The Andaman Sea: off the coast of Thailand...

The shallow water of the cave glowed a murky, jungle-green as the troll, Stricklander, stepped into its depths, following the shadows that grew darker and longer as the sun crept away from the earth. By the time he got to the mouth of the cave, he was waist-deep in the water.

The spray from the waves made him close his eyes. He stepped forward, deeper, until the water reached his neck.

If he stood there long enough, maybe it would shape him into something else…

In a flash, his mind went back.

Two months ago. He could hear the heavy footfalls beating against the pavement, mixing with the rush of his breath.

One thought kept passing through his mind:

He was going to lose her.

He swept past the manicured lawns, through the yards and over fences. Dogs barked. Cats hissed. A couple of people yelped. He didn't care.

He had to get to her.

Jumping over another fence, he skidded onto the asphault of a familiar street. One more turn. He ran along the road until he could finally see her porchlight. A brief pause as he stopped, scanned the area, and then bolted again.

Vaulting over the porch-steps, he rushed up to the door, sparing only a moment to rest his lungs, teeth gritting as he pressed his forehead against the frame.

"Please," he didn't know who he was praying to, "please don't have her."

Angor hadn't hurt her-that much, he knew-but whether or not he'd caught her was the question of the hour. Although the car accident had been enough to cause a delay, he knew it wouldn't stop the assassin frrome coming. There was no knowing what lurked within the walls of her home, or what trap he might be walking into. He could only hope that the troll "Drall" still lingered in his lover's basement.

The changeling took a breath, steadied his heart, and then jammed his finger into the doorbell. Seconds passed as he felt his heart beating in his throat.

Silence. Then footsteps. He sighed.

Relief.

"Hey, Walt" she said as she opened the door, having eyed him through the frosted glass. The door creaked as it opened, and she started to smile, but paused, seeing the flush in his face and the line of worry between his brows. "Are you okay?"

"Barbara," the changeling crashed against her, arms circling around her like a vice. "Oh, thank the stars," he whispered into her ear.

Pulling back, she tried to look over him again, working to assess the situation, but before she could blink, before the air could leave her lungs to speak, his lips were on her, desperation and passion flowing out of every muscle in his body.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, squeezing them as a noise of surprise lifted from somewhere within her throat.

"Walt." She spoke between the flurries of kisses, trying to calm him down.

If he'd heard her, he didn't show it, his attentions only growing more fervent beneath the heavy blue glow of twilight. A shaky hand circled into her hair, cradling her head as he attempted to deepen the kiss.

To his relief, she let him in, her palm smoothing along the front of his sweater to feel his heart racing beneath. For a few minutes, they stayed like that, his lips pressing hard against hers, while her own mouth responded with a pliancy she hoped would quell his distress. When she tried to pull away again, he stepped forward, not wanting to break apart, wishing only to get closer as he pressed her back and into the surface of door, causing both her and the door to swing back. She grabbed onto him, hands clinging to the lapels of his jacket as she desperately tried not to fall. To their combined relief, he caught himself before they both went tumbling onto the floor.

The motion forced their mouths apart, and she had barely enough time to glance at his eyes before he squeezed them shut.

They were red, bloodshot, and wet with tears.

He wasn't drunk. She knew that much—he was far too coordinated, and had nothing on his breath aside—but he was obviously alarmed and obviously trapped within some state of shock.

Arms curling around her, he pulled her toward him once more, burying his face against her neck, kissing up and down the curve of her shoulder. His hands slid down until they squeezed her hips, and then dipped beneath the hem of her scrubs to smooth across her bare stomach.

She sucked in a breath, not expecting this strange and sudden urgency he displayed. With him, there was a pattern-a series of events or plans that consistently steered them toward their more serious or romantic moments. One thing always led to another. Not this time. This was entirely out of the blue and she felt utterly at a loss on how to handle it.

Still reeling, Walter worked his way up to her jaw. Kissing and biting. Rough, too rough, compared to their typical faire. She reached for her shirt, curling her fingers over the bump his hand made beneath the fabric.
Before he could reach her lips, her other hand rose to cup his chin.

"Walt, please, we have to stop. You have to stop," she said, her voice gentle, but insistent.

"We can always stop," his own words whispered across his mind.

This time, he stilled. This time, he listened as his shoulders slumped and his hands fell away.

"Barbara," he whispered, pushing past the lump in his throat as his green eyes blinked up at her. She was biting her lip in that worried way he loved, except instead of being anxious over Jim, or her work hours, or over some invented weakness she saw within herself, her concern was focused on him.

Idiot. He thought to himself. She has enough trouble in her life. You shouldn't have brought this to her.

He looked around them, at the purple clouds that were shedding their last tresses of orange, at the warm yellow glow of the porchlights, at how exposed they were beneath the darkening sky.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, shaking his head. "That was entirely out of line, I shouldn't—"

"Hey, hey," she soothed before he could go any further, "it's not that I don't want that." A small hand slid down to squeeze his shoulder. "It's just…I can tell that something's wrong."

Her touch doubled back, thumb tracing along his jawline as her fingers combed lightly through his hair.

"Walt, you can talk to me, okay? You don't have to hide what you're feeling."

He looked at her, and she could see his pupils pulsing with hesitation.

"I'm not going to see you as any less of a person." She whispered into the silence.

For a moment, he wanted to believe her. The changeling leaned into her touch, lips pressing into her palm as he contemplated telling her everything. It would be easy. He would start from the beginning, when he'd first realized that Jim was the Trollhunter, and work his way into the current situation. Angor existed to protect all of them: he kept the Janus order placated with Walter's commitment to villainy, he kept Jim distracted from rescuing the children in the Darklands, and, most importantly, he unwittingly kept Walter's interests alive with his enchantments.

Only recently had Angor realized the truth…that he wasn't getting his soul back, because he wasn't going to be killing the Trollhunter. If there was one thing changelings were good at, it was deception. Although he'd tricked them all into thinking otherwise, Walter didn't actually desire to see Jim dead; and because he didn't want it, Angor couldn't carry it out. The assassin could do little more than toy with the child hero.

It was why he was so angry now, and why he was out for blood. He'd had no ability to strike the final blow.

Until now, that was-the changeling could only guess what had happened to the ring. Somehow, he knew that Jim was involved.

"It's okay," he heard Barbara whisper, her thumb still stroking his cheek.

He pushed through the haze of thought, returning to her, letting the blue of her eyes wash over him like a wave.

Maybe he couldn't tell her the truth, but he could tell her something closer to it.

"Darling, it's just…" He stepped back, took both her hands in his, squeezed them, "there's a… tiger on the loose."

What on earth am I saying? he thought.

"Tiger?" She blinked up at him.

"Yes, a tiger." He continued, "I have an acquaintance at the zoo. You won't have heard it on the news. It was headed in this direction when they last caught sight of it."

"Oh," her brows furrowed, and then she shrugged. "Well, I mean, is it really that dangerous? If it's from the zoo? I've heard that tigers are pretty solitary."

"Apparently it was being rehabilitated from a life in the circus. It attacked one of its handlers, and has showed extreme aggression on its path along the streets."

"Okay," she nodded, taking a moment to study him. Something still seemed…off. "Walt, you're shaking," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you really that afraid of tigers?"

"Yes." He nodded, trying to sound convincing. "I have a tremendous phobia. It's the stripes that get me, really. Nothing found in nature should have that consistency in pattern."

She made a face, unsure of how to take the information. "You're sure this is about a tiger?" she asked one more time.

A breeze swept by them as he paused, judging her reaction. Her expression looked calm, patient-curious, even-but not critical. She was every bit the doctor she claimed to be—allowing the full story to unfold before making a diagnosis.

Now is the moment, he thought. Tell her. Begin the path of truth.

He could already hear the right words:
"No, my love, it isn't. You are right to suspect. Something happened tonight. An old adversary from a time long past came to pay me a visit. He tracked me down, cornered me, and threatened both my life and everything I hold dear. I'm afraid I'm the reason he's currently in prison, so to speak. I came here because I was worried about you, because I thought I might never see you again, and because you deserve the truth…I have owed it to you for some time."

But he didn't say that. He didn't say anything at all. Instead, his head tilted down into a slow and guilty nod.

And oh, how in that moment he regretted his decision, staring into her blue and shining eyes. Tying his fate to hers-it had only been to keep Jim from harming him, and to keep the order convinced that he remained committed to their cause—it wasn't supposed to put her life in danger.

"Well," she looked down, and her hand fell away, "I should probably call and warn-"

The sound of beeping jolted them both. The doctor reached behind the door and into her lab coat, which was hanging from the rack. She pulled out her phone, and smiled. "Wow," she said, "I swear this kid has a sixth sense."

"Hey sweetie," she spoke into the receiver.

Walter could hear Jim's voice murmuring from the other end. As they spoke, he took a moment to look over his shoulder. Nothing moved within the shadows or the dingy street lights. More than likely, Angor Rot had tried his apartment first. Or perhaps he was paying a visit to Otto, Walter thought as he smiled. It seemed likely that Angor would suspect his former comrade of harboring him. Serves him right.

Of course, eventually the assassin would come a-knocking on the door of Lake household. Angor was no fool. He'd done the math-he knew how the changeling felt about the human. It was only a matter of time before the assassin exploited both their magical bond and their emotional one.

"Yeah, a tiger, can you believe that?" Walter's ears caught the dialogue as their conversation continued. "Just look out for it on your way home. The pizza should be done by the time you get—pizza! Oh no! I gotta go, love you."

Her eyes widened as she looked at Walter. "Gah!" She exclaimed, and flew into the kitchen.

The changeling took that as his cue to come inside.

Shutting the door behind him, he walked into the familiar home, past the hallway and the dining room, and into the kitchen, where they'd created so many memories.

Somehow, he knew this was the last time.

His long hand smoothed along the countertop, coming around to where she was as she fished the pizza out of the oven.

Barbara sighed as she set the pizza stone on a trivet. Half of the pie looked burnt; the other half looked mildly salvageable.

"We were supposed to have a quick meal before I went to work." She tented a hand along her temple. "Oh, I can't do anything right today."

Outside of her periphery, he gazed at her, eyes warm with adoration. Of all the things that they could possibly do in their last moments together, he could think of nothing better.

"How much time?" He said, as he moved to wash his hands at the sink.

"Hmm?" she intoned, adjusting her glasses as she looked up at him.

"Until Jim gets home. How much time?"

"Oh," she shook her head. "fifteen...maybe twenty minutes. He said he had to drop Claire off. Why?"

"I know a recipe that requires no yeast." He pecked her on the cheek as he wiped his hands with a dishcloth. "We can have it done and in the oven in less than ten minutes."

Hitting him lightly with the oven mitt, she smiled.

Precisely sixteen minutes later, he finished washing the last of the measuring cups he'd used. The cheese was slowly getting glassy in the oven as the dough beneath bubbled and brewed with the warmth.

As Barbara dried the mixing bowl, she looked up at him and laughed.

"What?" The side of his lip tugged upward as he set the dish upon the rack.

"You-" a snort escaped her and she placed a hand over her mouth and nose, "you have flour on your face. Oh my god," she braced her hand against the counter, descending into a fit of giggles.

"And what about that is so funny?" He crossed his arms and rose a challenging brow, unable to hide his own smirk.

"I don't know," she could hardly breathe. "You're-," she tried to look up at him and laughed some more. "-you're always so groomed and proper and-" she snorted through her nose, then, doubled over, arm stretching over the counter as she tried to quell her humor.

The wave of mirth had caught her in its grasp would not let go, and he could hardly keep from laughing himself as he approached her.

"C'mere you," he said, scooping her into his arms with a growl.

"I'll have you know that this," he indicated his face, "is an ancient Scandinavian war mask." He wrapped his arms tightly around her, spinning as he spoke. "How dare you insult such a sacred custom."

The doctor's arms circled around his neck. "Uh-huh, and to which specific group of people are you ascribing this custom?"

"Well," he thought for a moment, "you know, the northern Germanic tribes were not particularly known for their use of war paint, perhaps the Picts would have been a better reference. Although, I was studying at the monastery of Lindisfarne during the first famed attack of the Vikings in 793, and I can tell you, some of those soldiers were definitely sporting it for effect. Scared one of the monks right out of his robes."

"Oh, well, looking pretty good for being over a thousand years old, Mr. History."

Realizing his misstep, the changeling's eyes widened. "Y-yes," he said with a recovering smile. "It's the marmite, really. Keeps you longer than salted cod."

She brushed the flour from his face, and craned upward to kiss him. "Well, at least you don't taste like it," she said, pulling away. "Not that I don't love your strange British habits."

"Oh, you enjoy them, do you?" He gave her a devilish brow. "Have I shown you my latest habit? It's all the rage in England. They call it 'snogging someone senseless'. Here, let me show you."

Strings of giggles echoed through cavern of the empty home as Walter kissed her all over. Still holding her in his arms, he walked her slowly toward the living room, keeping a sharp ear out for the oven's beeper. But just as her giggles turned to gasps and groans, he heard a familiar sound—the revving and whirring of a small engine as it made its way down the road.

Barbara must have heard it too, because her lips fell away, and she looked toward the window.

A small beam from a headlight hit the far side of the wall, getting larger as the vehicle approached. Walter set her down, hand smoothing along her side as he let her go. He looked gravely at the door.

"Walt, I-"

"Darling, I understand," he spoke, interrupting her, "Jim isn't very fond of me…of us. I don't want to make things harder between the two of you."

"I really wish it could be different," she said in low tones.

The green in his eyes seemed to dim as he looked up, his expression sincere. "Me too." He took her hand, squeezed it, and then kissed it one last time.

Looking toward the doorway, Walter could see her son pulling into the front. "I'll take the back route, shall I?" He said with a smile.

Together, they walked to the back. Once outside, she paused with him at the gate.

"No sign of a tiger yet." Her lips tugged upward, "Did you walk here, by the way? I didn't see your car."

An image of his vehicle smoldering at the bottom of cliff came to mind.

"It's just around the corner," he explained, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Small hands squeezed his within the dark. "You sure you're okay going out there?"

"I'll be fine," his words were low and soft, rolling in a way he knew she liked. "That Vespa could scare away anything."

The doctor chuckled and blinked up at him, eyes shimmering with warmth.

Here it was, he thought, the last time. If Angor Rot killed him, this would be the end.

Staring into her world-blue gaze, his own eyes became glassy. There hadn't been enough time. He wanted more—wanted to hold her, to love her, to see the sunlight on her skin as it dancd with morning glee.

There had to be a way. She meant everything.

It was in that moment that the thought occurred to him. So distracted was he by his worry over Barbara, that he overlooked the obvious.

"Mom, are you in here?" Jim's voice floated from the house. "The oven beeped. I got the pizza out. This smells pretty good!"

"Wow. Usually, he tries to sneak upstairs before I can ask about his day." Her lip slanted sideways in that way he adored. "I guess I'd better go."

As she tucked her hair behind her ear, he bent low to kiss her, moaning when her tongue slid against his in the dark. Gently, his hand cupped her cheek, clinging to the moment for as long as he could.

"Mom?" Jim shouted again. This time, he sounded slightly worried.

They broke away. He nuzzled his nose against hers as he took a step back.

"Goodnight, Barbara." He husked.

Her hand slid down his shoulder, and she shot him a knowing look. "Goodnight."

Jumping up, he vaulted over the gate with a level of agility that she did not expect, landing silently on the other side.

He heard her chuckle, and smiled on the other side. Good, he thought, it had had the desired effect.

"I'm out here!" He heard Barbara's call as she opened the backdoor.

"Oh, wow." Jim's voice came from inside. "What were you doing out there? "

"Uh-," her voice faltered, "stargazing. It's a beautiful night."

"I thought there was a tiger on the loose."

"I didn't go very far," she explained. "Hey, did you see the pizza?"

The door closed behind her, and their voices became muffled.

Hope and anxiety burning within his chest, he slipped into the hedges of her yard. If Angor came before Barbara left for work, he would be ready to fight him, and if not—well, he had a bargain to strike with the Trollhunter.

A bargain that would change his alliances forever.

A bargain that, two months later, had landed him in a cave.

Stricklander shook his horns to get the water off of them as he rose out of the shallow cove, shrouded by the black of night. A fish wriggled and thrashed from the end of a make-shift spear that he held, causing his grip to tighten. He took his knife from the end of the stick and severed the head, then slid the body lengthwise into the center of the pole. A small fire flickered in the sand along the floor. He crouched beside it, and stoked its warmth, then with his long, clawed fingers set it gently on the cooking mount he'd devised.

All of this, he did in silence. All of it, he did with a heavy heart.

A gust of wind came jetting from the back of the cave, where a long crack loomed within the dark. The fire flickered and crackled in agitation. It was then that he started chanting.

His low voice went up and down, in and out, ebbing and flowing with the changing of the tides, until the orange glow against his gaspeite skin turned purple, then gray, then deep blue as night came over the land. A sliver of moonlight entered the scene. He held the fish's head up to it, and watched its eyes as they glazed and began to glow like moonstone.

A smile cracked over his features, and he chucked the head into the crevice in the dark. Satisfied with his work, he rotated his own meal over the fire.

Eventually, she would smell them. Eventually, she would see the hundred eyes, glowing blankly through the dark. Eventually, the demon would come.

And he had an offer to make.