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Water rushes over chest and Aphelios finds his breath again.
Sharp, he gasps in, fire still rains down from the ashen sky overhead and he can finally hear Alune's relieved voice in his ringing ears. The drake, he remembers, and the assassin tearing through the face of the pit faster than he could turn. His hands come up, numb, to the waters churning over the gash and the red that washes down to his collar, vision blurring and his head lolls back. Rough stones, that same rocky alcove's edge, scrape along his nape—the girl, he remembers, shoving him back to throw herself between them—nausea crawls up his throat from the ghost of the impact.
"Hey, hey," she says, her webbed fingers flashing in his peripheral, and her wide eyes filled with terror search his own. "It's not over, we're gonna make it out of here."
A beam, brilliant blue and almost blinding in the darkness of the fire drake's hearth, splits the sky and the girl's head snaps up. Twin streams spiral down the beam, the hum of it shakes the ground beneath them and through the haze, he can see the towering shape of the Vastayan waking, light singing down the silhouette. The girl mouths the seconds to herself, fumbling for her staff in the rising waters and she puts herself in front of Aphelios again.
"Hold on tight," she says, and slams the bottom of her staff down to the riverbed.
The tides surge, rushing forward as waves crash into each other, swelling high above their heads as it gains strength, and the Vastayan lurches forward just as it passes over him. Fast, unyielding to the blades of ice hurled into his shoulder, his fingers splay out wide over the armored chest of the Noxian at the forefront and through the waters, Aphelios can see wide, dark eyes staring back at him.
His back cracks the earth below them, fissures shooting out with clouds of sand to be swallowed by the girl's towering wave as it pounds down on the Vastayan. With a sharp inhale, the Noxian swings his axe out and the blade catches on flesh, ripping away scarred skin, blood cascades from the tear and the pieces start to click.
Gold flares off of the Vastayan's wound and Aphelios reaches out, heaving for breath, the girl presses her hands down on his collar and her anxious voice is lost in Alune's own echoing response. Gravitum is heavy in his bloodied palm, his wrist shakes against the weight of it and he feels her arms against the back of his own, steadying his hand.
"Alune," and it's silent, clawing out like glass on his tongue and nothing more than a gasp.
"I am with you."
Knots of indigo, darting over ankles and chaining themselves to wrists, night-black and fuller than the darkened moon that shadows them, pull, sinking into the ground with the strength of it. Their marksman screams as she struggles against the gravity, futilely grasping at her leg where it's crushed beneath one of the orbs and Aphelios can see the exact moment the Vastayan catches sight of her. His skin flares gold, radiant, pure sun that arcs off him in erratic sparks and he rears back a second before the binds snap free.
The sound is deafening.
Shards of rock shower down on them, the ground still trembling from the impact and twin shields, clear teal and swirling blue, envelop them. The Ionian woman drops to one knee, her extended arm shaking, and the light dissipates from her skin with a soft hum that makes Alune's consciousness within him flutter, her budding curiosity nearly buried beneath her exhaustion. Her dragons slow their endless chase just behind her bleeding, arrow-pierced shoulders, and she takes in a ragged breath. Their glow fades, and the glare's absence reveals the bodies behind her, lying motionless in the Vastayan's shadow.
The huntress's jeweled hand comes to rest on her nape, her long, dark hair dripping and heavy and nearly falling out of its tie. She wipes away the red smeared down her chin, tawny eyes dulling as the adrenaline leaves her. The Ionian leans into it, a softer sigh escaping her.
"We need to leave," the girl pipes up, her expression uneasy, cold hand still pressed over the wound on his chest and her magic struggles against the bleeding, failing to pull his skin together. "The assassin escaped. I won’t be able to save us all if he comes back."
Her voice trickles down to nothing when the Vastayan approaches, his heavy stride hardly faltering in the deepest parts of the river, he trudges through the waters and the girl curls her tail over Aphelios’s legs nervously. Alune grasps at their bond weakly, pushing him to stand, but she knows it, too—she can feel the sting of saltwater seeping into the gash splitting his thigh, right down to the bone.
“I got him,” he says, and comes down to his knees before the girl. “Go on ahead.”
“It’s no trouble. I can get him over my shoulders.”
He puts his hand out to her, palm up. “I know. You’re strong. But you'll hurt him doing it and he doesn't have a lotta time."
Weak but persistent pangs of Alune's worry at the back of his mind keeps him on the verge of consciousness. The girl looks back down at him, shoulders pulled in tight, and the guilt on her face makes something in him crumble a little. She takes her hand off his red-soaked lapel and the weight of her tail disappears, the wide, frayed fin flipping back away from him.
Water recedes from his chest, falling down his sides in faint trickles, and he feels the vague shape of fingers curling over his shoulder. He can place the pressure at his ribs to be a knee, and it's hard to keep his eyes open when the ground disappears from beneath him and he's weightless. Colors, indescribable and riddled with varying shapes, crawl over the backs of his lids, Alune's arms squeeze around him and the cold of her hands on his shoulders fades for a moment.
“Hey.” It comes not unkindly, Aphelios can feel the thrum of it in the Vastayan’s chest pressed up against his arm. “Stay awake.”
They’re moving, light still filters through to his eyes, blooming reds and orange bursts somewhere above them. He tries to keep them open again, struggling to make sense of the blur that only dims as they pass through the brush and tall grass shields them from the gray that rains down, some flecks of still-burning gold.
Gold glinting through hailing mist. His eyes must have closed again. In the blur, he sees muddy reds and purples, lost in one another, and Alune’s presence surges.
His hands don’t feel like his own. Maybe it’s her, pulling one of them up, but he can’t imagine her anywhere in the careless, mechanical movements weighed down by weakness. Blood sticks to his knuckles when he tries to rub at his eyes, dragging over the beginnings of a scab near his brow, and the salt stings his fingertips.
“It’s okay. We’re almost there.”
Alune cries for him, cries for the gray wash of his skin and the pain he’s only beginning to feel the full weight of, and he wipes her tears from his face. Aches wrack the muscles in his arm, the Vastayan shifts Aphelios a little further back into his chest, she loses her grip on him and for some long seconds, lost to him, his head drops back.
White and blues stare back at him from the water. Darkness in the shape of the new moon swirls into it, down to the rocky floor below and the shadows of petals on the surface, Aphelios drags his fingertips over the rippled waters. Poison stains his broken, split nails.
A shock like adrenaline pulls him back from the edge of it, he takes in a ragged breath as the pool disappears from behind his lids and the Vastayan says, “Eyes open, eyes open, we’re almost there.”
Lies have rarely troubled him.
Instead, Aphelios wonders about the scar on his nose, and his lip, and the hands that would stray so close. He wonders if they felt terror like the marksman did, standing in his shadow, staring death in the eyes and refusing to look away.
The pool glares back at him, and Aphelios sinks his hand in.
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When he wakes again, Alune’s arms are wrapped around his collar, her long hair falling past his shoulders and she buries her face under one of her shaking hands.
“I wish you’d leave,” she says, and the wavering in her voice makes it so much worse. “I wish you’d leave this behind and never come back. I hate this place.”
He puts his hand over the back of hers, staring down at the swirling marble beneath his feet. One by one, the light fades from each of their beacons, draining down to the paragon resting in its gold armor, sealed in glass, and numbness settles back into his chest. Adjusting the pendant laying between the open folds of his overcoat, the footsteps echoing off the domed ceiling and Aphelios takes in an unsteady breath when he looks up.
Nearly halfway to the door, the Vastayan hardly meets his eyes as he passes by.
The display before him flickers. He can hear the heavy doors creak on their hinges as they’re pushed open, but his eyes are on the numbers shining up at him as the paragon returns to stasis, shuffling through the pages of its report. Some trickle of uncertainty makes him wonder if he’s missed it, but he waits.
Just as it eases back into slumber—the overview flashes and his own name catches his eye and he skims over the page as the screen darkens.
Sett. He reads it twice, to be sure.
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He doesn’t have to look particularly hard. Sett doesn’t move quietly and he doesn’t seem to care much about covering his tracks.
The place is nearly buried beneath rubble, the remains of some Ionian temple torn apart by war years ago, dim inside and hazy with smoke that swirls through the air languidly. He can practically hear Alune wrinkling her nose, draped lightly over his back as Aphelios descends the stairs spiraling down almost half-below ground level, but she merely watches. Ducking beneath a hanging beam, he pushes a lone curtain aside and the faint light finally brightens.
One long bar stretches along the wall, there’s a few tables scattered over the floor and run-down booths in the corners, lanterns on the wall and draping strings of lights crisscrossing the ceiling. It’s not overwhelmingly loud, but it’s certainly busier than anything remotely close to Targon and there’s about twenty too many people packed in, elbows bumping and arms grazing. Alune pats his shoulder twice to signal her leave, but her half-hearted disgruntlement is good-natured.
It’s a courtesy, he thinks.
Maybe three steps from one of the seats, one of Sett’s ears curves back, perking up at the sound of his heel on a wooden board that squeaks slightly under his weight. His eye slits open, and the red of it is stark even in the low light.
Slowly, like he’s half in disbelief, he pulls the glass away from his mouth. Aphelios watches him swallow, face smoothed down to something impassive, and he glances down at the row of empty stools.
Sett lifts one of his legs off the chair closest to him, deliberate, and kicks it a few inches away. His voice is shot when he says, “Sit down. I’m not gonna bite.”
The way that he tenses, fingers curling tight into his thigh, when Aphelios reaches into overcoat isn’t lost on him, though there’s only mild curiosity in his expression, shoulders lax. Judging by the calluses across his knuckles, he can wager a decent guess at how many times he’s followed through on the punch. Gingerly, he pulls his hand from his pocket and shows him the paper, folded into quarters.
Lifting a brow, he leans a little further back into his seat. He takes the note between two fingers and watches as Aphelios sits carefully beside him. Sett only scans the page for a moment—his harsh laugh is almost punched out and Aphelios startles slightly, gripping the edge of the bar with one hand—before he tosses it down.
“I thought it was gonna be somethin’ stupid,” he says, not bothering to hide his sneer as he rests his elbow again. “You’re all business, though.”
Not necessarily.
Sett stares at him blankly. Half a beat passes, and Aphelios reaches for the paper again as he takes a broken pencil from the same pocket. He scratches out the words this time, and slides it back over. If surprise had a single face, it’s sitting before him.
Putting his chin in his other palm, Sett leans a little closer to him. “You really don’t talk, huh? Thought you were a lil’ quiet.”
So I’ve been told.
Another laugh, something softer this time, and he tries not to think about the little ache that unfurls. “You’re kinda funny,” Sett says, and knocks back the rest of whatever he’s drinking. “It takes a lot of fuckin’ guts to die like that.”
Aphelios’s hand stutters and a stray line cuts across the page. He hesitates, if only for a second, then crosses out the words to start again. With a little more force than strictly necessary, he marks out the period and turns the paper back towards Sett.
More to try and stop it from happening.
The noise behind them is trickling out of his awareness, focus drawn down to the blood-splattered gold wreathing Sett’s hands. In his peripheral, he can see his expression contort. It’s not anger—far from it, really, something akin to pain and it’s fleeting, so fleeting—but guilt. Thoughts racing, he drums his fingers on the bar and refuses to meet the stare that's just about burning him.
Sett pulls his hand away, he sees the movement, and refuses to flinch at the hand on his back.
“I hope you drink,” he says, and Aphelios feels warmth down to his collar when his fingers graze the ends of his hair. “‘Cause I think I owe ya one.”
I think it should be the other way around.
He squeezes Aphelios’s shoulder and his breath is ticklish on his ear. “I’m here all night.”