Chapter Text
John Dory had just reached the base of the mountain, stumbling in the small town with dirt on his face and shoulders slumped from fatigue. It’s a town he had been in dozens of times in the three years he had been hiking the trails. They had good supplies and a nice enough demeanor. The town was made up of one giant hollowed log. John liked to imagine what the tree looked like when it was alive, it was at least more than triple his size and it would take him more than a day to walk from the base door to the top. It had stalls for its market that went down Main Street, lights strung up and pinned to the top to keep the place glowing. Holes that critters used to burrow in were covered by glass and shown natural light down on them, troll made windows were cut out every few feet so they could see the sun and moon and stars. It was a magical place. A troll could easily get lost in there between the small homes and shops, it was hard to believe even more trolls lived on the mountain sides, coming down to farm and trade at the markets during the day.
It had thrown John for a loop, especially when he was told there were nearly 30,000 trolls that called this town home. That number had sent him stumbling. He had already found out there were more trolls outside of their village, all of them looking mighty different then him and his home. The trolls of the mountains had shorter tails, something he hadn’t really realized was strange among the Pop trolls as his father and two of his brothers had similar bobtails that fanned out with fur the same color as their hair. The mountain trolls also had downwards ears, unlight John's own upturned. They came in duller shades of color, unlike the neon colors he was used to at the troll tree here; blues, pinks, yellows weren’t uncommon, just several shades darker to the point he had been convinced these trolls were experiencing a fading. The last thing he noticed, which was when his head was finally beginning to piece together the puzzle pieces in front of him. The trolls of the mountain had sharper teeth, those made for meat, it was something all of them had gotten from their dad.
He had to sit down when he realized that he could remember the wistful tone of homesickness he could remember in his dad’s voice when he told stories of the Neverglades.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as the shock when someone had caught sight of him and yelled his dad’s name, a cousin he found out- he hadn’t even known his father wasn’t from the tree. It had been awkward telling his grandparents their son was long dead. But he had done it as gracefully as a newly twenty year old could. He had promised, after finding them, to come in for bi-weekly check in, dead set on exploring the mountains.
And maybe also trying not to feel guilty that he had found family, family they didn’t know they had. That he hadn’t told them about Spruce or Clay, Floyd or Baby Branch. It hurt too much. He didn’t know how to tell them. Yeah your son is dead, I’m not his only kid there’s 4 younger boys but I ditched them because I got tired. They would hate him, just like his brothers did.
“Hi.” He greeted, walking into the large pod, cousins and aunts and uncles already bustling around.
His uncle with the same green hair as him looked wired, face stressed as he marched along, his arm over one of his cousins shoulders.
“The reports aren’t looking good-“
A few patted his head and welcomed him as he weaved through the crowd to the family’s matriarch.
“We so far away from the others-“
She was hunched over the table kneading a loaf of bread.
“Johnny!” She greeted, standing to kiss his cheeks.
“Hi Nonna.” He greeted, already moving to wash his hands, “I’ll help.”
“Oh! My baby raised such a good boy.” She cooed, already throwing flour onto the other side of the table and giving him another loaf.
John smiled awkwardly, bobbing his head.
“Do you know what got everyone in a tuff?” He asked after a few moments of silence, rhythmically folding the dough into itself like he was taught.
Nonna held her tongue, John knew she wanted to comment on his kneading, she loved that he helped but thought he did it all wrong. She had tutted and huffed when he defended grandma Rosiepuff’s method.
“You know that radio your cousin Theo brought back from his stint with the Funk trolls?”
John didn’t, but he nodded along.
“Apparently there is some sickness spreading. Your aunts and uncles will be voting on stopping trade while all this gets settled.”
He paused, palm pressed down into the dough as he leaned forward.
“Is it that serious?”
“Is it?” He asked his oldest uncle Cliff, it was hard to talk to him sometimes, he looked like a bigger version of his dad.
“Look Johnny-“ he sighed, rubbing his neck, “I was going to talk to you after dinner about staying here till this blows over.”
“So, it’s serious.”
He pursed his lips, eyes going to the door frame were the children- Johnny second cousins- were playing.
“It’s not so much the sickness, some of the trolls affected become violent.” He grimaced.
“Wait, no wait, what does that mean?”
“They go a bit feral, it’s not all of them!” He added quickly, trying to reassure him, “but large populations are getting hit hard and no one is sure how it’s spreading.”
“And you think we’ll be safe here?” He asked to be sure, already forming a plan.
“We’re pretty isolated with how far we are from any of the main kingdoms. If we stop trade, any trader that has it won't make it up here.” He said grimly.
“We have enough resources and gardens here, if we have to close the doors…”
That night John tossed and turned in his bunk bed, listening to his cousin below him snore. It should be fine. He tried to reason. The tree makes them pretty isolated so they’ll be fine. But his stomach turned, and he could hear himself losing his breath as he thought of all the what ifs.
Crawling out of the bed, he quietly made his way through the house. A skill he got from all those mornings needing to make breakfast and not wake a baby brother up. He paused at the kitchen table, lightly trailing a finger over the wooden top. The table was a masterpiece, a large piece that had hand painted vines that broke out with carved names and dates. Their family tree spans 6 generations. Nothing like this would have survived at the troll tree. He walked along the table's edge, eyes looking over all the names. Until. Durian, just under it his own carved in with neat letters. Biting his lip he took out the carving knife his aunt had gifted him with a whisper “it was your father’s” playing in his ear. Carefully he began to carve. Spruce, Clay, Floyd, Branch all connected under their father’s vine, one right after another right next to him.
He studied his work. It wasn't as clean as the others, and it should have been his father carving their names but he wasn’t there so it was up to John. he ran his fingers over their names before moving up to their father’s.
“I’ll bring them home.” he promised.
Fishing out the letter he wrote to Nonna he turned to walk away. He stopped at the closet, knowing the rather ornate axe was inside- their family had been one of the first to make the log a home, the axe passed down from father to son for generations. The journey by itself would be dangerous he knew… but the echoed words of his uncle rang in his ears. Reaching forward he grabbed the axe from the closet and walked out the door.