They stood atop a bridge cut from the very trees the Irishman leant against. Two figures obscured past the blind of a lantern joined the down-stare atop its slats. Ancient without grace, the bridge was a sloping figure. Bent low and a kiss from the water’s lips. Nails fell into the pursed mouth below, their time within the wood rendering them wriggling, orange twigs. All the same, the trolleyed each one. Grabbing clumps of the riverbed, and fishing about for them as he waited.

Grinning like a loon, the Irishman said, “You’re either an idiot or stupid.”

Ulick winced. He could smell its breath from here. Full of rot, and moulded blood – a great cavern of filth.

“Both, I believe. Yes, that sounds right,” the troll continued, plopping a fistful of river slop onto the bridge. “How are the little ones? Feisty this time of year, yes?”

“No frame of reference I’m afraid,” Ulick said with a forced shrug. He watched their oversized hands for a moment. “Awfully nosey though.”

The Irishman nodded and scratched his side. Their fingernails gouged trenches in the toothpaste thick grease coating it.

“Enough,” the other barked, shadowy finger pointed. “Purpose. State it. Injury too.”

“I’ve read a lot of trash,” Ulick thought. “I know how to answer that. Kinda. Maybe?”

“Not here by choice,” he said and pointed a thumb behind him. Ulick faced the troll. “There any cultists or mages around here?”

He shrugged.

Ulick frowned. “Fair enough.” He pointed at his robe. “I woke up surrounded by dead people in robes like this.” A hundred Geralds, once upon a yester-hour. “Think they kidnapped and drugged me.”

“Why?” Asked the stone.

“No trees like this back home,” he said, patting the one. “And I am tripping balls. Unless feeling people’s eyeballs on your skin is normal?”

“Speaking of, why can’t I feel theirs’?”

“Slag,” the smaller man barked. “Truth?”

Something sighed. They spoke, though Ulick hesitated to say they had a voice. Maybe it had once been so, but now it was merely sound. A mush of meaning expressed vocally. “We are not a little doggie,” it stated, stamping afoot. There was no heat to their words. Just monotonous nothing. “You do it, fatty.”

“An order.”

“That’s nice.”

“Punishment. Yes?”

“Fine.” The lantern rose higher. “Ain’t much to read, shit for brains.”

“Explain.”

“Dearest cousin is dead,” they said, bent low. “Or jaded to hell.” They chuckled. It was horrifically void of warmth. “Troll took him by surprise, though.”

The stone man sucked in a sharp breath.

The troll, unable to sit still, leant forward. “You are positalutely not a local either,” he said. “So where did you come from? I wonder.”

“No clue,” Ulick began, taking a step closer. “Was at home, went to bed, some stranger molested my insides then dumped me on a pillar of salt.”

“Slag,” the stone man asked, “Slagged?”

“Embraced,” the unseen one corrected, with all the emphasis of a long-spat argument. “Father likes cuddles.”

“Slag.” There was a hint of anger and something dark within the hollow man’s voice. “You called it ‘Dearest cousin.’”

“No, we…” they trailed off. “Wait, we did.”

A moment passed.

“Dearest cousin is no brother of ours,” they began, slowly. “He is too well made.”

“What does dearest cousin mean?” Ulick froze. “Dearest cousin. Them. They. Dearest cousin. What the hell!”

“Shit,” spat the stone. The pale-shine of a spear tip played by the light’s edge. “Stay. Move? Die, yes?”

“Wh-”

“Yes!?” He sounded borderline hysterical.

“Sure,” Ulick said, frowning. “Fine.”

“You seem quite upset,” the Irishman said, head cocked. “Very much so. Why?”

Ulick looked down, examining his hands, for they were the only skin not clung to by wet cloth. They were not his, but despite that, seemed the norm. No bulging veins of black puss, bulging fingertips, nor fiendish claws. Maybe the veins were a little too visible, but that was pale skin for you. Twisting to look back up, something caught his eye. A trick of the light, or an insight once hidden in the blind spot, he saw it for but a second. His tendons were a little too noticeable. A hint of pink leaked past the skin, and he swore he saw bone.

“-de by something else. A being greater than us,” the words of his dearest cousin granted focus. “Fuckheads get touchy about it.”

“Kirta, 1587,” the stone man said, spat. “Aul, 1688. Joal, 1690.” The bridge nearly snapped under their stomp. “Abominations. Slagged.”

Dearest cousin did not respond.

“He seems harmless enough, I say,” the Irishman said, leant forward, and onto the bridge. “Fairies are grea-zingly good at judging character.”

“Collarbone.”

“Pardon?”

“No wound.” The spear jabbed at him. “Cloth is shredded.”

“No wound?” Ulick thought. “Is he blind?”

“He tripped; I dare say.”

Ulick reached for his collarbone.

“Bloodstains.”

The flesh was fine.

“Hrm.” The troll leant back, his prodigious gut round and proud. “Right you are. I do believe we asked about those before. If I recall correctly.”

“Yes. Explain.”

“Wait, no. One second. Where the hell is it?” Ulick ran his hand over the scarless skin. “There was like bone and everything. What?”

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“You healed, dearest cousin.”

“People don’t heal this quickly, though!”

“You aren’t normal,” they replied, almost sad. “Not anymore – or ever, maybe.”

“Shut. Explain wound.”

Calm shattered Ulick to a cold collection. “A monkey. Bald, black eyes, spindly limbs.” He tapped his neck. “Went for here.”

“What?” The rock whispered. “Explain.”

Something like glass slapped a rock. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then explain!”

“Fuck you,” dearest cousin yelled, serene. “I ain’t your pet!”

“Boxtar.”

The lantern dropped its glasshouse shattering. Bastions of it clung to wireframe iron, keeping the flame off the floor. It rolled, allowing him to see a robed someone, writhing in agony. They did not scream, just wriggled, and kicked.

Anger licked his mind. Whispering sweet nothings into his ear and begging for release. Like a frigid lover, he ignored it – though its influence was pervasive. “What are you doing?”

“Punishment.”

“For?”

“Disobedience.”

The hollow voiced man bent over, leaning into the light as he snagged the lantern. A short, hard man weathered beyond his years; his skin was cast from stone. Moulded from concrete, age showed not in wrinkle nor freckle, but their absence. At odds with their eroded, gargoyleish features, was his beard. It was thick and unwieldy, like an iceberg suspended from a cliff. It was chiselled, with fine stonemasonry weaving valleys of braids and beads. Despite the apparent weight of the excessive facial hair, he bore it without complaint.

“Boxtar,” he said, standing into the shadows once more. “Explain.”

“I don’t know!” His dearest cousin yelled, staggering to their feet. “I don’t even know what you want!”

“Sudden calm.”

“What?” A mirthless laugh escaped them. “That’s it? Why the hell would I know?”

The stone grunted.

“As… amusing as this is,” drawled the Irishman, deep and low. Ulick’s phantom-pained gums flared. “I am quite tired. In truth, you can sort this later.” It clapped. A heavy, wet sound, like the meeting of meat pancakes. “I want my toll.”

“More importa-”

“I have been quite gracious!” Roared the troll. It loomed, eyes glaring from more than just the light. “Now, you pay in kind. Pay. The. Toll. All three of you.”

“Why do your gums hurt?”

The question halted him. “Pardon?”

“My gums, right between these teeth,” Ulick pointed to the back of his mouth. “Hurt when I look at you. Why?”

“You blame your mouth ache on me?” The Irishman laughed like a car refusing to start. “Truly, an idiot, or,” they looked to the stone, “is this part of being slagged?”

“Unknown.”

“Do they hurt or not then?”

“They do,” he admitted. The cavern of filth opened, wide and cartoonishly. Between two teeth, an angry vine viper with fanged thorns had carved a small valley. The wound was bloody and pocketed with pus.

“Shoes? For that?” The stone asked, incredulous. “Explain.”

“I intend to use your laces to get it out,” the troll said, closing his mouth. “An ingenivous solution, I know.”

“What, like floss?” The thought made him grimace.

“Just use your hands, dumbass.”

“I tried,” the Irish man said through a scowl. “Oh, I’ve tried. Very much so. Much like how I have tried to play the gracious host to such rude guests.”

His dearest cousin stamped their foot. “Rude? I’ll show you rude f-”

Ulick pitched his voice to carry. “Enough,” he yelled. “Please, let me take care of it.”

If they made a gesture of response, he did not see it.

“So, you need shoelaces,” Ulick said, pointing at the troll. His finger singled on the lantern. “But they don’t want to give you their shoes?”

The Irishman nodded.

“So, let’s compromise.”

“No,” said the man of stone. “No favours, slag.”

His cousin sighed. “He ain’t embraced. It wasn’t father who did it.”

“Changed, yes? Yes.”

“Be silent,” the troll thundered. Ulick flinched. “Speak, strange one. Compromise?”

“One of us helps get it out.”

“How?”

“Well, the stone man is quite tough. He can reach in and cut off th-”

“A blade in my mouth? Do you take me for a fool?” spat the Irishman. “I will not go the way of Pernacles.”

“Who? Wait, no. No side-tracking.”

“Then what about by hand?” Ulick asked, shifting weight across his legs. All the moving had made them cramp. “Rip them off with his stone hands.”

“Negative,” said the man in question. “No chance.”

“Whyever not?” The Irishman sounded genuinely offended. “I am the epitome of hygiene.”

“Liar – you’re gross.”

“Fucking liar,” said his dearest cousin, chuckling like a placeholder villain. “You’re greased up like a pig.”

“Different beauty standards, I assure you,” “Trust me. The ladies are quite taken with my humb-iddlyumptious self.”

Ulick stepped in, acting before his cousin dragged them into their apparent suicidal tendencies. “So, you refuse? Really? You would rather die or walk barefooted through a swamp, than play dentist?”

“Dentist?” Asked his cousin. “You a fuckin’ wizard?”

“It’s okay to say you don’t understand, dearest cousin,” Ulick replied, smiling as if speaking to a child. “It means a tooth doctor.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not into incest.” He turned to the stone man. “So? Barefoot, death, or play medic?”

The troll lounged back, tapping his fingers.

“Fine,” they said, audibly frowning. “Open mouth.”

“No.”

“No?” A marble vessel threatened to burst. “Want gone, yes? Yes. Open mouth.”

“I do not want to now,” he said, lazily lingering on each word. “You hurt my feelings; I must say.”

“Really?” Ulick grumbled.

“Really! Besides, your stone friend would shatter my teeth should I defend myself.” He yawned, feigning casual dismissal – to Ulick it made the phantom pain pulse vilely. “Strong they may be, and they are strong. Just, not worth risking.”

“Stones-sake,” yelled the stone man. “Mind? Make it.”

“I’ll do it then,” Ulick said, regretting the words as they slipped past his mental filter. “I would need a knife though.”

“Perna-”

“Was not a pasty human with no armour.”

“Actual-”

Artificial anger gripped him. Terrible and foul, it poisoned his tongue. “For the love of God! Make up ya’ mind, mate! Ya’ want it gone, or ya’ just gonna sit there bitching and moaning?”

For what it is worth, the troll looked genuinely taken aback.

“I don’t wanna die, and I imagine if ya’ ripped me arm off, it would bloody well do that.” Ulick approached, sloshing about as if a man possessed. “Now open ya’ fucking mouth,” he said, drawing a dagger. “And stop being a baby.”

“What the heck is making me mad?”

A pulsing sense of urgency rocked him, meeting the call for answers. Ulick had to leave, and soon – lest a tumbling roll of events kickstarts without him there.

“I do n-”

Ulick cut him off. “Huh?” He said, not halting for a second. “You a lil’ baby? Little toddler scared of a single fuckin’ human? Well?” The troll went to respond. “No! I’ve had a very, ­very, bad day today and I am half a second from passing out from exhaustion! ‘Sides, I don’t even want to be mad! I apparently have better places to be! Why!? Fuck if I know!”

A safety net. An introduction to things. A handheld tutorial to guide one’s way through the waking world, and into the beginnings of a path of their own choice. “Get to town,” it whispered. “Be free of our hand and know your purpose of the now.”

“Purpose of now?” Ulick asked, pulling himself atop the bridge. It was slick and perilous, but some unwarranted guide left each handhold sturdy. “Fuck you, buddy.” He looked to the dumbstruck troll. “What? Open your mouth.”

“Slag,” rumbled the stone, careful and slow. “Control. Resist.”

“There’s no point.” His cousin’s response was quick and cutting. “This uncle seems to take a direct approach.”

“Restrain?”

“Fuck no. You want to die?”

“Enough,” Ulick said, scowling. He tried to focus on their words. Rationalise the implications, but something brushed it away, storing it for later. He was on the clock. “You gonna open, or not?”

The troll looked down at him, its greasy folds bunched and glistening. Its baby fat face, puffed upon the flesh of crocodiles and beasts, was oddly scrunched. A faint glimmer in its eye – not of shine, wariness. Perhaps he sensed something amiss, as he leant towards the strange little man. Mayhaps he was simply entertaining the thought of swallowing him. Whatever thoughts or emotions had stricken the colossal man, it simply opened wide, resting atop the bridge. Waiting.

“Thank you.”

With a deep breath, Ulick leant in. The troll’s teeth were wide; about the size of a baby’s fist. Thick plaque and rotten food swam freely, intermingling with gravy-saliva. Gripping the vine, Ulick resisted the urge to gag. It was slick, like a lubricated snake. Gripping what he could, thorns were slashed off with long, cutting strokes. By the tenth, it was cleared, besides what pricks remained between the pearly whites. Setting the dagger aside, Ulick grabbed the plant-rope on each side of the tooth and yanked upwards. The troll flinched, grunting as spikes popped puss-bubbles.

“This is the bit that will hurt,” Ulick said upon reaching a height where crushed thorns allowed no more height. “Ready?”

They grunted affirmatively.

Pulling slowly, the vine ground its way out, opening old wounds with steady gashes. Blood dribbled freely, slickening the already saliva-fouled rope. Upon reaching the last harmful knot, it suddenly pulled free, dragging quickly until free. Throwing the blood-stained flora aside, Ulick inspected the wound. The flesh was a cratered red, pimpled with cancerous sores and rivers of infection.

“You may need to see someone about getting medicine,” Ulick said, stepping back. “Can trolls get infected?”

They did not speak for a while, just clutched their mouth with tear-drop eyes.

“Hello?”

“Leave,” they said, sniffling. “Just… you are free to go. You can pass, aye, indeed.” Ulick went to speak. “No! You’ve done enough, please leave.”

Ulick looked back. The robed figure and stone face was unreadable.

“Okay, yeah. Fine.”

Moving past, Ulick began walking – paired footsteps following. Minutes passed in solemn silence. No words, breeze, or insects. Just miserable heat, and disgustingly clingy clothes. It was he who broke the silence, turning to the now stopped pair, and asking, “So, what now?”

The stone man raised a loaded crossbow.