Whole

The hard gravel beneath her bruised palms were a welcoming sensation. Why, oh why did she ever lived in the path of pain? Her weary amber eyes focused on the sight in front of her, the man clad in dark hues with his blade poised high with intent. She musters as much strength as she could to push her beaten form off the ground. Torn fabrics of her clothing dragged on the slick mud beneath her, decorating her blues in browns.

Death. What a palpable word on her tongue.

Valor lies a few meters' unconscious, and worn. How she wanted to run and cradle his broken frame in her tired arms. How much must the war wear her down? She pressed another bleeding palm on the pavement, hoping to anchor her being. Where had all her resolve gone?

"Still fighting?"

She lets a dry chuckle hide the shudder of her body, sepia eyes focused upon her. "When did I ever stop? You and your petty game." A push off the dirt and she feels the strong tremble of her arms. Fatigued, she surmised.

"Have you not decorated yourself with crimson already, girl?" The mocking tone slices through her being but it's enough to fuel her, to summon the vigor back unto her limbs. She pushed once more, meeting the sharp tip of his blade with a defiant glare. The weapon draws a line along her cheek, summoning a ribbon of blood to trickle down her scarred skin.

"What is crimson against blue, assassin?" Indeed, the dark hues clashed so well, trying to overcome one another. That's what they were, right? Red and blue; a constant struggle of identity and loyalties. Wearing their banners for so long that they knew not who they walked as, their own shoes or draped with the mantle of their countries.

"Heh, so you are a fool." He steps back, baiting her. Why was he stalling? Was an assassin's job not to silence before the words poured out. However, he worked so different, much of his personality is left in his kills. The weapon drags across the bridge of her nose, summoning more splatters of red. She winces this time, the sharp edge slicing through her cartilage. He was a monster; he never hid that.

"A fool, yes, I have always been a fool." She pushed on the balls of her feet, launching herself away from his weapon. "A fool to have believed there was some semblance of goodness in you." She staggers to her feet as she lands, fumbling at her broken bow. What good could this weapon give her? She plucks an arrow from her shorn quiver, an embarrassment to the leathermaker's handiwork.

"You believe a mere ammunition can save you? You must have lost your mind, scout." He readied his blade, glinting crimson in the light the waxing moon provides.

Yes, I've lost my mind the moment I fell for you.

She lets out a cry, a move so unbecoming of her. It startles him, makes him stutter in his steps. That's the only opening she needed, the only moment that she could guarantee their differences. She rushes to him, the arrow head lodged upon his abdomen. She pressed upon the wound, deeper and deeper as his lifeblood coated her hands. She grimaced at the pain, both his and her own.

Foolish, foolish Quinn.

"Heh." The word escapes his bleeding lips, "You think you've outdone me, archer."

"No, not you. I've outdone myself." I can wound him; I can kill him. I can maul him as much as my hands would let me. But why, why does it hurt when each cut blooms with his blood. And why does it hurt, that each staggering step he takes away from her causes her knees to tremble.

They were monsters, she tells herself. Her hands are coated in the vivid color of his life. Amber searched for sepia, wondering, asking. Was it worth it? Was the war so very important? She tries to ask once more, crying out in her mind.

Stop. Stop playing the villain.

That's what he does best. Noxians, the very monsters in Demacian bedtime stories. The very demons that she was groomed to hate. He wears the prejudice with ease, works like the very creature that stories depict him to be. And even now, she cries out, in agony of his wounds and her fidelity to her duties.

"Why are you crying, woman? Pitying the fool, you have been sent to kill?" He scoffs, a grim tone in his voice. He leans upon the wall, painting the slate gray with his blood. Were their lives meant to end like this?

She coughs, a sharp pain upon her chest. Ah, there's so little time left to spare. She runs towards him once more, eager to end it; end everything. Foolish, he knew she was coming. So very naïve of her to impale herself upon his blade. Maybe she was hoping for this, maybe deep down she wanted to die by his hands.

"You stupid girl. You could have left me to die but you truly want to finish the task don't you?" He grasped her nape, pulling her close so his weapon dug deeper. She chuckles darkly, letting the trail of blood paint her pale complexion.

"And let another fool take the honor of this kill, you wish." She pressed the arrow further, feeling the resistance of his muscles.

Warm, it felt so warm. She felt quite tired, feeling her head droop on his shoulder as they both sagged down the wall. Had she noticed how his arm wrapped around her or the feel of his weapon leaving her body? No, she didn't care; not even when she pulled the arrow out, hoping to stop the pain.

It hurt far too much, her own or his? She didn't consider whose it was. Her eyes closed, she was much too tired. Had she showed enough devotion now, could she rebel now? Ah, why did she live with such honor.

"We're quite the fools." His harsh whisper rouses her from the haze of her fading mind.

"We were always the fools, following the stupid orders." She whispers back, relishing the feel of him between her arms. Cold, how had it become so cold so very easily? Were they sitting on the floor now? How had they dropped to their knees in such a short time? The thoughts were lost to her, to her broken mind.

"You foolish girl." There's a warmth in his words that makes her want to cry.

"As you are a foolish assassin."

They were quite the fools, dying in each other's arms, unable to even say the words they've longed to say.

…

Warm sunlight filters through the wide canopies above her, breaking her from the spell of lethargy. She blinks once, twice before moving to the side. A shudder runs down her spine, letting the images of the gruesome dream replay behind her lids.

She moves her limbs, relieved to feel no pain in them.

What time was it?

She pushed herself to sit, eyeing the setting they were in. Valor quickly joined her side, feeling the anxiety radiating after her. He pecks her fingers, bringing her out of the grim stupor. She smiles at his antics but appreciates the attention he is giving her.

The bushes rustle and she turns to the individual, settling fresh game by a spit that they'd both created. Long brunette hair tied at the nape and weary sepia eyes appraised her,

"You're awake."

It was simple, curt even. Yet why is it that mere words could send warmth down to her toes. "Yes."

He shrugged her response and proceeds to clean his kill. The Demacian sits in silence, studying the man called Talon. Someday her dream will be reality; they might not have to kill one another, or if they should. She couldn't foretell the future, nor did she need to stress about it. She let out a sigh, eager to perish the thoughts of death and blood from her head.

"Here, some help would do." A simple brush of his fingers, as he handed her some branches for kindling, was enough to chase the darkness away. Yes, they were rivals but for now, they both relished in the presence without ties to the countries they both grew up in.

She lets a soft smile lighten her features, and proceeds to set the spit for their meal.

For now, they were whole, in a world broken by war.

Author's Notes: Currently on the last of my Halcyon days prior to the real grind for programming work. I'll try to write when I can but for now I hope you enjoy a slight serving of angst for our favorite League pair.

Happy Holidays Everyone! :)