Chapter 4: Prism
The Measured Tread is by no means light reading. He is only half way through it when he is forced to go to sleep. By the time the morning bells stop tolling, he has already tucked it under his arm and walked out the door.
He briefly considers dropping by the dining hall for breakfast, as he had been too immersed in his reading to continue his experiments in human cuisine, but he decides against it after passing a window. The chance at getting to soak up some sunlight has him hurrying to the door to the gardens.
He pushes it open and a rumbling sigh fills his chest as he steps out into the warmth. The gardens are lovely, filled with color and the trilling of birds and the trickle of water. Trees shade the path of pebbles and sand, and he stoops under a branch as he strolls along, taking deep breaths of the hot air. There is water everywhere he looks: trickling in thin streams over stones that glitter in the morning light, dripping from the petals of the long stemmed roses, lying in pools that shine like mirrors. He stops by a pond and stares at it, heedless of the white blossoms of the lilies or the tiny frogs or the slender, darting shadows in its depths. He is mesmerized by the sheer quantity of the water, its abundance and its purity, its color and its sound and its smell. The smell of water is the smell of life.
He dips his hand in the pond and smiles as the fish dart away from the intrusion. There is a stone shelf on one edge that juts out into the water, and there he decides to sit, placing the book reverently on the grass by his side. He leans down and unbuckles his greaves, then removes his chest plate and helmet, laying them out in the sunlight as he eases himself onto the shelf and lets his legs dangle in the water.
His fur, dark and coarse on his chest, finer on his face and hands, is a rich, glistening brown in the sunlight and he chuckles in quiet delight as the wind ruffles it. He has not been without his armor in a very long time. It surprises him that he feels safe enough here to remove it. He smells humans in these gardens, after all. He must have more faith in the League's rules than he thought.
He lays the book in his lap and delicately lifts a single page with his claw, turning to another wearisome measure of repetitive phrases. These sentences, each group separated by a finger's breadth on the page, are all dreadfully similar, extolling honor, victory, loyalty, or death before defeat in any number of tiresome ways. The treatise had assured him that this was the handbook for any self-respecting Demacian, read again and again by the army's recruits. He wonders how any of them could stomach re-reading such a boring work.
It is, in its way, actually disturbing. The words are those of a zealot, or a fanatic, devoted beyond all thought to his country…or her country. If it is the definitive text for all Demacian…such a single-minded focus could mold minds. He has read works intended for such a purpose before. The Black Sands Doctrine of the slave race his people had discovered, huddling in ancient, ruined cities comes to mind. We live to serve the Masters. Serving the Masters is an honor. We love to serve.
Victory for our allies, defeat for our enemies, and justice for all.
It makes sense that Luxanna Crownguard would have read the Measured Tread. The treatise said she had served in the military…
He frowns and slams the book shut. He has to think about this. His curiosity is leading him to unpleasant places. If a time comes that he knows the female well enough to ask the questions seething at the edges of his mind, then he will ask them and let all the winds take him if they will. He will lay this project aside.
Someone coughs behind him and he has to let his body return partway to stone to keep from yelping like a child. Why must they always sneak up on him, he fumes silently, why do these humans have such dreadfully quiet feet?
"Yes?" he asks after a bout of undignified coughing caused by his suddenly constricted airway.
Something shimmers at the edge of his eyesight, and as he watches, the light folds away to reveal Luxanna, sprawled on a bench, her golden hair spread out in waves. She smiles at him and he flushes, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look.
He also prudently pushes the Measured Tread under a bush.
"Luxanna," he greets her.
"Good morning, Nasus!" she says brightly. All hints of the strange episode she had in the match are gone. She beams at him as she pushes herself up.
Hesitantly, he smiles back at her. She is so filled with joy that he feels a little of it himself. She is so bright, this human, a beautiful prism caught in the light on a sunny day.
"You look well," he says after a frantic moment where he scrambles for words.
"I just love sunny days," she chirps, leaning back and staring up at the sky. Suddenly, her head snaps back towards him and he freezes.
"You should call me Lux," she prompts him gently, her eyes dancing. He blinks at her words.
"That's very informal," he mutters disapprovingly.
"It's supposed to be," she says, suddenly hopping up. She runs up to him, and giggling, touches his shoulder. He feels her tiny fingers run through his fur, brushing lightly over his skin, and cannot move. Then, she darts off.
"I've got to get breakfast, but I'll be back!" she yells over her shoulder, and Nasus stares after her, his jaw slack. Something had tightened in him when she touched him and now his shoulder is tingling, actually tingling.
It is…pleasant.