"We're all afraid of something. Why do you think the brave keep fighting?"

Esmerion, with all things considered, should probably have been more concerned when he found Strickler tied up in the kitchen. Then again, he himself was supposed to be dead, and yet his lungs still drew breath.

After studying the man for a few moments, he had decided to feed his own complaining stomach.

"Good mornin', sleepin' beauty," the youth greets the rousing male, sitting on top the kitchen counter with his legs crossed beneath him. He chews on a piece of buttered toast.

The Changeling mutters incoherently, struggling to fight the exhaustion in his system. He's not quite sure what's going on.

"What is yer name?" he asks, head tilted in curiosity. "While ye know mine, ye never did tell me yers."

"Hmm?"

He sighs, glancing to the slumbering Trollhunter on the sofa. He only has a few minutes to speak with the male.

"Yer name. What is it?" This time, it's more of a demand.

"Stricklander," his mentor says, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. "My name is Stricklander, young Esmerion."

He grits his teeth as he releases a sharp cry of harsh laughter, quiet enough to refrain from waking his foster-brother. Amusement gleams in his ancient eyes, clashing with despair in a furious battle.

"Ye call me young, when it is really ye who is young," he chuckles, growling lowly. "I am older than yer entire race."

The Changeling stays silent, though whether he's thinking over the youth's words or contemplating his safety is unclear.

"So," Esmerion starts, crunching on his toast crust, "releasing Angor Rot is really comin' back 'round to bite ye, isn't it?"

"How do you—?" Stricklander looks taken aback, confused by his conclusion.

"Crows," he spits, hissing in hatred. "T'was also the day the sky boiled."

The man appears unsettled, and watches him with a cautious eye. Not that he'd be able to do anything if Esmerion decided to take an action.

"Ye made a grave mistake in letting the beast go." His words are dark, hollow with scolding. "Yer a fool, Stricklander."

"I have come to realise that," the man frowns at him.

Esmerion snorts, licking the crumbs off his fingers. He stiffens suddenly, eyes wide and ears almost perked. His head tilts slightly for a moment before he promptly hops off the counter and opens the basement door.

"Ye'll 'ave me aid when ye need it," he states quietly, drumming his fingers on the door. Then, without a sound, he disappears into the dark, just in time to avoid Jim as he walks past.

《《》》

With night fallen, the house is wrongly silent. Every floorboard can be heard throughout the house when stepped upon, and even the building itself seems to tremble in anticipation.

The three people upstairs talk quietly in calm voices, two of them explaining a very hidden world to the woman with a glass in her hands. It would be easy to forget their current situation and need for haste, if it weren't for the toppled bookshelf behind them and the unconscious Troll beneath. Even then, their mannerisms give nothing away about what is bound to occur.

"SÍOL!" a voice bellows and the owner nearly breaks down the basement door in his haste. "Get down!"

The youth tackles his foster-brother to the ground just as the lights crackle out, leaving them in complete darkness. His breath is quick, almost nonexistent as he covers the boy's head. The skin on his back tingles like lightning with the display of magic, raising the hair on his head to a crow's nest.

"He's in the house," he whispers, holding a hand over the shell-shocked boy's mouth. "Came from the sewers."

"And you didn't try to stop him?!" Stricklander snaps quietly, hands firmly gripping the crossbow in his grasp.

"I'm not exactly armed!" he hisses, rolling off Jim.

"You're the damned druid!"

"Oh, for Dreya's sake!" Esmerion cries, a small flare of bronze flaring in his eyes. "Shut up an' focus!"

The Trollhunter glances between them, feeling both confused and betrayed, while he forgets the other in the room. He wants to know why. Why the two are bickering like they know each other through a professional environment. Sure, he knows that they were close during school hours, but this is an entirely different setting.

His foster-brother suddenly whips around to face him, eyes wider than saucers. "Jim!"

The boy spins on a dime, and narrowly dodges a blast of purple magic.

"Pay attention, lad!" he scolds, helping up the woman beside him. "We 'ave no time for this."

"Tyler?" Barbara mutters in question, panic evident on her features. "What are you—?"

"A question for another time, I might think," Strickler takes her arm carefully and pulls her behind an upturned table.

A low growl leaves the youth, animalistic in nature and unnatural. His pupils seem to narrow into slits, taking in each detail of the shadows. He knows that the assassin is taunting him, mocking his ability, and he won't stand for it.

"For the glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command," Jim commands softly, his body becoming briefly encased by wisps blue light.

"Jim, you're glowing! H-how are you glowing?" his mother asks urgently, eyes wide with panic.

"It's armour, Mom," he assures, pulling Daylight off his back. "It comes with the job."

"Does tickin' off yer enemies come with it too?"

"What?" Jim glares shortly at his foster-brother.

"Nothin'," he quips, turning his back to the Trollhunter's.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" His sword flashes dimly as he waves it cautiously in the air in front of him. "Like how you're suddenly real chummy with Strickler?"

The youth snarls quietly, his fingers curling into claws. Shades of amber in his eyes shift into something warm, glowing softly in the pitch black shadows.

"It can wait," he decides firmly.

The air smells wrong, almost like dense fog in a dark corner of the woods. It makes his fingers twitch and his gut unsettled by how he cannot sense his opponent. Anything that stands against is fair game, and it is not a game he wishes to partake in.

A sharp yelp echoes shrilly in the air as the youth is thrown into the wall, his bones cracking from the impact. Jim barely has time to raise his sword before he's met by the short blade of Angor Rot. His arms tremble with exertion, trying desperately to force back the poisoned blade.

"Tyler!" Barbara cries, trying to reach for the fallen youth, only to be pulled back by Strickler.

"You did not run, brave hunter," the assassin taunts with a voice alike to gravel. "But the brave are the first to die."

"Go! Go!" the Trollhunter orders the two behind him with a sharp breath, eyes narrowing one the stony face of his opponent. "Get her out of here!"

The woman cries out in protest as the Changeling drags her away, trying desperately to reach her two boys. When that doesn't work, she resorts to feebly stamping her heel on the man's feet. But he can't let her be harmed.

A roar of fury makes Jim's grip falter, and the poisoned blade tip slides closer to his chest. The person it belongs to slams into the stone body of the Troll, knocking him backwards several feet. They carry no weapon but their own brute strength, and they wrestle determinedly against the assassin.

"Tyler?" He nearly stops short at the recognition of the male. 

The youth grunts as his grip on the Troll's arm slips, making it harder for him to attempt to pin him down. "Don't just stand there!"

Jim jumps into action immediately, snapping from his stupor with great haste, and swings down his blade at the occupied assassin. He had been hoping to at least maim Angor Rot in his blow. Not at all for the skilled male to catch it in his free hand.

Something cracks hollowly, and his foster-brother curses foully, snapping his jaw shut to prevent a scream from escaping. One of his wrists has broken, and the distraction allows the Troll the opportunity to arise from under his force.

A blade falls toward him, and Jim drops beneath it, dashing to the side to avoid being hit. He wishes to come out of this unscathed, not a statue of stone.

"Sìol!" Esmerion kicks at the assassin's wrist, trying to knock one of the daggers from his hand.

He misses, and consequently scrambles back to dodge being gutted. It comes down at him again, forcing him to roll aside where he jumps to his feet. What he won't give for a weapon of sorts.

Iron flashes in the corner of his eye and he leans back swiftly, inhaling sharply at the sight of the gleaming weapon wedged in the wall. It practically glows with magic force, a promise of an unpleasant death awaiting at the slightest touch of the sharpened edge. This isn't what he meant.

Unable to touch iron, and backed into a corner, the youth snarls at the advancing foe, warning against another step. With that going ignored, he crouches low to the ground, ready to spring up with as much force as necessary. Another snarl leaves him, canines bared as his lips curl in hatred for the Troll.

"How low you've become, Esmerion," Angor Rot growls, a cruel smirk on his lips. "I recall when you would have called this savagery."

A low, resonant note forms on the youth's tongue as his eyes narrow at the approaching Troll. "Yer confusin' me with me brother, bhiast."

"Vaša smrť nebude rýchla ani príjemná. Budem mať veľkú radosť pri vyrezávaní vášho srdca," the assassin promises, ripping his blade of iron from the wall. "Meet your end, Skvelé Drak."

Esmerion cries out for the glory of battle, leaping forward without a second thought. He collides with the Troll with as much force as he can muster and he swears he can taste the poison on his tongue. Though prepared for the blow, they're knocked off balance, and the youth uses it to his advantage.

He beats his fists against Angor Rot's head as he kicks at his arms to delay an attack, completely disregarding his snapped bones. It topples them, and he jumps from the Troll's shoulders and lands with a roll on the hardwood. He slides to Jim's side, who grips the previously abandoned crossbow in his hands.

Without so much as a word, Jim pulls the trigger and the arrow flies toward the Troll, targeted at his chest. He fails to even flinch and catches the projectile in his hand with a smirk.

"You have to be faster than that," he remarks tauntingly.

Esmerion raises a brow in question, watching the knives in the kitchen start to rattle. They fly through the island opening toward the assassin, pinning him to the wall. Chunks of drywall rain over them and the boys shield themselves as the fridge crashes through the wall. One should never speak so soon.

"Jim!" he warns the relaxing Trollhunter. Angor Rot doesn't seem to enjoy such tricks.

The boy cries out in slight panic and scrambles up, pulling his foster-brother with him. He slashes out with Daylight, trying to catch the assassin in a small moment of vulnerability. He's met with the sound of clashing steel.

A feral grin spreads across the male's features, growing with every step he gains on the inexperienced child. He knows that he's won this fight, that this whelp will lay on the floor with his intestines spilling out on to the wood.

Then another force joins the first, and the youthful male is aiding the younger, his hands firmly on the dull of the blade. They're evenly matched against the other.

A low growl resonates from Esmerion's throat and his eye twitches slightly. Then, with a shout, he heaves the sword forward and risks his hands to disarm the Troll. The poisoned blade makes a 'thunk' as it embeds itself in the ceiling.

Jim thrusts forward with Daylight, only to find himself yanked back just as the blade disappears in a cloud of yellow smoke. The sword reappears in their opponent's hands, revealing the sharp smirk on the Troll's lips.

"Well, wouldn't that 'ave been wonderful to know," the youth growls in frustration.

"Yeah, well, you were supposed be at Shannon's for the night," Jim comments dryly.

"Clearly, that was a lie."

"No kidding!" He shouts in annoyance, dropping to the floor to avoid being skewered by his own blade.

Esmerion snorts, snatching the tall lamp from the corner of the room. He adjusts his grip on it and observes for a moment as Jim pulls two small blades from his thigh guards. The boy is stuck in a definite losing battle, trembling against the weight of his own weapon. Time to intervene.

He opts to make no sound, and raises the metal pole above his head. His feet tread lightly as he makes his approach, well within the blind spot of the Troll. And he swings downward. Hard.

Imagine his surprise when the pole bends on the Troll's head, doing absolutely nothing but ticking off his enemy.

"Marvelous," he comments.

A tendril of purple magic throws him into the drywall. His spine makes a splendorous 'crack' as the wind rushes from his lungs.

Jim cries out in a panic, seeing his foster-brother go limp in the clutches of Angor Rot's magic. He swings his blades up to deflect an attack and starts toward the youth with an air of determination. But cockiness gets you killed.

A hard kick lands itself in his gut, and he crashes into the wall alongside his friend. The impact shatters his focus and his blades disappear with a puff of pale light. Dark swirls of magic curl around his limbs and he's lifted into the air, dragged close to the assassin's face.

"Such a shame," he purrs mockingly. "You would have made a fine addition to the Pale Lady's forces."

A sharp inhalation of air echoes in the deadly quiet room, and Jim grows aware of his foster-brother's horrified gaze.

"Ticho!" Angor Rot commands, and the youth snaps his mouth shut.

Jim squirms desperately against the magical force holding him in place. He knows it's no use. But he'll die before he gives up.

Then he roars as a rain of blades ricochet off his shoulder, knocking him away from the boys. His attention is drawn away and his hold on his magic slips, allowing the two young males to escape his clutches.

Esmerion grunts as he lands, finding quick balance on his two feet before launching himself up to stand beside his allies. A maddened grin finds a place on his lips at the sight of the Changeling's true form and he snarls lowly in greeting. It's been far too long since he's had to actually fight for his life.

"Let's put down this mad dog!" Stricklander calls out to the two boys, who respond with equal expressions determination.

The youth flashes him a sharp smirk, eyes glowing dimly in the darkness before he barrels straight into the Troll without so much as a warning. There's only one goal in his mind. Buy time.

He grips the assassin's sword-arm in his uninjured hand, holding it as high as he can reach as his broken hand interlocks with his foe's. Despite his significantly smaller size, he holds up as an equal, wrestling to push him back into the corner. 

Hatred blazes within his eyes, glowing brighter with every passing moment. A roar of battle rattles his vocal cords and he slams the Troll into the wall. Drywall rains over the both of them and he grins at the sound of his allies making their 'escape' up the stairs.

"Only one of us will come out of this, uncrippled," he snarls in promise. "I cannot say who it will be."

Angor Rot glares back, twisting his hand to deter the lad. There's a definite 'snap' and 'pop', and Esmerion can't help but release a small cry of pain. But he doesn't falter. Not once.

"I can," the Troll sneers, picking up the youth with little effort. "It will not be me."

He tosses his opponent aside as though he is nothing more than a mere doll, watching with satisfaction as he sets off a trap and a bookshelf topples over on top of him. Nothing but a hand is visible, a bruised and bloody one at that.

Now to seek out his prize.

Esmerion sways between consciousness and unwarranted slumber. His head feels beyond heavy, and the possibility of a concussion fleetingly passes through his mind. At least he can think straight. That's about it on his list of positives, though.

A scream from upstairs startles him into jolting, an action he sincerely regrets as it brings him immense pain. A gurgled cry of his own leaves his split lips, blood dribbling down from the small wound. 

But he can't let anything happen to them. Not to his family. Not this time.

He heaves upward, paying little mind to his disfigured arm. His spine cracks and his head woozes from the movement, and yet he keeps going. He refuses to be downed by a piece of furniture.

With all his might, he knocks the bookshelf back, ignoring it as something shatters. He's hard set in his determination, and he barely notices the massive black and blue bruises entwining up his limb. It takes the concerned call of his foster-brother to gain his full attention, and even then, it's waning.

"Where's Draal?"

Jim gestures vaguely up the stairs as he half carries his mother out towards the car. 

Esmerion curses beneath his breath and stands aside as his mentor limps from the house. They need to get going. Now.

"Tyler," Jim calls, trying to get the youth in the vehicle as the adults climb in.

He shakes his head, lifting his eyes to the upstairs window of Jim's room. He can visibly see Draal holding back the assassin with his horns. "Ye get goin'. I'll keep up."

"What?" the boy asks, terrified of leaving the youth behind. "We're not doing that."

"Take 'em to Trollmarket," he commands, shooting a stern glare at his former teacher. "Make sure they get there, Stricklander."

The elder nods firmly, slamming his door shut and starting the ignition. He ignores the desperate protests of the Trollhunter in the back. 

Esmerion gives Jim an apologetic look, however brief it may have been, and smiles. It's sincere and he's truly sorry for raising such distress. But only he can do this.

He rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck, bouncing on his toes for a moment. It's essential that he gets moving soon. Maybe he should have joined the Track and Field team.

Something in the house shatters, and he starts forward. His feet race across the tarmac with little issue, growing faster with each passing second. He can't leave them to defend themselves. No, he's going to stand as their shield.

Sweat gleams on his brow as he pushes onward, striving with each step that he go harder. Faster. He cannot pause to think of the times he did this as a lad, chasing after others. He cannot allow his mind to linger on such trivial things.

The car bumper grows closer, and soon he's keeping pace, eyes narrowed on the road in front of him. He doesn't dare spare a glance at Barbara inside. He already knows what awaits her if they cannot make it.

A blast of blazing magic nips his heels and he barely manages to avoid going flying. Damn it all. Of course the puppet's following in pursuit.

He grits his teeth and leaps onto the car trunk, gripping as tight as he dares. A feral expression controls his features, and as another blast propels toward them, he cups it, snatching it right of the air before sending it flying back at its master.

Blast after blast finds a target of the youth, and blast after blast fails to touch him. He controls it all with a single wave of his hand and the soft glow of his eyes.

"Take the way through the woods!" He calls back to Stricklander, who balks at the suggestion. "It'll be quick!"

Somehow—and with a bit of a miracle—the youth stays on the car, and only ducks to avoid the branches flying over his head. His grip remains tight enough to dent the metal, and yet he doesn't care. He can't see Angor Rot, and it makes him uneasy.

His discomfort is reasonable.

He cries out in surprise as he's tackled off the vehicle, flying out of the woods and falling to the concrete bottom of the canal. More than his skull cracks against the stone and it seems as though his ribs have given up on him, as they flare in agony and snap clearly.

Esmerion roars in pain and tumbles across the concrete, rolling unwillingly beneath the bridge. He can hardly move now, and black dances across his vision, mocking him for his weakness.

"Humans are so fragile," Angor Rot growls with pleasure. "You are weak, Skvelé Drak."

The youth lets loose a whimpering snarl, pathetic in menacing tone. He will not stand for this, though he has little choice.

His senses tingle dully, and he rolls his head to view the towering Troll. Smoke of indigo shades twists around his body, encircling his hands with spheres of deadly power. The sight alone would make any sane person quiver in their boots.

But he hasn't been properly sane for centuries.

With a scream worthy of a Valkyrie, he pulls himself up to his feet and tackles the assassin. His hands scramble for a grip and he proudly headbutts Angor Rot hard enough to make him stumble.

The Troll's own hands press against the youth's chest with a yell, pulsing bright colours into his system. They both alight like a firework, draining each other of forces not meant to be tampered with. And with one protecting his family and the other seeking revenge, neither care enough to scream.

He's vaguely aware of the smell of burning rubber and the sound of an engine, but Esmerion snarls viciously. Animalistic-like behaviour is taking over and he's just running on instinct and forcefully fed power. He cares little for the approach of the vehicle. Just buying more time.

A particularly strengthened pulse shoots up his spine and his body curls back, straining to keep his muscles taut. It gives Angor the chance to kick off the youth and regain a bit of his own strength.

Esmerion stumbles back, knowing full well that the canal wall is behind him. Knowing that the doorway is shut. There is no escape for him.

"Vaše črevá sa vyliajú na tento kameň a vrany vyčistia vaše jatočné telo," the Troll snarls loathfully. "Budú počuť vaše výkriky."

"Cha bhithinn a 'cunntadh air," the youth huffs, clutching his arm to his gut. And he runs.

And the doorway opens without command.

That was a bloody long chapter! Whoo!

Enjoy your endless theories!