Helping

It had been a rainy week on the Isles. Achlys had weathered the storm with all the patience that a small child could muster. On the first day, she had entertained herself by playing with Acheron, Grimm, and her other toys. On the second day, Karthus had practiced as much magic with her as safely as they could indoors. But now it was the third day, and Achlys was growing bored.

Letting out an exaggeratedly dramatic sigh, Achlys leaned against the windowsill and watched the glowing spirits outside wander about, completely unbothered by the downpour. If anything, there were more out there than usual, as the storm provided additional protection from the pains of sunlight. Achlys wanted to be out there with them, doing something, anything. If Karthus were to take her to visit their garden, or Katherine, or the library, she would be overjoyed, but instead the lich remained indoors, pouring over ancient texts.

"Father," she sighed, "I'm bored. Play with me, please."

"Not right now, Achlys," he responded without looking up from his work, "I spent all day yesterday teaching you magic. Today I have my own work to attend to. You need to play with someone else today."

"Who else?"

"There is Acheron."

"Acheron wants to play with you as well."

"I can play with you two later. Please, I need to finish translating this text."

Achlys groaned in a needlessly loud way as she turned her attention back to the window. Once more, her attention shifted back to the wraiths outside the cathedral. For a silent hour she watched them. The vast majority of the undead were the simple, dark, shadowy wraiths, similar in shape and size to those that made up her father's choir, but others were more defined, entities who retained some semblance of who they were in life, and then there were the wraiths of animals that the Black Mist had consumed and empowered, twisting them into the most fearsome versions of themselves. But as she watched, Achlys noticed there was one form that she did not see among the dead.

"Father?" she spoke up.

"Yes, Achlys?"

"Can I ask a question?"

"Always."

"Why are there no kids here?"

The question struck Karthus, and he put down the text he was translating. He always knew she may someday ask this question but had secretly hoped she never would. The truth of the matter was that there were many souls of the young bound to the Isles, both those who had perished during the Ruination and those who were taken in a Harrowing, but very few of them were able to take a defined form. Most lacked the force of will needed retain their individuality, and so they wandered the Isles as little more than simple mist wraiths.

Karthus had spent many hours scouring Isles for spirits who were Achlys's age when they had perished, but he found very few, and those he did find were warped, twisted by the magic of the Mist into beings he did not see fit to spend time with his daughter. The fact that Katherine, a gentle soul who had died in her youth, had happened upon them was, as Karthus saw it, fate. Unfortunately, this was a fateful occurrence he had been unable to duplicate. As such, Achlys had been left with a limited group of companions; Karthus, Katherine, Acheron, Elise, Grimm, and her other toys.

"Why?" Achlys repeated.

"Because," Karthus began.

Once more he paused so that he may consider his wording. For years he had raised his daughter on the promise that, after she died, she would become something like him, a powerful wraith that still retained their identity. He was afraid that, by putting that belief into question, he would be instilling a fear a death and finality into her that she did not possess. So now he was torn, not want to scare her, but also not wanting to lie.

"Why because?" Achlys asked.

"Because," he began again, "many of them need help, just as Katherine did."

Achlys nodded understandingly.

"I can help."

"I know you can."

She was right and Karthus had no doubt that if Achlys were to try, she would be able to reform the wraith of a child, but the true problem would be finding one in the tangle of centuries of dead. He did not want to disappoint her though, by explaining that the chances of her finding a wraith her age was as likely as finding a needle in a roiling, ever shifting haystack, so for another few minutes, Karthus remained silent. Then an idea came to him.

"Achlys," Karthus spoke up, "would you like to try and help someone right now?"

"Yes!" she replied, jumping to her feet.

"Wait right here."

The lich departed, searching the cathedral for several members of his congregation whose spirits he knew were less aggressive than most. He had no idea how Achlys's gifts would affect the wraiths bound to him. After all, she had spent her entire life around them and not one underwent the kind of transformation Katherine had. However, he doubted that Achlys had ever attempted to interact with his wraiths in the manner that she had with Katherine. Perhaps there would be a similar result? Perhaps not? Either way, this would be a way to both keep Achlys entertained and learn more about her magic.

Several wraiths he gathered to himself before returning to where Achlys waiting. With a wave of his hand, he directed them to her. The undead circled around her, causing Acheron to flare his balefire as an unneeded act of intimidation. Achlys put her hand against the crystalline body of her guardian.

"It's okay, Acheron," she comforted.

"You know these wraiths, Achlys," Karthus spoke, "they are members of my choir. You know they will not attack you, so you do not need to fear reaching out to their souls."

Achlys nodded.

"I do not know if any of them are children such as yourself, but I want you to spend time with them. Help them find themselves again. And even if none of them are other children, I know that they will all care for you."

Again, Achlys nodded, though her expression betrayed the feeling of disappointment she felt at not knowing if any of the wraiths before her were similar to her in age. Still, she did not want to disobey her father's wishes, and so she set herself to becoming more acquainted with the undead.

Achlys had spent the rest of the day devoted to socializing with the wraiths Karthus had brought to her. That rainy day, soon became a rainy week. And that week with the wraiths, rolled into a month. It was a slow process, but steadily, several of the wraiths began take form.

The first one was named Gaspare. Karthus had actually remembered killing him, recognizing the pendant in the shape of the Wolf that hung around his neck. In life he had been a Noxian soldier, the leader of a small band of warriors. When the Black Mists had descended upon his patrol, he alone stayed to fight, ordering those under his command to flee back to the encampment and raise an alarm. Karthus had honored the man's bravery by facing him in single combat.

When he had died, the soldier was smiling, believing that the time he had bought would save the lives of his fellow soldiers. Gaspare was only the first of many Noxians to be claimed by the Mist that night. Now in death, he had taken on several of the lupine characteristic of his idol. His hair was wilder, his teeth had become fangs, and his nails were lethal claws as capable of ending a mortal's life as swiftly as the sword he carried.

The second wraith was a man who had perished along the Shuriman coast and, though this wraith still did not speak aloud, Achlys stated that his name was Baqi. Judging from how he had manifested, it was easy to surmise that in life he had been a merchant or bookkeeper. The left arm of this specter was skeletal and warped, possessing both an extra ulna and radius bone. Upon all four forearm bones, glowing beads shone, turning his arm into a phantasmal abacus.

The third and final wraith that had begun to remember itself under Achlys's care was a woman of Demacian origin. Her shape was still primitive; a simple gown that quickly gave way to formless mist. Only her face was defined. She bore a mournful expression, eyes listlessly staring at nothing, and her cheeks were stained by tears that glowed with magic. She was a quiet spirit, even to Achlys. All she would say was her name, "Alva," and ask the questions "where is my husband? Where is my daughter?"

Achlys hoped that, in time, Alva would grow more at peace and open up to her. She hoped that all of the wraiths would, but so far none of them were as close to her as Katherine had immediately been. Instead they all had turned to Karthus, compelled to follow the lich rather than her. Karthus, of course, showered praises upon her for her accomplishments, and kept reassuring her that someday she would find another playmate, but Achlys still felt disappointment.

And so Achlys had little choice but to learn how to entertain herself. She spent increasing more time with Acheron, imagining traveling all over the Isles and beyond. What were these places like, she wondered, that the other wraiths were from? Where was Demacia? What did Shurima look like? Could Auntie take her to visit Noxus? Would the Mist carry her across the seas, as it had with her father, to these lands? And when there, would she find others who would want to be her friend?