"Memories serve better than stray thought."

Draal hadn't told anyone about his encounter with the boy.

To be honest, it seemed like a bad idea and he had passed out before they could discuss the matter. It didn't feel right to betray his trust like that.

Apparently the boy is calling himself Tyler, at least according to the Trollhunter. How odd it feels to wrap his tongue around the word after knowing his true title for centuries. Nevertheless, he keeps it to himself, trusting the human to refrain from mentioning it.

But every night, usually in the early hours of the morning when he returns to the Trollhunter's house, Esmerion wanders into the basement with a blanket around his shoulders and sits in the presence of the Troll. No words pass between them, at least not ones of typical conversation.

"Go on, another."

Draal snorts, shaking his head with irritation. "No! You will get it."

The boyish features of the lad scrunch up as he laughs, baring his teeth in a display of mirth. His ancient eyes glint with mischief, sparkling just as they did all those years ago.

"Just one more, clach-theine," he insists, pulling his blanket up to cover his bare arms. "I 'ave to leave so soon."

The warrior looks down at him in disappointment. He had been hoping to spend a few more days with him. But all good things must come to an end, he supposes.

"I will still see ye in the mornin'," he smiles warmly, though it seems more forced than usual. "Just not throughout the day."

Silence settles between them, a warm but awkward atmosphere hovering around their heads. It's full of interrupted peace and broken bonds, something that neither wished to happen but time inflicted anyways.

"It brings back the lost as though never gone, shines laughter and tears with light long since shone; a moment to make, a lifetime to shed; valued then but lost when one is met with final end."

"Hmm?" the boy hums, looking up at the Troll from his position between his arms.

"Your riddle." Is the response he receives, though soft in tone.

He makes a gentle motion of understanding, bringing his gaze down to the warrior's metal arm. It angers him to know that Bular had taken his arm in their battle, but he knows that it could have been significantly worse. At least the male escaped with his life intact.

A gentle nudge makes him chuckle and he swats away the eager Troll with a hand, earning himself a huff of warm air. "Patience, clach-theine. I haven't started yet."

"Good." Another huff of air and an affectionate nuzzle.

The boy smiles, tracing a runic symbol on his stony skin. This is how he thinks, distracting his hands as his mind thinks.

Then he stops, his smile faltering slightly as he stares at the furnace coals. He knows the answer. But why must it be the answer to this riddle?

"A memory," he says softly, flinching a little at the word. "It's a memory."

He receives a faint hum of approval and a shifting of the Troll behind him. "It hurts."

"I know."

"I dislike that you remember so little while I am allowed to keep my memories."

"I know."

"It's painful to know-"

"I'm sorry."

《《》》

Stricklander was unsettled. He is unsettled.

All day, his student, Tyler Reynolds, has refused to even look his way. And now, during his last teaching period, the boy is glaring at him. It's a predatory gaze burning with hatred and pride. It's the look a cat gives a mouse when it finally corners the prey.

He has an awful feeling that he's the mouse.

Even so, he does his best to keep his wits about him. Especially knowing of who the boy truly is.

It doesn't come as a surprise when the boy stays behind after class, it's a routine he's quite easily come accustomed to. Typically a casual meeting and discussion ensues while he organises lesson plans.

Only, that doesn't seem to be the case this time around.

He turns around and starts. The boy is no longer sitting, but instead standing only a foot or two away. His fists are curled and tense, turning the knuckles a stark white. He looks feral, amber eyes blazing furiously like molten metal.

The man falters, trying to form the words, "T-Tyler. Are you quite all right?"

A growl leaves the youth's lips and that's the only warning he receives. His head slams against the brick as he's thrown into the wall. Hands tightly grasp his collar, near ripping it as they pull him off the floor.

"I don't know ye, or yer game, but I know yer kind," he snarls, and Strickler swears his eyes glow. "Changeling."

The impure stays silent, struggling to understand what has happened. How he has come to recall his lost memories.

"H-how?" It's all he asks, anything more might sever the thin patience of the boy.

He chuckles darkly. "Through the centuries, yer scent remains the same."

"So you know, then," Strickler grins cruelly, playing off his fear.

"I've always known," he hisses, spit foaming at his lips. "It was just a matter of returning to meself."

"And Jim?" Interesting, the boy's gaze flickers.

"Enough of yer yabberin'!" he roars, throwing the Changeling back against the stone wall. "I know ill-intent when I see it."

"Do you?" the man sneers, though he recoils as the youth hits the stone beside his head with enough force to crack it.

"I 'ave seen enough blood spilt to last a hundred lifetimes, Changeling. I will not stand for any more!" his voice is animalistic, low and challenging.

"I thought your kind were forbidden from interfering." A cruel mention, he knows, but a clever play.

"When we were many, yes," the boy snaps, his pearly white teeth seeming sharper than before. "Currently, I don't concern meself with such trivial matters."

"A shame, really." He stiffens at his mentor's words, his features twisting with a sort of understanding. "For if you did, you would have noticed my own little interference."

He stares at him in horror, eyes wide as the fury dissolves. There's no mistaking his shock. This was not meant to happen.

"Ye sniveling snake!" The youth cries, dropping the teacher instantly as he steps back. "What the hell gave ye the idea that would result in yer advantage?!"

He runs his hands through his hair as stares at the Changeling. The bastard's gone and tied his fate to Barbara's. Like that's going to end any better than rebuilding Killahead.

"That was a terrible bloody idea if I've ever seen one," he hisses, his heated glare returning.

Strickler holds his cocky demeanour, but the small flash of regret in his eyes gives him away. He's speaking to one of the great, someone familiar with many spells and enchantments. If this lad thinks it was a mistake, it quite likely was.

"Muninn," he commands, and the young raven hops onto his outstretched arm. "I have a proposition."

The Changeling grins, his ambition letting slip his glowing eyes. "Do go on."

He growls lowly to himself and shares an apprehensive look with the fledgling on his forearm. "I won't touch ye. But if ye dare to think 'bout hurtin' Jim or Tobias or Claire..." he trails off, watching his mentor's reaction with a silent threat. "I will find a way to gut ye. Barbara will get off scott free while Angor Rot can toy with yer soul."

Something in his voice promises that he isn't bluffing. And something in his eyes gives away how merciless he will be.