Prologue
There are many words meant to describe giants. Strong, heavy, stubborn, confident, too big to fail. It dare not be challenged, for who would think of challenging it? A mite, a flea, merely scratching at the giant's skin; what could it hope to possibly accomplish?
At first, the giant dismissed it with arrogance; surely, this little flea could not possibly damage it in any way? The giant sent his guards to remove the flea; it was not deserving enough of the giant's attention.
Uncertainty crept in as the giant felt pain; the mite was spilling blood, cutting skin, slicing muscle. The giant started itching itself, but to no avail. The mite refused to be stopped.
Already, the giant's guards lay still on the ground, unmoving. Silent.
Dead.
The giant started attacking, causing damage, cutting and slicing in return. It grinned as it saw pain on the flea's face, blood on its cloak, hatred in its black, dead eyes. The giant prepared a killing blow; this mite would be dealt with, as the giant had already dealt with its brethren. Nothing of the sort would happen again. It would return to its throne a better giant, one that would be that much hard to topple, if it would ever be.
Then the mite looked up, stared into the giant's eyes. And for the first time, this giant felt something it would never think to feel.
Fear.
The mite fought harder than the giant could ever imagine. The giant struggled, fighting hard, cutting into this insignificant flea, this mite, this tiny being. It had sustained damage too; the pain in its eyes, the strain on its face, the suicidal speed at which it fought. It was prepared to throw away everything, risk everything, all to destroy. A flea, an epitome of insignificance, had committed itself to the destruction of a giant.
The giant watched in absolute horror as, impossibly, this flea, this mite, this monster, covered in the blood of a thousand cuts, reached out towards it.
A giant's death, meant to save lives.
A pity it did not.