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Chapter Text

In eight years of life, Rigel has known blessed little of fear. So little, in fact, that when he wakes in a strange place, he does not startle. He just blinks sleepily, letting shadow and sensation piece the world back together again.

He doesn't have to wait long. The warm arms carrying him are familiar. So is the shoulder Rigel's sleeping face lies against; the lumbering gait, with its faint limp; and most of all, the presence of a familiar gaze. The same one that has watched over him all his life.

"Dad?"

A man's smile, blurry but brilliant, swims into view for a moment. Then Rigel feels himself shifted. A dry, languid kiss is pressed against his brow, light as a butterfly. The boy wrinkles his nose.
"What was THAT for?"

"Nothin," Jayce chuckles. And now Rigel can see him clearly: dark hair loose past his shoulders, parted to the side, framing chiseled cheeks and eyes the color of a clear pond. (Neither of Jayce's children know, or care, that they were once amber.)

Above the furrows carved in his forehead by time is another mark: a delicate circlet of five iridescent fingerprints: the mark of the Herald, worn by all residents of this paradise on earth.

"You fell asleep in the greenhouse," Jayce says, as if to jog the boy's memory. He leans close for the next part. Whispers, conspiratorially. "Were you waiting for Papa?"

"N-no." But Rigel's about as good a liar as Viktor was. "It's cozy in there..."

"Oh yeah, brick benches... SUPER cozy."

In response to his son's uneasy expression, Jayce does what he does best: distract. He takes a gulp of air and blows a massive, obnoxious PHTTTBBTTT!!! into the meat of his son's cheek. Rigel shoves his scratchy chin away, shrieking in delight and surprise.

Laughter. Such a beautiful, crystalline sound, echoing towards a sky clearer than any ever beheld this deep in Fissures… In what was once the lowest and most devastated pit of Piltover’s neglect, ethereal light and yellow blossoms now suffuse. Where there was once only suffering, there is peace. Growth. Laughter. Hope.

What a beautiful world they’ve built, down here...

The people who smile as father and son pass through the Commune streets are known and trusted: fellow members of the peaceful Commune, no strangers or hint of unease among them. But soon Jayce sweeps through the canvas curtain over their home's doorway, and the distant bustle of conversation and village life are muffled.

----

When he reaches the carved set of bunkbeds, Jayce turns to the side. Heaves his reedy son in his arms like a big bag of flour about to be chucked. "Alright, free ride's over! A-one!-- A-two!--"
Rigel shrieks with delight, clinging to his neck. "No, no, no!! Don't, don't!"

But Jayce peels his spindly arms free and dangles the laughing boy upside-down. Some would be impressed, by such a feat of strength... But for all assembled, it is a completely ordinary display.

Too ordinary, in fact... Annoying, even.

A girl's exasperated sigh cuts the merriment. "You guys are EMBARASSING."

Meissa's the one who's always resembled Jayce. She has his sunkissed skin and thick hair; his brows, nose, and pout for sure. It's only when you squint that hints of Viktor become visible... In her sharp, studying gaze and the beauty-marks on her high, square cheekbones.

"Well hello, Darling Daughter!” Jayce calls sarcastically, plopping Rigel down. "I assume your sunny mood is Naili-related?"

She mumbles something to the book in her lap- but the flush all the way up to her ears tells the truth.

"What happened?" Rigel snorts, rolling onto his stomach. "He wouldn't sneak you out to Jericho's … Again?"

And oh there is MURDER in his sister's eyes now; he was NOT supposed to tell. (But that's what she gets for not bringing him back some Fishgut Surprise, like she promised!)

"You're such a BRAT!!!"

"Well, whatever did or DIDN'T happen," Jayce cuts in, "You BOTH know better than to do something like that. You live with a mind-reader, for Janna's sake..."

"Do we?" the girl snorts. "Not like he's ever around anymore."

"Hey now... Papa's busy, but he loves you. You know that."
Jayce's smile says amusement, but there's a telling crimp between his brows - so small, his kids shouldn't notice.

But Rigel notices everything around here. Including that, deep in his sister's glare, there hides a bit of tearfulness.

The deep, sour feeling in the pit of his stomach he's been having lately returns... An affliction he's afraid even the Herald's touch will not be able exorcise:
The sense that even in this happy-seeming home, things are not all as they appear.

----

The next morning, Rigel sets off on a quest.

He knows the borders of the Commune like the back of his hand, but the landmarks of that map are strictly a child's. Every shortcut between huts; every kindly old woman who will offer him fruit and a smile; every fun rock to climb, thornbush to avoid barefoot, and climbing-spot with a view. He knows where you can dig colored rocks and clay for playing with, and catch three-legged tadpoles. He even knows the cluster of high reeds where the Big Kids go to hold hands and kiss...

Sorting out where Meissa and her gang of friends are, therefore, doesn’t take him long. The lone Vastaya among them turns silvery, surprised eyes first as Rigel gallumphs towards them: three boys and two girls, a little imposing in their posture and pre-teen proportions. And of course, the thick curtain of dark hair and tanned, gesturing hands that Rigel would know at a thousand paces.

Meissa doesn't turn to face him until Naili, whom she’s locked in conversation with, nods in Rigel's direction. Then she whirls, all long hair and narrow, angry eyes.
"What!?" she huffs, hands flying to her hips.

"Sorry." The boy opens his palm, revealing a peace offering: two dried rolls of something grey and papery. The other kids are impressed. But not Meissa, who just snorts in exasperation.

"Where the hell did YOU get fire-roll?!"

Rigel just shrugs; he doesn't feel like explaining the trade economy among grade-school Commune kids, where pretty marbles can be traded for just about anything.
Naili (a fish-folk lad of few words, with pearl-blue skin) twitches his pronged ear-membranes. "We don't smoke."

"But Marius does." When the older boy seems confused by this response, Rigel rolls his eyes in a distinctly Jayce-like fashion.

"MARIUS. You know… Huck's assistant? Big guy?? You need him to lift the grate. To get outside. Here… Now you can trade him."

"How do YOU know about th-"

"Cause he's a SNEAK!" the Vastaya girl with one featureless, pearl-white eye not even the Herald could heal sneers. "All buddy-buddy with his daddy. Bet it's a set-up..."

"No," Meissa assures her - then adds, in a distinctly acidic tone – “he's not THAT smart."
With that, she snatches the makeshift cigars from her brother's hand and hands them to Naili with MUCH more reverence, features softening in a lovesick sort of way. It takes everything in Rigel not to go "ew."

(But as the group of teens turn away - once she's SURE Naili is no longer watching - the girl risks a quick hug around her brother's neck. Broody though she might be, she is still his sister, after all.)

When you're the son of scientists, every problem - playground scrapes, moody sisters - is just a puzzle to solve. And once he's made nice with the stormy pre-teen force of nature known as Meissa, Rigel's mind immediately returns to the other biggest brain-teaser in his life:

The question of how he exists, in the first place.

----

He gets his chance that evening: Viktor parts the curtain over the door that evening, just as Rigel is setting plates on the dinner table.

"Papa!!" There's a clatter of silverware as the boy rushes him. Thin little arms lock tight as Rigel buries his face in the familiar blue of the Herald's robe. And Viktor's metallic body, finally strong, doesn't stumble against the impact. He places one hand fondly against his son's hair. Smiles fondly.
Viktor's love is like this... Has always been like this. Quiet and measured in gesture, but steadfast.

But clutching him close, Rigel misses the way that smile falters, slightly, when Jayce approaches. But the tension in Viktor eases when Jayce too embraces Viktor (as best he can, over his son.)

"Perfect timing. You hungry?"

"A little." The fact of the matter is that gaunt, metallic body of the Herald requires very little feeding. But knowing Jayce will worry if he doesn't (and seeing the joy in his son's gesture of arranging a fourth place at the table for him) Viktor endeavors to try.

Meissa skulks to the table last, and dinner begins. It's simple, Zaunite fare, but filling and familiar. A taste of Viktor's past, nourishing the future he and Jayce have created. Sitting down for such an ordinary, domestic ritual is a full-circle kind of moment for Viktor and Jayce, given all they have endured in order to be here...
But for Rigel and Meissa, it's just another Thursday evening.

Only Viktor's presence - growing rarer by the day - makes it unusual. 

----

"- And then we went to The Sump to check, and my trap WORKED!" Rigel rambles, eagerly filling his papa in on every detail of the past few days. "Just like Dad said it would! It caught four two-eye frogs, a wiggler, and two clawfish!"

"Two-eye frogs, you say?" Jayce chimes in. "How many do they USUALLY have?"

"They used to have one huge one," Viktor corrects him. "Or none. A mutation, from the chemical run-off... But that seems to have reversed itself. Fruit of the water purification efforts, perhaps."

Jayce nods at the memory: it had been hard work, planning from scratch and sourcing materials amidst the decay of the Undercity. But these projects had bonded them, in the early days of the Commune - almost like being back in the lab again. And a decade later, what had once been a stagnant run-off pond had become a place where their child built simple fish-traps and played in crystalline water. Only the name, “The Sump” remained as a hint of its former ruin.

A knowing smile of triumph - of shared history - passes between Jayce and Viktor.One scarred, tan hand crosses the table silently. Finds Viktor's cold, metallic fingers and closes around it. Jayce is always so warm.

So warm and inviting and a L i V e . . . . . 

"And what did you do with your prizes, Rigel?" Viktor continues, breaking the gaze but not moving away from the touch.

The boy shrugs. "Let 'em go? What else would ya do?"

"When I was your age? Eat them."

"Ewww!!" Meissa gags - both at the notion and having noticed her fathers' linked hands. "Really!?!"

"Yes, really." Viktor inclines towards their daughter. "Hunger is a terrible thing, Meissa. That you have never known it is a point of pride, for me."

Sensing the shift in attention, Rigel suddenly remembers what's been bothering him. And in that tactless way children excel at, decides to just blurt it out:

"Papa? How did you and Dad make babies??"

----

Silence, for a beat; Jayce flushes crimson from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. But Viktor, ever the face of this realm, remains collected. His colorless eyes are an opaque lake of unknown depths, completely still. (On the surface, at least.)

"Do you believe, Rigel?"

He means in the Arcane. In the power that suffuses every structure, soul, inch of this gem-like Commune. For a child born here, it's a stupid question... How could anyone doubt miracles they'd seen firsthand: the sick, healed in a whirl of unearthly wind and purple static? The broken, rebuilt? Barren earth, seeded and flowering?

And at the locus of that power - a power so strong the ground seemed to hum with it - stands Rigel’s Papa, arm outstretched and eyes glowing white. The Conduit of it all…

"Then, you have your answer."

"No," the boy blurts again. "I mean, HOW?" He's had a few ideas (each more outlandish the last) and they all come rambling out at once:

"I KNOW we didn't come out of your belly, so WHERE did we come from? Was it like, Arcane eggs? Or was it like when you heal people? You put out your hand, it got windy, and POOF!!!" He makes a very Jayce-esque, theatrical hand gesture.

"A-and how come WE'RE not purple like you?" he adds. "Why don't Meissa and I have the fingerprints, like Dad and everyone else--"

Viktor lifts the hand that has been underneath Jayce's. Spreads his fingers towards Rigel, just as he would to Ascend a new Commune adherent. A hesitant invitation.

"I could show you the memory... if you like."

"R-really!?" Wonder, excitement bloom over both Meissa and Rigels' faces. But Jayce leaps so quickly to his feet, his chair clatters to the floor.

"No!" he snarls, slashing his arms. "No. ABSOLUTELY not."

At this moment, side-by-side his partner's clear emotion, Viktor's eternal stillness seems for the first time unnatural. Alien.

"The children are curious..."

" 'The children' " Jayce spits these words back, tone dangerous -" are mine TOO, Viktor."

He's trying to keep a lid on his anger. Trying to keep his voice down. But Rigel and Meissa rarely ever see happy-go-lucky Jayce so gravely, immovably serious.

In a gesture much smaller (but no less resolute) Jayce clasps the wrist of the hand still extended towards Rigel. His touch is gentle as ever but the strength in his thick arms and tense shoulders hides just behind it, undeniable.

"You PROMISED, Vik."

The Herald lowers his hand. The children grumble. Object. But Viktor has quizzical eyes only for the dead-set of Jayce's brow. The furious line of his clenched jaw.
The Right-Hand of the prophet has always been passive; grateful; cherishing of all Viktor has offered him.

But when it comes to these children, a crack in his devotion seems to have formed...

i n T e R e S t I n Gg. . . . .   murmurs the voice in the back of Viktor's head.

Chapter Text

The remainder of dinner is tense, and the Herald leaves shortly afterward. Meissa follows, ignoring both Rigel's protest that she help clear the table and Jayce's "be back before dark, please!"

If their home had a door, both father and daughter would have slammed it.

A few pointedly-silent hours later, Rigel tucks himself into the bottom bunk. Turns to face the wall when he hears Jayce's heavy, uneven steps approach.

Rigel hears him takes a moment to digest the rejection. To choose how he wants to respond. And then Jayce sits down on his son's bed. Sighs, soul-deep.

"I'm sorry, bud."

Rigel rolls over. Despite a best attempt at sternness, the stuffed bear clutched beneath his chin renders any menace he'd hoped to convey moot.

"Why!? And don't say--"

"I'll tell you when you're older?" Jayce cuts in.

"Yeah!" Rigel harrumphs. "Don't say that. That's a stupid reason."

Jayce can't hide a smirk of affection. "Okay, well... Any way I say it, it's gonna be the same thing. You can't go memory-diving with your Papa, and I'm not changing my mind."

"But why?" the boy cries, leaning up on an elbow. "Papa touches everyone elses' head!!"

"Because..." Jayce stares at the dark arch of the window. At the clutter of child-sized sandals beneath. Chooses his words carefully.

"Wh-when he touches your head, it leaves a mark, Ry... A mark that never comes off."

"Everyone else has the marks. Even YOU have them!" And oh, every bone in his little body is SURE that logic will turn the tables... "So why can't we!? Huh?"

"It… it's not that simple, bud."

"He can hug us without leaving marks!" Rigel parries back. "And- and why can’t we see, anyway? Even when Meissa seemed happy about it, you still said no… and- and she’s NEVER happy anymore!"

The sound Jayce lets out is pure frustration, masked in a chuckle.

"Your sister just wants to be like the other kids. That's the age she's at... I was there once, too. She wants to look like them. Sound like them. Be anything BUT special." In his lap, Jayce's hands are nervous.

"B-but you two ARE special. Whether you like it or not... And I need you to promise me something, Ry."

The earnest, curious head-tilt; the M in his upper lip. Jayce's one and only son is all Viktor. And so, so hard to look upon, sometimes, for it...

"PROMISE Dad you'll never let Papa Arcane into your head. No matter what he says."

"But why--"

"I can't tell you why." And it's here that Jayce’s voice breaks. Here that his eyes visibly water, and the crags around them fill with the shadows of a world (not so) far beyond this one…

A world lit by the sparks of a fire in a rib-cage. By embers reflected in glossy, eyeless faces.

Suddenly Jayce gathers Rigel - his gangly, growing limbs and skinny shoulders topped with Viktor's face – into a crushing hug. Clutches him to his chest like a treasure. And it’s different from the embraces Rigel has grown up knowing.

It’s tense. Almost too much: as if in desperation to protect him, Jayce has awareness of his strength. Those arms are rigid, tense – and his head so lost in dark thought, that the embrace quickly becomes suffocating.

"Promise me," he pleads into the boy's soft brown hair. A tear, hot and wet, slides down his cheek. "PROMISE, Ry!"

Here in the Commune, hunger and pain are banished. Safe in the Herald's hand, fear should be no more...

And yet, here is the strongest man in Rigel's small world, weeping. Weeping with a terror so great, he knows a little boy’s head could never contain it. Should never so much as know it.

Completely unsure of what to do, Rigel does what he can: lifts one small, pale hand to his father's back. To the deep, iridescent scar dug by a chainsaw, a thousand lifetimes ago. Pats feebly.

"Okay… I promise... Don’t cry, Dad… Please don’t cry."

----

But on tiny shoulders, that promise weighs as much as the entire world.

For a few days, Rigel is uncharacteristically quiet. He pokes the water at The Sump and ignores the frogs. Declines the fruit the old woman offers him. Spends extra time on his daily patrols of the Commune's edges. Something he doesn't have words for is growing inside his chest. Something heavy. Painful.

Rebellion.

Because as much as Rigel loves this peaceful world - splashing in crystal water, dinner with his family, trading marbles, catching firelights when the sun goes down - something about it suddenly feels like a lie. His father's show of emotion has suddenly clued Rigel in that there is much, much more going on beneath the skin of this world. The complete innocence he once knew has flown away swiftly, suddenly…

And as the son of inquiring minds, it doesn't take long for Rigel to decide he must pit his mind against doubt, in order to know peace.

----

There are two places in which The Herald is NOT to be disturbed.

First is his home-quarters, with his Partner and his family.

The second is within the Commune's central, cathedral-like dome.

What Viktor does in The Sanctum, few fully understand. But elder members of the Commune (and his family) know that as the years have gone on, Viktor has gradually begun to spend more and more time in there... Most of each day, by now.

There is no guard outside to stop Rigel. Honestly, he's a little disappointed that he doesn't HAVE to sneak.

Inside, beyond view of the world, the dome is cave-like. Cool, dim, and nearly silent, save for the hum.

The Hum is constant: oscillating slightly, like current through a cord or blood through a vein. It suffuses the walls, floor, air with a holy kind of reverberation. It's the sound Rigel has heard from every rock, tree, and creature in the Commune all his life. Just louder. More insistent.

Stronger.

Viktor hovers a good ten feet above the ground. His robes, pulled down, pool over his crossed legs. His eyes are closed, but flicker behind the thin skin of his lids like a sleeping man's. Tendrils of gold shimmer from above and snake down into his bare back, as if suspending him in mid-air. But they cannot possibly be supporting him: they are made of nothing - seemingly no substance but light itself.

Rigel's footfalls cease to echo as he stands for a wondrous moment, in awe of his father's ethereal beauty.

The Herald's nose twitches.

"You are not supposed to be here."

It's said quietly - more observation than scold - but the way the voice of the Herald echoes off the circular walls fills it with god-like gravitas. When the boy does not respond, the figure opens one eye.

There's a flash of pink in them. A change in the tempo of the Hum.

And then, sighing, Viktor uncrosses his legs and drifts lazily down from his perch.

As his bare feet touch the cold stone floor, the tendrils running up into the ceiling vanish, like a rainbow when the clouds shift. In a swirl of the very fabric of reality, Viktor's staff appears from nowhere - simply materializes into his waiting hand.

Rigel doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches, eyes as wide as saucers.

Father looks son over appraisingly. Puts a hand on his hip. "Does Jayce know you are here?"

"No."

"Good." With that, Viktor sinks to the ground. Sets his staff down. Crosses his legs again, and pats the ground beside him. "I surmise he would not approve."

But Rigel doesn't sit. Suddenly it's all too much… He wants to be small again. To have his doubts and fears caressed away, like a child comforted after a nightmare.

So he climbs in the cage of The Herald's legs. Wraps his arms around Viktor's ribs and lays his cheek against the cold, striated place where a heart ought to beat. Pulls his knees and elbows in, trying not to be grown. Trying to be small enough to fit in his slender Papa's lap again...

Viktor is taken aback at first - but after a moment, lets out a hum of understanding. He wraps sinewy arms around his son and cradles him there. Lays a boney cheek against the top of Rigel's head. Strokes soothing circles in his son's back until the words come.

----

"Why'd Dad make you promise?"

The Viktor his children know does not telegraph himself in gestures… not the way Jayce does, at least. But before his Ascent, you could read every feeling in his face. It's a muted tendency, now (like much else that used to make him Him.)
So Rigel does not feel the unease in Viktor's movement. Nor, cuddled against Viktor's chest, does the boy see the knit of effort form between his brows.

"I don't know," he sighs into the boy's hair. "But I suspect, it is to protect you."

"From what?"

"That, I also do not know."

Rigel makes a face. "How come? Can't you read minds?"

He can feel Viktor crane his chin in thought.

"Eh. I see... images. Fragments of deepest humanity, lain before the Arcane in exchange for freedom from the pain exacted by individuality."

"..."

"... So, no. I cannot read minds," Viktor clarifies. "But - and it is a big but - the fears which lay heaviest on the mind are revealed to me on slightest touch."

"S-so right now..."

"I do not need to read minds for that. I know about Meissa and the fish-folk boy. And that you traded your two best marbles for that apology gift."

Rigel starts. "H-how!?"

"Because I'm the boss,” he states. But then his eyes crimp. “That, and Marius snitched when Huck caught him smoking... Rest assured, both the escape-way and your little schoolyard smuggling-ring will now be under strict watch."

"Oh."

A moment of silence. Reading, but not reading.  

"... And no, I cannot get your marbles back. A deal is a deal."

"Phooey."

He ought to scold the boy; he really should. But his son's expression has so much of Jayce in it, Viktor finds himself dissuaded.

"Did you ask Dad why?"

"Yeah... And he cried. And like, not like when we give him Father's Day cards. A BAD cry." A tightened hand in Viktor's robes belays the silent question: why? Why is my big, strong dad so scared? Am I safe?

Viktor sighs again.

"You must understand, Rigel... Before you were born, your father had an accident. He suffered greatly."

A moment of thoughtful silence. "His leg?"

"Yes." Viktor affirms. "And I think... I think it frightened him. Injured his mind in a way that even I could not heal... When Maymay was born, I began to see it."

Meissa has not allowed anyone to use her nickname in years. (Rigel knows from experience that doing so is a one-way ticket to a bruised shin.) Hearing it again, in Viktor's low, deep voice, feels safe somehow... Like confirmation that their shared past is real.

"What was Maymay like?” he asks into Viktor’s robes. “Before I got here?"

"Tch... Clingy." But there's fondness, a smile in his words. "Your grandmother TOLD us to set her down more. To let her cry. But did we listen? Of course not. So we carried her everywhere. She'd cry herself breathless if we didn't… Ximena just didn't realize how hard it was," he joked, "to tell such a precious creature no.

His little lip purses. "I didn't get to meet Grammy 'Mena."

"No, you did... or rather, she met YOU. But you were too small to remember. And she passed, that Winter."

"You couldn't heal her?"

A twinge of sadness. "I can only heal the willing, my sweet boy … A sweet boy who is full of questions today, apparently."

Because if I stop, you 'll tell me to go home, his eyes say. You'll float back up, out of my reach. And I miss you.

Viktor's lithe fingers cup his son's chin. "Rigel... Do you remember what your name means?"

Of course. Even the Shuriman translation. "Beta Orionus. Rijl Jauzah al Yusraa, he says in his best little Shuriman accent. “It means ‘Left Leg of-"

"The Hunter, yes," Viktor finishes. "My good leg, and your father’s hurt one... Brightest star in the constellation. We named you and Meissa after stars because you are--"

"-- the stars in our sky," the boy finishes, from memory.

"Very good." But precious little praise fits into that monotone voice. "And when you question his choices, you should remember: every choice your father makes, he looks to his two stars first. His love for you eclipses all else. Guides his decisions."

"But why--"

"Because a child's shoulders," Viktor interrupts, "are small. Too small for some burdens... Given the choice, good parents will conceal all kinds of heavy truth, until their children are strong enough to carry it."

"B-but what if I AM?" the boy demands. "How can you KNOW we can handle it, unless you tell us and see!?"

Such a familiar argument: how do we know magic is dangerous? I’ve seen it! It's ironic, seeing their logic - Jayce's surety as he argued before the Counsel, all those years ago - writ in miniature. As is Viktor, his partner in pushing the boundaries of science, being on the side of caution in such an argument.

 "Well, eh. I suppose knowledge is a bit of a paradox."

"... That's a dumb answer."

"I know," Viktor admits. Tweaks his chin fondly. "But it is all I have to offer, on this subject. And now you must go."

Rigel's face twists - the same way baby Meissa's would, when she was about to be set down on the ground.

"Please, Papa?" You come home so much less now... "Why can't I stay?" What do you do in here all day, anyway? "I'll be quiet. I promise--"

I don't need a savior, Papa. I need YOU.

hE aChEs, the voice whispers. 

eNd HiS pAiN

 ShOw HiM yOuR  G L O RY

"N-no... No. I promised... "

"Papa, please--"

But as he's pushed away - against the will of the man within - something electric arcs between Viktor's metal fingers and Rigel's thin arm. Something that looks like purple lightning and feels like spider-feet, but warm and real and true.

A collage of images and sensations, all at once:

----

A pulsing, opalescent light cracking the skin of a dark-purple, egg-like orb. A grateful, reverent fear.

A slick-haired newborn, wet with glowing tendrils of goo, screaming her lungs out. A joy and amazement so great, it is nearly unspeakable.

A toddler with huge brown eyes being lowered to the ground; the overlay of a Rigel's face, equally fearful, between Viktor's hands. Bewilderment at the similarity.

Adoration. Terror. Love. And a darkness.

A darkness eating, like acid, until the feelings grow cold. Until all is hollow, distant, silent…

Save for the Hum.

The eternal Hum, within and without it all.

---- 

For a moment, father and son stand apart: Rigel gasping, overwhelmed by sensations; Viktor staring at his hands like they are alien to him. Then he draws back into himself and then in a voice that is half-man, half-more, Viktor whispers:

"Go."

"What was that!?"

"NOW," he insists. Louder.

"P-papa, what--"

And for the first time in his life, Viktor shouts at his son. "RIGEL TALIS, LEAVE THIS INSTANT! AND NEVER COME AGAIN!!"

Chapter Text

Jayce notices. He'd be a fool not to.But neither assurance, bribes, or pleas will convince his once-bubbly son to tell him what is wrong. Rigel's fear is THAT great.

So great, in fact, that after three days he is willing to do the unthinkable.

----

"M-maymay?"

"Shhh!" she hisses, not even looking down at him. "And I TOLD you not to call me that!"

But for once, he's uncowed. "Meissa." He tugs at her sleeve. "Serious."

And it's so unlike Rigel, she finally turns from what the crowd around them is staring towards. The look on her brother's face changes her tune completely.

"What's wrong!? Are you hurt? Did someone-"

"S-something's wrong with Papa..."

"Uh, no there isn't?" She points. "He's right there." And yes, Viktor does appear to be alright, standing just outside the entrance to Commune. His back is straight, staff clutched steadily in one metallic hand: every inch the shepherd standing between his flock and danger, unafraid.

"Why're you scared? He's just gonna talk to some Council lady..."

"No." The murmur of the white-clad people around them suddenly feels far too loud. "Something happened. I-I went to see him and--"

But the Piltovian retinue (led a woman with a beret perched atop long, dark hair and a grand silk cape) is approaching. Viktor clangs his staff against the ground twice; the Commune, Rigel included, fall silent. Flanked by gun-toting guards clad in royal blue, the ice-eyed woman speaks:

"The Herald, I presume?"

"I am that I am," Viktor answers, tone perfectly even. "And you are Councilor Kirraman, newly appointed Head of the Enforcers."

Caitlyn's nostrils flare, but no other sign of surprise cracks her stern face.

"As he's so well-informed, perhaps His Holiness can tell me why I'm here..."

"The same reason, I presume, as last time." Viktor's tone remains passive; not disrespectful, but not yielding either. "As will our answer be."

"And what about them?" Caitlyn gestures to multitude of faces peering through the Commune gates. "I suppose you've taken a census? Asked if they wish to die in a Noxian attack?"

The words draw a collective shudder from the crowd. But their Leader gives only the slightest, curious crane of graceful neck.

 "Is violence assured, then? Or do you merely assume the worst of Noxus' new leader?"

"Warships," Caitlyn sniffs. "En route from Bilgewater. You suppose they're full of flowers?"

But he doesn't rise to the bait. "You trust Piltover's coiffers to the might of Hextech... Surely the City of Progress has equal faith in weapons powered by it."

"And if you truly speak to the Arcane, then I'm sure you know what is happening to them... That, or your spies have informed you?"

"We do not condone - or require -spies," Viktor refutes. Then adds, "As those returned to Piltover were instructed to inform their leadership."

"We are NOT the enemy, Herald. Not today." And for the first time, he senses something besides steely frustration burning within Caitlyn. Something like compassion. "Our weapons are malfunctioning. Noxus knows. Zaun's contempt for Piltover must be placed on at least a temporary hold, today. Or both cities will fall."

"How strange..." Viktor gazes into the middle distance. Through Caitlyn. Through the trappings of mortality and earthly affairs. "That when your people are at risk, immediate action is required. But when Zaun's people breathe poison and drink pain for centuries, the matter is always deferred…"

"Where is Jayce!?" Caitlyn's voice cracks; at the name, both Rigel and Meissa jump. "Let HIM talk some sense into you..."

And oh, a dangerous shade darkens the brow of the Herald...  "He has nothing to say to you."

"How about to Mel Medarda? When she marches through the ashes of Piltover to your doorstep? What will he have anything to say to HER?"

 A pulse erupts from Viktor and moves through them all: sonic, silent. The Hum changes. Rigel's stomach drops. But Viktor does not answer the Enforcer. Instead, he turns to the collected faithful; they stare back devotedly. But within, they are clearly measuring the image painted by Caitlyn's words.

"All who would feel safer Topside," Viktor addresses them coolly, "may leave without reprisal. At any time."

When no one in the Commune moves, Viktor glances evenly back at the Councillor. But she just rolls her eyes.

"Oh stop posturing... I'm not here to disband your cult. I'm here - against Council wishes, I might add - to request your help. To protect innocents above as WELL as below!"

"To which I ask, again: what do you hold that a lowly 'cult leader' could do?"

In a last-ditch effort, her guard goes down; her ice melts the slightest bit.

"You heal the sick. You grew an Eden from salted earth... These people have reason to trust you. If you stood beside us when the Noxian ships land, it would legitimize you as a leader. Prove once and for all your harmonious intentions. That is an incredible opportunity, Herald... One that I don't advise turning down."

 "Or?"

The tall woman shakes her head, as if she'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

"Your community-" she chooses the word carefully, "has required only Piltover's absence in order to thrive. But not all on the Council support such non-intervention. Usually they're placated when their surveillance teams return unharmed..."

A beat, to let this sink in.

"But if a personal request from Commander Kirraman, aimed at safeguarding the lives of both cities' citizens, were to be refused, well... perhaps their objections would return. With more teeth."

Hundreds of eyes on his back, Viktor considers for a moment. Glances somewhere mortal eyes cannot perceive, choosing his words like stones.

"Your weapons are malfunctioning. You want a mage, or the closest thing you have to one, to bolster appearances before Noxus." The smallest shake of his head.
"I am but a shepherd, Commander... If Noxus finds such a humble presence worth calling upon, they will know where to find me. Tending to my flock."

That should have been the end. But as Viktor turns back towards the Commune, the facade of professionalism shatters.

"VIKTOR!!" she roars.

He stops, but doesn't turn.

"Why is Hextech malfunctioning NOW?" Pain, frustration radiate from her. Disappointment. "Is it interference from their side? Or yours?"

Viktor's impassive gaze combs the fearful crowd. Searching, waist-high, for familiar amber eyes.

"I cannot speak on what the Arcane conceals from me, Councilor,” he finally says. “But know this: if I had to power to take back Hextech, I would not have waited this long."

----

"You WHAT!!?"

 When life is as idyllic as theirs, there are few reasons for Jayce to raise his voice. But today the house rumbles with his voice: booming, gravelly. And much angrier than his children (who are not supposed to be listening from underneath the kitchen window) have ever heard.

"It was a ploy, Jayce."

But he just scoffs. "And how ‘bout YOU sending me away just before Caitlyn came? Was THAT a ploy too?!"

Viktor’s brow knits pensively. "I did not know when the Councillor's entourage would arrive... Nor that it would be Caitlyn. You presume, due to emotion--"

"Oh bullSHIT, Viktor!" he interrupts, pacing in enormous, uneven footfalls. "It's not emotion, it's OBVIOUS. We barely see you anymore, and now you're making sweeping decisions - decisions that affect our children! Ones you KNOW I'd disapprove of!!"

There's an offended pause. "I make decisions for everyone’s well-being."

"Really? 'Cause it sounds like THIS one’s about ego,” Jayce spits back. “Not about keeping TWO cities safe!"

"I will not go to war," Viktor cuts him off, quiet but steady. "I told the Noxian 'no' once. And the daughter is nothing like the mother: she will not visit violence upon Piltover. Nor upon Zaun. Caitlyn - and the city behind her - fear only the upset of the status quo."

"The status quo in Noxus is DEAD," Jayce lowers his voice. "No one knows WHO killed Ambessa. Or WHAT exactly Mel is coming back here to do..."

"You knew Mel better than I." There's a bristle to the even words. Something dangerously close to emotion. "But as I recall, she preferred diplomacy. Loathed the spilling of blood."

"That was a decade ago." Jayce says bitterly. "We don't know WHAT that place has done to her. The rumors about her... About her powers? Viktor, you can’t defeat a Mage."

An indistinguishable mouth-sound; the echo of a long-ago, sharp-eyed assistant in it. "Ehh… not in battle, no. But it will not come to that, Jayce. I am certain."

"Well I'M not!! And if Mel sets foot on Piltover shore, she's in a position to do whatever she likes! Caitlyn is right - you NEED to be there, with Enforcers to back you up. Then you can at least to TRY for a two-state parlay."

Viktor's long hair bobs with the shake of his head. "If this is a plot to separate me from the Commune, then I'd be playing right into Topside's hands. Let's not pretend this is a form of recognition..."

"It's CAITLYN, for Janna's sake!" Jayce's voice ratchets up again. "I've known her since she was SIX!"

"And she is not who she was a decade ago," Viktor throws back. "We don't know what Piltover has done to her... Especially now that she is in dual positions of authority. Tell me, Jayce - do you ever remember power being won by merit, up there?"

Disgust, writ large across Jayce’s features. "She went against the Council. Came to us for help-"

"-- and I told her: Piltover's problems belong to Piltover," Viktor finishes. "She makes decisions in their best interest. And I in ours... Something I thought my partner, of all people, would trust me to do."

Jayce's sigh is huge. Exhausted. It takes him a few moments to compose his thoughts.

"When I came back, I left them all for you… Caitlyn, who was grieving. My mom. And you made me two promises. About the kids. And, and that we'd always be--"

"- of one mind," Viktor completes. "One soul."

"And... and we HAVEN'T been, Vik... Not for a long time. The other day, you just- you just offered to Ascend them. Right in front of me!! I- I feel like I don't even KNOW the person I'm talking to now."

In the long, barren pause after these words, Rigel clutches one hand desperately in the front of his robes. The other, his sister silently reaches out and holds. For nearly one terrible minute, neither fathers nor children one move. Speak. Barely breathe.

And then Jayce sniffles.

Rigel's eyes sting.

Inside the house, Viktor crosses the room like a ghost. Lays a hand against his partner's bearded cheek.

"Jayce... I'm sorry. I forgot how important that was to you.”

A reply burns in his mouth. But Viktor’s touch – something he hasn’t felt in precious long – stills the words before they can be born. (Always his weakness... Always.)

“And I did not realize how hard my absence would be on you."

"Of COURSE it is." But the edge in his voice is gone. "I love you, Vik."

Crouched in the dirt under the window, Meissa makes an 'ick' face.

Viktor draws him in close. Presses his forehead against the opal tattooed circlet across Jayce's. "But you are wrong," he murmurs. "We are of one mind. Because I have seen your soul, Jayce... How full it is, of love for our little stars. On this, we will never disagree."

Meissa draws in a breath. Pulls Rigel's hand toward her.

"I hate to stay away.” He’s almost whispering now. “You know I do. But you know I do it to maintain connection to the Arcane. Maintain this garden for them. For all children here, safe because of our work..."

He kisses the forge-scars, filled in iridescent, on Jayce's knuckles. Kisses the old slice on his cheek. The cleave in his brow.

"I see clearer. Farther." He whispers against Jayce's lower lip. "Trust me."

With a shuddering sound, Jayce grabs him by the waist and pulls him into the gape of heady, hungry mouth.

Scrunching up her nose in disgust, Meissa nods pointedly at her brother: time to go. And, keeping silent as they can, brother and sister army-crawl away from their secret eavesdropping spot. 

----

"Well, shit," Meissa says, once they're out of earshot from the house. "Something's BIG wrong."

"TOLD you."

"And I believed you!" she hisses. "Don't start, Ry."

"So what do we DO?" Rigel pleads; he NEEDS his sister, older and wiser, to know. Because he has no idea.

Squinting at what they've just finished scratching in the dirt, Meissa twirls a strand of her long, dark-brown hair. Her mouth crimps the way exactly Jayce's does when he’s contemplating a problem. But the narrow of her eyes is all, all Viktor.

"Well, I don't THINK we need to worry about the Topside and Noxus stuff... Papa's pretty sure it's okay. And Dad wouldn't let anything happen to us."

"Yeah," Rigel nods, more than willing to take her word for it. All of that stuff is far too huge to even conceptualize. "But what about PAPA? He was so weird the other day... And what he said about being weak?"

"I think..." Meissa chews on the start of the sentence, "that's why he's been coming home less, and healing fewer people. He's conserving his Arcane-y magic-stuff by meditating in the Sanctum."

"What happens if he runs out?"

"I don't know," the girl admits. "But the way Dad talked about it, the Arcane is like... a thing all by itself. Said he saw it deep under Piltover. In the heart of the something-or-other."

"He never told ME that..."

"Yeah, 'cause you're dumb."

"Hey!!"

"I mean and you were like, still a baby when he said it… I guess."

"Well, YOU used to be a big crybaby! Papa told me himself!"

"Yeah yeah whatever." Meissa waves a hand at him, still concentrating on the writing in the dirt. "Focus! If Papa's power comes from a stand-alone Thing, and that Thing is far away from the Commune, maybe THAT'S why Papa charges slower now... Maybe if Papa could get closer to it, he'd be stronger?"

Against his will, Rigel finds himself relieved. "Th-that shouldn't be too hard, right? Since the Commune's in Zaun and Zaun's under Piltover too?"

"Then why hasn't he already gone?" Meissa posits. "He always says, the Arcane is just speaking through him... Maybe he doesn't know WHERE it is?"

"But they're connected," Rigel bounces back. "If he can do all kindsa magic, I bet he can sense where it is.."

"So now the question is-""

"- what keeps him from going to the Arcane, so he can charge faster?"

"And what happened the other day," Meissa finishes. "When you said his memories and feelings 'jumped' into you?" She leans close to her brother's face, eyebrows crimped in study. "You said he didn't touch your forehead at all, right?"

"Yeah. Plus he was touching my ARM when it happened."

"And it didn't leave a mark... Weird."

YOU'RE weird, he parries internally. But not aloud, because he still needs her help.  

"I think we need an outside opinion," Meissa interrupts.

---

Naili says nothing as Meissa explains. Just blinks his sideways-eyelids (which Rigel thinks are pretty gross, but he'd be dead if he said so aloud.)

"- and THAT'S everything we know," she sums up after several rambling minutes; Rigel half expects her to take a bow. "Any questions?"

"Yeah, I got one," the Vastaya girl with the opaled-over eye snarks. "Why's any a'that OUR problem?"

But Naili shakes his head, disapproving. "Because we’re touched and they're not," he explains. "She said already."

Meissa's eyes turn to lovesick moons in triumph - he actually WAS listening!! Rigel mimes throwing up in his mouth.  

"... But Tohka's right," Naili adds, promptly bursting the bubble. "When I was healed, I didn't feel anything like that."

"Yeah!" the girl agrees, flicking her spotted ears. "It was just a big 'whoosh' and him looking at me creepy. That's all."

"I'm sorry," the blue-skinned boy apologizes; his voice is flat, but there's sympathy in the webbed hand he places on Meissa's shoulder. But instead of dissolving into sighs at the slightest touch of her Big Bad Boy-Crush, as Rigel expects, Meissa squints thoughtfully at Tohka.

"You said he looked creepy... What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean- you’ve seen it before,” the girl sniffs. “His eyes go all white. Sorry, I know he's your dad, but--"

Meissa cuts her off. "Rigel. Were Papa's eyes white when it happened?"

"N-no..."

"So when he heals people and marks them, his eyes go white. And when his memories jumped to you, they weren't and it DIDN'T leave a mark..."

Naili and Tohka blink, bemused. But Rigel immediately understands.

"The baby in the egg!!"

"The purple egg!"

And without another word, brother and sister dash away, experiments already taking form in their minds…