Friendship: Chapter 1
When the eldest of the goblins broke from their cluster at the back of the crowd of funeral goers there was shocked silence, then a mass of whispers broke out. Some even started moving as if to stop them, but were stopped by those with wiser heads.
Despite the goblin’s age they moved swiftly, taking almost no time at all to walk through the manicured grass of the grave yard to the side of the newly filled grave.
Underneath the soot of the forge that they wore like a crown, their skin was greenish grey, and unlike what no doubt many in the crowd would have expected, they wore a smart pin striped suit that moved smoothly over the bunching muscles of their wide body. It was a fine woollen cloth with the woven silver threads managing to catch even the small glimmers of light available on such a dull day.
Gwendolyn’s uncle welcomed the goblin with a bow and the customary sentence in the Old Language, “As lord of these lands I welcome you.” He was practised in neither, the words coming out in a tongue tripped mumble and his bow jerky like a marionette dropped and pulled up again.
In contrast the goblin spoke mellifluously and carried such presence about their shoulders that they bowed like a practised courtier, “My thanks for your welcome. My people mean you no harm and seek nothing that does not belong to us.”
“You seek my mother’s sword?”
“It is ours, by right of forge and ore, and by the breath in your mother’s word.”
The words were traditional, the way that the goblin stood as the point of an arrow was not. Why had so many come? And why were they clustered so tightly at the eldest’s back?
Are they nervous? She wondered, or is that what they want us to think when we look at them? She was well aware that trying to predict the true feelings of goblins based on their body language was a foolish idea, not only were their bodies different but their culture was as well. But it was possible to try to guess at what they wanted to be seen and draw some conclusions from that.
And from what they were showing today they wanted to look militaristic, nervous but able to back that up with force if they had to.
How peculiar, she thought, then turned her attention back to the stilted and scripted conversation happening a few feet away.
“My mother’s sword, as was promised on the day she bought it from the Goblin Nation,” her uncle said, bowing again and holding it out to the eldest.
“Ah ’tis a fine creation with many stories, we welcome its return and thank you for the grace with which you do so,” the goblin replied. They pulled the sword from it’s sheath and moved it in bedraggled sunlight that was barely reaching past the clouds.
For a moment Gwendolyn saw hundreds of hands on the sword, each layered over the one before, like the layers of earth and plant matter in an ancient terrarium where the glass cuts through the mulch and lets you see each blanket-like layer. All different, but all building into something larger that needs all of those veneers to build up the depth required.
The image blurred, and once more it was a single goblin holding a single sword.
They bowed deeply and then moved back into the group, taking up a spot in the centre of the arrow head where any attacker would have to go through at least two rows of goblins before they reached their target. They moved smoothly away, quickly disappearing in the direction of the small field which had been given up to house the carriages (horseless and otherwise) with which people had come to the funeral in.
A small cough caught Gwendolyn’s attention, she looked over her shoulder. Dressed in a matte black that soaked up any light stood a smaller goblin, a great deal younger than the one that had just gracefully exited the funeral. They were a brighter green and the soot on their cheeks looked like it had been applied like make-up rather than ground in by decades of work in a smoky environment. “If you would ensure that this gets to the interested parties, Miss,” They said, before handing over a small card, bobbing a hasty curtsy and disappearing in the same direction of their fellows.
Gwendolyn looked down at the small card, it was addressed to her uncle and offered a meeting time at the huge forge in the capital that acted as the goblin embassy. A month from now, or slightly less. She counted back, to the same part of the lunar month as her grandmother had died, though not the same date. She nodded once, sharply. Of course, the sword would need returning, it wasn’t much good as a method of ensuring the ongoing friendship of their peoples if it wasn’t out in the world showing off that some people could keep their alliances.
She tucked the card into her breast pocket, her uncle would not want it delivered until they had returned to the house and the hurly-burly had ended. If for no other reason than that it might push an emotional reaction out of him that he was reluctant to show to the world.
She patted the pocket, then stood straight once more in a pose anyone could recognise as respectable young lady.
Come back next week for the next chapter!
