I don't know, but I been told

Goblin pussy's mighty cold

Mmm good.

Feels good.

Real good

Taste good

Mighty good

Good for you

Good for me

I cannot express how fortunate Drynwyn was that we had long left the river behind. As someone whose natural environment was not the great outdoors, I had already been a little leery about hiking across Cornwall on the lookout for any sign of civilisation. Doing so to a succession of my sword's marching songs - Rhydderch Hael said he found them soothing - was not improving the experience.

I'd played along at first; the call-and-response structure reminded me of being in the Brownies. Wise Owl would gather us all up every few months and take us for a walk in the park. To keep us moving, she'd sing us songs like the ones of which the sword seemed to have an unending supply. Not, I should add, did she have us chanting about Goblin pussy. Although, if I believed the rumours, that was about the only sort she hadn't had an interest in.

Nevertheless, that was several hours ago, and whatever nostalgic charm the game had initially generated had long since palled.

If you'd thought my not joining in would put a stop to the whole thing, let me say, 'Bless you, my sweet Summer child'. All my chilly silence changed was that Drynwyn started doing an impression of my voice, providing the response.

This proved to be both as creepy as it was annoying.

I said a boom chicka boom (I said a boom chicka boom)

I said a boom chicka boom (I said a boom chicka boom)

I said a boom chicka rocka chicka rocka chicka boom (I said a boom chicka rocka chicka rocka chicka boom)

Uh-huh (uh-huh)

Oh yeah (oh yeah)

One more time (one more time)

Dragon style!

I couldn't take it any more. I stopped, drew it from its scabbard and held it before me.

What the fuck's going on?

"Mate, I can't take it anymore. You need to stop."

Stop what?

"Dragon style. Giant style. Elf style. Let's start with stopping any more fucking styles at all and then move our way down the list. You're being too much."

Too much what?

"Too much everything. It's fine just to be quiet sometimes. In fact, it's more than fine. I find it to be my overwhelming preference. I don't need a constant running commentary on everything we see. I don't need you singing songs to pick me up. I don't need inspiring stories from your history to help pass the time. I don't need any of that. I just need you to shut up whilst we walk."

Drynwyn didn't say anything. The people pleaser in me sensed that I had hurt his feelings. The bitch in me - who pretty much always had control of the conch - didn't give a fuck.

"Do you understand? I don't want to hear from you for the rest of the afternoon. Do you think you can manage that, or will I need to put you in storage?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Drynwyn still didn't say anything.

Satisfied I had successfully gotten across my point of view, I resheathed him behind my back and turned back to continue my journey.

Or I would have if I hadn't walked straight into a swinging fist.

*

I have a song about noticing approaching danger if you'd like to hear it?

I was slowly regaining consciousness. Blobs of colour swam in and out of focus. I swear I could see little birds spinning around my head.

It goes something like this:

Oh, no. A man is creeping up behind you.

But you're too busy bawling me out to appeal to.

If you were less of a bitch I'd warn you.

But you are, so I'm not fucking going to.

I agree it needs some work, but I think it captures the essence of the message. I am not sure what the title will be at the moment, but I'm working with: "My new bearer got punched in the face, and it was fucking hilarious." I will keep drafting it, though, if it turns out you have any notes?

I experimentally clicked my jaw from left to right: whoever had sucker-punched me had certainly given it their all. Nothing seemed to be broken, and, running my tongue around my mouth, no teeth were missing.

That was about the extent of my good news.

As far as I could tell, I was lying on the floor of some sort of barn. I mean, I'm no expert, but there were bundles of hay everywhere and a smell I associated with farmyard animals. But being bound from head to foot with some reasonably substantial rope limited my room for casual exploration.

"Am I to take it that you let me get captured on purpose?"

I didn't like to interrupt. You were explaining how fucking important the quiet was to you. I felt it would have been rude. You were being pretty insistent about it.

"I think it's pretty clear I'd be okay with you speaking up to stop me being kidnapped."

You'd think. But I have a fucking vivid memory of coming to your aid just this morning and you giving me all sorts of shit over it. You know, you're something of a prick tease. Kill this guy! No, not that guy. I love that guy. How am I supposed to tell the difference?

"Let's agree that moving forward, it's a pretty solid rule that anyone who wants to tie me up is not someone I want getting close to me."

You sure? Rhyddrech kind of had that as a pre-requisite.

I opened my mouth to speak, stopped, and then shook my head. This was a conversation for another day. Maybe. I wasn't sure there was enough water in the world to get me clean after opening that particular Pandora's box. "Never mind. Let's chalk this one up to experience: a funny bump in the road on the journey of our developing relationship. Now, can you cut me free?"

I don't think I want to. You're mean.

"Excuse me?"

Do this. Do that. No, not like that. Like this. You're too loud. You're too sweary. Cut me free. Stop talking to me. Save me. But do it without bothering me. The more I think about it, I'm not sure we're equal partners in this relationship. I seem much more into 'us' than you are.

I wasn't sure how Drynwyn had transformed into my Art School boyfriend, James Sutherland, but he had the nasal whingey argument down-pat. Problem was, I was pretty sure showing the sword my tits wasn't going to shut him up.

I gritted my teeth and sought my soul for some droplets of faux-sincerity. "You're right. I've been taking advantage of you, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking you for granted, and I need to listen more to the things that matter to you. If you could, please, just see your way clear to freeing me, I'll work on being more open."

You don't mean it. It's just that you need me now. As soon as you're free, you'll go back to being nasty again.

"Drynwyn, I can't promise to change who I am. But I will try to remember you have feelings and that I need to be kinder." Fucking hell. Life was so much easier when you could simply screw the frowning away.

Do you mean it?

Nope. I was out. I'd had enough. "Drynwyn, you cut me free right now, or I will tell whoever captured me that it was your fault they got the drop on me. I'll scream to anyone that will listen that Drynwyn, the sword of Rhydderch Hael, let its new bearer be captured because it was being a whiny, needy little bitch. How does that sound? What will all the other talking swords say if that got out?"

You wouldn't!

"Look at my face. Do you think I've been mean so far? You need to wait until you hear the stories I can spread. "Yes, couldn't even use him in a fight. He'd droop straight over whenever I swung him. Yes, that's right. Like a wet noodle. Totally useless. I'm sure that's how the dragon got the better of Rhyddrech. Drynwyn the Flaccid is what you'll be known as by the time I'm finished."

There was a tense silence.

Fucking hell.

"Yeah, sorry. I sensed I was going too far."

I mean, I was just playing around. Now, I don't know if I actually want to save you. You're horrible.

"Sorry. Can we talk about this more once I'm free?"

There was a flash of heat, and the rope holding me was incinerated instantly.

Not for nothing, but you don't question a sword's virility. That's like sacred shit.

"I understand. Sorry. I won't do it again." I rubbed my wrists like I'd seen every freed hostage do a million times on TV. I was, as I thought, in the stall of a barn. Looking around, there was space for five or six other animals in here, but nothing else seemed to be about. I was particularly pleased to see the other stalls were not similarly crammed with unconscious women.

"Did you get a good look at who hit me?"

Big guy. Probably a blacksmith. He has long brown hair and a thick, braided beard. It would seem to be a dangerous amount of flammable material in a forge, but there you go. Leather apron, fleece tunic. Thick hide boots. Oh, and one blue eye, one brown.

"You got all that from one look at him?"

No. Of course not. He's stood just there.

I turned round to meet the heterochromic eyes of the angry-looking, yet surprisingly silently-moving, man two feet behind me.

"For fuck's sake, Drynwyn."