Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 43
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 43 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Iain was cleaning up, Stuart and I discussing strategy, while Tom and Merry discussed their plans for the weekend in hushed tones. Everyone jumped when Iain slapped a book down on the table in front of Tom.
“What’s this?” Tom cocked an eye at Iain.
“Your new best friend. A Handbook. Read it. Memorize it. Bloody sleep with it if you have to.”
“What for?”
“So no one has to tell you next time that you can’t decide it’s stopped raining when you want a fire. That you can’t overhear what the Cleric said and repeat his magic words to heal yourself. This game has rules, and if you don’t know them well enough to follow, then you shouldn’t—you won’t—be playing.”
“Calm down, Lloyd. It’s just a game.”
“A game that we,” Iain gestured, “have put time and effort into that you couldn’t possibly imagine. There’s a plan. There’s storytelling. And it isn’t fun when players think they can just do whatever they want.”
“And trying to kill me off, that was just part of the story, I suppose?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on,” Tom leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You mean to tell me it’s just bad luck that all these dangerous creatures end up attacking me and no one else?”
“You survived, didn’t you?”
“‘Cause I outwitted you, mate. You’re just pissed off because I played your game better than you did. But it’s all right. I don’t hold it against you. I get it. Dealing with sore losers is just part of sportsmanship. Seen it a thousand times.”
Iain’s neck was turning pink. Part of me knew I should step in. But another part of me wanted to see Iain lunge across the table and go to town on Tom’s face.
“See, the fact that you somehow think I lost just shows how little you understand. I can’t be a sore loser if I didn’t lose—”
“Sure you did. First you lost the girl,” he jerked his head at Merry, “despite having every opportunity to win her if you were man enough—”
“Tom!”
“Then you try to punish me in your little fantasy world, the only place you have any real power, and you still can’t beat me. It’s pathetic, really.”
The table’s legs groaned against the floor as Iain, now fully red-faced, balled his hands into fists and started walking through it to get at Tom Firth. The rest of us scrambled to our feet.
“Iain, no!”
“I’ll show you p—”
“Oomwaah!” Tom half-sang, half-yelled across the table, flinging out his hands as though expecting a ball of fire to leap from his fingertips. And Iain froze mid-step, blankly staring.
The garage fell silent.
“Uh—Iain?” Stuart shifted uneasily.
A slow smile crept over Tom’s face. Iain stumbled backwards and collapsed into his chair. I waved a hand in front of his eyes. His head tipped slowly sideways—further, further—till his neck went limp and he sat with his chin on his chest, eyes closed.
Merry punched Tom hard enough that his smile faltered. “What did you do?”
“What? I just stunned him is all. He’ll be all right in a few minutes. I just wanted to see if it really worked. And it does. So there you have it. No harm done.”
“Oh my god. Did you upset him on purpose?”
Tom shrugged. “I just told him what he wanted to hear. He started it. You have to admit, he was being a bit of a knob.”
“Get stuffed, Firth!” I said. “Iain worked for ages on this campaign. You wouldn’t believe how many hours he put into making it—so that we could enjoy it. Of course he was angry when you butted in and started trying to take over! All you care about is sports, and—” I glanced at Merry. “And… winning. So you think that’s all anyone cares about. But this is about us, spending time together, as friends. And you’re ruining it. We let you stay because Merry likes you. Fine. Whatever. The least you could do is show a little respect. Instead you’ve gone and… bamboozled him. And we don’t even know what the effects are! What if you did it wrong? What if he doesn’t wake up? Did you ever think of that?”
“Good god.” Tom shook his head. “You lot can’t take a joke, can you? Christ, Mer. Your friends are so bloody uptight. Do you even remember what the old man said, Petey? Light the fire, so you can put it out. That’s all I was doing! If anything, it’s his fault for being so easily riled. A few light jabs and Lloyd here flies off the bloody handle.”
“Yeah,” Stuart lifted Iain’s arm and let it fall, limp as a wet noodle. “But it’s called Lightfoot’s Disarming Lilt. So why’s he unconscious? You did it wrong, Tom.”
“Tch. Don’t blame me. It’s a battle of wills, right? Lloyd may be a big bloke, but when it comes to magic, he’s a bloody pushover. Maybe if he works hard, this won’t happen next time. Either that or I’m just a natural, in which case it can’t be helped. We Firths have always been gifted. Once we set our mind to something, it’s just—” He snapped his fingers. “All the way back to my great grandad, when he started the family business. Way I see it, I was just defending myself. You all saw. He was going to hit me. Am I supposed to just let it happen?”
“You deserved it,” I said. “And you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try again when he wakes up.”
Tom shrugged. “I’ll just whammy him again. And I’ll be within my rights, too.”
When I noticed Iain shaking in his seat, I first thought he was having some kind of seizure. His face had gone red, though his head still rested on his chest. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh Firth,” he wiped at his eyes. “That was bloody brilliant. You really thought—I mean you actually believed…”
Tom was stone-faced.
“You’ll have to give me pointers sometime,” Iain wheezed. “Whammy him again!” He cackled. “Although—I’ll have to work hard to keep up with your… natural talent!” He doubled over, clutching his sides.
Merry punched Iain. “You were faking? I thought something was wrong with you!”
“Ow!” Iain massaged his arm, tears streaming from his eyes. “I couldn’t help it! He just—sang at me! It was too perfect. Ah… You can practice on me whenever you like, Tom. Most fun I’ve had in a while.”
“Careful, Lloyd. Once I’ve learned some real spells—”
“Oh my god,” Merry raked her hands through her hair. “You two make me so tired. I’m going to bed. You can just… let yourselves out.” She stormed into the house and locked the door behind her.
Tom stared after her for almost a minute. “This is your fault, Lloyd.” He stood, shrugging into his jacket. “You and your jokes. Well done.” He shoved the garage door open and let it clatter shut behind him, springs creaking.
“That went well,” I said. “All things considered.”
Stuart grunted. “But he’s left the Handbook.”
I genuinely like your characters...