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Jim can’t take his eyes off of Strickler. He’s there, making bad jokes about Napoleon like nothing ever happened. Like he never shattered into tiny pieces lost in a blizzard of snow.
He blinked as he felt something touch his hand on the desk. His eyes followed it, looking down.
Oh. He was crying.
Jim stared numbly at the droplet of water as more dripped from his cheeks, falling like rain and leaving smudges on his paper.
“Jim? Young Atlas, are you alright?”
Jim looked up, the fogginess of his thoughts clearing away at the sound of Strickler’s voice. The room had emptied. Jim hadn’t even heard the bell ring.
Toby was in the next seat, peering over at him with concern. In front of Jim, there Strickler stood, making a similar face. Jim said nothing as his teacher quietly asked Toby to give them privacy, and still said nothing as Toby left reluctantly to give them a minute.
What could he say? In another life, I knew you like a son knows his father. You died for me and yet here you are.
More tears welled in his eyes, spilling over as Jim’s lip started to wobble.
Strickler, crouching near the side of his desk, was dumbfounded. “Jim… what’s wrong?”
The dam broke, and Jim started to sob. Giant, ugly tears were coming now, and he could feel his nose running, but he just didn’t care. Strickler was here and he cared, and that was enough.
He felt the tips of Strickler’s fingers brush the edge of his shoulder and he lurched forward, throwing himself into the man in some kind of desperate embrace. Jim’s nails dug into the fancy brown suit jacket the man always wore and the blue turtleneck quickly became damp with tears and snot as Jim cried, holding on as tight as he dared.
Strickler’s arms hovered above Jim for a moment as he seemed to process what was happening, then the man let out a sigh as he gently rested his palms on the boy’s quivering form. He held the boy to him, this boy he had come to treasure despite it all, and let him cry.
Walter had never seen Jim Lake Jr. in such a state. He had been aware that he and Young Atlas were growing sort of close— as close as one could be with a favored teacher, but this was an entirely different level.
It was all he could do to not stand stiff as a statue, awkwardly offering a ‘there, there’.
Walter hadn’t been hugged like this in quite some time. Perhaps never. He honestly can’t even recall being hugged in any sort of way, let alone like this. He had not made what you would call ‘friends’ during his long time on the surface. He certainly hadn’t had any in the Darklands.
Despite that, Walter liked to think he was doing just fine with this hug. Now, he was mostly wondering what on Earth happened to his student to make him cry like this.
“Jim, what’s going on?” he murmured to the head buried in his chest. The child’s sobs had dwindled down into sniffles, and though Jim’s hands had tightened around his shoulders when he tried to pull back, Strickler gently and consistently pulled Jim back to get a better look at him.
Jim’s face was red and blotchy, eyes puffy as he moved one hand to scrub at them. His eyes still had a thin veil of tears catching the light.
His voice came out rough, frayed at the edges like worn-out string. “Sorry, Mr. Strickler.” The boy wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. “I didn’t—“
”Sit, Young Atlas.” Strickler moved to get up, and the brief panic that crossed Jim’s face bewildered him. “I shall return,” he gently announced, feeling a little silly for it, but it seemed to help Jim settle back down.
He quickly made his way to his desk, grabbing a box of tissues and his small trash can before hurrying back to Jim. “Here,” he offered.
Jim’s face turned more red, clearly regretting making a mess of himself, unknowing that Strickler had seen far worse and truly did not care. But he took the tissues, and Strickler set the trash can at his feet for him to discard used tissues.
Strickler tried to give him a moment, but curiosity was eating him alive.
”Jim, I’m… honored,” he began, “that you could come to me with something so heavy clearly weighing on your chest. And I’m aware that it’s something of a joke of ours, calling you Young Atlas, the boy who held up the sky… but this was another level entirely that I’m not used to seeing from you. Would you mind telling me a little bit about what’s going on?”
Jim took his time blowing his nose, but Strickler could see him collecting his thoughts, eyes scrunched and searching for some kind of answer. Strickler was even alarmed to see more tears stream down the boy’s cheeks, though the child was quick to wipe them away.
After a long moment, Jim threw his tissues away and fiddled with the box, pushing it to the far corner of the desk. His eyes lingered there, and Strickler suspected nothing short of a sudden fire could pry them off.
Then the child said something baffling.
“I know this might not make sense to you,” Jim said, raising his hands as if to shield himself. “But I need you to know… I’m just really, really glad you’re still here.” His voice was fragile, almost breaking, but there was an honesty in his eyes as he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Strickler’s.
Strickler’s brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “…Me? All this… worry about me?” He blinks, shaking his head almost disbelievingly. “Jim, I assure you, I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me that would warrant this kind of concern.”
Jim swallows, then can’t resist: “Yet.”
The boy looks both guilty and concerned, and Strickler really doesn’t know what to make of it.
Strickler stares. “Yet?” He repeats slowly. “What do you mean by that?”
Jim shifts, awkward but determined. “I know things about you… more than I should.”
Strickler’s eyes narrow, crossing his arms. “Like what?” he asks incredulously.
Jim paused, jaw clenching as he considered his thoughts, his knee bouncing beneath the desk. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, fragile yet defiant.
“You work for Gunmar.”
His eyes searched Strickler’s, pleading silently—for understanding, for mercy, for something to hold onto.
Just like that, Strickler’s heart sinks like a stone at the bottom of a lake. Of all the things Jim could have said, Strickler had not been ready to hear that.
He knelt before his student, fierce scrutiny giving way to a guarded sharpness that seemed to linger as he studied the boy. “How do you know that name?”
Jim showed no fear, but he did hesitate. “I— I just know it.” At Strickler’s narrow eyed glare, “I can’t tell you,” he amends, defeated.
Strickler growled, impatient. Then a thought occurred to him. “Yet,” he said, eyes narrowing as his fingers drummed a rapid, restless beat on his knee. His voice was low, edged with urgency. “You said nothing’s happened to me yet. Can you tell me more about that?”
Jim’s expression faltered, the mask of control slipping just enough to reveal the dam of memories straining beneath his silence, one breath away from spilling over. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, breath catching like something sharp had caught in his throat.
“I…” The word wavered, thin as thread.
His fingers twitched against the edge of the tissue box. He couldn’t lie—not well, not when someone was looking at him like that, like he already knew something was wrong. But telling the truth felt like unlocking a cage he’d never be able to shut again. Like every word he said would bring Strickler one step closer to the edge of a future Jim had already lived through.
“I don’t know,” he said finally.
It wasn’t even fully true. But it was all he could give without breaking something—maybe himself.
Strickler threw up his hands, “Well, what can you tell me?! A name, even one as powerful as Gunmar’s, is not much at all. You could very well know nothing.”
Jim’s hands tightened into fists on his lap, conflicted. “I don’t know how much I should tell you… You tried to kill me before.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the truth aching to slip free. He wanted to say more—wanted Strickler to know, to understand—but the fear of stirring that darkness again held him back.
Strickler stares. A child. He’d tried to kill a child. If what the boy says is true… he probably did know too much. Though, looking at this boy now, it was hard to imagine ever lifting a hand against him. There must have been another reason…
Jim stood in a hurry, pushing past him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. And also for crying on you—“
Strickler’s hand shot out, gripping Jim’s arm before he could pull away. For a moment, his mind raced — suspicion, anger, the instinct to shut this down violently. But looking at the boy’s wary, vulnerable expression, something shifted. This wasn’t an enemy; this was Jim.
“I—” Strickler began, voice rough but steady as he released the hold. “I promise I won’t hurt you. Please… tell me something.”
Jim doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t walk away yet. “I saw you die,” he confesses to the empty air in front of him. “You don’t have the full picture, Strickler. Gunmar is really only the beginning.”
Jim faces him, eyes glinting in an unspoken challenge. “But he isn’t on your side. For him, changelings are expendable. He killed hundreds of you when he was finally free. If you were smart, you’d never let him out at all.”
Strickler’s jaw clenches as he stands. “So you do know things. Jim, you’ve stepped into a world far darker than you understand.” The man turns away, voice quieter, almost weary. “Gunmar… he’s not just some villain in the shadows. Working for him… it changes everything about you. About what you’re willing to do.”
Jim’s gaze didn’t waver, though something in it turned inward — faraway, like he was remembering something important. Then he smiled. It was small, softened at the edges by something bittersweet, but kind in a way that made Strickler forget, for one impossible second, the shadows hanging between them.
“I already know there’s more to you,” Jim said softly. “Trust me.”
Strickler blinked, caught off guard by the assurance — by the ease of it, like Jim had seen some version of him no one else had. The words left an echo, one that settled under his ribs like something both familiar and foreign. He didn’t know what the boy meant, not really, but it lingered, all the same.
He finally looks at Jim again, and the boy seems so young. It was all so unfamiliar to him, these feelings, and that look. Jim was looking to him for guidance, looking up to him.
Stricklander had turned on others for knowing far less.
And yet… others had not wept for him, and part of him understood that he had never been someone worth crying over. Jim stood out, in that way.
And though it pains him to admit it, he’d grown soft. He’d never had a student like Jim before. He’d never gotten attached.
“What’s your part in all of this, Young Atlas? That’s what I don’t understand.”
For a second, Jim felt small again. Like the world was far too big, and he was just a kid sitting across from a man who’d lived twice his life and worked for literal monsters. The enormity of it clawed at his insides—how much he knew, how much he couldn't say, how close he was to losing control.
His shoulders drew in a little. His hands curled into fists on his knees, not in anger, but in quiet desperation, trying to hold himself together. The part of him that was still just Jim, not the warrior, not the protector, wanted to sink into the chair and disappear.
But he didn’t.
He looked Strickler in the eye, even if it made his stomach turn. His voice was soft but sure.
“I was the Trollhunter.”