The Real You

Wiping a thin sheen of sweat off my forehead, I jogged towards the direction of the Demacian Correctional Facility, swerving by carts peddling prayer beads and necklaces used to keep away dark spirits, as well as a little girl tugging on her mother's dress, begging her to go swimming in the Kaladoun marsh.

It was a humid day, and I could feel my undershirt sticking to my chest beneath the layer of chainmail and plate armor I was required to wear at all times when guarding my city state. I had been meaning to have a talk with Prince Jarvan IV about making outfits fit for the summer weather. What was the point of training new soldiers if they constantly passed out from dehydration before they reached Noxus?

I waved and gave a polite greeting to the bulky man guarding the facilities' gates. Gernol's stern expression matched the deep scars crisscrossing over his face and arms. He acknowledged me with the nod of his head and a slight smile. It was funny, how he had such a harsh appearance but was really a pretty amicable guy. I even remember him, the 6'5" man with a scarred body and tattoos, leading a child shaking with fear, cheeks and nose red from crying, to their mother who had been separated from the boy during a surprise attack by bandits. It was never right to judge someone just on their looks, which was precisely the reason I had been visiting this same prison for the past four months…

My weekly visits had always caused commotion among the prisoners, and I would often hear them muttering why a privileged Demacian-born man would spend his free time hanging around convicts.

That was then. Now the prisoners continued on their daily events, trying to trade what little they had in the jail cells for cigarettes, obviously smuggled in by unknown sources, or playing cards with their cellmates. My visits had been so frequent it had become routine.

"Oh, one of those trashy Zaun punks is fighting with the cafeteria volunteers for more stew? Again? And look, there's that little Crownguard boy, here for his walk around Floor 26-A."

I wasn't here for patrolling and keeping the men in check, nor was I a young boy. Much to the contrary, the townspeople knew me as Garen, a military leader, friend to the Prince of Demacia and, above all, a loyalist to the Demacian cause. I held an upmost level of diplomacy when addressed (although I had no trouble with being a wiseass when it came to talking to my close associates) and could be found in the training grounds, polishing up my swordsman skills during most hours of the day.

I had celebrated my 24th birthday a few weeks ago, and bits of the night remain fresh in my head. How Jarvan IV convinced the palace overseers to "Heed their commanding tone and allow him to celebrate this day with me." While insisting, "…the residential commencement paperwork could wait" (a.k.a. shut the hell up, I want to get drunk with my friend). The way he rounded up our closet Demacian cohorts from the Fields of Justice just for the occasion, and even…

My steady jog slowed as I recalled this night, and I believe I actually grimaced as the memories continued to resurface.

"Hahppy birshday, bir-day boy!" Jarvan IV slurred out as he slung an arm around me. He was such a light weight when it came to drinking, and I eyed the full glass of expensive Ionian wine he was holding, it dangerously teetering along with my friend as he swayed gently in his seat.

"Hey thanks Jarvan, buddy." I steadied him as he bumped into my sides. This was not typical for my best friend to be acting like a drunken fool in public; he normally gave the highest amount of effort towards his public appearance, trying not to scar the prestigious Lightshield name. But I was his childhood friend, and I always joked with him to loosen up once in a while, or else the stress of watching over Demacia would age him far past his 20s.

Jarvan IV had wanted to celebrate with me, and promised he would pay for every drop of liquor we drank. All of our Demacian brethren had been invited, and after the 4th round of shots had been ordered the remainder of the night became a bit fuzzy.

To my left I saw Xin Zhao, Prince Jarvan's bodyguard and a graceful fighter, having a drinking contest with one of the regulars at the bar, and to my right people were taking huge chunks of the massive cake Jarvan had ordered for me from the local bakery.

I felt light-headed and my stomach sloshed with beer as I gruffly got up from the bar stool and stumbled clumsily towards the exit. My departure was unnoticed, partially due to everyone's high spirits as well as the loud chanting of people stuffed within the tiny pub.

I left the Dying Rat Inn, drunk as I'd probably ever been, still holding a half empty bottle of Grog in my hands. I probably smelled harshly of alcohol and of cheap perfume the waitresses drowned themselves in there. I pushed up against the side of the bar, covering my face with it, breathing deeply in through my nose and trying to regain my balance. Despite my nausea I could hear a group of beggars nearby, groaning in pain. I couldn't tell if they were just intoxicated like me, or if the cries were those of hunger.

It was hard to think straight, and I struggled to make sense of what I was thinking, "Luxxane better leave the bar before it gets too late…I feel queasy, maybe I should head home…" My eyes adjusted from their foggy gaze and the rust colored brick wall came into focus for a moment, "I've seen all my friends today, right? …Hm." It then occurred to me I needed to see one last person before I headed on homeward, and before I could think the whole thing through; the fact that it was nearly 3 in the morning, or that I was drunk out of my mind, I was already wobbling towards that same prison.

My feet dragged across the stone pathway, slowly changing with each clumsy step into a worn dirt road as the area I walked became seedier and less maintained. Though my drunkenness had slowed my senses, I could distinctly hear quick, terse footsteps nearing my slow gait.

A firm hand tugged at my shoulder, whipping me into a half-spin, sloshing the liquids in my stomach uneasily.

My throat tightened as my stalker was revealed. A range of emotions washed over me, from anger to…slight excitement.

"Look at you, so drunk you can hardly stand straight. I'll let you off the hook since it's your birthday." She smiled, not in a genuine way, but in that same sneer so many Noxians develop from their distinct way of tricking their enemy, brought up on values that everyone must fight for their own right to live.

I managed to gasp out, "What a 'nice'," exaggerated sarcasm on the word nice, "surprise, Katarina." I always hated it when she'd show up unannounced; how she savored the fact she always managed to get past the Demacian watch towers erected from all sides of the city-state.

"Just wanted to see you on your special day." Her voice, dripping with fake affection, clearly taunting me. "I thought you promised me we'd have a little celebratory sparring session?"

I could feel my ears burn red-hot. I knew what only Katarina and I meant when we'd say we wanted to fight one-on-one. It always led to things which were….less than diplomatic among soldiers from warring provinces.

She noticed my embarrassment, something I've never been able to hide ever since I can remember discussing…well, sexual matters. It just wasn't something I liked to talk about openly.

Taking advantage of my coyness, she pulled my head into hers, actually tugging the roots of my head a bit. Our lips smashed against one another, with no signs of love, the kind I always dreamt of as a boy, a kiss with a soft flower of a girl. It was exactly like our fights, passionate but emotionally lacking in the sense we could care less how the other was feeling. It was pure passion driven by adrenaline.

I have to admit though, I let her kiss me until she drew away, seemingly satisfied with rattling my weakening libido.

We could both hear a loud group of rowdy students nearing, and she smiled knowingly at me before dashing away with such intensity that only a woman trained in stealth attacks could attempt.

The boys, obviously first-time drinkers, continued on joking and delivering playful punches to their buddies' arms and chests. One even shouted, "Fuck them Noxians to hell!" before the group erupted into laughter. I wonder what they would think if they knew one was just standing where they were walking five seconds prior…

Once I finally shuffled into Floor 26-A, thanking the heavens that the watch guards were on break, probably due to the fact that it had been quite some time since a Demacian invasion, leaving our citizens feeling somewhat safe for the time being, I was hit with the familiar stench of dirty inmates and cigarette smoke. As my stomach did a double-take, I swallowed hard to keep myself from throwing up over the cracked granite flooring of the room.

"Now where is he…?"

My eyes scanned the vicinity, and I noticed it then, as if it had been programmed into me after weeks and weeks of taking the same path to his cell.

I peered into the rough and chipping bars, and noticed the gnaw marks adorning them, as if some prisoner, not all mentally there, had gnawed on the iron fixtures while they were kept here. It was far too dark to see inside, but as my eyes became adjusted to the darkness, I noticed his silhouette, bunched up in a ball as he slept on the bed with one tattered sheet over his frame.

"Psst…hey, wake up." I roughly said, my voice too loud as the alcohol hindered my ability to speak in a whisper.

I saw his eyes begin to open, that dim yellow glow emanating from them, the same glow that always made me wonder how they were able to radiate in such a way. I felt far too timid to ask, in fear of sounding idiotic at asking such an irrelevant question to the small magic user.

"Garen? What the hell are you doing here this…this late?" I heard him getting out of his small bed, the worn bedframe creaking as he moved. His voice cracked a bit, as it does when one just wakes up.

"Wanted ta see you, a'course." I said dumbly, now looking down at Veigar as he had walked into the soft light of the candle that was the single source of light within the hallway, the bars keeping us from a normal talking distance. "Didja know I turned 24?"

He angrily rubbed his eyes with his forearm, and a pout (I became adept at reading the faint expressions beneath the cloak of darkness his hat provided) that seemed to be his dominant expression showed itself, "Yes Garen, you told me yesterday you would celebrate it. Remember?" his voice, high pitched with a slight edge of annoyance, seemed to break the eerie silence of the floor as he whispered harshly.

"Here, letme come in and tell ya about it." I dipped my hand into my belted cotton pants and fished out the key I had coerced the Prison Official to give me. It was not typical for a soldier to be issued a key to a jail cell, but I had a way of buttering up others to give me some lee-way.

"Garen, just tell me in the morning!" But it was too late, I had already slid open the door, trying to do so quietly, and stepped inside his cell, closing it behind us both. "Don't be grumpy, I just wanna talk a littl'. Oh and I brought ya…"

Oh no! I forgot to pick up a piece of cake before I left! I'm so stupid, that was what I told him I'd get and I'd forgotten!

Veigar, who was watching my features in the candlelight, saw as my face turned from excited to disappointed, "What's…the matter?" He said with uncertainty. He was still getting used to talking to me as friends, as if the polite words didn't taste well in his mouth.

"Well, I had, I told you yesterday I'd remember, but I didn't. Crap. Maybe I should go back and get some…" I stumbled over my words as I felt more and more angry with myself for forgetting.

"I don't follow you, what did you forget? Just stop and think for a second, you idi-Garen." I could tell he was getting frustrated with me, for having woken him up this late, for being so drunk and riled up.

"Cake. I didn't bring any for ya."

His eyes became wide, shocked for just a split second. And then I heard him snicker lightly, something I only had the power to make him do.

"You're so dumb, Garen." This time he didn't say it in an insulting way, but in the way he always did when he was actually having fun talking to me, and I noticed his smile before he turned his head from me.

It might sound odd, or even self-harming, but I always yearned for him to tease me in such a way. It was so rare, and I loved it when he let go of his constant state of anger and joked with me. He could be such a pain in the ass sometimes, it was nice to see him lighten up from time to time.

During my drunken state I felt the giddiness of this singular moment wash over me, and my face erupted into a wide grin once again.

I reached down and whole-heartily patted my friend's shoulder. We Demacians were unrestrained in showing brotherly affection to our peers, unlike the subdued, stone-faced Ionians and anti-social Noxians. If this had been any yordle but the one here in this cell next to me they would have returned the slight affectionate touch. But instead I felt Veigar's back tense, and he drew away from me, twisting his shoulder awkwardly to the side.

"Oh," I said, withdrawing my hand away as if it had been harmed, "I-I'm sorry, I just keep forgetting things." I desperately tried to fight the haze which felt trapped within my head, trying to push to keep my thoughts running so I could keep the conversation going for just a bit longer.

"I recently saw…well, she sort of snuck up on me more than a mutual meeting, you know who," I didn't notice how Veigar's mouth twitched when I mentioned the red-haired Noxian, "I have to admit, she was lookin' just as good as I remember."

I let out a chuckle at my little comment, but Veigar wasn't the least bit amused by my mention of what he called the, "bitchy snake of a Noxian." Veigar did have a bit of contempt towards Noxians. He did for most.

I noticed how quiet Veigar had become, and in a desperate act of foolishness mixed with the influence of the many drinks I had consumed, I said something I never would have under normal circumstances.

If I had any sense I would have realized how ludicrous this suggestion had been. I also would have remembered a key detail which made it impossible. That little to no one knew the reasoning behind my frequent visits to the Correctional Facility, not my family, nor my friends. That I through much struggle and pain (I'm being dramatic here), I had befriended the man who had been deemed the most powerful dark magic user in all of Valoran. I would have known to never have brought it up in the first place.

"Veigar?" he didn't even look my way in response, hiding once again into that restricted part of his mind he refused to reveal to others "How would you feel if, after this all is through, you come and live with me?"

This time, his shock was even more apparent as he gazed up at me once again. Letting the words sink in, the silence between us increased, and if I hadn't been drunk out of my mind it probably would have been a tense moment right then, under the questioning glare of my friend, "…What did you say?"

"I'm asking you to come live with me once you are released. I've become sucha good friend withya Veigar. And I know ya don't have a place to stay, and all…" I said with more confidence this time, more of a statement than a question.

Veigar's voice sounded hardly like his own, almost with a strange amount of innocence, as if he wanted to believe what I had told him was true, but wouldn't allow himself to. "You…really mean that, Garen? It's the most anyone…" he cut himself off there, and kept a watchful eye on my face. "This isn't the liquor talking, is it?"

I laughed heartily at that, but as I looked down at Veigar, his eyes were dead serious. What I had brought up would either destroy or create more trust between us, and I was acting as if it was a joke.

I often felt that shiver on the back of my neck, feeling his eyes on me, reading for any signs of my mood shifting or searching my face for any sign of emotions which would betray what I had said. I've heard many townspeople and champions alike call him delusional or out-of-tune with reality, but during these moments I knew they were all wrong. He was continuously searching and trying to find out my motives behind befriending him. While it was just normal for Demacians to befriend others, to a person who had been betrayed in their past, I had to have an ulterior motive.

"I'm serious, really Veigar. You gotta trust me a little!" I slurred out in a rush.

Apparently feeling satisfied with my answer, Veigar no longer looked at me with doubt, and instead became the most timid I've ever seen him. And as if searching for the right words to say, his hands frantically playing with the strings on his pajama bottoms issued by the jail, two sizes too big, he looked up at me, and with a genuineness I had never heard from his lips, and whispered,

"Thanks."

But his humility didn't end there. In an act of sheer courage, Veigar brought his hand, naked and ungloved, and placed it on my forearm. I looked down in disbelief at the small black hand lying uneasily on my skin; I was in so much shock I hardly noticed when he said happy birthday.

End Chapter 1

[Writer's Note: Why yes, I am a cheesy motherfucker. If this story actually interests anyone (I'm not expecting it to) I'll write a sort of prelude where Garen and Veigar's friendship develops. I'm writing about these two as me and my sister have an inside joke about them being friends. This is my first actual attempt at writing a fanfic, though I have dabbled in RP's, so tell me what you think.]