Jarvan hadn't slept much that night.

The prince found himself staring at the stars for most of the evening, gazing into the darkened sky, his mind on his people and those he had left behind when he had journeyed out through Valoran. His mother and father had been his only real family, his grandfather having died and passed the throne to Jarvan Lightshield III, Prince Jarvan's father. Such a position hardly left much in the way of time to care for children and such petty things as the youth of kin. With unsettled issues hanging heavy on his heart, Jarvan had been thrust into the world of gladiator style combat training where he learned the art of war or die by his trainer's hand.

His first real trainer had been one of his grandfather's wards, a warrior from the Far East by the name of Xin Zhao. Jarvan would never be able to forget his first meeting with the dark haired Demacian warrior.

...

It had been a brisk morning, fog still rolling about the lower gardens of the Demacian Palace. A young Jarvan, barely into his teens, had been rousted from is bed by his caretaker, hurried into some training clothes, and then shoved out the door towards one of the many courtyards of the palace.

"Good morning, young master."

The man bowed in his direction, only the creases at the corners of his eyes showing the truth of how old he was and how much he had seen. Jarvan had eyed him carefully. He had seen the man before, escorting his grandfather to and from the many meetings he attended throughout the days. He had never been introduced to the man, but if he was trusted by his grandfather and his father, then Jarvan had to assume that he as well could trust him.

"'Ello…" Jarvan said, raising an eyebrow high as he eyed the man curiously. "Who are you?"

"My name is Xin Zhao. At the request of your father, today we will begin your martial training." He spoke with an odd accent. It was not one Jarvan recognized from the many different diplomats he had observed in the king's court. "Here."

Jarvan was barely able to catch the cloth armor jacket before it hit him upside the head. He looked at it briefly before sliding it over his head and shrugging the loose garment over his chest. He looked about for the spear that the man carried about with him. "Are we using lances?"

"A lance is a weapon for knights and those who wish to use the weapon for a range advantage. It is good for open combat on the fields of battle, allowing massive strikes and a deep defensive gap between you and your opponents." The warrior said blatantly. "For a duel, you will be forced to rely on your cunning, your speed and your reactions to negotiate the battle before you. A long sword such as this one-" He tapped the training weapon at his hip, "gives you all that you will need for now."

Jarvan nodded silently and took one of the matching weapon from a small rack that had been set up on one side of the courtyard. Xin Zhao nodded as the prince strapped the belt around his waist and returned to face the man directly.

"Draw your weapon."

Jarvan nodded at the command and pulled the sword from the sheath and looked to Xin. Jarvan fell back into what you could call a cat-stance, assuming what he thought was a good fighting stance. His sword was held vaguely in front of him, between himself and Xin. The Seneschal sighed as he drew his sword, the metal humming along the mouth of the sheath. He raised the gleaming blade high and bowed in salute.

"Let us begin."

…

"Again! Get on your feet!" Xin Zhao bellowed as the prince sat on the ground, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He was bloody from small cuts and bruises and sweat was pouring down his face. They had been at it for hours. The Seneschal had taught Jarvan the basic steps of a fight... initial thrust, parry, counterthrust... lunging, foot work... he was covering all the bases. Yet Jarvan just wasn't fast enough.

They say you can tell the skill of a swordsman when they first pick up the blade. Jarvan had been optimistic, hoping to tap into some unknown well of strength, but through hours of training, the young prince was still falling for the most basic tricks. He had heard many a tale of the swordsman of old; they were vigilant, swift and powerful. Jarvan was aggressive and reckless, but he didn't learn from his mistakes. He had recognized the little things that Xin would do, but with every lock of their blades, Jarvan would fall for the same tricks. He had a huge amount of fight left in him, despite his heaving chest.

Jarvan wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He struggled to his feet and returned the Seneschal's salute and settled into a dueling stance, one foot forward, the other back, approximately shoulder length apart. He lunged, Xin letting him coming, stepping backwards nimbly, just letting the edge of his blade strike the prince's outstretched blade. Jarvan tried again, but put too much emphasis into the motion of his arm and was left off balance. Xin stepped inside the arc of the prince's sword and brought the pommel upwards into the Jarvan's gut, sending him flying. He landed on his back, grasping for breath.

""Let us just be done with it." Xin said, turning. He had reacted instinctively, caught off guard by the brazen manner in which Jarvan had come at him, not meaning to strike the prince so hard. "You are a not a Lightshield, you are merely a boy."

"NO!" The prince gasped, using the scarred blade to pull himself to his feet. Xin Zhao frowned. What young Jarvan lacked in skill or swiftness, he made up for with tenacity and sheer force of will. "Again..." He could barely lift his sword to the salute. A cheer went up from around the courtyard. A large crowd of soldiers and officers, handmaidens and servants had formed, all watching their young prince fight valiantly, showing that he would never give up, despite the beating that the Seneschal was giving him. It was a testament to his strength and will power.

"Young Master..." Xin has begun to say. He stopped. The prince had his eyes closed.

"I will fight. I must fight. I am a Lightshield… A LIGHTSHIELD!"

Jarvan shivered as though someone had sent a shock down his spine.

There was a fire in Jarvan's soul when he finally opened his eyes. A glimmer that hadn't been there before. With every fall he took, every blow that he had taken, his will was growing stronger. His determination to live, to prove that he was worthy of his name, was giving him the strength he needed.

It was then that he saw a smile tug at the corner of Xin's mouth.

"Young Master, you're too soft for this sort of thing, we should-..." Jarvan dropped the decorum that Xin had instructed him on and launched himself forward, charging at him with new found energy. Xin raised his blade to block and was met with the humming ring of steel on steel.

"I AM A LIGHTSHEILD." The prince said through gritted teeth. With two hands, he raised his blade up and brought it down, hard, again and again and again. Though he barely came to Xin's shoulder, he could use the high strikes to set Xin off balance. Xin was surprised, the prince was really laying into him and he was being driven back. Xin grabbed his sheath, pulling it off his belt and stepped back, putting a gap between him and the mad blows. Taking advantage of the moment, Xin regained his footing and tried to counter attack.

As the glimmering steel blade arced towards him, Jarvan knew he was in trouble. His last strike had missed and had sent him stumbling forward right into Xin's range. He shut his eyes, his heart beat pounding in his ears as he screamed in his mind, his base fear and will exploding in his chest.

The blade never connected.

Jarvan opened his eyes and felt warmth surrounding him like the embrace of his mother. It was comforting and the look of shock on Xin's face told him that he had managed something that he shouldn't have been able to. Jarvan looked to the ground and saw that a brilliant light had exploded around him, driving Xin back. A shimmering blue wisp danced over Jarvan shoulder, circling around his like a protective sprit. A smile spread across his face as he recognized the lightshield he had summoned. The golden bubble dissipated, fading from sight, but the elation Jarvan felt could barely be contained within the small child's expression.

"I am a Lightshield!" Jarvan proclaimed happily. He looked to Xin, expecting some sort of approving gesture.

All he got was a boot to the chest.

…

Jarvan smiled to himself, indulging in the memory with a fondness that he hadn't maintained back then. He had been livid when he picked himself up of the ground in the courtyard, but he had been rewarded with a cheering crowd and a nod of approval from the strict master that Xin was turning out to be. That had been his first step towards the warrior tradition that had been passed down from Lightshield to Lightshield. In the many years that followed, he was trained as a leader of men, gradually gaining a command of his own and proving himself over and over in simulated combat and then real combat on the fields of battle.

There came a point where he had been out matched and out maneuvered though, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. A nightmare that had haunted him ever since.

Swain…

Jarvan closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose, willing Swain's face to depart from his mind for once, gracing him with a half decent night of sleep. He had enough troubles weighing on his mind now with just the most recent events hanging over him like a shadow he couldn't escape. He had spared the dragoness for reasons he couldn't fully understand, and he wondered if he would ever truly realize. It had been an impulse decision he had made in an instance, seeing something in her that he could only wish to see in himself. There were parts of himself that he had seen in her eyes in the first instance of their meeting.

Fear… confusion… a loss of purpose… He had seen all of them swimming around in those magenta eyes, hiding just behind a thin veil of anger. But even deeper down… there was a fire in her heart.

Sleep continued to evade him though, despite what he try to put his mind at ease. He suffered as he always had the image of Swains haunting red eyes hanging in front of him, looking down on him, accusingly, with both pity and malice deeply set in his gaze. That gaze continued to haunt him, terrorizing his conscious and eternally driving him mad. Jarvan heard a rustling along the smooth surface of the stone, the light pit-pat of bare feet moving about. He opened his eyes, only to find a pair of bright magenta eyes staring back at him. His voice caught in his throat, luckily catching the yelp he nearly emitted at the sight of Shyvana standing directly over him.

"What do you want?" He hissed quietly, willing his heart to slow itself from racing. He tried to keep his voice as low as he could, trying not to disturb the men. A guard was posted a short ways down the main staircase, where he had a clear view of the path as it wound through the stone mountains from the pass. They may have been somewhat alone, but his men were still asleep around the watch tower. Shyvana just stared at him though, her face hovering just in front of his, her hair teasing his nose and brushing against his check. She reached out towards his face, but he intercepted her hand before it came too close for comfort. He grabbed her about the wrist, keeping clear of the injured knuckles and fingers he had bandaged earlier as best he could, despite the blind move.

"Your face…" She whispered softly, her hand still hesitantly extended, her smaller arm still caught in his powerful grasp. As much as it unnerved him, she didn't oppose his grip, only wincing slightly when he accidentally applied too much pressure, his gaze uneasy. She didn't flinch though, her eyes still set on his cheek. He slowly released her hand, letting her fingers slide forward and brush along his cheek. He felt the sticky sting of the gashes she had carved on his face from earlier in the day.

"It doesn't bother me… I've become used to injuries like them." Jarvan said reassuringly, a bit of bravado lacing his voice, the rest stalwart honestly. Through his two years fighting and journeying in the wastelands, he had come to be used to all the little cuts and bruises that came with combat, and he had long ago been trained to not let such small things bother him. Such minor distractions could lead to disgrace or even death in battle.

"You are a curious one, Jarvan Lightshield IV." She said quietly, coming nearly nose to nose with him, staring deep into his eyes. A romantic notion came to mind but he dismissed it. He had no interest in such things right now, and he didn't wish to take advantage of her emotionally confused state. He couldn't say much more for his own emotional health, but he did have a set of values he would abide by.

"Jarvan is fine…" He said, staring up at her. "Just…. Jarvan."

"Shyvana…." She echoed, cocking her head slightly to the side, still staring at him with those haunting eyes. "…just Shyvana." He could hear a hint of something in her voice which he hadn't heard in a long times.

…playfulness? He couldn't even begin to recognize the emotion.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Jarvan asked, sighing, closing his eyes again, finding himself wishing that she would remove herself from his face. While attractive, he still had only just met the young half-dragoness and only hours previous she had been trying to kill him.

"Why have you come here?" Her voice had lost that hint, that something foreign to his ears that almost left him hopeful he would here it more. It had been replaced with the cold, dead inquisitiveness of a lost soul, someone searching for something, searching for anyone to give her a purpose, anyone to latch onto.

The same question, yet again…. Jarvan pushed himself up, Shyvana finally pulling back from his face, giving him a little breathing room at last. She stepped back over him, keeling at his side as he propped himself up with one arm, reexamining the dragoness as if for the first time. He put aside the fact that she had been trying to kill him and simply took in her appearance for a brief moment. The pale moon light left her skin with an eerie, almost blue tint to it, her hair a bright purplish hue in the blue desert moonlight. Her eyes shone a brilliant magenta though, standing out like beacons in the night, an almost inhuman quality to them. Jarvan smiled at his own joke, causing Shyvana to cock her head slightly to the side, confused at the gesture.

"Come, talk with me while." Jarvan said, getting slowly to his feet. "You never know…" He murmured, looking up into the sky again staring straight past the moon and into the heavens. "Maybe it'll calm your nerves and ease my tensions."

The stone was cold under foot, but the cool night air against the prince's bare skin was refreshing and invigorating. He had taken advantage of the rare situation of a protected location and had stripped down to just his uniform pants to sleep in for once. Underneath the armor, he had collected a motley collection of scars of his own, the true trophies of his combat beneath the Great Barrier. He pulled his boots on, grunting as he struggled with the left boot for several moments before finally managing to get his foot inside the cool leather. He tucked a knife into the cuff of the right one, and donned a roughhewn tunic against the brisk night air. Shyvana watched him rise, still kneeling where she had been before; her hands perched on her knees, just peeking out from the blanket wrapped over her shoulders.

Jarvan motioned for her to follow as he slowly made his way up the stairs to where Shyvana's father still lay. He respectfully passed the corpse though, just out of earshot of his men. The wind might carry their voices, but it wouldn't carry far enough to disturb anyone. Jarvan sat down carefully, perched on the edge of the monolith, his back to a pillar, his neck craned to look out over the Shuriman desert. Shyvana followed close behind him, stopping to look out over the desert for a brief moment. The prince motioned for her to sit, gesturing to another pillar with a broad sweeping gesture. The young dragoness looked at him for a few seconds and then with a cursory glance at the corpse, she clasped her eyes shut, turning her head away in pain. She sat down on the ledge, her feet dangling over the edge of the stone monolith, her hair blowing in the gentle night wind. She brushed it out of her face and tucked the untidy mess behind her ear. She pulled the rough blanket tighter around her, her legs kicking whimsically over the edge as is she didn't have a care in the world for once.

The image reminded Jarvan of the Demacian Academy school girls who had often tried to garner his attention during his rare moments of free time on the campus. It was a stark contrast though, the smudges of dirt accenting her face instead of makeup, the heavy burden of the loss of her father weighing on her shoulders where the school girls only had their books and studies to drag them down. Years of traditional education paled in comparison to the wisdom and knowledge that Shyvana's father had bestowed upon her. Jarvan had never been enticed by the women of Demacia, most of them too petty and too concerned with their looks with only the concerns of their middle class existence weighing on their minds. They desired Jarvan's power and wealth more than the prince himself. Everywhere he went, he was greeted with similar starry eyed looks.

Shyvana was by far more attractive in his eyes, though to many she might be nothing more than a beast that should be slain or returned to the wild. Jarvan had learned much in his travels though, slowly losing interest in the hunts, and gradually realizing he was seeking to learn from the prey rather than merely take their bones and scales as trophies.

The prince had learned stealth from the wild seeker beasts of the Plague Jungles, strength from the great ravager bison of the Tempest Flats, patience from the vicious Kumungu Saber Tigers as they tracked their prey, ingenuity from the striped Monkeys of the Uristan ruins… the list went on. He had been learning more as he hunted, taking the traits of the wild residents of Valoran.

This young half dragon, though…

When Jarvan had left Demacia, he was looking for atonement. He was looking for absolution from the guilt he felt for letting his men die due to his own stupidity and failure, hoping to find it in combat in Valoran.

He hadn't found his absolution yet.

However… what he had found was the motivation to go on; to keep fighting for his men, to never rest till he had vanquished his foes. It had lit a fire in his soul, but at times, this left him conflicted. He felt most alive when he was fighting for his life; he felt the passion of combat, the truth of his existence. His love to fight, it was in his blood. He had learned though, imparted from the wisdom of the Anubis, Nasus, that fighting didn't always lead to answers. He leaned back against the pillar, his mind lost in thought. Shyvana leaned over, perching her chin on Jarvan's knee, looking up at him. She stared at him for a few moments, as if she was waiting.

"It's strange…" Jarvan murmured, looking out over the Shurima desert, his memories drifting past his eyes. "But I think… I think you've taught me one of the most important lessons I was missing…"

Her eyes glowed in the moonlight, the image hinting at the beastly nature that resided behind the façade of a broken and lost young woman. Jarvan matched her stare for a long time, searching deep into those shimmering orbs of rose and magenta color. They stood out in the night, the fire that burned brightly in them unable to be hidden by the dull pains of the loss of her father.

There was something deep in those eyes that sent a shock up and down Jarvan's spine. Defiance.

"What could I have taught you?" Shyvana asked, confused. Her brow furrowed in thought, her eyes dropping away from his gaze to stare intently at a loose thread on the tunic that Jarvan wore. She looked up at him again, and caught him still staring at her. She blushed and glanced away from him. "My father taught me many things… but I've only just met you." She fell silent against, moving away from Jarvan slightly, sitting up again. "…how could I have taught you anything?"

"You defended your father against us… even though you could have never won."

"That's what you think." Shyvana said with a small giggle.

The laughter surprised Jarvan. It was a sound that had long eluded him, something he had never cared for back in Demacia. He had regarded children with vague disinterest, and he had paid no mind the giggle and flirtatious looks that he attracted when he strode through the corridors of the Academy. He had done his best to flaunt it, and when it served him, he could abuse it to get his way, but deep down he knew that the girls that gazed up him wanted one of two things: power or money. It was the desire that they could someday be the next queen and live out their days in the comfort of the Demacian Palace that drove them. It disgusted Jarvan to no end.

However, the sound that came from Shyvana as that playful spark returned to her eyes and voice, it was different. Genuine. Despite the fact that one could interpret the gesture as an idle threat, Jarvan dismissed it, wondering how he could coax more of that gorgeous sound from the girl.

Shyvana purposefully paid him no heed. She looked down to the sands of Shurima, the wind shaping and whipping the sands into something completely different than what they had just been. They swirled and rippled like an ocean that had become weary with life and has simply decided it was tired. The eerie blue cast of the moon further reinforced Jarvan's impression of a sleepy ocean.

"My father once told me though…" Shyvana continued to look out over the ocean of sand, a fond look slowly surfacing on her face. "You should never attack someone outright for any reason. Only defend those you love from the attacks of those blinded by ambition or emotion."

Those words struck Jarvan as odd at first. He had long followed blindly with the notion that he was fighting for some noble cause. He had been reared on the thought that all Noxians were his mortal enemies and that anyone who opposed Demacia's reign and expansion were in the wrong. It had never occurred to him that it could have been him and his people that could have been at fault. He furrowed his brow in thought as he tried to quell the niggling doubt that had gotten lodged in his mind.

Demacia was absolute though, it was the greatest of powers in Valoran bringing justice and freedom to all and… Jarvan paused. Why should anyone oppose us? We are only doing what is right… only what…

He paused again. The revelation rocked over him.

"What we see as true…" Jarvan spoke softly, his brow still knit in argument with himself.

"What one perceives as truth is not always the truth." Shyvana said softly. She looked almost content as she continued to stare out over the Shuriman desert. "Unlike the texts of tomes and the scriptures of civilizations past, the world can't be seen in black and white." She gestured out towards the desert with a broad sweep of her arm. "The world is awash with an infinite number of shade of greys and as many colors as one can imagine. The same can be said for people and their reasons. Absolute truth is an idea created by man to reassure his methods."

Jarvan smiled broadly as the realization Shyvana had instilled in him took over his thoughts. He didn't fight for Demacia, he fought for himself and for his own satisfaction and gain. No longer could he hide behind the veil of ideals and politics. There would come a time when Jarvan would be given the laurels of the rule of Demacia, and the responsibility that it carried. Until then, he could only work to keep those he cared for safe and to protect his country and his people. His duty was to his people, not the idea that Demacia was the sole absolute truth in life.

Jarvan looked back up and once again was face to face with Shyvana, her eyes looking deep into his. He tried to jump back, but the stone pillar behind him kept him from running from her. The tip of her nose was bare millimeters from his own and her bright eyes glimmered as she cocked her head slightly to the side, both curiosity and mischief sparkling behind those magnificent magenta orbs.

The pause between them continued to grow between them. "You look troubled, Jarvan."

"I… I…" Jarvan closed his eyes and calmed the chaotic swirl that was his mind. "Let me ask you a question."

Shyvana sat back on her haunches and cocked her head the opposite direction. "Proceed."

"Say you face an enemy that you have long been opposed to, but they have never personally wronged you." Shyvana paused but kept her rapt attention on Jarvan. "You're faced with a choice: do you continue to oppose them or do you just ignore them?"

Shyvana frowned as she thought.

"My father was the scholar, not I." She said with trepidation. "However, he did tell me something once." She laid down next to Jarvan, letting her head hang down over the ledge as she renewed her stares over the Shurima deserts.

"Shy-…" She pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for him to do the same. Jarvan creased his brow as took pause at the seemingly foolish gesture. Shyvana looked up at him and spitted him with a glare. He sighed and followed suit. He felt foolish as he scooted along the stone and lay out, his head hanging over the edge of the stone monolith. He looked out over the desert. It was odd to look at the world like this but he couldn't figure what he was supposed to be seeing.

"'Even if you turn the entire world upside down, the world will continue to spin'." Shyvana's voice was low and reverent. Jarvan could hear the tears welling in her eyes as she quoted her father's philosophy. "'So it is not our place to judge or render judgment, but it is our duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves from the unjust judgment of others'. My father watched and protected this pass for hundreds of years because of his beliefs. He was unlike men in that he possessed the wisdom to abhor war and strife, though he was no stranger to it. He survived the rune wars and he made it his goal to protect and prevent those dark times from ever resurfacing."

Jarvan watched the shifting sands with unease heavy on his chest. A heavy weight was crushing him slowly and as he sat here with this young Dragoness, he slowly began to feel that weight upon his chest ease. The bright eyes and optimism she seemed to embody in this unguarded moment belayed the body of her father that was not 30 feet away. It was refreshing.

Shyvana blinked away her tears as she sat up and looked to the carcass of her father. Jarvan sat upwards as well with a grunt of awkward exertion. He looked to her face and saw the innocence evaporate as something dangerous flashed in her eyes.

Anger is threatening those beliefs that her father held.

It simmered quickly and the fight drained from her eyes leaving her looking lost and sad, like she was afraid of the world around her.

The prince searched for something reassuring or comforting to say but he was at a loss for words. How exactly does one console a dragon?

Jarvan opened his mouth to say something, but his mouth was dry and the words didn't form when her eyes glazed over and tears began to fall down her cheeks.

Jarvan could fell, skin, gut and field strip a ravager bison without batting an eye. He had dueled the likes of the Frost Trolls to a standstill and nearly frozen to death in the wastes of the Freljord. He had taken on the likes of the great, multi-eyed Amethyst Wyrms of legend with nary more than a few acid burns to show for it.

But, faced with the tears of a young half-dragoness, Jarvan was at a complete loss.

She had been alone for so long, without the only person who had ever cared for her now gone from Runeterra. The pain and hardship must have been unbearable.

He began to reach out to put a hand reassuringly on her shoulder but paused, still at a loss. She looked at him as tears continued to well in her eyes and run down her cheeks, the brilliance in her magenta eyes dulled by the pain that afflicted her and now struck at him as well. Seeing her like this, it was almost too much to bear. Shyvana fell towards Jarvan as she burst in muted sobs, tears staining Jarvan's rough spun tunic. He looked down at the head of dirty red hair and the small convulsing shoulders. He placed a hand on either shoulder and simply let her cry against him wishing he knew what kind words he could offer to sooth the pain she felt.

She cried, and she cried, and she cried.