The room is relatively full. For a backwater bar in a part of Ionia that most people don't even know exists, it's an impressive showing. You slip through the open doorway as lightly as the breeze that follows you, and freeze. There is a woman in the corner, surrounded by admirers – she holds her audience's attention like they believe she'll stop existing if they look away.
Her hair is darker than your past, and her skin looks as soft and pale as moonlight. The way she throws her head back in laughter is the most graceful thing you have ever seen; or, at least, it will be until she moves again. Her eyes are the colour of firelight – fitting, considering how they flicker with amusement the moment she notices you.
You ignore her, now that you're over your shock, and take an abandoned table on the other side of the bar.
You flag down the barmaid, who seems eager to take your business and even more eager to leave afterward. It might be something to do with the sword at your waist – the blade is longer than her legs. Or maybe it's your scars. Most of them are old now; faded and silver. They match the roots of your hair.
You're on your second mug of what passes for alcohol in this place when someone pulls out the stool opposite you, and takes a seat. You don't need to look up to know who it is, or to imagine the careless elegance with which she sits.
"Hello, stranger," she says. Her voice is as smooth and rich as whisky. "Fancy seeing you here."
You finish a long sip and wipe your mouth before replying. "Hello, Ahri."
"This seems familiar," Ahri says, making a show of looking around the room. "You, a bar, and sullen conversation. You need to liven up, Yasuo. Have some real fun."
"Like you were?" you ask. "I wasn't the one who abandoned her fan club to have some 'sullen conversation', was I?"
She laughs, sharp and staccato like a hummingbird. "I just wanted to catch up with an old friend. It's not as if they won't be there when I come back."
It's a fair point, for the most part – except the two of you have never been friends. Acquaintances, perhaps. Opponents, most certainly. But hers was not a company you ever sought out willingly, all those years ago.
"I miss the League," you say as you finish your mug. It's not a topic change, not really; you've just never had the patience for small-talk. "Gragas could piss out better beer than this."
"Is that any way to speak to a lady?" Her tone is full of haughty indignation, but her eyes are laughing. "But you're right – excellence has a way of spoiling the rest of the world."
"We were spoiled, weren't we?" Your voice is musing, and your eyes are distant. "Fighting without risk for causes that didn't affect us half the time. I found what I thought I was looking for, and I think you did too, and neither of those had anything to do with trade disagreements between Piltover and Zaun."
You signal for a third mug as silence falls. The barmaid seems less nervous around you now; Ahri has that effect on people. It's all part of her charm. The same charm she can use to turn someone's mind into her own personal playground, should she feel so inclined.
"I miss the intrigue," she says, and of course she does. Your thoughts must show on your face, because she smiles as she continues to speak. "I've always been curious, and there were ever-so-many secrets just begging to be teased out."
Ahri leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.
"Speaking of secrets, why are you here, Yasuo?" Her voice is tempting. Like the edge of a cliff.
"I'm just looking for a road home," you reply. It's not even a lie. "What about you? No ears, no tails; you almost look human."
You say almost, because it has been fifteen years since the League of Legends disbanded and Ahri has not aged a day. It's never been particularly clear how she sustains herself, but you remember Thresh once decrying her as a thief – with all that implies.
"I learned well." If she took insult to your phrasing, or your question, you can't tell. "But you're a long way from where you should be, Yasuo."
"What makes you think that?"
A flash of teeth that can't quite be called a smile. "I know what you desire."
"You would, wouldn't you?" You laugh, as cold and bitter as steel. "Right now, all I desire is another drink. This conversation's getting too personal to be sober for."
"Forgive me," she says, and it's so unexpected you almost double-take. The Ahri you once knew was many things, but she was never repentant. It's a reminder she only looks as young as she used to be. A lot can change in a decade and a half. You would know. "I didn't mean to be rude."
The barmaid comes and goes, bringing along your fourth mug. It'll be your last, too; it's never safe to get drunk, not for you. It impairs your speed, dulls your reflexes, and loosens your tongue. With Ahri here, it's debatable which one is more dangerous.
Almost idly, you reach down and adjust your sword. The sheath has gotten itself wedged into a crack in the floorboards again. Ahri's eyes follow the movement, and you don't miss the way her jaw tenses, even if it's only for a moment. Good. She hasn't forgotten who you are. You'd hate to be the only wary one in this conversation.
"It doesn't matter," you say, waving away her apology. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but you might as well explain. After tonight, you'll probably never see her again. "You're not wrong, but you're missing the context. I've killed a lot of people. Some of them I shouldn't have. My honour left a long time ago, but that doesn't mean I can't honour them."
There is no sympathy in Ahri's eyes, but you weren't expecting any. You've met very few people who know what it's like to regret so intensely, and one of them you once dedicated your life to hunting.
"That's why I'm here. Remembering what I left behind. I'll be gone soon enough."
Any further conversation is interrupted by a drunkard. He staggers over to your table, and completely ignores you in favour of Ahri. You can't fault him for that; just because you're not interested in her doesn't mean you don't notice. You don't have to be attracted to women to be attracted to Ahri – but it does help.
"Hey, pretty lady," he slurs, "what're you doing with an old man like him?"
"Reminiscing," she says, utterly unconcerned in ways no ordinary woman would be. "It's been a while since we last met."
The man blinks. You suspect it's in confusion about what 'reminiscing' means.
"You should leave, friend," you say. "We're busy here."
"What're you gonna do about it?" comes the belligerent reply.
You sigh, and stand. The motion is as smooth as it is unhurried, like a blade against a whetstone. He watches you rise; it's obvious he doesn't think you're a threat. That is his second mistake.
The first was not noticing the sword you've already drawn. The point rests at the hollow of his throat. Age has made you slower – in the same way a bullet is slower than lightning. You are still as lethal as you ever were.
"Look down," you say, pressing the tip against his skin until it's just shy of drawing blood. "Don't start what I'll finish."
His eyes widen, and he backs off almost faster than you can follow. If he could harness that sudden turn of speed in a fight, he might actually have been a challenge. You sheath your sword and sit down, turning back to Ahri. She looks amused, if anything.
But then again, she usually does.
"You're not as fast as you used to be," she says, idly inspecting her nails. They are, of course, flawless. "I saw your draw this time."
"No-one's perfect," you say, "but you're welcome to show me how it's done."
"How… tempting." Her expression of distaste is almost comical. "But I think I'll pass."
The rest of your night passes similarly; back-and-forth banter about your lives, the League, and what your fellow champions have been doing since it fell apart. It's nice, in a simple way.
Eventually, the bar closes, and you go your separate ways. You go to sleep, wake up with the shadow of a hangover, and roll out of bed a little gingerly. In other words, not much has changed since you were twenty.
You pack up your belongings, squint at the sun, and decide to head west.
After all, that's the way the wind is blowing.
This was my entry to the Riot-run Oceania Region FanFiction contest. Unfortunately, I didn't make it to the shortlist. But I'm still quite proud of this story, so I figured I'd share it here anyway.
It was also my attempt to blend previous canon (where the Institute of War and the League of Legends were a thing) with current canon (where they aren't), and write about two of my favourite champions. I might be a Wood 7 Ahri main, and a man too scared of playing Yasuo because I know I will be the sort of Yasuo player everyone hates, but hey.