Her own sickly and frail son had died not long ago and Her grief had been felt, a crippling wave of sorrow throughout the clan. So what was Grandpabbie to do when She brought to him this small child with blond hair and bright eyes. He had enjoyed himself when first he arrived in the clearing of the trolls, having found it by happenstance. Now however, the boy's eyes were red and tear stained, his lip quivered and he asked in a small voice to go home.
Grandpabbie knew what he was doing was wrong, yet he laid his cool stony hand on the boy's forehead anyway. The tears stopped and the bright eyes dulled as the child's mind opened up to him. Memories, so many memories flooded through the old troll. Love, laughter, a mother's warmth, a father's strength, brothers who had built him a sleigh for his birthday. The reindeer a later addition to the gift. His mother hadn't wanted him to go, was concerned for his safety while cutting the ice, but his father had said he was old enough.
Precognition always seemed to accompany such tasks, and as the elder stripped the child of his memories, and identity, he saw the loving family torn apart by their loss. A mother dying of heart ache, a father dying of drink, and brothers becoming cold and drifting apart each wallowing in a private Hell of guilt and remorse. Grandpabbie's hands trembled as he worked and the weight of what he was doing hung heavy on his soul.
"What will you call him?" he asked his voice weak with sorrow.
"Kristoff." She said simply naming the son she had lost.
Grandpabbie nodded, he whispered the name into his hand, forming it, shaping the idea into a sphere of magic before pressing it to the boy's forehead. There was a slight resistance, his sense of self strong, but being severed from his memories as he had been the struggle was short lived. When he had finished Grandpabbie looked down at the child.
"Kristoff?" he asked softly. The child looked at him blankly as he tried accessing memories that were no longer there.
"Kristoff?" She called. Brown eyes shifted between the trolls.
"I'm all alone." he said in a weak, trembling voice, and Grandpabbie knew it had worked.
He had stolen the boy from his family, stripped him of his memories and identity, so what was Grandpabbie to do when he had come home with a girl and She demanded something be done about it.
'Napping,' was what they had told Kristoff he was doing when he and the girl had first arrived. Grandpabbie once more knew what he was doing was wrong, but after what he had done to the boy, for his daughter's sake already there could be no turning back.
The elder peered into the steam vent, conjuring up the image of his intended target. Hans of the Southern Isles coming into view. Changing someone from such a distance was difficult, but not impossible. Grandpabbie focused his will, it was a draining task, but carefully, like pulling threads from a tapestry he pulled at the man's heart. Removing love, a true love, it was a painful, damning task. It took some effort but he was finally able to replace it with thread of spite, intertwining it with one of motive.
Once more the future trickled into the Grandpabbi's mind. A man driven to madness and attempted murder for a rage inside him he could not understand. The loss of a birthright, and imprisonment, labelled The Mad Prince of the Southern Isles for the remainder of his short wretched life of pain and misery, and all because he had loved the wrong woman.
Tears stung the old troll's eyes as he made an end of the wicked spell. His attention was drawn back to the clan, Princess Anna was dying, and only an act of true love could save her. The troll was awash with remorse, knowing that such a thing was now impossible to gain through Hans, and Kristoff, a man who knew not who he truly was, was only capable of manufactured love. He looked at the woman he had once aided as a child at the behest of her parents, knowing well now that she would likely die.
Regardless, She looked at him, and smiled.