Fleas - Songs of the Gnolls I

INSTINCTS 3.1

He was wandering peacefully in a place he had never seen before, and which for some strange reason filled him with melancholy, when a sharp scream woke him. The knight Dannke wanted to jump to his feet, but his bones would not move. He felt as if two hosts were pulling the muscles of his back in opposite directions. He understood what had happened after the disorientation of awakening. The little one... Every once in a while he would scream in his sleep as if he was being killed. And the next day he would wake up wet. From village to village, when they slept under the starry blanket, he allowed him to be naked for that reason. Fleas felt more comfortable that way, the only thing he didn't get rid of was his hankerchief.

Dannke went to bed again, but it took him a long time to fall asleep. The moonlight filtered through the bare branches, and the absence of birds indicated that winter was approaching. Perhaps twenty more days before the harsh season would strike with its icy force.

At dawn, the knight woke the little one. He was wet and smelly, of course. Fortunately, there was a river nearby, so he could wash and fish for breakfast.

Surly was tired of the reins. It banged its horns against the tree to which it was tied. Dannke set it free. There were no animals nearby that could hunt it. In any case, if something frightened it, it would get back to him. Although that happened less often now that Fleas had become his squire. Surly would rather face the wild dogs than go near Fleas. It hated him.

Fleas came out of the river, shook himself dry like a dog, and ran to the campfire. In his mouth were two big fish. He let one die on the ground and ate the other raw. He always preferred to eat raw and couldn't stand vegetables, fruits and mushrooms. Once the knight gave him a mushroom cooked on coals, and he spat it out immediately. When Fleas finished eating, he rushed to the bag, took out the map and analyzed it.

"Where are we?"

With the flint and tinder, the knight lit the fire to cook the other fish.

"I don't know. This way, I think."

"And how much further?"

"I imagine two days' journey if we don't stop."

Dannke scaled the fish with his knife, gutted it, pierced it with a stick and turned it over the fire.

"Tell me, little one," the knight said," what are you afraid of?"

He averted his eyes and bowed his head. He seemed ashamed. Dannke knew the feeling as he had seen many who had experienced tragic events. He was one of them. At nightfall, in that creeping darkness, he slept with all those he had once killed. Men, women and even children. Often those voices kept him awake, but now he had grown accustomed to their cries of agony. He knew that if there was an afterlife, they would all be waiting for him to settle the score. That comforted him a little.

"I don't know. I was always a coward. A disgrace. That's why they got rid of me."

"What are you going to do about it? A coward is of no use to me as a squire. I wouldn't buy a dull sword, a rotten apple, or a tattered cloth."

He shrank even more. The knight snorted.

"Come, stand up," he picked up a heavy, straight branch and handed him another. "I'll tell you a secret: we're all afraid. Some are afraid of loneliness, others of sickness or pain. And all of us, absolutely all of us, fear death. From the animal to the most experienced warrior. Stand up straight. Spread your legs a little. Point the stick diagonally. Like this. Steady. Have you ever used a weapon before?"

He shook his head.

"Fine. Remember, when you fight someone, you are fighting death. You can't back down. You can't run away, you can't scream, you can't pee yourself. Attack me."

He lunged timidly at the knight and struck the staff with his own. Dannke countered and the weapon slipped from his hands.

"Don't attack my sword, attack me. I am the one who will kill you, kill me first. Again."

He looked frightened. But he obeyed. He picked up the stick and attacked again. This time he aimed at his legs. Before it hit, Dannke struck his head gently. The hollow sound of the stick was heard.

"You can fight without a leg. You can't fight without a head. Again."

The little one still held back. Why was that? Why did he attack without any desire? It was as if it had no survival instinct. As if he was a dead man walking. Dannke deflected the stick and hit him in the stomach. He recoiled, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees.

"Who am I?"

The little boy did not answer. He dared not look him in the eye.

"Who am I?" He insisted louder.

"Dann... Dannke."

"No, I am your weakness. I am your fear. I am everything you hate in yourself. Again."

Maybe he had overdone it. He'd gotten caught up in the moment. Or so he thought. The boy looked into his eyes. For the first time, anger escaped the prison of his pupils. He grabbed the stick, screamed, and lunged at him. One after the other, attacks that Dannke could not evade as when he was young, but could easily block. This time he didn't strike back. He let the little one vent all his anger, all his frustration. After a while, the hyaenid collapsed, shaken and his pads worn out. Dannke was exhausted too, but he could hide it. He sat down next to him.

"I had never seen so much frustration in one being. Feel better?"

The little one's eyes filled with tears. He looked at his hands. He had just opened a door that had been locked for so long that he didn't even know he had the key. Dannke knew this feeling too. Fleas had absorbed those flaws, those fears, so much that he thought they were part of him, that he was nothing more than them. Now he felt empty.

"From now on it will be easier. Come on, little squire," he said as he patted his head, "in the next village we'll share a beer."