N.B. "vOceanic, A True Champion still wasn't over?"

What? No. It's over, especially for those who bitc — ah. Uh. Offered constructive criticism about its length.

This is a different story. Sort of. 90% OC, lots of Noxus.

It's really my birthday present to myself. Writing whatever I want without fear of ramifications. In a way, it's a farewell, too. Not that I won't write more fanfic in the future, but following the conclusion of this, I'm devoting more energy to writing more serious, (potentially) publishable stuff.

(There will probably be another lemon fest when I get fed up with writing OC non-fantasy shit).

If you're here because you're bored, or — heaven knows why. I hope you enjoy.

"'I suppose there is a measurement of self-righteousness involved,' General Stephen Raeford admitted, stroking his Dove Sterling's hair. 'We take these unwanted boys, forbid them from military service. And we watch them grow into what they could've been without the king and their country crushing them.'

Indeed, of all Noxian demographics, the Willow-Doves boast the highest rate of literacy. Following their servitude, they take up occupations as disparate as accountants, surgeons and museum curators.

Or, if you're General Caelyn Falin, you become the greatest war hero Noxus has ever seen."

— Casteel White, a commemorative publication of Songs of Noxus. Dedicated to Caelyn's 250,000th kill.

"How does she do it? We interview Luxanna Crownguard for tips on surviving the Demon Dove."

— scrapped Demacian newspaper article. The interview was forbidden by King Jarvan III.

Ryland.

Ryland fought it — the voice. In his misty dream, he and Ezreal were in a lustrous white-marble castle, reclining on thrones veined with rich gold and upholstered with plush velvet.

Green-eyed Aven was asleep on Ryland's lap, his cheeks a warm blossom pink, his skin as soft as Ionian feather blossoms. Luxanna, gorgeous in silver, was cradling Ezreal as he dozed, murmuring words of love into his golden hair.

Everything was alright again — saved. Ezreal had saved him. He had a soul.

Ryland. Please. I know you want to sleep.

No. He needed to sleep. If he woke, the pain and cold would rush back in and drown him. He felt fingers playing along the fresh welts on his jaw and braced himself.

They need you.

There was no need to explain who 'they' were. The brothers.

And because he was Ryland Whitefield, he opened his eyes.

He immediately flinched away, hid his face, shaking. The night-haired, gray-green eyed speaker was twice as broad as himself, with arm muscles that bulged beneath his white shirt like boulders.

His own voice hurt his ears. "Please. Please don't hurt —"

"Good gods. You forgot me already?" A chuckle. "It's nice to actually see you, Sir Ryland. Though you're a bit ganglier than I expected."

I know that voice, Ryland thought, then clutched his temples. He ignored the stifling, metallic smell of blood. It wasn't pain and cold rushing in, but a waterfall of memories. Too much. Fire, burning, gold, red, Oliver, hell, his mother —

"Easy." The speaker was gently rubbing the burns on his jaw. "One thing at a time."

Ryland felt strong hands lifting him away, hefting him effortlessly through the air, then placing him on a bed of grass. It was full of cold pebbles that dug into his sore skin. Then he heard the sound of someone settling beside him and cracked an eye open.

His chest — it hit him like a shot of morphine. Warmth flooded him, chased by refreshing relief as crisp as a mountain stream.

Ezreal, still asleep. His cheeks were dotted with blood and there were tear tracks on his face, but the tawny Explorer was there beside him. So it was okay. Whatever it was.

The other man sat near them, cross-legged. Handsome. Strong, healthy, but pale. The Guardian waited patiently for Ryland to recognize him, ignoring the way Ryland cringed when his huge hand settled on the back of his neck and began to massage it.

It felt good, but that didn't matter. Never mattered. It was always preceded or followed by pain.

Ryland swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

"Skylan."

"Oh." Ryland frowned. Next thing he knew, he'd bolted upright, spraying Ez with pebbles. The Explorer groaned and rolled over. Ryland was clutching Skylan's shoulders and shaking, trembling like branches in a high wind. With eagerness, with anticipation of warmth. At last.

"Where is he?"

Sadness filled Skylan's eyes. "Ryland —"

"Where's he at? DoIfinallygetto —"

"Ryland." Skylan's voice deepened.

"B - but the kiss." Ryland shivered. "Or — just to see him, I —"

"He's not here."

"What?" Something crucial inside Ryland tore. Glassy pain ate into his chest, then dug into his lungs. There were shards in the bottom of them, he knew it, glass shards cold and shiny like ice.

"He's not here." Skylan smiled, but it was all pity and bitterness.

Ryland could only stare. Around them, the dead, black forest clattered against itself in a stiff winter breeze. The wind, too, lifted some of the corpse-clothing and fluttered it with a sound like pages turning.

Not here…? Ryland felt his eyes burn and scrubbed at them.

Then he abruptly burst into tears he couldn't contain any longer. They were quiet, but insistent. And hot in the empty, cold air. They burned his cheeks.

Skylan gathered him into his arms with a sigh, wincing at how light he was, ignoring the abstract pink blood stains from Ryland's cheeks against his own dirty white shirt.

Gods, he really does feel like a sack of leftover dinner bones.

There was a strange, surreal moment — Skylan was holding the stuff of Aven's daydreams, after all, and he was so terribly fragile — but it was replaced by empathy and the simple act of comforting.

On the ground, Ezreal opened his bleary blue eyes and stared into the colorless sky. He had a headache, a nasty one that throbbed right in the center of his forehead. Despite trekking over Runeterra multiple times, he didn't recognize the field, the black trees, the harsh gray mountains above. And certainly not the corpses piled a little ways away.

"Ryland?"

Ryland wanted to answer, but couldn't in anything other than a sob.

Looking critically at Ezreal, Skylan thought, Another unstable blondie. Aven's brother, apparently.

And Skylan was programmed to — love him? Like him? The Guardian thought he felt a brief sunflare of appreciation in his chest (he's rather handsome) and shoved it away.

Ezreal's unpredictable. Ryland's thought-voice was faint. He hurts me.

Skylan opened his mouth to comment on the latter part, then thought better of it. Never fear, Sir Ryland. I can handle him.

He made his voice rumble like thunder through the Freljord air. "Hail, Tai-Aitah. Hail, Wings of the Wheel."

Ezreal groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. "Please. No more."

"No?" Skylan smiled. "Tired of being god?"

"Never wanted to be." Ezreal licked his lips and swallowed hard. The air was frigid, arid. Dry.

"Odd." A particularly rough sob shook Ryland, and Skylan held him tighter. "Thought everyone wanted power."

"No. I want to go h — oh. Skylan." Ezreal sat up, the last vestiges of his aura fading away for the first time in months. The muscles in his body protested the movement — they squealed and burned — but he ignored it, openly examining the Guardian instead.

Ezreal was a splash of color in the dingy, mute-colored forest. Gold for his hair, scarlet for those scars. And Skylan found the stormy blue of his eyes attractive.

Because I want to? Or because I'm supposed to? Godsdamnit, Sir Ryland. This is already too complicated.

Ryland's faint voice. …I'm sorry.

Skylan sighed. Wonderful. "Greetings, Ezreal. Suppose our meeting's been a bit delayed."

"Mhm." Ezreal rubbed his head, frowning. "Sorry for calling you a fag to Aven."

Skylan's eyebrows rose. Well, he's certainly a charmer. "Apology accepted, though I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And I burned his wrists," Ezreal mumbled, looking down. He'd never craved Lux more in his life. And holding him — she'd seemed so real. Just as real as Ryland sitting in the throne beside him.

"You burned them? I broke them." Skylan shrugged. "I can't really be mad at you."

That got the Explorer's attention. He cocked his head as he checked his hands and arms for wounds. "Really? Everyone else seems mad at me."

"I don't happen to be everyone else." The Guardian looked at the sky. "Though I can be mad at you, if you honestly want me to be."

There it was — the slight smile, a curve of his lips against the gray-green grass. Aven's smile.

Skylan's thought again: He is quite handsome. The Guardian's jaw clenched. Absolutely not. Programming or no.

Ryland pulled away. His lips were quivering. "W - where is he? I thought — the dark and —"

"Can't say. His dead father pulled up on this weird bone-dragon thing, riding it a bit like a Piltover Customs motorcycle." Skylan saw Ezreal grin. He has Aven's sense of humor. Too easy. "Then he dragged him onboard and there he went. Into the wild blue Hereafter."

Ryland's breath caught. "Is he — he's not dead?" It hurt to talk. Besides the scorched flesh on his jaw, the skin around the red was coated in thick black bruises. The back of his neck still bore a large dusky mark from Death's boot.

"Nope. Wheel's still a'spinnin'," Skylan said cheerfully. He wasn't surprised when Ryland's shaky, accusatory voice chimed in his head.

Why aren't you upset?

Not too good at emotion, Sir Ryland. Seems you've got the better hand at that. I'm terribly upset but I hide it.

Oh. Ryland nodded. Skylan watched him bite his lip. Watched his composure crack again — his eyes squeeze shut. And held him close. It was a cycle, after all, and Life was a Wheel.

"I thought he'd be here." Another helpless sob into the empty air.

"I know. He thought he'd be here, too." Skylan stroked his black hair. Ryland's body kept twitching in anticipation of pain. It was unused to receiving comfort and didn't know how to react, so he flinched whenever Skylan's hand made contact with his flesh. The Guardian noticed Ezreal watching them, frowning.

Good gracious, what a mess. "What, kid? Am I not allowed to hug him?"

Oh gods, he heard Ryland think. Don't provoke him.

"He's mine," Ezreal said flatly, blue eyes gleaming faintly with suspicion.

"Trust me. I believe you." Skylan nodded and shifted his weight. He thought he saw one of the corpses move, but it was just the wind again. "Actually a bit jealous."

"Why?" Anger already there in his voice, a thin rivulet of red beneath the word.

Ryland cringed. Skylan —

I know what I'm doing, Sir Ryland. Relax. Honestly. "I don't get to have a best friend as good as yours. You know? There won't be someone for me so nice, and faithful —"

"And smart," Ezreal added. His smile was brilliant. It sent a little shiver down Skylan's spine, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. "And talented."

"See? I know he's yours. I'm just trying to help."

"I just —" Ezreal scratched his head and laughed, suddenly self-conscious. I'm so out of it.

"You don't want me to fuck him." Skylan half-smiled. "Understood."

"Wh — that's not what I meant." His cheeks filled with color below the light blush from the cold. That's exactly what I meant.

"Not my type." Skylan grinned. "Either like lasses with huge tits or my scrawny useless slip of a husband."

He felt the jolt run through Ryland's body as Ezreal chuckled. I talked of Aven like that before. Remember?

But —

I called him a sandwich-mad youngling, remember? And a crazy little fuck? Calm, Sir Ryland.

But —

Skylan squeezed the back of his neck. Ryland went still. Calm.

"Yeah. So dad — Ian, I mean. He was here, too?" Ezreal looked uneasy.

"Mhm. Ian of Piltover. Same in our world, too, you know." Skylan leaned back and let Ryland stretch out on his chest. "I didn't even know that bastard was Aven's father until a year after we dated."

"Really? Everyone knew he was my dad." Ezreal's face darkened. Thoughts of Luxanna were threatening to break through the protective layer of cold, gray glass shielding his thoughts. It didn't help that he could feel all of Ryland's weighty despair ringing through their mental link.

"No, I didn't. Not until the peace parade bringing Noxus and Demacia together. Ironically. Cannons went off after the Generals marched by with their Doves. Aven burrowed into me — bit like a meerkat, actually. Freaked out. I had to hold him." Skylan sighed, half-nostalgic. "We were on a dais up front, as I'd won the Fleshing. In front of all Runeterra. If we weren't out before that —"

He noticed a brief, undisguised flash of envy in Ryland's tearful eyes. Whoa there, Healer.

I — Ryland shook himself, trying to stop the next wave of crying. Jealousy, pain, weariness, disappointment. They were rocking his mind in a choppy sea of gray and umber.

Ezreal was genuinely curious. "How did that make you figure it out?"

"When Ian blew himself up in this world, Aven was there with him. The explosion, the heat, the — oh, I don't know — screams and wails of the dying. He hates loud noises."

"That'd do it." Ezreal spat. "So what do we do now?"

Skylan paused. That was fast. Aven'd want to camp out for a week or five.

He wants Luxanna, Ryland thought, tired. Always Luxanna.

The Guardian nodded. "Well, kid — if I can call you that."

"Sure." Ezreal leaned forward and regarded the two Moon Children with eyes like sapphire. Skylan felt a warm tingle in his wrists — where his heart beat — and sighed internally. "Well, we've got two Empaths and the God of Destruction. Figure we can do whatever we damn well —"

"Save Lux." Ezreal nodded.

Ryland swallowed a crushing wave of salty tears. "And — and probably Aven. Just so — I mean —" He fumbled for words at the look of distaste that crossed Ez's face.

"Yeah. We don't want him to die." Skylan flicked Ryland's chin. "Aven was muttering something about how the barbarians thought you two were gods."

"Mhm." Ezreal sighed wearily.

"So it's easy then." Skylan shrugged. "We figure out how to rip back into you two's world. Was getting tired of the weather here anyway. Then we convince those damn barbs you're Aven." He gestured towards Ezreal and grinned. "Not like that, of course."

Ez shocked Ryland by grinning back. "Not a chance."

"Then we storm Death's Kingdom and get your damn princess back."

But what about Aven? Ryland thought. And how could a land appear so dark at high noon? The sun was a flat, pale, limp disc in a sky so white it was unnerving.

You mock Ezreal for being singleminded? Skylan snorted. You heard yourself lately, Sir Ryland? You and I can take care of the Suncatcher ourselves.

Suncatcher? Who?

Pet name for him. I'll leave you to figure that one out.

Ryland thought, then turned pink. …Oh.

Aye. He doesn't bring much, but takes a whole lot of it. Skylan cracked his knuckles and noticed Ezreal was watching. "So? How's that sound?"

"Good." But he was frowning and scratching at the blood on his cheeks.

"Look, kid. If you have a question, ask. We be not easily offended, not in the Center World."

"You just look so — masculine."

"I am." Skylan yawned. A flock of crows winged by, cawing and fluttering. "Prob'ly fucked more women than you ever touched."

"Then wh —"

"There's always an exception. To anything, really. Always at least one."

The words were delivered with the finality of a stone god's. Skylan reached out and ruffled Ezreal's hair. The Explorer didn't pull away. He blushed.

"Can I have a hug? Not like — not like that, but —"

"Please. If liking boys was a disease, you'd have it many times over." Before Ezreal could think about what that meant, Skylan pulled him close. He was so massive that both Ryland and Ezreal fit snugly in his arms.

Ezreal nosed into Skylan's broad side and thought back to Jayce of Piltover refusing him. What, you want your bottle too, Ez? You're like a supercomputer mixed with a fucking infant.

Skylan chuffed. The rumble of his voice was like a waterfall. "Insecure. That's what that is. Real men give hugs."

Really? Ezreal wondered, happy in the Healer and Guardian's combined warmth. He already liked Skylan and wasn't going to think twice about how or why.

"Aye. How about you two relax while I get dinner? Away from our unwanted guests?" He nodded towards the dead.

Somewhere in the decaying woods, a bird of prey called, high and lone and lonely.

Ezreal smiled, and Ryland felt some of the tension in his heart melt.

"Sounds good."

A Few Hours Ago

Things in the Southern World, however, weren't going as well.

Aven watched as cathedrals blew past, the eaves of houses with golden angels roosting atop them, awnings of blue and gold. One shiny blur with the wind screaming in his ears.

Reminds me a bit of flyin' with Skylan.

Only the sickly-sweet smell of decay wafting from the Garn Wrym's nostrils replaced Skylan's clean, deep pine scent, and the hands on Aven's wrists were rough from wear and tear instead of martial arts training. Aven glanced up, caught a glimpse of the smoldering hatred in Ian's eyes, and looked away.

Death's warmth was a little too intimate.

They circled the golden spire, the Garn Wyrm's limp body flapping like a flag, sun winking off gold and bone-scale alike. The creature flopped gracelessly onto the hundreds of stairs leading into the temple, startling two women into dropping vases and overturning a fruit stand.

"Sor —" Aven began.

Ian clapped a coarse hand over his mouth and hauled him upward. "Shut up."

The Lightbringer closed his eyes. His shoulder — that pain was familiar. It was sprained. Had to be.

…and of course I'd be boynapped right when Sir Ryland's s'posed to show, too.

He sighed against his father's palm, pictured Ryland's face in place of looking around. He didn't have to see to know there were startled soldiers of all rank milling around, watching as Ian cut through the middle of them. Aven's bare feet slid across the marble floors.

Ryland's twilight-cool silver-green eyes, the color of pine needles right before the first frost. His hair of bark, too, black like the trees that rustle beneath the moon. And his hands would feel so good. Like Skylan's, but gentle. Maybe Aven could have all four of those hands against his body again. Cuddled betwixt the two of them. So warm…

He yipped when Ian hurled him to his knees, and opened his eyes to a thick, crushing crowd of — men?

A large, white bowl-shaped room, bare save for dull bronze globes dangling from the ceiling. The slightest sound echoed, amplified — it would be impossible to go unheard.

Most of them were men in dark blue armor with blonde hair and frowning faces, a few in dazzling white. And a few ribbons of lustrous gold falling past shoulders revealed femininity.

But some of them had wings. They were long, arched outward from their shoulders, ivory and silky with feathers that looked like a swan's.

Aven forgot everything. "Wings? That's amazin'!" He stumbled to his feet and flailed for the nearest one, only for Ian to grab his elbows. None of the stunned crowd had the cognizance to move.

Death's rage was so deep it took a few moments for him to form words. He tried to speak once and had to stop again. He hated the Demacians.

Venerable Saint Garamond cleared his throat and leveled his calm gaze. "Good day, interloper."

Interloper. In my own fucking kingdom. Lovely. Ian took a deep breath, trying to ignore how out of place his torn jeans felt among the pristine armor. "I hold before you today one who is no other than a consort of the dreaded King Ryland."

His words and the accompanying gasp echoed against the high, vaulted ceiling, painted white with clouds and silver with the starry constellation of Arcturus Major. (The Noxians called it Isonius, the patron goddess of whores).

The unease in Garamond's blue eyes was clearly visible, despite his best efforts to mask it. Nor could he hide his frown in his sandy goatee. After the phoenix burning in the sky last night, any news of King Ryland had to bode ill. This man and that burning star had to be related.

The Saint tried to meet the boy's green eyes, but they were too occupied with watching the white feathers of the wings. They stirred with the slightest movement. Reminded Aven of dandelions in a field. He wanted to touch one.

Garamond flicked his gaze to the other stunned Saints, Eagles and Commanders, then cleared his throat. "Is — is what this man says true?"

"Hmm? Oh, aye, I reckon. If anyone'd leave Sir Ryland and me alone f'more than five minutes." Aven almost didn't hear the grunts of disgust.

Though he did hear one thought loudly, clearly. Disgusted. You've got to be fucking joking.

Aven's ears pricked up. He tried to pinpoint the thinker, but couldn't. He knew not from whence it came.

Death eyed them all. "Well? Is this not means for an execution?"

Saint Garamond's frown deepened. "I — I don't —"

"I think you should kill him."

Ian realized how shaky with rage he sounded and knew they wouldn't. Besides, it might not work. He'd just assumed Liliana had only shielded Aven from Ian. That might not be true.

Hell. Maybe no one could kill him.

Death's fingernails dug into his palms. His grip on Aven tightened.

Garamond swallowed. "I don't believe it's grounds for an execution, although —"

"Come on," Ian snapped. He ignored the weight of around two hundred blue-eyed gazes. "He's lain with the king."

"No. Haven't, actually. Sadly." Aven bit the tip of his tongue as he shifted forward slightly. Just a little closer — The wing was almost near enough to touch. "Not even in the dream world."

A voice, identical to the thought voice from earlier. "I thought Ezreal of Piltover was King Ryland's consort."

Then a female voice beside that one. Defensive. "No. Ezreal — he wouldn't — he isn't —"

"Why couldn't Ryland have two?" Ian tapped his foot impatiently. "Why not? He's Noxian. Two men, a hundred. Who knows, really?"

They all watched Aven snatch for the angel's feathers and Ian drag him backwards. With a slight smile, the angel shifted his wing, leaving the boy empty handed.

Aven sighed heavily. Today be not my day, I tell you. Not even an angel feather.

Good gods almighty I hate you, Ian thought, and gritted his teeth. A surge of satisfaction as Aven's cheeks colored and his green eyes darkened.

Garamond coughed politely. "As I was saying. It does make him a political enemy."

"And y'don't kill them anymore?" Ian groaned heavily, then spotted someone familiar. "Wait. Hold a moment. Is that Luxanna? Luxanna godsdamned Crownguard?"

Lux looked around her frantically, cringing into Oliver dar Regale. "I see not what sort of business —"

"Wow." Ian laughed in disbelief. His tight hold on Aven's elbows remained the same. "Why the hell don't you have her locked up?"

"I'm — I'm sorry?" Garamond blinked. There was a slight murmuring, a rustling of voices. Luxanna's face turned a deep, russet shade of red.

"She's Ezreal's consort. Hell, that's why she's down here, right?" And she's what stopped my son from getting another Wheel, the strumpet. "She killed herself, pregnant with the Destroyer's —"

"That's enough," Garamond said quietly. The rustling around him grew.

"She was pregnant. Out of marriage. With my s — Ezreal's child." I almost said he was my son. That'd just make this more complicated.

"Who are you, anyway?" Garamond cocked his head politely.

Behind Ian, the Eagles were assuming a battle formation. He didn't have to look to know they were waiting on the word to strike. It was time to change tactics, but that was something Death was familiar with.

"Someone who wants to help. Who fears King Ryland just as much as you all do. And who thinks that life is difficult enough, without him having powerful allies." The words flowed off Ian's tongue smoothly. Too smoothly. Wait — that's not — surely that's not true.

I think it is, Aven thought to himself. Ian's steely grip on him was starting to make his bones ache.

"And I've come to turn the king's consort over to you for safekeeping." His voice rang above the heads of the soldiers. They were exchanging glances. The whispering was growing to an echoing rumble.

A louder voice. "Didn't he just say he wanted us to kill —"

"Who is this —"

"The boy, isn't he the Lightbr —"

With a heavy sigh, Death let some of the Skelgarn's energy flow to his fingertips. Aven squirmed and shuddered — the power antithetical to life was near him, atop him. It burned. He could hear it breathing in his ear, hot, rank and rancid.

Die, Life Child. It brushed his cheek. Rot in pain. The Destroyer comes, even still.

Aven's chest heaved.

Death ignored it. Oh, quit your whining. Y'can suck Sir Ryland's cock, can't you? He's darkness itself.

Aven writhed. Why y'be so mean?

Why y'be so stupid? Death snorted. It'd be impossible to get them to kill him, but imprison him?

"It'll be safest to have him under your guard, so he doesn't help King Ryland in his conquest. So, too, should you monitor Luxanna."

He watched as Garamond attempted to resist his voice, then failed. The Venerable Battle Saint turned to a tall, ox-shouldered man to his left. "Captain dar Regale."

"Sir?" Do I really have to guard Whitefield's boyfriend, too? What kind of fucking — godsdamnit Whitefield. Enough is enough.

"Take this boy and Luxanna to the top of the tower and watch them. You'll — you'll go willingly, won't you, princess?"

Luxanna blinked, then laughed nervously, wiping her hands on her dark-blue armor. The golden Eagle symbol glittered on her right breast, but wasn't enough to save her from Death's intimations. "I — ah — well. I don't have too much of a choice, do I?"

You certainly don't, you dumb broad. Ian nodded and watched as Oliver took Aven's hand. The huge man was glowering. It was enough to make Ian's mortal body nervous. "Good riddance."

"And t'you," Aven said cheerfully, without looking behind him. Instead he looked to Oliver, excited. "Well? Where we goin'?"

Oliver sighed in disgust and took Lux's hand, too.