Gemini – Chapter 2

That which takes a lifetime can be lost in a heartbeat.

As a child, I braved open skies with courage and a loincloth, walking in a line with adult men who proudly exposed wide, muscular pecs to hungry eyes and lips. My own smooth, pale body was a canvas, a garden with two little seeds, and room beneath to grow whatever I sought.

While I drew my course, my destination had already been set with a callous flip of nature's coin.

I remember the day well. My teachers were frightened. I was the smallest in my group after years of towering above. The matron whipped off my clothes, took various measurements, peered, prodded, pinched, pulled legs and arms akimbo then scraped each armpit with a burnt finger. She blithely said I "stunk right" and was due a growth spurt any time soon. I would surely become a healthy young woman.

I laughed. A woman? Why would anyone think that? I never said I was going to be a woman.

Using old yokes from our stores, I bound my chest. Even though I struggled to breathe, I slept easy, knowing my flesh would grow dense and lean. I hid a scrap of cloth under my blanket. Every time I woke on my front, I bit my finger to mark another day closer to my goal. My torso began to swell and itch. I was getting blisters from the constant rubbing of cracked leather. I resisted all temptation to remove the straps and look.

When I saw blood on my thighs, I panicked, assuming, from our wolves, that I was in heat. I vanished into the plains to bury my crotch in a snow drift, hoping to freeze any shameful urges. When I felt only cramp, I found a cave in which to hide. After three days of cold, loneliness and hunger, the bleeding stopped. I collapsed on my return, glad to surmount another challenge. A month later, the cycle repeated. Unwilling to forgo more training, I lagged my undergarments with wool and powered on. Again, I felt only discomfort, rather than a desire to spread my legs or display my buttocks. I concluded I was now safe. The bleeding meant something else. Maybe I would have a cock soon.

I devoured as much food as possible to grow strong. When I didn't see clear gains, I bolted anything remotely organic, vermin, pigswill, carrion. I was throwing up as my guts wouldn't process the volume. In half a year, my hips grew massive. I couldn't walk or run properly. Every step was like a swing of a giant pendulum, causing my arms to flail and catch the air, slowing me down. I locked my elbows to my ribs, drove my fists earthward. I compelled my body to remain square before that inappropriate feminine swish became a habit.

I grew clumsy. My balance faltered, as mind and muscle rejected my new proportions. Without a firm core and loose joints, my punches, kicks and weapon strikes became brittle. Fortunately, my teachers knew all about sudden blows of adolescence. They chose to work on my brain for a while, introducing me to geography, tactics and mounted combat.

Riding was a revelation. I enjoyed seeing the theatre of battle from up high. With speed and artistry, I drew lines between units and skirmishes. My thoughts could raze villages quicker than my body. That ray of hope, that source of victory, kept me on the path to becoming chieftain, even as other doors closed.

I was drunk on perspective, obsessed with becoming six foot as I memorised all the figures to run campaigns. Blending means, medians and modes, an average Winter's Claw male was a hair short of that magical number of leadership. Unfortunately, I stalled at a weak five foot nine, larger than most women but unexceptional for the Freljord.

In my dreams of another world, Ashe wore flats alongside my generous walking boots. The large height difference, that she found so attractive, was a naked lie.

The pantomime couldn't last. On a warm, close night, our skies laden with purple storm clouds, I writhed in agony. My chest was damp, sore and sticky, burning like hot venom. Torn asunder with the thought I was lactating, I ran outside with arms covering my shame, refusing to look down.

A guard saw the rivulets of blood, red claws joining hands with stretch marks over my belly.

Dragged before the matron, I screwed up my eyes while she fought my straps. The leather had split and gouged my dirty, swollen flesh. I hadn't washed it for months. The primary knot was a monstrous clutch of dead skin, old scabs and rusted metal, caked with pus. It required a bone saw to cut loose. With a snap, I felt an unwelcome shift of weight.

One of the cuts had become infected. I was lucky not to have gangrene, said the matron, scrubbing welts with brine. She pottered about her store while I sat, blind, half-naked and shivering. Atop a quiet orchestration, a prelude of rustling, her low contralto sang that I was foolish to do such things to my body when I was blessed and beautiful. It would have lovely, strong children and make someone very happy.

Like a shroud, a supple garment was draped across my torso then beneath my armpits. A pinch on the back and a push on my shoulder blades ordered me to slouch. I felt an upward force, like I was dangling from a rope. Experienced hands loosened the pinch. I released a bitter sigh of comfort, and opened my eyes. After years of looking ahead to an impossible future, I looked down… to see my prodigious bosom nestled within my first bra.

Giving up, I demanded to know how this unwanted form actually worked. After a series of nightmarish tales, I rose precariously. Muscles finally strove to accommodate, rather than ignore, this heavy, stupid surplus.

I told my nurse that if she ever called me beautiful again, I would boil her in a pot with the blood of her lovely, strong children.

With the sudden appearance of my woman's walk and woman's dress, I'd anticipated lechery, scorn, abuse and rejection, easily repaid in violence. However, the bastard men gave me pity, like I was a promising young raider who'd lost an eye before his prime. Unlike me, they were not wilfully benighted regarding my fate, which made the sight of me no less wretched.

I bore my sex openly, subjecting my hated form to the cold until even a hailstorm felt like a summer breeze. Once my adaptation was complete, I donned a full suit of armour to cover my distorted flesh and became just another scarred warrior. Only my scars were a different hue.

Now, I can feel the chill once more. Half a season within a dreary cocoon had reversed years of conditioning. Perhaps the wind blows through the hollow where my soul used to be.

Through the wilderness, I march. Every step is like dragging a corpse to a pyre. Before, my shoes would float across the drifts like a tern through the sky. Sweat plasters my body hair to the coarse underlay, plucking and scraping.

I could have taken Bristle then asked him to fetch me within two weeks but his company would have guaranteed a safe trip. I wanted a chance to die. Confronting a trackless environment with all your mettle in pure, solitary destruction is a tested way of leaving this plane without regrets, no sentimental dance or inadequate final words, just emotion without language or constraint.

Ice burns my sight and gnaws at my toes. Fjölnir Spire grows like an obscene cloud from the boundless white. Although my destination looms, I could still perish from exhaustion. Frozen senses register no pain but I can feel its echoes. Every twist of my knee causes my hands to shake.

I may breathe my last in Ashe's embrace. After yearning for a clean death, I crave her passionate, flowing touch, like warm silk bandages on tired muscle.

The spire's name suggests a dignified monolith, not a perverse explosion of rock, boiling and spreading like a tumour. She could lurk within countless warrens, dug into the stone by prehistoric yordles, but I trust her vigilance. If I ascend, Ashe will know, somehow.

Treacherous curves allow few paths onwards but a fortune-seeking mage had left his mark before reddening sharp fangs. A million years of hibernation were disturbed when a conjured meteorite shower, reminiscent of the catastrophe that slayed the monster's kin, rained footholds upon its lair.

Gathering enough energy to delve into this lethal maze, I begin to scale. My legs are vast weights of bone, dangling from weak hips. I'm not sure what's going on beneath my waist as I lurch upwards.

Heat explodes in my foot. I scream like a child and fall, dashing my cheek against rocky stubble. The sickly throb is an old friend, an irritating, presumptuous one. Ever since I fumbled an early dismount, I've had issues with my left ankle. It sprains readily. Limping through the pain isn't an option as I'm so frail that every little bump is magnified. Rolling over, I look at my boot. A wide crack, an evil smile, gapes from the side. I've had so little motivation that I'd forgone servicing my battledress.

I deserve my fate.

Rare is the power less fickle than justice. A figure soon approaches. I recognise the rapid, careful tread. You would never compare that rhythm to a graceful cat or a tenacious wolf. It is cautious, contained, aggressively human, a dogged response to the wild sprit of the Freljord.

A woman, dressed in colour-bled armour, grey fur, grey hide, warily stalks me with her bow drawn. Her sleeves and britches are deeply stained like a butcher's apron, or the robe of a priestess who carves out young virgin hearts for a lovelorn ásynja.

Beneath the cowl is a face of classical beauty, the marble contours highlighted with the ruby rich dyes of nature, her full sensuous lips… the thrilling evidence of her savage prowess.

My little thoughts trip over themselves, like pebbles down a gorge.

Ashe remains vigilant. 'You came…' her eyes dance with the horizon. 'Does anyone else know?'

'Volibear…'

With a spectral cry, her bothersome hawk retraces my path. I've lost count of the times that Ashe's peerless vision denied us victory.

Her lashes flutter while the ghost relays information. 'He's not here… yet.' She takes off her gloves and raises my head. Her terrible softness controls me. There's no reason for her to caress my jaw with bare fingertips like this, no reason but cruel manipulation. Doves claw through my stomach, thieving energy from weakening muscles, reducing me from a vicious marauder to an eager, helpless maiden. Her crystal, reed-like tones cut through the storm. 'Thank you for telling me. You had every cause to lie.'

Fidgeting within her lap, I snort with self-reproach, and also because my nostrils are leaking from the cold. 'You're right. I should have respected your guile and kept my advantage.'

Ashe hiccups with joy. 'Oh, sorry. Tryndamere warned, something else might have come back, wearing your skin.' Perhaps I am another creature with stolen thoughts. I worry Tryndamere and I have been asking similar questions. 'You're still my stubborn Sejuani.'

'Since when have I been yours?'

'A girl can dream.' Her gaze wanders over my form. I feel naked as my hidden, hated sexual characteristics draw attention. 'Your boot's ripped. I'm guessing you've sprained your ankle.'

She was only checking for injuries. If only I could flee my toxic imagination or quash this body's electrical response. I can't look at her. 'Yes.'

'Here. Let's get you inside and warm you up.' I tense while she guides me to sit upright. Her arms encircle my waist like the coils of a snake. I pull away. 'Sorry! I…' her palm rests on my back. 'I promise I won't do anything untoward. I just want to help.'

Ashe's brazen touch was her deadliest weapon. As her captive, those eager hands brushed my hair, ears and mouth, working dark magics that control me to this day. However, it's not like her to express awareness, let alone contrition. I ponder what's changed as I grunt my consent and wrap an arm around her neck. I'm so glad she's wearing a cloak. It shields me from intoxication by her platinum-blonde hair.

We climb to our feet. Ashe looks at the ground, rather than for danger, as we commence our journey. Something's wrong. 'Ashe?' I'm thrown by her clemency. I have come to… expect her sensual punishment as the natural order of our relationship. 'Thank you.'

My gratitude spurs hope. She lunges, kissing one tiny corner of my lip, inciting thirst without quenching it. As my self-respect howls in defiance, my heart whimpers for more.

Time stops. The blood ceases flowing to her cheeks. 'I… No!' She covers her face in realisation. 'You startled me. To think you'd ever… thank me for helping you and… it's not fair!' She frantically drops her anger. 'Two minutes… and I've already broken my promise.' I don't acknowledge her guilt. When it's clear that I'm not going to respond, she tries to bridge the chasm with small talk, vain little grappling hooks of communication. 'You're… lighter than you seem. I thought you'd lost weight… around your face. Are you sick or…?'

My visible decline is a raw subject. Thanks to Ashe's betrayal of my trust, her forbidden kiss, I have a perfect reason to keep any misery to myself.

She gives up. Her eyes flash with rage. We move in silence.

I conceal my weakness but, in questioning my heft, Ashe denies her strength. We're both liars.

The path leads to a cavern, buried amongst winding towers like the maw of a kraken. Ashe lights our way, brandishing a magical knife. The blue metal feebly shines with her naïve talent, a primal affinity for ice, the birthright of any Freljordian woman. I'm sure I could amplify the weapon's glow, reveal every pothole and stalactite. However, watching her struggle soothes the burn of my dependence.

The ground is marked with endless tracks of blood, evidence of a predator heaving a carcass to its lair. The viscera piles thick and fresh, playing hell with the shallow tread of my boots. I nearly tumble. My flailing arms whip around Ashe in a lover's embrace. Her eyes plead as my gasp warms her neck. I resist her call.

We finally reach an artificial barricade. Rocks make up the base, while the top half comprises two fox pelts and a wind chime of bones. Anything heavier than cold air would rattle the grisly percussion and rouse the occupant. With a sweep of her glove, Ashe plays a morbid arpeggio. The stench of death rushes forth like a foul hurricane.

I am no stranger to the smell of war but I've rarely known such a vile combination of old and fresh meat. Ashe watches me convulse. I don't know whether I see pity, hope or triumph in her stare, while an impenitent warlord reveals a "human" side in response to butchery. She finally talks. 'I should have warned you. I've been sleeping with my kills. After I… did something terrible… for a second… I had a taste for human blood.' Her eyes go blank, as if a dead expression could enforce dead emotion. 'I thought if I grew numb to the smell, or grew sickened, I would… I wouldn't...' As our language fails, I conceive a million replies but only retch. Ashe regains her composure then rubs my back as if I'm an overgrown child. 'I'm sorry. There's an underground river. I can dispose of…'

'I'm fine.'

'You're not!'

'I am the Winter's Wrath!' though I hardly deserve my reputation. 'Do not use me, of all people, as an excuse to surrender your trophies.'

'They aren't my "trophies". Whatever they call you, we have no titles here. Forget all of that and be a woman for once in your life.'

As if I would take the chance, after years of running away. 'That's easier said than done.'

Her smile darkens with mutual pain. 'I know.'

The rectangular cavern doesn't seem like an accident of geology. Some creature, with the means to fashion rock, must have sensed the water, burrowed a path then settled here. The river skirts the length of the right-hand wall. Ashe's knife remains our only source of light, so I can't see all the way to the back. Our comfortable space, before stalactites encroach, looks ten feet wide and eight feet high.

Resting my leg on Ashe's discarded rucksack, I watch enviously while she carves up less edible corpses with no trace of discomfort and throws them into the stream. 'You are a born hunter,' I say.

'Evidently,' she replies, wiping a stray lick of blood from her nose, 'but if I could choose…'

'I wouldn't change you.' She pauses her work. Acceptance's lure can be powerful and unwelcome. 'The world bends to your arm. Were you born to my people, we could rule Valoran.'

Ashe peers at her gore covered sleeves. 'With your clan's tutelage, I'd have left you to die.'

'Maybe you should have.'

'Really? Take your own advice. Three times, you could have ended my reign. Twice, you withheld a lethal blow. The third time, you actually saved me.'

'That was necessary. While I was… gone, I saw the future.' Her curiosity will find a way should I not reveal my secrets. However, I should use disclosure to my benefit rather than squander it thoughtlessly. 'Had Lissandra's plan worked, your surviving allies would have prevailed. I couldn't allow their cancerous growth to smother the Freljord.'

Ashe laughs bitterly. 'So my leadership is an obstacle? I've had my suspicions… but you're the first person to come out and say it.' Her knife clatters off the ground. 'Why spare my life before that?'

'I was weak.' Ashe wants me to confess my love or mercy. Those "higher" thoughts are merely false alibies for base ruin. 'You look for hypocrisy in my deeds, a hidden belief in second chances, redemption, harmony… but there is no contradiction, just weakness and failure.' I look up into the shadows of her grey hood. With her pale skin and blue eyes, Ashe might be the reverse of Kalista, both, angels of death. 'And if I am weak then you should have punished me for it.'

'"Should" have punished you? What about choice?'

'You can do as you please.'

'Can I? Whether I kill or spare you… I am still cruel. What if I don't want to be cruel? How can I make that choice?'

'Everything is possible here but…' I slump in defeat. 'I can't see like I once did.'

Ashe reclines next to me, presumably to give a shoulder to cry on. 'Sej…' realising her mistake, she covers her mouth.

'"Sej" is fine,' I concede. It's a barrier that, one day, would fall, in mockery or friendship. 'I've been called worse.'

'Haven't we all?' Ashe chuckles. 'Dare I ask?'

'Udyr,' I grumble. 'That's as much as you're getting.'

'So he's a thorn in your side as well? That might be cold comfort when he lures another scouting mission off a tall cliff.'

'I'm surprised your standing orders permit long chases.'

'Believe me. "Don't chase Udyr" tops the list in black and white but once people are in the wild, they do as they please.' I'm surprised Ashe doesn't apply the simple fix, a positive response. Do secure nearby settlements upon finding Udyr, rather than don't chase him. Even if Ashe rivals the greatest minds from orthodox martial traditions, it reassures me to know she has blind spots. 'Oh, the joys of leadership, hey?'

She's looking for a peer, someone who knows what she's going through, but everyone at our level is on a different side. Her need is familiar to me. However lucky I am to know Volibear, he's more fluent in personal matters than logistics, and I can rarely have a nice long talk about supply chains, or the lifespan of hunting equipment versus weight or cost. Unfortunately, I can't share numbers with Ashe, far too dangerous. 'If anything, my tribe show too much loyalty. I'd rather they stood up to me once in a while.'

'You are scary.' Lies, Ashe doesn't fear me, just herself.

I lift and stretch my wounded leg. 'Only by your standards. I can barely walk, let alone fight. If they're set on keeping me alive, they should at least relegate me to mucking out the boars rather than riding one into battle.'

'Perhaps they respect your other qualities, your courage and wisdom. Perhaps they just like having you in charge.'

'If they're so comfortable, they should revolt before they stagnate.'

'And refuse what they truly want? I think you're the only member of your tribe who feels obliged to suffer.' When I don't respond, Ashe tries to encourage me by lifting my chin. I pull away. Her sharp exhalation cuts like a sword. I can't say whether she's annoyed with her lack of discretion or my intransigence. 'Well, if you're set on feeling worthless, can I please myself?'

'Could I stop you?'

'I guess not. You're wounded… weary…' she bites her lip. 'I could… easily force my wishes upon you.'

My limbs tense and lock, all my strength turned against me, like a dragon swallowing its own fire. When our gazes meet, something passes, a quiet acknowledgement of dark halves we both despise. Briefly, I remember Volibear's comment about my refusal to claim lovers. In my position, Ashe would be a scourge upon daughters and mothers alike. Her appetite is plain to those who watch. Only tradition keeps her in check, while nothing stops me from discarding my current celibacy.

When Ashe talks again, her voice trips on each word. 'Of course, I would… never… do… that.' She winces. 'I would like to provide a warm bed, a meal and whatever medicine I have.' She fetches a bulging satchel. 'I took this from our stock and I've had no reason to look inside.'

'You're that good?'

'I don't like to brag. It's more that I have an iron gut, and if I can't live off the land, I panic.' She gently pushes me down. I wonder if she feels my heart, pumping through the crook of my shoulder. She appears to savour the loosening of each knot in my bootlace. 'We can't have your foot swelling up in here.' The throbbing ache seems to race in delight when freed of its malodorous prison. Ashe walks her fingertip from ankle to instep. 'Hmm, your skin is very flushed. I know it's probably sore but you've no signs of deep frostbite.' With a coy smile, she tilts her head. 'You can see the blonde hairs leading up to your big toe.' She brushes the sole. 'I'm jealous. Even with all this grime, you have really high, beautiful arches. Mine are a bit low. Too much walking, I guess.' Despite a cavalcade of silent objections, I'm swooning from her care. She lightly kisses the ball of my foot. Something in my response must have given her courage. 'Nothing looks broken apart from your nails. I may have to file them.'

'Do you…?' Thrown by her attention, I can't really speak.

'What? Like feet?' Ashe looks wistful. 'I just like women but I knew a… girl who liked my feet… silly thing.' She goes quiet.

'An old lover?'

'A… recent one.' She looks hard at me. Should I be jealous? I am, but I do like the idea of her spurning men, especially Tryndamere.

'Good,' I say. Her brow deepens at my response. 'You should ignore the petty rules of your tribe and quench your thirst.'

'You didn't see the mess I left her in.' Ashe wordlessly packs an abrasive poultice around my sprain.

'What do you mean?'

'Forget it!' She's punishing me by withdrawing her confidence. 'I don't want to hear you rhapsodise about what a great woman I am for torturing someone better.'

She roughly tosses a blanket over me then sets a fire going. I watch her turn a chunk of meat, already clean of blubber. Juice drips until a waxy, then charred, seal forms. Under the smell of burning flesh, I recognise the perfume and yellow flame of birch. It only grows in Ashe's territory. Countless raids upon her bountiful woods provided warmth and light for our banquets. I was never concerned with such fleeting pleasures but I sanctioned our many quests for timber as it encouraged our fighters and weakened our foes.

The power of the bright, smokeless fuel pales before the righteous blaze of Ashe. Her skin glows with passion. Her eyes glimmer, doors to the vast white plains of her cold, rational mind, all contained within womanly wonder… but she lives in fear and shame of her presence. Others leave no mark upon Valoran, while she tiptoes through corridors of paper, mourning every fold and footprint.

She deserves a world free of pathetic restraints. With a single blow, she could raze her venal house of cards. Instead, she chooses to carry it on her shoulders…

Just as Volibear carries me.

The battle for this land atrophies gradually from a clash of civilisations to a snake eating its own tail.

I'd save us all if I could.