Rapier Negotiation
« La première erreur prend ta adversaire à la légère. »
The first error is to take your opponent lightly.
"No. Your senses have left you," Fiora snorts, pulling on her silken gloves. "Are they in the nest of la dragon ou la faucon this time? "
"Laurent," Jarvan growls, curling his heavy gauntlet into a fist and slamming against the wall by the duelist's head, "do as your future king commands you, or I swear, woman-"
"Comme vous voulez," she sighs extravagantly, "just this once."
The two Demacians straighten up reflexively as they hear footsteps at the beginning of the hall, and Jarvan winces as he looks at the hand-shaped imprint he left in the powder blue stone.
"Clumsy," Fiora sniffs with one last tug on her gloves. She tucks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and offers Jarvan a catlike smile.
"See, mon petit prince héritier, I prepare to go. This woman's name, what is it?"
"She's Duchess to you," he threatens. "I expect you to be on your best behavior, Fiora."
"I am best always, mon chou."
Fiora is prepared for the woman's icy gaze but it is the silence that makes her uneasy. The woman walks with a calm, patient tread, her hands hidden in her long black and white sleeves and her eyes fixed on the horizon. Fiora trots by her side, scanning her surroundings, stroking the guard of her rapier, looking for anything to interrupt the tedium.
"So!" she says forcefully, extending her blade with a flourish, "You have heard of me, I expect!"
"Indeed I have, Lady Laurent," the Ionian says with the slightest incline of her head. The red teardrops painted under her eyes gleam mockingly at Fiora, who grimaces.
"You know, the greatest swordsman in the world is a woman, and this woman is I!" she continues, settling her cape over her arm and making a few feints at the air. The Ionian continues to walk, not even sparing her work a glance.
"I see," the woman murmurs.
"Imbécile," Fiora hisses angrily. "Greatness is here and you do not look at it!"
"Oh, but I doubt that," the Ionian says calmly. "Lady Laurent, do you know what the most powerful force on Runeterra is?"
"Strength of arm, strength of the blade!" the duelist snaps.
"No," she says, with a slow, pitying shake of her head. "It is discipline. And you are without it."
Fiora quivers with rage and levels her rapier at the woman's chest without a thought. Before the point can pierce the thick cloth, she hesitates, remembering her duty, and jerks it back to her side with a snort of disgust.
"Tu as de la chance," Fiora spits. "If duty held me not, I would challenge your words with my steel."
"You would not be able to harm me," the Ionian says, turning fully to face Fiora. Her calm brown eyes are intense. The power in her gaze drains the breath from the duelist's lungs.
With a shout, Fiora thrusts at her, and gasps as her rapier is nearly jarred from her hand. She dares to look at the Ionian and sees her, hand outstretched, the tip of Fiora's blade resting against the pad of her index finger.
"With understanding comes wisdom, Lady Laurent," the Ionian says calmly. "Find discipline."
Fiora sheathes her blade with a shudder as the woman shows her palms. They are unmarked.
"—and this is the House Lightshield, flanked by the barracks of the Dauntless Vanguard and the House Crownguard," Fiora grumbles, pointing out objects of interest with her rapier as she leads the Ionia through the streets of Demacia.
"Very interesting," the woman murmurs. "Where do you live, Lady Laurent?'
Fiora flushes and covers her face with her arm as she adjusts her cape.
"Il n'y a pas un maison de Laurent à la ville," she mumbles.
"I fear I do not understand you," the Ionian says apologetically.
"Laurent has no house," Fiora snaps. "Mon pére, my filthy father, lost it for us."
"Ah," the Ionian murmurs, "forgive me, Lady Laurent."
"My name is Fiora," she sniffs, "I have honor."
"Fiora," the Ionian says quietly, and the duelist shivers. She feels like the woman can look into her soul sometimes, and she cannot understand her blade, pressed against the Ionian's bare hand.
"There, the embassy. Merci Dieu, my task is done. Good-bye," she says roughly as she moves to turning away, her head held high.
"Your chakras are troubled, Fiora," the Ionian replies, examining her critically with those deep eyes. "Vishuddha, the Throat, is blocked. You must find security in yourself and your abilities, in your worthiness."
"Ionian rubbish," Fiora snorts.
"When you have done this, you may come to me again," the woman finishes, her lips briefly curving in a serene smile.
"Who is next?" Fiora calls, a savage grin on her lovely face. Servants scramble around her silver boots, mopping up pools of blood, as yet another challenger limps away.
"Might I?" a voice calls, and Fiora stiffens as the Ionian woman glides out of the crowd.
"What are you doing here?" she growls.
"Learning," the Ionian woman says. "I hear tale that you once made those you defeated lick your feet and cry for your mercy before you let them go."
"Well—" Fiora says, shifting from foot to foot. "There is no need for that now. They know I am the best."
"Are you the best, Fiora?" the woman asks, and holds up her hands.
Fiora takes a deep breath and settles into her fencing position, her rapier darting out to taste the air. The Ionian watches her silently and makes no move to call the blue-green fire she uses on the Fields of Justice.
Fiora feints to the woman's right and then lunges at her shoulder, the duelist's rapier moving in a blinding arc. It hits with a shrieking crash that reverberates all the way up Fiora's arm, but she can almost feel something beneath the blade, like a shifting, second skin. She presses down with all her strength, her focus narrowing to the razor tip of her rapier.
Without warning, she yanks her blade back and swings again at the same spot, heedless of the sweat sliding down her back or the jealous murmurs of onlookers. The Ionian is the only person that exists for her. The rapier scrapes against the barrier again and Fiora grits her teeth.
But the woman smiles, a bright smile that shows her teeth.
"Look, Fiora," she says, and gently pushes the rapier away from her shoulder. Reluctantly, Fiora lets her, and steps forwards to look at whatever the woman is gesturing at.
There is a single loose, black thread on the shoulder of the woman's overdress.
Warm relief floods through Fiora and she lets the woman place the thread in her hand without complaint. When the Ionian steps forwards and touches the hollow of her throat, however, she freezes and eyes her suspiciously.
"Can you feel it?" the Ionian asks.
"What do you speak of?" Fiora grumbles.
"Your chakra," the Ionian says, as if that explains anything. But Fiora can feel something fluttering under the muscles of her throat, like a tiny bird with wings that alternates between icy and burning. It is a strange, exhilarating sensation. The Ionian's fingertips glow faintly blue green and she finds that she can almost visualize a silver crescent, pressing against her neck, surrounded by pale blue light.
The Ionian withdraws her hand and the feeling fades to nearly nothing, though now that she knows it exists she can sense it on the edge of her mind.
"Ionian rubbish," Fiora sniffs, but with less certainty than before.
"You are learning," the Ionian says calmly. "Be confident, Fiora. Your honor shines out of you like the rays of the brightest star. Confidence approaches discipline. But beware arrogance, for though it and confidence are close cousins, it is poison in your breast."
"You are here and I would ask why," Fiora replies, a challenging ring in her voice.
"I asked her to come and watch your duels," Jarvan growls and the duelist whirls around to see her future sovereign slumped in one of her best chairs, sipping a glass of whisky. "The Duchess needs the occasional break from her ambassadorial duties."
"Demacia has held her already for one fourth way of a year! It is the time for leaving, no?" Fiora asks indignantly.
"There is much to discuss," the Ionian says simply. "Farewell, Fiora."
"Good-bye," Fiora sniffs. But she watches them leave, leaning on the hilt of her rapier.
She wishes that she had asked the Ionian's name, but it is too late now.