"We all have our conflicts; whether it be internal or external. Oftentimes it is both."

"Master Esmerion!"

The youth spins to face the voice and his eyes widen comically. A short yelp of surprise looses from his lips and he jolts backward as a staff fires past his head and lodges in the Heartstone.

He stares at the distinct markings engraved along the staff in silent horror, but walks up to it nonetheless and pulls it from the crystal with a shaky hand. A shudder of chill runs up his arm, freezing his veins with darkness and settling within his beating heart. And while he ignores this, he can't help but feel relieved by the page of paper pinned to the tip of the staff.

"It's the incantation," he breathes, eyes skimming down the ink lettering. Then he stops breathing altogether, but there's a glimmer of praise in his eyes. "But there's a wee issue."

"What kind of issue?" Jim questions, trying to take the page from his brother's hand.

Esmerion lifts it from his reach and shakes his head slowly, gaze coming to rest on Barbara's near unconscious figure. "Breakin' the curse is gonna cause our dear doctor to lose some of her memories. More specifically, the ones of magic."

"So she won't remember any of this," Jim sighs with defeat, searching his brother for any trace of a lie. Finding none, he slumps, wandering over to his mother's side. 

"'Fraid not," he admits, handing the page to Vendel. 

"What are you saying?" Barbara starts with concern. "I'm gonna forget Trollmarket? That Jim's a Trollhunter and Tyler has magic?"

The youth flinches slightly. Right, he hadn't told her his real name. 

"I'll leave you with a moment of privacy," Vendel says carefully, choosing to lead Blinkous and Stricklander from the chamber. "Then, we should enact the conjuration."

"Agreed," Esmerion straightens, grimacing at the thought of the inevitable conversation.

Vendel does not spare him a hint of sympathy, finding it better to instead judge the youth's actions. He is unsure how to handle his appearance and nature, and acts as such to ensure the safest possible choices are made. It is better to be cautious and wrong, than to be reckless and at threat.

"Guess we're  gonna have to start this conversation again, huh?" Jim jokes, smiling weakly at his mother.

"Listen to me, Jim," Barbara starts, eyeing him and his brother, "Tyler. Promise me that we will, okay? It took all this for you to tell me about...your other life."

The boy turns to his foster-brother, pleading silently that he helps. It doesn't sway the lad into coming over but he offers a minuscule smile.

"I...I just didn't want to worry you," he decides. "And I know I have."

"Yes, yes, you have," she agrees with him, cupping his cheek with her hand. He leans into her touch. "I am worried. I'm scared but listen to me. It's my job to worry. And it's not your job to protect me. I want you to know something. Even before you found your amulet—way before all this—you were always my hero. My beautiful boy."

Esmerion looks away. There's a frown on his lips and hurt glimmering in his eyes. It's not her fault, no. But he misses that treatment. The way his own mother bore her love on to him and his siblings. He wants...

"I love you, Mom," Jim murmurs and the youth feels his heart plummet.

"Tyler." The young woman doesn't receive a verbal response, just a jerky motion of acknowledgement. "You might not be my son, but I treat you no different than Jim. I want you to promise me the same. You are greater than you realise and I want you to tell me so I can help you. It is my job to care for you more than it is yours to care for me."

He looks at her with sorrow, head bowed in respect or shame—it is unclear. His jaw drops open to speak but his tongue fumbles for the correct words, flicking his teeth in confusion. Eventually, he closes his mouth and looks away, eyes shining with unshed tears of guilt. His knuckles grow white as his fists tighten and he bites his lip harshly.

Barbara sighs weakly, knowing full well that she isn't going to receive an answer—let alone a promise. But it's his choice, and he'll come to her when he needs to.

Esmerion shakes his head sharply, gritting his teeth as he chooses to walk out of the chamber without so much as a word to either person. He brushes past Vendel and Stricklander, and while they briefly spare him a glance, he does not grace them with anything of the likes. 

By the time he's wandered far enough through the caverns to encounter Draal, his magic is vibrating in the air around him, violent enough that it makes the warrior step back. He wants no-one near him—no-one can understand his predicament nor his situation. Hell, his brother wouldn't have been able to understand.

Draal, to his credit, follows the youth with diligence, though he continuously mutters absolute nonsense to himself. But he keeps his distance, wary of what he cannot comprehend. It is only that single factor that keeps him truly safe from the increasing force of conflicted power.

The youth stumbles along the stone wall, eyes going in and out of focus between the shades of orchre and sickly yellow swirling around his head in broken patterns. He's slipping on his hold and he can only just grasp on to the thought. The need to disappear fills his entire being with chill.

"Efail yr Arwyr," Draal suggests softly, guiding his companion with the light of his yellow eyes.

He bobs his head in a repetitive motion as he shudders uncontrollably. Vendel must have begun the conjuration. The foreign magic within him rebukes the shattering incantation. 

It is with great difficulty that he follows Draal, refusing the Troll the permission to come any closer than he is. He does not wish to lose the last constant in his life. Any contact with the spinning sphere growing around him will undoubtedly end in disaster.

The blue warrior grows increasingly wary as they wander across the narrow bridge, knowing that—without a doubt—he will catch Esmerion if he is to fall. But he will keep a cautious distance from the youth, on the edge of the pulsating magic.

Esmerion collapses suddenly, not weakened but filled with the intense force of two conflicting magics as yellow clouds his vision. He cries out softly, warning against contact and encounter as the foreign power shreds his own will.

Draal stands aside, hovering beside the archway as he watches with wide eyes. He knows what happens in situations such as this one—he's seen it before. There is nothing that he can do except wait for the stress factor to die down. He does not wait patiently, however.

The youth's cry becomes a plea, a desperate and broken tune that echoes between the frozen Trollhunters above. It wraps around the stilled hearts of those that watch in silence, nagging at them to stop this endless torment. They can do nothing but watch.

He suddenly screams and the dust in the arena swirls around him, repelled by the lashing strength of ancient and foreign sorcery. The yellow tendrils twist like smoke, overpowering the earthly shades of the youth's raw strength, curling in the air as it aggressively rips from his body.

Esmerion can see all of what he's done flashing in the reflection of his eyes; every kind word, each blessing delivered, small actions, gentle displays of affection; every curse borne of his lips, each snarl of cruelty, swinging blades, spilt blood. He hates all he knows, he hates himself for the past. But not a moment would he change.

A bloodcurdling cry tears from his throat and he falls limp, the yellow cloud dispersing from the Hero's Forge. Tears slip down his cheeks without his awareness, wetting the barren stone beneath his head. Exhaustion claims him and all he wishes for is to curl into warmth and comfort. He cannot hold himself forever.

So, when a pair of stone arms lift his body, he leans into to the chest of the Troll and savours the physical touch. The presence calms him, offering what he desires. While he wants safety, he needs peace—something he cannot provide on his own. Even the strongest begin to crumble when they have little support.

The next chapter or two should be the last of this season—quite possibly the last of this book. I'm thinking of splitting this story in to three books, one for each season. But I don't know just yet. Feel free to give your opinions.