Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters.
Hope you enjoy the revised chapter.
Chapter 2
He is seventeen when the war starts.
Angor Rot slices through Gunmar's invading army like butter, destroying every soldier in his path. Opposite, Jim struggles to keep up, energy levels depleting rapidly.
Jim survives, barely.
It is the first of many battles, but he does not know that at the time. He can't think straight. He remembers the death, countless Trolls turned to stone and smashed to pieces. At the end he is covered in dust, from his hair to his feet.
He should feel racked with guilt. Instead, Jim just wants to crawl back into bed and sleep.
In a way, he dissociates himself from all of it. There's no blood like with humans. It's almost as if he's the protagonist of a video game. He tells himself that he's doing good, that he's protecting Claire and the rest of humanity by getting rid of all the bad Trolls. Still, his ribs are bruised and he walks with a limp. He looks better than the other guy at least.
Her followers watch in interest when he walks into her war room, Angor Rot at her side. Whilst before they mocked him, now they have seen him in action. Human or not, he is a hardy fighter.
Angor Rot nods at him; though they hate each other, a mutual respect has formed over the months. Both are tied to the woman standing before them, though for different reasons.
Nature adorns every corner and crevice of the chamber. Vines decorate the ceiling in intricate shapes, changing to suit her mood. Now, they are riddled with thorns, knotted together, the once intricate design tarnished by their erratic behavior. They move like snakes, slithering against each other.
At the center, a large crescent slab of stone. He approaches from the front, helmet in arm.
"You asked for me?"
She looks up from the maps, blinking in surprise. "Oh, Jim, I didn't think you would get here so quickly."
He shuffles in his boots, flushing in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I can come back later if you want—"
"No, no, best to do this now," she says, turning to the Troll at her side. "You may go. Report back to me after I'm done."
Anger Rot nods again, leaving Morgana's side. Jim crosses paths with him, only to be tugged back in his grip. He looks up, confused, but Angor Rot merely leans down to his height.
"This is your last chance," Angor Rot states, barely above a whisper.
Jim looks back at Morgana, her back turned to the two while talking to one of her servants.
He asks, "What do you mean?"
"Leave, Trollhunter, and I promise not to kill you. Go home, back to your friends."
"I can't, Claire—"
"Claire is gone," Angor Rot says in a matter of fact way. "You are being tricked. Give up on her."
It bites, how deeply his words affect Jim; they voice his greatest fears. Instead of heeding Angor Rot's warning however, he grows angry instead, refusing to even consider the notion. They (at least, he believes) are so close to ending the war with Gunmar. After that, he can focus on finding some sort of spell or book that can separate Claire and Morgana without killing either.
He knows there's something. There has to be.
"No," he answers, voice rising, "you're wrong. I'll get her back."
"Get who back?" Morgana says, interrupting the two. "Angor Rot, I thought I told you to leave."
The smell of magic (he knows it well by now) fills the room. Angor Rot says nothing, sending the Trollhunter one last look before departing, his steps echoing behind him.
An arm encircles his own. He revels in the touch. It is rare to receive affection from her. He has not been touched in over a month. She guides him from the war room into one of the hallways.
She waves her hand and immediately the area is lit with green fire. It amazes him how easily she can do magic. It reminds him of all the movies and TV shows he used to watch as a child.
"I hear you almost fell in battle today," she suddenly says.
He looks away, eyes downcast. "Yeah. Angor Rot saved me from getting my head bashed in. Not the highlight of my day."
A smile pulled at her lip. "Oh Jim, you're so funny."
"Yeah," he says. "You know me, near death experiences are my bread and butter."
"I feared for you today." She adds, "Claire fears for you."
He stops walking, turning towards her. "Really? She does?"
"Of course, my Trollhunter. We both do." She tightens her grip on his arm, her breasts rubbing against him. Goose bumps ride up his arm. His breath hitches. "You're human. You're not like Angor Rot or my Changelings. Without your armor, you're completely useless."
Ouch. "Gee, thanks."
She touches his chest, right above the amulet. "I want to protect you."
"Cla—Morgana, I can protect myself." He says. "I'll be more careful, I promise."
She shakes her head. "No, that's not enough. Claire and I won't be satisfied with just that. We couldn't bear to lose you, Jim. It would kill us."
A tear rolls down her cheek, surprising both of them. She wipes it away, confusion in her gaze. Hope bubbles forth. It is proof that Claire is still in there.
How naïve he was.
"What do you want me to do then?"
She wipes her face, recomposing herself before answering, "I've an Elixir. Long ago, I received it from another sorcerer, who said it would grant the wielder untold strength and abilities. It is said to bring out the inner soul of the bearer. Only those with true potential may drink of it. I couldn't use it on myself or Angor Rot or any of my followers but…"
"But you want to try it on me." He concludes, then frowns, shoulders hunched. "Morgana, maybe you should find someone else. I mean, sure, I'm the Trollhunter, but true potential?"
"I've watched you, Jim. You move like no other human I've ever seen." She says.
But him? After all the disastrous choices he's made lately, potential is not a word he would use to describe himself. Potential would be suited more for someone like Toby, who hasn't murdered their friend or unleashed Gunmar on the world or got Vendel killed or abandoned his family and friends even if it is to help Claire or—he stops before he throws himself into another panic attack; they have been increasing in frequency, ever since his return from the Darklands. He breaths, in and out, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.
Ten seconds pass before he finally recomposes himself. Jim confesses, "I don't think I deserve this, Morgana."
"It could help protect you, Jim." She insists. "That's all I want."
He tries to think of the benefits for her sake. If what she says is true, then the potion could help him end the war faster. If he is stronger, faster, better than he is now, maybe he can have a better chance at defeating Gunmar. And what if Gunmar expands his hit list from Claire to his other friends and family? There is not a day that has gone by that he does not miss them. If this could potentially help him and them, then it is probably worth the risk.
Still, doubt clouds his mind. There are hundreds of better warriors in Morgana's army.
Jim rubs the back of his head. "I just don't think you have the right guy here."
She pauses, then moves away. "I understand. I'm sorry I forced this on you. It's probably too risky anyway," she says, shoulders low and eyes tearing up again. "We can find another way."
"Wait." Jim reaches out; his fingers entwine with hers. "Are you certain about this? I don't want you to waste your only potion."
"Positive." She says, looking him directly in the eyes.
Jim takes a deep breath, then nods. "Okay, let's do this then."
"You would do anything to save Claire, wouldn't you?"
"Yes." He squeezes her hand.
Later on, he would replay that night over and over, trying to see if he could have done anything different. He should have listened to Angor Rot.
She leads him down a long twisting passageway. It is different than the other hallways, less ornate, and descends far deeper into the ground. He wants to ask her where they're going, but he wants to please her, so he stays silent. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of her hand. He misses human touch. He wonders how Toby and his mom are doing. Maybe when he defeats Gunmar and saves Claire he can return to them.
At the end, a large circular room opens up. Along the walls are a litany of shelves, full of dusty tombs and strangely shaped containers. He tries to read some of them, but the writing is faded and in a language he does not understand.
Morgana delicately presses a palm to one of the walls. Immediately, it glows beneath her hand. The floor shakes. He watches as a small column rises from the center. He follows behind Morgana, looking over her shoulder as she pulls a key from her dress. The key is black and worn, its handle broken down by age. She sinks it into a keyhole in the center and flicks it, right, left, right, until a small shelf pops out.
Inside, a luminescent green bottle, barely the length of his index finger and only twice as thick as his thumb. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. Even his amulet flashes, as if trying to tell him to leave.
He still could have backed out at this point.
But he doesn't.
She cradles the vial within her palms, looking up at him with Claire's brown eyes.
"Claire?" Jim asks. His heart flutters.
"Jim," she says, lips trembling. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
He wraps his arms around her. It is rare to see his girlfriend; he cherishes every moment he gets with her. Her breath is hot against cheek. He pulls away, though not without placing a small kiss on her forehead.
"I already said I'd protect you." He takes the potion from her hand, unscrewing the top. "What's the worst that can happen?"
He gulps, looking down at the thing. It is thicker than water, meaning he can't just chug it. Holding his nose, he snaps his head back and drinks. The taste is indescribable, neither good nor bad. It is like fire going down his throat.
He coughs, wiping his mouth. "Is it supposed to burn?"
Claire looks—no, it's Morgana now, her eyes unreadable. "How do you feel?"
Warm, he thinks at first.
Sweat gathers at his brow as the seconds pass by, the heat increasing at a steady pace.
"Strange," he finally answers.
A minute ticks by before the first sharp pain hits him, as if someone has taken a knife to his gut and twisted it. He doubles over, groaning. A second one, more terrible than the last, makes him collapse to his side on the floor.
He gasps, "Oh, god, what is this? Morgana? What's happening? Is this supposed to happen?"
The heat turns from hot to scalding, traveling down his center to his limbs like wildfire. He wants to move, but finds he cannot, his body unresponsive.
He feels wrong, as if his skin is too taut for his body. He looks to his twitching hands—and even through the pain he knows—something is off. They are growing, lengthening, the muscles in them stretching past their limits.
Breathing from his nose doesn't help. The scent of magic coats the back of his mouth, suddenly much more apparent than before. His mouth aches, the taste of pennies on his tongue. He feels a sharp stab in his jaw as a few teeth loosen and dislodge from his mouth. He spits them out and gags.
His ears pop and suddenly everything is loud and terrifying. The pain increases.
He tries to scream but his throat closes, and he is stuck silently wishing for relief. His heart is frantically trying to escape his changing ribcage. It is horrifying to hear one's flesh rip and tear.
It is something he will dream about for countless nights.
Blood covers his vision as something bursts forth from the confines of his skull. It is too much.
At some point he must have blacked out, because the next moment he opens his eyes he is staring up at Morgana, his head in her lap. Her lips are curled into a calculating smile, eyes lidded in fascination.
It doesn't take him long to figure out why. He is wrong; everything is wrong.
He scrambles away from her touch, her betrayal. She lets him loose, brushing off her outfit before rising to her feet.
"What—what have you done to me?" He asks, noticing the change in his voice. It is deeper, harsher than he remembers. He shifts his jaw from left to right, unused to its new weight. His head feels heavy.
"I've only brought out what was already there," she says. "The Elixir simply helped in that regard."
"What does that even mean? What the heck is going on? Why did you do this to me?" He cries out.
His chest heaves; he can't get enough air in his lungs. Nausea rolls in. Everything is too loud, too bright, too much. He grabs at his hair then jerks back, because what he touches isn't his hair anymore. They're hard and curved backward, one on each side. What did she mean? Why is he like this?
"You lied," he accuses.
"I never lie, my Trollhunter."
It is in the glass reflections of countless potions and vials that he sees it, the creature he's become.
It is the Deep all over again, but worse. At least the monster in the Deep looked like him. This creature is more deadly, bright red markings etched into his skin. He brings a hand to them then flinches when his finger makes contact with the flesh.
This is real.
Is this what she means by true potential? Is he truly so wicked inside? He knows, ever since the Deep happened, that something is wrong with him. He's not like Toby, or Eli, or even Steve. Is this to be his destiny after leaving that nightmarish pit? Is this his punishment?
Please, god, don't let it be true, he hates what he sees, he hates it.
Fear and rage intertwine and explode.
He strikes at a nearby shelf, his fist destroying the structure with ease. She says nothing, does nothing, so he does it again and again, until the entire room is a mess. He sees himself in the broken glass fragments. The thing looks back at him. He wants to scream, wants to cry, but all he feels is fury, at her and at himself.
Morgana gently strokes his arm. He looks down (and down and down, this is not his body, it is alien and it is wrong, wrong, wrong).
"Shush. It's going to be okay," she says. "You're safe, my Trollhunter. You're stronger now than ever before."
He doesn't respond.