Believe

by Shadowfang3000

"How far would you go for what you believe in?" - Abandoning his home in utopia, Taric begins to journey the world of Valoran with a single aim: To bring salvation to those in need. However, what difficulties could such a tall task bring to a single man in an alien land?

(A/N): Well then, that was anti-climatic.

Spent a long while taking a break from writing to focus purely on my exams, and after finally finishing Post 16 and entering the void leading to University... Nothing feels particularly different :O

Anywho, after such a long break it's more than apparent that my writing is rustier than the undercarriage of a broken protocol droid! With that in mind, I felt that it would be appropriate to avoid writing the next entry in the TES saga for now and instead begin with something light.

A simple oneshot for Taric!

Now Taric is a champion whose concept I think has great potential. I've always seen him as quite a noble character originating from a forgotten society born deep underground, stranded in a world that isn't his own yet not letting overwhelming odds bring him down. He's a man who's confident in his identity and who he is, whilst simultaneously being eager to defend the vulnerable and bring civility to a barbaric humanity!

This fic is essentially my take on his backstory and personality, completely avoiding the whole corny image that he has to the general fanbase. Sit back, relax, and bear with me as I stumble into the task of fanfiction writing once more! (Mind, I still think his character would be a homosexual but that's a story for another time!)

WARNING: Spelling errors, a little bit of language, poorly described manly combat, a two-dimensional portrayal of Demacia, Taric not being fabulous, an unofficial interpretation of where Taric came from, fan lore, and incredibly rusty and inconsistent writing from someone who's been off doing exams for god knows how long!

Believe

"It's not right."

That must've been the third or fourth time he'd uttered the phrase in as many minutes. It was as if some small part of him still thought that the seven elders that formed a semi-circle around him would listen to reason. A council of heroes, wits and scholars sat upon their thrones amidst piles and spirals of tomes and documents, looming over the lone knight in his gem-adorned armour.

Yet none would heed his plight.

The figurehead of the seven - Beric the Just - let loose a long, harsh sigh. The sort of sigh you'd expect of a disappointed parent, reluctantly raising the rod to punish their unruly child for his misdeeds. He patiently wetted his lips, dabbing them with the wafer-like tip of his aged tongue before speaking. "We've spoken of this before." his voice croaked, the dormant dust mites that littered his lungs no doubt stirred from their slumber by his sullen words. "Your persistence is admirable, as naive as it is."

Suddenly the gates were opened, and other members of the board began to debate and whisper beneath their cowls with hushed murmurs. A woman - or rather what once had been a woman before old age claimed her - furthest to the right raised her chin, her hairy nose wiggling in the air arrogantly. "Where are we?" she asked rhetorically, smirking at the shining preacher before her expectantly. "Do tell."

The knight's lip trembled with irritability, having far too much trouble keeping his venom from spilling. They were speaking to him as if he were a mere squire; a child. "We are underground." he humoured her, keeping his azure eyes low and his hands at his front. He followed his custom of chivalry and respect to a fault, even if the woman deserved none of such. "The surface beneath the surface, ma'am."

Curled talons chipped at her podium. "Yes, of course." that grin remained, her crooked teeth a rainbow of browns and blacks. That disgusting visage was mirrored by the glory of the man's gemmed plate. "So tell me... What is your problem?"

"My problem?" the knight snarled, a singular eyebrow raised in disgust. It honestly troubled him that the seven heroes he had been taught to look up to from the cradle seemed to have trouble comprehending such a simple concept. "Our problem is that there is a war going on!" he pointed out, scanning the blank faces that continued to croon. "... Or are you so out of touch with reality that this is unknown to you?"

"We hear it, boy." Beric suddenly spoke up, putting emphasis on the dismissive 'boy'. His dry air bore a vibe of jaded cynicism, as if unlike his female counterpart this youth's factious appeal was beginning to bore and irk him. "We hear the bloodshed. Feel the earth as it rumbles around us. See the ceiling crumble and earth fall as they let bodies hit the floor." he began to scribble on a scrap of parchment, no doubt trying to look as if he was busy with more important matters. "They are calling it the Rune Wars upon the surface, or so we've heard."

The graphite of his pencil began to wane, much to his chagrin. "The world above is tearing itself apart." the elder lapped at his lips once more. "And I say let them have their game. We will have no business with those fools upon the surface.

"But we're part of this world!" the preacher snarled, his splendid armour a single beacon of hope amidst the dull lights of the underground utopia that he called home. "Whether you like it or not, we share this planet with those 'fools' above." he reminded his ever critical audience. His people were driven by compassion and benevolence, eternally devoted to tending to the hurt. All were trained to follow these virtues to the end. Or rather, they had been. "Didn't we all take vows? Vows that we'd wield our earthern energies to cure and mend, 'or so the ceiling fall'?"

"Banish their shadows, mend their sinew, cleanse their minds 'til end of days."

"Or so the ceiling fall."

Beric the Just bowed his head in understanding, no doubt a defender of tradition and the old ways. Every citizen of the sprawling city beneath the earth - the surface beneath the surface - took those vows. They were bound to do everything in their power to prevent harm, no matter their feelings or condition. "The men of Noxus. Of Demacia, and of Ionia. They wrought their own destruction." he stressed, speaking it as if it were a simple fact that couldn't be argued against. "They were the despots who chose the path of barbaric and destructive magicks that they could never understand." he could've sworn the elder snickered with condescension, "It's almost fitting that it would be what finally destroyed them."

Magic has ruined this land.

Ever since his boyhood his mentors had taught him this truth. Magic was a harsh and brutal power beyond the comprehension of humanity; the vicious twin of the mending earthern energies that only the people of the city below could muster. His masters would often say that the day that armies dallied with magic would be the day that the world faced its reckoning.

And that day was nigh.

Far to the right the rigid toothed woman knitted her brow. "Taric." she called in a pitiful, almost maternal manner. In some ways she felt sorry for the confused and naive young man as he begged for their favour. His sense of honour was endearing to say the least, yet it ignored all common sense. "Let them go." she advised, "Those simpletons will destroy eachother no matter how hard you try. They don't deserve our help. They've had enough chances."

Taric the Gem Knight lowered his gaze, his armour clinking as his body sank in apparent defeat. Humanity had always been a simple and violent race, prone to misunderstandings and absolute solutions. It wasn't something to judge them for; they were merely afraid. And when taken by terror and overwhelmed by confusion even the clearest of minds can be tainted with fog.

Humanity was in its infancy.

Could you truly abandon a child in bloom?

Steel on sapphire rung throughout the chamber as his posture regained its radiance. "And you call yourselves knights… Heroes." he growled in spite, the feeling of betrayal filling him with defiance. "I was always told that our noble council led by example. I see that our example is to abandon the virtues and cower as our world crumbles around us."

As if that was enough to convey his intentions, Taric spun on his heel and began to walk. It didn't matter where he was going, what mattered was that it would be as far away from this place as possible. The council was silenced for the briefest of moments as the young hero sauntered away without any further words. "A true hero knows when the odds are insurmountable." Beric called, justifying their inaction with pure logic. "Do you think we haven't tried, boy? I've seen their depravity first hand. I have lost brothers to their ilk!" he warned with sudden urgency. Yet the knight did not turn, his glowing eyes forever fixed on the task ahead.

Salvation would come for the surface dwellers.

And he would be its instrument.

The foul-toothed crone held back a cackle of judgement, her chair creaking with strain as she rose to her feet. Beric exchanged a dubious glare with her as she kept her voice hushed, "You surely believe that you can save them all?"

He stopped. He turned to face the council, resolute in inaction. They had all been heroes once; defenders of what was righteous and scribes of the greatest tales. This had been the way of life that they had fostered for generations, and it would live on for generations to come. Taric eyed the "great" and "proud" and "just" that refused to face the struggle ahead. "If this is what it means to be a hero." he muttered, ashamed by their doubt of the surface's potential. "Then call me a villain."

Taric stopped registering their words after that. They could've been screaming at him to stand down, 'less he wished to face banishment. They could've been ordering their guards to bring him down. Why, for all he knew they could've been mesmerised by his poetic words and fallen into total quiet. Regardless, it didn't change a thing. He would leave this place, and move on to greater things.

He'd found a purpose, at long last.

A gallant, bold cause.

To be honest, he'd foreseen this moment for years. He could never truly stay in one place for too long, letting the rest of the world wither without his say. The right thing rarely happens on its own; it needs a catalyst to push it forward. Taric - the hedge knight, the Gem Knight - would be that catalyst.

He left the utopia about an hour later.

He didn't say goodbye.

Neither did they.

X

Everyone that called the surface their home recognised the cerulean standards. Rows and columns of banners, bearing curvaceous wings with elegant grace as their sigils. He loosened his shoulders, scanning the endless ranks of tents and campfires that they marked.

Demacians.

And where there were Demacians, there were wounded.

He'd been trailing this warband for the past few months, devoting himself to picking up the bits and pieces they left in their wake. War was a dirty business, and plenty of the dead and dying were left behind as meals for the carrion crows on a daily basis. He saw to it that they were tended to, usually when the battalion's back was turned.

Their latest battle had been more than just a regular skirmish. The shattering and splintering of shield on axe had deafened the valleys for hours on end as two mighty armies clashed. Hundreds if not thousands of lives had been lost over nothing more than a mile of lifeless dirt, some fertile fields and a small windmill.

What would history tell us? That dozens of boys barely sprouting hairs on their chins had been laid out like wheat to a scythe for the sake of some pastureland in the middle of nowhere?

No.

It would say that hundreds of proud men died with honour for the noble cause of an even nobler king.

That they marched against the odds for glory and valour, saluting as they went with smiles to bear.

The camp was emitting a low hum and bustle, like a populous crowd during a stage play's intermission. There were no cheers of joy or camaraderie from the many militia and conscripts; only low murmurs of sorrow and regret. His intuition was right to bring him here.

Taric hiked his shield upon his back, its large size betraying its lightness. Glancing down the green slope before him, he began to carefully descend the treacherous path. He wasn't one for making dramatic entrances, and simply rolling down a knoll and landing in a heap at the foot of the camp would probably do more harm to his image than good.

He'd never seen grass before. Well, before he'd left the lands below that is. He'd heard plenty of descriptions from his masters, and read piles of books on the topic speaking of vast fields of verdant grass like the furry scruff of a scholar's brow. Millions of blades lined as one, swaying together in an eternal dance. In his eyes it was almost romantic.

Truthfully, he'd always imagined it as being taller. He would've never thought that the people of the surface could trample on such marvellous nature without so much as a second glance. To think that to humanity, such wonders were common place. Dull.

And don't even get him started on the trees.

Hulking beasts of might, their arms stretched out far and wide. Wards and titans amidst the grass; the kings of all plants. No matter the weather, no matter the challenge, oaks and willows stood tall against the inevitable; forever a shelter for creatures big and small.

It was inspiring.

Taric's legs hastened as his foothold faltered, shuffling back and forth as he slid down the final curve of the slope. He stumbled to a halt at the foot of the hill, glancing back at the trail he'd left in his wake; the grass slick and weathered by his greaves. Grass always seemed to recover from such scuffs and blemishes at record speed. Far below, a single imperfection about the stones would last an eternity.

The Gem Knight continued his advance. To think that once he'd thought that the ceiling of his home marked the end of the world. On the surface above, there was a sprawling blue hue spotted with white and grey to look up to.

He could never quite get used to the endless sky. It was awe-inspiring, limitless; endless possibilities. To think that so many millions looked up from their homes to see the very same thing, miles upon miles around across the globe. Just how far did it go? Could the people of the surface perhaps scale their mountains and touch it themselves?

And here he was.

Walking upon his people's sky.

Long hauls were of no challenge to Taric. He'd spent much of his adult life within the casket of his armour, sealed and protected from the alien world around him. The weight of the titanic suit of plates and opal was practically a part of him. Thus as the outskirts of the camp neared, and the rearguard and sentries caught whiff of him, not a single bead of sweat dotted his brow.

Perhaps the warband knew of his exploits; of their own guardian angel, easing the passing of those long lost. While they watched him with distrust plain in their shadowed eyes, they did not impede his advance. The Demacians allowed him to enter their camp without so much as a warning.

How desperate were they?

As the wind left trails of gentle kisses upon his bare cheeks, and lapped at the flowing locks of his kempt head of hair, Taric gazed upon the many faces that sat and stood in and around the tents and fires of the campsite. So many different faces; black and white, blonde and brunette. He'd never seen so many people of varying cultures united as one. The Demacians had a long reach across the surface for sure, rallying troops from as far as Ionia and Bilgewater it seemed.

So many had simple wounds. Wounds that he could treat. It was a bitter reality to war, but often it was the most minor of diseases or injuries that led to death. Improper treatment, lack of supplies, sometimes mere ignorance contributed greatly to the casualty rates. Something as pathetic as a scratch could become infected, and in a matter of months a man could lose an entire limb if not his life.

It was surprising how none knew the powers of Gemcraft and the ancient Earthern Energies upon the surface. The healing arts were adept at cleansing even the greatest of ailments, mending ligaments and curing the sick. It was far more difficult to learn than the magic that humanity had turned to in their hour of need, but far more potent and constructive. Infinitely more beneficial, that's for sure.

He could see some of them now, cast in bandages.

Warlocks, Battlemages, Spellblades and the like.

Those poor fools.

Taric could relate to them in some way, as they leant against their tents with fatigue in their postures. In his experience no man or woman did anything with the intention of evil or wrong. To the warlocks, their wielding of destructive magicks was in the interest of peace and freedom. However misled or confused they were, they were driven by the same desire as he.

And that demanded some respect at the very least.

As he advanced further, registering the wounded at every turn and contemplating on treatments, he began to draw attention to himself. The soldiers started to mutter and whisper among themselves, keeping their panicked and worn eyes wide and fixed on the majestic knight in gem-clad armour. Some clutched onto their sword hilts and scabbards, bearing with the agony of bound limbs through grit teeth.

A loud, gravelly voice befitting of a layman came from one conscript, who sat by a wounded soldier's side with a friend in tow. "Gavvers, come on." he growled, slapping the soldier's cheek with a rough palm. The injured man merely stared off into the middle distance, his breathing anxious. "Snap out of it already."

As the conscript tended to the soldier's wounds, his barrel-chested friend tried to catch "Gavvers'" absent gaze. "What is it Gavs?" he asked him, following his stare and looking back. He spotted the gemmed knight for the briefest of moments, only to pull an enthusiastic double take. The hulk fumbled for his weapon, pointing aggressively at Taric. "Back off."

"Your friend is hurt." Taric said matter-of-factly, calm and composed.

His posture remained threatened. "Really? Wow." the man tapped his friend's shoulder, who was busy tying yet another round of bandages across what the healer assumed was his wound. "Did you hear that? Says Gavs is hurt. You some kind of scholar?"

Taric ignored the snark, and cut straight to business. "I can help him."

"Yeah, right." the behemoth of a man snickered, "What do you think I am, an idiot?"

It was nothing more than scruffy first aid; about as useful as a kiss on the forehead. It seemed the Demacians were even more ill equipped for dealing with their wounded than he'd previously thought, which was saying something. "That wound is infected. Those bandages need to be changed." he advised, pacing towards the trio uninvited. The self-appointed doctor at work was trying his best, but that didn't change the fact that he was doing it all wrong. Taric gestured at him. "And you should be laying him on his side, not his back." after a brief pause of consideration the hopeless and confused man followed this suggestion and slowly tilted the wounded soldier onto his side. "You have absolutely no idea what you're doing, and you're turning down someone with medical experience." Taric glanced back at the titan, trying to suppress a self-satisfied smirk. "... Does that answer your question?"

After an awkward moment the hulk reluctantly backed down, his puffed chest deflating alongside his ego. "Go on then." he sidled away, muttering to himself irritably. "Jerk."

Fear can make some agitated.

Always remember that.

Convinced that he was safe to do his business, Taric gently lowered himself to a knee as the previous doctor relinquished his post. "Gavvers, is that your name?" he spoke gently, finding his eyes. Or rather he hoped to find his eyes, only to realise he was missing one. He held onto Gavvers' shoulder, squeezing it authoritatively. Almost in an instant he gasped like a gutted trout, reignited yet not yet aflame. "Yes, that's you. You're Gavvers, aren't you?"

Gavvers' two colleagues watched on, mildly perturbed by the stranger's actions. As conscripts from the taverns of Bilgewater, their grasp of medicine usually came down to drowning in rum until the pain went away. Whoever this knight was, calling him a "scholar" was probably an understatement. Not that they knew a better word for it.

Taric's hands began to search Gavs' body, like a scanning prospector scouring the rocks for ore. His palm hunted the source of the patient's ailment, tracking it down to a bruised wound on his spine. The paladin focused on this point, letting his fingers muster a faint glow. He imbued him with renewing energy, the earthern power of gemcraft rapidly accelerating the body's regenerative process. Gavs' jaw trembled erratically with confusion, only to slow and relax as calm filled his senses. His eye regained its focus, all the terror and paranoia that had ruled his mind before giving way to a sense of clarity.

They say that in crises, reason is the first thing to die.

He would end that saying.

Gavvers' single eye darted about in confusion, trying to understand where he was and what was going on. He struggled to speak, yet Taric merely hushed him paternally. He looked at his predecessor, gesturing at the shoddy bandage work. "Change them." he recommended, rising to his feet. "And don't tie them so tight this time. Do you want him to lose another piece?"

"The ol' git doesn't have many more pieces to lose." the hulk spoke up, taking a place next to Taric as if he was one of his own. He slapped his shoulder in a friendly display, only to injure his hand on the jagged edges of the knight's rubied pauldrons. With experienced grace he muffled a swear and returned the aching hand to his pocket. "... Cheers bloke."

Pirates.

One second they hate you, the next they adore you.

The alien nodded at the titan in understanding, moving on to the next person in need of his services without another word. He would've never thought that the pirates of Bilgewater would be willing to sell their swords to Demacia. They'd always sounded like men of freedom and adventure, turning away safety and security in favour of a life of exploration and riches. It sounded like a fascinating past time to see the world upon one of those majestic cruising sea ships that skipped across the oceans, if not a bit dangerous.

As if he knew how to swim.

Taric continued his rounds for quite some time, checking on every tent he came across for the slightest of ailments. Their injuries ranged from slight to severe, physical to mental, in vast quantities. To call it a workload would be an understatement. He made sure to move quickly between each case, setting them up to recover and advising the frightened soldiers on how to tend to their wounds in the future should he not be there to tend to them. Humanity still had much to learn.

And perhaps one day, they wouldn't need him to cure their ills?

Alas no matter how much he strived, he couldn't save them all. For some their wounds travelled too deep, leaving them mortally injured and beyond his treatment. He may've been a skilled practitioner of the earthern energies and regenerative magicks, yet that didn't make him the greatest in the realm. He took pride in his needlework, yet salvation - in all of its glory - wasn't quite perfect.

More often than not, he could only soothe their passing.

He wished he succeeded more often. He really did.

How many lives had he ended out of mercy?

The knight rose from yet another tent, shrugging off its flap as he dried his damp fingers. He wasn't entirely fond of getting messy, yet sometimes - be it a broken limb or a shard of shrapnel - he couldn't turn to his powers alone. A bit of brute force could do wonders at times. Taric rubbed his bare hands against a weathered rag stained in a stranger's blood, eager to cover his raw knuckles from the cold and winds.

"You piece of filth!" a voice cried out, cracking with burning rage. "You look at me! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Taric raised his brow, slapping the rag over his shoulder and reaching for his bracers. An eerie commotion had started across the camp, those that could walk or hobble making their way towards the shouts and exclamations. Fastening the straps around his wrists and ensuring that he was encased in his entirety, the healer shouldered his shield once more and marched onwards.

There was a scream of pain, and a wince from the stirring crowd. "You talk back to me again, and I'll have that tongue out!" the angered voice threatened, "I'll feed the damn thing to you, you mongrel!"

He did his best to be gentle, cutting through the thick undergrowth with nudges and apologies. "Excuse me." he uttered. The knight needed to know what was causing all the hubbub. There were enough problems at the camp as it was. If this was some sort of morale crisis, he needed to sort it out in an instant. Taric grabbed a man's shoulder, "Let me through."

By the time he reached the front of the crowd, it all made sense.

A prisoner of war.

A Noxian prisoner of war to be exact.

Their tasteless suits of armour were unmistakable, even if they were coated in dirt and blood and damaged beyond repair. The Noxian sat on his knees, his hands bound by frayed ropes behind his back. Claret oozed from fresh lashes across his brow, scorching rope burns charring his wrists. His elbows were bent at unnatural angles, suggesting that his arms had been snapped at the joints.

"I bet you killed children." the infuriated voice continued to rant. A tall Demacian soldier paced around him, in his hands a belt with its buckle doused in the Noxian's red. He crouched in front of the Noxian, howling into his ear. "I bet you raped women! Did you do that, you inbred shit?"

The Noxian didn't comment, his nostrils twitching with either fear or rage.

His torturer smirked, turning to his audience. "Look at this. He's learning. Good boy!" without warning he kicked the prisoner in his chest, throwing him onto his back in a wheezing heap. The boot came down atop his ribs, twisting upon his agonised form like a child crushing an ant. "Now lay down."

So much of the crowd cheered in approval, watching their dehumanised foe being given what for. It was a terrible fate to be sure; beaten to death to sate a primal hunger for revenge. It begged the question: was this the first prisoner?

Surely not.

Surely this was a common event. The daily viewing for the camp's guard.

The one thing that they could enjoy, so far from home.

The one thing that they could all agree on hating.

Taric was here to heal, not get involved with the escalating conflict between Demacia and Noxus. His teachings preached non-malefice and defence of all those in pain. Would it be prudent to become a complication? He could've sworn that his virtues were walking contradictions, seeking peace and justice without any involvement in the dirty work.

This soldier may've been guilty of the crimes he'd been accused of, may've not been. Yet here he knelt at the mercy of men, beaten and tormented beyond the laws and customs of war. Could he sit by and let it happen? Let hundreds of men who despised this lone Noxian vent their anger onto his frail form?

He was in a Demacian camp, amongst Demacians. Perhaps there was nothing else to it. Taric lowered his head, his heart torn asunder as his responsibilities duked it out. As Beric the Just had often taught, discretion is sometimes the logical choice.

Yet logic is cold on its own.

How far would you go for what you believe in?

The torturer had rallied some colleagues from the crowd, offering them a perfect source of stress relief for the evening. There were three men by his side, all eager for a swing at the punching bag. One at a time they took their turn, a minute each to do whatever they wanted to the Noxian beneath them. Four excruciating minutes of unneeded bloodshed.

Yet the Noxian did not fall. Every time he stumbled he would struggle back up again, his quivering spine holding his limp body up like a sadistic scarecrow. He spat blood and enamel to the dirt, bearing his teeth in defiance. "Cowards."

That caused the four to smirk, exchanging a jolly laugh at the Noxian's sudden ignorance. "Excuse me?" the ringleader cooed, leaning towards him. He held his hand by his ear, acting as if he was hard of hearing. "Did I just hear a dog talk?"

The prisoner's expression was firm, his chin raised. "Cowards." he repeated in disgust, the hinges of his jaw screaming with pain. The man's body shuddered with agony, his eyes wet with tears and salt. "Why don't you... U-Untie me. Fight me fair."

"Now we could do that." the torturer considered, the sight of the Noxian's tears a masterpiece to his connoisseur's eye. He'd heard so many stories of how Noxus' horde of warriors were battle hardened and dauntless in the face of danger, never breaking no matter what the odds. Call him a risk-taker, call him a sadist, but he was eager to prove otherwise to his fellow soldiers. "Or better still..." he pivoted around on his foot, pacing deliberately like a caged beast. Suddenly he spun back around to throw a right hook. "We could do thi-"

A set of plate armour stood in the way of the torturer's fist, deflecting his blow with ease.

Taric stood his ground, standing up for the Noxian.

The ringleader shook his glowing red hand in pain, sneering at the sudden interruption. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh." the gem knight shrugged, placing his hands on his waist casually. He wasn't about to let the Demacians claim yet another life. Enough blood had been spilt that day as it was. Taric gave his best smile; supposedly it'd always gotten him his way as a boy. "Just another wandering knight. Don't mind me."

Confused to say the least, the Demacian nodded his head. "Well then move it." he dismissed, not entirely interested in whoever this marauder or mercenary was. When he promised that he would give a prisoner the time of their life, he wasn't particularly fond of distractions. "You're in the way."

"Am I?" Taric questioned. He cast a look to his flank, the Noxian having clambered back onto his knees. There was no doubt about it; he'd need a lot more than just magic and kind words to get him functioning again. He turned back to the torturer, maintaining that dorky grin. "So I am."

The Demacian shook his head, grabbing the knight's shoulder. "Get out of the way, boy." he demanded, aiming to barge his way through. "Now, or else."

"I could do that." Taric deliberated. He pushed his shoulder back at the ringleader firmly, forcing him to step back. He had no intention of letting these men through. They would have to deal with him first. "... Or better still, no."

Now he was really starting to torture the torturer. "You're testin' my patience, sweet cheeks." he spat, sizing up the knight in gem adorned armour. He bore no scars and was clad head-to-toe in plate. He looked more like a pretty boy noble than a warrior to him. And besides, he was one against many. "You and that girly haircut better scram."

Taric decided to put it bluntly, just in case the Demacian was having trouble understanding his words. "No."

"You gonna keep saying that?" the leader of the four asked, his wingmen chuckling as they began to form a circle.

Smiles all around. Taric nodded with respect, "You're catching on. Good."

They formed the points of a diamond around him, making sure that he had nowhere to run. For now the Noxian didn't exist. It was this whelp clad in jewels that needed to be made an example of. "Well, if you say no again you know what me and my friends are gonna do?" he continued, nodding at his colleagues.

"You'll step out of the way and allow me to assist this man and return him to his company." Taric told them, maintaining a stiff upper lip. He wouldn't let their show of bravado scare him. He was a knight of the surface below the surface, and he would not bring shame to what he stood for. The paladin looked at the gentleman to his right, catching him off guard. "Perhaps even point us towards the nearest Noxian outpost?" the thug looked uneasy to say the least, lacking his leader's charisma. Taric turned back to his boss. "I would be in your debt if that were the case, mister...?"

Blades were drawn in an instant, the torturer shaking his head in irritation as he reached for his scabbard. All four were armed within moments, ready to slice and dice the fool that stood between them and their idea of justice. Rest assured, his armour would make a fine trophy once they washed all the gore off of it.

Taric was committed now. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, he would be making enemies of some and friends of others. He didn't let it get to him. This was the right thing - to stand up for those in pain; violence to end violence. The Noxian kept his profile low, too bewildered to comprehend what was going on around him. The knight shrugged his shoulder, bringing his shield to bear like a sack slung over his back.

"... No?"

The charge wasn't organised to say the least, but it certainly got points for general enthusiasm. The ringleader came at him first, bellowing a loud and incomprehensible warcry and holding his blade aloft as if it were a club. Taric spun a 180 with delicate poise, using the large shield on his back to absorb the blow with ease. He kept his momentum going, groping for his weapon and swinging it as he drew. A hammer, encrusted with the most resistant and powerful of gemstones that littered the lowest levels of home like the furry surface of a beast's tongue.

Flying with force but not fury, the hammerhead crashed into the torturer's side and threw him to the floor in a stumble. It wasn't a blow laced in pain, but rather in control and dominance. With one down for the moment, Taric had just enough time to check his left - a sword swinging straight for the centre of his skull. He held both ends of his weapon and caught the blade with its shaft, squinting through the resultant sparks. Surprised by his speed, the thug's strength plummeted allowing the gem knight to throw the hammer's hilt forward in a riposte. His foe off balance, the paladin rammed his shoulder forward and threw the weight of his hulking suit of armour square at him. The man was subdued within an instant.

Perhaps the other pair had learnt from their predecessor's mistakes, deciding to charge at their foe together rather than one at a time. Taric at last unlimbered his shield and brought it to bear, throwing it forward to deflect an oncoming blow. Defending himself from a sword blow to the left, he threw his right side back to dodge a swing at his exposed flank by the second henchman. His cover blown, Taric thrust the point of his hammerhead straight into the flanker's nose and sent him to the ground fumbling for his injured face. The man on the left pressed on, trying to overcome the knight's guard with sheer power. The last thing he heard was a slight snicker from his overburdening foe, who after a foreign utterance emitted a burst of light from the front of his shield. The thug's eyes went wide as the blinding light stunned him, dazzling him into submission as he flopped to the floor mildly dazed and pacified.

Suddenly Taric's leg gave out as the ringleader came back for round two, slashing at the back of the knight's knee. The healer grunted with exertion, falling to a kneel as he spun around to deal with the unrelenting Demacian. He slammed the bottom of his shield onto the man's outstretched blade, wedging it against the grass and locking it in place. Taric lunged forward with his hammer, flailing at a wide arc and forcing the torturer to abandon his weapon and back off to give himself some room. The knight stumbled for a footing, the four rising to their feet with varying amounts of effort.

"You got any idea who you're dealing with, scum?" the leader grimaced, looking among his far less enthusiastic colleagues. It seemed they were more eager to end it all rather than play with their food. He reached for his side, tugging at a dirk. "You don't piss on the Vanguard and expect to get away with it."

The crowd watched on as the angered torturer advanced, the foreign healer knelt in apparent defeat. Taric contemplated on his options, reflecting on the situation and the many ways that it could play out. He felt doubt, reluctance, fear and all sorts of emotions surging throughout the storm of his mind. He couldn't bow down now. If he were to fall, so many more would be subject to agony and pain.

Humanity's salvation couldn't stop here.

Why did it always come back to violence?

Could the circle ever be broken?

Taric mustered his might, letting his righteousness and pride manifest in all of its radiance. A shattering echo filled the air as he brought down his hammer, azure energy emitting from the gemstones that littered his person. The four thugs backed off in terror as an aura began to circle him, all the air in his vicinity almost seeming to crystallise and fall to the floor in his glorious presence. It was as if he carried his own cloud from the skies above, crystalline snow daintily falling to the ground about him. It piled like snowfall at one's doorstep on a fine winter's morning.

He glared at quartet, sneering in defiance against their oppression as he brought his weapon to bear. The winds lapped at their clothing, the standards and tents of the campsite whipping with resistance at the sheer pressure of his power. They could only back down, surrendering to the force of his glowing blue gaze.

His men unruly and the crowd in uproar, the leader howled for order. "Enough!" he cried, waving his arms maniacally to try and stress his authority. Eager to save face, he boldly stared into the knight's unyielding eyes. "Back off boys. I think he's had enough."

The turbulence began to calm, and the crystalline snow waned as the earthern energies hushed their unleashed might. Taric maintained his intimidating posture, yet his expression alone reflected his feelings. All eyes turned to the beaten Noxian, who looked up to the alien who'd put his life on the line for a stranger.

He'd done it.

He'd saved him.

If the Demacian continued to prattle on, he ignored him fervently. Like with the Council of Heroes far below, he wouldn't let the misled discourage him from achieving his task. Taric offered the prisoner his hand, his lips forming a straight-laced line. The Noxian took his outstretched palm without hesitation; anywhere was better than here at the moment.

"Mark my words dog. A man who lies with a Noxian is no friend of mine!" the torturer continued to prattle on to deaf ears, the entire camp watching the pair stand tall. "Don't even think that Demacia will offer you anything! From now on, you're an enemy to our people!"

With deliberate caution and sluggishness Taric helped the Noxian onto his feet, giving him a shoulder to rest on for the walk ahead. It would take a while to reach an outpost of Noxus, and he could only hope that their banners were as large and obvious as Demacia's. The knight limped forward upon his wounded knee, taking it slow with the man in tow. The Demacians let them through as they made their way, speechless at the courage of the man of the surface beneath the surface.

Everyone has a right to be free from suffering and misery. No one should be born into the world in fear, unable to live without constant concern for their well-being at the hands of the foul and unjust. As he'd told his elders so many times before, humanity was nothing more than a child. And all children, regardless of name, gender or place, need a role model. Need hope.

And that was his duty.

He couldn't save the world alone. But he could do everything in his power to prevent wrongdoings and preach the true path to righteousness. With any luck, Taric would be the first of many in the long journey that would be humanity's future. And perhaps one day the Rune Wars would come to an end; a war to end all wars. Perhaps then the people of the surface would finally understand the folly of their ways, the sorrow they caused, and with that begin a golden age.

Although that was a story not yet written.

Even the smallest gestures can have the greatest implications.

As he cleared the camp with the silent prisoner at his side, he couldn't help but steal a glance at the sky. The endless blue had transformed into a vast red - the makings of ruby, and vigour. In the gorgeous lands above, full of vibrance and light and all manner of fascinating oddities, there was a saying shared by many. Be it a dashing lord of the grandest manor or a lowly milk maid from a dull old farm, many uttered the phrase in times where they longed for inspiration.

"The Sky is the Limit."

Taric couldn't help but smile through the pain. He thought it was quite the clever saying.

Because the sky was limitless.

X

(A/N): HURGHEUGNOENGLEMGE EW.

That hurt to write. You know when you're sitting on a bus listening to music, and you imagine something that music could go along to? This entire fic was based around a montage for a single three minute track I have on my MP3!

... And it's much better when it's not put into words! xD

Rest assured, somebody's bound to enjoy this even if the moral is all over the place. It's good to be back regardless, and hopefully I can muster the strength to finally start the fifth entry in the TES series!

Godspeed!