The Fall: 5. Ziraeth's Mistake

Ziraeth's Mistake

But Xin Zhao was given no time to remember at all.

-¡Wake up you filthy Demacian! -shouted a Noxian guard.- Your beloved arena awaits you, aren't you happy about that?
-¡The crowd sure is Malcolm! -said the guard that accompannied the one that had talked first, smiling exaggeratedly.
-Malcolm... -muttered Xin Zhao.
-¡Shut up you scum!¡And you'd better keep your mouth shut if you want to keep that white smile of yours, private! -said Malcolm, clearly angry at his subordinate; he was afraid of Xin Zhao knowing his name.- Take him up fool, the executioner is waiting.
-¿Don't you miss those days when Urgot was the one meant to chop heads down Malcolm? -asked the young private.

The talking Noxian had no time to react; Malcolm's left fist hit him right into his mouth, breaking his teeth and soaking the whole cell in blood. The general didn't need to say anything more after that. With no more hesitation, the young private, now without a smile and constantly spitting blood, walked towards Xin Zhao.

-You are coming... -attempted to talk the bleeding guard before collapsing on his own feet.
-¡Get up and take him to the arena if you don't want to die with him Nellescar! -commanded General Malcolm.
-Yes m'... Yes General Malcolm. -nervously answered Nellescar while turning towards Xin Zhao.- You are coming with me.

The young private was strong; loading Xin Zhao's weight on a shoulder, the Noxian helped the seneschal of Demacia on his feet. Once they were sure that Xin Zhao could walk on his own, the Noxian guards guided him through the catacombs.

And now he remembered; he knew the way pretty well. He had fiercely fought in the arena for years. "That wasn't me..." thought Xin Zhao. That had been his former self; he had been strong, fierce, a man known and feared. But not a single trace of that legendary fighter remained on his soul; no matter what happenned up in the arena, Xin Zhao was already dead.

...

-What I mean is that if you do what you're told you'll get out of this cell. -answered LeBlanc.- What you do once you are out of here is none of my concern.
-Seems that we have a good deal here... -whispered the chain warden, his voice echoing through the cell.- You shall have what you want, Ziraeth, I'll make sure of it! Hahaha!
-Then stop laughing and start working. You know what I came for, the faster you do what I need you to, the earlier you'll get to do as you please.

He knew what LeBlanc wanted. There was no reason to fool around with her; the last Ziraeth was nothing to laugh at. Nonetheless, Thresh found that there was no need for more words. He had always been able to escape his cell, but his curiosity always held him back from doing it; his imprisonment had given him the chance to study both LeBlanc and Darkwill. Now that it was all over, he had to find a new entertainment; Noxus should suffice.

Without a word, Thresh opened the portal and LeBlanc silently went through it. "The fastest way to Piltover..." thought the chain warden. "Her one way ticket to hell, such a pitiful existence."

The Fall 4. Unchaining the Warden.

Unchaining the Warden

LeBlanc woke up with a horrible headache that wouldn't even let her walk out of the bed; the transition from one life to another never felt good, but Anyssa was being more aggressive than most had been.

Once her mind and memories got used to the new life, she started to dress up slowly, admiring what had once been Anyssa's body. Young curves, firm breasts, long blonde curly hair, a beaufitul smile and a perfect set of charming blue eyes; she had definitely made the right choice.

After getting back into her mind and dressing up, LeBlanc went straight to the catacombs; she needed to leave Noxus before Darkwill noticed what she had done, and Thresh was her only escape. After so many years, the moment had arrived; the Chain Warden would finally break free and she would be able to start a new life at Piltover. Anyssa had prepared everything in the city of progress, and she would have plenty of time to get everything going. ¿How many sould would Thresh take before leaving Noxus? She would definitely hear about it, but she would do it from the safety of the house that waited her on Piltover.

After a fast paced walk trough the Noxian catacombs and the several cells it contained, prisoners being more dangerous step after step, she finally got to the Chain Warden. He was laughing hard, but there was nothing to worry; she was the only one that knew how to get through the frozen doors of the end of the corridor; she was the only one that had a soul cold enough to survive such a hostile place.

-¡LeBlanc! ¡Oh, LeBlanc, you murderer! ¡Hahahahaha!-shouted the chain warden.-¡You really got me there! ¡I had never seen a trick like that! ¡Hahahahaha!

-There are a lot of things you have not seen yet, Thresh...-whispered LeBlanc to herself. His laugh was disgusting, and it echoed through the cold rooms that made up the monster's cell.-You laugh like a madman, did you know that?-said LeBlanc, hoping that he would stop: she was wrong.

-¡Hahahaha!-laughed the chain warden again. -Mad? Me? Haha... quite likely. But that doesn't make that trick of yours less curious.

-It is not a trick, you already know what I am.

-If it's tricky, it's a trick, no matter what you say. -he grabbed the lantern and shook it a bit, for later pointing out a corpse that laid on the floor. -Here she is and there you are, Ziraeth. Truth be told, I did not expect you to do it this way, I never really expect to see an elvesham with my own eyes. I have no strength to fight you, I really struggled to make her suffer. Well, you... hahaha. You know what I mean. Would you like to greet her?. -said Thresh before starting to laugh even louder than before.

-You know what I came for, warden. Do your job and you shall have your freedom. -announced LeBlanc with a firm voice that got to stop Thresh's frantic laugh.

-You mean that if I get you there I'll get to fool around your beloved Noxus? 

...

His life had suffered a radical change.

The hero he once had been was a thing of the past, nothing but history now. The Zaun incident had changed the life of Piltover as a whole; lacking an actual enemy, they finally got to leave peacefully. Still, the mere thought of what had happenned was enough to darken the citizen's hearts. It was difficult to find someone around Piltover who hadn't lost a friend, a brother or a son at war, and he was the one to blame.

He felt guilty, yet people only praised him as the hero they thought he was: the man that had brought peace to them shined bright enough to leave the shadow of the war behind; most people blamed themselves for being slow, for being weak, or just for not being there to hear the last words of someone they had loved. But he knew who was the only one to blame. And he would pay for it, one-handed or not.

Refusing to become what he had once fought, Jayce always carried the burden of what he had done; a horrible stump occupied the place where his right hand used to be. Unable to fight crippled, he donated the Mercury Hammer to Piltover's Techmaturgy Museum and started his political carrier.
That is how he became Piltover's mayor. Fearing the future more than ever, Jayce started his new adventure by sitting on his chair. What was about to come? No one could tell.

The Fall, Prologue: Dr. Veles Kozim's daily log

Prologue: Dr. Veles Kozim's Daily Log

Extract from Dr. Veles A. Kozim's daily log:

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 2nd day of the 1st lunar cycle:

Some peasants have brought me a strange man tonight. I can't really describe it without feeling foolish; it all seems so fantastic, as if it had been taken right away from one of those old mythology books. A man whose never-ending white beard reaches his own feet, a godlike being that floats instead of walking, with long hair that sometimes covers his whole face, as if mocking the laws of physics, defying gravity just like the man itself does. He wears an old linen robe, with a harness attached to it that holds a giant clock to his back.

I am unable to communicate with him; whatever he speaks, it's not from these days. I might be able to decipher his words, but first I need to dust off my old history books and take a look at the archive.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 4th day of the 1st lunar cycle:

After long nights of work and some short conversation tests with the subject, I have given up in trying to communicate with him. His language is unknown to me, I have only been able to recognize some city names; that suggests that his origin is here, in Runeterra. He mentioned Piltover, Shurima and, as funny as it may seem, Bandle city. Fairy tales talk about a city inhabited by the so-called yordles, some primitive living beings that are supposed to have developed both music and technology cooperating with humankind.

Note: A curious detail is that the subject is starting to recognize me. In short, he calls me Velkoz.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 8th day of the first lunar cycle:

Today is a big day: this man will be my discovery, history books will be rewritten when I publish my notes. Tired of hearing him call me Velkoz, I got to look for the name at my database. Some archives mention an enormous wandering eye known as Vel'Koz whose thirst for knowledge brought him to Runeterra. Sadly, I can't find more: all the books referring those days are unreadable, and strangely the hex-archives are corrupted.

At least now I know of what he might be talking about. I'll be studying the old languages, in a few days I'll be able to understand his never-ending speech.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 16th day of the first lunar cycle:

I developed a machine able to translate his words instantly; it was difficult for it to capture his voice and translate it on the fly, mainly because of that strange accent of his, but that was a small problem that was fastly solved. After the needed calibration, everything went as it should. A lot of information has been collected and compared with the archives, even though I haven't been able to maintain a proper conversation with him. Now, where should I start?

His name is Zilean. Having an unknown origin (at least for me), I can confirm he lived here, in Urtistan, during the war periods of the 113th and 114th century before the End of the Royal Dinasty. He was in charge of the clock tower, the only building that still remains from those days.

But there's more; this man is supposed to be an old magician. I must further my investigations, since making this information public would bring back the endless debate between historians regard the existence or not of magic in Runeterra. I can't shed light onto this mystery without more proof.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 24th day of the first lunar cycle:

Not sure if it's because of the full moon or not, but I've been able to talk with Zilean as a normal person would; he understands our language and is able of talking it fluently. After some short psychological tests he agreed to take, I have not been able to reach any conclusive results. I have asked him to stay here with me, offering him a bed, whatever he needed to eat and my huge library; instead of answering, he just laughed at me. It took me a long while to get him back into our conversation, but when he did he talked me about his disease, chrono-displasia.

To sum up, I was standing besides the only known immortal man on earth; no need to eat or sleep. But the problem is that chrono-displasia is not immortality, but eternal life instead. Let me explain the difference between those two concepts; for getting into it we'll have to first settle some basics; it's easy to compare life and a piece of rope; a linear entity, a begginning and an end, with some knots around and it can be cut somewhere in between so that it ends before.

An immortal man is quite similar; the main difference is the lack of end. The rope has a start, but no matter how much you pull you'll never get the end of it in your hands. As immortality hasn't been studied because of an obvious lack of test subjects, we can't confirm if there's a way of "cutting" the rope for giving it an earlier end.

Now we get to the icing on the cake; eternal life. Explaining something we can't conceive is not easy, but I will try my best; the eternal can't be conceived like a rope; it exists always. It has no start and it never ends, because time is for them something they can roam around. There's not a rope, but an infinite set of them, each with its own knots. Cutting one would make no sense, since the eternal being is also living the other infinite lives at the same time.

Chrono-displasia could be explained as an uncontrolable eternity; having the chance of living every single moment, they can't choose which to live; the being can phisically be at 2, 10 or a million lives (or instances of a same life) at the same time while only processing one. That means that, while he's talking to me, he's also talking in an infinite amount of parallel existences even if I'm not there.

There's so much to learn from him.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 3rd day of the second lunar cycle:

Zilean's screams woke me up. I haven't been able to sleep; he keps on talking, he won't stop no matter what I do. He talks about a lot of things. He's been cursing at someone called LeBlanc, yelling at her, bringing her to book; he talks about something that shouldn't have been done, that bringing the prince back to life was foolishness. He's talked about the Royal Dinasty, about how it all came to an end. "Immortality is a punishment, not a tool, my dear sister of condition." is all he says now. He repeats it endlessly.

Before falling into that state of ecstasy,he talked about Noxian politics, the Demacian decadency, Bandle City's sudden disappearance, the Ionian genocide and the Shadow Isles burning during the last time the Black Mist was seen. He said that the shard of the monolith was back home, that Shurima's rise and fall was already written. The Freljord shall burn on the icy hearts they were asking for.

I have to check all these data and more. I have it all recorded. The truth shall be unveiled.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 5th day of the fourth lunar cycle:

Zilean stopped talking. He just stares at me now, saying nothing. My questions receive no answer. I need him to explain what he was talking about cycles ago.

1342 years after the End of the Royal Dinasty, 6th day of the second lunar cycle:

No news from Zilean. He's still there, absently sitting in the bed I laid him upon when he started screaming. I definitely need help. I don't know how the Institute of Wisdom will take my words. Just in case I don't come back I have programmed the release of these notes; the world shall be given the truth, no matter they want it or not.

End of the extract.

Dr. Veles Aristmosis Kozim planned on making this, his archive and the recent records public.
Everything has already been solved and no information has been leaked.
Zilean has been confined to the deepest cell in Zaun's Mental Institute.
Dr. Veles A. Kozim has been 'accidentally' executed.
The truth won't reach the daylight while I live, no need to worry about that.


Yours faithfully,
LeBlanc

Animales de costumbres

Todos somos animales de costumbres; una rutina a seguir, alguna tradición familiar, las sobras para los domingos, el madrugar... Nos cuesta mucho cambiar, ya sea para bien o para mal. Requerimos de cierto patrón para mantenernos cuerdos, el caos haría que nos perdiésemos en lo que otrora podría ser el más cotidiano de los actos.

Despertarnos a una hora fija para recordar siempre cuándo estamos viviendo, qué día es y cómo hay que afrontarlo. Seguir unos horarios para intentar impedir imprevistos, para estar siempre donde debemos y cuando debemos. Cuatro comidas al día y con el correcto repartimiento de fruta, verdura, hidratos de carbono y demás. ¿Los medicamentos? Cada cuatro, seis, ocho u doce horas, quizás uno al día. ¿Clase? Los fines de semana son sagrados, así que los otros cinco son su dominio. Las cuatro estaciones, los doce meses, las horas, minutos y segundos. Años, lustros, décadas, siglos, milenios.

Llegamos hasta el punto de intentar convertir en costumbre aquello impredecible; nos inventamos el horóscopo, las lecturas de manos y el tarot. Romper un espejo, pasar bajo una escalera, las patas de conejo, un trébol de cuatro hojas o pisar excrementos; según nuestra ilógica esto también tiene poder sobre nuestro destino, haciéndolo más predecible. Como las costumbres.

Llegamos hasta el punto de convertir lo poco común en una necesidad a la mínima que se convierte en medianamente común: aquella casual sonrisa que pasa a ser periódica, la lluvia de los Jueves, la pesadez de las mañanas de Domingo e incluso las rebajas. Yo mismo he cogido la costumbre de moverme el pelo de la frente o de acomodármelo en la oreja al coger el teléfono, cosas que aún mantengo ahora que mi abultada cabellera ha sido recortada por las pinzas de la peluquera. Y solo tardé 2 meses en convertir una molestia casual en una costumbre.

¿Conclusión? Sí, ésta.

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.

Despertar: (6) Monotonía

Capítulo 6: Monotonía

Siempre hacemos mejor las cosas que hacemos de forma automática y predictiva, pero la verdadera pregunta es: ¿son mejores sus consecuencias y resultados?

Sonó el despertador, aunque, para variar, yo ya estaba despierto. Como siempre, abría los ojos unos pocos minutos antes de que sonase esa canción, antaño adorada aunque ahora la aborreciese, que tenía puesto como tono. Tras unos pocos minutos, reuní las fuerzas necesarias para levantarme y, lo que requería aún más esfuerzo psicológico, destaparme para descubrir mis entrañas al atenazante frío invernal de Enero. Automáticamente, como si formase parte ya de un instinto natural que me impulsaba a hacerlo, enfundé mis pies en esas cálidas pantuflas que me había regalado mi tía años atrás y, tras encender la calefacción, emprendí mi marcha hacia la cocina.

Hundiendo mis pensamientos en el terror que me ahogaba solo de pensar la cantidad de polvo que ocupaba el pasillo, dando cobijo a innumerables e inimaginables filas de minúsculos insectos, llegué a la fortaleza dónde se refugiaban la nevera y la alacena de esos hambrientos momentos en los que se oía a mi estómago rugir desamparado desde mi habitación. Saqueé un cartón de leche de la nevera, me preparé un café con una agilidad digna del trabajador apurado por los inflexibles horarios que lo azotan y vertí una minúscula parte del delicioso líquido del cartón en la taza dónde, caliente hasta niveles traicioneros, reposaba ese sublime café. Rápidamente, guardé la leche en la nevera, tomé la tacita y, rehuyendo el frío, me dirigí directamente a mi habitación donde me esperaba ese calor hogareño nacido de la estufa, la cual ya había cumplido con su labor, por lo que la apagué.

Apoyé el café en la mesita y encendí rápidamente el ordenador. Mientras se cargaba, probé el café, tomando un sorbo cuyo ardiente contacto provocó que en un principio mi lengua rechazase el sabor y mis labios aquél beso que era tal obra de arte culinario. Como siempre, el café estaba perfecto, nada había cambiado. Todo era exactamente igual, todo. Ése es exactamente el problema. Nada ha cambiado desde entonces.

Ella le había abandonado. Pensaba que estarían juntos para siempre, se lo habían prometido mutuamente. Y ella faltó a su palabra. Para él, era como si hubiese muerto. Ya nada cambia desde entonces.

No era que los cambios durante el tiempo que compartió con ella fuesen algo bueno, ya que en realidad no dejaban de ser siempre a peor, ya fuesen bravas discusiones, continuas peleas o simples momentos de paz que solo anunciaban la llegada de una nueva tempestad. Pero aún así, prefería aquella falta de constancia y carencia de rutina a la aplastante monotonía que había tomado las riendas de su vida.

Le daré de su propia medicina.

Ricardo nunca había sido alguien violento, pero la transición le había arruinado tanto a él moralmente como a ella económicamente, y ahora él estaba dispuesto a tomar su venganza. Antes podrías haberte escudado en tus riquezas y lacayos, pero ahora solo le tienes a él.

Le costaba evitar pensar en ella, y cuando lo hacía siempre era como si le hablase. Era incapaz de recordar en detalle alguna experiencia compartida, aunque seguramente eso era porque tampoco eran tan valiosas como el mero deseo de tomar represalias respecto a aquella inesperada despedida.

Desapareció. Sin decir ni una palabra. En menos de un día, pasó de ser alguien en quien siempre de podía contar a convertirse en una abominación de la cual deseaba alejarse, cosa que le vino bien, ya que para llevar a cabo su plan de hundir a la nobleza hispana necesitaba desaparecer del mapa. Habría sido mucho más difícil alejarme de ti si aún hubieses estado ahí. Eso es algo que reconozco que debo agradecerte.

Tras acabar con su café, tomó la taza y la lanzó contra la pared, estrellándose ésta y repartiendo sus trozos por la habitación. Cogió el ordenador y lo hizo seguir el mismo recorrido de la taza, aunque necesitó más de un viaje para acabar en la misma situación. Bañó su hogar en gasolina, arregló los preparativos para la explosión y salió con lo justo y necesario.

Minutos después, Ricardo ya estaba de camino al pueblo dónde se reencontraría con su amada y conocería a su sustituto, habiendo dejado tras de sí lo que muchos interpretarían como un accidente culinario gracias al cuerpo del sicario que habían enviado a por él. Nunca un intento de asesinato había sido tan útil para seguir vivo y en paz.

…

Mathieu se levantó del sillón y fue a abrazar a Charlotte. Es tan pequeña, a primera vista parece tan indefensa... Pero todos sabía que las dudas que provocaba el diminuto cuerpo de Charlotte se demostraban infundadas con solo cruzar dos palabras con ella, con tenerla al lado, con el mero hecho de saber quién era.

Sin ser capaz de aguantar más, Mathieu rompió a llorar, evitando quebrar la continuidad del abrazo. Es ahora cuando más te necesito. Necesito que me ayudes a abandonarte.

…

Charlotte llevaba días sospechando que algo le sucedía a su marido. Éste nunca había sido capaz de ocultarle algo a su mujer. Aquella vez que le engaño cuando aún eran jóvenes no le pasó desapercibida; cuando el juego y las apuestas les dejaron en la ruina lo supo ella antes, aún incluso siendo él quién hubiese jugado; tras años de intentar tener hijos y que no funcionase, Mathieu fue también incapaz de disimular que se había hecho un examen que no acarreaba buenas noticias. Fue por eso que hace días que esperaba que su esposo se derrumbase ante ella, le pidiese perdón y ayuda al mismo tiempo, mientras lloraba desconsolado al mismo tiempo en que explotaba en carcajadas riéndose de lo ridículo que era él mismo. No esperaba que aguantase tanto. Esta vez es algo aún más serio. Y lo que es peor; ahora no sé lo que causa su desasosiego.

Pero poco podía hacer Charlotte por su marido. Excusando sus excesivas horas de trabajo con el festival de Saint Germain, el poco tiempo que pasaba Mathieu en casa lo invertía en desayunar y dormir, por lo tanto ella no era capaz de encontrar momento alguno en el que rebuscar en su interior algo que echase algo de luz sobre el asunto.

Aunque fuerte, dura e inteligente, como todo el mundo Charlotte necesitaba tener a alguien que la necesitase. Y cuando ese pilar sucumbía, toda la estructura lo hacía con él. Empezó a desconfiar de todo, cosa que antes nunca había hecho. ¿Quién necesita desconfiar cuando es capaz de entender toda situación y prever todo acto? Pero ahora Mathieu ocupaba más su mente. Ni tan siquiera el amor adolescente había llegado a ser una obsesión tan enfermiza; no era capaz de pensar en nada más, necesitaba dedicarse a algo ya que en cuanto se quedaba sin nada que hacer, sin nada que distrajese su mente, ésta se dirigía automáticamente a su marido, a su silencio sepulcral, a su falta de humanidad y a la desaparición de su chispa.

Eso era lo que más atormentaba a Charlotte; sabía que Mathieu jamás volvería a ser el mismo. Sabía que Mathieu estaba acabado. Sabía que Mathieu ya no era su marido, sino un ente desentendido de toda otra persona que no fuese él. Ya nunca podría volver a disfrutar ni sufrir su compañía, y aquello era lo que la tenía más preocupada. ¿Qué sería de Charlotte sin Mathieu?

Aquella noche había sido la última en la que había llorado. Suponiendo que como tantas otras veces lo único que necesitaba su marido era su cariño, su apoyo y su consentimiento, no hizo más que abrazarlo, besarlo tiernamente e intentar, de toda manera posible, que se alegrase. Pero nada funcionó.

Cuando despertó a la mañana siguiente, el ya no estaba. Cuando llegó, mucho más tarde de lo normal, se excusó, como ya hemos dicho, con los preparativos de la fiesta. Nadie diría que tan sombrío hombre era uno de los encargados de tan alegre fecha. Es el encargado de seguridad. No era el momento para un ascenso. Mathieu se lo merecía, pero no tenían que hacerlo ahora, no en estas fechas. Aunque Charlotte pensaba mucho sobre el tema, poco era lo que escapaba la prisión de sus labios; ante su marido no era más que una cálida y confortable estufa, ya no se sentía con fuerzas como para dirigirle la palabra. Le había perdido, eso lo sabía; lo que era incapaz de entender era el por qué.

¿Qué le había arrebatado a su marido? Llevaba meses patrullando las calles sin problema, ¿por qué aquella última guardia previa a su ascenso había sido tal punto de inflexión en su forma de ser? Había sido lejos, y Charlotte sabía que no debía acercarse a la zona en la que Mathieu había trabajado aquella noche; la curiosidad la consumía por dentro tal fuego abrasando la poca leña restante en la chimenea. Estaba que echaba humo, furiosa consigo misma, odiándose por su incapacidad.

Siendo inteligente y manipuladora había podido asegurarse de que la única puerta que la contactaba con la guardia, su marido, estuviese siempre abierta de par en par. Pero nunca había supuesto que en vez de cerrar las puertas con llave por timidez esas puertas pudiesen verse cubiertas por los restos de una avalancha, de un suceso mucho mayor que el vigía mismo de tal entrada, y por lo tanto impidiendo que ella las cruzase. Ya no había vuelta atrás.

The Fall: 2. Elvesham

Elvesham

LeBlanc was still launghing when she arrived to her chambers. She took off her boots and sat on the first chair she found near the chimney; she was tired of walking. With a slight move of her left hand, she called Bren, her personal servant.

-Where's Anyssa? - asked the deceiver. -I told you that I wanted her here as soon as I arrived. Go get her.

Without a word, Bren disappeared behind the door. It didn't take long for him to be back, now with Anyssa at his side. She had blonde curly hair, a pair of blue eyes that resembled the deep blue sea of the Shadow Isles and a perfect smile for lying. The girl was a twenty year-old orphan that LeBlanc had adopted during those days when she needed more eyes than she had. It was strange for a normal spy kid to stay loyal for so long, but Anyssa's case was a different one; she had always been her favourite, and she had received the well-deserved payments.

-Hello, sweetling. How are you? -LeBlanc greeted her. -Come and sit here by my side, Ive been waiting so long for our meeting.
-Everything's fine madame. -answered politely the young girl, turning her head down before seating at her side.
LeBlanc knew that she longed to know why she had been called in such a fashion, but the girl had been taught well during her childhood. Not everyone could ask questions without permission. While the girl looked at the fire, LeBlanc prepared the long-awaited drinks. Silence filled the room until she handled the potion to Anyssa.
-Here you have my dear, as a prize for your work. -said LeBlanc while handling her what would mean her salvation. -I must have been tiring, especially to someone as calm as you; Piltover's city life is too noisy for the likes of us. Drink and rest now, you shall have everything you want.
-Thanks madame, but I don't deserve no appreciation, I just did what had to be done. -lied the girl with a bright smile.
-I am the one who decides what's to be appreciated or not, Anyssa. -stated the last living member of the Black Rose. -We shall share a drink.
Unable to refuse her master's invitation, Anyssa emptied the cup in her throat at the very same time than LeBlanc did. The deceiver could notice in the girl's face that she had not liked the drink, but she didn't care now. The job had been done. Now she only needed to sleep and everything would be over.
She told Anyssa to go to her room; after such a tiring work she had gained the right to use LeBlanc's chambers for a night, and as she had a lot of work to do.
Once she ensured that Anyssa was sleeping, LeBlanc ordered Bren to take care of the girl until she was back. Then the deceiver headed back to the catacombs; it was time to pay a visit to Thresh.
It had not been easy to imprison the chain warden; a lot of men died fighting him, and LeBlanc had taken down the remaining servants that knew about his presence in the Noxian catacombs. But he was the key to his plan; she needed his passages, the lanterns that could take her wherever she wanted if well prepared.
Vanishing in the shadows, it didn't take long for her to arrive to the cell. The chain warden was fast asleep, his eyes glowing in the dark and his chains moving slightly, as if they were alive. She waited long for the potion to affect her, but once she started feeling asleep, she entered the cell.
A storm of souls came out of Thresh's open mouth: she could barely feel the pain because of how asleep she felt. Her skin was burning, but she didn't care. Her legs, her arms, her chest; she was unable to feel. No pain, no screams, no lights. She couldn't even distinguish her own hands in the dark. After a short while, she woke up in her bed. It didn't take long for her to fall asleep again; it felt like no more than a nightmare.