It was a night so dark that one could barely see beyond their nose; it was so dark that even predators chose to go hungry rather than brave the nightmare that was the wild. A bone-chilling cold that drained all warmth accompanied the darkness.

  If one could see, they would notice large trees overhead, covering every inch of sky, and thorny brambles attempting to strangle the life out of anything that blossomed. The only disturbances in the darkness were the occasional snapping of dry branches, rotting leaves, and brittle bones littering the forest floor.

  The source of the noise was a tiny figure stumbling through the sea of life and death. The tiny figure's eyes were listless but locked on a singular target: a faint light emanating in the distance. Perhaps the light belonged to the camp of a man, an orc, or some other beast that would slaughter him in an instant, but the tiny figure resolved itself to whatever fate awaited him.

  After what felt like an eon of wandering through this land of death, his toes and fingers long frozen solid by the horrid cold, all he could do was approach the one potential source of light and warmth. Before him stood a strange, arched doorway in the middle of a clearing.

  Shelter at last, thought the figure as he stumbled into the stone passage. The atmosphere dramatically changed from inhospitable cold to comfortable warmth. “I hope the person who lives here doesn’t kill me on the spot,” thought the figure, his fingers tucked into his armpits and a weathered book firmly between his chest and arms.

  The light revealed his sickly green skin, finally illuminating the frail frame of the tiny figure.

  “Even my ears were not spared.” The figure tried to flex his long, pointy ears, but they remained unresponsive because, of course, they too were frozen. He tried his best to open his large, globulous eyes, but even they strained from the slit-like state they were in.

  He continued to stumble forward. A small room greeted him after he wandered down the passage. The figure looked around and was surprised; no one was there. A circular hearth occupied the center of the room, and the purple flames within were low, almost on the verge of dying.

  Like a moth to flame, the small figure waddled up to the hearth and heavily sat down, doing his best to prevent his frozen bits from hitting the stone pavers on the ground. Carefully extracting his fingers from his armpits, he gingerly maneuvered the book in his arms onto his now splayed-out legs.

  Then he took a moment to bask in the warmth, still expecting the sudden entrance of the homeowner. He eagerly waited.

  He hesitantly attempted to flex his long, narrow fingers and was surprised at the rapid speed of defrosting. He had never appreciated the regenerative ability of being a goblin until now. He was only aware of such things because of his time with the tribe. The sudden reflection swept him into bittersweet memories.

  His whole predicament and the severe pain he had undergone were thanks to his tribe. Correction: his former tribe. The goblin turned his gaze to the leather-bound book before him, rubbing his fingers over its edges. He could still remember her gaze, her voice, and her touch. Tears leaked from his eyes as they pittered against the book before him.

  The book itself, on its own, was nothing special—just a cheesy love story that was the guilty pleasure of a young woman. But for the beaten-down goblin, it was his most valued treasure, a testament to something more than the savage life he had lived.

  However, the embers of the flame were dying along with him. Exhaustion would soon claim him, and the cold was seeping in. He was not strong enough to gather kindling, his weeping intense as he took the last treasure he had and placed it on the waning flames. The purple flames slowly consumed the edges as the goblin’s consciousness faded.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The darkness of the dreams that came was not restful, as with every night since his exodus, the nightmares pried his heart and soul. Her screams echoed in his mind as his family surrounded him, hideous, sadistic smiles plastered on their faces as he and she were made into examples. The dream always ended in a blast of golden light, and he bolted upright, covered in a cold, clammy sweat.

  The purple flames in the hearth were gently dancing before him, and he was stunned to find that he was wrapped in a soft cloth. Looking around for the owner of this home, he was stunned again by the presence of furniture all around him. The final surprise came from an unknown bowl sitting on a table that was wafting an irresistible fragrance that permeated the room.

  Hesitantly, the goblin stood up and approached the table. He was astonished that the table seemed more than fit for his size. There was even a wooden chair waiting for him, and when he sat on it, his feet perfectly touched the ground.

  He was used to the furniture his tribe had plundered from human settlements; they just hacked off parts of the chair to make it work. "Brutes,” the goblin whispered under his breath. His sour mood was immediately transformed when he saw his precious book right beside the steaming bowl.

  Happy tears began to flow from his eyes; he had always been a bit of a crybaby. He was certain that the hearth had consumed the book. The book soon returned to its rightful spot, carefully clenched against his chest, almost like he was afraid he would lose it once more.

  His attention was directed to the steaming bowl before him. “Hello! Anyone here?” When the goblin yelled and looked around, there was only the customary silence. “I know, I should wait.” The goblin thought honorably, but a few moments later, his stomach loudly growled. “I believe they would understand,” he quickly gave in to his hunger.

  The bowl was filled with clear liquid—nothing he had ever seen as he tried to lift the bowl to his mouth. The bowl of broth was too hot, and he was too weak; if he had used both hands, it would have been possible, but letting go of the book was not something he was willing to do. His gaze focused on a strange object by the bowl—a stick with a little bowl? Maybe he could use it to scoop some of the liquid into his mouth.

  Grabbing the weird stick-bowl thing, he dipped it into the larger bowl of weird but delicious-smelling liquid. His hand wobbled with weakness as he brought the spoon close to his mouth, spilling about half the contents along the way. He winced as the hot fluid hit his flesh, but he would rather take damage than allow his book to.

  Eventually, he got a taste of the broth before him; it tasted of meat and herbs and was clearly very nutritious. He continued to ladle soup into his mouth; with each subsequent attempt, he spilled less and less. Before he knew it, the bowl was empty, and the aching hollowness of starvation had been staved off.

  Looking at the mess of fluid that was covering half his body, he decided he needed to clean himself to avoid damaging his book. Grabbing the only article of clothing on him, his loincloth, he wiped the excess droplets of broth from his skin.

  After solving his gnawing hunger, the exhaustion returned. Not to the extent of before but still to a fair extent. He curled up on the floor next to the table with the book. However, he couldn’t sleep. Looking across the room, that weird giant piece of cloth still sat there. “It was pretty soft and nice,” he commented to himself as he got up and went to it.

  The big piece of cloth was very padded and infinitely more comfortable than his usual sleeping arrangement. “I’m sure the owner wouldn’t mind me sleeping on it again; they did give it to me while I slept.” He said this, justifying his indulgence.

  As he curled up into the sea of softness and warmth, he thought to himself, “Only a few days ago, I was banished into the wilderness. Why have I been given such graciousness? I don’t deserve it. I failed her. I failed her. I failed her.” Another bout of pain wracked his fragile mind as he clutched the leather-bound book.

  He unconsciously reacted by opening the book and beginning to read. This was the only way he knew to placate the dark thoughts in his mind as he escaped into a cheesy story about love between a knight and a princess.

  The words soothed his broken psyche as he slowly felt his eyes grow heavy and happy imaginations filled his mind. His imagination slowly transformed into dreams as he finally fell into a blissful sleep.