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The abandoned hallways of Arcadia Oaks High — eerie in the dappled darkness of a waning moon — were perfect for his jaunts. Sometimes, one just had to have a…change of scenery. Strickler relishes the sensations of his true form, feeling stronger than he had for days. His clawed feet make a pleasant clack on the worn vinyl as he stretches his legs to their full stride. It was risky exposing himself, given the chance of tardy cleaners or one of the teachers returning, but such was his mood tonight.
He brushes his steel mantle lightly, fingers testing each edge, carefully as not to cut, before selecting the sharpest of his knives. With a lazy flick, he lodges it in a nearby poster. The keen blade neatly cleaves the love-struck Romeo in half. How appropriate, given the current situation. He went to all the trouble of raising a powerful troll assassin and yet the boy still lived! While Strickler could appreciate Angor’s strategy of patient study — far superior to Bular’s brutish tactics — he strongly suspects the assassin was toying with him as well. Unhindered, the Trollhunter sought a dangerous path that spelt disaster for all changelings. Ignorant child! How could he hope to defeat Gunmar, Gunmar the Black, the greatest of all Gumm-Gumms? Yet the possibility remained, and with it the chance that the Nursery would fall. That was something Strickler could not allow. Sighing, he frees his knife from the wall.
Suddenly, without warning, the changeling is struck with a profound feeling of suffering. His blade clatters to the floor, and his knees sink with it. “W-What…” Strickler gasps, clutching his side. Beneath his hands, his muscles spasm in ways unfelt in this form. Had Angor finally found a way to harm him? Summoning his will through the Inferna Copula, Strickler commands a vision of the troll assassin. He is met by the sight of dripping tunnels and a dais made from piled flotsam. The sewers under Arcadia, if he had to guess. So that was where the troll took refuge. Through Angor’s eyes, he sees a half-carved golem figurine and the rhythmic dip of a sharp blade. The assassin is completely absorbed in his work. An attack on his ringbearer seemed unlikely, then. But what was the cause of the pain? In a burst of green, he shifts back into his human guise. The phantom feeling hits him harder, drawing his breath out in small huffs. He immediately recognises it as the desire to retch. Trollkind — for all the unpalatable “delicacies” they consumed — are rarely struck with nausea. This resilience extended, in part, to the half-breeds or Impure. Even in human form, Strickler was only mildly inconvenienced by the sensation. It should be impossible for this to debilitate him so, unless…
“The binding!” The changeling yelps, forcing himself to his feet. Shoes, not claws, resound, as he tears down the hall towards the staff carpark.
***
A few minutes, one squashed goblin, and several ignored traffic regulations later, Strickler pulls up outside the Lake residence. Neither the wrath of Gunmar nor a raging Gronka Morka could drive him from the car and to the house more quickly. Shifting from foot to foot, he raps on the door sharply. No answer. “Barbara!” Strickler cries out, hating the desperation that creeps into his voice. The binding of fates was a brilliant strategy to control the Trollhunter, but he could not shake the thought it was ill-considered. As he knew from experience, humans were incredibly vulnerable creatures. If someone wanted to strike him down, it would be as simple as harming the woman while she slept. Granted, the Trollhunter was in residence most nights, but even Jim’s budding fighting skills would not suffice. He is honestly surprised Angor had not thought of it. As expected, the assassin was already testing his bonds. Fortunately, the mental compulsions bound with the Inferna Copula were enough to prevent any deviation from the ringbearer’s command…for now.
Strickler knocks again, more forcefully this time, leaving small dints in the paintwork. Was she still at the clinic? No, Barbara mentioned she had the rest of the day off after a fortnight of double shifts. The silence worried him, yet he knew — by virtue of his continued existence — that she still lived. Finally, he hears a reply, although faint and strangled. “One moment…urgh!” The magical echoes of suffering strikes him through the bond. Breathing slowly, Strickler grabs the door frame to steady himself. It would do them both no good if he was vulnerable to attack. He hears her now, shuffling towards the entrance. The changeling quickly straightens as the lock clicks. Barbara, still dressed in her medical scrubs, peers out. Framed by the dark wood of the portal, she is as pale as Myrddin’s cursed daylight. The fine copper strands framing her face are slick with sweat. “W-Walter?” Barbara squints into the cult-de-sac, swaying slightly.
“I…uh…was in the neighbourhood.” It pains him to smile, but after centuries of disguise and deception, very little discomfort shows. He punctuates his greeting with a slight shrug, inwardly cursing his lack of a good excuse.
“This isn’t r-really a good time,” she rasps, coughing at the words. Bile burns at the back of his throat. How unpleasant.
“Barbara, you look dreadful!” Strickler delivers his lines as naturally as possible, eye twitching. He closes the distance in a stride, pushing the door open ever so slightly. His eyes flick behind her, scanning for unseen threats. “Please, let me give you some assistance. It’s the least I could do.” She holds his gaze with those soft doe-eyes, red-rimmed and bagged with exhaustion.
“What have I done to deserve you?” She smiles weakly at him. Her misplaced trust unsettles him, but any unnatural feelings are soon replaced by another wave of nausea.
“Here, allow me.” He proffers his arm. She tucks against him and together they stagger towards the lounge room. The lights are dimmed and soft pop plays from an old radio on the bookshelf. He sets her down on the lounge, shifting the cocoon of blankets already in residence to make room.
“Ugh, thanks,” Barbara groans as she rolls on to her side. The changeling tucks her up again, smoothing the blanket across her shoulders. There is a chipped coffee mug of wine by the lounge. A spicy-sweet Riesling if he was any judge. A bowl accompanies the mug, half-eaten, with the spoon sticking straight up in stiff gloop. “It’s not food poisoning,” Barbara mutters from under the blanket, “just a bad batch of mac and cheese.” She laughs weakly. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He raises an eyebrow. To think, he, centuries-old changeling and leader of the Janus Order, could have been vicariously poisoned by cheesy pasta. Ever paranoid, Strickler checks the bowl for Trollish substances. Nomura may have been banished to the Darklands, but many of the Order still favoured her tactics. He finds nothing detectable, but the thought irks him.
Continuing his investigation in the kitchen, Strickler wades through a mire of dirty saucepans and stockpots. The blender, so conveniently and beautifully loud, dangles from the fridge by its cord. Still bubbling away on the hob, judging by its pungent tang, was the culprit. “Things have been crazy at the clinic,” she sighs, stretching out further. “I just wanted something comforting.” He sniffs the pot, immediately rebuking. There is a familiar odour. Fit for a troll, dare he say? It smelled of murkuun, the small balls of rat meat fermented in its own fat for several moons. Something he only tasted once — at knifepoint, in a Troll province under Capua — and never wishes to taste again. How a human could possibly recreate such a horror was beyond him. “Jim makes it look so easy.” Barbara sighs, sinking back into the lounge.
“And where is young Jim?” he inquires, although he already knows the answer. Ojos del Salado was an unforgiving realm and its overlord just as ruthless. With luck, the old volcano would deal with the changeling’s little problem.
“Still out camping,” she replies, sighing deeply. “I just don’t know anymore.” The changeling hums sympathetically, privately frowning. It would not be long before the Trollhunter exposed him, destroying Strickler’s budding relationship, or worse, broke Barbara’s heart. Put simply, it would be easier if the boy just vanished.
With Barbara having expelled most of the offending meal, Strickler figures she could use something to eat. The cupboards are well-stocked trove of exotic ingredients. Pickled ginger, saffron threads, Spanish cheese, to name a few. He should thank Young Atlas for that. Jim’s cooking was indeed superb: comforting, delightful, yet inventive. Much like the Trollhunter himself. A shame those skills would never flourish. The changeling settles on some battered soup tins from the bottom cupboard. It was unlikely anyone would miss these. Grimacing, he selects the most palatable of the bunch. The 'Cream of Chicken' squidges out in a solid, gelatinous, can-shaped lump. He hesitantly tastes it, gagging at the mush coating his tongue. Far too salty and artificial. Raiding the fridge, he finds some milk to dilute it. Now it smells…fairly edible. Changelings were voracious by nature, even at only a few decades old. While he had long since sublimated his needs to a human-like level, he could do with a good meal himself. Finally, he tops the steaming bowls with a few springs of freshly-snipped parsley. Not bad, for all its humble origins. The changeling was nothing if not good at disguising. As an afterthought, he throws the tins in the trash. Always hide the evidence. “Dinner is served,” he says with a wide smile, passing Barbara the soup bowl, “Just what the doctor ordered, I hear.” She chuckles lightly, then coughs as the air catches.
They eat in relative silence, save the soft clank and scrape of soup spoons. Strickler experimentally tries a spoonful of soup, then frowns as it fails to quench that persistent, annoying tickle in his throat. The binding was already becoming inconvenient. He watches her carefully over the rim of his bowl. She sips slowly at first, grimacing as broth irritates her raw throat. Yet, the nausea he sensed through the bond diminishes as she devours the soup. Soon, his dry, scratchy throat quietens. “Mmm. That was pretty good, Walt,” Barbara says, finishing the bowl. She runs a finger around the rim, “I feel… a lot better.” And he knows this to be the truth: their bond is quiescent now. She winks at him and the changeling could not help but beam. He feels…useful? No, that wasn’t quite it.
“Just something I threw together,” he replies, feigning modesty. Truthfully, her praise warms him, far more than the hot soup. He goes to takes her bowl, when a hand curls around outstretched arm, pulling him closer. Thrown off balance, his knees hit the edge of the lounge and he tumbles into her. Before he can right himself, her soft lips brush his, a gentle caress of appreciation.
CRACK! The bowl shatters under his preternatural strength. Barbara jumps at the sound and their noses bump together awkwardly, breaking whatever spell had overcome them. “Sh- sorry,” Barbara laughs uneasily, “I…better take that.”
“Oh, how clumsy of me,” his tongue intones automatically, while his mind reels with the kiss. He lets the bowl slip into her waiting hand, still stunned. Barbara shimmies out of the blanket and all but runs into the kitchen, cheeks burnished red. Strickler touches his lips, as if to ward off the sensation growing there. He had experienced kissing, lifetimes ago, but never like this. Never with the emotional sincerity that burns in his chest now. Gunmar take it, this was meant to happen the other way around. He was meant to be the one in control.
Unable to stop his steps, he follows her in the kitchen. Sauce and soup are splattered everywhere. Looking up, he can even see pasta shells plastered on the ceiling. Barbara is a tempest, a whirling flame of embarrassment. “Idiot, idiot...” she mutters under her breath as she aggressively stacks the dishes in the sink. Freed from its binding, her fiery locks lash like Medusa’s coils. Strickler pauses under the archway, unsure of what to do. This is still new to him — despite the advice he frequently gives. Uncertainty fades into resolve as he watches her unravel before his eyes. He spins her around, hands firm on her shoulders, stilling her movements. Barbara’s eyes widen like the proverbial deer-in-headlights.
“You are utterly enchanting,” he says, voice low and rough. The Morka take him for falling for this woman, this human. Someone who should have been a stepping stone, nothing more. All that frustration, that conflict, and, surprisingly, desire he compresses into a single, blistering kiss.
His hands are gentle but firm, his mouth consuming. Their teeth clash and in the heat of the kiss, he accidentally bites her lip. Pain spikes through the bond, mixed with something unfamiliar. Strickler scolds himself for his fervour, expecting Barbara to pull away. Surely humans didn’t enjoy that. If anything, the fierceness goads her on. Her fingers dig into his sides, pulling them both further over the counter top. Inspired, he bites gently, more of a nibble this time, and she melts against him. The taste of blood and bile is most unpleasant, but the thought enflames him. Trollkind are aggressive in their lovemaking: a play for dominance, with both sides feigning defeat to lure the other into overstepping. But that was not the human way, at least not normally. Yet a half-breed he was, and his warring natures certainly made things interesting. That being said, perhaps next time he would acquire breath mints.
That ridiculous thought wrenches him from his impassioned haze. He is suddenly aware of the precarious situation. Two adults — well, one human and a changeling — bent over a kitchen bench, necking like teenagers among pots and pans. His skin itches furiously. Tendons bound within corded muscles twitch, eager to stretch and change. Twin points of pressure bloom on his skull. Foolish, foolish! Strickler breaks the kiss, breathing hard. What in the Darklands was he thinking? Splayed in front of him is evidence of his zeal. Barbara’s glasses are askew, her lips dusky red and slightly parted. Her eyes, normally blue as the sky, are completely consumed by black pupils. The changeling can only imagine what he looks like. His front incisor aches, and he wonders if he had chipped it in his passion. He’d need to get that looked at. Truly a shame Gladysgro had been slain. She was an excellent dental hygienist. A cursory brush of his lips reveals a smear of red. He can still taste it, and that dances a little too close to his true heritage for his liking. It seems almost deviant. He was content to leave that for changelings like Nomura.
The silence is becoming uncomfortable. Was it too much? The unfamiliar feeling swells again through the bond. Stronger than before, as if duplicated. It wasn’t pain, but something equally as burning. Breathing out sharply, Barbara brushes the hair from her face. “I didn’t say stop.” She crosses her arms in a play of anger, but the impish smile betrays her.
“May I suggest somewhere more comfortable, then?” He suggests with a lopsided grin. His back was starting to twinge and, judging from the bond, Barbara’s was no better. Besides, benchtops were hardly romantic. He sweeps her into his arms, cautious this time, controlled, gentle.
“Hey!” She giggles, playfully hitting his side.
“Would you rather I leave you in kitchen? I do have several history papers to mark.” He deadpans while studying the nails on his free hand, knowing this will annoy her.
“Ass,” Barbara replies with no venom, allowing him to carry her to the lounge. She pushes him back lightly, making room for her to drape over him. Her weight, although light, compresses his chest. It is enough to remind him of stone hands and the first scorching crackle of his changeling magic. It is far too hot now. The cursed blankets twist underneath him, forming knots that dig deep into his spine. His hands stiffen, ghosting her side. Hers are on his shoulders, just resting, but they carry a weight of memories. An eldritch halo. The passage from dark to dark, and dark to light. Two worlds forever barred and only centuries of servitude to console him. He had only survived by adapting, by taking what he could control and bending it to his will. Making the best of a bad situation. Even his guise no longer felt unnatural. In fact, he hardly phased, unless the situation demanded it. Many of his ilk were disturbed by his interest in humanity. He would change their minds. He would rebuild the world for all his half-breed brethren. A chance for a life unfettered. And it starts with her, the woman tucked tightly against him. She is beautiful. Her scrubs have rucked up, exposing a creamy expanse of freckled skin, glowing with heated pleasure rather than illness. She is a radiant Aglaia, and he her supplicant. He surrenders to her, shoulders sinking back and brow softening. Truthfully, he had surrendered long ago.
She initiates a second time. A cautious kiss, a mere press that deepens into a flowing dance. Barbara softens him, tempers the fire inside. Her hands smooth his sides before settling at his nape. She twines her legs through his, not entrapping but encircling. He follows her movements, trying to learn the steps to their waltz. There is no set choreography, save a shared tenderness. They break rhythm, shift weight, dipping and spinning in tandem. Fuelled by their closeness, the bond fizzes with warm tendrils of energy. For a moment, there is no Trollhunter, no assassins, no Gunmar, no Order. But only for a moment. After some time, Barbara falls away from the dance with a gentle brush of her lips. Strickler opens his eyes slowly, afraid that this might have been some pixie-dream. “Oh, that was…” Barbara exhales, resting her head on his chest. Tentatively, he circles her in his arms.
“Exceedingly good?” He jokes, flashing a wry smile.
“I was going to say unexpected,” she huffs, butting him lightly. She looks away, shoulders tensing. “Was it? Good, I mean? I haven’t kis….”
“Barbara,” he interrupts, gently cupping her cheek. “Never apologise. That was perfect.” And this time, he truly means it. Not some lines he delivers to play a role, but an honest expression of emotion.
“You’re a good man, Walter." The words sting him. If only she knew. His keen ears pick up the chug and rattle of an old scooter down the street. So Jim had survived Gatto’s Keep. Hardly surprising, given the Trollhunter’s track record of near misses and lucky scrapes. Strickler had warned Angor not to underestimate the child, with good reason.
“I… should leave,” he says reluctantly. It would not do have the Trollhunter find them in a compromising position. Or perhaps it would? Changelings use any tactic to bring victory, and Strickler would do anything to unsettle his enemy. Besides, he enjoys tormenting the boy, if only to shake that idiotic innocence from his head. Gunmar would not be so forgiving. But lying here, content, in the arms of a woman he lo…strongly admired, Strickler couldn’t care less. And yet…
She hears the scooter as well, now idling in the drive. “Yeah…” Barbara sighs. They go about tidying their appearances, with minimal success. She re-ties her hair, finding her discarded glasses between two pans in the kitchen. Strickler fixes his sweater cuffs, straightens his jacket, which is hopelessly crumpled. Finally, he checks to see if his favourite pen is still inside the pocket. “Coffee? Tomorrow lunch?” Barbara asks as they reach the door.
“Sounds delightful.” He kisses her hand, a chaste reminder of the evening’s events. Heart warmed by the fire they kindled, he steps out into the chill of early evening. For the first time, he wonders if they have any future together. It is weak of him. There was still so much to achieve for his half-breed brethren. Yet, this, this is what he was fighting for.
And he would let nothing get in his way.