Chapter Text
The stars blinked at him, scattered across the black expanse like dust motes on a velvet cloth.
They're miles away, too far for him to reach, little pinpricks of light that really didn't mean anything. It floods his senses with apathy.
When his gaze flickers down, a murky substance pools around his feet, trapping him in place. It's tacky, unbearable so, and he itches to get rid of it. To yank his feet out and move on with his day. It doesn't ripple and shudder with every twitch of his body like water should do. But his first thought hadn't been water, and it won't ever be.
Jim doesn't know what to make of it. Doesn't even know how he'd ended up here.
Without an ounce of desire, a foot edged out, seeking for purchase on this nonexistent liquid. It did and it settled quickly, sinking in it, drowning in it (take me take me take me out of here please—).
He looks up and squints at the figures ahead. They're human, maybe, but there was something in them that didn't make sense. That didn't belong here. It made his stomach lurch, blunt and undeniable. "Who... are you?"
Silence.
He gulped.
Let out a huff. And bared his teeth at them.
It's a feeble attempt to protect himself, to find out whether he's in danger or not, but pride is big and wide and blinding so he doesn't dare show it. If the silhouettes notice the fine tremble of his hands, they don't make a move for it.
"Did you hear me? I asked you a question, so you better answer back, assholes." It comes out shaky and hoarse, like the words were stripped out of his mouth.
And it alters something in him.
His throat tightens. Regret spills into him, and seeps to every nook and cranny of his head (sixteen, trapped and cornered by the bangs and shouts from behind the door help me help me save me get away from me—).
The world shifted around him, tilting and swaying and whispering. A raw feeling rushes through him faster than his head could catch on, faster than the shaky breath could leave him.
The silence that had followed took hold of his throat, and forced him to look.
There had been no one there, no trace of any presence that might have looked at him and actually thought of lending a hand. His mind was playing tricks on him, a punishment, a warning that if he drifted too far, the vacuum of louring darkness will swallow him whole.
Jim looks down again.
His breath hitches.
It is not his sour and sullen reflection that glances back, disappointment the dull spark his eyes mirror. It is not the savage and lethal and vile excuse of a grieving woman that glances back, either.
These eyes were softer, much clearer than when the fog had settled in. And the features were that of a baby's—a boy—no harsh lines to mar its gentleness. Something in that young lad stirred at his chest, something he wishes to lock away.
"You..." The word scrapes out, a rasp, compared to the wind that howled behind him.
It's wrong. His eyes look wrong. His hair and nose and mouth and body and shape is utterly wrong. That wasn't him, that wasn't who he was at the moment. (It's been years, fucking leave him alone—). There shouldn't be any softness at all; he'd hardened, he'd steeled, he'd grown. So why, why why why why is that his reflection?
(Go away go away goawaygoawaygoaway—)
He tramples on the image, trying to make it go away, trying to bury it back in the past.
How dare it? How dare it come to the surface? It speaks, mouth twisting but no words spill out, the reflection has its eyes dead set on him and what does he want to tell him?
"Get the fuck away from me," he spits, as though the scornful eyes and set jaw and tightened lips would just warp back to normal. Would just disappear and never appear again because I hate you I hate you why can't you stop haunting me—
Disgust coiled in his stomach.
He raised a trembling hand, tracing the harsh angles of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together in a tight, unforgiving line.
His fingers twitched, aching to strangle someone—to strangle him—and who did he think he was? Showing up so suddenly, etching the lines of disdain on his face (father had gripped his wrist tightly, when would it stop, when was mom coming back, he was scared so so so afraid—).
Jim is him.
He is Jim.
The line snaps.
Jim growls.
Jim screams and snarls and bellows, thrashing around his restraints, begging please please please to make the image disappear. That is not him, that won't ever be and he had vowed to never be this boy again.
Too naive, too innocent, too kind and good and clean for the world to throw its filth on.
It doesn't work. He can't get out. He can't move. The sticky substance snake across his body, wrapping around his arms and legs and pulling him down, down, down. His breaths come out short and ragged (not enough not enough never enough—) and he could feel the darkness' hunger.
He tries to fight back, refusing to succumb to the place he grew up.
The void only pulls harder.
It clings unpleasantly to his skin, cold and dirty and vicious, like it's invading his pores, infiltrating his muscles. Like it wants him. Like it's starving for Jim.
He doesn't continue no more, he doesn't take another step.
Why is he here?
And why the fuck can't he remember shit?
Eventually, the substance reaches his face, still ravishing even when it devoured his entire lower part. Jim flails around, a bird shoved to a cage, and he whimpers and he cries and he mumbles words, as if there was still a chance.
There had to be.
It spreads across his eyes and it burns, but his mouth is filthy and shameful, so there is no sound. No sign of his struggle. Or his desperate, greedy gulp for air (no no no stop it hurts—).
He'd been sixteen once, too.
He'd been that young boy glaring daggers at him from afar.
It's not a concern if he's upset or angry or disappointed, at him or any part of his existence that's worth loathing. But... but he hates to see the child with rage. A seething fire that can't be put out no matter what. It doesn't suit him.
Yet Jim can still hear it.
A voice bawling in grief, throat blocked off and everything being too noisy and too silent and too shallow for his lungs to have air. Someone stood behind him, eyes full of love and contempt and so much loathe. The rustles of the leaves go unheard by him, and he's calling for someone. Yelling out their name, pleading for them to just come back don't leave me alone please please not you too—
It's grief.
It's melancholy.
It's happiness.
Jim's mouth, ajar from a scream he couldn't release, clicks shut and the murky substance has finally, finally become one with him. The taste of salt and rust coats his tongue.
He's not sinking. He's not drowning.
His body stills completely.
Not in acceptance.
Not in defeat.
But because there was nothing to ever look forward to. Only the endless repetition.
It was going to happen and repeat, time and again, and there will be nothing he can do to get out of it. In this prison of tears and blood and why can't you all just stay don't leave me, he would remain.
The cold, clammy hands of the figures tighten their grip.
For it had been for the sake of the world's balance.
A balance bought with every alms, every squeezed cent. That what goes around does not come around, it merely twists itself to trick the mind that what has been done, shall be as it is.
And he was right, of course.
He had to have been right?.
That all was they ever told him.
The wailing fills his head entirely, a chorus of loss and regret.
The figures whisper and slither hands around his legs and arms, their skin like wet clay.
The bereaved glances at him with resentment, eyes a hollow pit of grief. He sees his own face reflected in their tears.
Jim's sixteen.
James Lake Jr. was eighteen.
And he'd been that age, too.
So was the other, and the one before.
How could they have been different?
How could he be different?
The water fills his lungs, not like drowning, but like a homecoming.
Why had there been a need to be so, so different?
By the time they set camp up for the fourth time, it was already eight in the night.
The stars were out, blinking and winking at whosoever turned an eye to them, a guide even in this wreckage. The moonlight gleamed along the sewage water, wide and bright for the world to witness. And the air... it clung to him, wrapped itself around him and sent shudders down his spine.
A low, imperceptible drone hummed beneath his skin.
His fingers found purchase on a rough patch of skin, and pulled as hard and desperate as he could.
It itched. It ached. It tingled and sizzled in between his edged nails, drawing just a pinprick of blood. The scent of metallic barely made its way to his nose, but it was there. Most definitely. Maybe he should scratch harder, see how long it would take for his arms to be of flesh and muscles instead.
And Jim had almost went and done that, almost decided to ruin his only disguise, if it wasn't for Douxie and his familiar making their around the tents with more firewood and... an animal carcass. He blinked, trying to make sense of it, as the wizard grinned sheepishly at him and laid down the load on his arms.
"Arch and I have lived off roasted game for a long time, until we secured a place in Camelot," he began, nodding to the dragon-cat who took it as a sign to fetch Barbara. "I'm a bit rusty at it right now, but in time, I should get better and maybe... I could teach all of you, if you're willing to? I mean, as what I've noticed these past few days, food and water isn't something that's handed directly to you, anymore. People out there—the survivors—are probably scraping the bottom of the barrel, Jim. Doing what they can to get what's better for them, instead of--"
"Doux. Your point being?"
Douxie was always like this. Beating around the bush, pacing back and forth and never heading straight for it. All this talking, all these reminders of other peoples' conditions made his blood simmer.
A sigh, "What's the reason you went back in time? What is really your motive? To let the rest of your people die and starve and rot in the hands of... this and whatever will come by? Jim, you're smart enough to understand that what's happening right now isn't in our knowledge." Then he added, quietly, "What if this'll end as bad as the other timeline? There's no knowing how this timeline would end. No knowing if this is something we can handle."
"Why does it matter," muttered Jim, "We're... team Trollhunters. Just being together is more than enough, isn't it? We can... we'll figure out a way, eventually. In time."
The words tasted like ash on his tongue, staining it and leaving a sour trail. It was a lie that tumbled out before he could stop himself, a lie dressed in the garb of truth. The wizard hadn't the need to know Jim's long since abandoned his team for their survival—Douxie really did not. Despite there being safety in numbers, sometimes, one was better than two, and far more efficient than having to bring another to your downfall.
Maybe it sounded selfish, and pathetically cowardly at the same time—but it was all that Jim knew.
And it was all he would ever seem to know.
Douxie's lips cracked a wry smile. "But what is that way, exactly? Maybe we're not supposed to have all the answers to every problems, as Archie had once told us, but do you really think you'd get a good night's sleep, knowing the world is at its limit right now? Or, in the process?"
He didn't open his mouth, sealed it shut even when a scoff was at the tip of his tongue.
The wizard took it as a sign to continue. "I've a bad feeling about this apocalypse, Jim. I'm pretty sure you do, as well. We've went through this once, albeit less harsher, even though that's rather an understatement, and more average-paced than this one because we have a script for it now, but then will those events actually happen, now that this apocalypse decided to start earlier?" He shook his head, "There's probably not a Gunmar or a Bular right now. A Pale Lady and her jerk of an excuse step-brother, and maybe there aren't two godlings who seek to start world abomination."
"So, what you're trying to say is that... the possibility of us failing this timeline is more likely than Morgana forgiving her baby brother?"
"In a sense, yes, though the analogy has to be more complicated than that," laughed Douxie.
"Douxie, riddle me this: Do we lose ground with every attempt, even when we learn from our failures? Or can we fix our mistakes through relentless effort, ultimately creating a flawless outcome?" When the wizard opens his mouth, Jim raises a hand. "We're gonna have to keep trying, Doux, gonna have to do something instead of wallowing in the what-ifs and maybes."
Fingers find the roadmap of red. Not to claw at it, but to keep him steady. To make sure he knows everything is real.
Douxie's gaze flickered to the crackling embers. "I just want to keep you safe, Jim. To keep all of you safe and unharmed and not dead. There's no one out there who'd be willing to lend a lesson or two about surviving in the wild, especially when everything is... almost dead. We don't—" a breath "—we don't know what's out there, what's lurking around us, and what's triggered the early destruction."
"You don't have to." He told him, eyes full of steel and a heart full of rocks. "I know you're worried about what will happened from now on, but don't get worked up over nothing."
"'N-Nothing'?" sputtered Douxie.
"Yes, nothing," his eyes narrowed, a bark ready from the back of his throat. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, our main concern is providing what we can and not fuss about the things we can't. It's more ideal that way. More practical. Your point is heard and understood, but... I'm capable of protecting myself."
And the wizard just blinked. Stared at Jim like he didn't know who he was.
It was dismissible, something to throw to the back of his mind. But the way it lingered, the way it focused far longer than it should, grated on his nerves. Stop looking at me, he wanted to scream, already feeling the phantom fingers crawling their way up his mouth.
Stop it.
"Jim, that's not what I meant."
Stop it.
"What else could it have been?"
Stop it.
"It's not that simple. You and I haven't the faintest idea of what caused this, what's turned this world into ruins, and how this is such a disadvantage--"
Stop whatever you're doing.
"I do know, wizard. I know," what it fucking feels like so stop talking to me stop looking at me stop touching me and get the fuck away—
"Then, tell me, Jim. I can't- I don't understand. Is there something you're not saying on purpose?"
"I'm not obliged to tell you whatever it is that's in my head and what I know. It's my own goddamn life, Douxie. Mind yours."
Silence, yet again.
Thick and tight and heavy on his throat and chest. Jim can't breathe, can't move an inch or at least tell his brother (he was still his brother, they were still family—) that he doesn't need any help.
That there was no need for any concern or recognition or a stare that bore too deep in him it was like the hands that forced the crimson ruby down his mouth.
The world tilts dangerously.
The hushed tones amplify to angry shouts.
The moon and stars flicker out.
So does the fire, and all that Jim can see is the gleaming amber of Hisirdoux's eyes.
(A hand took his in and gave it a small squeeze, you're safe you're safe it had whispered, but white-hot rage and bloody senses translated it to a language only he and himself knew and it murmured dead dead you're dead he's dead—)
He took a breath. Another.
His nerves were frayed, torn at the edges where his love always meets its end. Just looking at those goddamned eyes, that gold-and-green windows to his beautiful soul, made him- made him... mad? Disappointed? Upset?
There was such determination and compassion in his eyes, that he never wanted to ruin it, ever. His hands may be twitching to reach out, to wrap his arms around the shoulders that allowed his burden and weight—but Jim was smart. Knew the warmth curling around his neck wasn't to relax on, but to run away from 'cause god knows what that wizard's about to do next.
Jim should be wary.
Jim should be afraid.
Why's he standing, why's he moving to him—
"...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get mad. But you understand where I was coming from, right? All I want is--"
"I get it, Doux," he dismissed with a wave, "You don't have to remind me. My safety is important to you, yes, but you also need to realize that I can do this myself. I'm not a fucking- I'm not a five-year-old."
Douxie's mouth opened, but someone came out of the tents, holding the drgaon-cat in her arms. She yawned, "Now, where is this food Archie told me you brought along? 'Cause I'm starving." As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, and Douxie smiled. Jim didn't.
He shifted his focus, instead, on fueling the dying the fire and completely tuning out the laughter behind him. From the corner of his eye, Jim saw Douxie's hands digging into the white matted fur of Archie's, to which he received a slight purr. His skin prickled again, flaring and sinking deep in him.
He shouldn't. He really should.
Jim tossed a small capsule into the flames.
The boy is but ten when there is a cold pressure against his skin, a muffled silence that replaced the sounds of the world.
On his neck, multiple hands wrapped around it, tightening and blocking him of any air that would so much as get in through his desperate wheeze. Too strong, too relentless. Something filled his nose and mouth, such oppressiveness it's a wonder of how those fish-tailed men managed to draw a breath beneath it.
Malice.
It is what he notices even in the shimmering and distorted light.
That hollow mirror to their nature that only reflected malice and disdain.
Had it been for him?
Had it been for the boy next to him? Wide-eyed and silly and so pathetic it didn't seem like he was human?
His mouth opened for a scream, another ridiculous squeak from the force that pushed him and tilted his world over—but the water (was it really water, or was it in his head?) bubbled around his lips, gurgling in his throat. There was an uncanny tingle in his limbs, a pleasant numbness that began to spread, a plague in the making.
To understand what was happening would have taken quite the toll on him, his mind already drifting off to the land of slumber where his mom will hold him in her arms and whisper sweet nothings to him. It hadn't really mattered to him that the weight on his chest and nape is gone, replaced by that blasted buzzing underneath all that skin.
The boy is ten, that good-hearted mother of his would tell them.
Watching with too much concern and worry over a son that had merely "slipped" while training.
They wouldn't believe her words, dismissing it as another tantrum of paranoid mothers, placing the blame completely on them ladies who decided it was good to teach their sons on how to swim. But the propelling of the limbs and the large intakes of the oxygen will have always been one of the reasons why death was inevitable for those boys.
The mothers would not come to know that, nor will the paramedics with all their knowledge and detrimental claims.
The boys and the lads shall cast upon him looks of terror and amusement, for he had slipped from the Reaper's sneaky grasp. Not a single sound of happiness will come out of their mouths, not a single round of applause for his survival.
Because it hadn't really been all about living, wasn't it?
Whether the boy realizes just how immense the boulder would have been for his shoulder, or whether the boy realizes just how much of an Atlas he was—that was but a tale them folks would speak about.
Granted, he was a boy.
Not a hero, silly them.
A boy who was given the title of a hero.
A boy who, in all his benignity and altruism, will have come to understand that he must do what it takes to survive.
A coward, they would call him. A sissy. But their judgment would be flawed, conjured by the rage and its subjectivity.
Their most grievous fault would be to mistake fear for the precursor to valor, all while they relish in the hands of the pusillanimous.
What it takes to survive isn't the will to. Nor is it the strength to. Belief and faith have been around them for so long, it had seemed like another part of their nature. But to settle your most absolute trust on a deity, or a living being, for that matter—will not matter so long as it does not disrupts another's peace.
It takes a boy's age for people to predetermine the future he has. And it shall continue to be so.
However, would a boy's might not have any say on it?
The boy is ten, they decide. Next, the boy is twelve. Then, the boy is sixteen. And eventually, that young lad is eighteen.
A coward, they have continued to call him. But they will not deny him of his bravery against the society norms.