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Talon x Quinn
Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.
A/N: I admit that Talon is a hard cookie to write. If you play his champion, he's actually a smug, sadistic little ass that likes to cut things. And he laughs a great deal. Other readings and people's head-canons tell otherwise. I would appreciate some feedback to help me out in the writing process.
Chapter One: From Three to One
I would never describe it as morally righteous, but his talents were beyond commendable. The only sound was something thin and swift, the pain hardly notable before the very bitter and eternal sleep. Either that or something lasting, though still not long. Still not excruciating. But as your hands grip at your own blood, the thought and fear of death festers in your head until you finally give. The expression the victims wear strikes guilt into my soul, and my failure to protect is beyond regrettable.
They sent three of us. Scouts. Four if anyone would properly count Valor. They were young, and I was supposed to lead them, guide them...protect them. We were to venture through foreign, Noxian territory, eyeing the placement and status of opposing forces. Then turn around and warn Jarvan IV of any possible obstacles or hazards his battalion may face. This war brewed for so long, awaiting it's point of initiation. Each state preparing themselves. I had remained optimistic, though many of my colleagues had called me naive.
Three scouts. Why three? That was so many. Too many. Myself, a young man named Mozan, and a petit thing named Xana. I was told it would be training, nothing dangerous, serious, or threatening...only on-field training. Their second time in only mild danger, which was nothing compared to my initial experience beyond safety. But the very stillness of the forest had caused me discomfort, and as Valor, flying above us, let out a shriek of warning, it had been too late. We were light on our feet, though it did not mimic stillness. My footsteps were unheard, but the slight, uncontrolled fumbles of these recruits had given us away. The subtle but unnatural shift of leaves...or the crisp sound of snapping twigs.
I listened to Valor's call, but as I tensed myself, observing the area, the brief choking sobs of struggle diverted my attention. I shot towards the last sensed direction of our antagonist and bolted towards the suddenly wounded: Xana. I watched as she crumbled, knees folding and body falling gracelessly to the ground. Her hands were clawing desperately at her throat, blood pulsing and seeping from the wound, clean and brief, elegant in its length and depth. As I held her, I told her to rest in my kindest voice, and she died.
I turned to Mozan, who stood ready with his bow. When I began to speak, perhaps a warning or a retreat, the wisp of metal cutting air interrupted me. He painfully cried as several blades reached into him from the darkened corners between trees. They were quickly embedded, yanked from his chest, and pulled back as though attached to strings.
Blood followed the motion of the weaponry, his gags of horror silenced with death. All before his body even touched the floor. I could feel the horror on my face, the chill in my bones was indescribable. I shot at the threat yet again, Valor swooping downward and hiding within the upward branches. He would be my eyes as always.
I don't think I was prepared to die. Although the idea had never truly frightened me as much as was normal. I imagine my expression was tired and woeful, but my concerns were towards the darkness present and expanded by night. I knew who this was. I recognized his work, his expertise. His swift ruthlessness and clean execution.
I was enraged, but I somehow remembered to be calm. Mozan's corpse lay there with a haunting stillness. Xana had a terror in her lidded eyes, and their youth reminded me of Caleb. My failure. My loss.
I waited a minute with my back against the largest three within ten feet, and initiated verbal contact.
"Talon."
I spoke easy, demanding a meeting. Demanding an explanation. Speaking in a casual tone despite my seething anger. My defeat and disappointment.
"Girl," he says. He mocks me without any humor in his voice. Though I have never recalled him to find much of anything funny, other than stabbings.
"They did nothing wrong." My voice is accusing, even as I lower my crossbow. It beckons him out of the shadows and causes him to stand there with a scowl. "They were young."
His expression goes unchanged. "They were Demacians."
"Then in all of our meetings, why have I yet to earn a blade to the throat?"
His scowl faded a bit, a perplex expression (from what little I could see of his face) made my stomach clench in disdain. He was considering it...
My hand wrapped around the shiv tucked at the arch of my back. Valor tells me such movements are instinctual.
"If you had killed me in all of our exchanges, then they wouldn't be dead." He attempts to instill guilt in me...and it works. I clench my teeth, balling my hands into fists, further gripping my cross bow and shiv. Tensing. I can feel the anger moving through my blood.
"Then show some respect. It's their lives for yours." My calm was slightly irked...or perhaps more than slightly. He toyed with me so frequently. He finds me amusing. Like a child's pet or doll. And I have an everlasting fascination. An unhealthy, unlawful one.
I have been told countless things. Lux claims that my fascination is vengeance. That there are reasons to believe he murdered Caleb in his youth. Jarvan states that it is the will I have to fight for Demacia, and that I am plagued with the idea of victory and justice. That I wish to eliminate a toxin of Runeterra. I simply believe he has caused me anguish and insanity. I believe he has tortured me. I believe that I need to know why.
He glances to either side, eyeing the bodies of my scouts. I could watch him think for hours. The simple expression of constant consideration forever etched upon his features, taunting those who beg for life as their throats sit beneath his blades. His arms, folded, relax to his sides, and he finally averts his attention back to me.
"I would be further hailed if I end this now. The Wings of Demacia...broken, in my hands."
A threat. I loath him. I have never hated much in this world, save war, but Talon is the only other exception. The only individual I find myself incapable of killing, be it mercy or simply because I cannot. The only petty assassin who is devoted and obsessed with a long lost Du Couteau.
"And I would save a multitude of Demacians lives if I chose to stop your aggression," I snap at him, still somehow breathing evenly.
"Then kill me." He states and I grit my teeth. I listen to the very brief rustles of Valor's wings, several yards within the trees.
"I can't." I admit it through my teeth, spiteful. I have considered him my rival since the very day I escaped with only a meager portion of my health. I had once saved his life from arrow inflicted poison, costing him his hand...but he has since mended another back on without repercussion. Or perhaps had the aid of magic to develop another. However, my strength hardly matches his own. It intimidates me, and yet I confront him as though I am Garen to Sona.
His hood conceals more of his face and he shifts his weight. His bladed arm slacks a bit more to his side. His scowl grows, and I imagine he's become impatient.
"Then why can't I kill you." I hear him mutter such a blank, monotonous question. Hardly perplexed. Hardly infatuated. Though he is the type to become obsessive over things he finds minutely interesting. Blades. Du Conteau. Murder.
He looks at me, I can tell, but I didn't know the answer. I only felt despise.
"You kill so easily-"
"Says a scout with her arrows coated in the blood of hundreds."
"I've proven myself." I hold my tongue. I go too far, though the truth seems appealing to blurt out in such a heated debate. I've considered telling him before, though I imagine my death follows the devastating truth.
"And you chastise me?" His smirk is outrageous. His voice defies his expression, thick tone seeping with insult. Humorless.
I'm done listening to him. "What are you doing here, Talon? What have they offered you now that's worth scouting enemy territory?"
"The arriving Demacian unit will have information I require...evidence." He lessens our distance, my back further digging into the bark of the tree. "The one several kliks behind you, attempting to be stealthy."
It was like a switch. My anger seethed from my breath, choking my words as I tensed. I could feel my calm dissipate.
"Valor, go!" I hear Valor's wings slap at the air, and he's off to warn Jarvan. I stare back at my opponent, every vein pulsing with fear and rage. "I'll kill you."
"You can't."
"One day we will. One day I'll have Jarvan's permission to specifically hunt you down, Talon. No accidental meetings, or sneak attacks, no unprepared death. Valor's shadow will be the first thing you see, and I will be the last."
He's invasive of my personal space. His bladed arm is slack against the very quick pulse in my neck. He's too close. I'm willing to bite him should he agitate me further. But this fear is irrational and paralyzing. The treat of death sits before me in the shape of a blade. I am terrified of this monster. No matter how much I deny or conceal it. Yet I taunt him and insult him. I'm brilliant.
"And if I slice the throat of the heir to the throne? Make all of "Jarvan's" experience and accomplishments worth nothing, would you come find me despite superior authority?" He chuckles at me. He finds humor in me...my responses. Mocks me. My threats are meager and hold no actuality in his eyes. And I often wonder, after our many tiffs and conversations, if I took them seriously myself.
It was odd...every single time we would meet. He'd disappear on me. Leave without injuring me or mentally scarring me. Without devastating my ability whatsoever. I knew I would die against him. I cannot kill him alone and directly. His skills and strength outweigh my own. But the question remains: why has he never once attempted to kill me?
Is it because I had once saved his life? Even at the cost of a hand? Even so, that is only returned once. Not several times over.
I think of Jarvan, suddenly. How much I adore and respect a man who's seen every horror from Ionia to The Void. The prestige and determination that radiate from such an incredible leader astound me daily. The way he holds my cheek as a wish for protection before sending me off. The disapproval on his face as I return, wounded and starved. My anger at Talon grows. And I decide, on a whim, that the truth is necessary. My lips part and I seethe bitterness and vile intentions. I smile in admitting what made me so respected and appreciated, stating it through my teeth.
"I would put an arrow in your skull, like I did to your beloved Du Couteau."
How un-Demacian of me.
His smile vanished. Instantly. It leaves his face as though attached to a switch. I feel his hand around my neck tighten, the blade of his arm pressing further at a very slow and painful rate. His entire body tenses. His jaw is stiff suddenly, and I can smell the blood as it pours from my skin. Such a small wound on my jugular terrifies me. But I determined my fate. I stare at him, in his eyes, and await what is to come as his expression turns sour and gruesome.
I struggle to speak. His grip is too firm.
"How many battles Talon? How long have we played hawk and prey? I knew this entire time. And how many times did you walk away from me? Mock me and vanish, only to leave the answer you've spent years searching for."
He doesn't move, still. He maintains his hold. Frozen. Shocked for whatever reason. Staring me down and contemplating what he should do. I see the process as we go eye to eye. I see my reflection in his irises, even despite the dark. I make out his hair and face, something I've known is rare. I rasp a laugh out. The pain is lasting and numbing, and the trickle of blood running down my neck continues to grow.
"There is no evidence in the next battalion." I sound tired and hoarse. "The criminal you've wanted for so long is between your fingers."
End it. End it. I want him to end it.
His motions are swift and I anticipate the very terrifying thought of death. I apologize to my brother and my bird. I send a prayer to the creators and hold my breath. He slices my neck...and leaves the most mild and casual cuts over my throat. It was hardly painful. His arm shakes, blade piercing the surface tree out of what I assume is rage. My fingers bleed as I grip rugged bark, the smell of nature comforts as I take in shaken breaths.
He still has not killed me.
"Why?" He asks, in a tone I cannot define. I stare at his teeth, grit and tense.
"You needed to know," I say. As though I am wiser. As if I knew anything about him.
"Shut up!" He dismisses me violently with a strong wave of his arm, expression angry. Stature rigid and tense. Eyes concealed and emotions still somehow obvious.
"Kill me."
I must have trusted him. A murderer. A Noxian. Because I laid my life in his trembling, uncertain hands. I taunted him and gambled my life to satisfy my own desire to know. I asked for what I fear most, daring a criminal of beastly nature to slaughter me where I stood.
But he leaves. He is gone so quickly, and so silently. I fall to my knees. I examine the death around me, with faces of terror and open eyes. They stared at me, blaming me...despising me with what was left of their existence. The cold went unnoticed until now, crawling up my skin. The stench of blood abundant in the air. And I can hear the rugged sound of reinforcements approaching at unbelievable speeds, still a fair distance away.
I hear Valor caw, and I sit and wait.