He understands.
Darius hefts the giant axe onto his shoulders. Gray eyes scan the battlefield, seeing the corpses mangled and torn and strewn about like refuse. His body is covered in the blood of other men as he slowly makes his way back to his unit. Another ambush, another slaughter. Another day as a Noxian military leader.
His men cheer him, bowing to a knee or standing and applauding as he walks back to his tent. He doesn't acknowledge any of them. He doesn't care for the praise they send his way, for the accolades he receives from his work. He does his job, he does it well. If there were any challenge in it, he may be more gracious in his victory. As it is, slaughtering boys dressed up as soldiers is not what he considers a praise-worthy task. Not when their blood soaks his skin.
Darius is woken from his memories by the toll of the match bell. It is time to begin another day of fighting, he muses. Except now, he fights in the league.
In some ways it is better, he knows. The challenges are real, and the champions he faces can be just as deadly as he. No matter how well he does in one match, he could do horribly in the next. It is a true challenge. But most of all, he knows, it isn't a slaughter.
There is a difference between him and his brother that goes far beyond their appearance or public figure. Beyond that one is a performer while the other a tactician. In the end, Draven kills from a distance. He throws his axes and strikes his enemies down without ever having to see their face, their eyes, as they die. It's as easy for him as chopping down a tree; both fall to the ground, lifeless, and can be walked over and ignored.
Darius fights with an axe as well; but his fighting is much more personal. When he swings his blade, he can hear the sound of tearing flesh and breaking bone. He can feel the warmth of his enemies blood spray over him, clinging to him in accusation. He sees the light in their eyes fade as they fall to the ground; some looking at him with hatred, some with fear. Their deaths are personal, intimate with him in a way that few understand. Even his brother.
He remembers one time Draven came to see him in his room. One of the prisoners being executed had charged his brother; Draven had been forced to swing his axe as a blade in the close range as the man leapt at him. As he told the story to his older brother, his hands shook and his face blanched. He had seen the moment the life left his prisoner's eyes, had felt his body quake before falling. Draven spent most of the night with his arm around his brother, consoling him, be it silently, through the process. He knew how it felt.
Darius knows that he must not lose what he has. The intimacy of holding another when they die, of being the last thing they see… it can do things to a mind. But no matter what the consequence, he cannot allow himself to stop feeling. If he does, he becomes Talon. Darius has seen the way he kills; cold, efficient, and ruthless. Talon, too, will look into his opponents eyes as they die; however, when the assassin does, there is no trace of emotion on his face. As cold as a machine. He cannot allow himself to fall that far. He would go mad.
When he sees the Might of Demacia as his rival in the top lane, a grim smile plays on his face. Garen is seen as his Demacian counterpart by many; both are physically large, both can sustain and give out a great amount of damage, and both are leaders among their people.
However, he knows also that Garen understands. He can see it in the man's eyes when one is able to kill the other. Whether it is the Demacian falling after one of Darius's infamous dunks, or the Noxian being hacked to death by a spinning attack from the bushes. When he looks into the other man's eyes, he sees the quiet acknowledgement and understanding.
He knows that Garen feels the same way he does about the ones they've killed. That his sword has sprayed the blood of boys dressed as soldiers on his armor as well. He has seen the light leave a person's eyes, has held them in their last moments. And he understands how sick it truly is.
They have never spoken. Both are too loyal to their own country, too proud to be seen approaching a sworn rival. And had it not been for this single fact, Darius doubted they would give each other the time of day. And yet when they see each other on the fields, they both know. Both nod their head in respect as the match begins. And when one is dying in the other's arms, they will never look at the other with hatred or fear; only understanding.
They understand one another.