A/N: This is just a little something that came up while I was working on Sinless, and I enjoyed the idea pretty much so I expanded it into a one-shot. Sort of a lore rewrite I guess, on how Katarina got her eye scar. Slightly more OOC than what I would have liked, but I just find this side of Kat not quite frequently written on and I like exploring different dimensions of a character.
I'll be right back to working on Sinless now! Reviews are appreciated.
Enjoy.
The light was always dim in her bedroom.
Half-draped windows concealed what little of the twilight that was left, tinting the emerald furnishings of Cassiopeia's room a shade of brown. With cat-like footsteps she quietly entered, careful to not disturb the wilted flowers that rested on her sister's nightstand, and sat on the wooden chair she left there weeks ago so to have a place to sit while visiting her.
Reminding herself to replace them with fresh ones later, Katarina slowly plucked the withered blossoms from their stems, and absentmindedly toyed with them.
These were roses, once crimson like blood, favorites of the young girl; she ordered the household servants to keep them always in bloom, but eventually the flowers were neglected, and she had to keep an eye on them herself.
Just as Cass was.
It was a waste of time to try and revive her, she knew.
Everybody knew. The most experienced medics and scholars could not wake her, nor could the most skillful of magicians or the most advanced technology of both Noxus and Zaun.
Some sort of poison got to her, they say. Something that targeted the nerves and brain, and more useless information like that.
She didn't care what made Cassiopeia fall into this state, only when would she wake up. And stubborn as she was, Katarina refused to take 'never' as an answer.
Others, however…did.
Her sister's persistent coma was unbreakable, and eventually, as time passed, they gave up. First the doctors, then the 'friends' that she had in upper society, then the servants of the house, and even now…their father.
She couldn't blame him, though she had endless reasons to; but she knew how her father tried every contact that the Du Couteau family had over the years, how he was in a rare, painful state as well, and the bereavement that they shared prevented her from casting anger towards another victim. But he did give up.
They all gave up on a hopeless cause, moving forward with life, leaving only her to bitterly grasp onto wisps of hope that Cass would still live, she would wake, and all will be fine.
Well…only her and Talon, actually.
Placing the faded petals carefully down, her gaze fell onto the pallor of her sister's face. Though almost seeming like she was asleep, her figure was so incredibly fragile, with all the vigor drained from her cheeks.
Lifeless. Breathing only by some unnamed magic cast on her, clenching to this world with the most flimsy of spider silk. Not alive.
She was still beautiful, of course. Cassiopeia Du Couteau could be covered in mud and dirt and blood with limbs torn right out of their sockets and still look gorgeous. But the beauty had a dark shade to it, sad and depressing and cold.
It was the beauty of Ionian porcelain dolls, with their perfect features and delicate carvings, but ultimately chilling to behold.
Tentatively she reached out and caressed the lines of her sister's face and body, slowly tracing the patterns sewn into her dress, brushing a lock of auburn hair from her face. Carefully she smoothed out the silky fabric that loosely clung on to her body, remembering how she disliked having her clothing ruffled, and untangled the knotting hair between her fingers.
It was a move that she never dared do while in her father's presence; a motion too emotional and tender, something that a true, fully-fledged assassin should not do. But without Marcus being here, she was free to do what she wished, and as hard as she tried to make her shell, human emotions flowed beneath. She could not hide them.
These were times when she envied Talon for his apathy.
A pang of sadness torn through her when she realized how thin her sister has decayed to. The magic set on her, whatever it was meant to do, could not keep her forever. She will die, eventually, if a cure was not found fast. And there was no cure.
Unless…
There was one last thing she could try for Cassiopeia. Something foolish, doubtlessly, irrational and insensible and a thousand other things, but the last thing she could come up with.
Pray. To request divine help from some deity that she did not know.
If it was the Katarina a month ago, she would have scoffed at the idea immediately. It was so…not Noxian. The Noxians believed in a knife in the hand rather than gods, and so did she; strength was the only thing worth worshipping in this country, and for those who were not strong, death will claim them always instead of the help of an idol. It was crazy. Utterly crazy.
Talon has said just as much when they first found the desolate temple, lying in the waste beyond Noxus' boarders. They stopped there frequently during missions, and it became one of many hiding spots outside of their country, but never before did she bother to read the engravings on the walls or long-abandoned religious scripts lying around in random places. They were meaningless to her, something that the weak used to provide comfort to themselves. She had no need of them.
Until Cassiopeia fell onto the brink of death, that is.
This is dangerous, Katarina. Talon warned her so when she decided to try it out. It could be something mingled with both magic and religion. Unsafe. Reserved only for times of desperation.
It might be able to save Cass, she argued.
In reply he sighed in consent. Very well, then, as I see you are desperate.
Was she? Staring at her sister's delicate features she wondered. Was she so desperate as to turn to such methods? A prayer. A sacrificial prayer that she happened to stumble across during a mission…one that was purely for the good of others instead of self. How wrong this all was…how un-Noxian, how unlike her.
Was she truly so desperate?
The stone-still face of a young girl answered her wordlessly.
'Give poverty to me,' she whispered with a slight edge of doubt that quickly ebbed away, clenching her sister's fragile fingers into her hand, and closed her eyes, 'and wealth to her.'
'Give famine to me, and satiation to her.'
'Give winter to me, and spring to her.'
'Give solitude to me, and love to her.'
'Give danger to me, and safety to her.'
'Give pain to me, and comfort to her.'
'Give ugliness to me, and beauty to her.'
'Give hatred to me, and acclaim to her.'
'Give betrayal to me, and faithfulness to her.'
She could hear the door knob being turned, and the door creaked open behind. Squeezing her sister's hand even tighter, she was determined to finish this attempt, even if it was her father behind her.
'Give disgrace to me, and honor to her.'
To her surprise, she felt another voice joining in, but so quiet and deep that she could not be sure if it was just her illusion or not.
And her voice grew stronger.
'Give darkness to me, and light to her.'
'Give sadness to me, and joy to her.'
'Give despair to me, and hope to her.'
'Give the past to me, and the future to her.'
A slight pause.
She was never a faithful believer of any deity, of anything but her own knives, but if there was a god out there who would be listening to her prayer, she wished that the god or goddess would answer.
'Give death to me, and life to her.'
The sudden pain was excruciating. She felt as if her eye, the left one, was being torn out of its socket and scorched upon fire. Her eyes were closed before she spoke, leaving her in complete darkness, and now when she attempted to open them, she found it impossible. It was as if magic imprisoned her permanently in darkness, and the pain seared on.
Biting her lip to prevent from crying out, she endured the pain in silence. She could still feel the cold fingertips of her sister resting against her own, and with rigid determination she held on to them.
This was what she fought for. And she was not going to let go.
It seemed like centuries, eons, until the pain slowly came to a gradual end. She wondered if she was still alive, and dared not to move to check. The ever-quiet but serious voice of Talon woke her from the near trance-like state.
'Are you alright? Can you still see?'
The voice that joined her…was Talon. Relief flooded her body suddenly as she came to conclusion of this fact, and slowly opened her eyelids, blinking in surprise that both eyes still retained their vision, even the left one that was burning in some unseen fire. The hooded figure stood steps away from her, arms crossed, watching tentatively with a slightly worried furrow between his brows.
She raised her hand, the free one, and felt the indenture carved onto her left eyelid, stretching to her eyebrows and down to half her cheek. It was a new scar of some sort, magically inflicted…or divinely, she guessed.
'Yes, my eye works fine. '
Talon eyed her suspiciously, but nodded nonetheless. 'You have a pretty bad scar over your left one, though.'
'Tell Cass I got it from a slip during my missions.'
'Of course.' He sighed, walking closer, and leaned lightly against the flowery nightstand of her sister's, glancing at the girl who seemed still deep in sleep, 'if she wakes up to ask about it, that is.'
She felt her insides knot at that. Cass had to wake. She has already paid whatever price there should be to the deity, and doubtlessly Talon has as well. It would have all been in vain if Cassiopeia did not. Everything would be in vain, and their last hoped would have been shattered.
No, she wouldn't…she couldn't take that.
'Please, Cass.' Wearily she pleaded, leaning in slightly. It was only with them would she take down her mask of ice and heartlessness and bloodlust, with Talon and Cassiopeia, the only two people that she would call siblings, that she would trust and love over herself. That she would betray former beliefs and step into dangerous waters for. That she would kill for and sacrifice for.
She needed them. Both of them. It was pathetic and weak and fatal to an assassin, but she loved them both.
And she couldn't bear to loose either.
Beneath her desperate clench, the slender, pale fingers twitched slightly.