Chapter Text
It was a remarkably cold night. Though, one would be hard pressed to tell the difference if they weren’t native to the icy Freljord. For Sejuani, however, she could feel the icy chill of the snowy night stinging her cheeks. The frigid wind pierced through the dense layers of furs and leathers, and wrapped itself around the white haired woman’s bones, clinging tight against her.
She shivered as she made her way through the temporary camp the Winter’s Claw had set up. It was supposed to be a staging ground, a momentary stop on their incursion into Avarosan territory, high up in the Freljordian mountains. None of the Stormseers had predicted this infernal blizzard that had buried their sleds and blocked the path out of the mountain pass. It was a catastrophic blunder that boiled Sejuani’s blood every time she thought of it, and she had plenty of time to think about it, stuck as they were for the past week.
Her days were spent shovelling the snow that accumulated over the night in hopes that they could clear their way through, and press further into enemy territory. They could forage well off Avarosan lands, their people were soft, their beds warm, their hearths unprotected. Sejuani would have captured half their holdings by now if it weren’t for all this damn snow.
It seemed a silly thing to complain about, but Sejuani loathed idling. It wasn’t just her either, the entirety of her tribe could very easily be described as an impatient sort. As the days crossed over into a week, the Warmother could feel tensions rising, steam beginning to boil from the pot. If they were not free from the pass sooner than later, Sejuani feared they may turn on each other.
It would be a sad affair. The roaring flame of the Winter’s Claw snuffed out by the most average of Freljordian blizzards. Sejuani would see those damned Stormseers strung up in the cold, with nothing but the skin on their backs to warm them, upon their return. This failure would not stand. She was tired of defeat.
“Warmother.” A voice called out to her.
It was Eira, a hardened woman whose husband had passed a month prior. She was strong, forged in labor and violence, but Sejuani once knew her as a kind woman. A mother of three children who tired day and night to bring hot food to the table. Eira had lost her three boys a year ago when a tunnel collapsed. Now, the shieldmaiden was a hollow version of her former self. Sure, she was strong now, she was more than a competent fighter, but like any strong oak, left to wither off of its stump, any strong knock on the tough bark would reveal the weak core. Sejuani always looked to Eira with a pitiful gaze, a silent mourning for the kind mother she had once been. In this moment, however, Sejuani steeled her expression and cupped one hand to her mouth.
“Eira, you should not be out in this chill.” Sejuani said, raising her voice to call over the howling gale as she worked to close the distance, wading through calf high snow.
Eira held out an arm to pull Sejuani in close as the Warmother approached. Once face to face, the shieldmaiden continued speaking without the need to shout over the still whipping wind.
“Jorik’s deserted.” Eira said, “Grabbed his pack, some rations from a sled, and slipped out when the Aurora formed.”
That was an hour ago, by Sejuani’s count. Why had she only now been notified by this? Desertion was the quickest way to doom an expedition like this. Once one slipped away, unpunished, what motivation would the rest have for sticking together and seeing each other emerge from their trial as one?
“Who was his watchguard?” Sejuani asked, bracing herself against the wind.
“Haldra.” Eira answered, and then shook her head, “Yrsa and Tovarr are preparing her now.”
Preparing her? Preparing her for what? Sejuani looked past Eira, and in the haze of the surrounding blizzard that looked to get thicker by the minute, saw a flickering torch. Two of her people were carrying a bundle out of one of the tents. A flash of panic washed across Sejuani’s face as she stepped around Eira, her mouth agape as she grasped the situation.
Jorik wasn’t just a deserter, he was a murder of his own kind. Sejuani was no stranger to death. Her people had been dying for as long as she had been alive but there was one thing, one sure thing about her people. They did not turn their backs to each other, they did not run from challenge. And if one were to succumb to the base human fears and turn tail, it could eventually be forgiven, if one was willing to atone. What could not be forgiven, however, was kinslaying.
“His tracks went east, over the rise and into the storm.” Eira called out.
Sejuani, without realizing, had begun trudging through the snow towards Ysra and Tovarr. The two had yet to notice her, and with a grim determination, had begun digging in the snow. It was their tradition to bury their fallen in the snow, let the eternal cold cover you and shield you from the light of the sun. And they were planning to do it to Haldra. Poor Haldra. She was barely an adult. A bright firespark that kept long conversations entertaining, that kept long marches high in spirits, that kept the evening chill away with the brightest smile Sejuani had ever seen.
Haldra was a kind woman and Sejuani had hoped to spare her of the brutal unkindness of war, but sweet Haldra was a persistent one and Sejuani acquiesced to the woman’s desire to join her first expedition. Despite the less than favorable conditions they had been given, despite the hardships they had suffered on the march and ensuing entrapment, Haldra’s spirits had never wavered. At the beginning of the evening, she had requested to join the perimeter watch, and though Sejuani was initially hesitant, her request was eventually granted.
“I am a damned fool.” Sejuani cursed, voice swallowed by the wind as she saw Tovarr shout over to Ysra.
They had found a ditch deep enough to fully bury Haldra, and began lowering her into it. The sun would never rise on her again. This high in the mountains, this far north on Runeterra, Haldra would be entombed here forever.
Sejuani approached as it was time for the woman’s final rites. Tovarr silently acknowledged his Warmother with a grim nod, and handed her his knife. It was the belief of the Winter’s Claw that no Freljordian, no matter what side of the war they had chosen, should die without shedding blood for their land. Haldra would bleed now, into the earth and snow. The Warmother could see that Tovarr had been crying, lines of tears cut through the dirt and warpaint that dappled his face. He had loved her like his own daughter, he had cared for her for many years. To give Sejuani the knife was a sign of respect, and a quiet plea. Tovarr could not bring himself to be the one to perform the final rites.
Sejuani knelt beside the bundle of furs and cloth. She felt forward with her hand until she found where Haldra’s neck was. She brought the knifepoint against the layers and issued one final prayer.
“Send her away, to kindness, to rest. Let hers be the last blood upon the snow.” Sejuani said, voice and words carried away in the wind.
She pressed the knife forward, piercing the layers of hide and fur until flesh was opened. Sejuani pulled the blade out, and rested it on Haldra’s body.
“Let hers be the last blood upon the snow.” The rest of the group echoed, and with that, began pushing snow into the hole.
Sejuani stood, stepped back, and observed the quiet filling. Jorik would pay for this. He must pay for this. East, Eira said Jorik went East. That way was Avarosan territory, and Sejuani snarled at the idea of that traitor finding refuge with the enemy. His head deserved to be on a spike, unburied. She took a step back and turned towards her tent when a hand grabbed her shoulder.
Tovarr pulled Sejuani back, turning her so they were face to face. His cheeks were flushed, reddened by both the tears and the now frigid wind and flurrying snow that tore around the campsite. The storm had only gotten worse on this night, a divine punishment that Jorik had brought on them. The winter held no amnesty for murderers, and Jorik had brought the storm’s wrath to their doorstep.
“You are going to find him?” Tovarr yelled.
“Aye!” Sejuani nodded, “I’ll drag him back by his teeth!”
Tovarr nodded, and slung his pack off his shoulder, pressing it into Sejuani’s chest, “You find him, and we’ll carve justice from his bones.”
“Keep the camp safe, Tovarr. Hold them through the storm.” Sejuani bellowed, slinging the pack over her shoulder, “I will find him, and I will let Haldra have her justice.”
And with that, she set off, up and over the rise. Every Freljordian, Avorosan or Winter’s Claw, man or woman, was trained in tracking. Such was the nature of living in such a hostile environment. Despite her experience however, Sejuani was hard pressed to find the trail with the amount of wind and snow that buffeted the mountain range. Faint glimpses was all she was able to find, a three fourths filled footprint, a few broken branches on frost touched shrubs. There was no telling if Sejuani was on the right path, who knew if she was following a wolf, a deer, or Jorik himself.
She hoped for the latter, and she’d settle for none other. Hours crawled by, long and fiercely cold hours. Her hands, wrapped in gloves and furs were beginning to sting. She would need to find Jorick before sunrise, tuck her tail between her legs and find shelter to start a fire. Then, she remembered Haldra. The mop of tangled brown curls, the toothy grin, the hearty laugh. She remembered the blood that seeped from the furs. Sejuani remembered bringing Haldra here, and at once, the fire in her soul ignited once more. The cold would not take her. She was Warmother of the Winter’s Claw, rightful heir to all of the Freljord. The cold bent to her.
Thumping her hands together, she redoubled her efforts, and pushed through hip high snow, unrelenting, until she found what she was looking for. Six specks of bright red blood burned in the snow. Fresh. Just beyond, five more. Someone was wounded. This was not the trail of some animal she was following. She could see someone had carved a path through snow ahead of her, a divet in what should have been a flat sea of white. It led up another rise, where the harshest of winds carved away. The aurora glittered above Sejuani as she crested the hill and the air dropped another ten degrees.
This wasn’t a natural dip in temperature. No, something was wrong. Sejuani’s hair prickled. It was a familiar sensation, this cold. It was as if…
Jorick awaited her, but the man had died not long before Sejuani had arrived. He was not slumped, he was not buried by snow. Instead he stood frozen in place, covered in a layer of deep blue ice that glittered in the vibrant lights of the sky. Sejuani reacted the second she understood what was happening, diving to the ground.
“Shit.” She cursed, her words puffing out the powdered snow that she landed on.
Three arrows whizzed overhead, zipping through the space Sejuani had just occupied. Each arrow was so tightly packed in its placement that there could only be one culprit. That, and Jorick’s icy fate, made her enemy clear to Sejuani. Ashe, the Warmother of the Avarosan tribe was somewhere out there in the dark. Jorick had been frozen the moment those arrows struck him. He was trapped forever in that tomb of True Ice, no amount of sunlight or fire would ever thaw him.
Sejuani instinctively reached to her hip and cursed when she found only the belt knife she carried. Her flail was still in camp with Bristle. Her precious boar had suffered an injury when the mountain pass was blocked by falling rock and snow. She had left in such a rush that she had forgotten to retrieve the weapon that gave her the blessing of Avarosa herself. Blinded as she was by Jorick, she had been an idiot and walked herself into danger.
Three more arrows zipped overhead, screaming past Sejuani by a matter of inches as the white haired woman pressed her face as hard as it could into the dirt and snow. If a single one of those arrows so much as grazed her, she would be dead for sure. An explosion of light and crystalized ice ripped the sky apart above where Sejuani lay prone. Light, bright as the morning sun, lit up her position like a searchlight.
“Fuck.” Sejuani cursed and scrambled to her feet.
She tried to keep as low a profile as possible, but the snow was treacherous, the wind had betrayed her. A strong gust sent Sejuani stumbling to the side where the ground gave way without warning. She had found the cliff edge, concealed by a mountain of powdered snow. Sejuani plummeted, a spray of snow and ice following her until finally she slammed into the permafrosted ground with a bone crushing impact.
Darkness claimed her soon after as the hole she had punched began to collapse, burying Sejuani beneath its icy embrace.
…
Fire crackled and spat embers into the night sky. The smell of smoke filled Sejuani’s nostrils and stirred the woman to life. She felt the bitter pain of stinging cold all along her body, she had been stripped of most of her furs and hides, and the only garments she had managed to keep were her long pants and chestwrappings. The pain of the cold paled in stark comparison to the pain in her shoulder where she had landed. It was purple and red, bruised where it had been dislocated out of its socket.
Her wrists flared in painful protest when she tried to stand, as rough rope bindings burned against chafed skin. The Warmother looked around at her new surroundings. She was in a shallow cave, one shielded from the wind and snow outside. Her missing clothes had been arrayed on the other side of the fire, and the contents of her pack had been unloaded and sorted on the floor. She twisted to look behind her and saw that the rope led to the wall of the cave, where it had been frozen against it in a blast of True Ice. Orange light flickered from the fire and Sejuani was thankful, momentarily, for the warmth of the flames as she scooted closer to the crackling heat.
The soft crunch of footsteps against snow brought her out of the momentary distraction and Sejuani was alert once more. Her hair stood on end, and she cautiously rose to her feet, placing bound hands in front of her to ward off any potential attackers. Through pain blurred vision, she spotted a figure cloaked in black and blue. Wisps of silver hair flitted about in what wind made its way to the cave. It seemed that rather than kill her, Ashe had decided to stay Sejuani’s execution, at least for a little while longer. The two Warmothers locked eyes in an unwavering gaze, and though no words were said, Sejuani understood that this was a momentary truce. She grit her teeth, bit her tongue, and sat back down by the crackling fire.
Ashe threw a rabbit to the floor when she stepped into the cave, and leaned her bow against the wall opposite Sejuani. It was a glimmering blue weapon, made of the same material as Sejuani’s flail. A gift from Avarosa herself, or so Ashe claimed. The Avarosan stepped to the other side of the fire and sat, crossing her legs. She took off her gloves, and quietly pulled the rabbit into her lap, where it met a knife. Ashe worked quickly as she stared across the flames at Sejuani. Years of hunting made the simple skinning of a rabbit a trivial matter, and soon, the meat was laid across the flames and the pelts had been set aside to clean.
Sejuani watched those hands move, watched the deftness of fingers that had once never known violence, but now were stained red in the rabbit’s blood. She looked up once the skinning was done, and held her breath as she gazed upon Ashe for the first time in a year. The flicker of the campfire painted her in shades of gold and shadow, and Sejuani saw thawing frost clinging to the woman’s lashes. She remembered that face, in battle, and in council, long ago, in moments of warmth that she had suppressed for so long.
“You’re trespassing.” Ashe said, her voice carrying over the fire like a cool wind, “These lands are unwelcome to you, Sej.”
Sejuani felt her jaw tighten, “I was chasing a traitor.”
A half truth. She had been indeed chasing Jorick, but her people were camped hours from here, intent on raiding the Avarosan lands once the storm cleared.
“I was chasing justice for one of my people.” Sejuani spat.
“Justice?” Ashe repeated softly, the word was weighted, heavy, as it passed across the flames, “There is no justice in slaughter. I had hoped to show you that over the years, but… You refuse to listen. You always did.”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit Ashe. If he had killed one of your own, what would you have done?” Sejuani mocked, straining against her wrist bindings, “What would Tryndamere have done? Left him frozen on a ridge? Gutted him from navel to neck? ”
The answer was a silent acknowledgement.
“That’s why peace can never happen. You keep lying to yourself, Ashe.” Sejuani mocked, “You’re ankle deep in blood yourself. I’ve counted the sculptures you leave behind. I’ve seen it first hand. You killed Jorick without mercy, and yet you spare me. What, to prove a point? To lecture me? Don’t kid yourself. You keep lying to yourself, just like you always have. Damned hypocrite.”
The last words that came out of Sejuani’s mouth were laced with personal venom. Years before the civil war, the violence and tribal hatred, years before they had announced a claim to the Freljordian throne, Sejuani imagined a different Freljord. One where she fought alongside Ashe, not against her. Where she could walk openly at her side, without whispers or scorn.
Silence hung in the air between them, only the howling wind at the mouth of the cave and the crackling fire kept the two women company. Ashe’s gaze broke first, and her eyes went to the fire, watching her meal cook. Sejuani huffed and rolled her eyes, shifting in her bindings to find comfort.
“Why did you even bother to save me? You could have left me to the cold, and the war would have been over come morning.” Sejuani asked after the silence became unbearable.
“I couldn’t.” Ashe replied, her voice barely louder than the wind, “You know why.”
Sejuani did know, and that knowledge burned worse than any rope, worse than any frost. Ashe, when forced to confront her feelings, had chosen a husband instead, a hulking warrior who had bound his name to hers forever. That decision had burned Sejuani for so long, a wound that had never healed, a scar that would never fade.
Ashe withdrew a clay cup from beside the fire, blowing gently over steaming tea. Sejuani cursed without words. She sucked in a deep breath as she rolled her shoulder, feeling the joint popping.
“Stop.” Ashe said, standing, “You hurt it in the fall.”
“I noticed.” Sejuani gruffed, but relented to the request.
If her wrists were unbound, Sejuani would simply stick a piece of bark between her teeth and reset it on a hard surface. Bound as she was, however, she would simply have to suffer the disgrace of the injury.
“For the pain.” Ashe said, holding the tea towards Sejuani, “Drink.”
Sejuani’s eyes flickered from the cup to the carrier, back and forth, “And how do you intend for me to drink this when you’ve bound my hands?”
Sejuani got her wordless answer as Ashe twined her fingers through Sejuani’s hair. Flashes of distant memories played back in her mind as she felt the archer’s fingers against her scalp, tangling in the roots of her white hair. It was a familiar sensation, and Sejuani instinctively parted her lips to the feeling. Her eyes matched Ashe’s, and the smaller woman pressed the cups to Sejuani’s lips and tilted the drink in.
It was a slow pour. The tea was thicker than what Sejuani had anticipated, having the consistency of a jam moreso than a liquid. She kept her gaze locked to Ashe as her head was gradually tilted back to finish the contents of the cup. She felt it slide down her throat, coat the flat of her tongue, all while Ashe stared down at her with those eyes. Blessed stars above, those eyes. She had forgotten how they caught the fire’s reflection late at night. Ashe pulled the cup back once it was done and set it aside. She pulled the rabbit off the fire, skewers in hand and motioned for Sejuani to open her mouth again.
“Eat, it will be good for your health.” Ashe said.
The meal was tender, gamey, but a warm welcome to an otherwise cold stomach. Once Sejuani had finished tearing her meal apart, Ashe grabbed the skewer.
“Ahh.” Ashe mimed, encouraging Sejuani to open her mouth.
Having a feeling as to where this was going, and sensing no ill intent from the archer. Sejuani complied, she was, at this time, still at the rival Warmother’s mercy. She bit down on the skewer, a branch around the thickness of her pinky, and shivered as she felt Ashe’s hands travel up her arm and across her back. Those hands felt good on her aching skin.
“You still wrap.” Ashe said, idly commenting on Sejuani’s choice of clothing, “I am not surprised.”
And why should she be? They had known each other since they had first begun maturing into their womanhood, since Sejuani had become self conscious of the way the Freljordian men had started treating her differently. Since the boys she sparred with began to hesitate, hold back. She hated how their eyes wandered lower during conversation, how their hands lingered during a hug, how they assumed she’d take a place by a hearth rather than the battlefield, all because of who she had been born as.
“Easier this way.” Sejuani grunted around the skewer as Ashe applied a soft pressure against the back of her shoulder, levering her arm outward.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of.” Ashe said as she wrapped one hand around Sejuani’s wrist.
Sejuani chuckled and shook her head. Of course Ashe would say that. She had never been ashamed of what she had. And why should she be? Ashe was beautiful, as gorgeous as undisturbed snow in a sunset.
“Don’t laugh, Sej.” Ashe said, “I am telling the truth, and you know it.”
Sejuani felt her bones begin to strain, muscles crying out in fervent pain. Her teeth clamped down on the branch, wood splintering between her molars as the pain skyrocketed. Ashe pushed and rotated Sejuani’s arm until the pain flared white hot and then cooled. Ashe did not let go, instead she flared her hand out and pressed her palm into Sejuani’s bruised shoulder. Her skin was cold in comparison to Sejuani’s tender skin. Despite the callouses, Ashe’s fingers were still a soft and gentle touch as they traced the bruises, traced the bone.
“It will heal, but you shouldn’t strain it for a few days.” Ashe said, pressing her palm into Sejuani’s muscled back.
Sejuani let the branch fall from her mouth and spat out whatever shards of the skewer that had splintered off.
“Thank you.” She said, “Ashe.”
The archer hummed as she traced her fingers down the boar rider’s shoulder, down to the woman’s spine. Sejuani could feel fingers tracing the cloth that bound her chest tightly, exploring. Just as she thought Ashe would work to undo those bindings, instead the Archer stood and stepped around Sejuani.
“It was chance, I didn’t know it was you on the ridge.” Ashe said, stoking the coals of the flame, “Scouts reported sightings of campfire smoke in the western pass. I wanted to see for myself. For what it’s worth. I am glad I missed.”
Sejuani couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it pained her ribs, “Me too. Me too…”
They locked eyes again, and for the briefest of moments, Sejuani had forgotten about the war, the feud, the bloodshed. She forgot all of it, staring up at the woman she had loved for so very long. She remembered older days; laughing beneath snowladen branches, stargazing under the aurora, sharing a campfire on a cold night. She remembered sleeping in each other's arms.
She remembered, too, the ache in her chest the first time Ashe pulled away from her touch, the unspoken finality in her eyes. She remembered the day she learned that dreams, her dreams, were worth less than alliances forged in blood and name. How foolish she had been to believe that she could chase a fire that could never be lit.
The fire that burned before her now spat embers as Ashe placed more kindling between the stones, and Sejuani stared into those flitting sparks in the hopes that she might burn up with them. She hated herself for still wanting Ashe. She hated herself every time her mind wandered to what might have been if she had only been born a man. If she could have offered Ashe the marriage and alliance the Avorosan needed, the heirs that Freljord needed. No matter how much she tried to push those thoughts away, the yearning did not die.
Instead, it surged, as Ashe moved around the fire, her steps quiet but sure, her silver hair catching the dancing light like frost under moonlight. She could feel her heart thumping against hurt ribs, a steadily rising heartbeat that, try as she might, could not be suppressed. She longed to take Ashe’s hand into her own, not as a captive, but as she once did in secret. Back when the world was smaller for the two of them, back when they still dreamed together.
As Ashe sat back down, finally, she warmed her hands against the flames. The archer was tired, Sejuani could see it on her face. Tired, not just from the late hour, but a weariness brought about by her role, her fate.
“You’re staring.” Ashe murmured without looking up from the flames, “What is it?”
Sejuani shifted her gaze from the woman and to the mouth of the cave, “Nothing.”
A frown flickered across Ashe’s face, though it faded just as fast as the embers that burnt off the fire.
“Liar.” She said.
Sejuani swallowed hard. It was a biting word, laced with the same venom Sejuani had used earlier, because Ashe knew it was true. Sejuani was playing pretend, and had been for years. She had pretended she could bury that shameful rejection beneath battle and bloodshed. She pretended she had not suffered the worst wound the day Ashe chose another.
She shifted against her bindings and leant forward slightly, her voice dropped low and quiet, “If I had been someone else… someone they would have accepted… would you have chosen me?”
Ashe’s hands paused over the fire, palms kissed by warm flames that would soon burn soft skin. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound that filled the cave was the slow hissing and snapping of the fire. Then, Ashe looked up, her eyes full of a sadness that made Sejuani want to look away.
“You know the answer, Sej.”
And Sejuani did, and that answer wounded her just as terribly. She could no longer hold it back, and the tears that formed poured freely down her cheeks. She wanted to bury her head in her hands. She wanted to lose herself to the cold and fade away, toss herself into the fire and burn to ash. The bindings burned at her wrists as she shut her eyes to try desperately to shove away the stinging tears. Her broad shoulders shook as she stifled sobs. She had spent years telling herself that it wasn’t the case, that Ashe would have chosen Tryndamere anyway. She had built walls, false ones, that had crumbled away the moment Ashe had said those words, and now it all came tumbling down on her at once.
“I’m sorry.” She croaked out between heaving breaths, “I’m so sorry.”
She felt a hand against her cheek, a thumb wiping away tears, and opened her eyes. Ashe had closed the distance to her, and without words, embraced her. The archer wrapped her arms around Sejuani, holding her could-have-been tightly. Sejuani pressed herself into Ashe as best as she could, and was surprised when Ashe brought her face an inch from hers. The two stared at each other through blurry eyes and tear stained lashes, before Ashe gently pressed her lips to Sejuani’s. It was soft, the most gentle feeling Sejuani had ever known. Her heart fluttered, and the boar rider’s heart melted against those lips. There was a snip, and a snap, and Sejuani felt her bindings removed. Her hands surged forward, reaching for something she never thought she would feel again. Fingers grasped at cloth, at soft, supple skin, before tangling in Ashe’s silver hair.
As Sejuani desperately attempted to return Ashe’s kiss with a greedy, fervent passion, the archer pulled away. Sejuani could see doubt in her eyes, she could see worry and longing mixing into a chaotic blend.
“Can we pretend, at least for this one night?” Sejuani asked.
Ashe leaned forward and pressed their brows together, “Yes, tonight, my love.”