Prey – Chapter 2

Alcohol and I make poor bedfellows. It saps my energy and keeps me awake. I'm itchy and hot. Bed-sheets wrap around my legs. I have to please Demacia, foil Lissandra and resolve my feud with Sejuani. It's too much. I'm boiling with stress.

Only Sejuani would die both to save my life and to spite me. I don't know what happened at our last encounter. Volibear did. I saw it in his glowing eyes, crackling with paternal rage. He held Sejuani close, away from me, and held his tongue.

One question torments my every waking hour. How did she get that bracelet, the one from my dream?

I remember it well.

Sejuani was a childhood playmate from the wrong side of the tracks. We were active children, so we crossed paths while exploring the countryside. She found her calling before she left school, working all-hours for the mountain rescue service. My goal was an Olympic medal for archery, a dream that wrecked my first impetuous marriage. I had the talent, sponsorship and determination but none of those things would keep a roof over my head. My parents were no help. Their business had failed and, after my divorce, our relationship was poor.

Sejuani disapproved of my carelessness but drove me everywhere, "loaned" me the extra money for utilities and performed odd jobs, fitting my desk, fixing my pushbike. Once, I called in the middle of the night because my flat had sprung a leak. She turned up, looking rather dishevelled, and spent five hours on the problem. I screamed loud enough to wake the dead when she started improvising with a gas-powered soldering iron. However, it worked well enough that I could finally turn off my sodden vacuum cleaner. She went to the hardware store at daybreak to finish the task.

While Sejuani chugged a well-earned coffee, her mobile phone rang. A distorted female voice rattled the speaker unit. Sejuani explained where she had been. All colour drained from her cheeks. With a simple, "okay," she hung up. I asked what was wrong. Sejuani said that a friend was staying at her flat. I cheerfully asked for a name, in case it was someone we both knew.

No, and they wouldn't be seeing each other again. Sejuani looked utterly defeated then confessed that she was gay. I'll never forget the tone of her voice. It wasn't like she was baring her soul or declaring her trust. It was like she had lost a bet.

Afterwards, I couldn't stop imagining sex with her but it wasn't fair to trouble Sejuani with my puerile obsession. I had to get over it and treat her like a person, rather than a toy.

She didn't mention any future girlfriends. Life was the same. I was invited to an exhibition on the other side of the country. The first train wouldn't get me there on time. Sejuani insisted that I shouldn't be wasting money on hotels and offered to drive me there and back, even though she was working the night before.

On the return journey, she fell asleep at the wheel and popped a tyre on the kerb. It wasn't a deadly accident but it scared me. While Sejuani caught her breath, I asked what she was thinking. Every time I wanted something, she would ruin her life to provide it. I wasn't going to stop being her friend if she said "no".

I had never seen her cry before. She took my hand.

I'm not a nice person. When I lose my temper, I don't lash out physically, but emotionally. All this time, I would have accepted her love and she said nothing. Instead, she had nearly killed us both in an accident because she thought I was too greedy to want anything less than total submission.

I kissed her, gently, to weaken her defence, then dropped her seat and mounted her. She moaned as I licked her neck and massaged her breasts. With so much feedback, I thought she might come from that alone. Eventually, she threw me aside. I earned a colourful bruise where my thigh struck the handbrake.

Sejuani didn't want to risk making love to me outside a relationship. I meant too much to her. For the first time in her life, she had refused me.

I was overjoyed.

We spent time as a couple. A week later, I was in her bed. A month later, I discovered that she could orgasm without direct contact, a magical power if ever there was one. I don't think it's all that good for her but she rewards me if I misbehave.

I reached the Olympics but a chronic pain in my shoulder blossomed on the flight. Overwork and neglect had cost me full movement of my arm. I couldn't compete. I didn't even have the confidence to teach. Sejuani didn't lecture me this time. Unable to support myself, I moved into her flat. Neither of us talked as if it was the next stage. Hope was too precious to risk. The first week she was on nights, I cried myself to sleep. Eventually, I grew accustomed to her absence and hated myself for it but we needed her income.

I had worked part-time in a jeweller's to support my training. Once the pain had gone, I increased my hours. My control and precision translated well and I progressed rapidly. There was no official promotion but I proudly recall the day that my employer referred to me as their "bench jeweller".

I didn't want to stay in the backroom forever, and opportunity knocked. One of our customers was from an organisation, flush with public funding. They introduced schoolchildren to practical disciplines. Their focus was engineering but they were deeply impressed with my craft and relative youth. After talking shop for an hour, they asked if I would join their academy. They could provide the necessary teaching qualifications while I worked as an assistant.

Sejuani was my rock. We had rough patches but, as time passed, it became clear that she was mine forever. I was dying for her to propose. When she didn't, I took the initiative. A ring was too dainty for my gorgeous tomboy. I never liked men's jewellery, too silly or apologetic, so I made her a bracelet, a wide, solid band that was more armour than decoration.

When I proposed, it wasn't my finest hour. The sky was overcast and pregnant with rain. I had chosen a romantic pier as our backdrop. Sejuani loved it here. She loved the names of the yachts. I would rest my head on her chest while she told me the myth behind every Grendel, Norn and Cú Chullain, her strong arms around me. I loved feeling her muscles tighten against my back when she felt the urge to hold me that little bit closer. Her hands were perfect, larger than mine but delicate enough to perform little miracles upon my skin.

That day, there were no yachts, just a pair of rusty freighters. I don't know what happened. Instead of building a mood with our routine of snuggling and story-telling, I had to jump to the main course. I dropped to one knee, banged my leg and squeaked out a proposal through clenched teeth.

Sejuani would have looked so much better doing this.

Her legs quivered. She covered her face as if she could blind the world to her loud sobbing. Underneath her shirt, I could see the line of her ribcage move with each convulsion, my poor, stubborn Sejuani, ashamed of beauty without compare.

The dam broke. She tackled me to the ground, smothering me with wet kisses and whimpering, "I do", "I love you so much" and "thank you" in endless combinations. The rear of my blouse was damp and filthy. I swore my bra had caught on something, a nail, a splinter?

I had hoped that she would sweep me off my feet and carry me along the pier but I didn't complain as the weight of her body felt very nice. I giggled at the thought that people were watching our display and tutting their disapproval. Though it was tempting to hook my leg around her waist and caress her bottom with my foot, she gets embarrassed easily and I couldn't be mean, especially as she… loved me… she really loved me and… wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

When it sunk in, I wrapped everything around her, squeezing our bodies together as if they would become one. I cried freely. I didn't care if it wasn't perfect. I didn't want anything to change, least of all my sweet, vulnerable Sejuani.

I awoke with a new sense of purpose. If we were to bond, I had to be the catalyst. Looking down at my pillow, the receptacle of my dream, my hair, sweat and spit, skin flakes held with grease, a drop of blood from an old cut on my lip, all that I am, both vile and pure, I had an idea.

I would send her the dream of my proposal.

Walking into the night, I journeyed across her territory, navigating a safe route with my hawk spirit. When I reached her encampment, with numb fingers, I tied my pillow case to an arrow. The shot flew, metaphorically, to Sejuani's heart.

Months later, we met, and the bracelet was on her arm.

She had accepted.

I give up on sleep. Thoughts rampage through my body, howling for release.

Donning a simple top and skirt, I grab my training bow and head to the range. The hall is large enough to be an indulgence, but a celebrated one. The Archer-Queen of the Freljord should have amenities that reflect her prowess.

I hear the pitter-patter of footsteps and the thunk of steel on wood. It is reassuring that our archers take pride in their skill. I would have preferred my own company but, armed with a bow, I can ignore everything. I slide open the hatch before opening the door. Entering blind is a real danger, especially when archers combine tournaments with drinking games.

It is only Birdwoman. So the Demacians have more rigour. No doubt, she is composing a report on the laziness of my troops. Feeling hostile, I seek faults in her technique. She does not aim from a secure base. Her legs dance wildly as her head remains fixed. There is something crab-like about her movement. She hunches so deep, I wonder if she is crippled.

Her accuracy is not ideal but impressive. Building speed, she darts in, kicks off the target and somersaults. I gasp in awe. She is evidently a gymnast with a crossbow rather than a pure archer. When she lands, her shot just misses the outer bullseye.

For a woman so young, her conditioning is remarkable. I doubt there's any spare flesh on that wiry physique.

Amber eyes rotate, shining like torches. 'Who's there?' She can talk. Her voice wavers. 'I… I can hear you breathing. If you mean no harm then show yourself!'

Was I panting like a lecherous old man? I can't let Tryndamere's words affect me. Perhaps Birdwoman isn't fully human and has improved senses. It would explain the eyes and crooked posture.

I step through the door. She quickly sizes me up, judging my clothes, weapon and bearing. Even when I'm dressed for battle, I'm not a clear threat. In my common garb, I look like a peasant girl who's just rolled out of the hay. After a gallon of mead and a sleepless night, I'm as tousled and flushed as a woman who's had a far better time.

'Oh,' she waves in greeting then quickly drops her hand like it brushed something hot. 'I was just… have you come to practise? Am I in the way?'

Despite her strange outfit, her voice is very plain, that of a shy girl who's out of her depth. It makes me feel protective. 'Yes, I have come to train and, no, you're not in my way.'

Overwhelmed by my friendly reply, Birdwoman smiles, rather too eagerly. She has very nice teeth. I've always been ashamed of mine. Demacia must have good dentists, another reason to ally with them.

I wouldn't fix Sejuani's teeth. I used to think they were sharp and jagged from crunching the bones of her enemies but now I see only a vampire bunny rabbit. I imagine her broken fangs, her little wounds, scraping my tongue as I kiss her deeply.

While I'm lost in thought, Birdwoman realises that she's been standing there, grinning, without saying anything. Embarrassed, she covers her face. 'Oh, thank you… sorry. Did you want to use my target or…'

She is adorable. 'Oh, my,' I trace my neckline, feeling more sloshed than sultry. I am only teasing. It doesn't matter if I look foolish. 'Are all Demacians so bold?'

Her ears turn bright red. 'Erm… well, yes, but not in the way you…' her voice trails off.

I did not expect that. She is genuinely worried that she made a pass at me. Why would she consider that? I'm intrigued. 'What way did I mean?' She looks ready to bolt. 'Ooh, I shouldn't make fun of you, sorry.'

'It's okay. Even back home, I… struggle with new people. I always get the wrong end of the stick or…'

…fail to complete sentences. 'You don't have to struggle with me. What's your name?'

'Quinn,' a name for both genders. I never liked mine with that horrid "e" slapped on the end, like a pink bow on a yak.

If I'm new to her, she must not recognise me. At the banquet, I had flowing blue hair, no dark bags under my eyes, and my curves were strapped into a more regal shape. Also, I can't envisage a Demacian passing up the chance to say "Your Majesty" and scrape at the floor.

The idea makes me cringe. I am tired of being Queen, fake relationships, having the world on my back, losing sleep without the woman I love.

If I could just be someone else…

'Quinn.' I like the sound of it, country air, playful spirits and roguish verve. 'It suits you.' Her disappointment is clear. She may have suffered as a child, mistaken for a boy. 'My name is Sian. I'm a scout for the Avarosan.' Her eyes go hard, resuming the feral glow of our first meeting. She repeats my alias many times. It's uncanny. I've known soldiers who perform similar rituals when processing orders. That must be how she retains information. 'Pleased to meet you.'

She removes her glove and gingerly accepts my hand. 'Likewise.' For a moment, she lightly strokes her thumb across my fingers, as if debating whether to draw them to her lips. Unfortunately, she decides on a firm handshake. At least she was thinking about it.

Gallantry from women is a rare treat for me. I recall that some martial traditions nurture same-sex desire. The Rakkor have inspired rumours. I'd never heard anything about the Demacians, though I daresay that magnificent half-dragon would give any woman ideas.

Quinn has tiny, strong hands. Her grip is warm, sweaty and insistent. After she lets go, I feel a sudden urge to lick my palm and know her taste. I am going mad with loneliness. Even if I'm undercover, I must affect some virtue. 'Are you not sleeping? I know the chill can stay all night long if it reaches your bones. Do you want any more bedding?'

'Oh, I'm fine, thank you. I slept after the meal. I'm a night owl so if complications arise then…'

'I understand.' A watchwoman, it's good that she has leave to roam. Jarvan must have faith in her instincts.

'My room is wonderful. I grew up in a barn, so any bed is a luxury. My partner loves his perch. Few hosts acknowledge him at all.'

'Your partner?' She means the eagle but there's no way "Sian" would know that. Anivia must have organised the perch behind my back. For once, her meddling is welcome.

'Valor, he's exploring the wilderness, trying Freljordian cuisine.' It's clear that she's proud of her unusual friend, and surprising people with his identity makes a good ice-breaker. 'He's a Demacian eagle.'

'I hope he doesn't get lost. There are some big predators out there.'

'He'll be fine. I'm glad he's enjoying himself. He was a nightmare on the journey, bothering the horses and "pre-emptively" striking bandits that wouldn't come near us. I thought that Shyvana was going to eat him!'

'Is that likely?' Never mind that. Eaten by Shyvana, is that arousing?

'If she ever catches him!' She can joke when talking about Valor, curious. I've always been torn about people who socialise with animals and make them a crutch in human company. It's lazy to mock. They adapt to chaos and indifference by finding understandable complexity within basic patterns. I think we all do that. 'I'm kidding. Shyvana's a big softy around His Majesty. She wouldn't eat anyone if it upset him.'

I'm starting to feel jealous. 'That's good to know. She must be very loyal.'

'Just a bit, she'd sleep at the foot of his bed if he'd let her.'

'She can always keep my feet warm.'

Quinn laughs awkwardly. 'Erm… yeah… I wouldn't tell her that.' She goes quiet and shuffles away.

I'm coming on too strong. Am I trying to bully Quinn, force her to confront a secret longing that may not exist? I'm so angry at my own repression that I'm laying my vice on her. If I'm in no state to handle the power of anonymity, I should resume course and take up my bow. 'Sorry, I was drinking earlier and I get a bit silly when I'm tired. I came here to practise because I couldn't sleep.'

'It's fine. Don't let me stop you.'

I set up a fair distance from Quinn. All I need is one target and one arrow, purity. I never wanted anything to do with violence but I had to sublimate this urge. All my dreams hinged on being an insider. I could not do something as radical as love women.

Archery was a hidden gem, buried within the repellent machismo and bombast of war, instead of noise, a beautiful, silent dialogue between life and motion. What began as a distraction became a righteous calling. I was good at this. There was no angst, fear or hatred. I could reduce the world to a single point and hit it every time. It felt so natural that I marvelled at how anyone struggled. Apparently, my focus was unique.

Circles echo from a target like ripples on a lake. I count them down… one hundred… eighty… sixty…

Zero.

Peace.

I don't recall letting go. I am nothing… and I am reborn. An arrow quivers in my target.

Again.

I breathe. Air fills my body, clean, flowing from my lungs, irrigating my veins.

…

My skin crawls. Yellow eyes are watching me with intent. Frantically, I turn and see Quinn gawping. 'Wow,' she says. 'I don't mean to stare but… you're really good.'

I regain my composure. 'Thank you.'

She is nearly bouncing with excitement. 'I always trained to fight rather than shoot. It's all very modern, very practical. I love it… but seeing your classical poise and your…' she looks away briefly, 'arms, I… appreciate what I've missed.'

My biceps often languish in the dark of my bosom. It's rare for me to feel potent rather than decorative. Quinn is very small. Compared to her, I'm a large, virile barbarian. At any moment, I could grab a fistful of hair, push her face into the ground and plunder her virtue.

After challenging the rule of might for so long, I never dreamt that I could fill that role… but now, I see Quinn on all-fours, baring her throat in ecstasy, my nails marking her flesh.

What monster has this girl awakened? I must show mercy and benevolence, use my power to nurture Quinn's. 'Trust me, the feeling's mutual. I could never attempt your backflips.'

'Oh, I just move quickly. I've got no control. Valor despairs at how I flap!'

'Your friend is that critical?'

'Positively!'

Can she really talk with the bird? I'm not sure if there's a polite way of asking. A sentient animal like Anivia or Volibear should have attended our banquet. Either Demacia is hiding something or Quinn is more damaged than I thought. Both possibilities are dangerous. I must avoid the subject until I know more. 'If I show discipline, it's because I learnt archery for that purpose. I hate bloodshed.'

Quinn slumps. My reason did sound oppressively noble. 'I was just another socially awkward peasant-girl who dreamt of knighthood. Because I was frail, I needed a shortcut. With a crossbow, you just pull a trigger... dead.' She aims her weapon at my chest. I'm too experienced to show weakness but my heart skips a beat. If she meant harm, she could have easily killed me. 'When you close the gap, you don't even have to aim. All I've done is follow the path of least resistance.'

'That would serve you well in the dark corners of the Freljord.'

'With enough light, there'd be no call for my trade.'

'Or mine.'

'Off the battlefield, you're an artist.' Quinn ruefully clenches her hand. 'I'm just a thug.'

'Nonsense, you could easily be a dancer.'

'I don't know.' She's avoiding my gaze, inviting pursuit. 'If I had your elegance…'

I offer my weapon. 'Do you want some pointers?'

'I'd only embarrass myself.'

'No you won't.' I close her fingers around the bow. 'Come on.' I hold her waist and guide her into position. Her hip-bones are very prominent, exquisitely forged little tools waiting to be used. 'You're left-handed?'

'Yes… is that a problem?'

'No, I was just curious. With your fighting style, I could easily picture a blade in your empty hand.'

'Valor's my right hand. If you gave me a sword, I'd cut myself.'

'I know the feeling.' Her posture is overly dramatic, as if she's posing for a sculpture. I tidy up what I can. 'A wide base is very good but you're too low. You'll only see what's right under your nose if you do the splits.' I guide her feet closer together. Her calves are like girders, holding up a shrine. 'Keep your pelvis square. You're tilting… no that's too far.'

'I can't find my centre.'

'You're doing fine.' Her buttocks are firm and tight with a deliciously steep curve at the top of her strong thighs. I feel a bit… wobbly in comparison.

I place my hands either side of her abdomen. She's like a young tree, hard and knotted with muscle. I can feel every sudden breath at my exploration. I wrap an arm across the top of breasts and push back her collarbone. 'Stand tall and proud,' I say. 'Look up. Imagine the sky, a mountain. See your power and beauty reflected there.' It breaks me to see her with no confidence. 'Relax your shoulders.' Her hair is tangled and a bit oily. Strands break off around my fingers. The purple colour is a dye that stains. I lift her fine porcelain chin. She sucks on her fair lips.

I think about kissing her. It would be so easy. I don't love her but… she's here. Damn you, Sejuani, for being so close yet so far. My body craves your absent touch.

Now that Quinn is upright, I can see that she's a woman and not a creepy bird-thing. She's taller than I presumed, her teeth by my jugular. With her solid core, she might be heavier than me. If we fought then she could hold me down and… no, I am still in control, guiding her with my touches, massaging her neck. 'You're tensing up again. You need to draw the string with your body, not your arms.' My hair skims her temple as I follow her trajectory. 'Now fire.'

The arrow misses by a yard.

Quinn looks at me. Our faces are barely an inch apart. She laughs in desperation. 'That was awful!'

'Accuracy takes time. You did well to shoot.'

'I know the basics already. I should do better.'

'Hush!' I kiss her on the cheek. 'Don't be so hard on yourself.' She cowers like a mouse. The fog lifts. I've crossed a line. This isn't drawing Quinn from her shell. I'm breaking in, scoffing my due like the Winter's Claw. 'Oh, I didn't mean to impose.'

'No… no, I'm…' she hides her glow, 'not used to being touched is all.'

'I'll stop if you don't like it.'

'I don't… dislike it, I'm just… I haven't trained with another human since my brother died.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault.' She smiles. 'It's good that you…ahem.' Quinn stammers before she sounds too eager. 'I need to spread my wings. Get used to people. You're helping.'

'I'm glad.' She looks disappointed. Was that an invitation? I don't trust my judgement at all right now. Perhaps, if I caught up on sleep, I could enjoy this dance without hurting us both.

She must have sensed that I'm pulling away. 'Do you come here often?'

I can't have her asking around like "Sian" is part of the castle furniture. 'Not really but…' I yawn, 'I can make an effort while you're here.'

'Oh, don't put yourself out.'

'Stop that. You're nice. Why wouldn't I make the most of you?' I stroke her arm. It's a deliberate gesture, more than friendly but only if she wants it to be. 'Goodnight, Quinn.'

'Goodnight, Sian.'

I return to my bedroom, hot and weary. The sheets are cool, crisp and invigorating, urging me to passion, not rest. It's impossible to relax as my thighs brush the linen but the very thought of coming alone moves me to tears. I ache to be held and touched. My bosom feels empty. I need to be strong for my people but I am going mad.

By the time I fall asleep, it is dawn.