A Grunt of love

[Froge]

It was break time for Storage Grunt #8. Patrolling was hard work ever since the new regulations came out for all the workers at Brennenburg Castle. With talks of an intruder sneaking in, Alexander had imposed very strict rules and routines amongst all his servants at the castle. Daily his gatherers were summoned to all the important areas of Brennenburg and made to walk the path nodes that had been set out for them when they were called. The Baron was particularly infamous for his rigorous appreciation of form. His servants were made to march about in extremely strict patterns with almost zero rest for hours on end. Backs and shoulders were straight, head held up high, chin and nose pointing upwards...or, well, as upwards as flappyjaws could get. But they were realistically doing extremely well. In their break time, their jaws sometime sunk to the floor.

Storage Grunt #8 wiped some sweat off his face as he sat down beside a container box. A few of his friends came beside him, all weary and tired out by the days' work. Fortunately, most of them by now were used to the rigour of their daily patrols to complain much; at its worst, their work could extract a few grunts of frustration out of them. At least their work wasn't brutal.

"S'up man?" Storage Grunt #3 said to his friend number eight as he sat down upon a container beside him. "Excited for the reunion coming up soon?"

A sarcastic question. The reunion was only enjoyable if you took a back seat and watched the going-ons, the clashes between the very separate groups, the attempts by the grunts to reason with each other as well as the brutal upper-in-commands. The grunts were particularly social creatures - much more than the Brutes, who were all lone wolves - and made factions of themselves, cultures even, depending on their patrol locations. The Storage grunts were very high and upper class. They saw their home, the underground cellar next to the Back Hall, as a cultivated place in comparison to the savageness of the prisons deeper down; here in the Storage they had easy access to food and all sorts of tools and equipment. But the Prison grunts saw this as a sign of weakness; it was they who had to wander the dark, lonely, and sometimes blood-stained hall of the dungeons with little access to all the conveniences of the Storage such as containers to sit upon when one was tired.

"That means you might meet him again!" Storage Grunt #5 exclaimed with a slight "teehee" as he sat down next to number eight as well. "Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten already."

"Don't remind me," S. Grunt #8 replied as he leaned a tired a lazy claw beneath his flapping chin. "That Brute's nothing but trouble. I don't want to see him."

"Aww, don't be like that!" Grunt #5 complained. Unlike #3, #5 liked to be optimistic and fantasize. He was no romantic, like #8, but he saw things lightheartedly, and found especially cute #8's advents with Choir Brute #6 the previous year. Of course, they had been unsuccessful - nobody had ever heard of a relationship between a grunt and a brute before (such power difference!) - but that didn't stop #8 from pursuing his heart. They had been separated since then, returned to their daily patrol routes, and for the most part #8 had tried to forget about the Brute to varying degrees of success. #3 was sickened sometimes by #8's weakness, who sometimes broke down crying in the middle of the night because his love had left him (although there really wasn't much between them in the first place). #8 would grab a container or a potato sack pillow and hug and stroke it, wishing that the object could be the Brute. #3, who was called sometimes by others a deadly realistic, was nauseated by much of #8's actions.

"Ignoring that, Alexander's got some new information on our intruder," #3 continued when he noticed the look of displeasure on #8's face. "You know what that means. If it's serious, we've got stricter patrol regulations and times coming ahead of us."

#8 shrugged. "Adding an hour or so to our daily work shouldn't be too bad. I hope he doesn't go farther than that."

Their reunion was tomorrow, and so each Grunt quickly retired to their sleeping quarters to try and get as much rest as possible.

~

They met in the Entrance Hall, Alexander standing atop the ledge on the second floor while he waited for all his servants to slowly gather together into the room. Neither #8 nor #5 had much interest in what the baron had to say - just the bare details would be enough (which usually went along the lines of "stricter form - no flapping that jaw!" or "tougher patrol regulations - no taking breaks between nodes!"). They were more concerned with avoiding certain unwanted gatherers who were no doubt in the room.

There was, as always, the jeering between the prison and the storage grunts. At least this time they didn't break out into fights; the last time that had happened the participants were sent to the Kaernks, and that didn't end particularly well for them. There was also the occasional insulting remark towards the grunts of the lower ranks, notably Guest Room grunt, who made his day dusting furniture and cleaning out dressers and closets rather than going on intense patrol routes. In the event that an intruder did sneak into the guest room, it wouldn't take much for the grunt to hunt them down - that section of the castle was particularly small compared to the storage or the prison. On the other hand, everyone felt sorry for Refinery grunt, who was down there all by himself every day ever since the other Refinery grunts became bored and decided to start playing with the Kaernks. There had been no word from them ever since. As for the poofers - there were no poofers. Nobody spoke to or even pretended to know them.

#8 had chosen a bad spot to sit in the Entrance Hall. All the brutes were now piling into the room from the door next to him, so he would no doubt catch a few glimpses of his former love. #8 had tried very hard to forget about Choir Brute #6 since the last reunion; seeing him again, would, of course, be very detrimental to his efforts. Yet effort refused to simply close his eyes, for the temptation proved too difficult to resist. That was the problem with love - it was indeed a rose of many thorns. In the moment when #8 would face the one he so loved, his heart would be filled with joy, only to be replaced by an unbearable loneliness and agony upon time to leave. And his love was very much unrequited, so that #8 found immense difficulty in even getting up and talking to the Brute.

One, two, three, four, five pairs of rotting metallic feet coming through the door, and then #8 glanced up and saw the sixth, looking almost identical to the rest, though of course the sharper eye would be able to tell the subtler differences. It was such minor details as a sharper fourth tooth, or a more slender curving of the split head that made #8 recall exactly his love for this one gatherer. Physical looks were unimportant to him, for in truth everybody knew that the Brutes were very ugly. But #8 saw different things in number six. He noted the softer body expressions - a slower and more refined walk, a limping of the hands, a mature expression written upon his face that seemed downward-casting and yet prideful, as of filled with hidden and unspoken desires. The Brute was by no means old - all the gatherers were crafted into existence by Alexander within the same span of days - but he was obviously different. #8's heart instantly fluttered, and it sank seconds later when #6 walked right past him without so much as even a glance down to him.

They had spoken together in the past, though not in exactly friendly manners. There was firstly the necessity of #8 having to learn the language of the Brute, which was very hard to replicate for a squeaky-voiced flappyjaws like him. When #8 finally memorized what he was going to say and gathered up the courage to do so, he had made the journey all by himself from the Storage to the Choir (it was tough for a storage grunt to make it through the prison!) with nothing more than a piece of paper in his hand containing what he was going to say. It was written as a simple "idle_brute_whineroar.snt", but there were subtleties, certain tones of the roaring that required careful paying attention to; in the language of the brutes, varying articulations changed completely the meaning of a spoken word.

And Brute #6's response?

#8 hardly understood it, but it seemed to be along the lines of "go away," and so the grunt did exactly just that, his courage and hopes crushed and he returned with a somber mood to his home storage. At the moment, the grunt felt no different. He probably doesn't even remember me, #8 thought as he saw the brute pass by him in near slow motion, time seeming to stop as his heart fluttered and sank.

A comforting hand was laid upon #8's shoulder by his optimistic friend #5, and #8 relaxed a bit. "Oh, I hate him," #8 whispered as he buried his face into his hands.

Despite being rather lonesome and individualistic creatures, the Brutes had cultural confrontations of their own, and quickly gathered to taunt at jeer at the ones from opponent groups. The Choir brutes disliked the smelly sewer brutes, who too often stank up the room with their disease-filled odours; but the worst was the Morgue brute, who, well, pretty much stank completely of dead bodies. The sewer brutes hated the choir brutes in return for their arrogance, for, as even grunt #8 had observed, they were arrogant, turning up a high nose (or split face, whatever) against most who attempted to speak with them. Trying to confess his feelings to choir Brute #6 was a disaster. By now, #8 realized that it had clearly been pointless to even try and pursue a relationship in the first place.

Then there was Alexander's speech, minutes later, as the baron announced details of the intruder, a man apparently by the name of Daniel, who was currently in the Rainy Halls and would awaken very soon to come and explore the castle. As always, the baron paid special attention to alerting his servants of the necessity of form. "Backs straight, now," he declared. "Heads held up high, or I'll feed you to the Shadow. Watch where you're going. Pay attention to every detail in the darkness. If you see this man, go and rip his face off!"

~

They were back in the storage, #8 standing near the machine hallway as he awaited his turn to patrol. #5 was currently doing his daily rounds near the room full of stinkin' pig carcasses, leaving #8 with pessimist #3 to deal with. Actually, #3 turned out to be in quite the humourous mood today. Not long since they arrived back they had found a small girl's body lying on the floor, all chopped up and covered in blood. They decided to burn her and make a bonfire, though it was not traditional fire, because using some simple Grunt Powder they could create a flame that sprang up at will. The only problem was that whenever the fire appeared the combustion process was so quick that it seemed to sound like a very loud scream.

"Yo number eight," #3 said as he finished up the preparations for the bonfire. "Your turn's going to be up soon. Remember what Alexander said?" He quickly darted away from the center of the room and hid behind a container box. He had set the grunt powder to trigger and combust as soon as someone neared the edge of the room.

#8 knew what he had to do. The man would come and try to pick something up from the machine room, two rods of colours blue and red, and as soon as he did so he'd have to spring out and guard the door, preventing the man from coming out. He could already hear the footsteps approaching; distant, but audible. #3 raised his head just slightly from behind a pile of storage boxes to watch what was about to happen. The man had a lantern, but that would not be able to prevent him from stepping upon the invisible grunt powder, and then he would be blown away by the fire and the scream.

"Plug up your ears," #3 declared. "You don't want to burst in fright and reveal yourself either."

#8 did exactly as he told, although he kept his eyes fixed upon the border of the room, for he was actually quite interested in this intruder and what he looked like. The man was now very close, the light of his lantern easily visible from inside the machine room. He took a few slow and crouching steps forward, as if being very cautious, and for a seconds the two grunts thought that he had actually been able to spot the Grunt powder, even though that should be far from being possible for a human. #3 lowered his head by just another inch and stifled a giggle as the man looked about the room, holding his lantern up high to sweep the place with light so that he could observe it, try and see if anyone or anything was hiding in the place. After a few seconds, when he had finally discerned that it was safe to continue, Daniel stepped forward.

#8 eye's widened as the fire sprung up brightly and loudly, illuminating for just a tiny fraction of a second almost this entire section of the storage, and in that fragment of time he was able to get a very clear look of the man's face. #8 was completely stunned. The man nearly yelled in fright, though he was able to prevent himself from making anything more than a squeak. Still, one could tell from just the tone in Daniel's voice, frightened and reserved, that he did feel extremely scared. However, it was actually Daniel's face that truly surprised #8, for he ended at a very clear loss of words.

#8 stared, in the light of the bonfire, at what appeared to be the prettiest man he had ever seen in his entire life, and he felt his heart being gripped by something, an emotional force that was mysterious and yet seemed all too familiar at the same time. The first similarity that #8 noticed was the man's hair, which was completely straight and combed in a floppy manner, parted and falling, flowing like delicate waves to both sides of his head. It was like the slenderness of choir Brute #6's head, only magnified a hundred times more within this man, this Daniel, whose lanky form and high-cheeked face and long elegant hair made him appear the epitome of graceful. But that wasn't even the start of it. #8 could go on forever describing what he really saw in Daniel, that behind his squeaky, effeminate voice was also hidden feelings of resolve, pent-up emotions that begged release - just like the love that had gripped #8 himself so, yet was forced to remain unrequited because Brute #6 could not share the same feelings in return. But in Daniel there was something more, a thing that seemed deeper and far greater in the magnitude of how it defined him - for #8 could see the wrinkles on Daniel's face, the messy way his eyes and head moved about as if he was constantly troubled, as if his sanity was slowly but surely being completely degraded. Yet the resolve remained, that thing within the man which beamed powerfully and with such passion, a desire to find, to search, to discover - what? - something that was important, something that was locked within Daniel and made him suffer the prison of a closed heart. He was much more than a man. He was a lithe being; an exquisite and handsome thing, one who bore artistic features and emotions so powerful that he was statuesque, so that even with his bent and crouching pose a nimble and dexterous form remained.

#8 slowly sank to the floor as the man entered the next room. It was only when #3 slapped him across the face that the grunt came to again, and he was shivering. "Hurry up!" #3 said. "He's already picked up those machine rods. Get to patrolling right now or I'll have to report your sloppiness to Alexander!"

#8 was still to stunned to do anything despite his friend's urging, and soon enough the man had left the room with his lantern bright and shining and he seemed very ready to leave the storage. At that moment, #8 stumbled out from his hiding place, knocking several container boxes and trunks over in the process, surprising Daniel and giving him ample time to break into a run. #8 immediately felt that force again, that powerful emotion gripping his heart that seemed like ice and fire at the same time, life and death, a rose with thorn, a love that trapped and pained him and yet also gave him resolve at the same time - not as powerful as Daniel's but a feeling that he could share in and relate with the man's. It was precisely this force that then propelled the grunt forward, making him run at top speed, not to chase down and kill Daniel, but so that he could catch him in his arms.

But Daniel ran, quickly putting out the lantern so that the grunt found it very difficult to see around him. The grunt ran at top speed, faster than he had ever run before just for a chance to take another look at this man, this epitome of beauty that he wanted nothing more than to stare at and hold. This was his one opportunity; his previous with the Brute had been crushed, and it was now meaningless to him compared with the magnitude of the emotion and love that he felt for this man now. Daniel looked back for just a second, and within that time the Grunt was able to get a very close-up look at the man's face, and he was even more stunned by the resolve that appeared within Daniel's eyes.

They shone brightly, almost like the stars, little twinkling little crystals that shimmered in the darkness of the storage, burning with a fiery passion and immeasurable fervor.

But it was exactly this one moment, when the Grunt had his split second glance at Daniel's eyes and the elegance and gracefulness of the man's face, that he lost his momentum, and Daniel's face turned away, the man continuing his run. Feeling his hopes being crushed yet all too soon, #8 lunged forward and tried to grab at the man - not his face, of course not (tearing that beauty down was now the last thing on #8's mind) - but to simply be able to hold him, to be able to feel his resolve and determination. In that one second the Grunt had grabbed onto Daniel's hands, to feel the man's clenched fingers and the softness of his palm, a contrast to the strength and rigour of the rest of his body. He sensed all of Daniel's emotions within his hands, of being lost, lonely, and without hope, and in that instant, the Grunt felt a surge of sympathy, not only for the man but for himself, as he realized how debilitating love was and how it had struck him so far down. It was a moment to treasure. For just half a second they held hands and were together, basking and sharing in each other's presence, and for the Grunt, he felt comfort he had not experienced in many sleepless months. The part of love that bloomed, the love that was the rose and not the thorn, the life and not the death gripped the Grunt's heart, and he felt finally relieved and cleansed of all pain and suffering.

And then he left Daniel's hand, willing himself to let the man go rather than cling on to him, this Daniel, this hope that he had so been latching upon with unmatched fervor. He had looked a second time into Daniel's eyes and saw a celestial heart, an empyrean soul, not only a desire but also a necessity to continue onwards, to proceed with whatever he had to do, for if Daniel was to stop now he would never be relieved of the pain that gripped him, just like the pain that had gripped #8 when he was so fiercely in love. He loved Daniel enough to let him go free, and he disappeared, like the dusk sun setting behind the horizon and casting streaks of orange and maroon across the sky, into the darkness.

Grunt #8 sank to the floor just as his friend #3 walked up beside him.

"You did surprisingly well," #3 said. "Never saw you run that fast before. It's okay that you couldn't catch him. The others will, sooner or later."

#8 crossed his arms and returned to his feet with a sigh.