Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

                Dear Floyd,

                Hi, if you find this then I’m not there anymore. Don’t look for Grandma, you won’t find her. I’m sorry. I know you told me to take care of her. But I messed up. And everything is bad now. I’m not blue anymore and no one will tell me why. Everyone is really mean. Someone grabbed my wrist today and it still hurts. I’m sorry if the pod looks weird now, I can’t go to the market, so I got food from Grandma’s secret gardens. I don’t feel safe anymore. The pod feels cold and empty. I know it is empty, but it feels wrong. It’s too quiet. It feels like pod is dead. I tried to fix it, but it didn’t work. The quiet knows they aren’t real. I don’t think I’m real either. The others say I’m not right. If I was real, maybe everyone would’ve stayed. I’m sorry I wasn’t real. That’s why I’m leaving now. King Peppy made a plan to escape, but I don’t think I can go. Only trolls are supposed to leave, and I’m wrong. So, I’m leaving alone. Maybe I can find you! I know you won’t want me, I’m wrong. I messed up. I broke our promise. But I’d like to see you.

                ~ Love, Branch.

                The ground was warm and grainy underneath his cheek. Branch refused to whimper as he pulled his small body up with aching limbs, even though he wanted to. The grey trolling rubbed fists into his eyes, before finally opening them. Wherever he was it certainly wasn’t the forest beyond the walls of Bergentown. Grandma had shown him a bright green horizon that laid beyond the bars of their patient hell from the top of the tree once…on mom’s death day. Grandma said Mom had been obsessed with getting out and into those woods, and that she liked to think mom was there now frolicking in the tree like she did as a trolling.

                Branch had wanted to see the forest his mom wanted too. Not this dark hot cavern, with high walls and a floor that looked like his grandma’s fireplace after it burned out. All black, soft and flaky. Branch’s grip on his backpack tightened. He didn’t know what to do.

                There was a deep growl that came from one side of the tunnel…Branch ran down the other side. The hot ground crunched uncomfortably loudly with each of his steps. Getting out of this tunnel seemed like a good first thing to do. 

                The tunnel itself had been dimly lit. Only a hot muggy orange glow that came from the fissures and potholes in the walls, kept it from becoming pitch. So once Branch found the mouth of the cavern, the bright sun that poured into the darkness was overwhelming to the little trolling’s eyes. He stumbled past the threshold of the cave’s gaping maw blindly. His eyes slowly open with squinting lids, but they blew wide with a sharp gasp as he took in his surroundings.

                This wasn’t a forest. This was a wasteland. Low hill slopes, and shallow valleys of black ashen rock and frayed thread stretched endlessly before Branch. The sun blared down relentlessly, bright and burning. Hot wind whipped and whirled with wild waves and gusts. It threatened to topple the grey trolling over, blowing with such strength that the lose flecks of the slope tops were pulled from their places and danced in a black blizzard over this burnt boiling tundra.

                Branch let out a whine, his ears drooping further. Where was he?

                He didn’t get long to ponder that question. The growl behind him swelled into a blood curdling roar, with heavy stomps that rapidly became louder as they clawed towards him. Branch turned back towards the cave for a moment, only to be met with a vast fang-filled set of jaws gnashing towards him. Each tooth orderly, sharp and serrated. The base of them, where tooth met bloody gum, gleamed like metal swords, while the tips molten glowed white with burning heat. A cold-blooded hungry predator.

                Branch darted to the side and ran.

                “If something’s chasing you, dart to the side. Never go forward. Never give them a chance to grab you.”

                Branch ran. He ran until his legs were throbbing and his feet burned. It was all he could do, with what could only be a monstrous leather-hided lizard chasing after him. There were no trees he could shoot his hair towards and swing to safety here. The only warning he was given before a paw of razor-sharp claws of warped blackened scrap crashed down, was the crooked shadow that appeared overhead that came seconds before the strike. Ripping up the fraying charred ground where Branch had been just seconds ago.

                The grey trolling dashed up a slope, heat and ash in his eyes causing them to spout tears, while fear kept his heart pumping. He’d hide beneath this one. Let the monster slither past him. Survive. However, this was where his unfamiliarity with the terrain foiled his escape. Unknown to Branch the land around him was a damaged one. Scorched and sculled, to the point where cracks could form anywhere the ground had once been weakened. And the slope he climbed didn’t smooth out into a valley.

                  The sheer drop in front of him made the grey trolling skid to a stop. Falling to the hot ashy ground as the monster swipes at his head, claws catching and cutting his hair at the tips. Branch screamed, as hot burning pain radiated down his hair and festered into his scalp. The ground beneath him split, crumbled, and frayed, falling out from under him, and sending the trolling tumbling down the trench.

                The fissure was deep and thin. The jagged walls scuffed and scraped against his soft flesh. It burned and agony rippled across his skin, but it was nothing compared to the strike that stole his scream and blackened his vision.

                The blow was from the edge of a small overhang on the right-side wall. A single instance of misfortune that the trolling couldn’t move his head out of the way before contact with the blackened rock was made. Black stained glittering red, as the sharp hooks in the stone ripped through the flesh of…Branch’s …his head. A sickening crack echoed through the now silent wasteland.

                Only followed by the subtle splash of a body falling into the river below.

                “Alright lads! Form a line now! We only have a few hours to complete our task and I won’t tolerate any slacking!”

                There was little grumbling from the crew at that announcement. Thrash didn’t blame them for it. The ashlands were brutally hot during the dry season, and while water runs during this time was necessary, the weather certainly wasn’t helping morale. Still the team of roughly 25 rock trolls knew better than to make too much fuss about the uncomfortable environment. Thrash was a reasonable king, but he also lived up to the nature of his name if needed.

                Thrash supervised as his trolls lowered the pipe into the river water and began to push and pull levers to make the pump work. The process was a simple one, that probably didn’t need the king to oversee it, but Thrash had felt he needed to be here for some reason. Perhaps it was a need to simply leave the confines of the city, or maybe it was something else, it didn’t matter in the end he was here. He gave a nod of approval to his people and walked closer to the water’s edge.

                Rivers were a rare sight in the Rock Troll territory. At least, rivers of water that is. Rivers of lava were plentiful almost everywhere. The lack of water made the ashlands a harsh place to live, but Rock Trolls were anything but soft. The ghost of Great King Ozzy wouldn’t have led Axl Rose and their ancestors here all those years ago if it wasn’t supposed to be his people’s promise land. And despite the all the hardships, the Rock Trolls adapted and thrived in this brutal landscape. They dug into the ground to block out the heat and strong wind. They weaponized their music to defend against the predators. They learned where to find water and how to till the land just right to grow food.

                They were Rock, and rocks didn’t break easily.

                Still just because he was tough didn’t mean that Thrash didn’t indulge in sitting by the water’s edge and listened to the running river. It was a peaceful setting. The river they chose to harvest from started out flowing deep within one of the larger fissures, then the water would spill out into an open wide riverbed, making it easier to collect the life-giving liquid. Thrash smiled as he looked over the river, the tops of the miniature rippling waves gleaming like bobbing diamonds in the sun. Then his eyes fixated on a particular ripple. A ripple that didn’t gleam, and never slipped back into the water.

                Thrash was on his feet and running into the river faster than he could think. His trolls up on the pump start to yell in confusion, but he paid them no mind as he swam towards the grey lump. The rock king reached out a hand and pulled the lump closer, horror filled his heart once he saw the bloody hair and youthful face. A trolling. A limp trolling. Oh, please, little one, do not be dead.

                The king pulled the trolling to the black shore, laying the child in his lap; Thrash looked at the body with mourning eyes. All sounds of the collection operation came to an abrupt halt, as they all homed in on the horror in Thrash’s hold. The child was a boy, maybe five or six, thick strong black hair, and ashen skin that was littered with bleeding wet wounds. He was dressed oddly, merely a vest that was a little too large and shorts with a pack still hooked onto his back. A handsome trolling, who would’ve grown to have been a strong adult. Thrash adjusted his cradle into one arm, and with his free hand he pulled off the bandana he wore, cleaning the head wound and dabbing away at the blood marring the boy’s face. The king caressed the child’s cheek, trying to soothe the already lost trolling in his arms, as if Thrash was merely putting him to bed.

                The trolling suddenly spasmed in his hold, and Thrash pulled back in shock. Hope blossomed in the Rock king’s chest, as the child coughed, spitting up water and drawing in air.

                “Get the medic!” Thrash screamed out, as he wrapped the bandana around the jagged wound that split the boy’s forehead in two.

                “He’s alive!?” Someone yelled, but Thrash paid them no mind.

                The king’s only focus was on the child in his arms. The wounded child in his arms. Now every single one of the trolling’s wounds were blatantly on display for Thrash to see. The little one was alive, but he wouldn’t stay that way without help. A medic was always a part of any excursion group in case of emergency, and Thrash was never more grateful for that policy than before now. Still, that didn’t stop Thrash from sending up a prayer to Ozzy as he handed the child over to the medic.

                Keep fighting little one, you know not what pain your loss would cause.

                The head of the excursion team didn’t object when the medic ordered a return to the city. They still had work to do, and by the time a retrieval could be sent for them they would only just be wrapping up anyway. So, he was fine in the medic taking their transport to get the child to a hospital back in the city. Thrash went with them; the operation didn’t need him. He held the boy’s hand and counted his breaths as the medic treated what she could. 

                Thrash wasted no time, getting the boy underneath the care of his family’s personal physician. Dr. Feelgood had been Barbara’s doctor ever since she was an egg, and her mother’s when his late wife fell ill. Thrash trusted her with his life, literally in some cases. Dr. Feelgood had stripped the boy of all his belongings before taking him away. Thrash took the items and kept them close afterward. Anything in that little pack could be detrimental to finding the boy’s family. By Ozzy they must be so frantic. Thrash knew he wouldn’t have a great reaction if Barbara had been wounded and lost.

To give himself something to do other than become swallowed in his churning concern, Thrash opened the little pack. Most of the contents were badly damaged by the river water, but Thrash could recognize what were once a journal and a child’s drawings. A waterlogged stuffed crocodile with black button eyes, the blue color of its fur oddly bright. However, those weren’t the strangest items that lay inside. Clothes were near the bottom of the sack, along with blankets, some food packets, and a water canteen.  

Thrash’s brow pinched in a puzzled manner, “What weren’t you running from little one?”

The pack was like that of a survival bag. Thrash knew that some of the supply runners would carry similar bags to this one in case some of the Leather Vipers attacked their trucks in route and they needed to walk. Perhaps the boy’s parents were runners and had to bring him with them? If that was what happened, then it didn’t paint a pretty picture as to what might have happened to his family. The runner theory could also explain the boy’s choice of wear. Runners often interacted with outside lands and sometimes traded items with the natives. The material of the boy’s clothes and bag was far too soft to last very long in the ashlands.

The door to the private waiting room opened, drawing Thrash’s attention towards the rock troll entering. Dr. Feelgood had a rather clean look when compared to some Rock Trolls. Her skin had a reddish undertone, but it was still a dull version of the color, like a ruby covered in soot. She kept her navy, usually wild in nature, rock hair tied and brushed back in a braided bun, held together with a spiked hair tie. The iris of her eyes, a faded amethyst color, looked up at Thrash with a tired look.

She straitened her grey lab coat, and cleared her throat, “I don’t know what happened Thrash, but that kid you brought by all means should be dead.”

Her voice was dry and flat in tone, but it was a relieving balm against Thrash’s weary soul. Others might have chastised Dr. Feelgood for such un-professional behavior, especially when addressing her king, but Thrash was used to her antics. The physician was blunt in manners, but exceptional with medicine. In Thrash’s opinion one quality was more important for a doctor to have than the other, so he was fine with it.

“The child is…?” Thrash started.

“Shockingly alive, it’s not pretty but he’s stable,” She opened the door and nodded for Thrash to follow her. 

                Thrash did so without hesitation, dutifully following the physician down a hall and into a recovery suite. His eyes were drawn to the small figure laying on the stiff grey mattress and sheets. On instinct he reached out and took the little cold hand into his own, rubbing warm comforting circles into the back of it. The child’s head was bound with ivory wraps that were only lightly stained. Similar dressings, though not as thick, were around his arms along with a full caste on his left wrist. Thrash didn’t need to move the blanket to know there would be more wrappings underneath.

                “His condition?” Thrash said.

                “The cuts and scrapes are the least of our worries. The worst of them will likely scar, but that’s the extent. The things I’m most concerned about are obviously his head and his feet,” Dr. Feelgood said.

                “His feet?” Thrash said.

                Dr. Feelgood nodded, “The soles of his feet are lined with 3^rd and 2^nd degree burns, currently he’ll need them to be clean out on a scheduled basis and be on antibiotics in order to prevent infection.”

                Thrash’s expression screwed together in confusion for a moment. Yes, trollings could have softer soles compared to adults, but they didn’t burn that easily.

                “And his head?” Thrash asked.

                Dr. Feelgood bit her lip and grabbed a piece of black plastic. She flicked a switch and clipped the X-ray on a glowing wall. The outline of the child’s skull was now staring back at the king of rock, and it was probably one of the most disturbing sights he’d seen.

                “See this here?” Dr. Feelgood pointed out a dark bolt on the light of the skull, “It’s a fracture, and the surrounding plates are bruised badly. This crack was most likely caused by blunt force trauma. Which means the chances of a TBI, or brain damage is almost certain.”

                Thrash closed his eyes as if sharing the child’s pain. Such tragedy to come to one so young. Life was unfair by nature, but nothing should harm a child in a cruel way like this.

                Dr. Feelgood, clicked her tongue and said, “And there’s something else you need to see.”

                Thrash pushed down his grief to pay attention to the physician once more as she added another scan onto the lightboard.

                “This one is of his left wrist, see these little lines here,” Dr. Feelgood pointed out, “These are old breaks that didn’t heal correctly. We’ve had to re-break them to allow them to re-heal properly. These types of breaks though, they’re caused by pressure. Someone or something would had to have squeezed his wrist.”

                Grief was washed out with white hot rage. “Abuse?” Thrash said, his voice quiet in volume, but furious in tone.

                “Most likely.”

                How dare they. How dare anyone! Lay a hand on a child in his kingdom! Trollings were to be treasured. They were the youth who would one day carry the pride of Rock. Thrash would hunt down this boy’s so-called family if it was the last thing he did. Let them see the damage they caused this innocent child, to make him run away and nearly drown. Then never give them the chance to receive forgiveness, as they would never see this child again. This boy was someone’s son, someone’s grandson, possibly someone’s brother, dependent on them. And yet they threw it away. Threw him away. They would rue the day they made that choice. Thrash quietly swore on that.

                “When will he wake up?” Thrash growled as softly as he could.

                “He’s comatose, so we don’t really know. Could be days, could be weeks, could be years,” Dr. Feelgood sighed, “But honestly I’d think he’d be better off not waking up at all.” 

                Thrash’s ears rose as they picked up on not just her words, but her tone as well. It wasn’t one of hate or bitterness, only cruel sad honesty leaked from them.

                “And why would that be?” Thrash inquired.

                “He isn’t a rock troll.”

                “What?”

                “His hair is thicker, stronger, with more nerve tissue, and his scalp has more muscle. That along with the thinner, softer padding on his feet and hands are clear indicators of his bio genre. He’s a pop troll.”  

                Thrash’s rage mellowed but it still burned, only now his mind was calculating solutions. The boy’s pop-troll status complicated the situation greatly. The moment abuse was proven Thrash wasn’t going to let him return to the home he had been running from. However, now foster homes were clearly not an option anymore. Despite Thrash wanting to believe his people would be able to put aside prejudice against pop trolls for the sake of a child, he knew better. Their rage against the pop tribe still ran hot, even centuries after the split. And that anger showed through their music. Modern heavy rock was built off of the anger towards the pop’s betrayal after all.

                No one would be willing to take in a pop trolling…

                What did that mean for this boy? Would it be better for him to grow up around his own genre?  Certainly, they would need to find a different settlement than the one he came from if they did that. However, it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do, no one really knew where the pop trolls retreated after the split…or if they had several different settlements.

                “I can see the gears turning, and before you start to plan,” Dr. Feelgood cut in, with a casual tone “I don’t think we can return the boy to his kind.” 

                Well, Thrash figured that, but… “And your reasoning doctor?”

                “Well, beyond the obvious forms of physical abuse, his coloring enough to tell me that he should’ve never been there in the first place.”

                Thrash raised a brow. His coloring? He looked at the boy, ashy grey skin, and shiny black hair. Those were odd colors for a pop troll, weren’t they? Thrash had studied the other genres all his life but was far from an expert on Pop trolls as there was little information remaining on them after the split. Still, he knew that they were supposedly to be obnoxiously bright in colors.

                “A halfling?” Thrash asked aloud, mixed children were rare after the split but not impossible, especially amongst traders and supply runners.

                “No,” Dr. Feelgood stated flatly, “I’ve never seen it in person, but it’s called “going grey”. It’s a shift in pigment coding that happens as a reaction to a traumatic event.”

                “Traumatic event, such as…?”

                “Death of a loved one, tragic accident, etc. Anything that can cause a complete loss of hope and connection to music, or some other strong long-lasting negative emotion.”

                “Are there any other effects, beyond the coloring disorder?” Thrash asks now concerned.

                “Not that I know of. This phenomenon had only been observed in Pop-trolls, at least naturally, and even then, it was greatly stigmatized, so no one would ever talk about it, much less want to understand it,” Dr. Feelgood bit out the last words with great frustration.

                Thrash hummed, just as displeased. Though it wasn’t for the same reason that the doctor was grumbling. Would no one truly ever speak of this “going grey”? How was one supposed to recover from it if it was never discussed. Unless…

                “Is it permanent?” Thrash asked.

                “Not necessarily,” Dr. Feelgood said, “It can become chronic yes, but by that point the patient would shift in color depending on current emotional states. Most cases, it only lasts a few days, and then the victim returns to normal saturation.”

                “And the boy, can be returned to his normal appearance?”

                “From my understanding the longer the greyness stays the more likely it becomes chronic. And with him comatose, I can’t say what will happen to his colors, annoyingly,” She sighed, “So what are you going to do with him? Should I call TPS?”

                Thrash retreated into his thoughts. With the greyness the boy didn’t look all that different from a rock trolling, but if his condition wasn’t chronic, and his pop colors returned, no foster home would react very well to it. Returning him to his people was not an option given his state and was virtually impossible. There was one other option…

                “Don’t call anyone yet, Doctor,” Thrash said, “I’d like to keep this under wraps for now. Continue his care, but let’s keep his true nature to ourselves for now.”

                “You want to keep him?” Dr. Feelgood raised a brow.

                “And what if I do, doctor?”

                “Your funeral, Your Rockness,” she sighed, “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

                “I mean it, Veronica, if the boy wakes, it will be likely he’ll be underneath my care. I expect you to offer him the same care as you would my daughter.”

                “Do you take me for a shallow fool Thrash? I might act like I don’t care but I would never mis-treat a patient based on something they cannot control,” Dr. Feelgood bit back, harshly.

                Thrash smirked, “I knew I could trust you.”

                With that Thrash upsettingly had to take his leave from the hospital, though he knew the boy was in good hands. Thankfully the rest of his day was calm. Paperwork could either be the most boring thing or the most relaxing, it all depended on the situation. Today the repetitive nature of the task was a welcomed comfort. Still his thoughts never left the lost boy.

                Even when his arms were full of his own child. Barbara was fifteen now, so she had taken up part of the cooking and maintaining the Cavern when Thrash had a long day. He was so proud of his little girl, always hard working, always ready to help, a little impulsive, but that was something Thrash was positive she’d grow out of. She’d be a wonderful queen one day.

                She was also becoming more intuitive. Which was a double-edged sword in a way. He was pleased with the new development, as it was a skill she would need one day, but it also meant that he couldn’t protect her from the hard things so easily anymore.

                “Dad?” Barbara asked at dinner that night, “Is everything okay?”

                “What makes you ask that dear?” Thrash said.

                “You’ve been quiet tonight, and you kinda hugged me really hard.”

                “Well, I’ll refrain from hugging you if it’s so embarrassing to be hugged by your un-rad dad,” Thrash teased.

                “No! It’s not like that dad! You’re very rad! It’s just you seem sad, and I wanna help. I mean I know there isn’t much I can do, if it’s king stuff, but…”

                Thrash’s smile softened and he reached out a hand to grip Barbara’s wrist, “What did I do to deserve a daughter like you.”

                Barbara smiled.

                “Now, you are correct something did happen today that was very sad to me,” Thrash began, “Thankfully there is something that we can do to rectify it.”

                “What?”

                “To start, I’ll need to ask you a very important question, Barbara. How would you feel about a younger brother?”

Chapter Text

Barb didn’t like hospitals. She used to spend a lot of time in them, but that didn’t mean she liked it. They were quiet, cold, and stagnant. Long halls with rooms lining them, each filled with sick trolls. They felt like hollow catacombs filled with people waiting to die. 

                When Dad told her that she could have a sibling she had been ecstatic! She jammed out all night long and managed to not break three of her guitars (See dad she was learning self-control). Barb always wanted a little brother or sister. They would be a tiny version of a bandmate that would never leave for another band or just someone to be in the house while dad was away. The crown princess of rock would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t lonely.

                Barb, despite her rather robust personality, was quite shy around other trollings. She never had many friends during her time in school, and that was partially due to her own social anxiety and the fact that she had to have guards follow her everywhere until she could defend herself. But once the guards weren’t necessary, it was mostly her not understanding other kids. So, she had asked Dad if she could simply study at home. All alone. 

                A baby brother would fix all that.

                However, once Dad took her to the hospital to meet him, she was having second thoughts. He used to take her to the hospital to meet mom…and she never came home…All hesitations were only solidified when Barb saw him. He was small, and the bed made him look smaller. Like a tiny fragile doll, lying in a bed whose sheets swallowed him, and with dressings that strangled his limbs.

“What do you think Barbara?” Dad asked.

“He’s small,” She was scared to touch him.

                “Yeah, he is. You were once like that.”

                “Is he okay?”

                Dad took a deep breath, and put hand on her shoulder, “He’s badly wounded, but if he wakes, he’ll be home soon enough.”

                “If?” Barb pulled her eyes off the boy, and they locked with her father’s.

                “When. Dear. When.”

                That is what Dad said about Mom, but somewhere deep inside Barb hoped he wasn’t lying this time.

                “What’s his name?” Barb asked.

                “Well, we don’t know just, yet, but I’ve been calling him Charles in my head.”

                Barb snorted. Dad always had the worst taste in names. Barb would know. ‘Barbara’ was a name that was way too fancy and flowery for her. It was too soft, not lethal enough of a name for a future queen of Rock. That’s why she went by Barb to most people now, Barb was sharp and deadly. But she still allowed Dad to call her Barbara, it was the name he gave her after all…and the one mom liked…Charles had been the boy name they were considering the one time she asked Dad about it…

                Still this kid was going to need a better sounding nickname…she hummed.

                Barb reached a handout towards the boy and gripped the trolling’s cold fingers, “I hope you wake up soon, Char.”

                Veronica Feelgood was not a glass half-full kind of troll. Maybe she had been once, but after nearly 15 years of dealing with the most hopeless, sorrowful, and sometimes just plain stupid patient cases she had lost all hope for troll kind. It was a miracle they hadn’t gone extinct. Seriously, there are things that are not meant to enter some orifices.

                Thankfully such cases were fewer now that she was working on a personal level with the king and other politicians, and not in the public ER. 

                However, that didn’t mean there wasn’t the odd case every now and then.

                Case in point, King Thrash’s latest pet project. The mysterious pop trolling had become a permanent resident in her comatose ward. A private room of course, only the best for the royal family. She knew that her king was an eccentric fellow, especially in recent days, however this was near insanity in her opinion. She had thought that Thrash had been joking when he said he would take the boy in, only after he had brought the princess to visit did Veronica realize that he was serious.

                Did he not realize just how slim the boy’s chances were? He had remained stable these past few weeks but vitals not dropping didn’t mean they were improving. In her opinion Thrash was setting himself up for grief. Still, she pushed to care for the boy best she could. If he was going to die on her watch, he was going to die painlessly.

                But if he were to survive? Did Thrash truly know what type of life he was setting the boy up for? Sure, Prince-hood offered much luxury, but a lot of attention. Veronica wasn’t sure how Thrash planned on dealing with the boy’s pop nature, but she knew that keeping it secret was harder than it looked. After all…

                Her nephew was half Celtic and she had been hiding him ever since her brother died.

Celtic wasn’t Pop, heck the distant tribe didn’t even have anything to do with the Great Split, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t bad blood between Rock and Celtic. The story of the two tribes’ conflict was a long one and, in the end, pointless. Still Rock was stubborn, and they didn’t forget those who wronged them. Even if supposed ‘enemy’ was a smart and sweet boy who wasn’t even alive during the time of the feud.

 So, unlike most of the citizens of Volcano Rock City, Veronica didn’t hold any ill-will towards pop trolls. She understood that time had passed, and the sins of elders were not passed to their children. Now frustration? Yes, any remaining information on them had been horribly organized and made researching the best way to care for Thrash’s new trolling near impossible, but she didn’t despise the genre.

Still many others did and like she had to be with her nephew, King Thrash would need to be very careful with the trolling’s care. For the past couple years she had taken many measures to hide her nephew’s Celtic heritage. Sure, Jovi went to school and had friends, but they had to keep his medical history confidential and certain things needed to be done before anyone came to their cavern or if Jovi was going out into public. The feeling of being watched had become second nature a long time ago.  

That paranoia would be ten-fold for Thrash’s boy, because even though he wouldn’t be Heir, second-borns were also watched closely. Granted the boy looked more like a rock trolling than Jovi ever did, but Veronica knew that was due to his greyness. If the boy were to regain his color…she secretly hoped his was some shade of dull blue or green originally and not a hot pink.

If Thrash told everyone about the new prince’s nature from the start…there would be riots. Plain and simple. If he didn’t and the information was somehow leaked out…

The whole situation was a rock and a hard place. No way out.

Veronica shook her head, blowing out a sigh through limp lips. It had been a few long and tiring weeks, and she couldn’t wait to go home tonight. However, she had one last thing to do. So, off she went to the private royal ward. Veronica turned the corner, expecting an empty hall, only to find a small crowd of nurses surrounding the door.

“Dr. Feelgood!” One of them squeaked with surprise.

 “Alright, why are you swarming like vultures that found a fresh carcass?” Veronica said.

They slowly backed away from the door, while Veronica stepped closer. Losing her breath as her gaze locked with a pair of open and aware eyes.

The prince-to-be was looking at her. Looking at her. It was common for coma patients’ eyes to twitch or open involuntarily, but that didn’t mean they were awake. For the past few days, she had seen the youthful set of grey eyes crack open and stare without seeing. That wasn’t this. He was looking at her.       

He was awake.

The moment of peace was gone the second Veronica realized this. For the next hour she was ordering tests and exams along with summoning King Thrash. She wasn’t going home anytime soon, but for now she didn’t care. This boy was going to live.

                He didn’t know where he was. The lights were bright, and the bed felt soft, but all he felt was pain and fear. His head throbbed as if someone had swished his brain around like mouthwash. The noisy people weren’t helping either. His head hurt! Why couldn’t they be quiet? Why did they want to shine bright lights in his eyes or run around.

What was going on? Why did it hurt so much?

                He let out a whimper, and the lady who was barking orders shushed him gently.

                “I know sweetie, it isn’t fun right now…”

                Fun? He didn’t want fun! He wanted to stop hurting!

                “…Can you understand me?”

                He nodded, maybe if he listened to her, she’d stop the hurt.

                “Good. That’s good. Do you know where you are?”

                He shook his head.

                “Okay, that’s okay. You’re in the hospital sweetie….”

                Hospital? That’s where sick people went. Was he sick?

                “Do you think you can answer some questions for me?”

                He nodded.

                “Good. Now first question can you tell me your name?”

                He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He whimpered. Name?

                What was his name?

Chapter Text

“Is called retrograde amnesia, basically he doesn’t remember anything from before the accident. We can probably blame this development on the head trauma.”

He doesn’t remember anything from before the accident.

Those words rang loud and clear through Thrash’s mind. No memories meant no leads, no way to return the child home even if Thrash had wanted to. His fate was decided then, because frankly, Thrash didn’t want to leave this boy alone. He felt drawn to the child, like they were meant to be family. Perhaps, Ozzy’s plan for him was never to be a father to only one.

“Is there chance of restoring them?” Thrash asked.

“Currently, we’re unsure,” Dr. Feelgood stated, “We tried showing him the objects found in his pack, however he didn’t have much of a reaction to them, with one exception.”

“Exception?”

“The vest he was wearing when you brought him in. He started crying and won’t let go of it. He can’t remember the events that made it so important, but the emotional attachment is still there.”

“But he doesn’t remember anything?”

“No. Not his name. Not what happened. Nothing,” Dr. Feelgood shook her head, “Though, I guess we could consider this lucky. He could’ve easily been worse off, but he’s seemingly retained most of his motor skills, is talking in full sentences, and cognitively stable.”

Thrash looked at the child. The little boy was sitting up on the hospital bed, curled up as much as his dressings would allow, the green vest wrapped around him and clutched tightly. He looked so lost. Thrash walked towards him, sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Hello,” Thrash said.

“Hi,” the child rasped.

Oh, the relief that little voice gave to Thrash was like nothing he’d felt before. After sitting at the trolling’s bedside and the room being utterly silent for weeks, Thrash had slowly begun to wonder if he would ever hear the sweet youthful voice speak.

“How are you fairing little, one,” Thrash asked.

The child opened his mouth, then shut it, then murmured, “Fine.”

Thrash was puzzled over the reaction. The boy might have no memories, but reflexes seemed to have made it through. The child appeared on the verge of tears, why would he say he was fine? Unless he was taught to be “fine”. Thrash would keep a close eye on this.

Thrash nodded, “Well does anything hurt? You had all of us worried for a while.”

“I’m sorry…” The child went stiff.

“Oh, no, no dear. It’s not your fault. In fact, you made us all feel much better by waking up.”

The boy relaxed but didn’t uncurl, continuing to protect himself. Abuse. Thrash swallowed down anger towards whoever did this to a little one.

“Are you hungry?” Thrash probed. Food might not be the best thing at the moment, but a bowl of broth would probably be enough right now. Children were usually happier with full stomachs.

He shook his head and winced.

“Your head hurt?”

A nod.

Thrash looked over to Dr. Feelgood. She didn’t look too concerned, thankfully. But Thrash knew she was watching more closely now.

“Well, it took a pretty hard hit. Don’t worry it will get better,” Thrash said.

“Dr. Feelgood said that too.”

Ah progress! “Really? What else did she say?” Thrash said, hoping to continue this conversation subject.

“That it’s the reason I can’t remember anything.”

Thrash nodded, “That’s a sad truth, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded.

“Do you know who I am little one?” Thrash said gently, swapping the subject once he began to feel it run dry.

The set of pain-filled, grey eyes looked up as the trolling finally uncurled a little. Thrash smiled at the utterly adorable, confused head tilt the child had.

“No,” the trolling murmured.

“My name is Thrash.”

“That’s a cool name.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it sounds like no one would mess with you.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“Huh?”

“Well, some people don’t listen very well, and things have ended up in fisticuffs.”

“Fisticuffs?”

“Is when people who don’t listen get a lesson through violence.”

“People like that are stupid.”

Thrash chuckled, “Yes they can be, but I like to believe they can change.”

A shrug, and then a frustrated expression.

“Something wrong son?”

“You gave me your name, but I can’t give you mine. It’s impolite.”

Oh, well at least someone cared enough to teach him manners.

“Do not concern yourself with that, child. It’s perfectly fine given your situation. And I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“No, of course not. It would make me very foolish if I did.”

Little blackened brows furrowed in confusion, “Why?”

“Because I’m your father.”

His name was Char, well technically, Charles, but he preferred what, Barb, his sister called him. Oddly enough that wasn’t even his birthname, but the grey trolling might not ever learn what that name was. Maybe he should be more upset at that fact, but you can’t miss what you never had, and he has bigger things to focus on then a name he can’t remember.

Char’s home was a cavern in the heart of the small volcano at the city’s center. The walls ranged from black obsidian to grey brimstone and were polished down to the point where your skin wouldn’t be sliced open if you touched them. The rooms were curved from the floors into the ceilings forming dome shaped chambers like little pockets of air in the mountain. Each one connected by thin rough-cut tunnels with smoothed floors, like an ant’s nest.

Well, the cavern was supposed to be home, but he felt detached from it. He had to wear thick boots and gloves to keep himself from getting burned on everyday surfaces, and that was even if he could get out of bed. Some days he was so sore or hot, or the air felt too thick, he couldn’t move. But he was never bored. Thrash would come once he was done with work, and they would lay on the bed reading story books, but he could only do so much. Barb was the one who was always making sure he was okay, being home almost all day. She’d bring coloring books and pencils for him to use, and they would just hang out.

At first, Char was given a room near his Thrash’s. But after the first concert was performed on the royal stage just outside of his window, he was moved to a soundproof room next to Barb’s. The room used to be her recording studio, but she gave it up quickly when they realized how much issue with music he had. Char didn’t know why he started crying his eyes out at the sound of rapid notes. Why his breath quickened with panic at the thought of singing. Why the riffs made his heart beat out of his chest.

All he knew was that he needed to get away from it. When Char explained Barb and Thrash that, he was moved into a soundproof room, and was given a set of noise cancelling headphones for when he needed to go outside. He felt kind of bad about it. Barb had loved that room and playing, if it all the instruments and books on music were anything to go by.

“Okay, what’s with that deep thinking face?” Barb asked one day, while drawing in his room.

Char bit his lip, realizing that they enteral turmoil was expressing outwardly, and eventually whispered, “You’re unhappy,”

“What? What made you think that?” Barb looked confused.

“You can’t sing around me, and that will make you sad, and that’s bad,” He rasped.

“Why do you think that?” Barb said clearly probing for more.

“Singing makes people happy. If they don’t…something bad will happen.”

“What will happen?” Barb said with a confused tilt of her head.

Char thought so hard his head began to hurt, but he couldn’t find an answer, “I don’t know, but it will be bad.”

Home life was stable, however, just because he had gone home didn’t mean he stayed there. Most of Char’s outside time was spent at the hospital and physical therapist. Recovering from a coma involved a lot more than just waking up. Despite only being under for a few weeks, Char had to be weaned on to solid foods again, and even then, they had to be bland. His muscles had weakened too, meaning that the first week home he was wheelchair bound.

Physical therapy was hard and tiring. His legs were sore from all the exercises and left wrist had the tendency ache whenever he tried to use it. Char couldn’t even escape it either, since apparently, he was left-handed. It took time but eventually he started to stumble around.

Once he could walk again. Run around the cavern and play chase with Barb. Things should’ve gotten better. But…

That’s when the seizures started.

Char wasn’t entirely sure what happened when the first one hit, but it wasn’t pleasant. Barb said that he had wandered into the living room before dropping to the ground, choking on his own spit as he shuddered on the floor. But he was really in a fog long before even getting to that point. Having the last thing he remembered being drawing in his room.

After that first fit he was set right back to Dr. Feelgood and put through all kinds of tests. They could blame the seizures on his TBI. Whether or not this was a one-time thing or the beginning of a lifelong condition was yet to be seen. Dr. Feelgood said to expect the latter, and she was right when he had a smaller fit two weeks later. There was a chance he would grow out of them, so to speak, but he wasn’t optimistic about it. Especially when it came to the post-seizure migraine.

“Char?” Barb said walking into his room. She flicked the lights on and heard a high squeal of pain.

“Turn it off!!!” Char whimpered, the pounding in his head peeked to an ice pick strike right to his temple.

From behind his closed eyes he could hear, Barb slamming the lights off, but the darkness did little to quell his pain.

“Headache?” Barb whispered, already knowing what had happened during the night.

He gave the teeniest nod.

“Want some ice or for me to rub your head?”

“Both,” Char croaked.

Barb ran her hand down his back, “You got it, Charcoal Stick.”

Recovery was once more, slow.

And it wasn’t doing wonders for his inner thoughts. Char didn’t know why but his brain was very mean to him sometimes. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit it so hard. It’s mad at him and that’s why it’s mean.

For a while he felt useless. Broken.

The conversation seemed to be a pleasant one, Thrash’s face was relaxed, pleased even. Char must have done well on the Doctor’s test. The two adults finished their talk, and the Therapist made a hand gesture before bidding Thrash goodbye. Char’s brows furrowed as he puzzled over their interaction.

“You did well today, Charles, ready to go home?” Thrash’s brow rose when he looked at Char’s face, “Something on your mind son?”

“Why do they do that?” the trolling asked.

“Do what?”

“The hand thing. Whenever someone talks to you, they make this hand thing, and thump their chests with their other hand,” Char said, mimicking the gesture. The outer fingers of his hand up with the middle one curled down.

“Well, little one, that gesture is the appropriate salute to be given to royalty. When trolls do that towards me, they are pledging their loyalty and devotion to their king. It’s merely a habit that they do to be polite, like how you say please and thank you.”

“If they do it because your king, then why do they do it to me?”

“Well, I’m king, and you’re my son, that makes you prince. We people salute you; they are pledging loyalty to you and our family.”

Char felt his mouth go dry, “But I’m adopted.”

“Doesn’t matter to me or most Rock Trolls. Charles, family are the ones you love, not just who you’re born too. Even if you haven’t had a proper coronation just, yet.”

Char felt his ears droop. He swallowed and curled into himself.

“Something wrong, son?”

“I don’t think I’ll make a good prince. I’m broken.”

“Oh no, no, no. You’re not broken, son, you’re recovering,” Thrash’s lips puckered, almost looking curious, “Why do you think you’re broken?”

Char looked to the ground, searching for answer, “I don’t know, I just know something’s wrong with me.”

Thrash hummed, seemingly upset, but it was quickly covered up with a soft smile, “Well, you look just fine to me, and Charles even if you were broken, there’s almost nothing in this world that can’t be put back together.”

Days were a mix of fog, either caused by medications, or his own mind attacking him. Sleep seemed to be the only place where Char found peace.

Until the nightmares came.

He’d dream of a tree, with giant hands reaching out to snatch him. They never did, but he knew they grabbed someone. Because someone was always screaming. It sounded like an old woman. Then once the hands were gone, came the teeth. They would be misshapen and razor sharp, formed into smiles that were just too wide to be real. They didn’t chase him, they only bit. Crunching down on his limps, but they never drew blood, only broke bones, broke his body and spirit. Because the smiles always had this sense of desperation. Not like us they would scream.

Not like us. Not like us. Not like us.

Char never woke up screaming. He woke up sure, but he never screamed. It’s not like he had to worry about waking everyone else, as his room was soundproof, but he never screamed. He always felt like he was being watched. Screaming would lead to something. Something he didn’t like. Something that scared him. Even if he didn’t know what it was.

He’s already been a burden with all his medical issues, so he didn’t tell Barb or Thrash…it would worry them. And he didn’t want to become a bother…

So, Char bit his lip and held his tongue. Never saying anything and the dreams just continued to become worse and worse. Every time he woke, he felt out of control. Something was missing, like he was falling without a net to catch him. Something was wrong, like he was in the sight of a predator. He wasn’t safe! He needed to do something! So, every night, he drew traps, bunkers, and places to hide. Safe places. There was a folder full of designs, hidden underneath his pillow. Every few nights more ideas and plans were added to it. Just in case. Just in case.

Thrash and Barb would never have to know. Char didn’t know why he was so scared to share them, he just was. And they didn’t know.

Until Char woke up screaming.

His blankets and sheets were drenched in sweat from the struggling fit. He felt tangled, trapped in a spider web of linen. The monster under the bed crept up along the shadows to snatch him away. Never to be seen again. Only remembered by his screams…

Char curled into a ball. The room felt oppressive. The hot night air was thick and sluggish to go into his lungs as he choked to breathe. Warm tears dripped from his eyes, and his throat began to burn.

Water. He needed water. Water would make him feel better.

He began to untangle the knot of blankets in which he was trapped. Slipping from the bed top, he stood on the hot stone floor. His socks were just thick enough to not let the heat burn him.

The cavern was dark at night. Near pitch black. During the day it was bright with white electric lights, but at night all that was really there was the natural hot glow of the volcano that slipped through the cracks in the black…and the kitchen light. Thrash always left that one on. Barb told him it was because once she got up in the middle of the night and walked into the counter, earning a small scar on her forehead that was now faded.

So, Char, with a little help of a stepstool, had an easy time getting a glass of water. The ceramic mug clinked on the stone counter as he set it down before he closed the cabinet and moved the mini ladder towards the sink. Water dripped from the guitar-neck shaped faucet and into the cup at a slow rate. Char didn’t turn it on at full blast so he wouldn’t waste as much water hoping for a cold cup. The slow steady thread of water glistened gold in the warm light. It was pretty. Char looked at it with a smile.

“Charles?”

The grey trolling jumped at the sudden voice, dropping his cup in the sink. The ceramic broke against the metal bowl, spilling the water. Nothing was catching the dripping water now. Char frantically shut off the faucet. He didn’t want to waste anything. With wide cautious eyes, the trolling turned around to face Thrash.

“Oh dear,” Thrash said, walking over and gently pulling Char’s arms away from the broken mug, lifting him up before placing the trolling on the counter.

“I’m sorry!” Char squeaked.

“Oh, don’t worry. It was an accident. Happens to the best of us.”

“But I broke it!”

“A cup can be replaced, little one.”

“But the water!”

“You shut it off before anything bad happened,” Thrash said, examining Char’s hands and arms, “Are you hurt?”

Char shook his head, closing his eyes. He heard the sink turn on and the chimes of broken pottery clinking against the metal bowl as it was cleaned away. The smooth face of a porcelain cup was placed in his hands, and he looked up to find Thrash smiling at him. He didn’t understand why.

“You were thirsty, yes?”

Char nodded taking a sip from his cup, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Why are you up?” Char asked after a few moments of silence in between Thrash finishing up the sink.

“Work ran late. The whole kingdom has been in a buzz, since the accident in the northward canal. I spent the afternoon speaking to the heads of city construction and supply storage. Not to mention addressing the masses about how this does not mean that the city will flood. It’s tiring, but at the same time rewarding.”

“Because you keep everyone happy?” Char spoke without thinking.

“Well, that can be a part of it, but it’s not just my job to keep the people happy. I must keep them safe and secure as well.”

Char’s brow furrowed, “But I thought all a king was supposed to was keep people happy.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Thrash turned to look at him, another one of his curious looks on his face.

“I-I don’t know,” Char curled up, putting the cup down and pulling his knees into his chest.

Thrash hummed, “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Why are you up?”

Char felt his ears droop.

“Charles?”

“It’s nothing,” He sniffed.

“If it was nothing you wouldn’t be upset over it,” Thrash sat next him, he reached a handout tenderly turning Char’s head by his chin to look at him, the king had a knowing look in his eyes, “Charles? Have you been having nightmares?”

Char whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

“My darling boy, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Thrash said.

“B-but I’m a problem! I make it harder for everyone!”

Thrash opened his arms, offering comfort. Char usually did not like hugging adults, or people touching him. Barb was really the only exception and that was because he couldn’t really stop her. He was used to her rough affection by now. His touches with Thrash had been fewer and far between. But when they did happen, they were warm and comforting. Thrash would gently carry him home if Char fell asleep on a trip to the library, and never shook Char off if the trolling gripped the king’s hand or arm.

Char leaped forward and buried deep into the warm embrace.

“No. No you are not a problem. You just need a little help, to go at your own pace, and there’s nothing wrong with that,” Thrash comforted, rubbing his back, “Sometimes people just need a little help.”

Char mulled this thought over. Asking others for help? It seemed so simple. So, easy. Yet, it terrified him. Somewhere deep inside, he felt as if this was the worst thing he could do. He couldn’t trust people, something inside told him. They would stab him in the back first chance they get. He could do it alone. He had to do it alone…Someone…did it alone. He could prove he could do it alone.

He sniffed and murmured, “You don’t need help.”

“Oh, that’s where you are mistaken my boy. I need help all the time. When I’m faced with a disaster like food storage or a predator threat, I need help from advisors and possibly military personnel. Why just today I was asking for help with the canal. Volcano Rock City is vast, Charles, far too vast for one person to care for on their own. There will be a point when you can’t do something alone, son, and you will need others. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Char bit his lip before asking, “How do you know when you help?”

“That can be difficult to determine. And it’s not your fault if you aren’t sure yet.”

“You seem to know.”

“When you and your sister came into the picture, it became easier for me to learn where my limits are. You know why?”

Char shook his head.

“Because it’s my job to take care of both Barbara and you.”

“You’re the king it’s your job, like the rest of the tribe.”

“Well, yes, but there’s another reason that it’s my job to take care of you two in particular. Because you’re my children, my daughter and my son, the two people in this world I love the most.”

Char tightened the hug, a puzzle piece clicking into place in his head, “I love you too, dad.”

Thrash hugged back, “I love you too, son. Do you think you can let me help you, now?”

Char’s hand gripped Thrash- No, his dad’s nightshirt, and whimpered, but the grey trolling nodded.

Thrash tucked the silk blankets around his youngest child with a bittersweet heart. On the one hand he was ecstatic. Charles had called him “dad”. The boy had been calling him by his first name since his arrival, and Thrash had been alright with that. After all, the king of rock knew that Charles would need time to adjust in his new home, and some children never ended up calling their foster parents by such titles. Barbara tried to get Charles to call him ‘dad’ once, but Thrash gently put a stop to that, pressure would not help a skittish child like Charles heal.

But now, his son was calling him dad. The joy he had in that moment was comparable to when he heard Barbara say her first word. Ironically, it had been the same word between his two children.

However, on the other hand, Thrash was concerned. His son was having nightmares, something Dr. Feelgood warned him about, but they weren’t about a blow to the head like she thought. Giants eating him? Evil smiles? Such ideas: Thrash felt that they weren’t just from a child’s overactive imagination. Were these nightmares, phantoms from his son’s past life that still haunted him.

And the drawings…Charles had shown him ideas that he was producing should the monsters from his dreams come to get him. Frankly, Thrash’s first thought when seeing them was what type of apocalypse was this child preparing for? Because that’s what these drawings were of, disaster plans, last resorts. Bunkers, stashes, and traps. They were honestly impressive, drawn to scale with the math done on the back of the parchment. Some of them he might have to implement into the city, in the case of an earthquake or eruption. Though, the ones with ten story waterslides would sadly never come for fruition, due to lack of water resources. Thrash made a note to look into both a therapist and gifted courses in school.

Thrash reached out and ran his fingers through Charles’ hair and into the child’s scalp. Then leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“Don’t worry little one, whatever demons you ran from, they will never find you here.” 

Chapter Text

Char swallowed, as his stomach squirmed with anxiety. The school yard in front of him wasn’t packed but it was still the most trollings he’d ever remember seeing in one place. Dad had kept him inside the cavern during his recovery, except for his doctor appointments. Now that he was healed, physically at least, Dad said he needed to try school. Char was hesitant to be alone in a strange place surrounded by strangers, but Dad said just to try it before simply continuing with his private tutor. When asked Barb had a poor opinion of school, but she said that because she didn’t enjoy it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Char liked learning, so he had decently raised hopes for school.

However, now that he was standing at threshold of the school, Char felt very uneasy about the whole thing. He liked to learn, but he didn’t like people.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Char looked up at Billy Reverb and bit his lip. Billy was supposed to be Char’s bodyguard. Dad had introduced the two of them that morning and said that Char could trust the stranger like he was family, but the trolling remained a little skeptical. Billy talked to fill the silence when Char had nothing to say, and from that the trolling learned a lot about him. Apparently, his new bodyguard was also the lead in a soon-to-be-famous band. How that made him qualified to be a bodyguard? Char was not sure. Still Billy seemed nice, he definitely wasn’t as intense as other rock trolls he had met. Which was something the grey trolling liked.

“There’s a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Billy nodded, “I get that. I like space too, but don’t worry; anyone of them messes with you they have to deal with me and your dad. Now come on there’s your teacher.”

Char’s teacher was a woman on the older side, with deep navy skin and smokey hair. Her face was seemingly always frowning, but she was good at her job. The trolling was sat in the back of the room allowing him a little privacy. Billy leaned against the wall in a nearby corner, he looked bored, but Char could tell he was watching everyone.

Throughout the lessons, Char kept quiet and took notes in his books. He paid attention to everything his instructor said. Unlike some of the idiots he reluctantly called his classmates. There was a group of rowdy boys in the back corner on the other side of the room. They were loud, wild and rude. Interrupting and basically being disrespectful. He didn’t like them, neither did their teacher, but she remained professional, and Char stayed behaved. He wasn’t going to make her job harder.

Morning classes started with lessons in language. Then it pivoted over to sciences. Currently earth sciences and geology were the subject of Char’s studies for the year. He took meticulous notes on both. He was honestly having fun with it. It was cool to learn how the Ashland’s eco-systems worked.

Lunch and recess were next in the schedule. However, while the rest of the schoolchildren played, Char was sitting at a picnic table, nibbling on his lunch, and going over his notes.

“You don’t want to play with the others?” Billy asked.

Char shook his head, “No this is more important.”

Billy hummed and went back to tuning his guitar, “At least I don’t have to worry about you busting your head open.”

Char nodded, oh yeah, Billy would not have to worry about that. The grey trolling did not want to go through that again. He finished up his lunch, wiping his hands on the paper towels Thrash had packed in his bag. The dirty towels in one hand, and his notes tucked underneath his other arm, Char ran off to the nearby trash bin. He winced, the bin’s lid screeched when opened, as he threw the towels away. Happy with his clean up Char turned around…and nearly ran into another trolling. He jumped. She was so close to him?! How did he not hear her?!

She had purple hair, with light violet streaks that were held up in messy pigtails. Her eyes a bloody reddish brown, with a complexion of muted periwinkle. She was wearing a black shirt with fish-net sleeves, and each pant-leg was a different color. The stare she was giving Char was the intensity of a famished predator. She wanted something.

“You,” She said.

“Me?” Char said back in confusion.

“Yes you,” She stepped impossibly closer, “How do you know Billy Reverb?”

Char raised a confused brow. That’s what she was in his face for?

“Val, back off,” Another girl said running up with a boy not too far behind.

The second girl was similar shade of blue as the first, but hers was somehow duller. And instead of pigtails, her bright blue hair was just a wild mop. Like if she had a very fuzzy pom-pom ball stuck to her head. Her eyes were a pleasant forest green, that contrasted nicely with her deep red T-shirt and black ripped jeans.

The boy was fully blue, with the exception of his clothes. His skin a pale cerulean, with a brighter nose and eyes. His hair was the darkest shade of the color, almost navy but not quite there, and it was styled in near ridiculous spikes that made his head look gigantic. Especially on a tiny trolling. He had red pants that weren’t ripped or patched, spike cuffs, and no shirt, only a zip up tie.

“I’m just asking a question,” The first girl, Val? Said.

“Didn’t mean you needed to get in his face,” The boy said.

“How else was I supposed to ask?!”

“Nicely maybe,” Char muttered.

There was a moment of silence, as the three other trollings stared at him. Char immediately felt embarrassed for that completely rude statement. It just slipped out! He didn’t even know where it came from! He opened his mouth to apologize but was cut off by the blue-haired girl snorting loudly before bursting into a laughing fit.

“He got you there Val,” The boy said, holding back his own laughter.

“Y-yeah Val! Y-you need t-to remember…remember your manners!” The blue girl said through her giggles.

“I got plenty of manners!” Val said.

The boy walked over, “That was great! I haven’t seen anyone make Val freeze up like that before! Said it in complete deadpan too!”

“Thanks? I think,” Char said, why weren’t these people mad at him? He was rude.

“Hi, I’m Demo,” The boy offered a hand.

Char repositioned his notes before taking Demo’s handshake, “I’m Char.”

“Nice name!” Demo said, “What are those?” He pointed to Char’s notes.

“Just my class notes.”

Demo’s eyes lit up, “You make class notes too! I thought I was the only one! Can I?” He gestured to the paper in Char’s hand.

The grey trolling hesitantly handed them over. He wasn’t sure why he was worried about letting Demo see them. For some reason, Char thought the blue trolling might rip them up…but Demo said he liked notes, so maybe it was dumb to be worried over that.

“W-why would you be the only one?” Char asked, not wanting awkward silence to take over.

“Because making notes is boooring!” Val said.

“No, it isn’t,” Char said, crossing his arms “It’s a critical technique in memorizing the class material.”

“Oh, by Ozzy,” Val’s jaw dropped, “Demo do you have a brother you didn’t tell us about?”

“I wish!” Demo exclaimed, not taking his eyes off Char’s notes, “These are beautiful! So organized!” He looked up and hugged Char on the side, “Where have you been all my life?”

Char felt his eyes widen; he had never been hugged by a stranger before. Sure, Barb was always looking for opportunities to squish him, and he was open to Dad’s hugs, but no one else ever dared to touch him. With the exception of his doctors of course.

“Demo I think you’re scaring him,” the un-named girl said, now almost recovered from her laughing fit.

“Okay, enough!” Val said, “Back on topic, how do you know Billy Reverb?”

At she didn’t get in his face this time. Char resisted rolling his eyes and opened his mouth, “He’s my bodyguard, what’s the big deal?”

The expression of the other trollings shifted to shock. Demo and the un-named girl’s jaws dropped. Val looked like she was going to explode.

“The big deal? The big deal?! He’s Billy Reverb! His band broke more records in their first month than anyone in history! He’s one of the best rockers of his generation! How are you so calm about this?!” Val said.

“Haven’t you listened to his music?” The other girl said.

Char shook his head, “No, I don’t like music.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Val said.

“Val!” Demo fussed at her.

“That’s not nice!” the other girl said.

“It’s a valid question! What rock troll doesn’t listen to music,” Val said.

Char bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t have a real answer to his aversion to music. He and Dad talked about it, but throughout the past months Char still didn’t know why he was so scared. He just felt like if he were to sing or dance, or have anything to do with music, something bad would happen. Yes, Char was aware of how strange that sounded. So, Dad had come up with an excuse for him to tell people in case he wasn’t okay with telling the truth.

“One with a TBI that makes sound painful,” Char said, pushing back the small bit of bangs on his forehead.

Once more a round of surprised looks was given to him.

The large wound on his forehead from his accident had shriveled and healed into scraggly jagged rusty colored scar. It was large and ugly, cutting across the side of his forehead and left eyebrow like a lightning bolt. Char didn’t like it. Don’t get him wrong, he also didn’t like staring at a bunch of gauze and medical tape, but it was better than the scar. Barb had shown him how to make some soft short bangs on the left side of his face to cover it. He liked that better, no one could tell he had been hurt.

However, with the bangs removed. The wound was very obvious. All three trollings were now staring at it.

“Sorry, I know it’s gross,” Char said quickly putting the bangs back, covering the scar once more.

“Gross? That’s rad!” The other girl said.

“Hardcore,” Val nodded.

“How did you get that?” Demo said.

“I don’t remember. It’s a head wound,” Char deadpanned.

The blue girl snorted, “Yeah, should’ve known that Demo. Remember when Val smacked her head against the ground when she tried to jump off the swings and got knocked out? She didn’t remember even going to recess.”

“I miss-timed my jump, Petra, I did it right the next time,” Val said.

Petra! So that was the blue girl’s name!

“Yeah, after your concussion was better,” Petra said.

“You know what that doesn’t matter!” Val said, before turning back to Char, “How did your family hire Billy Reverb as your bodyguard?

“Why does that matter?” Char raised a brow.

“Humf, I’m a Thundershock. My family’s been in charge of all the military personnel for years, old money and a lot of connections, and even we can’t get Billy Reverb as a bodyguard. Not that I need one,” Val said, “What family are you from?”

Char didn’t have a reason to lie, “Osbourne.”

Once more shock and awe.

Petra leaned towards Val and whispered very loudly, “Isn’t that the king’s bloodline?”

“Yeah, he’s my dad,” Char said, kind of enjoying how wide the other’s eyes grew.

Demo jumped off of him and handed back the notes, “You’re the new prince,” He whispered, “I am so sorry for grabbing you!”

“I thought my mom was joking,” Val said.

“Why would she joke about me?” Char said.

“Nothing bad meant by it your royal rockness!” Petra cut in, “There’s just been a few rumors that King Thrash has a second child, but there was no proof, so no one believes it.”

Char shrugged, “That’s okay. I just kind of want to be a student at the moment, not a prince. Dad kind of just wants me to be a kid too. You don’t have to be formal.”

“Really?” Val looked confused.

“I came here to learn, not be bowed too,” Char said, “So, I appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Well, we can keep a secret,” Val said, “I have to keep them all the time.”

“Because you go snooping in you mom’s office?” Demo asked.

“Shut up!”

The rest of the school day went great! Char found himself hanging out with Val, Petra and Demo for the rest of the recess. They pushed each other on the swings, raced down the slides and climbed on the jungle gym until their hands were sore. Well, until everyone else’s hands were sore. Char was the only kid to not have aching arms or blistered palms. Pays to be wearing gloves all the time.

Demo did ask about them, and Char was hesitant to explain, worried that the difference would make his new friends not like him. However, Demo only looked curious when Char explained his soft skin condition. Then asked just how sensitive to temperature were Char’s hands. The two boys made plans to explore this concept tomorrow.

After recess, they went back inside for Math, History, and musical engineering. The last one was thankfully, about how instruments and sound devices work, and not about actual music. Char still found it interesting, and he wondered if other non-musical inventions worked off similar principles.

The cowbell eventually rang, and the school day came to a close. While his classmates ran to their lockers eager to leave, Char remained at his desk a moment longer double checking his notes and making plans for homework.

“Char c’mon,” Val said coming over, “It’s time to blow this place.”

“Just a second I’m not done yet” Char answered.

“Done with what?” Demo asked suddenly at Char’s shoulder.

“My history notes and where’d did you come from?” Char said.

Val tilted her head in a manner that was both confused and bored, “Why do you need notes for history, every trolling knows the story of the Great Split.”

Char looked over that fact his question was ignored, in favor of internally panicking over the fact that he didn’t know it. That’s why he took notes.

“Doesn’t hurt to have them,” Char said, eventually.

Val rolled her eyes, “What’s there to make note of? The Pop tribe turned on the other tribes, killed thousands of us when we tried to escape their tyranny, and then we found sanctuary in the Ashlands.”

“It’s not that simple Val,” Char tried to claim, “You still should know when this happened, what were the events leading up to it, and what the other tribes thought in response.”

“Who cares what the other tribes thought about,” Val waved her arms in exaggeration, “They were cowards, left us Rock trolls to fend for ourselves against Pop and ran for it. Their no better than Pop in my opinion.”

Char didn’t agree with that, but Demo beat him to the punch.

“I don’t think we can say that Val,” Demo said, “The other tribes were in danger too. They were just trying to save themselves; they aren’t bad for that.”

“Maybe,” Val turned to leave, “But we still shouldn’t trust them, or their music.”

Char packed his books away and stood up. He was about to leave, when he looked at Demo. The blue trolling still standing in his place right behind Char’s desk. Demo had a distressed look on his face, his teeth gnawing on his lip with nerves. Blunt blue fingers fiddling with the strap of his book bag.

“Demo?” Char asked.

“I don’t think they’re bad,” Demo whispered.

“Who?” Char whispered back leaning closer to hear better.

“The other tribes, I don’t think their bad, or their music,” Demo looked half-way to flinching when he said it, like he was committing a sin with his words.

Char was confused at the odd behavior his peer was presenting but didn’t comment. The grey trolling merely shrugged and said, “Okay.”

Demo raised a surprised brow, “Okay?”

Char shrugged, “You don’t think the other tribes are bad, and I don’t really either. Pop were the real monsters anyway.”

Demo looked at him with sparkling eyes, and a large smile stretched across his face. Char was pulled into a very brief embrace before being let go.

“You’re a good friend, your highness,” Demo said, throwing up the Rock hand salute.

Demo left the classroom after that. A warm feeling bubbled up inside of Char, and he smiled. He had a friend.

Just when he thought his day wasn’t going to get any better, he saw his sister waiting for him at the front door.

Barb made sure to have her late afternoon cleared that day. After all it’s not every day that your baby brother is sent to school for the first time. Barb knew her first time at school had been stressful and she wanted to be there for her brother just in case something happened, and he needed someone.

One of the main things that she had learned about her brother was that he was a very quiet child. It was kind of jarring actually. Barb had to deal with trollings before, sometimes the preschools would set up visits with her so that she could interact with some of the youngest of her future subjects. And from those visits, Barb could tell you, rock trollings were little hellions. Their hair was wild and unruly, the only hope of looking styled being some extra strength hair ties, but even tied up it still would look messy. Their teeth were merely milk fangs that slowly fell out one by one, making misshapen smiles. They would jump, scream, run away, and wrestle. It was adorable, watching those play fights. Claws and jaws too blunt to draw blood, but fists would fly.

However, Char…Char didn’t have that built in violent streak. Sure, he could roast you the high heaven with words if he was in a bad enough mood, and he definitely wasn’t above blackmail, but he never lashed out physically. He was calm, cool, and quiet. Preferring less violent activities, like reading and drawing. At first Barb thought his subdued nature was due to painkillers and his recovery being tiring but as time went on it was clear that this was just Char’s temperament. He only ever got pumped if Barb got pumped, and that was because they were brother and sister. He was comfortable with her. Anytime they were in public Char wouldn’t make a sound.

So, needless to say Barb was worried about school eating her little brother alive. Sure, Dad had gotten Char a bodyguard just in case, but it didn’t ease Barb’s concern much. Not to mention she didn’t really approve of the choice of her brother’s guard. Billy Reverb was skilled in his own right, the crown princess couldn’t deny that. However, he was also very soft for a Rock troll. His personal style leaning more towards classic rock and other softer sub rock genera, rather than heavy metal. The style that was invented to protect them. What if his soft rock wasn’t enough to protect Char in an emergency?!

Still, it was her dad’s decision, and Billy was here to stay until Char said otherwise. She’d just have to deal with that stupid soft rocker, and his stupid pretty boy aesthetic with that charming smile of his for now.

“Barb!”

That shout was a happy one…and probably the loudest sound she’d ever heard her brother make. Then something small and fast slammed into her legs. On newly developed reflex Barb hugged the trolling she knew to be her brother.

“Hey Charcoal Stick! You have a good day?”

Char nodded vigorously and began rambling. Rambling. Char never talked this much. He seemed so happy. Barb gave a signal to Billy that she’d take it from here and chose to ignore the playful grin he gave her before taking off. All the way home Char talked about what happened on about his first day. About his lessons, about his teacher, about the kids and most importantly his friends or how he put it… “Demo definitely wants to be my friend, I’m not sure if the girls are as interested, but I’m okay with just Demo if they don’t. He’s smart and organized like me. We can build a strong relationship if given years of time and mutual respect.”

Yeah, that was her little brother, cautious, quiet, and freakishly smart. Seriously, he was so excited about his homework, and he did it in record time. School was definitely the right choice for him, he was practically glowing. He was smiling. Char rarely smiled.

“AAUGHHHH!!!!! How do you keep beating me!?”

“I read the instructions. You know the things that tell you how to play the game?”

“Where the fun in that?”

Thrash chuckled fondly as he heard his children play. Barbara had gotten Charles hooked on one of her video games recently, CritterCatchers he thought the name was, and it became the siblings favorite pass time. It was relieving to hear his son so relaxed and laughing. Charles had been with them for a little over a year and he had grown so much.

The grey trolling had been so closed off and skittish for a long time after coming home, like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thankfully once he realized he was safe, Charles quickly blossomed. The boy had the mind of a scholar, a rare gift amongst Rock trolls, and since his first day was a straight A student. Though the best thing about school was probably that it got Charles to open up to other trollings. His boy had friends.

And they were certainly a cast of characters. Demo had pretty much become Charles’ closest companion; the two boys were practically inseparable. At least three times a week they would meet up in the library, to either strictly study or read other kinds of books. They were two kindred souls constantly hungry for knowledge. They even won the recent science fair with a giant sized-model of the molecule structure of chocolate-cinnamon. The boys’ favorite candy bar.

Thrash wasn’t too surprised by the friendship with the Thundershock girl. Thrash had only known her by reputation, through her father. King Thrash had to work closely with the troll who was acting head of security, and they were quite close. Valentina was as blunt as her old man, but deep down she was sweet. She also got along great with Barbara despite the age difference.

Little Petra was what Thrash could call a mediator, helping Charles pull their more excitable friends back down to the ground. Often being the second voice of reason, while at the same time pulling the others out of their shells if needed.

All the trollings were different, but they were all wonderful in Thrash’s eyes. Each of them had befriended his son in their own way, and it had done incredible things for Charles’ confidence. Sure, he and Barbara were always there if the grey trolling ever needed support or assurance, but there was a special kind of joy and comfort that came with being accepted by your peers. It was more than Thrash had ever hoped for.

The rock king knew that Barbara had issues with making friends as a trolling and he feared his even more shy son would have the same problem. Especially with Charles’ aversion to music. Thankfully the children seemed to have gotten past that and bonded over other shared interests.

If only some other trolls could be as understanding.

Thrash rubbed his temples, as he spied the twelfth letter from the Black Sabbath about Charles’ Ashing Rites resting on his work desk. His son was a prince and rock troll in every legal way, except for one key ceremony. The Heartbeat of Ozzy. The ritual was one that was written on some of their oldest laws, and it was a treasured memory of all rock parents. When their trolling was bathed in the ashes of their promised land, listened to the earth’s heartbeat and voices of their ancestors for the first time. Like how Ozzy taught the first rock trolls to do, all those centuries ago.

Charles had yet to receive the rite, and the Black Sabbath, the current religious leader who would perform the prince’s rites as was his duty, wouldn’t get off Thrash’s back about it. It wasn’t that Thrash didn’t want his son to receive Ozzy’s blessing, really, he did. The issue was that the ceremony would serve to connect Charles to the ancestors through music, something his child was still deathly afraid of. The whole thing was putting the king in a difficult situation, as the Black Sabbath was panicking over a prince of rock not being underneath Ozzy’s protection. Especially since royalty was given this rite just after hatching. Still, Thrash would continue to hold back on the rite until Charles showed interest in music.

“Ah! Debbie you traitor!” Charles laughed.

Thrash stood up from his desk and peeked into the game room, finding his children play wrestling on the couch, with Barbara’s pet bat fluttering around. Charles’ future was still unknown, but right now, this was all that needed to be.

Chapter Text

“Barbie? What are you doing?”

                Barb froze. Her grip on the window still tightened as her limbs locked up. She glanced behind her. Finding her eight-year-old brother looking at her with a confused expression.

                “Nothing,” She said.

                Char’s face shifted into one of deadpan, silently calling out Barb’s stupid answer. She was literally crawling out the window! She wasn’t doing nothing!

                “You’re sneaking out again, aren’t you?” Char said.

                “Well…yeah…” Barb couldn’t lie to him.

                “This is the third time this month Barb. Where are you going? You know that it’s worrying dad.”

                Barb winced, “Look it’s just big kid stuff okay.”

                “Is it drugs?”

                “What? no…I’m not that stupid.”

                “Drinking?”

                “No Charcoal Stick give me some credit, it’s not always the worst-case scenario.”

                “Then tell me what it is.”

                Barb sighed, “Look me and some of my band mates have been getting into lava-tubing recently so we’ve been heading out of the city…”

                Char’s eye all but twitched at that statement, how a kid could pull off such a stressed-out look? Barb doesn’t want to know.

“You’ve been sneaking out into the Ashlands to do it?! Why Barb? There are places in the city where you can do it!” Char nearly raved.

                “Not for free. It’s more fun in the wild anyway,” Barb crossed her arms defensively.

                “With all the predators around?!”

                “Yeah, it’s hardcore, and I like it.”

                Char dropped the book he was carrying and pressed his palms into his eyes, letting out a groan that was angry and exhausted, before muttering, “I’m coming.”

                “Wait what?” Barb didn’t see that coming. Disappointed glares? Promise of blackmail? Sure, but not this.

                “I’m coming. I can’t stop you from going, so I’ll keep you alive out there,” Char said firmly.

                “You can’t come bud,” Yeah, no. Her baby brother in the Ashlands? Call Barb a hypocrite, but absolutely not happening.

                If only her brother wasn’t as stubborn as her.

                Char locked eyes with her, took a deep breath and “DA-”

                Barb stuffed her hand into Char’s mouth, “Okay, okay, you can come. Brat.”

                Char was smirking while they climbed out the window and ran into the city.

                 “You brought a baby Barb?”

                “Don’t start! He’d have ratted all of us out if I didn’t!”

                Despite the less than warm welcome from his sister’s comrades, Char was excited. Barb and the others had taken an angler bus as a means of transport, an older one couldn’t fly as high as a younger adult, but it worked, and within moments they had exited the city barriers. The world beyond the windows, changed from an industrial city to the outskirts and passed the city wall before finally becoming the wild Ashlands. Valleys and hills of burnt land that stretched beyond the horizon.

                “Having fun?” Barb said, taking a seat next to him.

                Char nodded, “It’s big.”

                “Yeah, everything inside the wall is caged, out here there is just you and the big wide world. Makes you feel small.”

                “No. It doesn’t make me feel small. It makes me want to run. I want to see everything.”

                “Really? Aren’t worried about the predators anymore?”

                Char leveled a flat look with his sister, “Last time I was out here, I cracked my head open and nearly died. This trip can’t get any worse than that.”

                The ride remained peaceful for a while longer. Char continued to watch the running horizon and daydream; Barb tuned her guitar in the seat next to him. The other passengers rummaged around every few moments.

                Then a blood curdling shriek pierced through the air.

Char’s ears pricked up high, a shiver going down his back like it was doused with icy water. Barb was on her feet, grabbing him, and running to the driver.

“Dagger? What was that?” She asked.

The troll at the wheel didn’t get to answer, as the ceiling of the Anglerbus caved in from above and the floor was ripped away from their feet. There was a horrid screech. Suddenly Char wasn’t inside anymore. His eyes squeezed shut against the blaring sunlight and hot winds slamming against his face. He slipped from Barb’s grasp, and then tumbled onto cooked frayed land. Ashes and fibers getting in his ears, and clothing as he rolled.

Skidding to a halt, Char looked up. His ears dropped as he swallowed a scream. Grey eyes blew wide as he was faced with a Leather Viper. Its skin blackened brown leather, each scale appeared sloppily stitched together. Jaws filled with stained warped metallic teeth, their edges jagged, ready to shred meat and crunch bone. The monster let out a scream, its long-bladed tail swinging back down on the anglerbus, cutting deeper into the vehicle critter’s flesh. The stage was set for a predator’s kill, and Char was far too close. Compared to an anglerbus, he was a meager snack, but food was food in the end.

 Scrambling to his feet, the trolling was at an utter loss as for what to do. What could he do? Run? It would draw attention to himself. Stay? Might as well be signing his death warrant. Serve himself on a silver platter with dirt as a garnish.

The idea of being eaten. Why did that idea send a chill down his spine? Scare him to his bones? Prey creature he may be, but it shouldn’t make his stomach dread so deeply…The hollow idea of simply being…gone…swallowed…

…What would happen to his friends? Demo, Val, and Petra. His family? Barb and Dad. They would mourn. Be angry, sad and broken all at once. Dad would be sad. Barb would break things…more things than usual. His friends…

There was a scream…the saber like talons came crashing down…and it was quickly cut off. He didn’t recognize the voice…at least he hoped he didn’t.

Where was Barb?

Then Char made a horrible mistake. One he would silently regret for years to come.

He yelled.

“NO!”

Red eyes, burning with primal hunger, honed on him. A maw of bloody warped metal teeth opened loosely allowing drool tainted with splotches of red to slip to the ground. Instinct, salivating the sharp jagged blades and hollowing the stomach, at the sight of the beast’s next meal. Jaws opened, letting out a screech that raddled the sky, before storming forward. Claws shredding apart the burnt patch-worked of the already fraying ground.

Char froze, joints locking up, breath stilling in his throat. Limbs suddenly were both stiff and numb. Muscles somehow coiled underneath his skin, yet he still didn’t move. Vision warped and rippled. It was as if his soul was leaving his body before death ripped them apart. With in a blink the monster was right on top of him…then something clicked.

“…Dart to the side…”

Wait…how did he know that…

Legs were ready to move with vigor without Char knowing. He dashed to the side, making the claws miss their catch. His feet slipped out from under him, knees getting gutted on the ground as he fell. Blue jeans becoming burgundy with hot blood.

The claws reached high, readying to strike down. Char watched with his ears ringing, as his painful death was being poised before him…at least until a large red wave of crackling energy split the sky above him. Then the monster was suddenly jostled, its burnt scaly body shaking as it brought down its paw, not on Char, but to balance itself. Its jaw opened in a giant silent screech of…pain?

The ringing bells in Char’s ear began to stretch. The sound slowly morphed into one long animalistic note. The roar the monster let a second shriek followed by a guttural growl, as it turned its long heavy head towards the direction the wave had come from.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!!!”

Barb.

His sister stood across the ashy field. Her stance was strong, grip on her guitar and pick firm with determination. Her red eyes glaring at the Leather viper. Char could pick out little tremors of fear in her form but to anyone else she was standing brave and proud. Set like a stone against the wind. Ready to go out fighting.

Her fingers poised on her instrument strings.

The Leather Viper leered, teeth clenching.

The quick fragile standoff was shattered when the Viper slammed its horned tail into the ground. Barb’s fingers were shocked into action. Char didn’t flinch as the taunt strings screamed while she played. The instrument gleamed and sparked, unleashing another shock wave. A blast that missed. The Vipers long body moved fast, flesh underneath the skin rippling as it flung its sharpened tail straight at Barb.

The crown princess of rock, tried to duck and roll away from the blow…Only to get hooked and thrown across the ashy landscape.

The Viper charged at her limp form where it laid…

Char moved.

Oh, she definitely had a concussion.

Barb’s temples were currently being stabbed with an ice pick, while the rest of her brain was trying to escape out the back of her skull. The heavy throbbing from her ear wasn’t helping the rest of the pain either. Also why did the side of her face feel wet?

Her limps didn’t like the idea of moving, but she knew that they were bruised at best. Rock trolls were tough both in skin and bone. Stiffly one arm touched the wet side, a stinging burn rippled through her brain at contact with her fingers. Drawing her hand away, she growled at the blood covering her fingertips and dripping into her palm. Barb couldn’t see the damage without a mirror, but she was pretty sure the damn snake had taken her ear off.

The fog of a recent hit to the head wasn’t allowed to stay long. The ground below her trembled and the sky above screamed. Red eyes were drawn to the sound of a hungry predator, their own set of ruby pools were trained on the crown princess. Barb scrambled. Where was her guitar? Where was her weapon? How far was it thrown from her? Where was her guitar?!

The ground in front of her exploded as a claw came crashing down. Fibers, ash, and sand, all burnt to the point of grey or black flew into the air. Blinding her eyes, as another shriek deafened the world around her. Barb looked up, eyes bleary, but still able to find a pair of gaping jaws reaching towards her. Warped metal teeth, and a tongue made of braided lashing chains, were dripping with drool.

Something black shot of the corner of her vision, wrapping around the Leather Viper’s jaws. Forcing them to snap shut, like a muzzle. The predator snout was tugged harshly, by the black…rope? Barb followed the string of black eventually finding that it wasn’t rope at all. It was hair. Her baby brother’s hair. Char had stretched it to save her. A fact Barb would ponder later, but right now she had a predator to scare off before it broke her brother’s hair. She knew how sensitive he was about people touching it.

Her guitar lay nearby, half buried in the fibers and ashes, but it was intact. She reached for it, grasping the neck of the weapon. Once in her arms, she turned the instrument up to the highest level. She had no speakers to amplify the music’s power, only her own raw strength, and she prayed it was enough. Like a reflex, her fingers plucked the strings with purpose. Nameless notes were struck in an unknown tandem as she released power cord after power cord. Wave after musical wave. Beat against the monster.

With each hit the viper’s body rippled and jolted. Being forced back and away from the prince and princess with each power cord slapping into its shriveled hide. Until it let out a final screech turning tail to find meals with less fight in them, tearing up the volcanic plain as it left.

Barb’s chest heaved with breath, as she watched the monster retreat. Relief drenched her form, soaking so deep and heavy into her bones it made her legs buckle. The crown princess fell to her knees, with a shaky sigh. That was too close.

“Barb!” Char screamed, running into her slightly numb arms.

“I got you,” She whispered, tightening her grasp on the trolling, ensuring that her brother is still in one piece.

Especially in his hair, Barb hadn’t seen Char remove the makeshift lasso he had hooked onto the Leather viper’s snout, but he must have at some point. His hair looked untouched other than some ash flakes that got stuck in it. Long, thick, strong black fiber stood straight, tips cut at the usual slanted angle, with the small bang she gave him still flopped over if a little messily. Some scuffs and scrapes, along with red marks were painted on his grey skin, but that was the extent.

His frightened tears stained her loose shirt, as he buried his face into her shoulder. She focused on his panicked breaths, making sure they were not something from her imagination.

“I got you, Charcoal Stick. I got you, and I’m not letting go,” Barb said.

She felt him relax slightly in her hold. As if those words were the exact thing he needed to melt and smooth over the cracks in his weary soul.

They pulled apart and Barb looked into her brother’s grey eyes. Wild and bright. He reached towards her, hand trembling and hesitant.

“Your ear,” He squeaked.

“Don’t worry about it,” She shook her head.

“You got hurt...because of me…”

“It’s worth it. Besides think it will be a wicked scar?”

Char nodded, hugging her again.

“How did you do that with your hair?” She whispered, after catching her breath.

Char looked down, the wild shine dulling into a spark of confusion.

“I don’t know…”

Thrash was a storm. Rarely these days did he feel this scrambled, but apparently his children sneaking out into the Ashlands and nearly getting eaten was an exception. He tried to focus on the positives, how the situation wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Luckily his children hadn’t been injured too badly. The worst wound being Barbara’s ear tip being ripped off. She was already looking forward to the scar.

Sneaking out was practically a rite of passage for young Rock trolls, but all little ones knew that it was utterly foolish to leave the city walls. The Ashlands were harsh, and they did not spare anyone. Thankfully Barbara had brought her guitar with them. It had been their saving grace, and Thrash had never felt prouder of her defending herself and her brother. Her bravery would make her a great queen one day.

But only if she can learn not to become too reckless…

“You both are grounded for two weeks,” Thrash said.

“That’s fair,” Charles said, with droopy ears.

“We’re sorry dad,” Barbara said.

“I know dear, but these actions are far from ones I can look over. You not only risked your life, but that of your brother, not to mention the other trolls on that trip. Now, I will not hold you responsible for their choices, and the consequences of them, but you must understand how close you were to sharing in their fate.”

It hurt him to watch his daughter wilt underneath his words, but the pain of losing her would be far vaster. And not just to him or her brother, though he was certain the wreckage of her demise would be great on them, but the entire kingdom would be shaken to the core. Barbara was the future of their people, the next queen.

It was horribly frightening to know that such a future could be snuffed out in a mere moment of teenaged stupidity.

Thrash sighed, “So, two weeks. Now is there anything else that I should know of?”

His children shared a glance…oh there was definitely something else.

Thrash raised a brow, now fully suspicious.

“Well, dad, I guess there is something…” Barbara started, “It isn’t bad, at least I don’t think it is…it is kind of weird though…”

Charles looked at her with a rather displeased face.

“Not bad weird, but not normal?” Barbara tried to clarify with a sheepish shrug.

Charles continued to look unimpressed.

“You know what I mean,” Barbara said to her brother, throwing her hands in her lap.

Charles sighed, looking at the ground, “I stretched my hair and used it as a lasso…”

Thrash tried very hard not to react. He knew this was coming. Eventually, something like this would’ve happened, but it was still shocking.

The major physical differences between Pop and Rock Trolls, weren’t apparent at first glance. Sure, Rock Trolls were duller in color pallet, but they both had two arms, two legs, and were around the same size. That was closer than most of the other genres (not counting the sub-tribes at least), maybe there were more similarities shared in the past. However, after centuries of separation and their kingdoms built in different worlds, evolution had shaped the tribes into their own unique forms. Rock trolls were dull to blend in with the monotone landscape they made their home. Their skin thickened to deal with the heat and stone of a volcanic wasteland. Their eyes grew large to see better in the dark caverns. And their hair…

It was originally said that trolls, all trolls, were once forest roaming creatures. They lived amongst trees, but due to their size it was hard to climb into the branches to escape from the predators alone. So, they adapted. Their hair grew to have strength and will. Becoming both a tool and a weapon. A means for their survival.

When the rock tribe came to the ashlands, even before that when they lived in the mountain valleys, there was no need to climb. There weren’t many trees if any. They had their music, which was a better weapon than hair whips could ever be. And with their dull skin, there was no need to camouflage. Slowly, the tribe began to lose their stretching abilities. Their hair becoming weaker, wilder, and more untamed. Now it wasn’t completely gone, some part of the population still had some form of control. Barbara was among them, able to grow it slightly longer at will, and shift the colors in some patches.

However, no Rock hair would ever have the same strength or agility as Pop hair. As Charles’ hair. Dr. Feelgood had warned him about it. About how Charles would use his hair in times of panic. It was his instinct after all.

“Yeah, it was crazy. Char looped his hair around the Leather Viper jaw. He even managed to make the mouth snap shut. I didn’t even know rock trolls could do that!” Barb said.

Thrash sighed, “Because they can’t dear.”

“What?”

“You don’t believe us?”

“No, no, darlings I do…it’s…” Thrash took a deep breath, “Can you both sit on the couch for me, I have something important I need to tell you.”

Thrash watched as his children looked at each other again. He could practically read the silent confusion they communicated to their fellow sibling. Still the youth sat, and Thrash prepared himself to tell them the truth of his youngest nature. For the first time in a long while, Thrash felt afraid.

“Children, the reason I said rock hair, can’t stretch to such lengths, is because it can’t. Our ancestors had such abilities yes, but modern rock trolls can’t,” Thrash started.

“Uhm I don’t mean to be rude Dad, but that’s wrong because Char clearly can,” Barbara cut in.

“Barbara, let me finish,” Thrash said, “Rock troll hair can’t, but there’s another type of trolls whose hair can.”

“You mean another tribe?” Charles said.

“Yes, my boy,” Thrash said.

The king watched as his son’s face scrunched up in, confusion…and maybe denial…

“W-what does that have to do with me?” Charles said.

“Charles do you remember, what I told you about how you came to live with my and Barbara?”

Charles bit his lip, “You found me in the ashlands, after I hit my head. You thought I was cute and took me home.”

Barbara snorted into her hand.

Thrash chortled, he was raising these kids with far too much sass, “You’re correct, however there is something about that story, a detail that I regrettably withheld from you, and I’m sorry.”

“Dad what are you talking about?” Charles said.

“Uh…should I leave?” Barbara asked.

Thrash looked at Charles, and the boy grabbed his sister’s arm.

“You may stay Barbara, now Charles. When I found you, there was no explanation as to where you were from or who belonged too. I didn’t have an idea, until Dr. Feelgood told me something. Something she found while treating you. You’re hair, son, it’s not of rock blood.”

“What are you saying? Am I mixed?” Charles asked.

“No, son, that day I didn’t just bring a trolling home. I brought home the child of another tribe. A tribe that lived in the forest. A tribe with stronger hair and softer skin. Charles, biologically, you are a pop troll.”

Char freezes. His heart stops, and all sound cuts out.

Only one word can get through the fog the trolling found himself in. Pop. Pop. Pop. The very essence of the word made his throat close. An explosion of small proportion, yet it just decimated Char’s world like that of a nuke.

Barb was standing up now, saying something far too fast for Char to even think of listening too. Dad was talking, but the trolling was gone before he finished. Dashing through the tunnels and his door, until he was buried underneath a mound of bedding in his room. Char didn’t even remember getting up off the couch to run. He wants to scream, but he doesn’t. His tongue felt swollen as his eyes filled with salty tears. 

No. no. no. no! NO!

He couldn’t be pop! Char knew about Pop trolls. Everyone knew about pop trolls. They were the worst of the main tribes. The tribe who had been dubbed worthy enough for a String but fell into greed. Hungry for more power than they already had and ready to selfishly take what wasn’t theirs. Not caring who got hurt.

Char knew of the stories. Of the Split, of the fleeing, of the struggle. His teachers did not shy away from the harshness of their tribe history.  They were rock they didn’t hide from their pain. They faced it head on. They screamed it out for all the world to hear.  No sugar coating, no short-cuts, no watering down, they took it strait and dry.

He knew exactly how many lives were lost during the war before the Split, in the great escape, and the journey to the ashlands.

King Axl Rose had led their people through the fighting and then the fleeing. The war itself had been a bloody affair, that ripped through the peace in the Era of Harmony, leaving a deep gash between the tribes. However, that gash continued to bleed and fester long after the fighting ended, continuing to take lives. Half of the survivors from the Split were killed in the journey to the land that would one day become their capital. It was said that King Axl Rose screamed his rage and grief into the wastes, taking the art that Ozzy once taught their people and twisting it to the point of violence. Rock was always a people of passion, but that night the world knew their anger, and Heavy Metal had been born.

Their once great people shattered like sandstone and forced to reforge themselves into hard obsidian and metal to survive in this new harsh world. All because of the greed of another tribe. Peace was such a hard thing to build, but so easy to break.

Char couldn’t be one of those monsters…could he?

The more the grey trolling thought about it, the more horrifyingly real that the ugly truth became. Char was soft. Physically, at least. His skin was soft. He didn’t have fangs. His hair was thick shiny and had a feeling in it. He was always different, and this was why…

He was a monster.

Maybe this was why he couldn’t stand music. His own body was fighting against the…foreign…sound. Maybe Pop trolls are biologically wired to hate all music but theirs. Char whimpered. The trolling suddenly felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t deserve to be there. His kind, his kin, tried to destroy them all.

What was stopping him from becoming that?

Fear seeped deep into the child’s heart. Like an icy cold dagger being slowly pressed down into chest. Was that why he was here? Pop trolls were colorful. Char knew for a fact that he definitely wasn’t that colorful. He could blend in. Was he sent here? Sent here to destroy the rock trolls once and for all from the inside? Like the sleeper agent in one of Demo’s books? Tears burned underneath his itchy eyes.

His door opened with a slight creak.

“Charles?”

It was dad. No. Dad couldn’t be here. Char was a monster. He was going to hurt Dad.

“Charles is everything alright?”

“Go away,” Char whimpered, his voice cracking over an upcoming sob. 

                The door closed, but Dad didn’t leave. Char heard each of his light footsteps that carried towards the bed. The mattress sank a little and gave a whine as Dad sat.

                “Charles?”

                Char didn’t answer.

                “Son, please look at me,” Dad spoke with such love and tenderness, it made the trolling’s throat close with grief.

                Char pulled the blanket off of his head, tears slipping from his eyes as he looked towards his father…his adoptive father. Thrash would never be his real dad. No matter how much the child wanted the king to be. Technically he was supposed to be Char’s mortal enemy. Thrash reached out a hand, cupping Char’s cheek gently wiping the tears away.

                “Oh, my boy, my dear boy,” Thrash said, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy, but you must know that nothing will change. Not if I have anything to say about it. We will always be your family. You will always be my son.”

                “How can you say that!” Char screamed as he sprung up. Fear trying to mask itself as anger, “I’m a Pop Troll Dad!! They killed Rock Trolls! Everyone hates them! They’re selfish murderers! They’re monsters!”

                The burst of passionate words cracked and choked. Tears flooding back as horror drowned any comfort and joy that remained in the child’s heart. Pain and pressure seized his chest, squeezing out breath and hope. Char pulled the blanket back over his head, and flopped back down into the bedding, sobbing into his pillow.

                “I’m a monster,” The trolling whimpered.

                It was such a simple sentence, only three words, but it hung around Char’s neck. Weighing him down with dread and grief. It was a fact. A conviction. One that Char would wear forever. It was only right for a beast to be chained and locked away.

                “No, no, no, Charles. Listen to me very carefully, my boy. You are not a monster,” Dad paused, seemingly understanding that Char wasn’t convinced, “Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘the sins of the father are not the sins of the son’?”

                Char sniffed and shook his head.

                “It means that children are not guilty of their parents’ crime,” Dad continued, “Would I lock up a child if their parent robbed a bank?”

                “No,” Char whispered.

                “Charles look at me.”

                Char pulled the blanket down again and sat up. It was hard to meet his father’s eyes, shame suffocated him. It made his limps and head feel heavy.

                “Charles,” Dad said, lifting Char’s chin to look him in the eyes, “You were born to a race of people who have made great sins in the past, but that was the fault of your elders. Not yours son. You cannot be blamed for something you had no part of. You are not a monster, you’re just a little boy. An innocent little boy. My little boy. Nothing is going to change that. If you’re a pop troll. Rock troll. Even techno. You are my son.”

                Tears burned hotter than ever, and something inside was throbbing. It told him to not get attached. This was too good to be true. Dad had to be lying. No one would want a monster for a son. But Char threw all that away when he flung himself into his father’s warm embrace. The trolling clung to the king’s leather vest, gasping sobs. He wanted this to be real. He wanted to be his father’s son. But…

                “What if I’m just like them…deep inside…and one day I-I hurt you!?” Char whimpered.

                “Charles, who you become isn’t matter of blood, who you’re born too, or who you’re raised by. All that matters is who you choose to be,” Dad said, “Do you understand?”

                Char nodded and snuggled closer to his father. Allowing the embrace of unconditional love to consume him fully. They stayed like that for a long time. The grey trolling weeping in his father’s arms underneath a veil of darkness. Char committed every detail of this moment to his memory. He never wanted to forget. To allow himself to fully belief his father’s words, and to make it possible to trust that he would never be influenced by his blood genre to turn on his home, people, and family.

                His door opened with a creak. A bar of candlelight leaking into the dark bedroom before a dark silhouette blocked it. Char sniffed and peeked over Dad’s shoulder, only to find Barb standing in the doorway. The trolling ducked back down and buried his face into his father’s tunic. He didn’t want to see Barb look down on him with disgust. His sister hated anything to do with Pop. Even the mention of the music made her smash her guitar in rage.

                Dad shifted turning them both towards the door.

                “Barbara come here,” Dad whispered.

                Char waited. Waited for Barb to scream something and for her footsteps to fade as she ran away. Waited to be despised by his sister.

                But that didn’t happen. The trolling heard footsteps, but instead of getting quieter, they grew louder…as Barb ran towards him. Suddenly there was a second set of arms around him. Barb squeezed but it wasn’t painful. Char sniffed and opened his eyes. Soaked grey, met tearful red. Barb smiled and Char understood. She didn’t hate him. His sister wasn’t leaving.

                At some point the hug broke, but the family remained on Char’s bed. Now huddled together against the trolling’s many pillows. Barb on the right, Dad on the left, and Char safe in the middle of his family. Barb’s arm was around him, and Dad was running his fingers through his hair. His sister started to drift off, but Char stayed awake. Still too frightened to sleep.

                Dad began to hum. The melody was calm, smooth and soothing. Then lyrics slip from his tongue. Char felt no need to shudder at the song.

                “I heard there was a secret chord. That David played and it pleased the lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you?”

                No, no he didn’t. Char really didn’t. Music made his stomach hurt and eyes burn…well it used too. Something was different now. 

                “It goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing, hallelujah.”

                Baffled was a good word. This song. It felt safe. His dad’s voice was soothing.

                “Hallelujah.”

                For the first time, music became a comfort. It was foreign yet familiar. He wasn’t scared.

“Hallelujah.”

Char thought about it, further. He hadn’t been scared when Barb played her guitar.

                “Hallelujah.”

                Not when she protected him.

                “Hallelu~ooo~jah.”

When she protected him with music.

“Baby I’ve been here before, I know this room, I’ve walking this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you.”

Alone? Had Char been alone? Not physically. He had his family. But something felt missing inside. A hole in his heart with jagged edges. Something he noticed was soothed by dad’s voice…and the odd echo of another, more feminine, voice that he wasn’t sure was there.

“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch. But love is not a victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken, Hallelujah.”

                No, love wasn’t a victory. Victory didn’t last, it faded when the next fight came along. Love was comfort. Love was safety.

                “Hallelujah.”

And…and so was music…

“Hallelujah.”

Music protected him. Soothed him.

“Hallelujah.”

Music wasn’t just notes on paper, or a pattern of sound.

“Hallelu~ooo~jah.”

Music was love. An expression of love.

Char smiled. Something clicked into place in his heart. One of the jagged edges that he’s always known about but didn’t know how to fix was suddenly smoothed.

Dad’s voice slowly grew quiet as the last note was sung. The lullaby closing for the night. Barb was fast asleep beside him. Her snores soft against the pillows. Dad leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead-the princess smiled in her sleep-before doing the same to Char.

“I know it’s hard,” Dad whispered, “But if there’s any way I can help. If you need anything. Just let me know.”

“Anything?” Char murmured, beginning to get lost in the haze of exhaustion.

“Anything.”

“I need a guitar…” The trolling drifted off.

Chapter Text

 The coming of the monsoons marked the end of the dry season and the beginning of the wet. As well as the start of a new year. At least in the Ashlands. They were the death of the old and start of something new. Like everything in Rock territory, the rains came with a raging fury. Water would pelt against the city in sheets with howling winds. The drainage canals, once bone dry for several months, now were filled to their brims with water. The once bustling streets nearly empty, the weather having forced the citizens to tussle in their homes until the storming stopped. Then once the rain had gone during the short moments the sun visited, the city would be covered in a cloud of steam so thick you couldn’t see your own feet.

The storms had come early that year. Sending workers scrambling. Much had to be done after all. The wet season was one of work, the fields needed to be tended to; covered and seeded to allow food to be grown, before it became too hot, and the rains left once again. The canals needed to be opened to prevent flooding, with guards posted at the exits to make sure nothing dangerous tried to swim in. And of course, water itself needed to be collected, cleaned, and stored away in case the dry season was early in turn.

Char knew all this, he had lived through two of them now, and even helped Dad plan the yearly Burning Love Festival, when the fire lilies were in bloom. However, things were different this year. Things felt different this year. Definitely different enough for Dad to bring him somewhere in the middle of a storm.

The grey trolling looked out the window of the small angler bus that he and his dad were riding in. The rain dripping from the glass made the world outside contour and bubble.

“Dad what are we doing?” Char asked.

“Well, son, remember when you asked me for a guitar?”

Char perked up, “We’re going to get one?” he felt excited and then extremely confused, “in the middle of a monsoon?”

Dad chuckled, “Sadly not yet. There’s something we need to do before we get you your first guitar…and I would never not bring your sister with us when that time comes.”

“Well, then where are we going?”

“We are going to do something that I did when I was young. Something that Barbara has done. And everyone another Rock troll that has ever been…and now so will you,” Dad said.

“A rite of passage?” Char raised a brow.

Dad nodded.

“You did it when you were my age?”

“Well, no son. I was younger than you, much younger, but I held it off for you, because it is heavily connected to music. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable while you were settling. I’m sorry if it was the wrong decision.”

Char crawled over the other side of the joint leather seat and snuggled into his dad’s side, “Don’t worry about it, Dad.”

The drive didn’t last much longer. Thankfully the rain lightened somewhat, by the time they stepped off the anglerbus. Char blinked against the falling water. The rain was warm like bath water. It clung to his fur and made it itchy. He didn’t like it and suddenly it wasn’t falling on him as harshly. Was Dad shielding him? Char didn’t think he had an umbrella. The grey trolling whipped his eyes and looked up to find that his hair had formed a shield over him and dad.

Dad only gave a small smile and pulled Char into a comforting side embrace, “Thank you son.”

Char chewed on his lip. While he was glad that the rain was off of him, he still hated it. After his heritage had been revealed, Dad had made him sit down with Dr. Feelgood to talk about how his body would differ from a…real…rock troll. It was awkward, but he understood why. The reason behind his soft skin wasn’t a pre-existing condition like he initially believed, but rather just heat sensitive because Pop trolls lived in much cooler environments that weren’t surrounded by rivers of lava. But that wasn’t the only thing he learned that was different about himself that day.

Pop troll hair was far stronger than Rock. Now that the ability wasn’t being subconsciously repressed (thank you very much mister Leather Viper), Char’s dark locks would respond to his emotions sometimes without him knowing. If he was scared it would twist and twine around him, making sort of a nest. Barb said he looked like one of Debbie’s hairballs the first time it happened. Or if spooked the hair would slap in the direction of the perceived danger. With a little focus he could even grab things with it.

 It was gift, that Dad said he’d have to learn to control, but even if his hair reacted in public, he had plenty of cover stories to feed to the populace. Barb said she would beat up anyone who made fun of his hair. While Char appreciated the support of his family. It still didn’t change one simple fact.

Char was terrified. Terrified of these pop parts of him. Pop trolls were monsters, and while Dad said that it didn’t matter where Char came from…only who he chose to be, it didn’t stop this little serpent of doubt from curdling in the trolling’s gut every time he did something that was more Pop then Rock.

This was his second reason for learning music. The first was always so he could better protect his family and his people one day, perhaps to show them the gratitude he had for them. The second was to prove to himself that he wasn’t a monster. If Char could learn rock music, it would be another way to cut the remaining tethers his bio-genre had on him.

The sound of a heavy door slowly swinging open drew Char back into reality. The trolling finally took stock of where he was. The Black Volcano. The largest one in the Ashlands that rested just beyond the city borders. The tall mammoth of a wounded mountain stood high and proud. Its blackened ridges glistened and steamed in the warm rain.

This was a place of hallowed ground. Said to be the resting place of every king or queen of rock’s remains. The place where King Axl Rose once sung to a crowd of weary survivors that this was to be their promised land. That the ghost of the great King Ozzy himself had led them there. This was a place of worship, and where miracles were made.

And now, Char, an imposter of a prince, stood at its immaculate gates. Hopefully the ghosts of past monarchs didn’t feel vengeful.

Char gripped his father’s hand, as the gates shut behind them with a heavy slam. Inside of the Black Volcano was a hot dry chamber. The ground and walls of which were black stone polished to the point of being darkened mirrors. It was rather empty. The only thing close to decoration or furniture being the torches that lined the round walls. With a gleaming obsidian, thin-stepped staircase in the back of the room. The heavy scent of smoke and incense filled the air.

“Well, well, well, seems as if you finally decided to answer my letters?”

The voice was wise, yet oddly young, and carried great compassion behind it. Comforting as it was unfamiliar.

Char’s gaze snapped back to the staircase, finding a Rock troll descending it with grace. His surprisingly pale platinum hair flowed down in messy curls. Eyes burned redder than fresh blood, and muted skin like the green of raw emeralds. The long black ropes he wore were adorned with rips and chainmail sheaths; its tattered hem sweeping across the floor. Hanging from his neck laid several thick chains that held amulets of the symbols for music, the volcano, and high crests. Some of which the meaning Char had yet to learn. 

The regal stranger approached them smoothly. His hands, wrists clad in spiked cuffs, held up and folded delicately just below his chest.

“King Thrash,” He greeted with a salute and dip of the head.

“Black Sabbath,” Dad said, saluting the troll in return.

Char swallowed in both disbelief and fear. While the monarch oversaw protecting and caring for the people of Rock, it was the Black Sabbath that bestowed such power to the crown. The troll who held the title was the only one in the tribe who had the power to question the crowned ruler. Their job was to be the spiritual leader, they guarded the traditions and stories of old. Looking to the past to help shape the future.

This troll could easily have him banished for being Pop…King’s child or not.

“Seems as if you’ve decided to take my advice,” The Black Sabbath murmured.

“I had my reasons for holding him back,” Dad said.

“I’m aware, now let’s not waste any more time,” and with that The Black Sabbath stalked over to Char.

The grey trolling stiffed as the elder troll glided around him. The Black Sabbath’s red eyes seemed to comb over every inch of his being, staring straight through his very soul. The rough hands traced over his hair and moved his bangs to view his scar. The High Priest mumbling to himself all throughout the examination.

Finally, he stopped in front of Char, his hands clasped once more, “So little one, you desire to learn about music?”

Char nodded, terrified to look the Black Sabbath in the eyes, “Yes, Sir.”

The Black Sabbath hummed, “This one is much calmer than your other heir, Thrash.”

“Charles is also top of his class. Resilient and hardworking, you won’t be disappointed with him,” Dad said.

“Well then no time like the present,” The Black Sabbath said taking Char’s hand in a gentle grip, leading him towards the stairs. Dad following behind them from a distance.

The stairs lead to a long hallway, the walls high and oddly smooth. Into the black flesh of the mountain, grey marble in the images of past monarchs inserted into the obsidian face, offerings left at their feet as thanks for their leadership. The portraits were illuminated by lava falls that flowed in between each.

“Now, Prince Charles,” The black Sabbath began.

“Char,” the grey trolling said before he could stop himself.

The Black Sabbath hummed questioningly.

Char bit his lip, shrinking into himself, “Char, I like Char. Only Dad can call me Charles,” he said in a very small voice.

Surprisingly, The Black Sabbath didn’t unleash unholy rage at Char for his disrespect. He only nodded.

“Well, then Prince Char, tell me what you know about the history of the Tribes?”

 Char bit his lip, “That they all lived in harmony, but then the Pop tribe betrayed the others, and tried to conquer us.”

“Ah, the Great Split. A dark stain of agony in our history, but it’s not the history I’m referring to. Do you know how the Tribes began?”

Char shook his head.

“Well, let’s start at the beginning. During the Long Silence. Trolls, be they ancestors of Rock or any tribe all lived in small villages spread out across the forests and mountains. Their lives were grey and quiet, until…” He trailed off, looking at Char.

“Someone made a noise,” Char answered.

The Black Sabbath snorted, “That’s a blunt description of it. But not exactly, you see Prince Char, it wasn’t a single sound that created all the music. Each type of music was found in its own way. It started with the Classical and Rock Tribes. They were the trolls who migrated from the forest to the mountains, the Classical Ancestors on the high peaks, with our own living the valleys low. The Classical trolls found their music in the wind that whistled through the peaks. They used strings and pipes to recreate the whispers and shrieks of the high winds. And thus the Classical Genre was born.

“Rock trolls however…pressed their ears to the earth rather than listening towards the heavens. The life in the valleys were harsh, predators ran wild, natural disasters were abundant and with the high mountain walls escape was nearly impossible. Our music started as the screams of defiance that echoed off the valley walls, and the heartbeat that can be heard from beneath the surface of the earth. And tell me young Prince, do you know who the first Rock troll was to hear the music our people follow?”

The Black Sabbath led him to a portrait at the end of the hall. This one was adorned with more candles and offerings than any other. The troll depicted had wild hair. Their limbs made thin with white marble; eyes made with red rubies. An arm poised over their head, their fingers in salute formation, with an old-fashioned guitar formed of polished bronze clutched in their other hand in front of their chest. 

“King Ozzy,” Char whispered.

“Yes little one. King Ozzy. Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzy the founder. Our first king, and the creator of the Rock Genre. His legend is one that can vary from telling to telling. But it starts with his childhood. He was a poor orphan, in a small village deep in the mountains. A rebellious little thief some say. Until one day as he was running from danger, he tripped and struck his head on a sharp stone. From then on he wasn’t like the others. His wound opened his mind to the sounds around him. For the rest of his life he spent following the sounds, learning from them, recreating them. He carved the first guitar out of the heart of a pine tree and used his hair as strings. The other’s in his village called him mad because it was sound that attracted the predators.

“Then one night a pack of wolves stormed his village. Our ancestors were defenseless, only they could run for their lives. Ozzy was the only one who didn’t run. He stood proud in defiance of nature, calling forth the music in his soul and with the use of his instrument blasted away the attacking forces. That night the first powercord rang throughout the world, and Rock music was born.

“For the rest of his life Ozzy spread his music, uniting all the valley trolls underneath Rock. He was crowned both king and the first Black Sabbath. His subjects’ descendants became the Rock tribe. And his own descendants became the royal Osbourne line. A legacy that now falls to you Prince Char.”

Char blinked at that. He knew that Dad was his dad and Barb was his sister. They were his family, but he didn’t really think all too much about the fact that his family was in fact the royal family. Dad had kept him out of the spotlight, Char once thought it was because he didn’t like being the center of attention…though now it was probably so that people didn’t look to deeply into him. Rock trolls were usually very laid back, but a new heir showing up out of nowhere is something anyone might have questions about. It wasn’t like dad could tell them the truth. Pop was hated in the city, and if anyone knew they would hate Char in turn.   

Curiosity knocked at the door of the grey trolling’s mind, and he couldn’t help but indulge it.

“What about the others?” Char asked.

“The others?” The Black Sabbath said.

“The other tribes. Where did they find their music?” Char said.

The Black Sabbath hummed, taking a glance at dad before continuing, “Well, the next two main tribes to be born, were Country and Funk. Their music came from within rather than external sources. Country Trolls lives are harsh, so they found comfort in singing about pain, and ways to deal with that pain. Funk Trolls base their music around community. Their far different from other trolls, so they feel a strong sense of kinship with each other. If a family loses a child then they will search endlessly for them. Techno is an interesting case. Their music didn’t evolved until the their instruments were advanced enough. Their music can be hard to determine, but most believe its harmony with one’s self. They value the individual and accept anyone for who they are, not for what they could be or they could make them to be.”

“And Pop?” Char said softly.

The Black Sabbath took a moment before answering. He sighed, “I wish I knew the answer myself, perhaps then we’d have a way to explain their actions. The truth Prince Char is that no one remembers where their origin came from. At least we don’t, by the time of the Split, music had evolved so far beyond what it had been in the beginning that only really the historians held on to the meanings of the past. Even our own has changed, Rock wasn’t always so violent. However, Prince Char it is no reason to weep, music was never meant to stagnant, and will change with time. There are many sub-varieties of Rock music, after all. Tropical Rock trolls live on our territory’s coast, Heavy Metal smith in the city center, and punk rock wanders throughout the populace. Music is endless.”

Char nodded. Some part of him was upset that there wasn’t an answer to what Pop stood for. Perhaps, he was looking for comfort that they weren’t always monsters. Or maybe some instruction on what not to play regarding music in case it triggered something vile in him.

“Now, Prince Char,” The Black Sabbath spoke, “I’m going to ask you a very important question. What do you think music is?”

Char contemplated, running through his thoughts, before speaking, “Music is love. It’s a way to express your love for others.”

“Good answer,” The Black Sabbath nodded, “But it’s only half of the truth. Music is magic as much as it is love.”

“Magic?” Char raised a puzzled brow.

“Well, child how else do you explain musicians who’ve never known each other before play together as if they’d been playing for years? How they know what the next note is? Or the next step in a dance? Music is a magic that connects all troll kind. In song our hearts and minds synchronize. Linking us together and in that we harness the true power of music.”

“Power?”

“The power to protect our people young Prince. While the other Tribes used music for amusement and a way to pass on art to their children. We used music to defend our people from threats. Powercords are a weapon made of our own souls. Our endurance, our will to live pumped through our bodies and souls screamed into a shockwave of sound. Music isn’t just an art young prince, it’s our way of life. Our protection. Our connection, even to those long dead.”

“Really?”

“How do you think King Axl Rose knew this was our place to settle, Ozzy’s own ghost visited the young king while he played to honor those fallen, speaking to him through song. It is something that all Rock trolls should strive for, not only to hear the songs of those with us, but of those who are gone,” The Black Sabbath smiled, “This is your legacy Prince Char, and it is my sacred duty to indoctrinate you in the ways of Rock.”

They arrived at a set of tall heavy metallic doors. The metal work was intricate and polished to perfection, with etched patterns and spiked handles. The gold rims were adorned with immaculately cut gemstones of all colors. A lock of impressive complication held them shut. The Black Sabbath let go of Char’s hand and stepped closer to the set of doors, pulling off one of his many amulets has he did so. He pressed it into a keyhole at the center of the lock, and suddenly tiny pieces of metal began shift in and out of place in complex patterns. The lock opened and so did the doors.

The chamber on the other side of the door’s threshold could only be the heart of the Black Volcano. It was giant, with the walls curving inward seemingly forming a dome, before abruptly shooting up for the main vent. Char’s eyes stung and skin began to weep in the intense heat from the magma pit below. He ignored the discomfort, however. The Black Sabbath draped a black and red chainmail cape over his shoulders, then offered his hand. Char only had a moment’s hesitation before taking it.

From the edge of the magma pit, Char was led on to a bridge of burnt metal, suspended from thick chains that dug into the ceiling of the chamber. He tried very hard not to look down into the bubbling hot lake of molten rock below. The heat and vapors that swelled up from the pit were dizzying but the grey trolling held strong. Whatever this was, Dad said it was a rite. A tradition. Char wanted to do it. 

At the center of the chamber, in the middle of the magma pit, underneath the vent, stood a small pillar of burnt stone, flecks of metal could be seen glimmering in the dark flesh of the rock. Almost like a scorched sea stack. And on that sea stack was a stone stand with a black embroidered guitar that had a single string. A string that burned with the glow of a red star.

“The Rock String,” Char whispered.

The Black Sabbath chuckled, “Perceptive eye. This string is our strongest relic from days of old. The last remaining string from Ozzy’s own guitar, his own hair coated in the strongest brass. Over the generations we have fueled its strength and guarded it carefully.”

Char stared on in awe. In history class, his teacher had drilled it into his head that such relics of Ozzy were to be treasured and protected. And now he was in the presence of one.

The grey trolling didn’t get to gawk for long. The Black Sabbath pulled him over to kneel at the foot of the guitar stand. Rough hands gently prodded the hot ground beneath them. The elder filled his palm with ash, then used the other hand to rub the powder on Char’s forehead and upper cheeks.

“By the ghost of Ozzy, may your grace welcome this child, your descendant, a son of the Osbourne line, into the warm embrace of your knowledge and allow him to live a life of strength and fulfilment wherever his song leads him,” The Black Sabbath murmured.

Char sneezed when the ashes dripped onto his nose. While blinking, the Black Sabbath had gently gripped his hand, leading it towards the string. Char hesitated, but he knew what he had to do next. There was this primal call coming from the gleaming red strand. However, he faltered, should he really do this? Was he allowed? Char glanced towards his father, and the Rock King nodded, smiling with pride.

Char steeled himself with a breath of burning air and reached out. His fingers plucked the string lightly, and a strong low note screamed throughout the cavern. A bolt of red lightning fell from the sky and struck the guitar. There was a loud crash and a flash of red light.

And…he wasn’t in the magma chamber anymore… 

Fantasies, dreams and memories, danced across his vision. There was a thumbing drumbeat that rang in his head.

Thump Thump Thump

                A chorus of growling wolves. The frantic steps of those who ran for their lives. The scream of a single Troll of pearl-like flesh and black hair, who simply didn’t lie down and die. A heartbeat of bravery.

                Thump Thump Thump

                A song that united people. The building of a tribe. The cheers of people who stood for each other. Kings and Queens rising and falling. An Era of peace built with cities of paradise. A heartbeat of joy.

Thump Thump Thump

                The soft song of a feather scratching on parchment. The beginning of harmony between different voices, different tribes. A first that had never happened before in history. A heartbeat of excitement.

Thump Thump Thump

                A choir of people screaming as they fled their homes. Trollings wailing for dead parents, and parents weeping for lost young. The enemy was not of nature, it was their own brethren. Members of a sister tribe leading the slaughter. A heartbeat of betrayal.

Thump Thump Thump

The mournful melody of a group of trolls trekking through a wasteland. Their feet beating against the hot ground. Their tears dripping to the thirsty land below, as they searched for a new home. A heartbeat of grief.

Thump Thump Thump

A king crying out for his people. His wails lost to the ash filled wind. Pleading for the ancestors to spare his subjects. A heartbeat of pain.

Thump Thump Thump

The harmony of two kings one lost, one present. A mighty volcano, its walls blackened with burnt stood proud. A small crowd of survivors looked on in awe, giving thanks to those long passed. Kings and Queens bloomed and died, as a city was built near this mighty wound in the earth. A heartbeat of hope.

Thump Thump Thump

The visions faded, swirling together in a storm of color and smoke. His vision cleared, bringing his own body into view and Char could feel his own heart beat a long with the rhythm in his head. An unfamiliar pink glow coming from his chest began to shift towards red, blinked further into the hue of blood with each beat. The trolling didn’t get much time to ponder over this glow, however. A bone white hand reached out and lifted Char’s chin, and suddenly the grey trolling was staring into the red eyes and pale face of Ozzy. The first king didn’t say a word, only smiled and held out his hand offering a guitar pick. Char took them and felt a swell of hope fill his chest. The first King nodded, offering a salute and bow.

Thump Thump Thump

                Char understood. History had already been written, but now it was his turn with the pick. His turn to shape the world with his songs that would go on for generations beyond his time. This was his duty. His part to sing.

Thump Thump Thump

                “Charles!”

                Char startled, a small gasp filling his lungs and eyes snapping open. He blinked confusedly, when did he get back to the magma chamber? The young prince laid on his side, Dad and Black Sabbath kneeling over him. Ozzy’s String gleaming red in its place. Was all that real? He pressed his ear into the ground.

Thump Thump Thump

                The grey trolling froze, the drumbeat, the heartbeat of the earth, echoing clear in his mind. It was still there. Char smiled, eyes warming with tears. It was still there. It wasn’t a dream. Something inside of him eased. A hole inside of him had been partially filled. The quiet that always lingered in the back of him mind was finally chased away.

                “Charles are you alright?” Dad said.

                Char looked up at his father, “I can hear them dad.”

                “Hear who, son?”

                “Everyone.”

                Thrash had a rather emotional day.

                The king of rock would be lying if he said he hadn’t been worried about Charles going through his Ashing Rite. His son had shown such a rejection for the musical arts when he first arrived, Thrash was worried that the ritual would have been too much for the little one.

                For a moment he believed that to be true. When Charles had plucked Ozzy’s String, Thrash watched in horror as his son collapsed to the ground, seemingly having a seizure at the foot of the sacred stone altar. It barely lasted a minute, and his son only twitched mildly, but it still frightened Thrash greatly. Charles had been doing well lately, not having a seizure for months. While all his mind was focused mostly on the health of his boy, there was still this small part of Thrash that was worried the incident would scare Charles away from music again. Not because Thrash wanted his son to make music, but because he knew how disappointed Charles would be in himself if such a thing happened.

                But shockingly it seemed as if the attack did the exact opposite.

                When Charles came out of his trance, he smiled. The largest grin that Thrash had ever witnessed passed over his boy’s face.

“I can hear them dad,” His son said with such joy.

Thrash could only nod and smile back. Because not only was Charles happier than the king of rock had ever seen him, but his boy’s eyes were blue. A bright vibrant blue, like that of clearest sky or oceans deep. For two years, Charles’ eyes had been gloomy grey, a mark of his trauma, at least according to what Thrash managed to find on his son’s discoloration condition. A mark that was now being washed away. His son was healing.

As they were leaving, Charles wouldn’t stop jumping with excitement. Rambling on and on about how he wanted to play music even more than before and if he had known how wonderful it was to hear the world’s heartbeat he’d have listened sooner. How had this bubbly excited child had been hiding inside of his sweet, reserved boy? It was like someone had finally cut off Charles’ chains and the trolling was free to fly.

“I’m glad you brought him,” The Black Sabbath spoke quietly.

“It was time too. I was hesitant at first but now…” Thrash said.

His equal nodded, “He’s strong Thrash. His connection to the music was far stronger than I anticipated. The fit he had was no seizure, it was a vision.”

Thrash paused at that, visions were a glimpse offered by the ancestors to only the most connected to the music of the world, their songs still singing long after their deaths. Such trolls usually became leaders of faith, lesser sabbaths.

“How strong, Snider?” Thrash said, choosing to address his friend casually.

“If I had to guess, I’d say I’m looking at my future replacement,” Snider said, “Prince Char’s mind is open to the music, more than any child I have come across. I have no doubts that in the future he’ll hear the voices of our ancestors guiding him from a far.”

“Is it even possible for a child to have such a connection?”

“It’s not unheard of, just merely uncommon. Most connections such as these usually fade as they age, but in his case I’m not so sure his mind will begin to close.”

“What makes you believe that.”

“Well, he does have a hole in his head…”

Thrash felt his face crumble as he held back a laugh. It was futile. He snorted and wheezed out his amusement.

“That’s horrible,” He choked with laughter.

“I know,” Snider said also struggling to hold in laughter.

“We shouldn’t be laughing.”

“We really shouldn’t. But it’s true.”

Thrash managed to calm himself by breathing out slowly. Composure consuming him once more. And Snider was quick to follow.

“Regardless of how his gift came about,” Snider said, “It is something to keep an eye on. Especially since his heart was once one of Pop.”

Thrash hummed with distaste, “So you could tell?”

“Your secret is safe, your majesty. Today was enough to prove to me that Char is exactly where he needs to be. I don’t know where he’s going, but there is no doubt in my mind that the boy is destined for something great. Pop born or not.”

Thrash looked at his son. Trying to open the large door that was too heavy for his little limbs. So eager to start his musical education.

“I have no doubts either, Black Sabbath.”

Chapter Text

Barb crept towards her brother’s door. The golden knob twisted silently, and the crown princess cracked the door open a silver. Her red eyes peeked inside.

“So, now if you hold your fingers, here and here, and then strum,” One Bill Reverb instructed, “That’s a C chord.”

Barb winced at the off-pitch chord that followed. Ah, the wonderful sound of a beginning guitar player. She was proud of Char for finally learning music, but she’d really rather not sacrifice her ears for it.

“That didn’t sound right,” Char grumbled.

“Well, it’s your first shot at it, chords aren’t easy to do in the beginning. Your fingers need to get stronger to press the strings right. You’ll get better with practice,” Billy said, “You know what went wrong?”

“I didn’t press on the middle string enough,” Char said.

The door creaked, and Barb very quickly had to pretend she wasn’t snooping.

“Uh, Dinner’s ready guys,” Barb said.

It wasn’t a lie, thankfully, Dad had told her to get the boys for food…she just got distracted. Not that she’d allow anyone to blame her, Barb could not let Billy infect Char with his soft rock beliefs. Her brother was a young budding musician, and he needed to be guided down the right path! One that will ensure his safety. Especially since he was biologically Pop. Soft rock sounded closer to Pop than other sub-rock styles. There were still differences of course, but the less Pop things that Char was associated with the better.

Char lit up and bolted out of his bedroom, “Thank you Barbie!”

“No problem, Charcoal Stick!” Barb called after her brother.

“Barbie?” Billy said, getting up from where he sat with a smug smirk.

“Not a word, Reverb,” Barb growled, “Only Char gets to call me that.”

The rocker chuckled, “You know, princess, things will be a lot less stressful if you just admit you don’t dislike me.”

Barb huffed a laugh, “I can’t stand you! I can’t stand your pretty boy attitude or that cute-ass smirk you have.”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty and cute?”

Barb punched him in the arm, nearly knocking Billy over.

“Ow! I need to use that arm later!”

“Then don’t say stupid shit,” Barb crossed her arms, and snorted angerly, “How’s he doing?” she asked reluctantly.

“Honestly? All the prince is really missing is the muscle coordination. He picked up on pitch, tone and rhythm almost instantly. He can tell the differences between two chords just by ear. It’s impressive for his age. Why didn’t you start him sooner?”

Internally Barb was extremely proud to hear that Char was doing so well with just a week of basic tutoring. Externally she was glaring at Billy. He didn’t need to know about her family’s personal matters.

“No reason you need to know about,” The crown princess growled.

Billy held up his hands in a surrendering manner, “Alright, no need to get snippy. I was just curious.”

Barb growled underneath her breath, as the soft rock troll exited the room. Billy wearing that smug smile with his perfect teeth. She needed to punch him again, in the face this time!

 Char gripped his guitar tightly but was still careful not to mess with the freshly tuned strings. The roaring crowd just hidden from view, by the curtained threshold that separated the backstage from the show. His stomach was in knots, and brain had been absorbed by this light swimmy feeling.

It was his 9th birthday. Since he had been spending the last few months learning guitar, Dad has asked him if he wanted to have his next birthday also be his coronation concert. Fancy coronation ceremonies were strictly for the crowning of new kings and queens. For princesses and princes, there was first their Ashing Rite, and then a concert where they would be brought on stage and presented to the people as an heir to the crown.

Barb’s coronation as crown princess was done over the course of three days. Well, that was what Char had been told at least. A week after her hatching was her Ashing Rite, which was public in front of a crowd of subjects eager to see the newborn princess, and then two days later Dad performed with baby Barb on stage, serenading his daughter with music.

That was how the initiation of new princesses and princes was usually done.

Char was anything but usual. He wasn’t an infant when he came to live with his father and sister, and his Ashing Rite happened at 8 and a half years old. Not to mention he was a Pop troll.

The grey trolling swallowed down the bile that creeped up his throat. Things would forever be different after tonight. While Dad always said Char was prince, he was always kept locked away from the attention that role gave. Kept hidden to heal and adjust. This show would be the first time that he had been presented to the public as a prince. A fully burned Prince of rock. Second born child of King Thrash, and next in line after his sister. A crown might look light in appearance but was oh so heavy when worn.

There would be no going back after this.

“Hey? You good, Charcoal Stick? You look like you’re about to throw up,” Barb said seemingly suddenly at his side.

“I might…and pass out…and pee my pants,” Char squeaked nervously.

“Sounds like you have a lot of problems,” Barb said, “What’s on your mind?”

“What if I mess up?”

“Mess up? Mess up what?”

“The show,” Char looked up at his sister, “What if I mess up and ruin everything? Then the people hate me…and then you and dad hate me! And then you leave me alone!”

“Whoa, whoa slow down,” Barb said kneeling in front of him. Her hands comfortingly on his shoulders, “Okay first. Me and Dad will never leave you.”

“You won’t?” He sniffed.

“Of course not! You’re my brother, and big sisters don’t leave their little brothers. Ever. And Dad loves you more than anyone. Now, second, if you mess up just smile and act like it was on purpose.”

Char didn’t feel convinced on that second part.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Barb said, “Believe it or not, screw ups on stage happen all the time. No one in the crowd cares, unless the mess up is like extremely dangerous and people could get hurt.”

Char bit his lip. His hands clenching and unclenching with nerves.

“Okay, listen,” Barb started, “You know the song, right?”

Char nodded, humming in an affirmative manner.

“The lyrics, the notes, all that?”

“Yes.”

“Then all you have to do is go out there, trust your instincts, which are rocking awesome, and have fun.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, everything is going to be awesome, even if you mess up. All these people are here to see you, just as you,” She playfully poked him in the chest, “Not as a perfect performance. Besides me and dad will be starting everything off. Just wait for your que and join when you’re ready.”

“One minute till stage time!” one of the managers called out.

Taking advantage of the little time left, Char leaped into his sister’s arms and squeezed her tightly.

“Thank you, Barb.”

“Anytime, anyplace Charcoal Stick. After all I do have some wisdom to give.”

“No thanks, wouldn’t want you to run out,” Char teased.

“Heeey,” Barb broke from the hug and gave Char a noogie. The trolling struggled against the strong hold of his older sister’s embrace, but it was futile. In the end his hair was messed up…but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use it to latch onto Barb’s wrist and twist out of her hold.

“Whoa hey! That’s cheating!”

Char laughed.

“Barbara,” Dad called, “It’s time.”

Barb gave Char’s back a pat, “Just remember, have fun.”

“Nothing changes?”

Barb shook her head, before running towards the stage “Nothing changes.”

Char crept closer to watch his father and sister, from backstage. He could only catch a small glimpse of the crowd, but what he could see was a vast sea of muted colors that bubbled and thrashed with rough waves of momentum. The stormy sea only grew fiercer once Dad and Barb stepped into the bright spotlights.

“Greetings! Citizens of Volcano Rock City!” Dad screamed out to the crowd, throwing up a Rocker’s salute towards them, “I’m sure that we’re all quite excited tonight, yes?!”

The crowd cheered.

“Wonderful! Now, I have heard some rumors about my family that have been going around in recent years and I need to clarify a few things. Yes, it’s true, I am now a father of two!”

Once more came a roar of applause and excited screams.

“And for medical reasons I kept him out of the public eye, I’m sure you all can understand. However, now things are different and tonight I am pleased to introduce you all to your prince, with this opening song.”

Dad looked to Barb and she stepped forward, and began to pluck at her guitar. The back up players taking center stage with her

“Put on your War paint!” Dad started them off, and the crowd roared at the exclaimation.

“You are a brick tied to me that’s dragging me down! Strike a match and I’ll burn you to the ground!”

Char let his foot tap against the stone floor to the beat, as he watched his father. Dad moved slowly on the stage, the mic in his hand held close to his lips. Yet, his steps weren’t underwhelming. His father’s stage strut was a low energy one but it drew the audience in, a calm eye in the middle of the hurricane high song.

“We are the jack-o-lanters in July setting fire to the sky! Here, here comes it’s a rising tide!”

Dad suddenly whirled around towards Barb, the two harmonizing as the pre-chorus hit.

“Put on your war paint!”

The drums swelled and Barb plucked her strings faster. Char’s heart felt funny.

“Cross walks! And cross hearts! And hope-to-dies! Silver clouds with grey lining!”

The energy calmed and so did their voices, going from shouting proclamations to whispering vows.

“So we can take the world back from the heart attack, One maniac at a time we will take it back!”

The energy jumped and so with it did Char’s pulse

“You know time crawls one when you’re waiting for the song to start! SO dance alone to the beat of your heart!”

With the pre-chorus ending, and the chorus began to burn. Barb began to jump, screaming passion into her play. Her and Dad danced around each other in a disconnected jig. Why were his own legs itching to join them?

“Hey! Young Blood! Doesn’t it feel like our time is running out!”

Running out? Was time running out?

“I’m gonna change you! Like a remix!”

Changed? Had Char changed? The grey trolling supposed he had. He liked it.

“Then I’ll raise you! like a phoenix!”

A phoenix, a creature born of the dead ashes of an end. A new beginning. A smile stretched across his face, he liked that.

Dad retreated back into his keyboard, taking over the music, while tossing the mic over to Barb for the second verse.

“Bring home the boys! And scrap! Scrap metal the tanks! Get hitch! Make a career of robbin’ Banks!”

She screamed, and the crowd roared, feeling the excitement that blasted from her voice.

“So play it out, I’m wide awake, it’s a scene about me! There’s something in your way and now someone is gonna pay!”

His sister’s voice was rough, but it carried such power with in it. Power that he felt with in his chest. Char’s lungs filled with air. Why did he want to scream?

“Because the world is just a teller and we are wearing black masks! ‘You broke our spirit,’ said the note we pass!”

She spun around, leaping back to Dad. The chorus starting up again.

“So we can take the world back from the heart attack, One maniac at a time we will take it back!”

“You know time crawls one when you’re waiting for the song to start! SO dance alone to the beat of your heart!”

While continuing the chorus Barb locked eyes with him and nodded. Char swallowed, that was his que. There was a hesitance that settled in his stomach with a dull ache. Something telling him not to go out there, but…There was still pull as well. Something about the lights. The rhythm making is tongue twitch. The drum beat in sync with his heart.

He took a step forward. Out of the curtains a spotlight found him instantly. His eyes were blinded as the crowds screamed. Vision cleared slowly, a sea of muted colors and spiked clothes came into focus. Their screams disjointed, like they were separated from him. He couldn’t feel their excitement…not like he could feel his family’s…

Distantly he could hear his father and sister finish the chorus, eyes went to him for the bridge. His hand moved up the neck of his guitar, as a mic on a stand ascended from the floor until it stood tall in front of him…waiting for his voice. He took a breath and strummed the first chord.

Words tipping his tongue and…

“The war is won, before it’s began…”

As the song flowed from his body a warmth overtook him. A feeling of elation came over his being so strongly. A missing piece of his soul clicked into place, and he was finally complete.

“Release the doves! Surrender love!”

He smiled, never wanting this to end.

“The war is won, before it’s begun! Release the doves! Surrender love!”

Barb’s jaw dropped at Char’s voice. Never had she heard her brother sing. It started out slow, and scared but with each word it grew in strength. And, holy shit! With just a few words she knew he had been blessed with a falsetto made of fucking gold.

“The war is won, before it’s begun! Release the doves! Surrender love!”

She watched as the music made its connection with his soul. His posture relaxed, and he began bouncing to the beat. Barb felt the growing excitement swelling up within her brother as his voice grew louder. Stronger. More defiant of his fear.

The back up singer began to chant, linking their voices with her brother’s fully embracing him into the song.

“Wave the white flag! Wave the white Flag!”

“The war is won, before it’s begun!”

“Wave the white flag! Wave the white Flag!”

“Release the doves! Surrender love!”

Char turned around looking straight at Barb with bright blue eyes…and skin? The trolling dashed forward. Watery blue washing out the grey in his body and a large grin plastered on his face. Running towards them. Running towards his family.

They took the final chorus together.

“Hey! Young Blood! Doesn’t it feel like our time is running out!”

“I’m gonna change you! Like a remix!”

“Then I’ll raise you! like a phoenix!”

Char jumped and danced around her; energy unhinged with joy. The music made his feet move.

“Wearing our vintage misery! No, I think I looked a little better on me!

“I’m gonna change you! Like a remix! Then I’ll raise you! like a phoenix!”

Barb joined in the link between their souls transferring that bouncing joy. Together the siblings pranced around their father. Dad smiling wide with pride as the whole family continued to sing together.

“Put on your war paint!

The song came to a sudden end, with nothing more needed to be said. Barb left catching her breath, as the crowd roared. Dad stepped out from his place behind the keyboard and scooped up Char, putting the boy on his shoulder. Barb let him pull her to his side. Char looked down almost for permission, and Dad nodded. A proud smile on his face as the blue (blue!) trolling threw the salute towards the crowds making them scream again.

Barb bounced running to grab a fallen mic, “Prince Char, everyone!” she screamed. Fully solidifying her brother’s place.

Blue or grey. Pop or rock. Char would be her brother. Her right hand. A prince to the rock tribe. He was right where he was supposed to be, on stage with his family. No one was ever going to hurt him. Never again.