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Chapter 20

Icebreaker

"Ready? One…two…three!"

Like a battering ram, Ephrial and Braum smash the giant shield into the hilt of the gilded sword. With the blade sticking in the small space between two extremely large doors, acting like a lever, the hammering force pries the entrance open. The thick layer of Dark Ice cracks, echoing loudly through the abysmal hallway of frozen ruin. A gust of wind surges into the now unsealed room, as if filling a void long left untouched, inaccessible by even the air itself. Taking the sword back into his grip, the mercenary-knight heaves into the resistance of a frozen barrier in an attempt to widen the door's narrow opening. The burly man next to him shares his strength, pulling the door with his hands along the same direction.

Stymied efforts gradually prevail as the encasing ice fractures and submits to their combined strength, slowly grinding along the ground as it peels a layer of frost off of the floor. With an opening wide enough for them to both fit through, they squeeze past the broad doors as towering as the room itself. The entire wing of the building becomes a steeping angle, making a simple walk more of a climb, but providing a welcoming hint at getting closer to the surface as they cross one more gelid barrier.

Through another unified effort, engraved doors surrender the path ahead. Icy corruption covers the entire room, encasing two large staircases at the far end, and the large sum of bookshelves that press against the walls on all sides. Everything looks as if it was all paused in the middle a devastating confrontation. Above, one giant chandelier, surrounded by three smaller survivors out of four, illuminate the room like frozen lightbulbs. Centered in the large chamber is a statue of a gargantuan, long-extinct. A mammoth mightily poses with its forelegs off the ground and its trunk in the air, as if trumpeting in majestic fury. Chains thicker than Braum's shield, bearing icicles on each link, signify the massive strength of the ancient behemoth. Even the colossal tusks have tusks of their own, poised in sharp curves to maim and brutalize. It stands like a victorious centerpiece to the ornate room of lost books and artifacts.

From the wall above, between the stairways, a large mural stares down at them. It's a portrait of someone clearly prestigious and noble, dressed in luxurious attire and capped off with a regal cloak. A thick layer of scintillating frost covers her face, revealing no further distinguishable features other than the long, flowing hair of snowy white that drapes over her shoulder.

"This is…"

"Avarosa's throne?" Ephrial completes the speculative thought.

Even without much knowledge of the Freljord, it's rare to meet someone that is not familiar with Avarosa. Her name travels on with the legacy of the Avarosian tribe named after her, now carried on by Ashe through the very same bow. The Watchers themselves have been reduced to fairy tale, however, and viewed as a fictional telling of Avarosa's story. Yet, in a world where new creatures are discovered almost every month, those who follow the League at all know that nothing is ever simply just a story.

The half-blooded mercenary-knight spots a small pile of books on the floor, lying just outside a frigid slab of Dark Ice that preserves the shelves behind it. With slanting footsteps, he walks over and picks it up, keeping the pages open. Stiff paper and a brittle cover have kept together surprisingly well, maintaining a readable form with appropriately delicate handling. Years of isolation in an air-tight chamber of ice have conserved the literature like meat in an ice locker.

"The Freljord…it is like iceberg. So much on top, yet…so much more under the surface. I bet this one has many stories to tell, eh?" the shield-bearing native, looking at the magnificent creature towering before him.

"Not fun stories, by the looks of it. Apparently, those creatures found themselves commonplace in the war against these 'Watchers'. Seems they were used on both sides, creating for some extreme casualties," Ephrial skims through the text, hoping for some mention of his objective.

"It is sad when even the gentlest of our friends are used to fight each other," he gives a solemn pat to the poro at his heel.

"They can't be all that gentle if they are capable of killing droves of people at a time. The rules of nature can be…misleading. Perhaps this might not go for the Freljord, but in my experience in the past, if it's cute and fluffy…it's probably deadly," eyeing the poro out of the corner of his vision.

"Ephrial is scared of poros?" Braum raises an eyebrow.

"Not scared. Just…cautious. We've seen how big they can get when well-fed. They would practically get on the brink of bursting. What would poros feed on when poro snax just won't do anymore? I wouldn't be surprised if there was a giant one somewhere, ruling over its smaller brethren. A 'king of the poros' of some fashion."

"Hehehehaha! You have quite the imagination, friend!"

As the two are talking, the innocently curious poro begins sniffing the statue. It circles around, as if hoping to pick up a trail of food. The hungry creature comes to a patch of shards in the shape of an explosion caught in mid-impact, where Dark Ice crashed into True ice, and the two bodies froze in place together, long ago. Beady eyes look up to see a distorted reflection of itself in each of the crystalline shapes, startling the ball of fluff. With instincts kicking in, feeling frightened and outnumbered, the snowball darts in the opposite direction. Hasty hooves find themselves running straight into a lamp-like pedestal, unable to change direction in time. The little horns slam into the stand, knocking the silver, decorative piece over.

With a loud crack, the deafening sound echoes around the room, dragging out as the very soundwaves are trapped within the walls. The champions' attention snaps toward the origin of the reverberation, seeing a puffball shake off the dizziness and return their gaze with a harmless, guiltless look, sticking its disproportionally-large tongue out.

The accident is not without a discovery, however. A grinding sound of something smooth rolling over a rough surface grasps their awareness, bringing their eyes to a spherical object. Ephrial is instantly struck with suspicion, drawing closer to it. As he approaches the simple object, he sees a fluctuation of light within the orb. He picks it up, bringing the relic closer to a scrutinizing, glacial gaze.

Upon inspection, he sees more than just a ball of True Ice with a thin band of gold forming an incomplete spiral around it. The inside is as alive as the first hallway of the underground palace, light moving and swirling inside as if it had taken a liquid state. Only this possesses more colors of the spectrum, taking more of a controlled form. The warm, gentle array of hues brings a realization to mind—it is the Northern Lights in a perfectly round container, like a spin on the concept of a ship in a bottle. According to Zilean, it has no special function, but it is clearly a sight to behold. It is no wonder why Ashe has spent a great deal of time and resources to locate such a marveling piece of her history.

"This is…"

"You found it? Way to go, Ephrial!" Braum lets out another cheery laughter. "You are real Freljordian treasure hunter now!"

The orb, despite being made of True ice, feels tepid instead of cold, emitting a subtle warmth. Ephrial's grip on it hardens slightly, feeling the heft of the object as the weight of a responsibility. Her fate is quite literally in his hands now.

A loud snap from above interrupts the heavy contemplation. The pair look up to see a crack in the colossal statue become a large fissure, running down the back of the ancient creature. The sundering trail of the ice ceases for a moment of silence, aside from the cold echoes that follow; a ticking pace like a clock, building anticipation.

The sculpture erupts with the force of a storm, knocking the adventurers off of their feet, scattering them aside in the wake of the shockwave. A terrifying sound thunders, and the weight of the statue's airborne half hits the ground, creating a miniature earthquake inside the room. With heavily-invoked alarm, the two men look up from the ground to see that the mythical beast is no mere carving.

As if aware of their presence, the powerful figure slowly turns around. A living, breathing machine of destruction gives a cold stare with only one eye, glowing red with murderous intent. The monster is mostly flesh, but the front legs, up to the shoulders, form into Dark Ice. Slowly materializing out of the dry air, as if forcefully ripping moisture from the solid state of the frozen surroundings, two pairs of additional limbs form at its side. Unlike the elephantine appendages, these additional arms have four-fingered claws, similar to that of the previous threat. The bizarre display can only be described as a cyclops mammoth that is part ice—an abomination born of corrupted magic.

"Another victim of the Watchers?" Braum arches his head backwards at the altitude of the mountainous creature.

"Nothing in the Freljord is just ice, is it?"

A sound once lost to time trumpets at them with a tumultuous roar, and the champions of the League find themselves in an overwhelming battle once again. The scorching sword and earthshattering shield raise in vigilance.

Primal instinct drives the beast forward at them, tusks poised down for obliteration. The pair of fighters dive out of the way in opposite directions, splitting the attention of the archaic behemoth. Lively flames brimming with light and heat call strongly the focus of the corrupt puppet of the Watchers. Clumsy, destructive feet stampede towards him, destroying one of the staircases as it turns toward Ephrial. Relentless pursuit of blind rage chases the swordsman along the side of the room, its left tusks scraping through the bookcases and walls, wreaking havoc on the sleeping ruins. The slant of the room works in the mercenary's favor, yet only in the short run as it allows the beast to gain more speed and momentum itself.

"Ephrial!" the Freljordian beacons him. "Like basketball!"

Braum primes his shield to launch Ephrial airborne like he did before, clearly misunderstanding the specific part of their previous assault's relevance to the sport. The mercenary springboards off the near-unbreakable shield, bounding high with a combined strength to one of the smaller chandeliers above. The mustached strongman leaps sideways; a near-miss with the raging mammal.

Discerning eyes scan the room, looking for some sort of advantage or environmental hazard to use against the corrupted beast. Below him, the two giants play the dangerous roles of matador and bull. Before Ephrial can put together an idea, the cyclops smashes head-first into a wall, causing the area to quake, and shake loose the swordsman's perch.

The frozen chandelier descends rapidly, and the nimble mercenary leaps off just before it crashes into the ground behind him. A hard landing on the smooth floor of magical ice causes him to lose his grip on the Eye of Avarosa. With a taunting pace, the orb slowly rolls toward the beast as it recovers to its gelid feet, shaking the rubble off of its head before turning back toward the fiery beacon.

Ephrial's gaze shifts from the mammoth back to his objective, knowing that if it is destroyed, so are his endeavors. That relic must be…she must be saved—at any cost.

Absent of hesitation, Ephrial springs to his feet and dashes towards the dusky face of death itself. In a race of man versus beast, the figures rush forward, icicles falling around them with every quaking step of the tremendous monster. The mercenary-knight scoops up the Eye with his free hand, immediately jumping up and over an ivory tool of destruction. A narrow escape becomes even slimmer, veering his body toward the side as giant limbs of ice sweep in for an attempt at fatal blow. In a split second of confusion, Ephrial finds himself speeding across the ice without moving his legs, after landing on a moving platform. With an extremely well-timed throw, Braum had thrown his shield across the floor, allowing the swordsman to transverse the terrain without harm as the ice-shattering weight of the mammoth tramples past.

"Nice throw," Ephrial acknowledges, looking over his shoulder.

The bestial creature of ancient times switches targets, setting its enraged eye on the unarmed Freljordian in front of him.

Maintaining his hard-tempered calmness, Ephrial snowboards to a grinding halt, stopping himself and the shield with one foot. Turning an innovative idea into another, he sets a course for a return. Anything thrown at him, observed, or survived can only make him stronger. Better. More clever. Such has always been his trial since childhood. No room for hesitation, nor for weakness. Fight harder, fight smarter, and never give up. It was the only way to ever survive Noxus…the only way to be strong enough for two.

A quick glance at the orb, glowing balmy in his hands, and a familiar feeling washes over him. In this moment, he must be strong enough to fight for another who cannot fight for her own life here.

"My turn!" the passionate blade flares, raising up high, then sweeps low like a hockey stick.

The mighty swing sends the massive shield sliding back towards its owner—a fiery propulsion with an icy projectile. With gauged intent, the protective armament catches the footstep of the stampeding mammoth, causing it to slip and lose balance. The shield is sent flying forward with the stumbling behemoth. Like a small avalanche, the beast crashes to the floor, grinding forward along with the momentum.

Braum leaps into the air to catch his shield, turning into a weapon again as he primes it for a heavy smash. As the Watchers' mammoth slides toward him, he slams his shield down on the base of one of its tusks. The powerful strike causes the ivory to shatter, severing the enormous tooth from the body.

A loud cry tears the air, causing the littering rubble to visibly vibrate off of the ground. Bellowing and trumpeting, the ancient creature rises in pain before tensing its body to hold itself still. Like before, a mist of ice begins materializing, taking the form of the separated tusk. With an angry glare, it stares at Braum with intensity.

A victorious grin turns sour, and the Freljordian tucks himself behind his shield for cover.

"This thing can reform itself?" Ephrial takes a step forward, pocketing the orb and rethinking a strategy.

A frosty trunk lifts into the air, preparing to strike downward with the force of well-over forty-thousand muscles of mythic might. With time being a swiftly dissolving resource, the mercenary-knight reaches for the creature's attention with a piercing sound. Using the orb's silver-plated pedestal as tuning fork, he picks it up and bangs it against his blade, creating an even higher pitch than the one that had awoken the beast.

The brutal trunk loses its form as another roar of pain echoes out. Parts of its body begin to turn to ice, forming patches in random places that were once flesh and fur. A vengeful eye shoots in Ephrial's direction, and turns to charge him without regard to its surroundings. Instead of running, the half-blood holds his ground, waiting with a calculating mind.

"Didn't like that, huh? I guess you're not going to like this, either…"

He counts in his mind, preparing for the perfect timing. Three…two…one...! A fiery streak soars skyward, shattering the chain that holds a massive, articulately-crafted chandelier up. With the sound of a raging waterfall, numerous shards of decorative ice cascades onto the berserk creature. The enormous figure disappears into a thick cloud of frigid mist, swarming the scene like a violent blizzard.

A few moments of anxious breaths and silence slip by, and the question on the warriors' minds is answered by a furious bellowing. Rising up from the wreckage of dark and light ice, primeval wrath explodes free, trunk exalted in the air as a testament to its immense size and power.

Braum leaps towards Ephrial, covering him from a maiming tusk with his shield, pushing his raw strength to the limit. The three combatants find themselves in a dance of turn-based attacks. As the mammoth opens an onslaught of rapid thrashing, forcing its prey back with every strike, the Heart of the Freljord and mercenary-knight alternate between each other.

With the trunk and tusks swiping at them, Braum takes the front, breaking the impacts with his shield. As the cyclops claws at them with its almost-humanoid hands, trying to tear the barrier from the Freljordian's grip, Ephrial swaps places. The seething blade strikes the icy appendages down with blazing alloy, before switching roles again as the creature buys time for them to reform.

The teamwork-based strategy holds an effective defense, but that is all it is—a defensive set of maneuvers. Each strike is another step of ground lost, nearing them to the edge of the room with their backs nearly pressed against the wall. Without a convenient Flash spell, or an aiding set of allies to get them out of their cornered position, the two resort to the only method left in their options. They turn to the offensive.

Another ear-splitting song on the thin pedestal, and the ancient creature flinches, giving them a much-needed opening to counter. Braum wastes no time running up the trunk to slam his shield flat into the face of his enemy. Ephrial deftly leaps over his shoulder, planting his blade into the giant skull.

Wincing and writhing in pain, the mammoth reels upward, throwing Braum aside. The swordsman holds on tightly, swinging back and forth like a bull rider, only far more fiercely. With an audible crack, the mercenary-knight flings to the other side of the room. He speedily slides across frost and icy rubble, roughly skidding through trampled flooring.

Bruised and battered, he lifts his head up, supporting part of his weight on his arm as he lies prone. A glowing orb bounces forward, rolling between him and his ancient foe, just like before. The moment of déjà vu causes heavy thoughts to descend upon Ephrial's mind.

"Again? Does history really need to repeat itself? Always so blatant…always so soon…? For every action, there is a reaction… Every time I try to fight for someone…someone else, or something, always stands in the way, just to take them from me. My mother…father...my sister… Even my fellow 'mercenary-knights', and Zelos, too… And now…this time…"

Teeth clench in a heated resolve. He rises to his feet, without moving his vision away from the red stare, preparing to charge at him once more. A burning marine gaze pierces back, and the fervorous flames begin to stir into a concentrated inferno, almost fully concealing the blade from sight. His voice brims with the determination his weapon reflects.

"No. Not this time…!"

The beast, enraged by a deep gash in its forehead, begins a full-force stampede, rushing toward the swordsman with all of its might and momentum. Ephrial merely walks forward, his weariness overtaken by the extreme zeal inside of him.

"I don't care what form you assume. I don't care how big you get. It doesn't matter how many parts you regenerate."

Step by step, he strides forward, blood running down his arm and the side of his face. The trembling of the ground grows closer, burgeoning stronger with each pace.

"I won't run. I won't hide. I won't stop."

A ferocious roar trumpets from ahead, tusks poising themselves.

"Everything you've taken from me…I'll take back, one way or another!"

He tosses the slim, decorative stand in front of himself, sending it soaring in a fiery flash. The metal-on-metal collision of his sword against the pedestal propels the high-pitched frequency, sending it cutting through the air ahead. Like a shrill spear, it plunges into the creature's head wound, directly spreading the reverberations throughout its entire body. The gargantuan monster's momentum begins slowing as patches of ice grow swiftly around its frame. A single tone of an ear-ringing note turns the rampaging trumpet into a silent statue once more. The solidifying colossus grinds to a frozen halt, just short of a relic more precious than its history, as it now holds a purpose for a valuable future.

Ephrial's slow pace breaks only to pick up the orb, then resumes to walk a straight path forward. His voice almost seems to have an echo all by itself, amidst the monotone ringing still bouncing along the walls.

"I can't change the past…not all of it. Not mine. Not anyone else's."

His blade flashes elegantly and precisely all around himself, as his arm blurs with each strike. Wide slashes glint in nearly every direction, yet unaffecting the form of a simple, almost casual, walk; a solid display of the speed and form that has even kept up with mastered Wuju. Streaks of flame sear through the legs and body of the titan he walks under, yet not leaving even the slightest sign of fracture in the icy effigy.

"You have captured history for yourself… You can keep it. What I will seize is the future."

Ephrial's words cut through the shrill pitch, and hang in the air.

"I'll make sure you remain buried in the past, never to repeat again. So long as I breathe, there will be only one word to describe you…"

The Blazing swordsman walks out and past the shadow of the elephantine corruption, sheathing the searing flames of harmonized fervor. The sharp tone of the improvised decoration finally dies off, and a short silence betides over the room, as if time has stopped for a brief moment.

"Extinct."

As the vapor of his breath in the frosty air fades, the monolithic cyclops of Dark Ice shatters into oblivion. Shards and lumps of frosty matter collapse into a maelstrom of powder and frozen debris. Just like that, the foe of ancient origin stands no longer, once again, lost to the pages of forgotten tomes and folklore.

Braum, in a mixture of alarm and astonishment, keeps a slight distance as he speaks.

"Are you…uh…okay…Ephrial?"

A pause before answering, as if cooling down. With the hint of a subtle echo in his voice gone, he replies stoically.

"I'm just…tired… Tired of a cursed fate."

"Your enemy is…fate?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Fate can be…tricky thing," he approaches Ephrial in an attempt to understand. "It is not something that can be…cut."

"You're right…but whatever obstacle it puts it my way is a different story."

A slow, almost sarcastic clapping echoes from above. Looking at the balcony atop the demolished stairs, the two spot a figure peering down at them. Leaning against the rail is a female figure, shrouded in a concealing black garb. What little skin showing on her face is a distinct tint of blue, like flesh and ice melded together.

"Bravo. Bravo, indeed… This is most unexpected," a chilly voice calls out. "When I was sent to retrieve the legendary war-beast that lay dormant here, I did not expect visitors, much less for it to have fallen so easily to them. Stories really do embellish the truth over time."

"Retrieve…?" Ephrial ponders her meaning, detecting the trace of hostile intent in her voice. "Sorry if we've broken a toy of yours."

A sinister chortle forms a grin beneath her hood. "That is quite alright, seeing as you have prepared a suitable replacement of value for my Queen."

The mercenary-knight feels the clandestine eyes above shift to the ancient relic in his hand. He pulls it behind himself and takes an assertive step forward, obstructing her view of the object.

"Sorry. I saw it first."

"Oh, I had no intention of merely asking you for it. It is ours by right. All articles of Freljord's history tie back to us. That artifact—nay, that trophy, is coming home."

As if on cue, fate presents Ephrial with yet another obstacle—another cold grip attempting to pry hope from his very hands. With vehement resolve, pushing through the pain of a strenuous sequence of events, he faces the next turn of the repetitive cycle with a fiery stare.

"Come and get it."