His heart felt like it was going to burst, the soul furance that sustained him so unnaturally was seemingly going critical. Sion felt his head soaring in a powerful migraine that clamped over his skull like the crown bolted to his jaw. At first he thought he was going to be sick, but then it hit him. He felt it. It was no longer just a facade, no longer going through the motions in the vain hope that it would come back. Sion felt it.
He saw the prince at the opposite end of the room, his vision marred by bright searing crimson, the necromantic energies from the soul furnace seeping out through his eyes, his tear ducts, his open wounds. With the effort of swatting a fly, he slapped the Demacian soldier away. Garen was knocked back a number of feet, his bastard sword grinding against the ground. The only obstacle between him and the target of his emotions was gone, Sion knew. He stormed towards Jarvan, his muscles tensing up horribly, his fists balling up with such force that his fingernails dug into his own skin, and the soul furnace seeped from his closed palms like juice from an orange.
He moved unbelievably fast, faster than he had in his natural life, and his two rebirths. He closed the gap with Jarvan, who stood at the ready. He felt it, he felt it and he shouted it as he charged. "HATE. I FEEL IT AGAIN. HATE! HATE! HATE! I HATE YOU, JARVAN!" He roared out, spittle flying from his mouth as he grabbed Jarvan, and true to history, began to squeeze and wring his neck, even as the spear went deep into his torso and joined the plethora of stabs, slashes, bruises and burns the three Demacians had inflicted on him already. Sion cared little, his fingers around the prince's neck, the red energy that seeped from his every little wound scalding Jarvan. The young prince fought back fiercely, his fists cracking several of Sion's ribs and rupturing his organs, but the juggernaut was too far gone to care about that. Jarvan's blows became weaker and less furious, while Sion's vice like grip only intensified.
Sion felt an impact in his torso, someone struck him from behind. He turned his head to see Garen, exhaustedly swinging his sword. His determination shining through his immense fatigue, the sword cleaved Sion's scarred, ancient flesh, but it did not hurt him, nothing pained him. "I cannot hurt." Sion growled at the soldier. "You can." A backhander knocked Garen to his knees, Sion keeping one hand on Jarvan's throat. "I have to keep killing you, Jarvan." He hissed to the fading prince. "It's my curse. I cannot die, I cannot feel. I can only kill... So it may as be you and your wretched ilk!" He shouted as loudly as he could. He had no idea how long the soul furnace could sustain him at this rate, but the only thing that truly mattered was sending Jarvan to his end.
In the corner of his eye, he saw it. Turning again, he saw the small one. The woman. The child. He gave her a simple snarl. "Leave me be!" She looked at him for a moment, before she twirled her rod, pointing it in his direction.
"Demacia!" She cried, and then Sion went blind. A harshly powerful magical energy flew over him in a beam. It incinerated him horribly, though he felt it not. He relinquished his grip on Jarvan, the prince fell to the floor, spluttering and coughing blood, his cheeks and throat burned both inside and out. Sion thought he felt panic for a brief moment, the soul furnace was fading, and his seeping wounds were losing their lustre. He fell on his back, spasming and seizing up as the literal life force within him faded. The last thing he saw on Runeterra was the obnoxiously bright Demacian armor, then a spear went through his heart once and for all. He could only hope that once again, he had taken another Jarvan to the grave with him.
Sion was alone. He was on his back, helpless. The three Demacians were gone, and Sion wondered what had happened. He had died, of that he was positive. But where he was, it was not authentic. He was someplace else entirely, the location wore the skin of the room he had died within.
"What do you make of this one, Wolf?" A quiet, inflectionless female voice sounded out, and Sion, drained of his colour, life, and passion, weakly looked up at this newcomer.
"Rrh! We should have taken him a long time ago!" A more sanguine, male voice stated back. Sion basked in their voices, he knew them from his mortal life, he thought. They sounded so unnaturally familiar that he theorised his connection to them was deep and entrenched. Though he didn't know precisely where. Childhood? His formative years? His military service? Maybe even all of them.
He heard clopping coming to him, and he flinched as he saw her crouch down by his body. "Yes, we should have taken him years ago. It is of no fault of his own. He was robbed." She said, almost as if in explanation.
"Robbed. Deceived. Cheated." The male voice grunted in a dissatisfied mantra. He growled, he felt sympathy, and a desire for things to be made right once again.
Sion felt a hand on his forehead, and he gasped ever so slightly. "What happens now?" He croaked, as he felt the hand caress his abused skin.
"You will go to a better place." The female voice said. "You poor being, you will suffer no longer."
"No more?" Sion replied. "No more wondering, no more feelings of emptiness?" He asked.
"No more." The female voice said, and he heard her shake her head. "You will be free as you deserve. We have followed you long, Sion, but we never truly found you, until now."
"That makes me feel... Good. I feel good." He whispered, an uneasy, cautious smile forming on his lips. "I forgot this feeling."
"You will never forget again, Sion." She said, before she drew her bow, and finally let Sion know happiness once again.