it had been several long days since the capture.

The bruises on his legs and arms were fresh and sharp, though. The goblins were giving him chores to do, making him clear spiderwebs or sweep endless corridors that never got cleaner (because they were made of dirt), or wipe down splintery wooden steps, or feed the terrifying rat kept in the cell next to his. Normally he was left to his own devices while he did their tasks, but they apparently remembered to be afraid of him when it was time to lock his cell door again. They scrupulously shook him down for any weapons or tools that would help him escape. By literally shaking him. They held his legs and flipped him over and rattled him until his pockets emptied out. They riffled through whatever fell and took whatever they thought looked like he shouldn’t have. His collection of bruises kept growing.

His collection of items was growing, too. He thumbed over the little pile of things again, trying to think up some way to use them. All in all, it was a mediocre supply of junk. Scraps of paper torn from books, worn coins that the Merchant would be delighted to take from him, chopsticks too small and pathetic to break the weighty padlocks that held him and his friends in this prison….

There was definitely someone outside the door watching him.

He kept his back to the door, drumming his fingers anxiously along one of the chopsticks. They wouldn’t make a good weapon—obviously, or else the goblins would have taken them during one of the shakedowns—but even a slim metal stick was better than nothing. Should he confront whoever was out there? Or ignore them? They didn’t seem to want to hurt him (or was he just saying that because they hadn’t yet), but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scare them away either.

Finally, he said, without turning, “I hear you.”

He heard nothing, but it was the nothing of someone trying to stand perfectly still and not breathe.

“Are you watching me?”

Still nothing. Ever so slowly, he turned, holding the chopstick tight in his fist behind his back. He didn’t see anything out in the gloom beyond the locked door, but that meant little in this oppressive darkness.

“I just want to talk.”

He waited, then stepped forward once, stopped, waited. Still nothing, no movement, no goblin or human responded.

“Can you understand me?”

He started to feel like maybe he was losing his mind. There was nothing there in the first place. But…it still seemed…. Slowly, he reached out for the bars with his free hand, the other shifting into a firmer grip on the hidden chopstick.

“I know you’re there.”

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure at all. It was so still, so silent. He was being silly.

All the tension in his shoulders drained out and he staggered back, leaning against the stone table, staring blearily into nothing. No one responded. Nothing was there.

Nothing shifted, nothing’s armor scraping ever so softly against the tunnel wall.

Nerves shivered down Graham’s spine, but externally he revealed nothing. Didn’t move. Neither did the darker shadows outside the door. If he squinted, Graham thought he might see the dim shapes of something crouched against the wall. He and the goblin stared at each other, eternal minutes slipping past.

Until Graham’s empty stomach, fed only with slimy prison porridge and questionable meat, cramped cruelly. Graham curled forward with a quiet moan and broke eye contact with the shadows. Immediately, something scrambled away, and Graham staggered forward, clutching the cell bars. He watched the goblin flee down the tunnel. Were shadows playing tricks, or did the shape seem…too big? Almost…. His chopstick clattered on the floor, forgotten, as he thought distractedly about stories and secrets. It rolled past his boots into one of the glowing salamanders, which licked it speculatively and chirped.

Graham snapped out of his reverie. “Aaah, Freckles, don’t—you’ll get it all slimy,” he said, retrieving the chopstick. He had an escape to plan, and there wasn’t a point to thinking about sneaking shadows. There were bigger things to worry about.

~*~*~

Graham could smell it first. It smelled damp, but the good, green sort of damp. The kind that smelled like life. Not the caves’ usual decaying reek. He practically floated off his front toes trying to track it, moving as fast as he dared—never running, never. They might not like that.

Above him, hanging around in little cracks and corners and crevices, there were always one or two goblins. They never seemed to pay him attention. They were lounging or dozing, feet kicking aimlessly in the lazy manner of the entirely unconcerned. But they were still there, and they could still take offense to anything he was doing, and they could conceivably drag him back to his cell with those achingly rock-hard hands and their sharp-as-cut-glass spears, and they could stop letting him out again.

No, it wouldn’t do to run in front of them and attract their attention.

As he hurried down this new tunnel (slower, slower, eaaaasy), the warm, stagnant cave air started to break up. He felt a chill across his face, as bracing as getting hit with a snowball. He could hear rain.

Can’t be. We’re miles down.

And yet, when he rounded the corner, there it was. A vast hole high above him, so much higher than the tallest building in town. Rain poured through it. The heavy gray monsoon sky was easily the most fantastic thing he’d ever seen. He gaped at it, breathing deeply, purging the musty cave air for fresh, beautiful Daventry air. His knees wobbled with excitement and jangling nerves, and he took a cautious step forward, searching the cavern, confirming he was alone at least for now.

Home. So, so close—but, as he eyed the surrounding walls with growing frustration, unreachable. Not a single vine or root grew anywhere low enough for him to even dream of reaching. The walls slanted inward. And he was hardly the best freestyle climber. It had only been a few months back that he’d climbed that magic beanstalk and that—well, best not to think about all the near misses that had held, and that had been with sicky sap from the stalk covering his hands and practically gluing him to the leaves.

He could yell for help, but he didn’t know where this pit was located. Hadn’t seen it in the castle’s vicinity, or anywhere near the town. The goblins would be more likely to hear him before a royal guard, and that…he shivered, rubbing his arms, remembering the bite of tight ropes…that wouldn’t be good.

But he couldn’t make himself walk on yet. He sat, knees drawn up to his chest, back pressed against the gentle curve of the cave wall so nothing could sneak up on him, and he watched the distant storm clouds roll across the sky, listening to the rumble of thunder and feeling the cleansing drip of rainwater against his cheeks.

Home.

He wanted to be home.

~*~*~

Surprisingly, Graham did see that shape again. The creature that had been staring at him in his cell. He was certain it was the same one. It moved the same way, and he had the same gut-deep sense that something weird was going on. Weirder than a goblin underground city with a fixation on fairy tales.

He’d seen the goblins fighting each other. Hitting each other, jumping on each other. He was never sure if they were playing or not, but this time it didn’t seem like play. The familiar one crouched low, almost subservient, and yet it still seemed massive. It tagged along behind the other smaller and faster ones, awkward in its stone armor, often getting struck and kicked and yelled at for its trouble.

Graham was supposed to be doing chores, supposed to be cleaning some corridor or other. But he was well out of the main prison paths, sneaking around in places he was certainly not meant to be. Through barricades he’d broken down, through tunnels that felt disused. He pushed himself closer against the wall nervously. If the goblins walking past him turned, he would be spotted. He’d triggered a few lockdowns already by smuggling an array of loose items that could act like, and were in fact used like, weapons to Amaya. But he figured being caught in this area would spark more than just a lockdown. If getting caught yelling for help in that rainy cavern might have landed him in ropes again, that was probably nothing compared to getting caught in these unsupervised and possibly escapable tunnels.

In the end, the risk wasn’t worth it. There wasn’t much to see. They made the large goblin do some meaningless tasks, kicking it if it didn’t move fast enough (and it never moved fast enough). It carried some heavy pipework around, but it got more jeers for the feat, no praise.

Graham frowned—despite everything, despite his own bruises and fear and frustration, he pitied it. It was doing its best. But its best still didn’t seem to be meeting the others’ expectations. And that felt distressingly familiar.

Graham pulled back when they made to leave the area, ducking out of sight. The large goblin tagged along behind the others, darting up narrow cracks in the cavern walls that Graham knew he could never manage to climb on his own. He was left in the gloom and the silence, thoughtful and alone and, for this one moment, safe and unguarded and ready to explore new options. Maybe he had discovered something that would lead home.