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Summit

He was on fire. He was sure of it. The old men of the tribe would always speak of the great bonfires that existed in the South, where the grass grew higher than ten men and as thick as a ursine. They spoke of the great fire that fought the Watchers, the magicians in the deep south that could turn kindling into fire with as snap of their fingers. Tyndamere never believed fire could be so fierce, fiercer than the snow and sleet of the Freljord. The night before, he was a barbarian, a man of the tundra. He was a leader, cold and hard, commanding his people. Heat was found in quilts and furs, not by this distant phenomenon. Fire had not been a part of his life.

Until now.

His sword lay buried in the snow, shattered by the red monster's blade. His tribe was already cold, their blood frozen and hard. But his heart was on fire, kindled by the demon's blade when it cut through it. The fire...

His feet failed him as he knelt to the ground. His arms failed him, refusing to lunge out for the demon's leg in a last act of defiance. All he could do was wait.

"I see it in you..." The monster intoned, regal and curious.

Tryndamere said nothing, although he desperately wanted to scream curses until he died of asphyxiation. It appeared his mouth had failed him as well. All he could do was grovel... and seethe. He felt the cold swirl around him, but the ice melted on his skin. It was madness. His heart shuddered his entire frame with each beat, threatening to burst out of his chest... The fire consumed him.

"So this is the Princess's town?"

"This is Rakelstake, leader." Novich replied, motioning to the clustered hub clinging to the side of the mountain. Radiating from the walls were acres of farmland. "The Throne of Freljord."

"See to it that our host is as civil as possible. I want our warriors giving gifts, cutting wood, sharing ale. If I hear one word of a fight..."

"Yes, no fights."

"None." The Barbarian King growled, glaring at his aide-de-camp for a moment, "We must be wary of these 'Summoners' and their reporters. Noxus will be watching, as well as the rest of the world."

"I hear you sir. We will behave." Novich responded respectfully, "Try to hide your apprehension and irritation. I know how much you want to get back to the border."

"I need approval." Tryndamere muttered, exasperated. "Things were so much easier before she complicated things."

Although he had never seen her before, Tryndamere had heard much from Ashe, the Frost Archer. For months she had supplied his band of warriors, giving them supplies to brave the winter. Tryndamere nearly refused them, but they were blades and arrows, not food and water. The girl knew the difference between a fighting man and a Barbarian, he gave her that, and she had promised him an end to the Noxian incursions. Little did he know that this would require him to learn how to read and write, and learn the politics of the world. He cared little about the foreign lands of Piltover and Ionia, or the strange group called the Institute of War, but Ashe insisted through her envoys and letters that it was the only way.

Why believe her? Tryndamere grumbled internally as the host entered through the gates of Rakelstake, ignoring the trumpets and festivities that exploded around him. I have no respect for farmers, or their war of words.

But did he have a choice? Not when she reminded him of his roots, as a Jarəsit Barbarian of the Fyrone Flats, ancient protectorates of the Throne of Freljord. His elders taught him well, he had remembered his roots. He would honor his heritage and serve her. He took her gifts, learned languages, practiced literacy and spelling, diligently as any lord would serve his queen.

He waved absentmindedly to the crowd, nodding with a neutral expression, although he was grim with claustrophobia. He spied a Summoner, a purple cloaked enigma that hung back, holding a pulsing crystal with his hands, taping the show. Internally, he wanted to wheel around and bolt out back towards the wild, away from the world of interviews and politics, but that was not what his forefathers did. But was that how they felt?

So he rode on, until he reigned his horse at the steps of the Crystal Hall. The procession stopped behind him, and the crowd no longer penned him in.

There she stood, alongside her royal escort of knights and swordsmen. Her hair was white as a flurry of snow, eyes bluer than Tryndamere could comprehend. She was only one foot lower than he did, but her arms were smooth and her face young. For a moment, Tryndamere couldn't believe that the girl standing before him wrote the letters that commanded him with such conviction.

"Welcome, Tryndamere, King of the Barbarians." Ashe proclaimed, "Lissandra and I are delighted that you decided to attend our summit."

Tryndamere nodded, swallowing his disappointment as best he could. "I am honored to serve the Queen as my ancestors have, centuries past."

"And you shall serve her well." Ashe responded coolly, "Your men are welcome to stay in Rakelstake and its barracks..."

"I appreciate it." Tryndamere replied hotly, brushing aside her cordiality like a gnat. "But my men would not want to impose themselves on your... subjects..."

Ashe's face gave nothing away, her blue eyes never drifting from him. "Very kind of you, sir. The grounds outside and inside of the walls are yours as long as peace is kept. After all, we are the same people, of the same land. While your company rests, would you accompany me and Lissandra for dinner?"

"I would be... honored."

As Ashe lead him into the Crystal Hall, he looked from left to right at the clear blue surfaces, down to the stone tiles of earth, and upwards to the white ceiling. He looked at everything and everyone, each palace guard and every stone sculpture...

But not at the girl. The moment he looked her in those strange eyes, his blood began to pump through his head quicker and quicker, screaming bloody murder and filling his mind with anger. Every moment in her presence only fed the fire that blazed within the confines of his skin, as if she was some allergen. He couldn't help it. Those eyes, that young face, those delicately trimmed fingernails...

He hated her.

End Chapter

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