Chapter Text
«You will be able to dream yourself into the world of dark shadows.»
— Die Toteninsel (The Isle of the Dead), Arnold Böcklin, 1880
He’s here once again.
Adrift. On a firewood raft, weathered by the passage of time and encrusted with barnacles. If Jayce were asked about this place, he’d say that purgatory.
He sees himself on that unstable boat, as in the myths of Charon ferrying souls to Hades. But no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he throws himself into the black waters and swims with all his might, he will never catch the scent of the high cypress trees nor reach dry land. He will not alight among the ruins of an ancient marble building. He will merely observe. The doubt will linger as to whether that place is a thoroughfare for gods and weary spirits. For sometimes, on the crest, the figure of a man clad in worn linen robes rises up.
The eastern currents push the raft, rocking it. The waves brush against it with a cold as intense as a dead man’s kiss, and there is no wind to propel the oars. There is no light to dispel the gloom, nor any sun to warm the flesh. Day and night are indistinguishable, and he can barely make out the passing of the stars to guide him.
He should consider it absurd, as Caitlyn rightly pointed out. But he cannot ignore it.
That night, he is no more than two leagues from the coast when something strikes the hull and capsizes the raft. The water is freezing, enough to make his teeth chatter, and his limbs are too stiff to swim. Despair sets in. His heart pounds against his ribcage and his vision blurs.
He tries to get back to the boat, but he can’t find it.
There is an agonizing stillness in the sea, and that is what he fears most. He also imagines that the figure dressed in linen robes will see his plight and come to his aid, but he does not.
‘You're not meant to reach the shore’, a voice whispers.
Knowing this fills him with sorrow, even more so than the horror of drowning.
When something wraps itself around his leg, he barely has time to react to the violent tug that sends him to the bottom of the sea.
❈ ❈ ❈
When Jayce opened his eyes, he realized he was lying in his cabin. It was simple and modest, with barely enough room for one man. His journal lay on the small desk. He saw that the amphorae had spilled onto the floor, but they hadn’t damaged the lined chests that protected his research, so he decided to ignore it.
He told himself it had all been a dream. A dream he should be used to, but he wasn't.
He felt the cold seep into his bones and reach his very marrow. Groping around, he found an extra blanket and a set of furs to ward off any hint of frostbite. It was on his fingers, on his blue-tinged nails, just as it was on his lips.
He remained in that alienated state, detached from his body for a while. It was the tightness in his throat and the coldness in his feet; it was the feel of the deer hides from the rugged mountains and the dampness in his nose. It was all those things, but it was not Jayce Talis.
Only when he became aware of the storm outside, the patter of water over his head, and the comings and goings of the men on deck, did he allow himself to inhale and exhale a deep breath, like a newborn torn from the womb.
Uncomfortable, he refused to sleep. He couldn’t help but play with the talisman between his fingers. It was his most prized possession, a crystal honed like a fire opal. Thus he spent the night, lost in the amber glow beneath the candlelight and the blue and black veins at its center.
Jayce convinced himself he would reach Piltover in a couple of days as he adjusted the blankets, and he did not fall back asleep for the rest of the journey.