Disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights to 'League of Legends'. This is written solely for entertainment, not profit. Please don't sue me, Rito.

Rated M for raw sexual angst - it gets rough in places. This isn't a darkfic, but if you want something fluffy, I'd go elsewhere.

This story is the fourth in a series, following Infinity, Dreams and Vengeance then preceding Gemini and Faith (also on this site). I've tried to make each story coherent on its own but reading them in sequence is recommended.

For those who have been following this little saga. This is the first episode from Ashe's POV.

This is femslash, a story about romance between women. If you object, I advise you to stop reading.


Prey

This is my battlefield.

I swear that, every morning, this gown weighs more and this whalebone corset shrinks. Am I growing weak and fat? I've spent enough time at archery practice. Maybe I'm just the wrong side of twenty-five. The last few months have added years to my life.

The heavy wig bothers my tortured roots. "Royal Freljord Blue" is made from a toxic dye so it can't touch my scalp. Under a coarse net, my poor natural locks are tied and rammed full of pins. It would be easier if I wore my hair short but it's never suited me. Even if I am Queen, I'm allowed some pleasure, right? I like to feel pretty.

Oh, how I treasure these moments, when I can forget about my real problems.

Regrettably, I can't dress myself, the outfit is too complex, but I must retain some independence. I choose my perfume and earrings, apply make-up and varnish my nails. I like my hands. They're fine yet calloused, archer's hands, a pleasure to work on before tackling my face. Without light and shade, I look dull, too much, and I'm a painted trollop. I use the wrong lipstick and become a desperate widow. It's murder.

Tryndamere paces behind me. I catch his gaze in the mirror. 'Stop it.'

'You always do this.' He lumbers to my side, cluttering my artfully chosen border. I'm only going to take longer. Those colours are my reference. 'The moment you step into that banquet, you'll melt. Let it be.'

'It's all right for you.' He is dressed for battle of all things, a big, vulgar display of rippling muscle and patchwork plate. 'I don't know why I let you off. People might think we're in love.'

'That's a new word. You might even get around to "patience" and "humility".'

'You'd better not try that line on our guests.'

'Nah, Demacians are a tough crowd. That's why I'm wearing this.' He knocks twice on his helmet. 'They'll be in full armour. Just you watch.'

'So I'm casting my pearls before swine.' There's a dusting of powder on my collar. If that gets wet, my look is ruined. I grab a clean brush. 'I could have worn my cloak and spared myself the trouble.'

'You enjoy it.'

'Why? Because I'm a woman?'

His nostrils flare in disgust. 'I can't imagine your girlfriend bothering much.'

'That's a strange term for our implacable foe. I suppose the Winter's Claw are just a ruse to draw my attention.'

'Heroes have slain dragons, moved mountains and razed kingdoms to win the hearts of their fair maidens.' He presents me, like a punchline, to an unseen crowd.

'You do know that most of your epic tales are fiction?'

'Like Avarosa?'

'Don't go there.' I quickly shift the conversation. History is one of the few subjects where Tryndamere and I really come to blows. Women don't feature in his pantheon. I wouldn't wish his past on anyone but if isolation hadn't blurred his prejudice, he would be intolerable. 'Sejuani could wear anything. Unlike me, she has height, shoulders, presence…'

'That what you call them? You got "presence" to spare, girl.'

'Thank you for proving my point.' I clear my throat. 'Announcing Tryndamere, the Barbarian King, Anivia, the Cryophoenix, Ashe… a pair of tits!'

'That would get my attention.'

I make a snipping gesture with my fingers. 'You're so lucky I need an heir.' Gathering my skirts, I pirouette. 'Seriously, do I look all right?'

Tryndamere furrows his brow. 'Get your weapon.' I retrieve my bow and strike a pose, drawing back the string with all the power that my corset allows. A stitch comes loose. Watch out, boys. There are muscles beneath my curves. Tryndamere whoops. 'That's more like it, Warrior-Queen of the Freljord! They'll be shaking in their boots.'

I try to stare down my reflection. 'Good.' Walking tall, I cross the room and tug at his elbow. 'Shall we make our entrance?'

'Let's knock 'em dead.'

We leave my chambers. The door closes with a boom that echoes down an empty corridor.

I tremble.

'Ashe!' Tryndamere catches me. I'm panting hard enough to rip a hole in my chest. My diaphragm clenches and acid blooms in every jagged breath. I'm scared. You can never step outside a panic attack. With enough alcohol or adrenaline, you can ride it out. Sometimes, you can lock it in a box while the wispy remnants of your mind stay afloat.

'I… felt her die… and she came back.' You don't forget the corpse of the one you love, her dead eyes and dead flesh upon you. The scar grows deeper with time. Sanity, bleeding from an open wound, congeals into a waking nightmare.

Tryndamere squeezes my arms. 'I know… but you've got to keep on.' He straightens my back. I fear my ribs will break from the pressure. All I want is to be naked and free, run through the palace with the royal goods on display. I have built a country and now I fantasise about losing it. 'You've worked hard for this alliance.'

'I know.'

'You deserve it.'

'We'll see.'

Tryndamere is not evil but I have resented him for too long, resented that noble grandeur came easily to a hulking brute while I had to sweat for my bearing. Every day I must prove myself to sycophants who nod at my every word and attack me in private.

Not like Sejuani, who would argue the colour of the sea until the rivers ran dry, counter my every thought and premise, but this proud, beautiful woman, who would die before conceding an inch, looked into my eyes and called me a goddess.

You will be mine, Sejuani. Once I have the aid of Demacia, you will have no choice but to surrender. I will not let you fall again.


We pass the balcony. Whenever I host important visitors, I put a guard here to thwart assassins. One day, I will relax here with my bow and make Tryndamere hold court.

A huge, spherical man blocks our view. He guffaws at our approach. 'Your Majesty! Your Majestress!'

We've excused Gragas from bowing, in case he rolls over and levels the palace. It was Tryndamere who thought that one up. He was once so enamoured with the joke that he spent a whole day expounding it. I can't remember the grand finale, some drivel about Ionia and Piltover collaborating on a hextech see-saw to balance the world.

Gragas rubs his palms together. 'I knew you'd come this way. Feast your eyes on this!' With a sweep of his arm, he presents his work. The spread is glorious, traditional fayre laid out in unique portions for our guests, rather than a communal free-for-all. Our dining habits can upset the unwitting. Every place has a tankard, filled to the brim with Gragas' newest concoction.

He really is an asset. I have to smile, despite my anxiety. 'They'll be telling stories in Demacia for generations to come.'

Gragas pats his belly. 'Hospitality's my game, Your Worship.' He blithely rotates honorifics to "keep me grounded". 'And I play to win.'

Three Demacians perform a sweep of the hall. I recognise two of them, Xin Zhao and Luxanna Crownguard. Xin is obsessively thorough, poking his spear into every corner, showing no respect for our trophies or bunting. Lux babbles at anyone who comes near. I can see her method. She talks so loudly and quickly that people answer questions to be left in peace.

The third person is… I'm not sure, a little hunchback, wearing the most eccentric armour I've seen in years, a feathered helm and cloak, dwarfing a tiny frame in a skin-tight suit. Maybe it's a homunculus? The bobbing head evokes puppetry, not organic motion.

It whirls at alarming speed. The fierce, amber glare of a predator bores into my throat. I cower. Damn this weak heart! I am Queen. I have every right to observe my domain.

Running blind, I smack my elbow on Tryndamere's gauntlet. While my nerves rattle with pain, he talks me down. 'Easy… have you seen a ghost?'

'I'm not sure.'

Gragas waddles over to the balcony. 'Aye… the birdwoman, queer sight that.'

I try to recall her face. All I can remember are those eyes. 'That's a woman?'

'Eh… girl, more like, second one here after Xin. She had this giant eagle. Spoke to it before she came in. Don't know where it's gone.'

'They spoke?'

'Looked that way but she ain't said a word to me. Perhaps it were "caw caw caw".'

Is that eagle watching us? It could be invisible. Once we're done, I'll ask Braum to ward any high ceilings. 'I just didn't think Demacia was that… weird.'

Tryndamere shrugs. 'You get oddballs everywhere.'

I was disappointed. If that great beacon of stability held such madness then what hope was there for me?


The revels commence. To my surprise, the Demacians have brought entertainment, an exotic musician whose counterpoint is far too subtle for a boisterous crowd. She adapts well, finding a spot next to Braum and embellishing his tales. No doubt, she's wonderful, but I'm stuck at the head of my table, appearing "radiant" and "crystalline". It's impossible to eat without spoiling the effect, and this gown crushes my appetite. All I can do is get drunk.

I enjoy the preliminaries. Jarvan IV is lankier and scruffier than I expected, more of an otter than a bear. He's too craggy for his golden armour, especially when I picture the long, hairy body within. I relax, knowing that we both struggle. For a shameful instant, I'm proud of Tryndamere's natural charisma.

Just when I'm feeling happy and secure, they introduce Jarvan's half-dragon warrior.

I swear blind that Shyvana was brought solely to dazzle foes with the most perfect exhibition of lustrous female power in all of Runeterra. She's barely dressed! How could they do this to me? I have no choice but to imagine the molten smell and taste of those bare thighs and midriff, those tendons of steel beneath scale. Are they sensitive? Would she growl at the first touch and roar when…?

Tryndamere punches my arm. 'Eyes up. She's dangerous.'

Ugh, don't tell me she's dangerous. You're making it worse. 'I'm not…'

'Have you seen where your hand is?'

'My stomach hurts!' We both watch her navigate the hall. She turns her back to find her seat. Oh, the angle of that skirt…

'Wow.' Even Tryndamere is lost for words. 'You've got taste. I'll give you that.'

Anivia has the required impact. She bursts through the door to gasps of admiration and spreads her wings atop her jewel-encrusted perch. A legendary creature is a diplomatic boon… until she crows like a disapproving matron and upsets everyone. If she keeps her mouth shut and looks impressive, we're all good.

Birdwoman is not introduced. Poor form, if you ask me. Even servants are typically announced. I will query her presence when the time comes.

For now, I can do little but observe in resplendent boredom and try not to scratch myself while people are watching. My reports tell me that Jarvan isn't one for court so backroom dialogue will take precedence over any display. Tryndamere has the freedom to mingle. He does the rounds, helps himself to other people's food and returns, looking baffled. 'I can't be doing with this.'

'What have you learnt?'

'They're a pack of stupid, ham-fisted bootlickers. I suppose Lux is fun in small doses… or with something in her mouth. Jarvan's all right. He's obliged to talk nonsense. The rest have got no excuse. Your ogling of Shyvana went unnoticed, by the way.'

'Don't bring that up again.' Since when am I the embarrassment? 'Who's the girl they're hiding?'

'I couldn't get near. Bounced off Xin and Garen as I tried.'

'That's fine. She's not a priority.' I hope that she doesn't prowl the corridors at night, looking for people to assassinate.

The banquet goes well. Gragas wouldn't let me down. Today is all about making sure the Demacians get plenty of sleep after their long journey. If they're tired and grumpy, it won't help our case.

We have a week to persuade them of our worth. I pray that nothing goes wrong.