Chapter Text
As with most things, there is no hard line at the beginning or the end of war. It bleeds alizarin undertones into the “peace” before and after, rising and scarring in rhythm with saddlebells. There is no war, now, between Ionia and Noxus. Though if anyone would ask Hwei, he would tell them there never was.
“The spoon,” he had mused into the mirror, dressing himself, “is not at war with the orange as it separates pith from peel, regardless how much of a fight is put up by the orange.”
“Perhaps that is so,” the shadow in the corner had said, all rasp and bemusement, “that, or you’re hungry.”
“I am always hungry.” Hwei had replied, not because it was true - who knows if it was true - but because it was exactly what the shadow had wanted to hear.
As much as Hwei would say there was never any war, there is now so little of it as to be only echo. No one says anymore that there is war, only stain. So it shakes the whole port when the cannonfire starts.
The ships on the horizon, silhouettes all Noxian hard-edged even through miles of ocean haze, have sat vigil since before Hweis arrival to this port on the tail of lotus pink whispers. They had hanged like heads on pikes over the whole coast long enough for flesh to rot and for everyone to forget who the skulls belonged to.
“If they were gonna attack us,” a local fishmonger had told Hwei shortly after he arrived, “they’d have done it already.”
Fallacy. Yellow nostalgia-bruise. It’s hard to think with the way shots ring his ears, play the floor like a piano. Behind decorative lavender paper the inn room walls begin to crumble. Hwei runs for the outdoors, barely stopping long enough to grab his bags. Better to die than abandon his tools, he muses as he does neither.
A young child begs for mother. A fishmonger gets his daily dose of iron. Cadmium turns Alizarin turns Umber in minutes as the whole coast begins to burn. Noxian boots hit the dirt. Hwei, as usual, runs inland. There is nothing for him in a port with no ships - well, no ships that will take him, anyway, and he is not a hero of the mettle to ward off a damned Noxian siege.
The reek of burning plaster singes his nose hairs, tracing old patterns along his sinuses. A windmill collapses inward, poles and gears shrieking above the third volley. The shadow would loathe the baseness of it all, but Hwei sees precious moments. Blood flows in fractals between cobblestones. Brother and sister cling to one another, melded evermore at the doorstep of their childhood home. A man is crumpled to timber beneath his upturned market stall.
Hwei scans the area for a fourth moment but finds only base, unartistic carnage. The effort pauses his stride, consumes his attention long enough that he almost doesn’t see the spear heading straight for his head.
Magic is study. It is rote recitation and perfection and containment. It isn’t battle ready, not yet, so it is no shock to Hwei when he reaches through his palette for protection and finds a cerulean streak of reflection - misdirection, an imperfect energy. It stops the spear from cracking into his skull but still sends it careening into his femur. The snap is a gunshot, and Hwei is unconscious before he hits the ground.
***
Every infirmary smells the same. Get enough bloody bodies together and the iron, the meat, and the infection all bleed into a wet miasma that sits heavy on the tongue. It isn’t often that Darius finds himself between the beds instead of on one, and he has no envy for the soldiers unlucky enough to be injured.
“We weren’t able to fully capture the port, sir, but we destroyed its infrastructure and disrupted its usability.”
“Good,” Darius replies, not breaking stride with the officer to his left. “Why did you need me, then?”
“Well, sir,” the officer’s voice tightens, a hand goes up to tug at his collar. “We made a slight mistake when collecting the injured.”
“Mistake? Did we leave someone behind?”
“Quite the opposite, sir.”
At that moment they turn a corner, to a bed separate from the rest, a trifarian stood at attention on either side. Upon it rests an angel.
Darius shoves that thought down and corks it. On the bed is a man - obviously Ionian, since he’d never have allowed someone so frail and pallid to fight. A brace holds his leg in place - setting for a broken femur. Dark hair is streaked with gold, skin glowing slightly in all sorts of colors where the light hits it - because he’s a mage, obviously. Darius averts his gaze and clenches his jaw once he pieces it together.
As he glances between the officer and the trifarians he sees the hunger pooling in his gut mirrored in the sets of their jaws. It’s a human desire, but a dangerous one for both them and the mage. Darius clears his throat to recapture their attention.
“He’s an injured mage - potentially an asset. Cuff him and move him to the apartment attached to my quarters - gently . If he wakes up in too much pain to talk I’ll have the both of you shoveling horse shit for a month. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Darius nods, turning to leave. There is a murmur, something about ‘spoils’ and ‘all to himself,’ from the soldiers as he goes.
“Can it, ” he shouts over his shoulder. He leaves the ‘or else’ unsaid, certain that their imaginations are better than his. He grants himself one last glance at the man on the table before he finally leaves the tent.
***
Talon to windowsill. Pen to paper. Hand to Flower. The man who sees everything catches this arrival. He would not miss this for the world.