She was unused to being held by arms other than her own. It was a sensation she had nearly forgotten but dearly missed: a warm embrace from someone who cared for her. When she had been small, toddling and clapping and happy, her mother would hold her tenderly, back before she became too wound up in politics and popularity to care for her daughter; when she had been six and brilliant and curious, and her brother had scooped her into his arms and twirled her around while she squealed in joy, back before he became too absorbed in the thrill of battle and the beckoning of duty to protect his little sister any longer.
She used to cry herself to sleep often, arms curled around her shoulders, legs drawn upwards to her chest, She would rock herself late into the night and then early into the morning, voice trembling with sobs and so, so much fright.
She was older now, too old to believe in her mother's love and too wise to hope for her brother's aid. There was no salvation that could bring peace to a shattered murderer, no god that could erase the sins she had committed in the name of peace.
So it was with mixed feelings - surprise, happiness, and the creeping unrest in the pit of her stomach called fear - that she received Ezreal's hug. It was dark outside, as it always had to be when they met, because she was a noble and he was a rebel and they were not supposed to love each other. She hadn't seen him in months; she had been away, sneaking around Noxus yet again for evidence of inherent evil that just simply wasn't there.
He didn't know that, of course; there was no possible way for him to be privy to such sensitive knowledge.
He had hugged her simply because he had missed her while she was gone, and now she was back.
Oh, she was terrified. Of losing him, of losing this, of losing her title, her family, her life. She was scared of losing so many things. Of losing everything. The more she loved him, the more she stood to lose. She would be better off to cut him out of her life completely, to turn her nose up and walk past him and pretend he meant nothing to her, like she did when she swept past the guards at the Royal Palace to hide her fear of another perilous, pointless assignment.
But Ezreal's arms were warm and strong and safe. There hadn't been anything that felt safe to her since the last night she'd slept peacefully in her childhood bed, naively faithful that her brother would keep her safe from anything and that her mother would always love her. But Ezreal had never promised her anything, had always shrugged off the honor she was shackled by, and maybe that was why he had managed to find a place in her heart all his own.
She wanted to laugh at his appearance: uncombed hair, ragged clothes, dirty boots, heart-wrenching grin.
He smelled like dusty books and felt like home.
She didn't need salvation.
She just needed him.
xoxoxox
I deleted the old version of this because, well... It was basically a rough, rough draft of The Relic, and I prefer that this one-shot series be unrelated to my other stories. So. Yeah. On a side note, this story is actually EDITED. YES!
Lemme know what you think. I hope you still enjoy this one-shot-drabble thing.
xoxoPigTails