I do not own League of Legends.
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There's blood everywhere.
It's a familiar scene and somehow, there's something amiss about it.
The dying screams and the blank faces is definitely a nightmare come to life.
Or maybe it's not a nightmare? What he remembers is far too vivid for a mere nightmare. And he's too old to be bothered by such childish things.
Perhaps it's a memory then?
Yes. This scene looks familiar; too familiar to belong to a dream. It's a memory then.
A memory of blood covering the ground, leaving behind a trail of red and death and sorrow and anguish in its wake, flashes in front of his opened eyes.
He sees his brethren lying dead on the ground; their weapons falling beside them like a loyal servant to his master.
He sees unstrung bows and broken arrows, with their wielders fallen to the ground.
Bows and arrows? Barbarians never use those weapons.
He looks again and before him, a flag with tattered edges is flapping in the wind. The crest sewn on the flag is something he has always seen.
It's the crest of the Avarosan tribe.
And suddenly a fire spreads to his veins. His senses ignite violently and it stirs anxiety within him.
This is not his tribe. Or rather, this is not the tribe that gave birth to him.
It's the tribe that has become his home.
Blood coats the pure white snow and life itself seems to have fled from the desolate place.
Could it be that dark figure again? Could his memories be re-enacted by the same perpetrator?
He runs; runs like he never has before. His destination is uncertain, his goal is unclear, but he will not stand by and do nothing as these people who have welcomed him wither into the void of death.
His sword forms a valley in the pile of snow. The cold winter winds bite onto the skin of his torso and his arms, but he does not care. He keeps on running instead.
A white puff of smoke announces each loud breath he exhales. His eyes scan madly around for the slightest indication of life or the need for help.
He is their King and he will not abandon his people.
Even with his loud and labored breaths, he hears the wind whistling in the command of a released arrow. It pierces through wood with a thud and ceases its journey.
Desperately, he searches for the source of the sound, praying to whatever deity that he is not too late to give his help. They said that Avarosa herself chose the Queen of this tribe, why then is it in the brink of extinction?
His heart beats madly, pumping blood faster and making the fire in his veins hotter. The winter chill seems to be a thousand leagues away. He cannot see the death present around him anymore.
He can only feel the need to make the perpetrator pay.
He can only feel the need to lift his sword and cut the assaulter in half.
He can only feel the need to kill.
He can only feel the rage that has been present since the death of his birth.
The whistling wind reaches his ears again and this time he knows where it's coming from.
It's coming from the range.
A thud follows, and another, and another, and another. A clang comes after and the sound of skin being sliced.
And a voice that fills him with dread.
Although it puzzles him as to why the trail of blood is present, he disregards it just so he won't be distracted.
The range comes in sight and he wants to feel relief.
But there is no respite today.
She stands there, her hood blown out from her head, her hands clutching her bow with a fitted arrow, ready to strike and the weariness in her eyes.
He's always admired those eyes of hers.
Those eyes always saw ahead, ahead mountains, plains, snow, sun; skies. She always saw past everything.
Her eyes always see the better things underlying the smallest of things.
She even saw what was good in a being, hollowed except for rage.
And that was when he started to fall in love with her.
That was when he started to treasure her, more than the blade that has been an heirloom.
That was when he started to see her, not as a political pawn, but as a woman.
That was when she became his wife.
Her lips are pale and chapped: a contradiction as her lips never lost their rosy color even in the harsh cold.
Her hair is in disarray, a lovely sight had they been elsewhere.
And that vile being is before her. His blade is ready to slice through her very life and drink up the blood that would have been Avarosa's.
No. He would stop that… that demon.
He would never let that vile being take his Queen.
With rage burning in his eyes, the King howls and runs towards the demon. He will not let the other lay a finger on his wife.
Her eyes fill with hope as she sees him. And he's never seen a more beautiful sight.
All the sunrises and sunsets combined together cannot compare to the light shown in her eyes and the life in her face.
But the demon smirks. A cruel and twisted form of amusement crosses his features.
And the raged King realizes, with those wings, the demon will get his Queen first.
Before his eyes, her weapons shatter, becoming shards of ice that reflect his despaired face on every facet.
On the other side of the shards, the reflection is that of his Queen being impaled by the demon's blood-drinking sword.
The sword cuts through her lithe body, and drenches her clothes with her own blood. Her hair sways in the sudden wind and her eyes shine with tears.
With shaking hands, she grabs the hand guard of her killer's sword. She can feel his sword slowly draining, drinking the life out of her.
Realization dawns on him. He was too slow. He was too slow to save the one woman he's learned to love.
He failed to save the woman who saw past his rage.
He failed to save the woman who would mother his children.
He failed to save the ice that pulsed with warmth and love.
He failed to save his wife.
With a loud shout, he runs the demon through with his sword, cutting through skin and sinew.
The demon staggers before cruelly taunting the raged King with another smirk. And then he disappears, along with the sword that's impaled the Queen.
She falls, but he catches her. And he holds her. He holds her so tightly, his bare hands molding into hers.
He opens his mouth, but not a word is formed. He wants to apologize, he wants to confess his love out loud once and for all, but none of those will reach her ears.
Her hand comes to his cheek; he doesn't notice. She is cold, like ice, but warm and homely, like fire. Contradictions, but contradictions he's come to love nonetheless.
Her lips form a joyous smile yet at this point he doesn't know what there is to be joyous about.
She's dying.
And he isn't able to do anything about it.
He calls her name, low, broken and coarse. But nothing else comes after that. A million thoughts are begging to be released from his mind, but his body allows him no release.
Can't he be given the freedom, even just this once?
He's been a slave to rage, to hatred; can't he be allowed to be human?
She squeezes his hand, and she thanks him. A tear slips past her left eye and he is quick to wipe it off.
His Queen has never been one to cry.
And he doesn't like the sight of her crying.
She gets the message and keeps the incoming torrent. She would have to keep them until her death.
A word of gratitude slips past her lips again, directed to him and more hoarse and broken than the first.
He cannot comprehend why she would thank him still.
But here she is, dying and expressing her gratitude for him over and over again.
With a shuddering breath she thanks him, once more. Another tear slips past her left eye and this time, he does not wipe it anymore.
And then she professes her love for him, out loud, in a raw and unhindered manner.
Since their supposed political marriage, none of them has ever uttered of love. This would be a beginning as both of them would like.
But it turns out, that beginning is to be an end.
His mouth is agape, air is no longer a necessity and all he wants is to reciprocate.
But he is too late.
Her hands drops lax, her eyes close, sealing those beautiful blue eyes of hers; she ceases breathing.
She dies in his arms.
And the King of rage, silently, weeps for his Queen of ice.
His cries are muffled by her shoulder, but tremors violently rack his body.
And suddenly his rage grants him freedom. Over and over he confesses his love for her.
But she can never hear his words anymore.
He can never see those eyes that see beyond everything.
He can never feel those lips grace his again.
He can never smell the fragrance that is her.
The King can never be with his Queen.
He stares at her face. Even at death her beauty remains. Even at the pale of snow, the memory of life in her remains.
He scoops her off the ground and stands up. A Queen such as her deserves a proper burial.
An altar made of wood stands in the middle of their barren kingdom. It was once a beautiful paradise. Now only death stands.
Their allies are nowhere to be found, but he will worry about that later.
He clothes her in the garments that she wore on their wedding day. It was the day when her beautiful lips first kissed him.
Now it will forever remain to be a bittersweet memory.
Her long hair, he gathers to one side and ties it with golden rings, like she used to do when she practiced with her bow and arrow.
Those weapons she loved so much are now merely shards of ice.
And they say that Avarosa herself used them.
His remorse is so far away. All he wants to do now is to pay respects to the final memories of his beloved wife.
He surrounds her with flowers. How the flowers came to be in such a harsh environment, he doesn't know.
But the color of blue, purple, turquoise, indigo, aqua and lavender suit her.
He puts her hands on her chest and kisses them, lovingly and tenderly.
Lastly, her crown adorns her head. She was born to him a Queen; she will die to him a Queen.
He kisses her cold lips and mourns at how cold she has become.
There is no blood anymore.
Red does not suit her.
Yet red will engulf her.
He grabs a torch and stares at her one last time before setting the altar aflame.
He steps back, stabs the ground with his sword and kneels on one knee beside it.
He says his final goodbyes to his Queen as the rage ebbs off to stand side by side with a sorrow that cannot be accounted for.
The pyre burns, brilliant red and the ashes float off, past the mountains, the plains, the snow, the sun and the skies, like her eyes.
The King stands, weary and sorrowful, but he marches on. The demon who slew his Queen will not be forgiven.
They've spent a lifetime apart and now they will spend an eternity without another.
Such is the King of rage and the Queen of ice.
I didn't mean for the ending to turn out that way... XD
I intended it to be a dream but then one thing led to another and there you have it... A TryndXAshe fic.. XD
My boyfriend nearly cried by the way... Mostly because he Tyrnnds and I Ashe... XD
Anyway please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic...
Thanks for reading! =D
chquine_harvinellisse