silent sunrise
He is used to the world being dark. Dark, cold, like himself. He relies on his ears to bring him light, not his eyes; the music of whispering wind, of rustling leaves, not rays of sunshine or flickers of candlelight.
Perhaps that is why he is drawn to her.
When he first hears the voice, it is like hearing the ebb and flow of a silver river—gentle, beautiful, elegant.
I wonder who he is. I do not recognize his face.
And he freezes in his tracks, tilting his head, searching for the source of the voice with his ears.
"Champion Lee Sin, is there something amiss?" says the summoner at his side.
He hears nothing more.
"No," he says plainly. "Nothing."
It was his imagination, he tells himself. Only his imagination.
Sometimes when he passes through the halls, he hears the soft plucking of an instrument unknown.
He has tried asking who the masterful player is. Who could possibly have the power to make his heart rise and fall, twist and turn, constrict until he is breathless, all with a few simple notes?
It takes several days of unabashed inquiries before he recieves his answer.
"That would be Sona Buvelle," a summoner tells him. "One of the best musicians that Valoran has ever seen."
"A musician?" Lee Sin echoes. What business would a musician have with the League?
"Do not underestimate the power of her instrument," the summoner says wryly; Lee Sin can imagine a grim smile. "Many have, and it has been the last mistake they were able to make."
Lee Sin recalls the poignant melodies without difficulty and heeds the summoner's words.
::-::
He starts hearing the voice more often.
At first, he only catches vague strains of it—that soft, melodic voice, calm and gentle—at the most of once a week. He attributes it to the tiredness of his mind.
But it only grows more persistant.
He starts hearing it more, more—twice a week, four times a week, once a day; and always accompanied by the etwahl of Sona Buvelle.
No one else seems to notice. What a beautiful song, they say, stopping to listen to the etwahl's elegant melodies; but when Lee Sin mentions a voice, they fall silent, and he can feel their concern without having to see it. He is hearing things, they think. Perhaps we should call for a doctor.
Perhaps they should. It is almost driving him mad—hearing the voice, but not knowing what it is.
::-::
Perhaps I should try to introduce myself, the voice muses one day.
Whenever Lee Sin has heard the voice, he has always remained silent. Silent, and wondering—if it was only his imagination, or if it really existed; if it came from a spirit or an undead being, or perhaps a living creature; and how he, and no one else, is able to hear it.
But today... Today, he decides to throw caution to the wind.
That would be nice, he responds.
He can feel a recoil of surprise in his mind. W-who was that? the voice cries.
This is an unexpected turn of events. It appears that the voice has not been purposefully speaking to him. I would like to ask to the same of you, he says calmly.
How are you able to speak with me? the voice whispers.
Lee Sin tilts his head. He senses a presence coming closer—perhaps the owner of the voice? I know not myself, he says.
The presence comes from around the corner, and Lee Sin hears the unmistakable tone of an etwahl.
Are you… Sona Buvelle? Lee Sin says, feigning shock—although truthfully, he had suspected such.
The playing stops. Indeed. And you are Lee Sin?
He doesn't ask how she knows. Yes.
Sona drifts closer. Lee Sin catches the faint scent of lavendar. You say you do not know how we are able to communicate?
Yes. Truthfully, I have… I have heard your voice, occasionally. And yet no one else appears to—
I am mute. It is simple, to the point; much how Lee Sin tells others that he is blind, if they are too polite to ask themselves. The only way I can communicate is with preestablished telepathy with my summoners.
Lee Sin feels the hints of a smile turning his lips. Then somehow, I am an exception.
Yes, Sona says, so softly that he almost misses it. Yes, somehow you are.
::-::
They speak often. At least, Lee Sin thinks they speak often. It is still entirely possible that everything is but a figment of his imagination—and that the words of others are nothing but a cruel joke. But as he spends more time with Sona Buvelle, he becomes more and more certain that his mind could not have thought up such a remarkable individual.
Have you heard of any music jokes?
I'm afraid not.
How about this: A young boy says to his mother, "When I grow up, I want to be a musician." To which his mother replies, "Dear, you can't do both."
He laughs. Rough, like mottled sand. It taints her sweet, pure voice.
Not bad, Lee Sin says.
He can feel the confused gazes of a few passersby, certainly wondering about why he and Sona are smiling when nothing has been said. He doesn't care.
::-::
She is a formidable ally on the Fields of Justice.
With one chord, his spirit is invigorated. With one strum, his heart quivers in his chest. With one sweep, his feet soar.
Lee Sin begins to think that if she so desired, Sona Buvelle could command him like she did her etwahl.
::-::
Have you asked, yet?
Asked what?
As to why you are able to hear my voice when—when no one else can.
...No, I have not. Would you like me to?
N-no! I mean...
She falls silent. He waits patiently for her to continue.
I... I fear that if you ask, it will fade, Sona says, her voice small.
And if it does?
I—would wish that it wouldn't.
For Lee Sin, it would mean much more than that.
We must ask someday, he says.
Someday, Sona echoes. Her voice sounds hollow.
::-::
She tells him about her past. He does not tell her about his. To him, it is a dark, ugly thing; something that he wished never existed for its frailty and corruption. Every time he recalls his sins, he feels like the weight on his shoulders has doubled, tripled. Every time he recalls his sins, he feels that his past is unatonable.
Tell me, Sona pleads.
Do you ask because you truly want to hear? Lee Sin says.
And she falls silent.
::-::
Tell me, she says again.
Do you ask because you truly want to hear? Lee Sin repeats.
Yes, she says.
It is a grim tale. You are certain? Lee Sin says.
And she falls silent.
::-::
Tell me, she says again.
Do you ask because you truly want to hear? Lee Sin repeats.
I ask not only because I truly want to hear, but because you truly want to tell, she says.
This time, it is Lee Sin who is silent.
Your past is burdening you, Sona says. You are forced to live with an unbearable weight. Please, tell me, that we might bear it together.
She is kind. She does not deserve to hear his tale. Are you certain?
More than I ever have been, she says.
So he tells her. A long, winding tale, pulled from his mouth all at once, about a boy, a talented boy, whose ambition got ahead of him. Sona is silent throughout, but Lee Sin can feel her serenity and encouragement without seeing her face.
He talks more, and more. He's never talked this much. He never thought he needed to. He had sworn off his past self the moment he'd joined the monastery, and though his memories had tormented his dreams, he was certain that he would be able to move on, to forget himself.
And he is crying. He does not remember the last time he has wept openly. He feels weak, open, vulnerable; but liberated, as if he were carrying a boulder up a mountain, and someone had just lifted it off of his shoulders.
He feels a gentle hand brush the tears away from his cheeks, a soft kiss of skin upon skin.
Thank you, Sona says. Thank you for telling me.
Thank you for listening, Lee Sin says, but his words feel hollow and inadequate. Sona will never know just how thankful he is.
::-::
They become almost inseparable.
They are mocked as 'the retarded couple' by some, but most envy their close friendship. Yes; friendship. It has not grown past that, and Lee Sin is certain that it never will. While he and Sona are practically joined at the spirit, they do not speak about love, and only touch when absolutely necessary. It is not his heart he is unsure of, but hers; he does not want to risk losing their connection over a trivial feeling.
That is, until Sona herself brings it up not a few weeks later.
Have you ever been in courtship?
Lee Sin almost freezes at the question. Courtship?
Oh—it is a silly question, but... I have often wondered what it feels like.
You do not have to be in courtship to fall in love. A dangerous comment.
Sona is silent for a long moment.
And—have you ever been in love? Sona says, timidly, as if she isn't sure she wants to know the answer.
Lee Sin feels a small smile pulling at his lips. Perhaps, he says.
He feels her curiosity, the question on the tip of her tongue, and clenches his fist at the warm glimmer of hope inside him. Perhaps he still has a chance.
::-::
Would you like to try playing the etwahl?
The question is asked casually, lightly—as if she has not just offered something valuable beyond compare, something that she must love more than life itself.
I do not know, Lee Sin says honestly.
I trust you, Sona says, filling him with warmth. I know you will be careful.
But your etwahl...
...Yes. She is not just an instrument, as many others see her. To me, Aryia is a dear friend that has been with me all my life.
Then I should not—
It is fine, Lee Sin. I want you to try.
He cannot refuse that. Such a precious offer, he will treasure deeply.
She takes him into an empty room, silent and still, and places the etwahl on the ground, instructing him to sit. He waits, hearing the gentle squeak of a cloth cleaning the strings; the soft twang of tuning pegs being turned; the shuffle of footsteps on the hardwood floor.
She is ready, Sona says presently. Raise your hands in front of you and slowly lower them to the strings.
He does, and feels a slight scrape of metal against the tips of his fingers. Sona takes a seat behind him, slightly to his right. She is close; close enough that he can feel the fabric of her dress's skirt against his leg.
Hold your wrists parallel, like this, she says, her fingers dancing lightly over the back of his hand. Lee Sin feels his heart stutter in his chest. Lower your finger until you are barely touching the string. Press down, gently...
He feels a tickle of soft hair on his spine and a breath behind his ear. He barely turns his head. The corner of his mouth brushes against Sona's cheek.
Sona stiffens, but makes no move to back away. Now, pull the string towards you... and release.
He does. The note rings—clear, vibrant, beautiful. He can sense Sona's face lighting up into a smile.
Wonderful, she applauds.
Yes, you are, he thinks to himself. But he doesn't say it out loud.
Sona reaches over, placing her hand on the etwahl. Try with some of the other strings, she says.
He plucks with great delicacy. As he does so, Sona presses down some distance away from his hand; it changes the note, creating a resonating melody that he does not feel worthy to be a part of.
Aryia likes you, Sona says brightly.
And do you?
She freezes behind him. Surely he hadn't actually said...?
...Why do you ask?
He had said it. He had actually said it.
He is silent for a long while. His mind has frozen. Of all the ways he thought he would tell her his feelings—this was not what he wanted. He has never been great with words; even in his days training as a summoner, he somehow managed to annoy every single one of his peers.
Lee Sin, Sona says; she seems almost urgent. Please, tell me.
But he cannot move. He does not know what to say to her; all he hears are the words pounding at his head, screaming at him to tell her, tell her—
Lee Sin, Sona says, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.
Perhaps... Perhaps he can say what he needs without words.
Slowly, gingerly, Lee Sin turns and ghosts his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and gently cups her cheek. Her breath catches, making his heart jump—but she stays where she is, silent, still. He begins leaning forward, his palm brushing her cheekbone.
Then he pauses.
If you wish me to stop, he says, tell me.
Sona is silent.
He continues to learn forward. His heart is pounding so heavily that it feels as if it is being hammered flat. But she does not draw away, or turn her face, or tell him to leave; she only sits there, waiting.
He tilts his head, touching his lips to hers. It lasts for only a whisper; then he pulls back, wanting to spare her any discomfort.
She is still silent.
Lee Sin keenly wishes that, even if it were just for one moment, he could see. Ordinarily, it was easy to tell what Sona was thinking, even without his eyesight; but this moment, he is buried in the unknown, waiting endlessly for an answer he is not sure will come.
A long moment of silence—painful silence—stretches by, broken only by his shallow breathing. Finally, Lee Sin stands.
I apologize, he says hollowly.
There are many other things he wants to say... but he cannot.
He only turns and walks away.
STOP!
The roar in his head makes him freeze in his tracks. He hears the shifting of cloth, frantic footsteps—something grabbing his hand and turning him around—salt on his lips, tears—?
Don't apologize, she says, and even her thoughts sound shaken. Please, don't—don't go, I can't—
He slips one arm around her slender waist, holding her to his chest. She nestles her face in the crook of his neck, delicate fingers gripping his shoulders. He stands there, completely still, mind racing in tempo with his heartbeat.
Does she harbor any affections for him? Or does she simply see him as her dearest friend, one that she does not want to lose?
Lee Sin, comes Sona's voice, breaking him out of his thoughts.
Dread. All he can feel is dread. Yes.
Sona lifts her head from his shoulder; he catches the familiar scent of faint lavender.
Lee Sin, she repeats.
He forces himself not to move. Yes.
He feels a hand on his cheek, tilting his face down. His heart is pounding in his throat.
Lee Sin, she says again, so softly that it is difficult to hear.
Yes.
She kisses him. Gently, delicately. Her lips fill him with fire; he pulls her closer, his other hand cradling the back of her head, twining with silky strands of hair.
He feels like he is soaring. His confidant, his dearest friend—she has accepted him; she has chosen to love him. There is an unfamiliar feeling rising in his chest, a feeling he thought he had forgotten—joy. Complete, utter bliss.
Sona steps back, but keeps her forehead leaning against his. For a moment, they stay like that, quiet, intimate, before she speaks.
I... I have been attracted to you, Lee Sin, she mumbles. Even before you started talking to me...
Lee Sin's mental processes backwheel in shock. What?
Your strength—and how you did not let the attitudes of others change you despite your disability—it inspired me greatly. Sona turns her head. I... I was searching for a way to introduce myself. I thought that perhaps you could teach me how to make others treat me normally.
Lee Sin brushes the back of his knuckles against her cheek, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. And did I?
He hears the smile in her voice. Perhaps strangers will treat me differently, she says, but I have learned that the people that matter will not.
She twines her fingers with his. He gently squeezes her hand.
::-::
She takes him to see a sunrise. They sit upon a hill, breathing the crisp, morning air, and she plays for him, relaying the glory of the scene through her etwahl. He cannot see the sky, but he can hear it—its scarlet-and-gold hues, painted in rich strokes from east to west; its peaceful mist of light fog, settled gently on the mountaintops; and its briskness, its majesty, its silent bravado.
But then she stops, suddenly, the etwahl's music pausing in a lonely echo, and speaks.
...I think I have found the reason.
Reason?
Why we are able to talk.
Oh?
I... I have the ability to telepathically communicate with my summoners.
Silence.
And... you were once a summoner.
But we were never linked.
Perhaps not, but—you were once the most talented student in the League, were you not?
Lee Sin is completely still.
Maybe your talents have connected us somehow, without either of us knowing.
The irony. Oh, the irony. Lee Sin has hated his past for as long as he can remember, and yet—yet, without it, he would have never been able to speak with Sona.
It is possible, he says.
It is true that he still harnesses his summoner potential. He uses it in his combat, bending sound in ways that no one else can, enhancing his balance, his sense of touch, so he can function like one that could see. It is more than possible that such talents have connected him with Sona; it is likely.
He feels Sona's arms slip over his shoulders in a gentle embrace and startles out of his thoughts.
I know what you think about your past, Sona says, her voice softer than usual, but I can't help but feel glad that you were once a summoner.
The smallest hint of a smile crosses his face.
As am I, he says. As am I.
He raises his hand. Sona takes it. And although he cannot see the sunrise, he doesn't need to. He has his own sunrise next to him.