The Fall: 36. Filling a void

Filling a void

-Can you walk now?- asked Anyssa.

-Yes, it's way better now.- said Ezreal, even though he wasn't sure if it was correct to say that his coal-black arm was "better".

Even though they tried to hide their thoughts, Ezreal knew what was going through everyone's mind. Most people always tried to take a glimpse at every stump they got to see. The lack of something, sometimes even the lack of knowledge, was something that baited most being into things. And having nothing but a dark cloud in the place that had once been his arm definitely called his companions atention.

Except for Tahm Kench. He never looked as someone who cared.

...

Lux was starting to feel fear. A fear that she had not felt for years.

The faces of the marching men were horrible. Noxus and Demacia had allied for nothing but the sake of killing and massacring. Those sick being preferred to call themselves a hunting party, but they were nothing but an army. A huge army marching towards an enemy that they didn't really know, parding just for the sake of blood gold and pride.

She could also see it in their faces they didn't look at her as people would normally do. Darius saw in her nothing but a weapon, Malcolm's look scared her even more than when he had taken her hostage into Riven's body and not even her brother's eyes could make Lux feel more calm. Garen didn't look like the man he had once been.

...

-How is it working Mr. Ezreal? -asked Tahm Kench.

He had not told the rest was was going on, but it was definitely time for some words. It was clear that they wanted an explanation, and Tahm Kench's comment had sparked some curiosity in them.

-Looks great. -answered the Prodigal Explorer.- After some training it's working even better than before.

Not even LeBlanc could believe what they saw afterwards.

They were not getting there late.

...

Everything would bend to their will. Darius wanted Thresh's head, and the Hand of Noxus had made Garen believe that LeBlanc and Darkwill, those who had disappeared after Draven's death, were the ones to blame for what had happened to Jarvan. Malcolm coudln't believe that Darius was letting him live; maybe it was because now he had something to fight for. Darius had always known that Malcolm had nothing to do with his brother's death, even though he knew wrong; that was the only reason that Malcolm could find for Darius to ignore every chance he had for chopping his head of.

How would they react there? How would it all be when they got there? He could feel Thresh's mark on the soil they were stepping on, he could feel the deathhug of the Shadow Isles around the Kumungu Jungle. They were definitely closer to Darkwill than them.

If it all happened as Aalcox and Aatrox expected, Darkwill would leave in front of them, escaping with Thresh, LeBlanc and all those that these two armies blamed. With no one to behead for revenge, they would surely turn onto each other.

-Are you enjoying the ride, Astor? -asked Malcolm to the albino merchant.

...

He could feel it. She was closer. But Thresh was not the only thing he needed to get her free; the chain warden would not handle her to him that easily. He needed Malcolm's girl. And he wanted LeBlanc to see it.

He had been planning it all for years. He had tricked everyone into it, he could not fail now. Another mistake like Galio's death was not a possibility.

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.

The Fall: 3. The Glorious Executioner

The Glorious Executioner

Three days and three nights passed away, but the king would not open the doors There was no response from the other side; everyone in court but the queen had tried to get in, yet no one's words had been answered.
It took a quarter of a moon cycle to reach an agreement with the guard; they would force the door to check that the king was alright. There was no food in the throne room, and the servants were sure that they had not brought anything into it. When they opened the door, the stink sent most people away from it.

The king's armor was still on the throne, it's gauntlet holding the lance he had used in countless battles. On the floor laid the Demacian standard he used to proudly carry, covered with the very same blood it had when the king arrived, still fresh. But there was no trace of Jarvan's body. Garen was trying to understand what had happened when a guard's shout dragged his attention.

-The king is dead!- desperately screamed the man.- A Noxian sorcery has killed our heirless king!

...

It was impossible to look better, he just couldn't. He had heard some people say that perfection can be considered bad at some circumstances. Even though he knew they were all wrong, he couldn't blame them; how the hell would they know what being perfect fell like if they were not?
He was the ideal man, the role model, the standard pattern followed by beauty itself. His long moustache waving while he walked, spinning axes in hand and ready to work. The arena called for him; he was the protagonist, he was the man everyone wanted, the man every single person wished to be; he was Draven.
The crow cheered him once he got into the yard. The first set of prisoners  were those charged with small crimes; burglars or people that were just being obnoxious when they shouldn't; that meant that they were free to run to the entrance once the glorious executioner entered the arena, earning the right to leave and live that way. There is no point in asking if any of them survived; the glorious executioner handled them all quickly, thirsting for the price he had been promised.
He, the magnificient, the only one, the unvaluable, would be the one to walk around the arena holding Xin Zhao's head with his bare hands.

...

Something woke him up. Something unexpected. He had lost the count of days and nights after the third one. The nightmare that Xin Zhao was living (¿was he really alive?) could not be compared to anything else; the days of the arena looked sweet compared to the hell he was going through.
His cell wass dark as it could be, completely black, filled with a silence that wasn't even interrupted by rats. He knew he was bleeding only because he remembered it; there was no pain to feel, and he was unable to sense any hint of odor at all.
He had been confined to the black cells of the catacombs; completely isolated, the only remain of reality he had were his memories. But Xin Zhao had never liked to remember.