Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the incredible feedback on this story. I apologize for the delay in updates. College. Blah. I will continue to elaborate on the truths of this ploy. I hope you enjoy!


Chapter Seven: Ploy


This feeling burns within my chest, hauntingly. I ask myself so many questions and cannot find a conclusive answer. I'm plagued with confusion and discontent. My mind is reeling and I suddenly feel ill. How could I have allowed this to occur? I was so distracted, moronic, and unaware. How could I have been deceived so easily?

"A political ploy." It had to be. I'm certain as I say it.

"An intricate one, in favor of Jericho Swain." His tone is so sour as he speaks the name. He reassures me with parallel thinking.

"Why am I being informed?" I ask with caution. There's no reason for me to have this information. No realistic purpose for my knowing. This entertainment he's found because of my stubbornness had possibly developed into fascination. It happens with all rivals. Garen and Katarina. Jarvan and Swain. My phase of intricate stalking and spying has passed. I have more than what I need to know of Talon.

I can see his expression behind the dark of his hood. The light of the window barely illuminates a portion of his face. In the instant, he visually lives up to his title. "Everything you remember from that day is needed. Everything you documented is necessary."

A political scandal involving the highest position of Noxian rule and the state of Demacia as a whole. I had momentarily forgotten my hatred for the man in front of me. Concern was the only highlighted emotion I could determine. Swain was the only driving force that pressured war against Demacia. Prior generals had verbal spats, but the extremes were only spoken of. No action was held. No death occurred at the foot of those spats. The tension had been high but there was peace. Demacia would no longer suffer. A feeble scout was given the chance to assist in the end of a tyrannical reign. I look at Talon and meet his gaze. He's staring at me, awaiting an answer.

Who says he's telling the truth? This vile man approaches me and tells me what he claims are facts. A man who's killed people I'd trained and fought with. A monster that once slaughtered strong women and youths playing soldier. He confronts me and speaks of ploys and government coups that have indirectly involved myself and my reputation. He tells me information that no soul would have ever figured or guessed on their own. Issues beyond the drapes of political stages. Who says I should trust him? What liable evidence do I have that could direct me in this situation?

I have none.

But my gut hurts in this matter. I've trusted it prior to this occasion and came out successful: a hero. I've brought justice with the trust I've put in what I think should be done. I've brought home wanted heads and calloused murderers with only my sixth sense and I've survived due to that uncertainty. This all ties together. It all makes sense in odd, skewered ways. Murder for a throne. That story's been told a thousand times.

"You're asking me to help you." I act as though he was uninformed. Like he didn't know what he was doing.

He scoffs and crosses his arms nonchalantly. "I'd ask for more if your condition was improved."

I don't know what he means. Initially is seemed perverse but I feet that his inability to be social wouldn't allow anything beyond staring. I've concluded that he means in a physical way, using my legitimate abilities to assist the situation. He admits he'd reach out to me for help in his personal matters? As though we were allies? There had to be ulterior motives; something else.

"Severed limbs aren't exactly quick to heal," I don't know how I say it, but I do. Hopefully in a sour tone.

"I would know." He scowls at me with a raised hand, expression vague. The rugged scar around his wrist is visible from the distance between us. I laugh at him.

"Still upset over the hand?"

"Fully healed in two days." He leans back on the wall, distancing himself. Glowering at me from his place across the room. He shouldn't be churlish over the injury. It saved his life, preventing the spoils of poison from rotting the rest of his body. But here he is...bitching.

"I would imagine that an arm takes more time to heal," I argue as though a doctor. I want him to know that this is a more detrimental setback. I create excuses to justify my weakness, because it would be un-Demacian of me not to.

"Due to subconscious defiance against the healing process." Such an frustrating remark. Heat boils in my face at his lackluster expression. He's implied my neglect to heal once before and it sends pulses of agitation through my skull. A headache slowly develops at my temple.

"That accusation is already old."

"So is this conversation."

It stops there. For once we agree and it drives me insane. The facts lay before me like blood on my hands. I did not capture nor kill Du Couteau. One of two possibilities: he's dead, or in hiding. And this missing Du Couteau is a trail of crumbs that leads to Jericho Swain, who in one way or another got rid of Du Couteau to take his place as the head Noxian General. Which led to an imposter of Du Couteau's identity, who was captured and executed, simply to cover the legitimate murder ordered by Swain.

"Ingenious," I say such to myself. The facts are still running through my mind."To kill a man, and then stage his death so that your enemies are to blame."

"The execution was never publicized." When he says that it dawns on me. The entire purpose of the assassin's attempt on the King's life was for naught. The purpose of what occurred was lost when the Council voted for a private execution...due to my insistence.

"Swain was incapable of killing Du Couteau without government suspicion."

"Staging his death to Demacian law would provide the opportunity to kill Couteau himself. The decoy being executed publicly would have alleviated any suspicions among the generals."

"But it never happened. Either having been killed despite the inconvenience, or going into hiding, Du Couteau simply vanished."

It's a minute or so before Talon speaks again. The silence dwindles, and for a moment I forget he's in the room. My defenses are lacking. It concerns me.

"This is larger than our rivalry," he says.

"Right." I admit that much to myself. I lower the tone as I realize I'd been speaking out loud. But the truth was in front of me. And the question was out: Would I be willing to give away priceless information and analyzations of Jarvan IV? To expose his personal written letters as well as information I had collected on Talon himself? Including the notes of the assassination attempts and a vague map of the King's estate?

"Removing Swain from power would place Noxus in more reliable hands." I say it and await either agreement or rejection. He would know more on the politics of Noxus. He would be capable of determining the effects Swain's removal would cause.

"It would end the war." He says it with a certain tone. I don't know what it is. I can't identify it. His expression is solid and his jaw is clenched, flexing his neck as he swallows. It's interesting to examine him outside of a challenge. To watch him stand naturally without aggression or expectation. He seems nearly average, though I do not allow such thoughts to further weaken my defenses. He cannot be trusted, no matter what situation we would be forced to endure together.

My stomach hurts. It aches in telling me this is right. I taste blood on my lip as my teeth dig in. I hear individuals speaking in the hallway.

"The bookcase to the left of the balcony. The red leather journal fifth to the right on the fourth shelf down." I spill my information as though a child with a knife to her throat. But it feels correct. I admit that I don't regret my decision. That the feeling within my gut is satisfied and in turn so is my mind. I have given him nothing to place anyone in critical danger. He already knows where I live. He knows everything about anyone of Demacian royalty. Anything I provide him is either old facts or possible evidence, strictly regarding the events involving the assassin and execution.

He looks at me with a level of seriousness that pricks my skin. He nods and shows some vague appreciation. "Thank you."

He's gone once I take a breath to respond. I decide in this moment to stand from my bed and prepare to depart this dreadful hospice. I'm shaken with anxiety and distress. I won't just sit here as deceit takes place. As everything I worked for crumbles. But how is it falling apart when only I know the truth? I didn't kill Du Couteau. I never won my reputation with heroism and courage. Valor and I never saved the King and put down a legitimate threat. I struggle to use both arms to pack my books and belongings that linger about the room and bed. I'm ready to leave. I want to do something...anything but sit here and rot.

He forgot to unlock the door. I begin to wonder where the hate has gone.