Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 5
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 5 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“Hold on. Do you mean to tell me—”
“You spent all this time telling us about a game?” Coira and Rudy were on their feet, every bit as indignant as Iain, Stuart and I had been at the unexpected arrival of our childhood tormentor in our inner sanctum. I did feel a twinge of guilt for leading them on, but for the time being at least, they’d forgotten our predicament, and I was making progress.
“I thought this was real!” Rudy whined.
“It is real!” I protested.
“Then why are you talking about…made up characters? They are made up, aren’t they?” The puzzled frown on Coira’s face was charming.
“I thought it sounded made up. What kind of name is Mynydd Pwll, anyhow?”
“That isn’t made up. It’s Cymraeg.”
“Kim-who?”
“Cymraeg. Welsh. The language of Wales, where I’m from. And as for the characters, yes, they’re technically made up, but—”
“I knew it!” Rudy stamped a squelching brown boot. “You were never called Erenim.”
“Eremin. And I started there because… it shows you who’s who. Dona—that is, Merry—wasn’t a halfling, but she’s about the toughest person I’ve ever met. Stuart, who played Hurlin, really was the wisest of us, even if he didn’t have a beard. Argon—Iain—was our de facto leader. And Tom Firth—”
“What’s de facto?”
“It means it was true, even if we never actually talked about it.”
“Oh,” Rudy nodded. “I knew that. I thought you said something else.”
Coira rolled her eyes. “Yeah right.”
And Tom Firth.
Tom Firth, who liked to bully us, back before Iain had his growth spurt. Tom Firth, who strutted through the halls with his nose in the air, because he’d a different pair of sneakers for each day of the week and a fancy wristwatch, because he had dimples and golden hair that looked good even when he’d just fallen out of bed, because he was the captain of the football team and its star player. Tom Firth, who Merry herself had called a total git and an absolute tosser the year last after he and his best mate, Dafydd Roberts, snuck up behind Stuart and picked him up by the waistband of his pants. It was that Tom Firth who’d butted in on our Friday night game and who was standing with his hand on Merry’s shoulder, taking in the sights.
Iain, to Merry’s left—we all knew he fancied her, though she pretended ignorance and he never brought it up—couldn’t take his eyes off that hand, or the lock of flaxen hair that had fallen across it. He’d gone deathly pale, his blue eyes wide. Beside me, Stuart, small and bookish, with a tousle of mousy brown hair wore the same dumbfounded look I suspected was plastered on my own face. None of us could have predicted this turn in a million years. And now that it was happening, I think we were all hoping it was a dream. That soon enough we’d wake up.
Tom Firth was, of course, oblivious. He took one of Iain’s red D20s and rolled it experimentally. “Look at that. Nineteen. Zombie’s done for.”
A flush crept up Iain’s neck and spread into a splotchy stain across his cheeks. His back was rigid, and his jaw hardly moved when he spoke. “What’s he doing here, Merry?” The look on his face made me nervous. Tom might not have noticed, but somehow Iain had grown into a man’s body. Tom was quick and sure on his feet, but Iain played rugby with his dad’s mates on weekends, and if he decided to make Tom eat one of his spotless blue-and-white Adidas Superstars, I was fairly certain he’d be able to do it.
“Mer wanted me to join your little game.” Tom gave her shoulder a gentle pat.
“Our little—” Iain tensed and I edged backwards. Stuart threw me a frightened look.
Merry, to our collective bewilderment, seemed nearly as upset as Iain. Her dark eyes flashed as she reached up and removed Tom’s hand from her shoulder. “I told you to wait outside till I came to get you,” she growled through gritted teeth.
“You didn’t expect me to wait out there in the cold and wet, did you? I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” He waved at the map on the table, the game pieces and scraps of paper scattered around it. “I saved your dwarf.”
“You didn’t save me,” said Stuart, speaking for the first time since Tom had arrived. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Tom frowned at him then turned back to Merry. “Whatever. Aren’t you going to get me a chair? We’ve got zombies to kill, right? Dona?”
Iain stepped back and kicked his chair in Tom’s direction. “He can have mine.”
“Iain—”
“No.” Iain’s voice quavered. “It’s fine. I’ve gotta go anyway.”
“Iain, it’s raining. We haven’t—Iain, wait!”
But his denim jacket was already slung over his shoulder. “See you Monday.” Pointedly avoiding our eyes, he turned and stalked out the side door. As it swung shut, we could hear the rain slapping the pavement and his wet footsteps, rapidly fading. He left an awkward silence in his wake.
Stuart rose. “I should…make sure he gets home,” he said, though by now the chances that Iain was anywhere nearby were slim to none. “See you Monday,” he murmured, throwing up his hood and following Iain into the dark.
Merry looked sick. Tom, however, was entirely unperturbed. “Guess it’s just the three of us then.” He slouched into Iain’s empty seat, looking expectantly back and forth between Merry and I.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel as strongly as Iain. I’d known he was in love with Merry for so long I couldn’t see her as anything more than a friend. And unlike Stuart, I’d always been tall enough that Tom couldn’t torment me too severely, though he did enjoy tossing the odd “ginger” my way. But this was a major breach of protocol. Of trust. Merry’d invited the enemy into our stronghold. It was…troubling.
Tom turned the miniature of Argon over in his hands. Iain had painted it himself: the red and white of his holy order. Bits of pewter shone through where the paint had worn away against the lining of Iain’s pocket. He took it everywhere.
Merry snatched it away. She was on the verge of tears. “Why can’t you listen?” She turned and ran through the door into her house.
Tom appeared genuinely perplexed. “I don’t get it. All this over a board game? I would’ve let the zombie get him if I knew everyone cared so much.”
I opened my mouth to say…something. But the truth was I’d no idea what to say.
Tom eyed the door. “You think I ought to go after her?”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Go home, Tom,” I said, surprised at my own outward calm. “Just go home.”
