"Darkness is not rising, for it has already come."

His eyes flutter open, blinking away the bleariness in them. What he does not expect to see is a pale white Troll with eyes like clouds staring down at him.

Startled, Esmerion yelps and jolts backward, falling off whatever kind of platform he had been on. Another cry wheezes from his chest, this time it being one of pain as the Troll observes with mild amusement and considerate disapproval.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The youth mumbles some particularly nasty expletives under his breath as he sits up on the floor. It takes a few seconds for him to recognise that he is in fact topless and that his injuries are wrapped in bandages. His left arm—why always the left?—dons a skillfully made splint constructed of fresh bandage and firm sticks. He smells like a herb garden.

"I'll keep that in mind," he mutters to himself, completely ignoring the presence of the elder Troll.

"You have been here for less than four hours and so far you've broken through the barrier without a Horngazel, started a riot, and completely flattened half of Trollmarket!" The voice of the elder accuses sternly, slamming the bottom of his glowing staff on the stone. He narrows his eyes at the unfazed youth, frowning to himself. "Who are you?"

Esmerion gazes at him dully, now standing with little issue. He carefully unwraps the white bandage from around his broken arm, judging the stranger with caution. "Someone who's been forgotten."

The Troll snorts, pacing around the stone table with an air of purpose. "Whoever you are, I demand that you stop undoing my hard work."

He raises a brow but doesn't cease his motion, and places the sticks on the side in a neat row. "Me apologies, but there is no need for it now that I'm up."

He winces at the sight of his arm, entirely purple with black splotches staining his elbow and wrist. However, he finishes his job of rolling up the bandage and puts it down beside the sticks. Then he delicately traces the fingers of his uninjured hand over the bruised limb, muttering softly.

The Troll's eyes widen, looking taken aback and alarmed by this display. Ochre blossoms from the youth's fingertips and he watches in fascination as it swirls over his injury. Hollow cracks echo in the warmly lit cavern, the sound of bones snapping back into place.

The youth flexes his fingers slowly, turning his hand over with caution. Sure, he winces as it disrupts his bruises, but he can move it freely. A fantastic start.

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank the Triple Goddess. I wasn't sure that was gonna work."

"You're—" the elder takes a small moment to regain himself, "—not a Changeling."

Esmerion snorts, jerking his head in a way the suggests offence. "'Ad I been a Changeling, that outburst woulda killed me."

He hums scornfully, rusted gears turning in his head. There's something familiar about the lad's attitude. Something he hasn't seen for many years.

"Now," the youth begins wrapping up his arm once again. "Tell me, Vendel, where is the Trollhunter?"

The Troll definitely stops short, eyes narrowing at this limp excuse for a flesh bag. "And how is it that you know who I am?"

Esmerion freezes, realising his mistake. He wants to curse himself out for his own stupidity. "Sèid mi gu ifrinn..."

To his absurdly good fortune, someone takes the opportunity to walk in at that exact moment. Although that fortune wavers when he recognises the person as James Lake Junior, who, despite his obvious relief at the sight of his foster-brother standing on his feet, bares a troubled expression of caution and suspicion.

"Ah, hullo, Jim," the youth greets somewhat hurriedly, more than happy to avoid the topic of his knowledge.

He receives no response.

"Jim?" he questions quietly and he immediately notices that something's off. The boy has exceedingly dark rings beneath his eyes and a permanent scowl creases his brows. He holds an unreasonably tight grip on the hilt of his sword, though he has not removed it from its sheath.

"How many?"

Esmerion blinks, tilting his head as he comprehends the question. "I do not understand."

"How many lies have you told me?" he spits, briefly glancing at Vendel before focusing back on his target. 

The youth remains silent, returning his attention to re-wrapping his injury. He does not look up as the Trollhunter steps ever closer, nor does he halt in his motion when the sound of grating metal grinds in his ears.

"How many?!" Jim cries, pointing the tip of Daylight at his friend, tears welling in his eyes.

"Two," he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides as he lifts his head to meet the eyes of his trusted companion.

The Trollhunter falters slightly and disbelief crosses his features. He doesn't trust the boy he has come to love. "Why?"

Again, the youth sighs, leaning against the stone examination table. There's apology in his warm eyes. "Because I want ye safe. An' keeping secrets is easier than telling false tales to yer loved ones."

"What secrets?" Jim presses, tilting the sword closer to his bandaged chest. "Why have you kept so many? Who are you really, if not my brother?"

His expression hardens and he moves the sword tip aside with the back of his hand. "Enough with this foolishness, James Lake!"

He swipes Daylight back up in an instant, only this time the cold metal touches the soft skin of his unprotected throat. But it doesn't draw blood.

"It won't let ye do that," he claims with a tone equal to steel. "Ye may try all ye like, but it's not gonna comply to ye."

"How do you mean?"

Esmerion's eyes flare with delicate light as he slips his uninjured hand down the edge of the blade. Not a scratch is made in his flesh.

"Enchantments are powerful thin's," he says softly, lifting the sword away from his self. "Secrets are kept as they are through silence, me friend. I keep 'em to protect others an' meself."

Jim stands in confusion, rooted to the spot by an emotion he cannot trace. But he turns to face the youth as he steps out from behind the table and gracefully paces the floor. His tears might as well be pools in his eyes, formed by feelings of broken trust and betrayal that now cloud his mind.

"I 'ave only lied to ye twice since I met ye, Jim." He regards the boy with a gentle tone. "An' only in the past week."

"What's the truth, then?" Jim demands, though the quake in his voice gives away his steadiness.

The youth pauses, fiddling with the ring on his finger. "I... am not Tyler Reynolds, and I remember everything."

Things are gonna start changing soon, so do your best to keep up!