[Fan Fiction] The Old Lie (Sion Character Exploration)

Character: Word Count: 1407 words

Nothing too special. Just wanted to try my hand at my favorite character in League. Also wanted to write something at all and get off my lazy ass.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140924141809/leagueoflegends/images/f/f6/Sion_promo_icon.png

Getting . . . calmer. Can think. Can't see. Hear my own breathing. Heaving, slowing. Exhale. Yes, calmer. Calm. Can see now.

A face in my hands. Who was this? Young . . . very young. No more than a boy. Don't remember killing him.

Face is slack, but eyes are glaring, seeking, judging, blaming, fearing. Feel it. Burning. Hate it. HATE IT.

No . . . no snap. I hear. I see again. Need weaker now. Am aware again. But no snap. Face still in my hands. Jerk head, not too strong. Would tear.

Neck is slack, no tension. Already broken? Must be. Snapped his neck before I became aware. My senses are trickling in. Can think clearer, can comprehend. I hear the wind. Somewhere a flag is whipping.

I lift my eyes, but keep holding the face. Field of vision clearing. Can see to the right of me, to the left too without turning. Where am I? Senses returning. Pieces fall into place. Faint wind, ground black and sodden. Smell hits me. Heavy, rank, fresh. Can't help but breathe it in . . .

Blood. Invigorating. Blood and death. One more whiff.

Battlefield. I recall now. I'm on a battlefield. I look down on the dead face. A wing pinned to his chest. A clasp? It's holding a cloak. Once blue. Demacian. I snort. The dead face falls from my hands, dropped. No more use to me. Too dead. Where is everyone?

I rise, and survey the field around me. A field of slaughter, sodden and chockfull of the dead. Dead Demacians, yes, but dead Noxians too. They should've fought harder. No sense or reason in positioning of corpses. A melee then. Large one. Someone's fault, don't know whose. No competent commander would allow it to happen. Who led me last?

The sky is bloody, I realize. Red and grey and orange. More aflame really. The sun hides behind the horizon. Is it rising or falling? I watch it. Rising then. Can't remember, need to remember . . .

No. No more questions. Need to act. I can comprehend, I can hear and see. I should look and listen.

There. Rising above the plain. A black tent atop a hill. Banners stream from nearby posts. I count more tents, surrounding it, but smaller. Three, seven, twelve, twenty. Higher numbers come hard. Twenty . . . six? That's what comes after five and twenty. Should know. Angry that I don't. I think harder. Tired of this. I stop counting, and look elsewhere.

A flag, bold and dark. Not my flag . . . no, just not my old flag. I had a red cleaver against black . . . the Noxian standard. This one's green on black, with a skull instead. A bird's skull. Raven. Yes, my flag. My general's flag. I walk toward it.

The going is slow. I ache for another foe. If only someone survived, someone whose injuries were bearable. I'd strike them down where they stood, I would tear them asunder. I hope for it, beg for it. But the bodies remain still.

Movement. I become aware of my axe in my hand. The weight of it, its heft. I draw it back all too easily.

Rise, damn you. Rise and fall! Why isn't he moving? He was! I know it! GET UP AND DIE.

It comes down before I know it. My axe cleaves through it. There's a meaty sound. A shrill cry goes up. It isn't of pain. How . . .

Black feathers waft in the air. A carrion bird, I realize. Just a scavenger come to pick its meal. Its wings are flapping furiously, more irritated than hurt. It flies off, crying all the while. Indignant bird.

I wrench my axe from the corpse, then inspect the body. Completely cleaved in two. I see the viscera slipping from either half.

No more distractions.

Time passes quickly as I ascend the hill.

People blur on by. Some shrink from me, or avert their eyes and turn their bodies. Others pretend not to notice. Wait, who is that? I stop. It cannot be . . . where's the beard? His face is too thin, but his hair's still done in a knot. Doesn't he recognize me? The realization sinks in. No, it isn't someone I know . . . why would it be?

I press further into the sea of unfamiliars.

I pass into the general's tent. The guards don't spare me as much as a glance. Firm men.

My eyes adjust to the dark interior. A few pale candles are the only light. Then I see him ahead of me, bent over and seated at a table, scribbling away. The general couldn't pass for handsome. Of what might have been a full head of hair, only a close-cropped strip remained. Nicks and scars make him harder than his middling years.

Swain doesn't stir from his seat. "Sion," he says. He doesn't even look up from his work. "You live."

What is that supposed to mean? "Did you expect otherwise?"

"No. I am merely remarking upon the fact." He pays no mind to the edge in my voice.

I hear the tent drapes part and the flapping of feathered wings. Swain's eyes look upward from his writing. The thing speeds past my face and lands on Swain's desk. It croaks at me, just once, then quiets. Swain puts down his pen and pets the bird.

I try to recall what I wondered earlier. About the battle. "What happened?"

"The youth met us out in the open. Our previous battles showed that he had more ambition than sense." Swain smooths the raven's feathers. "One of my more foolhardy officers asked if his men could lead the charge. He shared much in common with our foe. So naturally when their formations met, it dissolved into a melee." I feel his eyes on me. I don't like it. "It felt apt to send you."

Sensible. But I'm not satisfied. There must be more. Survivors to butcher, cowards who surrendered instead of dying, deserters to execute, a horse that's gone lame. The urge is rising again. Need to satiate it before it's blinding. I consider Swain.

Hobbled yet strong. He carries himself taller than most warriors; I admire his tenacity. But his eyes are much too green to be human. It angers me somehow. He pays no mind to me. All he cares about the damnable bird. It isn't natural either. Has four eyes too many, all green. Like Swain's. A connection? Perhaps . . . likely. But Swain is no fool. Couldn't kill him if I needed to. Uses magic, strong magic. Not like most mages. I kill those easily enough. Without the safety of range, they're cowards and weak of body. Not Swain. No, I cannot fight him. Will not. Not here anyway.

I take my leave. A red sunrise. Morning is here. I find a rock and sit. Time passes quickly. The red fades to blue. I see the camp disbanding before me, all too quickly. I feel slow. Are we leaving? When was the order given? I get up. I blink, and the camp is gone. Only cinders remain in the fire pits. Where is everyone? I look about. See the war party already marching. I spot a single wagon down the slope. My wagon, I remember. The soldiers await me.

I crawl into the wagon. They secure the manacles on me. But I don't resist. I hear the door bar shut. I hear the wagon's wheels beating against the ground. On the move again. Good. Don't know where; don't care. There'll be foes to kill.

Something on the door. I reach for it. Chains resist. But I grab it. Small, paper. Note. A message?

I see the words. I can read. But can't? Need to try harder.

SION – Beware ravens.

Something off. Have I read this before?

The wagon has stopped. Too long. Too much time has passed. Need to get out. Too tight a confines. Need to escape. Where . . .

Feel heat building in my chest. I hear them, muffled, shrieking, building. Ambush? Let me out. Need to get out there. Head is pounding. Like thunder. Throbbing at the back of my head. Unbearable. Want to pull my skull apart. Want to crush the itch. LET ME OUT.

DOOR OPEN? YES, AIR. SKY, FOES! KILL!

KILL.