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Sweated beaded and dripped off Garyns polished horns as he worked
feverishly. His elbow and arm ached; Captain Pils was, after all, a tough old
goblin, albeit a bloated one.
"Are you almost done down there, Garyn??" snarled Pils.
"Yes, sir, Im working as fast as I can, sir." Garyn panted.
Deskinning is a laborious exercise of repetitive motion and brute force to
remove the crusty outer layers of skin on a goblin. Goblin hide, properly
deskinned, resembles a soaked and sanded hobbit foot, and is widely considered
the standard of female goblin beauty. Which is why Garyn struggled to
understand Pils' insistence on being deskinned. Pils was, after all, a 150 year
old male.
"Sir," Garyn asked squeamishly, "Respectfully, why are we deskinning you now?
Arent we invading Gondor next week?"
Pils snorted, "What do you know about goblins, minotaur?"
In fact, Garyn knew quite a lot about goblins, given his years of service in
the Sunny Mountains. Which is how he knew the deskinning process occurs only
once in a goblin's life, when a goblin girl turns 15 years old, which made
Pils' insistence on deskinning particularly worrisome for Garyn. But what the
Captain wants, the Captain gets, and Garyn was in no position to argue.
"All done, sir," Garyn said, wiping the sweat from his horns, holding up a
panel of pounded silver for the Captain to admire his work.
"Good work, Sergeant," Pils grunted, admiring his newly-minted hide, while
sucking in his considerable gut. "Perhaps Gatheus will notice," he thought.
"How do I smell, Sergeant?" Pils asked.
"Absolutely revolting, sir," Garyn replied.
"Excellent. Now bring me my warg. I ride for Morgul on the hour," Pils
demanded.
The gates to the Tower swung open as Pils dismounted his warg, which quickly
sauntered away, exhausted.
"Weclome, Captain," a voice echoed in his head. "Enter."
Pils swallowed uncomfortably as he walked through the gates. Although being
Captain had its perks, a summons to the Tower is not one of them. But with the
invasion of Gondor only a week away, this meeting with the Nine was critical to
the success of the battle.
"Greetingsss Captain," hissed Fly, the Lord of the Nazgul, as Pils strode into
the great hall. "Take a sssseat." The King of the Nine gestured his gloved
finger to a chair at the grand table. Eight sets of burning eyes stared at Pils
as he took his seat. Pils detected one set burned a little softer than the
rest.
"Gatheus," Pils thought, his heart fluttering. "He remembers me!"
As Fly covered maps, charts, graphs and various scenarios, Pils found himself
increasingly distracted. Normally, Pils shone in battle planning sessions,
having led many of them himself, but today, only one thing was on his mind:
Gatheus. A head taller than the rest of the Nine, with wisps of long, dark hair
still detectable beneath his hood, Pils felt drawn irresistibly toward his
mysterious, powerful presence.
"Pils!" shrieked Weetanukar, the Nazgul, "You're looking especially fat these
days. And what the hell happened to your skin? I trust our soldiers are in
better shape than their Captain?"
Pils grunted. "Of course, sir, I work them every day!"
Pils hated Weetanukar. Widely known to be a short, slight man in his living
days, he carried those same insecurities with him to this day. In fact, his
diminutive size was largely what drove him to seek Sauron's dark power in the
first place.
"Working them, but not yourself?" Weetanukar hissed, "Will you be fit for the
front lines come next week?"
"Yes sir, fit for duty sir," Pils dutifully replied, then quietly muttered,
"you manlet."
"What did you say?" screeched Weetanukar, his eyes blazing at Pils.
"Uhh. Hamlets, sir, we need to secure the hamlets," Pils stammered. "Thornlin,
for example, houses many strong warriors."
"Astute observation, Captain," hissed Fly, as Weetanukar glared at Pils from
under his dark hood. "Why dont you and Gatheus convene following our meeting
and make plans to secure Thornlin and the surrounding hamlets, yes?"
"Yes, sir," Pils replied, barely containing his glee, as his palms began to
sweat.
"Very well, if there is no other discussion, then I adjourn this meeting. Pils,
Gatheus, long planning makes short battles," Fly counseled, as he gathered his
documents and strode from the hall.
Gatheus' office changed little over the years, still small, threadbare, and
dark. One thing, however, was missing.
"Your portrait, sir," Pils pondered, "Where is it?"
"Ahh.. .yesss, that old thing," Gatheus breathed, "sometimes it is best not to
be reminded of the passst."
Pils detected a hint of loss in the old King's voice. "Do you miss the past,
sir" Pils pressed.
Gatheus sighed and sat back in his chair.
"If you are asking would I change the past," the old King sighed, "those
thoughts I do not entertain. Behold, this is what is left of my passst."
Gatheus slipped the edge of his black robe over his broad shoulder and revealed
his ghostly chest, a bright pink scar visible above the heart.
"The passst is what we ssssacrifice for the future. Thisss is where I gave up
my past to Him," Gatheus hissed, tracing his long, pale finger across the scar.
Pils reached out his hand, then pulled it back.
"You may, Captain. Behold the cost of service to Him," Gatheus took Pils hand
in his own and placed it on his cold, scarred chest.
"Your hand is warm, and soft" Gatheus breathed quietly.
"And your chest cold," Pils sighed, "Do you miss warm touch, sir?"
Gatheus stood up and walked quietly to his dark window, staring out at the city
below. Pils approached him, placing his soft, deskinned hand on the old King's
shoulder. Pils felt him tremble slightly.
"It's ok," Pils whispered quietly, "I'm here," and gently turned the old wraith
around to face him. Pils moved his hands to the wraith's robes and slowly
removed them, letting them fall in a heap at the floor.
Tracing his fingers across the scar, Pils leaned in and kissed the Nazgul
softly on the neck, then the shoulder, and finally planted his lips on the old,
pink scar. Gatheus shuddered as the goblins warm, soft lips kissed away the
pain the old scar carried for so many years.
As he strode out of the meeting, Fly felt on top of the world. He loved leading
meetings, he loved brain storming sessions, and above all, he loved slide
shows. Fly spent the weeks leading up to today's meeting meticulously outlining
his plan in successive sheets of hobbit vellum. As he wound his way through the
plan, Fly flipped to the next sheet of vellum, keeping his team engaged and the
discussion lively. He even had sheets showing when it was time to break for
beverages or lunch. Fly was a true believer in the slide show and credited many
of his managerial successes to this practice.
As he neared his office, Fly glanced down at the stack of documents in his
hands, when one in particular caught his eye: GATHEUS, WESTERN FLANK.
Fly snapped his gloved finger. He'd neglected to give Gatheus his marching
orders when he sent him off with Pils. Oh well, good managers make mistakes,
but great managers fix them. Fly spun on his heel and marched toward
Gatheus'office, reviewing Gatheus' marching orders as he went.
As Fly arrived at the door to Gatheus' office, still engrossed in the marching
orders, he detected an eerie silence. Fly glanced up from his papers. His hands
dropped at the same time as his jaw, sending his documents sprawling.
Completely naked, with his robes in a heap, Gatheus stood with his arms around
Pils as Pils kissed his chest, goblin slobber running down Gatheus' nude,
ghostly form.
Pils glanced up and gasped. Gatheus looked over, shocked. Fly's burning eyes
moved from Pils to Gatheus, to Gatheus' robes, and back to Pils, before turning
around, mouth still agape, and silently closing the door behind him as he
shuffled back to his office.