Chapter 7: Memories and Nightmares

He watched her, her eyes searching the darkness for a sign. He knew what she was about to say. "I'm going in there."

Garen shook his head, "No, we need you out here. We must trust in the palace guard, in Jarvan and Xin Zhao." A soldier approached Garen from the rear, limping, desperately needing his attention. "None of us can go in there." Garen turned, the soldier handed him a note. "Send two more units to protect that gate. Whatever tiny monstrosities Cho'Gath has lead into Demacia, we cannot let them into the buildings."

"Brother!" shouted Luxanna, forcing his gaze back onto her. "I can go in there. You know I can, with my magic I'll be able to get through the shroud. Please Garen, I need to…"

"To what?" he snapped. The young woman bowed her head, she knew she was acting out of line, but she would not submit: not to this, not for that.

"No!" She stamped her foot and gripped hard her baton. "I'm going in. What if they're in trouble, what if they need me?"

Garen sighed, and with half disappointed – half angry eyes he watched his sister move forward into the wall of shadow. "You don't mean they."

I I I

Garen awoke, sweat on his neck, tears in his eyes. The jolt of life had felt like a harsh blow, as if reality had struck him across the forehead: punishing him awake. The dream was memory, and though it was not a particularly happy one, it was still a memory, a fragmented piece of him and his sister – a moment that would never happen again, nor be replicated, nor reminisced: at least not with her. All that was left now was the cruelty of being awake, and the worry that ran thicker than blood through his veins.

He turned to his bedside table, and as the picture came into sight he sighed. She was beautiful, effortlessly beautiful, with that humble air of not knowing how precious she was. "Lux," He gripped the wooden frame and stroked her captured form with one finger. "I will find you."

Night had taken hold many hours ago, and was calmly settled into the peak of its reign over the sky. The palace murmured quietly as some slept and some did not, but all was hush, all was calm thought and blissful relief. Except for Garen, who hurriedly stepped through the halls of the palace, encroaching through the dark towards the dungeon, running scripts of conversation through his mind. That beast would tell him where she was, and then, come suffering and death, he would find her. He would die to find her; he would kill to find her; he would tear the very sun from the sky and plunge it into the sea, just to find her, to sit with her, to stroke her golden hair and tell her "it's all going to be fine, little sister, it's all going to be all right."

I I I

"I'm sorry, Ezreal," he said, his voice weak and broken, his eyes quivering and misty – all an inch away from crying. So he looked away, the rest of his body slowly following suit.

But Ezreal refused: against all the gods and all their intentions, he refused. "No, you can't leave! You just can't! Not like this! You have to explain."

"I…" Brae bowed his head and exhaled, his breath refusing to become words. "I just have to." He turned completely then, keeping in his heart what he thought was the last image he'd ever record of his beloved Ezreal. It was over, he would leave.

"No!" Again, Ezreal refused: though his words could not stay Brae's leg, he knew something else could. From forth the amulet in his gauntlet, Ezreal clung to Brae's ankle with an ethereal chain. "You're not going!"

He tried to force the chain: it wouldn't give. He was stuck. But Brae could not turn around, to do so would be to look upon him one more time, and he didn't know if he was capable of such masochism. "Ezreal…"

"No!"

"Ezreal! If you have any respect for me what-so-ever you will let me go right now!" His leg was set free. But his ears were ensnared. Through the solemn air that hung sadly all around them floated the harrowing ghosts of Ezreal's tears: the whimpering sounds of his despair trundled towards Brae, making their way towards his soul – and there they settled.

"Please… please don't leave me." He could barely speak for crying. "Not you. Please, not you."

Brae turned, first with closed eyes, but inevitably he opened them – and was doomed by it. He could not leave now – with those tears in his boy's eyes, with that crippled sincerity in his tone – he couldn't possibly leave now. "I… I just can't do it, Ezreal."

He wiped his eyes: at least Brae was looking at him. "Do… Do what?"

But now it seemed it was his turn to cry. "Every day… Every day I worry that you'll not come back. That you'll slip, or react too slow, or face something too powerful, and then days later someone will tell me: 'Oh have you heard? Ezreal has died. How sad.' Every day Ezreal! Every three day expedition, every afternoon or night spent in some dungeon or ruins – I'm sat here scared to sleep, lest I wake up into a world that doesn't include you!" He slumped to the floor then, leaning his back against the door which only a few moments ago was his escape. "I can't do it Ezreal, I just can't."

It was all dying before him: his love, his life, his every chance at happiness. Everything was falling to the ground in a pathetic display of futility and foregone conclusions: a tiny sandcastle bowing to the tide, a summer rose meeting autumn's deathly kiss. So in that moment he did it. For love he did it. His heart, brandishing a blade of flame, cleft his ambition in two, and as it watched it fall to the ground, that beating muscle sighed. "I'll stop."

"What?" Brae raised his head, bewilderment in his expression.

"I'll stop. For you I'll stop. No more exploring, no more discovery, no more, I'll just stop. It'll be just me and you and our lives." He took a deep breath. "Just please, promise me you won't leave. Please."

He stood, he smiled, he cried and he kissed him. Not for a single moment had he expected this – not even for a fleeting dream. So he just held him, he held him so tight that even if had he been a dream he would not have escaped.

"I love you, Brae."

"I love you too."

"Like you couldn't imagine."

He grinned. "I'm pretty sure I have a good idea of it now." He stalled, suddenly feeling terribly guilty. "I just wish there was something I could do for you."

"Paint me something."

"Ok."

I I I

Ezreal's eyes opened slowly, like two rusty shutters being pulled by lazy hands. The dream hadn't woken him, no sound or movement had stirred his sleep. It was just so, his eyes had opened and night was gone, and it felt good to be awake. The breathing pillow beneath his ear radiated warmth as it slowly moved up and down, it, still captured by the lulling calm of dreams. Ezreal shifted his head slightly and looked up at the head connected to the chest where his cheeks lay. Brae was still sleeping, his mind swimming through worlds Ezreal would never touch. But he hoped that in some way he was there with him, wherever he was.

The young man scratched his head through his golden hair and sighed. He could not decide whether it was worth trying to get back to sleep, or whether he should rise and risk waking Brae. He didn't want to disturb him, but he didn't particularly want to lie there doing nothing for hours on end as Brae burned the day away. He had done it all too many times before. They had very different attitudes towards sleeping. One cherished and rationed, the other horded and gorged. But so are soldiers and artists.

So Ezreal bit the bullet and beat not around the bush, instead he set the bush on fire. "Brae…" he whispered prodding the raven haired boy in the face. "Brae… wake up Brae." He poked again, this time harder. "Brae?" Now he pinched his nose and held. Brae awoke with a monumental gasp, as one would after spending far too long in a deep pool of water. He looked down at Ezreal who had shrunk back down onto his chest, attempting to look as innocent as possible. He was not pleased.

"You bastard." He sat up and stretched his back, flinging Ezreal across the bed. "I was sleeping."

"That was kind of the point," replied Ezreal through quiet laughter.

"Well yeah, but still. It wasn't nice. I was having a good dream." He smiled, that soft smile which seemed to embrace whoever it was aimed at, sharing some of its joy.

Ezreal smiled back at him, "Was I in it?"

"You might have been. Now get off my legs I need to get dressed." He tried to kick Ezreal away as soft as he could.

"You don't neeeed to get dressed" said Ezreal, smiling a different smile.

"I do, I want to make breakfast and it'll be cold in the kitchen."

"Fine." Ezreal pouted and slowly rolled away. "What did you dream about anyway?"

"I don't really remember. I just know it was nice" He shrugged and began to pull on a shirt. "You know how it is? Do you ever remember your dreams?"

Ezreal trundled towards the wardrobe, "Only when they're of something that has happened. You know, like a memory dream?"

Brae snuck up behind him and wrapped him arms around his waist. "Oh, so what were you remembering?"

Ezreal struggled a little in surprise. "Nothing, I didn't say I dreamt like that tonight."

"No," replied Brae, sqeezing only harder. "You didn't say, but I know you, you don't need to say."

"It was nothing really, just a conversation we had."

Brae craned his head around Ezreals neck so that he could look him in the eyes. "A good conversation."

Ezreal smiled, "A great conversation."

I I I

Nocturne stroked his broken blade as if it was a broken bone, his wicked eyes sunken, almost saddened. He felt nearly at home within his cell, but not quite. As if someone had replicated comfort: a home where everything was the same, but only made of plastic – all covered in cellophane.

Slowly they came, those footsteps, one after another towards his cell. As they did his eyes weakened, allowing the shadow to engulf them, all the way until they came to an unnatural close – a beastly eclipse. Garen stopped at the bars of the cell; those enchanted steel columns connected to the rest of Nocturne's inescapable cage. He peered inside: darkness there, and nothing more.

Then those two blinding lights revealed themselves mere inches from the Demacian's face, a wicked hiss in their wake. "Yes…?"

Garen sneered, but did not jump; there was too much anger in him for there to be fear. "Listen… beast."

But Nocturne would have his say as well. "If you wish to speak to me you will not refer to me as beast, or monster, or creature."

Garen grimaced. "Listen then, Nocturne, and listen well. I am going to ask you a very simple question, and you are going to give me a very simple answer. Are we clear?"

"Clear as shadow."

"Where is Lux?" Garen waited for a reply. None came. "Answer me!"

The silence persisted; on through the darkness it held the air still. Then a voice made it shudder. "Zaun."

Garen gritted his teeth. "Where in Zaun?"

He waited.

Nothing came.

He waited still.

"With father."

These words shook Garen's rage, they caused it to stumble and reach out for aid. There was a hate, a fear and a hate in that word: father. An utter disdain and total terror the man had never heard in any tone. "Who?"

The eyes faded then, and all there was, was blackness. The air stood still, time gave way, and all seemed to be an eternal ending. "Who, Nocturne? Who is father?"

But the monster who wished not to be called a monster did not respond, and Garen did not push it further. Instead he backed away. For now his rage was broken completely. All that remained were the shattered shards of fear and doubt. And who would not be scared now? Who would not tremble? When in that tone, in that reply, in that air, you could feel that Nocturne was afraid.

I I I

The pain was unbearable. Her skin stretched, his bones forced, her body convulsed. All there was was blood and screaming. She hurt and all around her hurt: as her skin tore she tore the skin of others – as she screamed she caused others to scream. Yet, through all the blood and blindness she felt one thing that was not pain: the opening of a door, the entering of a sister, the crying of a caring voice.

"CASSIOPEIA!"

I I I

The curtains were opened softly, and as her eyes accepted the light she felt a hand stroke her hair. "Good morning sister, how are you feeling?"

Cassiopeia looked up at Katarina who was smiling lovingly at her. "I…" she rubbed her brow, "I'm aching all over, but apart from that… I think I'm fine." She sat up.

Katarina's stare was remarkable. For the first time in a long time there was nothing but love. All the hate, and all the fury, all coldblooded instinct was gone, and it had been replaced with care and wonder. She just smiled and stared, revelling in Cassiopeia's eyes, taking in her face for the first time in years.

"What is it?"

"It's just," replied Katarina. "I had forgotten how beautiful you were."

Cassiopeia blushed and punched Katarina softly in the arm. "Don't flatter."

"I'm not." She sighed. "You must be over the moon, now you have the beauty and the strength. You're the perfect daughter."

"What do you mean?" Cassiopeia was confused; she thought this would have meant the end of her fighting days.

"We had Urgson look you over while you were sleeping. You still retain all of your magical abilities." There was no jealousy in Katarina, only a hint of disappointment, and not in her sister, only in herself. That her scarred face could never match to the perfect picture that was Cassiopeia.

"Really? That's amazing."

Katarina shook her head, "What was amazing was the way you put Malzahar in his place. Well, before he then put you in your place." They both laughed, and for a moment they were children again.

The moment soon ended.

General Du Couteau stepped through the door, cigar in his mouth and sword at his side. "How is my daughter?"

"Fine father."

"Good. Then get dressed, we're leaving. There is a summit being held at The Institute of War, I want you girls at my side." Then he strode out.

"We're going to war, aren't we?" asked Cassiopeia.

"It looks like it."

"I've never fought in a real battle before."

Katarina smiled and held her sister's hand. "You'll be fine. Your eyes alone could kill a hundred men." Her smile intensified. "And knowing you, it probably already has." They laughed again, and the grave reality that surrounded them once more dissipated.

I I I

With Garen gone it was just Nocturne: the shadow monster and the shadow that was not his. He floated there, suspended above ground – stasis in darkness – and thought. Why had Garen needed to remind him of all that madness: of his birth place, of his machination, of his father?

If Nocturne concentrated as hard as he could, he could remember existing before he was born: floating through thoughts as a dream. Those days were not so bad, before he knew what madness meant. For when you don't know what something means it might as well mean nothing. So there was no madness then – no fear and no monsters.

The beast sighed, he thought of all that had happened and all that was yet to come, and he asked himself. "What will you do Nocturne? What will you do at end of days?"

I I I

"You have a letter." Brae handed Ezreal the already opened envelope.

"Thank you for caring so much about my privacy." He glared a false glare at Brae, and Brae just smiled.

"Love knows no privacy." He kissed him on the cheek and left the room. "I didn't read all of it." He called form behind the door. "Some boring Institute thing."

"This came yesterday! Why didn't… Oh what's the point?" He took out the letter and began to read. "Your presence is requested at an important… it is extremely important that you… the fate of Runeterra… war of… void… with kind regards, arch summoner Altaarn."

He dropped the letter; he didn't want it touching him any longer. Ezreal stared wide-eyed at the terrible piece of paper that now lay on the ground, damning everything he had worked so hard to maintain. Waves of disbelief washed over him, crashing into froths of doubt and surges of fear. This could not be happening. War? Actual war? No. Not now. Not after all of this. Not after Brae: not after someone worth safety.

Finally he slumped to the ground, the only word he could muster being "no."

I I I

Garen sat upon the softness of his bed. He had waited out the rest of the night there, patiently watching as morning came. All he had to do now is to wait. Wait for the king and his royal guard to leave for the summit, and he would demand a court mage to teleport him to Zaun. With the king and Jarvan gone, he held one of the highest authorities in Demacia.

So it was. He would go to Zaun, and somehow, someway, he would find this father of Nocturne, and he would find Lux, and he would save her. That is how it would be, and nothing, nothing in all of Runeterra would stop it. He would find her, and she would be safe.

"Come death and suffering, I will find you Luxanna. I promise you that."