Your Future Hasn't Been Written Yet
by K. Stonham
first released 27th March 2022
"My lord." Waltolomew knelt before Killahead Bridge.
"Stricklander," Gunmar growled.
"Our preparations are near done," Waltolomew reported. "The day of your freedom draws near. We have identified the Trollhunter; all that remains is to bring his amulet to the bridge."
"He is a boy," Nomura added from behind him. "Foolish, and easily manipulated."
Gunmar's shadowy figure nodded. "And the divine king?"
Waltolomew faltered. "Divine king...?" he asked blankly.
Gunmar growled. "Your intelligence has failed you, Stricklander. Mine has not."
Waltolomew blinked, and looked at Nomura. She looked equally at sea. Swallowing, he returned his attention to the bridge and the evil within. "My humblest apologies, my lord. We shall discover the identity of the divine king and neutralize him. Or..." He let a malicious grin cross his face. "Shall we arrange for him to be at the opening of your bridge?"
Gunmar's snarl sounded pleased at the idea. "Do so, Stricklander. I shall first slay my son's cowardly murderer, and then test the strength of this new king. And he will fall, as Arthur did."
"And then conquest," Waltolomew agreed.
A minute later, the communications portal was closed. Nonetheless, Waltolomew said nothing to Nomura until they were well clear of the room. Magic could be tricky; who knew if Gunmar might not still be listening somehow?
"A divine king," Nomura mused.
"How unexpected," he concurred.
"Any idea who?"
He frowned. His first, second, and third instincts all said that it was a member of Jim's group. It seemed almost certain, in fact. The chances of a divine king being present in Arcadia Oaks and not being connected to Jim Lake's band of do-gooders? Preposterous. "I have no certainties," Waltolomew said, "but I have a few suspicions." Jim or Toby? Claire? Perhaps not the wizard... but then again, who knew?
Nomura hummed tonelessly. "I would guess our suspicions overlap. Are you going to ask them?"
"In a roundabout fashion," Waltolomew decided.
She tsk'ed at him, shaking her head. "Sleeping with a Trollhunter's mother? You've gone soft, Stricklander."
"I might say the same of you," he replied. "Sleeping with a Trollhunter's son?"
Her eyes flashed green. "I'm not sleeping with him."
"Perhaps not yet," he allowed, and reached out, fingertips brushing the gold ornament in her hair. "But the troll magic in this piece is unmistakable." He smiled. "You're allowing him to court you by their rules."
"You're courting dismemberment," she informed him.
"You assume I disapprove." He pulled his fingers back, not wishing to lose them. "I do in fact wish you joy, and hope it works out, Nomura."
Surprise flashed across her face, narrowly followed by something he couldn't read. She turned away, cutting his viewing of her expressions short. "Yeah, well. None of it will come to anything if he," she said, jerking her thumb back toward the bridge room, "wins."
"Mmm." A sobering thought. "I suppose, then, our next step must be to make inquiries as to this divine king."
Krel was well aware that he was not actually fully versed in swearing. Well, swearing in Akiridion, anyway. Douxie had certainly taught him several interesting Earth curses, though the few occasions he had used them, Krel had gotten the impression that they were as strange and outmoded to the other humans as his own native curses were. Probably an effect of Douxie being so much older than the other teenagers, he thought. And despite the presence of Varvatos and Zadra, both soldiers, in his life, Krel had always known they blunted their speech around the royal family.
So maybe he would never be able to swear properly. Which was fucking irritating.
"Kleb," he swore as his hand slipped again. Fine-tuning the upgraded serrators was finicky work, and it was already long past when he should have retired.
"Prince Krel," Mother spoke up. "Need I remind you-"
"I know, I know." He waved the AI off. "I have school in the morning. But I need to get these done. The Zeron Brotherhood will be here any delson, and we need to be ready."
Mother's avatar hovered by him, making a low buzzing sound that he interpreted as a "you are correct, but I still think you need to go to bed" hum.
"Just one more- there!" Krel made the last adjustment, and his work was finished. For now, at least. He still had the entire daxial array to worry about. But that, at least, he had a bit of breathing time on. And taking care of the skelteg infestation early made Mother's operations more stable and her energy reserves that much less depleted.
"Excellent. Now, please, go to bed," the ship told him.
"Yes, yes, I will do so now." Krel tucked away his own serrator and carried the other two with him. He did not feel comfortable entering Varvatos' quarters, but instead left the weapon on the "coffee table" (why was it called that? it was not made of coffee, and did not even smell like the beverage) for the Commander to find.
He did enter Aja's quarters, where his sister lay sleeping. She roused as the rectangle of light from the door fell across her. "Mm? Krel?" she asked sleepily.
"I finished your serrator." He laid it on her bedside table.
Aja's mouth curved up in a smile. "Thank you, little brother."
"It was no problem." He briefly pressed his forehead to hers, royal crest to royal crest. "Sleep well, Aja."
"Sleep well, Krel." She laid back down as he walked away, and was probably unconscious again before the door even closed behind him.
Krel made for his own room next, only to find Luug on his bed, improbably taking up most of it. He sighed, rubbed at his forehead, then shoved the Akiridion mutt over. "Share, you larvox," he muttered, and closed his aching eyes. He probably was up too late, he thought.
But fixing their weapons was one more item checked off the list...
...the list, which seemed...
...seemed endless...
Krel was asleep before he could even finish the thought.
Ugh. Jim hated Mondays. If for no other reason than that, after the freedom of the weekend, he had a set schedule to adhere to, which involved getting himself up and out the door in time for school.
His mom and Douxie were already gone, which he had as much as expected, and he saw, when he checked in the fridge, that they'd both remembered their lunch bags. Good.
It was, he concluded with a sigh as he cracked eggs into a bowl, probably just as well that Douxie was gone already this morning. Because they needed to have another conversation-maybe two-and Jim didn't know how to start them, or where he really wanted them to go.
At least he wasn't still ready to beat the shit out of Douxie for -betraying- not telling him what the consequences of killing the Arcane Order would be.
Hell, if Jim managed it right and told everyone at lunch today, maybe they could brainstorm a way around that and he wouldn't need to have that conversation with Douxie.
The other one...
He sighed, his whisk stilling. "I'm not happy," Jim practiced saying aloud, "that you..." And there his words ran out, because he didn't know how to phrase it. Not happy that Douxie looked at his crown and was reminded he was a king and reacted differently to Jim-as-King instead of Jim-as-brother or even Jim-as-Trollhunter?
Was he really mad because Douxie was better at compartmentalizing things?
Or was he mad because Douxie looked at him sometimes and reacted with fealty instead of love?
"This is so messed up," Jim muttered, and poured his eggs into the hot pan, listening as they sizzled.
He thought, a little wildly, about Douxie bowing before Arthur. About how the little he'd seen of his brother's younger self in Camelot had looked at Merlin like he hung the moon and stars. About how Douxie had been stuck for nine hundred years in a master-and-apprentice relationship, frozen in place, while the world moved on. About how Douxie nearly let Merlin seal him away, baring his throat to his master rather than raising a hand to protect himself.
Douxie always referred to Claire as his student, not his apprentice. Like maybe he was trying to break out of that old mold. Was it different? Did student and apprentice mean different things to him?
What was it like, growing up in the Dark Ages?
And if Jim insisted on fulfilling his duties, the way Douxie did his, and chose immortality, would he someday be like that? Stuck with antiquated ideas while the world shifted and moved on?
He wielded the spatula on autopilot, flipping the omelet to let the runny side cook, sprinkling on cheese and the miscellanea that had been in the fridge before folding it over, turning the stove off, and sliding his breakfast onto a plate.
How can I get through to him when I don't even know what's going through his head?
Hisirdoux was guiltily glad that working opening shift at the bookstore meant getting up and leaving before Jim's alarm went off. He really did not want to have to talk to his brother right now. Because he'd screwed up. He'd screwed up so badly. He'd gone into the conversation not wanting Jim to ever find out about his little anxiety problem, and he was pretty sure he'd blown that goal out of the water by a thousand miles or something.
He swept and he dusted and he sorted books and tried not to think about how badly he'd done. Jim was brave and Jim was admirable, and his hands never shook with unwanted, unneeded nerves...
Tears pricked at Douxie's eyes as he closed them, breathing and trying to force his poisonous, treacherous thoughts down. The ones that started something like I'm weak and spiraled down a natural path toward maybe Jim would be better off with Merlin to advise him. Because he knew, knew, knew that would never go well. Jim had no respect left for Merlin; the last time he'd seen the master wizard, in fact, he'd explicitly threatened to murder him. And Merlin would have little respect for someone he considered beneath him, a headstrong child to be schooled and corrected, rather than the burning-bright king Douxie knew Jim was becoming.
No, he couldn't leave Jim to Merlin. And he couldn't run, couldn't disappear into the wideness of the world the way he had so many times in the past.
If nothing else, Claire would be able to track him wherever he went. And with the Order coming, and threatening worldwide destruction, well...
Running was no longer an option. There was nowhere to run to.
"Douxie," Archie said softly, perched on the back of an armchair and watching him, "You're spiraling."
Douxie gave a shattered laugh. "Don't think I don't know it." He could feel it, his nerves shivering under his skin, buzzing like the worst kind of magic.
"Drop the broom," Archie instructed. "Come sit."
Looking at the tool in his hand, Douxie's vision momentarily overrode it, replacing the wooden handle with the cool, soothing dragon's-tooth iron of his lost staff. His fingers clenched, breaking the illusion; the broom was only wood after all. A tool, not the part of his soul carved out of magic and given physical form.
Swallowing, he leaned the broom carefully against a bookcase and did as his familiar instructed, sitting down in Archie's chair. The dragon eeled down from backrest and into his lap. Warm. Purring. Soothing.
"Maybe it's time for me to try medication again," Douxie said after a few minutes.
Archie looked up at him, golden eyes surprised. "Are you sure? You hated it-"
"It's getting worse," Douxie interrupted. He held out a hand so Archie could see how it trembled. "You know how long it's been since my last panic attack."
"Actually," Archie said thoughtfully, "I don't. Did you have any in those two years of the future?"
Douxie shook his head. "Didn't have time to. I was working, or taking care of you and Nari. We were always on the run, there was never time to let it catch up with me."
"You know those are excuses, right?" his familiar asked softly.
Douxie bowed his head, bangs falling into his eyes. Hiding. Hating himself. "I know," he whispered.
A paw on his cheek, so gentle. "They tortured you, Douxie. They murdered you."
"I'd hardly classify it as murder," he argued, not daring to look up. "Suicide, maybe..."
"Going into it with eyes wide open doesn't mean that they didn't still cause your death, Doux," Arch said. "Reacting to things that have hurt you is perfectly natural."
But Douxie shook his head. "I can't be terrified of the Order," he whispered. "We have too much to do, Archie, and not nearly enough time to do it in." He swallowed. "And now Jim knows about me. That I'm like this."
"Like what?" Archie's head butted up under his chin. "Human?"
"I can't afford to be human," Douxie murmured. "Not if I'm to be a master wizard and do what must be done."
Archie was very silent for a minute. "That's one thing I've always hated about Merlin," he said eventually. "That he was so detached from the world he lived in, and that he tried to teach you to be the same."
"I can't..." Douxie repeated.
"You love them," Archie said softly. "And you're terrified to lose them."
"I am," Douxie said, not even bothering to try and prevaricate to the dragon that was the other half of his soul. "I'm terrified to lose you, Arch."
Archie accepted that, and was silent for a moment. Finally, he sighed and said, "If you think medication would help you, you should talk with Barbara."
"Arch..."
"She is a medical doctor, and your mother. If you think it might help you, talk to her," Archie insisted. "She is more knowledgeable about the options, and can help you decide how to proceed far better than I can."
Douxie closed his eyes and hugged his familiar to himself, drawing a long inhale of air, hating that Archie was right. "I'll do it," he finally promised. "Still think you're lucky, having stable brain chemicals."
"Or not being haunted by evil spirits, unbalanced humors, or whatever the latest human explanation for these things is."
"Arch..."
Archie bristled. "I'm simply saying, your species has changed its explanations so many times over the centuries, and each time it's been convinced the current explanation is the correct one! There's no saying that modern science has got the answers it thinks it has, either."
"Science is a way of studying things, not a set solution. Answers evolve, Arch, and they're only getting a bit more precise over time."
"Given science's abhorrence of magic, I find that more than a bit dubious."
"Jim." His teacher's voice sounded just after the bell had rung. "A moment of your time, if you please?"
"Uh, sure." Jim exchanged glances with Toby and Claire, and then another set with Aja and Krel. He waved the latter two off to their next class; Strickler didn't know about them yet, and right now Jim didn't want to drag them into the mess that was Strickler being a double agent. Or was it agent provocateur?
Strickler waited until the classroom was otherwise empty before raising his eyebrows and saying, "According to Gunmar, there is a divine king on the playboard. Is there anything you feel I should know, Young Atlas?"
"Wait, Gunmar knows about that?" Toby demanded.
"How does he know?" Claire followed up.
Strickler spread his hands. "He certainly didn't tell me. If he had spies here beyond the Janus Order..."
One neuron slammed into another, making a connection at lightning speed. "The goblins." Jim groaned and dropped his face into his hand. "Remember when Steve and Eli said they captured one? The night of the gruesome? I bet they said something."
"Great," Toby grumbled. "So much for that being a surprise, then."
"I will admit to being curious, but I will not press for details if you do not think I should have them." Strickler gave a lopsided smile. "And I have made my guesses."
"You already know," Jim accused.
"With complete certainty?" Strickler shook his head. "No. However, your sword is very distinctive, and carries with it... certain implications."
"Ugh." Jim rolled his eyes. "Just so you know, I didn't start being a divine king the minute I got the sword."
"I feel like Douxie would argue that," Toby said thoughtfully, as the students for Strickler's next class began to trickle in.
"No, Jim wasn't fully a divine king until he accepted that he was," Claire argued in a hushed voice.
"Anyway," Jim overrode the two of them, "we're going to be late to gym class. Was there anything else you needed, Mister Strickler?"
The changeling shook his head. "Not at all. My thanks for the confirmation. Now, go. Before you're late."
They went.
"Okay, gang, so what's the plans for today?" Jim asked as Steve and Eli finally joined the rest of them at the lunch table.
"B-ball practice after school!" Steve enthused. He flexed an arm. "This year, we're going all the way to state."
Aja blinked. "What state are you going into?"
Krel rolled his eyes. "We," he said, gesturing between himself and his sister, "are going to talk with Stuart."
"Stuart?" asked Eli.
"The taco truck guy," Toby told him.
"Wait, what's the taco truck guy got to do with things?" Mary asked.
"Eh, he's an alien," Toby replied.
"A Durian," Krel corrected, glaring at Toby.
"You mean like an alien-alien?" Darci asked, her eyes wide. "I'd have thought he was more of an illegal alien."
"How do you get from a British accent to an illegal alien?" Mary asked her. "I mean, other than Douxie, there's not many Brits around here."
"Wait, the taco truck guy's British?" Eli asked. "I thought he was Mexican."
Half the table stared at him. "Have you seriously never listened to the guy talk, Pepperjack?" Steve asked.
"Uhh..."
"Well, I mean, Stuart's food is pretty authentic," Claire vouched.
"Anyway," Jim cut in, "yes, Stuart isn't from around here, but he's actually from-" He glanced at Krel.
"The planet Durio," Krel said.
"Ugh." Aja held her nose and waved a hand in front of it. "The stinkiest planet in the galaxy."
"Zero out of ten destination vacation spot," Krel agreed. "We do not recommend."
"Well, I have practice with Zoe," Mary put in.
"And I have training with Draal down in Trollmarket," Toby said, stuffing a sporkful of cheesy noodles into his mouth. Darci side-eyed him and sighed. He swallowed. "But maybe with time to split a milkshake before?" he asked, looking hopefully at her.
"What's Douxie up to?" Claire asked Jim while Darci dithered.
He didn't look at her as he stirred his utensil through his own container of chicken alfredo. "The last I heard, he was going out to the Triple-H to either work on his armor, or maybe on the daxial array. I'm not sure which one."
Claire raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the point.
"All right, milkshakes sound good," Darci said.
"Yes!" Toby fist-pumped.
"How about you, Eli?" Jim asked.
"Uhh." Eli adjusted his glasses. "I really don't know?" he asked, looking first at Jim and then, inexplicably, at Aja.
"I have an idea," Claire said. She grinned. "Eli, have we shown you Trollmarket's library yet?"
Eli shook his head.
Her grin widened. "It makes that back room of the bookshop look like... well, the back room of a bookstore."
Eli's eyes were approximately the size of Jim's amulet.
"So," said Claire, "I take it you're interested?"
"YES!" Eli stood straight up at their table, drawing the gazes of students at other tables. "Take me to the library," he begged.
"Uh, are you sure you want to introduce Eli to Blinky?" Toby asked Claire sotto voce. "I mean, they're both a little..." He cringed. "Conspiracy theorist?"
"Yup," Claire said as Eli sat back down. "But riddle me this, Toby: were either of them wrong?"
Toby, his mouth an "o", had no reply to that.
Claire grinned.
Ophelia glared at the ugly little cretin who was impersonating her son. "You destroyed the blender!"
"Hey, it ain't my fault it couldn't handle a sock smoothie!" the creature rebutted, unrepentant. "Maybe I should try the Cuisinart next time."
"And that's another thing!" she snapped. "You ordered nine hundred dollars worth of socks!"
He rubbed his belly and grinned. "Tasty, tasty socks."
She glowered. "We are returning them."
A snort. "You'll never find alla them."
Ophelia hissed through her teeth. "Why Claire likes you-"
The cretin glowered back. "Maybe it's 'cause I ain't spent a lifetime trying to make her into something she isn't."
"Don't you talk to me about my daughter," Ophelia spat.
"Then don't you talk to me about my sister," he spat back.
"Hey, hey, walk it back, walk it back," Javier said, walking into the kitchen, carrying a basket full of laundry. "We are a familia, remember? Not a house of hatred."
"I would not be so sure," Ophelia told her husband.
He sighed and set the basket on the counter, nodding for the creature to help himself. Green-skinned and ugly, it did, burrowing in. Javier, meantime, caught Ophelia around the waist and drew her in close. "I know this is not ideal, mi corazón. But remember, he is our Clara's brother. She loves him, so there must be things to love in him. Try to see him, not just Enrique, all right?"
Ophelia felt her treacherous bottom lip quiver. "I just want him back," she confessed. "Our sweet little baby." The laundry basket rustled. "NOT an ugly, rude, foul-mouthed-"
A pair of shorts flew through the air and hit her in the face. By the time they fell away, the cretin was on top of the laundry, his arms full of pilfered socks, glaring at her. "It's all about you, ain't it?" he demanded. "What you want, what you want your house and your family and your kids to be. You don't actually give a crap for your daughter or your son, except that they make you look good. Pah." He spat off to the side. "At least Gunmar's honest about destroyin' everything? You just do it because you want everything to look pretty and right and respectable, so that you can grasp at power."
"You little-"
He dodged her swiped fingers easily, jumping from the laundry to the top of a lamp and then, knocking it over, to dangle by one claw from the doorway molding. "Lemme give it to you straight, sista: your daughter's a witch, and your son's probably happier bein' taken care of by goblins than he'd be under your tender loving care. 'Coz as soon as he gets back and grows up, he's gonna realize the same thing Claire did: you're gonna stuff him in a little box to shape him into what you want, never mind what he wants, and he's never gonna be able ta breathe or be happy about havin' you for a mom. So, really? I'm glad you ain't claimin' me as family. I've seen what you do to yours."
And the little monster disappeared, leaving behind only the sound of scurrying claws.
Gape-mouthed, Ophelia could only stare after him for a moment, shock overwriting all else. Then she turned to her husband. "Javi-"
He shook his head. "He's not... entirely wrong, Ophelia," he told her.
"You-"
"You try to make everyone fit into the boxes you think we should. But people are messy, and don't fit nicely into boxes." Javier took her hand. "I love your drive, your determination, mi corazón. And I always will. But Clara's not the perfect, obedient daughter you wanted, and someday Enrique will not be your perfect, obedient son either. You have to realize that children grow and change, and that it's good. Flowers are messy... but beautiful."
Not too far away, hiding, a small green changeling sat down, letting his haul of socks fall from his arms to the floor, all around him like a drift of Downy-scented snow.
He sniffed, and scrubbed his arm across his eyes.
He had Claire. He maybe had Javier. He had his familiar. That was enough. That was more than enough.
He'd never wanted a mom anyway.
