I do not own League of Legends.
Enjoy!
It's dark. But that's something that he loves.
He was born of the darkness and the darkness was made to announce his fearsome parade. The darkness embraced him like he's a part of it, like he's darkness incarnated.
Incarnated might not be an accurate term; he's not exactly made of flesh. In fact his physical composition is but unknown to all except him. His body has provided him with a power that exceeds the capacity of human flesh and yet those imprisoned in them chained him.
Despite the darkness shrouding his cell, he can make out the chains wrapped around the joint that is equivalent to a flesh wrist. The chains are tied to the ground and prevent him from brandishing his blades and breaking free. He flexes the phalanges—human fingers—and somehow he feels no different from a mere human being.
It irks him.
The Eternal Nightmare cannot be likened to a mere flesh-imprisoned being even if they have proven their superiority against him. He is far more superior to them.
It's silly how Nocturne is easily unnerved by a simple task. The flexing of his fingers continues and whether he admits it or not, he is perturbed.
He is perturbed and it irks him even more.
The cell where he is confined is solitary to say the least. Neither light nor sound has managed to pass through the four walls of his desolate prison. The duration of his stay there is not something to overlook as well. Days and weeks pass without the slightest indication of change from the outside. Battles in the Summoner's Rift are the only events he looks forward to. It was the only time when he was allowed to leave his cell and unleash his nightmares and sharpen his blades.
His solitary confinement would have driven anyone insane. But no, Nocturne is different.
He is convinced though, that his difference to the flesh-bound beings isn't all that grand.
And it perturbs him.
To his dismay, the darkness, his friend, his ally; his kin, is no source of respite.
The crow resting on the blade of his scythe lets out a loud caw before it turns silent, its head twitching to and fro and poking at an unseen cob of corn or perhaps a stack of hay, molded into a man's torso.
He would ask them what they poke at but then he remembers that they will not respond. They are animals and he is most definitely not an animal. The crow caws once more before flapping its ebony wings, floats off and heads for the open window. He follows it with his luminescent green eyes as it fades off into the indigo sky.
A thought forms itself in his figurative mind; then it enlarges, and becomes almost viral, like a termite gnawing through soft wood. His companions have always composed of the black feathered birds. They heed his calls, they obey his commands and they listen to him. Yet how they manage to understand a being such as him—who is neither birthed nor resurrected like most—is a mystery to him.
They are capable of instinct; that much he knows, but their means of comprehending his commands is beyond him. Could it be an offset of his supposed existence? Could they be companions of the one who brought him to be? Could they be drawn to him, like fish to a worm, inviting inevitable death?
Could it be because he is a scarecrow and crows flock to him once they find out that this human will not harm?
Another crow comes to perch on his windowsill. He can tell that it's a different crow this time. The feather arrangement is distinct and he can tell one from another through such methods. It stares at him with gleaming black eyes and then it turns its head mechanically.
He waits. Crows come and go. Mostly they perch themselves on his scythe or his fabricated, yet fully functional, fingers. But he realizes: this one is that mischievous one.
There's always that fully distinct one from the rest. The flock of crows that Fiddlesticks consider as companions is no different. He knows this one and he wants nothing more than to cut off this crow's wings and rip its heart out.
But it's too fleeting. A lot of breathing forms have ceased existence because of the quick swipe of his deadly scythe. This one, however, always evades him.
It seems to know the hate the Harbinger of Doom harbors and it keeps a safe distance. Turning its head, it allows the moonlight to come into the room, making Fiddlesticks shield himself with his hand.
He turns his gaze to the door and sees the runes inscribed on them. Those runes are not meant to keep him in; he would never go out of his own accord. Those runes are meant to keep breathing creatures out. Once they make the slightest crack in between the door and the frame, he will strike and a head will roll off.
And with one death, the spine-chilling cackle of Fiddlesticks will be heard.
The crow caws, loud and lingering. It catches Fiddlesticks' attention.
It spreads out its wings and caws one more time as one of its eyes stare at the Harbinger of Doom, square in the eye. Flapping it wings, it caws again, as if wanting to convey something to him. Once, twice, thrice it flaps its gleaming ebony wings; exaggerating the effect of the moonlight to its shape.
With a loud howl, Fiddlesticks lunges at the overhead window, clawing at the offending bird. He hates this particular crow. It leaves his figurative mind in a blur. It makes him think and it makes him wonder. It makes him realize that his title is only to be used under the jurisdiction of a human.
Of course the crow doesn't mean to do such a thing, but he thinks so anyway.
With a final caw, the crow floats and turns towards the outdoors, out of the chamber and into the night. Even with the animal gone, Fiddlesticks continues to claw at the air, as if his efforts will actually harm it. He continues spewing incoherent words from his jagged mouth, hoping that the bird will get the message and drop dead.
But it is not to be.
And then he thinks once more. Aren't those crows his friends? Aren't they supposed to obey him and listen to him? If they aren't his friends then aren't they at least his companions?
Why then does one of them torment him so much?
He claws at the bundle of straws that is his head as his wail reverberates throughout the entire hall.
He hears nothing but the cacophony of souls trapped within the iron confines of his lamp. It swings to and fro, hypnotically, glowing in an unearthly green light, like almost his entire body.
A tune passes through his lips and the wailing and crying of the souls trapped within his lamp becomes louder. He knows how much they hate that tune; it's the tune that they last heard before finding themselves in his glowing lamp. Allowing a low chuckle, Thresh pokes his lamp with a finger, bony and seemingly fragile.
The groans grow louder and stronger. They beg for release, they beg for freedom; they beg for the Chain Warden to just stop.
It dates back to when he was human, the tune. He was a warden; hence his title in the Institute of War. The prisoners knew better than to live after being put under his supervision. Rumors spread far and wide about the merciless warden and his torturing methods. The offenders could only cower in fear when they hear slow and calculated footsteps, the jingling of keys, the clanging of prison bars as a wooden implement hits them and finally, finally a tune. Other jailers have tried to imitate that warden with the same sounds, but none of them could imitate the tune he hummed.
The prisoners knew that when the humming stopped and the warden has passed them or has not come to sight, then they live to see another day. It's always followed by shrieks of grown men and pleas of mercy.
But they receive none. The hum continues as the warden fades off, doing unspeakable horrors to his new toy.
It's nice to know that he hasn't lost his touch in eliciting fear into the very hearts. It provides him prime and pure satisfaction to know that he can still make others writhe in horror and beg for mercy.
Narrowing his eyes, Thresh gazes into his lamp. The souls resemble a flurry of snow, chaotic and unhindered. They move and moan and groan and weep: a fitting sound to the Chain Warden's ears. He twirls a handful of his chain around a finger and revels at the clink it emits.
It makes him feel…alive; more alive than when he literally was.
He listens again and his mind wanders. It wanders to the dark rooms where he spilled blood, tore flesh, cracked bones and destroyed minds. Even in his current state he can still smell the blood, he can still feel the bones cracking under the strength of his chains and his hand, he can hear the screams that would put little girls to shame, he can still see the eyes, dilating, relaxing and finally going blank.
But then the door behind him opened and a massive amount of people, jailers and prisoners alike, stand with mediocre weapons in their hands. Even with his chains and his hands, he cannot defeat the sheer number and the strength they posses all together. He is tied onto the bloodstained walls he painted with his very own hands.
He was killed. And his soul fled.
Suddenly he starts to think: what if he didn't become the Chain Warden? What if someone else is holding his lantern now and somehow captures his soul?
He can see it. He can see himself, nothing but a green flurry, wandering around his cage and seeking redemption that will never come. His warden is more merciless than he is. And every moment is composed of inexplicable agony.
In a craze, he peers into his lamp. The flurry of tortured souls makes it hard for him to make out anything. But he can imagine; he can imagine his soul, trapped without any hope for freedom. He can see his soul with his own eyes.
And for the first time in his extended life, Thresh feels fear.
He throws his lamp and with a loud clunk, it lands on the wooden floor. It sparks with green surreal flames and then only the pained groans of the souls trapped within are heard.
Soraka stares at the sky, the wind toying with her long navy blue hair. She is clothed with her Divine ensemble as she felt nostalgic for some reason. She wonders if it's because of her last match with Warwick. Her flute is tucked in the waistband of her skirt and her staff is in the other.
It feels nice to have toes again. Her hooves sometimes make her regret ever disregarding the warnings of the stars. She inhales a lungful of air and searches for her friends. The stars still remain to be her friends even though she cannot talk to them or she cannot hear them as she has before the Blood Hunter. Soraka still somehow finds solace at the mere twinkling of the sky-lights.
They looked so different from her grove. Here they seem so distant, so unreachable and yet they give off a feeling that gives one the want to reach to them. When she lived in her grove, they rested on her hand, pinned themselves in her hair and made it glow, and they played songs with her. The flute was a gift from them.
Shaking her head, Soraka heads for the gazebo at the very middle of the Institute's garden. The small flowers are hidden from view by the moonlight. She's always loved to come here in the dark of night. It reminded her so much of her home with the stars and the flowers that she used to cultivate in her grove.
As she approaches the gazebo, she makes out a shadow. Her grip on her staff tightens. It's no secret that Warwick is trying to kill her and will stop at nothing to get her heart. Even at her nightly walks, she takes numerous precautions. It is better safe than sorry after all.
The silhouette slowly becomes clearer and Soraka can make out a feminine figure and a very familiar sound: the sound of the Etwahl, belonging to Sona. Once she is close enough, the Starchild sees that the Maven of Strings is clad in her Guqin ensemble, accentuating her gentle face and her exquisite curves.
She pauses for a while to address the visitor. Sona bows her head before watching Soraka sit on the railing across her. She smiles and resumes plucking her Etwahl again.
The need to fill the air with words makes itself known to Soraka, but she cannot bring herself to disturb Sona as she produces wonders with her instrument. The Starchild is no stranger to the wonders that the Buvelle can do with just one deft motion of her svelte fingers.
Sona continues plucking the strings and the melody starts to become familiar to the other female. Soraka closes her eyes and sways her head to the unsaid beat of the song. Both of them know the song well; the Starchild often heard Ionian mothers sing it to their children as the bundles of joy are tucked to their beds; the Maven of Strings often heard the other Ionian orphans sing the song when the caretakers have left.
"It reminds me so much of Ionia," Soraka states as Sona nods in approval.
Opening her eyes, she sees that the Maven of Strings has ceased playing and has her hand stretched out towards her. Soraka tilts her head quizzically and the other only gives her a bright smile.
Despite the lack of words and actual communication, she gets the feeling that Sona is inviting her to sit with her and the Etwahl. The older female acquiesces; she sits beside the Maven of Strings.
Sona continues the song and Soraka finds it imperative to take out her flute. Positioning it in front of her lips, she blows and keeps up with the melody being played.
Ionian women learn this song to use it as a lullaby for their children. The song is slow, calm and sweet, much like Ionia itself. It is said that the song in itself has nothing to boast as its tune and melodies are repetitive, but what matters is both the listener and the player. When the player's heart is pure then the listener will be put to ease, no matter what the circumstances.
Sona smiles as she plucks the strings harder, making the melody resound past the gazebo and into the night; Soraka follows suit, blowing into her flute louder and swaying her head from side to side as the lullaby grows louder and more heartfelt.
Nocturne continues studying his hands; feeling more and more upset with something he has already forgotten. He clenches his fists and tries over and over again to summon his blades, but the arcane magic flowing through the chains is restricting any of his abilities.
He narrows his eyes and suddenly he hears a faint melody seep through the thick brick walls of his prison cell. He turns his head around and looks for the source of the sound. It should be impossible after all for anything, be it sound or light, to pass through the magic the Summoners used to imprison him, unless someone or something stronger than them is the source of the melody.
He gives up on trying to find the source of the sound, as it seems that he cannot find it anyway. Leaning against the wall behind him, Nocturne only listens completely to the sounds filtering through the dark walls of his cell. It sounds familiar and yet he can't say that he has heard the sound.
Perhaps he heard it when he was creeping into homes and giving nightmares that would make grown men cry. It sounds fitting, since the melody is too soft, too calm and too slow. It sounds like a lullaby; if it is, then he has heard plenty of them. Lullabies are futile attempts to draw nightmares away.
Nothing can make nightmares go away, not unless Nocturne says something about it.
The melody continues and he finds himself slowly drifting, to where, he doesn't know. He doesn't know where he's drifting to and yet, he can't bring himself to care. The Eternal Nightmare lets the melody still his violence and let him drift to a state that even he doesn't understand.
Nocturne stares at his hands and smirks. The melody has made him eager, eager for his temporary freedom, for the moments where his blades will be stained with the blood of his adversaries. Their deaths will not last and it will make the slaughter all the more enjoyable.
Thus the lullaby lulls the Eternal Nightmare to a promise of a more glorious slaughter in the day to come.
Fiddlesticks continues groaning inside his chamber. The crows have long left, but the taunt within the eyes of that one rebel makes him feel shivers within the straws that make his very existence.
He swings his scythe madly, in an attempt to remove the mirages forming before his very eyes. He is being used and he will continue to be used for as long as he can be by these humans.
A song suddenly snaps him out of his frenzy. It leaves his weak and powerless, a combination that has never been his. He drops his scythe and his makeshift knees bring him to the ground. Fiddlesticks looks around madly, in search for the source of the despicable music.
It's something he's never heard before. Then again, he hasn't been out of his chamber for a long time to know much about this world he was brought into. So far all the songs he's heard are the songs by that smiling slender woman who conducts concerts within the halls.
The sound is definitely made by her strings; otherwise they would not feel so powerful. But what is accompanying it has yet to be privy to him. He has never heard that seemingly endless whistling sound before. No one within his area of hearing has made that kind of sound for such duration.
He surrenders and listens to the melody. The helplessness irks him and yet he feels as if it's helping him. Perhaps the way his mind has wandered is dampening his power and this song is helping him to regain what was lost to him.
Yes, he can feel the power in the song, seeping through the straws and filling the gaps in between them. He must be in the process of mending. A garbled sigh escapes his lips and he doesn't remember when he's been this… ecstatic to say the least.
He sees his scythe but for some reason, he has no desire to pick it up, swing it around and kill a breathing creature. The song has stolen all of his senses and is telling him to stop. Strangely enough, he feels it fitting to obey, just like how his crows obey him.
Fiddlesticks continues to listen, the same way his crows listen to him. For the first time in his life, he is glad, glad that he was created to fall prey to such a wonderful melody. Aside from re-sharpening his dulled power, the song seems to be feeding his confidence.
It seems too comical that someone like Fiddlesticks will ever need confidence. But since he exists, the presence of human necessities is persistent. He does not want to admit it, but he too has those creatures' needs.
And right now, his confidence that he is fit for the title bestowed unto him is the one that needs to be boosted the most.
He is being used and will continue to be used for as long as he can be, but that does not mean that he will let that continue for the rest of his uncertain existence.
He will break free. He will be loose from the hold of these Summoners and he, the Harbinger of Doom will be complete once and for all.
After that… he will come up with something after that. Fiddlesticks will do it one at a time. For now, he will obey the commands of those Summoners, but when he is free his fear will run like rivers in the veins of humans.
He can already hear the screams, the screeches, the wails and the fear.
And it makes Fiddlesticks snigger, chuckle, laugh and finally cackle, like he has decapitated someone who dared to enter his threshold.
Thus the lullaby lulls the Harbinger of Doom to the confidence that he will not be held prisoner in a tomorrow that he will make for himself.
The harmless lamp is at the other corner of the room while its owner is at the opposite, like a child afraid of something they know none of. Thresh growls a bit as the lamp continues glowing in the darkness. The eerie green glow makes it difficult for him to forget the unspeakable horror of being trapped within the confines of the lamp.
He can still hear the cacophony; the dissonance emanating from the confines of his lamp. They no longer give him satisfaction; instead they torment him. The moaning, the groaning and the cries of torment seem to come from his head and not from the lamp.
The Chain Warden then wishes for a respite.
For a moment, he wants to be spared from the sound of the souls, trapped without a chance to be freed. Those sounds make him feel like he's there, inside, trapped and hopeless, just like the lot of them.
He wants to destroy the lamp. Never mind if it has been his companion, he wants to destroy it.
Standing up, he brandishes his sickle. He doesn't know if the lamp can be destroyed, but that possibility is past his mind now.
And then he is stopped by a sound. It was not a sound coming from the lamp; that's for sure. It is apparent to him that the sound is coming from the outside.
But to his advantage, the sound is muting out the sounds made by the trapped souls.
Thresh drops his sickle with a slight jingle. The sound permeates the air and feels like a burst of fresh air. It's divine and ethereal. The Chain Warden cannot imagine a mere mortal producing such a sound.
A memory suddenly strikes him, one that dates back to his days as a human warden. One of his prisoners was humming this tune as he passed by. He doesn't know until now if it was to keep the warden away, but that certain man always evaded the warden's line of sight.
He remembers now. That one prisoner hummed this tune every time Thresh passed by. That man's place of birth isn't really relevant to him, but now that he's hearing it firsthand, he would like to know where the melody came from.
Thresh raises his arms, poising one on an imaginary woman's hip and another holding her hand. He waltzes around the room, the dissonance of souls no longer sound unpleasant to him. He knocks the lamp with his foot and stares at it longingly. At this point, the Chain Warden can't even imagine that he thought of destroying it.
With a smirk, he flourishes his hand and out of the lamp a soul of a woman comes out. She glows green, mainly limbs attached to a vague torso, her face is merely holes for eyes and a mouth; sorrow is clearly etched on her face. How long she has been in there—perhaps even she doesn't know.
Thresh puts a clawed hand behind her supposed head and pulls his hand back. From the back of her head, curled strands come out. A few more touches of his hands and she has a skirt, a corset topped with a lavish bow and gloves. Despite the additions, she still glows green and her face is still laden with untold sorrows.
And they dance. They dance to the beautiful melody coming from the outside. Thresh neither knows nor cares who he is dancing with, but he is enjoying it. He spins her around and dips her before pulling her up again with a force that would have broken her arm if she had a physical one. There is no gentle moment for him.
They stay like that for a moment before he grabs her by the locks he made and smashes her face-first into the lamp where she came from. Her mournful wail resonates well with the melody and he could not ask for more.
Her wail stops and Thresh picks up his lamp again. He peers into the flurry of souls trapped within it and smirks. He sits back, leaning against the wall and listening to the last parts of the song.
Thus the lullaby lulls the Chain Warden back to the love of his deeds.
The night draws on and the moon reaches the apex of the sky. Soraka draws the flute away from her lips and turns to Sona who is smiling as usual. They don't speak, but somehow they understood.
Both stand up and prepare to retire to their respective rooms. Whether or not they will be playing together again, they will not be finding out anytime soon. The stars are fleeting as they are beautiful and the Ionian lullaby is as well.
Perhaps they will play again, but for now, it will be enough.
I don't really know what compelled me to do this fic... But it has Sona, my boyfriend's best support champ and Soraka, my first support champ...
Might I just say that the Guqin skin is so awesome? XD And the Divine skin is too...I mean, she has a flute there and Sona is like themusic person... I just thought it'd be nice to have them collab on something that they share; thus the Ionian lullaby was born in my head...
As for the other three, I've always had a thing for Fiddle that I don't really understand, Nocturne is the first champ my brother used and Thresh is this all-around guy... That doesn't explain much but it's mine... XD
Anyway please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic as it is greatly appreciated by the author... =D
Thanks for reading! =D
chquine_harvinellisse