Ivo Bell: Healed With a Steady Hand and a Reluctant Troll

Gorm, the bridge is yours, but my legs are tired and so is my horse's patience. You took my coin and stamped me out—may I see my way back?

Gorm snorts, arms still folded as he eyes your horse like it's a particularly tasteless weed. "The toll's paid for crossing, not standing about whining. Legs or no, bridge stays shut till I'm ready. That stone loose this morning ain't about to fix itself." He gestures at the chipped parapet rock in his grip, not really expecting it to stir sympathy. "Your way back? You have the receipt? Good. But the rest can wait till I'm done."

Gorm, would another set of hands help that stone find its place? I’m quick, and so’s she—let us help and we'll be across before it gets worse.

Gorm narrows his eyes, shifting the loose stone awkwardly but making no move toward fixing it. "So you think a couple of twitchy hands are enough? That stone's my concern, not a community service. You fix it, maybe I'll think on it. Until then, the chain stays." He adds dryly, "And you're proud to bring the horse into this? The poor beast looks like it's been left to teach itself."

She’s stubborn, not stupid—she stands where she’s told. Show me your trouble with the stone, Gorm, and I’ll handle it gentle as a cracked shoulder.

Gorm's lip twitches. "Gentle, eh? That stone’s stubborn, like me, but it's a bridge stone, not a patient’s bone. This isn't your sick horse to soothe; it’s my bridge to guard. Fixing it means taking a hand where none’s needed. But since you ask, the stone’s lodged loosely beneath the parapet’s edge, reachable but tricky." He flexes the chipped rock, unimpressed but not dismissive. "One rough shove along 'gentle as a cracked shoulder' and it’s rubble."

If it were a cracked shoulder I’d work from the back—let me come behind you, Gorm. You guide, I’ll lift when you say. No harm, no roughness.

Gorm grunts, eyes fixed on the chip in the parapet as if daring it to crumble. "Behind me, you say? Funny way to ask for help on my bridge." He grudgingly steps aside enough to let you approach the loose stone, muttering about 'cracked shoulders' and 'getting too familiar.' "Fine, but keep your hands off my chain and my turf. One careless move and I’ll start counting coins again." His voice is low, but the challenge clear.

I keep my eyes on his hands and the stone, voice steady. All right—just tell me where it sits tight, and where I ought to take the weight.

Gorm grunts in response, voice rough from disuse. "Right under the parapet's edge, but not too close or you'll break it clean. Lean your weight on that small jut—halfway back, where the stone meets its mates. Not too hard." He stays silent on help beyond that, the chain still taut and mocking. "Don’t get clever, doc. Treat it like it’s alive, but don’t expect it to survive pus and prayers."

I rest my hands where he showed, easing tension before I shift: slow breath, steady pressure, speaking low. Tell me if it shifts—I'll stop.

The stone grudgingly shifts, a grinding complaint from the centuries-old mortar beneath it. Gorm's arms tense, but he says nothing. The chain clinks loosely on the post. "Don’t get cocky," he mutters. "One false move and it's back to square one. But I’m...approving this shaky handshake with the bridge—for now."

The stone feels steadier now, Gorm. If you think she holds, can we all cross together while the light still helps us see where not to step?

Gorm steps aside, watching the stone like a hawk but no longer clutching it. "That stone’s livelier than most folk I’ve met." He squints at the gathering crowd behind you, then nods. "All of you, and no dawdling. I’ll stand watch while you cross. And if that keeps the bridge together till the sun dips, you’ve earned this night’s safe passage." He gestures sharply at the chain, now swung open and useless as a lullaby.