My mind wanders as I walk, my senses on edge, taking in every sight and sound, and committing them to memory. Demacia, crown jewel of Valoran. I've visited many villages, towns, and cities across the world, on both peaceful missions, and leading an army of war. Demacia truly lives up to its reputation. No other city's streets are as clean, lit, and well organized. The paths are smooth and comfortable, and finding your destination is easy even for newcomers to the city, much less for those raised here.
Raised...hah! My parents can barely comprehend the concept. They know honor and duty to the nation, but that is all they understand or even attempted to impart. As soon as I was of age for the war academy they shipped me off. Others in my barracks spoke of missing their families, of tearful goodbyes and promises to visit and never to forget, of hugs and affection. Mine stood, perfect posture, faces like stonework. Their only words were to demand that I bring glory to Demacia, and live up to the family legacy.
Despite what so many think, I never cared for such things. My family doesn't give a damn about me, so why should I care for its "legacy"? No, I fight for the people. I serve Demacia and the crown to protect the people of Runeterra, to bring the light of civilization to those who languish in the dark.
Heh. I have cut down swaths of men, slain hundreds, thousands...all in the name of protecting people. Such an odd concept. In some cases, it is necessary, naturally. When raiders come to sack a town, killing them will protect far more than you harm. When murderers are brought for execution, ending their lives will prevent others from following in their footsteps. But other times...
Demacia is the light of civilization. All others should strive to match our glory...but few actually do. Most are, instead, pressed into it, by the army marching on their gates. If a handful of men must die to bring the rest of their people to the glory of civilization then so be it. Their descendants and those they care for will be better off in the end, yes? Perhaps..but more and more, I have my doubts.
I study the others on the streets I pass, the people I have fought so hard to protect. They are strong, proud, content, paragons of Demacian ideals...for the most part. A mother, scolding her children to behave after catching them making faces at passer-by. A thin man, worn down by whatever role he plays. A sculptor...his face empty.
The last is the most notable. I have seen the artists of other lands, and it is always...shocking. Their eyes alight with ideas and creativity, the way they act, and think, and move. Much of their work is fascinating. Alien ideas and concepts, ways of looking at the world that I can barely comprehend.
Demacian artists, on the other hand, are the same as Demacian...everything else. Stoic, focused on duty, honor, martial pride, and acceptance of your place in society. They have great talent, let there be no doubt, but show me a piece of art and I can tell you with absolute certainty if it is Demacian. There are great works and awe-inspiring images, but nothing creative, nothing unexpected. Nothing unique.
I pause as I approach the looming structure, taking a final look around. The city is beautiful, and the people...so many people, who I have bled and sacrificed so much for. Right now, I am a hero. A name to be revered and respected, a Champion that they look up to and strive to emulate. I gave up so much, and strove so hard, to get to this point. Now, I will sacrifice it all to save just one more...to protect just one more individual from this world. My name will be a curse, spat with hatred and fury. Those who idolized me will hold their heads in shame while piling anything with my name or image into piles to be burned...
So be it.
With a nod, I resume my stride. The guards salute as I enter, and trace my path to the head office. It is easy to find, fortunately. It has been a long time since I last walked here. The Assessment Hall. All new recruits in the city are brought here first, to be judged.
There are various levels of learning and training in the lead-up to fully joining the military, here they decide where to place you. Some, such as myself, can skip a great deal of the courses, having been taught The Measured Tread since they were infants, able to recite it perfectly and give explanations the instructors approve of.
Others are ignorant of the specifics of Demacian ideals, or simply...deviant. Too selfish, independent, or questioning of the system. They instead have to start from the ground up, having their individuality crushed and remade into upstanding citizens. I resist the urge to clench my hand at the thought of faceless instructors screaming at her, punishing her, slowly eroding everything that makes her unique.
Reaching the office of the head instructor, I knock.
"Enter." The reply is quick and efficient.
The mighty, masterfully crafted oak door swings soundlessly as I comply. There, behind the desk is High Marshal Brightwell. One of the oldest and most respected military leaders of modern times, he willingly gave up his position as a field General to instead head the recruitment and training program to "Ensure the future of Demacia."
His office is high quality but spartan. A desk, a few chairs, and one well-organized bookshelf. What is needed, and in excellent condition, but no more.
"Champion." His voice is toneless, his face an expressionless mask behind his neatly trimmed beard. "I did not expect you, but I can guess what this is about."
"Most likely," I reply. "I heard that my sister is finally a part of the program, but that she has proven problematic."
"Your information is correct. Her behavior was extremely unexpected of a Crownguard, but far from the worst we have had to deal with. We have things well in hand." Still nothing. No inflection, no pride or annoyance, nothing to betray that he has anything resembling emotions at all. This is why I must act, I will not allow her to become another soulless automaton in the Demacian war machine.
"I have no doubt about the capabilities of the program, it was designed for such after all. That said, it would be an embarrassment to have a Crownguard forced through such procedures. It has been a long time since I last saw Luxanna, but we always had a strong relationship. I believe a personal touch could greatly speed things up, seeing her properly integrated far quicker, and the Crownguard reputation upheld."
The Marshal holds my gaze for a moment before replying. "It is not standard procedure, but there are precedents." He is silent for a time, seeming to consider the idea. "What do you have in mind?"
"A simple tour of the city. A day, perhaps two. Visiting the memorial, greeting the people, demonstrating the legacy of Demacia. What we have accomplished, what we fight for. A comprehensive reminder that we are part of a bigger picture, standing for something beyond ourselves. More than enough to convince any true Crownguard. If such is insufficient, then there is truly no hope but the full program."
Brightwell is again silent, his expression never once changing. "Very well. Two days." He speaks while locating and filling out a form. "I met with her personally, and this is the only chance of her not being assigned to the most basic class. Hopefully we can avoid that stain on such a noble legacy. Ask one of the guards in the entrance hall to fetch her."
"Thank you, sir. I will do everything in my power to ensure she reaches her full potential." I assure him, accepting the form giving permission to temporarily withdraw her.
I salute (out of respect, rather than protocol) and leave the office. It is hard to repress a sigh as I move towards the entrance. Brightwell is a man I greatly respect; despite how he may act personally he still has some humanity left in him. Unfortunately, he is about to gain a substantial stain on his reputation. Hopefully it will not be enough to see him resign. Many of those who might replace him could never conceive of the idea of anything but following protocol to the letter.
Arriving at the Entrance Hall, I show the form to one of the men and send him to bring Lux.
This is it then. When we leave here, there are only two options. I can keep to my word and duty. Show her the city, fill my sister's head with route propaganda and sermons of duty and service, then return her here, to be processed and forged into another soldier of Demacia. Or, I can follow my plan, and keep my first promise. To protect HER, the little girl that accepted me for myself, not because I embody arbitrary ideals. There really is no question.
It takes every ounce of will I possess to retain my composure when the guard returns, little Lux trailing behind. Her eyes are downcast, red and puffy from crying, hidden behind a wild tangle of hair. Her posture hunched over and withdrawn, arms clenched around her chest. Lux...you were never made for this. As she gets closer I noticed the bruises on her arms. A lifetime of training and iron discipline is not nearly enough to restrain my glare at the guard, who visibly flinches...along with every other person in the hall.
"Sh-she barricaded herself in her room, originally. The men who brought her from her home had to literally d-drag her out." Demacian soldiers are filled with immense bravery, and will stand strong against the longest of odds, but even years of indoctrination falter when you stand before the ire of an unbound Champion of the League.
"I see." I make a mental note to find out who exactly brought her here, and to pay them a visit eventually. I can't say it's surprising my parents allowed it. I look forward more than ever to them learning what I am going to do. Their legacy ended, and the Crownguard name forever tarnished will be more satisfying than anything I could do to them physically. The best way to ruin a statue is to deface it, not destroy it. Change its meaning entirely instead of simply trying to stamp it out.
Lux jolts, her gaze jerking upwards to stare at me when she hears my voice. It's been years, but she still recognizes it instantly.
I smile as I turn my attention towards her. "Come, Lux, let's get you cleaned up. Can't have you going out like that, can we?" I touch her shoulder and steer her toward the washroom.
"G-Garen?" she sputters out.
"Yes Lux, it's me. I'm here," I assure her as we enter.
"Garen...I...they just...just dismissed me!" she exclaims, latching on to me. "Like...like a tool to be given away! Mother acted like, like I should be happy to be taken. As if...as if I was just some, silly brat for not wanting to go. And father...father just didn't care at all...he didn't even bother watching...watching me leave." her voice trails off.
Sounds about right. Mother was always huge on the idea of individuals being nothing but gears in the machine of Demacia, irrelevant other than what they can contribute to the good of the nation. Father, on the other hand, is obsessed with the family legacy. As far as he is concerned, she is already failing it. Her magic capabilities, and the potential for them to bring glory, are likely the only reason he didn't cast her from the family. Is everyone in Demacia broken inside?
"Shhh, it's fine, don't worry. Here, we need to get you cleaned up. We can talk about everything later, ok?" I try to reassure her, but we really need to move as soon as possible. Two days, to get as far away from the city as we can. Less if Argen gets caught. A final squeeze, then I hand her a washcloth to clean her face and take out a brush to bring some semblance of order to her hair. She tolerates it for a surprisingly long time before sighing and taking the brush to do it herself. I'm years out of practice, and was never good at it in the first place. Disembowelling Noxians is so much easier. Still, I think she appreciates the sentiment.