Page 2 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

He laughs again, and I fight a smile. There’s something infectious about his good humor.

“May I call you Zelda?”

“No one calls me Zelda,” I say with a hint of reproof.

He just grins before saying the name again. “Zelda... It suits you better. Less formal.”

“I am extremely formal,” I say with all my dignity.

“Hmm.” He eyes me thoughtfully while continuing his repetitions with the massive barbell. “I don’t think so. I think underneath that purple cloak and stern expression, there’s someone who appreciates the spontaneity of life. Like magic itself—structured but ultimately wild and unpredictable.”

I’m startled by this assessment. “What do you know about magic?”

“I know about many things,” he says with a shrug that makes the muscles in his shoulders ripple like tectonic plates shifting. “As Aristotle said, ‘The more you know, the more you realize you don’t know.’”

“You’re quoting Aristotle?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

“Is that so shocking?” He grins. “Because I’m a troll, I must be intellectually stunted?”

“No, I—” I stumble over my words, genuinely flustered. “I apologize for the assumption.”

“No offense taken.” He sets down the barbell and picks up a towel, wiping his brow where beads of moisture have formed. “Here, for your potion.” He offers me the towel.

I wrinkle my nose. “That’s not quite how I collect the ingredient.”

“No? How then?”

I approach cautiously, vial in hand. “I need to gather it directly.” I feel more awkward by the second.

“By all means.” He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to my level.

With a steady hand that belies my inner discomfort, I uncork the vial and gently press it to his temple, where a droplet of sweat is making its way down the curve of his stony skin. The crystal vial glows slightly as it collects the essence.

“Tickles,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft for such a large being.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget why I came here. There’s an unexpected depth in his amber gaze, a wisdom that contradicts every preconception I’ve held about trolls. Something flutters in my stomach—a sensation I quickly attribute to magical recognition. Trolls do have inherent earth magic, after all. That’s all this is—a magical resonance.

I step back quickly, corking the vial. “Thank you. This will be sufficient.”

“Happy to help,” he replies, watching me with that same amused expression. “You know, we offer magical fitness classes on Thursdays. Spellcasting requires significant core strength and mental focus. You might enjoy it.”

“I doubt that very much,” I say, tucking the vial safely into my cloak. “My magical abilities are quite refined, thank you.”

“I’m sure they are.” He nods respectfully. “But even the most skilled witch can benefit from cross-training. Magic and physical wellness are more connected than most people realize.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say dismissively, though part of me is intrigued by the concept.

“Please do.” He picks up his shirt but doesn’t put it back on. “Feel free to come back if you need any more...ingredients.”

My cheeks flush as I turn toward the exit. “Goodbye, Mr. Mountainheart.”

“Atlas, and goodbye, Zelda... Until our paths cross again.”

“They won’t.” I hurry toward the door.

“As Heraclitus said, ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice,’” he calls after me. “But I think we might be the exception to that rule.”

As I step back out into the afternoon sunlight, I clutch the vial of troll sweat in my pocket and try to ignore the fluttering sensation in my stomach. It’s just magical resonance, I tell myself firmly. Nothing more.

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