The true wielder of the strings

Chapter One: The truth

He was different.

No one had to tell Branch this. He knew it now, and had known his entire life.

Branch walked through the forest, carrying more supplies for his bunker. twigs to be sharpened into spears, and another jug of water. You could never have too many supplies after all.

Branch remembered a time when he wasn't like this. When he wasn't the "mood killer", the "party pooper", the "wave of negative energy". Just a few of the things the other trolls had called him over the years. But did it ever occur to them that he had reason to be the way he was? Did they even care to ask? No.

Like a few of the other trolls in his village, Branch had lost both of his parents to the Bergens. Creatures that were so evil, and so miserable, that they had to eat trolls once a year, just to feel any type of happiness.

But unlike most of them, Branch still had a living elder to tell him about the parents he never really knew. His grandmother Rosiepuff.

Branch was five years old when he asked about his parents. Rosiepuff smiled and said that his father Timber was a kind and supportive troll, and someone that many in the village looked up to.

She'd also talk about how his mother, Artina, was one of the strongest and resilient trolls she had ever met. Just like him. About how even when Branch was an egg, his mother was so hesitant to leave his side, even to eat.

Understandably, it wasn't their deaths that had caused Branch to lose his color and happiness. It was hard to feel attachments to people you don't know, even if they had your blood. No, it was when the Bergens took his grandmother as well. Because when that happened, it was because of him.

It was a warm summer morning in the troll tree. Branch had been standing at the edge of one of the tree branches, doing what trolls did best: Sing. Singing his grandmother's favorite song "I need you more than ever".

He had been so lost in song, that he hadn't noticed the Bergen he'd drawn the attention of. But Rosiepuff did.

The next thing Branch knew, he was falling from the tree, and onto the soft flora below it. He watched as his grandmother, the one who'd took care of him, the only family he had left, was taken away. Taken away when it should've been him.

Branch hugged the twigs he had closer to him and gritted his teeth. He hadn't sang a single note since that day all those years ago. Instead, he focused on his bunker. On survival. It had started as just a whole in the dirt, sitting on the outskirts of the village. But after 20 years, he had improved on it. Making it larger, more comfortable, and most importantly, hidden. Away from the Bergens when they eventually found them again.

The other trolls in the village seemed to be convinced that the Bergens would never find their new home, but Branch knew better. Without them, the only things the Bergens knew were misery and anger. They'd never stop hunting the trolls. Branch knew it wasn't a matter of "if". It was only a matter of "when".

And it was only a matter of "when" because of how the other trolls behaved. You'd think that after centuries of being eaten by the Bergens, they'd all learn that the world wasn't the sugar-coated dream that they all believed it was. But you'd be wrong. The only person who was taking any sort of precautions was Branch.

He looked out at the village. Today was the 20th anniversary of the day they escaped, and established their new home. A big party was being put together tonight for it. Because what better way to celebrate escaping the Bergens than by leading them straight to the village with loud noises and flashing lights?

Earlier today, Poppy, the village's princess, daughter of King Peppy, invited Branch to the party. Just like she'd invited him to every other party she'd ever thrown.