Fiona was half a day's journey away from the village of Spitethorpe. She had been trying to find hospitality there as she got on her feet, but it wasn't easy. Oh, she had no regrets about abandoning the tower. Navigating the wider world by day had left her with a rather bitter taste in her mouth; the very few who had shown her genuine kindness were of the greener persuasion. Her experiences had led Fiona to identify more with her ogress than her woman.
As a practical matter, however, ogres had been really hard to find; in a year on her own, she'd only run across that one pair. By comparison, humanity offered a robust social infrastructure. Fiona had been capitalizing on her human form to find accommodation where she could, sleeping in a barn in this town or washing dishes at an inn for meals in that one. Spitethorpe, it turned out, had not been very accommodating, and she was putting it behind her.
Fiona had just passed a trail junction, following the footpath towards the next hamlet, when three young men pounded down the path in the opposite direction at a full run. As soon as the first one spotted her, he abruptly slowed his pace to a walk and put his hand up to the brim of his hat, saying "Good day, miss".
Actually, that's what he intended to say, but it sounded more like "Good day MIFFPTH", as the second man barreled into him, narrowly avoiding clocking the first man's head with the shovel he carried. The third swerved at the last moment to miss the first two, planting a pitchfork into the ground to stabilize himself. The second man reoriented himself, brushed himself off, put a finger to his cap, and said "Ma'am!"
The third man whacked the second with his own feathered cap, and the second man quickly corrected himself: "Miss!" The third man returned his cap to his own dome, held it there with his hand, bowed gently, and said with formal effort but bumpkin accent, "best day to ye, Miss!"
The other two tipped their heads respectfully, and then all three wasted no time walking, trotting, and then running again down the trail. She heard the leader call out, "This way! Towards the lake! We gotta get there fast to back up Mattie and Connor!" The thunder of their footfalls faded down the path leaving only a cloud of dust testifying to their passage.
Huh, Fiona thought. How strange. Usually people with a big pile of hay to stack aren't overwhelmed with such a burning desire to stack it. She turned her head to look back over her shoulder, curious what they were up to.
But she had a town to get to. And, from the looks of it, perhaps a friendlier town, too. Courteous of those fellows to interrupt their rush to greet me, Fiona thought, Didn't see that once in Spitethorpe. A quiet, nocturnal voice in her head harrumphed that the men likely wouldn't have been so civil had she not been hiding behind her human disguise, but Fiona put the objection aside and enjoyed a little encouragement. She got back underway.
The scurry, though. What were 'Mattie' and 'Connor' up to? And why did they need buddies so urgently? The intrigue was palpable. The sun was high in the sky; she had hours of daylight left. She didn't make it ten paces before turning around and following the dissipating dust cloud. She arrived back at the junction and turned left, downhill; according to the hand-carved and half-decayed directional sign, in the direction of the lake.
She had no difficulty locating the scene that attracted the three men. A total of seven men now gathered around a maple near the lake shore, each holding a pitchfork (with the exception of the shovel-wielding fellow), waving it threateningly towards the tree canopy. They shouted angrily at the tree.
"Come on down 'ere ya cowardly monster!"
"Wassa matter, afraid of a few wee laddies with yard tools?"
"Take yer stabbin' like a man!"
Fiona cut off to the side of the trail and crept up to the scene, carefully positioning herself behind a disordered clump of bushes and deadwood. She got down low, trying to see what was in the tree that was drawing so much ire.
A section of leaves shook and waved in unison; something was stepping on the branch they shared. The tree was a stout maple and the branch sturdy; that something was big.
Two of the men had laid down their pitchforks and began throwing rocks up into the tree. Most bounced harmlessly off the tree, some narrowly missing the men on the ground. One found its mark and elicited an irritated "ow, watch it, you!" from the thing in the tree. The pattern of shuddering leaves changed; the being was climbing up to another branch to evade the projectiles.
"We'll teach your kind for raiding the city!" one man yelled.
"Yeah!" concurred another. "And fer squeezin' the jelly from our eyeballs!"
"And for grinding our bones into flour and makin' bread!" shouted a third.
Eyeball-jelly guy turned to the last fellow and said "that's giants, you nincompoop."
"Well he'd probably do it too," the last fellow said, then turning to the tree and shouting "you'd make bone bread if ya could catch me, wouldn't ya? That's as good a reason as any to be stabbin' ya! Now git down here and face us like an ogre! Ogre-to-man!"
An ogre! Fiona thought. Kinda surprised he isn't knocking heads.
A crack rang out, and the section of leaves all shuddered and dropped in unison. The ogre their branch had been supporting fell through the branches, clawed at the trunk, smacked forcefully into the lower branch he had been standing on earlier, and spun around it, slamming violently to the ground at the base of the trunk. The shirtless ogre wore a woolen kilt, knit socks, and high-laced leather boots. He groaned.
Fiona gasped, a hand involuntarily shot up over the O of her mouth; her core tensed as her nervous system reflexively reconfigured into martial arts mode. Calm yourself, Fiona, he's an ogre, this is going to be a rout.
A shout went up from the men. The ogre's breath had been knocked out of him. Two of the men still had their pitchforks in hand; the others turned around to retrieve the tools they'd laid aside to throw rocks. The first two lunged towards the prone, winded ogre.
The ogre's chest was nearly immobile from the shock of landing, but he was able to roll his body with his powerful legs. He rolled towards the two men, causing their thrusts to overshoot his body, making them trip on him and fall headfirst past him, buying him a little more time to recover his breath.Fiona's heart swelled with pride, silently cheering on the big ogre who had tried so valiantly to resolve the situation peacefully.
He was just beginning to prop himself up on his right elbow when the second wave of men, having retrieved their implements, chambered them to thrust. The ogre swung his left leg at the hip, sweeping two men off their feet, sending one pitchfork and one shovel clattering to the ground. His face was a mixture of the joy of battle and the anxiety of having been put off his guard. Let the drubbing begin! Fiona thought excitedly. He rolled towards his stomach, sending another villager tripping over his body, and prepared to push himself up to finish the job.
He never did.
One man's pitchfork found its mark, driven heavily into his back.
Fiona's breath caught.
The ogre collapsed, rolling back onto his right side. The pitchfork planted deeply in his rib cage, pivoted with him and slapped to the ground behind him. His face contorted in pain and fury. A massive, muscular green arm reached around behind him, grasping for the pitchfork. The successful attack slowed him down, just a little, but enough that the first toppled men had reoriented and rearmed themselves. One drove his fork deep into the ogre's side. The man gave a dramatically loud grunt as he did so, making more noise delivering the blow than the ogre made receiving it. The second man followed, thrusting his own pitchfork through the ogre's rib cage from the back quarter, one tine protruding out his right breast.
Fiona's every muscle clenched, freezing her to stone. Just an instant prior she'd been resisting the absurdity of a wispy princess jumping in to help a colossus. In a blink, that idea became irrelevant: that first blow had been, without question, ultimately lethal. Even so, she expected him — silently cheered for him — to wipe out a few of these murderous bastards before succumbing. The new blows, however, neutralized him.
A fourth and fifth pitchfork sunk into his body. Their target now nearly motionless, these men had time to prepare their delivery and drive their tools down with their full weight. The forks skewered the ogre, each buried to its crossbar in his green flesh. Fiona's stomach twisted up tight as if being wrung out to dry.
The sixth pitchfork found its mark, one tine pinning the ogre's thigh to the soil. Its owner cheered on the last man — upon closer inspection just a teen — who picked up his shovel and drove it lamely into the ogres' calf, where it tore a deep scar but otherwise deflected out into the ground.
Everything had happened so quickly. Seven strokes in as many seconds. She couldn't believe these were the same men that had cheerfully greeted her two minutes ago.
An enthusiastic cheer arose from the men as they stepped back to admire their handiwork.
"Guess you won't be comin' round here no more!" yelled one, pumping his fist.
"Actually I think it'll be pretty much right here forever, rottin' away!" jeered another.
The ogre clenched its teeth, its jaw grinding in excruciating pain but its brow showing only anger. Ogres never show fear; a lifetime of practice was serving this ogre well in his final moments. Fiona's gaze was riveted to his face, her own eyes open wide with horror and compassion.
"How'dya like that, ya big ugly green pitchfork pincushion!" hollered one man, slapping another on the back.
The ogre's breathing, already a loud rasp, slowed, and bright red blood trickled out his mouth in time with each heave. She shuddered. His gaze looked out past the men's boots. His eyes were the only body part he could still control. Suddenly his brow creased in confusion as he caught sight of Fiona concealed in the brush.
Fiona instinctively ducked, but just as quickly realized he wasn't a threat. She raised her head, and the ogre stared right at her. His eyes focused on her sharp as a sunbeam, unblinking, brow knitted into a desperate, pleading expression, his mouth contorted in a grimace of pain she couldn't even imagine. Fiona's own brows jammed together with headache force, every fiber of her being wishing she could do something for this poor being.
She knew it was hopeless. His death was already sealed, his remaining lifespan measured out in each rasping breath, each leaking fluid. She wanted to comfort him, to hold his hand, to give him something as he lay there dying, but all she had to offer was her silent stare. She held his gaze. She heard the men jeer. She kept looking, her face twisting with pity.
His chest rose and fell slowly, barely perceptibly, sliding along the rusty tines of one or another pitchfork. His nose and mouth dribbled, soaking the dirt under his cheek. Crimson pools spread from a dozen punctures all over his body.
"So what're we doin' with it?" the teen, the one who'd brought the shovel, asked out loud. "Clean its giblets and hang it to season?"
"Aye no ya numbskull," answered an older man. "Ya canna eat these beasts, they're all leather and poison. Taste bitter as swamp gas too I'm sure of it."
"But then why'd we hunt it?"
"We're no huntin', boy, we're riddin' the village a' pests!"
"Aaah! Oh." said the lad. He turned back at the ogre and yelled with marginal conviction, "that'll teach ya!"
The ogre's breathing shallowed and slowed. The men continued to jeer and cheer for themselves, but Fiona couldn't hear it anymore; her world of sound became muffled and her peripheral vision darkened until she saw through a black tunnel just his face, twisted in agony, his eyes locked on her face. He never blinked.
His breathing finally stopped. She couldn't tell exactly when, but his clear brown eyes began to haze as they dried. Fiona bit her lower lip hard; she didn't move a muscle.
The men stopped shouting, and a couple gave a sharp sniff. Then one gagged, and another said "what in Pete's name is that stench?"
A tall man had backed away from the corpse, holding his nose. "Aw it lost its bowels, lads. That's diabolical!" The others rushed away, up the trail, two vomiting into the dirt.
"Wha about my shovel?" hollered the boy. "Ma'll kill me if I don' bring it home! Was half a year's corn to the smith for it!"
"We'll come back for 'em tonight," said another, voices fading up the trail, "after the stench dies down a bit. "They ain't goin' anywhere!"
The smell had spread to Fiona's hiding place, and her eyes watered. It was indeed a fearsome and foul stench, but that wasn't all that made her eyes water. With the men safely distant, she stood and made her way around the foliage and tree trunks to the body next to the big maple. His eyes didn't follow her; the ogre was very much inert now.
Fiona knelt down at his chest and placed a slender hand on the side of his head, an earstalk tucked between thumb and fingers. The putrid stench of his voided bowels was overwhelming; under it the coppery tang of spilled life.
Why did they have to kill you?
She held his inanimate head and looked into his lifeless eyes.
She wept.
She wept for his senseless death.
She wept for his excruciating pain. She wept because he died and she couldn't comfort him; he died while his killers mocked him. She angered at the raw cruelty.
She wept and wept, minutes passing, until her eyes were dry and her pity was empty. All that remained was anger. Fury. An intense, indignant violence.
She took one last look into his face, his bold, strong brow and those brown eyes, now dull. She gently pulled his eyelids down, and pushed herself to her feet.
Fiona's face began to twist with the anger that boiled inside her. She grabbed the handle of a pitchfork and pulled. It slid out of the ogre's corpse with a sickening slurrrp. She stepped among his legs and walked a few steps to the lake shore. She spun the implement around by its handle, once, twice, thrice, and heaved it in a graceful arc, a dozen yards out into the lake.
She looked down at the water and saw her own reflection. Her long, slender pink face, so little like the victim and so much more like his murderers. What had he thought when he saw her watching his demise? His expression had screamed at her to do something, anything, while she stood by and watched her compatriots slaughter him and celebrate. Waves from the pitchfork reached the shore and dismantled her reflection.
This was something she could do. She could cost those cruel wretches some hefty bills at the blacksmith, if nothing else. She returned to the corpse and hauled one pitchfork after another out of its stinking bulk. She felt callous rocking and prodding at his body, even standing on him to push off, but of course he can't feel it now. He can't feel anything now. She heaved each one far into the lake. Rage. Vengeance.
Six pitchforks were lost in the murk. Only a shovel remained. Fiona picked it up and stepped on it to dig it into the soft soil. There was no way she could move this corpse, much less tip it into a grave, much less dig a hole that big.
She did what she could anyway. She shoveled one scoop after another, dumping each on top of the body. Her small frame could only move a little dirt with each stroke, but she kept at it, a hundred or more scoops, until the flattest parts of him had a few inches of dirt on top. It was a pretty lame burial; his bare back was still entirely exposed, three gaping holes still oozing. Feces soaked his kilt and pooled by his leg.
There was nothing honorable about the meager service she performed, but at least it was something for those brutes to discover when they came back this afternoon. She hurled the shovel far into the lake.
Her vigorous physical activity had been fueled by anger, the emotion that remained after sorrow had dried with her tears. Now that the action was done, she sunk to her knees. She had seen hate before. She had seen betrayal before. She had seen blood before. She had seen her own blood before. But she had never seen something so hideous. In one fluid motion, her stomach turned out her breakfast, and she felt emotionally, physically, and utterly empty.
·❧·
Fiona jolted awake. That event had occurred eight months ago, but it still came back to her with crystal clarity. Bright and dark, stench of sweaty men, coppery blood, and voided bowels. The gentle rustle of leaves and chirps of birds when it was all done, the wildlife that got back to business showing no more care for the butchered ogre than had his butchers.
This story was on her brain's short list of live-action reality-show nightmares, those that got played back in lifelike detail. She didn't know why her brain insisted on reliving terrors like waking back up in the tower or catching a dagger in the gut from her traitorous Prince Charming.
She knew exactly why her brain insisted on reliving that day, however. It was a defining moment. That morning she wasn't entirely certain who she was; by the afternoon, her dumbstruck inaction had made her an unwitting accomplice to the vicious murder of one of her own kind. That day she finally understood whose side she was on; which part of her bizarre dual nature she'd nurture.
Author's Note:
If the summary text was too oblique: This story explores Fiona's rich and fascinating life in the alternate universe and how Shrek's appearance might have seemed to her.
"She had seen betrayal / seen her own blood before" and "catching a dagger in the gut" refer to events in Before Forever After by Gadfly, which I'm taking roughly as canon for the year or so leading up to this story. Go enjoy it.