𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓐𝓻𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼 | 𝓣𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓼 | 𝓑𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓱 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶 𝓣𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 {𝓢𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓑𝓸𝓸𝓴}

❄️𝓟𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓣𝔀𝓸. 𝓐 𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻❄️

𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓹𝓮𝓻'𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥:
The Bergens remain a holiday short, and it was Poppy who had departed in haste, heartbroken and silent. After Bridget's sudden collapse and Poppy's unexpected exit, the rest of our group didn't linger long in the Castle. We slipped away soon after, too disoriented and concerned to stay in a place that no longer felt welcoming. Now, we wander through the forest, its once-familiar paths cloaked in a dense darkness, the kind that settles heavy after the sun has slipped beneath the horizon. The air is cool and still, the shadows stretching longer with every step we take. There's been no sign of Poppy yet. No glimpse of pink hair darting between trees, no echo of her voice calling out. She has vanished into the night, which causes my worry to gnaw at me, not just by the thought but deep into my empathy, urging me to act before the fear becomes too loud to ignore.
Beside me, Biggie gently places his large palm over Dinkles' soft head, nudging the little worm down with careful pressure. A moment later, he lifts his hand, and Dinkles fur is glowing, his entire body casting a soft, dim light. Biggie cradling him like a living lantern, and thanks to their bond, we can now see a bit farther through the thickened gloom.
"Poppy? Poppy!" Her name echoes through the forest, over and over again, as everyone keeps calling it. "Poppy, where are you?" Our voices rise with urgency, overlapping each other. The sounds bounce off the trees and disappears into the shadows, unanswered. "Can you see her, Mr. Dinkles?" Biggie calls out too, his voice gentle, hopeful. But as always, the only reply he receives is a quiet, muffled "Mew" from Dinkles, who clings to his chest, glowing softly. We press forward, moving in a straight line, though it's hard to be sure. The forest feels endless now. The deeper we go, the more disoriented we become. Every tree looks the same - tall, thick, and looming - like we've passed the same one a dozen times. Maybe we have. Or maybe it's just the night playing tricks on our eyes.
Somewhere behind me, the sound of footsteps begins to fade. I glance back and see Branch slowing down, his pace gradually coming to a stop. He lingers behind, his figure shrinking into the dimness. My own feet come to a halt as I turn to fully face him. He's standing still, eyes fixed on something in the distance - quiet, unmoving - as though the forest has whispered something only he could hear.
"Hey guys? Give us a minute." Branch's words is directed to the group as their upper bodies mirrors my action, looking back at Branch and I standing behind. Shifting his direction to the one his gaze has moved upon, he passes me, grasping my hand as he does so, then leads me towards a hairy figure, pink hair to be precise. Branch claims the figure to be Poppy, who has chosen a poor hiding spot. Our steps get closer, our hands interlinked in between us. "Poppy. We know you're hiding in your hair." The flash of pink hair catches my eye, it looks unmistakably like Poppy's. Hope surges in my chest as we get closer, heart pounding. But then, the hair shifts, pulling back like a curtain... and my breath catches. It's not Poppy.
The figure crouched beneath the pink hair is something else entirely. At first glance, its colouring mimics hers, same rosy hue to the skin, same bright cotton-candy hair. But as it lifts its head, I freeze. Four eyes blink back at us. They're wide, alert, and filled with confusion - maybe fear. The creature must sense our hesitation, because it suddenly lets out a high-pitched ululation, a haunting cry that cuts through the still air like a blade. It echoes off the trees, trembling with defence.
"Ah! What the what?!" Branch's reflexes kicks in - sharp and instinctive. Without a word, he throws an arm out in front of me and shoves me back, his body shifting into a protective stance. I stumble slightly, caught off guard, as he steps between me and the creature.
His eyes lock on the figure, never blinking, every muscle in his body taut and ready. He's not taking any chances, not with me, not with anyone he cares about.
"Not Poppy!" Cooper is the first to break the silence. He raises a cautious, slightly judgmental finger and points it directly at the creature, his expression twisted in confusion. Branch doesn't wait. His clenched fists shoot up in front of him, ready for a fight if it comes to that. His stance is firm, slightly leaned back.
Then, without looking, he reaches down and finds my hand. His grip is tight as he pulls me to the side, putting more space between us and the creature.  "Sorry! Wrong hair..." His body stays angled in front of mine like a living shield, eyes never leaving the being in front of us. The creature hisses, then, it slowly pulls its pink mane back over its face, retreating into itself. Its form becomes almost invisible again, as if hiding could undo what just happened.
Our heads remain tilted, eyes fixed on the now still creature. Eventually, our necks shift back to center. But just as our eyes begin to settle - there's another figure. Off to the side, just barely visible in the dim glow from Dinkles, stands a second creature. Completely hidden beneath a thick veil of pink hair that looks painfully familiar. Branch and I share a glance, there's no need for words. We step forward together, slowly, cautiously, hearts held in our throats. "Uh, Poppy. Is that you?..." There's uncertainty in my voice, I can hear it, shaky and unsure. But we keep moving forward. And to our relief, as the pink hair of this second figure begins to pull back, it reveals what we've been hoping for. Poppy.
Her hair falls into its usual shape and length, no longer wild or hiding her face. I immediately notice the way she's sitting, curled tightly into herself, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a barrier. She doesn't look up right away. Her eyes are swollen, red-rimmed and puffy, the unmistakable evidence of tears that must've fallen for a long time. The bright spark she usually carries is nowhere to be found. Instead, she looks... small. Fragile. Like the weight of everything has finally crashed down on her. My heart aches just seeing her like this.
"I totally blew it with Bridget. I..." She lets out a shaky sigh, her gaze fixed on the ground, as if the dirt might somehow offer comfort. The breath unintentionally catches at the end, breaking into a soft stammer. "I mean. We've worked so hard!" In addition, she mentions to me with an open palm. "Bridget and I have never fought before. I'm worried that this leads to us loosing our 'best friend forever'. Forever. And it is caused by my doing."
She pulls the breath back in the moment I begin to approach, as if sealing her emotions tight before they can slip out. I lower myself beside her, sitting cross-legged. Branch crouches nearby and tries to ease the tension. "No. That's not possible." his words is not only for her comfort, but for both of our comforts. He pulls his arms around his bent knees, grounding himself close. "I don't know Branch.." Her whisper is so faint it almost gets lost to the breeze, and her chin sinks to rest on her folded arms. Still, her gaze stays locked on the ground, refusing to meet ours. "Well, I do. Because I'm your friend, and you know what?"
🎵Chicachica, Friends!🎵 Then, without warning, Branch bounces back up to his feet. Our heads lift in unison, eyes following him as he stands tall. Something shifts, his whole mood flips like a switch. With exaggerated flair, he drags his hands across the air, mimicking the sound of a record scratch. Then he beatboxes.
Loud, silly, completely out of place - and yet... it works. For just a moment, Poppy's heavy worry thins out in the air around us, forgotten in the wake of Branch's ridiculous rhythm. 🎵How many of us have them? Do, do, do, do, do. Friends!🎵 He stomps in place, throwing in awkward dance moves that defy coordination. Poppy frowns. Clearly unimpressed, she abruptly pushes herself to her feet. "Branch. Branch! Please stop. Thank you." she demands, her voice sharp, but not cruel. Then she turns and walks away, back turned to us once again.
I'm the last to stand, brushing the dirt from my legs as I rise. My eyes follow her retreating figure, but they're drawn back when Branch nudges his elbow playfully against mine. He flashes me a wink. And now it all makes sense. A smile tugs at my lips, my cheeks lifting along with the warmth building in my chest.
🎵Thank you for being a friend. You know this one!🎵 This time, I'm the one who starts singing. Poppy pauses. She turns just enough to glance over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. 🎵Travel down the road and back again-🎵
"Juniper, what's your problem!" She spins around again and walks away a second time, trying to escape us both. Branch doesn't stop. In fact, he takes it a step further, literally climbing up onto a nearby mushroom, using its broad cap like a stage. 🎵You just might have a problem, that I'll understand! Ignoring Poppy's protests completely, he belts out another song, his voice echoing playfully through the trees. Poppy startles, stumbling a bit as he pops into view above her like a surprise act in a bizarre forest concert. She stares up at him, exasperation etched into every part of her expression. 🎵We all need somebody to lean on. Lean on me.🎵 Then she gives up. With a groan of surrender, she throws herself back onto the grass, landing flat against the cool earth. Her eyes drift upward to the canopy of stars scattered across the night sky. She exhales, her arms fall wide to either side of her, fingers brushing the blades of grass. 🎵When you're not strong! And I'll be your friend-🎵
———
𝓐𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓒𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓵𝓮:
Back at the castle, Bridget isn't feeling her best either. She moves briskly across the grand hall, leaping back and forth, occasionally bending down to gather the random objects the Trolls had tossed around in their usual whirlwind of excitement. Her arms are full, her patience thin. Behind her, their two personal guards move awkwardly with oversized hand vacuums, the nozzles pressed noisily against the marble walls and floors. They're trying, but the mess left behind is still overwhelming.
"You know what? No more Trolls in the castle areal!" Gristle, meanwhile, is on another rant. He hasn't stopped complaining since the last Troll skipped out of the castle gates. His voice bounces off the walls as he gestures wildly, one grievance tumbling into the next. "It's like the Trolls just want us to be like them. With their happy energy, and glitter, and foam, and lasers!"
Crunch.
Bridget pauses mid-step, her expression tightening. Slowly, she tilts her chin downward. Under her shoe lies a cracked holiday sign. A faint puff of leftover glitter shoots up from the crushed decoration, drifting lazily in the air. She drops into a squat, gently picking it up. Her fingers trace the shattered edges, caressing the once-bold, sparkly letters. "Holiday..." In a soft, almost wistful voice, she repeats the cheerful jingle the sign used to sing. The sound barely fills the air but carries enough weight to draw a quiet ache into the room. "Grissy. Maybe we shouldn't have been so hard on Poppy, Juniper, and the Trolls.." Gristle brushes glitter off his shoulder with a grunt. His head is wrapped in thick bandages, an ice pack balanced just inside them over one sore, swollen eye, still tender from the earlier laser incident. Pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers, he tries to brace himself for a sneeze. Glitter shoots from both ears in tiny puffs. "I mean. They were just trying to do something nice for us." Bridget doesn't even blink. She's long past reacting to glitter popping out of inappropriate places. "I guess.." Gristle glares over his shoulder as she speaks, finally noticing a small Troll-gifted tattoo carved into his tailbone. A "nice gesture", apparently.
"I just can't believe they took a bus all this way, and created an elaborate holiday-themed song and dance, just to find a holiday for us." He tries to twist around for a better look, but his rant continues, arms flailing in dramatic protest. "That is poor time management, if you ask me." Bridget however, isn't listening to most of it. Her eyes flicker, not with annoyance, but with realisation. "Yeah. They did do all that. Just to try and help, us?" Maybe the Trolls went overboard, yes. But that's what they do. Trolls don't know how to go halfway. Their kind gesture wasn't a prank. It just got a little lost in translation. "I mean, why does Poppy and Juniper even care so much about what we do?" She turns from him, approaching the large fireplace, where dozens of holiday cards from the Trolls are scattered across the mantle. The neck of the chimney is covered in colourful, glitter-streaked envelopes and little drawings. Framed photos fill the built-in shelf beneath. "You're right. They do care. A lot!" Her gaze scans the line, then stops. One frame catches her attention, a photo of her holding Poppy in one hand and Juniper in the other, each Troll pressed against a cheek, tiny arms wrapped around her face in a joyful hug. Carved into the wooden border: "The best of friends."
"Maybe we do have a reason to celebrate a holiday after all!" Bridget gasps softly, spinning around in an instant. "There's glitter on the ceiling, who's gonna get up there and clean that!" Within seconds, she's at Gristle's side, springing into his arms without warning. He snaps out of his rant as she crashes into him, her own arms wrapped tight around his torso. "Grissy! That's it!"
"Whose tear-away pants are these? What? What'd I say? Was it king-ish? Did I sound like a king?" She pulls back, eyes glowing, and pats his chest affectionately. "Yes! It was super king-ish!" she says, voice light and certain, before she's already moving - hurrying toward one of the doors that lead out of the room. "Now get your keyboard ready. We have work to do!"
Gristle leans on his elbow, watching her go. He shifts his weight against the keyboard stand beside him, attempting to strike a casual pose. "You see what I did right there, Chad? That is how a King gets things-" The stand gives way, the keyboard collapses, and Gristle falls with it, face-first into the keys. One of the guards coughs into a fist, clearly fighting back a laugh. The other isn't as polite and lets a snicker slip out. "Very impressive, sir." Gristle's face stays buried in the keyboard as his muffled voice groans in pain, from the already present injuries and the new that will follow.