Long ago, in the towering realm of Galdor, a land where mountains were but footholds and clouds curled around the ankles of its inhabitants, there lived a race of giants. These immense beings—broad-shouldered, wild-haired, and with voices like rolling thunder—ruled their vast kingdom with unchallenged dominion. Their days were spent uprooting ancient trees for kindling, forging tools from boulders, and feasting on great beasts caught in the forests below.
Though their might was unparalleled, the giants of Galdor held little regard for those they deemed insignificant: the Small. The Small were the fragile creatures that scurried below—birds, foxes, and especially, humans. Humans, with their diminutive stature and skittering ways, were seen as no more than an inconvenience. If a giant’s boot crushed a human village, no one bothered to notice, let alone mourn.
Among these mighty folk was a young giant named Aldrin, the son of a celebrated blacksmith who forged weapons for Galdor’s warrior class. Aldrin, like all giants, had been taught to see the Small as irrelevant. His father often said, “They are like ants, boy. If they are underfoot, they are meant to be trodden on.” Yet something in Aldrin’s heart had always stirred uneasily at this.
While most giants revelled in their might, Aldrin was quieter and more observant. He would often wander alone, listening to the wind as it howled between peaks and watching the stars shimmer far above. And though he had never spoken to one of the Small, he often lingered on the edges of their villages, unseen, watching as they sang, laughed, and built their delicate, intricate lives.
One fateful day, Aldrin’s curiosity led him farther from home than he had ever ventured to the edge of the Emerald Cliff, where a human settlement was situated in the valley below. He crouched among the pines, his enormous hands resting on his knees, and peered down. A human girl was kneeling in the dirt, her face streaked with tears, clutching a bundle wrapped in cloth.
She was singing—a low, trembling song that seemed to rise like smoke, winding its way upward to where Aldrin crouched. Though he could not make out the words, the melody pierced him, filling him with a strange ache. He stayed there, still as stone, until the girl finished her song and carried the bundle toward the river, where she released it into the rushing current.
When she turned to leave, she stumbled, collapsing to her knees. Aldrin, moved by an instinct he could not explain, reached out a massive hand and scooped her up before she could tumble into the water. The girl shrieked, writhing in his palm, but he held her gently.
“Do not fear,” Aldrin rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “I mean you no harm.”
The girl, trembling but defiant, glared up at him. “You’re one of them. The giants who crush our villages and steal our livestock. Why should I believe you?”
“I do not wish to harm you,” Aldrin repeated, his tone softer now. “I only heard your song. It was… beautiful. Why did you sing it with such sorrow?”
The girl hesitated, then pointed to the river. “That was my brother,” she said. “He was all I had left after your kind destroyed our village. The fever took him last night, and I sang to guide his spirit.”
Aldrin’s heart clenched. He had seen the aftermath of a giant’s careless step—a human village flattened like dry leaves—but he had never thought of the lives lost, the grief left behind.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, and though the words felt hollow, they were the only ones he had.
The girl, surprised by his apology, studied him. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Aldrin.”
“I am Maggie,” she replied. “Why are you here, Aldrin? Why would a giant care about the song of someone like me?”
Aldrin did not know how to answer. Instead, he carried her back to her village—a tiny cluster of huts surrounded by a crude wooden fence. As he set her down, the humans scattered, screaming in terror. But Maggie raised her hands, shouting, “Wait! He saved me!”
The villagers halted, their eyes wide with disbelief.
“He wants to help,” Maggie continued. “I think… I think he might not be like the others.”
The village elder, a frail man with a beard as white as frost, stepped forward. “Why would a giant help us?” he demanded.
Aldrin knelt, lowering his head to the elder’s level. “I have seen what my kind has done to yours,” he said. “I did not think of it before, but now I see that it is wrong. If you allow me, I would like to make amends.”
There was silence, broken only by the wind. Then the elder nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But know this: If you betray us, we have nothing left to lose.”
And so began a strange partnership: Aldrin used his immense strength to rebuild the village, carrying timber and stones that would have taken the humans weeks to haul; he dug irrigation channels for their crops and chased away predators that prowled too close. The villagers, wary at first, began to warm to him.
Maggie, especially, started spending hours by his side and taught him human ways. She told him about human beings’ struggles, songs, and joys. In turn, Aldrin told her of his world—of the giants’ forges and feasts, storms and stories. And slowly, a bond grew between them.
But peace was not to last, for word of Aldrin’s actions reached the ears of the giant chieftain, a fearsome warrior named Briareus, who saw Aldrin’s compassion as a betrayal to the giant kind.
“You disgrace our kind,” Briareus thundered, confronting Aldrin at the village gates. “The Small are beneath us! They exist to be crushed, not coddled. Leave these insects, or face the consequences.”
“I will not,” Aldrin replied, his voice steady. “They are not insects. They are people, just like us. Their lives have value, too.”
Furious, Briareus raised his massive club with the intent of destroying both Aldrin and the village. But before he could strike, a sound rose from the valley—a song led by Maggie but joined by every villager. It was the same melody Maggie had sung by the river, but now it swelled with defiance, with hope.
The song stopped Briareus in his tracks: he hesitated, lowering his club as the haunting notes filled the air.
“What is this trickery?” he growled.
“It is no trick,” Aldrin said. “It is their strength. You see them as weak, but their voices are mightier than your club. Yes, they are Small, but they are not powerless.”
Briareus scowled but could not deny the power of the song. Thus, with a snarl, he turned and strode away, muttering curses under his breath.
From that day forward, Aldrin remained in the village, becoming its protector and bridge to the world of giants. Slowly, his example began to change hearts in Galdor, teaching the giants that even the smallest lives could sing the loudest truths.
