A/N: Hi. Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing and sticking with me all this time. It really means a lot to me.
Thank you to Deixis and CrimsonNoble for being great beta readers (and for helping with plot and characterization - writing for Riven instead of Katarina is pretty weird, ngl).
By the way, if you like Katariven fic, there's a fic called "Ode to the Undying, Hymn to the Dead" by LogosMinusPity over at AO3. It's a Greek mythology flavored Katariven AU and it's incredibly good.
Unearthed - Chapter Two
Unlike her first commission, Riven's new command came without ceremony or fanfare. There was no place in Swain's Noxus for needless shows of wealth and power, not when it had a backbone of strength to rely on. Darius gave her the paper, gave her a slate of orders, and that was that.
She left High Command in a daze, unsure what she felt and what she ought to feel.
Certainly, anger still gnawed at her.
Too many times, her courage had been questioned for her actions in Ionia.
In the past, she'd given little weight to whispers. She knew herself. She knew what she had done and why she had done it.
But hearing the same accusation from Darius, no matter that he'd quickly recanted, had cut far deeper than any past accusations hurled at her.
It had made her blood boil.
It had made her doubt herself, and that was unacceptable.
Descending from the summit of Noxus, Riven quickened her pace.
When change came, it came fast. Two months she'd spent idling away, as she and her comrades remembered how to be soldiers. And now, this.
For the night, she was allowed to return to her barracks. There was precious little time left in the day to travel to the foot of the mountain and return as well. But the next day, when the rest of her company began their march towards Demacia, she was to move to new quarters, quarters located in High Command itself.
The Crimson Elite would be housed in its traditional lodging, sealed since their disbandment. As it stood, Riven was the only member. Finding men to fill the ranks was one of the most pressing tasks set to her by Darius. The company – half-company, really – would take orders only from him, or herself, as well. With the three golden insignia fixed to his collar, Darius was second in Noxus only to the Grand General.
Even so, her new command was not a role she was comfortable with. She'd been trained to march mile after mile, to keep formation in the heat of battle, and to survive. Though she'd never been formally trained as an officer, she'd followed the examples set by her past captains and she'd lead as well as any other commander, first to charge, never to falter.
Her place was in the field.
But now Noxus needed her elsewhere.
Swain lead now, but there was much work to be done, still, to repair the damage of Darkwill's reign. Darkwill's loyalists still held some power in the city, still agitated against Swain's command. But the Crimson Elite, Riven's Crimson Elite, would aid the transition. They would support Swain's High Command with their strength as the last vestiges of Darkwill's rot were swept away.
This was Darius' charge.
Years ago, when Riven had still served under her captain, Darius had begun his great purge of the old guard, useless and corrupt aristocrats who preferred the safety of retreat to the glory of victory. He and Swain together had renewed those efforts with the fall of the old Grand General, but many still remained and the two generals were busy men.
Once, she'd looked up to Darius for the swathe he'd cut through High Command's ranks.
As news trickled from the city out to the front lines, Riven and the rest of the soldiers perpetually manning the Demacian border had celebrated. Finally one of their own was setting things right. It was personal, even, because Riven's captain had served with Darius when they'd both been young men.
Who among them hadn't dreamed of being like Darius?
Now, Riven found herself poised to emulate him.
It felt wrong.
Who was she, a former deserter only recently returned, to lead a second cleansing of High Command?
The legend of Darius said that when he saw cowardice in his captain, he took his axe and then he took the man's head. Then, he lead his comrades to victory. When the campaign was won, he marched home to Noxus and continued his cleansing.
When Riven saw the cowardice of Zaun, she fled.
Cowardice for cowardice.
But she wasn't a coward.
She knew herself and she was not a coward.
What was more, Darius was her general. He was an honest man, a soldier at heart. She knew better than to trust, but she trusted him.
If he ordered it, she would obey.
And beneath her swirling doubts, Riven felt fire.
By virtue of the memory of her strength, she'd been again raised up from the barracks to command, higher, this time, than before. By all rights it had been her lot to spend the rest of her good years as a foot soldier, marching, fighting, dying. Even welcomed back, there was little chance of promotion for the men who'd once been deserters.
Was that what she had returned to Noxus intending to do? To march for the rest of her life?
To do as Darius had suggested she might – to die on the border while the city crumbled?
No. It couldn't have been.
She'd returned answering her need for home, but surely she'd still had her ambitions.
To be strong and to rise was the driving force of every Noxian.
Was she not still a Noxian?
Couer, Darkwill's Noxus, had taken everything she'd worked for, everything she'd earned, but it hadn't taken her dream.
Whatever she'd felt the previous day, whatever dark thoughts she entertained now, she now undeniably was warmed by the sparks of old desire rekindling. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could pretend that nothing had ever gone wrong, that she'd never gone to Ionia. But – no – before Ionia, she'd lived in a different Noxus, a Noxus willing to bend the knee to Zaun in the name of expedience. This new Noxus, it was better. It was Noxus as Noxus was meant to be.
Because of Swain.
Because of Darius.
Darius was again putting his trust in her. She wouldn't fail him, not this time.
It was good to have direction again.
Riven's footfalls stayed light all the way to her barracks. She passed her comrades in silence. She knew none of them well enough to converse, and they knew too little of her to ask her whereabouts or news.
Her steps only faltered when she arrived at her bunk.
It was as she'd left it, save for the black rose lying on the pillow.
Wary and tense, Riven's eyes flickered across the room. What men were present were occupied with their own business. No one seemed ill at ease. No one seemed out of place. Had anyone seen someone leave the rose on her bunk, surely they'd say something. Even if they didn't speak, their actions would signal their knowledge. They would be anxious, they would be looking in her direction, they would be fidgeting. Not a soul in the room acted out of the ordinary.
Slow, Riven reached down towards the bloom. She recognized it - flower sellers on the streets sometimes had roses, though their roses were always red or pink - but she'd never held a rose, never smelled one. Riven took the rose by the stem, then immediately dropped it with a hiss of pain. Closer inspection revealed thorns. She hadn't known roses had thorns. There was a pinpoint of blood on her finger where she'd been cut, but it was barely a scratch. More careful this time, Riven picked up the flower again.
The scent of the rose was thick and sweet. It wasn't like anything else Riven had smelled before.
Still minding the thorns, she placed it on top of the locker at the foot of her bunk.
Who would leave a rose on her pillow? Forgetting who would do such a thing, who could do such a thing? Excepting musters and drills, the main hall of a barracks was rarely empty and unescorted strangers were unwelcome.
Riven's heart skipped a beat.
Katarina.
In her long years away, Riven's mind had turned to her former lover more than a few times. In self-indulgent flights of fancy, she'd sometimes imagined that Katarina might find her, take her home to Noxus. A woman of Katarina's position certainly would have had that power. Or maybe Riven would dream that a word from the daughter of the General Du Couteau had spared Fury Company from the Melters.
Why waste dreams on small things?
Other times, Riven had wondered how quickly she'd been forgotten.
Her days in exile had stretched on endlessly and torturing herself had become just another way of passing the time.
But most days, Riven hadn't given the woman a single thought.
She assumed that Katarina herself must have had much the same disposition. Less thought, even, for Riven than Riven for her because everyone in Fury Company would have been reported as dead.
What had she been to Katarina, that, dead, she might deserve remembrance?
Friends came and went.
Lovers came and went.
The rose could not have come from Katarina.
Even if she'd cared, she dealt in steel, not in flowers.
No matter how much Riven wished the rose were hers -
Riven shook her head to clear it.
She'd had years to move on. Now, poised to return to her upward path in Noxus, the path she should have never been forced to leave, now was not the time to dwell on a single past lover.
So who left the rose?
Riven frowned.
If she was meant to know, she'd know already. If there were a message for her, it would have been left in such a way that she'd understand it. So someone left the rose to tell her that they, some mysterious they, existed. That was the extent of it.
It wasn't a threat. A threat was meaningless if it wasn't understood.
Even so, Riven slept that night clutching her shattered sword.
The feeling that she being watched haunted her uneasy sleep.
When she woke, the rose was still lying on her trunk.
Riven took her sword, trimmed the thorns away, and took the flower with her, tucking it into her belt when she departed the barracks for her new quarters in High Command.
Regardless of who left the rose and for what reason, she'd never had a rose before.
When she arrived at the gates of High Command, a runner was there waiting for her.
"Commander Riven, I presume," the runner greeted.
It was not at all the proper way to address a superior, but Riven hadn't been a superior officer in years and she was caught off guard by the fact that the runner was a woman. While it wasn't unheard of for a women to walk the halls of High Command or serve in the army, clearly Riven did both, it was rare enough to draw attention.
Unlike the runner of the previous day, this one did not seem soft. She wasn't hard either though. There was something maddeningly indeterminate about her. She wasn't young and she wasn't old. Her hair was dark, but many in Noxus had dark hair. It did not escape Riven's attention that she was quite attractive, but there was also something unsettling about her that made the soldier's skin crawl.
Riven pushed all those thoughts back. Before her stood a runner. In Noxus, function came before form.
"Yes, runner?" Riven replied curtly.
"I'll lead you to your new quarters today," the runner said.
Riven nodded. Her jaw was tight with unease.
As they traveled through the corridors of High Command, the runner didn't speak again.
The rooms reserved for the Crimson Elite were part of the basement level of the compound. Had they been any higher, it was likely they would not have remained in disuse as they had.
Leading the way, the runner came to a halt before a great steel door. If three men stood side by side with their arms extended, that was the width of the door, and it was easily the height of those three men, higher perhaps. In the amber hextech light of the caverns beneath High Command, the metal of the door gleamed. Though the corridor was dark, Riven could make out chisel marks in the stone all around the entryway. The rooms beyond may have lain empty for years, but the door was new.
The hinges of the door showed that it opened not inwards but outwards.
Riven's hand drifted towards the hilt of her broken sword.
The runner raised a glowing hand towards the door.
The runner wasn't a runner.
In an instant, Riven was moving. She kicked out a leg, sweeping the not-runner's legs out from under her while at the same time yanking her sword from its makeshift sheath at her side.
The not-runner caught her fall on her arms and rolled, but Riven was faster. She'd spent her life in the army and then what seemed like a whole second lifetime brawling in Bilgewater bars and on rocking ship's decks. As fast as she'd swept the not-runner's legs, she had a knee planted on the small of the other woman's back, pinning her to the floor, and the jagged edge of her sword resting lightly against the soft place where the not-runner's skull met her spine. Riven used her other hand to grind one of the not-runner's shoulders into the stone floor.
With anyone else, she might have relied more on her body and less on her sword to keep the not-runner down, but she wanted to be able to put as much space between her and the other woman at a moment's notice, if need be.
Short of severing both hands, it was nearly impossible to fully incapacitate a mage. This particular mage hadn't done anything against Riven, yet, and maiming or killing a true messenger of High Command was a treason far less easily pardoned than desertion.
The not-runner chuckled, confident, as if she were still in control of the situation.
Riven said nothing. She pressed her sword down, not enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Actions spoke louder than words. Her meaning was clear enough.
"Don't you want to see your new command?" the not-runner asked. Amusement colored her tone.
Riven fought down the growl building deep in her throat. "Who are you?"
If the not-runner was at all perturbed by her situation, she didn't show it. "My friends call me Evaine."
And what did the rest call her?
It was clear that no matter how hard Riven pressed, she'd gain nothing from continuing that line of questioning. Did she even trust she'd been given a real name? No. Anger made Riven tighten her grip on her sword, twisting the blade ever so slightly, biting into the not-runner's neck. Despite being the one holding the weapon, Riven was losing control of the situation, if ever she'd had any control at all. She squeezed the fingers of her other hand, digging them as deeply and painfully as she could into the not-runner's shoulder. "Why are you here?" she demanded.
The not-runner's voice betrayed not a hint of discomfort. "I'm here to open your door for you," she said.
Riven grunted but didn't let the not-runner up.
The not-runner scoffed. "No wonder Darius carries such fondness for you. You're just like him. Very strong and not very bright."
Already angry, now Riven's blood boiled. She wasn't smart, not like so many other officers, not like the nobles and merchants with their books and numbers and number books. But she was smart enough to do whatever she needed to do, and she was more than strong enough to make up for any other failings.
In Riven's brief moment of distraction, the not-runner beneath her flickered, staying solid for a moment, then becoming as air. Riven dropped through her. Her knee, previously braced on the not-runner's back, slammed into the floor, as did her sword.
The not-runner now stood once more before the great steel door. She passed her hand over the surface, drawing symbols in the air, leaving a pale purple mist in her wake.
Even if Riven could succeed in again pinning the not-runner, she couldn't see anything productive coming from it. She settled for standing back up and edging away from the other woman.
Mages.
With a final flourish, the not-runner stepped back from the door. The purple mist dissipated. "There," the not-runner said. "I've removed my seal."
Still lacking a reason to trust the other woman, Riven gestured with her sword. "Open it."
Copying Riven's gesture with her hand, the not-runner replied, "It's your door, commander."
Riven's nostrils flared, her anger not forgotten. "You said you're here to open it. Open it."
The not-runner smiled smugly. "So I did," she said. Her fingers curled slightly, the purple mist gathering once more.
Maddeningly slow, the door swung open.
Beyond the door lay a great and dark cavern – not unsurprising given the rest of the basement levels of High Command. The darkness was lessened by soft hextech bulbs glowing at regular intervals all along the walls.
As best Riven could tell, the cavern served as a great hall with a multitude of rooms branching off from it. It was a barracks, but like not barracks Riven had ever seen. Every soldier, it seemed, would be accorded their own room. Curiosity leached away her anger, but, still mindful of the way the hinges had faced, she didn't cross the threshold.
If nothing else, her time in Bilgewater had taught her caution.
At the farthest end of the hall was a dim red light.
Riven squinted.
The light was growing brighter and larger – it was coming closer.
Beneath her feet, the ground trembled.
Riven glanced over at the not-runner.
The not-runner was gone.
She looked back towards the red light, but it was gone, not in the distance, it was on top of her almost, giant, hulking, a grey monster, an axe coming down -
Riven raised her sword just in time to stop the axe from splitting her in two.
The shock of the impact rattled her teeth, made her knees scream in pain. Her arms collapsed and the flat of her own blade slammed into her forehead, knocking her back and to the ground.
Darkness ate at the edges of her vision and the world swam.
Stumbling away from the red light, Riven threw up her sword again, against the blur of motion she thought she saw – and indeed it had been the axe, again trying to cleave her.
She was lucky, this time.
Her desperate attempt to block the incoming blow caught the perfect angle and the force of the axe didn't knock her from her feet once more.
Somewhat recovered now from the monster's first strike, Riven darted forward.
The thing was huge, almost as large as the corridor itself, and its axe was similarly sized.
She didn't pause to consider what may have become of her if the thing had had room enough for a full swing.
Adrenaline gave her the disregard for safety that she needed to throw herself to the floor, letting her left shoulder take the full brunt of impact as she slid beneath the creature, through its legs, to emerge behind it. Standing again, Riven snarled. Her shoulder screamed. A quick flex of her fingers showed it was still working though. Good.
She took half a step back and then she was running forward, jumping up.
With her left hand, she caught onto one of the spikes protruding from the monster's pauldron and then she used her momentum to swing herself up, high enough to plunge her broken sword into the base of the thing's neck, right in the hollow of its right shoulder, above the collarbone.
If it had had two pauldrons instead of the one, the maneuver wouldn't have worked.
Instead of falling like a living, feeling, thing might have, the monster laughed.
It wasn't a laugh of pain. It was a laugh of utter amusement.
The thing's laugh was guttural, made ragged by whatever sick necromancy powered it, but, beneath the distortion, Riven recognized it.
Suspended across its back by her grip on the hilt of her sword, blade still buried in dead flesh, and her rapidly failing grip on the thing's armor, Riven froze.
She remembered a slowly decaying corpse, skin tinged green by rot. She remembered the exposed bone of a jaw, a limp tongue struggling to form words. She remembered a chilling crimson gaze, unblinking.
She remembered nothing of a hulking grey beast, several heads taller than the tallest Noxian soldier, and with the bulk to match. She remembered nothing of quaking ground and black iron armor.
But the laugh was unmistakable.
"Captain?"