A little gift to all you Aatrox players out there. May Hashinshin shine upon you.
There was many a gifted swordsman amongst the champions that fought in the Institute of War. Some of them like Tryndamere relied on their powerful cleaving swings to defeat their opponents, while others like Master Yi and Fiora used lightning-fast footwork and swift, yet decisive strikes to end fights before they even started. There was even a particular Ionian swordsman capable of performing certain supernatural feats such as producing slashes charged with elemental power with a single swing of his blade. The warlords and vagabonds that clashed in the Fields of Justice were truly formidable, heroes and proud representatives of their people in their own right. Yet only one lone swordswoman's fighting style combined speed and power in a way that Aatrox deemed acceptable.
Riven the Exile was an outcast, the black sheep of her former country thrown to the wolves after her use had been expended in a moronic display of human shortsightedness. Riven had survived the betrayal of Noxus. She had adapted magnificently where lesser warriors would have perished, escaping the wrath of her honorless masters and the blind hate of the Ionian cowards that hunted her down.
Aatrox was impressed by her prowess in battle, the strength she exhibited whenever the two fought together in the magical battlefields of the Institute. The Exile possessed the fierceness of an angry dragon and the discipline of a Shojin monk. She attacked, parried and counterattacked with a fluidity that inspired awe in the hearts of her allies and planted unease in the chests of her enemies.
Once or twice, Aatrox had caught himself watching the replays of her recent matches in the Institute's cafeteria while he sated his thirst for blood by submerging his real form in a pot of the warm liquid, courtesy of the kitchens chefs. His sharpened skin had heated up upon witnessing through the eyes of his enslaved host the pale Exile conjuring a wave of green energy to slay her opponents. The enemy team had surrendered shortly afterwards, and the spectator-orb had frozen the display in that particular moment with Riven grinning victoriously, her reforged blade held in her bandaged hand.
It was then, as Aatrox regarded the confident sword-grip of the Exile on the display that he realized the true depths of his feelings. He was jealous, but more than that he was furious. Such a capable fighter like Riven deserved a weapon worthy of her legacy, a blade that would carry her forward as she reshaped the world to her wishes.
She deserved a weapon like him.
Aatrox wanted to be wielded by the genius warrior. He wanted to feel her calloused palms wrap around his hard body, he wanted to feel her delicate fingers sharpen his demonic edge and scrub off the dirt gathered along his considerable length. Aatrox wanted to feel the tightness of Riven's grip more than he had ever desired to penetrate his foes.
Sacred Sword Janna had been scandalized by his admission. What kind of perverted sentient sword lusted over its wielder?
Bah! She had been cherished by wise swordsmen and enlightened warriors since the very moment she had been forged in the Heavens, she wouldn't understand Aatrox's heartache!
His longing to be held by a beautiful maiden drenched in blood.
His unfulfilled wish of accompanying a famous adventurer in their travels while they were slowly overtaken by madness.
His lifelong dream of nurturing a former hero into a villain, patiently turning a once pious knight into a demented butcher through his gentle guidance. The Darkin would give half of his cross-guard to end up in the hands of a proper squire for once.
Aatrox was tired of molding the fresh of dirty blocks and bandits and dominating the minds of curious merchants that were searching for magical artifacts. It had been centuries since someone truly appreciated his craftsmanship and exotic appearance and put him to good use.
People nowadays preferred using axes and spears, the weapons of savages, instead of the noble and reliable form of a sword. Foreigners used fancy knives, bladed rings, anchors and even religious idols to bludgeon their enemies to death and put an end to their conflicts.
The world was spiraling out of control and Aatrox had trouble keeping up with the new trends of bloodshed.
Spotting his future wielder entering the cafeteria, the lovestruck Darkin wrapped a cream-colored scarf around his pommel and approached the Exile's table.
"Bonjour," He greeted her, taking the empty seat opposite of her. Aatrox stabbed his true form in the table next to Riven's bowl of oatmeal while his current host adjusted the black beret perched on his head. Aatrox wanted to do a good impression on the pale swordswoman and so he had sought out Varus, the most social of the remaining Darkin, and had asked him for his advice.
"Be yourself, honey, and don't be afraid to talk about your feelings, hosts like that in a man," Varus had stated while painting his nails. "Wear the cream-colored scarf I bought you for Snowdown, it makes the parasitic veins on your blade pop out more. If she tells you that she can only see you as an off-hand weapon, just walk away. You deserve more than being together with a two-timing harlot."
"Good morning..." Riven mouthed, looking at him in mild confusion after swallowing her oatmeal. The former Noxian examined the Darkin's bizarre accessories with an arched eyebrow while bringing another spoonful of oatmeal to her mouth. Absentmindedly, her unoccupied hand moved her plate of green pudding away from the edge of the crimson blade.
"Tis a glorious day for a massacre is it not?" The Darkin exclaimed jovially, his twisted host visibly peeking at the short lines scribbled against his red palm.
"It sure is." Riven nodded politely, the disgraced swordswoman's attention returning back to her late breakfast.
"And the weather? What says you about the weather, hmm? Isn't the blighted glare of the morning sun a sight to behold? Doesn't the ball of light in the sky remind you of fallen cities surrendering to the inferno?"
Riven hummed in thought, but didn't offer him much of a reply as she continued eating her food. The Noxian woman wasn't interested in his small talk, the Darkin realized, alarmed. Aatrox felt a bead of sweat roll down his blade.
Riven observed its gentle descent to the cafeteria table, utterly puzzled by the sight.
"Stick to the script!" Raast growled at him from his seat at a nearby table. The cursed scythe was resting in the hands of a Fiddlesticks dummy that Kayn had constructed out of cleaning supplies, broomsticks and buckets.
"Women love men with confidence." Hissed the undercover Shadow Reaper himself while mopping the floor with a bloodstained mop and a bucket filled with blood dressed as an Institute janitor.
'Don't forget to talk to her about your feelings!' Varus tried to encourage his fellow Darkin, waving a little flag with his message behind the oblivious Exile while wiping the corner of his eye with a flowery handkerchief.
Aatrox took a deep breath to gather his thoughts.
Riven stared at the exhaling sword with scrunched up eyebrows as it constricted and then relaxed.
"Listen, Riven," Aatrox said determinedly before instantly losing his courage, fumbling with his words, "You don't mind me calling you Riven, right? Not that you have a surname as far as I am aware of, being an angsty orphan and all, but retcons happen all the time, and so if you happen to-"
"Riven is fine with me," The Exile reassured him after swallowing a mouthful of oatmeal, "I don't even know if I am a human anymore with all the different skin lines and strange backstories the Summoners include in my champion folder."
Aatrox could certainly sympathize with the albino since his own alternative versions were all over the place. Sometimes he was summoned to the Fields of Justice as a pirate-mercenary and some other times he could have sworn that he was some kind of advanced robot. The Darkin's chaotic mindscape was complicated enough without those robed fanboys sticking false memories into his immortal mind to help him emulate weird accents.
"Very well then, Riven. Let us slice to the chase." Aatrox grinned mustering all of his confidence to voice his proposal, "I want to be your weapon. Your trusted comrade, your treasured partner. Let me be the scalpel you will use to carve your enemies off from the face of Valoran! May our names be recorded in History once again written in warm blood and our deeds inspire warlords to raise havoc until the end of time!"
"I'm sorry," Riven interrupted the Darkin's delusions of grandeur, touching his shoulder in quiet camaraderie, "Cloud knows that there is nothing more I'd rather do than devolve into a commonplace sword-wielding lunatic and hack down degenerates on the street alongside you while flashing my mastery emote, but that isn't the person that I am anymore. Please, understand."
Aatrox felt his cross-guard shaking, his host was getting sweaty. He felt like there was an invisible anvil tied to his length, his mortal flesh grew weak. A few tables from him Raast was eating spaghetti.
Is this what losing at the laning phase feels like? Dread dulled Aatrox's senses, disappointment grinding through the edge of his mind, chipping away at his confidence, slowly corroding the Darkin's good mood. The formerly pleasant atmosphere of the cafeteria was wearing him down.
"Look," Riven tried to console him in a far gentler tone, "You look like a greatsword, and everyone would be blessed to have their free will stolen by you, but I can't be your wielder. There is another weapon in my life." She concluded gesturing discreetly at the plate of green pudding next to her bowl.
It was only after reexamining the unassuming treat that the Darkin took notice of the gelatinous antenna poking out of the amorphous green goop. Its wobbly movements reminded him of an obscure Zaunite champion who had been dubbed… The Secret Weapon…
"I see..." Aatrox replied solemnly, picking himself up from the table. He would accept this rejection with the dignity befitting of a Darkin. Crimson tears run down the length of his bladed form as Aatrox and his host strode away from the worthy swordswoman.
Love was a battlefield that not even a Darkin could conquer, it seemed.
Heartache cut deeper than any blade. It mangled people worse than any beast, shapeshifting demon or cursed sword. Aatrox could only hope that he too would one day partake in the battle of love and be crowned the victor.