Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a few weeks since John and Shuma returned to Troll Village after the chaos they helped settle in Mount Rageous. Peace had finally settled—or so it seemed. But inside the forest bunker that John shared with his four younger brothers, things had been slowly building toward an eruption.

The air inside the bunker felt heavy that evening. The boys were gathered around the old dining table, barely touching their food. John stood up and left for the elevator. “It’s getting late. I’m heading back to Rhonda.” He spoke plainly. Branch ran his way, JD could feel the vibrations under his feet, “You seriously can’t leave. What was that?” the youngest brother question him. John Dory ignored branch and stood on the elevator waiting for a signal, why was he waiting? He didn’t know. It was Clay who broke the silence next, his voice tight.

“You’re thinking of leaving again, aren’t you?”

John, seated across from him, raised an eyebrow. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, did I strike a nerve? How does it feel to have your feelings put down?” Clay said in a conceited tone.

JD took several deep breaths, he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to argue with Clay. He was tired of arguing, he just wanted them all to get along again, he missed that.

“What? No comeback? Nothing good in that square brain of yours?” Clay shot at John.

Bruce stood up to put an end to the one-sided argument. Floyd grabbed Bruce’s hand, silently telling him to wait.

Branch watched nervously, unsure if he should step in or watch it play out.

“Come on Clay, let’s not do this today. Please?” John said firmly, not moving from his spot in front of the elevator platform.

“Aw, is the old man afraid he’d lose an argument with his little brother? I thought you were fearless John Dory, after all you hiked the Neverglade trail.” Clay mocked, placing his hands on his hips.

”I never said I was fearless.” JD said bluntly, glaring up at Clay.
Bruce could see that John was trying to hold his temper but the more Clay picked and gnawed at him, the closer he was to losing his temper.

“But I thought you were the great and powerful John Dory. You’re fearless, daring and always the hero.” Clay said mockingly, glaring back at John.

JD scowled and gritted his teeth, he could do this. He could hold his temper, maybe if Clay got it all out of his system now, they could start fresh on the way home.

“I never said that Clay. I’ve never claimed to be fearless or daring and I know I’m not always the hero. Are you done?” John Dory sighed.

“No, I’m not done. You still act all high and mighty, like you’re better than us. You’re not. You’re just a sad pathetic, old man who’s probably going to die alone because you’re such a BITTER ASSHOLE THAT NOBODY WANTS TO BE AROUND YOU. I WISH IT WAS YOU IN THAT DIAMOND PRISON SO I’D NEVER HAVE TO SEE YOUR STUPID FACE EVER AGAIN!” Clay started shouting.

A cold silence followed. Then John grabbed his vest and stalked to the door.

“I’ll give you space since that’s what you think you want,” he said, voice cracking with anger and restraint. “But don’t ever question why I fight.”

And with that, the door slammed shut behind him.

The silence afterward was unbearable. Bruce sat frozen. Floyd put his head in his hands. Even Branch had nothing clever to say. Clay crossed his arms, jaw tight, but there was pain in his eyes too.

⸻

Hours passed before the frantic knock shattered the silence. The brothers shot up as the pounding continued. Branch took the platform and flung the door open.

There stood Shuma, wild-eyed and breathless.

“Where is he?!” Shuma demanded. “Is John here?”

Branch blinked. “He left a while ago—”

Shuma shoved past him into the bunker. “We don’t have time. Most of the trolls in the village—they’ve been turned. Into vampires.”

Bruce gasped. “What?!”

“They’re… they’re feeding on the older trolls, hiding during the day. I think it started in the woods. One bite and they’re gone.” Shuma’s voice trembled. “I think… I think John might’ve gone into the village.”

“W-why would he—” Floyd began.

“He was probably trying to check on everything alone,” Shuma said. “And now he’s trapped. I saw him, just for a second. His eyes were white. He was… gone.”

The four brothers stared at him, horrified.

“But there’s hope,” Shuma said urgently. “I studied them. They respond—react—to music. Not just any music. It has to be pure, full of life. It has to hit something deeper.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked.

“I saw it when one of the younger trolls played a melody on their flute. It snapped one of the turned trolls out of it… just for a moment.”

Clay stepped forward, guilt written across his face. “So if we play something strong enough… we might bring John back?”

Shuma nodded. “Exactly.”

They scrambled for the archive pod—an old record player patched together with vines and metal. Branch opened the library folder as they searched through tracks with trembling fingers.

Then Floyd shouted, “Here!”

He then hurriedly placed the record on the player. The sound blasted through the bunker—a funky, electric beat. It was “Canned Heat” by Jamiroquai. Even just the opening was enough to shake something in the air. Just then, their heads turned toward the distance.

“Do you hear that?” Shuma whispered.

Outside, on the wind, there was faint music echoing. The same beat—faint but unmistakable—drifting toward them from the hills of Troll Village.

“Then off to reap the corn,
And leave where I was born,
I cut a stout black thorn”

“John…” Clay whispered.

They looked at each other, the five of them breathing in unison.

No one needed to say it. It was time to move.

Chapter Text

The sound grew louder with every cautious step they took. Shuma led the way, his sharp eyes scanning the forest shadows around them, the air thick with fog and anticipation. Clay, Branch, Floyd, and Bruce followed, their ears attuned to the rhythmic, rolling beat echoing from beyond the blackened trees. It was music—but not the kind that brought joy or comfort. No, this music carried something… haunting. Seductive. Dangerous.

As the fog parted, they saw it.

Down below, in a clearing lit only by torches and a burning crimson moon, stood a scene straight out of a fever dream: a crowd of trolls, all turned into vampires, their glowing red eyes swaying in unison as they walked a ritualistic circle. Their bodies moved like puppets on strings—jerky yet purposeful, almost hypnotic.

In the middle stood John.

Shuma’s heart sank instantly. His breath caught in his throat.

“John…” he whispered, barely audible over the escalating tempo of the song.

“For to banish ghosts and goblins
A brand new pair of brogues
To rattle over the bogs
And frightened all the dogs
On the rocky road to Dublin
One, two, three, four, five

John stood tall, his usually kind eyes now a brilliant red. His mouth was smeared with fresh blood, and two long fangs sat glistening under the dim moonlight. He wore a torn black vest that showed hints of his familiar build, but everything else—the sneer, the swagger, the haunting cadence of his voice—felt foreign. Inhuman.

“Well, in the merry month of May, from me home I started
Left the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted
Saluted Father dear, kissed me darling mother
Drank a pint of beer, my grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born
Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins
Brand new pair of brogues, rattlin' over the bogs
And frightned all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin
One, two, three, four, five”

John sang, his voice booming, punctuated by the devilish laughter of trolls around him.

Poppy played a fiddle to his left, her face twisted with unnatural glee, eyes just as blood-red as John’s. Viva and Guy Diamond flanked her, pounding on makeshift drums and bodhráns, feeding the rhythm that guided the crowd’s eerie stomp. The harmonies came from everywhere, with Boom, Biggie, Satin, Chenille, even Smidge joining in:

“Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin, whack-fo-lol-le-dah”

The stomping grew louder. Dust rose into the air with each synchronized step.

Branch clutched the tree beside him, his knuckles white. He scanned the crowd until his eyes locked on Poppy. Her hair was darker, her expression unrecognizable. But there was no denying it was her. “Poppy… No…”

Clay was equally silent, staring at Viva, his voice caught in his throat.

“They really got all of them,” Floyd muttered, shaking his head. “Even Boom…”

Shuma swallowed thickly. “It’s like they’re… celebrating. A ritual.” His voice cracked slightly. “And John… he’s leading it.”

Bruce kept watch behind them, nerves on edge. “Why the hell is he singing that song of all things?”

Shuma’s face turned grave. “It’s not just a song. It’s a trap. A performance meant to lure and dominate.”

They kept low as John’s next verse echoed over the clearing.

“From there I got away, my spirits never failin'
Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailin'
Captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy
Down among the pigs, played some funny rigs
Danced some hearty jigs, the water 'round me bubblin'
Off to Holyhead, wished meself was dead
Or better far instead, on the rocky road to Dublin”

Each stomp sent a rumble into the ground. Each clap was like thunder. The fiddles wept.

As John spun in place, laughing, his red eyes scanned the crowd. For a split second, they hovered near the trees where Shuma and the brothers were hiding. The entire group froze.

But then John grinned wide and threw his head back with a howl.

“One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin, whack-fol-lol-de-dah!”

The vampires echoed the last part, spinning faster in their circle, like they were working themselves into a trance.

Branch reached out and held Shuma by the arm. “He didn’t see us. But we’re not gonna get a better chance than this.”

Shuma shook his head slowly. “We’re not ready yet. The music—it has a grip on him. We interrupt this too soon, we might lose him for good.”

Clay clenched his fists. “So what? We just stand here while our brother becomes the king of vampires?”

“We stand here,” Shuma said firmly, “until we can break him out.”

The torches flared higher as John launched into the next verse, dancing with a sort of maddened elegance, twisting and leaping like a corrupted theater performer.

“The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it
Blood began to boil, temper I was losin'
Poor old Erin's Isle, they began abusin'
"Hurrah me soul," says I, shillelagh I let fly
Galway boys were by and saw I was a hobblin'
With a loud "Hurray!" joinin' in the affray
We quickly cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin
One, two, three, four, five

Even with the other unfortunate trolls who were turned into vampires, John’s highly audible voice cracked into a growl, theatrical and twisted, feeding the crowd like blood in the water. Poppy shrieked with glee, her bow slicing across the fiddle strings, dragging every note into something darker, stranger.

Floyd stepped closer beside Branch. “We need to be ready. Because once that song ends… whatever happens next, it won’t be a performance.”

Shuma’s eyes never left John. “It will be our opening. We’ll need the music. We’ll need ‘Canned Heat.’ And we’ll need hope.”

The vampire trolls closed the circle around John, their voices rising for one final chant. The beat thundered. The clearing felt like a ritual in motion, as if the entire forest was pulsing with the rhythm of something ancient and evil.

“Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin, whack-fol-lol-de-ra!”

And as the crowd screamed the final verse, Shuma and the brothers knew time was running out.

And just like that, the music stopped.

Silence.

John turned slowly toward the tree line, his eyes glowing like white fire in the darkness.

“Showtime’s almost here,” whispered Shuma.

Chapter Text

The clearing had gone eerily silent after the last verse of Rocky Road to Dublin. The vampire trolls stood still—breathing slowly, eyes glowing in the dark like embers in the ashes of a burnt-out fire.

John stood at the center, unmoving. His head tilted ever so slightly to one side, eyes piercing through the trees as if he already knew where they were hiding.

“They know,” Floyd whispered.

“They’ve known,” Shuma replied softly, voice steady, gaze still fixed on John.

Suddenly, John’s fanged smile curled as he took one step forward. “You can come out now,” he called, his voice slick with a dark southern drawl. “Ain’t no use hiding, boys. You’re in my domain now.”

The other vampires stirred behind him. Poppy licked her lips, grinning at the tree line. Viva cracked her knuckles, already in a low stance like a dancer ready to strike. Boom shifted side to side, his fangs gleaming.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Branch said, stepping forward slightly, his voice heavy with heartbreak.

John’s grin widened. “Well, we might want to hurt you,” he teased, “but only a little. You’d like it here. No pain, no guilt, no fear. Just music and blood.”

“Join us,” Poppy purred. “It’s better this way.”

Viva tilted her head toward Clay, voice thick with seductive bitterness. “You don’t have to carry the past anymore, you know. We don’t.”

That hit too close. Clay’s fists clenched.

“Don’t listen to them,” Bruce whispered. “They’re not themselves.”

But Clay had heard enough.

He stepped out from behind the tree line and into the firelight. “Then maybe it’s time I do something about the past.”

“Clay, wait—!” Branch called.

But Clay was already walking straight into the circle.

The vampires hissed, readying to lunge—but John raised a hand to halt them. “Let’s hear him out,” he said coolly. “Little brother’s got somethin’ to say.”

Clay stepped into the middle of the clearing, locking eyes with John—eyes that used to feel familiar but now made his stomach twist.

“I messed up,” Clay said loudly, a tear slowly streaming down his cheek as his voice echoed across the clearing. “We argued. And I didn’t mean half the things I said… But I won’t lose you again, John. I’d rather go down trying than sit back and let you slip away.”

Shuma took a breath and whispered to Branch, “Now.”

Branch nodded, and in one motion, he raised the small speaker they’d brought with them and slammed his palm on the play button.

The sound of synths exploded across the clearing.

“You know this boogie is for real…”

“Canned Heat” by Jamiroquai.

The effect was instant. The moment the beat hit, the vampires twitched, staggered. They reeled as if the music was a foreign invader invading their bloodstreams.

“NOW!” Shuma shouted.

He, Floyd, Bruce, and Branch charged into the circle. The battle wasn’t physical—but spiritual. Emotional. Musical. They danced, they shouted, they moved to the rhythm, trying to break through the trance one troll at a time.

Branch locked eyes with Poppy and stepped toward her, reaching out a hand. “You’re more than this. Remember our rhythm!”

Poppy’s eyes flickered.

He pulled her into a dance, and with each movement—each spin and lift—her red eyes slowly faded. The vampire trance cracked like glass under pressure… and then shattered, reverting Poppy back to her normal self.

She gasped, blinking wildly. “Branch?”

He smiled. “Welcome back.”

Poppy wasted no time enveloping him into a hug as if they would be separated again, silently letting tears flow down her cheeks. Branch immediately returned the hug, a stray tear streaming down his cheek before giving her a heartfelt kiss.

Floyd was next. He pushed through to Boom, who looked like he was struggling against something deep inside.

“You said I was your melody,” Floyd said, eyes watering. “Then come back to me.”

Boom clutched his head—but when Floyd grabbed his hands and moved with him, Boom’s eyes lost their red glow, later followed by him returning to his normal self. He clung to Floyd as if he’d just awoken from a nightmare. Floyd looked at his rainbow colored hair and noticed that was a bit dulled, something that he silently prays fixes itself.

Clay danced through the crowd until he found Viva.

“It was me,” he said through gritted teeth. “I let you go too long ago. But I’m here now.”

She stood frozen, eyes wide, breath shaking. He reached for her—and as their hands touched and the beat dropped again as they broke into a dance. The curse shattered, with Viva returning back to her normal self. She collapsed into Clay’s arms, weeping, free. “We’ll be okay.” Clay said, his voice breaking as he held Viva.

Troll after troll was freed—Biggie, Satin and Chenille, Cooper, even Smidge. The vampire circle had turned into a dancefloor of healing.

But John… John remained.

He was the only one left, now kneeling, gripping his head, growling in pain as Canned Heat pounded around him. His eyes still glowed white, fangs still bared.

“John!” Shuma shouted.

He stepped into the middle of the chaos, locking eyes with the one person who still hadn’t come home.

“It’s me,” Shuma said. “Look at me.”

John hissed in resistance, clutching his head, struggling with every fiber of his being.

Shuma stepped closer.

“You once told me music was our anchor. That when the world twisted, the only thing that kept you grounded was the beat in your heart.”

He began to dance—not the polished performance of a battle, but something raw. Honest. A groove that came from his soul.

“You’re not gone. You’re still in there.”

John growled again, his muscles twitching, his hands trembling.

“I love you, John,” Shuma whispered. “And I refuse to let you become a monster.”

And then, just as the final stretch of Canned Heat hit full blast—

“You know that this boogie is for real
Got so much canned heat in my heels
Gon’ dance, gon’ dance my blues away tonight”

—John screamed.

His eyes flashed once more—then dimmed.

His fangs receded. His breathing slowed.

And in a sudden silence, John collapsed forward into Shuma’s arms.

Shuma caught him, trembling. “You’re okay… you’re okay…”

John’s voice was weak. “You came for me…”

“I always will.”

The other trolls gathered around, silent, in awe.

“John Dory?” Clay said sincerely.

JD turned his head to see Clay, a soft smile on his face.

“Yep, it’s me little brother.” John said lovingly.

Clay couldn’t believe his eyes, he jumped up and pulled John Dory into a tight hug, crying into his shoulder as he apologized over and over again.

“Shh, shh, it’s ok. I forgive you. You’re ok, I got you.” John replied as he hugged Clay back and rubbed his back.

“I’m so sorry John. I didn’t mean it. I wish I never said that and I’m sorry I’ve been being a jerk. I just been mad at myself for not reaching out, for not doing better. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” Clay cried, tightly gripping JD’s shirt.

“I know you didn’t mean it. It’s ok, we’ll get through this. You’re ok, I got you.” John Dory said, gently running his fingers through Clay’s hair.

After several minutes of Clay apologizing and crying, he finally started to calm down.

John slowly stood, peeled off his now-tattered vampire vest crop top, and tossed it to the ground. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.

Floyd smirked. “Nice to have the gentle giant back.”

Boom nudged him. “You sure like to make an entrance.”

Branch chuckled and hugged Poppy. “You saved them, Shuma.”

Shuma turned to John, brushing his hair back. “You saved yourself. I just reminded you who you are.”

And then, there in the clearing where vampires had danced under blood moons and curses—John and Shuma kissed, surrounded by music, friends, and light.