"Always thought you were some sort of queer, Malcolm." Jem Brooks sneered over his lunch pail, stringy red hair wet with sweat. Graves said nothing, focusing instead on chewing his sandwich and reading The Death of the Young. He'd just gotten to the part where Cowboy Cy was saving Miss Liandry from the bandits, and didn't want to miss a word.

But of course Jem would bug him. "Probably ain't even know what he's reading," Jem grumbled. His bigger companion, Boris, slapped him on the shoulder.

"Leave him 'lone, Jem. You'll run him off."

"So?" Jem scowled.

"I'd prefer to keep him," the fourth member of their party added. Roger popped his whole sandwich into his mouth. Through a spray of crumbs he said, "We've actually been making quota with him."

"Aye," Boris agreed. "Malcolm landed us a company-wide bonus last month, 'case your rodent brain already forgot, Jem."

"But he's always readin', though. Don't it trouble you? That he's hauling wood but acting like an egghead?" Egghead was the slang word for the scientists of Piltover.

Graves finished chewing his sandwich. "Books are the cheapest entertainment a man can get outside a two-bit whore."

Boris and Roger chuckled and clapped him on the back. The discussion shifted to tales of said two-bit whores. Graves reflected that the honest man wasn't so different from the thief. The former was poorer than the latter - that was all.

He lost himself in Miss Liandry's plight again, not noticing the chatter come to a standstill. He didn't look up until Boris nudged him.

When he tore his eyes away, he found himself staring into the eyes of a girl about half his age. He was so accustomed to cheap women that the sight of a clean female took him aback.

Her long, coltish, tan legs seemed to go on forever, vanishing into the folds of her blue-checked dress. Two pails of water on a stick were slung over her shoulders. She regarded Malcolm with green, doelike eyes.

Never breaking eye contact, she set the water before the men. And when they dipped into the water with their personal cups, she knelt beside Graves, curiosity plainly written on her face.

"Good day, m'lady," Malcolm said. That was how Fate always addressed high class ladies. It seemed to work, usually.

"Good day. I haven't, ah, made your acquaintance, have I?"

"I don't believe so." Malcolm rested his book on his lap and shook her hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. "I'm Malcolm Graves. Much obliged."

"I'm Melena, Albrecht's daughter." She looked away, shyly. "I noticed you were reading. Not a hobby many men working share."

"Ah, it passes the time. The only thing that really entertains me after work."

"The other guys gamble and drink a lot," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I've had quite enough of that, that's for sure." He didn't bother mentioning that he drank, just not socially.

Melena cocked her head, giving Malcolm plenty of time to examine her ribbon-soft, pink lips, and the delicate bridge of her nose. "Do you stay in the barracks?"

"Aye."

Melena leaned closer. "Is Roger's cooking as bad as I've heard?"

Graves hid his smile and coughed to mask his laugh. Melena's eyes danced with merriment. "Everything you've heard and more is true."

"Then what say you join my family for dinner? Momma would say someone with your build needs proper feed."

"Hey!" Jem cried. He'd overheard their entire conversation. "I've been working for Albrecht for three years and I ain't ever seen the inside of that house! Fat load of horse shi –"

Graves snatched Jem's wrist and squeezed it. Everyone winced when they heard the bones grind together. There's that old thunderclap silence again, always before a brawl, Graves thought.

"I'd advise you to watch your tongue around a lady."

The silence held until Melena jumped to her feet, blushing. She brushed the dust from her knees. "See you at six, Malcolm," she said brightly, and hurried off, dress bouncing behind her. Graves watched her go, admiring how smoothly her tan legs worked.

Roger nudged him. "Reckon you got a good fuck in store?"

Graves shook his head. "Nah. A girl like that deserves better."

"Knew he was queer." Jem nursed his sore wrist, flashing Graves an angry look.

"What's the point of just fucking a girl like that? You have whores for that. Less work and cheaper too." Graves shook his head. Even a Bilgewater Bastard like himself knew the difference between a hooker and a lady.

The guys looked at each other as if Graves had just offered up a pearl of incalculable wisdom. Boris whistled. "Man, this fella's deep."

Graves felt a pang of loneliness, desire for intellectual company, and buried it. Fate.

Time seemed to ooze by, but the foreman let them go at last. Graves hurried back to the barracks and tried to wash the stink of work off himself. Melena's eyes seemed imprinted in his mind.

He fought a fierce internal battle with himself – stinginess versus a pretty girl – then stopped by a street florist and bought a bouquet. Not of roses, but of violets and little yellow flowers as bright as tiny suns. He ended up on Albrecht's doorsteps a quarter before six, restlessly smoothing the wrinkles out of his nicest green shirt.

The door opened and out stepped Melena. Her wild hair had been tamed by a simple blue ribbon, and when she saw the flowers, she flushed a red so dark it was almost purple. "Y-you didn't have to –"

"I never show up to something empty handed. Here." He pressed the flowers into her hands and drank in the sight of her. Her eyes accented by the wildflower blooms, her skin kissed bronze by lying outside and reading all day.

But Graves felt the world around him wobble, ripple as if a coin had been tossed in a pond. "Melena?"

As he watched, she aged. Night-dark blood suddenly streaked her face, pouring down her cheeks. He reached out to her.

"Malcolm! Malcolm!"

He struggled to open his eyes. His jaw was locked iron tight, his back arched. Far away, he felt someone's hands on his chest. Frost. Cold. His teeth chattered crisply.

"Go find Sona! I can't do it alone." Footsteps pattered away.

He forced his eyes opened only to find that sweat blurred them. Tears that felt like boiling oil rolled down his cheeks, making them glitter with pain.

A face loomed over his, golden eyes peering down. "Can you hear me? Malcolm?"

Still shuddering, he nodded. The face withdrew, hands lingering on his chest.

"I wonder if he is actually possessed," a new, breathy voice murmured. "The readings I'm getting are similar to those of demons."

Graves turned his head. A blond with pale skin stood over him. Graves had a wonderful view of her tits, but couldn't bring himself to care.

"All he's possessed by is a terrible addiction," the other woman muttered. Malcolm's mind laboriously made the connection – purple face, gold eyes, Soraka. And the blond woman was probably the Champion the spice trader's son had mentioned. Janna.

Janna crossed her arms. "The way your crystal looks indicates otherwise. I've never read of an addiction bad enough to flaw a Jordcrystal."

"Things exist outside of books," Soraka murmured, idly brushing the hair from Graves forehead.

Taric hurried through the door, leading a young woman that looked, to Graves' sweat-stained eyes, like an angel. Her white dress was a blurry glow. If he squinted, he could make out her long, walnut-colored hair streaming to her waist.

"What happened?" he heard Taric whisper.

"When I tried to share his memories, the emotion overwhelmed the crystal," Soraka murmured. She gestured to Graves' right. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of the gem, its light replaced by pulsing dark. He felt a burst of guilt. Those things were so expensive.

As the guilt worked its way through him, the crystal grew even darker. Soraka whipped around, eyes alight with alarm. "Malcolm! Quick! Think of something happy!"

Nothin' happy in an outlaw's life. My best girl died, my friend betrayed me, and if that ain't the oldest cowboy song I've ever heard, nothin' is.

The Jordcrystal pulsed again, but Graves couldn't rein in his thoughts. Fate appeared in his mind's eye, laughing. Graves imagined bursting his nose, smashing his collarbone. He saw those eyes pleading with him for mercy –

And the crystal simply shattered.

The Supports crouched – Taric leapt bravely in front of Soraka. Shards of black fountained upward and outward, echoing the rain outside. A few pattered onto Graves – they didn't feel that different from hail.

He heard someone crying – wasn't sure who. Great, big, gusting sobs. He touched his hand to his face to brush away some pieces of gem. His hand came away wet – not with blood. But tears.

Oh. It's me.

His body contracted into a ball. He held his knees, heaving.

Ah, quit blubbering, you brute, he thought.

He couldn't. His body seemed detached, his life force small and distant, riding the sobs like a shell on a wave.

Soraka approached him with pieces of the gem in her hair. She cautiously placed her hands over his heart. When he didn't respond, she pulled him into her arms, muffling his cries with her own bosom. She held him as the Supports looked on.

Fate sat outside the Supports' Quarters, the navy-blue awning protecting his hat from the drizzle. On the tiny café table in front of him was a rough sketch of Graves.

His many talents hadn't translated very well to art, but the charcoal pencil drawing was still recognizable, he thought. He'd captured Graves' jawline very well. After thinking for a moment, he added himself next to Graves, laughing and shuffling a pack of cards from hand to hand.

So that's what life was like before magic, eh? Before the power that woke him up at night, sweating from terrible premonitions, the deaths of people he'd never know in far-distant lands. Sometimes magic gave him headaches, too. The power was dancing on the edge of being too much for his body to handle.

Fate didn't mind. The odds usually favored him.

Or so he thought until Olivia came blustering out of the Quarters. Poor girl – she was really having a bad day, running hither and thither to accommodate the recalcitrant cowboy. "He broke a Jordcrystal," she blurted. Some mumbo jumbo healers cared about, Fate guessed.

"Who broke a whatsit?"

"Graves. He shattered a healing crystal. His pain did."

Fate leaned back, batting his dark lashes. "So I take it right now is not a prime time to apologize."

"I – I don't know."

"Go find out, girl. Quit acting like a fluffheaded Novice. You ain't one. You're a Summoner now."

Olivia shook her head dizzily. "Man oh man, what a day. Sorry. All the Supports were super panicked and I just forgot, I guess."

"It happens." Fate chuckled, but inside he felt his chest squeeze. Graves' pain…like a wasp sting.

Olivia fled. Fate looked out into the rain, thinking.

Graves tugged his shirt. "Fate, don't. We're wanted here, 'member?"

"Malcolm, my man, for a gambler, you sure like safety."

Malolcm looked furtively around the street market, then leaned closer to Fate. "It's Noxus," he hissed. "We'll get tortured."

"Been a long time since I been tortured correctly."

Graves shook his head in disgust. Smiling, Fate tweaked the strings on his minstrel's guitar and strummed a few sweet chords. A wanted man playing as a street entertainer was practically suicide, but Fate had gotten a good deal on this guitar and intended to put it to use. Besides, everyone loved musicians. Even the cops.

The vendor next to them quieted down to listen. At the same time, a large, imposing man came rumbling up their side of the market, trailed by two tiny daughters. His appearance was distinctly Noxian – he was wearing a casual form of their black armor, and the two golden hawks on his shoulders proclaimed him a General.

His daughter with fierce red hair tugged at her father's britches. "Sing! Sing!" she shrieked. Fate noticed Graves shrinking down beside him, trying to hide in the shadows of their rented canopy. He didn't blame him.

The man strode up to Fate's booth and stopped.

Fate put on his best, not-guilty grin and beamed up at him. "Methinks your daughters would like to hear a tune."

The General cocked his head. "Well, girls?"

Stumbling towards Fate, the girls took hold of his pants' legs and began pulling on them. The General sighed and begin to dig through his wallet. "Alright, alright. How much?"

"For two daughters as lovely as these? Free for you, sir. Just tell me what their names are."

"Katarina and Cassiopeia." The General looked at Fate, bemused. "Hard to work into a song? Or no challenge for a master like yourself?"

Fate winced. "It's quite a mouthful. No matter. Ready?" Kat and Cass bounced around him, eyes shining. He strummed his guitar and sang:

The General appears with crowning jewels -

Two that don't come from armed men's duels!

Enchanting both princes and the hardiest of fools!

Kat and Cassiopeia!

Graves buried his face in his hands, trying not to laugh.

In ten years they'll charm the most frigid of men,

Ah, now they warm the coldest of hearts-

Conceived in true love and not in sin –

Cass with her poison and Kat with her darts!

Fate stopped. Distantly, he saw the General's brow furrow. Graves groaned quietly beside him. Of all the times to have a premonition. Damnit. In his mind's eye, he saw a shadow flinging blades and pools of chilly poison spewing fumes into the air. The vision created a weird overlay with the toddlers before him.

Even they sensed something was wrong and were starting to stir uneasily.

Fate shook his head, desperately trying to clear it. The General was scrutinizing him pretty hard now. "Sorry, sir. Where was I? Ah, yes."

Enchantresses both with unspeakable beauty!

Glowing alight with the moon's own shine.

Finer daughters have none, but thine –

Kat and Cassiopeia!

"That's quite enough, even for a free song," the General sighed.

"Your daughters' names are difficult to rhyme, especially for a dunce like myself." Fate flourished his hat and bowed to the applause of the vendors and the toddlers.

"Hard to rhyme on an empty stomach, too." The General arched an eyebrow. "Care to join me for lunch?" He looked over Fate's shoulder. "Your quiet friend is welcome, too."

"Ah, I don't want to trouble you."

"No, no. I insist."

Fate shot a helpless look over his shoulder. Graves shrugged. "You like playing the odds," he muttered darkly.

"Lead the way, sir."

"Not a problem. Can you carry my daughters? My back aches a bit. They weigh heavier than a sword sometimes."

Fate nodded. He locked his money case and dropped a couple coins in the fruit vendor's box so he'd watch it. Then he hefted the red-haired one in his arms. Graves did the same with Cassiopeia.

The General led them to an enormous mansion on the outskirts of Noxus. The dining room's table was three times as long as Graves was tall and completely saturated with food. The General leaned towards Fate. "My wife always cooks this much on Sunday. She'd love it if you could play a song about her."

"Of course. What's her name?"

"Vera."

The red-haired beauty – where Kat had gotten her looks, obviously – smiled at him. "How nice to finally have visitors for lunch."

"This one's a musician. What was your name, partner?"

"Arlan," Fate lied.

"And your friend?"

"Ivan," Graves said with a gulp. Lord, he was a terrible liar.

"Dig in, the two of you." The General gestured grandly towards the dishes. Fate and Graves both had fourths before the kitchen help showed up to eat as well. Stuffed almost beyond recognition, Fate took up his guitar. He didn't remember the song he'd played for Vera, but he'd gotten five encores, eventually singing a hymn to the lead cook of the kitchen. Her name, of all things, was Ear.

Then the General paid them and they went out and got drunk. "I see why you like to play the odds, Fate." Graves grinned at him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, I do."

Fate remembered feeling a pang of sadness – he usually did after a long day. Those sisters would always have each other, blood related. He and Malcolm were just strangers who'd met up in the mix of things.

He tried to ignore his uneasy feeling.

"I just got paid for rhyming words. Man, the world is a crazy place."

Yes, there'd been some wonderful times with Malcolm Graves. Before the magic…

Fate was shaken awake by nimble fingers. Without opening his eyes, he said, "Mmm. Soraka?"

"Yes." He could feel her examining him closely and thought, If one more person looks at me like I'm a demon today, I'm gonna lose it.

"Fate…Olivia says you want to apologize."

"Yar. Malcolm deserves it."

"Are you being honest?"

Fate opened his eyes and winced when he saw their golden light flicker across Soraka's face. Her blue dress was in disarray, as was her moonlit-colored hair. "Why would you doubt me? I'm only a man who made his trade off of gambling and betrayed the man you're talking about."

"I need to know for sure. He's –" Soraka looked down. "Vulnerable right now."

"That's a weird thought. Malcolm, vulnerable. He's such a tough guy."

"You can't say those things to him." Soraka scowled, something Fate had never seen before. "He's only let go of some of the pain about an hour ago. The pain he'd had holed up in him for over a decade." Soraka looked away. "I know it isn't my place as a healer to pry…but why did you do it to him?"

Fate blinked. He hadn't seen Soraka much, but he'd gotten the impression that she wasn't one for interpersonal affairs. She always seemed lofty and distant. Seeing her compassion in action was startling. "I…I made a mistake, I think."

"You left him to die. I want to know why you did so."

Fate massaged his temples. "I'd rather not speak of it."

"And I'd rather not watch a grown man struggle. We all have to do things we don't want to."

Fate almost said, You threatening me, miss? But he thought better of it. The wasp's sting… "I sold his soul to the devil for magic powers." He spat on the ground. "That's the best way to put it."

"I see. So you weren't always a sorcerer. I couldn't tell." She turned away from him entirely. "Your handling of magic is wonderful."

"I paid a large price for it."

"Not as large as Malcolm," Soraka murmured. "I'm starting to wonder if I should let you near him at all."

"I said I want to apologize." Fate felt the magic in him flare and tried to tamp it down. "Everyone makes mistakes, don't they? 'Raka? Ain't you supposed to forgive people?"

She blinked. Fate could tell she was chewing that one over in her mind. The rain pattered down, insistently. At last she said, "You're right, Fate. My mistake."

"We all make them."

"Follow me," she said. "I'll take you to them."

Heart thudding, he stood up and followed her into the Quarters.