Chapter Text
1.
Strickler surveyed the new class of freshmen thoughtfully. As always, most would just be average, leaving neither an overly positive or negative impression. Some would be terrible, a few would be brilliant, and just a couple…
His ‘little cousins’ he called them, in the privacy of his own head.
It wasn’t something he’d ever say aloud, definitely not to any Gumm-Gumm, nor even to any other Changeling. If it got out he had a soft spot for any human whelps, the consequences could quite literally be deadly. And yet, he was afraid it was obvious. Why else would he take the position of lowly, underpaid school teacher? He was one of the leaders of the Janus Order; while it was certainly useful to have an “in” with so many families, Stricklander could have always delegated the job to a minion.
But here he was, grading papers and planning lessons. All because of his… hobby. An unlikely, shameful, but ultimately harmless hobby, he reasoned. To be fair, it was probably because it was this exact combination of unlikely, shameful, and harmless that the other trolls had never considered it his motivation for staying in the school.
See, sometimes, a child would flinch just the slightest bit when he handed them a new assignment. Sometimes, a child would be just the slightest bit over-eager to please. Sometimes, a child would jerk their chin up and square their shoulders in a way that spoke just the slightest bit more more to wariness than teenage posturing.
And Strickler would think about how his brothers and sisters cowered just the slightest bit before any 'pure' troll and suppress the urge to growl. He'd keep an eye on these little cousins. He’d offer a friendly hand or ear whenever they needed one. Once or twice, he’d even given a little… extra help, in dark alleyways, when he felt it was truly necessary.
They didn't always need it. Take Steve Palchuk for example. It had been a month since term started and Strickler had already heard multiple complaints about him in the teacher’s lounge. He was aggressive towards the other children, he was just skirting utter disrespect towards the teachers. Mrs Palchuk was a friend of Lawrence’s sister, and the coach was worried that Steve’s behaviour had something to do with his father’s.
Strickler wasn’t worried. Steve’s reactions were exactly the sort that would have gotten him to the top of the food chain if he were a Changeling. And Strickler had been around humans long enough to know that, despite all those pamphlets he now got about How To Notice Anti-Social Behaviour! and declarations that It Won’t Happen Here!, Steve would rise just as quickly in a human high school. At least “food chain” wasn’t quite as literal here. No, Steve would do just fine.
James “Just Jim!” Lake Jr, on the other hand, was a pleaser. Not the smartest, not the most hard-working. But the one that the teachers knew anyway: the one who'd clean the whiteboard without being asked, the one who'd bring the extra cupcakes to the school bakesale, the one who'd try to fix a random kid's bike, because it would never occur to him not to. In short, the one who was nice.
It set Strickler's fangs on edge.
Naturally, the other teachers saw it the other way around: they'd rather curb Steve aggression and encourage Jim’s kindness. His colleagues were fools. A bit of pleasing wasn't bad — Strickler wouldn't have gotten where he was without being able to crawl for his “betters” when necessary. But you weren't supposed to mean it! Just one look into Jim's honest, tentatively smiling face and he knew Jim meant it.
By now, he’d scoped out the boy’s home situation. It wasn’t pressing enough to get involved directly. A father who’d walked out on them, an extremely overworked but seemingly caring mother. Jim was a kind boy who’d been forced by circumstances to grow up far faster than this gentler time and place usually demanded. But he wasn’t being abused or mistreated at home.
So Strickler had time. Four years to harden Jim’s heart through useful advice before the world hardened it through pain. Four years to teach him to be more selfish. Four years to get him to stop looking at Strickler with those blue eyes that made him so uneasy. He had time enough not to force the issue, to frame his harsh lessons to fit in with the morals of this kinder, gentler age.
It was just a hobby, really. A harmless hobby.
2.
Strickler was pacing back and forth in his office. He couldn’t seem to stop.
Jim Lake, their very own Young Atlas, was the new Trollhunter. A human Trollhunter. A Trollhunter whom he knew. A Trollhunter whose weaknesses he knew… and whose strengths.
For a second, Strickler genuinely considered it.
Contrary to popular opinion, history was not just memorising dates and kings and who won which battle. All of that was important, of course. But there was a reason why, when Jim applied himself, he could get the A+ that the indomitable Claire Nuñez could not.
History was figuring out why. It was about rejecting the idea that history books can be written only by the victor. It was about asking what motivated Caesar to cross the Rubicon and what motivated Brutus to betray him, what inspired the French people to execute their monarchs and what made them continue the bloodshed, and what actually caused the First World War — because it couldn’t just be one Archduke’s death, right? Jim excelled at such questions; for all that Strickler still wanted to shake the kindness out of him, it was that interest in understanding all sides of the conflict that made the boy his star student. Strickler had been looking forward to starting the Cold War with his class next year.
And so, for one second, Strickler considered it.
He could call Jim to his office tomorrow after school.
Ah, Young Atlas, he’d start. A historical thought experiment for you. Say there are two sides who have been at war with each other for a long, long time. Oh, Sparta and Athens for example. But there is also a third faction in this fight — Corinth. They’ve allied with Sparta because of… religious ties, but in fact they are held in contempt by it. Yet they cannot switch sides, because Athens despises and looks down on them just as much.
But recently, the situation has changed. A new hero has emerged on the side of Athens, its very own Theseus if you will. Not having had the chance to learn the prejudices of either side yet, he might be able to help Corinth. Or he might reject their offer, rat them out to both Sparta and Athens as traitors, and destroy them. What would you suggest Corinth do? Is there any hope for them, Young… Theseus?
Was that clear enough? Who was training the newest Trollhunter — Blinkous Galadrigal again? How much would Galadrigal have told him by now? Had impure become part of Jim’s vocabulary already?
Perhaps he should do away with the tricks instead. Transform, and throw himself and any willing siblings on the Trollhunter’s mercy.
On his student’s mercy. Strickler’s stomach rebelled at the thought.
And Jim was 15. A child, in way over his head. Even if he didn’t spit Impure! and summon Daylight immediately, what exactly could he do? The trolls would have difficulty accepting a human Trollhunter, Strickler had no doubt about that. Jim had zero political clout with Vendel and the rest; even if he wanted to help, he likely wouldn’t be able to.
The chance was small, too small to risk it. There were too many unpredictable variables here.
Strickler basically liked the Earth as it was. He liked warm showers, and audiobooks, and basking in the sunlight on his skin while drinking a coffee. He even liked grading term papers, occasionally. But he didn’t like it enough to risk all his other carefully planned opportunities on a million-to-one chance with a child.
No, he’d wait, like always. He’d continue helping Skullcrusher’s heir rebuild the Bridge. He’d see which way Young Atlas looked likely to jump. There was still enough time; Jim had no idea what his teacher was.
And he most certainly wouldn’t beg.
3.
“Somebody else’s star student now, is he?” said Nomura with a nasty chuckle.
Strickler shot her a withering stare as he strolled past her. His arm was still in a sling from his last encounter with Daylight. He’d gotten the amulet, but he’d lost a bit more pride than he’d have really liked. And the upcoming meeting with Bular was giving him a headache preemptively.
She fell into step with him.
“Aww, Stricklander, are you upset he learned arm locks a lot faster than he ever learned all of Henry the VIII’s wives?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Strickler.
That was how it always was with his Changeling siblings: forever trying to get under each other’s skin. But memorisation skills had never been Jim Lake Jr’s strong suit anyway. Nomura was losing her touch.
“Ah, then you’re upset you weren’t the one to teach him the arm locks.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question.
Strickler stopped short. He glared into her unrepentant face.
“That is both ridiculous and treason,” he said flatly. “And if I find such lies on your tongue again, I will be forced to rip it out.”
Her smirk didn’t fade, but she stayed silent the rest of their walk through the museum.
Damn Nomura anyway.
4.
The groan Jim let out was pure teenage boy.
“Oh god, Mom, not charades!”
“Well what do you have in mind then, young man?”
Barbara crossed her arms and Strickler smirked as the look on Jim’s face. He was clearly struggling not to shout, Dinner’s over, he should just leave!! Yes, these occasional dinners were a lovely idea. Jim could never concentrate properly the next day; his impotence must be galling. And as the sweet cherry on top, Barbara was, as always, a delight.
“What about Who am I? ” said Jim after a moment. To his credit, his teeth were only slightly gritted.
Strickler’s smirk widened.
“Which one’s that again?” asked Barbara.
“Like in that Tarantino movie about Nazis, Mom. You write down a character on a post-it, pass it to the person to the left, and they stick it to their forehead. Then they have to guess who they are by asking yes-or-no questions, like, ‘Am I a total piece of shit? ’”
The last was with a growl at Strickler.
“Jim!” Barbara snapped. “That’s — ”
“It’s quite alright, Barbara,” said Strickler. “I let the students play it in history class as a revision tool every once in a while. I pick the names and then they play in small groups. It’s generally about as much work as they’re up to right before the winter holidays, I’m afraid.” He should not be feeling that warm at Barbara’s quick, conspiratorial grin. “It’s astounding how often ‘Am I a total piece of shit?’ helps you narrow your choices down.”
“Alright,” Barbara decided. “Let’s try it. Just don’t go too history nerd on me, you two, okay?”
Strickler reassured her that the characters didn’t have to be historical, and she excused herself to find some sticky notes and pens. That left him and Jim alone. Predictably, the boy leaned forward to glare harder.
“What are you even doing here, Strickler?”
It was really too easy.
“Perhaps I’m distracting you while Angor Rot deals with one of your friends,” he drawled and took another sip of tea. Jim's cheek twitched in response. “Or perhaps I just enjoy spending time with your mother.”
“That’s even worse,” Jim muttered.
“Your priorities are fascinating, Young Atlas.”
Jim looked away sharply. What was… Oh yes. The first time he’d dubbed Jim ‘Atlas’ was during such a game. He did that sometimes, making the characters he gave his students fit them in some way. A warning, an encouragement, or just a hidden joke. They’d just been finishing their unit on Ancient Greece. He’d given Toby Domzalski ‘Patroclus’ because the boy had seemed down that week (and because he’d texted all through the lesson on Troy and needed the revision) and then decided on ‘Atlas’ for Jim. It had stuck. Now Strickler looked away too. He didn’t want to examine why the tea in his mouth suddenly tasted bitter.
It was a relief when Barbara came back.
“I’ve got one for Walter,” said Jim immediately.
Oh? Well alright then.
“Then Walter can make one for me and I’ll make one for you,” agreed Barbara cheerfully.
Strickler eyed Jim’s smug little grin. He very seriously contemplated writing down ‘Helen of Troy’. Then he decided he should wait at least till round 2 before he made Jim’s head explode. ‘Marie Curie’ it was.
“Why don’t you start?” suggested Jim. “To show Mom how it works.”
Triumph in the Trollhunter’s eyes looked a lot less threatening when a messily scrawled 'Harry Potter’ hung right over them. He was still such a child. A monstrously powerful child who had taken out Bular, yes, but ultimately a child. How could he have contemplated putting his siblings’ lives — his own life — in those small hands for even a moment?
“Well, let’s see then,” Strickler began. “Am I, as Jim so eloquently put it, a piece of shit?”
Barbara chuckled and nodded.
Jim smirked, but then hesitated. Grudgingly, as though he’d forgotten about this part, he said, “It depends on who you ask.”
And there it was, ladies and gentlemen, the reason Jim was his favourite student. IRL, as the kids put it. Strickler had to tamp down on the unexpected, familiar surge of fondness.
“A complicated character,” he mused.
“Hey, you two are the history buffs,” said Barbara with a shrug. “If Jim says — whoops!”
Adorably, she actually clapped her hands over her mouth. Strickler very much wanted to take one of them and kiss its knuckles. But he wasn’t sure whether the impulse came from the desire to annoy the Trollhunter or… something else. No, that way led a dangerous path.
“A complicated historical personnage then.”
Both mother and son nodded, Barbara looking chagrined.
A character from history, one history viewed with some complexity. At the same time, one that Jim clearly wanted to use as a dig against him. One that was likely inspired by the memory of the first time they’d played this game. A cruel teacher, perhaps? No, wait…
“Am I a traitor?” Strickler asked, highly amused.
“You are,” confirmed Jim, lifting his chin. Not so eager to please anymore.
“Hm, a historical traitor… Well, Judas Iscariot is a classic, but I think you’d have hesitated more over confirming him as a historical character. Vidkun Quisling is another possibility, but you haven’t gone over World War II yet and I know you’ve been unfortunately too… busy for extra-curricular reading this year.” Jim flushed, but not with anger. As though Strickler was still a beloved teacher he was ashamed to disappoint. “You’re doing the American Revolution right now, so Benedict Arnold should be the obvious conclusion. But I’m afraid Coach Lawrence has been filling in since my promotion and he, ah, prefers the basics. No, it’ll have to be another classic. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ ”
He swept the little paper off his forehead with a flourish. It did, indeed, read ‘BRUTUS’ in dark, angry letters. Strickler stared at it. So. How much affection did ‘Caesar’ still have for the dear friend who stabbed him through the heart? If Caesar had been able to grab a sword and defend himself, would he have hesitated at all? If Brutus had been able to explain just how threatening Caesar’s ambitions were to those around him, would the Ides of March have — no.
More importantly, Caesar had supposedly covered his face when seeing Brutus among his murderers; could Brutus use that flinch if necessary? Not that it should be necessary, but being a Changeling caused one to plan for all eventualities.
“Well done, Walter!” Barbara cheered, interrupting his thoughts. “You too, Jim. See, you two do work well together when you try!”
“Ah, yes,” said Strickler, finally breaking out of his daze.
He found Jim peering at him intently. The boy looked away quickly. No, he was over-analysing this. Jim just wanted to annoy him, that was all. He was letting his own lingering affection cloud his thoughts. (In his darkest moments, he admitted to himself the other reason he’d delegated the dirty work to Angor Rot. He really was disgustingly weak.)
And he was just here to taunt the Trollhunter as well.
For the next round, Barbara suggested they switch who they write the cards for. This time, Strickler didn’t resist his immediate, petty impulse. ‘OEDIPUS’ read the neat sticky note.
The Trollhunter’s outraged squawk was immensely satisfying.
5.
“Impure,” growled the son of Kanjigar and spat on the floor.
Strickler lifted one eyebrow. His hands were full with several coils of rope. His hands were also full with treading a fine line between confident enough to appear useful and pugnacious enough to be tied up again. Both meant he probably shouldn't attack.
Although, standing as they were in the Lakes’ living room, he undoubtedly had the advantage of maneuverability.
No, he really shouldn't. His time has finally run out. He'd thrown himself on the mercy of the Trollhunter. That binding spell was the one of the most brilliant ideas he'd ever had — Jim had been forced to listen to him. He was in over his head, maybe, but he wasn't out for the count either. Strickler was going to be useful, competent, and clever, and figure out how to strike a deal with the boy. He still has his ace after all.
That meant he was not going to beg (more than he already had).
That also meant no attacking the Trollhunter's companions.
“Troll,” Strickler replied evenly.
On the other hand, he wasn't going to beg.
He spat on the floor as well.
Draal growled, a rumble deep in his throat. The sound reminded Strickler of Bular; he straightened his already straight spine.
“You don't fool me, Changeling,” he began, advancing over the carpeted floor. He loomed over Strickler in his human form and bent down to bring their faces close together. Stricklander’s eyes began to glow; he braced himself. “If you even breathe suspiciously, I'm gonna — ”
His threat was interrupted by the sound of running feet.
Jim skidded into the doorway, a pile of crystals still in his arms.
“What in the world…”
His sharp blue eyes took in the scene quickly. He looked frazzled and exasperated. Not an uncommon look for Young Atlas. The two trolls sprang apart and Strickler wiped the guilty look off his face. He had not done anything wrong.
“What were you two doing?!” snapped Jim. “I heard spitting. Did you spit on the carpet?”
Alright, maybe he’d done something wrong.
“Yuck, not cool, guys! Especially you, Mr. I-Don’t-Eat-Socks.” Draal sniggered and Jim whirled on him. “Or you! You actually live in this house, Draal. Come on man, not cool.”
The troll stopped sniggering and said, “The Impure was giving me lip.”
Excuse me?! If you squinted and looked sideways, you could maybe argue that Strickler was now under the Trollhunter’s command — though he was planning to even out their situation as soon as possible. He absolutely wasn’t under the command of Kanjigar’s whelp. Strickler’s lips curled into a sneer. Too bad this form’s canines weren’t as impressive as his other’s.
“And stop that too,” added Jim firmly.
“Stop… what?” asked Draal and Strickler together.
Was he about to get reprimanded for scowling? That was going a tad too far, Trollhunter or not.
“Calling him Impure! It’s a racist slur, right?”
Oh.
What the…
Abruptly, there wasn’t enough air to breathe. Strickler shot a fleeting glance up at Draal. He wondered how closely his expression mirrored the troll’s totally dumbfounded one.
To be completely honest, no one but other Changelings had ever cared before.
He'd never expected them to.
Except of course, if there was one person who would care, even after months of Galadrigal’s bluster filling his ears, it would be the boy who’d been star student. And Strickler suddenly realised two things.
One, he was a horrible teacher. All those attempts to teach Jim to care a little less had fallen on deaf ears. The proof was right before his eyes, glaring stubbornly at a troll twice his size, whose moniker was ‘the Deadly’.
Two, he should have followed his first impulses. After all he had done, Jim was still willing to stick up for him. If he had gone to the boy immediately…
Is there any hope left for us, young Theseus, slayer of half-breed monsters?
Oh Pale Lady, he really was a fool.
Meanwhile, Draal gave an awkward chuckle.
“What does it matter? I’m sure he’s been called worse.”
He had, indeed, technically been called far worse. But the sheer ubiquity of the term, the only thing that seemed to unite both Trollmarket and Gumm-Gumms, had always made it sting worse than ‘dog’.
“I don’t care,” said Jim. “It’s like something a Death Eater would say.”
“An… eater of… death?”
Strickler, who had spent a lot more time around teenagers than Draal, blinked at Jim. But no, there was not a hint of mockery on the boy. He crossed his arms and held his ground. When he stood like that, there was so much Barbara in him. Perhaps there was something of his father as well, but Strickler couldn't see it. Just her. Draal looked away first.
“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “We don’t have time for this anyway.”
“Good!” said the boy. “And no spitting! ”
He hurried back out of the living room without another glance at his erstwhile teacher. He wasn't doing it for Strickler. He was doing it because it was the right thing to do. His ears burned just the slightest bit red.
Strickler watched him go and cursed himself once again.