Work Text:
Ohay cool, I just finished this.
(Just for the record I don’t actually ship this. Or I didn’t, when I started out. Now, I think I… do? Er. Wut.)
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I remember us—from when we were small. For whatever Gogforsaken reason, I remember.
I remember the field behind your hive, near the cliffs. We used to play there, because there wasn’t enough space by my hive to play without breaking things. I knew I had to sneak out to meet you—though, brat that I was, I didn’t yet understand why. I remember we played in the cusp of dawn, before the merciless sun reached its zenith, yet long after most sane trolls retire to their recuperacoons. Those hours, blessed by light, were sacred. To us.
We engaged in the sort of make-believe play trolls our age usually enjoyed. It chills me to recall it now. We had invented a lengthy, ongoing scenario, rooted in a romantic epoch of the distant past. We were—knights, I think. Yes, fairy knights, of the court of King Sparkleweir. For some reason I remember that. We ran like fiends, chasing down the hideous barbarians that threatened our imaginary kingdom, skewering them in the name of justice. We ran. The sun beat down on our backs. The wind whipped through our hair. Unlike you, I outgrew that.
I remember we fought each other as much as we fought our imaginary foes. You were one of the few trolls strong enough to lock horns with me in earnest. We battled viciously, tackling and pinning each other to the ground, claws bared, teeth snapping, bruising and drawing blood—all in play, of course. We were too young to understand the proper emotions associated with combat. We were practically grubs, and we had no higher concerns than those of grubs.
Truly, it makes my skin creep now to think of it—to think of your hands locked around my wrists. The filth in your veins so near to mine—close enough to feel, pulsing, under your skin. Splattering us both the color of mud. I let you touch me. Gog help me, I let you give me noogies.
In those days, I called you friend. Long before I understood what “friend” meant, I knew that was what we were. I cherished this bond—it was the only one like it I had ever really known. Fearful of my strength, many trolls avoided me. Of the ones I spoke to, I genuinely liked perhaps two or three. You were unique among all. I did not want to lose you.
I remember how reckless we were, playing as close to the cliffs as we did. We had no regard for our own safety at all. Somehow, though, we managed never to go over the edge. Confidence in our dexterity, our agility, kept us safe. Mostly.
One day, you slipped.
I heard you scream; I did not see you. I could not suppress the scream in my throat—I realized that in my moment of negligence, I had killed my only friend.
Within a breath I managed to grab your hand.
Your hand was cold. Mine was slick with sweat. Your smile wavered; you knew you were slipping. But you were not afraid, no. I pulled you back from the brink, safe, into my arms. Your heart beat fast. I can imagine the mud in your veins coursing through you—I felt it, there, pounding a drumbeat against your very chest.
In those days, we could rely on each other. We were all that we had to rely on.
I remember Aurthour catching me, at long last, when the sun’s heat had intensified nearly to burning. Wordlessly he scolded me—swiftly he whisked me away, back to my hive. I fussed and I cried and I beat at him until his arms were indigo, but there was no swaying him from his duty. I’m grateful he had more sense than I. Certainly he had more sense than your Lusus, which certainly would’ve taught you an ounce of respect for higher blood had it any brains in its tiny skull.
I remember you waved farewell. From over Aurthour’s shoulder, I waved back, and the ache in my chest was soothed. That was how we promised each other we would meet again.
Until I understood. Until I realized what you were. What the dirt color that tinged your bruised skin meant. I didn’t know; I had to be taught. These things are the cornerstone of troll society. These are things that every troll should know from birth—out of instinct. Not me. I did not understand. Fool that I was, I thought you were—worthy of me. No; I did not even understand the concept of worth.
I stopped visiting you. I stopped speaking with you. It was the only sensible thing to do. Whether it hurt you, I don’t particularly care. I feel no need to fret over the base emotions of gutterbloods.
Although—
Today I entertained the strange notion of contacting you. Just to find out how you were faring these days. Though I suppose I knew well enough; even the gossip of lowbloods reaches the ears of the upper echelons eventually. You’d been injured in a Flarp session or something. But I thought I might have asked you yourself—for the sake of politeness. I halted this train of thought in its tracks; it was beneath me. I am not sure why this notion occurred to me at all... no. No, that is a lie.
I found a drawing today. I think it is yours—from long ago. The paper was brittle; the lines were sloppy and the coloring sloppier. I don’t even know where it came from, or how I still have it now, but it is unmistakably yours. When I found it, I just stared blankly at it. I knew I ought to be revolted, but I could only stare blankly. Riveted there by the sudden hollowing in my chest. Cold crept through me, like ice crystals blooming on glass.
It lies on the floor now. Aurthour shall dispose of it promptly.
I do not like to think about my past. I do not like to think about the maggot-brain wriggler I was back then. But I must own my actions. Atone for them, so to speak, though I do not believe in sin. I must reconcile myself with my past. It could not sound more simple, and yet so hopelessly vast.
Only one moon is out tonight. I see, from my desk, the landscape turned verdant with sickly light. My computer monitor sparks, destroyed. I had booted up Trollian. I meant to speak with someone else. But your name was listed there—still—it has been for years. It occurred to me that I had never formally broken off relations with you. Or—apologized. I put the thought aside—cursed my dearth of willpower, my utter lack of sense—and put my fist through the screen for good measure.
Liquid sapphires stream down my arm. I feel no pain. Yet I clutch at my hand as though I had burned it.
What am I to do?
The drawing—the one lying on the floor—is of two knights. One of them is brown. The other is blue.
I cannot forget. Not anymore.
All I can do is lay my head in my bloody hands, grit my teeth, and swear to myself that I will not weep.