N.B.
Lemon from pagebreaks 5 — 6 (I think. Can't count).
This chapter's dedicated to the person reading it right now. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. You, hearing this disembodied voice saying these words in your head.
If you're reading this, you mean more to me than all 34K views (as of 5 - 6/2014) on The Right Dress. Even though I love that damn thing.
Erm. Regardless. We've got 2 more chapters. One after this. A two-parter, then an epilogue. I count the two-parter as one and don't count the epilogue. (And maybe a trivia chapter, but I won't count that either). Oh, and the Author's Note, which is probably gonna be long.
So —
Preparations
Ta - Kitan (Pt 1)
Ta - Kitan (The End)
Epilogue
Author's Note
Trivia (Maybe)
And then — well. Retirement. It's scary to contemplate. I'd love to keep on writing fanfic until the end of my days. Another Home at Last? I'd love to.
Knowing vOceanic, I'll probably come out of retirement and sort of spook around. "Woooo. Look, a one-shot annnnnnnnd it's 500 pages long. Fuck."
Seriously, though. You reading this. I'm gonna ask for something. A review, a PM. Something to let me know something about the person reading this. We've connected in a way not possible for most people. (I'm at least mildly attractive so don't feel too bad about it ;) )
I'll stop rambling.
- vO
"The falcon can hear the falconer if the falconer shouts really, really loud."
- Aven Lightbringer (Age 14)
"Whoa. Caelyn Falin's so freakin' hot."
— Erinae Riveria (Age 9)
"Some say the world will end in fire. (Pause). Actually, they all do. (Smile). Or they should."
— Caelyn Falin (Age 15)
"Come my friends, t'is not too late to seek a newer world. It never will be. There's always worlds out there. Wheels, maybe. Watching. Waiting. Turning."
— Ezreal Lightbringer of Piltover (Age 18) [The Present]
Save him.
Ezreal — Tai - Aitah, Sit'ra — looked at his friend and felt a faint chill sadness. Not for Ryland himself. His smile was the brightest Ezreal had ever seen. The gruff Guardian had really brought Ryland to life, through inside jokes, laughter, comfort. Comfort maybe the soulless could only give one another.
The Willow-Doves seemed to make him happy, too. The light was fading from the sky, leaving traces of shadow lingering among the needles of the pines. Though Angel's Crossing was bleak, gray and desolate, the woods were alive with the low, atonal call of owls and wind murmuring through the black branches.
But the Doves surrounding Ryland were comfort from the cold and the dark. Their handsome smiles (handsomer than mine, Ezreal thought) were pleasing to the eye, their bodies warm and pleasant to the touch.
No. What Ez felt was a simple mourning. He and Ryland would forever be friends, to the last page and beyond, but the simple days on the Rift, grabbing dinner at Central Fountain, talking about how they didn't understand their girlfriends — those were over.
The Destroyer knew they had been for a while. Maybe as long ago as Ryland confessing his love on the plains, and surely after his broken wrist.
Now, with a country apparently awaiting him, they were done for sure. Ez watched him laugh at one of the Doves' whispered jokes and turned away.
Ryland was handsome, not broken. All it had taken was happiness to banish the dark from his face. Happiness Ezreal the Destroyer couldn't give.
Ezreal pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and settled nearer to the fire, thinking of Luxanna. Trying to.
Jayce was watching Degardo so closely that he didn't notice Demetrius watching them.
Erinae had decided to stop hiding. Gotta face the music someday, I guess. Or some shit. So far none of the Generals had recognized her, which Jayce knew was a mixed blessing.
To make up for her discomfort, she was chattering at him eagerly, trying to distract him from Degardo's boisterous conversation, tugging at his hand. They were all sitting on downed logs around a roaring fire. Her cheeks were pink from heat and excitement.
When he saw General Falin observing them intently with a look of faint pain on his face, the Defender cleared his throat. "Looking for something?"
"Ah. Oh." A handsome smile flawed by sadness. "Just thinking of an old friend."
Demetrius was remembering his date with the lovely Madame Ashbury, the two of them sitting in lawn chairs on his back porch one warm evening, following a sumptuous dinner at En T'vrdian.
Eight-year-old Caelyn suddenly sprang on Demetrius and seized his hand in his mouth. As a human. And nibbled on it, growling. Madame Ashbury — the lead model of the internationally acclaimed Calrutti eveningwear and lingerie line — had been appalled, but Demetrius couldn't stop laughing. Especially not after Caelyn squeaked and darted off without a word.
I'm so s - s - sorry sir, I'm not sure what happened, your movements reminded me of a rabbit and I — He'd collapsed on Demetrius' feet, shivering, about two hours later, when Demetrius had finally gotten Madame Ashbury to leave. The entire house was spotless, Caelyn was so scared.
She suggested I get rid of you and I said no. Rather — firmly. I suppose she won't be back.
But she's a model!
Aye, and you're a Caelyn. He'd scooped him into his arms and flicked his nose. The boy sneezed and turned into a fox, his tiny paws paddling at the air. Demetrius rubbed his stomach. There's only one of you.
Erinae looked up. Her eyes got so wide Jayce thought she'd gone into shock.
"Oh shit. You're that guy."
Demetrius smiled. "I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific, my dear."
"The Good Man. Caelyn projected you."
The man frowned, and Jayce felt a slimy worm of panic coil in his stomach. Night was falling — the Generals' eyes were slightly too green, too shiny. Their teeth seemed sharper and longer, their movements more graceful.
The Defender squeezed her shoulder. "Erin —" Please don't fuck with him.
But she ignored him. It was too late anyway.
"Whatever do you mean, madam?"
"I met him in the sky. Yeh. Chased him. Had him pinned real good." Her golden eyes gleamed.
Jayce realized that the night was bringing changes to Erin, too. Am I the only real human here? Me and Graves?
"Had him pinned," Demetrius echoed. He cocked his head.
"Yeh! I was bitin' him. He tastes good, doesn't he?"
Demetrius lifted one eyebrow and said nothing. By this point, Ryland and Ezreal were listening to their conversation as well. The King cleared his throat loudly. Erin ignored him, too.
"I recognized him from the calendar and was trying to fuck him."
"Fair enough." Demetrius chuckled, but Jayce thought he heard anger in it.
"Then you tapped me on the shoulder and said, like, 'Madam, please unhand him. The boy is my property.'"
"That is the excuse he always used when the sexual harassment got a little heated," Degardo pointed out. Demetrius glared at him. "Or so I've heard! Heard, of course."
"Yeh, well." Erin took a drink of her soup, half relieved, half annoyed that Degardo apparently hadn't recognized her. "Then we stood up and he hid on your chest and then you faded to a hand on his right shoulder because he was shivering so hard. Couldn't keep you there. Then we got a talkin' to by the celestial lady in her white palace. You know. With the birdcage."
Demetrius gritted his teeth. Calm. Must remain calm. "You know, King Ryland. You've got quite an interesting entourage."
The king blushed again.
"We've, ah —" Jayce cleared his throat. "We've been wandering around up north alone for quite a while now, and, uh —"
"It really happened." Erinae nodded. "Met him a little while ago. I promise you."
"Along with King Ryland and Ezreal?" Demetrius' voice was laden heavily with sarcasm. A large part of him — an aching, childish part, the same one that wandered Falin Manor for a year after his boy's death howling with rage and tears — was snarling If he can contact these people, why not me? Why Ryland and this girl?
"Nah." Erin shrugged. "The night after that."
"And you've just reconnected with Ryland today," Demetrius finished, and rubbed his temples.
"This is the first I've heard of the contact, aye." Ryland looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"This is absurd." The Tactician didn't realize he'd spoken aloud. Erinae scowled at him.
"Hey big guy. I can prove it."
"Prove you met Caelyn in the sky?" Demetrius laughed, feeling vast and empty. Fairy tales. All fairy tales. I should've known. There is no hope. Not with him gone. No blue roses. No more nonsense.
"Yup." Erinae spat.
"I can kinda prove it," Ezreal added, his sapphire eyes dark and unreadable. Demetrius had begun to think of him as the Child God even though he knew he shouldn't. "Though it pissed me off."
"Well. I'd love to hear it. I think." I hope. The Tactician realized both of his fists were clenched tightly and forced himself to straighten them. It was difficult. He was shaking. How can they be so casual about meeting him? He's dead. If I met him — but no.
He was shaking harder. Ryland and his damned entourage were all staring at him, as were the Doves. The latter looked openly worried. "Go on. I'm listening."
"He showed us a memory of him and Luxanna. He was trying to convince her to come with him." Ezreal's deep, dark frown showed how little he cared for this idea. "She was being nice to him and he thought she actually liked him."
"That's interesting." Charles White shook his spoon in Ezreal's direction. "Not many outside of the top nine knew of his connection to Luxanna — isn't that right?"
"Aye. I never told." Andrew White snorted. "Because it was pure nonsense. Being in love with the Demacian princess and Noxus' prime tactician."
"And I'd never met him before, and Lux never mentioned it." Ezreal's scowl deepened. It seemed, Demetrius reflected, to be his natural expression. "Something about — a collar. She was in one and suggested he ask you about it."
The Tactician flushed. Charles White shook his head. The Doves and Generals laughed, then whispered. That was Noxus for you — laughter, then murmuring.
Of course. I'm starting to see a pattern here myself. The Erinae girl was trying to fuck him, Ryland and Skylan have observed us, and now — godsdamned Luxanna Crownguard and that collar. No one else knew that, save Charles. I was furious.
A memory: "But it feels nice." Loud purring.
"I don't care. Take it off."
"But sir —"
"Caelyn —"
"Don't wanna." Purr. "It feels really nice when you pull on it."
"Wh — what did you do to the buckle? Why can't I undo it?"
Purr purr purr purr…
"Caelyn Falin, don't you dare turn into a — Foxes aren't even supposed to purr!"
Purr purr…
"Godsdamnit. I need you out of it because we've got company coming ov —"
"Demetrius! What in hell?"
"Charles. Help me get it off of —"
"I will most certainly NOT help you get him off!"
"That's not what I said, you old deaf white-haired bastard!"
"These white hairs are from you and your godsdamned foxboy!"
Purrrrrr…
"The actual memory," Ryland interjected with a cough. "That was about you dragging him away by the ear and him thinking you really loved him because you were angry."
"I see," Demetrius said softly. "And you, madam?"
"Mine's a lot more simple." Erin scrubbed her mouth with her sleeve. "You see your horse, right?"
"Yes?"
"Uh-huh. I knocked him offa her while we were in space, and she just kept on running. Guess that's how you got her."
Demetrius stared at her. "So you're implying that — Meridian found her way back to Falin Manor."
"Yep." Erin beamed.
"From space."
"Yep."
"That's preposterous."
"Not really. If your house ever catches on fire you have to lock the horses out of the stables or else they'll go back there. No matter what. Even if they're burning." Erinae nodded sagely.
Malcolm and Jayce exchanged a glance and a shrug. Made about as much sense as anything else.
"From space!" Demetrius snapped.
"Well, she was just standing in the stables when we went to leave," Charles White rumbled. "Was she not? After vanishing after Caelyn died?"
"This is ridiculous!"
"For Caelyn?" General Isaacs cackled. "Sounds perfectly reasonable to me."
"It sounds like a bunch of — idiotic — stupid, half-cocked —" Demetrius couldn't breathe.
"Now wait a moment. We're still talking about the same Caelyn, correct?" General Raeford nodded. "The one who turned into a fox whenever anyone was angry at him? He'd sit there and wag his tail. Do you know how hard it is to shout at a fox?"
"I've got one better." Degardo gestured grandly. "I went to find him — he was playing catch, they said. And you know what?"
"What?" Erinae chirped.
"He was the ball. Watched a Commander hurl him into the sky, fox tail just a'flyin'." There was laughter after this — Demetrius saw that even Ezreal, Sit'ra was laughing. The Tactician himself was in pain.
"Or Demetrius. How about when we asked him about the blue roses surrounding your house. You remember that, Rowan?" Isaacs clapped his husband on the shoulder, who nodded. "'Caelyn, blue roses aren't real.' 'Aye, but they're master's favorite flower.' And that was it. His entire explanation on why they were there, how he grew them. That was all he'd say. And you say this — meeting him in dreams — is absurd? Do you truly?"
Demetrius opened his mouth. A sob, instead of words. A soft hush fell over the camp, then quiet murmured conversations began.
And owls — so many owls calling to and fro through the air. They had someone to call to. Demetrius did not.
"Why's the guy crying?" Erin demanded, tugging Jayce's sleeve. "We're getting him back."
"Maybe that's why." Jayce squeezed her arm tight, just relieved that no one had been eaten. Yet. "Or maybe it's because he has to hop on the crazy train with us."
Demetrius coughed laughter. "Is this a joke? Is this all a joke?"
"No, sir." Ryland didn't correct himself. "I would never allow them to joke of something like this."
"And you'll bring him back." Demetrius was almost inaudible.
"He deserves a second chance," Ryland heard himself say, though he didn't know why Caelyn had killed himself or if he truly did deserve another try.
It was enough to see a little of the light come back to Demetrius' eyes. He didn't see Katarina's look of pain. Or Darius'.
And so King Ryland told the Noxians of their hard journey. He and Ezreal alternated the telling —the tale is recounted elsewhere — focusing on Luxanna's capture. Words spilled out over the fiery tips of the bonfire, into the delicate ears of the Doves. Sometimes Graves joined in with a few grunted words. At other points Jayce spoke.
And so those hundreds of pages spiraled to something really quite simple.
Death's Kingdom, the Southern World, housed Caelyn Falin, the Fallen Swordsman.
It housed Luxanna Crownguard, the golden-haired Demacian Eagle who was now something more like an angel, a princess holding Ezreal's heart between her silken palms.
And it housed Aven Lightbringer, the green-eyed God of Creation. Though they knew that not, not at that moment.
And after being denied what they wanted — to be truly loved, in Ezreal's case, and to be treated gently, in Ryland's — they sought to rectify it all and bring the pieces back together.
Demetrius, chin in hand, thought of the irony that Caelyn would be brought back on the brink of a massive war. The threat of a monstrous war had killed him to begin with.
And what if he dies again? The Tactician mused into the dark. Would it be enough to hear his laugh once again? To feel his soft cheek against his palm?
Ezreal Lightbringer's heart tightened with every word he spoke. Tighter and tighter. His lungs were constricted into small, taut sacks. His ribs burned. Luxanna will have to love me if I save the Wheel. I know it.
As for Ryland — meeting Aven. Aven wouldn't have to love him. It'll be enough to hear his laugh. To feel his palm against my cheek.
And that kiss he had asked for long ago. What harm can one kiss do, moon son?
Ryland didn't know. But he knew how much the lack of a kiss hurt.
Reflections. Again and again.
After the tale was done, they traveled through the portal to Noxus.
Feelings hadn't softened between Luxanna and Aven. The Lightbringer, often faced with a cranky quarters-mate, knew how to make himself small. And whenever he was feeling particularly sad, he simply looked at the dark desperation flickering in the back of Oliver's pale blue eyes and felt better again.
Dar Regale, Son of Dust and rapist of kings, had begun one-hundred-twenty-four letters of apology and torn them apart before Aven snorted derisively.
"Y'really think a letter from a dumb thing like you's enough t'fix it?"
"N - no." Oliver had taken to grinding his teeth. But what hurt worse than the exposed nerve endings in his mouth was being genuinely sorry. The choking remorse was even more overwhelming than the howling void awaiting his soul.
Whitefield.
All those hours being read to, watching the news beneath a blanket, all those rain-sodden dates — a waste. All Whitefield's compassion useless.
I'm sorry. I'll fix it. Oliver looked up from the torn scraps of his latest apology attempt. Aven was mumbling to himself as he squinted at a book. Somehow.
Then — and perhaps unsurprisingly — Oliver and Caelyn heard the news at the same time. One on the ground, one beneath it.
Caelyn Falin — after the dreams of Erin the Riv and of King Ryland — had taken to moving again. His muscles were frayed like an old, abandoned rug, his heart sluggish and fluttery at turns. Sometimes, feeling his way through the dark, he collapsed in a panting heap.
Still, he eventually made his way to the tunnels beneath the Hallowed Keep, home of the golden spire. (Like a weaker version of the Prodigal Explorer, perhaps?)
He heard Saint Garamond's hated, hushed voice and fought the urge to cough. His lungs were sore, permanently fogged on the inside from the damp air underground. Oliver, who was swapping duty with a guard, paused.
"…Nothing quite like it. There's a portal about half a mile out, and what's through it looks like the kingdom of Noxus. I'd swear to it. It's almost like a living painting. It changes colors as the day passes."
"Were there any people?" Oliver blurted, then cleared his throat. "We are worried about King Ryland, after all."
"None that I could see. I didn't stay to look through it for long." A pause. "Come to think of it — there were birds flying around. I heard some faint voices." The Battle Saint's voice was growing weaker from fear.
Caelyn choked, coughed, fell heavily to his knees and scarred hands. A single word in his mind. Master.
If he cried now, he'd never make it. He listened to Garamond describe the exact coordinates and set off without a second thought. Groping the walls. Knees shaking.
He didn't know — how could he? — that the Aurora Liliana was cheering for him. Soraka was praying. Death had forgotten him again.
And he didn't know that the shiny, opalescent rope of glistening light leading him in the right direction wasn't a hallucination, but real.
As for Oliver dar Regale, he told the other guard to wait a moment, darted up many flights of stairs, crawled up the remaining ones, and was deeply disappointed to find Aven and Luxanna asleep. Differences didn't matter during a nap — they were entwined.
Oliver kissed the princess on the lips, hesitated, kissed Aven on the forehead, stumbled back down the stairs, and high-tailed it out of the Haven, an apology boiling in the back of his throat.
At this point, Ryland, Ezreal, Generals and entourage had been in Noxus for three days.
Ezreal was slowly withdrawing. He didn't protest on the third evening when Ryland pulled him against him and started petting him. Like a Dove.
The two of them were in Ryland's private suite on the fourth floor of a palace that, until three days ago, had been kept as a museum.
Ezreal closed his eyes and leaned against Ryland's chest. The hand on his shoulder had always felt good. It really did now.
And no one was going to question their manliness. The Doves — for which he was repeatedly mistaken, resulting in constant hair-ruffling — were actually pretty cool, despite the whole 'servant boy' thing.
They were all straight (except his reflection Caelyn, of course). Three of them were dating Noxian models. One of them was a mechanic. A couple of them were really into techmaturgy. All of them had read his books.
"You okay?" Ryland's genuine concern made Ezreal feel better. He still cared.
"Yeah." He sighed and watched the sun drift downward. Ryland had stood on the balcony for hours the past two nights, watching night sweep over his country, like closing a curtain. Drinking in the beauty he'd been starved for. His return was still a secret to most of Noxus as of yet. "Though I'm kinda starting to wonder how Lux will take this. Two of those guys — those Doves — are her cousins."
Ryland nodded. He knew. He'd laughed loudly when the Generals White talked of killing Demacia's tactician, then snapped his mouth shut with a vague sense of guilt. But the rest of the Generals were laughing, too.
Bit odd to have a prince do your laundry. Charles White chuckled. And when he's mad he looks just like an Eagle. To think — a pet Eagle standing in your dining room. Almost as strange as Caelyn.
Not even near, Degardo corrected. But strange indeed.
For the most part, they were genuinely amused by the idea of recapturing Luxanna. They'd all sworn to show her utmost respect — vows that deepened when Ryland and Skylan tore a portal to the Southern World and left it open in the castle courtyard, humming, chiming, singing.
It was the second true display of magic, following the first portal from the north to Noxus. The Generals were quite impressed.
So were the Doves. The latter sat in a circle around it, squinting at it for a good four hours and murmuring to one another.
Doves were strange.
In the present, Ryland squeezed Ezreal's shoulder. Lux soon.
But will she love me? The Destroyer's blue eyes were dark and distant. He was truly wondering if she would love him enough to fill in the aching gap Ryland's new friends had left in his heart, if her white light would fill the dark hole. It was as small as a pinprick, but deep as the ocean.
The pain was a part of saving Ryland. Had to be.
She'd better love you, Ryland thought to himself. Not because he was the King — oh, no. Because of Ezreal. Because of the ocean-eyed Destroyer with the chiseled jaw, with the faint, rosy triangle scars on his cheeks.
Of course she will, Ezreal.
The Destroyer hugged the King of Noxus before Ryan White the Willow-Dove dragged him to his room for an action movie.
Ryland looked at the horizon thoughtfully. Tomorrow morning he and Skylan were going to try and contact Aven. At least find him.
I hope he's alright.
Skylan had pointed out that the Wheel only turned if Aven was alive. Not if he was well. Rapid-fire thoughts of mutilation sparked between them before Ryland shook his head. It does no good to worry.
Skylan's faint smile. He'd say the same thing.
At the moment, something caught Ryland's attention — voices from the hallway. Ryland still wasn't used to the palace, which was decorated with all manner of paintings of nature, beauty and a few of — himself. From centuries ago. Him and Cressida. The hundreds of windows were stained glass. Patterns of flowers, constellations, trees. Aven will love it.
The voices he heard: Katarina's low, urgent one, followed by Cressida's bell-toned laugh. He'd been avoiding both of them, hiding with the Generals.
Degardo had teased him about it. Wouldn't want to see a woman who's been kept waiting for four centuries either, my lord. Don't blame you.
He couldn't hide forever, not any more than he could hide from his Noxian heritage. He forced himself to open the door and paused.
" — cheating!"
"Foolish mortal." Cressida cackled.
That's the first time I've ever heard that out loud, Ryland thought.
"He was mine before you were a thought, before you were the tiniest crack in the Wheel. I know him."
"No you don't!" Kat snapped.
"Oh? What's his favorite color?" Silence. Kat was doubtlessly seething. "It's green, child. Forest green and silver."
Ryland winced. She was right.
"Oh. Yeah. Knowing his favorite colors means you automatically get to keep him."
"His favorite poem, perhaps? Enfa T'argen." Her voice rang with triumph. "It's an Ionian ode to a broken vase glued back together again. Glued with sunlight. He sympathizes with it."
Ryland's heart stopped, then thundered. He'd never mentioned that to anyone. The poem was from the preface to one of Ezreal's books. He'd photocopied it, kept it in his pocket for a solid two years.
Never mentioned it to anyone in this lifetime, anyway.
"He's not the same Ryland. He can't be." Voices, echoing in the dark. They were headed his way. He braced himself internally. "Reincarnation is bullshit. It's just bullshit. It's a coincidence. He's not the same." She was losing it.
"You wouldn't know, would you, darling? He and I used to perform in the L'Rae Divin. He played piano and I sang every Sunday afternoon. The Noxians loved it."
Ryland gritted his teeth. They rounded the corner, simple evening gowns swishing against the floor. Kat was in red, Cressida in black. For Noxus.
Two pairs of eyes — one colored like Ezreal's ocean ones, but brighter. Blue-green. And Kat's frigid emerald ones.
He cleared his throat. "Good evening."
"Good evening, your majesty." Cressida smiled demurely. And gods, it was familiar.
"Ryland," Kat said hoarsely. "Tell this bitch —"
"Kat. Please."
"What, so she really is gonna take you?" Kat looked like she was going to stomp her foot.
Cressida was examining him calmly. Though he thought he saw — with the moonlight pouring in through the stained glass windows — tears forming in her eyes.
Ryland tried to think. He could feel heartbreak roiling off Cressida, a big black wave of it. Fury from Kat, like crimson lightning bolts. "This is Noxus, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Katarina gritted her teeth. "Glad you finally realized that."
"Why can't I have both of you?"
The both froze, then looked at one another.
Ryland nodded and continued. Like so many other things, it was as if he were listening to something speaking through him. Someone who knew what he was doing. "King Ryland was renowned for loving many people. You can't expect me to choose between two lovely women like yourselves."
"Oh?" Cressida's damningly familiar smile was coming back. "And why not?"
"It's trying to choose between the seasons." Ryland took a step forward. A brief memory of Brightbridge — Gloriana rejecting him — swirled past.
"The lovely, blossoming days of springtide." He brushed Cressida's silky blonde hair away from her bare shoulders. Her smile bloomed in full.
"The full, sultry heat of the summer." His hand snaked to Katarina's right breast and pinched the nipple. She almost smacked him.
He eyed them both. He smiled. "There is no choosing. Not between the past and the present."
He thought they were going to break his bones.
They both grabbed an arm and dragged him towards his huge, black-pine framed bed. Kat was kissing his mouth hungrily, her lips burning, scalding hot, her tongue deep in his mouth. And Cressida's lips worked tenderly against his neck. Their hands slid against one another, then past each other over his body.
Kat's fingernails clawed against his shirt, Cressida's gentler ones working towards his jeans, undoing his belt. He realized he was moaning softly.
Wait. Kings are supposed to be on top.
"I think not, your majesty," Cressida whispered in his ear. Her blue-green eyes twinkled in the moonlight. Her silvery-blonde hair brushed his collarbone. She squeezed his erection, then rubbed her fingers daintily across the head of it. He went from hard to swollen.
"I get his dick first," Kat said flatly. "I haven't fucked him in forever."
Cressida rolled her eyes and began slipping out of her gown. "I suppose I'll withhold a comment about forever at this point."
"Hey. In mortal terms. You've waited this long." Kat dragged at his jeans, then her own dress. "You can wait more."
The pair of them in expensive lingerie — they'd run into one another on the way to seduce him. Reflections. Again and again.
It truly would've been like choosing between the spring and summer. Cressida's round, luscious curves reminded Ryland of the peaches fattening after the white blossoms fell. Her breasts were massive, cupped by a smoke-green bra that seemed to kiss them, not restrain them.
Kat's body was lithe, lean. Her ass was tauter, her waist thinner. She undid her scarlet hair from its binding and let it pour across her shoulders, her boobs. A simple black bra, striking against her pale skin.
Cressida cupped Ryland's chin and kissed him fully, deeply. He felt Katarina slip his boxers down to his knees. She straddled him, and her rough gasp startled him into plunging his dick all the way in. Soon she was moaning, sliding her hot warmth up and down his thick length. Her fingers encircled the base of his shaft and squeezed hard so he wouldn't come.
Cressida smiled against his mouth. Her gentle kisses were like little raindrops, soft on his lips and chin. "Must you be so noisy, Kat?"
"S - shut up. It feels good." Ryland felt a shiver travel up her stomach. She grabbed her ankles and rode him, taking her satisfaction from his body. It was pure selfishness but left Ryland panting and squirming all the same.
"She doesn't know anything about the art of love," Cressida breathed into his ear. Ryland's face flushed. Her full pink lips encompassed his — suckled on them — her breasts swaying into his cheeks.
Kat came then, her red hair a magnificent, silky shadow in the moonlight-drenched room. She clutched at his dick and held it to the tip of her clit, then rubbed the two together. The friction — it was powerful enough to make Ryland's back arch, to press his skinny chest into Cressida's fat tits.
When Kat was done, she glared. Strands of red hung in her face. "What'd you say?"
"You've got no form, child." Cressida grinned. Ryland realized — far away, lost among silky sheets and sweat trickling down his temples — that her canine teeth were a little too long.
Kat shoved her out of the way. "Fine then. Go ahead." She kissed him. Once. Twice. Her tongue flicked his lips apart.
But Ryland's attention was focused on Cressida's hands edging down his body. What is she —
His moan startled both him and Kat. Then he was gone, lost in pleasure. Consumed by it. His mind was emptied — he writhed beneath the pair of them, gasping for air. Their bodies were so hot, firm and soft, he couldn't bear it.
Cressida's hand was milking him. Squeezing, pulling, caressing. A rhythm he couldn't resist. Kat joined in — her torrid kisses echoed it. He was so lost that couldn't kiss her back, but that didn't matter. She was using his mouth as she'd used his cock earlier — sucking his tongue, taking control. And Cressida's soft lips had joined her delicate fingers. She gave his dick butterfly kisses. The touch made him shudder.
He cried out, moaning into Kat's hot mouth. The orgasm flooded him — his body seized. His hands found Katarina's breasts and squeezed them, his dick pressed to the back of Cressida's willing throat.
Then he relaxed. His ears were ringing. The corners of his vision were gray.
When he came to his senses, Katarina was tucked beneath one arm, Cressida the other.
"You've got promise," Cressida was murmuring to Kat. The assassin was looking at her with a mixture of anger and — something else. Lust? "I'm sure you can learn."
"I've never made him sound like that."
"But you can." Cressida put an arm over Ryland's chest and brushed Katarina's cheek. "We can practice on him together. Any objections, your majesty?" She tickled Ryland's chin, then kissed it.
I missed you, Ryland, he heard her think. For so long.
"No." Ryland swallowed hard and listened. "No objections."
Outside, in the thick, twisted alder trees dotting the courtyard, owls were calling back and forth again. The two pairs of gorgeous eyes fixed on his face — one aquamarine pair laughing, one emerald pair still frosty with frustration — both belonged to predators.
He was the king, but still their prey.
"None at all."
Strangers in a strange land.
The thought looped through Jayce's head continuously, like a sliver of Piltover memory tape.
He thought it when he watched a General hold a serious conversation about economics with a Dove, then ruffle his golden hair afterwards. And when he heard King Ryland laughing with the Generals about the Demacians' military inadequacies. And when he saw Ezreal among the servants, smiling.
Degardo and Malcolm had taken to poker again. Their favorite spot was a stone table in the shade of an old angel sculpture. It looked suspiciously like that blonde woman flittering around. Cressida. The Outlaw was so rusty he couldn't win. Degardo still humored him. Jayce and Erinae spent much time settled beside them.
There was another thought dominating Jayce, too. Of that Caelyn kid and Demetrius.
I've got to get through to him. I think — I'm pretty sure he's my reflection.
It was like one of those electronic fortune tellers that you asked a question and got a random answer from. Beep. Beep. All signs point to yes.
Maybe Jayce was still related to Ryland and Skylan — they all liked the same ice cream flavor, after all. Demacian vanilla.
But those two were powerful sorcerers and they had Ezreal and Aven. The 'god bros,' as Erinae liked to call them.
Demetrius Falin — he wasn't a sorcerer. He was wealthy, mostly self-educated with an eye for the finer things in life. He had a scientific mind, cutting-edge accuracy that produced results. Misunderstood by those around him. Rumor had it that women found him 'distant,' difficult to know.
Oh. And he was in love with a child. An almost-grown one now, but still.
But Jayce couldn't find him anywhere. Degardo finally explained it, before flipping four aces and grinning at Malcolm's swear. "The threat of war. He's retreated and began preparations. We often don't see him for months on end because of his research and writing."
And reclusive. Gods. He really is me. "He's got to vanish to somewhere." Or at least I hope so. And I hope it isn't into space with that weird horse.
"The library," Degardo murmured, squinting at his cards. Erinae was dealing them and shooting the General frustrated looks. She believed he still hadn't recognized her.
Jayce jumped up to question a little Willow-Dove strolling by, miraculously not in the company of a General or fellow servant. He'd only gotten five alone so far.
He loved him forever, but fell hard when he was twelve. Wasn't intimate with him until he was fifteen.
Isn't that the age Erinae told me originally? She said she was fifteen?
The Dove shifted uneasily. I — I wouldn't know, sir.
Sorry. Talking to myself.
There was that, too. The library.
Earlier that evening, before King Ryland was thoroughly and utterly bedded and fucked by Cressida and Katarina, Jayce and Erinae slipped through a light gray rain into the library and sat at a table in the shadows.
The library was massive, exquisite, with a skylight in the shape of a lotus and intricate wooden dragons topping the bookshelves. King Ryland loved to read, after all. Past and present.
The Tactician was sitting with his back to them. He'd pushed three of the tables together — they were covered with charts, lists, diagrams and sketches. Thick books standing upright seemed to wall him in. Titles like The Demacian Afterlife: A Study in Lore and The Call of the Angels: Back from the Dead.
Erin, Jayce noticed, had buried her nose in The Basics of Techmaturgy. He himself had grabbed the latest Songs of Noxus and was looking at a picture of Caelyn and Demetrius. Falin Manor. Dress-black military uniform, hand in small, scarred hand. Blue roses.
Smiles.
"I see," Demetrius murmured to open, empty air. He looked to his side, obviously holding the gaze of someone not present. "And your hands hurt too much to take the notes? Fair enough, child. It is raining, after all."
Jayce held his breath. Demetrius was holding a full-scale conversation with no one.
"I don't think they'd leave their bases unfortified, even if they didn't feel threatened. They love their walls. The real question is, with an eternity to develop —" Demetrius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Are they all there, love? Every Demacian?" A pause for a response. "Ah. You wouldn't know. You put most of them down there, anyway."
Jayce listened to the entire thing. Demetrius' tactical brilliance was evident, his attention to detail almost inhuman.
Then Erinae clamped his wrist. The Defender bit his tongue and felt it bleed.
Demetrius: "Everyone else's met with you. That's the part I don't understand. Even the star-borne hell-mare makes more sense than you — avoiding me. Or perhaps not." Demetrius glanced to his right, then quickly away. "I did let you kill yourself. Oh, whether you drugged me or no. I should've known. Never mind Jericho's assassination attempts on your friends. Nothing should've distracted me."
Jayce squeezed Erinae's hand.
"And you know," Demetrius mused, turning the pages of a thick book. "That night I had one of the best dreams of my life. You and I were out from under it all. Out from under the Wheel. Just the Ionian beach and the clear sky. Even within the dream I couldn't wait to tell you when I awoke." A pause. "You were gone."
Erinae's fingernails were digging into Jayce's flesh.
"Of course you wouldn't hear me through the earth when I did tell you later. You know they still think you're buried in the Generals' Cove? That I'd let the government take that from me, too?" Pause. "Aye. The last blue roses, by the lake house. Still growing strong. It's a bit odd to think where their roots are entwined…but enough of that. Why aren't you joining us for dinner again?"
A long pause. So long Jayce almost forgot to breathe.
Then he spoke again. His voice was soft and sad among the empty-eyed statues and closed books. "Ah. You're dead. You're dead and I'm, well, alone. That's right. I always seem to for —"
Demetrius looked over his shoulder at last. And Jayce was gone before he could react, dragging Erinae behind him. They got as far as the courtyard before she fell on his chest, sobbing. No, bawling. It looked like she was crying glass marbles.
"Erin." He shook her by the shoulders. From the corner of his eye, he saw Degardo and Graves glance up from their poker game. Degardo was grinning. "It's okay."
He thought he heard through hiccups and moans, No it's not.
"Yes it — come here." Shit. Shit. The comforting thing. I can do this. Boyfriend Jayce. He squeezed her and she yelped. "Fuck. Sorry. You gonna be okay?"
"Y - yeh." She sniffled, then frowned. Her sobs had evaporated. "Is that what they mean by PMS?"
"Uhhhhh. What?"
"Yeh. Got my period. Happened yesterday. I feel like shit. Ryland helped me out, though."
"Ryland?"
"Oh. S'cuse me." Sniffle. "His high majestical holy man."
Gods save the king, Jayce thought randomly. He almost broke down along with her. "Wh - what? Does he have sisters?"
"He's got the healer training, 'member? Soraka taught him about it in case he needed to help people. Like me."
"Ms. Erinae!" One of the servant boys came running over before Jayce could respond. He shot Jayce a distrusting glance, then pulled on Erin's hand. "I brought you mint dark chocolate ice cream. Linnaeus has a warm bath drawn, too."
Erin looked at Jayce. She tried to do a Noxian accent and failed. "My people are calling, Sir Jayce."
"Um."
"She'll be back later, sir." That note of suspicion in the Dove's voice made Jayce squirm. What the fuck did I do?
"O - okay. Have fun." He watched as Erin was led away, then leaned against the palace, hid his face, and groaned. When he opened his eyes, Degardo was standing before him with a huge, wolfish grin.
"Hail, Jayce of Piltover."
"Hi." Oh no. Erinae's regular customer.
Jayce wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed for a while — a year, maybe. But this was the first time he'd been addressed by name by one of the Noxians. He had to answer.
"You know, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Just as you've asked the Doves." Degardo leaned on the wall next to him — just close enough to make Jayce uncomfortable — and looked to the sky. "Scared them to death, you have."
Jayce opened his mouth and closed it. The light drizzled over the puffy clouds — though the rain had ceased — was a burnt umber, an orange that looked so thick you could almost taste it. It added an eerie glow to the disconcerting green glitter of Degardo's eyes.
"I didn't mean to scare them. I'm, uh, not from here."
"It's alright. But think about it from their perspective — Demetrius was fond of doing this." Degardo cleared his throat and imitated the Tactician's broad, dark voice. "Imagine if a large black-haired man turned up and began questioning you about your dead best friend. He looks a little like the police, doesn't he?"
Noxus has police? Coulda fooled me.
"No, we don't. But the Willow-Doves've got quite the imagination." Degardo yawned and stretched.
"You — everyone can read minds." Strangers in a strange land, foreigners in a country — refugees?
"Mhm. I find it rather curious that you think of the Generals as child molesters."
Jayce almost choked. "I — I do?"
"Indeed. I would mention something about pots and kettles, but — I'll get to that." Degardo looked at him and smiled lazily. "The only man who slept with a Dove was Demetrius. Conversely, the only Dove who's been with a General is Caelyn."
Jayce felt the words pour out of him before he could stop them. Maybe it was the Generals' black magic. Or just how he felt.
"You guys all pet them and — hug them. And rub their shoulders while you're talking. It's — weird. It's just weird."
"But is it molestation?" Degardo nibbled his thumbnail. "Are those gestures taboo in your country?"
I'm going to get eaten. Rest in pieces.
"You also think we eat people. Again, only Caelyn Falin."
Jayce's chest heaved. "Oh, gods. What?"
"Focus, good sir." Degardo snapped his fingers before Jayce's face. "Being affectionate. Is it against your cultural code?"
"N - no? I'm not from Demacia."
"I've always thought Demacians touch each other more than Pilts. Could be wrong though." Degardo shrugged. "Jayce of Piltover — and I'm sorry this question is more complicated than it has to be — would you fuck your dog?"
Jayce flinched. "I don't understand."
"It's not really about the animal. It's about the pet. So, say, would you fuck a pet cat —" Degardo's smiled widened at Jayce's wince. "Or a lizard, or perhaps a parrot?"
"Degardo, what the hell are you doing?" Another General. Jayce felt his skin grow damp. It was so humid that none of his sweat was evaporating. "Are you interrogating him?"
"I'm trying to explain the concept of a Willow-Dove to him, Raeford. Not doing it too well."
The newcomer was taller, more handsome. He cocked his head. "Ah. Degardo, he's a Pilt. Don't explain it. Just tell him." He nodded. "The Doves are pets."
"They're human," Jayce snapped immediately. That's it! That's the part that was bothering me. Not the child part... "They're full and complete human beings. They have thoughts, dreams, desires —" His words crunched to a halt at Raeford's smile. He was trying to hide it. It wasn't working.
Night was falling. Jayce caught a glimpse of the white moon through a cloud. A little way away, the portal to another world was glowing, humming. The lanterns bobbing from the edges of Ryland's palace — shaped like Willow-Doves — emitted a soft haze of angelic light.
"Demetrius was a humanist once," Degardo said. He sighed nostalgically. "Caelyn won that argument, hands down."
"Th - they're people!" Jayce felt his heart begin to ache.
"People we happen to own." Raeford shrugged, dug through his jacket pockets and produced a cigarette. "Care for one?"
"No." Jayce shook his head rapidly. "That's not okay."
"Told you your cigarettes were cheap, Raeford," Degardo coughed.
"No! The Doves!" Jayce watched as eight or nine of them walking by — was that Ezreal with them? — looked over, then away, murmuring quietly.
"Relax. Please." Raeford looked genuinely sympathetic. "I understand how you feel —"
"Don't you have one?"
"Aye. Sterling Raeford, the Wheel-Singer. Jayce of Piltover, would you rather we not take them?"
"Wh —"
"They're orphans. All of them to a one." They were ambling towards the portal — it gave off its own secretive glow. It hovered a little before the palace's tasteful stone steps. There was a statue of a wolf crouched on either side of the palace entrance.
"Two of them are Crownguards." Jayce felt his knees shake.
"Whites, now," Raeford corrected.
"Pfft. They were orphans after Charles and Andrew showed up on their doorstep." Degardo snorted.
"B —"
"Listen. Just for a moment." Jayce realized that Raeford sounded reasonable and clenched his fists. This shouldn't even be a discussion. "They were orphans in Demacia, which is widely renowned for having one of the worst orphanage systems in all of Valoran. Unwanted children are not supposed to happen, as there's to be no intercourse outside of marriage —"
Degardo chuckled.
" — And if their parents die in battle, there are supposed to be relatives to take them in. Family, country, honor. That's all Demacia's built on. But children slip through the cracks."
Jayce let out a long, slow sigh. "Alright."
"So. They've got no schooling. No food or medical care. Half the time they've not even got a proper mattress to sleep on." Raeford stopped and sighed. "Which is where we come in."
"Uh - huh." Jayce closed his eyes. Oh man.
"They're expensive. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. We're dedicated to them. They end up educated, healthy, talented and, above all, happy."
"Talented? That shouldn't have anything to do —"
"You'd be surprised what boys can do when they're grateful and have had proper care for the first time in their lives." Raeford shrugged. "Their chorale program is exceptional. Most of them play instruments. They're learned philosophers and historians and naturalists. Accomplished cooks. But that's not all."
"No?"
"No. Especially not in Caelyn's case." Raeford cracked his knuckles. "They were torturing him."
"Wh —"
"Aye. Thought he didn't have a soul. He was dropped off twice. Father dropped him off in an inner city one. Mother came and got him — he thought he was going home. Dropped him off in the worst one she could find, in hopes that he'd die without her having to sully her conscience." Raeford met Jayce's eyes. "And you'd say his life with Demetrius, even with the questionable parts, isn't a better alternative? Or — well — wasn't."
Jayce couldn't speak.
"Sterling spoke of some of the same things. They others would steal his meals because he was small. Asher Rowan was relentlessly hounded for being left-handed — sign of being secretly Noxian, you see."
Oh. Please don't tell me I'm agreeing with him. Jayce groaned. "It's still —"
Raeford smiled. "They're offered their freedom when they're fifteen, again when they're eighteen."
"There's the science, too." Degardo hacked and spat. "Chemical addiction."
Jayce's jaw clenched without conscious interference. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse.
"Mhm. Piltover study — your country, right? Perhaps you've heard?" Raeford spoke with the calm assurance that every scientist knew every science.
"I'm, uh. I'm not a biologist."
"Fair enough. Caelyn lasted, what, twelve hours without his Sir?"
"Mhm, and he was a wreck. The others fared better. Ryan White lasted the whole two week separation — good old Crownguard blood — then fainted on Charles and was comatose for two days."
"Chemical addiction." Jayce couldn't summon up indignation. This country was too much to handle. He was glad he wasn't king.
"Aye. We apparently emit some sort of strange pheromone. The addiction is formed in times of great stress, easier to form in children. Especially those with blonde hair and blue eyes, though it works best on boys with Caelyn's condition. Whatever that is. It was unintentional but — well —" Raeford shrugged. "It works out for the better. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Don't leave me with him. Jayce swallowed hard as Raeford met up with two other Generals and wandered off, talking quietly. He turned back to Degardo. "You were saying?"
"Pots. Kettles. Molestation." Degardo flicked a lighter on and off again.
"It's — you recognized her, didn't you." Jayce felt like he was going to tear his hair out. He was grateful when he saw Malcolm headed their way, face stony even in all the soft light.
Then he realized it was like the dream map. How bad did things have to be for him to be grateful to see a man who'd once threatened to blow his head off?
"Of course I recognized her. We've all recognized her. She's Erin the godsdamned Riv. Notorious in this country. Hell, more so. She's in one of three of our calendars." Degardo's gaze switched to Jayce's. "I was merely wondering how you'd come to acquire her."
"She's not — I don't own her. I really don't. She's with me of her own free will."
"Ah." Degardo laughed sardonically. "Oh, I'm sure a twelve-year-old child has plenty of options and freedom."
"More than she does in a whorehouse," Jayce snapped.
"Interesting and debatable." Degardo's smile was small, almost invisible. "You know — I was going to buy her."
Jayce's heart thudded. "What?"
"I was going to buy her. Get her as a Dove, even though the other Generals would've laughed me clear out of town to have a girl. I thought she'd look rather charming among them all, in a dress instead of a waistcoat and tie…she reminded me quite a lot of Caelyn, too, and not just because they were both sluts."
Jayce didn't know which was worse. What he was saying, or the genuine note of sadness in his voice, sadness among the thick alder trees and gray stone. Just as real as Demetrius'.
Graves stopped a few feet away with a grimace. Jayce noticed that that huge guy — Skylan, right? — was standing beside him. He suddenly felt safer, but no less uncomfortable.
"And?"
"She vanished the visit before I could. Finally saved up enough. That's why I don't have a Dove, by the bye. I don't come from money like the rest of them." Degardo shrugged and flicked the lighter closed. "And that's why you shouldn't surprise children. They surprise you first."
Jayce swallowed hard.
"Her life would've been far different than — whatever it's been. I wasn't planning to fuck her. I'm not sure she noticed, but the last six months we spent together, we simply spoke to one another. About any number of things, actually. It would've been pure gold if I worked for a gossip magazine, but I just wanted to see — what she thought of it all. Of Noxus." Degardo smirked. "Demetrius hates my entire being, but I understood him. There's something about them — they understand."
"Understand what?"
"Life." Degardo half-smiled. "People. Love. Good eventide to you, Sir Jayce."
He vanished and left Jayce shaking.
A pause.
"Well, now that that horseshit's over." Graves strode forward, shaking his head.
"Slavery's never acceptable. Ever," Skylan added with calm, steady assurance. Jayce was thankful to hear it.
"That don't even matter right now." Graves slapped the newspaper into Jayce's palm. "You think your night ain't so hot? Wait'll you read that."
"Wh - what?" Where's Erin?
"You probably should read it." Skylan's voice was a bit more sympathetic.
"Can't you just tell me what it is?" Jayce clutched at his temples. Strangers in a strange land. In a stranger land.
"Heh." Graves' smile was as bitter as lime. And it wasn't sparkling happiness in his eyes. It was depthless rage. "Nope."
Jayce took a deep breath and squinted at the paper.
The Valoran Times
Headline: The Broken North
How wrong can one operation go? The Valoran Times investigates.
Following a powerplay directed by Zandred Claren, the League of Legends lies in shambles…
Jayce read and read, pain building in his stomach. The entire article was three pages long.
…In addition to the rampant destruction of a historically significant Angel's Crossing temple, Ryland Whitefield has been indicted for the murders of Prince Jarvan IV, Commander Quinn d'Taglion, and Captain Luxanna Crownguard. (Following her death, her title was posthumously reinstated).
Sadly, these charges are little surprise considering Ryland Whitefield's past actions. He narrowly escaped execution for the deaths of thirty-two members of Comet Division, among them Oliver dar Regale and Roger Tairn. Furthermore, the details surrounding the death of his mother last year, Merilyn Whitefield, are fairly nebulous. Demacia has formally excommunicated him and promises to kill him on sight.
"Holy shit," Jayce whispered. "Oh. Oh gods."
"Keep on readin', buddy. An' don't say I didn't warn you, either." Graves' voice was so hard and harsh it hurt his ears.
It was hard to read it. Especially after the Ezreal part.
Ezreal Lightbringer is no longer permitted to claim Piltover as his birthplace, officials say. His last name has been legally reverted to that of his father, Ian. In addition to the charges previously listed against Ryland Whitefield, Ezreal Lightbringer is wanted for the deaths of thirty-five Angel's Crossing residents, among them the High Avarosan Shaman Ravin Grace. He and Ryland are suspects, too, in Soraka of Ionia's death.
His contributions to science are no longer recognized as his work and have been absorbed into the body of common knowledge. The Techmaturgist Laureate seat is currently empty. Neither Ezreal nor his successor Jayce are permitted to occupy it.
"Holy fucking shit." Jayce's hand shook so hard he couldn't read it.
Graves snatched it away. "Fine. You want me t'read it to you? Even though you're the Egghead?"
Jayce couldn't talk.
"Actually. Lightboy II. Do the honors?"
"Sure." Skylan nodded and began to read in a calm, educated tone. "'It seems that no one escaped the wildness of the North morally unscathed. Caitlyn, Sheriff of Piltover —'"
"No," Jayce whispered. The Wheel was turning. Turning, lurching forward. Their wild northern adventure had ended — time to face the music. Or some shit.
"'— is formally pressing charges against Jayce Varden. (Like Ezreal, he is no longer allowed to claim Piltover as his birthplace). Though once thought to be a moral stalwart, Caitlyn and her assistant, Vi, have both reason and evidence to convict Jayce Varden of —'"
"No. Nope."
"'— Pedophilia in the first degree. He has been caught abusing a child multiple times, and has even gone as far as intercourse with said child. As with Ryland and Ezreal, his home country has disowned him and threatened legal action. If, that is, any of them are ever seen again.'" Skylan bowed his head and sighed.
"Graves." Jayce's voice seemed to ring in his own ears. To echo over and over and over again.
"Yar? Godsdamned article don't even mention my name. No one gives a shit about Malcolm." He sounded honestly upset. And why shouldn't he be? They even mentioned Quinn, for gods' sake.
"I can't — I can't go home."
"Nope. Fer Noxus, right?" Graves chuckled. "Right?"
"I don't want to stay here." Jayce's voice cracked. He looked up and saw the Generals circling around. But — their green eyes were sympathetic. No. Evanson's Syndrome. Where you identified with your captors.
"Does Ryland know about this?"
"Yar. He gave it to me. He was laughing his damned head off. Made me want ta snap everyone who laid a hand on 'im — made me want to snap their neck. Y'never know who you're hurtin'. You know that? Kid who ends up livin' in a basement or a godsderned king in charge ova country." Graves spat, the Bilgewater growing so thick he was hard to understand. "Guess we're goin' to war with more Demacia than their Hereafter, eh?"
"I've never been in the war." Jayce collapsed against the side of the palace. "No. Come on. I was going to take her home."
I was going to take her to my favorite ice cream place. Then to a mall — she's never been. I was going to show her my apartment and have her tell me how stupid it was to have forks with swans on them and ask why I have so many damn shirts. I was going to watch her poke and prod the viewscreens. Going to listen to her mumbling back at the radio. Watch her curl up on one pillow even though I have a king size bed.
Have her cook for me. She said she wanted to. Have her to cuddle with after my presentations. Stroke her hair — stroke her hair while I worked on techmaturgy.
Oh. She's a Dove. Oh. Oh, no.
"Take her home?" Graves bellowed laughter. He even slapped his knee. "Y'really thought —"
"Please."
"— that they'd allow that godsdamned deviancy anywhere but here?"
"Please! I wanted to help!" Desperation.
"You sick bastard." Graves' smile took up his entire face. "You sick, sick bastard. Wheel turns. It turns."
"I wanted to help!" Jayce roared. Malcolm stumbled back. "Please!"
The shout echoed around the palace, drew everyone's attention. And Jayce's mind shouted back as Ezreal as a little boy I thought y'wanted me t'be smart!
What does everyone want? Does it matter?
He sank to his knees. Pattering footsteps arose from the stone. He looked up, vision clouded with a film of tears and sweat.
Willow-Doves. Wide blue eyes, golden hair. Happy. And concerned.
Why. Strangers in a strange land. Jayce choked back a sob. Where's Erin? Where is she? What if she leaves? She can't leave me. I'm Jayce, the Defender of —
A murmur. "Get a towel, Asher. Someone else get the ice water."
"And hot chocolate. Ryan, you know where that is?"
"I think Ms. Erinae drank it all. She said Sir Jayce doesn't have much of a sweet tooth anyway."
"No. Please." Jayce tried to struggle to his feet, but the tallest, strongest one pushed him back down. "I can — take care of myself."
"Ha." Ryan White the Dove grinned. "That's what they all say. They're always wrong."
Then, thankfully, something else happened that caught their attention.
They say the falcon cannot hear the falconer, but that's got nothing to do with Doves.
Caelyn slipped from the Haven's walls without a backwards glance. And when he fell, fell to the path leading outward, he knew he wasn't going to get back up. He could feel it in his wrists, which crunched whenever he moved them, and his ankles, which wavered like reeds. His bones were eggshell.
Somehow, he gripped the grass in scarred hands and lugged himself forward. For a little stretch. Then he was a fox, crawling on his belly, leaving strands of dull red where his ragged fur fell out.
The portal. He could see it in the darkness. A perfect oval light in the black. It wasn't natural. Nothing so smooth, so inviting could be natural.
It's a trap, he thought in the dim wordless way animals think, and fell to his side. His skin was sunken around his ribs.
The Demacians would chain him to the wall, throw their piggish heads back and chortle, their sickness-blue eyes glittering like fool's gold. Hit him for being bad. They didn't get it.
His tattered ears flicked forward.
Someone's voice. Sit'ra's from the dream with King Ryland. Then Ryan White's bold, laughing one. Caelyn remembered it from the barn.
Slight chill. Crisp stars. Sweet hay. Apple cider. "Aren't you ever afraid?" He was when Sir found them kissing. Gods almighty.
Caelyn slunk forward and paused, his breaths rapid and cracked. Noxus. He could tell by the wolves before the palace. Sir'd taken him to the palace when he was younger. Caelyn forced himself to look up occasionally from Master's hand. It was covering his.
Are you sure you're not King Ryland, sir?
Gods, no. Do I look like him?
A handsomer version. All the Doves…are jealous…
Caelyn the Fox-Dove staggered to his chapped paws and heard a door slam open. A door from another world. Then his name. Just as he'd heard it all those years ago in the musty, dark cathedral basement, coated with Eagle blood for the first time. Before the war. Anguish and love.
"Isn't she beautiful, sir?" Really thinking, Aren't you happy? You said black horses and wolves were your favorite.
Master took Meridian's head between his palms and whispered into her ear, "You're not real, are you, lovely? I should be scared of Caelyn — no one can command animal Shades — but I'm not. I adore him."
The small, rag-furred fox began to shake.
Why can't I ever be good for him? So when he calls my name I don't hesitate?
He turned to a human just as Demetrius appeared before him.
His vast, dark form was outlined in white lantern light. An angel.
A real angel after all the white marble, golden hair, swan-feathered wings, blue eyes.
Caelyn fell through the portal and into Demetrius' arms.
Ta - aikah.
Demetrius had been meditating in his dim room, books open on his lap. Sitting for long periods of time was alright if you called it meditation.
Feeling cold and lonely. Loneliness high and bitter in the top of his throat. Burning. He could try to imagine it, but Caelyn wasn't there. Not for him.
Then he was running. Demetrius always would run— to the cathedral, to the barn when he dismounted Meridian, to the washroom where he lay with his arms slashed to ribbons, to the town square when he was a ghost.
To the portal. Shoving past a forest of bodies, Doves and Generals both. He'd missed the last ghost. He wouldn't miss this one.
It was him. Even if he were thin enough to break, in clothes that were little more than damp rags. His pale skin was one enormous bruise.
They regarded one another.
Welcome home, Demetrius thought.
Then Caelyn fell into Demetrius' arms and everything, for a turn of the Wheel, was alright.
Caelyn was as light as a willow branch. Shivery — Ezreal had been right about that. Always shivery. And weeping, but silent. White fire cascaded onto the ground around them. It decorated the eaves of the castle, gushed onto the pavement, danced along the alder trees. It looked like the stone wolves wore wreaths of flame.
Demetrius wouldn't know that — he hadn't moved his eyes from Caelyn. He didn't even realize the two of them had fallen to the ground.
First his hands. Now his arms. The scars were white and many. Jagged lightning criss-crossing his veins. A bolt of it cut his tiny, navy tattoo of a ship's wheel in half.
It mattered not. Demetrius would trace those scars with his fingertips until Caelyn accepted them.
He found his voice, clutching the boy to him in the blinding fire. "Shh. You're back. I'm not letting you leave again. I still love you." Demetrius pressed his lips to his ear. "I've missed you. Do you know how lonely life really is? How empty?"
He was nodding hard, red-gold hair flying, face buried deep in Demetrius' collarbone. No one could tell, but his body was flooding with color. His muscles were reknitting themselves, his heart finding a steady rhythm. A reliable miracle — that was Sir.
"Do you still love me? Even after I let you die?"
Caelyn pulled away. Pulled his face away, while the rest of his body flattened atop Demetrius.
The white orb-tears, captured fire, glittering in his frost eyes were eloquent enough. Demetrius watched those frost eyes fill with green. They were never greener than shadows in the fog. He adored them.
He adored those eyes and Caelyn felt it, and the boy broke entirely. The flames rose, and the Doves and Generals and Interlopers were all strange titans among the white. Demetrius found himself looking into the eyes of a Pilt who seemed almost as lost as his boy. The stalker.
The Tactician grinned. "If you're not revolted by vampirism — or, hell, even if you are — join me in two hours."
The Pilt nodded. A little girl grabbed his hand and pulled him away.
A thought struck Demetrius. "You can't speak, can you, love?"
Caelyn shook his head. His tears dripped to the ground and flared to life.
"It matters not."
Demetrius hefted Caelyn into his arms. He'd missed the thin wrists crossed behind his neck, the cheek against his jaw. The rapid-fire breaths, fluttering heart. He'd missed everything. Oh, everything. He kissed his forehead and felt a deep, hacking shudder run through Caelyn's body. Gratitude.
"You're still mine.
Ezreal and Ryland stood on the castle balcony. The Destroyer had run to find Ryland, only to find him watching the spectacle below with a strange, sad smile on his face.
Now they could see lights in the city flickering on. The castle was bathed in flame that looked holy, righteous. Pure and clean.
"A mass murderer with a child molester." Ezreal looked away. "So why does it feel like we fixed something?"
Ryland studied Ezreal, outlined in white. As he'd been outlined in gold, sapphire, crimson. And would be outlined again soon.
The Destroyer still believed in morality when he'd been pressured to annihilate all he loved. When his princess was jealous of his best friend, the king. To lose his child. When he'd been forced to join the League, to hate his brother. Perhaps, even, to hurt Ryland.
No sane story would bring the Destroyer and the princess together.
Ryland put an arm around his bare, tawny shoulders. "I love you."
Ezreal sighed heavily. Noxus was lit up like a — well — an aurora.
"Love you, too."
When everyone was gone, Oliver dar Regale slipped through the portal. His foot caught on the bottom of it. He arrived in Noxus flat on his face and blindly panicked, worried he'd be down five toes.
"Is someone there?" A little blonde kid.
Oliver flung himself into the shrubbery and burrowed deep. The apology. He'd forgotten it.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He was still trying to remember when he fell asleep, three hours later.
