Beauty — that was the only way to describe it.
From the moment the way had been cleared his compatriot led him out into the ensuing chamber, Heimerdinger was agog.
Life was here.
Beneath the hollow drone of Piltover's unceasing march toward progress was the quiet susurration of living beings, each existing entirely outside the city's narrow purview and each conducting lives as rich and complex and well lived as any in the much lauded "city of progress;" which — as Heimerdinger observed ruefully — held very little sway in the wake of the majesty that stood before him.
Never before, in all his years, had Heimerdinger seen architecture that flowed so consciously with its surroundings. Rather than towering steeples overwrought with green or the persevering will of nature left to spread, unmolested; this place was a delicate mix of two worlds.
An intricate back and forth.
A natural ebb and flow.
Confluence at its most exemplified.
The thing captivating his attention most of all being the tree in the middle that stood — not in bold obstinance or defiance of fate — but in grace, fostering the unyielding piping of Zaun's architecture with an almost motherly reverence as the two merged in near-complete sympathy.
"What're you supposed to be?"
The question had come from below and when Heimerdinger could finally tear his eyes from the splendor, his gaze met a curious child who stared up at him from a face crumpled in confusion.
Heimerdinger opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Guys, leave the councilman alone," came his swarthy compatriot's voice, now being supported entirely on one side by the bat-eared man whilst his other hand clumsily meanuvered a crutch.
There was a chorus of "oohs" and "ahs" from the children, some of them daring to reach out to try and touch the former councilman, whilst others simply watched from afar, equally mystified.
"What are you 'council-man' of?" One of them asked.
"Are you a squirrel?" Another queried with a cock of her head before she, along with the others, were corralled by a much older looking woman who herded the group of children over toward a nearby dwelling but not before shooting Heimerdinger a dubious look.
"C'mon," his companion said, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder as he motioned him over toward the base of the massive tree, a collection of painted portraits stretched out on a brick-lain canvas fronting its trunk, giving Heimerdinger sufficient enough pause to stop.
"It's a reminder," the boy said, taking a moment to look over the mural with the same sort of reverence that seemed to sink down into this place's very core like roots.
Reverence from the bones.
A respect so profound that — when his eye caught that of a fat-faced boy with goggles on his head — Heimerdinger was stricken with a sense of guilt equally as potent and every bit as legitimate; the very same stinging legitimacy that codified the narrative bubbling its way to the surface.
The children on this mural
Viktor
That man in the alleyway reaching out to him, the desperation on his face readily apparent to Heimerdinger even now as he stood frozen before the grim tableau, realization hitting him like a punch to the gut.
This was his legacy.
If this private utopia hidden away underneath all of Piltover's ugliness represented life, and he represented Piltover, then, both Piltover — and by extension he himself — represented death. He was not a genius inventor, or a valued man of progress or even any kind of worthy savior, but a looming specter; a purveyor of misery, a physical manifestation of despair and destruction — this sacred place's very own pale horse.
"Professor?" The voice of the boy brought Heimderdinger back to himself and thus the group continued up a winding staircase that dipped underneath a canopy of pipes and wound its way around the tree until the construction evened out into a man-made landing attached to a crude yet sturdy structure.
"This is…incredible," Heimerdinger said as he came to a stop at the railing of the landing, his newfound vantage point lending further credence to the wonder of this secret oasis.
Above them, a healthy canopy bloomed; birds darted and cooed and made nests in its leaves. A pair of rodents danced furtively through the branches and on the sprawling green grass beneath, children ran and laughed and threw themselves into its bosom.
"It's like…" Heimerdinger trailed off as he reached out to stick a hand through a shimmering ray of sunlight light that slipped down from a break in the canopy.
"Magic?" The boy finished still leaning on the man supporting him, but smiling nonetheless.
Heimerdinger was short of words again and the boy motioned him toward the structure proper, through a yawning archway and into the bowels of the massive tree which held — among some dilapidated furniture — yet more stairs.
"You're certainly getting your workouts in," Heimerdinger said with a laugh as he stared up the length of the staircase as it stretched up and out of view.
"We're still working on that," the boy admitted sheepishly as the three navigated this staircase as well to eventually come to a structure similar to the first, however, this one more closely resembling a livable space, the furniture out on its deck far more homely than that of the pieces prior.
"Are you quite sure you don't need medical attention?" Heimerdinger asked the boy who winced as he was let down slowly into an intricately hand-woven chair.
"I'll live," he responded, the words coming out through clenched teeth.
"May I ask what happened?"
The boy sat for a moment, unsure, before he leaned back fully in the finely-crafted chair.
"Had a run in with some old friends," he said. Heimerdinger studied his face as he said this and found no trace of his earlier discontentment.
"Lemme ask you a question."
The abruptness of the question had given Heimerdinger a start, but his attention remained solely on the boy as he spoke.
"You said you came down here to help people right?" The boy said, wincing as he adjusted his afflicted leg. "What was your plan?"
This was a question Heimerdinger had asked himself upon his decision to descend into the undercity. His having just been expelled from the council and effectively stripped of the position that had governed the entirety of his life had left the old yordle displaced.
Unmoored
Adrift in the massive sea of the world, entirely at the mercy of its currents yet eager to defy those very same mechanisms.
Only — just as a single wave is powerless in the face of the ocean — Heimderdinger found himself to be equally unfit, both in the execution of his quest as well as his present dealings as he stood before the dark-skinned boy, woefully unable to justify his undertaking.
"I don't…" He started, his eyes on the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know…"
The rightful admonishing Heimerdinger had braced himself for never came, only a heavy sigh from the boy as he rolled his head over toward the open archway of the structure proper.
"Well," he began. "I've got a few ideas, but I was never really able to hash em' out."
Heimerdinger followed his gaze through the opening in the building. It was then that the memory of finding the boy and his wondrous little flying machine came to him.
A sense of purpose surged in Heimerdinger just then. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance?"
The boy gave a short but genuine laugh. "That'd be sweet."
Just then, the bat-eared man from earlier emerged from the staircase behind them and gave a small nod to the boy who returned the gesture quickly. The half-man summarily crossed the room and scooped the injured boy up carefully again.
"You're welcome to look around if you want," he told Heimerdinger as the two ambled past. "I'm gonna go see someone about this leg."
And thus, Heimerdinger was left alone with the beauty surrounding him, the majesty of it all seeming to seep in through his skin. It was there, in that quiet moment of appreciation, that the old yordle was ripped from his reverie by a particularly loud squeal.
On a branch out past the railing, just feet from where he now stood, one of the tiny rodents from earlier reared aggressively at a large, winged bird who eyed it with special interest.
In a flash the bird lunged.
Heimerdinger watched, transfixed as the rat-like thing danced and jumped and slipped just out of its pursuer's clutches each time. However, even though the rodent put forth a valiant effort, eventually the tettetett came to an abrupt end, Heimerdinger not so much as flinching as the bird-like creature wrapped its powerful talons around the little rodent.
The thing cried out sharply as it was struck, its body convulsing powerfully as the tips of multiple razor sharp claws pierced its flesh.
Heimerdinger watched as the rodent's body tensed, each talon like a spear goring the much smaller mammal easily. Even still — whether through some fortuitous twist of fate or otherwise — the rodent was somehow able to wrest itself from the surely iron grip of the much larger animal and make its way into the cover of the canopy again.
Heimerdinger was mesmerized.
Initially he had been confused at the fact that he was able to find splendor in something that was so ostensibly brutal, but as the encounter drew on and the rodent's struggle became that much more fervent, the words the boy had said to him came rushing back.
You'd be surprised what you can pull off when your life depends on it.
It was then Heimerdinger wondered the last time he had experienced that particular brand of fear. Even as he sat laboriously combing through his many scientific achievements as the encounter raged on before him, he struggled to recall a time of such naked desperation.
Had he become jaded?
Complacent?
So drunk on the nectar of luxury that even the slightest form of hardship was alien to him now?
The thing squealed sharply again and Heimerdinger looked up just in time to see the bird seize the smaller animal a second time. By chance, Heimerdinger's eyes met with the captive mammal, and, for the briefest of moments, it was as though the yordle was able to synergize completely with the thing, the sense of dread in its eyes almost palpable even amidst the tranquility surrounding them.
Do you contemplate death, professor?
Words from Viktor — hot in his head — borne of that same desperation and fear and burden of not knowing; words that acted as the final piece of a discordant puzzle.
In reality, death, as most beings knew it, was in no way a prominent framework in his or any other yordle's mind.
Did he accept it as part of reality? Of course.
Did he acknowledge it as a fundamental and natural part of the process of life? Absolutely.
But to him, death was more akin to a far off, nebulous concept rather than any kind of real, tangible truth. Even now as he watched the captured rodent reaching a paw out seemingly toward him, the concept of its death (though he knew it to be true) conveyed none of the panic or hurriedness or exasperation one would commonly associate with the inevitable ending of life. Instead, Heimerdinger reasoned the phenomena as a sort of newfound peace.
A shedding of skin.
The genesis of new life.
However, as Heimerdinger's eye contact with the creature deepened, things began to distort until it was not a helpless, screeching mammal he saw there, but a man — sickly and with a limp, a pallid complexion and a gaunt, branch-like figure, one frail arm reaching out to Heimerdinger just as the man in the alleyway had.
For that one clarifying instance, the prospect of death was made real
The dichotomy between Piltover and The Undercity, epitomized
Realities aggrandized to such a degree that they were now impossible to ignore
Suddenly, the bird cut the air with a screech, drowning out any noises from its prey, but Heimerdinger — still looking into the rodent's eyes — grimaced as its pupils rolled back into its head, effectively crushed by the flexing of the bird's powerful claws.
Another scream came from the bird and with a flourish it fanned its impressive wings before flying off up over the canopy and out of view. It was only then that Heimerdinger noticed the rhythmic thudding of footfalls that got louder with every step.
Heimerdinger turned just as the boy from earlier conquered the final step.
"Good as new," the swarthy boy said, tapping his knuckles on one of the support poles flanking the staircase.
Heimerdinger said nothing; he merely watched the boy awkwardly pick his way over to the finely woven chair again, his mind still reeling. However, the boy didn't sit himself in the chair so much as use its back for support, his eyes fixated on the open archway of the building before them.
"I've got some blueprints in the house," he started, his attention turning to Heimerdinger.
"Oh, yes," Heimerdinger responded as though a dormant part of him had been roused. "Let's just take a look then, shall we?"
The boy laughed, "we shall."
It was the boy who moved first, pushing off the chair with an uneasy step. Heimerdinger reached out as if to offer aid, but instead simply followed slowly after the boy as he ambled across the landing and through the open archway.
The inside of the building was as grand as its outside, carrying the trend of unity with absolute faith, siring two enormous branches that pierced the building's interior, acting not as deterrents, but boons, ostensibly supporting much of the structure's integrity. Heimerdinger followed the branches' geometry toward the tree's trunk, drinking in all of the expertly crafted furnishings as he went.
Everywhere he looked from the homely living area to the cozy second story, that same motif of fine craftsmanship and care persisted. Whether it was a little makeshift armoire, or a comfy little table nestled in the corner, Heimerdinger found himself so utterly taken in by the charm that he'd unknowingly splintered off from the boy to run a hand quizzically over the knotted surface of a nearby chair.
"They're branches," the boy said in an almost nostalgic way. "Sometimes we go up and prune any of the dead or dying stuff, and if you take em' and cure em' the right way-" the boy said as he walked over and idly traced a hand over the corrugated surface of one of the tables, "-you can get creative."
"This is impressive indeed," Heimerdinger said with a particular warmth.
"Yeah, but I've got something even more impressive to show you."
The boy nodded toward another open doorway and started off there promptly. Heimerdinger followed in short order, through the open doorway and into a comely little space teeming with bookshelves.
Heimerdinger was agape at the rows upon rows of shelves, each one spilling over with numerous books and papers.
Absently, Heimerdinger shimmied between two of the bookshelves and slid an errant piece of paper out from between two books.
"Windsail prototype," the boy clarified as he stepped over a box of junk and past Heimerdinger. "Could never get it to fly."
Heimerdinger spent a few moments studying the design, even going as far as to tilt it various ways as he squinted. "I think if you adjusted the pitch of the wings and ratched up the capacitor…"
"That's dated," the boy said as he pulled back a curtain to reveal an alcove set with a long bench hedging an equally large desk, which itself was spilling over with papers, books and other various debris. "Check this out."
The boy swung a leg over to straddle the bench, plucking a fresh looking piece of paper off the desk and handing it to Heimerdinger; his smugness readily apparent to the scholarly Yordle who took the paper gingerly and with mounting interest.
"It's a little somethin' I've been workin' on," the boy prefaced as Heimerdinger pored over the document.
"It's…" Heimerdinger started, mouth unworking as he held the paper out in front of him.
"Amazing?" The boy ventured as he sat smirking at the weird, sagacious being at a complete loss for words at his own handwork.
"Well I mean…" The old yordle started, words failing him still. "It's certainly….ambitious…"
In a flash the boy was up and off of the bench. "Do you think it's possible?"
Heimerdinger — who'd stumbled backward at the sudden declaration — righted himself and smoothed out his coat as his compatriot sheepishly sank back down onto the bench again.
"Time travel?" He scoffed. "I've only ever read about such a thing."
"That doesn't mean it's impossible."
"My dear boy," the yordle began with a laugh as he fanned out the schematic he had been given. "I'm not sure 'impossible' quite covers it. "Apropos of the design, the amount of power you would theoretically need to generate to even-"
The boy grabbed the other end of the document and pulled it down so that Heimerdinger could see his eyes. "That's why I need your help."
For the second time that day, Heimerdinger was left utterly stricken by the gaze of another.
The yordle's grip loosened around the paper, a stern yet fair discouragement poised on the tip of his tongue. However, when he looked up from the schematic to the still staring eyes, something intense shone there; something bold and earnest and fierce like fire.
Even still, the brutal realities of time travel remained a strong deterrent, even for one as learned as the great Professor Heimerdinger.
"Time travel is dangerous," the aged yordle began. "Altering the flow of even one time-stream could have disastrous consequences."
The boy sighed, rising from the bench. "Look, I know it's dangerous." He turned toward the desk, the open face of a pocket watched quietly ticking amidst the silence.
"I must ask," Heimerdinger started, breaking said silence. "What is it you plan on doing should your plan come to fruition?"
The boy turned to him, fists clenched, eyes focused toward the floor.
"There are things I have to do," he said. "Wrongs I gotta right."
"As a man of science myself," Heimerdinger said. "I do not think this is the best way…"
"Maybe not, but I gotta try." An uncomfortable silence grew in the room until the boy spoke again. "I know it sounds crazy, but I thought if anyone would understand, it would be you."
Heimerdinger flinched.
As staunchly opposed as he was to the notion, he could not in good conscience say he did not understand the boy's feelings. He could clearly imagine himself, a fresh century young and conjuring up an impossibly large and inexplicably grand city dedicated to the same desire he saw in this boy. Even now, he could reckon the place he was standing as the fruits of this one boy's seemingly boundless perseverance; a testament — both literally and metaphorically — to that same kind of impossible dream.
Who was he to spit in the face of such integrity?
"Alright," Heimerdinger sighed. "I'll help you."
"Really?" The boy said, pumping both fists in a show of both triumph and excitement, both of which Heimerdinger effectively quelled by putting up a hand.
"However, if I'm to assist you in this venture," the yordle said, fanning the document out again. "Safety is to be a top priority."
"Of course." The boy said, grabbing the small professor's shoulders, still bristling with excitement. "Thank you!"
"It's…quite alright…" Heimerdinger responded rigidly between the iron grip of his new cohort.
Thrice now he had been pinned down by wide, expectant eyes; only this time, he met the scrutiny not with indifference, but with the forethought of knowing that if this curious optimism was the thing he wanted to engender — the type of hope that he wanted to foster — then it was this paradigm — completely opposite his earlier dread — that he would cling to.
"Well then;" Heimerdinger said, clearing his throat audibly before gently shirking the boy's grip and clambouring over the bench to join him at the table which he laid the schematic out on. "Let's get cracking-" He paused, searching for words. "-what is it you said your name was?"
"Oh," the boy said, suddenly aware of some disturbance in the air. "I didn't." Without wasting a moment the boy extended his hand to the smaller being next to him on the bench.
"Ekko."
Heimerdinger shook the boy's hand firmly.
"Ekko," he repeated contemplatively. "I like it. It sounds sciency."
"Yeah," Ekko agreed in a wistful way. "Fitting I guess."
"Well Ekko," Heimerdinger said as he fished a pair of goggles out of a pouch on his belt-loop and snapped them around his head. "Let's get started then, shall we?"
Ekko gave a small chuckle as he procured his own pair of safety goggles which he donned in a similar fashion.
"Thought you'd never ask."