Icathia, Dawn
"Listen, Kassadin," his mentor had emphasized twenty years ago, ancient eyes kind and worried as he looked down at the wildly excited young man in front of him. "Icathia is the City of Silence. Few ever return, and those who do never speak of the city again. Your voice and mind are among the most brilliant I've ever encountered – I'd hate to lose you to the Void."
The sky bleeds, a perfect unnatural spread of burgundy velvet stained by furious veins of red and yellow. Millions upon millions of sky fragments descend onto faded grey streets as peacefully as Noxian rain, bestowing the tiles vivid colors that burn even the Void Walker's eyes. Floating in mid-air, a dozen tiny spheres of light fizz and flare nine different shades of crimson, glamorous but giving off no heat or sound.
Just another dawn in Icathia.
The Walker hurries through an empty square, shrinking further into his hardened shell to escape the sting of the fragments. As he leaves a faint trail of violet energy in his wake, the animate tip of his nether blade accidentally brushes across the eroded poster of a Void champion, slashing across the creature's eyes.
A high-pitched scream pierces through the air.
"Oh, shut up," the Walker mutters, irritated, stepping aside to get away from the writhing poster. The page has started to dissolve slowly, the snarling figure disintegrating; as the Walker watches motionlessly, noting only the unique art style used to depict the champion, the forgotten wistfulness of the long-dead artist and the burning wistfulness of the Walker have collided to become one massive wave of regret.
No matter how many times the Walker may traverse through the city – no matter what strange souls and dark passions he may find – he would not be able to find who he seeks.
I've spent too long adrift between worlds.
Turning into an alleyway, he sighs lightly, shaking his head in shame before crouching down to examine an abandoned pile of books. The worlds are coming together again. How long do I have? How long does the world have? I'm almost used to this sky by now, but who can say the barrier would not just collapse tomorrow?
Something stirs in the darkness nearby. He watches the ravine warily, void power pulsing nervously beneath his skin.
If you don't mind the color palette or the whispers in the dark – or really, anything beyond first glance – Icathia might appear attractive as a tourist destination. The Noxians would like it. So would the Zaunites. Maybe that's why they think Malzahar is a God.
Silence. The City of Silence. Few would be able to tell that this is the city that rose above heaven and fell past hell on the same day when it became the bridge between two worlds. The city that committed the unthinkable, and has never admitted it to the world.
He scans the pages for useful evidence, keeping a steady eye on the disturbance he sensed earlier. The wave of regret still weighs heavily in his stomach, dragging him down, making him pause in the middle of a detailed description on how to summon voidlings.
Most people would see Icathia's silence as resignation. The inevitability of destruction and doom is Icathia's signature; it's the emotion that heralds entire worlds falling without resistance and indeed gave birth to the city itself. The lack of human sound, though – even at the most basic and superficial level – upsets me greatly. I hate always looking at a city of the dead. There should be voices, living people. I would take anything, even Malzahar's prayers or the sound of Kog'Maw's drool melting the earth.
And then…
A shudder runs through the formidable length of the Walker.
Her laugh.
Her heartbeat.
The sounds of her footsteps as she ran.
"No," he whispers, clutching at the remaining tendrils of human in his soul. The parts that hurt. The parts that he clings to with every breath, despite the stabbing agony that makes him want to die. "No. Stop it. I already remember it enough."
Her scream as she was ripped away from the only world she ever knew.
He has to close his eyes to inhale deeply and stop himself from shaking. There it is again, that hollow hole in his heart that cannot be filled no matter how hard he tries. It brews like a bitter wine until it takes over his entire mind, much like how Malzahar controls his followers with visions of the Void. The sting of failure. Something that he will never forgive Malzahar for, something that he will never forgive the Void for, something that he will never forgive himself for.
I have failed you, child. Forgive me, for I have naught but silence to mourn you with, too.
Demacia, Dawn
The day is impeccable. A thousand rays of light converge and stream through the gold-and-blue patterned dome window of the High Council Hall, highlighting the golden patterns on the chairs and making the polished marble floor blaze as if on fire. She sits regally at the head of the table, twirling a wineglass elegantly with well-manicured fingers, the surface of her fingernails shining almost as brightly as the rock crystal.
"Some more wine, please."
"Yes, my lady. Excuse me – the usual?"
"Yes, the Heart of the Crown." The voice resonates through the vast, empty hall, musical but assertive.
The boy hurries off, eager to please; the lady regards the boy with amusement, tilting her head at just the correct angle to trace his path. He wants to impress me. Isn't that most of us, though? Eager to follow. Eager to obey. Eager to be loved.
That is how I was, anyway.
Her mind drifts idly to those times many years ago, back when she was still Lilia Spiritmight and a girl who could find spotless armor beautiful. She had been promised to the Crown Prince, and everything had been set up – the wedding, the speech, the dress, her entire childhood and adolescence – until the day he returned and his eyes burned with liquid dragonfire. Her father had cried foul, vowed that the Crown will find another way to restore his House's honor; she had quietly slipped into the darkness, and came back a new woman.
I'm adaptable, she reflects, accepting the wine and sipping thoughtfully from it. I'm not Lux Crownguard or Shauna Vayne. I will bend before I break, but my bending will cause others to bend, too. I will not be defined by expectations or what Demacia has done to me. I will control my destiny, instead of being controlled by it. I will never be a Queen by marriage, but through my own effort, I will be a Queen by political power.
A married Queen has to follow and obey to be loved. A ruling one lets people love those who follow and obey her.
"Put up those scrolls."
The boy fumbles a little; he's too short for the display board, his cadet Laurent face twisted in frustrated agony as he fails again and again to pin the scroll to the last corner of the board. Scarlet with humiliation, he apologizes for his incompetence before attempting to retrieve a chair to help his efforts.
"You're dismissed. Let the next one in."
The boy looks like he's going to cry.
Lightshield. Spiritmight. Crownguard. Buvelle. Vayne. Laurent. The family trees are drawn in glittering ink, as golden as anything royal in Demacia, the curling stylized letters every bit as beautiful as the royals they name. Luxanna Crownguard, battle mage at the Demacian military. Fiora Laurent, elite duelist, Head of House Laurent. Sona Buvelle, adopted, famed musician, champion at the League of Legends.
She rises, careful not to trip over her satin dress, and puts a hand to the scroll, feeling the names, the lines, and the history. There's wariness in the eyes of the new serving boy; there's a smile on the enticing curve of her lips. How many girls had been married off against their will? How many of those girls had not protested against it?
Garen. Jarvan. Durant. The men are suffocating nearly as terribly as the women. There's no freedom here anywhere, except at the very top.
"Read me the scroll on the table," she commands. "How goes our Steel Legion alliance?"
The boy swallows hard as his eyes dart between her and the scroll. "Ma'am. The city-state of Piltover has just delivered Steel Legion armor to Garen and Luxanna Crownguard and our shipments of mercury and uranium ores are expected to arrive – "
"The fine print, please."
The boy gulps. He's a Buvelle, she thinks contemptuously. Weak, for someone in the main branch. "Although the Piltoverian government claims that the ties between our city-states are now stronger than ever, the citizens of Piltover remain quite unimpressed with our city. They seem to consider Demacians to be war machines and religious zealots, people who have no emotions past nationalism and a desire to follow the moral code. Some Piltoverian League champions – Vi and Caitlyn, in particular – have acted disdainfully towards our champions on the Fields of Justice."
"Good, good." She sips from the wine again, her eyes locked on the pedigree of House Vayne. Shauna's the only survivor of her generation, huh. I should look up the inheritance line. "And what does the scroll say about Piltoverians?"
The boy is fighting to keep his voice even. "The people of Piltover are exceedingly cohesive and romantic. They enjoy celebrating each other's achievements and are very receptive to dramas and epics, as shown by their appreciation of the works of their Grandmaster Explorer, Ezreal."
"Ezreal. Hmm. The epitome of romanticism in our age." She rests the glass on the table; the boy is hiding his face behind the scroll she has told him to read. "The young idol of Valoran. The storyteller, the museum angel, historian of the world. Finest prodigy Piltover has produced since Caitlyn. Can we do something with him to make the Piltoverians happy?"
"Ma'am, I don't think I understand what you mean."
"Say you're on the Council. Say we can make Ezreal do anything. What would you have him do to strengthen the alliance between us and Piltover?"
"Ma'am, I do not think I am qualified to answer such a question."
"Think," she insists, her eyes looking straight into his terrified soul. "For the glory of Demacia."
He looks like he wants to die. "Ma'am. I would invite the Explorer Ezreal to our city-state to compose an epic about our people, an epic that depicts us as the opposites of zealots and machines."
"Well answered. However, it's not enough." She sees his face whiten and almost want to laugh. "There's so much more to Ezreal than just his academic expertise. Think further, Buvelle. Describe Ezreal's physical appearance to me."
"Ma'am. The Explorer is said to have wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes. He is of average height, and has a lean, mildly muscled figure. He –" the boy chokes on his words and looks like he is ready to accept his death.
"– has the appearance to be any Demacian's dream, yes," she interrupts, suddenly disgusted with the boys. Enough with this. Laughing at them only brings me so much entertainment. If I had been as weak as them, I'd have hung myself by now. "Ezreal is attractive. He could look a very fine Demacian general if we put him in a white horse and shining armor. If he falls in love with a high Demacian lady, it will be an irresistible tale both in Piltover and right here at home. The exotic romance, Demacians showing their human side, the Explorer's heart being tested… answer one last question for me, Buvelle. Which gorgeous lady should we enlist to this cause?"
Sona Buvelle, adopted status. Myself, linked forever to the Prince. The younger Spiritmight sisters, five and six years old respectively. Shauna Vayne, not even really a Demacian at this point. Fiora Laurent, head of a disgraced House. "Lady Luxanna Crownguard," the boy answers, his voice barely audible. It's a verdict.
"Correct. A flawless diamond and someone who always rolls around in the dirt? They say opposites attract." She gives the boy her widest smile, feeling sickened and tainted inside. The wine – the best of Demacia, made only during the longest years of winter – is starting to turn her stomach. "Notify the full Council that I want everyone to meet here at eleven sharp. We need to discuss this idea."
Shurima Desert, Mid-Afternoon
Infinity and eternity. His boots have finally found Shuriman soil again, and although he can feel the scorching heat even through the excellent fabric, he is determinedly not disturbed by it, instead choosing to savor the warmth, feeling wild and at home once more. I know that everything here is a direct aftermath of the destruction of the Shurima civilization, but these dunes, these pyramids… infinity and eternity are all they can remind me of. There's ancient power here, power that seems to stretch as endlessly as the desert itself, and the pyramids… they are just the best observers of time. Centuries pass, rivers die, even the Polaris star changes from this millennium to the next… but the pyramids persist, impossibly perfect, ever looming tall and silent under the full night sky.
He feels himself sigh wistfully. Too bad people back home aren't into pyramids.
"Good of you to look sad, Ezreal," Janna says sourly, her features tense with concentration. "You don't understand how hard keeping up this shield is for me."
"I can help," Lux offers, holding up her baton. He grimaces as she throws a look in his direction and scowls when she notices the lack of light in the crystal. "Ezreal, stop slacking off. I'd like to go over the – "
"Hey, Janna," he interrupts hastily, his eyes widening as he recognizes the figure on the lone camel, "Can we get to the camel over there? We have a visitor… no, a friend."
Aria of the Shurima Desert is an extraordinary woman. Although her face is barely visible between the sand dunes, there's no doubting who she is – he has only encountered a handful of people who can cut such a distinctive figure against a monotone sky. There's an air of majesty about her, something that makes him stop and want to bow; even though she's the picture of poverty with an old camel and a tattered black robe as well as the picture of lost with the circling paths in the sand, she still looks – and probably believes – that she owns the desert and everything on or around it. It doesn't surprise me that the entire village thinks of her as something akin to a queen. It does surprise me, however, that she's right here, right now. "Hail, Aria yuna!"
With one fluid motion, she dismounts the camel and bows to him, her startling amber eyes flickering from the explorer to his two female companions. Both smile and shift their weights uncomfortably, Janna barely trusting him to have trustworthy friends and Lux barely trusting herself to be able to hold any situation off. "Hail, eh-kara. I see that you have brought friends."
He can feel Lux and Janna hold their breath. Lux's baton is glimmering bright silver, the soldier ready to strike at any moment. "They are experts in elemental magic, yuna. Janna Windforce is a renowned avatar of the wind and a dear friend of mine. Luxanna Crownguard is the best light mage in Valoran. I have promised your people that I will study the scrolls they have unearthed, and my two companions will help me in that effort."
"So I take it as you plan to continue what you have started? You'll keep digging with your team, and the companions here will analyze the spells for you?"
Something's wrong. He can feel it in the way she's avoiding his eyes, hear it in the sorrow on her tongue. She has news, he realizes. The kind of bad news I haven't heard in a very, very long time. "That is what I plan to do, yes. Did something… happen?"
"You may have a problem." She replies flatly, her eyes harshly enigmatic under the unforgiving rays of the desert. "My husband is dead."
Oh.
"I'm sorry," he responds, dropping to his knees as the words slip from his lips. Janna and Lux looks towards him in acute surprise; Aria looks down on him with a cynical smile. "I'm so, so sorry. May the gods of the sky bless his passing."
"May the gods of the sky bless his passing," Aria repeats dully, getting back onto her camel. "We need you back at the village, eh-kara. Kiah did not die a peaceful death. I understand it may take you a while to get to the village, so your men as well as mine will expect you to arrive by twilight."
His sides are slightly numb. He has expected conflicts to happen while he was gone, but not something like this. Not Kiah. He was a good man. "Are the gods receiving him tonight?"
Aria's veil flutters in the wind as the camel starts to ride away. "He wished for you to tell his story, eh-kara. Tonight, you will speak for him by the bonfire."
I'm not worthy. I don't know what kind of story to tell. When was the last time they allowed an outsider to be the storyteller, anyway?
"So would you explain to me," Janna asks in a mildly irritated tone, "What in the names of Zaun and Piltover is going on?"
"Aria's husband died," he replies curtly. He must have seen something, something that makes him worth silencing – the very thought makes his stomach churn. "Kinar Kiah was a very talented seer on top of a very capable village administrator. He and Aria were the only reasons why my team was allowed to stay and didn't get sacrificed to the gods of the sky. Since Aria implies that he was murdered… well, we may not be able to continue our research, and the village may tear itself to shreds."
Lux strokes her baton thoughtfully. "Are you saying that we should leave, then?"
"He asked for me to speak for him at his funeral." According to the gods of the sky, his spirit will never rest in peace if I don't conform to his final request. The Shurimans of old do not believe in the same gods as the Shurimans of the present, but who knows which gods are real and which are not? Beliefs drive everything in life and make our feelings flow past the stream of time, after all. Beliefs and memories make us human – without them, how does the universe know that we have lived and died? "It's… important. I'll speak at his funeral. We'll see how the situation is when we get there – maybe it'll be safe for us to stay, maybe not. It doesn't sound like anyone else has died or been injured yet, though, so we can hope for the best."
"Does this happen often to you?" Janna sighs, driving them forward once again.
"Every now and then," he replies absent-mindedly, tuning out his shock and grief in his attempt to meticulously remember everything he knew about the deceased seer. He was only thirty-six. Not even a father yet. "I mean, people die, and living people change their minds about my work all the time. I adapt – I have to, to keep working. Why are you asking me, anyway? You've been through a lot more than I ever have."
"Painful things don't ever get less painful just because we're used to them; we just convince ourselves that they do. You lost a friend, Ezreal, and I'd like to send my condolences."
"I'd like to as well," Lux's voice chimes in. It sounds hollow. Oh, Lux.
He bites his lip. "Thanks, Janna, Lux. Stay safe while we're there – I'd hate to lose the two of you, too."
Aria is waiting for them a mile outside the village gate; she has changed into a black and blue mourning dress, her blue veil vivid against the light brown sand, and dimly he thinks she looks like a living bruise, hurting inside but too brave to crack and bleed. "Welcome back, eh-kara."
"Thank you for waiting for us, yuna." He has explained the meaning of yuna to Lux and Janna; Aria is both the wife of the chief and the strongest healer in the village, and as such, she's addressed as a wise woman of authority. "I hope you didn't have to compromise the safety of the village by riding out to find us."
Aria laughs sadly. "We're safe for now. The village still trusts you and will listen to you… the people are just afraid. We think we know who killed Kiah, and he's not on the grounds."
"Is it…" He inquires, looking straight into her eyes.
"Yes, Aquelis," she confirms, her voice even, her eyes sparkling with a steely resolve to show neither anger nor grief. "Our old shaman. We have searched the entire village for him, and he has fled."
"Something about the air in the village feels wrong," Janna suddenly interjects, her nose wrinkled in distaste. She blushes when the native woman turns to her sharply, and adds hurriedly, "I'm sorry – I did not mean to interrupt or imply that your husband has anything to do with it. It just smells like a magic working, a strong one, and something about it makes me feel ill."
"No, you're right," Aria replies, opening the village gates. "That's what everyone has been telling me, and I feel it, too. That's another reason why I asked the three of you to come as soon as possible – none of us know what it is, and we figured you might. We're quite sure that Aquelis is behind it, and it's the calamity that Kiah foresaw before his death – if you can capture Aquelis and put an end to this, the village will be eternally grateful."
"I don't feel it," Lux states, her eyes uncertain as she looks towards the two other women for answers.
He hasn't felt it, either; something else is completely consuming his mind, however. A vision. What he probably died for. "Aria, you said… a calamity?"
"Oh, yes," Aria replies, her voice dropping an entire octave. Suddenly, her intense gaze has turned and fixated onto him, the amber depths burning with the power of absolute truth. "As Kiah lay dying, he told me about his dream. A great calamity would befall our people, but three would come forth to give them everything they need to survive. An explorer sweet as the first rains of spring, life. A lady fair as the oasis breeze, breath. A lady beautiful as the moon and stars, a heart of the sun, burning bright enough to annihilate even diamonds."
Silence.
"Come in, the three of you. Eh-kara, would you like to say a final farewell to Kiah?"
Kiah of the Shurima Desert lies in a field of flowers, his hands folded over his chest to hide the fatal stain of crimson. Aria has treated his body with the incenses and herbs of the desert; although he has been gone two days, he is still resting peacefully on the white and yellow petals, looking as though he is only asleep.
Ezreal crouches down next to his fallen friend, trying his best to compose himself. He's relieved to find out that he's only trembling slightly.
You're with the gods of the sky now, my friend. You had wanted to see the Shurima of old, to see the mighty civilization beyond the fragments you catch on the wind, and I'm sure the gods have granted you that wish by now, for the same sky covers Shurima through all of time. I don't really have anything to give you, since there aren't that many things that I can actually call my own, but maybe you will appreciate this scroll?
A wretched smile appears on the explorer's lips as he places a small scroll carefully in between the flowers. Drawing it has taken him an entire hour. Since you liked to make fun of my map jokes back then, maybe you'll appreciate a map of old Shurima now, as you traverse through it in the afterlife?
"Farewell, Kiah of Shurima," he says out loud, aware that Aria is staring intently behind his back. 'May your soul be free and blissful with the gods of the sky.'
He pauses. I really shouldn't do this as an explorer, and this is a slippery slope that is only ever going to get more and more slippery, but Kiah has done so much for me and the village. I can't just watch his efforts go to waste. I just… can't.
"I will try my best," he promises, taking his time to carefully enunciate every syllable. "I will do everything within my power to make sure that the village is safe. I will try my best to stop Aquelis and the calamity. I will try my best to make you proud."
"Gotta do what you gotta do," Rakib remarks cheerfully, his chocolate eyes sympathetic as the explorer describes to his assistant what the Shurimans have asked of him. "Full steam ahead, Ezreal, make it good. Calm down and just roll – no one in the world can give better eulogies than you. My men and I will stay with the ladies, probably form groups to look for that goddamned shaman. You are here; we will all be fine."
"The men are still in good spirits? We have catalogued all the finds from the last dig?" He's pacing around. He only paces around when he's stressed out.
"I've got it under control, Ez," Rakib insists, picking up a jug of water with an amused gleam in his eyes. "Don't worry about us. We know you were fond of the Chief. Just focus on that eulogy and make the Chief proud."
In old Shurima, people were buried in floating pyramids and mastabas during broad daylight, their mortal shells left suspended between heaven and earth as their souls ascended into the worlds beyond. In the Shurima of now, people are cremated in bonfires in the middle of the night, the light of the flames guiding the souls of the dead as they ascend from fire and smoke, their beings slowly becoming the constellations of the sky.
I'm the storyteller, he tells himself as he recites the speech in his head one last time. The one who identifies the soul. Kiah will be who I describe him to be.
It is a high honor.
Aria, right in front of him, is leading the party. She has gathered more flowers from the oasis, poppies, lilies and desert stars, the bright colors draping over the brown of the firewood and almost making her look like a bouquet-holding Piltoverian bride. He knows better than to make that comment, though; the last thing he wants to do right now is to remind Aria of the day she committed herself to her star-crossed tyriah.
A third of the village is following the two of them, women in dark blues of respectful mourning, men in black, children hiding beneath their mothers' robes and carrying the traditional instruments for the requiem. Only the children dare to look at him, their curiosity overshadowing their wariness of his exoticness; he smiles at them, hoping that he has not scared them too much with his presence.
They sit down in a circle beneath the crescent moon, everyone holding hands; he senses tough callouses on both of the hands that reached out to him, and is strangely comforted. Aria places the wood and the flowers neatly on her husband's body, and retreats backwards, taking a torch from a village elder.
"Eh-kara," Aria turns to him, the torch trembling slightly in her hands. There seems to be the beginning of tears in her eyes. "As the storyteller, you should light the fire."
He takes it, dazed, almost believing it is all a dream; the flames nearly creep onto his gauntlet, but then settle obediently onto the pile of firewood, setting the entire thing ablaze. Strong odors, not all of them pleasant, immediately fill the air; instead of shying away from them, he finds himself inhaling hungrily, trying to breathe in as much as he can.
I suppose it's seven kinds of morbid, but it's the last that remains of him, no? I just don't want him to go away. I don't want to accept that he is gone. Maybe some parts of him will live on inside me and get to see the world… it's not the same as seeing the past, but maybe it will be worth it?
Aria has started to sing; she is named for her voice, after all, and what a voice it is, gorgeous notes vibrating the very sand beneath their feet and moving men and women to tears. The children are chanting as well, their hands more steady as they beat on the drums, granting rhythm and momentum to the ritual.
He sits and listens for three minutes as he feels his lungs fill with longing; longing that he can just sway to the music, longing that this is just a concert he's attending with Kiah, longing that tragedies could be avoided and his other sorrows can just be burned into oblivion along with everything that is already in the flame.
So much what-if, he reflects, looking up at the night sky. Even as he raises his head with a helpless expression, the stars twinkle back, seemingly forever blissful, forever bright. The silvery belt that extends over the entire sky like a rainbow… maybe the Shurimans are right, after all, and it's a river of life, full of everyone that has walked this desert. The twinkles are their smiles. Their love. Their hope.
You'd like to join them, I bet. I don't blame you. It's beautiful up there.
Here, let me help.
He clears his throat; Aria immediately falls silent, and the children's vigorous drumbeats slow with his heartbeat. "The gods of the sky have blessed us all with the power of sight," he begins, stuttering over the first words.
"We see all around us – the sand, the water, the flowers, the sun, the sky. We use our sight every day; we use it to navigate our paths in the desert, to find water and sustenance, and to fall in love with our fated tyriahs. Some of us have been more blessed than others in that they see more than others: they can see past mountains and seas, or they can witness the turn of the universe. We call them seers. Kiah, my friend, was one of those seers."
All eyes are focused on him. He closes his eyes and tries his best to keep his voice solemn.
"Many believe that our sight helps us to survive. Our sight makes us differentiate between enemies and friends, believers and heretics, family and foreigners. Kiah of Shurima had lost his mother to a raid as a child and watched his friends starve to death as he passed through his teenage years; his sight has been scarred by the tragedies of this mortal world, but his sight has only turned pain into love."
He takes a deep breath, feeling his voice grow stronger.
"Even in the darkest nights, Kiah saw the stars in the night sky. He loved the dawn, the stars, and every single thought of kindness within a living soul. He saw the best in everyone, and he loved what he saw with every breath."
He stops; he thinks he hears Aria crying and his eyes are also threatening tears, but he can't break down, not now. He owes Kiah too much to just fall into pieces.
"I still remember the day I first arrived here, young and naïve without understanding a single thing about the gods of the sky. I wanted to learn about Shurima, but I wanted to learn about it just because it was another unexplored destination on the map – I didn't expect to be awed, I didn't understand anything about what you held close to your hearts, and I didn't expect to fall in love with anything I saw. Kiah forgave my insolence and gave me a second chance. He showed me the beauty of the sky, the beauty of the desert, the beauty of your people. He showed me meteors and comets bright as the moon, flowers that insisted on blossoming even after a thousand days of drought, and a people who longed for happiness and shared it even when it was one of the scarcest things in the world. He showed me how the entire desert would shine at that specific moment in the morning, how Aria's patients fought against disease and fatigue even when they have nothing left to fight with or fight for, how everything beautiful is worth both living for and dying for."
He's shaking and his voice is raw and he's going through the words too fast and his pulse is pounding too hard against the shell of his brain. It's a familiar feeling, the feeling of being too attached to everything that is beautiful, but a feeling too lovely and unforgettable, a feeling that now defines his existence, a feeling that Kiah – and only Kiah – had taught him many years ago. Even as it has brought euphoria and salvation, it is a feeling that hurts now, hurts like the heartbeat that sticks to his skin. His heart beats on, trying to love under the moon, and his friend's heart burns silently, the ashes scattered by the moonlight.
"His uttermost sincerity, uttermost passion, is what made me into an eh-kara, and you the beautiful, admirable people that you are. I would never have been the passionate one without his guidance, and the children of the gods of the sky would never have shone so bright without his light. By believing in light, by seeing it, he made the world brighter. He made life so much more worth living that now that he has left, the world feels a thousand times lonelier, that emptiness only filled by the light that he has pointed out to us. May the gods of the sky bless your passing, Kiah. Your body may be no more, but as long as the stars remain in the sky, you will always be remembered."
He stops again, this time in acute guilt; that has got to be the most self-centered speech I have ever given about anyone. I don't feel like I described him at all.
Kiah deserves better.
He thinks he might actually start crying.
"Ezreal." Aria has stood up again, her expression unreadable. Her voice makes him flinch; he has to force himself to stare at the fire, which has almost gone out. "Ezreal, look at me."
He does, unwillingly, slowly; pained blue eyes meets calm amber ones as the village looks on, their faces now the ones dazed.
"I understand now why he asked for you," Aria says quietly, giving him a hug. "That was beautiful."
He has no words.
A shriek cuts through the night, high and in agony. Aria breaks the hug abruptly as all villagers jump onto their feet.
"That's from the village," she orders, "GO!"
It's him that eventually finds her, ten minutes later. She is alone in a devastated room of purple and black, her blonde hair wild and tainted with streaks of scarlet, her Demacian blue garb in pieces and her baton shattered at her feet. As he runs to her, she doesn't cry out, nor does she turn her face to acknowledge the first footsteps that have approached her since her injury. She's struggling to move, struggling so hard it's near impossible for him to watch, but even as she crawls towards what she considers to be the exit, she's only getting further and further away from the door.
She doesn't resist when he pulls her into his arms, careful to make his movements gentle. Her breathing is shallow, quick. Her pulse is stable, but she's still covering her face, and her eyes are weeping blood.
"Oh, Lux," he whispers in the darkness, feeling all of the shock from the day drain everything from him. "Lux, I'm sorry."
"Ezreal?" Her voice is distant, vulnerable. Not believing that he's the one who found her. Not believing that this has happened to her. Wanting him to stay. Wanting him to make it better, to reverse it. It's not the Lux that he has dealt with for the past several days, and it only makes him more afraid. She's slipping. Please, don't let her slip. I've lost enough people today.
"Lux. It's Ezreal. Lux, please, just stay with me."
"Ezreal?" Her voice again, this time smaller. Sadder.
"I'll find Aria right away. Try to stay still, and don't move your eyes." Everything hurts. He thinks he is the bruise now, an actively bleeding one, covered in blood and soot and tears that he just wants to let loose. And yet I'm probably still the most whole of them all. "I think you've gone blind."