Pre-Chapter A/N: Mandatory exposition chapter, ho! Okay, this chapter's a bit slower in terms of pacing than the last one – it contains a lot of exposition and character material. As such, I've tried my best to make it flow quite nicely and keep it interesting, mostly through a diverse array of P.O.V's – including Garret's :D Worry not though, his is merely for a fraction of the chapter. So, without further ado!
Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
Chapter 2
The Road To Recovery
The Grandmaster at Arms, in general, did not see himself as a wrathful being. Sure, there were some thresholds that, when crossed, would result in a lamppost to the face, but he was hardly the type of person who would reach for his weapon at the first sign of a glare or a muttered insult behind him. He was The Champ, after all – scrubs who didn't have the guts to walk up to him and say what they wanted to say to his face (and endure the lamppost-to-face application that followed) simply weren't worth his time. Yes, Jax considered himself a man of temperament, of patience, despite the knowledge that, yes, he was The Champ and, as such, the best.
Sadly, that patience wasn't infinite, as he was forced to realize pretty much every damn time he was called in to meet with the High Councillors.
Currently, the fatigued, somewhat irritated Grandmaster found himself standing behind a window looking into a much-too-bright, sterile looking room in the Institute's hospital wing. Before him, two summoners in white robes were aiding Soraka, the Starchild, treat his latest acquaintance for all the various ailments that afflicted him. Jax frowned under his mask as he watched the proceedings. The two Summoners were using their magic to manipulate a set of bronze, runic chains, which were being used to bind Garret's new limb and prevent it from lashing out on its own accord.
A doctor had earlier tried to force an injection into said arm – and the aforementioned summoners were called in when said doctor was carted out of the room with a caved-in skull and several lacerations across his face.
All of this seemed to wear on Garret – for the whole journey back, short as it was, Garret had voiced the same complaints; something was attacking his mind, trying to either break or manipulate him by way of subliminal messages or imagery, or visions or dreams or whatever the hell a spirit could use to drive its host batty. Even now the symptoms of the struggle were evident on his face; his eyes were vacant and erratic, as though looking towards things that weren't there, or were, just beyond mortal sight. His breathing had become laboured and what little movements he made spoke of an unfathomable toll on his body. From what Jax could deduce, Garret never had any of that fancy Demacian military training – however he'd survived his injuries and blood loss, it certainly couldn't be chalked up to fitness or toughness.
The black arm writhed again, suddenly, yanking against the bronze chains with such force the loud rattling of iron could be heard even through the glass. One of the summoners stumbled forwards slightly, baring his teeth, but he stood his ground, intensifying his magics and pulling back on the chain.
Jax shook his head again. Whatever the fuck that arm was, it seemed otherworldly – he'd seen those same chains (in greater numbers) effectively bind a Void Beast. For a simple limb to strain against it with such strength…
The door to the bleak room opened, and a nurse stepped in carrying a tray of different medicines and injections. Despite the mask of stoicism, green eyes stared almost pityingly at Garret's weathered, slightly emaciated form, and a huge braid of black hair danced beside her as she stepped forwards. At this point the Grandmaster felt at least some of his annoyance recede – it was always a treat to see Akali in her little nurse getup, and even now, the seriousness of the matter didn't detract from it. Jax shrugged as he let his eyes wander with nary a hint of concern or care for anyone who saw him. And to make matters even better it seemed as though Garret was getting the same amount of eye can-Wait. Wait, wait, wait, was he really… Jax frowned under his mask.
Was that kiddo honestly averting his eyes?! Pft. What a damn idiot.
At that moment, someone beside Jax – the source of his constant annoyance and irritation – cleared her throat in a pseudo-threatening manner – as if anything could ever threaten The Champ – and shot him a withering glare.
"You know what?" Jax snapped, turning to face his accomplice casually. "My opinion on the matter? If she didn't want people to look she'd adhere to the dress code. If she's flaunting it I'm gonna eat it up, Vess – you might as well cut the glare."
Beside him, the glaring face of Vessaria Kolminye clicked her teeth as she returned her gaze forwards. "Pig," she muttered under her breath, her amber eyes glowing in the light. She was toying with a part of her fringe which hung out from beneath her dark hood, intermixing the single streak of silver with many darker strands.
"What, jealous?" Jax retorted. "I'd leer at you too if you didn't hide everything under those robes. Hell knows it'd make you more bearable, that's for sure."
"As much," Vessaria muttered tiredly, "as the prospect of squabbling with you grants me untold excitement," and here the sarcasm became so obvious even the doctors and Summoners on the other side of the window could see it, "I would appreciate some semblance of seriousness from you at this time, Grandmaster." She gazed curiously at Garret's now bedridden form, eyes scanning the black arm for any trace of misbehaviour. "You say that occurred after he shattered a relic? Remnants of ancient sword, according to your report?"
"Sure as hell looked like one," Jax shrugged, leaning against the wall beside the window. "If it was really a weapon instead of some kind of ritual piece, it'd be a piss poor one, I promise you," he said. "I mean sure, bronze has its uses, but making an actual weapon of it? Stupid, really. There's a reason iron and steel are better materials." He seemed to frown under his mask. "I'm a bit confused though - I've never seen bronze, or any material for that matter, shatter like that. It's unnatural."
"Preliminary tests show that your little weapon might be embedded in his arm," Vessaria spoke softly. "It doesn't look like bronze, but from what our people have deduced from the bit of scrapings we could take, it contains enough amounts of copper and tin to pass as it," she shook her head. "Suffice it to say, whatever that weapon was, it was really old – just as old as the spirit, I'd wager." She turned to face Jax. "You said it spoke with you and the Ranger? It apparently used the young man's body as some sort of medium?"
"Less of a 'medium' and more of a complete hijacking," Jax said, gazing back through the window. "When that thing took over… There wasn't a single trace of that kid left." He paused. "It's a lot like you when I'm mentioned. Boom – new personality, new everything, right there and then."
"And the few words it spoke are meaningless…" Vessaria muttered morosely, ignoring the jab. "One of the Summoners has even gone as far as to say its words weren't even malicious… It seemed to think of you as opponents," she said icily, "and given your reports of it forging weapons from smoke… I dare say that Summoner wasn't too far off."
"I don't care what it thinks," Jax said with another shrug. "I don't care what it wants or what it feels like or even what the fuck it is. I know that thing is trying to push the kid aside, and take control, and let's just say I'm in a good enough state of mind to not let that happen." He faced her again, and Vessaria could read a modicum of seriousness in his body despite his casual stance. "When are you making contact?"
"As soon as Soraka gives us the all-clear," Vessaria replied, intrigued. "The man was a fugitive on the run for more than a decade, Jax – his health has taken a serious decline over those years. His body is currently a cess pool of ailments – the list of things the Starchild has to contend with now is rather large. It will be a while before we manage to make any attempts to contact it. As it stands now we've got a team of suppressors ready to at least isolate the being's communication."
"Then where the hell are they?" Jax bristled. "Look at his damn face, Vess – the guy's a mess, and every moment you let that thing talk to him-"
"Is another moment that he's got enough on his mind to stay awake," Vessaria cut him off sharply, "and thus cooperative. Make no mistake, Jax, my heart bleeds for him as much as yours does, but if he cuts out now then the entire process is going to take longer than necessary. Garret needs to be awake to aid Soraka, to tell her exactly what he's done during his years on the run – broken bones, sicknesses, viruses, diseases, wounds – Soraka can only heal so many of them without knowledge, and if Garret's asleep that means she won't have that knowledge," she said, her gaze becoming somewhat regretful. "Make no mistake, Jax, as soon as he's healed up we're going to let him sleep as long as he wants to. After everything he's gone through… He deserves that much."
Jax remained silent for several moments. Under his helm, his eyes scanned that black arm, taking note of the jagged shards decorating it. As though it felt his gaze, it pulsed again, a wave of red travelling upwards under the skin. He felt his eyes narrow when it struggled against the chains again – with less force but equal persistence. "How do you plan to do it?" He asked simply.
"Well, after communication has been established our first plan is to have the Judicator try to interact with it," the High Councillor responded with a weary sigh. "With her… somewhat unique talents, she should at least be able to determine whether the entity is demonic or not. Going by what she relays to us, we'll formulate a plan from there." Despite how fatigued she sounded, there was resolution in her voice – and Jax couldn't blame her, really. In the past, Kayle had been instrumental in solving certain problems. If Jax knew her well enough, he figured Vessaria had enough faith in Kayle to actually pull this off.
"Well she's stubborn as shit, so she's got that going for her," Jax conceded, choosing not to nitpick or play around any further. The sun was already starting to creep out over the horizon, and still, Vessaria had not slept a wink since the day before. Granted, neither did he, but hey – he was The Champ. A little fatigue wasn't gonna get him down. "Anyways, I'll be at the bar after I wake up. Do me a favour and keep me informed about his condition, will ya? From what I've heard about that kid," he said as he strode away, "he's not exactly in a good spot. Hasn't been, in a long time."
"I will do so," Vessaria spoke with a nod, not even gazing at Jax's retreating form. "Although," she spoke, with the slightest hint of authority to her tone, "do not think this means I've forgotten about your hijinks in Rakelstake." The silence became tense, and in her years of dealing with the Grandmaster and his wiles she didn't need to see him to know he had stiffened slightly. "We still need to discuss repair bills and damages, after all…"
For a moment, a brief, brief moment, The Champ considered turning around and arguing the point. After all, that shit was as much on Gragas and Tryndamere's heads as it was on his! Sadly, though, his arguments died in his throat when he saw her absently rub at one of her eyes, stifling a yawn. Shrugging and sighing dejectedly, the Grandmaster turned around and strode away, choosing not to bicker at such a poor time.
"Eh, fuck it. Not like I can't afford it anyway. Those two are footing the payment, though, make no damn mistake…"
She had seen poor health before. As part of her role in life, as part of her very nature, helping the sick and injured had been a large priority for her. Even back in Ionia, when she was away from the Institute and all its machinations, she would be called upon to help ease someone's suffering, and be it a grievous wound or a silly cough, she had complied without a hint of hesitation, without thought of recompense or gain. Such was the purity, the sheer kindness in her heart.
The cruelty of one would not blind her to the suffering of many. It was a mantra she had adopted, a singular phrase to keep her going towards her goal.
And yet, looking down at the bed, and seeing this young man so withered and weighed down, so pained and agonised – despite the multitude of crimes the Demacian Summoners informed her that the man was accused of, she could not help but feel pity for him. What she had healed already beggared belief – already she had re-mended several bones that had healed irregularly over the course of his life, and dispelled most of the minor illnesses that plagued him. But still, it felt insubstantial – the one thing that was ailing him the most was something she could do nothing about.
Nonetheless, Soraka sighed heavily before diligently continuing her work. Thus far she had been busy seeing what she could do regarding the numerous amounts of scar tissue found all over the patient's body. The majority of it seemed to be around his ribs, and on his back, which was currently inaccessible. While he had greatly calloused fingers and palms, that was where it remained – there was no scarring or bruising around his knuckles, so going out on a limb Soraka guessed he didn't use his fists much, and going by the scars predominating his back she could deduce this man, Garret, was more prone to flee than to fight.
And yet, the Grandmaster had brought him here – to the place that moderated conflict, and used gladiatorial battles in magical arenas to solve it.
She realized she was frowning, and exhaled softly in relief when she realized Garret had spaced out again. The man seemed courteous to the point of docility – even going as far as to apologize to her, Akali and all the other people involved for keeping them up so late. The last thing she wanted was to create the illusion that something was seriously wrong. Granted, that tainted arm was something that could count as seriously wrong – but going by Garret's constant mutters of defiance, she suspected he knew that all too well. She went to work mending the scar tissue from what seemed to be a knife wound in his bicep, her magics doing their part as they emitted an eerie yet earthly glow. Akali stood by her side, diligent and stoic as ever, despite the change in apparel.
Garret gasped suddenly, and erupted into a violent coughing fit. By instinct Soraka helped him into a sitting position as he covered his mouth with his fist, trying to keep as much of it contained as possible. Still, it had been a very nasty fit, and by the time he was finished, the man seemed even more out of breath than he was when he was booked in – a feat that Soraka had, until now, considered improbable. Nonetheless, some of the haziness in Garret's eyes dispelled and he blinked wearily, awkwardly scratching at his face with his free hand. "That…" he rasped, his throat seemingly dried out from the coughing fit. "…Unexpected."
Soraka smiled despite herself. "It always is," she said as she eased him back down onto the bed. "I'd ask how you feel, but given the circumstances…" She trailed off, checking him over for any other injuries. "I've tended to most of your ailments. The scarring on your back is inaccessible, however."
"Don't," Garret started, before clearing his throat. "Please, don't worry yourself about those, ma'am," he said, somewhat weakly, although his voice had lost the quiver that plagued it when he was admitted. "Some scars won't make my life unbearable…"
"Regardless," she hummed, quickly working at healing a bruise on one of his pectorals. "I must say I'm surprised, Garret. Your injuries and sicknesses… It's difficult to believe you lasted thirteen years in this state."
"Thirteen years," Garret repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "I… I swear, it certainly didn't feel that long, ma'am…" He mused as he examined the chains locked around his twisted new limb, idly fidgeting with the three somewhat intricate locks dotting the links. "Then again… I can't even recall most of what happened… It has all been one, giant amalgam of chaos and secrecy…" He trailed off. "I cannot even remember if I had a set route to follow… Everything just… fell apart, no matter how diligently I planned…"
"Well, at the very least you can stop worrying about that now, Garret," Soraka said softly as she moved on to yet another bruise. "The Institute houses a number of people with much, much more questionable motives than simple desertion. If nothing else, there'll be no active persecution here – at least for a while," she said with a smile. "I'd say you deserve a bit of rest after more than a decade on the run."
"Sometimes I wonder if I do…" Garret mused softly, gazing at the overhead lights. "A few months ago I would have heartily agreed, laughed, even, at the concept of an ounce of freedom. But now…" He said softly, "Now I cannot be certain…"
Soraka did not miss the sorrow and regret lingering in his voice. "Are you referring to the murder charge against you?"
Garret seemed to abstain from responding at first. He merely lay there, staring at the light above him. The Starchild could see deep contemplation in those emerald eyes, a hesitation etched into his gaunt faced as he weighed his option. Finally, with a simple spark of acceptance, he closed his eyes and nodded. "It… It is my fault," he said morosely. "I… I am the reason that man is dead."
Soraka blinked, somewhat shocked at the pseudo-confession. While startled, though, she did not bother wondering why he chose to speak of the event now. Often guilt could be as effective an interrogator as any guard or ranger, and by the look of it Garret had been left to his own guilt long enough to come to regret his actions. Cautiously, she looked toward Akali, seeking some sign as to how she should proceed. The kunoichi turned her gaze to the window behind Soraka, where they both knew High Councillor Kolminye stood, watch. She held her gaze for but a second, before locking eyes with Soraka ever-so-briefly, and nodding slightly.
Soraka took this as her cue, not once stopping her work. "What do you mean, Garret?" She asked softly. "What happened?"
"I… I am still not sure," Garret sighed. "I… I was in Bilgewater, hiding out at one of my associates' place. I was sitting in a tavern one night, I recall. I do not know if it was through foolishness or carelessness that I went to such a public place, but… I recall my mind was heavy that night. I… I received news that had… upset me considerably. Someone I had grown to trust, and to consider a friend, had been killed," he said. At that precise moment Soraka saw hurt in the young man's eyes – the pain of loss floated in those emerald orbs. "I… I went to the restroom, at one stage – I planned for it to be my final stop before recalling for the evening. Someone… Someone followed me. At first I thought nothing of it – I was drunk and reckless, I barely paid him any mind. Next…" He trailed off, and swallowed loudly. "Next thing I know the man has a sword in his hand. He… He told me to surrender, to return to Demacia with him, to face trial and sentencing. It all happened so fast, I could barely function until the blade was pointed at my throat."
Soraka glanced at Akali again. The young kunoichi was doing an admirable job at hiding her actions; to anyone else – especially a young, tired lad like Garret – it would seem as if she were merely dotting down notes in his medical folder. Soraka herself knew, though – Akali was dotting down Garret's tale word by intricate word. She suspected that, if it were possible to recreate an accent on black and white, Akali would have that dotted down too. "Garret… If this is becoming too much for you…" Soraka started, only to have Garret shake his head adamantly.
"No… No, I… This has been left in the dark long enough," Garret sighed. "I'm here now, safe, but whether I like it or not my charges are going to be overseen and a consensus will be reached, regardless. I… am tired of running, of hiding and hoping for something I will likely never receive. I… I nearly died in that cave… And yet, someone saw fit to save me… despite knowing who I was and… and what I was accused of…" Garret trailed off again. "No… No, I'll not disrespect the Grandmaster by continuing to run and hide…"
"That… is admirable, Garret," Soraka said with a soft, kind smile as she watched the emotions flicker through his eyes. "What happened then?"
Garret blinked, and shook his head, as if to clear it. "Luck happened," he said softly. "A drunken wench stumbled into the men's room and caught the Demacian off-guard. He… He lowered his weapon, trying to hide it from her, and I took that chance to bolt." He sighed, as though speaking of the dark night somehow raised a weight of his chest. "The bloke gave chase, though – shoved the poor woman aside and chased after me, hiding his sword under his fancy coat as he went. I…" He gulped. "I was drunk, and tired, and running a fever – I knew he'd catch up to me somehow, so… I improvised. As soon as I got back to the main tavern I picked up an empty bottle and chucked it into the crowd. I… I heard it shatter against someone's face, and I recall several people firing angry glares in my direction," he said, a slight waver returning to his voice. "Instead of a drunkard looking for a fight, they saw an angry man with a sword. Such a sight in a bar full of pirates and thieves…" He closed his eyes, as if envisioning the sight before him once more. "A… A bar fight broke out, and I slipped out under cover of chaos. I ran back to my hideout, gathered my things and said my farewells, and… and just before I left Bilgewater I heard the man had been killed in the fight."
He paused then, raising his free hand to cover his eyes, and as he closed them Soraka swore she could see a hint of wetness forming around his eyelids. She placed her hand on his arm, in a bid to offer some form of comfort, of sympathy. "What worries me most," he continued, bitterness evident in his voice, "…was the fact that I couldn't even give a damn. A few years ago, this… this would have affected me in a much different way. But now…" He shook his head glumly. "I don't feel anything. No guilt, no trepidation, nothing. The only thing I cared about – then and now, even – was putting as much distance between myself and that man as possible. The six feet of dirt and soil was just another number to add to the total."
For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the sterile wall in front of him. There was something in his eyes, some form of contemplation, of reasoning, that Soraka didn't dare guess the roof of. Garret, thus far, was a strange man. She had gained a modicum of understanding regarding him – men whose inhibitions had been dampened by pain and fatigue and fear rarely saw need to tell lies, and this deserter was no different. Garret, from what Soraka could deduce, wasn't much of a fighter. His strength laid in his mind, and how he used it to avoid and escape conflict. Had she not known any better she would call him a pacifist, but… Thus far it seemed he was as dangerous as any wolf when cornered, abhorrence of violence or none.
"That's why I wonder…" Garret mused morosely, his eyes still plastered to the wall. "I likely caused a family to lose a husband and a father… and I still can't care. There's regret, yes – I know the man was… was only trying to do his job. I'll always regret that he had to lose his life so I could keep my own, but… The fact that I feel no guilt, no weight on my conscience…" He trailed off with a sigh. "That scares me."
Soraka blinked. That… was not the kind of consensus one reached simply by reciting a life story. All the consideration, and hesitation she had seen in his eyes made sense now – the Starchild wagered Garret had been thinking about this for a long while now.
"What caused you to think about this?" She asked softly, returning to tending his wounds and dispelling his sickness.
"I… This… This thing," Garret growled, finally tearing his sight off the blank wall to level a glare at his now twisted arm. "Ever since it's started talking to me, whispering to me… It's been filling my head with thoughts I'd rather not entertain. But yet… I can't help but wonder if that's how I've been thinking all along, and never noticed…" He sighed. "I noticed so little about myself while I was on the run. So many dangers… Bounty hunters, bandits, wildlife, nature itself… When faced with such things… One tends to focus more on keeping your life than actually living." He shook his head.
"If… If all these thoughts, all these violent ideas… If they're not because of the arm… If they're my own…" He frowned, his glare tracing the sharp shards protruding from the limb. "I… I do not want to be that kind of being. I swore to myself my circumstances would never change me… That I, that I'd uphold what I was taught as a lad, and stay true to it… But this," he growled again. "I thought… I thought I found salvation in that ruin, when the Grandmaster arrived. But all these thoughts, all these horrid images and ideas… They draw on memories I would rather forget. They make me reconsider."
With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the blank wall. "I've never been so scared in my life… I've killed before, out of necessity, out of some twisted desire of self-preservation… But these memories… These images…" He shuddered. "If this is what I'm becoming… If this is what this arm is bringing to the fore…" He sighed. "If that's the case… then my sentence cannot come soon enough."
To say she had witnessed an interesting sight would be an understatement. Of all the possible things to happen when Garret had started his little confession, the last thing Vessaria Kolminye expected to happen was to see the young deserter express such unbridled fear and uncertainty. She had thought the emotion to be an age-old accomplice to the deserter, what with thirteen years spent living in circumstances that could make fear bloom. And yet… Now, with nobody pursuing him, without any form of danger or threat around him… Now that the man was actually allowed to think… It seemed as though that decade's worth of trials had turned him into something he instinctively dreaded – due in no small part to that damned spirit hiding in his arm. For but a moment she hesitated – if the spirit's effects were enough to make him consider life in prison as a good thing, something was seriously wrong.
And with a frown, she realized there was nothing she or the other Summoners could do to help him – at least, not yet.
Convincing the Grandmaster that it was too risky to simply sever the arm completely took some doing. Honestly, today was the first day she had seen the Grandmaster actually get angry at her. But it had to be done – the arm itself had to be inspected in full before removal could progress. The dangers were many – and as much as neutrality and equal treatment to all were part of her job, she felt that, at the very least, the poor man didn't deserve to have his life threatened again so soon.
Closing her eyes, she sighed. When Jax had told her he found someone 'interesting' who needed help, she wasn't expecting this.
Nonetheless, she thought to herself as she stared down at the bundle of files and dossiers on the table before her. On one hand, the spirit in that arm seemed sentient, and combat capable no less – if they could find some way to harness it, to somehow bind it to Garret's psyche in a way that rendered the poor man in complete control, she might just be able to do something about the charge of desertion against him. If Garret could find some way to oppress the spirit, to make a weapon of it, she could easily have him inducted into the ranks of the Institute's Champions, and thus absolve him of any crimes he had committed.
But then there was the matter of the man's personality. The Champions of the Institute varied greatly, and while Vessaria was not foolish enough to believe all of them were truly heroic at heart, there were some people in their ranks that Garret would find issue with fighting…
She barely even knew him and she already doubted the deserter would do a single thing any Summoner told him to when faced with Annie Hastur.
She sighed to herself as she flipped through one of the dossiers. If all else failed, she thought as she stared at some crumpled notes they had retrieved from his now shredded traveller's coat, they could use his particular talents elsewhere. It seemed as though Garret favoured knowledge over combat prowess, as these scribbles showed. He had obviously learned much during his desertion, despite being a fugitive – one paper had a photo stapled to it, and the image displayed a frost-matted wall somewhere inside a ruin, likely in the Freljord. The page itself was something even she could not fully decipher, but Vessaria was clever enough to know that Garret was busy translating the murals and glyphs shown on the photo. Impressive, considering most Demacians didn't even know Ancient Freljordian languages were a thing.
Offhandedly she wondered just what would happen if the Prodigal Explorer ever met this young man.
Her thoughts were cut short when the door next to her opened, and the Fist of Shadow herself stepped through. Her face was still etched into that same mask of neutrality everyone had come to associate with the ninja. She was curt, professional, to-the-point and rarely dawdled or beat around the bush, a trait Vessaria had come to appreciate when dealing with the Kinkou Order.
"High Councillor," the kunoichi addressed her with all the respect she'd come to associate with her title. The young ninja-nurse handed her the small medical dossier she had been writing in while tending to Garret's health. "A full confession, word for word, with the Starchild and two Senior Summoners as witnesses."
"My thanks, Fist of Shadow," Vessaria nodded to her, taking the small file and adding it to the pile before her. "And once more, my sincerest apologies for startling you so late."
"While here, we are bound to the Institute and its leaders," Akali said, not even an inflection of emotion in her voice. "You needn't apologize, High Councillor. I merely fulfilled my duty – nothing more, nothing less." As curtly as she arrived, she made a slight bow and turned to walk away. To any normal person the young woman would seem like just another attractive nurse walking down the hallway – but Vessaria knew better. Her time as a High Councillor has wizened her to many things – and while she might not have seen so back then, it was clear as day now: In Akali's body language – her stance, her gait, her face, and her posture – one could easily deduce this woman was a trained assassin of the highest order of danger. Brutal indoctrination and rigorous discipline had forged her into the deadliest killing tool.
And yet, despite it all, Akali's straight-sighted black-and-white view regarding the world was something Vessaria had found useful numerous times in the past. "Akali," the Councillor called after the retreating ninja, prompting the young woman to stop in her tracks. Her head did 'turn' so much as it twitched towards the High Councillor, a sign that Vessaria had her attention for a moment or two. "What is your opinion, I wonder? You heard him speak. You saw his eyes, and heard the emotions in his voice. Is he guilty?"
"I do not see how that matters," Akali said flatly. "My loyalty lies with Ionia and the Institute – the deserter's charges and sins are Demacia's business, and as such, none of mine." And with those words, the ninja resumed her stride, walking away at a pace that betrayed neither her intentions nor her opinions.
Vessaria nodded to herself as soon as Akali disappeared from sight. While she could not procure an opinion from the Fist of Shadow, the curt, business-like reply had set her mind at ease somewhat. The Kinkou were, in their loyalty to Ionia, loyal to the Institute as well – and with Akali's mindset to 'do what must be done', Vessaria figured the ninja would at least have warned her had Garret posed a threat. She turned her gaze back to the window – it seemed the Starchild was animatedly discussing something with the deserter, and Garret, for all his fear and mental strain, was smiling just a bit.
Nodding again, Vessaria gathered the bundle of files into her arms. While it did not seem as though Garret was a dangerous individual, that arm of his was another matter entirely. If it was malicious enough to attack two of the Institute's Champions on sight, and flood its host's mind with imagery that terrified the poor soul, they were looking at something really serious. Regardless, she had the final piece of what she required – Garret's confession was last on the long list of things she'd need to present to the Demacians the following day. While she wasn't foolish enough to believe he'd be pardoned completely, she was well aware that House Lightshield was not composed of tyrants – nor was House Crownguard, for that matter. If nothing else, getting the necessary evidence into Prince Lightshield's hands should at least ease the tensions.
It clicked to her then that she still had to compile everything – handing the Demacians a scribbled confession on a hospital form was hardly going to be appropriate. She had letters to write, case files to put together, appeals to make and gods above the sun was already pouring through the windows. This marked one of the many times Vessaria had been thankful to be alone – with a heavy sigh and drooping shoulders, actions sharply contrasting her professional Councillor image, she turned tail and slunk back to her quarters, wondering just when she'd finally get this whole riot behind her.
Wasn't it wonderful to be a High Councillor?
Several Days Later
Quinn sighed softly as she sat in the hospital bed, absentmindedly toying with the seams of the light blanket that covered her lower body. Several days had passed since she had woken up in the hospital wing – yet still, she was confined to this damn room. She shot a haphazard glare at the small, supportive splint wrapped around her arm. Apparently the blow from Jax's lamppost had resulted in one of the worst compound fractures the healers and nurses had seen in months – her arm guard that doubled as Valor's perch was the only reason said limb hadn't flopped forwards ninety degrees after the impact. Of all the ailments she had received in her 'fight' against the Grandmaster at Arms, only the arm and a very, very stubborn ache in the side of her head remained. Without realizing it, she reached up and ran her fingers over the gauze that covered the left side of her head. Grumbling to herself, she toyed with the few loose fabrics.
After the event at the ruins she had a newfound respect for all her comrades who frequently fought against Jax on the Summoner's Rift.
"If you toy with your bandages they'll come loose," a voice called from ahead of her. "If that happens they'll need to be reapplied – which means you'll just stay here longer."
Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to formulate a rational comeback. The splint around her arm had already come loose twice, and one of those two times she ended up undoing the healers' work by re-fracturing her arm again. In the absence of a witty retort, she merely closed her mouth and shot a baleful mock-glare at the earlier speaker.
Armour almost as richly coloured as her own eyes shifted slightly, the sound of steel-on-steel briefly filling the room, and Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV merely smirked at Quinn's ire from where he was seated. "You know as well I do," he said with that confident demeanour he was known for, "that this is only for your own good. We can't have one of our best Rangers out and about if a simple movement will fracture her arm again."
"I didn't – I didn't know the bones were still so weak!" At least this time, Quinn thought, she could formulate a response – however lamely she had said it. In the back of her head the sheer surrealism of it all still gnawed at her – here she sat, a simple Ranger with humble beginnings, speaking to the Crown Prince of Demacia as though they were old friends. Well, technically they could be considered friends – but that hardly changed the surrealism of the moment. "Besides, I don't see why I can't at least be up and about. It's just a broken arm – I've got another one."
Jarvan seemed to ponder her suggestion for but a moment before smirking again. He reached for a simple hospital flyer lying next to his helmet on the small table beside him, and with one movement, snatched it up and crumpled it into a ball before raising it to his own eye-level. "Catch," he said simply, and with a simple flick of his wrist the (hard) paper projectile was flying towards Quinn's face at a moderate speed. The Ranger's eyes widened – one more than the other, due to the swelling – and scrambled to catch the small bundle with her free hand.
To her great disappointment it seemed she was still concussed, as the paper missile flew right past her outstretched hand and smacked right into the bandage lining her head, eliciting a soft yelp from her in the process.
Once again, her hand went for the bandaged spot, cradling it gently, and once again she shot a baleful glare at her current visitor. The Prince, predictably, merely chuckled at her reaction, and against her will she found herself laughing along despite the ever-so-subtle ache in her temple. "Fine, fine," she relented, flopping back down onto the bed. For the past two days the Prince had visited her when he had the time – it was rather heartwarming, that he would make time to come and see her in-between the sanctioned matches and political discussions. It used to shock her, fluster her, even, but by now… By now she was used to it. Jarvan cared greatly for his friends and his people both, and he held the drive to protect them by any means necessary. Once again, the surrealism kicked in, and she again pondered just how out of place it would seem that the Prince considered her, a simple farmgirl-turned-Ranger, a friend. "I still can't believe that lamppost hit so hard…"
"In the Grandmaster's hands," Jarvan nodded his agreement as he spoke, "even the most comical of weapons can become life-threatening." The Prince reclined in his seat, ignoring the sounds of his armor scuffing the armrests. "I actually wanted to speak to you, Quinn," he said, a look of contemplation in his eyes. "It regards the deserter you were pursuing."
Quinn felt a hint of trepidation as the rather sore topic was approached. Her failure had still left a sour taste in her mouth – granted, Jarvan had claimed that he would have had her recalled immediately if he had known the Grandmaster at Arms would interfere, but it bothered her nonetheless. She was a Ranger, after all – and an Elite one at that. She had survived countless operations that placed deep behind enemy lines, tracked and apprehended assassins and killers who could easily compete with the Institute's champions, and each and every time she and Valor obtained success.
To know that she failed such a simple track-and-catch assignment weighed heavily on her.
"I have been approached," the Prince continued, retaining a casual air despite the seriousness of the topic, "by High Councillor Kolminye. She has been overseeing the Institute's treatment of your former target, and provided me with information regarding him. Most of this information was standard – research notes, theories, diary entries and the like. There were a few… interesting bits of information, though," he digressed, nodding again. "How much were you told about your target, Quinn?"
"Not much," Quinn said hesitantly. "I… I was given a name, a photo and about two sentences concerning his background information. I know he was from a poor area in the city, and that he had no family to speak of." She paused, curiosity blooming in her amber eyes. "Why the sudden interest? Did something change?"
The Prince let out a deep sigh, somehow still regaining the regal, confident air he held regardless of the action. "Much has changed, yes. We received a confession – the deserter's own side of the story – and we've finally affirmed just who he is. Garen recognized his family name, and a few quick inquiries shed a whole new light on the case." He paused for a moment. "It's safe to say the situation is not as clear cut as we thought it was," he finally resumed, removing a small file from under his discarded helmet, and opening it.
"Garret Hillock - the youngest of three siblings. His father, Sergeant Robert Hillock, went on reserve after an injury during our skirmishes against Noxus, before the Institute came to power. Robert Hillock married his childhood sweetheart, a young baker named Jeanette, upon returning from duty, and they started a family – first a pair of twins, Isaiah and Aaron, then Garret five years later. Sadly, Jeanette Hillock passed away shortly after Garret's birth due to pregnancy complications," he said morosely. "Robert was left to raise his three sons alone, a duty which pardoned him from being redrafted for several years. Despite being a humble soldier, he strove to raise his sons with the same sense of honour, duty and justice he had been raised with, despite the loss of his wife." He trailed off here, pausing slightly. "Several domestic reports indicate a sort of unease between Robert and his youngest son, Garret – it seemed the boy didn't have much mind for soldiering. Nonetheless, the small excerpt from the domestic overseer's verdict states that Garret and Robert adored each other despite the hiccups in their relationship."
He turned the page, eyes scanning over the various paragraphs and sentences. "Eighteen years ago, Robert Hillock was formally redrafted into the Demacian military, specifically border patrol, in order to deal with an insurgence of bandits. Hillock's unit was ambushed by the outlaws, and while they were beaten back eventually, Robert Hillock was killed in action during the skirmish. The twins Isaiah and Aaron, age sixteen, and Garret, age eleven, were left orphaned." He paused again, glancing at her to read her expression. Quinn narrowed her eyes, processing the information. So Garret had lost his father at a young age, and never knew his mother, to boot. She frowned slightly – how was that any motivation to leave Demacia?
"You're thinking along the same lines I did," Jarvan interrupted her thoughts, turning his eyes back to the folder. "The tale gets better," he said sarcastically. "Isaiah and Aaron Hillock, age sixteen, appealed to be allowed to raise their younger brother in lieu of sending him to an orphanage. After several exams and interviews, the appeal was granted and they three of them stayed on in their family home. According to the social services the three of them had developed an iron-forged bond after their father's death. In order to provide for themselves, and their brothers, Aaron and Isaiah joined the Demacian military as well – Aaron joined the Rangers and Isaiah was drafted into the Dauntless Vanguard," he paused and looked up. "That was our missing link – Garen recognized Isaiah Hillock's name."
Quinn gulped – she had the slightest feeling that it wasn't a happy recollection on the Captain's part. "Why do I get the feeling I'm in for more tragic tales?" she asked warily, and Jarvan, losing his dignified air for but a moment, nodded sadly.
"I can see why he turned tail," the Prince spoke honestly. "Two years after his conscription into the Vanguard, Isaiah Hillock fell ill with a terminal sickness. His health and mental stability declined rapidly, to the point of first being benched in the reserve and then being discharged from the military entirely. There was nothing the healers could do to stop the ailment – Isaiah Hillock passed away sixteen years ago." Jarvan stopped for a moment. "Garen told me it was one of the more pronounced losses the Vanguard had suffered – Isaiah was apparently everything Garen could hope to have in his ranks, and the young man had formed an almost familial bond with his comrades." He frowned to himself, flipping the pages again. "And it doesn't even end there," he said irritably.
"You're going to tell me that… Uh… What's his name, Aaron?" Quinn inquired, quirking her head with a look of caution in her eyes. "Did he pass away too?"
"Sadly," the Prince nodded, gazing at the file in his hands. "Aaron Hillock was announced Missing In Action after a failed expedition into the Shadow Isles." The bitterness in the Prince's voice was audible, and Quinn suddenly remembered being informed that Jarvan had stood against the notion of such an incursion since its announcement. It was way, way before her time, but the story was quite popular among the Rangers – a squad had been dispatched to scout out the newly named 'Shadow Isles', and contact with them had been lost immediately after they entered the veil of mist that shrouded the ominous islands. A few weeks later the boat the rangers used was recovered – bloody, broken and completely abandoned.
She shuddered slightly – if the older Rangers and captains were to be believed, it was barely a week after this incident when Hecarim, the Shadow of War, started his destructive journey to the Institute of War's front door. "When did this happen?"
"Thirteen years ago," Jarvan said pensively, snapping the folder shut. "Roughly two months before it was reported that Garret Hillock had fled Demacian territory."
Ah. Quinn hesitated for a moment as everything fell into place. Suddenly Garret seemed like much more than a simple deserter. Jarvan's report proved that the young man had lost his whole family over the course of five years – with the majority of them perishing while in service to the Demacian military. She frowned to herself, replaying the events of what transpired in the ruin in her mind's eye, and as if she had adopted a new way of seeing, a new way of thinking, all of Garret's hostility and fear, all that adamant refusal to return to his city state – it all made sense. "Do you…" She wavered slightly, recalling Garret's words clearly, as though they were the only sound in his mind. "Do you think he blames Demacia?" She asked carefully. "For the loss of his family?"
The Crown Prince stood up, placing the dossier to the side and strolling to the foot of her bed. "I would not blame him," he said softly. "I've already gone over what you reported – I've can almost recall his speech to you word-for-word… But I only know what he said," Jarvan said. "I've come to you out of curiosity – I want to know how he said it."
For a moment, Quinn remained silent. She tried to re-envision the scene from the ruin, at least the parts before Jax had arrived to school her. After all, the deserter's words were of the type that wasn't easily forgotten. "He… I don't know how to describe it," she said blandly, making a face. "I'm a Ranger, not a linguist – I can't… I can't describe these things, I just…" She trailed off, sighing deeply and closing her eyes. "The only obvious thing I could tell is that he hated the idea of coming back here, and… and I'm thinking it wasn't about the charges on his name."
Jarvan raised an eyebrow, intrigued at her observation. "Go on?"
"I mean, if you think about it," Quinn said, shifting herself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Thirteen years this guy is running from every guard, every scouting party we send after him – I'm willing to bet he's even gone to ridiculous lengths to escape sometimes – and not once does he pause, or falter, or waver or anything. And yet," she said, snapping her fingers, "the moment Jax offers to take him to the Institute he's all aboard. No hesitation, no doubt, nothing. It's like he jumped at the chance to face his crimes outside Demacia, so…" Her shoulders drooped. "But I can't even understand that – he was… courteous, when he spoke to me. He even called me 'ma'am'. But… If he's willing to enter a standoff and risk death rather than go back…" She sighed again, flopping back down. "This guy makes my head hurt. More than it already does, that is."
Jarvan merely smiled at her in response, as softly as it could appear on his masculine face, and donned his helmet again. "It would be in your best interests to stop thinking about it, then," he said lightly as he struggled with its clasps. "As I said, we've gotten his side of the story, and when… whatever is hiding in that arm isn't plaguing his mind, he'll be taken to the Reflection Chamber. There we'll finally figure out just what is going on." He turned on his heel, then, and strode towards the door. "Well, this matter is calling for my attention as well. You have my thanks, Quinn – even if you don't think it, you've helped a great deal."
The Ranger watched the Prince move towards the door, frowning at the amount of hesitation she felt. "Jarvan!" She called out, just as his hand found the doorknob. Shoving her hesitation aside, she steeled herself. Even if it was none of her business – she was still a curious person by nature. While she was on the hunt she had afforded herself little time to ponder – but now, she had all the time in the world. Jarvan turned to stare at her, a curious expression on his face, and Quinn cleared her throat before speaking. "What really happened in Bilgewater?" She asked earnestly. "What's his side of the story?"
Jarvan merely smiled at her curiosity, an odd response he seemed to hold reserved purely for her own questions. There was, however, a degree of sorrow in his eyes. "We had an informant stationed there," he began, "to keep an eye on pirate activity coming in and out of the city. More than likely one of his contacts informed him there was a Demacian outlaw in town and he moved to apprehend the person while he had a chance." There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something Quinn didn't recognize, but Jarvan spoke nonetheless. "The informant moved on Garret the moment he saw a chance. Garret, desperate to escape, instigated a bar fight. Our informant… He lost his life in that little brawl."
Quinn averted her eyes. For such a simple track-and-catch, this was easily turning into one of the biggest messes of her career, and it wasn't just because of the violence-obsessed thing that was no hitchhiking in the deserter's arm. How could one simple deserter cause so much confusion, and warrant so much special attention? Her eyes narrowed irritably – could it be because of Jax? Jarvan, easily deducing her train of thought, merely chuckled. "I'll keep you informed," he said with a quaint nod. "For now, focus on resting up. The other Rangers are eager to have you back on your feet."
With those parting words, and a brief wave, the Prince left her room, headed for destinations unknown – destinations that could stay unknown, as far as Quinn was concerned. She'd seen the bureaucracy Garen and Jarvan had to contend with on a daily basis – she'd pick a deep-cover assignment or long term track-and-apprehend over that any day. Still, the curious new directions her failed 'mission' had taken had left her as exhausted as any political business.
An ancient ruin, uncovered by blood, a broken weapon, forged in a material nobody can actually identify due to it being embedded in a young man's arm, a rogue Grandmaster, showing signs of morality for the first time since… well, ever, and a violence-crazed spirit that can create physical weapons from blood-red smoke – all rolled into one convenient package.
Quinn sighed. Had she been an ounce less professional she'd insist this stuff goes beyond her job description…
With a mastery of the overall layout of the building spawned through countless hours spent traversing it, she strolled through the hallways of the Institute's hospital wing with a determine gait. What little midday light entered through the half-drawn blinds danced across her pale blue skin, and highlighted the brilliant, warm hue of the dress she had become fond of wearing, and a serene smile played across her lips as she strode. After all, a patient's discharge was often reason enough to smile – and this particular patient had shown a remarkable rate of recovery.
With this in mind, Soraka hummed a somewhat happy tune as she went. Her destination – the room of one Garret Hillock – wasn't far now and, prone to fretting and faffing as she was, she couldn't help but want to do a last check-up, as she did with all her patients. Garret had been in a poor state when Jax had brought him to the Institute, but her own healing abilities, coupled with the magics of the Senior Summoners, had just about eased enough of the young man's ailments to warrant him being up and about.
Granted, the High Council had bound him to some form of magical tracker to keep tabs of his location, but as the young man himself had repeated to several Summoners, it was a small price to pay in exchange for walking about without jumping at his own shadow around every corner.
As the white door loomed ahead, she found herself checking over the files clutched in her arms. His bones had mended near-perfectly, his sicknesses and diseases had been lessened to the degree that simple prescription antibiotics could successfully eliminate the rest of it completely. All that remained was the malnutrition and the slight atrophy in the majority of his muscle mass – but those were things that couldn't be 'healed' in the same vein as a standard injury. Only time would help him recover from those – and as much as it made her waver to think so, the young man would have ample time and opportunity to cure it; whether in the Institute, or in prison.
As much as the thought saddened her, she had to admit it was an all-too-likely scenario.
All she could do at this stage was hope for the best, as she had done with all her previous patients and would do with all her future ones.
She briefly recalled what had happened several days earlier, the early morning that Garret had recited his part of the story to her and Akali. After the Fist of Shadow had left, it took but a mere touch-up and she deemed it safe for the Summoners to suppress whatever had been taking refuge in that dark, sinister-looking arm. It had started out roughly enough to give her pause – the arm had flared to life upon somehow discerning the Summoners' intent, and ever so briefly there was a tint of red to Garret's emerald eyes. He had winced from the pain, and inhaled sharply, seemingly fighting off the influence – but within moments the arm grew docile, as if it had sensed something in Garret's mind that gave it pause. The rest of the suppression had gone off without a hitch, and by the time the little ritual was done, Garret was sporting a rather lavish jewelled chain on his arm, weaved around the shards and forming intricate circles around his wrist and elbow.
She had tried to perform an analysis afterwards – a set of questions she asked anyone who went through some form of magical or spiritual suppression in the Institute, but… She never even got a chance. Garret had blacked out mid-sentence, and upon the seeing the look absolute peace and serenity on that gaunt face, the Starchild just couldn't bring herself to wake him.
He had slept for an astounding twenty-two hours after blacking out, and for but a moment she had feared whether the suppression had made him lapse into some sort of coma.
Yet her fears proved unfounded when she had strolled into his room a day and a half post-suppression, and found him sitting upright in his bed, chatting amiably with a Summoner who had been assigned to monitor the effectiveness of the seal. His pallor no longer resembled that of a corpse, and the pitch-dark rings that had weighed down the flesh under his eyes had receded to a mere shadow. A good night's – or day's – rest had proved a better remedy than any of the Starchild's own magics, and she couldn't help but feel happy for him upon seeing the once downtrodden soul so energetic and peaceful all of a sudden.
And today he was finally getting discharged. Yes, he was still confined to the Institute of War, but still – despite Garret's courteous demeanour and prim-and-proper mindset, even the foggiest of minds could detect the slight excitement at the prospect of a semblance of freedom in Garret's eyes. She recalled the one morning Jax had stopped by, to check up on his new buddy, and the Grandmaster had loudly declared that he and Gragas were dragging the young man to the closest bar they could find the day he was discharged.
Naturally, Soraka herself had tried to intervene and inform the Grandmaster that the young man's health was still not at a hundred percent, but a few quick leers from Jax disguised as questions aimed at Garret had left the Starchild so flustered she couldn't function for a few moments – a few precious moments that Jax had exploited to slip away and avoid her reprimand.
She shook her head. Always the troublemaker, that Jax. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she stopped in front of her destination, reached out, knocked twice, and entered.
The first thing she heard upon entering was the very loud rip of fabric tearing beyond mending, and an exasperated sigh of "Oh, gods above…" At first the sound coming from the small bathroom cubicle confused her, and she stepped forwards to get a better look at what was going on. Her eyes settled on an array of discarded shirts on the bed, most of them with their right sleeves completely shredded. Only then she recalled that the shards sticking out of Garret's new arm were actually sharp, and chuckled to herself as she pieced the information together. "Hell with it," she heard another mutter from the enclosed cubicle, and yet another muffled rip echoed through the eerily still room.
Just as she wondered what on earth was going on, Garret himself emerged from the cubicle, and Soraka raised a hand to her lips, if only to try and mute the slight chuckle bubbling in her throat. While the (hopefully former) deserter was dressed as commonly and casually as possible, the entire right arm and shoulder had been shredded away. It didn't seem like it was caused by a blade – or shard – either; Soraka's guess was that Garret had tired of struggling and simply tore his shirt to provide for his spiky new appendage.
She took that moment to take in his appearance, now that he didn't look like some shambling husk of a man hobbling along. His clothing was almost banal, consisting of dark pants and a white shirt. However, apparel was something the Starchild wasn't interested in. Instead she focused on the more physical aspects – a quick look at his face showed that he had at least shaved again. Granted, there was still stubble, but it mattered little – it looked more rugged than outright dirty anyway. The long mane of dark hair remained, probably out of habit after so long on the run, but he had at least tried to remove some of the dirt from it. She realized she mistook most of the gauntness in his face – it turned out Garret was a very thin, wiry individual, more lanky than outright muscular or fit, and his face displayed this without error.
All in all, she decided, not the kind of person who she'd expect to make Jax and Quinn wary of danger.
He stopped the moment he saw her, though, and his eyes widened slightly. "Miss… Er… Lady Soraka," he sounded honestly surprised, as though he hadn't expected to see her again so soon. He strode forwards a few steps, a slight smile etched onto his face, and even in the dimmed midday light it was obvious how many wonders some honest rest did for the man. "I was not… I didn't think I would see you again so soon, ma'am," he spoke reservedly. "What with getting discharged and all…"
Soraka smiled at the somewhat timid way Garret was speaking. "I don't easily forget a patient," she said cheerfully. "Call it a habit of mine, but I like doing a final checkup before I send my patients off. If only to reaffirm certainty."
Garret seemed to deflate a bit. "I… I will not need to take my shirt off again, will I?" He asked almost fearfully, an act that stirred yet another chuckle within the Starchild. "Trying to clothe oneself with an arm like this," he said glumly, beckoning towards the offending limb, "is both an exercise in futility and a catalyst for many, many frustrations."
"Hence the shredded sleeve?" She ventured a guess, smiling as she motioned for him to sit down on the small chair set aside. It seemed as though Garret was about to retort, to at least try to explain why he now owned seven shirts lacking a right sleeve, but for some reason he decided against it, chuckling as he abstained from commenting. "You're recovering at a rate that surpasses all our expectations," Soraka mused as Garret took a seat on the small chair. She placed one hand on his forehead and another on his chest, and in the midday light her magics glowed earthen green around him.
"I… I'd rather refrain from questioning it," Garret shrugged, closing his eyes as the magics surrounded him. "At this point I'm not questioning anything anymore. I… I want all of this over and done with as soon as possible. If some irregular recovery helps speed that up… then I will hardly even ponder its meaning."
"You sound like you've done some soul-searching these past few days, Garret," Soraka mused. There was still an irregularity here and there – a missed bruise or two and the like – but other than that he seemed no worse for wear, malnutrition notwithstanding. "Just a few days ago you were talking about freedom."
"In a way… That is still what I desire," Garret nodded, opening his eyes to narrow slits. "But… Ever since I came here… Since I've been able to rest and think… I came to realize just how sick and tired I am of running away. I have… I have come to terms with the inevitabilities of the future now. Whether I face absolution or prison… Both will put an end to the fear, and the paranoia, and the constant running…" He paused a bit, knitting his fingers together. "That, in a way, is also some kind of freedom. Not the kind I've been pursuing, but… not the kind I'd turn down either."
Soraka looked at him quizzically for a moment, before smiling slightly. "Have hope," she said in that soothing way of hers. "Your trial will be left not to a court or a judge, but to the Summoners of the Institute themselves. They will look into your past, they will find the truth and they will be the driving force behind the verdict. And I can assure you, Garret," she said, placing a hand on the young man's shoulders, "that while they may be… a bit stuffy, at times, they are anything but unfair."
The deserter looked at her, pondering something – it was almost as though she could see the different thoughts in his eyes – before sighing softly, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. "My thanks," he half-muttered, "for the words of encouragement. It makes the prospect of judgement seem much more bearable…" He said with finality, standing up and strolling over to the bed. "I've been told to report to the…" He hesitated, face twisting slightly, as if trying to recall something that eluded his memory. "The Reflection Chamber? I'm to meet with someone called The Judicator there. Do you know this person?"
Soraka chuckled at the deserter's cluelessness. "I know the Judicator, yes. She's involved every time someone new comes to the Institute, be they a Champion, a Summoner or otherwise. She's the closest thing the Institute has to an actual judge – while she's not the one making the verdict, her opinion regarding matters is highly valued. My guess is, she'll be the one overseeing your Reflection," she said casually, keeping her smile up. "But you needn't fear – the Judicator may be narrow-minded at times, but her spite is saved exclusively for her sister."
"I will…" Garret trailed off, sighing a bit. "I will be sure to keep clear of the latter, then," he said with finality. "I don't intend to go stirring up any more hornet's nests. I… Selfish as it may sound of me, I would rather avoid any further conflict or strife – especially not with my hearing coming up."
"When are they expecting you?" Soraka inquired. The Institute had a track record of mysteriousness when it came to Judgements, be it for a Champion or Summoner. Some were kept waiting for weeks, months even, while others were judged on the spot. The Shadow of War, she recalled, had been led to the Reflection Chamber within moments of arriving at the Institute's metaphorical front door. She chanced a peek at Garret's mutated arm again, wondering just how much Summoner attention that fiendish spirit warranted…
"Four hours from now," Garret said, noticing Soraka's gaze and tucking the offending limb behind his back. His face kept that same soft smile, and there was little hurt or anger in his eyes, but the gesture in and of itself said enough – the arm was still a sore subject. "They've decided to try and get everything over and done with today. After my… my 'Reflection', the Judicator will try to make contact with… Well, she'll do her part," he said, somewhat stiffly. "I am… merely worried about one of the aspects of this little Judgement," he said, somewhat warily. Upon seeing Soraka's confused look, he supplied her with an answer. "Prince Lightshield has requested to be present. Captain Crownguard as well."
Soraka's eyes widened slightly as she processed the news. What interest could Garen and Jarvan IV have in this young man? Sure, he was a Demacian, and a convicted criminal at that, but… She frowned. Could this have something to do with Quinn, and her subsequent defeat at Jax's hands? If it were she couldn't fault the Crown Prince – Quinn had been in a truly sorry state when Jax had brought her in, nonchalantly claiming that he 'put her in her place', as an arrogant man like himself was wont to do.
Briefly, she wondered if it could have been because of the spirit in his arm – after all, it did seem combat capable, going by Jax's report. But she shook such concerns from her mind – with a spirit as malevolent as the one in his arm, it seemed more likely Demacia would opt to destroy it rather than –
And at that precise moment, recollection dawned in her mind, and her features saddened as she recalled what they had discovered while the deserter was sleeping. An in-depth analysis of the suppressed limb revealed something equal parts terrifying and tragic: the flesh had been twisted and mutated far deeper than a simple limb. The Summoners had found strands of corrupted muscle and sinew and even bone leading deeper into his torso, and the arm's corruption had secured an unrelenting grip on the young man. The dark flesh had latched onto several important arteries and muscles – including several around his spine and heart. Complete removal of the arm would be dangerous, possibly fatal at that.
She had briefly recalled Garret's reaction to this news. While she could not lay claim to know his entire reaction, she had seen every trace of colour leave his face as he asked to be left alone. It was difficult to discern his emotions then – she could see sorrow and fear in his green eyes, and a slight slump in his body language.
But that was then. Whatever Garret had told himself, or discovered about himself, had eased that negativity – there was no hint of it now in his body language at all. He seemed… relaxed, almost. As though he merely couldn't care anymore.
Soraka made a note to have him called in to speak with some of the Summoners – it was better to be safe rather than sorry, and if Garret was actively repressing his emotions in light of his new limb, it could spell untold amounts of disaster; especially if the spirit had access to them.
"I cannot fathom why they would even care about some lad from the city's poor district," Garret continued, pulling the Starchild from her reverie, "but I won't question it. Mine is not to make demands – I've been given opportunity enough as is. I'm scared, I admit – I'm downright bloody terrified of even being in the same room as the Captain of the Vanguard." Garret gazed out of the window as he spoke, his eyes misting over in remembrance. "Monster of a man, stood almost twice my height and I was a teen at the time."
"Their presence," Soraka spoke, nodding slightly, "is highly unusual. It has been… ages, since another Champion was allowed to be present during the Reflection. However, while unusual, they also hold very little sway," she said resolutely. "The final verdict is still in the hands of the Summoners. Should they draft you into service to the Institute there is little anyone else can do regarding the matter. If your words contain truth, then the Reflection will prove it. At the very least you'll be cleared of the murder charge," she said with a smile. "Have you thought about what you can offer, though? Should the Institute conscript you, that is. You've been running from a soldier's life for more than a decade so I highly doubt you'll be up for fighting in the Fields of Justice."
"I…" Garret trailed off, scratching the back of his head. "I have not truly thought about that, ma'am," he said truthfully. "I've been so focused on what lies ahead, and on fighting off this damned arm… Other trains of thought eluded me." He paused for a while, deep in thought. "I have been studying linguistics and archaeology. Granted, I'm no prodigy, but I feel I've fared better than most. Is there some place in the Institute that could use such talents?"
"Well, the Prodigal Explorer, Ezreal, often commissions support for his various expeditions, so you might have some luck there as far as the long term is concerned," Soraka answered, also deep in thought. "Although… The notes the Summoners obtained from you show you're quite the bookish sort. If nothing else, your knowledge could be valuable as far as the Institute's library is concerned. I…" She trailed off, pondering something. "The Institute's library is overseen by Nasus, the Curator of the Sands. I can speak with him, if you would like? I'm sure he's got no qualms with extra help – the library is a massive place, after all – too massive for even an Ascended hero of Shurima."
"It… It would be an appreciated gesture," Garret nodded. "I dare not place too much hope in what may happen should circumstance favour me, but… the support is… I don't know what to say, ma'am," he trailed off.
"You needn't say anything," Soraka said with a chuckle. "And you needn't call me 'ma'am' either, Garret. While the Institute is not exactly informal, it's not all prim-and-proper protocol either. Calling me Soraka is just fine," she said with a smile.
"I…" Garret trailed off again, an argument seemingly dying out in his throat, and he shook his head with a smile. "I guess that would be preferable, then. The constant formality must become quite grating after a while," he mused as he turned to the bed again, lifting a dark cloak off his pillow. "Do you… Do you think this will do, to hide my arm?" He asked earnestly. "I do not feel completely comfortable with it yet… The last thing I want is for people to be making vocal observations."
Soraka's gaze softened slightly. Much as he hid it, it seemed Garret still felt some semblance of shame regarding his new limb – even more so after it maimed that one doctor after he was admitted. Granted, Soraka had utmost faith in the Summoners' magics, and she was certain that whatever rested within his arm now would be kept at bay until he decided otherwise, but still… The being had attacked two Champions of the Institute already. "It will do just fine, Garret," she said reassuringly. She knew better than to try and tell him otherwise. The Institute itself had its fair share of Champions with unusual physical traits. Garret himself would not be the first, nor the last, but nonetheless, if he wished to keep his arm hidden, she would pay it no mind. "It appears," she said, suddenly remembering the rest of her work, "that I've allowed myself to wander," she said with a smile. "My little 'last checkup' is all done, Garret – I find no further ailments." She smiled at him, nodding once and turning towards the door. "Much as I'm up for conversation, I'm afraid I have more aid to offer elsewhere, and such, I must be going," she said with a smile, pulling open the door. "I wish you all the best with your Reflection, Garret," she said sincerely, and turned to leave.
"Ma-Er, Soraka!" She heard the young man call out behind her, and curiously she turned back around, eager to hear what could have caused him to call out to her. Garret, for all his progress the past few days, still seemed slightly hesitant – she even heard him start with another 'ma'am' before cutting himself off. After a brief moment of doubt, however, his eyes cleared again, and he smiled, more radiantly than he ever had during his stay at the Institute. "I… Thank you, Soraka," he said with a sigh, slumping slightly. "For the words of encouragement. They… They work wonders for the soul."
Soraka merely smiled back at his declaration, matching his in both intensity and radiance. With her free hand she offered him a wave as she turned back around. She had done and said all she could – and while a part of her still couldn't help but fret over her patient, she realized she had little more to offer him. She heard him turn around as well, and the soft rustle of fabric signalled the large cloak unfurling. Any further sound, however, died out when the door to his room shut with a soft snap.
Idly, as she strolled down the hallways to her next patient, she wondered just what would occur in the Reflection Chamber. Garret was a kind young man, courteous, honest and respectful to the very core – but his mind seemed to be a very dark place, dampened by more than a decade's worth of fear and paranoia. A part of her believed that such a kind young man didn't deserve such a harsh life – but she had long since learned that circumstance was a demon that plagued a great many people, regardless of their hearts or minds.
Absentmindedly she wondered if Jax was going to wait at the Reflection Chamber…
…After all, having your mind read like a book was an arduous process…
"Aye, I hear th' lad's getting his Judgment today?"
"It's not a Judgement. Well, I guess it is but it ain't like our-I mean, er, your Judgements," The Grandmaster at Arms answered smugly as he strolled towards the Reflection Chambers. He never got tired of the exasperation, the confusion, and the downright ridicule his 'Judgement' had drawn from his fellow Champions, and being the individual he was, he never missed the chance to emphasize the fact that he was such a total ace that the doors to the Institute just let him in – no questions asked.
Yup. The Champ was just that good.
"Say! If he's, if he's not gettin' Judged an all, then why's he gettin' a Judgement then?" Jax fought the impulse to shake his head. He really did. Gragas, as good a friend as he was, didn't exactly know what 'control' meant as far as his grog was concerned. He blamed that other Freljordian Summoner, really – cute enough lass as she was, she was sorely lacking in judgement – especially when smuggling Gragas new components for his grog. Barely midday, Jax realized with a slight wilt, and Gragas was already inebriated. Well, as inebriated as Gragas could get.
"Because," Jax started, twirling his lamppost in his free hand, "the higher-ups want to get his side of the story. All things considered, Demacia's still short a double agent now, and, well… They're baying for blood."
"Apart from their regular bayin', eh?" Gragas laughed, uncorking the massive cask of grog he carried with him and guzzling down a few gulps. "This the lad ya said ya gonna bring to my bar?"
"The exact same one," Jax nodded sagely. "I figure after, oh, I dunno, thirteen damn years on the run the best way to celebrate his freedom is to get absolutely shit-faced."
"Ya so sure he's gonna get the clear?" Gragas asked, raising an eyebrow. It was odd, the way his whole beard seemed to shift in tandem with his facial expressions. "Last I checked the lad's status was still unde-er… up in the air," he slurred, shifting the cask under his arm. "And there's some mighty troublin' rumours goin' about, bud," he said in a warning tone. "Stories drifiting around me bar, that Prince Whatsit's gonna be sittin' in."
"Yeah, I heard Prince Jawline was gonna be a part of it," Jax shrugged his shoulders. "Not much he can do about it, though. Last I checked he was just your everyday average prince – not a High Councillor."
"An' what about Kayle, then?"
Jax raised a finger, poised to make a witty remark, only to have it die in his throat. "Ah. That bitch," he mused. He had completely forgotten about the Judicator's role in Garret's little 'court case'. The woman was, for all intents and purposes, the sole judge and jury when it would inevitably come to the matter regarding Garret's tenant. She was, after all, the person they were going to send in to make contact with it. "I… Fuck it, I'll be honest, I didn't even think about her," he admitted.
"Might matters difficult, then," Gragas said with a wary look, or at least, as wary a look as a half-inebriated man of his stature could give. "I'll admit the lass has her moments, but other than that she can be a right bitch."
"Noted," Jax said dryly. "Well, shit, this is something new. If that little spirit does anything to make Kayle go Crusader on its ass, it might spell trouble for Garret." It was true, to an extent – while Jax would admit Kayle could be quite kind and fair, she was stupidly narrow minded at times, and many a time Jax could have sworn she was more a mindless slave to 'justice' than an actual enforcer of it. He frowned under his mask. It was also unlikely that Kayle would have much one-on-one time with Garret as well… so her verdict would be based solely on the spirit in his arm.
The spirit that, for the record, had tried to kill Quinn and himself and had maimed a doctor of the Institute.
"Fuck's sakes," Jax sighed. "Thirteen years on the fuckin' run and the kid's still facing shit around every corner."
Finally, he and Gragas appeared before the massive, marble doors leading into the Reflection Chamber. Jax would have liked to muse that he, like most other champions, had either fond or terrible memories of this place. It was the room in which potential combatants for the Institute had their minds explored, and where they deemed either fit or unfit to serve on the Fields of Justice. Jax would have liked to say he felt nostalgic at the sight.
Fortunately he didn't – because he was The Champ and didn't have any need for that fruity 'Judgement' bullshit.
Absentmindedly he lifted the large, decorative vase off the pedestal that flanked the large doorway, and sat down comfortably, setting his lamppost down beside him with a soft clunk. Hey, priceless antique or not, if The Champ wanted a place to sit he was getting a place to sit – no further questions asked. Idly, though, he wondered just what was waiting on the young man behind those doors. When he was called to the League he mistook the Reflection Chamber for just another boring, undecorated antechamber or some nonsense because absolutely nothing happened. Other Champions, though, begged to differ. Vessaria had told him that some Champions had even been reduced to tears within its confines.
Pft. Pussies.
Nonetheless, the knowledge proved worrying to the Grandmaster – from what he'd seen Garret was willing to face death rather than go anywhere near anything from his past. He had no idea what could have spawned such an irrational fear and loathing of what happened – it was the first time he'd ever seen such a mindset. The Fields of Justice had unwittingly shown him how someone's past could break them – from Riven's stoic, downtrodden outlook to Lux's cheery, unfettered façade, Jax could have claimed to have seen it all – until he happened upon Garret, that is.
"Oy, she's comin'," he heard Gragas speak up suddenly, and as if on cue, he heard the somewhat muted cacophony of shifting armour plates coming down the hall. The lack of heavy, thudding footsteps clued him in to who it was already – after all, The Champ was hardly ignorant – and he barely bothered looking in the newcomer's direction, already seeing the reflections on the walls as the lights danced off her armour. The figure stopped, briefly, upon seeing him, and Jax felt a neutral gaze settle on him. Figures, that she'd be the first to arrive.
"Jax," he heard the Judicator speak, her tone crisp, yet controlled and devoid of intent. "I do not recall this Judgement being any of your business. The Summoners and I have everything under moderation and control – you do realize you are not needed here?"
"Yup," Jax chirped, finally looking towards Kayle's floating form. Ever ready for battle, her golden armour stood polished and primed, and her sword hung within arm's reach in a sheath on her hip. Despite being inside the hallways of one of the most powerful, heavily guarded places in all of Valoran, she still opted to wear a helmet. "You do realize I don't give a damn?" He asked casually, leaning back and – deliberately – nearly kicking over the vase he had removed.
Kayle's eyes narrowed behind her helmet, an action that had not gone unnoticed by Jax, and she curiously tilted her head. "What interest do you have in today's proceedings?" She inquired. "If this is regarding the deserter you brought in-"
"Actually," Jax cut her off, raising a finger and – much to his own ego's delight – silencing the Angel where she stood. Or floated. Whatever. "I'm here to support a buddy of mine. Poor guy's gonna have his mind taken apart like one of the Professor's little contraptions, and after that he's gotta deal with you," he said dryly. "I'd think he needs all the support he can get. Look, I even brought him a 'Good Luck' present," he said, patting the cask of grog that had been set down next to him. "This should be just enough to make his time with you more bearable."
Kayle, despite herself, merely uttered a tired sigh, closing her eyes. "There is no need for hostility, Grandmaster," she spoke softly. "I am not here to render judgement. I have merely been conscripted to make contact with whatever resides in the boy's arm. Mine is merely to inform the Summoners of the spirit's intent – the final verdict lies in their hands," she said as she floated past him. The marble doors creaked open, revealing the inky darkness it held. "Although I doubt saying any of this matters – your opinion of me is clearly unshakeable," she said as she disappeared into the shadows of the Reflection Chamber. "I have no intention of trying to change that," her voice rang out as the tips of her white wings disappeared entirely.
A few moments of silence reigned after the angel disappeared and the doors shut behind her, before Gragas chose that moment to speak up. "Well that coulda gone worse," he said helpfully.
"Eh. That woman…" Jax shook his head. Kayle was one of the few people in the Institute he simply could not read – she was unshakeable in her belief, unwavering in her outlook and unfaltering in her advance, but she never gave anything away. Even when faced with her sister she remained stoic and neutral, despite her body language screaming bloody murder at the sight of her arch nemesis. Jax didn't rightly care that the Judicator had shown the capability to be kind in the past. In her eyes, the world was a simple black-and-white place – and that outlook had caused so small amount of trouble for her, and not just with her sister. If she were to let that outlook cloud her while dealing with this ancient spirit, this obviously alien influence…
"Shit," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm gonna need some of that grog soon."
Suddenly, his day had taken a drastic dive – and if he was right about the Judicator, it seemed that soon, Garret's day would turn sour too.
He made sure to veer away from the beaten path in his journey to the Reflection Chamber. He had inquired if there was a less populated, less popular path to his destination, for the sake of keeping the attention away from himself. He was but a lad from Demacia's poorer district, after all – a humble upbringing and more than a decade of pseudo-isolation and limited human contact had forged a man who felt drastically out of place amongst large amounts of people. Call it paranoia, call it introversion, call it fear – he himself did not care. He knew what he was comfortable with, and a large amount of company was certainly not such a pleasure. Smaller, more personal companionship was where he felt at home.
With his free, unbound hand, Garret pulled the hood of his cloak down a bit more as he briskly strode past a gaggle of Summoners chatting eagerly about an earlier match. A match of what, he was afraid to ask – these were mages, after all, magic users who held sway over every city state in Valoran. Father had always said magi were dangerous folk – anyone who could manipulate elements and warp reality with their mere thoughts were people who had to be strayed away from. Granted, the magic users proved more of a boon than a threat during his travels, but even then, the stories floated across every bar, every tavern and every trail of caravans he frequented.
The chains around his… around the thing that now inhabited his arm danced under his cloak, their tingling rhythm muffled by the heavy fabric. Once again, he uttered thanks – to both the Summoners and every possible god or deity he had learned of – that his mind had been purged of the dark intentions that plagued it. He recalled, even now, how frightening it was – the whispers that drifted around his thoughts, and the way his vision would often twist, and display whoever he was looking at as a mangled, twisted corpse. He remembered how frighteningly simple the wounds were, how the giggles and whispers egged him on to lash out and end those who would do him harm. He recalled it all – and he was absolutely terrified by it.
Again he turned a corner, ignoring everything and everyone around him as he strode onwards. The voice, the whisper, the influence, or whatever it was, it was silent now. He could think, he could speak and move and relax without feeling his own body trying to betray him. He no longer had to fight against movements and impulses that felt so horrifyingly instinctive he could have passed them off as the urge to breathe. It had been isolated, from both his body and mind, and despite himself, he harboured a small flicker of hope in himself that, after this ordeal, the thing could be isolated permanently. This was his life, his body – for thirteen years he had fought tooth and nail for his freedom; he wasn't about to lose it to some murder-crazed ghost.
One last corner, he realized, turning right and keeping his gaze forward. He saw the giant marble doors, right at the end of the hallway – they were as lavish and intricate as the rest of the Institute, adorned with runic carvings and illustrations and floral patterns around the edges. Even to those who did not know it was the Reflection Chamber, it was easy to see the doors led somewhere important. As he neared the doors, though, his focus jumped from the marble itself to the two people sitting before it. "…Jax?" True to form, the Grandmaster sat on one of the pedestals surrounding the door. He looked no different from other days – his purple cloak still stood out like a sore thumb and the multiple sockets on his mask glowed the same azure hue they always did. Jax himself was being accompanied by… a rather stout individual, whose immense girth was decked in odd, tattoo like markings. Garret's eyes widened slightly; even with the three-or-so feet of beard covering it, the man's outrageous belly was still one of his defining features - the lack of any clothing apart from some kind of modernized loincloth, even more so.
Absentmindedly he reminded himself it would be impolite to be horrified at the sight.
The Grandmaster took notice of Garret, seemingly recognizing him despite the cloak, and laughed as he stood up. "'Bout time you got here! Everyone else is here already."
"I…" Garret trailed off, looking at the two people before him. "I took a less conspicuous path. I am… not exactly a people person," he said somewhat timidly. "At least, not where large volumes are concerned. What… Not to sound ungrateful, Jax, but why are you even here?"
Jax merely laughed again. "What do you mean, why am I here? We're waiting on you," he said cheerfully. "It'd be shitty if you had to walk in there on your own. Well, you gotta do it on your own anyway, but it's a figure of speech. I figured I'd come wish you good luck in there," he said, placing a hand on Garret's shoulder. "Also!" He perked up, as if he forgot something. He quickly turned to his accomplice, lightly punching the larger, rounder man on the arm. "This here's Gragas. Good friend of mine, makes a mean grog. You'll see soon enough," he said with a chuckle. "I'm dragging you to his bar as soon as you're done."
Garret glanced at the man named Gragas again. The stout man seemed slightly inebriated, but offered a toothy grin regardless. "So you're the lad whose hide Jax saved," he said heartily, extending his hand. "Good ta meet ya, lad. I hear ya told Quinn off quite good – that takes hair on ya chest, I tell ya, and I respect people with hair on their chest!"
"Metaphorically speaking," Jax added helpfully.
Garret wasted no time, and shook Gragas' hand without hesitation. "It is… good to meet you as well, Gragas," he said sincerely, offering a smile under his hood. So far the rather rotund man seemed like a hearty person – he reminded Garret all too much of one of the bars he frequented in Noxus. He shook his head to clear it of the thoughts. This was not the time for nostalgia. "I assume I am to enter through these doors?"
"Real talky person ya found here, Jax," Gragas commented with a laugh. "He's a Demacian, alright," he said with a grin. "Anyhow, lad, you're right. These doors here," he said, hitting the marble surface with his fist, "will take ya right to the Reflection Chamber. Now when ya go through, ya might see some darkness. Okay, scratch that, you'll see a lot of darkness, really – but just keep going. There's some weird magic in that room – ya can keep walking for hours if ya feel like it."
"Lucky for you, it won't come to that," Jax supplied, "because the Summoners aren't a bunch of dicks. Well at least not total dicks. Ol' Vess is in there, along with two other people I really, really don't care about because Vess looks better than 'em both. You wouldn't say she's nearing forty, that's for damn sure," he said, before clearing his throat. "Anyhow, she's in there and she's spearheading this little judgment. So at the very least you don't need to worry about biased idiots chairing your little court case."
Garret nodded as processed the information. All of a sudden, reality caught up to him with frightening speed and precision. The moment he stepped through those doors, his whole past would be laid bare, for everyone to see. He still was not entirely sure just how comfortable he was with that, but the alternative was much less preferable. He gulped slightly, and took a step forward. "You… You both, have my sincerest thanks – for both the aid and the company before this arduous trial. I cannot be sure, but I waver this would have been a lot more frightening if you two had not been here."
Gragas uttered a loud laugh, setting a giant hand down on Garret's shoulder. "Chin up, lad," he said with a toothy grin. "This'll all go without a hitch, just you wait and see. When all's said and done, mate, we're gonna get you so shit-faced you'll be wakin' up tomorrow night."
Garret smiled at the reassurance, stifling a chuckle at the bearded brewmaster's casual outlook regarding the Reflection. At the very least, he thought, was in the presence of two people who affiliated themselves with him with no ulterior motive. No curiosity, no pity, nothing – just sincere friendship, despite the vast differences between them. He nodded to himself, his smile growing just a touch wider. "I… For the first time in my life, I will admit that sounds like a wonderful idea," he said softly, striding past Jax and Gragas and placing his hands on the marble. "Well… The sooner I get this done, the better," he muttered.
Jax retook his seat on the small pedestal, resting his lamppost on his shoulder. "We'll be waiting, kiddo," he said reassuringly, with a slight nod of his own. "You take your time – we've got no battles for a while yet," he said.
Taking a deep breath, Garret nodded. No pressure, at least not from them. The marble doors were cold beneath his fingertips, colder even than the stony ruins he'd sheltered in during his treks through the Freljord. It was an unnervingly unnatural feeling, the way it seeped into his hands. Even his mutated limb, deadened to all feeling, pulsed slightly under the chill. For but a moment, Garret wondered whether it was an omen of sorts, a foreboding sign of what lay waiting inside.
He shook those thoughts from his head without pause, though – he did not survive thirteen years as an outlaw through superstition, after all.
Exhaling softly, he applied the merest bit of force behind his hands. The dark, intricate doors creaked back, opening before him, and the darkness seemed to seep out from the small crack. Garret closed his eyes, though, and kept pushing. This was all that stood between him and freedom – be it absolution or incarceration, all his strife would finally end – and a bit of shadows weren't going to keep him from reaching that end.
With renewed purpose, he opened the doors completely…
…and without the slightest hesitation, he strode into the shadows.
The azure glow of the Summoner's crystal painted the small side room an eerie shade – light intermixed with darkness and several Summoners, junior and senior alike, stood in a circle, manipulating the large crystal at their centre. In the confines of this dark room, High Councillor Kolminye had deigned it appropriate to do away with her hood. Garret Hillock's past was about to be revealed to them, and she could afford no obstructions to her view. Idly, she traced a gloved finger down the small, spike-like tattoo that ran down across her right eye, a memento from her youth, when she was rebellious and free-spirited. It had become a habit of hers, a pseudo ritual she partook in whenever she was overly focused or stressed, and given the company she was in now, it was safe to say she was both.
The Judicator herself stood next to Vessaria, her golden helm tucked under one arm. Despite the inherent beauty in her vision, the stoic mask currently settled there detracted from it slightly. It seemed she was on the verge of frowning, as she always was when dealing with such prolonged matters. Her eyes kept a steely gaze on the crystal, the medium which showed them what would happen inside the Reflection Chamber. Slowly, a streak of white appeared in the inky darkness, a sign that the doors were opening, slowly but surely. She stood at rapt attention, her posture straight and flawless, her wings tucked behind her, unmoving.
Off to the side, Vessaria's other two visitors were seated. Jarvan Lightshield IV, crown prince of Demacia, sat on one side, hunched forward, his mouth hidden behind interwoven fingers as he observed the crystal. His crown-like helm hung off the armrest, discarded as soon as the magical relay started, and his gaze was as focused as it was during a battle. Vessaria did not wager a guess as to what the Prince was thinking – after his journey to the Great Barrier, few people truly could.
To the other side sat the person who had provided the final piece of the puzzle. Garen Crowngaurd, Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, sat with every bit of tenseness his friend, the prince, displayed. Vessaria had done her research – Garen apparently knew Garret's brother at one stage. Undoubtedly, the large man had spoken to the young deserter in the past. It was no surprise, truly, that he too was there. In matters concerning the families of those who perished in service to the Vanguard, Garen rarely let simple procedure and protocol stop him.
She was as curious as they were, though – Garret had been nothing but friendly and polite ever since coming to the Institute, but his motives for abandoning Demacia still remained hidden. It was the one thing nobody could wrestle from the young man, and in a way, she thought it was for the better. Hearing a person's motivation through simple verbal communication… it was a practice that bred neither understanding nor sympathy. But seeing their memories, their minds… Knowing what truly laid in their hearts and souls… such was the purest form of truth one could find.
Through the crystal, she saw the doors crack open wider, and she steeled herself, adding her own magics to the ritual.
It was about to start – they could spare no missed information.
It had become so difficult for him to move. Literally, everything, everywhere he looked was nothing but darkness. It swallowed all colour, all texture, all patterns and objects, and left nothing but a black, horizonless void. He couldn't even see the floor before him – the darkness played with depth perception, and every step he took was made with almost fearful consideration. His right arm ached again, almost straining against the chains that bound it, and frantically, he started pulling at his cloak as he felt the cloth wrap tighter around him.
It all ended, suddenly, when a burst of bright light blinded him with such sharpness and force that he was sent tumbling backwards. His back slammed down on a soft, almost comfortable surface as a wave of cold wind washed over him. The constrictive fibres of his cloak almost washed away, flowing off him and disappearing into the white abyss around him. Sweat caused his shirt to stick to his chest and back, and grudgingly he shuffled to his knees, hand on his face to try and block out the light.
When he opened his eyes again he found himself in an all too familiar place. He was on his knees inside Demacia's Memorial of Honour, a graveyard dedicated to those who perished in service to the city state. Damn grass soaked his knees, as well as the small backpack that laid beside him, but for some reason, he couldn't care. It was nighttime, he realized – a beautiful full moon shone down on the graveyard, dispelling any eeriness or spookiness one would normally associate with a graveyard. It provided the only source of light – mist clung to the rooftops in the distance, and small clouds drifted around the pearl above, but other than that, not a single light was to be seen.
The cold wind assaulted his face again and absently, he raised his right arm – his normal, untainted right arm – to wipe away what little wetness remained in his eyes. Father wouldn't have wanted to see him crying this long after his passing – nor would his brothers, at that. They had lived their lives the way they had wanted, after all… But this would be the last time. This would be the final goodbye.
Unbidden, the memories flooded him. He remembered his father tentatively sitting next to him as he was in the process of devouring a book, and the two had timidly started talking about its contents. Offhanded comments and blunt observations soon turned into excited chatter and raucous laughter, and the memory of the sheer joy he had felt that night tore into his heart like a cold, steel dagger. He remembered his father buying him more books to read in the days that followed, an act that confused him to no end. His father wanted a soldier, did he not? He thought up Garret's name with the idea of naming a soldier. And yet, here he was, indulging in Garret's own definitely-not-soldierly hobby. He remembered cornering his father one night, asking why. Why raise a scholar if he so dearly wanted a soldier? He remembered the answer shook him, reduced him to a bumbling mess that night.
"I care not for what path you take in life," his father spoke to him. "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to. Soldier, scholar or otherwise, Garret – you are my son, and I will love you as such regardless."
The brass objects in his hand chattered against each other as he started trembling before his family's graves. Anew, the tears streaked down his cheeks as he recalled every happy memory. Every kind thought, every fun game, every bedtime story his father and brothers had entertained him with when he was but a lad – they flew through his mind and reduced him to a sobbing wreck once more, and his fingers curled around the objects in his palm.
All the joy in his life, all the positivity, and happiness, and love… all ripped away, for another's ideals.
He recalled anguished whispers escaping him that night as he gazed at the three brass medals in his hands. Constant whispers of "I'm sorry" were lost in the dead silence of the graveyard, swallowed up by the spirits resting there. Almost cautiously, he reached out and relinquished his grasp on the medals. He placed one on each grave – his father's and his brothers' – and almost tenderly rearranged the flowers in the vase sitting before his mother's tombstone. It was… the least he could do – both for them, and for himself.
He was going to miss his window if he dawdled any longer, he realized amidst the anguish and the agony. Using his sleeve, he tried to stem the flow of tears as he stood up. He cast a final gaze at the white, marble tombstones before him. His family – this would be the last time, in all likeliness. In a way, he wanted to say a few final words – a final goodbye, a final 'I love you', anything to stem the hurt of leaving them behind – but the knot in his throat was simply too thick.
He was but a teenager, after all – not a man, not a soldier, not a fighter. Just a simple teenager…
He forced himself to turn away. Despite the immense burning sensation he felt right to the depths of his very soul, he forced himself to turn his back on his family's graves and walk away. His window was getting smaller by the second – if he missed it he was doomed to the same fate his father and brothers suffered. It hurt him, doing this – it hurt like nothing else in his entire life had, be it emotional or physical. It was as though he could feel his insides freezing over with every step he took, and yet…
He pushed onwards. He willed himself to. His father had said it himself – "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to." Whether he was misunderstanding or not didn't matter – soon, none of it would matter at all. He had his route planned out, he thought as he dried his eyes again, using his other sleeve to try and clean his face. The guard on duty tonight was overworked, lax – his chance to slip by unnoticed. Slowly he strode forwards, dodging and darting through the dark alleys he had memorized by heart as a young lad. There, in the distance, he saw it – a merchant's caravan, standing outside a tavern. More than likely the owner was getting a quick drink before hitting the long road.
Slowly, with tread he had gained from trying to sneak past his brother, a Demacian Ranger – the best of the best – he crept forwards. Fifty feet became twenty, then ten, then five, and before he knew it, he was right beside the large wagon. He chanced a peek around him – hoping to remain unseen by beggars or night owls or 'lasses of the night' as his father had called them. Yet not a single light apart from the tavern's pierced the darkness – at midnight, Demacia could just as well have been called a dead city.
Nodding to himself, and gulping again to dispel the knot in his throat, he raised the leather canvas and hopped aboard.
The scene dispelled itself soon enough, fading back into a myriad of different shades of dark. Garret stumbled slightly, eyes wet and swollen, and he fought for some semblance of balance. A wave of heat and humidity struck him right in the face, drying his tears, and he felt several lashes of pain across his back. He gnashed his teeth, fighting the impulse to cry out from the sudden sting, and slowly climbed back to his feet. He felt the fibres of his shirt dissipate, and soon that garment washed away into the miasma of colour around him as well.
He found himself, this time, standing in a wide open space in a large tent. He was fumbling with his belt buckle, struggling to fasten it as he slowly paced around the carpet covered floor. The heat was damn near unbearable – even in the middle of the night, Shurima's heat stood as a force of nature, and the fact that he had slept quite fitfully made it even worse. Sweat clung to his bare torso and back, and his hair was matted to the side of his face. He strolled over to a rather large mirror off to the side, wincing slightly from the stinging sensation in his back, and turned to examine the source of the slight pain in the mirror's reflection.
He saw several scratch marks raking across his back. Normally such a sight would trouble him, but given the circumstances, he would grudgingly admit he'd suffered worse during times of brittle peace and comfort. He turned his gaze to the bed at the centre of the large tent, and his eyes ever so briefly traced the form of the tanned, dark haired young woman intertwined between the sheets. Smiling ever so slightly, he turned his attention away. Soft-spoken and patient as the woman was during the day, she was also quite a voracious lover. The marks on his back testified as much.
Eschewing a shirt, he stepped out of the tent. It was somewhat cooler outside, but the breeze was still too warm for his liking. Even in the middle of the night, Shurima was still the hottest place in all of Valoran. He let his gaze wander to the many tents surrounding him – it was this reason that he favoured hiding out amidst the caravans of nomads in Shurima. In their ranks, he was as close to anonymous as he could ever get. He took a step forwards, feeling his feet sink into the sands beneath him, and strode over to the camel he had acquired for his stay, calmly sleeping off to the side. It jolted awake, though, when it heard him approaching – but it was used to his presence. It offered half a bray as Garret neared him, looking at him curiously as the young man sat down beside it, resting his back against the camel's form. "Easy there, boy," Garret placated it, patting its side as he sat. The camel sneezed once and, content that it was merely its rider, tucked its head around and went back to sleep.
Alone with his thoughts again, Garret reclined against his mount. He cast his gaze upwards, at the full moon above, and the reason for his fitful sleep started pestering him again.
Five years.
Five years since he deserted Demacia, since he turned his back on his conscription and fled the city state. Five years since he had become a wanted man. After all, Demacia did not tolerate deserters – not with Noxus always looming on the horizon.
It had felt… much longer. He recalled that night before his family's graves clearly. He wondered if someone was still tending to the flowers before his mother's grave. She had been a beloved friend to many, after all – it was probably too much to hope for, but still… Better some hope than no hope at all. Something had to keep him from his darker thoughts, after all.
It was at that moment that a faint rustling drew his attention. He looked back at the tent he had just exited. The flap fell shut as his partner the previous night strode towards him, one of the blankets wrapped around her body. She smiled slightly as she approached him, barely saying a word as she took a seat beside him. "You were tossing and turning all night," she mused as she rested against him. "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?" She teased.
Garret uttered a half-hearted chuckle at the question, averting his eyes from any skin the blankets left uncovered. He was, after all, a polite, well-mannered man – just as his father had raised him to be. "I would think after three separate stints that I am used to your… 'quirks'," he said with a light smile as he turned his gaze back to the moon. "No, tonight is something… much different. Ghosts, you could say, of a life past… A life lost, really…"
"A life rejected?" The woman ventured, turning to look at him. "You know," she said, curiosity evident in her velvety voice, "you never did tell me why you left. You're a smart man, aren't you, Garret? I've seen you in action after all. You might not be much of a fighter, but your mind… It's greater than any amount of physical ability. Had you stayed you could have become something great in that city, you know," she mused, resting her head against his shoulder again. "Your support… Who knows? It could have changed the city for the better."
Garret sighed forlornly as he processed the woman's words, his eyes never leaving the pale moon hovering above. "Why," he asked, simply. "Why should I support something that has brought me nothing but pain, and sorrow?" There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, as though he was straining to keep the emotion out of his words. "All my life, my father told me, 'Demacia protects'. He told me it was an ideal that would protect me from harm…" He trailed off. "What happens when the ideal that was supposed to protect me from harm, ends up harming me?" He wondered aloud.
"It sounds like your anger goes deeper than simple loss," the woman spoke up, freeing a slender hand from the confines of the blanket and resting on his arm. "Or am I misunderstanding?"
Garret inhaled – a deep, almost weary sound – before sighing again. "There is nothing to misunderstand. I don't have any underlying motives, or hidden agendas, or reasons within reasons. I… I was set to be conscripted into the military," he said hesitantly. "With my family dead and my sixteenth birthday over and done with, I was just an orphaned rat with bills to pay. I… I would have drafted regardless of what I felt about the matter." He paused for but a moment, resting one of his hands on the slender fingers on his arm.
"That city… That ideal…" He spoke, both anger and sorrow evident in his voice. "It took everything from me… I'll be thrice damned before I let it take my life as well."
And as he leaned back against the camel, he felt his surroundings shift again. Blindly, he stumbled to his feet – his vision swam, and most of his body had been matted with that ever-annoying feeling of pins-and-needles. Blearily, he stumbled forwards, and his surroundings faded into a horrendous brown. By the time he caught himself he was bent over a basin in a grimy bathroom in Bilgewater. Going by the aftertaste he had just emptied his stomach – unsurprising, considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed. And yet, he could not bring himself to care.
"You… you foolish, foolish woman…" He wheezed, struggling to retain his sense of balance. Unbidden the recollections assaulted him – he recalled that night in Shurima, where a close friend-turned-lover had offered him sanctuary amidst her people. Farah, her name was – a native to Shurima. He recalled the words – and nights – they had shared together, and how she had tried to comfort him when that time of the year rolled around again. He recalled her tanned skin, dark hair, hazel eyes and all the joyous moments he had with her and her friends in the times he hid amongst them.
And to his own sorrow, he realized he'd never see her – or any of them – ever again.
Their caravans had strayed into unmarked territory due an error on Farah's part. She had been the one leading the convoy – and going by the survivors' tales she had led them right to ruin. He had been notified mere hours ago, yet still the sorrow stung.
The nomads had wandered right into the territory of the Xer'Sai – and they hadn't even noticed until the beasts had torn half of them apart already. Farah… had been one of the first casualties. The Xer'Sai pulled her and her camel into the sands, load and all.
Now, here he stood, in a filthy bathroom in a run-down tavern in Bilgewater, hoping that gratuitous amounts of grog could at least ease the sorrows. He had known her well – three times he had hidden with her people, and three times he had known a peace that eclipsed his stays anywhere else. Now… Now they were all gone. Dead, and most likely buried – all because of one fool's error.
Farah's error.
He sniffed, a loud and ugly sound, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. In the back of his mind his conscience rang out, calling to him. Farah had been someone very, very dear to him – and she would not have tolerated seeing him like this, not for her sake. Absently he looked down to his side, at the flask of grog he had dropped on his way in. This… This was foolish. Inebriation would leave him vulnerable, exposed, and that would lead to him getting caught – and Farah had sworn him death if he ever got caught.
The memory brought a smile to his face, a stupid looking smile on his drunken features, but at the same time it shook some sense into him. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes. He was vulnerable enough as it was – it was time to retire to his safe house. He opened the tap and splashed filthy, yet icy cold water onto his face. The jolt was enough to cast away most of the alcohol's effect. With a sleeve he dried his face, and turned around.
The sound of a blade exiting its sheath was the first thing he heard. He saw blue eyes glaring at him, and a flash of steel danced in his vision, and before he had taken a single step he had a Demacian short sword aimed at his throat.
Whatever effects the alcohol had on him vanished in that instant. His mouth formed a thin, straight line as the sharp tip hovered mere inches from his adam's apple. The blade's wielder – a short, rather scruffy man with thinning hair and a ridiculous moustache befitting a pirate – narrowed his eyes at him. "Garret Hillock," the man spoke, his tone even, neutral. "By Demacian law I hereby place you under arrest. Raise your hands and place them on the wall beside you."
Panic set in almost as quickly as the inebriation had left him. A Demacian, here of all places? And why did he even look like a pirate? Garret's eyes darted around the dirty bathroom, looking, hoping for something he could use to turn the odds in his favour. The short dagger had purchased was tucked away in the small of his back – any attempt to draw it would lead to certain death. And yet…
"Are you deaf?" The Demacian man sneered at him. "Hands against the wall now! Or so help me, I will apprehend you through force!"
Garret matched the man's glare, and slowly raised his hands to his sides. In desperation, he wondered just how sharp the man's blade was – if he was lucky he could swat it aside at the cost of a few fingers but –
The sword came closer to his throat, a sign of its wielder's impatience.
…Perhaps a few fingers were but a small price to pay. Garret started calculating a plan as well as his drunken mind could – his movements were deliberate and slow, a desperate attempt to stall for time. Behind the sneer and the glare, Garret could see this man was easily as nervous as he was. Now, it was all a matter of –
The door to the bathroom opened, and a drunken woman, no older than thirty, stumbled through accidentally bumping into the armed man. "Ehe, I don't think this is the girls' ro-Uhm… Sir? What's going on here?!"
…now, it was all a matter of timing.
The Demacian man flinched, going wide-eyed as he tried to hide the short sword from the woman's prying eyes. "N-Nothing, ma'am! Nothing to see here, please, return to-"
The opportunity presented itself, and Garret grabbed it without question.
Darting forwards he slammed his shoulder into the Demacian agent's now-exposed back. The force sent him tumbling forwards, sputtering and spouting obscenities, and the young woman screamed bloody murder as Garret shoved her aside and darted out of the restroom. "Hillock!" He heard the agent's infuriated scream behind him as he stormed down the short hallway, and before he had even reached the exit leading to the main tavern he heard the thunderous footsteps behind. "Halt, Hillock!" The man's roar was one of both fear and rage, and Garret could hear the sound of the blade whistling through the air.
He didn't bother trying to pace himself – in a drunken stumble he burst back into the main area, just as the agent's footsteps started echoing through his skull from the proximity. A plan slowly started forming in his addled mind as he desperately pushed past patrons and bouncers alike. Bilgewater was known for its bar brawls, after all – if he could instigate some chaos… He heard the patrons behind him yelp in surprise and fear – likely they saw the man's sword and were making way. Out of sheer desperation, he did the only thing he could think of – he swiped a bottle of rum from a nearby patron's hand and, with as much force as his weakened, intoxicated form could muster, he hurled it to the side.
He immediately ducked down when he heard the bottle shatter in the distance, and in the action he could feel the Demacian agent's hand weaving through his long hair, missing a grab by mere miliseconds. He scurried forwards, eager to avoid the chaos that would ensue as a loud "What the flying fuck!" thundered across the bar. He heard the sound of a fist slamming into someone's face, then the sound of a bottle breaking, and before he could even blink, anarchy was born all around him. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell, and mistakenly, Garret looked back. The old man seemed enraged as he stormed towards Garret, blade at the ready. "Don't think this will stop me, Hillock! You're coming with m-"
Just then a fist collided with the agent's face, and he was shucked aside by the impact. "Tha's for the bottle, ya daft cunt!" Garret heard the agent's attacker slur, a mug of grog in one hand and a cutlass in the other. "Think ya can lug a bottle at me and walk away, eh?"
Garret did not need another warning, or another sign. Keeping his head low, he made his way towards the tavern's front door. He winced as pistol shots began to ring out – this fight was getting uglier by the second, and Garret did not want to be present when things went from 'brawl' to 'worse'. He kept his movements inconspicuous, as under-the-radar as possible as he slowly made his way to the exit. He had to stop short as two men rolled by in front of him, yelling curses and punching each other in various places. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell out again – apparently, besting a drunken pirate was not an arduous task at all. He paid it no mind – he dodged here, ducked there, and crept through a particularly nasty part of the chaos, but in the end he saw it – he was literally five feet from the door.
Instinct took over – he forewent his inhibitions about remaining unseen and inconspicuous, and outright rammed the door open with his shoulder, literally bursting into the alley outside and nearly knocking some poor lass clean off her feet. Still, he did not waver – he did not even care. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down cobblestone paths and into dark alleyways as the ruckus in the tavern was swallowed by the sound of the midnight seaside. He had gathered no small amount of looks, running through the slums – some of curiosity, some of ire, some of entertainment, even – but not once did he stop.
Only when his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out did he finally slow down. He was in a part of the city even he did not recognize – rats crept over bits of junk stashed outside worn-out doorways, and faulty lanterns flickered in the salty breeze that swept through the city. But in a way, none of it mattered. He slumped against a wall, sliding down until he was sitting, and unbidden, a laugh bubbled up in his chest. It spilled from his lips and echoed down the alleyway, undoubtedly waking some people and drawing the attention of others.
Yet still – he did not care.
There, in the darkness, he sat, with joyous, raucous laughter escaping him, until the shadows intensified around him. The laughter died down, and he felt his body go numb – the adrenaline was wearing off, slowly but surely – but it mattered little. He had slept in worse condition, after all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him to get up, and get to safety.
But the night's activity rendered that voice moot. Slumping back and making himself comfortable, Garret allowed the darkness to swallow him whole, drifting off into a crazed, fitful sleep.
It was at this point that the scenery around him dispelled entirely, and he blinked artificial fatigue from his eyes. The shadows seemed to seep away, as though someone had pulled a plug somewhere, allowing the darkness to drain away. He realized abruptly that he was slumped against the walls of the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same posture he had sat while in Bilgewater. The darkness kept receding, and a soft exhale – definitely not his own – finally clued him in he wasn't alone.
He dared look up, and his breath caught in his throat – of the two people before him, one was overshadowing the other in every way. She… was truly a beautiful sight. Hair as gold as the sunrise framed blue eyes as cool as ice, and regardless of their lightless environment her armour seemed to shine on its own, casting a wonderful reflection on the pristine white wings that sprouted from her back. An… An angel? Garret thought absently.
She raised an immaculately trimmed eyebrow as she noticed he was staring at her with a slack jaw, and quickly Garret shook his head to dispel such an impolite action. The second visitor was much less unique – most of her was covered by her Summoner's robes, leaving only amber eyes staring at him from under her hood. Absently he noticed the spike-shaped tattoo running down across her eye, and only now did he realize that the Summoner was actually kneeling. In the darkness he could have seen a look of worry on her face, but he passed it off as a trick of the shadows.
"I…" He started, unsure of what to say after his little blunder. He was still slightly out of breath, and his whole frame shook from reliving the experiences. "I realize I was… I was staring. How impolite of me… I am sorry, m'ladies," he said sincerely, with a shaky voice, and bowed his head as best he could. "I was… lost, you could say. I have… I have regained my bearings now."
"You needn't worry," the Summoner spoke up, smiling slightly in the darkness. "How do you feel, Garret?"
"I feel…" He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. "That was all… so lifelike…" He mused as he tried to calm himself. His nerves were shot, and it felt as though all the wounds around his heart had been yanked open – he had been expecting many things when he entered the Reflection Chamber, but what he had just experienced… It shook him.
"I must say I am impressed, Garret," the Summoner spoke, standing up again. "Most try to fight the Judgement once it starts. You, however… You did no such thing. It was as though you… accepted, that you were reliving those memories. It was as though you were used it."
"Thirteen years," Garret answered, finally getting dispelling the trembling that plagued his body. "Thirteen years, those very memories have been haunting my dreams at every turn. I hardly ever recall other moments in my dreams. Just that… Just death, and sorrow, and fear… After so long, m'lady, I dare say I am quite used to it by now. Usually… In the past, I got sick of it… I got sick of recalling nothing of my father but his grave. I got sick of recalling nothing of Farah but the report of her death…" He shook his head. "I used to get angry that I couldn't dream about anything else. Now… Now I've gotten used to it. I… At times it feels I am dead to the sorrow. Other times… it feels as though someone drove a knife into my chest," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "It is something I have learned to live with."
"You must have cared dearly for that woman," the Summoner said, a look of sympathy crossing her features. "Farah, was it? We saw more of her in the memories the Reflection Chamber laid bare. She… She was truly precious to you, wasn't she?"
Garret sighed in response, locking eyes with the Summoner. "More than you could ever know, m'lady," he answered truthfully. "More than I can bring myself to describe. I… I will not try to make such wonderful feelings and memories into something finite, something describable. I would rather remember the unfathomable emotions… even if my dreams decree otherwise."
"Her loss must have caused you unbearable pain," the Summoner noted hesitantly.
"I do not focus on the loss, m'lady," Garret answered. There was a unique type of conviction in his voice, despite how weak it sounded. "No matter how much her death hurts me… I will not grieve that she is gone. Rather, I will rejoice… that I was blessed enough to share in her life."
These words drew a wide smile from the Summoner, a warm smile that relayed a sense of pride and respect. "Well said, Garret," she mused as she took a step back. "Well said indeed. Garret, my name is Vessaria Kolminye – I am a High Councillor of the Institute, and the one who chaired this little… 'Judgement'." She turned to face the Angel hovering at her side. "This is Kayle, the Judicator. No doubt you've been told of the role she will play?" Garret nodded once, and the woman, Vessaria – 'Ol' Vess' as Jax called her – smiled again. "Good, good. I will have you know that Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV, and Captain Garen Crownguard were both present for your Judgement. They have seen all that needs to be seen – the Judgement has revealed that you are, indeed, innocent regarding the charge of murder on your name. The Demacian Summoners – and the Prince, at that – are working towards having that particular charge dropped. Rejoice, young man – your freedom is that much closer."
At these words, Garret slumped back slightly. His entire body seemed to lose all its energy, but despite this, there was a small smile tugging at Garret's lips.
"Captain Crownguard," Vessaria started again, "has asked me to relay a message to you. He, himself, has a role to play in your absolution, so sadly he could not remain. However," she paused, studying Garret's face for a sign of… something, he guessed, "I will not be relaying that message. As tense as your relationship with Demacia and its citizens may be, I feel that his message is part of a conversation that is… strictly between the two of you," she said with finality. "Whether or not you speak to him is up to you. Now before you ask," she spoke up, effectively silencing Garret before the young man could offer much of an argument or formulate any words at all, "I have already taken the liberty of… getting to work, on your charge of desertion. Granted, we are still going to have the Judicator contact whatever is resting in your arm," she said, a sly smile appearing on her lips. "However, regardless of what she finds, we must admit that it is still a unique application of magic and, as such, we wish to offer you asylum," she said, "in order to help you with your latest struggle."
For several moments you could hear a pin drop in the dead silence of the room. Garret, much to his own ire, found himself absolutely speechless – he felt his body begin to quiver again, and he cast his gaze down, venting every ounce of willpower he could muster into not turning into an emotional wreck there and then. The sheer amount of emotion he was feeling was slowly but surely threatening to overthrow his inhibition – for the first time in thirteen long years, Garret felt a sense of absolute, unbridled joy. It was a happiness he had not felt since his family had passed, a gleeful sense of peace and freedom that caused his throat to knot all over again. He wove his fingers together, hoping to stem or at least hide his shaking hands. "M'lday…" He started off, shakily at first. "High Councillor, I… I do not have the words to describe how… how thankful I am right now. I… I doubt I ever will, in all honesty…" Although his voice quivered, and his entire body shook, the smile on his face…
…It was one of the liveliest smiles he had ever shown.
"It is the very least we could do, Garret," Vessaria said. Off to the side, Kayle had floated towards the marble doors and exited, off to do something only she knew. "Would you like a few hours to rest? I will have no qualms with calling these Summoners back at a later time – I'm sure the Starchild has informed you that your health comes first here; that goes for everyone – Summoner, Champion or otherwise."
"No, no, I," Garret said, trailing off as he shook his head. Still quivering, he shuffled to his feet, keeping one hand against the cold stone walls in order to help him maintain balance. "I merely need a moment or two… to recollect myself." At that moment, the heavy doors to the Chamber opened up, and Kayle floated in once more. Only now did Garret notice the helm tucked under one arm – and oddly enough, she was carrying… a flask of grog? Yes, the Angel had a flask of Gragas' grog in one hand for some reason.
She stopped in front of him, and this time thankfully Garret had enough self-control to refrain from staring again. "Drink this," she said softly, handing him the flask. "I do not normally condone it, but with the way your nerves are acting up, I believe an exception is in order." Garret blinked, confusion evident on his face, but accepted the beverage nonetheless.
"My… My thanks, Lady Judicator," he said sincerely, bowing his head again.
"There is hardly any need to be that formal, Garret," the High Councillor chuckled to herself. As Garret started downing the grog, she waved her hand at a part of the wall, and magic briefly flared along her fingertips. Several moments later the wall itself starting peeling apart – bricks rearranged themselves in odd patterns, shifting and turning as they split off to form an archaic arch in the far wall. Torchlight shone through the opening, finally bathing the dark room with some semblance of light. "The Summoners will be here shortly, if you are adamant about continuing," Vessaria spoke. "Fortunately the task will require very little of you, Garret – this time the task falls to the Judicator. All we need from you is calmness and patience. Can you do that for us, Garret?"
The former deserter drew his hand across his mouth timidly, wiping away the wetness his beverage had left behind. "I have an abundance of those at my disposal, High Councillor," he said confidently, despite the quiver in his voice. His shaking had died down, most likely due to the toxic beverage he had just seemingly inhaled, and his pallor was getting better by the moment. "What must be done?"
The Councillor smiled at him, as footsteps were heard coming from the archway. "Merely take a seat at the centre of the room," she intoned, motioning to the now-illuminated runic circle sitting at the mentioned spot. "As soon as the Summoners arrive they will use their magic to create a Focus – a medium, that we intend to use to establish communications."
"Will I… Will I have to remove the chains around my arm?" Garret inquired as he did as asked, sitting down and crossing his legs on the runic circle. There was something else in his voice now – an underlying fear that wasn't present during the Judgement. Vessaria knew all too well what caused that fear – she had read the Starchild's reports, after all.
"No," she reassured him, with one of those half-smiles people of authority and standing were known for. "No, I doubt that will be necessary. We High Councillors are aware of methods to bypass the suppression – you could say that is why I am here in the first place." As her words died down, several shadows blotted out the lights in the archway behind them, and from those shadows, four Summoners entered the Reflection Chamber. Their faces were hidden by their hoods, and they were adorned in cloaks of a deep, deep violet – but despite the ominous appearance, it was obvious Garret felt no threat from them. They took their places around Garret, forming a haphazard pentagon around the runic circle. With a slow, measured gait, Vessaria herself strode over to the open gap and filled the last spot herself. "I do hope this doesn't disconcert you, Garret," she said lightly. "Most would be flustered at how quickly this is proceeding. Are you sure you have recovered enough? Are you entirely certain you do not wish to rest?"
"No," Garret shook his head, responding truthfully, a gesture that drew a muted chuckle from the four Summoners. "But High Councillor… I am unsure whether you are aware just how badly I want this over and done with. I… I need to know what the hell this thing in my arm is. I need to know what it wants, and I need to know how it will be dealt with. The sooner we finish this… The sooner I can discover those things."
"Admirable," she stated, before looking over at the Angel that had been hovering off to the side. "Judicator, if you will?" Upon being addressed, the Angel nodded curtly, hovering over to the centre of the little pentagon the Summoners formed. With two loud clacks her armoured feet touched down on the cold floor and, tucking her wings in behind her, she sank down – first on one knee, then on both, until she was 'seated' comfortably. Garret, for his part, was oddly concerned – after all, effective as it might have been he doubted that armour was comfortable, especially in that position.
"I… I am sorry, if this causes you discomfort, Lady Judicator," he said, his voice soft and apologetic. He frowned to himself – maybe it would have been better to wait, after all…
"Pay no mind to it," the Judicator responded with the barest of smiles. "It must be done – as you have said, it would be beneficial to complete this task as early as possible."
Garret, unable to form an answer, merely nodded. He struggled for a moment, his dark cloak billowing around him, and after a moment or two he merely sighed. It seemed freeing his tainted arm was proving an exercise in futility. Grunting irately, he opted to remove the entire cloak – it took a moment, however, to find the one part that had somehow knotted during the Judgement. Finally achieving success, however, he tossed the garment aside. He did not need it bothering him now. He chanced a look at his malformed limb – it was the same as he remembered it from the morning; thin, yet muscular, and spiky; very spiky. The shards of bronze-like material retained their sharpness despite numerous attempts to remove or blunt them. Even now, confined with the intricate runic chain, it pulsed and glowed, revealing almost frighteningly detailed musculature beneath the dark skin.
This… This was not a human limb. He simply could not stress that enough.
He noticed the Angel before him was staring at the arm too. She seemed oddly perplex – as perplexed as one could look while maintaining a mask of stoicism. Around them, the Summoners raised their hands in a flash of brilliant azure glow, their magics flared to life. It danced across the stone floor and rebounded off the walls, forming wisps of magnificent radiance that danced around the centre. Garret himself was taken aback by how absolutely astounding the display was, and he couldn't help but wonder whether they were doing this on purpose. Even the Angel before him was smiling now – were Summoner magics truly so profound?
As one, the magnificent blue wisps started twisting inwards, gather between Garret and the Judicator. What used to be tendrils of mist started changing, warping, and before their very eyes a crystal orb started forming, rapidly growing in size as the magics around them converged. Even as the lights started retreating towards the centre of the room, the orb held a glow that shamed everything the Summoners had shown him so far. It was very, very enticing just to reach out and run his fingers across the surface – but he decided against it. After all, beautiful as it might have been, magic still had the potential to be dangerous.
"When you are ready, Garret," he heard Councillor Kolminye speak up, "I want you to reach out with your chained arm, and touch its fingers to the orb."
Simple enough, he mused, looking down at his mutated arm. It glowed again, almost eagerly, and the chains surrounding it rustled just a bit, enough to make the links clink against each other. Frowning to himself, Garret raised his arm, and spread his hand apart. Four clawed fingers arched outwards as he moved the limb towards to orb, and just as his hand neared the concentration of magic, he lurched forward as the orb literally sucked his hand against it. The brilliant azure glow was lost in an instant, replaced by a downright sinister shade of crimson that made Garret regret even partaking in this act in the first place. He strained against it, trying to pull his hand off the globe, gritting his teeth as he leaned back and tried to get his limb back – but it was all for naught. His hand wasn't budging.
"Do not fight it, Garret," he heard the High Councillor's voice in his ears. The eerie red glow had shrouded the Summoners forms, leaving nought but black silhouettes against even blacker walls. "Relax yourself and ease into the magics. No harm will come to you – I promise you, Garret. Judicator, are you prepared?"
The Angel was the only person in the room Garret could still see. Despite the look of contemplation on her face she responded without hesitation – one gauntleted hand wrapped around the other's wrist, and with a simple, yet forceful tug, the golden handguard slid off, revealing slender, pale fingers befitting her angelic visage. She spared but a single glance – a single moment where their eyes locked, and for that single moment, she offered him a smile; a smile that rendered him dumbfounded. Then, without hesitation, she raised her bare hand and touched it to the orb as well.
Just as Garret had shaken his stupor away, the chamber exploded into bright, almost unending light.
At first, there was nothing but a blank white abyss.
She did not truly know whether this was the norm or not – after all, this was the first time she had even done something such as this. However, she left nothing to chance – she was on her feet the moment she had regained her senses, her removed gauntlet already reattached and her helmet placed firmly over her head. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword, ready for anything, while her holy energies focused themselves in the other hand.
Whatever this spirit threw at her, she would be ready for it.
It was at that moment that she heard it – over the blank expanse, across the white abyss, a soft giggle floated around. It echoed, really, in one direction, then another, a sound so soft a normal beig would have missed it completely. And as the giggle danced around her, Kayle frowned, wondering just what this spirit was doing.
Then the abyss shattered.
Giant, crimson cracks exploded into the blank expanse, weeping crimson smoke into the colourless distance and painting what once was white a murderous shade of red. The cracks grew, expanded, split open, flooding the nothingness with more and more smog, and soon enough Kayle found herself surrounded by the odd vapour. It lunged, then, rearing like a snake before diving right at her – but Kayle was not mere mortal. With but a flourish of her unarmed hand her holy magics surrounded her, creating a golden blanket around her that outright rejected the malicious smoke. It recoiled off her holy intervention, flinching back as if injured, before pooling around her little dome of safety, surrounding her entirely. Soon there wasn't a single shred of white left – merely the smoke remained, with herself hovering inside it.
Absently she noticed the tip of her wing protruded from her protective bubble, and she immediately withdrew it – only to flinch in abject horror.
The tip of her wing was covered in blood – and it was not her own.
Suddenly, the origin of the smoke became clear: it was not smoke at all. She shuddered as the underlying horror afflicted her – she was drifting in a sea of blood, blood that had taken the form of smoke and mist. She repressed a slight shudder as realization set in. Blood was a liquid – what on earth could have turned it into smoke?
As if on cue, the giggle sounded again – louder, this time, as if it waited right outside her dome.
And there, in the midst of the bloody vapour, she saw it – two glowing white eyes, a wonderful contrast to the crimson around it.
"…Do you like my weapon…?"
Immediately, Kayle raised her sword at pointed it right at the eyes gazing towards her. The blade shuddered, glowing gold, and by force of her own righteous fury the blade blazed, its length covered in holy golden flames. That voice… That voice seemed unnatural, broken in a way - as though it did not even know how to emphasize different syllables at all. It resembled nails on a chalkboard, the scrap of steel on stone – all different kinds of unpleasant, wrapped into a dark tone she could barely begin to describe. "Speak sense," she demanded, her eyes narrowed behind the visor of her helm.
The spirit – if it could even be called that, merely giggled again. "I do not think I will… You seem like you could be fun… But I will not speak with you… Naughty little angel…" The eyes shifted, moved, floated around in the clouds of smoke, circling Kayle and her little bubble of protection.
"What do you mean?" Kayle inquired, allowing her sword to drop just a little bit. "I'll have you know I am here to judge you, spirit. If I find you to be a threat to your host I will have you sealed away without mercy or hesitation – and right now you seem to be enough of a threat to make my task easy. So I suggest you cease with your games," she said, her voice intensifying in tandem with the fire coating her blade, "and come clean! What is your intent?"
The spirit giggled again, a cacophony of melancholy that seemed to originate from everywhere. "My… You are fun, aren't you…?" It said with a giggle, proceeding to pace around the Judicator. "…Why, should I speak with you, when you are already so eager to disbelieve?" It asked, its tone jagged and raw. "…I had so hoped… that my host had come to visit me… 'Tis the least he could do, after I saved his life…"
"Saved him?" Kayle sneered under her helm. "Is that what you call it? You twisted a young man's limb and cursed him with your vile presence! You tried to corrupt his mind with your vile presence, as you tried to steal his body from him! You tried to turn an innocent young man into a monster!"
"I did no such thing!"
Kayle flinched as two absurdly powerful impacts slammed into her barrier, the force sending her careening backwards through the crimson fog. She spread her wings out in an attempt to halt her travel. By some impossibility she heard the nails raking across her barrier, and with a resolute cry she splayed her wings as far as they would go. The action halted her immediately, and in retaliation the flames leapt from her sword, flying through the golden, liquid-like dome intent on searing whatever attacked her to a crisp.
It was futile – the flames burned nothing but smog before returning to her blade and withering out. The killing intent, however, that projected rage, it still lingered – and the source of it was now barely five feet from Kayle's face. She saw it clearly – two handprints had embedded themselves into her barrier, sizzling from the contact yet remaining relentless, as though the contact barely fazed it. Before her the two white eyes shot her a glare fiercer than even the most battle-hungry Champions of the Institute could hope to muster. Her words had angered this spirit – that was good. Hopefully now she could get some answers.
"…I… did not…" the spirit growled, the sneer evident in its shattered, inhuman voice. "…you think I did not sense them… you think I did realize the danger… but I did… I sensed those vile magics… I sensed a killer, barely five damned feet from my host…! I offered him… I offered him my knowledge… on how to fight… how to kill… for hisown safety – for our own safety!" The final cry was emphasized with yet another mighty blow to her barrier, and once again Kayle felt it shift under the force.
"Safety?" Kayle mimicked, disgust evident in her voice. "You claim you could sense danger, could sense a killer, but you could not even sense the distress you were causing your host?!"
"…You would not understand…" The spirit snarled, and the handprints disappeared from Kayle's barrier. "…You would never understand…" It mused as its eyes drifted further and further away. Kayle frowned as the spirit made its retreat. "…You… have already decided… so I… will not try to convince you… I will speak to my host… and my host alone… not with some arrogant little angel… too eager to see the sin in others… to pay mind to the sin in herself…"
"Where are you going?" Kayle demanded. "I am not done with you yet, spirit!"
"…But I… am done… with you…" The crimson smoke receded, and patches of bright white begin to shine through the red clouds. "…I will speak to my host… and my host alone…" it repeated, as the smog cleared, receded, shrank away as the spirit itself retreated. "…I care little… for you…" The white abyss had returned now, dominating what remained of the smoke and contrasting it to the extent that it almost made Kayle's eyes hurt. And yet, those damn eyes kept glaring at her. Even when there was only a handful of smoke left, the glare did not relent – not until there was not even a shred of crimson left on the blank horizon.
Even after the thing had receded, Kayle kept her guard up a while longer. The spirit had shown the strength to capable of attacking her with such force it could shift her barrier. Only a handful of beings in the Institute of War could lay claim to having that amount of strength. If it returned again, while he guard was lowered… She would rather not imagine the consequences of such an encounter. Still, the being had attracted her grudging curiosity – as a Judicator, she knew wholly when someone was lying. Seeing through lies was a mandatory skill for someone of her position – and as much as she did not want to admit it, while the spirit was hostile, violent and somewhat intelligent, it was not lying.
She remained that way – blade at the ready, posed to strike – for at least another five minutes. When it became clear the spirit was, indeed, done with her, she sighed to herself. In a way, she had failed – she could not discern whether the being was a threat or not. For that… Much as it dismayed her to admit it, they would need Garret himself to discern that.
Through her mental link with High Councillor Kolminye, she informed the Summoners that her business was done. It was unlikely that the spirit would return, given how much she had seemingly angered it. It seemed almost temperamental, with a hairline trigger to match its violent self. As they blue wisps of magic surrounded her, she couldn't help but wonder: Despite everything, despite all the suffering it had caused…
…was this spirit truly a foe… or was it a friend?
When the lights dispersed, she found herself back in the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same kneeling position she had 'left' it in. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness – but most of what surrounded her was visible enough. The young man, Garret, had a look of utter concern on his face. His eyes seemed almost fearful, though – as though he dreaded what she had to say. She dared not look at the Summoners – at least not just yet. Much as she did not want to admit it, though, the tension in their stances spoke volumes. More than likely they knew of her failure already.
"Lady Judicator," Garret spoke up, ever formal and polite. Between the fear and the worry, it seemed the worry won out – despite everything pointing to the fact that, in this case, it should have been the latter. "Are you hurt?" He inquired. "It didn't… It didn't attack you, did it? The… The orb turned blue again halfway through, and my arm… it stopped pulsing. What… What happened?"
Her stoic demeanour denied her the chance to utter a dejected sigh. Almost listlessly, Kayle got to her feet, still not daring to look at the Summoners. "I… I have failed. I could not discern the spirit's intentions. There was a slight misunderstanding, and… we fought. Or it fought, and I resisted. Still, it seemed angered, and refused to speak with me further." She glanced down at the young man before her, careful not to wince at his outright confused expression. Steeling herself, she uttered the words she doubted the man wanted to hear at all.
"The spirit says it will only speak with you, Garret – nobody else."
…Aaaaand, cliffhanger! My sincerest, sincerest apologies for leaving it at such an uncomfortable note, but I fear had I written on this chapter would easily have breached 30K words – and that, is torment I would rather not inflict on you. 26K is bad enough – I never imagined that a simple expository chapter could turn into such a doorstopper. I am well and truly sorry – but I could not find an earlier place to break it off.
Moving on, though, in this chapter I've given you the first look into Garret's true personality, as well as the reasoning behind his desertion. I will admit I have no idea how this is going to be received – while I would like to stroke my own ego by believing he's a unique, fresh addition to the OC's currently in the section, I simply cannot be sure. For that, I will need your opinions – is he likeable enough to warrant more future PoVs, or should I stick to the canonical champions more often?
Also on that same note: Despite Garret's reaction to Kayle's appearance, this will not be an OCxKayle story. If anything, in this chapter I hope I've managed to set it up in such a way that I can hold out on any romance until much later in the story – it is a tenet of mine not to pair an OC with a canonical character unless that character is well received, and, well, I can't judge that from two chapters now, can I?
Nonetheless, I ramble, and I feel it is about time I ended this little post-chapter author's note. On a last impulse I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to the reviewers whose phenomenal reviews managed to egg me on to get this posted before Christmas:
tacitrunGenocide, SilverstormXD, Unseen Lurker, Guardian of All, Deftex and Scott the Anon.
This chapter goes out with special thanks aimed at you all – your amazing feedback and confidence in my ability went a long way towards getting this published. To you, I wish to say my sincerest thanks.
And also, my sincerest thanks to everyone reading this – knowing I can entertain you is what keeps me going.
Now I will end this note (for real, this time), by bidding you all farewell, and a very, very merry Christmas
Until the next chapter,
Cheerio!