Pre-Chapter A/N:
Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
Chapter III
Alliance
In the silence of the small, somewhat homey office she was offered, there was nary a sound but that of a pen gliding scratchily along faded, almost yellow paper. It had become somewhat of a routine for her, by now – practically her every day started and ended in this little office, opening and closing cases, running damage control, offering verdicts and courses of action and even placing the final stamp on an order of sentencing. Such was the somewhat tedious life the Judicator had inherited during her stay in the Institute of War – but it was hardly a chore. She had official battles, bouts of sparring on the Summoner's Rift, and the occasional sitting with close friends – few as they were – to break the monotony of acting as her title demanded her to.
Yet sometimes, even the little office could become constricted – and it had little to do with the lavish armour she wore.
With a somewhat gurgled sigh, Kayle set down her pen and eyed the paper before her with enough ire to set it alight, had she harboured the same magics as the Summoners. Sadly, the dark ink merely twinkled in the dim light, as if mocking her with the longevity of the events in encompassed. Gingerly, her gauntleted hands came to rest on her temples, tracing circular patterns in a bid to stave off the headache that was threatening to explode into her skull.
The case of Garret Hillock, and the rampant spirit-slash-wraith that had mutated and taken refuge inside his right arm…
…was a case that had landed her in quite a bit of hot water with the High Councillors.
Not only had she managed to fail spectacularly at gleaming information from the spirit – due in no small part to her own hot-headed approach towards it – but she had also somehow forced the spirit into willing reclusion, a nonchalant state of non-communication that would maintain itself until the being's own demands had been met. This, of course, meant the Summoners would have no luck either – and given the fact that the 'tainted' flesh had weaved itself around Garret's spine and heart, High Councillor Kolminye was… less than inclined to take a forceful approach regarding the matter.
The worst part of the scenario seemed to manifest itself in Garret's own psyche. Something awful spawned in the young man when he heard the spirit wanted him and none other – behind emerald irises Kayle had easily discerned the wariness and the fear, and the resignation to some horrible series of events that only something as macabre and ominous as an unwanted spiritual guest could set into motion. The Judgement had… ended, rather abruptly afterward. Fear and uncertainty crippled Garret into inaction – the young man had literally shut down at the prospect of having to meet his unseen assailant face-to-face, and as such, the High Councillors had called an end to the trial in the Reflection Chamber – an indefinite end at that, one that would last until Garret was ready to face the wraith.
She inhaled, just a bit louder and longer than usual.
All of this drama, because of one damned spirit…
Narrow-minded and prejudiced as her outlook on the matter may have been, Kayle was certain the spirit was still ominous. All spirits and spectres and wraiths were, as far as she concerned herself. She had borne witness to ample proof during her stay in the League. She had witnessed scorn fuelled by an intent that could rival the ideals of whole city states, shrouded in a sickening, smoky visage as black as the illimitable night in Nocturne, the Eternal Nightmare, just as she had borne witness to the omnicidal pyromania and explosive hatred of Brand, the Burning Vengeance. She had seen first-hand the malice of the denizens of the Shadow Isles, from the sadistic, steel-linked form of the spectre Thresh to the unstoppable onslaught of shadows and death at the hands of Hecarim, the Shadow of War. She had seen the steel titan Mordekaiser rip mortals' souls from their forms with a variety of amusement, and even Kalista, who was widely seen as a 'neutral' party, wasn't exactly a shining example of benevolence, what with the legion of vengeful souls she commanded, and her homicidal loathing of even the most casual betrayals, like little secrets or tiny white lies.
No, in her experience, spirits – especially the violent kind, like the one ailing Garret Hillock – rarely led to anything good. It was for this reason alone that she had drawn the scorn of the High Councillors upon herself and advised Garret to stay away from the spirit – to have it permanently suppressed as soon as mortally possible and to carry on with his now free life. She had told him that nothing good could come of communing with this dark… thing. She remembered clearly the many times she had seen that bit of advice ignored – her sister had fallen, turned into a withered, perverse parody of her own kind. The Summoner, Istvaan, had erased himself from existence and blighted Runeterra with the being called Fiddlesticks in the same fashion. Now, this entity in Garret's arm… a being that could forge solid weapons from a blood vapour, and command them as though they were extensions of itself… She did not bother entertaining the idea of what may happen should the thing take over. If anything, her advice to the young man had been a form of damage control – hopefully he would actually listen, and veer away from such foolishness.
She stood up from her chair, her armour plates shifting and scraping across one another as she strolled over to the small, yet filled bookshelf in her office. Almost daintily, a gauntleted finger traced the names of the tomes before her as her wings spread out behind her, majestic and graceful as she felt the stiffness residing amidst her feathers recede. Her eyes followed her fingertip, occasionally darting ahead as she sifted through the books in search of the information she needed.
It was at that moment that the boundaries around her office went haywire.
It had been a precaution taken by the Institute itself – several beings of… 'importance' were given wards and boundaries around their abodes and workplaces in the event of a brash or desperate move by a Summoner or Champion. Being the Judicator, her little 'office' was even more secure than usual, to such an extent that she could be warned of a possible visit before the visitors themselves were barely in the hallway in which her little workspot could be found. She paid it little mind, though – whoever it was seemed rather lacking in terms of hostile intent, at least for the moment.
Just as a precaution, thought, the runic markings on her gauntlet lit up, ready to summon her blessed blade at a moment's notice. Absently she cleared her throat, preparing for the standard, monotonous trial that would soon commence. Someone would knock, she would command them to enter, and they would do so shyly and tentatively, speaking warily and slowly and generally being a nuisance and a detriment to her own quick, precise, professional demeanour and outlook. Nonetheless, it was a ritual she was used to. It took much more than beating around a bush to inspire her wrath, after all.
Fortunately, her concerns for trepidation and time-wasting flew right out of the window - at roughly the same time her door was flung open with careless force, and little concern for etiquette and procedure and common manners.
Kayle did not dignify the visitor with immediate attention. Despite the runes on her gauntlet glowing brighter, she kept at her activity of scanning her bookshelf, hoping to provide the image that a simple tome was more important than the pig who had just stormed her little office. Her eyes narrowed – there was only person she knew of who had such a blatant disregard for her own authority and title, and if she were correct on this guess – which she almost certainly was – this morning would be anything but pleasant.
Morgana.
Sighing to herself, she let her hand drop to her side. Kayle's sister was a colossal calamity in the Judicator's own life – a living, breathing reminder of her failure and a walking, talking taunt that teased her with wry grins and blatant disregard whilst hiding behind the fact that she could not be touched. They were 'sisters' in concept only – Kayle had severed ties with the Fallen Angel many millennia ago, and the rift between them now was large and barren enough to warrant little care for the fact that Kayle could feel such loathing for one of her own.
And now, said 'Fallen Angel' was likely sitting behind her in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, a spiteful grin on dark lips and pale, thin features. More than likely word of Kayle's 'failure' had reached her younger sister and now, lo and behold, the Fallen Angel had come to taunt her about it – just as she had so many times past.
Kayle steeled her features. She'd allow Morgana no sick pleasure in this little verbal confrontation. She would be the very exemplar of professionalism and dutifulness – just as she had been every time her loathsome sister paid her a visit. After all, they had done this more times than either of them cared to remember. It would be simple – Morgana would state her business or leave, and if she didn't, well… Kayle's sword was always in arm's reach. Much as she didn't want Morgana near her, situations like these were… well beyond the Judicator's control.
Stifling a tired sigh, she turned around to glare at her unwanted visitor – only to freeze, raising an immaculate eyebrow at the sight before her. While her visitor was indeed garbed in the same violet shades her sister favoured, there was no pale skin, no exposed midriff, no spiteful grin or decaying wings. No animosity, either – instead, she bore witness to a lithe frame wreathed in purple. A pale, three fingered hand clutched a worn, bent-out-of-shape brass lamppost, and a dark blue tousle rested atop the hood that covered a unique, six-eyed helm.
"Yo," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke casually.
The barest semblance of a resigned sigh escaped her, a sound so soft only those with the keenest senses could hear – and much to her growing ire, Jax had shifted in such a way that indicated he had heard it quite clearly. At that moment, the headache that had been threatening her for hours now erupted into her skull - one that would spite her for several hours on end, knowing the Grandmaster's personality.
Just once, she allowed herself to sigh.
Why couldn't it have been Morgana…?
A dull thud echoed through the cavernous air of the Institute's library as yet another dust-littered tome was stacked upon a pile of useless texts and nonsensical scrolls. A dejected sigh accompanied the slight scraping sound of leather on wood, a tell-tale signal of yet another tome being dragged forwards and opened. Yet there was little eagerness or drive behind the pale, wiry hand currently paging through the monstrous book – such a drive, such a hope, had long since abandoned the poor soul seeking answers. High above, amidst floating arrays of scrolls and tomes that hovered underneath a perfect recreation of a stormy night sky, several candles drifted slowly and leisurely, suspended in an almost nonchalant display of magical prowess (or ease), and bathing the array of tables and chairs below in a bright-yet-dim shower of melancholy lighting.
Fitting, actually, considering the similar state of melancholy now afflicting the library's only current visitor's mind.
With an almost weary sigh, Garret Hillock ran his normal hand through the messy mane of dark hair he had accumulated during his years on the run. Absently the same hand reached down to lazily scratch at his cheek – he had managed to shave himself, but it seemed he never truly could escape the hindrance of stubble. His eyes, equal parts desperate and fatigued, scanned over the latest book before him – a red, leatherbound journal regarding the differing schools of hemomancy and other blood-related sorcery in Valoran. It seemed as though the art itself was limited to Noxian territory – a fact that surprised him little – but it was still useless knowledge. He could gleam no information from the articles about various master hemomancers. They all seemed the same – ambitious young sorcerers who could bend the very blood of their victims and use it to cause all manner of afflictions.
And yet, despite all the different articles, Garret was still left in the dark.
Thirty-three tomes and half as many scrolls, he recalled morosely. Thirty-three – and not one of the books held a single clue regarding the entity that had turned his arm so abhuman, so abnormal. The spirit hiding in his arm was alien in its existence; it was a being that could turn blood to smoke, and use said smoke to forge a vast array of independent, almost sentient weaponry. The High Councillors were absolutely stumped – even more so after the Judicator, Kayle, had been told off by it, for want of a better word. Try as they may, the Summoners could discern absolutely nothing about the spirit in the days that followed – it remained uncooperative, unresponsive, downright unaware; it was though his right arm was just a deadened, mutated limb.
Was he clenching that arm's fist? He couldn't be sure – he had no feeling in the limb, no awareness of how he was moving it or even if he was moving it. He kept it concealed under the faded brown travelling cloak he wore – and did his outright best to ignore the way the chains around the spikes clinked and clanked against each other whenever he would move. The sounds seemed to taunt him in a way – as if trying to remind him that the entity in his arm was still there and still watching.
Watching…
That terrified him most of all.
The spirit, or wraith, or soul or monster or whatever it was – it was aware. Sentient. And according to the Judicator it was more than aware of his own mind and soul. It wanted to speak to him, she said – claimed the spirit would only commune with him now. That… He had few words to describe the sheer terror this revelation spawned in him.
He remembered, back when he first came to the Institute, how the being hard warped his own perception, and perverted his own instincts into that of a killer. He remembered speaking to Soraka one moment, only to stare at a gaping, weeping wound on her neck the next – a wound so easy to inflict it seemed almost laughable. He remembered seeing the hollowed out wounds where the nurse's eyes were, and the way bone pierced and protruded from the flesh of her now shattered neck. He remembered how the Summoners' jugulars dangled against their chests, ripped from their flesh with a simple snatch akin to a serpent's strike…
…and then he remembered how their visages returned to normal with a mere blink.
It had seemed… so frighteningly easy. It was thought a part of him, back then, had developed this instinctive need to act on the visions, to lash out and make sure nobody around him could cause him any pain. The deaths would have been quick as well – or so he thought. In the whirlwind of bloodlust and malice he'd experienced then he couldn't be sure what he could recall with accuracy. Torn throats, snapped necks, everything just… made sense at the time. Knowledge he was certain was not his own had flooded him – what angle a neck had to be twisted in, and what amount of pressure you had to twist with, and how gratuitously said pressure should be applied. He could easily pick out soft, tender flesh in their necks, easy for his newly-acquired talons to rip into and lacerate something far too vital to be healed properly in the panic his actions would cause.
For but a brief, brief moment, his mind had gone from that of an outlaw to that of a psychopath, a remorseless killing machine bent on survival in the bloodiest, most brutal manner – all because of one vengeful spirit.
And now, said spirit wanted to speak to him.
That concept, that idea, was… more than just a little unnerving, in his own honest opinion. Going by what Jax had told him, the spirit seemed downright crazed for violence and bloodshed. Granted, he'd already fought the thing off once before – it had been a painful, almost alien experience, fighting for control of his mind and body. He was truly unsure of how he had managed it – he wasn't a sorcerer, after all, and the sharpest thing he'd held in his life was a small dagger he'd robbed off an assailing bandit – and even that had been in his hand for seconds before finding a new sheathe in said bandit's ribcage. No, Garret Hillock wasn't a fighter, or an assassin, or a mage. He was just a scholar – which made it all the more confusing as to how he had fought off a foreign spirit that had managed to take immediate control.
Once again, the tome before him was closed with a flick of his hand and pushed along to the pile of books and scrolls beside him. While he had been lucky enough to regain himself after the first incident with the spirit, Garret was by no account foolish enough to believe in the certainty of it happening again. He was certain that he would fight every bit as hard as he did while inside that ruin, but now, nearly a week after the incident – nearly a week after the spirit's own awakening and rise from dormancy – Garret was willing to wager that the entity was much, much stronger than it was after the blade had shattered; its conversation with the Judicator, and its rage at her words and its strength – enough to shift a barrier of pure holy power – proved as much.
So caught up in his quest for answers was he, that he did not even notice he was no longer alone.
In Garret's single-minded focus on obtaining information from the tomes before him, he barely felt the floor beneath him shudder and tremble at the giant being's measured approach. He did not notice the colossal shadow looming over him, or the sound of a solid staff tapping against the floor behind him. It was, in a way, one of Garret's greater flaws; the mind of a scholar was one more fixated on knowledge than anything else – danger included, unfortunately.
Fortunately for him, though, the figure was anything but malicious.
"You will not find the answers there," the giant spoke, with a voice soft, yet almost ethereal.
Garret, caught up in his quest for knowledge and answers, had barely realized the giant being had snuck up on him – with a jerk that could only be likened to a spasm born from the most immediate fright, the young man fell to the side, toppling out his chair and sending several books flying back over the table. Several loud snaps and cracks signalled the jutting bronze shards on his demonic arm breaking under his body weight, and yet not even that could prevent him from outright scuttling away from the speaker in a bid to regain his footing.
Only when he was several feet away from the impostor, did he stop and gaze in the direction of the voice, with his fatigued frame shaking slightly from the adrenaline, and a wariness to match the weariness in his eyes. And yet, he was greeted not by an expression of malice or threat, but rather one of merriment, of amusement. It was a soft chuckle, sporting the same powerful yet hollow, echoing sound of the voice that had spoken, and with an audible gulp, the young scholar found himself looking up slightly to gaze his visitor in the eye.
Had it not emitted that chuckle, it would have seemed ominous, at first glance; patches of dark fur were neatly flattened amidst panels of lavish gold and ornate crystalwork, decorated here and there with the occasional strip of bandages and the like. An almost solid cowl decorated the being's jackal-like face, with two pointed, canine ears a deep, bright gold complimenting the ethereal blue eyes rather well. The Jackal-Man had a look in his blazing eyes, one of slight intrigue, and his grip on the large, cane-like weapon in his hand – a was, the knowledge came to him, unbidden – was almost casual.
"It was not my intention to frighten," the Jackal-Man spoke, nodding towards Garret in a respectful manner. "My years at the Institute have led to me believing that most are more… aware, of their surroundings. My apologies," he said sincerely. "You must be Garret… The Starchild told me of you."
It took him but a moment longer to recover – with a heartbeat still erratic, he returned the gesture, bowing as low as his fear and caution would allow him. "I… I am. Pardon the intrusion, sir – I was not made aware of any visiting hours or the like. I… I tried knocking, but the doors just… creaked open, of their own accord," he said softly, taking another seat – this time a few feet away from the titanic Jackal-Man. "I am sorry if I have been trespassing."
The Jackal-Man merely hummed, resting a hand on the backrest of the chair before him – a backrest that, despite being nearly as tall as a young man, merely reached his midsection. "You have nothing to apologise for, Garret. If anything, it is quite refreshing to see someone read to find answers instead of laying question after curious question onto me," he said, almost casually, his azure eyes never once leaving the seated ex-deserter. "I am Nasus," he introduced himself cordially, "and I am the Curator of this library."
Garret nodded slowly, processing the information. Slowly but surely, he let his guard down – Soraka had nothing but praise and kind words regarding the Curator, so he reckoned it would be nothing less than an affront to such a being to act as though he were standing in the presence of a common thug. "I… I beg pardon, for my reaction, I didn't exactly… see you coming, sir," he said calmly, reclining back into his seat as the small burst of adrenaline faded away. "I was so caught up in those books I wasn't paying attention."
"That much was obvious the moment I stepped through the doors," the Curator nodded, as casually as his giant, abhuman figure would allow it. "But I digress; this library is one of the few places where you can afford to act in such a manner. Many Champions of the Institute come here in search of answers or solitude, or even both at times. There are three here as we speak, at that," he said, nodding again. His grip on the cane – was, the knowledge assailed Garret's mind again – slackened slightly. "As such, there are… few places in the Institute as safe as here," he trailed off, idly gazing at the array of tomes on the table. "Although… I would assume such is not the kind of safety you seek, is it, Garret?"
The former deserter stiffened slightly, uncomfortable at the prospect of being read so easily. "I did not… How did you…?"
"I have lived," Nasus interrupted him, calmly and patiently, "for eons on end. I was… a protector, of your kind, when you were but the spark of an idea on the fabric of creation. I have walked amongst mortals so long I have no recollection of years prior, and in that time I have learned much – about human nature, and human minds, and human hearts…" He said, nodding once more, before pulling the chair back and ever-gently seating himself. "You may hide your arm, Garret, but you are nowhere near as skilled as you believe yourself to be when it comes to hiding your heart. Your fear, before me, is as tangible as the clothing you wear, and the wood and paper before us. And yet…" At these words, the canine giant's eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head. "The fear you feel is not something you need be ashamed of, Garret. I have heard of what ails you – I have heard of the spirit that assails your mind. You should know: greater men than you have broken at lesser threats."
Garret, much to his own ire, still found himself doubtful. "I… Make no mistake, Curator, your words are greatly appreciated, but…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "This spirit… I've seen what defines it. I've seen what it lives for, what it yearns for… And what I saw…" he frowned. "I've lived in many places, Curator. From the dark alleys in Bilgewater to the run-down slums of Noxus, I've seen many of the different faces violence wears. But this spirit… I've never seen, or felt, anything so enamoured with the idea of bloodshed and combat and, and death. For those brief moments, in that ruin… When it took over…" He repressed a shudder as he spoke. "It saw Jax, and the Ranger, Quinn, and… literally, the first thing it thought – the first thing I thought – was how to kill them," he said, his voice dying down to a whisper as he finished. "It already managed to take control once, Curator. I… I dread what would happen if it manages to do so again. What if… What if it finds a way to lock me away, should I speak to it? What if it somehow subjugates me?"
Nasus remained silent for several moments, his azure glowing eyes never leaving the man before him. "It is true, that such a being would inspire fear, and worry, in one such as yourself," he said finally. "You must, however, take heed not to downplay your own ability, Garret. The Starchild approached me not too long ago – I learned much of you from her, and her amiable opinion of you. She saw inside you, as I do now, and she has seen the exact same things I have," he said with a slight smile. "As dire as you believe your situation to be, Garret, you forget: You have already bested this being once. Despite beak weak, and barely conscious, you fought – and with that simple action, you bested a being capable of… most macabre ability. It would seem yours is a will greater than you believe it to be – and much, much greater than the fiend that cowers in your arm."
Garret glanced down at the multitude of tomes before him, processing the Curator's words. "I try to tell myself that, Curator. Truly, I do. I simply cannot fathom…" He started, his tone almost frustrated, but it died out, as the scholar heaved an exhausted sigh. "When it thought of attacking Jax, and the Ranger… I saw its thoughts. I told myself I could not allow it, would not allow it. When I fought back… I focused on nothing else but their faces. I ignored everything but them – I shook off the spirit's words and questions, closed myself off from its temptations and offers, but now… Now it wants to speak, Curator – to me. And I fear that in that briefest of time, when I bore witness to its mind… it may have borne witness to mine as well. How… How do I defend my spirit against something that knows me as well as I know myself?"
The Curator seemed to ponder Garret's words – as he sat and stared, and those azure eyes flared with ancient might, Garret could see the ascended hero of Shurima picking his words apart piece by piece. Finally, though, he nodded, almost sternly, and the gold-clad giant rose from his seat. "It is said," he started, his voice several octaves softer, gentler than before, "that fear and courage are but two sides of the same coin, Garret, and as such, either side has many different engravings. There is more to 'strength' than spellcraft and arms mastery – there is a much deeper strength that governs both – a strength found not in physique and aptitude, nor skill and knowledge. This strength lies in man's very core, Garret – it is the strength of spirit," he spoke, shifting the old chair back into its previous place. "I cannot lay claim to know your mind, Garret. But the Starchild has told me of your spirit. She has told me of your struggles, and your strife, and yet… Here you sit," He said with finality, as if making a point. "Am I to believe one who has fought so hard, and so long, fears one loathsome spirit?"
Garret remained silent once more, a grim mask of contemplation on his face. On one hand, the Curator had confirmed that his fear posed a great and monumental obstacle in his path – and he could barely disagree; in a way, Garret Hillock was a coward by nature, fitting many different descriptions of the word. On the other hand, though, the Curator had spoken words that had reinforced his will to keep the spirit at bay, regardless of his own fear and insecurity. Nasus had spoken of spirit, the one thing that had kept him going through pain and agony and loss over thirteen long years, and the one thing of his that had not broken yet. Yes, it seemed… It seemed as though his courage and his fear would go hand-in-hand. "What… If I might ask, Curator… What do you believe?"
The Curator of the Sands, mighty ascended hero of the desert of Shurima, merely uttered a low, amused hum before replying. "I believe," he spoke, with a voice almost knowing, "that despite the hesitation that remains… You have already found your answer. Now, Garret… Whatever happens now rests entirely in your hands," he said, with a single, courteous nod as he turned around and made his way back into the depths of the Institute's great library. Abruptly, though, the gold-clad giant halted, and turned to face the scholar one last time. "I will, however, leave you with this parting thought," he said kindly. "While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you."
And with those words, the jackal-faced hero of Shurima disappeared into the shadows cast by the towering bookcases, likely off to go aid other visitors in their search… regardless of whether what they sought could be found in the library at all.
Garret sat for a while, contemplating what he had said, and what he had heard. Gently, he brushed the dark traveling cloak aside and, with practiced caution, raised the twisted red shape of his arm up. Golden chains clinked and clanked as the limb came into view, the dim lighting of the floating candles playing off blackish-crimson skin and seemingly wrapping around the layered links. For the first time, Garret examined his arm, gazed at it with more than simple apprehensive fear and loathing. It looked no different than it did when he had first woken up – the steely shards still protruded from the back of his fore-and-upper arms and the four fingered hand hovered idly in the air. Only now did the former deserter notice that the hand's ring finger – or what could pass as a ring finger – seemed slightly thicker than the other three digits. Idly he brought his other hand – his human hand – around and carefully pressed his fingers to the darkened flesh of the mutated limb.
Warm.
The limb was unusually warm – it wasn't the kind you'd normally find in such a limb either. It was a flaring heat, a pulsating wave that travelled up and down the twisted musculature, dancing between the ends of the shards embedded into it. It was an alien feeling, something he wasn't quite sure he knew how to explain – but it mattered little. Somehow, despite feeling apprehensive and cautious, he had already decided what needed to be done. In a way, he'd known all along – the Curator's good-hearted reassurance merely anchored that decision, and moulded it into an action.
With a soft huff, Garret stood, pushing the chair he had been sitting on back into its original place. With a resolute expression he began scooping the various books and tomes before him, intent on returning them to their places in the various shelves and chests he took them from. He wasn't foolish enough to believe this little… 'meeting' would be a short affair. There were preparations to be made, after all – Summoners to rally, precautions to take, and all that. Absentmindedly he wondered if the Judicator would be present at all, but going by the rather… scathing look Councillor Kolminye had on her face after his judgement, he highly doubted it.
Thus, with a final, determined sigh, Garret disappeared into the dark shadows of the library's depths.
"So, let me get this straight: you fucked up royally?"
Once more, the Judicator effortlessly repressed an almost tortured sigh. "No, Jax," she said in a controlled manner, maintaining the same crisp air of professionalism and stoicism she was known for during such situations. "While the situation did indeed take a rather detrimental turn, I am entirely certain that my discussion with the spirit would have ended the same way regardless of what I said or how I acted." Her mask wasn't fraying at all. Really, it wasn't.
"That's not what Ol' Vess tells me," Jax said with an almost melancholic shrug as he reclined back into his seat and propped his feet up on Kayle's desk, completely ignoring the slight glare the angelic woman shot him in response. "Normally when someone sets out to do something they're ordered to do," he said with a raised finger, as though lecturing her – the audacity! – about her actions, "and end up achieving the exact opposite effect… Yeah, that's called 'fucking up royally' – not 'a rather detrimental turn'."
Kayle didn't dignify Jax's poor imitation of her voice with a response, nor did she rise to his attempts to anger her. This was Jax, after all – his skill with weaponry was matched only by the amount of respect he refused to give, to anyone or anything. Chiding him on that matter would have as much effect as Morgana's taunts would have on her, Kayle thought idly. Instead she merely crossed her arms and met his gaze. "Whatever your opinion on the events that occurred, it matters little now. I've told you what you wanted to hear-"
"And depressed the hell out of me at that," Jax interrupted.
"- and cannot see how further argument or debate will contribute to a solution to Garret's dilemma," she continued, unperturbed by Jax's interruption. "What happens now is between Garret and the spirit in his arm-"
"No thanks to you," Jax interrupted again.
"- and is something only he can decide," She continued, once more ignoring the interruption. "Although, pray tell, Grandmaster: Why so curious about this matter?" She inquired. "The only other people you interact with in such a… positive manner are Gragas and High Councillor Kolminye, and your… 'friendships' with both parties started with rather heated fights." It was true – many champions had referred to Jax as a type of hermit, a skilled yet reclusive person who only ever interacted with the outside world when necessary (or thirsty, or just spoiling for a good fight). He had few allies, fewer friends and surprisingly, even fewer enemies – a fact that was rather shocking, given the Grandmaster's personality. And yet, here he stood, inquiring about the health and mental state of a person he had known hardly a week – and the two of them hadn't even come to blows yet.
"Well considering the fact that the bitch in his arm tried to, y'know, kill me and all that," Jax snipped, shrugging as if to emphasize the sarcasm, "I'd say I have a right to know, don't I? 'Sides, Garret's chilled. None of that 'allegiance' bullshit holding him down – it makes him quite good company when the grog starts flowing." Another shrug. "He's a smart one, very world-aware and savvy. True I haven't bashed him in the face with my lamppost yet, but hey – the way he is, I don't think that'll be necessary. It's good to have a buddy I don't have to hospitalize first. Very… unique experience."
Kayle was certain most other champions of the Institute would, at that point, have described her face as 'deadpan'. Quickly, though, she blinked the cynicism and exasperation from her eyes before the Grandmaster could notice it, and went back to arranging the various papers on her desk. "If anything, that is something I am quite grateful for. It's hard enough dealing with your rampant disregard for the Institute's rules and other champions' well-being. Fiora Laurent is still trying to press charges against you for damaging her property and grievously injuring her-"
"Why are you talking about her like she's actually a person?" Jax interrupted her again.
"-so it comes as no small consolation that you have no intent to further fuel the fires surrounding Garret's presence and condition," she once more pressed on, shuffling a few more papers together. "Although had you been anyone else, Grandmaster, and I would have thought your sudden interest in a complete stranger's well-being to be… rather suspicious."
"Say what?" Jax tilted his head slightly. "I've dragged him to the bar several times now, woman – I doubt he qualifies as a stranger. Hell, I know more about him than you do now, and I wasn't even there for his Judgement."
"You weren't present for anyone's Judgement," the Judicator said rather listlessly. "Not even your own."
"Jealous?" the Grandmaster taunted.
"Are we finished here?" Kayle snapped, her frustration with the current situation finally shining through.
"Almost," the Grandmaster shrugged, standing up and stretching, making a massive show of the gesture and purposefully drawing it out, as only he would. "I've got something for your little case file," he said smugly, meeting her gaze again, "regarding that Laurent bitch. Now I don't know what kind of charges she's pressing, and, to be honest I don't really give a fuck. However I do like my money – a lot – and, well, I'm not willing to fork out gold to refurnish Princess Petulant's little abode," he said, procuring a small, folded paper from the inside of his dark attire. "See, that little spat we had in Demacia? The one that apparently wrecked her training room and kitchen? Yeah," he said, setting the paper down on Kayle's desk, "that was a duel, issued by the Brat Bitch herself, to be held inside her private training room. This here? This is my list of witnesses," he said, smugness literally dripping off every syllable that left his mouth. "Should get her off your back, huh?"
For but a moment, Kayle eyed the folded piece of paper. Last time Jax had tried to 'contribute' anything to her case files it had been nothing but a crudely-drawn image of him flipping her the bird. This time, however… Even in the dim lighting, her keen eyesight could see the indentations in the paper forming names, addresses and even places of employ. With a careful gesture she daintily took the paper, folding it open and giving the names a once over. "This… will do just that," she admitted, more to herself than anyone. It was true that Fiora Laurent's incessant attempts at having Jax 'dealt with' were getting out of hand, but this… If the damage to her property was due to her own handiwork, with her knowledge, then it might as well 'Case Closed'. "…My thanks, Grandmaster," Kayle nodded to herself.
"Don't mention it," Jax said with a shrug. "Literally, don't. If it comes at me again I might just have to break something," he said flippantly, turning around to stroll to the door. He paused halfway there, though, idly resting his trusty lamppost on his shoulder as he turned to gaze back at her. "Oh, by the way," he said, just as casually as he had been all meeting long. "You might get called on again when Garret decides to go through with that whole 'spiritual meeting' thing."
"'When'?" Kayle asked, perturbed. "He has confirmed his willingness, then?"
"Nope," Jax said again, casual as can be. "But let's just say I've learned a bit about the kid. What can I say? Booze builds bonds. Anyhow, if you're called again," his tone changed slightly – a hint of seriousness crept into his voice, "then I'd watch the attitude if I were you. Feel free to hate the spirit – I know I do – but don't do it verbally. Garret's already scared shitless enough – he doesn't need you to make things worse. Well, worse than you've already made them," he said with yet another shrug. "Just a suggestion, though. Have a nice day, Kayle."
And with those words, and before the Judicator could even express her outrage at being scolded – by Jax of all people – the Grandmaster had vanished through the doorway, not even bothering to close it behind him. Even her boundaries didn't respond to his departure – Jax had just disappeared, it seemed, and on such a childish note it beggared belief. Had she not known better she'd have decried the Grandmaster, and branded him a lowly coward. Knowing better, however, the Judicator decided to let the matter rest – for the moment, at least. She had no doubt in her intention of… addressing Jax on his tactless manner and brash attitude in the future. Arrogance was one thing – that level of disrespect was entirely another.
Nonetheless, a simple case of wanton disrespect was not cause for her to abandon her duties just yet. There were cases to be ordered, verdicts to be given, and several other staggeringly mundane things the Judicator had to get done before she had the luxury of waltzing about the Institute doling out lectures and punishments. Idly, she pulled a small dossier before her and started thumbing through the pages, a fountain pen clutched tightly between her gauntleted fingers.
She'd been at her business for a few moments when her boundaries went off again. She'd left her door open, to signify she wasn't exactly busy with crucial documents or evidence, and truth be told the entire debate-slash-meeting with Jax had left her more than a bit frustrated and agitated, despite her face not showing it. It was for this exact reason that she didn't pay much mind to her boundaries telling her that someone was leisurely strolling towards her office without a care in the world.
In her own opinion nobody could come close to increasing the frustration she felt now.
"It's open," she noted aloud absentmindedly when she saw the shadow at her door. She was in the middle of adding the names the Grandmaster had given her to the case file Fiora Laurent had tried repeatedly to set into action. "I will be with you momentarily," she said, as the sound of a pen's tip on paper signalled her finishing the third-to-last name. She shadow looming over her desk seemed to hover there for a bit before she heard one of the chairs before her desk being dragged out. Not a moment later the shadow shrunk, and she heard oak legs straining slightly under weight. With but the slightest hint of a nod she proceeded to finish the last two names, and upon finishing, she moved to place her pen down on her table, and looked up. "Now, how can I help…"
She trailed off then, upon seeing her visitor.
If there was ever something like a 'sick' grin, she was certain she was looking at it now. Dark hair framed a silver circlet and sickly pale skin, and even darker lips curled up into an almost sinister smile, and her blank eyes, encircled by patches of shadowy, near-decaying skin, twinkled with slight amusement.
Behind her, two mangled wings batted twice.
"Sister," the Fallen Angel greeted, in a sickly sweet yet envenomed voice.
A single loud crack signalled Kayle's pen cracking in her grip, confirming that, yes, her day was about to get much worse…
It had been a few hours since Jax had met with the Judicator when he leisurely strolled into the 'finest' bar near the Institute. Of course, the 'finest' part was contributed solely by the fact that several of the League's… less luxurious champions frequented it, the first of which had been Jax himself. Now, make no mistake, The Champ was not a person ignorant of luxury – not at all. It was merely that The Champ, in his own humble opinion, described himself as a man whose idea of 'luxury' was a lot less flamboyant, aristocratic and elitist.
Or at least, so he claimed.
And anyone who said otherwise often ended up arguing with the business end of his lamppost.
In truth, the 'finest bar' in question was little more than a rinky-dink, working-class bar located about half a mile outside the Institute's main gate. It had not the luxury of Demacia's taverns or the modernized interior of Piltover's pubs, but in the same vein it lacked the run-down appearance of Zaun's drinking spots or the general feeling of malice and life-threatening danger you'd find in almost every bar in Noxus. No, the 'finest bar' in question was decidedly average – and Jax, well, he found that to be quite homely.
And that, all things considered, made it perfect.
Now, The Champ had been frequenting this bar for quite a while – as such, he'd pretty much become accustomed to the way things seemed and worked. There had been nothing that could surprise the Grandmaster where 'his' favourite bar was concerned – he had happy hours, early opening times, League match spectating sessions and about ninety-nine percent of the bar's regulars all memorised by memory. So when the Grandmaster at Arms had strolled into 'his' bar only to see a sight he'd never seen before, he had reason to be just a tad shocked.
Seeing Garret Hillock sitting at the bar, calmly sipping at a mug of grog wasn't an unusual sight per say. After all, the Grandmaster had made a point to drag the ex-convict there every night since the man had been let out of the infirmary – much to Soraka's (promptly ignored) ire and Vessaria Kolminye's (promptly ignored) exasperation. No, what was strange is the fact that Garret was actually here before Jax – and that his mutated, crimson arm was uncovered for the world to see – hell, it's twisted fingers were even gripping the mug he was drinking from!
"Well, I'll be fucked," Jax said, strolling forwards and ignoring all the greetings, cheers and the occasional flirty comment thrown his way. As he reached the counter he gave Garret a hearty clap on the shoulder as he sat down. "This is new," he said, signalling for his usual order – an order the bartender complied to with a smile.
"Jax," Garret greeted with a smile and a nod. "Well, I figured for once I would pay heed to superstition. Frankly I have no idea what I'm hoping to find at the bottom of this mug, but… maybe it will become clear with a few more servings."
"Hah! That's the spirit," the Grandmaster said jovially, turning his gaze back on the bar's main area. "What superstition, though? If you're looking for something fancy like the 'meaning of life', I'll warn ya: you're gonna get right shitfaced before you find it. And even then, with tomorrow's hangover you won't remember jack."
Garret, for the first time since coming to the Institute, uttered a genuine laugh – albeit a short one. "No, I… I am not looking for anything so spectacular. A gain in courage, perhaps, or a loss of inhibition. Maybe both. Who knows?"
"'In wine lies truth', eh?" Jax guessed, swivelling around on his stool. "Well, share! What truth have you found so far?"
"That spur-of-the moment decisions make a fool of me?" Garret guessed, with that slightly skew grin the Grandmaster had seen on his face from time to time. "Or at least, that is what I feel now that the whole star-struck mindset has left me."
"Eh, those kinds of choice make us all look like asses. Although you've got me curious, bud: Who managed to dazzle you so much?" Jax chuckled. "Was it that nurse who looked after you so nicely while you were bedridden?" He leered. "I can hook you up, y'know. If you're up for the whole 'dating a ninja' thing."
"Much as I apprecia-Wait, what?" Garret interrupted himself, his expression going from reluctant and exasperated to what Jax classed as a typical 'What the fuck'-face in an instant. "You mean that, er… that… the slightly indecent one?" He asked, earning a guffaw from Jax for his under-exaggeration. "She's a ninja?"
"One o' the best," Jax confirmed with a nod and a shrug. "She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice. Got a stick as long as my lamppost up her ass, though. Stoic, emotionless, proper, cold, despite the way she dresses for hospital duty. Nice bod, though. Makes up for her personality – or lack thereof. That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer."
"I…" Garret started, before sighing slightly, that same crooked grin on his face. "Well as far as radical topic swings go, this is one of the more extreme examples. From drinking motivation to a ninja's allure… I get the feeling spending time here won't be a waste," he said, taking another sip from his mug. "Although in response to your earlier question, I can confirm the motivation behind my rash, life-changing decision was not at all romantic. Rather some… profoundly wise words, that managed to motivate me."
"'Profoundly wise words', eh," Jax mirrored, cocking his head as though deep in thought. "Soraka, then? You an' her are hitting it off quite well, seriously speaking. And she's just full of profoundly wise words. And profoundly annoying lectures if you don't mind me saying."
Garret uttered a short laugh again, an almost alien sound, coming from him. "Isn't anyone who lectures you profoundly annoying, Jax?" He asked rhetorically, grinning once more when The Champ merely shrugged at the observation. "No, no. I was… I visited the library this morning. I was hoping to find answers or some form of identification, really – anything that could at least identify this… thing that's hiding in my arm. I wanted answers, reassurance, anything, really. Well, I found reassurance, all right. Courage, as well. Although from a highly unlikely source."
"You met Nasus, then?" Jax chuckled. "I shoulda clicked immediately. Ol' Muttface is full of those randy-dandy philosophical revelations and stuff. So what did he tell you," he asked, "and what did what he told you make you do?"
Garret blinked, processing the question for a fraction of a moment before offering a slightly awkward smile. "Well, some words were exchanged, some observations were made, and…" He trailed off, seemingly pondering something. "Well, the end justifies the means, I reckon. I… A few hours ago, I spoke to High Councillor Kolminye. Later tonight, I… I'm going to go through with the ritual that will put me in contact with the spirit."
Gragas, you owe me money, Jax thought, slightly grateful his metal mask hid his shit-eating grin. "That's the spirit, bud," he said in a motivating manner. "Quicker you kick that bitch to the curb, the better. How's it gonna go down? You know yet?"
"If you mean why they're doing it in the middle of the night, I have no idea," Garret said, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Although I did sleep in a bit, so that should mitigate it somewhat. It's taking place in a different chamber too – someplace underground, if I'm not mistaken. The High Councillor will send someone to escort me there. Apparently the Summoners performing the ritual will be… slightly more professional, than the ones who handled my Judgement."
"I'd expect that," Jax conceded. "They ain't trying to figure out jack this time – now they're gonna be maintaining the link between you two, tryin' to make sure that bitch doesn't try to kill you."
"Are you trying to reassure me?" Garret asked worriedly. "Because… Well, I don't mean to sound ungrateful but it's failing slightly…"
"Relax, kiddo," Jax chuckled. "Honestly? I don't think it'll go that far. I paid the Judicator a little visit earlier, got her to tell me exactly what your little tenant told her. I still think the bitch is murderous as all hell, and full of shit to boot, but I don't think she'll go as far as to try and kill you."
"Why is that?" Garret asked, emptying his mug with a final gulp and signalling a refill. "I mean, it tried to kill you, and Lady Quinn as well. I am but a scholar – and a cowardly one at that. If it is brave enough to try and attack you of all people, in a battered up, malnourished body at that, why would it spare me?"
"I'unno," Jax shrugged. "Going by what the 'naughty little angel' said, your parasite seemed mighty pissed at the insinuation that she tried to kill you. Kayle claims it was all an act, but eh. That woman… She's not exactly open to different outcomes. Very black-and-white, that one."
"Hmm." Garret seemed to be deep in thought. "It's something to ponder," he admitted finally, "and frankly, something I would rather not ponder – at least, until I can ascertain the spirit's intentions. Whether it speaks the truth or blatant lies, if I decide it's a threat I'll have the Summoners lock it away permanently… and I highly doubt the spirit would take kindly to that idea."
"Didn't take kindly to giving up your body either," Jax reminded him. "We all saw what happened then. True, you call yourself a coward, buddy, but with the way you fought that bitch back, you've got some badass cred to your name," he said with a chuckle. "When's the ritual?"
"About three hours from now," came the reply. Garret had emptied half of his mug by now. "I will admit, I felt rather powerful after speaking to the Curator, but now… Now, with the ritual looming on the horizon, reality is starting to catch up. I'll still face this challenge head-on, but… the heart's starting to beat just a bit faster, and the hollow pit in my stomach isn't growing any smaller."
"You clearly haven't had enough grog, then," Jax chirped and chuckled. "If that's why you came here, though, you're in the right place. You just need the right stuff," he said, motioning to the bartender. "Bring us your best stuff. The stronger, the better. And ice – lots of ice." The bartender, a small, balding man with an unkempt moustache, smiled cheerfully and trotted into the storeroom. "The doses are gonna be smaller," Jax admitted, "but it'll be worth it. Another half an hour and you'll be riding lightning, bud."
"It's not too strong, I hope?" Garret asked. "I mean, not to sound ungrateful and all but I highly doubt confronting a murder-obsessed spirit in an inebriated state is a wise idea."
"Confronting it when you're half-dead ain't so bright either," Jax shrugged. "You turned out fine nonetheless, no?"
For but a moment, Garret sat, jaw agape. A moment later it snapped shut, and formed his trademarked crooked grin. Be it inebriation or nonchalance, or the off chance that the events of the ruin had failed to rule him, Garret seemed to take little offense from the words. Instead, he merely uttered a short chuckle, just as the bartender came out of the store carrying something decidedly not groggy at all. "Touché," he nodded to himself. "Touché. Who knows? Maybe it even makes the meeting easier."
"Aye!" Jax agreed as the high-quality liquor flowed into the glasses in small doses, their mass amplified by the ice. "You're even sharper with your tongue when you're drunk anyhow, so it's win-win. Drink up, I say. You're meeting up with Ol' Vess too, and she's a right bitch when she's tired. You're gonna need the boost," he said.
Garret, though, merely remained silent, smiling slightly. He sat idly for a moment, Jax noticed, swishing the amber alcohol around in the small glass he had been served. His eyes twinkled slightly, even in the dim lighting you'd usually find in a bar. The man seemed deep in reminiscence, somehow. After a moment, he noticed Jax's curious stare, and righted himself with a slight cough. "Pardon. I, uhm… Suffice it to say it's easy to lose yourself in your memories. It has been… some time, since I've been able to experience this… this kind of peace. An ironic thing to say, I know, considering what will happen soon, but…"
"Oy, no need to explain," Jax nodded sagely, turning his gaze back on the various patrons frequenting the metaphorical 'watering hole'. "And no need to worry, either. You'll be having a lot more of this peace while you're here. Make no mistake about that." With a final nod, he turned back to the bar, and scooped up the small glass of alcohol he'd been served. "So what are we drinking to, bud? Prosperity? Peace?" he asked. "Women? Eh?"
Garret laughed at the suggestion, that same alien sound he'd uttered a few times already. "I was inclined to say 'all of the above'," he digressed, "until you had to go and be… well, you. I suppose I should be used to it by now, though," he said in an almost conceding manner. He turned his gaze back on his glass. "I do not normally drink to things. However, if I must… I will drink to… a new beginning, hopefully."
"I heard that," Jax nodded, "and hell if it's not something worth drinking to, eh? To a new beginning, bud."
And with those words, they raised their glasses, and the amber-hued liquid held in them disappeared down their throats.
Suffice it to say he had no idea what time it was when the elderly Summoner knocked on his door. The moon was already high, hiding amidst shadowed clouds, like a priceless jewel buried away beneath the rubble; a jewel man was only allowed to catch the most fleeting glimpses of. As things stood, Garret had to keep the Summoner waiting a bit. The white shirt he had been wearing had been tossed aside in the bathroom of the small abode the Institute offered him, traded for a navy-coloured one that smelled of lavender salts and new fabric, and decidedly not of expensive alcohol.
He'd been chewing on mint leaves ever since he'd left the bar. Jax had been correct when he said the whiskey would make him 'ride lightning' and all that, but the smell… Ye gods, the smell…
"You seem worried," the elderly Summoner intoned as they strolled through darkened halls. "And for once I dare say I don't need a mental link to determine that, young man – only a sense of smell."
"Is it… Is it that obvious, sir?" Garret grinned awkwardly. He suddenly missed his travelling cloak. At least that was a piece of apparel he could wrap around himself and imagine himself disappearing into. "Er, I do so hate to disrespect, sir. The High Councillor is a woman of great pedigree, I'm assuming – I would think it would be nothing short of unacceptable to appear before her when I smell of alcohol and look like a thug."
The Summoner, confusingly, merely chuckled at the observation. "Ah, it's rare to see someone so courteous in this place. Most of our newer Champions eschew that approach entirely – especially that manic little girl, Jinx. Honestly," he shook his head. "A pity there's a good chance you might be leaving us soon – you'd have been a welcome breath of fresh air in the Institute."
"Loath as I am to disappoint, sir," Garret nodded, somewhat awkwardly, "I… I am not a fighter. I've stolen, yes, and lied and misled at times, but I… my first instinct is always to flee, sir. I have very, very little to contribute to this place."
"That is not what the Starchild believes, young man," the Summoner intoned with a wry smile. "Councillor Kolminye believes a likewise story. You seem to forget our great Institute houses more than just fighters, mages and Summoners, Mister Hillock. Believe it or not, should you choose to stay, we have many, many uses for a man of your talents – especially if the notes you had on your person when you were brought in is any indication."
"I… I do not understand, sir," Garret said, a perplexed expression on his face. "I am but a scholar. Granted, I have… a fair bit of knowledge when it comes to ancient languages and cultural analyses, but I fail to see how I can be of any assistance there when you have beings like Curator in your service."
"You mistake wisdom for intellect, Mister Hillock," the Summoner chortled. "Nasus may be ancient, and an incredible source of knowledge on the past of Shurima and the hearts and souls of the human being, but he is not omniscient – and certainly not as well-versed in other subjects as some believe him to be." At these words he turned to look at Garret, a slight glint in his old, wizened eyes. "Your notes, however… They prove that your little hobby, your passion, might be worth more than a simple passing gaze from the Institute."
Any response Garret could have formed – be it confused, or bashful, or even hopeful – was cut short when they reached their destination, rather suddenly at that. It was as though the door just… appeared in the walls next to them, the dark oak contrasting rather nicely against the clinical white hue of the walls. At first he was perplexed he had not noticed the door earlier – such a glaring spot of dark-on-light colouring should have stood out like a sore thumb. He turned a quizzical gaze towards the elderly Summoner, and the old man – as though having practiced the response for ages – merely shrugged and offered a wry grin and an offhanded muttering of "Magic?" before turning back to face the oaken door.
"You will notice," he said, a slight undertone of mirth in his voice, "that this is not our… 'esteemed' Reflection Chamber. No, Garret, I will be entirely honest with you – this room is much more secure, and much more secluded."
"As it should be," Garret agreed, though try as he may he couldn't keep that damn quiver out of his voice. "Given what I saw in that ruin, sir, I would have insisted on a secure location regardless."
"Ah yes, the pseudo-possession," the Summoner nodded. "A fine achievement on your part, driving the ghost back. Nonetheless, I assure you, Garret: you'll find nothing short of absolute security when you pass through those doors. We have dealt with geists and spirits far more powerful than the one manifesting in your arm – we have specialists on hand to control the ebb and flow of your connected psyches, and a few more that can safely sever the connection should sufficient threat arise," he said complacently. "The Institute of War is highly intrigued by the being in your arm, Mister Hillock – but your safety and wellbeing remains our first and most important priority."
"I… am grateful, sir," Garret said with a self-reassuring nod of his own. "Heh. A few years ago I would have laughed at the concept of… this all happening."
"Fate has a habit of dealing rather interesting cards to those who least expect it," the Summoner hummed in agreement. "And for once I am not referring to the Champion. Nonetheless," he said, shaking his head as the elderly were wont to do when they lost track. "I am afraid this is as far as I can go with you, Mister Hillock," the Summoner said, stroking the long gray beard that hung out from under the muted purple robes. "Independent as you may be, the matter that will go down behind these doors are… not quite relating to the Fields of Justice, is it?" He said with a wry smile as he turned to leave. "I wish you the best of luck, Mister Hillock," he bade farewell as he shuffled towards the shadows. "May you reach a conclusion you are content with."
Garret found himself at a loss for words. It wasn't a matter of being overly choked up on emotions, or perplexed to point of wordlessness. It was simply that somehow, some way, he couldn't think of anything to say to the wizened Summoner in response apart from a mumbled "Thank you" and another of his crooked smiles. The old man had ended their little conversation in such a way that made the finality of it absolute – the type of conversation you could only find when an elder passed advice down to a younger person. Idly, Garret watched as the Summoner's robes disappeared, blending seamlessly into the darkness of the semi-lit hallway. It had been… a fulfilling conversation, in all honesty. It had successfully managed to pull his mind away from the ominous occurrence it would soon bear witness to.
Stalling, however, would mean very little. Shaking any stray thoughts from his mind, he reached out, and gripped the glistening doorknob before him.
Well, he thought, now or never.
The hallway he had entered after stepping past the threshold was long and rather dark – but he placated himself in a way he had grown accustomed to over the years, assuring himself that this was just another dark corridor, just like any other he encountered during his years as a fugitive. This one was even less of a bother – it lacked the biting cold of the Freljord or the scorching heat of Shurima, and the craftsmanship behind it – at least, that which he could see – painted a very different picture from what he was used to.
Step by cautious step, Garret kept his mind busy as he strode towards the ever-growing 'light at the end of the corridor'. The Institute, it seemed, rather adored their clichés. Not that it was a bad thing – if anything it was a welcome change of pace from the usual winding, rocky pathways he found whenever he'd go traipsing around some ruin in search of the next of hieroglyphs he could try and translate.
Finally, though, he was within stepping distance of the doorway leading to the ritual area. He paused a moment, revelling at the feeling of the darkness obscuring his features – and then he recalled it was highly likely that these Summoners knew he was there already. So with a final deep breath, he closed his eyes and stepped into the light.
It was… much different from the Reflection Chamber.
It lacked the intricate detail of the murals etched into the walls, instead opting for a bleak, dark and gravelly texture, more than likely one of the more resilient types of stone. At first he would have ventured a guess and settled on granite, only the walls were naturally much darker than the stone in question. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, though. He tended to do that a lot – whenever stress or anxiety kicked in he put his powers of observation to use, trying to hone it and focus on something other than what was causing him pressure. This, of course, was not a time for such things.
"You are the first," he heard High Councillor Kolminye's voice drift from the shadows, "to find one of these rooms so fascinating, Garret. If I hadn't known any better I'd say it seemed as though you like it here."
"Well, I… I have spent nights in worse places," Garret admitted with a shrug. "Apologies for letting my mind wander, it is a… Well, old habits die hard, and the oldest ones are damn near immortal," he conceded, folding his hands behind his back. He noticed something in the middle of the room – a sort of half-chair, half-bed thing carved of marble – what was it with this place and their fancy marble furniture? – with several runic sigils and glyphs carved into its surface. "And I have slept on much worse textures too, I must admit."
He heard the High Councillor hum amusedly then, and alongside the sounds echoing off the walls, she stepped forth from the shadows. "It is only temporary, Garret," she said, in a half placating manner. "It's actually much more bearable than it looks. Some of the runes we've carved onto it are there to… lessen the discomfort of such a hard surface."
"I… I assume this is where the bulk of my little meeting with my tenant will take place?" Garret ventured, eyeing the deck-chair like surface warily. "I do not have to strip, do I? That looks… rather chilly."
The High Councillor merely uttered a short laugh, raising a hand. "Oh no, it is nothing so complex. You will be… dormant during the process, in any case. Your body will be restrained by some of the Summoners I've brought here –" and as if on cue, several Summoners clad in dark robes and fabric masks stepped forth from the darkness as well – "and your mind will be monitored for any… irregular activity. We will not know for certain what transpires between you and your visitor, Garret, but we will know immediately if something goes awry. All we ask is complete honesty on your part after the meeting, Garret. Understand, this spirit has a very unique set of talents – a very dangerous set of talents. If there is even the slightest chance it may act to your detriment in the future, well… a permanent solution will have to be sought."
"I understand completely, High Councillor," Garret nodded, answering without hesitation. He had spent all day building himself up for this, after all. The coward in him still appealed to the rationalist in him, and the tag-team duo implored him to say "To hell with it" and have the spirit suppressed permanently, no questions or fuss necessary. But he was not the only one with a stake in this – the Institute of War wanted to know more about this being, this entity who could bend blood to its will, and weaponise it. They offered him safety, absolution, food and shelter, and even tended to his wounds – to have the spirit locked away now, without a second thought… it would be akin to spitting in their faces.
And Garret refused to be that kind of person.
"While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you."
The Curator's words stuck with him, in some weird, twisted way. Maybe the alcohol amplified the effects they had on him, or maybe – for once in his life – he was actually taking the courageous route instead of the cowardly one. He didn't ponder what brought it on – here, now, as he stood before the Summoners and the altar that would put him in contact with the spirit that had caused him so much fear, that still caused him so much fear… Be it foolishness or bravery, running away was the last thing on his mind.
Idly, he glanced down at his exposed mutated arm. "I assume," he guessed aloud, "that the chain inhibiting the spirit will be removed?"
"Indeed," the High Councillor responded. "We need as little external factors mitigating your interaction with the spirit as possible. The chain is one of those factors – we suspect it is the reason why the being's voice sounded so broken and horrid when it spoke to the Judicator. My specialists tell me that anything that can distort the spirit in the eyes of the visitor… may just distort the visitor in the eyes of the spirit. That is a risk we cannot take. We need all channels between the two of you clear. Only then can we learn as much as possible about it."
As if rising to some form of unspoken challenge, Garret's arm pulsed. The searing red light lit up underneath the dark skin, highlighting the musculature beneath. It was a gesture that caught the attention of everyone in the room, an affirmation of presence despite the inhibition – and the first such signal since Garret's time in the Reflection Chamber six days prior. "Well, someone seems rather happy with the current state of affairs," the High Councillor noted dryly. "Shall we begin, Garret? Or are there some more measures you wish to see put in place?"
"None, m'lady," Garret nodded resolutely. "I have… the utmost trust in your abilities." He strolled forwards, nodding courteously to the two Summoners who shifted to the side to allow him access to the altar. They returned the gesture, albeit stiffly and stoically, but it was a good sign nonetheless – at least in Garret's eyes. He refused to idle or pause or hesitate when he stopped before the altar – he shut any negative thoughts out of his mind, as well as he could, and swivelled on his heel before sitting down on the predictably cold marble surface. He took a deep breath, just one, before shifting himself back and laying down on the runic display.
Two Summoners surged forward, gently easing his arm out into an extended position, before their gloved fingers deftly and professionally went to work on the suppression chains. Had the golden links not clinked and clanked against each other and sent soundwaves echoing off the walls, Garret was certain the silence would have been deafening. The worst part was the fact that the arm itself was completely dead – he'd practiced its dexterity a bit today but he felt nothing. He barely even knew whether the chain was off or not – and, despite chiding himself about it, he opted not to look and find out.
Then it happened.
He couldn't rightly phrase it. All his life he had studied linguistics and prose and not a single word could describe the sudden feeling of warmth that flooded his mind. It was somewhat pleasant, he grudgingly admitted – it wasn't the searing kind of heat like a knife wound or a mind-affecting spell. It was… almost comforting, in a way. He frowned slightly. How… utterly unlike the spirit of death and ruin he'd suspected it to be. It could always have been part of an elaborate scheme, he reasoned – something to get him to lower his guard. In a way, it was futile – these Summoners seemed professional. The being could fool him, maybe, but not these elite mages.
"Are you ready, Garret?" He heard the High Councillor ask. Hesitantly, he moved his now free arm around a bit before setting it down next to him. He had meant it when he said he trusted the Summoners completely – a part of him chided himself for such a foolish gesture; a war raged between his gratitude for salvation and the paranoia spawned over thirteen long years. But he refused to let it affect him.
That which was dark within him would not define him.
"I am ready," he breathed.
The High Councillor nodded stiffly. She raised her own gloved hands and motioned to the other Summoners, and in perfect unison an absolutely brilliant chant blasted into the darkness of the room. The runes beneath his body lit up, an eerie green seeming out of place on the black finish, and Garret felt his body lighten all of a sudden. It felt… as though all of his earthly troubles and restraints just melted away. The darkness around him cracked, and rays of red belted his vision from all angles. The warmth that permeated his mind, senseless as it sounded, spread. It travelled down his spine, surged out across his ribs and bubbled in his chest, and travelled even further, leaving a tingling sensation along his arms and legs.
Then the darkness exploded.
It was simultaneously a tremendous crash and a near-deafening boom – the darkness around him literally shattered as a hazy crimson mist flooded his sight. The ritual chamber fell apart and floated away at an alarming pace, and despite Garret being sure he was laying down barely seconds prior, he found himself on his feet, hovering in a red oblivion – he couldn't even make out the floor he was standing on. A void, by any other name – no shape, no form, no architecture or geometry at all. Just blood-red smoke as far as the eye could see.
Then he felt a hand gingerly sliding along his cheek, almost caressingly, and amidst the clouds of crimson, and ethereal, feminine voice drifted out.
"You kept me waiting… my host…"
It was done. The connection had been established, the boundaries had been set, and going by the feedback from her elite Summoners, contact had successfully been made. Vessaria Kolminye released a bated breath she hadn't even noticed she had drawn – situations like these may have differed in victim, assailant, and mental stability, but they were always precarious; this one was no different. She lowered her hands and stepped back, no longer required to conduct the orchestra of magics that would keep Garret and his visitor chained to his own mindscape. Her amber eyes remained transfixed on his mutated limb, though – the bronze-like shards were glowing as if superheated, and the limb itself was illuminated; the crimson light no longer 'pulsed' – it shone, displaying all those twisted muscles in all their abhuman glory.
Behind her, she heard the telling sound of steel scraping on steel. She did not need to look back to see the Judicator emerging from the shadows. The beating of wings, the sound of shifting armour and sounds of muffled breathing were enough to clue her in. "The connection is successful, then?" She heard the angelic woman ask behind her. "High Councillor, I must emphasise the risk you are undertaking here. The danger that man is in –"
"Is a great deal lesser," Vessaria cut her off fluidly, "than the danger he would be in if we pushed the spirit into rebellion. It has taken more than this young man's arm, Judicator, you know this. It is anchored to his being, to his heart, and spine, and lungs. No," she said with finality. "This is the safer approach. If we find out what it wants we can try to reason with it – and maybe shelter this young man from its wrath as well."
"If you insist, High Councillor," Kayle conceded, touching down on the cold floors and folding her wings behind her. "Do you truly believe he can best it a second time, though? The spirit seemed downright volatile when I spoke to it, and forgive me for stating such but Garret Hillock is not exactly someone open to violent or malicious suggestion. There's bound to be some kind of clash, High Councillor."
"Of course," Vessaria nodded, unblinking. "It is for that exact reason that we engineered this little meeting. We need that clash to occur, Judicator – heated arguments and verbal battles tell us more than honeyed words and half-truths ever will."
"And you are certain Garret will be truthful about what the spirit tells him?" Kayle inquired.
"Yes. Garret has been nothing if not courteous and completely truthful about his life," Vessaria answered, her gaze still locked on Garret's prone form. "Should we suspect he is hiding something we can always prep the Reflection Chamber again, either way." Her eyes narrowed, and as if in response Garret's arm glowed just a bit brighter, almost tauntingly.
"Until then," she said, almost wearily, "we wait… and see how this plays out."
It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to flail backwards and desperately try to put some modicum of distance between himself and… whatever had just touched him. A sharp intake of breath, and shut eyes were the only signs of the considerable fright he had experienced – his instincts, however, were still not complacent. They howled at him to back away, to turn tail and run and shut out every external influence that would assail him. They tugged at his legs and squeezed at his heart, constricted his lungs and swung his mind into disarray – but for once, he stood fast.
Running would not save him now.
Cowardice would accomplish nothing.
"Indeed it would not," the voice cooed, as if aware of what he had thought. "It is just us here, host… You cannot run from me… and I cannot run from you."
Garret frowned. Part of him didn't trust his voice just yet – the fear that was sending the blood racing through his veins undoubtedly left its own mark on his speech, a quiver or a crack or maybe both. And yet… he couldn't bring himself to care about that.
"W-What do you want?" He asked, his voice firm, yet volatile, as though threatening to crack under a complex syllable.
"Oh, you know what I want, my host," the voice said, almost knowingly, and around them the mist began to change. Shades darkened and lightened and the very smoke drifted in patterns that formed shapes Garret would rather have forgotten. Around him, wars waged; the very earth beneath them split apart under wave upon wave of violence and people – ageless, faceless shapes formed by crimson smog – fought for causes they didn't believe in. But they fought, and they fought well. Garret frowned as he took in the sights – with the way the smoke portrayed their surroundings it seemed more like a work of art, a practiced theatrical of grace and poise, rather than the hideous terror such a scene would be in reality. "Yes… You know exactly what I want, my host… Just as I know you are not likely to grant it."
"War?" Garret ventured, tremors still plaguing his speech. "Is that what you want? Or is it something simpler? Combat? Battle? Is that what you want, spirit?"
"No, my host…" the response was… several octaves lower than before. "No, I do not 'want' battle. I do not 'want' combat, my host…" And suddenly, two slanted, pure white eyes appeared before him. "No… Battle… Combat… I do not simply 'want' them, host… I need them!"
There it was – instinctively Garret repressed a shudder at those words. Finally he saw what he had seen in that ruin. When the spirit had said that word – 'need' – the undertones of adoration and reverence were downright frightening. There was excitement in the spirit's voice for that fraction of a second, excitement matched only by the sheer amount of longing hidden beneath the emphasis. The spirit was dangerously close by now, he could tell – the slanted white eyes hovered inches from his own, and he could hear someone breathing, laboured and shakily, as though the mere statement of this spirit's need for violence excited it – her – into breathlessness.
Nonetheless, with a final, quivering exhale, the breathing faded away, and the two eyes backed off, narrowing as they observed Garret for a reaction. "Do you know," she started, softly, almost muttering, "how long I have yearned for it, host? The sounds of steel on steel, the scent of sweat and struggle as two beings fight for dominance, for sport, for survival… The sight of determination, of enjoyment, of fear and dedication in the eyes of those who kill, and those who die… Do you know how my soul aches to experience it all once more?"
"I… I know all too well," Garret nodded, eyes narrowed and face steeled. "I experienced a fraction of it – when you tried to force me to kill all those innocent people. Do you recall that, spirit? Do you remember how you took my body from me? How you tried to murder those near me?"
The blank eyes widened slightly, and despite the lack of a face Garret noticed a modicum of surprise in those glowing orbs. "I took what I thought to be a corpse," the spirit answered slowly. "Your movements, your heart rate, your thoughts… So erratic were they that I presumed you to be in the throes of death – as you humans so often exhibit. When my smoke enveloped you, host… You were not long for this world. You did not need your body."
"So you just helped yourself…" Garret noted, taking another step back. "Forgive me, but I find this all rather hard to believe. One moment you fill my mind with images of massacre and the next, you are as cordial as can be. You attack the person sent to question you and now, all of a sudden, you act as though you cannot even comprehend just how malicious you've been since… since you tried to take over. I may be a coward," he said, the quiver finally leaving his voice, "and not at all the sharpest tool in the shed, but I am not so foolish as to believe this hollow story! I… I will not be manipulated. Not by you."
The blank white eyes merely stared, again slightly widened. They seemed to hover there, for a while – as though the spirit itself were considering his words. Finally, though, they closed, and a soft, short chuckle drifted through the smoke. "I know…" The spirit spoke, low and begrudging. "I was… desperate, after you shattered my prison. For what seemed like an eternity, I knew only… this," she said, and the white eyes gazed at the crimson void around them. "Every second of every minute of every hour of every day… Nothing but my own weapon surrounded me…" The eyes then turned back, gazing into Garret's own. "When I was freed… When I felt the world around me again… I lost myself. Nothing mattered to me but the taste of battle – not even your wellbeing. A near-corpse before me and two powerful figures not much further away… How could I resist, host?" The spirit asked, in an almost strained manner. "How could I resist that which my very soul thirsted for, when it was so basely offered to me?"
The eyes surged forward a short distance – as though their owner had taken a single step towards Garret. The former deserter stood his ground, pondering the words that had been spoken. "Why, then?" He asked finally. "Why jeopardise your freedom by attacking the first people you laid eyes on?"
"Because I knew nothing else at that moment!"
The sudden volume of the spirit's voice should have caught him off guard – it really should have. But some part of him, some odd, curious part of him discovered a rather intriguing, yet ominous fact: Garret was making progress. Socially Garret was not an ace – scarcely he could tell when someone was being honest, or deceitful. But that hollered proclamation, that grudging statement… It told him he'd finally earned some semblance of honesty from his toxic tenant. "Explain," he muttered simply.
"I have told you," the spirit said, once more sounding out of breath. The eyes shifted ever closer to him. "Battle is what I live for, host… It is all I know… And those two beings, they… they were so powerful…" The being seemed almost enamoured as it spoke – as if the sheer prospect of facing down Jax and Quinn offered it a degree of excitement incomprehensible to normal people. "Especially the alien one… Never have I felt, or sensed, a mortal such as he, but… His strength…" The being seemed to shudder. "Were they not warriors, host? Is a glorious death in the heat of battle not the greatest honour I can offer them?"
He grimaced slight. That… was a truly, truly skewed form of morality right there – and quite a frightening one at that. "And the hospital staff?" Garret questioned, unrelenting in his assault of inquiries. "The doctor you mangled, and the impulses you sent flying through my skull, urging me to maim them? Were they also strong, spirit? Did they also deserve a 'glorious death'? Or do you just get some sick satisfaction from beating down on the helpless?"
"No!" It was an almost desperate exclamation, Garret grudgingly admitted. The eyes formed a frown now, as if insulted by the very nature of his question. Interestingly enough this time it was the spirit's turn to step back. The eyes drifted further away, and as he noticed what he could swear was a hint of uncertainty in them, he silently marvelled at how a pair of featureless eyes could show such emotion. "Never… Not ever those who cannot fight back, host… There is no merit, no joy, no feeling… I was…" It took another step back, and the eyes darted from side to side, as though the being was shaking its head – in anger? Frustration? Denial, maybe? "You… You are so set on believing in my malice… You will not believe otherwise…"
"Try me," Garret said, and only just managed to keep the look of surprise off his face when he realized how challenging his voice sounded. Gods above, he thought offhandedly, I'm starting to sound like a Demacian… "It cannot possibly be any different than what you've told me already."
The eyes stopped, then, gazing at him in an almost contemplating manner, hovering there in the distance. "There was… one with a stained heart, near you…" it finally spoke, slow and cautious. "One with strength, yet no want for battle – one who cared little for such things. A killer, host – a murderer stood near you. That accursed chain… I could not see who, or what, or where, but I knew, host… They had a killer on hand, one with a heart so dark and broken they'd not think twice of ending you."
Garret did his best to repress a tired sigh. "That's your answer?" He asked, his voice matted with disbelief and exasperation. "You tried to motivate me into killing hospital staff because there was supposedly a murderer amongst them?" He asked. For a moment he stood, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to formulate words. "Do you… Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? These people, the Summoners, they are the prominent power in Valoran. I am rather certain they'd know if there was a killer amongst… amongst…" He trailed off, and his emerald eyes widened as delayed horror dawned on him.
'She's a ninja?!'
'One o' the best. She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice.'
'That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer.'
"Host…?" Garret only barely registered the spirit's voice, and slight undertone of concern it held. "You seem haunted, host… What has dawned on you?"
"…The nurse," he said, and cringed as he noticed that pesky quiver had returned to his voice, intent on plaguing him more than ever. "The nurse who was there… She is… She's a ninja," he said, sounding incapable of processing the fact. "An assassin…" He took a step back, then another. "But it makes no sense! She's on the Institute's payroll, so certainly she can't be…"
"Her heart would not be dark," the spirit interrupted him, and the eyes once more moved forwards, "if those of her victims were as well. This is what I felt, host, and this is what I wanted you to see! With a killer stalking you there was no safety – it spelt danger, for the both of us!" Another step closer. "I was inhibited, host – chained, shackled, imprisoned… I tried to aid you the only way I could."
"By pushing me into a murderous frenzy?" Garret demanded suddenly, a hint of anger creeping into his shaking voice. "By having me kill everyone in the room?"
"By having you act," the spirit corrected him, hovering a few feet from his person. "By having you force the murderer into revealing themselves, and ending them!... Before they could end you."
"You… You cannot claim to know her like that…" Gods above, he was faltering. He could notice – the weakness of his voice, the tremors coursing through his body… Garret was losing control of this debate, and rapidly at that.
"And you can, host?" The spirit questioned, moving forward once more. "I have seen glimpses of your mind. I have seen your trials, your mad dash across this land. I have seen you feeling, and surviving, for thirteen years, host! Have you come this far by trusting every killer you met?"
He opened his mouth again, only to snap it shut again, utterly defeated – in that aspect, at least. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two featureless globes before him. This spirit… was highly troubling. One moment it – she - was erratic, ecstatic, and bloodthirsty, and the next, calm, controlled and almost as sharp-tongued as he was. Highly unstable, he noted worriedly, but so far, not entirely malicious. "What do you hope to achieve by doing this?" He asked finally. "Opening your mind to me, and digging into mine – what are you after?"
"Understanding, host," the spirit answered, quickly, automatically, as though this was the one question it – she – had hoped to hear, and answer. "I… I am imprisoned here, host. I am imprisoned within you. My fate, my existence… It lies in your hands. It has… since you bested me in that ruin." The last part was spoken with more than a hint of bitterness. "In life I was unchallenged, host. Unbeaten. Unstoppable, even. But that was in life, in the plane of flesh and bone. In those aspects you are weak, host. You are not a warrior, or a skilled murderer or an artist in the way of combat. You are normal. Average. I… I sought to exploit this when I saw you dying. A weak man weakened further by the loss of his lifeblood – the perfect vessel to let me live again, to let me experience the thrill and the ecstasy of unbridled battle. But I was foolish… I let my bloodlust and my excitement rule me, as I did in life… And they betrayed me once more."
If it was understanding that this being sought, Garret considered, then she was going about it the right way. The longer he kept the conversation going, he realized, the more honest the spirit became, the more naturally and carelessly the being acted. Garret could make out hints of a personality in this spirit – he saw a being that seemed to revere combat as a way of life, a pursuit similar to how a normal person would classify happiness and peace in their lives. It was altogether frightening, that a being could be so reverent and enamoured with bloodshed and battle… But yet…
Garret had yet to detect a lie.
"Why tell me all this?" Garret asked. "You and I are both aware that I am weak. Physically I'm worth less than a footman, spirit, so tell me: Why all the honesty? I… I had expected lies, deceit, I… I would have thought your hollow answers at first were mere cover-ups for something far more sinister, something more manipulative. Why? Why beg for me to understand you when it would be so much easier for you to mislead me? You have glanced into my mind after all. What could make it easier?"
The spirit paused at these words. White eyes widened, narrowed, then widened again, before becoming oddly downcast. As if in synchronicity with the spirit's emotions, the crimson mist around them darkened slightly. "I… It would be futile, host," the spirit admitted, lowly. "No amount of manipulation in the world could help me. I am a warrior, host – an unmatched combatant… But that is all I am. I… I cannot best you. Not like this. I realized it, that day in the ruins. Despite your weakness, despite your wiry stature and despite your aversion to combat… As I am your better in many ways, host, so are you my better in others."
"Wha… What do you mean, spirit?" Garret asked. Curiosity won over fear and wariness and he found himself taking a step closer towards the eyes, towards the spirit before him.
"You are aware," the spirit seemed to nod, going by how the eyes were moving up and down rapidly. "You came here with the fact in your mind, disguised as courage and motivation. That day in the ruin… For all your weakness and fragility, you still bested me. You pushed me back, host – despite lacking a weapon, despite lacking a body… As savagely as I fought in life, you fought in spirit. You… You bested me, host. You established your might, your dominance… You became the warden and I, the prisoner." For but a moment, the spirit trailed off, hesitation dancing in those white eyes. "Though you lack strength, and bravery, and magic and skill… You still have your will, host. You still have your spirit. And in those areas… In those aspects, host… I cannot defeat you."
"Then why me, spirit?" Garret asked, his voice once again steady and his eyes sharpened. The more he spoke to this spirit the more confused he became. "Why insist on speaking to me? Why not the Judicator, why not the Summoners who have tried to contact you?"
"They do not hold my fate in their hands…" The spirit said, and had Garret been any less careful he would have sworn he heard a hint of glumness in her voice. "The angel is set in her ways. My very existence makes her loathe me – even a holiest oath would not make her see me as anything less than a threat. The others, the 'Summoners' as you've called them, they are the same. Some are intrigued, some are threatened, some are wary, but none of them will listen. You, host… You are the only one capable of understanding."
"Understanding what, spirit?" Garret asked, his confusion finally mounting. "You've done nothing but confuse me so far, spirit. You… You've given me insight into you, and for that, I… I'm thankful. Your cooperation is… It's making this easier. But I am no closer to figuring out just what I am supposed to understand."
"…Hope, host…" The spirit spoke after a while, its blank eyes downcast. "You… You are the closest I have ever come to being free of all this," she spoke, eyes gazing at the crimson smog around them, "and… it is likely you will be the closest I ever will come to my freedom."
Freedom… It all came down to that, didn't it… "Is that truly all you want, spirit?" Garret asked, and with another step he noticed he was standing right before the spirit's presence, if the closeness of the white eyes was any indication. It was quite worrying, being so close to an entity whose mood, whose very personality could shift at the drop of the hat – especially when battle was mentioned. But… That one word…
Freedom.
Suddenly he understood what she meant… and suddenly he knew why she thought he'd be the only one who could.
"We… We are alike, in a way," he summarised, softly, his voice barely louder than the exhale he had spoken during. "Is this what you meant?" It all made sense, all of a sudden – one final puzzle piece to make the image whole, for him to see. They were two different beings, from two different times, of two different races and two different dispositions, and yet… There was a single, common denominator between them:
A yearning for freedom.
"Yes, host," the spirit answered, as though she had read his very mind. "Sentenced to nothing but nothingness amongst the vapours of my weapons, with nothing to do, nobody to speak to or battle… Nothing but my own thoughts… I shall not hide my soul, host: Such a fate, as the one I have suffered… It terrifies me. It terrifies me more than even the concept of a world of pacifism, and peace…" She paused then, pondering something for a moment. "This is why I wished to speak with you personally. I… I am aware, that my disposition, and my inherent need for violence would not sit well with you… But I clung to the hope, that I could convince you to aid me regardless."
Garret finally broke eye contact with the spirit, gazing into the red smoke and his mind ever-intellectually processed the larger picture. With a grunt, he dropped to one knee, before sitting firmly on the 'ground' of the floorless void. With legs crossed and hands folded, he sat, thinking about the situation on hand. "I…" He began, only to pause. "Spirit, you have seen into my mind," he said finally, having found his voice. "You know I cannot, and will not, in good conscience let you roam around attacking every combatant in sight. But…" He paused, considering what he was about to say. He was convinced he would be decrying himself as a complete and utter fool had he even entertained this train of thought at the beginning of this little meeting, but… Now, with the insight he had gained… Gods help him, he simply could not turn the other cheek. Not to this. "But I also know that I, in good conscience, cannot keep you cooped up in my arm. I… There was a time I would have sold my soul for freedom. To deny you that very same thing… Gods damn me, but I… I simply cannot do it."
Many times during his years on the run he'd tried to turn a blind eye to injustices and unfairness. Bless him, he tried his best – the few cases of success left him with more than a few sleepless nights as a result, especially when he was hiding out in Noxus and Zaun. Mostly, however, he failed at keeping to himself – spectacularly at that. Damn Demacian blood, he'd tell himself. This… Warped as the concept may have been, and foolish as he may have seemed, to him this was another such case. Only this time he had the power to do something about it.
"A compromise must be reached, then," Garret said with finality, nodding once. The white eyes before him drifted down, until he and the spirit were eye-to-eye. "Now I might not be a soldier, but I am a scholar, and I like to believe I have the intellect to prove it. I know your 'freedom' encompasses this body, my body, spirit. And going by what I remember, and what I was told about what happened in the ruin, you are more than capable of using it as if it were your own… if you are in control. So tell me: What would your freedom encompass, spirit? What would satisfy you, as far as freedom is concerned?"
"…We are two minds, two souls, in one body," the spirit said slowly, and yet, it could not keep the slight quiver of excitement out of her voice. She seemed to be choosing her words wisely – careful not to let her hopes get the best of her. "As you say, my freedom would encompass the use of your body, yes. But it is still your body, host. You have proven yourself the stronger soul, and as such, dominance and absolute command are yours. Should I desire… animation, should I desire freedom, to move and see and speak and breath, I will try to let you know – both through mind and through spirit. And… And…" She trailed off with a soft groan, eyes narrowing.
"Something the matter?" Garret ventured.
"I was a warrior in life," the spirit answered. "I was undefeated, until my death. I… I am unused to yielding."
"What does yielding have to do with anything?" Garret asked, his tone cautious – pride and honour meant a lot to warriors, from what he knew – he did not want to offend this spirit by questioning or downplaying hers.
"Should you… Should you decide," the spirit said, with an audible sigh, "that it is acceptable to release me, we will… switch. Else, I… I will stand down."
Now it made sense. "I see…" Garret mused. "Well, even though I was a criminal, I'm not entirely unforgiving. It… Should I agree to this, it will be rare for me to actively deny you control. Freedom… is something nobody should be denied, after all. What would it be like, might I ask? To relinquish control? What will happen?"
"I… I do not know," the spirit answered, somewhat tersely. "I suspect it will be much like what happened in the ruin, only… much less mania on my part, and much less struggle and resistance on yours."
"Less mania, you say," Garret responded, somewhat dryly. "Yes, that sounds agreeable. I suppose… I suppose the only way to know for certain would be to put this little theory to the test. I… I do not recommend doing so now, though. My body – our body, should I agree – is surrounded by Elite Summoners, and the High Councillor herself. Somehow I doubt they would react… well, calmly should I wake up and you are the present personality. You did lash out at the Judicator, after all…"
"She insulted my honour," the spirit responded tersely. "Her existence is grating…"
Garret pondered exactly what the Judicator could have said to make the spirit despise her so, but decided it was best saved for later conversation. "I think I will reserve judgement," he said, shrugging. "I do believe, however, that we are straying off the topic. Outside this place, this little… mindscape, if I may call it so… I would be willing to offer you a bit of freedom. After all, it must have been… ages since you've actually seen the world and all its wonders." He paused as the spirit hummed in agreement, and the eyes bobbed up and down again, a clear sign of a nod. "However," he said, rather sternly. "If I am going to trust you with my body I need to know that trust is not misplaced." At the spirit's rather… inquisitive look – how in the burning hells did blank eyes show such emotion? – he continued. "The Institute does not take kindly to conflict in its halls. I understand you have… a very healthy appreciation for combat and battle, but I cannot have you acting on that respect within the halls of the Institute – or any other halfway civilised place, for that matter."
"You wish for me to stay my weapon, host?" The spirit asked, and Garret couldn't help but notice the slightly perturbed tone of her voice.
"I understand it is not a concept you are exactly comfortable with," Garret digressed, "however, I am not comfortable with the concept of sharing my body with you either. I am trying to reach a compromise here, spirit."
"I… I understand," the spirit conceded, grudgingly. "I do not wish to understand, but… I do."
"Now I'm not completely heartless," Garret quickly spoke, trying to ease some of the negativity that had seeped into the spirit's demeanour. "I love studying to an unhealthy degree as well, and… well, I wouldn't exactly be content if someone were to restrain me from doing so. I do, however, happen to know that someone who truly wants something will stop at nothing to find a way to get it," he said, placing a palm on each knee. "Thus, I'm asking you now: What do we do about your love for combat? How do we scratch that itch without stepping on any toes?"
The spirit remained silent, for a worrying time. Its – her – eyes danced from direction to direction, narrowing in thought and widening in realisation, only to narrow again in fervent disappointment. Garret himself waited patiently – partly because he had no knowledge or experience as far as 'needs' for combat went, and party because, well, this spirit had proved to be more than just a vengeful imprint of someone's soul. It – she – had shown emotion, sense, self-control and even understanding at times. Now Garret was not someone savvy and experienced when it came to spirits and spectres, but at this part, grudgingly as it was he would admit he'd grown to see the spirit as a more… sentient being during the conversation. She had honour and pride, and he would so hate to besmirch those.
Gods above. Barely a day ago he was scared of this spirit. Now look at him – worrying about offending it – her – as though she were actually a living person.
"Is this world not rife with heartless scum, host?" the spirit finally asked, eyes wide as though the greatest of ideas had just occurred to her. "In life this land had no shortage of monsters that needed to be cut down. I am certain that has not changed."
"Absolutely not," Garret said, an exasperated frown on his face. "Vigilantism is considered a crime, even more so than desertion. I was just absolved of my criminal charges, spirit, I am not willing to go reclaiming them just so you can get your kicks."
The spirit recoiled slightly, eyes just a bit wide, before seemingly slumping down, deep in thought again. For but a moment Garret considered the chance that he may have been a tad too headstrong, especially considering the progress they had made during this meeting. However, the spirit seemed unperturbed by his response – if anything she seemed more put off by the fact that she couldn't even let loose on the criminals of Valoran. Nonetheless, he was certain the Institute didn't step in when charges of vigilantism were in motion. There was a vigilante in Demacia, after all, some shadowy-type of woman who hunted 'evil', and she was still facing minor persecution from Demacian officials despite being a Champion of the Institute.
And then it hit him.
And at the same time, the spirit before him locked eyes with him – and the excitement in those slanted white eyes told him she'd come to the exact same conclusion.
"Host," she started slowly. "There is a solution. It's all around us," she said excitedly.
And at that moment, the full realization of their solution came crashing down on Garret.
"I'll be damned… The Fields of Justice…"
The Judicator was not expecting something miraculous when the ritual to put Garret Hillock in contact with the spirit in his arm commenced. She had already given him her honest opinion on the vile being, and offered him a few choice words of advice, at the cost of a small fraction of her credibility in the eyes of the High Councillors. Nonetheless, Kayle was content with her prediction of the ritual's outcome. Garret's emotional state, as well as his words to the Summoners around him, confirmed that the man was done running. He seemed edgy, confrontational, and confident – and Kayle was certain that those factors would push the spirit into admitting its intentions and in doing so, convince Garret to lock the being away permanently.
As such, when the magics keeping Garret in his mindscape started to strain, ever so slightly, she suspected Garret was finished with his little meeting. He seemed in quite a rush, going by how the incantation that kept him under started to falter under his attempts at waking. With a strict nod, High Councillor Kolminye motioned to her elite cadre of Summoners to halt the flow of magic that kept Garret anaesthetised. Slowly, one by one, they lowered their hands, each stepping back as the blanket of fluorescent magic around the former deserter dimmed. Within moments they had disappeared back into the shadows, leaving only Kayle herself and the High Councillor as Garret's wake-up party. She was unperturbed by that, though – their absence might make Garret get to the point much quicker.
No sooner had the elite Summoners disappeared, when Garret's eyes shot open and he flew into a sitting position with a deep intake of breath.
That part had gone according to predictions, Kayle thought confidently…
The former convict then turned to face the High Councillor, his emerald eyes shining and dancing in the dim lighting of the cell. The runes on the focus he was sitting on dimmed and snuffed themselves, and Garret slowly but surely shifted himself into a more comfortable position. With his legs dangling off the site of the marble furniture, and his hands braced squarely on its solid surface, the scholar sat still for a few moments, catching his breath.
That part had gone according to her prediction as well…
With a shaky nod, though, he looked up – and offered the two of them a rather awkward grin.
"High Councillor," he started, his voice still shaky. "I… I may need a word with you."
…and that part made her whole prediction collapse on itself.
Her throat went dry when the High Councillor merely arched an eyebrow, and showcased a rather intrigued smile. "Do you now?" She asked curiously. "You are… not as scared as you were when you went under, Garret," she noted. "There's some relief as well, I can see, but not of the type you feel when a tremendous weight is lifted off your shoulders. Why am I getting the feeling something very, very intriguing happened in your mindscape, Garret?" She asked coyly.
"Intriguing is a bit of an understatement, High Councillor," Garret responded, that awkward grin never once leaving his face. "It is… It is a long story. Suffice it to say there's… much more to this spirit than what one sees at first glance."
That didn't sound good…
"Is that so…" The High Councillor mused. "Well then, I suppose a more secure location is in order," she stated simply, as she started moving towards the door. "We should continue this in my office. Judicator, would you mind tagging along? I am sure you will benefit from this revelation as much as I will," she said wryly.
"…O-Of course, High Councillor," Kayle affirmed with a simple nod and folded her wings in a bit more. The journey to the High Councillor's office was one not easily undertaken by air. Besides, her wings had a habit of twitching whenever she got nervous – like now. Few had ever seen it happen, for there were few things that could actually make her nervous… Unfortunately the chance of an uninhibited spirit causing chaos around the Institute was just one of those things.
Garret, who had barely paid her any notice apart from a courteous nod, hopped off the marble focus and tested his weight on each leg before strolling after the High Councillor. Kayle frowned slightly under her mask – surely someone who'd been on the run for thirteen years could tell when something malicious was about to befall them? It was impossible that Garret could be so foolish as to let the malicious entity have its way. Utterly impossible.
And yet… she had thought the same thing, many lifetimes ago, when her sister had first turned to the dark arts.
She grimaced under her mask, thankful that the golden armour kept her face hidden. She had been wrong then, all those millennia ago. She could only hope she wasn't wrong again…
Thus, with a concerned mind and a conflicted heart, she strode after the High Councillor.
Regardless of her opinion on the matter – she had to know what Garret had learned.
One Hour Later
The silence Garret's departure had left was deafening. On one hand, Vessaria Kolminye was ecstatic at the development; truly, setting up the meeting between Garret and his tenant had been a decision that would bear more positive outcomes than detrimental ones, provided the solution the young man had offered could be pulled off. On the other hand, though, Garret was now in contact – and cohorts – with an ancient spirit only he knew on a personal level now. Herself, the Judicator, the Summoners – the spirit had locked them all out in their attempts to make contact before and she highly doubted it would change its – or her – outlook soon.
It would be a delicious bit of irony if the spirit was having them trust Garret as implicitly as Garret trusted her.
Nonetheless, Garret had told them enough to fill in the blanks – or most of them, in any case. She frowned. She had no idea the spirit could have determined that the Fist of Shadow was an assassin, just as she had no idea said assassin was the catalyst for Garret's macabre, twisted visions before the spirit was completely subdued. Had she known at all, she would have refrained from sending the young ninja – if a normal nurse would have resulted in those visions not occurring, who knows how much sooner Garret could have made contact…
What surprised her more was Garret's unabashed willingness to go through another Judgement if the High Councillor deemed it necessary. Despite fervent – and vocal – agreement from the Judicator, though, it seemed as though Garret was being truthful. While they were not exactly fast friends, she could not deny that Garret had formed some kind of positive bond with his tenant, and she was not foolish enough to try and strain that bond, no matter how much the Judicator protested non-action in regards to Garret's testimony.
Said Judicator was now seated on a chair in her office, helmet removed and wings splayed out tiredly, twitching now and then in an oddly humorous manner. "Your worries are for naught, Judicator," the High Councillor said as she took another sip from the cup of tea she had prepared for herself. "Did you detect any trace of the spirit's presence, apart from what is focused in his arm?"
"…No, High Councillor," the Judicator answered from behind the palm that covered most of her face.
"Did you detect any malice, on par with those of the other spirits that tend to run rampant? Maybe something akin to what the denizens of the Isles exude?"
"…No, High Councillor," the angelic women answered again, still not moving her armoured hand from her face.
"Do we have any logical reason to assume that Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind?" Vessaria asked, the corners of her mouth creeping up into a cattish smile. "Any concrete evidence?"
"…Does my experience with the spirit count towards that?" The Judicator asked, tiredly, hopelessly.
"By experience, do you mean the part where you angered it and pushed it into seclusion?" Vessaria asked with an arched eyebrow. "If your answer is 'yes', then… no, it doesn't count."
"…Then no, High Councillor," the Judicator responded listlessly, defeated utterly. "We have no reason to assume Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind," she parroted half-heartedly.
"Then I see no reason why his application should be denied," Vessaria said cheerily. "If anything, this is a good outcome, Judicator. It will allow us to monitor the spirit, and the unique talents it possesses, in a controlled, yet fitting environment, and as a bonus we get to enlist Garret and his scholarly talents to aid the Institute on a scale outside large political disputes." The Judicator merely groaned, causing Vessaria's smile to widen slightly. Slowly, she set down her cup and stood, before daintily walking over to the angelic woman's seated form. "Just because we house a large number of spirits and spectres who are malicious," she said in a lecturing manner, reaching down and seizing the angel lightly around her gauntleted arms, "does not mean all of them are. Why, look at Pix! Naughty little devil, but other that as harmless as can be!" She said cheerily, giving the angel's armoured arms a tug or two.
Sighing, Kayle rose to her feet and finally pulled her hand from her face. "Please, High Councillor," she said tiredly. "Please tell me you are not comparing a spirit that lives for violence and battle to the Fae Sorceress' little companion." Here, in the dim light of the High Councillor's office, with no enemies or subordinates to see her, it was obvious just just how much of a toll the Judicator's day had taken on her. "They are as different as night and day."
Vessaria, however, merely smiled. "You've had quite a day, haven't you?" She said, her cattish smile never once leaving her face. Kayle was the strong arm of the High Council, and of the Institute at large, and Vessaria knew that, despite the angelic woman's narrow-minded ways, they owed a great deal to her, for her tireless work and dedication. "It shows, on your face. Troublesome visitors?" The Judicator paused for a moment, her face still locked in that mask of stoicism despite the heavy rings under her eyes and the overall defeated look on her features. "It is just us, Kayle," Vessaria said reassuringly. "You can afford to let your guard down a bit, can't you?"
The angel pondered this for a moment, eyes dancing with contemplation, before she closed them and sighed tiredly. "Fiora. Jax. Morgana…" She said listlessly. "The usual suspects. You… You should know by now who the greater hindrance was, High Councillor."
"That I do, Kayle…" Vessaria responded softly. "The day is over, though. I suggest you go get some sleep. Even immortals require rest – no matter how much you try to convince me of the contrary." She saw Kayle ponder her request for a split second, and predictably the Judicator opened her mouth to protest. "Do I need to formally relieve you of your duties for a while, Kayle?" Vessaria silenced the complaint before it was even voiced, with a sharp gaze and a wry smile. As expected, the Judicator's jaw snapped shut, and she reluctantly averted her eyes, silently admitting defeat. "That's better. You must be exhausted. I deal with Jax on a weekly basis – just being near him saps me of my energy. And you've had to deal with Miss Laurent and Morgana as well… and now this. Truly, today must have been a trying day." Kayle still refused to make eye-contact, a fact that made Vessaria smile a bit. Despite the angel having millennia of experience on her, she was still an open book to Vessaria. "Go get some rest," the High Councillor repeated warmly. "I expect to see you a bit more lively tomorrow. Are we clear on this, Kayle?"
"…Yes, High Councillor," the Judicator grudgingly responded. Vessaria smiled at the response – it seemed Kayle knew well not to argue when she was being read like a book. With a resigned sigh, the angelic woman drew in her wings, and tucked her helmet under her arm, and started towards the door. "And Kayle," Vessaria called after her. The angel turned to face her superior diligently, despite her fatigue. "I know you worry about Garret's little tenant. I assure you, I will interact with him personally. The moment I suspect the spirit is manipulating him, well… You have my word that I will step in immediately."
For but a moment the angel held the High Councillor's gaze. Then, her blue eyes fluttered closed with relief, and she nodded curtly. "My thanks, High Councillor," she said softly, exhaustedly, and without another word she turned and left.
Vessaria remained standing for a while, smiling at the door the Judicator had left through, before shaking her head and returning to her seat. Today, fortunately, was a day she didn't have to deal with Jax and his attitude and as such, she had more than ample fuel left in her. Almost eagerly she assembled a slew of papers and set to work, making preparations and organising events to fit in to the Institute's grander operations. She smiled to herself, a hint of excitement on her features. Her amber eyes twinkled and her smile slightly creased the spike-shaped tattoo ending just above her cheek, but her fatigue from the day had vanished when she heard the good news.
After all, it wasn't every day the League gained a new Champion – especially not one with two souls.
The Next Day
Once more, Jax found himself happily strolling towards his favourite bar. It was barely midday, an unusual time for anyone to be sitting in bar when there was so much daylight to burn, but he felt he had good reason to head there. Just as it was never too late to celebrate, it was also never too early – at least, in his opinion, anyway. No, after the match The Champ had just partaken in, celebration was mandatory – there was being The Champ and there was being The Champ, and the match he was returning from definitely counted as the latter.
He recalled it all vividly – the match had been in his favour since the moment it had started. He loved it when his enemies fucked up, he really did. When that Laurent woman sought him out, without backup, he knew it was going to be a good match. He didn't even need to scour the whole forest – every time, he would easily knock that petulant little bitch's block off, and every time she'd just come back, more pissed off – and more unfocused. It would have been a thing of absolute beauty had the woman in question not been so damn rancid.
He even managed to get back at that jackass in the diving suit for hurling an anchor into his face a few matches back – if that wasn't a bonus, he didn't know what was.
That Laurent woman approached him after the match, in all her uppity, nose-in-the-air glory. He wished he could have bottled the look of outrage on her face – he'd bet that was the missing ingredient Gragas was looking for. It would've made for some epic grog, that much he was sure of. The little brat muttered something about their 'business' not being 'settled'. "This isn't over," he recalled her saying.
He chuckled to himself. Silly little girl – it couldn't be over because it didn't even have a start. It was 'over' the moment she declared him her 'rival' – her little brain was just too primitive to comprehend that.
Yes, the Grandmaster at Arms was in an absolutely wonderful mood when he swung open the door to his favourite bar and stepped inside as though he owned the place (which was almost true, considering The Champ is the main attraction anywhere he goes and thus, the bar's largest source of clientele). His mood was so good he wasn't even surprised when he saw Gragas and Garret sitting at the counter, laughing about something and drinking away as though nothing mattered. "Oi," he called to them jovially. "Ain't it too early to be getting drunk?" He questioned, not at all hypocritically. Not at all.
"Never too late an' never too early, bub," Gragas responded with a slurry voice. "Get over 'ere already! We's celebrating and you're missin' out!"
"Celebrating, eh?" Jax chuckled, eagerly taking a seat, setting his lamppost aside and placing his usual order. "What are we celebrating?" He asked as he turned to his friends. Gragas merely grinned, undoubtedly already shitfaced – but seriously, when was he not? Garret, though… Garret seemed remarkably sober. But there was something different about the lad, Jax noted. He seemed… more relaxed. Less troubled, you could say. The Champ was certain he was missing something else – not that he'd admit it – but Garret's cheerful expression clued him in to main cause for celebration easily enough. "I'm thinking your meeting with your little tenant went better than expected, eh?" Jax guessed.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," Garret admitted with a skew grin. He shifted his mug to his normal hand and raised his twisted arm a bit, and immediately Jax snapped what was different – that golden suppression chain was missing in action. "Suffice it to say we have… reached a compromise," he said cheerily.
"I'll be damned," Jax said with a chuckle. "You actually heeled her? Or is there something I'm missing?"
"'Heeled' is a rather poor word to use," Garret said hesitantly. "The spirit and I have reached a point of… mutual agreement, you could say. Might be a bit early to tell, but I would guess I wholly misunderstood what happened after the incident at the ruin."
"You mean it's not a fight-crazy monster?" Jax guessed.
"Oh, she's 'fight-crazy', make no mistake," Garret said with a short laugh. "She is… quite taken with you as well. I wouldn't call her 'monstrous' though. There is… much more that needs to be understood on that end of the spectrum." As he spoke, Jax noticed something. Around the green hue of Garret's eyes, there was something different – a hint of red peeking out around the iris.
"Yo, bud," Jax said, tapping his own mask where his eyes were. "You got something in your eye."
"Oh, I know," Garret said, grinning once more. "I am aware. It is little to worry about, though… It's her. She is merely… looking. Through my eyes."
At first, Jax's immediate instinct was to question the hell out of this bullshit. He seemed to have missed a major detail somewhere because apparently the thing that had tried to kill him in that ruin near the river was now being all chummy with his new bud. Had the circumstances been even marginally different The Champ would have refused to let such horseshit stand without a proper explanation – especially considering how happy the bitch in Garret's arm had seemed with the idea of peppering the Chickadee and himself with bloody weaponry. However, something halted The Champ – something made him reconsider. Garret himself seemed… okay with the situation at hand. It seemed as though whatever was said between him and that bloodthirsty bitch lead to Garret not minding having to share a body with an ancient, ax-crazy spirit, and that, in turn, had led to something the former deserter had not known until now:
Peace.
That alone made The Champ refrain, albeit grudgingly, from asking too many questions. He still didn't trust the thing in Garret's arm one bit, but he had to digress: if Garret was okay with it, he didn't have much right to argue.
"Well, it ain't what I would've done…"
What? Just because he wouldn't argue didn't mean he wouldn't disagree.
"…But I'm happy for ya, bud," Jax finished, clapping the ex-Demacian on the shoulder heartily. "Here's to hoping you can get a few nights' worth of decent rest, eh? So is that what we're celebrating? No more mindfuckery, no more 'kill-them-all' moments? Just you and your pet spirit livin' out your days in relative peace?"
"'Relative' would be the key term, yes," Garret agreed. "Although that is only a fraction of the reason. I am drinking both to celebrate, and to build my strength for the coming days." Jax shot him an inquisitive look, relayed even from under his mask, and Garret chuckled again. "I did confirm the spirit is quite bloodthirsty, didn't I, Jax? You can't honestly believe such a being would just step back and abandon something they live for."
"Wait, wait, wait," Jax said, bringing his hand up to try and halt the conversation. "I thought you said you reached a compromise?"
"And we did," Garret said plainly as he took another sip of his grog. "I get my freedom, and my peace, and, well… she gets her freedom, and her beloved combat." He shrugged. "The circumstances are far from ideal or idyllic, but I digress, it is something I cannot find inherent fault with," he said cheerily.
"How in the fuck did you manage that?" Jax asked curiously. "I mean, I saw that woman in the ruin, and – no offense meant, bud – she looked more than just 'quite bloodthirsty'. That bitch was aiming to kill us, y'know? Now I don't take offense, obviously a lot of people want to kill me because, y'know, they're not me and can't handle that fact," he said, and politely ignored the dismissive snort Gragas gave in response, "but that woman was out for blood in that ruin. How do you intend to sate that?"
"By doing what you did, of course," Garret said offhandedly as he resumed the task of finishing his grog.
"Now just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jax asked, already fed up with this riddling bullshit. Honestly, was it that fucking difficult just to say something straight and plain? Fuckin' hell, what was it with Demacians and fancy, eloquent ways of saying stuff?
"Think, ya lout," Gragas laughed heartily. "You ain't just talkin' to some clever boy anymore, Jax – you're talkin' to the League's newest Champion!"
For a few moments, an awkward silence reigned during which Jax alternated his gaze between Gragas and Garret. Finally, he shook his head and looked Garret dead in the eye. "Is he serious, bud? Have you really joined the League of Legends?"
"I have," Garret nodded, setting down his mug. "It will be quite a chore, and a joint effort at that," he said, somewhat contemplatively. "But I think that is a better solution in the long run."
"You're damn right it is!" Jax said loudly, all of a sudden. His voice has inflected by several octaves, and there was an undercurrent of amusement beneath the waves of bass. "Damn, bud! I didn't think you had it in ya!" The Champ said heartily, giving the former deserter another clap on the shoulder. "Now see, why in the hell couldn't you have said that in the first place? D'you have any idea how many minutes of drunken celebration we've missed out on? Fuckin' hell, Poet Boy, this is great news!" He said, ordering another round of grog. "So who's gonna be in control, hmm? You or her?"
"It will vary at times," Garret said with an awkward grin, "but mostly it will be her holding the reins – especially when the going gets tough. After spending so long trapped in that sword, well, I figure she deserves some time without my inhibition holding her down."
"You'll still be there though, right?" Jax laughed. "If she can 'look' through your eyes I'd say you should be able to look through hers as well. Damn, this is gonna be brilliant. Just imagine, the three-er, four of us traipsing around the Fields of Justice, kicking ass and taking names! Give it time, bud, you'll see soon enough there's a lot of fun to be found in opening cans of asskicking."
"Easy now, Jax," Garret grinned, that same skew grin that was characteristic of him. "I still very much prefer fleeing over fighting, but… I digress, if nothing else the experience should be amusing."
"You'll change your mind soon enough," Jax chuckled. "But we're getting sidetracked! Too much talking, not enough drinking – c'mon!" He said, raising his mug. "You're a Champion of the Institute now, Garret. You remember last night, you told me you're drinking to a 'new beginning'? Well? You think this is that beginning, bud?"
For but a moment, Jax caught sight of that brief hesitation in Garret's green eyes. He was honestly not surprised – Garret was no fighter, and participation on the Fields of Justice would no doubt be a new and completely alien experience for him. But almost immediately, that hesitation disappeared and a smile bloomed on Garret's face, and in that moment Jax knew: courage had become a much more common trait for Garret Hillock. Time would tell how long the self-claimed 'cowardice' would remain, especially around himself and Gragas – but at least the dude had some friends to help him along.
Under his mask, Jax's eyes fell on the twisted, blackened arm Garret now freely displayed. As if noticing his gaze it pulsed red once, fleetingly before dying down.
He didn't trust that bitch just yet – but Garret did, it seemed…
…and for now, that was good enough for The Champ.
"I would guess it is, Jax," Garret answered his question. "I would guess it is."
"Well then! That means me need something new to drink to, eh?" Jax said boastfully. "Any ideas, lads?"
"How about a simpler life, finally?" Garret ventured a guess.
"And good times!" Gragas threw in, "and good grog!"
"That's it, then!" Jax said eagerly. "To a simpler life, good times, good grog," he paused for a moment, before uttering a manic chuckle, "and tons of ass-kicking!"
And at that final line, Garret's arm glowed brightly in agreement.
Their little 'celebration' lasted well into the afternoon. Between Jax and Gragas, stories about conquests on the Fields of Justice were aplenty. Garret idly noted Jax was telling them about a woman named 'Laurent' – likely a family name, as he remembered a House Laurent in Demacia's nobler district – and how she was incapable of knowing that 'The Champ' is, was, and always will be her better. The stories ranged from intense to silly, and all of them equally humorous – Garret personally enjoyed the tale where Jax had beaten down the Laurent woman with nothing but a fishing rod he was using prior to the little battle.
And yet… something bothered him. Whenever they would talk about Garret's latest accomplice they would always refer to her as 'the spirit', 'your tenant' or 'that bitch', in Jax's case. A day ago, when he was still caught up in the wave of crippling terror at the prospect of speaking with her, this wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest – she was a spirit in his arm, after all, and back then, that would have suited him just fine.
But after last night's proceedings… After learning so much about her, and now finally having a personality to add to her general description, referring to her simply as 'spirit' was starting to seem a bit mundane. It felt cringy, in a way, in the same vein referring to Jax as 'Mercenary' would feel. Impersonal, yes, but very crass – very uncaring.
She was still there, though – he felt her in the back of his mind, and that alien warmth in his eyes and ears told her she was still listening, and still looking, and offhandedly he noted a sense of relaxed contentedness that certainly wasn't his own. 'Say,' he thought inwardly, hoping his new ally would hear, 'Spirit? Are you there?'
"Host?" The response came almost immediately, and Garret smiled into his mug at the ease which he could contact her. "Does something trouble you? There is… a weight, on your mind. Nothing dark, but still noticeable…"
'Indeed, something troubles me,' he admitted to her. 'I am experiencing discomfort with a factor of our agreement,' he said, letting the words hang between them a bit. 'I have yet to receive a name I am to call you by.'
"…A name?" She responded, and Garret had to fight an utterly incredulous reaction at just how dumbfounded the spirit had sounded. "It has been so long… My life feels as though it occurred eons ago…" She mused. "Yes… I remember now… I shed my true name early in life. I found it distasteful… unfitting. There existed a people, in those days," she said softly, "who called me by something else. It was a word I eventually took as my new name."
'Oh? Pray tell, then,' Garret urged her.
"Are names not for the living, host?" the spirit questioned, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. "What use have I for one? I will only ever be known as a spirit to your peers."
'But not to me,' Garret replied, trying his best to have his thoughts sound 'reassuring'. 'What I saw during our meeting… If that wasn't someone 'alive' then I do not know what is. Come on,' he urged her. 'Surely you do not want me referring to you as 'spirit' for the rest of our days do you?'
"…You speak sense," the spirit admitted, grudgingly. She remained silent then, for a good while, and Garret took this time to take another sip from his mug. "I suppose there is no harm… My life was so long ago, it is… safe, to assume that I have been long forgotten," she said softly. "Furia. My name… is Furia."
'Furia, hmm…' Garret rolled the name around in his mind. Ever the scholar he immediately caught on to the language it was spoken in, and repressed a wry grin at the knowledge. 'Oddly fitting,' he thought humorously, 'and oddly ironic, that a being who adores combat is named after fury.' He chuckled aloud, into his mug, and was slightly thankful that the grog within it captured the sound. Gragas, he noted, was telling Jax about a recent match on the Fields of Justice where he apparently got a 'fox girl' drunk in the middle of combat. 'Oddly fitting,' Garret repeated, 'and not at all a bad name. Well met, Furia.'
And although slight, Garret felt the warmth in his mind intensify, ever so slightly.
"Yes… Well met… Garret…"
A/N: Aaaaand done!
Phew. Well, like I said, this just wouldn't get finished - but finally, finally, it is.
Well I would love to say 'The plot thickens', but seeing as I have no idea how this chapter will be received, I can't just yet.
We finally have a look into the spirit's personality, both the ax-crazy side and the more controlled one, as well as a name - hopefully you guys find Furia as interesting as you've found Garret to be.
You'll notice I've also included another champion in this chapter - Nasus, everyone's favourite late-game steam engine - as well as an expansion for the personality of Kayle, the highly dutiful, highly professional yet narrow-minded and often red-taped Judicator. How was it? Did I capture them in a believable way? Did I take too many liberties? Let me know - I am eager to fix any flaws I might have made.
Nonetheless, you have my sincerest thanks for taking the time to read this chapter. Special thanks go out to everyone who took the time to review, and even more thanks to Unseen Lurker for the stellar PM Review. You guys really helped motivate me into getting this out.
Until the next chapter, though, I bid farewell - and once more, many thanks for the support :)
-C