Chapter Text

To Paint the Raven Red

Slowly, o – slowly, the ashy scent of the Ionian shore grew distant, your nose finally freeing up as salty sea air was dragged into your aching lungs. Lifting a callused and bloodied hand, you reached for your uniform, shaky fingers opening the button that sat just below your chin. Air, you needed air.

The hot breath you forced from your mouth stung against your split and cracked lips, each singular breath paining you as the smoke from the hellfire bombs had burnt the inner layer of your lungs. The back of your throat was just as dry and bloody; your respiratory system having been scorched by the heat of the fire you had inhaled just mere hours ago. Your snot and saliva were black like tar, your tongue was coated in a film of dusty grey, and your hair was muddied and dirtied beyond help. Disgusting, you felt disgusting.

Your warband had lasted, what, two weeks? And now, thirty people had been dwindled down to what, five? You were but a young soldier, barely even out of rushed military training before you had been sent out to battle. At first you had been excited, had felt honoured to be allowed to fight at the front lines at such a young age. You had thought that they meant to compliment you. Hah!

Surely, having you sent to war at such a young age was because of your excellence, right? Right?

Wrong!

Noxus was running out of soldiers, thousands being cut down and slain on foreign land. Entire warbands were lost, swallowed whole by a land mage of magic, corpses never to be retrieved as the families received only a blood-stained letter – if they were lucky.

A deep sigh left you, your vision still eluding you as your mind desperately tried to focus on the fleeting present. Unable to hear the screams and the cries around you, you just lay there, your dazed consciousness scrambling to organise the bits and pieces of your scattered personality and memory. Right, this had been your first campaign, your first actual battle, and you had bitterly lost. Slowly memory was returned to you, and you began to carefully navigate a sea of doom and despair, red flame still keeping painful sights hidden behind blinding haze.

It had started with your vessel breaching a sand stained in red and black, yes, you remembered. Arrival, the first contact with the foreign shore.

When you had arrived at the southern shores of Ionia you had to run across countless fallen Noxians, your boots having quickly fallen apart as they had been used by so, so many fallen men before you. Each part of your equipment had been stripped from the dead and thrown towards you, your body meant to be nothing else than a living shield as they sent you off into uncertain battle. And once you would die, they would strip your corpse – if they ever found it – wash your clothing, and hand it to the next doomed youth meant to waste away so others may hide behind your defiled flesh.

You remembered crawling across fallen comrades, having to keep your head low as arrows crossed just above your unprotected head. Your helmet had been too large for you, simple as that, so it had been given to someone else. You remembered how you had forced yourself across seas of decaying flesh, burnt meat stinging your nose as you pushed on. This was for the empire, no? This was what this was all about, right?

Empty gazes, mouths open and fluids escaping them, the average sight of a dead soldier.

Say, just how glorious was it when those you had been sent out to fight with lay dead at your feet? Was this the promised glory on foreign shore, was this what your nation truly fought for? You remembered being unable to see, hot smoke paining your teary eyes as the burning forests of Ionia filled the air with magic-induced miasma.

When you had managed to crawl across the first fields of meat, you remembered running across ash-covered soil, the once fertile and wet ground burnt and dried from fire, while dead ember coated previously flourishing nature in black tar. On starved ash - there your new boots you had scavenged had worked best. Right, you had ran, had sung war-songs and chants to yourself as you had followed others deeper into Ionia, corpses littering the paths as the Noxians burnt anything they got their hands on. It was easier to traverse these forsaken lands if all was flat and charred, the Noxian boot found such ground simpler.

Despite the dire circumstances, you continuously told yourself that this was right, that this was necessary. Right - you lived for this, you believed in this. Noxus needed the resources of the land, it needed important artefacts and magical items, for they would be used for the people of your beloved empire. At each burnt child, at each hung man, you'd continuously tell yourself that this was for the best, that this was but necessary evil. Despite your noble upbringings, you told yourself that the life as a soldier was honourable, that this would make your family back home proud.

Your house was noble, yes, but not one of the big players when it came to Noxian upper society. Your parents were wealthy, your father a slaver and your mother a talented artist. You had a brother; your sibling having stayed back home to aid the family while you had volunteered for military service. Right - you wanted this. A young woman you were, not even quite grown, seeking glory and prestige through war on foreign land. Having volunteered for military training, you had wondered that the training had been fast and swift, had taken it was a damn compliment that they were sending you out quicker than most. No matter - you would find glory here, make your family proud, and return to Noxus a hero. What did it matter that you were still but a child?

At first the empire had not sent child soldiers, it was seen as uncouth and below standard, but desperate times made way for desperate acts. So those too young to even be named as adult were sent out to die, the future of the empire spilling their guts onto burnt soil and scorched earth while Noxus robbed itself of its own offspring.

You remembered running, fleeing seas of red and black, only to stumble when dying men had reached for you. At some point you could no longer cross the seas of bodies, for many still lived, desperate hands reaching out to grab at you in search of comfort or over sheer panic over their imminent demise.

When you had managed to push onward into central Navori, you remembered your sleeves, the canvas stained red by people having grabbed and reached for you. Others managed to pull through too, iron-laced soldiers and veterans mourning the sight of your youthful faces. Children, sent to die here? It was as cruel as it was necessary, for young bodies made for excellent shields. So, you had forced yourself to move on, once bright and colourful land covered in layers of black tar and grime. At night you would sleep in makeshift camps, would curl up on tattered and dirty fabric as bombs and distant explosions kept you awake. This was for the greater good.

All of this, it was necessary, you were sure of it. Your Grand General had willed it so.

You carried a small plushie into battle, a small stuffed animal in the shape of a poro, the toys white fur already bathed in black from the ash that rained down from above. Not like it mattered, you still held it close, lovingly playing with it while the grown-ups were busy elsewhere. While your generals stood over complicated tasks and impossible missions, you children had been playing, singing and dancing all while covered in native blood. You had chased the other child-soldiers around desecrated villages, had played hide-and-seek in rubble and debris, horribly unaware of just how dark and twisted your reality actually was. You had thrown your toy, others catching it as you had played games within abandoned Ionian homes, laughter ignorant to the cruelty that your actions bore.

You had formed a small group of soldiers, merely six people, four of which were children. This group of yours was sent to the Placidium, for there would soon be a final charge. They promised this final siege would name Ionia as conquered, they promised this was the final, big push before victory awaited. You remembered it all. Remembered having cheered and partied, remembered having been offered alcohol for the first time, remembered how fellow soldiers had found themselves an Ionian woman to torment and berate while her two young children cowered nearby as they watched their mother be opened like ripe fruit, the harvesters brutal and unrelenting to her tender body. You carried a sightly glaive, one far too large for you, too heavy for your adolescent hands to properly wield. Ah - you remembered it all too well. It was like a hazy dream by now, your memories clouded by the deafening song of war and death while a layer of black ash let your memory grow foggy. It was like a bad, horrible dream, still not quite understood by your own aching mind.

Right - you remembered thinking and not understanding what they had done to that woman.

Right - you remembered seeing her bleed and cry for her children while others of your kind laughed, remembered thinking the most vile of thoughts towards the wrong persons.

Those children would grow into enemies, their hatred for Noxian blood fuel for the Ionian cause. Right - those children were nothing but trouble. You were invading their home, colonizing their territory, hence you remembered the unbridled, unfiltered hatred that sat deep within when you looked into their lifeless eyes.

Noxus above all, Empire above all, red above this ugly, unfleshly green they would once carry.

So, you had risen, had taken your way-to-heavy weapon, and had slowly marched over towards them. One step in bloodied boots, then another, hatred and fanatical patriotism clinging to each step you took. Let them live, and they would return as grown, wielding hatred and power against you and your people. No, it was better to choke out problems early on, before they could grow into actual threats. This was necessary. No prisoners meant no potential surprises years later. Right, those kids would grow into enemies. Enemies Noxus already could barely stand against, enemies the empire could not afford to fight against. Better to end them, before they returned their hatred towards you in the distant future.

No prisoners meant no prisoners.

Some cheered, others did not care, others thought it messy as you fastened your grip, going for the children despite you yourself being one. First the little boy, then the girl, both cut up by your blade as you found it hard to cut flesh from bone. Your weapon was too heavy for you, the act of lifting and swinging it was not as easy as it seemed. Like a crazed butcher you screamed loyal anthems of your nation, the sound of cracking bone nestling within your brain as you saw only red.

Say, did this make you Noxian? Did this make you strong? Did it make you feel powerful, you fucking animal?

At the end the entire family was dead, your blade was dirty, and your mind felt numb. The sound of their cries echoed in your own childish mind, and you no longer wished to play catch or fetch with your fellow Noxian friends. As you stood within the camp, your eyes devoid of light, you remembered seeing the new general meant to lead you to victory. Black hair and an elegant frame like that of a raven, yes, you remembered.

Strength above all. Strength above all. Strength above all.

This was for Noxus, for the empire you so dutifully served. One more final push, and ....and ....? And then what?

You remembered standing on a burnt battlefield, horses set ablaze as mounts and vehicles shot past you, men cooked alive in their own heavy iron shells as their uniforms boiled them from within. Skin turned to leather, iron and steel laying useless as cries and screams echoed through the heat of the battle. Say, what sort of madness was this?

Dying ember rained down upon you from the sky, the sun having been swallowed by ash and smoke as the world around you grew depressingly dull and dusty. Say, wasn't your general supposed to be the one to win this fight? Him? That man, he was meant to win the battle at the Placidium? Hah! That same general who lay on the ground, his severed limb held to the darkened sky above as the Ionians cut your people down one by one?

What you remembered next was only a hazy, messy conglomerate of impressions you were able to scavage from your abused and tired mind.

It goes as such:

Drop the glaive - run - grab the general - too heavy - yell at him - too slow - he's limping - explosions - fire – beg him to stand up - crying - general manages to get up - bleeding - walk - march - general clings to you - you’re only a child - he's too heavy - blood – lunacy – you miss your parents - grunting – general is injured – no escape – do not look back – go forward – forward – forward – forward-

....and the siege was lost. No glory, no victory, no... nothing.

The entire campaign was but a hazy, muddy mess that lingered within your sore brain. Right, it had made you numb. You had completely lost the sense of time and place; had long forgotten how long you had been here for. Days? Weeks? Say, when did you even get here? Who were these people? Noxians, you knew that, but neither of them was noble, right? Did that even matter, say, what the fuck was someone like you doing here? Right, the campaign had been lost, and the warband had been nearly entirely wiped out. You just remembered being the one to have helped the cripped general escape, remembered his heavy body lean against you as the one good arm he still carried had been placed across your sore shoulders.

He had been limping; black hair covered in blood and debris as he had clung to your shorter frame for support. Your ears had been ringing, the deafening sound of war drowning out each thought as you had only functioned, nothing more. Noxian banners lay buried under debris and rubble, former friends and comrades left behind as you had somehow managed it back to the safety of the Noxian territory.

It all felt like a dream, a hazy memory that did not quite belong to you. You remembered them pulling shards of iron from your body, remembered how they doused your body in cooling fluid as your armour had burnt parts of your youthful skin.

Right, you smelt of gunpowder and cooked flesh, blood dripping from your uniform as you had been sent back to shore. Every single step was a weak and unstable stumble, every word spoken slurred and dragged, your eyes unable to focus as you were named unable to fight. Useless, no longer good, not even as fodder - so you had been sent back. Loaded onto a ship, thrown onto a deck, the dusty air of the battlefield still in your burnt lungs before - before....!

“Hah...”

A ship, you were on a ship, a Noxian one, and the air around you was finally breathable once more. Taking a deep, painful breath, you shook your head, your vision finally sharpening again as you let out a few choked pants. Fuck...!

No way- no way you had failed your mission!

You blinked, feeling emotion and feelings of self slowly seep back into you, the fog obscuring your mind lifting as you left the hellhole that was Ionia. Amour no longer clung to you, only a measly uniform placed around your burnt and beaten body as bandages had been wrapped around your abused skin. The ship was slow, a cheap cargo-ship, invalid soldiers having been placed on the deck of the ship while the crew was busy elsewhere. You sat with your back against an empty supply crate, your limbs sprawled out before you, your head resting against the cooling surface of Noxian steel. Alive, you were alive. A painful swallow was forced down, and your sore eyes went in search of familiar faces. Some were so badly injured or bandaged you did not recognize them, some were simply strangers, and others proved a too harrowing sight to even properly look at. Fuck.

“Hey little one...'know the voice...”

A shaky gasp escaped your cracked lips, blood-shot eyes moving to the side as you gazed up towards the man sitting next to you. Ah...!

“Fancy seein' you here....say, what the fuck where your parents thinking sending you here?”

Beryl! A friend of your parents, and a famed Noxian general carrying prestige to his name and house. The man was in his fifties, his brown hair soaked in caked blood and covered by a layer of dead ember. His armour had been taken too; the defiled man only dressed in ripped canvas and stained bandages with his boots and gloves having been taken from him. You went in search of his eyes, yet found both of them closed. Permanently, with stiches.

“Stray shrapnel. Lost ‘em”

Oh. You silently moved a tad closer, groaning in pain as you leant up against him. What a fucking joke.

“Sending a damn kid to die. Fucking Darkwill”

A sharp hiss left you as you heard the other openly insult your Grand General, your knee moving over to subtly nudge him. A warning, for others may hear. General Beryl let you lean against him, the man waiting for any sort of emotion to spill from you, his waiting being left unrewarded as you just quietly remained seated beside him. When children of war no longer cried, that is when all was lost. Never would you return to your childlike self, your innocence forever left behind on distant land, youth lost to Noxian flame. It was over for you, for you were now just like any other ruined Noxian soul, just another casualty despite drawing breath. A slight shiver still sat within you; your eyes having lost all spark and youthful tenderness as only soulless husks remained.

Both of you quietly sat on the exposed deck of the ship, occasionally being visited by crewmembers who brought water or small rations of food. When someone died, a blanket was placed over them, and no one dared to speak even a single word. The sea was calm, the air was salty and cold, and you, you were done for.

You had grown up a part of a noble house, had been meant for greatness and were supposed to be married off to some other wealthy Noxian when your parents would finally decide on your future spouse. After this campaign, you had wanted to finish that painting you had been unhappy with, had wanted to plant those poppy seeds in that one hidden corner of the garden, had wanted to…say – why did it matter? None of those things would bring you joy anyway. Right, for your mind was forever bruised and battered by war, the horrors of conquest engraved within your very own, tragic being. You had it in your eyes, in the way you spoke, had it in the way your fingers shook, and your mouth twitched. Poor thing, for you were just another number, just another lost child to a war never meant to be.

Hours had passed, Beryl reaching into his coat as his charred and burnt fingers worked their way through the tattered fabric in search of soothing drug. He pulled a small flask from his pocket, the man then pulling two small shot-glasses from one of his bags before handing you one. You had to help guide him, your fingers aiding the man as he struggled to pour you a shot.

“Old enough to die, old enough to drink”

He had said, allowing you to share in his misery as you forced the burning liquor down your sore throat. Adolescent innocence forever lost with the blood on your hands speaking of your cruelty, you were no longer allowed to name yourself child. The general had children, a wife too, his loved ones back home awaiting a hero of war to return to them while their ‘hero’ sat here, sharing alcohol with a traumatised nestling. The alcohol helped calm your nerves, and it finally let some of the mocking whispers in your mind curse lower as Beryl let out a melancholic chuckle.

“That general, you know, the one with black hair and thick brows – real fucking fraud. Came in, spoke of victory and Noxian greatness, only to be cut down by a child. Spoke of…let me think, vision, might and guile. Hah! Didn’t have any of those, didn’t he?”

“I helped him get out. He’s alive because of me,” you muttered, closing your eyes as you tried to ignore the harrowing images of you reaching for the fallen general. He had been pushed to the ground, his heavy body bleeding into the soil below as you had begged and cried for him to stand back up. Right, he had been forced into the ash-covered soil, his large body too heavy for you to carry. You remembered flashing images of that Ionian girl not much younger than you, remembered her holding the severed limb up to the sky, newfound vigour and drive allowing the Ionians to beat their enemy as you cried at the man to stand. Right, he had forced himself upward, had clung to you as you had managed to walk him back to safety. It had been so painstakingly slow, had been horribly gruesome to watch all around you burn and die while you preached purpose and reason.

“Should ‘ave left him to die”

Yeah, probably.

The ride was calm, people rarely spoke, and a heavy cloud of shame and guilt lay scattered across pride-broken dreamers. To a Noxian battle and conquest were essentials, things to be named great and celebrated, to fail was simply not acceptable. But that, that is what every single one of you was. A failure.

The food tasted terrible, perhaps because of your burnt tastebuds, perhaps because the weak were not granted luxury, but you forced it down for your own sake. Suicide was no option, for it would only disgrace your family further. They would already have to suffer through the indignity of having a dishonoured daughter, just another disappointment now forever ruined. Guilt, shame and self-hatred clung to you, your existence pure misery as you silently let the hours pass you by.

Sleep came and went, your exhausted body sometimes lifted and tended to before you were placed back against the crate you rested at. The crest of your house sat at your chest, your nobility at least allowing others to see you as someone worthy of higher treatment and better care. They gave you some sort of pain medication, the eased state of your body allowing you to rest for a few hours before you woke several miles later. It was light, any sense of time having left you as you rubbed across your eyes, the taste of iron still lingering at the back of your throat while the ship was just as silent as it always was.

When you woke, Beryl was gone, and you were on your own. He had left you his flask and one shot-glass before having thrown himself from the ship, choosing death over dishonour. Fair.

Fair, and good for him.

Your shaky hands found the bottle, and you struggled to open it as your numb fingertips remained unable to properly open the beverage. Growing annoyed, you lifted it to your mouth, using your teeth to unscrew the bottle before pouring yourself a glass. Usually you would have cried, but your shaken self held not one single tear to shed. Leaning back against the crate, you lifted your gaze, shaky eyes suddenly growing eerily steady as you recognised the man who had sat down opposite from you. Merely two metres across from you, back leaning against a battered supply crate, a crippled man sat.

Black, long hair with the roots slowly lifting to show signs of white, thick brows, a beaked nose and one missing arm. His left arm had left him, the stump wrapped in bandages and tied to his upper body as his right leg lay sprawled out beside him, the shattered knee temporarily stabilized by metal rods and wires.

“You…!” you huffed, shaky letters spilling from your dry and cracked lips. Him! It was him, the general meant to lead you all to salvation, the man who had confidently marched you and your comrades into certain death. It was him who had boasted of his prowess and his brilliant mind, had spoken of countless victories and great conquest before. Noxians, good Noxians had trusted him, and had died for and because of him. Your eyes trailed him, trailed his uniform and crest.

House Swain? Ohhh….a real nobleman. Someone rich, someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth and fortune to their name. He was of the real Noxian nobility, a man in his prime, made and destined to become great – up until he was cut down like cattle lead to slaughter. He sat there, eyes lowered to the dirty deck of the ship, hair dull and posture slumped. He was a mess, only a shell of his former self, prestige, glory and pompous class stripped from him as dishonour awaited him back in Noxus. Oh, how amusing, he would be skinned alive once Grand General Darkwill got his hands on him. General Swain was a rising star of the military, was meant to conquer the Placidium and establish Noxus at the centre of the First Lands. It would have been his Magnum Opus, would have named him a hero of war, would have been all he had ever wanted. And now? Now he sat here, beaten and broken, his arm cut from him and the world around blaming him for all of this messy, ugly misery.

With his injuries he would surely never stand as general again, his family would exile and shun him to save face, and he, he would end up dead or a drunk. Or both.

Hundreds of insults ran through your abused mind, countless possible nicknames and childish curses waited right at the tip of your burnt tongue, yet not a single was spoken as you found no appropriate word for his pathetic existence.

Because of him all of your friends had died! Because of him everyone was dead, your life was ruined and Noxus had lost a deciding battle. It was all his fault! Every single corpse, every single broken promise and shattered dream, it was his fault! He was far older than you, far richer with countless fancy titles, a man you would have usually looked up to. Oh, how you idealized men like him, gladly bent the knee to such truth-sayers and preachers of empire. Was this truly the best Noxus had to offer? Filth like him?

General Jericho Swain.

Right, that was his name. Say, was this what an esteemed general of the Noxian army looked like? What an insult to Noxus, and to your Grand General. What an insult to everything you stood and fought for. Look how he sat there, silent, his head held low as shallow breath spilled from thin, blueish lips. Slowly raising your glass back to your lips, you wished to drown out your anger, right before you felt unbridled hate and wrath overcome you.

Lifting your hand, you aimed your glass at his unfortunate visage, before you violently tossed it at him. The glass hit him square in the face, broken glass shattering against his mouth as shards of stray glass cut his upper lip. You watched his body react, the man jumping from the sudden hit, blood gushing from his cut lip as he struggled to deal with the situation at hand. Swain grunted, black strands of hair messily swaying back and forth as he wiggled around, unable to help himself as blood ran from his mouth. He tried reaching for his bleeding mouth, but found his dominant hand missing, the stump on his left side uselessly lifting upward as his body still remembered his missing limb. His other hand was needed to stabilize him, and you were left watching a broken and beaten man helplessly writhe around as he was unable to reach for his bleeding face while alcohol stung his wound.

So he used his tongue, the nobleman using the tip of his tongue to apply pressure to the cut at his upper lip as he was left unable to speak or fight back.

Absolutely pathetic, what a waste of life.

Small shards of glass were scattered across the floor, silence filling the deck once more as no one else cared to intervene or aid your tragic situation. Most men here hated the general just as much, some finding amusement over your childish act of vengeance towards him. As Swain sat there and bled, he did not once go in search for your gaze, taking your act like the beaten dog he was.

“Do us all and your nation a favour and kill yourself. Fucking cripple,” you hissed, choosing to drink from the bottle directly as the last spark of childlike self was forever extinguished.

The journey back home was calm, your mouth shut as Swain did nothing but uselessly rest, the nobleman too beaten to even care about the disapproving glances and words he would receive from others. Each morning you would wake in hopes of seeing him dead, but sadly, he remained very much alive.

When you finally arrived in Noxus, you were taken from the ship and directly escorted through familiar streets and well-known districts. Forced to pass freshly named soldiers, you watched as children even younger than you were being led to the harbour, large vehicles and mounts prepared for battle as the endless supply of life was hauled off to foreign shore. War excited Noxians, new slaves and the promise of glory used as currency as people cheered and spoke of strength. Strength, yes? The one thing every Noxian clung to, strength.

You did not feel particularly strong, in all honesty. You could walk, still had your limbs and your senses, your lungs slowly healing – but that alone was not as comforting as one may believe it to be. Your poor mind and soul were aching, they were hurting, your former self shattered and ruined on foreign shore as you were left questioning your entire reality. With every step you took, with each painful breath you drew, you asked yourself if this was truly the glory everyone spoke of.

Your warband was forced past the massive gates of inner Noxus, was led deep into central Noxus Prime as you were told to stand before the Grand General. Everyone who failed was sent to him, your nobility to be personally insulted by him, no doubt.

Within your group the raven-haired general walked, the man trailing behind as his shattered knee was held together with a makeshift brace. He was limping, his sight plainly pathetic as he followed your small group, righteous guards letting you pass down into the Immortal Bastion. Tired feet still knew to march, for the journey was done in one go, your small party arriving at the bottom of the stairs that led towards the audience chambers of the Grand General. Marbled stone led upward in harsh and steep steps, guards standing in perfectly organised form as you were told to go. While you started walking, you halted, then turning around when you noticed one missing.

Ah – the poor general could not walk with that brace of his, could he? Beaten dog he was, his shattered knee barely allowing him to take a singular step upwards towards his timed shunning. It was said that these stairs were made to prove one’s strength, that those who could not climb them were not worthy of an audience, and far less worthy of the title ‘Noxian’. An amused smirk crossed your lips, and you turned, taking the stairs as others joined. While you walked upward the clouds above Noxus Prime promised rain, the stale air of the capital slowly growing moist as you managed upward, loyally walking towards certain dishonour.

Grand General Darkwill sat on his marbled throne, a dark and grand audience chamber allowing those below to kneel beneath him as he did not even bother addressing any of you by name. He let out a few disapproving words, named you as failures, and sent you off as discharged disappointments.

Surprisingly enough, it did not hurt you all too much, for your heart and mind remained shell-shocked, emotion still not quite returned to you. With dishonour clinging to you and your name, you stepped out, the military crest having been ripped from your uniform as you stood before the stairs leading back into a life that did not welcome you back. Tired, lifeless eyes trailed the Noxian skyline, centuries of history layered across iron and steel, your home. The first raindrops came, and you let out a tired sigh, the marble below growing slippery as you stood at the railing of the stairs. Say – that was an awfully long fall downward. Suicide sounded nice, but no, you were not there, not yet.

Standing there for gods knew how long, you had failed to notice that someone had come to stand beside you. Slowly moving your gaze to the side, you looked at who too stood at the top of the stairs. Ah – if this wasn’t your beloved failure of a general.

Swain stood beside you, the man having been personally berated and insulted, having been stripped of his titles and prestige, the court having plucked him apart like tender flesh prepared for consumption. They had torn into him, had whittled him down, and had sent him away to never pain their eyesight ever again.

General Swain had crawled back to the Grand General he was so helplessly loyal to. He had done everything for Darkwill. Had served under his name, his nation and his envisionment. Had led men into certain death, had followed orders, had been good, and now, now he was tossed aside like a mere used toy. Swain had simply not been interesting enough to Darkwill, so the Grand General had sent him on a suicide mission, had sent him away to die. Made it all easier, cleaner too. However, much to Darkwill’s annoyance, the man had survived, and had come crawling back to him.

Like a hound that knew only the hand that struck it, Swain had come crawling back to his abusive master despite knowing what would await him.

All of his efforts, all of his work, it was all for nothing. Now he stood to face his own family, stood to suffer under a society that wanted him gone. Useless failure, a dishonoured Noxian he was.

Trailing his face, you saw that his mouth now held a large gash at the top of his lip - your doing. How ugly, it suited him just fine.

He just…stood there, brown eyes on the stairs below as he let the mocking weather douse him. Cold droplets of rain danced down your forms, mud and grime still dripping from you as you silently watched the water chase down the steps of the inner Bastion. It took you a short while, before it dawned on you just why he was not moving.

Swain could not take the steps like this, his knee was too unstable, and walking down was simply not an option as water had made the marble slippery. Oh - hoh, was the esteemed former general no longer capable of walking down wet stairs? Pathetic.

You took one step downward before turning around, coming to stand just below the larger man, his black hair messily glued to his aged face. He still had not graced you with a single word, had never addressed or spoken to you directly. For the first time you properly stood face to face, the man meeting your gaze as you stood ready to insult him once more. Yet instead of a beaten and sad gaze, his eyes told a different story as you managed to catch them with yours.

Behind those brown eyes determination and drive had been set ablaze, the disgraced general filled with newfound purpose and reason. Instead of melancholy and torment, you found desperate will, found strength brimming unlike anything you had ever seen before. He gazed at you, no, stared at you, and you felt horribly uncomfortable as you felt the determination he carried dare to burn you from above. Despite the rain a nervous tear of sweat ran down your youthful face, your pupils dilated as you let out a few forced huffs.

“Freak”

And with those words, you turned, and you quickly descended the endless stairs onward, fleeing from that strange man you had ordered to die just days ago. Quick steps carried you down marbled stone, Swain forced to wait until the rain subsided while onlookers insulted or berated him over his disgraced being.

Returning home had been a must, something you had dreaded, the experience as painful as you had known it would be. With the first footstep you took past your own front door, your life fell apart, and all bliss and innocence were ripped away to never be felt again.

They had drafted your father, the breadwinner of the house, to leave the family without any sort of real, stable income.

When notice of his death was handed to your mother months later, things only got worse.

Former slaves of your fathers returned to kill your brother, leaving only you and your mother.

When general Swain overthrew the government and killed Grand General Darkwill, things only got worse.

When the Trifarix was formed and the lesser noble houses were stripped of their property, your mother had taken her life for you to find her corpse hanging from the empty halls of your seized estate.

And then?

Then life had gone to shit.

Ten years later, and your pathetic little life was just that: pathetic.

“And?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, we know the answer, but tell me, did you at least try this time?”

“No, but I might try again next year. Godda’ keep it consistent, you know”

Your boss sighed, the woman shaking her head at you. Every year you had to attend the qualification test, had to let doctors and generals decide if you were fit for service or duty. This had been going on for the last ten years, and sometimes you’d try to pass, only to find yourself just as unfit as you had been the year before where you’d deliberately failed said test. This year you had not even tried, having missed every arrow, having failed every question, and having purposely stumbled down the parkour set up to test mobility. Another failed year – whatever, not like it mattered.

Another living casualty of the Ionian campaign, you were named too traumatised to fight, too weak and unstable to be reinstated as a soldier. Not like that did not hold some truth, you were effectively traumatised beyond belief, your mind forever plagued by cries of the dead and diseased by depression and doubt. Poor thing you were, your nobility having been ripped from you as your house had been named eradiated, ‘taken care of’.

The Noxian Centre for Rehabilitation and Physical Therapy. Your working place, and your safe haven. Having been sent here yourself to see if you could one day stand as fit, you had been offered a job, and had accepted it only five years ago. It was just fine here, you had a small income, you had nice colleagues, and you had actual peace here. Taking care of injured soldiers, preparing healing baths for aching muscles and limbs, performing simple housekeeping tasks, you worked as a service girl for pretty much anything. You and your colleagues were glorified caretakers, meant to help soldiers recover quicker or there to ease active soldiers of pain or discomfort. High ranking generals would have their tensed and painful bodies eased up and loosened here, massages and physiotherapy offered to those worthy of the treatment.

Your boss, Imogen, a woman in her late thirties who ran this place after having been partially blinded by stray shrapnel barked orders at you – and you followed.

Wake up – pluck your trusted cat Niota from your lap, get dressed and go to work.

Your life was mundane, but fine. Legally unfit to serve, you worked your job, enjoyed one or two cigarettes in the evening, and slept peacefully, far away from the troublesome and complex mess that was Noxian society. The building was made of iron and steel, the centre located in the outer skirts of central Noxus, bordering on the slums where you lived. Imogen had given you a working permit that allowed you to cross from the very slums of Noxus into the upper districts of the Bastion, your work allowing you easy trespass. Simple, life was simple, but it was all you could ever ask for.

Today was just as such, a simple, nice day. You had woken up, had cleaned yourself, and had gone to work. You lived in a small flat in the poorest district of Noxus, a simple two-bedroom flat with old, rusty furniture and almost ancient interior design. Horrible – but you felt safe here, felt at home within these old, ugly walls where no one could care enough to harm you. Your dear cat waited for her breakfast, the feline only allowing you to leave the house after she had been fed.

Every morning you wandered down the large central road of Noxus Prime, dodged large vehicles and danced across the spacious road as soldiers and peasants passed you by. Same old, trusty routine.

“Mornin’”

“Mornin’”

Imogen sat in her small office, the woman smoking away as she went through the papers on her desk. Several soldiers currently slept here, needed assistance getting dressed or had to have their bandages changed. You were a group of ten workers including your boss, every single one of you a former soldier now assisting the unfortunate that stood unable to serve.

“Got a big guest today,” Imogen muttered, smoke escaping her nose as you dressed yourself, tying your hair back in a tight ponytail.

“Physical therapy. Hand of Noxus,” she said, making your skin crawl. Ugh. The Hand of Noxus rarely visited this establishment, usually needing only mundane things like deep-tissue massages or other medical treatments for his ridiculously muscular body.

And oh – thank the gods, he was the only member of the Trifarix to ever show his face here. You’d rather not even think the name of the current Pillar of Vision, for he was someone you’d never, ever want to meet again. Absolutely not.

Before your poor mind could spiral into traumatic memories long passed, a bell rang, and your first patient was to be taken care of. Right – you would change the bandages on a burn victim, then prepare the hot coals for the healing baths, and then perhaps aid the others when it came to Darius. Sounded good – sounded like a plan.

Letting out a tired huff, you fastened the straps of your uniform, determined to start the day on a positive as you made your way through tight hallways and old, worn corridors to where the in-house patients slept.

Do not let your past consume you, don’t let old memory pain you when there was not one reason to worry. No, you were safe here, this is where you could hide from the world while Noxus passed you by. Never again would you expose yourself to the horrors of your previous life, never would you allow anyone else to take away your sanctuary you had found here.

Never again.