Of Monsters and Music

Dandelions - Ruth B

CHASE

You ever see those cheesy TV shows where someone manages to screw up the simplest task so extraordinarily that part of you laughs and the other part cringes? Where the young comedic relief is trying to make a bowl of cereal but everything spills onto the kitchen table, for instance. Or that bit in the first episode of Brooklyn 99 where Boyle drops his muffin on the floor and simultaneously steps on it and hits his head on the counter whilst trying to pick it up. Got that image in your brain?

Yeah, that's pretty much what's happening here.

(Except none of this is funny and Andy Samberg isn't anywhere nearby to save me and I really, really want to go home right about now.)

"So..." the troll says, like he doesn't have a single hand wrapped around my entire torso, holding me several meters off the ground.

"So..." I reply, like I'm not about to crap my pants.

I can feel my wings being squished, but they're in their invisible phase, so they're mostly magic right now. I don't want to think about what would happen if they were more of a structure.

"You did bad, little man." I think the troll is trying to smile, but I honestly can't tell. I wince at his breath and try to move my nose as far away from him as possible. At this stage, I don't care if I offend him - we've moved past diplomacy by now.

"I know, Ganthor."

"Little eee-ayyy-esss friends can't come save you."

"I know, Ganthor."

"You all alone, little man."

"I know, Ganthor!"

He shakes me so hard I get whiplash. "Shoosh, little man. I'm talking."

"Sorry," I tell him, and I am. I'm sorry I managed to get myself into this.

"Better," he says. "You thought we would not know of you, little man. But you have sword and shiny straw hair and..." The troll inhales deeply, and my hair almost gets sucked into his nostrils like they're a vacuum. "...smell like little fairy."

I grit my teeth. Oh, come on! Everyone knows Fey don't like being called fairies. Also, what's up with the 'little'? I'm well above average height for a halfling!

"But we take your sword," Ganthor says, pointing at his troll buddy currently hugging my sword like a teddy bear. "And I squish you, so you cannot fly. And we make you come alone."

"Yeah," I sigh. It probably wasn't the best idea to agree to Ganthor's terms without consulting the Canon, or Lena, even Rory.

Crap, Rory's gonna kill me.

Ganthor looks at me, puzzled. "You are not warrior."

"What?"

"You are not fighting. You are not warrior."

I stare back at him. "You took my sword and you're squishing - I mean, erm, trapping - me. How am I supposed to be fighting?"

The troll looks stumped at that. Well, more stumped than usual. "I... don't know. I thought you would fight."

Oh, you big, glorious oaf. "Why don't you let me go, so you can fight me properly?"

"Hmm..." Ganthor looks at his troll buddies, who shrugs.

"I'll need my sword too, of course."

The troll holding it pouts, but loosens his grip on it slightly.