Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters
Hey! Back with a new chapter! Thank you for the reviews, kudos, and likes. Story is completed, just taking awhile to revise and flesh out. Will hopefully have it complete late November or early December.
Hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 10: Twenty-Five
He's twenty-five and he finally feels hope.
The curtains rise. The stage is set. But Jim still waits for his cue. His sign. Anything to take him from this nightmare he has helped create.
Like all of his previous birthdays, his twenty-fifth passes with little fanfare. Halfway through the year, he remembers how soon he will be approaching his first decade of Trollhunting.
This is part of what moves him to act, but it takes him some time to figure out how.
His greatest enemy is Morgana. She is different after Merlin's death. She no longer looks behind her back for enemies. Perhaps it's because she thinks no one can harm her anymore.
It is that kind of arrogance that costs her.
But for now, she is calm, euphoric even. She has taken to dressing him up at her meetings. Elaborate silks, detailed crowns that framed his horns, leathers that twist and deform his shape into a more androgynous look—it is as if he is her doll. Perhaps he is.
Her Trollhunter, her lover, her puppet, her doll—he is the sorcerer's, body and mind.
But not his spirit. That, she could never take away from him.
Every morning, she wakes him. One in particular he remembers quite vividly, the week after Merlin's death. It is when this dress-up game began after all.
He wakes to her fingers roaming the expanse of his chest, her touch both freezing and scalding against his flesh. She was using magic, he remembers, if the glowing marks are any indication. It is how he knows her moods, which are now almost second nature to him. She is playful. Jim relaxes; he can deal with playful.
Her index lazily circles around the amulet embedded in his chest. He knows not the reason, only that after he depowered that day, it would not budge. He assumed it was Merlin's last curse, fusing the amulet to his skin, a permanent reminder of his sins. Morgana didn't care however. In fact, she seemed to delight in having the device so close to his heart.
It's like I have your heart in my hands, she said, before devouring his lips.
The subject of clothing comes after their breakfast is brought up by one of her handmaidens. He gets up, only to be stopped her agile arms.
"You look so handsome," she purrs, and Jim struggles not to flinch at the sound. "What are you going to wear today, my little Trollhunter?"
Her little Trollhunter. She no longer uses his real name; something he has noticed more and more throughout the years. It is as if Jim as disappeared, leaving only his body behind. The truth makes him wish he could cry again.
The Trollhunter is a shadow of his former self.
His chest aches; the fact hurts.
"What would you like me to wear?" He remembers asking her.
Her digits travel upwards, into his hair. He hears her hum as she separates the locks into several parts, her dexterous fingers soon braiding the long mane. It is something she has done for a while, but for once, she doesn't use sex to coax him into it.
Her glowing eyes peak over his shoulder. "You're giving me that choice? No bargains? No deals?"
He stays silent. She has taken everything else from him. What he wears didn't really matter anyway.
She takes his silence as affirmation. She waves a hand through the air, the clothing emerging from the shadowy corner of their room. Another flick and she floats it over to their bed.
The first outfit she chooses was by far the worst. The armor is almost a mockery of his own; a gaudy golden hue in place of his normal black whilst a sickly green replaces the red. The cape is a dark purple, made to clasp underneath the pauldrons, which jutted out sharply and fully. The graves are not much better.
The crown is the worst. Later, he regrets ever giving her such leeway. Out of all the other outfits she would later make him adorn, this one was the most difficult.
At his initial viewing, the metal appears to be two separate pieces. The first is a golden v-shaped circlet, designed to go around his forehead and into his hair. The second contrasts the other in its complex design, large clasp structure made to look like elegant detailed roses. Once Morgana places it to his head did he learn how wrong that assumption was.
He bites back a curse as the metal twists around his head, not unlike the ceiling vines in her war chambers. The rose pattern morphs, thorns emerging from the delicate flowers. They trek up his horns, vein-like patterns emerging. It is tight, as if Morgana herself has her hands around his head. He hisses when they pierce his earlobes. He smells his blood, the rich and coppery scent filling his mind. Morgana watches in earnest. His gaze travels to the large mirror behind them. By the time the crown settles, Jim finds himself supporting a second pair of horns, shaped in a crown formation, as though he were some demonic prince of hell itself.
Immediately, he knows he could not take them off without Morgana's help. It is the most helpless he had felt in years.
Still, he refuses to show his inner-turmoil. Morgana pulls his face down to her height, licking at the blood. The last thing he remembered that day are his fangs at her neck.
It soon becomes a routine. She would try and test him once in a while, tight leathers he could barely move in, that one time she merely dressed him in pants—but Morgana is a sorceress in love with herself and her possessions. Whatever she wears, he matches.
He understands, politically, what she is doing. He remembers her words in Merlins' Tomb. But at the end of the day, he has better things to focus his energy on.
The better mood she is in, the less time she makes him stay with her at ceremonies and council meetings and the more time he gets to sleep.
Sleep. He sleeps now more than ever before. Part of him reasons that his new body expends energy faster than before and has yet to adjust. But that is a falsehood he tells himself.
Sleep is an escape. Sleep is relief. Sleep is a respite from the reality of his situation.
More and more she involves him in the affairs of her court. Nothing that gives Jim any true power, oh no, she knows better than to do that. Her Generals like to joke about that little issue. The Queen's dog, they mention amongst each other, as if he doesn't hear them. Lapdog and guard dog, all rolled into one pretty package. He doesn't comment. There are more important things at stake. It is here that he hears about the uprisings and underground movement.
It is here he begins to plan.
He starts with planning excursions, claiming they helped calm his mind. Morgana follows him at first, but once she figures out he's not going anywhere important, she leaves him to it. She knows she has him in her hands. Just as he predicts, she writes off his little field trips as whimsical vacations from the chaotic nature of her fortress. She believes his words, because what allies did he have, after all he's done for her?
His next step is more complicated.
He studies the rebellion and its members. Every battle, every fight, he makes sure to memorize them all. Morgana is, of course, delighted at this change of heart. Thankfully, she doesn't ask, merely pampers him with more affection and sweet words.
He knows better now than to believe any of it.
His research produces a kernel of discovery. It is genius in retrospect. But he expects nothing less of their leader.
The base is easy enough to find, but hard to get into. Mines littered the battleground. Not even the bravest of souls would enter this dark hellish landscape. He'd been told it was beautiful once, a lush redwood forest with trees that seemed to reach for miles. But war spares no one.
Being a hybrid has some advantages. While no expert, he has tracked more than enough of his enemies to pick up human disturbances.
He probably should have contacted them beforehand, or at least set up a meeting. But his impatience wins out.
So he sits. Right in the middle of the empty field.
It isn't the smartest idea he's had. But it does the trick, to a point.
A group of soldiers approach an hour later, guns at the ready. He does nothing. One tries to punch him, but screams in pain at the action, his wrist broken. Jim struggles not to laugh. Hey, he's gone through a lot these past couple of years, okay? It's been awhile since someone tried to punch him.
Why are you here, they ask.
He stays silent.
What does Morgana want, they probe, following the question with more interrogation measures.
How did the Trollhunter find us?
Good old fashioned detective work, he thought.
Are you here to kill us?
They wouldn't be standing here if he was.
Fuck you, you sonaofbitch.
How unoriginal. Not the first time he's heard that.
I hope the boss let's us blow your fucking head to pieces then piss all over your remains, you scumbag.
Now that, that was creative. He almost giggled at that threat.
He stays silent in the car to the base (blindfolded of course). He stays silent in the cell they place him in too.
The moment he enters the building he knows Morgana cannot find him. It is as if all the air in his lungs is sucked out, leaving him empty, weaker almost. He doesn't know how to describe it. There is no faint taste of magic, only a soft vibration, one that echoes through the entire complex, he suspects.
His eyes widen. They're using technology to counter her. A burst of pride erupts. Humanity isn't completely lost yet. There's still hope.
Damn does it feel good to finally breath without her eye on him. On any normal day she would likely freak out and start tearing through the world for him, but the situation at the capital of her kingdom has been strenuous at best, and downright nasty at worst. Her war council and administrative council have been butting heads over their next plan of action. Morgana would be up to her eyeballs in work before she notices his little trip goes longer than he said.
He waits. It takes a while, whatever they're doing, so he savors the alone time while he can.
How does the world fare outside of Morgana's territory? It has been so long since he has seen human civilization in the lands past the sorcerer's reach. Most of the larger cities are ruins now. This is his fault, when it came down to it.
There is no going back for him.
But perhaps, perhaps someone can make a difference for the rest of the world's future.
Someone besides him.
His ears twitch at the sound of familiar footsteps outside his cell. Three or four people, he thinks. He leans forward. It is soft, but he can pick up their voices just enough to make sense of their conversation.
"You say you captured him?" A male's voice asks. It is deeper than he remembers. Rougher.
Jim stops breathing for a moment. His heart thumps wildly against his chest.
"More like he walked right up to us and gave himself up," one of the soldiers who brought him in responds.
"Why?" A woman remarks in a frustrated tone. "Why now? Why in the world would someone like the Trollhunter do such a thing?"
The original man lets out a soft sigh. "Because it's Jim."
"He's the Trollhunter. He's Morgana's right hand. If we take him out, then we can turn the tide," the woman argues.
"Or you could set Morgana off the deep end and send the rest of humanity into extinction. This isn't a win-lose scenario. You don't know anything about him, not like I do."
"You're too soft, sir."
"No," the original voice said. "Just practical."
Jim keeps still, even as the cell door opens.
The door shuts a second later. Only a single pair of footsteps remains. He listens as the person approaches, pausing midway for a few moments, before drawing closer. Jim forces his body to relax. No matter how anxious he is, he does not want to scare the other.
Familiar hands remove his blindfold. He squints, eyes adjusting to the bright lights. His gaze travels to the black window to his right. Even though he cannot see through it, he knows others are watching, waiting for him to do something.
Toby cocks his head to the side, a somber but investigative look on his face.
"Why are you here, Jim?" He inquires.
Jim gives him a sad smile. "Why do you think?"
The tension in the room grows thicker, though not by Jim's doing. Toby's shoulders rise.
He knows enough about his old friend to read his body language. Toby is cautious around him. Jim gets it. It stings, but he understands. He can't be upset at his friend's mistrust.
The years have not been kind to either of them. At least Jim still has two eyes though. He accidently lets out a giggle.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm sorry," he says, trying not to sound as hysterical as he felt. It's been years since he's seen his old friend. "It's just…with that eyepatch…Pirate King Tobias."
The kiddie pool pirates. Sipping on lemonade and eating Cheetos in the small pool Toby's Nana got at a garage sale. They had so many adventures in that small plastic thing.
It is a good memory. One of the few he has now.
Toby tried to keep a straight face, but a smile at the edges of his lips threatens to emerge. "You remember that?"
Jim's laughter died. "I remember lots of things," he admits.
Claire's descent into Morgana's hands, his horrific transformation (wrong, wrong, wrong, this will never be right, his hands are too big and his body too tall to ever truly be his) , the news of his mother's death, the fall of Arcadia Oaks, Merlin's death—he remembers every single moment.
His conscience wouldn't allow him otherwise.
Toby must have noticed his change in demeanor. He scratches at the five o'clock shadow, his mouth drawn into a thin line.
This is no time for memories after all.
He is here for a reason.
"Don't play games with me." Toby says in a steady, authoritative tone. "What's your plan?"
"I'm here for you." It is a simple statement, but it is the truth, of sorts.
Toby's hand inches closer to the hammer at his side. "Did Morgana send you here to kill me? Is that it?"
"No," Jim confesses. "She doesn't know I'm here."
Toby's single eye widens. He gives Jim a once-over, uncertainty in his gaze.
"It's been years since we've spoken. Why now?" Toby whispers, "And why me?"
"Because you're going to end it," Jim says, and wow, it feels amazing to finally get that off his chest.
He had been waiting forever to say it. But to actually put forth the words is more than relieving. It is euphoric.
"What?"
"Tobes," Jim begins. "I'm so tired. I thought I could get Claire back. I truly did. But everyone was right." He pauses. "She's gone. All that's left is Claire's body. I was wrong and it cost me everything."
His mother, his friends, his life—Morgana took everything from him, and he allowed it, every step of the way. She used his love and personal loyalty for Claire against him.
And now he's here.
It's time.
"Jim, I—"
"I'm so sorry," Jim interrupts. And he means it. He knows words mean nothing at this point, not after everything he's done, but the relief he feels to finally say it outweigh his fears of rejection. He knows it is selfish to do this, but what other choice did he have left? "I know that doesn't mean much, after all the things I've done, but I wanted you to know that. I hurt so many people. I should have listened, but I was too stubborn. I thought I could save her. But there's nothing left to save."
"What are you…" Toby pauses. His lips open slightly as his face pales. "What are you really doing here?"
Jim's eyes flicker towards the door before locking on Toby's hammer. His friend notices.
"I already told you," Jim says.
Toby visibly swallows. His knuckles tighten against the handle of his hammer. "You came here for me."
"Yes."
Toby looks visibly sick at the response. He paces around back and forth before finally stating, "You want me to kill you."
It is not a question.
"Someone needs to do it," Jim says. "If you don't want to do it, I'm sure one of your subordinates would be willing to—"
"No!"
The shout startles him. Toby holds his hands out in front of him, staring down in dismay.
"Do you know what you're asking me to do?"
Jim nods. "Yes."
"Then you know why I can't."
Jim blinks. He has betrayed his friend for a witch, killed countless people, done things no human could justify—what worth did he have to Toby outside of death?
Killing Jim would starve off Morgana's forces. If Toby plans it right, he could destroy Morgana before she unleashed her fury on humanity.
"You really," Toby holds his mouth with one hand before hitting his fist against the wall. "No! Absolutely not! Jim, you're my best friend. Despite everything you've done, I," he pauses, his voice cracking.
He draws closer to Jim, his hands pressing down on his shoulders. "I never gave up on you."
Jim looks away; Toby continues.
"Do you think I've been fighting this war because I wanted to? Do you think I wanted to watch you destroy yourself? Jim, I've been fighting this war for you," he confesses.
"Me?" Jim says.
Him? Morgana's murderous right hand? The worst Trollhunter in existence?
It is hard to wrap his head around the subject. Emotion wells within his gut. He is unsure of how to process it all. Someone fighting for him? It is such a foreign concept.
"You're my best friend. You…Other than Darci, you're the only other person I have left." Toby's arms circle around his head, one hand in his hair while the other was around his neck. It is soft, warm, and good. "I love you, dude. And it kills me to see you like this. Please, please, don't kill yourself. We can defeat her together and get Claire back. I know we can…just…let me help you, okay?"
And for the first time in a long while, Jim cries.
It is an ugly cry. His voice breaks.
He buries his face into the other's shoulder. A hand strokes his hair, not like Morgana who used it as a way to control him, no, no, no, this—
It reminds him of his mom. Jim hiccups through his tears.
It feels terrible and wonderful at the same time.