A/N: EVERYTHING I WRITE STARTS FLUFFY THEN GOES REALLY DARK I CAN'T STOP IT HELP ME
*takes deep breath* Ok, sorry not sorry in advance. This is for the good cause of giving Ashe more emotional issues. And issues in general. Jeez Sej, why you gotta be like you are?
Not completely happy with this chapter, though I'm not sure why. Have this vague feeling of OOC-ness…
VII – Ah, the sweet tones of misery.
Ashe's illness did not abate the next day, nor the day after that. For the better part of a week, her temperature rose, her strength declined, and everything took more effort. It grew from an annoyance to an insurmountable handicap.
On the third day, she relented and let Ilsa bring a healer to her. The healer told her she would feel better soon, that her fever would break and she would be able to resume normal function. She may have snapped at him and sent him away for saying it wasn't a process that could be sped up. Recall was difficult.
With the fever came strange, vivid dreams that more often than not became nightmares. She found herself by Avarosa's grave again. She witnessed her mother's death. She saw the Freljord swept away beneath a red tide, and she saw herself as queen of an empty frozen wasteland devoid of life.
The fourth day was the worst.
Thresh stood by her bedside. She wasn't sure how often he had done that during her illness, or why. She wasn't even sure if she hadn't slept the entire day, the events having been a dream.
He'd somehow found an old children's story of hers, about why the foxes in the Freljord changed colors with the seasons. He read it out loud, inserting derisive comments in between sentences.
No one had read her stories since before she could read herself. The last time she'd heard this book in particular, she'd been… four? Five?
Between that fact, and the fever impairing her judgement, perhaps her actions could be forgiven. If, indeed, they had been real, and not another fever dream.
Ashe had been lying under her covers, eyes shut, as he closed the book with a strange look on his face. And then she had said, "Don't leave."
"Why should I not leave?" Thresh had asked. Looking back, he had probably been poking fun at her, but at the time, his question had filled her with fear.
"You can't," she'd said, eyes wide.
"Why can't I?"
"They all leave. Father. Mother. No one stays."
She barely remembered her father. He was a distant impression in her mind, associated with bonfires and strong hand cradling her as a child. Not a person.
He had laughed, softly. "Death had its chance at me, archer. I do not intend to give it another."
"That's good," she had mumbled. "So you won't leave?"
"I will not."
"Good," she had said, and then fallen asleep.
During those days, Ilsa was a godsend. The girl brought her soup and other warm foods, as well as her work, when she could focus. Most importantly, she did not spread word of her illness around the tribe, as she found once she recovered.
By the end of the week, she was capable of standing and basic comprehension once more. Which was fortunate, because she had an enormous backlog of paperwork to complete.
"With all due respect, milady," Ilsa protested, "you are still not well. It wouldn't be wise to strain yourself while you're recovering."
"My own well-being is a secondary concern," Ashe said, coughing. "Who knows how many important things I've missed? If I don't begin now, I may miss more."
Ilsa pursed her lips. "I'll bring you the most important documents," she bargained.
"…very well, that will do. Thank you."
Her opinion of Ilsa's judgement rose as she read the first report. It was about a tribe called the Winter's Claw, a fair distance away, who had recently been going through hard times.
Apparently, they were once a widely respected and feared tribe, but the past winters had hit them hard, leaving their numbers low. A new chief had also risen to power after the death of the previous. It would be a good time to aid them and establish a relationship.
"The Winter's Claw?" Thresh said, reading over her shoulder.
"Yes," she said. "Do you know anything about them?"
"I've seen them. They are a tribe of warriors, who have always respected strength," he said. "Though, their new leader is rather obsessed with it, with stamping out weakness and not being pitied. Her name is Sejuani."
Ashe narrowed her eyes. Even with her mind clouded by fever, she thought he was leaving something out. "Is there anything else?" she asked.
"You have all the relevant information. You are capable of drawing your own conclusions."
She shook her head, wincing as the motion sent a spike of pain hammering through her skill. Conclusions.
"They respect strength," she muttered. "Then, it wouldn't be the best idea to go myself, in this state. It would only attract insult."
"Most likely," he said.
"But I could help them. Give food. Perhaps forge a friendship with this Sejuani in the process, but it doesn't sit well with me to let others go hungry when I could stop it."
"So, what will you do?"
She collapsed back against her pillows. "Have to send someone in my stead. Right… Ilsa!" she called.
Footsteps, and the blonde girl appeared in her doorway just as Thresh disappeared. "Yes, milady?"
"An envoy needs to be sent to the Winter's Claw, bearing food supplies. I will write a letter to given to their chief, Sejuani," she said.
"Of course, milady," Ilsa said, bowing. "Er, what kind of food?"
Ashe considered for a moment. "Grain. We have a surplus from trade."
"I'll get it done," she said, but she didn't leave, instead lingering nervously.
"Is there anything else you would like to say?"
"It's – I mean, would you consider – I'm sorry, it's silly," she mumbled.
"It can't be. Speak your mind."
"Can I – may I go with the envoy?" she blurted out. "I know you say I'm helpful, but I really haven't don't much, and my friends say I'm good at getting along with people –"
"Peace," said Ashe, cutting her off. "If that is your wish, then I see no reason to deny you. But remember to be self-assured. The Winter's Claw is a tribe that respects strength above all else. Don't be afraid to stay away from anything you don't feel yourself capable of handling."
Ilsa's eyes blazed with fervor. "Thank you, milady. I won't let you down."
They left at dawn the next day. By that time, Ashe was well enough to send them off with a speech, and they departed to applause.
Contrary to the general humor of her tribe, her nerves were frayed. Ilsa was perfectly capable of looking after herself, of course, but the girl aside, this was the first time she wouldn't be present for diplomatic talks. Anything could go wrong, and she wouldn't be able to help – wouldn't even know – for too long. The round trip was four days.
But there was nothing to be done, now.
She slogged through her backlog of work. She trained to restore the power in her muscles. Mostly, she slept to regain her physical and emotional strength.
The days passed slowly. At first, she wasn't sure why, as nothing in particular was different. But that was incorrect – something was different, and it was her lack of control. Being a leader meant responsibility for those under her, and her sudden inability to that responsibility grated.
"I don't understand," she said to Thresh one day. "I know I can't be everywhere and do everything."
"I fail to empathize, having never been in your situation," he said. "But you clearly seem to understand."
"I feel so petty, though," said Ashe. "Something is out of my control, and I dislike it."
"Hardly odd."
"Why can't I just trust people?" she muttered.
"Your reservations may or may not be justified," he said, "as I can't speak for your people's competence."
"I still feel you're not telling me something about the Winter's Claw." She glanced sideways at him.
Enough time passed to give the impression that he wasn't going to say anything. Then, "It won't work."
"What won't?"
"Your attempt to make friends. Sejuani will see it as pity, treating her tribe as weak and in need of help," he said.
She levelled a glare at him. "And could you not have told me this earlier?" Ilsa would be heartbroken at her perceived failure.
"I told you about their fixation with strength," he replied. "Obviously, I overestimated your reasoning capabilities."
"I – I had a fever!" she sputtered. "I was half delirious!"
"If you had known it wouldn't go well, would you have not attempted it?" he asked.
Would she have? Ashe was unnerved to find she wasn't immediately sure of the answer. "Perhaps," she said. "Even if… I could not, in good conscience, leave anyone to go hungry, even if they thought it to be unwelcome charity."
"You and your silly conscience," said Thresh.
She sighed. "At the very least, I hope this Sejuani will be reasonable, even should she refuse our gift."
The envoy returned lacking several things, like the grain. And their weapons, and most of their armor. And Ilsa.
Ashe dismissed a few ever-present gawkers and walked up to the group. "What has happened to you all?" she asked.
A bedraggled man with a beard stepped forward. "Queen Ashe," he said, "I regret to inform you our mission was highly unsuccessful."
She eyed the sorry-looking party. "Yes, I can see. Would you kindly explain the details to me? And where is Ilsa?"
The man tugged at the collar of his shirt, sweating. "Our diplomatic intentions were… poorly received."
"Speak frankly," she said. "You will not be punished. I have reason to believe that, perhaps, your objective was doomed to fail, but I would like to know all the facts."
He bowed, relaxing slightly. "Their leader, Sejuani, she… took the grain, and burned it in a bonfire," he said. "She told us, in no uncertain terms, that she would never stoop so low as to accept such a thing from us. Then she and her warriors accosted us, stealing our equipment. I'm sorry for not putting up more of a fight, milady."
"Apology accepted. You were outnumbered in unfamiliar territory, and not expecting a fight," she assured. "But that is not all, is it?"
"Ah, yes," he said, face losing color. "She said, in ruder terms than I repeat them, that she thought we were weak and you undeserving of being a leader. And that she intended to start a campaign, to conquer the Freljord and put it all under her rule."
Ashe's vision flashed red. Breathe, she told herself, unclenching her hands. There was still another question.
"Where is Ilsa?" she asked softly.
The man took a step backward. "She, ah, that is… the girl didn't make it."
The world frayed at the edges.
"How?" she said, voice deadly quiet.
"When they attacked us, she fought as well. She held her ground until she collapsed. We thought she was wounded, but she wasn't bleeding, and then we saw – none of us knew why. She seemed perfectly fine earlier."
Oh, but she knew why. A small thing. A tiny defect in her heart, so unimportant until it wasn't. Why had Ilsa fought? Why had she let the girl go in the first place? Why, why, why.
"Thank you for your report," she said, numb.
"Er, my condolences. But if I may – what will you do, Queen Ashe?" he asked.
Right. She had to do something, to react. "Tell the smiths to increase weapons production," she bit out. "Have the warriors begin drilling, too."
"If I might ask a question," said the man.
"Ask."
"Is this war?"
Concentrating as she was on the in-out-in of her breathing, it took a second for the question to register.
"We will not start a war," she whispered, her eyes unfocused. "But if Sejuani seeks one, we will most certainly be the ones to end it." She took the bow off her back, raising it high in the air in an unmistakable signal for the ones who hadn't heard her words.
As soon as she was secluded in her study, away from everyone, Ashe's icy calm morphed into burning anger. The unfamiliar emotion seared her blood, boiling hate scalding like hot oil.
She carefully set down her bow and sat on her chair before letting out an incoherent scream.
"I hate her," she hissed.
"A rather strong word, hate is," said Thresh. "Do you truly hate her?"
"If this isn't hate," she replied, "I don't know what hate is."
"Hm. So tell me, what are you thinking right now?"
"What are you, my therapist?" she scoffed, but her hands were still clenched, the knuckles white. "I – Ilsa didn't deserve that, the poor, foolish girl, and she was kind and – and so desperate to prove herself. And that ignorant, misguided warmonger, she –"
"What I mean is, do you want to hurt her?" he asked. "Do you want to make her suffer, bleed, die for what she's done? What do you want?"
She tipped her head back. "I – I do. I want to hurt her like she's just hurt me. I just – I want her gone, and I'd like to think I want that for the good of everyone, but I can't – I can't." Deep, ragged breaths shook her frame, a hair's breadth from becoming sobs. "There, I admitted it. Are you happy now?"
Ashe stood suddenly, rounding on him before he could speak. "Did you know?" she demanded. "Did you know this would happen? Is that why you didn't tell me everything, so I'd send her and everything would be ruined and I'd feel like – this?"
"You flatter me," Thresh said, amusement clear in his voice, "but I am not omniscient, and I cannot control your fickle emotions."
She slumped, her anger drained all at once. "I know," she whispered. "I'm simply… unsuited to deal with such needless loss."
"Needless loss. Loss you could have prevented?" he said.
She flinched.
"Loss you might have stopped, had you been better? If you'd been smarter, more capable, older, less ignorant?" he mocked, words driving needles into her chest.
"Damn you," she snarled. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Ilsa is dead. A child lost, a friend lost. Damn you."
"Far too late for that, archer."
She staggered a few steps to collapse on her bed. Her tears soaked into the fur blankets.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Ashe confessed. "Sometimes I do, I think, but sometimes I still feel like I'm just – pretending. There's no one to guide me or tell me when I'm doing something wrong so I don't stray too far."
"'Wrong' is a fluid concept," said Thresh, "one for which everyone has a different definition. I find most to be meaningless."
"I have to train. Sharpen my fighting skills," she mumbled, sighing. "If Sejuani intends to start a campaign of conquest, I will meet her on the battlefield and let the gods decide the victor."
"How disgustingly noble," he said.
She shook her head. "It's not nobility, or honor, or what have you. It's… I couldn't live with myself if I sent people to their deaths, people with families and friends who care about them, without risking myself. I have little left to lose."
"As I said," he repeated, "disgustingly noble."
She rolled over with another sigh, and buried her head in a pillow. Perhaps things would seem less bleak tomorrow.
She was nearly asleep when she heard Thresh say, "You couldn't be rid of me if you tried, Ashe."
It was probably a dream, if she hadn't simply misheard.