Lulu's treasured one skill over all others, over healing and magic and her Fae companion, for she's held it since wee childhood—Whenever that had taken place—and it continues to serve her now: Tuning her mindscape out of her landscape. Daydreaming. Right now, she frolics with Pix in an infinite flower field. All the combined scents overwhelm her nose in a chemical symphony that gets her drunk on life and color, their textures tickling her epidermis in a way only flower petals can. Her landscape, though, is partway through the arduous climb of Mount Targon, cause Lulu is a fool, an irredeemable fool with no self-preservation and a net total of two working neurons.
If she dies here, she won't even rot away to fertile soil to continue her natural duty as a nest for flower and fungi to feed in and grow. Targon's just dirt, sharp, spike, sand, stone all around. It smells dead, barren; that's probably the biggest disappointment of all this. A perfectly useful yordle carcass gone to waste.
The flower field withers away. This type of mindfulness isn't cutting it anymore. It's so cold; the wind has whipped her purple locks against her face so often she's pretty sure she's been unwittingly flagellated by it, every impact burns like poison ivy on some poor ignorant victim's dermis. Pix constantly shuffles in her coat and hair, trying to keep at least a pretense of comfort on this storm of sand and cold and death and minerals; she fixes on the burning of each leg muscle as she tugs on its pulleys to move a thigh, a calf, a foot, take another step forward: Nothing matters much, nothing's notably changed in her view for a while. All she has is each step.
Maybe, she shouldn't have chased a legend. Maybe magical healers nestled smack amidst the Targon Climb aren't more than rumors and she's caught words without intentions again and made the leap like the utter buffoon she is. Targon's whipping hair against face is probably its punishment for such a lowly jester so much as entertaining the idea of making her way up—
It's probably a mirage. No way.
The hut is only a smudge peeking through the storm. It wouldn't have snapped her out of her thoughts if the lights had been off. It was the glow that yanked her attention to it. Lulu's a simple being; if it shines, it gets her.
Her legs hurt so, so much.
A silhouette steps out from it— successively, the dust settles, the wind soothes into breeze. Even the cold seems less oppressive, though still as sharp, it tickles her nostrils more than it burns them; the mountain itself respects this apparition enough to open a path for its steps.
It has tamed Mount Targon.
Lulu squishes Pix with her shoulder, jutting it up in reflex when he pops his little head outta her mane, tickling her neck. He squeals and berates her in Fae. Sorry, buddy.
As it approaches, Lulu can mentally sketch a character design; its features sculpt from blobs like a fine marble bust. A long horn peeks out its forehead— No, wait, those are hips, a noticeable waist dip— Her forehead, what she thought was a tail turns out to be a long, milky braid, kept in order by interspersed golden bands. What beautiful hair. She stretches uncannily as she approaches. The storm and wide distance between them painted her smaller than she is; she doesn't appear to stop growing any time soon. When she finally steps before Lulu, the fey witch can offer a rough estimate height range of four to seven Lulus stacked on top of each other. No, scratch that— Her legs have given in from pain while waiting; make that six Lulus tops with leg length in account. Well, the mathematics don't matter. She's huge. That's what matters.
She peers down on Lulu with big bronze eyes and they're so penetrating she veers her head away, shutting them tight so she can pretend they're not digging into the depths of her hypothalamus.
"You're one of the most unusual climbers I've found," she says, her voice ringing like a dainty bell; she chuckles and Lulu's rattled by a blizzard of feathers.
The sorceress feels herself at ease, that voice kneading her into purple dough. It's so soothing; she fights the sudden anvils on her eyelids. The storm's simmering has revealed to her that it's dawn—yordle night vision can be such a double-edged sword; she's kicked her way through trekking an entire night. She wants to curl into this woman's lap like a kitten and doze off with her hair as a blanket.
"I'm not trying to climb Targon," she mumbles.
"Well, you need some practice with map reading, then—You're a third of the way up." A second fit of feathery tee-hees.
Lulu wants to laugh and cry simultaneously; what noise comes out is pitiful. The giantess' playful demeanor dies fast as a candle when one blows on it. Still warm, trailing smoke—definitely not vibrant anymore.
"Are you Soraka?" The enchantress whimpers.
The other woman kneels, giving her such perspective shift it makes her head spin.
"I am, yordle." Her eyes widen as they drift a millimeter left. "And fey."
"Then I got there," Lulu says, slurred. "I made my climb."
"You don't want to be an aspect, correct?"
She shakes her head no and immediately regrets it, squeezing her eyes to ride the migraine out. "I think... I know I'm not... Targon knows too. I just wanted to make it here. Not any further up," The migraine is replaced by the ache of her shivering muscles; she pulls in a breath that sears her lungs to yell at the mount itself. "You hear that?! I'm not gonna keep climbin' up!" It ripples back to her from all directions, swallowed and regurgitated by dry boulders.
"Why did you come to me?" Is the answer. She inflects it in a tone that speaks to Lulu the true 'what-do-you-need-to-get-healed' inquiry.
"I need lots of things healed. More things th-than I can say right now," she manages through chattering teeth. "But I don't want them healed by you. They are mine, for me to carry forever." She curls into herself, rubbing her hands frantically—she can sparsely feel the friction, her fingertips are pale enough she knows she's supposed to be concerned about that. Soraka's facial features shift ever-so-slightly in an expression Lulu theoretically knows is curious but can't read exactly.
"I'm here cause," she slowly lands the palms of her hands on the dead soil. Skin may as well glue to it; it's that cold. She leans her forehead down in a gesture of humility, muscles wobbling like jelly. "C-cause I wanna be a healer." Her forehead follows suit touching the ground, and her bangs actually crinkle when they squeeze against it.
"I heard in Ionia of... a legendary healer... Up in Targon. I have no purpose. I can't go back to my friends, and where I go I am turned away, tossed aside. Maybe here, I can be of use again, and people'll stop..." her throat is burning; Targon air is dry and light, she unceremoniously transitions to a fit of coughing.
"Oh, no... you poor, poor thing." Lulu can almost feel the Starchild's words physically pet her head. "Look at you, you look like a cupcake frosted purple and topped with powdered sugar. Let's go inside—Hurry, before you turn into an icicle."
Lulu would lose it at the analogy if she wasn't so sore. Soraka's hand must be about six times the surface area of hers; everything melts into motion blur as she cradles her. Lulu's not generally that fond of being babied, but is so weak she can't resist the warmth and care and so gives her ample freedom to manhandle her.
She drifts into soft thoughts as the reverb of Soraka's steps makes her whole body vibrate. Sometimes, Tristana would hug her when she'd just returned. She would hug her and let her rest against her warmth, running fingers through her hair when she was scared and lost—
She comes back to herself thanks to warmth. Warmth of blankets, warmth of magical flames burning in a fireplace much too big.
"I will bring you food," the Starchild says. "Feel free to tell me about yourself, while you wait."
"Are you this intimate with everyone who makes the climb?" The enchantress answers, while whatever fraction of her brain responsible for appropriate social interaction screams at her.
"Not regularly, unless they're dying and it calls for a longer stay." It all really feels like jingle bells to her ears. "But you've one of the most... eye-catching motivations to come here I've seen in some time. They don't usually go beyond despair and wanting a miracle cure that can't be found otherwise." Deeper bells. "I don't mind healing them, of course—All life is precious. But when someone arrives with a story like yours... It entertains me, I can't lie!"
Hearing that tugs the corners of Lulu's lips into an exhausted smile.
"I'm Lulu. Pleased to meet you," she says, repeating the script the soldiers gave her for self-introduction verbatim.
"I was banished from my city, and now I travel this world." This was a new variation she had mentally written herself. She omits the extra fragment, I know a bit about healing wounded and sick, if you need help, that she usually adds to try and convince whoever to not tell her to scram.
"Pleased to meet you," Soraka echoes. "What do you know about healing?"
"I started learning before my banishment," she answers, voice flat. "I still don't know as much as I wish I did. Patching up simple wounds, keeping them clean, some home potions... um... Spells, but for small injuries, light maladies... People don't want such a mediocre healer."
"Is it about others' approval?" Lulu's nostrils swell with the aroma of warm broth, and her entire body tingles with anticipation.
"It's about not feeling like I'm worthless anymore." That seems too dark by itself, and so she quickly drafts and blurts out an addition. "And I like healing. I like making lives happy. Making them forget pain, for a bit. It feeds me, but not the belly, no... more like, the innards, really deep in, the spirit..." You don't know what you're talking about, just shut it.
"If I want to stop being useless... I'd like for it to be like this."
Oh, gods damn it, Lu.
The beat of hooves on stone preludes a hilariously big bowl and spoon being placed before her in an equally hilariously sized wooden board for support. She resists the urge to laugh at how awkward this all is, and at herself for being the catalyst for this oneiric scenario.
"Here you go. Enjoy," Soraka says, sitting to her left in a comfortable-looking light chair, her long goat legs crossed with unfaltering grace. What a beautiful woman.
Lulu has to grasp the spoon with her entire hand balled to a fist and sip the broth off a side. It's so delicious, she feels like she's being fed some elixir of life. Maybe she's just famished. The root cause isn't relevant—Her eyes flutter with delight. "It's amazing," she mutters.
Soraka's smile could light up the entirety of Runeterra. "I'm glad," she says.
The enchantress stares at her with big, sparkly, inquisitive eyes. Internally, she high-fives herself when it draws the intended response.
"Healing is an art, a craft, and a science all in one," the Starchild explains. "It needs a lot of empathy, a lot of digging into your softest corners. It involves seeing things outside of bodies that should never be outside of them. And if you want to be a great healer, one who can serve without summoning the stars themselves... It calls for discipline. One can be kind, but firm. You are kind. I see how your eyes glow... but I need you to bare your heart to me, prove you're willing to give it all due study and sweat. Do you agree to this?"
Much as she wants to hide the burning in her pupils, Lulu knows she can't. She knows they are lit in fireworks just at the fact she didn't immediately coax her to walk her way back. She nods. One time. One tilt down, and then back up.
"Then, I will test you on what you know. Don't worry, I won't be unfair— I detest unfairness. What I need to know is your will to learn. Your resolve is exciting to me, but I can't just leap into emotion. You will prepare to be a healer apprentice. But for now," she waves to the bowl, the spoon Lulu was holding in midair all statue-esque. "Eat and sleep. A healer needs to keep themselves in check, so they will have a clear heart and mind to help others."
She stands with such elegance Lulu feels like she's permanently performing for an audience of one—The sky itself. "I will let you recover, and prepare you suitable quarters. You will stay here for a few days, and the armchair doesn't feel quite right." She flashes her a playful smile, and so Lulu's left alone with Pix—who of course, gets an offer for a spoonful of broth— and the bubbles swirling in the bowl, shimmering with light from a newborn day.