We Were Relics the Day We Met
Approximately one year before the events of 'End of Days.'
"Your latest find will go here: the crowning piece to our most popular exhibition!" Willian Arkerson – a loud and inflated man – grinned excitedly at Ezreal, who was trying his best to not look discontented. But that is how he felt: ill at ease, unsure, unhappy. "Would you like to go through your speech with me? I'm very eager to hear it." The young prodigy faked a small smile and shook his head.
"I… er… want to keep it a surprise." He looked away from Willian, he needed to get away, he wanted to clear his head. "I think I'll go for a short walk. Check out some of the displays I haven't seen yet."
Willian was slightly disappointed, "Oh... Ok. I'll see you tomorrow." Then he grinned again, "I am so excited for this, all of Runeterra will know of your discovery!"
Ezreal nodded, but he didn't say anything – and the edges of his mouth did not rise even a millimetre. Slowly he trudged, hands in pockets, away from the main display room. He lazily pulled his goggles from his head, letting his golden hair hang over his face a little – and like this he wandered aimlessly through the vast museum. Ezreal wasn't looking for anything; in fact, he barely took his eyes off the floor. He just wanted to walk: to calmly stroll through somewhere that wasn't a monster infested dungeon or a deep darkened cavern. He just wanted some calm, some time to think and ask himself: 'why am I unhappy?'
Ezreal could find no real reason to be depressed. He was young, he was healthy, he was famous, he was rich; he had a job he loved, where no one told him what to do or where to go: and for a long time he had been content with that. But now – now something felt different. Something felt missing. But not missing as much as non-existent. It was as if Ezreal had awoken one day and suddenly realised, realised there was something in the universe, something truly wonderful, and he didn't have it. He didn't even have a part of it. He had never even seen it: and this made him sad.
He thought of his friends, those of which he had. There were so few of them, but this didn't upset him, he didn't mind only having a few friends, what he minded was not having anyone particularly close to him. Oh he had acquaintances within the museums, friends in the explorer's guild, even a few members of the league that he saw outside of combat: he had gone drinking with Jax a few times, been to dinner with Caitlyn. He had suspected she wanted to be more than friends with him, for a long time actually. There was something in the way she looked at him while they talked. But he wasn't interested. She was from a different world, and they hardly knew each other. As if those were the only reasons.
But there was no one Ezreal really felt any connection with: no one he could tell things to, who he could confide in, or be confided in by. There was no one in his life that he could look at and say 'Yes, I trust you. I trust you with my life.' And that felt terrible. That made him hurt: from his mind to his heart all the way through to his soul, that made him hurt.
Ezreal sighed and looked around, he was in a part of the museum he had never been to before. It was dark and dusty, but not in an eerie way: in the way an old house might be, a family home in the middle of the night, when only the fire lit the house and no one dared move from their places of rest. As comfortable as he felt standing there, he thought it would be best to move on – and then he saw it.
At his right side, caught just by the corner of his eye, half obscured by strands of blonde hair, was something beautiful. It was a painting, some oil picture of a single flower blooming vividly. Its colour was unstoppable, as soon as the eye took a single drop of it in, the entire room lit up, as if the flower poured life into a dead world: water onto dry skin. He couldn't stop looking at it, his soul thirsty for the splendour it offered, and with every moment of watching, his feet brought him closer and closer to it. Just as he was a few feet away from it, he stopped moving. He cocked his head to the side slightly and inspected it further. There seemed to almost be no detail, every shape and stroke stood unabashed and uncomplicated: the painting punched pretention and longwinded wisdom in the throat and shouted 'I am a flower! Look how fucking beautiful I am!' Ezreal wanted to touch it, he wanted to feel the bumps and grooves of the strokes the artist had once taken: to follow the method. But just as he reached out, a voice spoke.
"You're not supposed to touch those ya know?"
Ezreal jumped, he quickly spun around, and biting his bottom lip, attempted to look as innocent as possible. All of sudden he was five years old again, as vulnerable and naïve as he had ever been. This wasn't Ezreal the explorer about to collect some ancient artefact, a great guardian monster pouncing on him at the last moment. That monster would have met a blast to the face, not a wide eyed, embarrassed boy wracking his brain for excuses.
In the end the only one he could come up with was this: "Er… Sorry."
Ezreal's hair was in his face again. He wasn't quite sure who was standing in front of him, and so became extremely disorientated when they stepped passed him to get a close look of the painting. Ezreal turned around and moved his locks away from his eyes. "I didn't actually touch it."
"I know. I'm just making sure no one else has." He couldn't see who it was; they were hunched over, there back to him, meticulously searching for a fingerprint or imperfection.
"You sure are protective of that painting," he blurted out, awkward and impatient.
"Well it is mine."
"Oh, you own the museum?" Ezreal had not yet met the new owner; he heard she was young and extremely obsessive over neatness. Then again, he had also heard she wanted to get rid of the art section.
"No." He turned around. "I'm the artist." He was beautiful.
Ezreal stared at the boy the same way he had stared at the painting. Only this time he didn't walk dreamily forwards: that would have been creepy. All Ezreal could see was the boy's eyes: these dark and perfectly emerald eyes; like precious stones they were absolutely flawless, no subtle drops of other colour, no dull sections, no hint of anything except the indomitable and all-consuming green that poured out and pulled you in.
"You… You painted that?" The boy nodded, his black hair flopping over his forehead. "You're…" Ezreal stopped himself. "That's beautiful." He paused. "Like absolutely the most magnificent thing I've ever seen."
The boy blushed and Ezreal almost died. "Well… Thanks. I'm glad you like it. You still can't touch it though. It's not a real flower." He commenced to chuckle at his own joke, and Ezreal almost died again.
He was slightly shorter than Ezreal, and dressed almost as if he was homeless: he had a long worn brown leather jacket on, and a grey scarf that wrapped around his neck and dangled passed his chest. His fingerless gloves had holes in them, and his black boots were weathered through and through. But it was no detriment to his beauty, If anything, it only enhanced it: as if he were a bohemian knight, a gentleman of the slums: an artist.
"I… I'm sorry, I won't try to touch it again. I was just kind of taken back by it." Ezreal smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it was a real smile.
The young man cocked his head to the side, "You're Ezreal aren't you, the explorer?" Ezreal nodded. "You found that amazing relic thing that they're showing off tomorrow, didn't you?"
Ezreal grinned, "Yes, yes I did." The boy looked about the same age as Ezreal, but there was something in his expression, something in the way he stood, that made him seem older: a sadness or scar, a weight or burden: an aged and musty air of the soul. Ezreal didn't want the encounter to end; he had to prolong it somehow. He could feel it, any second now he'd say to him 'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm a very busy artist. I need to go now.' So he blurted once more. "I… I could show you it now if you want? A private viewing. It's hardly fair that I get to see your work, and you don't get to see mine."
The boy smiled, "It would be my pleasure."
So they walked together back towards the main display room, and Ezreal no longer needed to ask himself why he was unhappy. Now he knew why. "Wanna know a funny story? I didn't actually find the relic: I was just stumbling around the ruins and it rolled up behind me."
He laughed, "So it found you?"
"Yup. It found me."
Author's note: Yes, this is a short glimpse at the beginning of a relationship that will play a large role within 'End of Days.' Yes, I might write more of it. Yes, there will be other stories like this supporting the 'End of Days' version of the Leage of Legends universe.
I hope you enjoy what I'm trying to do =)