Page 32 of The Goblin and The Dancer
“I—I can’t!” Paul panted. “Go on without me!”
For one horrible moment, Grik was sorely tempted. He was ashamed of himself. How could he have even considered it? Paul had just risked himself for Grik back in the cavern. Grik must do the same.
He seized Paul’s arm. “Use me as a crutch!” he told Paul, letting the elf brace his hand against Grik’s knobby head.
It was uncomfortable and humiliating for both of them, but they were too panicked to think much about it.They lurched along awkwardly, wishing they could go faster, but Grik wouldn’t leave, and Paul had spent nearly all his strength.
They went on that way for some time until Paul finally gasped, “Stop! There isn’t any way it could have followed us through here.”
Grik wasn’t so sure about that, and he would have preferred not to chance it, but he really couldn’t run any longer. He slid out from under Paul and rubbed the top of his head as he leaned against the wall.“We did it!” Grik gasped, before breaking into an elated shuffle and clicking his heels for joy. Laughing with relief, he turned back towards Paul, and the sound froze in his throat.
The elf was lying face-first on the ground, not moving.
“Paul!” Grik cried. The beast must have injured him. Oh, curse his goblin heart, it was all his fault! If he had only not been such a fool with that rocket, they could have escaped sooner and this wouldn’t have happened.
He rolled Paul over, trying to do it gently but unable to keep the soldier from thumping into the wall. Paul groaned.
“I’m sorry!” Grik whimpered. He was sorry for everything. Rosanna would be heartbroken if anything happened to her soldier, and Grik would never be able to live with himself.
The elf’s eyes were open, but they were wide with pain.“It’s just my leg,” he panted. “I’ll be all right.”
Grik sagged in relief and crumpled up beside the soldier. They lay next to one another on the wet stone, unheeding of the roughness of the rocks pressing into their shoulders, staring up at the ceiling.
“Some soldier,” Paul suddenly muttered. Water dripped down his face, almost as if he were crying.
Grik sat up, surprised by the sadness he had never seen before in the soldier’s eyes. He tried to think of something cheering to say. What would cheer up a soldier? Something to do with fighting, of course.“You’ve probably done what no other elf soldier has done. You’ve never battled a kraken before.”
Paul suddenly smiled. “That’s right, I haven’t.” He let out a breath of ironic laughter.
Grik dipped a little further into his recess of generosity and continued. “You’ll have something new to brag about—I mean . . . to tell to your mates—when you go back to your barracks.”
Paul was silent for so long that Grik grew uneasy. “Are you all right?”Paul didn’t respond, and Grik reached out a cautious hand and touched Paul on the shoulder.
It brought Paul around like a handful of cold water. He spun his head back around to face Grik, shoving his wet hair out of his face with an angry gesture. “I’m fine.”
Grik bit his lip. Perhaps Paul was angry at him for his poor showing back in the monster’s cave. “I’m sorry about the rocket launcher.” He hung his head. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
It was really an apology for everything, but of course Paul didn’t know that, and even though Grik suddenly wanted to tell all of it, his tongue tangled on the details, and the confession remained crouching in the back of his throat, too afraid to come out.
To his surprise, Paul gave him a light tap on the arm, the way a soldier might jostle a mate. “Everyone gets scared in their first fight. You didn’t do too badly.” Paul’s mouth twitched cautiously and then slowly turned upwards, as if he were unused to smiling but rather liked doing it. “In fact,” he added, looking down at Grik, “you did fine.”
Grik was enormously pleased, more pleased at receiving a compliment from Paul than he would have thought possible—though, really, he had never thought he would get a compliment from Paul, so it was not a daydream he had ever indulged in.It felt wonderful, as if he were more than a goblin, as if he were even a kind of comrade-in-arms and a warrior in his own right.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help clarifying.
“Actually, this was my second fight. I fought the goblins first. I didn’t panic then.” Standing next to this seeming paragon of bravery, it was suddenly very important to explain what had made him lose his nerve, and when. “It was that tentacle coming out of the water the way it did.”
Paul shot Grik a surprisingly patient smile and shook his head. “You did well, Grik,” he repeated. “And it all turned out all right, so don’t worry. Besides, I woke the monster, so most of the blame lies with me.”
That was true, but despite that, Grik couldn’t help feeling that Paul had covered himself in more glory than Grik had. Yet, Paul wasn’t showing off as Grik thought he might. Grik supposed this was what an officer did in the army—taking responsibility for others’ mistakes, chivvying the men while danger was near but then cheering them on afterwards even when they did terribly, never saying it was hopeless, even when it was.
Maybe this was the person that Rosanna saw when she looked at Paul—a soldier—and not the snobbish, proud, and prejudiced elf that Grik had seen.
His heart stuttered to a stop as he realized this was just one more medal—albeit an invisible one—that Paul could add to his impressive collection. He had defeated a monster; Rosanna would be so impressed. And all Grik had done was panic and find a hole.
“Let’s go,” Paul said, breaking into Grik’s glum reflection. “Rosanna’s waiting on us.”
“Yes,” Grik murmured, “she is.”
