An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It's here! The first fic from the Weasel Den Emergency Fundraiser!
I know my trolls aren't exactly super popular, but I hope that the few people who do enjoy them appreciate the little extra content
This time we're back on Vrede's story, catching her as she tries to find shelter in the last safe haven she might find in the Troll Lands
(also the Mountain King is a lady in this, because women who use the title of king are absolutely fucking amazing)
The mountain range stretched as far as the eye could see, like a grand wall built by the gods themselves. It curled around the southern borders of the Giant Lands, though some groups of frost and storm giants still lived even further south, in the frozen lands beyond.
Built into this natural wonder were many gates, each leading into the many cities of the mountain and fire giants. Though the grandest of all gates - built to fit even the divine father of giantkind - was made by a troll.
Lyral, the Mountain King. The leader who brought all giants, trolls, and ogres together under the same banner. The architect who built their people a grand fortress to keep them safe from the small folk invaders, and inside it a capital worthy of only the greatest of kings.
The woman who would bring them a brighter future.
That was centuries ago.
Now the Halls of the Mountain King - as the city had become known - was a home to giants and small folk alike, a celebrated beacon of their peace and unity.
Some saw this as simply letting the small folk steal their lands after all this time, but for others - others like Vrede - it was a safe haven for those who could not find their home among either people.
Perhaps among fire giants, tieflings, and other horned trolls like her, perhaps there Vrede would find acceptance, maybe even a home.
So she now walked those halls, climbing the grand staircase that led into the capital, in the blind hope that maybe here she won’t have to run, or hide.
Even still she dared not show her face, her features hidden under a hood that only allowed her horns to show, and her body covered in a ragged cloak.
Her left arm - the arm that had destroyed her master - was left bandaged. A dozen blistering burns had emerged in the weeks she had spent traversing the lands. Even as she refused to let her fire free again, it just continued to spread, starting at the palm until her entire arm was nothing but seared skin.
And no one needed to see that.
So she pulled her cloak a little closer as she continued to march towards the halls. The sounds of the crowd above echoing through the long entrance tunnel as she went.
Above her a massive mural decorated the walls and ceiling. Retelling tales of the grand ancestors. The thunder slayer, the fae friend, the undying, the bridge builder, and of course, Vaprak and their seven daughters.
Vrede’s eyes singled out the middle daughter, the girl who dove into hell itself to find her father a cure, and returned changed.
She was the reason she had the horns, the red skin, the fire. All thanks to this one girl who traveled to hell and back. Though she wondered if maybe it would be best if her ancestor had stayed behind with her little sister all those millenia ago.
The murals ceased as she reached the main gate, two massive stone doors spread open before her, and beyond them a market square that could easily fit her entire village twice over.
Around her hill giants and frost giants set up their food stalls, trolls and mountain giants peddled their goods, and ogres and elves played their instruments for the crowd. People of all kinds gathered in one place, no one batting an eye at the other’s strangeness, even her own large horns and red skin barely standing out in the crowd.
As she walked further into the great hall that contained this entire section her eyes were drawn to the great statue at its center.
It stood taller than any troll or giant, a great stone pillar seeming to hold the ceiling aloft. Sculpted from the mountain itself with incredible precision and care, there stood Lyral, greater than all, still watching over her people.
Soon Vrede found herself walking towards the statue.
It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Sure, the stone workers of her old village were skilled, but none of them could have built something this massive, this detailed. Whoever was responsible for this deserved to be celebrated just as much as Lyral herself.
She reached the base of the statue, the richness of detail now perfectly clear to her. From the waviness of cloth, to the expression on her face, to the detailing of her crown and horns.
Horns.
The great Mountain King was a horned troll. A bearer of the flames of hell. A descendant of the middle daughter.
She was just like Vrede.
Then why did she get to become a king? Why did she get to be accepted and loved?
Why did Lyral get to be a hero?
Vrede was never given the chance.
She was always the villain, always the monster. She spent her whole life being told time and again that she was a danger to everyone. But this entire time their King, their greatest hero, had been just like her!
The sting returned to her arm, worse than before, so much worse. She could feel her skin boiling from the inside out.
She fell to her knees, the pain growing stronger and stronger by the second. She tried to cling to her burning arm, just to feel her bandages burn to ashes around it.
“Hey, are you okay?” Someone called, but she couldn’t see who it was.
Oh no.
No, no, no. Ancestors, please spare her.
She didn’t want this. She didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.
Suppress it. Keep it under control. Pull the flame into yourself and don’t let go.
The burning had reached her chest now. Her lungs full of smoke and her blood boiling in her heart.
But it wasn’t hurting anyone else. She wasn’t killing anyone else.
“She needs help!” That voice called again, more loudly this time.
Vrede hadn’t even noticed when she had collapsed to the floor, the stone under her threatening to melt.
“Somebody help!”
She couldn’t see anymore.
Vrede closed her eyes, and prayed silently to every god to please let this be over soon.
Hergé (Georges Remi) - A New Year’s wish for 1940. Probably one of the last Quick et Flupke cover illustrations for Le petit vingtième; In May that year, when the Germans invaded Belgium, the magazine ceased to exist.
