… I have been looking

steadily at these elms

and seen the process that creates

the writhing, stationary tree

is torment, and have understood

it will make no forms but twisted forms.

Elms (Louise Glück)

THREE MONTHS LATER…

It is difficult to fully define what type of trauma Darius suffered under Alexander de Croix. Certainly, one could argue that it was more of a physical sort, because he had been thrown about for a good five weeks before the spider had decided to break his bones repeatedly, and after every session his fellow candidates would hold him down and pummel him until he was unconscious. One could also argue that it was more of a psychological assault, because the beatings had been random, and Darius had felt like a hunted thing that could not sleep and think, and after his bones had been broken, he had been healed up before it would be broken again.

Regardless if it was psychological or physical, the fact of the matter remained that he did not feel like himself anymore.

A full three months had passed since Alexander de Croix had met his end at the blades of Chief di Castellamonte. An inquiry had been held within the first week: both the Chief and her candidate had been absolved of all blame by the end of it, despite protests and repeated calls for another inquiry by the House of Croix. It would have certainly have resulted in another feud if it wasn't for the fact that the Houses of Strongbow, Montpelier and Montfort had risen up in support of their respective scions and of the House of Castellamonte- the lesser nobility, it seemed, looked after its own. The grudge festered in the House of Croix because Maynard was still Head of House, but there would be no trouble for the next few years at least, not with four Houses standing with each other. As far as politics went, it was rather piddling to have four lesser Houses banding against a more prestigious one, and so nothing really changed in the political landscape of Noxus.

Darius had spent a whole three weeks in the infirmary trying to deal with the concept of being whole and yet not. The physical aspect was easy enough- he had been healed before the spider had died, and so there was really nothing wrong with him. He could still exercise without feeling any pain, could go through his drills without any complaint and keep up his regimen throughout his rehabilitation. It was the mental aspect that was difficult for him- he had never been one to trust easily, and he had always been so stubborn in his ways and reticent about his own feelings.

For the first week, despite repeated attempts by Conrad and the rest of the infirmary staff; Darius kept sullen and quiet, resorting to violence when pressed. He did not want to talk about his experiences at all, and would huddle resentfully in his cot like a child being punished until Conrad finally gave up and ranted to Chief di Castellamonte about her 'fucking blockheaded favorite candidate'.

After that, at the end of the day when exercises were finished for all the standards, Chief di Castellamonte would come in from the field and talk to him. Unlike any other person, she did not press him to talk about what he had experienced; she did not ask how he was feeling or if he was having dreams. She simply sat down next to his bed and talked to him about the weather, about his education, about the other candidates in Dominance, about how the food in the infirmary was and on his axe-work and if he was still exercising, and it was a welcome change for everyone when Darius finally decided to open his mouth by the end of the second week and admit that he had felt scared out of his mind when he was being tortured, that he had wanted to weep but could not when he had been pinned down by his fellow candidates, that he wanted to stop dreaming about gnashing teeth and grinning skulls and a soft white light that never stopped to haunt him.

Suffering from an acute attack of guilt, Conrad had nothing to say on how to help Darius at that point, because he had previously told the young man to ignore his discomfort. Chief di Castellamonte had ordered him to keep busy, and informed him that everything had happened in the past- there was no point in letting it decide his future- he either learned from the experience or failed because of it.

It was during the third day of the second week that di Castellamonte took the time to talk to him about his parents. He would remember that day forever, like a brand burnt onto his flesh. The summer heat was giving way to cooler winds, and the dark monsoon clouds were gathering in the distance.

Earlier that day, Conrad had had done some blood tests and had measured Darius' height, weight and muscle mass because the younger man was getting taller and bulkier even if he hadn't changed his intake in weeks. Results in hand, the hospitalman shrewdly determined that Darius' growth was a result of the peculiarities of Alexander's magic. Apparently, having his bones broken and then healed repeatedly had evidently made Darius stronger, and the rest of his body that had been left relatively untouched had only flourished with the healing magic.

When the Chief went into the infirmary that cool afternoon then, there was an aura of delight inside the ward: Conrad was practically tittering with glee at his results, and Darius was feeling slightly better about his torment even if there were still hollows under his eyes and a worn and tired expression on his face.

"Good afternoon, Chief." Darius had greeted her when he saw her. She pulled the black and red peaked hat off her head- by some unspoken agreement between the instructors; they had all decided to change into their monsoon attire and now she was wearing a water-resistant leather coat over her usual ensemble- and then had returned his greeting with a casual nod.

"Candidate," She had said smoothly as she took her customary place by his bed. "I heard that you've become something of a superhuman."

"Not at all, ma'm." Darius had replied rather sheepishly.

They sat in silence then. Di Castellamonte seemed to be content to simply sit and watch him impassively. Darius on the other hand had been sitting on a question that had been eating away at him since Conrad had first called the Chief Instructor to the infirmary.

"Ma'm, may this candidate ask a question?" He had asked after some time.

"You may." She had replied as she placed the peaked cap on top of her knees. She could have been a very convincing statue at that moment: there was not a single strand of hair out of place on her head; her clothes were absolutely impeccable even if she had just come from the field; her eyes were staring down at him without any sort of real emotion.

"This candidate is… mildly curious why the Chief Instructor is here," Darius had said awkwardly. As her expression never changed, he had tried to not quail under her unemotional stare. "Rather… excuse me for my rudeness but I just… why are you here, Chief Instructor?"

He had braced himself for her retaliatory strike- he had felt that he did not address her as well as he thought he could have- but she had excused his impudence.

"Did your father ever… talk about me?" She had tilted her head at him, a shadow of an emotion on her face.

Darius had shaken his head.

"I see." Her voice was calm, but her eyes were still roiling with that emotion.

Darius had found himself pondering on the emotion that he was seeing in her as she seemed to debate on her next words.

Darius couldn't quite pin the emotion to something at that point- was it regret? It seemed too raw to be regret. Jealousy then? That was too much of a petty emotion, he did not think that the Chief would be so base. Was it sorrow? She did not seem depressed. Was it anger? The feeling did not seem right for her. In the way of people who placed others on a pedestal, he found that he couldn't imagine her having any other emotion other than a sort of cold and distant pride.

"He never did tell you, of course. That was his way." Chief di Castellamonte's lip had twisted into a frown. It was a familiar expression; she had always frowned at them all, but her frowns had always looked slapped on, wooden. This frown was different now, because that mysterious emotion had suddenly given it depth. Her next words had sounded as if she was asking herself rather than the candidate in front of her. "I expected that, but why do I still feel surprised?"

Darius realized then that what she was practically broadcasting was raw and unadulterated spite. It was a strange thing to see her so filled with emotion, particularly one so childish- he had always seen her with nothing in her eyes and in her harsh voice.

"Did… did you know him?" Darius ventured meekly.

"Knew him? I loved him." She had given a grim chuckle as she had reared back and stared up at the ceiling. Darius had watched her throat, he didn't know why he was doing it but he did, and he saw a long and white scar on her neck stretch gently with every word that emerged from her mouth. "Ah, perhaps I still do."

He had no idea what to think then. Chief di Castellamonte having some sort of past with his father certainly did explain her intervention against de Croix and the constant visitations better than thinking that she felt responsible for him, but then again- with that emotion behind her eyes, it was glaringly obvious that his father had inflicted sort of wound and he had absolutely no idea what it was because Hystaspes had never been talkative about himself- war stories he had aplenty, personal tales he did not.

"What do you know of your parents, candidate?" The Chief seemed at that point to have aged immensely.

It occurred to Darius then that he never really knew his parents.

He had always seen his parents as perfect and unquestionable: his mother was ever-patient; his father had always been strong. His mistake all those years ago had taken them away from him before he had become mature enough to see Hystaspes and Athenais as people instead of gods, and now he was faced with a woman- former lover, admirer, stalking spinster, he wasn't quite sure- who seemed to know his parents' intimate secrets. It was disconcerting, but at the same time he found himself wanting to hear more about two people he had spent a majority of his life with but did not truly know.

"Not much," He had admitted somewhat shamefully.

"Well. That is rather irresponsible of the two of them," And she had leaned back into her chair, relaxing for the first time in weeks it seemed. "And I will correct that. I suppose that we should begin with your father. Wolfman, that was what the Demacians called him, owing to his controlled ferocity and dogged resilience- no matter what they did, he would still remain standing… that is, until they cut his leg out from underneath him. I suppose they do have a sense of humor." She had looked down at him, still such a statue with her straight back and her rough voice. "The Wolf's Pit here was named after him."

"Did he attend the Academy?" Darius had tilted his head.

"No." She had replied with a sort of strange smile that did not quite fit on her face. "He didn't think that he needed it, even if he had absolutely nothing to his name until he was conscripted. After which he displayed an immeasurable bravery on the field."

Darius had found himself staring at her curiously. He could not imagine his father refusing to attend the best military academy in the entire city-state. The older man had always been opportunistic, had always encouraged his sons to seize initiative and to take whatever offer for a better life they could possibly have. This was a side of the man that he had no idea about, and to compound his bemusement, the woman in front of him sounded as if she was talking about someone else entirely.

"How did you… come to know him?" Darius had probed.

"As a blademaster under his command, Commander du Couteau allowed me to serve on the front lines with the rest of the infantry- he understood my need to seek glory and honor for my House." She had caught his questioning gaze then, because she had continued. "Though I was trained by the Commander himself to mimic his fast step, I am not an assassin; I did not want to remain in the shadows like a skulking pathetic thing. There is no glory to be found in the dark, no accolades for those who tread in the night."

"You fought beside my father then." Darius had pointed out. He had heard his father's stories but he had wanted to hear about his own father from someone else who clearly knew more about him than his own son. "How was he, as a warrior?"

"At the second battle of Baden, at Mogron Pass, at Jacob's Ford- I can name several more battles but those three were the most worthy to note." Di Castellamonte had chosen to elaborate further. "Your father was Noxus' finest, one of the most ruthless and bloody axe-wielders on this pitiful earth, aside from Sion and Urgot. But unlike Sion, your father knew how to control his anger. And unlike Urgot, your father knew caution. I suppose that is why he only lost his leg, rather than his hands or his sense of self-perseveration. As our bloody engagements increased, I found myself… admiring him, and… I will not say more."

Darius shifted uneasily in his seat. Of course, it should have occurred to him that his father would have had others before his mother, but to have that person in front of him- he didn't know what to feel, or do, or even say.

"And your mother," Di Castellamonte had let out a vindictive sigh- obviously she did not want to talk about the person she perceived to be the other woman. "What do you know of your mother? Do you know what she did during her conscription?"

"She didn't want me to know." He had said uncomfortably, somehow managing to both regret and look forward to every passing second of their conversation with a sort of bizarre curiosity.

"She served under Commander du Couteau, as I did." Chief di Castellamonte had tilted her head at him, utterly shameless as she elaborated on another target for her ire. "Not as a blademaster, but as a spy. Her talents lay in subterfuge and trickery- not in the fast step, not in knife work or in glorious battle. Still, she was a wily one; there were times that a battle would be certain to go awry, and then she would be sent to the field: to coerce, to infiltrate, to do whatever it took for the odds to be weighed towards a Noxian victory."

Darius had remembered the day of the execution, had remembered the red-haired man in the balcony who was cradling a two year old child in his arms. His mother had upon that person with veneration in her eyes and the man had given her a heavily-veiled smile. He had wondered how the man would look like now and came to the conclusion that not much would have changed; it would only have been two years or three at most. The child would be taller now, and would stand perhaps at his hip instead of his knee.

"He was at the execution." Darius had found himself saying. "That Commander."

"Yes, she was everyone's favorite." And di Castellamonte's tone then was sardonic and black. "Why he felt her deserving of his presence, I do not know. She failed him."

"Ma'm." Darius had said, purely because he had nothing else to say.

"Simply think," She had begun with a wistful tone in her voice, indulging in a possible future that only she could understand. "What could have been, if your father had only listened to me, hm? You would have had a House name when you were born- he was so close to having one before he left the field- and a better life."

"If he had listened to you…?" Darius had asked her, half-anxious and half-excited to know what exactly she meant.

"'The Wolfman was being an emotional fool', that was what we all thought. I called him worse names." Di Castellamonte had stated. "It was a disgrace, I told him so, to throw away everything he had for that failure of a spy, but he took my insults in stride. He never did listen to anyone but your mother, never did place anyone else's opinion above his own. I did not believe him when he told me that he would be leaving the military for her. Instead of seeking glory with me, as he should have done, he retired once your mother's conscription was over. And then you were born," She had given a laugh that did not fit her face and her tone of voice. "And now you are here, and they are dead, and I find myself seeing the two of them in you. It is such a strange feeling, candidate, to be seeing both of them in one person."

"I'm… I'm not sure I understand, ma'm." The walking result of what the Chief perceived as Hystaspes' and Athenais' mistake had said sheepishly.

"Did they ever tell you how they met?"

Darius shook his head.

"At a certain place, at a certain time, your mother was caught by Demacians. Her mission had been successful, but she had been intercepted on her way back to her rendezvous point." Di Castellamonte had looked to be reciting from a book, albeit a book that seemed to give her a paper cut every time she finished a word. "She refused to bend, of course. That is our way. The Demacians tortured her for her silence, then strung her about the branches of a tree and left her to die as an example to other Noxian spies. Your father was patrolling that stretch of the woods, and he found her. By all rights, he should have put her to the knife. It would have been better for everyone if he did and even your mother begged for him to do so. But no, he picked her up and took her back behind our lines, and then everything simply went… out of control."

"Out of control?" Darius had echoed, feeling more confused than ever.

"Why would you spare a spy who was caught?" Her voice had been filled with nothing but animosity; her eyes had been beseeching him for some sort of explanation that he could never procure. "It absolutely confounds me, candidate, until this day: why did he even take pity on her when our way is to grant honorable death? Why did he let her live when she herself begged for release?"

"I don't know." Darius had said awkwardly. Not for the first time since their deaths, he wished vainly that his parents were still alive, if only to explain to him why Chief di Castellamonte was so spiteful.

It was difficult to imagine that they were talking about the same people. Darius only knew the gruff man he called father, the calm woman he called mother. She only remembered the woman she had called her rival, it seemed, and the man she had once called her… whatever it was that she called him: battle brother, lover, role model, everything.

Steeped in thought of their different shared pasts with the same people, Darius tried to remember his childhood while she stared far away at some memory only she could see. The silence was an understanding of the radical differences that Hystaspes the man, Hystaspes the warrior and Hystaspes the father had been for the two of them, of the perplexing enigma that was Athenais the woman, Athenais the spy and Athenais the mother.

"I never saw my father use his battle axe." Darius had mused out loud despite a mysterious ache in his chest. He was uncertain as to why he was talking about such in front of Chief di Castellamonte, but he wanted to say it anyway. "Not once."

"He traded his skill with it for a butcher's knife, or a miner's pick, or a woodcutter's saw- whatever it was that he did afterwards." She had said dismissively. "Such a waste of talent- he could have returned to us at any time, but he chose to… deteriorate in that disgusting hole in the ground. He could have lived better."

"But he was always proud of it." Darius had added, and the memories of the massive man regaling him and Draven with tales of his exploits as his mother cooked in the kitchen and reminded him to wash his hands bubbled to the surface- slightly lopsided teeth, big smile and crinkled eyes.

"Hanging up on the wall, rusting away like his martial skill." This defense of his father's choice too she had dismissed.

"And he never stopped reminding my brother and me about what it stood for." He had ventured, even as flashes of bygone days moved through his mind: of afternoons spent in imaginary battlefields, climbing over and ducking under his father's bulk, tapping on his wooden leg and pulling at his beard.

"His expertise, thrown away into the gutter for the sake of some absurd emotion and some… random bint." She had sniffed disdainfully. "Given enough training here, you would not be that weak, I think."

"Weak?" He had echoed uncertainly, the memories whittled back into nothing.

"Ah, that is a different matter entirely, one that he always reminded me of. What did he tell you about love, candidate?"

"That it was a confusing word." He had said almost childishly.

She threw back her head and gave a hoarse laugh. Darius had squirmed uncertainly. This had been her second laugh thus far, and it was still so strange to watch and to listen to- it was bitter and filled with a wound inflicted before his time that had obviously festered into something gangrenous.

"Senior Instructor?" He had ventured.

"A 'confusing word'." She had breathed out in between chuckles. "Candidate, it is not at all confusing. It is extremely simple: love is a weakness, and it will either kill you, or the one that you supposedly love. The only thing you can love, without repercussion, without strife, is your state."

He had eyed her hesitantly and then had decided to point out her earlier remark simply because he was still so confused and he had wanted to know what was so wrong with everything. "… But you mentioned that you loved him."

"And I was a fool to do so." She had replied primly- obviously she had excused his impudence for the nth time. "Even gods make mistakes, candidate."

He had absolutely no idea what to say to that- really, the entire conversation was extremely uncomfortable for him.

"But, you are here now." She had said, almost to herself. "Mistakes can be repaired, weakness hammered out."

"I don't think… I don't think he made a mistake." And Darius had said this very softly, because he did not want to insult his instructor and deny his parents the respect they obviously deserved.

"You are so innocent," Chief di Castellamonte had reached out at him then. Darius had let her give him a pat on his cheek, unsure of what she wanted from him other than a willing ear to hear all her complaints and her regrets. She looked at him then in the way that only an ignored aunt or a jilted lover could do when faced with the product of a union they had never approved of: with a sort of bitter pride and a cold smile. "Fear not. Whatever foolish ideals he instilled in you, I will rectify. Whatever useless values she lent to you, I will purge. That is the sworn duty of an instructor, candidate."

Her words had haunted him for the rest of the week, and it was not because she knew more about his parents than he did; it was not because she obviously still felt hurt after his father had rejected her in order to marry his mother; it was not because she thought him some sort of instrument to get back at the person who had wronged her; it was not because she had eased herself into the role of surrogate parent. Her words haunted him because she had felt that his parents had raised him wrong.

Darius did not know any better, that was true, but he did not think he could have been the person he was if Hystaspes and Athenais had not taught him the way they did. They had taught him to be responsible, to fulfill his promises and to give his absolute in whatever duty they saw fit to give him.

Darius had not been given the best childhood, had not been raised on velvet couches and had never held a silver spoon in his hand but he knew that he would not trade his parents for anything else in the world. If he could only afford necromancy, he probably would have tried to resurrect them- he ached to be held again without fearing a reprisal, longed to hear their voices throwing him wisdom and well-intentioned warnings, yearned to have even a small sliver of their never-ending patience and damnable understanding.

Simply put, now that he knew more of what they had been, he found himself missing his parents anew with all his heart- but he knew that it was his fault that they were gone, and if he could weep again, he would have.

But life did not wait for regretful teenagers. At the start of the second month, Darius had informed the training staff that he finally felt fine, that he could tell the difference between what he perceived in his mind and what he was sensing with his hands. They had him transferred back into Dominance Company that same day, and his fellow candidates had welcomed him back with knowing looks in their eyes and ready smiles on their mouths.

The transition was what his instructors would call a success, because he was never bothered by his fellow candidates afterwards, but it did not feel that way to Darius. The scars were still there no matter how much he tried to tell himself he was fine. He still could not sleep on some nights when he felt that the entire room would trounce on him. He could never tolerate anyone staring at him for too long, because then he would start to wonder what they were thinking, and he would lash out whenever someone he did not recognize would touch him- even a brush on his arm would sent his fist or his axe flying into the person's face.

The trauma of having his bones broken and healed up repeatedly had torn gaps in his memories that he felt mysteriously frustrated over, because he couldn't remember, but at the same time he felt strangely relieved because he didn't want to remember the sound of snapping bones, the excruciating pain that reverberated through his nerves and the sadistic white light that followed and haunted him with its pleasant heat.

Training intensified, if it was at all possible to do so, when the staff took them to the sea for a whole week. The swimming aspect of the program did not really matter in the candidates' overall performance, they had been told, because most of them were going into the army and not into the navy. Still, Darius couldn't help but feel mortified by the end of the week: he could not swim, and this section of the program was the only part that he failed miserably and horribly.

After all, he had never swum in his life. Upon arriving at the beach, the instructors had them do exercises until they were well and truly tired, and then they tied weights to their arms and legs. Without preamble, the instructors had thrown candidates into the raging waves, screaming at them to swim two hundred yards out to touch a buoy and then to come back.

Darius did not know how to negotiate with the ocean, did not know how to keep his head above the waves. At one point in time, he sank like a rock and had to be bodily carried out and thrown onto the black sand by Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor, with Conrad beating on his chest to make sure that he still knew how to breathe air.

"Oh thank the gods; I don't want to have to kiss you." The man had told him with a grimace, and Darius had stared at him in utter bemusement until another candidate washed up with water in their lungs and the hospitalman had to give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He found himself making a face that sent Strongbow into a fit of muffled laughter.

Once sea week had ended, the instructors took them to the jagged Noxian peaks. They had learned how to read maps and to navigate using compasses and runestones in the lecture halls, but now the instructors tested their very limits. It was another week of torture, but of a different kind: yet again they were loaded down with one hundred pound weights, but now they were restricted to one meal a day and the instructors began throwing sharp volcanic rocks at stragglers and beating at the backs of their legs with switches made of young tree branches. Their orders were pretty much the same: go to a certain place and be back in time for the only meal you would ever get for the day. Hunger was an excellent motivator and exhaustion even more so.

Several candidates were injured during the mountain phase. Whether the wounds were inflicted willingly or unwillingly it did not really matter. Those who wanted to stay with the company were healed and then sent back. Even Darius was not an exception- he had broken his ankle while scaling a mountain, and had to be held down to be healed because he was still not comfortable with healing magic in general.

"I'm actually pleased," Strongbow had shared with him privately during a quiet night spent as firewatch. "That no one wandered off and died this time."

"People wander off?" Darius had asked him as he chewed vigorously on the thick strips of jerky he had been given as a ration for the day.

"Well, obviously they don't remember how to read a map." The archer had shrugged casually. "It's not really my problem."

From the mountains, the instructors took them to the insect-filled swamps. The packs were a familiar weight by then, hunger an old foe that was easy to ignore given the right mindset. The instructors threw in a new obstacle: sleep-deprivation. Where they had once been able to obtain a good eight hours of rest in between trials, the instructors hounded them to the edges of their minds by jumping on candidates who drifted off, by shaking trees and letting the pigment bugs inside keep the candidates awake with their human-like screams.

New tasks were given, in addition to the usual foot patrols and troop movements; they were given specific places to assault and to defend, pitted against other equally exhausted companies. There were many moments where candidates simply dropped into the sucking mud, giving in to gravity, exhaustion and hunger. Seeing hospitalmen like Conrad diving after candidates who were being eaten by the swamps became a regular occurrence.

"Of course we could just let them die," Conrad had told him after spitting a clod of dirt into Darius' eye. "But then again if we did that, none of you would remain for the Crucible. You got sucked into a bog too."

"This isn't the Crucible?" Darius had asked him, aghast.

"No, this is the training for the Crucible." The hospitalman had said with a roll of his eyes.

If this was training for the Crucible, his mind had told him nastily. Then what kind of torture would the Crucible itself be?

There were others in the company who held onto the very thin hope that they were already doing the Crucible, but even that was wrestled from their hands on the last day of the swamp phase.

"Why are we hard on you?" Chief di Castellamonte had asked them after a particularly exhausting afternoon of wading through putrid swampland and engaging one of their sister companies in mock warfare that gave Darius more than his fair share of cuts thanks to his frontline style. For his part, he had crippled three candidates and they all had to be sent to the healers because the damage was too much to simply slap a bandage over. "It is because next week shall be the week of the Crucible. Next week, most of you will be gone- dead or otherwise sent home."

They had returned to the Academy that same day, and Darius had collapsed into his bunk soon after showering because he simply was too exhausted. It was a good thing also, that the instructors had worn him down so much- he did not dream.

Darius didn't know how many hours had passed before someone called his name.

He opened his eyes a crack, and then focused on the face that was peering at him through the darkness of the longhouse. The proximity unnerved him, and he instinctively sent his fist flying into the other person's face. Lucky for the two of them, the other person ducked his head with a muffled curse.

"Easy with the fist, big guy!" The person said to him as he held both hands up in surrender. Darius' heart was pounding in his chest as he pushed himself up and threw his weight against the headrest of his bunk.

"What?" He breathed out, trying to ignore the palpitations in his chest, trying to tell himself that he was safe now- this was Dominance Company and these people would not hurt him so.

"We're going to give Varinius a blanket party before the Crucible tomorrow." The familiar, ruddy face of Candidate Hawklight said to him. The man was named Hawklight and only that- he was not a noble at all. "I thought you would want to, seeing as he did come from Adamant. It's his last day with us too."

"A blanket party?" He repeated. "What's…"

"It's what they did to you." Hawklight said, and Darius resisted the urge to remember, to feel the heavy blanket on top of his frame and to struggle against the gag. He pushed himself out of his memories with difficulty, reminding himself that Hawklight was still in front of him, watching him, judging him-

"No." Darius said, and he felt sick when he said it.

"It'll be good for you." Hawklight chided him gently. "They did it to you after all."

"Who told you that?" Darius asked him warily- he didn't think that his fellows from Dominance would be aware of his beatings, of the numerous times the candidates from Adamant had held him down and had made him weak and utterly helpless.

"Everyone knows." Hawklight said, as if it was a very basic thing like breathing or why the sky was blue.

"What do you mean everyone knows?" Darius hissed at him.

"Those bitches from Adamant," Hawklight cocked his head over to where Varinius was sleeping in his bunk. "Liked to brag."

Darius followed his stare and tried to imagine himself pummeling the other candidate with an improvised weapon. He found that he could not.

He had known Alexander de Croix's motives before the man's death, had known that he was being hunted down because he had killed the man's brother. Darius had sympathized with him then, and still did now- given the same situation, he would have done the same thing without a doubt: he would inflict misery onto the person who would hypothetically kill his brother with the same amount of relentlessness and cold-bloodedness. He could think of no reason why he would not pursue blood with blood.

He did not think he possessed the same fortitude with torture sessions. Frankly, he didn't know what to feel- he wanted revenge, certainly, but he knew what it felt like to be held down and then thrashed into unconsciousness and he wholeheartedly did not want to wish the same fate onto someone else so soon after he himself had been subjected to five whole weeks of seemingly random beatings.

"It'll be good for you." Hawklight repeated as he held out a bar of soap wrapped in a shirt.

Darius stared down at it and ignored the memory that was pushing against his mental gates- the sheer anxiety, the sleep-deprivation and the maddening sense of being watched and then trodden down... "I don't know." He mumbled.

"Don't be a wimpy Demacian, Dar. Just do it." Hawklight said with a roll of his eyes. "Do you really want to just let him slide for what he did to you?"

"No, I don't." He admitted.

"Then do it." Hawklight offered the shirt to him again.

Darius took it uncertainly- not knowing what to feel, if he should even be feeling anything at this moment. It seemed to him that someone else had taken a hold of his body, making him walk over to Varinius' bunk with the rest of Dominance Company. Two candidates pulled the blanket over Varinius' frame and then held on tightly, while a third pulled a washcloth over the man's mouth and then pushed downward. Like a single monstrous organism, Darius and the rest of the candidates fell on him, pummeling away with their makeshift weapons.

It was a bizarre experience, to have been the one being held down and to now be the one holding onto an instrument of hurt- he couldn't help but compare himself with the man in the bed, judging Varinius as the aristocrat squirmed helplessly in front of him. He found himself thinking that 'no, I did not cry like that' and 'no, I didn't piss in my shorts' as he whacked away, each and every stroke harder than the last. Eventually he realized that he was the only one left still hitting the candidate, and he dumbly lowered his weapon when he saw that Varinius was nothing but a sobbing, quivering mass of flesh on the bed, the pungent smells of feces and urine permeating the air.

How pathetic. He found himself thinking.

"Well done." Hawklight said to him. "Do you feel better now?"

"I don't know." He said, and that was the truth.

He handed the weapon back to Hawklight and returned to his bunk, and as Varinius sobbed away, Darius found himself covering his head with his pillow and closing his eyes. As the night went on, he wished that he could tune out the man's muffled weeping, wanted to stop feeling so hollow and disgusted with himself for having done the deed and prayed that the soaring feeling of accomplishment at having shown the aristocrat how it had felt for him would never wane.

What people do not realize is that it is a debilitating thing to actually know the pain that one could inflict on one's enemy. Because of the torture Darius had endured, he would be one of a few Noxian generals who would never see any point in prolonging suffering, who would prefer quick executions instead of taking his time. He would hone his skills with the axe to the point of being able to quickly jump from man to man, beheading his targets as if they were sitting down and waiting for the axe to fall.

Was it a weakness to avoid wishing torture on others? In some circles of Noxus, Darius' eventual tendency towards outright murder instead of prolonged suffering would be perceived as a kindness that must be stomped out in order to function correctly. It would certainly be inconvenient to have a torturer who could not bear to wound people for information, or to have an executioner who could not deliver the final blow.

He would still cut into arteries and nerves in order to cripple his opponents because it was expedient and it would get his foes out of his way quickly, but he was not a sadist- he did not enjoy wounding people for the sake of it and he certainly felt nothing but a distant pity at their suffering. Years after his own trauma, he still would feel disgusted with himself whenever he would see the effects of his work for an extended period of time, and would put whoever it was out of their misery shortly after with a quick stroke of his axe.

Sleep did not come easy, but eventually it did- and when he came to next, his ears were filled with a loud clanging noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Darius pushed himself out of bed and opened his eyes. The sight that awaited him was one that had played out many times over the course of one year- Strongbow was ringing a shrill bell that set everyone's teeth on edge as Krieg-Windsor yanked on blankets and sent still-sleeping candidates to the floor.

Chief di Castellamonte was in full regalia. Even though it was still too early in the day that the sun had not yet deigned to show itself to the rest of Runeterra, the Chief Instructor was impeccable as always, the familiar riding crop in one hand and her other clasped behind her back as she paced through the longhouse- a calm and constant thing in a veritable storm of clanging metal, flopping bodies and flying things.

"Warrior-children," Her hoarse voice somehow managed to soar above the cacophony of noise. "Today is the day of your baptism. Today you will be cast into the Crucible. For the next seven days, we will test you. We will shadow your every step, watch your every twitch and judge your every action- those we do not deem worthy will be cast off. If you survive, you will be given the right to live."

She seemed to look at him then, and he took great care to cast his gaze down, to keep himself busy with fixing his bed and gathering his things. "If you perish, then may whatever god have mercy on your soul, for Noxus will not."

The Crucible had begun.

Author's Notes: Why yes I do not regret ending at a cliffhanger at all. It'll be great (and a thousand times more awkward) trust me.