"All it takes is a slight push."

Esmerion curses beneath his ragged breath, his head growing heavy as he stumbles after Jim. He should not be struggling to keep pace with the Trollhunter, he should be miles ahead by now.

Oh, and of course. Jim is Destined to always fall where he shouldn't. Like right now, as he slips on a rock and takes a tumble off the cliff's ledge.

A forgotten curse rolls off the youth's tongue, and he leaps off the platform to join the Trollhunter, digging his fingers into cracks in the stone to slow his descent. He cares little for the shimmering scarlet blood flowing down his arms. 

Before his feet hit the ground, he kicks off the pillar of stone and lands awkwardly beside the Lake boy. He scowls, wrinkling his nose at the Trollhunter as he weakly gets to his feet, groaning in pain.

Jim leans on him for support, and it takes all of his will not to rip his arm from the boy's grip. But he's more occupied by the sight in front of them.

Hundreds of baskets hang from chains, gently rocking as Goblins tend to what lays inside each one, their cooing voices haunting the chilling silence. It's not difficult to recognise what they're looking at. Delighted and sleepy giggles bounce off the cavern walls, ringing in the youth's ears as he observes from afar.

"Oh. Wow. The nursery."

Esmerion shoots the boy a scolding look, on that goes unseen.

"That's a lot of babies," he continues, missing the growl of annoyance from his partner.

Jim stumbles as the youth suddenly springs away from him, leaping in full faith onto the nearest hanging crib. He watches in surprise and a little awe as Esmerion pauses to softly coo at the baby inside, making sure that they don't burst into tears. There's a gentle glow to his eyes, warm with adoration for the child. And then it's gone as he turns away and leaps to the next crib.

"Trollhunter," he calls quietly, his voice low. "Get movin'!"

He turns his head as Jim scrambles to follow suit, grumbling sourly. They shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't be trying to get one child out without rescuing all of the others. Risking not only their lives, but their souls as well for a single child? Not worth it if they cannot bring the others.

"Eloise Stemhower," he hears Jim mutter. "Born eighteen ninety-four. Jeez, what are they feeding you guys?"

"Dark curses," Esmerion answers his question, face dark. "I cannot recognise the specifics, but it is far too strong for a mere child."

Another thought crosses his mind but he does not vocalize it. Where in hell's seven circles are they getting the milk?

His thoughts are interrupted by a small cry and he snaps his attention over to the Trollhunter, panicking in silence as he watches him fumble to place the bottle back in the child's mouth. A happy gurgle leaves the baby when he succeeds and they both let out a breath of relief.

"It's okay..." He searches for the name plaque. "Waltolomew Strickler. You're the real Walter Strickler? You're so small!"

"Trollhunter," the youth calls, hanging precariously from the bottom of a crib. "Now is not the time."

Jim glances at him in confusion, not understanding why he doesn't just use his name. But he nods, and smilingly returns the baby his bottle when he drops it. He then jumps to the next crib, a soft smile still on his lips as he looks down at the plaque.

"Enrique," he pipes softly, wearily looking down at the tiny child. "I know a girl who has been dying to see you."

Esmerion scowls at him as he scoops up the baby and his blankets, feeling his ears twitch ever so slightly at the sound of something foreign. His grip on the hanging chain tightens.

"I'll come back for you," Jim promises. "All of you. I promise."

Esmerion mutters quietly to himself, nimbly swinging over to another cradle without so much as a sound. He forces his limbs to stiffen when a Goblin cries a terrible howl, drawing attention to the now-empty crib. His heart starts to pound.

Then the horrific sound of a bottle hitting the ground echoes through the cavern and hundreds of Goblin heads appear from over top cradles, expressions of fury painting their faces. The youth curses fouler than he would normally dare in front of children as long, green fingers curl around the edge of his resident crib, followed by the ugly face of a nursery Goblin.

It grins for a moment, cruel and snide, only for it to vanish beneath the heeled boot of the youthful warrior. A horrendous sound leaves its vile lips as it topples off the crib, head collapsed inward and half-pulverized.

Clearly, Jim has just dealt with far worse, judging by the empty hanging chain and the prideful look upon his face. However, it falls with the sounds and chantings of hundreds of Goblins crawling down the cavern walls with vengeance in their tiny eyes.

Both males share a curse, the only one that Esmerion finds willing to share, and Jim calls out a frantic warning to his partner. Only it comes a few seconds too late.

"Esmerion!"

The youth cries out in surprise, kicking and biting at the Goblins launching at him. His grip starts slipping and he cries out once more, ripping a Goblin from his back and viciously throwing it at a stone wall. Another replaces its kin, taking to biting into his shoulder where the chain mail falls loose.

Esmerion roars in fury, but nothing can be done. His fingers slip from the chain and he's falling.

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

Into the abyss.

《《》》

His eyes flutter open and the only thing keeping from groaning in pain is the sight of hundreds of sleeping Trolls scattered around the cavern floor. A chill of dread runs down his spine, sending daggers of sharp agony through his bones.

On second glance--though it does not make things better--the youth comes to recognise the sleeping creatures not as Trolls, but as Changelings. Actually, now that he dwells on it, this makes things significantly worse. Changelings have a better sense of smell, better agility, and remarkably better hearing than Trolls. The only thing they lack is the brute strength, but judging by the creaking aches in his bones, that won't make a difference if they awaken.

The softest of hisses leaves his lips as he forces himself onto his elbow. Blood fills his eyes and thickly coats his hands, leaving dark smears across the ground as he shuffles. He releases a harsh breath, silently cursing with every word in every language he knows as violently as he can. Everything appears in groups of twos or threes, fuzzy and spinning in his vision. He wants to vomit. Unfortunately, that won't help him any.

Shakily, he finds his feet, using all of his power to keep from toppling over onto the nearest Changeling. To his luck, he only steps over the slumbering being, narrowly missing their fragile wing. If he could acknowledge it, he would have grimaced at the thought. But this creates another dilemma: the air around him is thick with the scent of freshly spilt blood, and Changelings can catch onto a blood trail like a shark.

His stomach lurches, and Esmerion claps a bloody hand over his mouth, his face having lost all colour. He stumbles backward, back hitting the cavern wall before he manages to turn away and use the wall to guide him. Then he can't hold it anymore and the bile rushes from his mouth, heaving up the half-digested remains of raw egg. It's only the putrid stench of it that convinces him to crawl away, sure that it'll attract unwanted attention.

He doesn't manage a grimace when his hand becomes slick with the insides of his stomach. The youth just drags himself across the cavern in complete agony, lungs unable to draw a single gasp of air. His chain mail tunic digs into the flesh of his belly, drawing small wounds and forming purple bruises with the constant pressure applied. His long nails are broken and bleeding, split and bent, digging into his flesh with every movement. Agony is not a strong enough word for what he feels.

"Who goes?"

Esmerion might have reacted to the voice if he could hear above the retched ringing of his eardrums and desperate pounding of his heart. Perhaps he would have noted the familiar notes, the quiet waver, maybe even the falsity within. Alas, he cannot see, nor can he hear, and that is his downfall.

A chipped and blunt blade tip finds its place at the back of his neck, forcing the youth to freeze at the chilled touch of metal. If this is to be his death, he deserves nothing better than to rot in the place that he fell out of reach. He failed his duty to protect the Trollhunter. That does not mean he wishes to die.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Rendered deaf and partially blind, he doesn't respond. Only grunts when the pressure of a clawed foot is placed on his back.

"I'll ask again: who are you?"

He tries to shake his head, to ease out the awful pitch of constant ringing, but the blade forbids him from free movement. A pained whine of distress leaves his lips and he taps his fingers as well as he can, wanting the offender to allow him to shift.

"Are you deaf?"

His bloodied fingers scrawl messily on the stone, making out symbols that mean nothing more than nonsense. But it gets the Changeling to move. 

"Huh. Perhaps you are."

Esmerion blinks, shaking his heavy head to finally rid himself of the nuisance of deafness. His head pounds and throbs mercilessly, though he can hear at long last. He wipes his eyes with a hand, only to make his blindness worse as he rubs the unsavoury bile of his stomach in them.

"Well, you look a right mess."

He freezes instantly, his joints locking as his mind registers the voice. It's familiar. He hasn't heard that voice for over a thousand years. Not the slight kindly wisp of breath in their words, nor the commanding tone that controls. He hasn't heard the voice of the King for  centuries.

"Arthur," his own voice is small, pathetically weak for who he is. "Arthur Pendragon, Albion's King."

The sound of scurrying footsteps meet his ears, the sign of someone stumbling over themselves in surprise. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't remember his legacy.

"W-why do you call me that," he stutters, not an ounce of cockiness in his breath. "I'm not a king. I've never even left the Darklands. Who are you?"

"I am Esmerion, my li--" he descends into a coughing fit, spitting blood from his throat onto the ground.

"Are-are you all right?" Arthur sounds quiet, soft-spoken. Like a child. "Are you all right, mister?"

After coughing up what may have been half a lung, Esmerion looks up at him, barely making out his figure through the blood and bile. "I 'ave been... better."

"Uh, here." The youth resists a flinch as something rough touches his eye. "I hope it'll help..."

Indeed, Arthur's assistance does help. Tremendously. Even while his eyes burn more than anything, he can actually see.

Before him stands a scrawny Changeling no taller than perhaps Stricklander's middle; the size of a child. It strikes him suddenly, though he had realised it only moments before--Arthur is a boy, a child that wants nothing to do with war. Even with his glowing red eyes and stony green skin, he looks frightened. With a knotted mane of filthy blond hair tangled between his oversized horns, and tiny fangs sticking out from his lower jaw, he almost cowers under the gaze of the youth. It is a horrible realisation, for he knows that the child will have no choice but to partake in bloodbaths.

"'Ow old are ye, Arthur?"

He flinches, eyes flickering nervously. "Don't call me that. Please."

"'Aight," Esmerion says softly. "'Ow old are ye?"

"Fifty?" he mumbles, a scowl on his face as he tries to recall. "I think?"

Fifty, Esmerion dwells on the number. That's an awful lot younger than he was thinking previously. To a Changeling, that's barely the equivalent of nine-years of age. To him, that's far less.

"All right," he decides. "I am over a thousand years. I... wish no 'arm upon ye."

The rebirthed Pendragon looks astounded, big eyes widened in his awe. "That's old."

He offers the child a small smile, but it must've made him look like a monster, as Arthur flinched backward. "I suppose it is."

Arthur cautiously sits down in front of him, setting down his too-big sword on his lap. "Why are you here? In the Darklands?"

Esmerion's little cheer diminishes as his lips fall into a frown. "For my...for a friend."

"Where are they?" the child queries with innocent curiosity but snaps his jaw shut with a glance at his scowl. "Sorry..."

He frowns further, looking up at the boy with interest. "Why do ye apologise? Why so kind?"

Arthur flinches, eyes darting downward to his sword. His falls quiet, fiddling with the cracking leather of the grip, mumbling only on occasion.

"Why?" Esmerion asks softly, teal eyes warming slightly. "Why so different?"

"Why not?" his voice cracks slightly. "We're treated like dirt down here. E-especially if you're stunted."

The youth gives him a soft look of sympathy. He can't exactly relate, but he can remember being treated as lesser for simply being the youngest of his siblings. It's haunting to know that Arthur has grown up so differently to his past self.

He perks suddenly, head tilted and eyes clouded. Arthur flicks one of his long ears in confusion before a look of terror crosses his features as he catches on. The cavern walls are echoing with the sound of footsteps, both thunderous and faint.

Esmerion visibly pales, and fear quite evidently flashes in his eyes. He cannot move, he cannot defend himself. He is utterly helpless, vulnerable to the inevitability of his fate.

Arthur starts trembling, eyes brimmed with small tears as he stays rooted to the spot.

"Go, Arthur!" the youth hisses beneath his breath, watching as some of the Changelings start to stir. "Go, before they find ye with me."

His voice startles the child from his terror, making him scramble to his feet in fear. He gives Esmerion a long look, conflict clear within his eyes.

"Jus' be ready, alright?"

He doesn't linger after those words, scampering off to hide in the crevasses of stone. The only thing left to be seen is the dull glow of his red eyes in the endless darkness.

Esmerion spares him a reassuring smile before the broad hand of a Troll grabs him with no remorse. He cries out in agony, waking all the Changelings in the  cavern. His voice cracks as he screams, bones cracking and wounds spilling blood onto the ground.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The boy watches in horror from afar.

The next chapters are to be interesting, I assure you. I firmly believe that people will hate me as a writer.

Adios!