Chapter 1

This was the last place he wanted to be. It was his only option, he had no other choice, he kept telling himself. But he did. There was one other option, and that would be a very probable option considering where he was going. Living in the wilderness was not an option. Too many wild animals and other creatures. He did look unarmed and very desperate and in need, he thought, looking into a pool of water. The recent rain had left him damp and uncomfortable in his Freljord clothes. His cheeks were drawn in, his face gaunt and pale. His hair thinning, the white streak barely visible. Hopefully he would be able to keep pretense he was just a wandering traveler he was able to do in Piltover…..

Better to think less of Piltover.

He didn't even have his axe with him, nor his armor or any insignia. Besides the clothes on his back, the only thing he bore was a backpack with the miniscule scraps of food left over from his very long trek.

The gates loomed up in front of him, surrounded by petracit. He thought he could almost glimpse the top of the castle at the center of the city. He really hoped that he would be able to get some water. His throat was parched and he felt faint. Limping to the gates, he was approached by two guards flanking the one person he was hoping it not to be. He dropped to his knees. He had no more strength. It was either die, or probably die, with a chance of survival in jail. He had slaughtered many of their number in the war a year ago, the war that ended and their states had declared peace. The men had reached the gate, and it was opening. That could be a good sign that they didn't shoot him on sight. His hood probably covered his hair, and his facial features were probably unrecognizable. The men sauntered over the where he knelt, and he knew that they were probably not the friendliest they could have sent. Maybe he was recognized. Whatever the cost, he was going to die or be jailed. The first option was the better of the two, so he didn't have to deal with the weight on his shoulders.

"Speak, wanderer. What is your name? Why have you come here?" The man on the left said, none too nicely. He sported a thick mustache and mutton chops, gray with age. The hand on his sword was not one that was too friendly, nor did it seem like it was weak. This was a man of experienced swordsmanship, and he would not let his arm go frail.

"I thought you offered shelter for those without one." He responded, his voice hoarse from dehydration. Mustache gave a sharp laugh.

"Good answer. However, not answering the question doesn't get you inside the gates." Mustache said.

"He is correct though, Lex. At the war's end, we did say we would offer shelter to those without a home from the war." The man on the right, obviously the nicer of the two, said. He sported no facial hair and seemed very young. Twenty-something he would guess.

"Let us see your face." Said the man in the middle, a hulking mass of muscle and metal plating. He had met this man many times upon the battlefield, and he was known for no mercy to his people. His old people, of the place he had left. This was the man He was most afraid of. This was the man that would not hesitate to kill him if he gave him a reason.

"Will you not lend a weary traveler some water, or shelter?" He croaked.

"Show us your face, stranger." Said the middleman

With this statement, he realized it would do no good. He didn't have the energy to argue, nor was he going to. He threw his hood back and stared at the man in the center. He saw the look of recognition, replaced by surprise, and then anger in his eyes. Middle man took a sharp intake of breath before finally releasing, in it, his name. The name he ran from for the past year.

"Darius."

"Garen." he replied

And then everything went black.

Darius opened his eyes to a woman in white, with brown locks of wavy hair reaching just past her chin, the ends tipped violet.

"Drink" she said. "You have not had water for around about a day and a half. Do not kill yourself by dehydration, its one of the worst ways to go." She said.

He drank eagerly, and when the glass was empty, she refilled it, again, and again.

The woman barely caught the glass from his fingers as everything went black again.

He opened his eyes again to conversation off to the side.

"We can't keep him here sir. He is Noxian, and The Hand no less." The voice was Garen, talking about him.

"You know the peace treaty. We can. And we will, as there should be no feuds between Noxus and Demacia anymore. You know that you yourself came under speculation at the end of the war for announcing you were seeing that Red-headed assassin. What was her name again?" It was Jarvan. He sounded more reasonable than Garen, to Darius at least.

"Katarina? She was close to being assassinated in her own state for announcing the same thing. That is why she stays here. It's no longer safe for her in Noxus." Came Garen's reply.

Now that was interesting. Last he heard, Kat was nice and safe in the Du Couteau manor in Noxus. Then again, last time he was in contact with anyone, from anywhere, besides brief contacts was more than a year ago.

"Well, it's the same thing here. He came to our gates asking for residence, and we will supply it. Why else would he be here, unarmed, during the peace? You know what happens to champions if they break a treaty, even more specifically this one, even if the institute is no longer a thing." Came the voice of Jarvan. At least he had one person who would help him in this city, he thought.

"Well, sir, what do we do with him?"

"I'll tell you…"

Everything returned to black

He woke again to sunlight on his face. The warmth was comparable to the fire he had back home. But it's not home anymore, he reminded himself. Too many bad memories. He opened his eyes to a wondrous view out a window. He was high up, with a view of the entire city. It was beautiful, and the sun was just above the Ironspike mountains, topping its white-capped peaks in gold. He looked about and found a note with a glass of water on a table next to him.

Drink up. Don't dehydrate yourself anymore. Not in my house anyways. No signature, but the handwriting looked familiar. He reached for the glass and drank, just as soon as a door opened somewhere in the room. He couldn't see past the curtains to his sides, and he didn't want to chance standing up, so he just sat and awaited whoever was coming.

"Well, glad to know you're awake." The voice was almost as recognizable as the hair, the color of blood, reaching to the woman's waist.

"Hi Kat." He said.

She was dressed in a dark red dress that reached just past her knees, with a circlet of silver around her waist. She had her hands on her hips and she looked slightly pissed off that he was awake, contrary to her statement.

"What are you doing in Demacia, Darius?" she asked.

"Oh, you know, just looking at the sights, slaughtered some children, casually passed out due to dehydration, the usual." He said, keeping his sarcasm to the maximum to make sure that, should any guards be around, or overhear, they understand he didn't actually kill any children.

"You are so hard to talk to, even when you almost died. You act like you don't care. Is this with what happened to…" She cut off seeing the look in his eyes. "Wait, what actually happened? Did Swain make you do it?" She asked, anger flashing behind those green eyes. When he didn't answer, she said; "He did didn't he? Oh, Darius, I'm so sorry." She didn't sound like herself.

"Are you okay? You just said you sorry about something." he joked

"I have tried to stop being an annoying woman who won't answer questions and will actually state she is sorry for someone. I can't just walk around Demacia as an old enemy and act like I own the place. I have to show some decency, especially around Garen. I guess some just rubbed off on me." She stared sheepishly at the ground before Darius heard the door open again, this time someone without the assassin's grace of being silent, someone with heavy footsteps.

"Kat, what are you doing here?" Garen said.

"Making sure he is fine Garen, it's not like I came to assassinate him. You know I'm out of that sort of stuff," she said.

"You mean the stuff that you were doing since you were young up until a year ago?" Garen said, with a joke hidden behind his voice. His mouth quirked into a smile as he said it, then he saw that Darius was awake and was listening intently.

"Well, Darius. I can't say well met, nor do I still trust you, even with the peace. What, may I ask, do you want with Demacia?" He asked, a shard of anger flashed in his eyes as he spoke.

"Refuge." Darius answered. It was his only reason for coming here. Piltover rejected him. Zaun was out of the option, Ionia was too far and wouldn't want him anyways. Shurima was desolate and filled with void-borne. He wouldn't survive in the Kumungu, the Shadow Isles were unpredictable, and Freljord was too cold and full of wolves. Bandle wouldn't appreciate his presence for very long, and Targon was for dedicates. With the closing of the Institute, he had nowhere else to go.

"What does the Hand of Noxus need with refuge?" Garen asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Katarina looked at him with an emotion in her eyes he couldn't identity, and left.

"I'll leave you boys to it." She spoke over her shoulder. "Garen, I'll be at home."

Darius dropped his head to his chest. He was skinnier than normal, with his long travels and malnourishment depriving him of his muscle.

"I would rather not say." Darius said quietly, almost a whisper.

"You are going to have to if I'm to believe you. We do offer refuge from those without homes after the war, but don't you have a home? In Noxus?" His question implied far away from here.

"Not anymore." Came his reply. He looked Garen in his eyes. He could see confusion, and deep down, so very slightly, a glimmer of guilt? "I would rather not repeat the story, but should it be needed to be, I'll repeat it." He said.

"Here is what I am going to do. I am not going to tell the citizens of Demacia that you are here. We are going to act like you aren't here. You are going to assume a new identity, and live like a common, everyday demacian. Then, in two months, I will come to you and I will ask you the same question. I will meet up with you once a week to make sure you are doing fine. You will support yourself and make your own money until then. You will be given proper food and lodging for the first week to give you a leg up. Then, when the two months are up, I will judge you, with Jarvan. If we cannot find any suspicious behaviour or lies in your testimony, we will let you continue to live here. How does that sound for you?" Garen said. Darius couldn't believe it. They, the leaders of Demacia, were actually giving him, Darius, the former Hand of Noxus, a chance to live with them?

"What's the catch? This seems too simple." Darius said, expecting that they would do something that would make those two months unbearable.

"No catch. Only the one thing you didn't give our soldiers on the battlefield." Garen said as he came forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. Darius flinched away as he spoke the word in his ear.

"Mercy."