"Strength was once the very backbone of Noxus," General Darius observed, "yet we have become plagued by weakness. In Jericho Swain I see a man with the Power to cull the weak from Noxus."
In the tumultuous aftermath of the Kalamanda mines and Boram Darkwill's death, Noxus is left in tatters. But through all the turmoil, one man has risen above the rest: Jericho Swain has returned to restore Noxus to glory. The master tactician has waited for years for his plan to be realized, and now, the time has come… romACTION Swain x LeBlanc
(The summary box wasn't big enough for my initial summary, so here's the "official" summary)
A/N: Well, here goes. My first fanfiction. Because Swain and LeBlanc don't get nearly enough love. Constructive feedback is welcome.
Another note, this is a romACTION story – meaning less emphasis on the romance and more on the action. There will be fluff though – but on the flip-side if you're looking for a totally fluffy story with rushed plot to get to more fluff, go read Twilight. (ehem, anywho...)
Final note: I have other chapters finished, and I'll try to update weekly, depending on the response I get.
*This fic is rated "T" for language, violence, and fluff
Please enjoy~
Chapter 1
Porcelain
The sallow faced sun had begun to set, gradually choked out by the darkness of night. The last lights of the sun formed a halo about the harsh edged skyline of the city state Noxus; a waning sigil extinguished by the cruel fist of night.
But for the underworld of Noxus, darkness always pervaded, not in the sense of night and day, but through the cumulative poverty, starvation and unchecked violence. The people in this part of Noxus scuttled in the shadows and alleyways like rats, with sunken faces and lackluster eyes.
Jericho Swain was no stranger to this side of the city he held the position of general over. He strode through the labyrinth of crudely strung shacks with an air of confidence. He knew that not even the most desperate of thugs would dare challenge such a high ranking general as he. The squalor these destitute citizens lived in was mortifying by any standards. Swain knew this; he also knew that this was a result of the stringent military state. Those who weren't able to serve as an excellent soldier were left with next to nothing. Swain himself was an anomaly, and he had the fleeting thought every now and again about what might have become of him, a cripple, had it not been for his brilliantly tactical mind. Those thought always evaporated quickly as they came, but amidst the grime and rampant filth, it was difficult not to glimpse shadows of what could have been.
Swain slid out of the alleyway and approached a decrepit building. With his cane, he swept away clumps of refuse from the doorstep and, tapping it twice, he revealed a secluded passage way tucked in the side of the sagging structure. Without preamble, the tactician slipped into the pitch black niche. In the silence that followed, Beatrice, Swain's loyal bird ruffled her feathers as the passage spiraled downward. Now they were truly in the underworld: the cesspool of cults, covens, and cutthroats who thrived in the honeycomb maze beneath the very structure of Noxus. Lowlifes hung around every bend; that much was certain, but Swain was well accustomed to encountering them, though Beatrice was still uneasy.
"We're almost there, girl," Swain soothed to the miniature demon bird, gruffly patting her head.
They reached another doorway hewn into the stone of the labyrinth wall. Leaning heavily on his cane, Swain knocked on the door three times then two, in a syncopated pattern. A peephole scraped open and two beady eyes peered out demanding, "Who dares disturb the-" His eyes suddenly gaped in recognition, "g-general Swain! I-oh-I'm terribly sorry!" the man hastily slid open the rest of the door and Swain limped inside the dimly lit room.
"My apologies sir, I had no idea you were coming!"
Swain paid no heed to the doorman and walked confidently through the sparsely furnished room to the only other door directly across the way.
"Oh! Sir, general, sir, wait- she might not be ready-"
Still ignoring the doorman, Swain reached for the handle, but before his gnarled hand could grasp the knob, the door swung inward and revealed the presence of a breathtakingly elegant woman smirking in the doorframe. She wore exquisite purple robes, accented with jewels and a magnificent headdress. A faint smile seemed ever etched into her pale, painted features.
"LeBlanc." Swain greeted with a shallow bow.
"Jericho Swain." The deceiver nodded formally. "I've been expecting you. Do come in. And Jarvis," LeBlanc spared a glance at the mildly flabbergasted doorman, "You're services are no longer needed this evening."
Jarvis nodded and eased himself into the armchair, one of three furniture fixings of the antechamber.
The door swung shut behind LeBlanc and Swain, and the tactician breathed in the heady scent of incense, softly smoldering in the corner. The room was host to lavish furnishings: plush Ionian carpets matted the floor, intricate furniture dotted the space tastefully and elegant patterns adorned the myriad of other artifacts about the chamber. Over the years, the seemingly ageless LeBlanc had acquired an exquisite taste, and every inch of the chamber reflected those years of careful collecting.
Swain was already familiar with most of the décor, so he shuffled over to the furniture piece that interested him most: the ornate chair set at a small table. Precious porcelain dishes were set daintily on the lace table cloth; teacups, saucers, crème, sugar and even a steaming plate of scones. Swain settled stiffly into one of the chairs, propping his cane against the edge of the table while Beatrice lighted down on the back of another chair. She shut four of her six eyes contentedly and proceeded to preen herself. LeBlanc, who had disappeared for a moment, returned with a steaming kettle of tea. She set it in the center of the table and slipped gracefully in the third chair, opposite Swain. The deceiver straightened her cloak and headdress with a perfectly manicured hand before pouring tea for herself and for the tactician.
"How was your trip over here?" She asked, making small talk as she poured the steaming beverage.
Swain grunted, "Filthy, as usual." He grasped the delicate teacup- it looked somewhat out of place in his calloused grip - and pulled down his facemask before taking a swig of the scalding tea. He shuddered as it went down. "Ahh, impeccable taste as always. Ionian black tea."
LeBlanc smiled vaguely and sipped her own tea. "You'd think that after all these years, I'd at least know your favorite tea," she teased.
Swain chortled, "Indeed, yet I still have not an inkling of your tea preferences, other than the fact you patiently endure my choice tea at every visit."
"Jericho," the deceiver laughed, "you know far too much about me already. One must keep some things a secret!" She settled back into her chair, still smirking, "Did you make sure to close the door tight behind you? It let's in a terrible draft if not closed all the way."
"Of course," Swain replied offhandedly, "I'm certain it clicked shut, locking automatically, I presume?"
LeBlanc's eyes glittered, "then we shan't be disturbed." She took another sip and continued, "You surprised me, Swain, when you called such a sudden meeting. Are the state of affairs really so dreadful?"
"No worse than usual." Swain grunted.
"Cho'gath still kept in check?" Swain nodded, "And what about Shaco?"
"The usual mayhem. I've considered sending Darius or Draven to dispatch that nuisance."
"Hah! And lose your right hand man and best executioner? What a waste."
"Indeed."
"I can tell you aren't here for idle gossip." LeBlanc observed shrewdly, fingering her teacup lazily.
"Since when have I ever come over solely for tea and gossip?" The general snorted.
"Ah, if only you were that sort of man Swain, if only!" LeBlanc laughed sardonically. "In all seriousness though, the fracas over the Kalamanda mines must be keeping you on your toes, especially considering you only recently returned from your 'vacation'."
"That blasted mine has been nothing but a headache." Swain grumbled, downing more tea.
"Or, perhaps it's those blasted Demacians who are the real headache?" The deceiver lilted.
"Those sniveling brats know not when to keep their necks out of that which doesn't concern them." Swain growled.
"And every interference is more tension and more needlessly shed Noxian blood." Leblanc finished gravely, "and what good is a dying soldier? Bleeding out his worth until he is spent. One cannot survive in such an abysmal state." She sent a pointed looked at Swain.
He nodded somberly, "Yet in many ways the fallen warrior is still better off than the field flowers under his near-lifeless form."
LeBlanc's golden eyes glinted, "Have you grown senile in your absence? You know as well as I that even the most wilted flower – wilted rose – will bloom again in the spring, when the warrior is long dead."
"So I suppose one must wait until 'springtime'." Swain purposely baited.
"If 'spring' would come! The rose will not bloom again unto the fields are no longer soaked in blood and the government is no wrought of the tyranny of a military state!" LeBlanc furiously gripped her teacup with more force than necessary, causing a crack to lace up the site. It betrayed the immense power hidden within her slim form.
"I do sympathize with your plight." Swain said evenly, in stark contrast to the violent emotions plaguing LeBlanc. "But you must know, in my position, what can I do but watch the 'warrior' die?"
"End him." LeBlanc snarled; she locked onto the tactician's blood red eyes fearlessly.
"It isn't that simple." Swain sighed wearily. For a moment, he looked truly old.
LeBlanc's expression softened, "But, perhaps the task is simpler now that General du Couteau is out of the picture." A small smirk worked its way onto her pale features.
"Indeed so." Swain allowed something like a smile to cross his stern features.
"It's a shame that the High Command wastes your talents as a mere general. You were always suited for greater." LeBlanc sighed airily.
"Have no fear M'lady LeBlanc, that seat of power you speak of? Attaining it is not a matter of if but when." Swain drunk down the rest of his tea and rose stiffly, "I do believe I should be returning home; it's quite late." LeBlanc rose too, all the violent emotion vanished and her former perfect porcelain visage returned.
Beatrice lighted back onto Swain's shoulder plate as the general spoke again, "I was pleased- and relieved- when you accepted my proposition to have tea today. I thought you would never forgive me for giving myself to the military high command."
"The mystic chains that bind us are deeper than any ephemeral quarrel; yet know this: I have not forgiven you." LeBlanc said bluntly, "Not for selling yourself over to the cause I thought you had allied against. But…perhaps if you were to do some good in your position, I may come to reconcile with you."
"M'lady LeBlanc, we've all had to make sacrifices. As for me, I've sold my soul far more times than the common man should…and you have made similar pacts. Greatness was never achieved nor constituted by the common. But you already know that, Matron of the Black Rose." Swain finished softly.
"How eloquent, Jericho, I'm simply charmed." LeBlanc's voice lilted with sarcasm.
"But of course." Swain's red eyes gleamed in amusement. "Thank you, Evaine," He took one of her graceful hands in his and pressed a rough, dry kiss to her knuckles, "for the tea; it was excellent." He picked up his cane and shuffled out of LeBlanc's chamber, leaving the deceiver grinning pertly in his wake.
Jarvis was sprawled sleeping in the armchair of the antechamber, but for once Swain opted not to harass the hapless doorman and slipped as silently out of the labyrinth as he had entered.
Outside, the night air was stagnant and little moonlight filtered through brooding clouds. All was silent save for the clacking of the general's cane against the cobblestones and the thudding of his uneven footsteps. Swain was painfully aware that his obviously limping gait would be a magnet for trouble.
He was right, for around the next bend, a shadow waited. as the tactician approached the shadow tensed and drew a blade, ready to lash out at Swain who was just…about…there-
Suddenly, Beatrice sensed the shadow's presence and squawked nervously. Swain halted to soothe his bird; all his senses were on edge, and he glanced around warily.
The assailant cursed vehemently and stepped off into deeper shadows. The assassination would have to wait until a different time. The assailant knew he would only have a chance at killing the general if he had the element of surprise, and that cursèd bird had ruined his plans. He pulled a hawk-like hood tightly over his head, and scampered away angrily.
Swain finally reached his estate and breathed a sigh of relief. Beatrice had not settled down until his gate and doors were locked and barred, and he wondered what could have vexed his favorite bird so. Little did he know that he owed the demon bird his life, for the assailant had been none other than the blade's shadow, Talon.
A/N: What is LeBlanc's favorite tea? Swain-flavored tea of course! XD
*LeBlanc poofs in out of nowhere*
LB: *bluntly* For my next trick I'll make your life bar disappear
LS: W-wait! If you do that I can't write about you and your boyfriend Swain!
LB: Fine – I'll let you off with a warning *she jabs her staff in my face as if she'd like nothing more than to clock me with it and poofs away*
LS: *Laments* I work with dangerous people.
(Now advertizing Swain tea – tastes like old man, tactics, and unspecified bird.)
*Swain doesn't like Jarvis because his name sounds too much like "Jarvan"
Until next time,
~Lady Spindle