Challenge #04683-L299: Help the Helper

They were a hellkin, but their horns never grew in. They had the tail, the dark red skin, black fingernails, though not claws, but no horns. As an adult they wore fake horns to try to be more like others of their type. Until another told them, "Horns don't matter, your kindness is in your heart." -- Lessons.

The basic Hellkin "starter set" if you wish to think about such things, is thought to be horns, teeth, tail, and weirdly-coloured skin. Red is the default, but any hue known to the mortal world is possible. As well as any hue that could be imagined. Many people were, of course, wrong. Sometimes, a Hellkin came along who was missing one of those core traits.

Comity had the cherry-red skin, the fangs, and the tail of any stereotypical Hellkin. He just happened to not have the horns. Not even nubs. He could, with the right makeup and other precautions, walk down the streets of any normal village and not attract hostile attention.

Many of his fellow devilborn could easily be jealous of him. Were they not in the town of outcasts. Gleaminvale.

One town that welcomed Hellkin, halfbreds, and other outcasts from the larger realms of alleged civilisation. Where the Watch didn't follow you because of your species. Where the law cared more about protecting people from wrongs rather than protecting the sensibilities of the well-to-do. A town that was, in essence, a literal Dragons' hoard of misfits, waifs, and strays.

Since most of the population had horns, Comity made his own, using part of the skull of a mountain ram, and a strong band of brass to keep it on his head. It had gone through several versions, with Comity tweaking its configuration on the days that he spent locked away in his home. Weight, balance, keeping it steady on his head, all had been carefully adjusted so that the casual observer would never know they were fake.

It worked to help Comity feel more... at home in Gleaminvale. More like he belonged. He'd been a latecomer to the town. Literally stumbling upon it as a teen, trying to get away from the latest pack of peasants with torches. Gleaminvale seemed like a dying fever-dream then, and Comity had been overwhelmingly grateful that it wasn't.

He worked in Gleaminvale's public services. Making certain that those who could not go out and get supplies got them. Seeing to those who were injured or incapacitated. Helping the blind orient in the noisier sectors of town. Occasionally teaching the children or fostering the newer younglings that Tambaga the Gleaming brought to join hir hoard. Most often caring for the goats that helped feed the babies when wetnurses weren't available.

Confidence helped immensely to fight against Comity's instinctual fear of being outcast again. And the false horns helped his confidence.

Until a healer, rushing to get aid for a child, accidentally bowled him over. Knocking off the false horns in the process.

Comity felt the lightness of his head and froze in utter panic. Everyone around him knew! They knew for certain. Any minute now, they would call him a faker. A liar and a fraud. At best, they'd cast him out. At worst... a long, slow, and excruciatingly painful death. He winced as someone picked up his horn headdress. A halfbred Harukh named Jamnar. Comity had helped them weather a fever, last spring. He did a lot of heavy lifting for the warehouses and was as strong as an ox, now.

Comity tensed, curling defensively against what was certain to be a hail of angry blows. He yelped despite the fact that the next touch was that of a kind and gentle hand.

Jamnar carefully pressed the headdress into Comity's hands. "You don't need this, you know. Tambaga already found you worthy."

Comity clutched it to his chest, still shivering too hard to put it on. "You don't think I'm faking it?"

Jamnar and two others helped him to his feet, and get far enough off the street to reach a nearby bench. Someone loaned him their shawl. Someone went running off for a Cleric in case Comity needed his emotions calmed. Jamnar stayed in sight. Holding his hand.

"I keep forgetting you came here on your own. Tambaga never told you why you're part of the hoard." His tusks bent his smile. "We're all the rejects and misfits of everywhere else. The rest of the world calls us trash. Here, we're Tambaga's treasures. How you look and what you are matters less than what you do for others."

"May we put this on for you?" chorused twin halfbred Elves. Tyg and Tak. Tak had a comb and Tyg was reaching for Comity's horns. "We can make it like it never fell off. If you like."

What else could he say but, "Thank you?" he let the twins take it from his trembling fingers.

Old Affection had a warm drink. Helped him hold the cup. "You've helped all of us, by and by. Now it's our turn to help you."

"This is your shawl," he said. "Your chill..."

"I can bide. You need it a little bit more, right now."

It came more easily to him, as Tyg and Tak put his horns to rights, as Old Affection sat with him, and Jamnar stood by, ready to provide comfort. "Thank you."

[Photo by Antonio Vivace on Unsplash]

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