"Even after the dam breaks, water continues to run, albeit much slower."

The nightmares got worse.

Great beasts and dark thunderclouds brew in his mind every night. Sometimes they chase him, sometimes they rip him to pieces. Every other night, it's him who's chasing them, ripping them apart with his bare hands once they inevitably end up within his grasp.

Each night he awakes, drenched in his own sweat and gasping for breath that should never have been his. Bandages wrap loosely around his palms, hiding deep crescent-shaped wounds, a result of clenching his fists so tightly. Sometimes he rips through the fabric, fouling his hands and bed-sheets with crimson stains.

While his memories have been returned, his mind has not.

He knows that he is someone far greater than who he outwardly displays, and he wants to learn. His voice sounds older, more refined, and even his thoughts come differently, flowing smoothly and without hesitation. Not a single tremor quakes his hands when he draws and he doesn't turn his head at the sight of gore.

Barbara insists that he stay at home for a few days, giving him time to recover and reflect. He had given them all quite the scare when he was found.

Curled in the far corner of the history classroom with bloodshot eyes and a haunted expression. His shoulders had been shaking so much that he couldn't even keep his head upright. And when one of the investigating firemen tried to pull him up, he got so spooked that he hit them and broke their nose before running into the locker room. It took over an hour to ease him out.

Sometimes, different words and experiences can trigger an episode or memory, and not all of them have been pretty. For example, when Steve shoved him into a locker, a very vivid vision of a man in armour flashed before his eyes and he crumpled to the floor immediately, believing that he had just watched a mace bury itself in his stomach. And upon seeing Jim and Toby pretend to sword fight with chopsticks, blood and gore filled his sight, bodies falling limp as he ran them through with his own blade.

A demanding croak eases him from his thoughts and he smiles softly at the raven fledgling, finding amusement in the pouting expression delivered his way. Muninn has grown quite rapidly in the few days they've been together, having nearly lost all of his chick fluff and gained roughly a hundred grams. That being said, he definitely acts like a toddler sometimes.

"I take it yer hungry, hm?" he chuckles quietly, climbing out of bed to grab his gloves. "Just give me a minute, young one."

Forever impatient, and forgetting of his injuries, the young raven hops on the boy's arm as he passes. He wobbles his way up to his caretaker's shoulder, using his beak to nip his gold earring. 

"Calm down, would ye?" Tyler plucks the bird off his shoulder and gives him a mildly scolding look.

Muninn croaks mockingly.

"Honestly," he shakes his head, deciding to just forgo the gloves and directly hand-feed mealworms instead. 

To his relief, the fledgling gobbles down a large handful of the insects. But he decides to regurgitate a wet mush of larvae onto the boy's desk. He looks at him expectantly.

Tyler blinks, eyes darting between the two. Then he understands and resists a grimace. "No. I'm not eatin' that. I can't eat that."

Muninn croons, bobbing his head in outrage.

"Tha thu nad cheann beag càl, tha fios agad?" he points his finger at the raven, of which earns him a peck. "I'm not eatin' yer vomit, Muninn."

The young raven huffs, fluffing his feathers indignantly. He turns his beak up and away from the caretaker, refusing to look at him.

"Ye big baby," he chuckles, softly petting his head feathers. 

His reply is protesting squawk.

Tyler hums to himself, putting away the mealworms in their rightful drawer and cleaning up the insect mush with a piece of paper towel. He grabs his empty water glass from his bedside and chucks the paper in the bin, intending on coming back up to retrieve it later.

"Don't ruin anythin'," he commands the raven, whom ignores him. After giving him a suspicious glare, he turns around and walks out of his room, a blanket around his shoulders.

He refuses to think of the past few days, blatantly ignoring the thoughts that might give him the answers to all of his questions. The last time he had allowed that, he had ended up being haunted by screaming people and a thunderous curse. No, he doesn't want to see that again.

Something in the kitchen clatters and Tyler frowns. Didn't Barbara have to head out early? And Jim's at school...

The glass in his hand shatters on the hardwood floor, scattering shards of glass around his bare feet. The thing in the fridge stiffens.

"Dè fo Shealbh," he says, eyeing the blue lump with caution. "Dè tha an fìor irinn."

The creature, or whatever it is, slowly retracts its head from the interior of the fridge. Its horns are huge, and it takes great care to ensure that it does not knock anything over. Yellow eyes that should belong to a monster are wide with horror, its gaze slowly travelling over to the boy.

Yellow entraps amber, and Tyler finds himself floored. Those eyes... He now knows those eyes.

"Draal?!" he gapes, frantically examining the male for some sort of trick. "By the Triple Goddess..."

The Troll appears to be equally as surprised, looking more like a statue than a living being. His fingers curl into weak fists while he tries to grasp who he's seeing.

"Dè an ifrinn a rinn thu?!" the boy takes a few steps forward, pure fury in his eyes as he sees the male's metal arm. "Cò a rinn seo dhut?"

The warrior swallows slowly, bending down to catch the familiar scent of the boy who disappeared. A huff of warm air ruffles his hair and the Troll grunts in quiet approval, unsure of how to react.

"Esmerion?" 

Visions flash at full force through the boy's eyes at the name, filling his mind with memories that should be forgotten. His past self slams into his mind from his soul, drawing a pained cry from his lips as the boy in his heart fights against the change. 

He feels so old, so strong. And yet he's never been so vulnerable. The return of himself is conflicting with the person that he's been for these past seven months and it's tearing him apart inside.

He can't see anything other than the blinding visions and he's scared. For the second time in a week, he's scared of himself. He's terrified of what he's done and what he can do. So many lives have been in his hands...

"Esmerion," the gruff, yet easily familiar voice of the young Troll fills his ears and warm arms scoop him off the floor. "You are alive."

The boy whines softly, butting his head against what he hopes is the Troll's chest. "Gu dearbh."

"We," he frowns but carefully makes his way through the house, stepping around the patches of sunlight, "thought you had died."

A quiet chuckle of great power leaves the boy, resonating with both amusement and wisdom. "You should know better than that, my dear clach-theine."

"I never did," the Troll smiles gently at the one in his arms. Time has truly changed the both of them. "I never did, Gweledydd."

And so it begins...