The Tollkeeper (Fairy Tales Behaving Badly) by Annie Eppa

The Tollkeeper
     
     
    They called him the Mountain, and in many ways, he was.
    As a child he was called Roland Trollsson, and he had always been stronger than most, more heavily built than other boys. He spent his childhood at an isolated farm where few people visited, and lesser farmhands around to help meant there was always more work to do. He lifted bales of hay, rode horses, and herded cattle. He worked from morning till night in the fields, plowing and harvesting crops no matter the weather. Raging winds and rain did not deter him, nor did the scalding heat of the sun. He was also apprenticed to a local stonemason, and taught all the tricks of his trade.
    He was an orphan, his mother dying shortly after he was born, and his father abandoning him soon afterward. He was taken in by the kindly farm’s owner, and grew up strong and powerful, as tall as a tree trunk and just as thick, with ham-sized hands and broad shoulders. He was nearly seven feet tall, and was not conventionally handsome. He was well-formed, with his hard jaw and his intelligent brown eyes with their golden flecks. But his face was just a little too thick, his expression just a little too intimidating, to be the knight in shining armor of bards’ tales. A knight in dented armor perhaps, said the farm owner, who was the closest thing he had ever had to a father; one too busy saving the world, to think of polishing his broken shield.
    When he was eighteen, his master died, and his lands passed onto a nephew, who was less kindly than his uncle. With nothing else to tie him to the place, the youth decided to travel. He had saved a little money over the years, and thought he would find more work in the city. But people were far too easily intimidated by his hulking build and his immense strength and, though he was a good stonemason, few people sought him out for his services.
    Inevitably, he found one place that welcomed his brutish appearance and his powerful physique. He enlisted in the king’s army.
    He had fought in the past, but only with pitchforks and bare fists. He had fought others, too; stubborn farmhands, trespassers, wild animals. But he’d never killed anyone before, was shocked to discover how good he was at it. In the numerous battles he had taken part in, always for king and country, he was never at a loss for targets, never left the battlefield without cutting a large swathe through his opponents, killing many and wounding more.
    He saved the king once, taking an arrow through the shoulder when it would have gone through his ruler’s heart. He had snapped off the end and continued on despite the pain, until there was nobody left to fight. It left an angry red scar down his upper arm, but scars suited his body, and gave credence to his bravery. The king visited him afterward, said it was his personal seal stamped into the Mountain’s skin. His own special badge of honor, for saving his life.
    It was the king who started calling him the Mountain, and the name stuck. He stood taller than most of the other soldiers, and there were those, eager to earn a reputation themselves, who used his youth as a reason to bully him. But the Mountain was quicker than he looked, and one blow from his fist was enough to send his opponent to his knees, even without a sword, and this furthered his fame. He followed orders well, gave as much respect as he got, but kept mostly to himself, friendly but never overly so.
    As the years passed, he rose steadily up the ranks, and his commanders all praised the Mountain as a hard worker, quick to action and slow to anger, well-versed in sword and strategy.
    The Mountain’s Rod, was what most of the camp followers called him, at night. His cock was proportional to his build, even a little more so; long and thick, ugly and veined. Some few girls would have difficulty taking him all in, but his technique and prowess in bed was as good as in battle - relentless, thorough, unyielding. His bed partners were no fragile