Trust Issues

The Troll Under the Bridge

That morning he couldn’t tell if it was morning. Unlike in the jungle there was at least a little bit of light, but here the only light was a single torch flickering weakly after a whole night of burning. John opened his eyes but he didn’t get up, curling into a tight ball to fend against the cold. He supposed since it was underground this kind of freezing was normal, but it seemed to him like someone had left the 200BC air conditioner on. He forced his eyes to remain open, he couldn’t fall back asleep, then he’s have to wake up all over again. He couldn’t hear anyone up and around, he kind of knew he was the only one up. John sighed, as much as he hated how he got here; the ship wasn’t all that bad. He’d be expected to return to his house again, but did he even want to go? Leave Greg alone, leave Sherlock friendless once more? John did prefer this life of adventure over blacksmithing and chores in his now practically demolished town. But he imagined his family sitting in their living room, worried out of their minds about their son. They probably thought he was dead, that was the logical explanation really. There was no body; he was out with Sherlock when the pirates attacked, and he never came home. He doubted they thought he was taken, John wouldn’t have imagined that if he was sleeping on the stone floor with the rest of the crew. It took a while for them to finally start stirring, but once Anderson even felt a little bit awake he was on his feet, calling loudly for everyone to get up even though they were all in the same hall. John was worried Anderson might wake up the dead if he kept it up. He crawled to his feet, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Get some fruit and let’s move, we must be almost there.” Anderson decided, looking down the hallway into more darkness. John wondered what lurked down there, waiting for them. Surely it wasn’t going to be as easy as just walking in, grabbing the scythe, and walking out. John saw Sherlock in the back, pretty secluded from anyone else. He looked worried about something, and for a second they made eye contact and his eyes flashed ‘help’. John wanted to help of course, but they started walking on, skipping breakfast to a walking buffet of whatever you could get your hands on. If there weren’t so many people around Joh would’ve asked Sherlock what was wrong, but he decided it would be a bit suspicious if he gave up his place in the near front of the line to drop back with the captain. John thought it was a bit odd that Sherlock, being the Captain and leader of this entire expedition, wasn’t leading the way but straggling behind. He seemed to do that the entire trip, which was definitely odd. The walk continued on, and nothing except the engravings changed. Even though they creeped John out he couldn’t help looking at them, something to do to entertained himself. Greg liked pointing out the funny looking animals or the humans with disproportional heads, even though he was a pirate he was still an immature twelve year old. They stopped briefly for lunch, but John wasn’t all that hungry, best ration what little food they had. In order to preserve, Greg tried to eat the shell of the fruit, managing to scrape some of the soft side off with his finger nails, but when he tried to bite the shell itself he almost broke his tooth. John laughed halfheartedly, forgetting momentarily about Sherlock. When Anderson was done he decided that it was time to get a move on again, promising they should be close now. John doubted that, they were far under the ground; he doubted that the ocean above them will stop the path. The torchlight lit the obsidian path, flickering the way but leaving ahead dark and unknown. John wished for some oil lamps to light stuff up, just so he didn’t have to worry about the darkness in front and behind him. After a while even the lumpy cow carvings lost their interest, and John, Greg, and Moran trudged along with heavy feet and hearts. Maybe this path led nowhere, just an unending tunnel going in circles. Maybe the trapdoor was just a trick to get men confused. And then, sprouting from the darkness was a ravine, something John wanted to stay at least fifty feet away from, maybe more. It seemed to have popped out of nowhere, but it had to drop hundreds of feet down, but John couldn’t guess because down here you can barely see five feet in front of you. If he listened very carefully he thought he could briefly hear a river running down there, but the men were making so much noise it could just be one of them breathing. The only visible way across was an ancient rope bridge with old wooden boards stretching off into the darkness.
“Let’s hope there isn’t a troll down there.” Moran muttered, peering into the absent floor.
“I think I’d rather a troll.” John pointed out. That rope bridge didn’t look like it could hold a rabbit much less a two hundred fifty pound muscle man.
“Captain?” Anderson asked, looking at Sherlock for his judgment.
“There’s a rope bridge for a reason, I say we cross it.” Sherlock decided. “Heaviest first.” He added. Anderson nodded, and, eyeing up the other men, took a cautious step on the bridge. The ropes shook unstably and the beams crackled under his weight, but it held for now. Anderson grasped the ropes as he walked on, farther and farther from the sturdy floor, torch in hand. Just looking down into the ravine gave John shivers, that was the last place he wanted to end up in. Looking at the other men he was able to deduce that he was lightest man by far. Even though he was muscular he was the shortest. Sherlock was probably the second lightest since he was so thin, but a lot taller than John. Greg and Moran where one of the heavier ones, so John knew he’d be on this side by himself, the last one to use the bridge. That definitely wasn’t a good thing, the ropes would be at their weakest state after all the heavy people went, but it was definitely better than sending the heavier ones last. Then the weak bridge would most certainly snap. Anderson called that he was safely across, which let Mike go, being the second biggest. One by one the men crossed the ravine, swinging the bridge a lot but making it safely. Finally it was only Sherlock and he on this side, and Sherlock stepped onto the bridge, walking slowly but surely to the other side. It creaked dangerously and a wave of panic flashed in John’s heart. Even though it was Sherlock that was over top of the ravine it felt like it was John. If Sherlock fell John did too, metaphorically or not. And then, finally Sherlock called over from the darkness that he was safely across. Even though John didn’t like the look of the bridge, he also didn’t like looking behind him and not being able to see very far, especially being alone. He put one foot on the bridge, and the ropes bended and adjusted to his weight. The bridge moved a lot more under him than he expected, but if he wanted to make it to the other side this was the only way. With one hand he grasped the hand rope so hard his hands must be starting to blister, and the other one held his torch alight above him. He put both feet on the bridge and felt it dip slightly. He swallowed his panic and started walking faster than he would’ve liked, but he didn’t have much control of himself. The bridge rocked back and forth with every shift in weight, and when he looked down he saw nothing but open blackness. John could now make out the forms of the men on the other side, mingling around and looking bored, even from here. He kept walking, board after board, step after step. And then, when he put his foot down there was a snapping sound and his foot was weightless. He fell onto the bridge after losing part of his precious balance, scraping his leg painfully on the jagged end of wood. Now the bridge was really tipping, if John weighed anymore it might have flipped. He heard Sherlock’s panicked calls, trying to find out if he was okay.
“I’m fine, I just fell!” John called back.
“Then get back up, we’re on a schedule!” Anderson replied. John scowled, but pulled himself up, trying to balance the bridge out, pulling his now painful leg through the gap in the wood and skipping that beam. He kept walking, but didn’t have the same confidence as he once did. There was a snapping sound behind him and something fell into the pit. Then another, and another.
“John run!” Sherlock cried. He was the closest to the ladder without actually getting on it. John picked up his pace, hobbling along but feeling the bridge get weaker and weaker with every step he took. Eventually he was barely relaying on it, he was trying to prance through the air, not even touching down his feet. He was so close, a couple more steps… The bridge fell out from under him; it was only enough warning that he could vault towards the other side as the ropes and boards crashed into the rock below. Sherlock was the one that caught him, grabbing onto his arms as he started dropping. But John didn’t quite make it on top of the cliff. He felt almost his whole body develop scrapes and bruises as he slammed into the rocks, holding onto Sherlock for dear life. He looked down and saw that if Sherlock let go he would fall to his death, no doubt in his mind. He didn’t want to scream, but he felt one escape his throat anyway. Sherlock was pulling him up the best he could, and the best John could do was just sit there, not being able to get a foothold.
“Help me!” Sherlock cried in an exhale of breath. Greg and Moran rushed to his side, each grabbing one of John’s arms. Now, with the three of them, John felt like his arms might just fall off and he’d fall into the void, but he was being raised, scraping against the rocks but relieved. They gave one last heave and John came crashing down to flat land, only his feet hanging over the edge. They let go immediately, heaving for breath and messaging their own arms.
“My god, are you eating your swords too?” Greg asked. John didn’t feel like pointing out the sword hanging on his belt. Sherlock just smiled with relief, but even that looked forced. John managed to stand up shakily, finding that his now slightly injured leg hurt. He didn’t bother pointing it out to the others, he wasn’t worth the fuss.
“Let’s keep moving.” Anderson decided. John groaned, he thought after that sort of mishap they’d get a little bit of a break to calm them down, but the other men just looked bored, as if the blacksmith wasn’t worth the trouble he caused. He sighed, looking down into the pit and seeing that there was nothing but darkness back there. If they had to go back this way they’d be rotting out here for ages.
“John, are you okay?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide the worry in his face.
“Fine.” John agreed. “How about you?” he added. Sherlock’s eyes flashed helplessly, but there were more men wondering around, they wouldn’t be able to really talk. Anderson started walking again, and, just like last time, this side of the bridge seemed to go on forever and not change at all. They walked for maybe an hour when at last they came upon one, single door in the wall. The crew members all exchanged nervous looks, they hadn’t seen a door the entire time down here, so why now?
“Well, open it!” Mike said impatiently.
“Why don’t you do the honors then, if you’re so keen, go ahead.” Anderson said with false sweetness. Mike made his way through the crowd, determined not to look weak or scared, turned the latch, and pushed the door open. The smell was the first thing that hit John, but when he looked inside he saw crates upon crates of something, but it smelled like rotting food. That could either be a good or a bad thing.
“Ugh, what’s that smell?” Moran asked from behind. Mike walked in before Anderson, which kind of ticked the man off, but he followed immediately.
“Food, old food.” Mike decided, tipping a crate over and letting it fall to the floor. Fruit tumbled out, splattering to the ground and spewing black goo. But they looked ancient, not only a drop could break those shells.
“Don’t eat it, way past expired.” Anderson decided.
“You don’t say?” a man from the crew said sarcastically.
“We’ll stay here for the night, don’t sleep in the room, stay in the hall; we don’t want to be locked in while we sleep.” Sherlock decided.
“Yes sir.” Anderson agreed, exiting the room. John sighed with relief, his feet were killing him and his leg was hurting more than ever now. All of the men practically collapsed to the floor, catching their breaths and starting to eat. John, having saved his fruit from lunch, stabbed one and ate it gratefully. Even though it was killing him slowly it did feel good to get something in his stomach. The men didn’t talk much, by now there was nothing more to say. John still felt like he was being pulled down by some force, into the ravine to crack and rot. It scared him a bit, knowing that there was no way back the way they came. If there wasn’t some type of exit they would all die of starvation and lack of air.
“Quite a jump there John, are you okay?” Moran asked. John sighed, deciding that no, nothing about this trip was okay, but he nodded anyway.
“Just a little scrape on my leg, but I’m fine.” He agreed.
“Good, you seem to be a lot more helpful than any of us could imagine.” Moran said with a smile.
“Well I’m glad you see it that way, seem to be one of the only ones.” John muttered.
“Anderson is just jealous, trust me. He’s used to be the captain’s favorite, and then you come and steal his thunder, I wouldn’t be thrilled either.” Moran shrugged. John smiled forcefully, the idea of Anderson having (even more of) a grudge against him wasn’t the best feeling in the world. John knew that Sherlock would obviously protect him with his life, and so far Anderson was unaware of their relationship so far. He must be pretty stupid to not notice, or he’s just elected to ignore it and be a man instead of a jealous five year old. John rolled up his pant leg, finding a couple of wooden splinters stuck in his skin, which made him wince at the sight. With difficulty and pain he pulled them out one at a time, clenching his teeth to prevent from crying out. After a little while the men started drifting to sleep, so John made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard, cold stone floor. The air was freezing, he pulling his arms around him to try to conserve as much body heat as possible. He would kill right now to be back on the smoldering surface, but he knew once he was up there he’d want to be down here. Temperature was a funny thing; you only miss it when you have the opposite. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of one man already snoring loudly and the odd echoes coming from somewhere.