The Fall: 8. The Cleanse Begins

The Cleanse Begins

-You will start to work after the arrest squad fails. -pointed out Garen.- Your job will be to hunt down and bring back to Demacia those people that haven proven themselves to have parted ways with their humanity in favour of power. Dead or alive, I'll have enough with their heads.

-Why should the arrest squad fail? -arrogantly asked Lucian.

-You have worked with the likes of them, Lucian.-answered Garen, clearly annoyed by the Purifier's behaviour. -The Gem Knight, the Sentinel's sorrow, the Half-Dragon... they should not be underestimated. The rebellion we're facing is serious business. This is not like hunting for silly monsters about Runeterra with your chick; remember that your...

Lucian turned and walked out of the room, closing the door silently, leaving Garen mid-talk. The new king's anger could be felt in the room, but he didn't stop.

-...enemies know you as much as you know them. -he stopped and breath deeply while turning for facing Quinn. -You'll lead the team. Those monsters won't doubt to chop your head off, don't give them the chance to. You may leave now.

...

Quinn couldn't understand what was going on. King Jarvan had died, adn the noxians had been blamed for it at the very beginning. Garen was already preparing an army to march against their eternal nemesis, but something tore those plans down to pieces; a Noxian letter had arrived. It talked about traitors in their own ranks and about Swain escaping with the one in charge of single-handedly causing the death of hundreds of Noxians. As a side note it talked about Xin Zhao, the Seneschal, being kidnapped by the Chain Warden. No more details concerning the letter were made public; the only thing that the Demacian common folk knew was that Noxus was not an enemy anymore.

Officially, the army was going to march against the Shadows Isles in the search of Xin Zhao, while other scout squads were being prepared to look for Xin Zhao around Runeterra; as said by Garen, "they could not be sure what a twisted mind like Thresh's could beplanning". Only a few knew the truth; their new king was lying to the masses.

As far as most people were concerned, they had to find Xin Zhao to uncover the truth of what had happened to Jarvan IV; the truth was that the Noxian-Demacian alliance wanted to change the world how the had once known it by cleaning the human race. Yordles, dragons, mages... if something made it different from the standars they had settled, it had to be erased.

Who were the monsters now?

...

The drink was way too cold that night. Even for a heart as frozen as his, the drink was way too cold. He looked at the bartender, who immediately took his jar and emptied it, pouring its content into the sink and diving deep into the kitchen.

That was why Yasuo had always preferred that place among the rest. He needn't talk, he need't listen to anything, he didn't even think. If he wanted something to drink he payed, and when he couldn't pay the bartender never complained; he knew that the man he knew as Yone would pay his debts. Yone had always payed his debts, even though he had never given in to drink.

He had never liked to use the name of his dead brother, but when he had to come up with a name that was not his, Yone always came to mind. Ten years had passed, yet ten more wouldn't have been enough for Yasuo to get free of his burden. Unable to prove his innocence, old friends were still hunting him down day and night. Bilgewater had been his personal heaven; you can't draw attention when you're surrounded by freaks even stranger than you. That had given him the chance to be reborn as Yone, the Ionian fisherman. The only one that got to fish now matter how strong the winds were those days, a hero among the common folk. Yone was the one that saved the hungry and the poor. The silent man that had saved countless lives.

Without a word, Yasuo left the bar and walked towards the docks, where home was waiting for him. He was covering himself with the blankets and coats that children from the neighborhood had gifted him when he heard a familiar voice whispering in his ear.

-It's been long since we last met, brother... -said Yasuo, before swiftly unsheathing his blade and cutting twice through the shadow's throat. -And I do not plan on sharing a drink with you soon.

The Black Mist was back. Year after year, always arriving some weeks earlier than it did the last year. Always colder, always stronger. But it is not yet time to die. At least not for the unforgiven.

Danza de la Falange

La danza sobre el teclado es una que debería de convertirse en ritual. Tendría que ser algo que nos salga por reflejo, por necesidad del alma en sí. Los dedos de uno deberían desear alcanzar aquel momento en el que consiguen posarse sobre el teclado y liberarse. Unos dedos que se pasan mucho tiempo sin hablar, sin expresar, sin sentir. Y que de repente explotan.

Porque si les damos rienda suelta de verdad nunca sabemos lo que podemos llegar a sacara de su creatividad. No nos confundamos, no es lo mismo tener una idea, pensarla y escribirla que simplemente posar las manos sobre las teclas y dejar que los dedos lleven a cabo ese arte suyo que los humanos nunca llegaremos a comprender. Una danza que parece caótica, que de por sí no valoraríamos jamás, pero que gana valor gracias a la pantalla.

La interpretación que le damos a semejante danza, el conjunto de palabras, vocablos, a veces incluso improperios que estos son capaces de soltar nunca llegará a valer ni la mitad de lo que vale la danza en sí. Me atrevería a decir que cuando nos dedicamos a tal práctica (la de dejar que los dedos bailen sobre el teclado) tenemos que estar constantemente mirándolos a estos. Valorar una danza semejante solo por la marca que ésta deja en un blog sería un insulto al magnífico arte que nuestras falanges llevan a cabo.

Es por eso que os invito caballeros a un espectáculo que solo ustedes mismos pueden organizar; tumbados o sentados, con luz o a oscuras, ya sea solos o acompañados, dense el placer de apreciar con sus propios ojos al flujo de ideas que sus dedos tienen preparados para ustedes. Dejen que ellos bailen para ustedes.

Sin existir.

Paró en seco.

Todo, absolutamente todo, estaba bañado en la oscuridad más tenebrosa que ser alguno jamás haya presenciado.

No podía ver sus propias manos. Cruzando sus ojos no notaba su nariz, y eso que no era del tipo de protuberancias que pasasen desapercibidas. ¿Sería ciego ahora?

Fue entonces cuando decidió tocarse. Pero no notaba las manos. No podía encontrar parte alguna de su cuerpo, no había nada que tocar. No había nada con qué tocar. ¿Habría perdido el tacto?

Ahora que lo pensaba, tampoco había ruido alguno que se atreviese a perturbar el sonido del silencio. Constante, invariable, ni siquiera su propia voz podía alterar lo que sus oídos percibían. ¿Había ensordecido sin darse cuenta?

Otra cosa que lo preocupaba era que, sin haberse duchado en las últimas dos semanas, su olor corporal había desaparecido. Recordaba haber evitado el baño en las últimas semanas, así que tal pureza era improbable, por no decir imposible. ¿Era también incapaz de usar el olfato?

Ni siquiera sentía el sabor de su saliva. Se lamía lo que creía que eran sus labios (al no tener tacto tampoco estaba seguro) pero no notaba nada particular. Buscó entre los restos de chocolate que seguramente tenía entre sus dientes, pero nada. Ni rastro de su sentido del gusto.

Pensándolo bien, no recordaba mucho más que aquello. Evitar el baño, comer chocolate y poco más. ¿Tenía nombre alguno? ¿Sabía lo que era un nombre? ¿Podía estar seguro de saber lo que creía saber? Ya ni siquiera era capaz de recordar cosa alguna.

Incapaz de sentir, incapaz de preocuparse e incapaz de recordar, fue entonces cuando cayó en que no le hacía falta pensar. Entonces, sin más dilación, dejó de hacerlo.

Cuestión de poder, cuestión de querer.

El fruto de un duro trabajo. No hay mucho más que busquemos; una recompensa, un algo que nos pruebe que aquello por lo que nos hemos desvivido no ha sido un sinsentido, que no hemos trabajado para nada. En definitiva, buscamos que se nos demuestre que no hemos estado perdiendo el tiempo.

Porque hay pocas congojas igualables a la provocada por los resultados fallidos. Los problemas amorosos pueden ser algo que nos distraiga e incluso que nos preocupe hasta cierto punto, pero es algo que escapa a nuestros límites porque abarca a un segundo, un tercero y demás. La salud y la enfermedad son también situaciones sobre las que, aunque podamos influir, siempre hay un deje de probabilidad que nos es inevitable. Por mucho que nos cuidemos, siempre algo puede pasar. Nos puede fallar la confianza, podemos dejar de creer en aquellos que una vez veneramos, pero al final no deja de ser eso; que alguien nos ha fallado a nosotros. Alguien que no controlábamos nosotros.

Hay muchos otros casos así. Perder una partida de lo que sea, siendo un juego de equipo o no, es algo que nunca depende solo de uno mismo, porque ya son dos personas como mínimo las que se esfuerzan para salir victoriosas, y siempre hay alguien que tiene que perder. Cuando trabajamos junto a otros para conseguir una meta común también podemos fallar y, aunque seguramente nuestros actos hayan influido en el resultado (sea negativo o positivo), siempre nos queda el consuelo de que no todo es producto nuestro.

Claro, hay situaciones en las que solo uno es el responsable de los resultados. Y es comprensible fallar una vez; todos cometemos errores, nos equivocamos constantemente al vivir cosas nuevas. No sabemos como afrontarlas y pasa lo que pasa. Podemos equivocarnos una segunda vez, y aún así podríamos justificarlo; habría que trabajar más, tendría que haberlo dado todo, podría haber hecho tal y tal cosa para mejorar...

Pero, ¿qué hacemos cuando, tras habernos esforzado de verdad, tras habernos desvivido por algo, esto fracasa? ¿Es ese fracaso la bengala que a gritos nos comunica que hay que dejarlo? ¿Es tal tropiezo un “No.” definitivo? ¿No queda ya nada que podamos hacer para superar las barreras que nos separan de aquello que ansiamos realizar? ¿aquello que, aún habiéndonos dejado la piel por ello, hemos sido incapaces de controlar?

Mi respuesta es, a pesar de que me sorprenda, incierta. Si tuviese que decírselo a otra persona tengo muy claro lo que respondería. Eres capaz de todo y más, los único límites que encontrarás son aquellos que te impongas a ti mismo. Apunta al Sol y las estrellas y te aseguro que como mínimo alcanzarás el cielo. Lucha por lo que quieres, porque no hay nada que pueda contra una férrea voluntad que se aferra a aquello que ama. Tus deseos y sueños no son más que realidades para las cuales aún no has trabajado lo suficiente; extiende la mano y tómalo, hazte con todo lo que consideras tuyo, porque no habrá jamás nadie capaz de pararte.

Pero, ¿es ésa la respuesta que me daría a mí mismo?

The Fall: 7. Crows for the Dead

Crows for the Dead

It was a strange feeling.

He didn't really have any memory of his life before his brother's arrival. When Draven was born Darius thought of him as a pet; something loyal that would never leave him, helping each other constantly, always being there when needed. But time had taught him that a brother was more than that.

His brother had been a hug when he needed it, a smile that had made him feel better countless times. He had also been what had tied him to reality when being into the fray turned him into the monster he now was. He couldn't remember a day without his brother. The ones before his death had always been shared, even if he just crossed him on his way to the arena. Draven's smile was always strange; he didn't express happiness, but love for himself. When they were young they have talked a lot about that. "What's love for you, brother?" had asked Draven a long time ago, when they were no more than teenagers working hard to earn a spot in the army. "Love is what you feel when you are with someone that can make you smile no matter how hard the situation is. At least that's how I think of it, even though I'm not sure if I have ever felt it." Darius answered back then. "Then I have certainly fallen in love, brother." answered Draven with a big smile on his face.

It had taken him long to understand him, but one day at the arena, watching his brother Draven tear down a man from the distance by using those spinning axes of his, he caught a glimpse of what he had meant back then. While tearing corpses down, Draven was alone in the arena, at least to the eyes of the thousands of spectators that filled it up every week. But Darius knew the truth; his little brother was never alone, he was always with that person he had always loved. The only one always able to make him wear a smile no matter how hard the situation was; Draven himself.

Later that day, Darius met up Draven and asked him about it; he was curious about that. When he asked his brother about it, he didn't answer at all. He just walked out of the restaurant they had met at, alone, with a smile on his face. And that's how he made sure of it. His brother loved no more than himself; as narcissistic as a man could be, his brother would always live his life with what he considered the best company a man could have.

That kind of insanity was what brought him back to a normal life once a battle was over. No slaughters, no killing, no skinning. No heads waiting to be smashed, no Ionians to be tortured to death, no Demacians being cut a piece a week that would be sent to their homeland as a reminder of what was about to come. It was just him, his brother and their smiles. "Malcolm's execution would be way easier to handle if he was here..." whispered Darius for himself. Always overshadowed by him, Malcolm was a good man; he just hadn't been good enough to save his brother. He wished he could have protected Draven from the Chain Warden, to avoid reaching this situation. But someone had to pay for what had been done, and the one to be punished would be that noxian general.

The only danger Darius was facing now was his own madness, and nothing could save him from it.

...

The crowd didn't even dare to look at his eyes; they were silent. Some of them hated him for not being able to protect the people that had died in the arena, but they didn't dare speak a word. Malcolm had been a hero of war, one of the few to come back from the last war with a Demacian head, and it was not any common head; the Lady of Luminosity had died at the hands of that man. That was why they were so nervous yet so quiet. Fear or respect, the fact that Malcolm was not a common prisoner changed how things were.

By contrast, several crows haunted the place, their squawks following the rythm of Malcolm's footsteps. He could feel their black eyes digging deep in his flesh, but somehow he knew they saw no feast in his corpse. Why were they there then? Malcolm was certain that he wouldn't live long enough to know the answer to that question. The new executioner was eager to get his hands on Malcolm's head.

The death of Urgot in the last war had left them with little to no people wanting to become the Noxian headsman of reference; that was only until Draven got into the scene. He loved his job, he did it effectively and he committed to it with a love that no Noxian had ever felt. But the incident at the arena had forced Noxus to look for another executioner. With no permanent headsman taking the job, Darius had taken it temporarily.

When he was forced down and told to lay his head on the steel bar, Malcolm looked up a last time to see Darius' face. To his surprise, Darius was crying. "Someone had to pay for this, and you are the only one to blame for such a loss Malcolm." whispered the Hand of Noxus. He raised his axe unhesitatingly and ordered him to face the steel bar. As cold and clean as it was, Malcolm could only feel a fiery fire burning inside him. It was all over.

The Fall: 6. The Glorious Execution, pt. 2

The Glorious Execution, pt. 2

Malcolm knew that sound; Thresh's laugh was not something anyone could easily forget. But he was given no time to react. Darius was on the floor, and Thresh's sickle was stuck at Nellestar's chest. That was his death sentence. 'I'm sorry, Nellestar....'' thought the General.

Without a doubt, Malcolm dashed away from his pupil, pushing him down to the ground. Without looking back, he ran towards Darius, who was laying in the ground. Was he dead? He didn't think so; the Hand of Noxus couldn't be taken down so easily. He could hear Thresh whisper at his back, but Malcolm didn't want to turn. If he had to die now, he would; his cowardice deserved such a punishment. Trying to wake Darius up and bandaging a wound in his front, he waited for his death to arrive, but it looked like the gods had thought of another fate for him.

Why would the Chain Warden leave them alive? Two of the strongest men of Noxus could have fallen at his hands, but he had completely ignored them. He would have called that mercy if he wasn't talking about Thresh. Something had drawn the attention of the chain warden.

Darius' coughs stopped his thinking.

-¡What has happenned! -shouted the Hand of Noxus while getting on his feet.-¡¿Where did that monster go?!

-He left, Nellestar died and you fainted instantly. -answered Malcolm. -I have no idea of where he went. I came to take care of your wounds.

-¡You have let it free! -screamed Darius while running through the path marked by Nellestar's blood. -¡You'll die if I see you again, traitor! ¡You'd better run!

Malcolm did not answer. He didn't know what to do next.

...

That was it.

He could feel it; a life without a soul. A man who was alive and dead at the same time. Such a curious thing could not be overlooked.

Every step brought him closer to his objective. With every cling of the chains he felt hundreds of weak souls grouped. 'This is the arena...' thought Thresh. He could feel death's scent in the air, he could even talk to it.

-It's been so long since we last met... hahahaha... -he took a deep breath while walking.- I missed this.

He could hear the crowd. He could hear the executioner. 'But there is no word of my soulless man...' thought the warden.

When he entered the arena everyone fell silent. Even the executioner, who was well known for never shutting up, was quiet. But there was no calm in the arena. The silence that had suddenly invaded the Noxians was caused by fear.

-Step out of my toy. -calmly said the chain warden looking at Draven's eyes. -Please.

-¡¿What are you doing he...

Draven didn't get to finish the sentence. Thresh's sickle went through his throat. His lantern moved on its own, floating for a while; seconds later, both Draven and the Lantern hit the ground. A minute later, the arena was no more than a bunch of corpses laying in a dead cold graveyard.

...

He was late. He had failed his nation. The silence of the arena stuck in his ears, even his heart stopped for a while. Men, women and children alike, they were all dead. Now they were no more than bunches of corpses. Open mouths, scared eyes... That was the work of the madman.

Then he thought about his brother. He ran to the center of the arena, Draven's favourite place for taking down prisoners. When he found his brother, he wished he had not. His disfigured face was still helplessly calling for help. His throat, torn to pieces, did not look like the one his brother had used countless times to laugh at his victims.

And it was all his fault. His and Malcolm's.

The Fall: 6. The Glorious Execution, pt. 1

The Glorious Execution, pt. 1

A bright light was shining down the corridor; they were arriving. Malcolm could hear the crowd cheer the executioner; those kind of behaviours had always made him sick. That senseless violence that distinguished the Noxian arena from the rest, the audience's extreme sadism and the stink of death that reminded him of the battlefield. 'But no battles were fought in the arena...' thought Malcolm. 'It's all about the bloodshed, no reason to back it up.'.

Suddenly, a big man's silhouette appeared in the tunnel's entry. When their paths crossed, he noticed that Darius was as nervous as Malcolm had never seen him. He stopped a second, and so did Darius.

-I want you to come to the catacomb's cells right after leaving Xin Zhao at the arena, Malcolm. -comanded the Hand of Noxus. -No delay will be tolerated, I'll meet you down there.

-So it will be. -answered General Malcolm.

With Nellestar silently complaining about his situation, both Darius and Malcolm followed their ways. With every step the heat of the arena and the smell of rotting flesh became stronger, 'Only beasts would not reject such a monstruous show.' thought the General.

A few seconds later, Malcolm and Nellestar were walking back to the catacomb's cells. He had never been fond of the Noxian love for bleeding flesh, and he would avoid it as much as he could.

-Swift, Nellestar! -commanded Malcolm.-Darius is waiting in the catacombs, walk faster if you want to keep your remaining teeth!

...

He woke up when his head hit the floor. There he was; the place that had made him become what he had once been would be the one to kill him. He could hear the crowd cheer at the begginning. They were all having fun, just like he remembered. Noxians loved every drop of blood that was shed without a reason. He just couldn't understand why he wasn't dead yet. But then he heard that annoying voice.

-Here you have it! -shouted the executioner.-The fiercest warrior ever known, a soldier from head to toe, once a hero and the most loyal guard you might have ever seen. -he smiled looking at Xin Zhao.-But this thing I see here is not what they promised us!

The kick caught him by surprise. Then his nose started bleeding and his whole world became red.

-Are you the man they told me to kill? -shouted Draven while spinning an axe on his right hand.- I'm not in charge of killing animals. Sheep, cows, bulls or pigs; there is no place for filth like you here, whatever you are.

Another kick turned him and left him facing the sun. He was no animal. He was nothing to be laughed at. He was Xin Zhao, the Seneschal of Demacia, the steward of the last member of the Lightshield Dinasty. He was the Viscero.

He was going to get up and stop that nonsense by beating that shitty executor that Noxians adored, but then a boot smashed the left side of his face. An axe landed right before his eyes, that were now facing the ground. That brought him back to reality. That reminded him what he was. 'Nothing but history.' thought the las remain of the Viscero.

...

A chilling cold got into his bones while he went deeper and deeper into the catacombs. Empty cells surrounded him; that was the Arena's famine caused by the lack of war. Darius was curious about how would the upcoming events unfold; he didn't really know what had happenned in that room, but after Darkwill's sorcery, the Demacian king didn't look the same. Even LeBlanc was clearly afraid of what had been done, and that was proof enough that it was serious business.

No matter what the future might bring, he would be the one to carry Noxus to victory. The Fleshing needed new blood, his brother wanted new toys and the young warriors were looking forward to show their skills on the battlefield.

A sheer cold stopped his thinking. The cling-clang of chains echoed through the corridors. He kept on walking, step by step, always slower than before, until he traced a glow that lightly illuminated a passageway. He covered the distance in three big steps, and only then he wished he had never gone down the catacombs.

Thresh was bigger than he remembered; his undead eyes glowed in the dark, and a spectral aura surrounded his whole body. He could hear him laugh, but he knew he didn't have to listen. He didn't have to think. He didn't have to feel. In a situation like this, a leader must act.

He could hear the cling-clang of the chaing. He could hear the madman's laugh. But the only thing he felt was the blood rushing through his veins. This was what he had been born for; fighting enemies feared by most. The chains swirled through the room, souls blocked every hit of his that might have reached the chain warden. He didn't think he could win a fight like this; luckily, his thought were not part of him now. He was no more than a living weapon; aim, hit, aim, hit. Let the armor block whatever that might reach me.

But that situation didn't last long. He saw a chain fly overhead; blood reached his back, and then he heard a scream. When he turned he saw Malcolm and the soldier he was in charge of in the middle of the corridor; Nellestar was the one screaming. He was crying and bleeding, his dry blood being mixed with the recent one that a chain locked in his chest was bringing out.

They had to stop him here. Malcolm and Darius were the ones that should lock Thresh in the catacombs, even at the cost of their lives. They couldn't let that monster reach the surface again. The chaos that a creature of such a nature could cause was beyond their imagination. They were the ones that beared such a charge.

But no words came out of Darius' mouth. The last thing he saw was Thresh knocking him down while flying towards Nellestar; it all became dark afterwards.