"The fight will never end. And so, we must march on."

Esmerion awoke to the cries of a rioting crowd.

Immediately, he shoots upright and searches the room with wide eyes. Surprise warms his heart and he sinks back down as a result. There's very little reason for him to be so frantic.

Familiarity fills his nose, worming its way through his system to tickle his senses and soul. It carries with it a feeling of comfort and promise that has long since been forgotten. Like the warmth of a winter-made nest of quilts and pillows, a wafting scent of something fresh. A sense he hasn't felt since a darker time.

Cautiously, he eases out of the squat building and leaves behind the warm Troll abode with a silent promise to return. It's only once he's out on the street that he realises that he has no idea where he is. But with the scent of someone well known to him and the quieting roars of a gathering, it's easy to find the place he needs to be.

With a small smile, he ducks under the arm of the familiar scent, bumping his head against their palm. Draal blinks in surprise, but accepts this action and shifts slightly to allow the youth more room to sidle up. Neither are concerned by the gathering, which has broken up somewhat.

"What's goin' on?" Esmerion queries with mild confusion. He does generally know what is happening, he just wants to confirm.

"The Trollhunter has rallied Trollmarket," the warrior claims with a tone of pride. "He is preparing us for a fight against Angor Rot."

The youth nods slowly, his distant gaze drawing over to the retreating group. He understands that this will be massive, and that this will take most of their strength. He remembers similar times from his own history when they had to prepare for battle. None are pleasant.

"Show me the armoury."

《《》》

Esmerion growls sourly, twirling a short sword in his hand. It's definitely been a while since he last wielded a blade. The hilt feels wrong in his grasp and the balance is off, though he can still parry with it.

"Something wrong?" Draal cocks his head over the the weapon racks, a battle axe in his hands.

He hums, practicing several thrusts with the blade, "'Feels off."

Draal nods and places down his weapon of choice to assist, "Stretch out your sword-arm. It might be that your grip and strength has changed since you last wielded a sword."

The youth ducks his head in gratitude as the warrior studies his natural stance. It has easily been several centuries since he last handled his own blade, so quite a lot is bound to have changed.

"Try..." Draal replaces his short sword with another blade from the rack, a two-handed greatsword. "This."

Esmerion corrects his grip and plays with the balance of the sword, sliding into position along the hilt. The weapon's blade is waved in a manner akin to lapping ocean-waters; a promise of injury whispering along its edge. Two guards, carved of ivory tusks, find their position on the hilt, the largest placed as a crossguard at the base of the blade while the other rests just shy of the middle of the hilt.

"A flammenschwert," he grins sharply, twirling the waved blade in his hands with ease. "A German weapon from the sixteenth century, if memory serves me right."

"Indeed," the warrior nods, picking his axe back up. "Your build better suits a two-handed weapon; you have changed since we first met."

He chuckles softly, lowering the sword to inspect a dusty chain mail tunic and steel helmet hanging on the armoury wall. Faded and chipped designs lace the steel dome of the medieval helmet, intricate and ornate in their purpose. Gold lettering paint the rim of the metal, their runic meaning lost to time.

"Ye kept 'em?" Esmerion smiles, tracing his fingers over his old armour.

"My father salvaged them from the rubble after you disappeared," Draal hums lowly, staring at the items in question.

"I shall 'ave to thank 'im, then," he hoists the mail tunic off the hook.

He goes quiet, reminiscing old memories. There were times-long ago-when things were simpler and one could wander beyond their home without fear. Those days cannot return in this time.

"Oh," the youth catches his expression and his own smile falters. "He's gone, isn't he?"

"Bular felled him," Draal continues softly. "He died with the honour of a Trollhunter."

Esmerion smiles weakly, slipping the chain mail tunic over his head. "I'm sure he did."

《《》》

A nearby Troll shuffles warily, cautious and unnerved by the constant scraping of steel. The sound is a reminder, a remembrance of forgotten days. It is the sound that accompanies war, the shiver that curls your spine. Like the bloodied wood of an execution platform, it attracts the creeping shadows of dark and gleaming light reflects with sparks of flame.

The bearer of such foul snarls rests upon the stone steps, blade in hand as he runs a grinding stone down the metal. Many are quick to assume that he is to rightfully wear a scowl, but his expression displays a kind of peace seen only in tired, war-marred veterans. His hands are steady, without a tremble or shake; well practiced in their art from decades of repetitive motions of preparation.

His gaze is beyond distant, and he mindlessly wanders through wastelands of barren memory, marching down paths created by a thousand feet. He knows these lands well, though he does not wish to tread here. The last time he did, his memory and presence disappeared from the battlefield.

Esmerion is drawn from his pondering by two passing figures and he halts his action mid-sweep, lifting the grinding stone from his blade. He places it beside him and stands tall, silently observing as they navigate the emptied streets of Trollmarket. Not a sound is made as he follows after them, not even when he sheaths his weapon of grandeur.

He prowls in a manner alike to a wolf, eyes narrowed on the backs of his targets and steps cautiously, careful to avoid rallying Gnomes and stray objects of clutter. The shadows mask his figure as he so wishes, every crevice acting as a beckoning promise of shelter. But his eyes gleam in the growing darkness, pupils enlarged by his curiosity. To others, he appears as an omen of ill will.

A smile containing too many sharp teeth is easy to expect from the youth, something predatory in nature, perhaps. And yet, his lips bear nothing but a soft quirk of amusement and acceptance as he listens to the conversation between the people he tails. He stands with patience in the archway, warmth in his features as his eyes glimmer with fondness.

"Are you sure there isn't anything more I can do?" Stricklander asks his former student with an undoubtedly respectful tone. 

Jim shakes his head, turning to the Changeling as they reach the Gyre. "The other Trolls don't trust fighting alongside you. And honestly? Neither do I."

He sighs and stares at the Gyre for a few moments, "You kept your word. And after everything I've done. Once again, you prove have proved you are the hero, and I am--"

"Someone who can change," Jim interrupts and Esmerion smiles with pride.

Stricklander chuckles, shaking his head at the boy. "Your idealism is nearly contagious."

Esmerion snorts softly, his gaze shifting to the Gyre behind the two. However, the sight of a shimmering, blue gemstone in his mentor's hand claims his attention in an instant. It radiates a dull sense of power that sings with a siren's song to the youth, drawing him closer without intention. It does not belong in the hands of a creature so fouled with the innocent blood of others.

"My gratitude cannot be enough."

Jim considers it for a moment, displeasure plain in his expression, "Gee, a friendship rock?"

He growls lowly in quiet warning, cut short as the boy snaps his head to catch sight of him. The Trollhunter tenses with the discovery of this new and scolding gaze, but picks up the gem from Stricklander's hand nevertheless.

"That would 'appen to be Gunmar's eye," Esmerion drawls, giving up his waiting to stand by the Changeling. Jim's eyes widen comically at his chain mail tunic and the greatsword sheathed on his back.

"I thought you could use it after you're done with Angor's eye. I've been holding onto it for centuries and I figured it would be wise to keep it close..." he searches for the right words, "in case you drove a hard bargain to protect me."

"But if I kill Gunmar--" the boy tries, confused as to why he would give this away.

"Save the children?" Stricklander sighs in defeat. "Yes, if you rescue my familiar, then I'll be trapped in my Troll form forever. But there's nothing left for me in the human world. It's not like I'll ever have a future with your mo--"

"Don't," Jim warns firmly, a hard glare in his eyes.

Esmerion throws his head back as he bellows with laughter. It's an unexpected outburst but Stricklander doesn't flinch, only allowing his lips to quirk slightly.

The boy frowns, glancing between the two with scorning. He is not amused in the slightest, and if he's being honest, a bit pissed by the mirth his foster-brother is taking from the situation.

"There are many thin's in the world ye need to worry 'bout, Curaidh," the youth assures, a wide grin remaining across his cheeks. "Yer mother's relationships aren't one of 'em."

Jim scowls at the youth and bites back a sharp retort, placing the last Triumbric Stone in his pocket. But he regards his former teacher with only a mild look of bitterness, "Goodbye, Mr. Strickler."

The Changeling inclines his head in acknowledgement, though the Trollhunter has turned his back. "You may not believe me, Young Atlas, but I do wish you luck and I do hope we meet again one day."

His voice bounces off the cavern walls, a ghost of the person it belongs to, empty and void of a response. It tells just how much the world has turned these last few weeks. He's been left behind.

"'E'll come 'round," Esmerion assures softly, facing his old mentor with kindness. "It'll just take 'im a bit."

"I'm sure," he sneers sourly, though more of a reminder to himself. "He wasn't exactly delighted when I found my way into his personal life."

The youth snorts in amusement, "Ye did start courtin' 'is mother. An' that's all it ended with."

"Would you blame me?" Stricklander jeers with an undertone of thick sarcasm.

"No," Esmerion shakes his head before he glances back down the tunnel whence he came. "I don't blame people for who they love. Nobody blamed me."

He blinks, choosing to study the youth's unfazed expression of sincerity for any trace of a lie. "If you don't mind me asking, who might that be?"

Esmerion chuckles and lifts a finger to his lips in a secretive gesture, "Nobody blamed me when I chose to court a Troll."

The Changeling raises a brow, though fails to appear surprised. His kind have always been odd, even though they have been thoroughly documented in multiple manuscripts. But this is certainly a first. 

"Now, ye must go," he ushers. "Ye cannot risk yerself any more than ye already 'ave."

"I wish you luck, laatste, in your endeavours."

Esmerion bows his head in appreciation, watching as the Gyre spins at its remarkable speed before shooting down a tunnel. The wind does not buffer the youth and he stands tall against the blasting force. Then he turns on his heel and takes off down the tunnel to Trollmarket, paying no mind to the alarming weight on his back, nor the excited cries of Muninn circling the entrance.

With eyes gleaming in anticipation, his feet carry him through the vacant stalls and buildings of Trollmarket, drawing him to a swift halt at the base of the Heartstone. His grinding stone is exactly where he left it, untouched by any hand other than his own. Beside it sits a polished and dented helmet, almost fit for a king; a thought shared by no other beyond himself.

The ground rumbles beneath him with a building roar. Crystals quake in their place. Dust falls from the buildings.

And the youth? Oh, he snarls. Deeper than a wolf and fuelled by more hatred than mankind knows.

Angor Rot is here.