AN:

A bit of a long one, but I couldn't afford to cut anything else out. I think you'll forgive me.


Syndra didn't know what to do. She knew where Lux was; could tell throughout the night of every shift. The Dark was trying to overcome her. It seeped into her form as she slept, tainting. As soon as she awoke, Syndra dressed and floated over to her room. She wondered if it was a coincidence that it was Sensei's room. Lux was lying on the bed. Her face was twisted in pain, drenched in sweat. Syndra's heart shattered as she saw this, dreading to think of what Lux would say or think when she woke up. With a violent gesture, the shadows dissipated and left her to slump, finally able to start recovering. For the first time in her life, Syndra felt tears building in her eyes, looking at this thing, this woman, who… Who represented everything good in her life. But it wasn't her life, truly. She saw, in her mind, a line drawn in the sand; beyond lay the Justicar, and a life of love and Light. But the other side lay the Tyrant's cliff, a sheer drop to the Void. The line was a knife's edge, a dangerous proposition, a way of life unforetold. She looked at this simple creature whom - at least in one life - she loved, and thought of how now, though she lived, Lux was just as impossible and far away as the sun. She considered why she didn't join the Tyrant; what drove her to balance precariously, teetering, always in danger of falling and losing who she is - or was, in any case. It was a simple answer, considering the complicated nature of the question. She would grasp to any hope, any vague notion, of the life she had seen. For the love of her life, the one who had trusted her and had that trust betrayed...

She would walk the line.

Stepping closer so she could see clearer - her vision was strangely blurry, her face warm and wet - Syndra reached out and placed one slim hand atop the glowing white of the mage's forehead. Subconsciously bidden, the luminescent orb Lux left behind floats down to the Sovereign's other hand. It is painfully hot to the touch, overwhelmingly so, but she grimaces and stubbornly bears the pain. Using the suffering as a guiding force, she channels an equal amount of Dark into Lux's soul, her being, leaving a mark. With it, she imparts the memories she has lived, from every stilted word as a baby, to every commanding line as a child, to every scathing remark as a teenager; finally, her vision, and the time spent between then and now, a fateful cast. The mark sits in Lux's mind, glowing in a queer way, somehow bright in its absence of light. Some would consider it a scar, an ugly reminder. Some a memento, nothing more than a trinket of times past. Later, Lux will look upon it and consider it, weighted upon the things imparted to her with it, and what Syndra will do next, and think of it as a thing that represents her feelings. It is, inherently, an abomination; a Dark, evil, corrupting influence, one that will quickly drive her to ruin.

Yet it does not stop her from crying of the love she knows she could have, and could give.

Of the Light that she can see there, in the Dark star of her love's heart, and the wish it would shine.

Syndra suffered - or gained, it was hard to tell - in equal measure. As she implanted that shard of herself within Lux, the orb, which had been spinning faster and faster as time went on, exploded into sparks. Unseen to normal eyes, the magic contained delved into Syndra's palm, drilling through flesh, blood, and then soul. It took its own, rightful place within Syndra's mindscape, a mirror in every way to Lux. It carried with it the same boon, the same feelings, the memories given paid back with interest. She learn all that the Light mage knew. The knowledge was, simply, invaluable, but Syndra didn't care for the tactical benefit yet. It was the principal; the idea that the two were connected by more than emotions or conflict. She rose a slim hand to feel the lock of golden hair resting over her left eye, a physical manifestation of their bond. Lux sported a similar symbol, resting easily. Syndra was drained, but it couldn't stop her. Shadows flit and flock to the fallen girl, covering, cocooning, then she sinks into the floor to somewhere no one can reach her but the Dark Sovereign.

Syndra lifts from the floor, magic carrying her on currents unseen, guiding her, the information she has gleaned from Lux's mind too valuable and concerning to ignore.

As she gracefully comes down at the edge of her domain, the shadows holding it boil. They crawl upwards, consuming, and coat the floating island. With a pop of air, it disappears, cutting into a place between worlds and reappearing, Syndra stood at the helm, arms outstretched, face taut. It comes into being directly above the castle of Lord Rikmar, and a well-practiced panic ensues.

Rikmar and his closest advisors are poring over a map when the light streaming in from thin windows cuts out. There is general disarray, the ringing of swords being drawn, the smell of paranoia and fear rife. A door opens, and with it light cast from more artificial sources spills forth. Orders are given, messengers are sent, and Rikmar marches with purpose.

Syndra walks - not floats, she wants to feel the gravel crunch beneath her feet - up the road leading to the fort. Ahead, men fill the inside of the walls, armed with swords, bows, and oil; both sides know that they stand no chance, that they prepare in vain, yet they do so anyway. These brave soldiers have been given orders, know their place, and follow loyally. Many do so in an attempt to protect loved ones, others out of hopes of glory and honour. Collectively, they wait to die, willing to lay down their lives in an effort to change the course of history, to deflect a blow deadly and swift.

They are left waiting.

As Syndra walks, a man in hastily-donned armour is also waiting for her, standing at the border of the sun's domain and the shadow of her fortress. He turns to her as she approaches, nervousness fairly dripping from him. She smiles sweetly at him as she stops a distance which, for a normal threat, would be safe, and for her is more than adequately dangerous. The man does not stutter, and she is equal parts impressed and amused.

"Welcome, Syndra, to Lord Rikmar's seat. Might I inquire as to your intentions here, as a humble servant of our Lord?" He manages to get the sentence out without breaking eye contact, but when he is done she can tell it drains him. His sword is loose in the sheath, and he glances back to the relative safety of the walls; men hide there, and if Syndra saw like them she would indeed not notice a soul. She realizes the man here is expected to die. A sacrifice, in a way, to buy the rest a queer opportunity. She wonders why him, above the rest, but she will never get those answers, and his sacrifice will have to wait for another time, and another cause.

"You may, though Rikmar is not my Lord. Indeed, he is my subject, and by extension yourself." The man is confused and scared in equal parts, and tries again.

"Then, my Lady, what are your wishes for this visit?" The smile she wears drains him, innocent and carefree, a paradox for the words that they convey, and to the beast that wears it.

"Why, I am here for my coronation. Rikmar is to make me his Queen, and rightfully so." The man doesn't reply, entirely unable to consider a proper response to such a statement. Syndra doesn't mind, walking past him as his lips move in silent motions. The unseen guards bristle with weaponry, straining taut at a leash of fear and uncertainty. She reaches the gate unhindered, where the unlucky sacrifice shouts for a postern gate to be opened. Syndra has no such need.

Stepping up to the gate, she considers a time in her life that mirrors this one. She remembers the day that she met Sensei, blasting the door off its hinges and leaving Sensei to swiftly tamp her magic. She considers the same, but decides that is too aggressive. It would likely be seen as an attack, and besides, she has no real wish to cause such wanton destruction. She ignores the twinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the thought of Sensei, and his death at her hands.

Behind the door, as is the case with many such gates, lies a thick wooden plank that secures it, stopping it from opening, resting in several brackets across the door. Unseen hands build and press upwards, sending it launching upwards on a pivot. The gate slowly creaks open, whispers of alarm and suppression echoing. Syndra glides through from the twilight outside, purple light staining the floor around her. The gate swings close behind her, the bar landing with force that makes it bounce upwards twice before settling, silent at last. Beyond lies the grand hall, cleverly designed for both form and function. It is shaped circularly, as in keeping with Ionian custom. The custom also dictates that seating tables be circular, for the same reason; to show equality for all present. This means the tables would be no use for cover, so the two nearest the door are serving tables, long and squared and thick to stop bullets and arrows, slotted to add spikes. Syndra herself would notice none of this, but Lux is far more observant and her perception is borrowed. The tables are righted for the moment; the soldiers who would man them stunned or otherwise prevented from garrisoning them. At the far end, upon a raised dias, sits a larger, grander table. It holds seven seats, and five of them are occupied. Lux's memories tell her that none are Rikmar himself, though a man masquerades in his place. Besides the fake sits the Lord's real wife, her son the Master-at-Arms next to her. The other side sit Rikmar's magical advisor and her husband, the quartermaster. Behind the table the two mages, Lem and Roland, stand guard. Roland is relaxed, but Lux tells Syndra that he is amazingly swift and alert. Lem is the picture of suppressed paranoia; twitching, arcs of fire leaping over his body, eyes both locked onto Syndra and unable to stop roaming ceaselessly. The two would give their lives for their Lord, as would any others in the hall. Syndra cares not.

A fat, sweaty man with a bugle and a scroll steps forth next to the fake Rikmar, delivering a nervous, cracked rapport before unrolling the vellum and announcing in a shaky voice:

"Mistress S-Syndra, my Lord Rikmar, by no name other than her own." He scuttles away as quickly as etiquette allows, which isn't very. The man at the head of the table stands, throwing his arms aside in a grand gesture of greeting.

"Welcome, to my Hall, Syndra, of no nam-"

"You are not Rikmar." Her words are bored, almost uninterested. She floats behind the opposite chair, shadows making the floor seem alive below her. The air thickens at her proclamation. The fake is Rikmar's Hand, called Brave; champion, advisor and herald, all rolled into one. It is a Noxian custom, for the leaders of those brutish barbarians require a man to trust ultimately. Amongst the Ionians, trust is a natural state of being, and all those close to a Lord are of equal favour. This man splutters and tries again, spouting meaningless shrivel, and is interrupted as the true Lord marches into the hall. Soldiers attempt to corral him back, but he is undeterred. The Hand sighs and moves over a seat, leaving Rikmar the one opposite Syndra. She sits down as he does, filling the final seat.

This Lord doesn't bother with the useless customs, she is glad to know. He is a hard-faced man; a square jaw covered in dark bristle, cheekbones high and sharp. He is a handsome man, she notes with pleasure, despite his time in the Noxian forces. This tells of a great warrior, to avoid injury so. There is one mar to his face, a small scar; branding which shows his previous nature as a slave to the Gladiator Pits of Noxus, before he was a General in the Hand's army. His story is a coloured one, and it leads to a man who is sick of the nature of war and pain, who denied his Noxian upbringing to bring peace and order to this far-off land. Syndra respects him for this, and wishes she could copy him so easily; to have the strength to deny what others expect, to make his own destiny, but without having it corrupt him. She envies him this; she wonders each day if she is corrupted by her power, and that is the only thing that convinces her to the negative. His story is also where Lux's arrival is explained. She was on a mission in Noxus, to spy on and sabotage an upcoming war effort. She was captured by Rikmar, but instead of execution, he offered his help. All he wanted in return was Demacia's help escaping, with some of his closest allies, to Ionia. She relayed his message, it was accepted, and together they broke the back of a new threat. When Rikmar set off, she simply followed him. At first, upon being asked, she said that she was ordered to follow and secure his route. But when her time came to travel back to the capital, Brightstone, and receive her new orders, she made a decision that would change her life. Demacia was a place where magic was abhorred, vilified. She didn't feel welcome, or safe. If she was found out, she could still get exiled to the slums, or worse, annulled. Ionia was a place where magic was everywhere. It was almost a dream; she could glow as brightly as she wanted and there was no judging parents, no fear of discovery. When she smiled and the light played around her head like a rainbow, people smiled back. She was glad for that. Syndra has to peel her thoughts back from Lux - it is hard to separate herself so - for she is broken from her reverie by the large man addressing her.

"Mistress Syndra, I greet you as a man who knows he is outmatched, and could perish alongside everything he loves any moment. What is it that you want with me and the families under my protection?" His wife, Mydaltt, is strong-backed and iron-willed, a paragon of stubbornness to match her husband's sympathetic and kind nature. Her words are far more direct.

"If you are here to destroy us, do so. Do not keep us waiting in torture for a death we know is inevitable." The men around them shift to grasp the pommels and hafts of weapons, echoing her sentiment. Syndra nods to her, in respect for a brave wish, one that merits the speaker; the woman Mydaltt will have to be watched.

"You say that these lands are under your protection, Lord. Yet you are fighting a losing battle, outnumbered, standing on the moral high ground whilst your opponent holds the strategic one. You cannot last forever without sacrificing land; and you will not abandon the families there to their fates." All collected at the table nod, surprised at her knowledge. Rikmar stares at her, his gaze attempting to burrow the knowledge from her directly, waiting.

"Then I offer you protection, Rikmar, and those under you. The warlord Emperor Davith will be crushed beneath our force, and you will be free to spread your benevolent rule to those who surround us. You will swear fealty to me, your Queen, and I will deliver to you salvation." The people gathered stiffen, an ultimatum proposed. Rikmar nods, surprisingly at ease. His wife snorts, arms crossed lightly in her lap.

"And what will you do if we refuse your kind offer?" Syndra smiles, replying with a sweet arrogance.

"I would not recommend it. You would not want to see the results." She hopes she is convincing, doing her best to keep her voice even and low, without a hint of doubt. She doesn't want them to see she is bluffing. The wife laughs bitterly, but leans back, satisfied. Rikmar looks to Syndra, brow furrowed and voice weary.

"How do I know that you can deliver on your promise to crush Davith? What forces do you have at your command?" The Dark Sovereign smiles, a predatory smile, one the wolf offers the hen he has taken for dinner. Shadows creep from the corners of the room, torches flicker and snuff out, malevolent whispers scratching at the edge of hearing. The room is plunged into blackness as unseen forms crawl between the shoulder blades of those present, and all that can be seen in the gloom is a pair of eyes in stark purple, looming, wisps of Dark trailing upwards; a voice that splits and echoes, promises malice and agony, answers.

"The forces at my whim are beyond your ken, mortal. Know that Davith's end is at my hands, but guess not how."

The darkness recedes, followed by licks of flame from beyond Rikmar to light the sconces, revealing the slumped forms of many who succumbed to the fear, fainting in shock. The only ones left conscious are those at the table and the two mages behind it. Lem is staring, caught between awe and fear, flame still smoking from his palms, unsure whether to attack. Roland grunts, unimpressed. A man of Earth, he trusts in firm ground. Actions, blood, not vague threats and promises. Rikmar sits as he was beforehand, apparently unmoved. The magical advisor, Narrla, is pale, hands clutching a wand that has been snapped in two by fear. She could see the true power beyond the show of force, eyes privy to secrets that none should be. She speaks quickly, voice cracked and weak, but determined, like a kicked dog.

"I must vouch in our Queen's honour, my Lord. The power she wields is enough to…" The woman trails off, mouth and hands moving patterns meant to ward off evil. Rikmar nods, apparently satisfied, and turns to his son. Syndra barely hears it; the roaring of the Dark inside, angry, fighting to sink its teeth into those around her is nearly drowning her. The show's effort took more out of her than expected.

"Go fetch a map of the area, Raltt. We will study a plan of attack." The young man stands up, shooting a wrathful glare at her. She lets it go, but follows him with her eyes.

"Where is the ambassador we sent to you?" The question catches her off-guard, the shock clear in her face. Syndra turns back to see Rikmar's wife, hands clenched, practically snarling. She is too angry to have lost a soldier, valuable or otherwise. Syndra's hand floats through the air, unhurried, and the shadows leap to obey. They flit and coalesce on the table, fleeing once more to reveal Lux, face peaceful and form relaxed. Rikmar's jaw clenches tightly, teeth grinding, but his wife leaps to her feet. She screams threats she intends to carry out before a gesture leaves her unable to breath. The air creeps from her lungs and she collapses into her chair, gasping.

"Is your faith in your Queen so little that you would jump to a horrid conclusion? Luxanna is fine. She will sleep for a time, but until then naught is wrong with her." Rikmar almost collapses in relief, and his lady wife heaves in lungfuls of air as the magical pressure closing them abates. This is when their son returns, a scroll under arm. He is hurried, nervously doing his best not to glance at the collapsed forms of his father's army. He goes to place the scroll down, and notices Lux, who sinks from view into the Void. His father wearily signals for him to continue. The son resumes, but his body is tense in anger and hatred. The map is a large one, requiring a dozen jade weights to hold it in place, but detailed in strange ways. The maps Syndra has seen are those of luxury, showing places of beauty. This map is a military construction. Once it is in place, Rikmar stands for the first time. This reveals his height; easily towering over seven feet. It is a queer coincidence that this brings him eye-to-eye with his Queen. The two see in each other a kindred soul, one like themselves. He nods once, and pins a finger to a portion on the map. It is Rose Gulch, a long valley with tall but not sheer sides. His finger lands on a mark already drawn onto the canvas; a large, stylized D, surrounded by tents.

"Here lies the traitor Davith. His army lies at the near side of the Gulch, extorting the nearby villages for food and soldiers. His raids reach far, and if we were to withdraw our troops from the region we protect it would be in flames by the next dawn." Syndra nods; this she knew.

"What are your odds of victory in combat?" The Lord looks to his son, who answers with both pride and venom in his voice.

"My Lord commands roughly four-thousand men. Davith holds far more; ten-thousand. If we were to fight them in an even skirmish, we could defeat them with heavy losses, leaving the villages undefended in the meantime. If we were to pin them into a small gap, it would be far more advantageous. This is why we have driven him to the gulch, but there is one problem. If we march, he will know within the hour. He could flee, or prepare an ambush, or send men around ours to pillage. Thus, we must leave at least half of the men here, to defend from a counterattack." The Lord nods, pleased with the succinct summary. This information ties into Syndra's understanding.

"Then we will leave but a thousand. Take the other three here, to the close side of the gully. Davith's men will be in the far end, and I will push them towards you at dawn on the fourth day from now. Reap them like wheat." A sort of shocked silence drapes over those present until it is shattered by an incredulous reply from the Master-at-Arms.

"What!? We just said we have to leave a-!" A dark shape drops from the ceiling, landing silently on the young man's shoulders. Immediately, his voice is cut off as small, malevolent hands grasp his throat. He falls to his knees and makes ghastly hissing sounds, clawing desperately over his shoulders. His mother leaps to her feet instantly.

"What are you doing! What is that thing?! Let him go!" Rikmar holds his wife by the arm, holding her back from using the sword that has appeared in her hand. He looks equally pained, though his head is clear. Syndra watches impassively as his struggles slow. Rikmar tries his hand at imploring her.

"Please, my Queen, his tongue will learn to keep itself still! If he dies we will be severely weakened!" Lem and Roland move closer, straining at a frayed leash. Narrla readies a spell she knows will be akin to a gnat to the sun that is Syndra's power. An unseen command passes, and the darkling fades into smoke. She is, truthfully, glad to avoid his death. She isn't sure she can resist the lure of watching the light in someone's eyes be snuffed out, and has no wishes to test it. She daintily falls to one knee, lifting his head with one slim hand, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

"I do not want to be surrounded by a clique of complacent yes-men. I will rule a kingdom, and I will have advisors, and I will need to trust and be trusted by those closest to me. But forget not I am your Queen, and I will be respected as such."

He nods, gasping, muttering assurances of loyalty and abeyance. She stands once more, returning to the map. Rikmar and his wife are clearly shaken, but do their best to move past it.

"Three thousand men. And worry not about a counterattack. Any other objections?" The gathered do not reply, faces pale. She regrets this, but knows there was no other option. She nods curtly.

"Good. March at dawn. Any earlier and scouts will harry you. I will come to you before the final confrontation."

"Aye, my Queen. Thank you for your assistance."

There is a strange stand-off as the leaders realize their men are all having an impromptu nap, and thus there is nought to do until they wake up. Rikmar, his son - trying to forget his near death moments before - and the quartermaster, Lamol, stand over the map, discussing things of tactical import. Rikmar's wife rests, tense, watching Syndra with an indecipherable look. Narrla alternates nervously gazing at Syndra, mouth open to query, and looking down at the table, cowed.

"What is it you wish to ask me, woman?" Her subject flinches, then shows a hidden steel, meeting her eyes. Inside, there glows a similar light to Lux, but it is hidden by the rest of her magic.

"What ignited your potential?" Syndra tries not to let the comment affect her, as it irks her how she cannot know the solution, giving the same answer she did Sensei:

"I have always had my magic, according to those who knew me as a baby. No traumatic event drove me to find it within me." The advisor nods, as if this meets her appraisal. Acting before she can hesitate, the mage reaches over and grasps Syndra's hand in hers, building a connection. The world fades as they climb into a fake realm. Syndra is calm; she is ignorant to these events, but trusts in her magic. The two stand on a Dark plane, shadows boiling beneath them in a black sea. The mage looks overwhelmed and slightly terrified. For some reason, she is staring at the 'sky.' As this continues for a full minute in a silence behind the roar of magic, Syndra quickly grows bored.

"Why have you brought me here? Where are we?" The mage snaps from her reverie, and looks at Syndra in a new light. Her eyes betray nothing.

"We are in your soul. It is a simple trick; inner reflection. It is harder to impose it on someone else. But…" She trails off, continuing to stare into the sky for a few more seconds, then asks in an irritated or perhaps scared tone:

"Where is your well?" Syndra shrugs lazily. Her hand drifts in the air, and to her delight it causes waves in the ocean below. She starts to swirl patterns as the advisor continues to talk.

"Your well. The connection to magic. It manifests as a star in most cases; a speck of light unseen, with trails leading from it. There is a star, but it isn't your well." Syndra realizes this sounds important and stops idling, turning as her companion's face twist into incredulity.

"You don't have one, do you? Gods. You're connected straight to the source. Then what's that star?" She turns back and continues to examine it, lifting a hand. Tentative tendrils of some form of magic seep through the Dark-stained air. They trail higher and higher until, to Syndra's vision, they coil around the bright star. Immediately, the lines of magic shatter, and they drop back into reality.

The hall is as they left it, as if no time at all had passed. Rikmar and his two generals still stand over the table. Mydaltt is still staring mysteriously. The only thing that has changed is Narrla's expression, but it is hard to discern. Syndra thinks it is almost admiring, but that can't be right.

"You are the most powerful being I've seen or heard of." Syndra gives a laugh in reply. It is honest, and shocking. It is strange how those words affect her; as if she had been looking for them, but once given were discarded, rotten. She doesn't want them. She doesn't want what they bring, what they mean.

"Then it is a good thing you're on my side." The advisor nods, slowly, and a strange look comes over her face. She leans close - going so far as to press a hand to Syndra's shoulder for support - and whispers:

"Don't let your magic become you. Think of the star in your sky, that has replaced all others."

And having traded that cryptic piece of information, she stands, excuses herself, and leaves. Syndra rises into the air, those around her temporarily lapsing in concentration. She drifts off absently, further into the castle, leaving their voices behind. Unconscious soldiers litter the pathways; it is a good thing she flies. After a minute of travelling, she arrives at Lux's room. The door is closed and locked, but telekinesis is handy when it comes to such things. Her brow furrows and she tries to press gently at the inside of the door, against the lock there, but instead the door bursts open; splinters of wood explode in a cloud. She grunts, vexed, and floats inside. It is a room practically bare but for dozens of tiny objects scattered throughout; mementoes and trinkets. Borrowed memories hold a story for each one. The number of times Lux has escaped death with an object to remember it by is out-weighted by the number of times she escaped empty handed. It is a little overpowering; an entire second life, one that converged with Syndra's. She feels it only fair that there be a memory here, for their time together.

She presses a finger to the wood of the bedframe. It starts to smoke; decaying as Dark rots at it. After a complex twist and flick of her hand, a large, stylized 'S' is carved into the foot of the bed. She repeats, this time leaving an 'L.' The two twine together, overlapping. She stands and realizes Lux is lying in the bed. She is tucked in, comfortable. She looks vulnerable and small when she's asleep. A surge of protectiveness washes over her, followed closely by sadness for that which she cannot have. She is standing beside the sleeping form, one hand gently cupping a cheek, the other twisting in clawed patterns, and after a moment she notices that the Dark elemental is crouched over Lux's form. Her mind starts to fall away, the magic sweeping in to replace it, and she belatedly realizes that she's losing control. The strain of keeping Lux safe had taken more from her than she thought, and like a muscle that only aches after its work is done, the magic is ready to strike. Immediately, she reels the power in, crushed inside of her where it cannot affect anything. A hissing voice meets her as the elemental disappears, unable to sustain itself.

"You understand, Mistress, that you are not in control. Embrace your destiny, or Lux will die." Inside of her, a hidden war rages. Magic snakes within, crushing, trying to overwhelm her. She denies it; her power is absolute, and she will not yield. She drops to her knees as her form shivers, breaking, agonised, and then the magic screams and snaps. It is hers once more. The boiling sea inside her calms. Her hand is frozen, muscles tensed to the point of breaking, magic thick like treacle between her fingers. She exhales and climbs back to her feet. The hissing voice fades into a cacophony of noises, dying away slowly. She gazes at the mage for a few moments, wondering what this all meant. Its meaning is likely obscure, and she hasn't the time or inclination to puzzle it out. As she reaches the door, she hears a voice call out to her from the bed, soft and sweet and bubbly.

"You'd leave me after I came back for you?" It sounds hurt, but playful. Syndra realizes she's teasing her. She spins, revealing Lux sitting up. She's rubbing one eye. She looks… Cute. Syndra hasn't really considered anything cute before. It's a common sentiment when it comes to Lux, she realizes. She floats over, smiling before she realizes it, but stops herself a foot from the end of the bed. She remembers what she has given Lux, and what she stole. She feels guilty, scared of her reaction.

"I didn't know you were awake." She keeps her voice neutral, tentative. Lux doesn't notice or doesn't mind, smiling widely. Her hair is ruffled and knotted, but gleams as always.

"I know, silly. Just teasing!" She giggles. Syndra giggles as well. It feels strange, but not wrong. Like an unused muscle. Lux inspires that in her. She inspires a lot things in a lot of people, perhaps.

"I… I'm sorry." Her voice cracks. She mentally berates herself for showing weakness. Lux's smile softens, like she's trying to broach a touchy subject with a child. Syndra isn't sure how she feels about that.

"What for? The shadows trying to eat me in my sleep? Sharing your memories with me?" She throws the covers off; she's still wearing the same travel-stained clothing as she was yesterday. Syndra nods. Lux giggles again, and stretches.

"Which one? Cos I'm more ok with the memory thing than the eating bit." She's teasing her again. Syndra concludes that she doesn't mind Lux doing it, but the feelings of guilt it summons eat at her.

"Both. And I promise that the Dark will not touch you again." Her voice is unwavering, true. But soft. Lux stands up, a strange gleam in her eye. She comes close and takes Syndra's hand. She has the peculiar picture of Lux holding a large, purple kite on a string spring into her mind. As such, she doesn't notice when Lux leans in close, her mouth next to her ear. She does hear the words, though.

"Can you still touch me? Or has the Dark stolen your body as well as your soul?" She pulls back. Her breath sent a shiver down Syndra's spine. The Sovereign doesn't understand the hidden meaning in the words, isn't aware of their existence. The Light mage's mischievous grin thus confuses her. She answers as she can, truthful. Despite Sensei's betrayal in that regard, she feels the need to uphold his lessons.

"No. There are times where… Where I lose control, and the magic overwhelms me. But for now… I am me, and only me." Lux nods and giggles and presses her lips to Syndra's.

She doesn't realize, for a second, then in a rush like magic roaring in her veins, the pleasure swamps her.

Her mind has escaped her, and all she knows is the slim woman in her arms and her wonderful touch, her arms holding her to the floor, burning through her clothing. She leans in further, pressing, and Lux copies the action; they fuse together like magnets, and their skin ignites at the other's touch and their lips start to ache from the ravenous pressure. They break the kiss simultaneously; the star in their souls tells them it is time. Syndra's eyes are wide, darting, deep. Her mouth is formed into a perfectly surprised circle. Lux's beaming grin is blinding in its literal brightness, and the love that Syndra can feel seeping from her every pore. She doesn't understand but doesn't care to; she pulls Lux up for another, and they can barely breath afterwards, and she can feel the emotion leaking out of her into Lux and out Lux and into her, the star in her soul so bright…

"I didn't think it would feel so… Strong. Or so hungry." Lux's chirping steals her focus.

"I didn't imagine I would ever experience it." There is a moment where Syndra smiles back; her heart sings, her feelings overpowering, and then she can feel it twist. The magic inside whispers to her; it is sinister, it is malicious, and it is honest.

"But how can you ever love her? How can she love you? A shadow fades before the light! You are evil. You are DARK! You are mine, and you will obey ME!" The magic ruptures and explodes in a violent tempest. Her breath fades from her lungs, and her vision clouds. Lux's face, now twisting into a frown, grows further and further away… Syndra understands. She knows. She speaks.

"Luxanna, we… This won't work. You are my anathema. I am Dark. I am destined to ruin our world and one day I will. I'm not strong enough to resist…" The magic grows still, and silent. She can feel the pressure easing, like ice thawing. Lux's smile comes sharply into focus and she can't believe she ever said such things to her. Her lips are moving… What is she saying? She doesn't know, but the magic hears.

"Then I'll help you be strong! You don't need to be alone anymore!"

"No… NO! KILL HER, KI-" And the star that binds them explodes in a radiant fury, a luminous sun that crushes back the Dark that threatens to overwhelm her.

"A shadow thrives beside the Light!" Lux's voice is strong, defiant, as bright as the Light she wields.

Syndra takes a long, gasping breath. There is something missing, she doesn't know what for a moment. She can see, Lux's smile her whole field of view, and then that magical feeling as their lips meet again. It hits her and she doesn't know how it took so long. The Dark, roiling sea inside her mind has calmed, and she no longer has to spare her mind to repress its hold over her. It is like resting a muscle you hadn't noticed ached; suddenly her mind, coiled and tense, prepared for the magic within to rebel, can sit on its laurels. A wave of weary gratitude sweeps her, followed immediately by fierce love and a giddy happiness. She cannot quench the smile that tears its way to the surface, or stifle the urge to more forcefully affirm these feelings; this time, amongst the strange, stunned paralysis stealing over her, Syndra is the one who presses her lips against Lux's. She gasps and for some reason she doesn't mind crying it is so freeing and Lux smiles at her like it's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Syndra believes that Lux is mistaken, in this isolated instance, for her reaction trumps all else in that regard.