Chapter 35 - Blüt

Blüt reached up to touch his face, but found he had no arm to reach with, and no face to touch. He lay back in a shallow and watery grave, facing the infinite blue sky. His yellowed, bloodshot eyes sat open, allowing the world a clear view of them for the first time in decades.

They hadn’t changed. They were still so wide, so immature, so scared. The eyes of a child. And now, once more, life flashed before them. With each prior death, it had been fast, a series of images blurred together. The idea of death had lost much of its meaning to the immortal, and as a result, so had life. But now, with no healing, no immortality, Blüt was forced to watch with full attention as vignettes of his past played out before him.

Blüt was five years old when he first left Sister Bellen’s care and entered the main village. He didn’t receive a warm welcome in the slightest. His reputation as a cursed child who killed his mother preceded him. He was understood to be a parasite who drained the village’s food supply. A cuckoo who had inserted itself into their nest and now sought to live amongst them.

“Ew, what is he?” One of his contemporaries asked from below. The other children stood at nearly half his height. They almost forgot he could hear them from above.

“An Ogre, duh!” Another, ganglier, child responded proudly.

“Ogre? Aren’t they all dead?” A third pondered. He inspected Blüt by prodding at his stomach, causing the giant to flinch.

“Yep! He’s the last remaining specimen!” The gangly kid continued. “That’s what my dad told me!”

“Wow!” The other children stared up at Blüt. He smiled and waved down at them. For a moment, he felt a bit of a celebrity. Sister Bellen had always warned him that the other children would be cruel and that he’d have to defend himself, but he doubted that. He wondered for a moment if he could perhaps be friends with them, or even better, if he could become someone they admired.

The first death Blüt experienced, before his countless slaughters as an immortal, was the death of that dream.

“If he’s an Ogre, doesn’t that mean he’s not human?” One of the crowd asked. It wasn’t a question asked with malice. It was a legitimate childish concern, but one that allowed a certain poison to spread through the minds of the masses.

Humanity meant a lot to Orcs. Historically, they weren’t considered humans for much of their history. Legally, they wouldn’t be for some time still. Humanity was a point of pride, something Orcish culture put on a pedestal above all else, constantly striving and fighting to maintain. Inhuman behaviour and inhuman nature were things to be shut out. They set them back, after all, brought them closer to being monsters. There was no place for that in this society… And therefore, no place for Blüt.

“If he’s not a human, then he’s a monster, right?” Another anonymous voice raised.

“Yeah, a monster!” The voices blended together now, Blüt couldn’t differentiate them. Were several people speaking at once? Or just the one? Either way, every sentiment was echoed by the crowd.

“There’s a monster in our village?” A voice from afar quivered.

“Worse! There’s a monster in our school!” Another rallied.

The voices gathered, as did the mob. Blüt attempted to speak but was drowned out. The collective had formed its opinion. He was a monster. He was to be outed.

Blüt never returned to school after that day. He marched home covered in blood before even his first lesson. It wasn’t his own blood.

When Blüt was eight years old, a great drought struck the village. Food and water became scarce as economic trouble overtook the village. They could only rely on the most pious of townsfolk for meagre donations.. As a result, he and Sister Bellen went hungry, day after day. She was used to it and handled it well. “All I need is a smoke and a prayer!” She’d often tell Blüt, puffing her pipe and giving a thumbs up.

Blüt wasn’t so lucky. He was huge now, head fat and wide like a bulldog’s with a body to match. A starving Ogre wasn’t a pleasant sight, he needed to eat as much as three adult Orcs after all. His long limbs were sickeningly thin, veins plump with blood visible like worms under his sagging skin, which gathered around his empty stomach in a drooping pile.

“Mama… Here…” Blüt’s voice was weak and hoarse, passing a scrap of bread to his mother.

“Don’t be stupid!” She slapped him on the back of the head, her once muscular fingers rendered bony by starvation. “If I eat that, what the hell are you gonna eat, dumbass?”

“...Aren’t you hungry?” He frowned, salivating already at the sight of the bread, but using all his power to hold himself back.

“Of course I am! But didn’t I tell you? Your life is the most precious thing! Don’t go giving it up for my sake!” Bellen barked, shoving Blüt’s outstretched hand back to him. “You wanna live, don’t you? If you do, then eat the hell up!”

Blüt stared down at the bread. It was a meagre portion, but to the starving boy, it was a feast. Putting it in his mouth would be so easy. The flavour, the feeling of it melting in his mouth, the energy flowing through his body as he digested, it was all so close…

Blüt threw it to the ground. “I don’t want to! Food is meant to be a human right or something, right? If me eating means you have to starve… Maybe I shouldn’t eat at all!” He sobbed. “...And if me living means you have to die… Maybe I shouldn’t live at all!” He shouted.

Bellen reached out to him. Blüt flinched, expecting another strike. Instead, he found himself in her embrace, her face buried into his hair. “Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say such stupid crap again!”

She pulled back, face intense with a mix of anger and sadness. “You’re precious, Blüt. Not just to the Goddess, but to me! I don’t give a crap what all those bastards in the village think. You deserve to live just as much as anyone else, if not more! You should live, no matter what! Don’t you ever forget that!”

Blüt embraced his mother, gripping her as tight as his frail arms and her frail body would allow. He found resolve. He would live. And if he could, he’d make sure she did too.

When Blüt was nine years old, the drought had just about ended, but the threat of starvation still loomed large over the village. This season’s harvest would be the most pivotal in history, and he was determined to make himself a part of it.

After years of no-contact with the village, Blüt marched his starved, skeletal body to the nearest farm. The owner met him at the entrance, pitchfork in hand. He stood ready to strike, but drew back when Blüt spoke.

“Let me work!” He pleaded, bowing so low his head kissed the dirt below. “Please! I know I’m only nine, but I’m big and I’m strong! I don’t even need money! Just give me food and I’ll do whatever you want!”

The farmer was unconvinced, but his son managed to sway him. He was the same age as Blüt but his exact opposite, a scrawny, clever boy. One of the crowd that had ousted him four years prior. “If he wants to work, why not let him, dad?” He asked. “It’s not like he can go to school…” The hint of a sneer formed on his face.

“Hm. I suppose so.” The farmer mused, tossing the pitchfork to Blüt. “You start now and you finish when the harvest is done.” Blüt nodded eagerly, tears in his eyes, practically kissing the feet of his employers as he did. His head was so low, he didn’t see them smiling.

Blüt worked like a slave for the next month. He pulled a plough on his back, carried sacks of seed, he even drew a carriage for his masters. He was an ox, a pack mule and a horse, all in one, but never a man. That mattered naught to him, all he thought of was the food. That delicious, filling food. With the drought over, he and his mother ate slightly better, but they were still barely beyond starving, and she largely insisted on him taking her portion. As a result, he had regained some of his strength, and he committed it all to his work.

Beyond eating it for himself, he wanted the food for one more reason. One far more important than himself. To see his mother, for the first time in years, eat her fill. He wanted to see her as she once was, imposing and muscular, and embrace her without feeling her bones. For that, he worked and worked and worked.

His muscles tore, his skin broke, his nails chipped. He sweated from every pore, bled from his fingers as he worked them to the bone, and wept every evening from sheer exhaustion, but he made it, at last, to the day of the harvest.

He returned to the farmer, body battered, stomach empty and mind full of expectation. He held out his hand, expecting his share… But he was met with only laughter.

“Come on, get serious? We can’t feed you! Do you know how short we are? You eat as much as three people combined! How the hell am I supposed to feed my family if I give all my food to you?” The farmer mocked. Blüt was barely shorter than the fully grown-man, but he still looked down upon him. Alongside him, his son chuckled.

“B-but… Food… I did all that work…” Blüt muttered, taking a step closer. The scrawnier orc stepped in the way, shoving him back. He fell to the ground, tears pricking his eyes.. “...Isn’t food a human right?” He screamed, voice hoarse with despair.

“Sure it is…” The younger orc grinned, leaning down. “But you’re not human… Are you?”

When Blüt was ten years old. He cannibalised his first human being. In a fit of rage, he used his immense strength to attack the farmer and his son. He took the pitchfork they had given him and speared the father, then beat the son to death with his bare hands.

Afterwards, driven mad by starvation and bloodlust, he devoured the bodies. The rest of the family quickly abandoned the farm, informing the village’s higher-ups of the horrific monster attack that killed their patriarch and youngest son.

Blüt paid them no mind. He took the remnants of their meagre harvest and returned home, bloodsoaked.

“You can have all of it.” Blüt smiled at his mother as she returned home. He stood at the kitchen table with the food piled high. His dark blue-green skin was made black by the blood coating him.

“What about you?” She asked with motherly concern, paying no mind to his appearance.

“I already ate.” Blüt replied, insistently pushing the food toward her.

Sister Bellen knew everything already. The village’s leaders had told her exactly what would happen next. Her son, for the crimes of murder and cannibalism, would be lynched. Her job was merely to stall him so they had time to mobilise.

Without a word more, she dug in. It was all raw vegetables, but they were delicious. Sweet carrots that snapped perfectly between her tusks, mild onions she could tear into like apples, and thick squash that filled her belly in a way she had been unable to imagine for the past two years. She smiled and sobbed as she ate, a feeling of fullness and pride, as well as great sorrow welling up inside of her.

“Blüt.” She said, barely holding back tears. “You have to go away now, okay?” She choked out the words.

“...But-” The young Ogre was cut off by his mother’s embrace. He couldn’t feel her bones.

“You did a good job, my son. Such a good job.” She wept.

“Mama, I don’t-” Blüt began, but she only held him tighter. Tighter and tighter… He couldn’t breathe. His mother’s strength was back. She held him by the neck so tight he began to choke, garbled half-words emerging. “Ma- I- Lov-”

Bellen stopped partway. Physically, she could’ve done it. Emotionally? Never. “I love you, but you have to go now.”

Blüt understood. As the air returned to his lungs, he finally understood. Death. He saw it over her mother’s shoulder as she embraced him, and he never wanted to see it again. “Okay…” He muttered.

“Don’t go dying, okay?” Those were Bellen’s last words to Blüt as she let go and left the church.

When she opened the door Blüt could hear them, the mob, he could see the pitchforks and torches, he knew what was to come. He ran out the back door and hid in the woods, but he couldn’t abandon his mother. He knew he couldn’t fight, but he could at least watch.

“Where’d he go?” A man with a torch asked, stepping out from the mob.

Sister Bellen didn’t say a word, she just paced up to him, using his flame to light her pipe. “Gone, obviously.” She sneered.

“What? You just let him go?” The man growled, reaching out to grab the nun. He was quickly met with a punch to the stomach that sent him careening to the ground.

“Damn right I did!” Bellen yelled. “What kind of a mother would I be if I let you up and kill my son?”

“Your son? Don’t be ridiculous, sister! That thing isn’t even a human, let alone your chi-” He was cut off by a punch to the throat, with which Bellen made two declarations. One, Blüt was her child, and she would never deny him. Two, she was going to stop them from pursuing him by any means necessary.

An uneasy look passed across the crowd. It became clear to all of them what was to happen next. It became clear to Blüt as well. His mother was going to die. Those awful people from that awful village, the ones who had deemed him a monster and cast him out to starve and die… They were going to kill his mother too.

Blüt never viewed any human as a person after that. As he ran into those woods, he discounted every idea of humanity. No one was to be loved, no one was to be respected, the only thing that mattered was that he lived.