Fracture - Chapter 4

PROLOGUE: http://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/fancreations/fZAXxjHA-fanfiction-fracture PREVIOUS CHAPTER: http://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/fancreations/MLzfETL4-fanfiction-fracture-chapter-3

Fanfiction.net link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10770866/1/Fracture

Genres: Suspense/Drama/Mystery/a lot of others Characters: Leona, Caitlyn, Nasus, Kassadin, too many to list

Summary: The machine that sustains the lethal matches of the League fails. Events spiral outwards. (Character death.)

---

POIESIS

"It's very convenient that you're here, but the one I need to speak to right now is your sister," said the sheriff irritably, "so if you would kindly move..."

"Cassiopeia is sick right now," replied the Sinister Blade flatly. "You can ask me whatever questions you have, but you're not talking to my sister."

"And pray tell what kind of sickness does she have that is so severe she cannot carry a single conversation?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

"I don't know, but it's bad," answered Katarina. "Now say what you've got to say and go. I'm doing this for your protection too, Sheriff."

Caitlyn tsk'ed, shifting her weight onto her back foot. She had really wanted to take their testimonies separately, but she didn't think she could push her luck much further – Piltover and Noxus were hardly friendly.

"Very well," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Is it because she's sick that no one has seen your sister in a week?"

"She needs to get as much rest as possible if she's going to recover."

"I see. You haven't taken her to the Starchild, or any such thing?"

The Noxian assassin leveled her with a glare. "Like hell I would. I know what kind of grudge Ionians hold towards Noxus. I don't care what kind of good intentions she has, I'm not trusting her with my own sister."

Such hostility. Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "Yes, well. Onto the heart of the matter – where were you at the time the incident?"

"What time are you talking about, specifically?"

"One week ago, at noon. I have reports saying you two were going somewhere together?"

Katarina's lips pressed into a thin line, and the sheriff had enough practice to recognize the mask that was quickly sliding in place. The Sinister Blade was definitely trying to hide something.

"We were going to the library, to speak with the Curator of the Sands."

"Whatever for?" she asked, eyebrows raising. That was hardly what she expected her to say – given that it was the truth.

"Confidential Noxian business," answered the assassin in even tones.

"And that was all you did?"

Katarina huffed, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. "Yes. And then I took Cass back to her room. Is that all you wanted to know?"

The sheriff didn't answer immediately, remaining silent. She knew definitively that Katarina was trying to hide something, that wasn't in question. But what? With her poker face in place, it was difficult to tell which parts of her testimony were truth and which were lies... But it would be an easy matter to confirm her statement if she spoke to Nasus.

"Yes," replied the sheriff at last, hand going for her hat. "That's all." She lifted it up slightly in a perfunctory gesture of respect. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Du Couteau."

The Sinister Blade waved a dismissive hand, gesturing for her to leave. Caitlyn grimaced, turning to make the walk back. Their conversation had been singularly unhelpful, but utterly suspicious. The one thing she had learned was that, undoubtedly, something was afoot with the sisters.

Katarina crossed her arms, watching the figure of the Sheriff of Piltover quickly disappearing into the distance. The Noxian assassin heaved a sigh, leaning her back against the door to her sister's room.

"Issss s-she gone?" came a weak voice from inside.

The Sinister Blade took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Yeah, Cass. She's gone."

"I... I need to get out."

"No damn way," she hissed in a low voice. "You stay in there, and you don't move."

"I can't live like thissss, Kat! I don't want to live like thisss."

"This is for your own good," she said firmly, hands pressed against the door as if to keep it closed. "We'll find a way, I promise."

There was silence for a long moment, but if Katarina listened closely enough, she could hear the harsh sounds of breathing.

"Kat..." the voice called out softly. "Can I at least go out for a little bit?"

"Cass," she said gently, "you know that's not a good idea."

There was no answer from the other side of the door. The Sinister Blade sighed again, straightening up to go.

"Be good," she told her, patting the door as if she were patting her sister. And still, Cassiopeia did not reply.

As she trudged down the empty hallways, struggling to keep her face neutral, she thought of her younger sister cooped up in her room and wanted to thrash someone. Katarina exhaled through her teeth, closing her eyes briefly.

It was for the best, she told herself. It was all for the best.

.

.

.

"Well, you sure got here fast, ninja," he remarked, stepping over the wreckage of the room, adding dryly, "him too, looks like."

"I sensed something was amiss," explained Shen, voice toneless.

The Secret Weapon, on the other hand, laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. The destruction of the area seemed more likely attributed to him than whatever struggle had gone on before their arrival.

"What happened?" Yasuo asked, moving around the Eye of Twilight to see what he was kneeling beside. "Oh, damn."

It was Ahri.

The Nine-Tailed Fox was completely out cold, sprawled on the ground like a rag doll. There weren't any grievous wounds that he could see, but the pallor to her skin told him something was terribly wrong. Shen had two fingers held to her neck, another hand holding up her wrist.

"She has a pulse," he stated quietly. "But it is weak. It seems she was drained of life."

"Well," said the Unforgiven, looking around the room for any remaining enemies. There was quite a bit of furniture overturned. "That's... ironic."

"Is she gonna be okay?" asked Zac, looming over him.

"I fear it may be fatal. We must take her to the Starchild," said the Kinkou ninja, gathering her up in his arms. "And swiftly."

"Give her to me," he offered, stepping forward. "I can get her there quick."

"I could get her there quicker," the Secret Weapon protested, holding out his arms.

Yasuo jabbed him in the side with the hilt of his blade, ignoring his objections. "You don't know your way around the Ionian branch, and I doubt you move as fast as the wind." He turned to Shen, gesturing to Ahri. "Give her here, ninja."

He turned her over to his care wordlessly, motioning for him to go. Were the situation not so grave, he might have rolled his eyes – damn ninjas and their silence – but the swordsman dashed off at any rate. Honestly, he was expecting a little more resistance, seeing as most Ionians bore a grudge against his traitor status, but he supposed the esteemed Eye of Twilight was above all that. Soraka should be at the Ionian branch clinic as usual – he didn't want to think about what would happen if she wasn't.

"You'd better survive, fox," he muttered under his breath, skidding to a brief stop as he made the sharp turn around a corner. Not many of the other Ionians gave him much company what with his history, and he wasn't keen on losing a conversation partner. Not when he had so few.

There were so many doors being wrecked today, Yasuo observed idly to himself as he burst into the clinic, armored shoulder first.

"My word!" exclaimed Soraka, springing to her feet. "What in the stars...!"

Whatever she had to say next died in her throat when she saw his cargo. The Starchild rushed to his side, pulling him by the arm over to one of the cots.

"Lay her here," she directed, and he did as he was told, watching Ahri's face carefully for signs of life. She was still breathing, it looked like – if only slightly. Immediately, Soraka's hands glowed, ghosting slowly over the fox's prone form. Yasuo let go of the breath he'd been holding in his throat – the color was returning to her.

"She'll live?" he asked, taking a few steps backwards. He felt compelled to give the healer room to work.

"Just barely," said the Starchild, not looking up. "She had quite a bit drained from her. If it had gone on any longer, I don't know that her heart would still be beating."

"Lucky her," he murmured.

"What happened?"

"Hell if I know. Heard a scream and came to check it out," he told her with a shrug. "The Eye of Twilight was already there, along with the Zaun Secret Weapon. Her room was wrecked."

"Ahri was attacked, then?" asked Soraka, anxiously. "Why?"

"Lady, you're asking the wrong person." Yasuo placed a hand on his blade. "I don't know anything beyond what I saw. Seems like whoever attacked her definitely wanted her dead, though."

"She has bruises on her arms," she noted, a little listlessly as she pulled back one sleeve for examination. "As if someone held her down."

He scowled, flicking the hilt of his sword so that the blade showed itself very briefly. "The coward probably ambushed her."

"What is happening?" she breathed out, disbelief in her voice. The Starchild stumbled away from her patient, collapsing backwards into a chair as if exhausted. "What in the stars is happening here?"

The Unforgiven didn't respond, looking away. He didn't have an answer for that – he wasn't sure that anyone did. There was definitely something off at the Institute, but what exactly and why, it seemed no one had any clue. Yasuo pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

Why was Ahri attacked? Was she singled out as a target, or was this some lurking killer waiting to go on a rampage? The uncertainty made him apprehensive, and he wished that matches hadn't been canceled so he could get back into his flow and calm his nerves. A blade without a battle became a restless one in due time, and Yasuo had the bitter experience to know that a restless blade rarely returned to its sheathe.

"I've done what I can for her," said the Starchild finally, after awhile, "but the damage was great. She might not awake for several days..."

"Better than her dying, I guess," he replied, words carried on a heavy breath. The swordsman shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Is that my cue to go?"

"You won't gain anything by lingering," Soraka told him, honestly. She sighed, covering her eyes briefly before gesturing for him to leave. "Go. May the stars guide your way, Unforgiven."

"Heh." He headed for the exit, the door sitting uselessly on broken hinges from his rough entry. "We'll have to see about that."

.

.

.

It was dark. So very dark.

He hated the darkness.

Why they insisted on keeping his brother in the dankest of basements, he had no idea, but it irked him in a way few things had before. Nasus kept a firm grip on his torch as he descended the spiraling stairway with slow, measured steps, his other hand keeping hold of his halberd. Renekton might not have been himself anymore, but that was no excuse to treat him so poorly. Had the circumstances been different, he might have petitioned the Institute of War for better accommodations, but alas. It would not be.

If he could steel himself, and finish what he so long ago had started, it would never have to be.

The Curator of the Sands felt his way along the passage with the end of his halberd, keeping his head bowed slightly to suit the low ceiling of the narrow corridor. The sandstone the Institute had used was Shuriman, and he wondered vaguely to himself whether the choice had been conscious. The flickering light cast red against the walls, the infinitesimal shards of quartz in the grain glimmering ever so slightly as he passed.

"Th... for... with me..."

Nasus paused, tall ears straightening. Was that... Renekton, speaking?

The librarian quickened his step, taking care to keep his feet light and silent as he strained his hearing. More murmurs were carried on the draft that flowed through the hallway, but he could hardly make out what was being said, or if there was one voice or two, or even more.

"I... why th... te you... who... at..."

The mouth of the corridor opened suddenly into a wide chamber, and all at once the whispering ceased, giving way to utter silence and deafening echoes. The flame of the torch cast but a meager glow across the expanse of the room, but it was just barely enough for him to make out what lay on the other side.

Nasus tightened his grip on the torch, inhaled slowly, and then began making his way across with calm, deliberate steps.

"Brother," he said into the darkness, pausing as he continued to move forward and the light finally found its way to polished, steel bars and he slipped the torch into a fastener on the wall, "who were you speaking to?"

There was no immediate reply at first – something almost terrifyingly bewildering in its oddity – and for one split second, he had the foolishness to hope. Then there came the familiar bellowing and thrashing, and the loud rattling of bars and chains filled the chamber with their roaring reverberations across air and stone, and reality settled upon him once more.

"Nasus!" he screamed, voice a low, guttural growl.

The Curator of the Sands simply stood there for a long moment, watching. His protective older brother. This was what had become of him. He had had centuries to come to terms with it – even longer to take action – but the first time he had decided to end his brother's empty existence had been one of the most grueling moments of his life. It had been a strange concoction of rage and relief when he was summoned by the Institute at so crucial a moment, but it had quickly given way to bitter recollections of the moment he would have to relive again.

Nasus knew that he would have to kill Renekton – it was an inevitability he had accepted long ago – but the first time had been so difficult. Attempting again was even more so. The Curator knew he had to take action before Renekton was joined formally to the League so many years ago, or else the chance would be lost forever, but at that time he had found in himself a weakness he had never known could be so potent. Renekton might have become a rampaging butcher, but he was still his brother, and try as he might, Nasus could not forget those happy times so long ago. Crippled by mercy and memory, he could not bring himself to strike his brother down – and so Renekton joined the League, and became immortal in both age and existence.

But now that immortality of existence had gone. The Institute's precious respawn system had broken down and he had before him another window of opportunity to act – one that might never appear to him again. Before him, Renekton thrashed in his cell, throwing himself against the bars in a vain attempt to break free, roaring nonsensical words of endless anger.

This was not his brother.

"Renekton died long ago," he murmured to himself, holding his halberd close. "This creature is simply a vessel of rage."

The evils of men had driven him to madness and that madness had consumed him, sucked him dry until he was naught but an empty existence. It was time for him to end that empty existence.

He was tired. So tired. After he set Renekton to rest, perhaps he should follow suit...

The Curator of the Sands took a deep breath, stepping forward with his weapon in hand. Slowly, he reached out to take hold of the enchanted lock on the cell door, preparing to recite the proper incantations to unlock it as Renekton's hands clawed at him from between the bars.

And then something on the ground caught his eye.

He stopped, turning to look at it properly. It couldn't be...

The librarian knelt low and, carefully avoiding his brother's wild swipes, reached into the cell and snatched the item from between the bars.

It was a blanket – cashmere and in good condition. Hesitantly, Nasus brought it close and sniffed. Beyond Renekton's scent, there was the slightest fragrance of perfume. This could not have been something provided by the Institute.

Someone had been visiting his brother – nay, someone had been leaving his brother gifts.

He held the blanket for a long moment, examining it, whilst behind him his brother's fury seemed to grow more and more violent.

What did it mean?

"You are expressly forbidden from entering this chamber, Curator," said an imperious voice.

"...I know," he answered, deceptively calm as he turned and looked up to face the Judicator.

Kayle leveled a glare at him, arms crossed against her chest. "Leave, immediately."

Nasus did not move, gazing over his shoulder at his still raging brother. He glanced at the blanket in his hand, then back to his brother and still, back to the blanket again. Underneath the thunderous echoes of Renekton's tantrum, he could hear Kayle's wings beating steadily faster as her impatience grew.

"Do not force my hand, Curator."

The librarian exhaled slowly through his nose. "As you wish."

He held the blanket out towards his brother, who tore it from his hands with a vicious frenzy before lunging back at the bars to swipe at him again. The Curator of the Sands stood there very briefly, hand still extended before, slowly, it fell back to his side. Nasus closed his eyes, and turned away.

His opportunity had been lost again.

.

.

.

She had known they would be furious, that they would be stubborn. She had simply underestimated by how much.

Leona paced the length of the hall, stuffing down her anxiety with steady breaths. Her first attempts to approach the topic had been met with swift rejection, but she had continued pressing the matter. The Radiant Dawn had returned to Rakkor a hero, and she knew she held sway. Exactly how much was another matter entirely, but it had been enough to call the elders to court.

They were to have a hearing over how worthy Diana was to be given a proper warrior's burial. The thought of it made her want to laugh; one could hardly be judged more worthy than to have been accepted into the League of Legends, but it seemed only to matter that she was a heretic. Nothing more, nothing less.

"They say you've gone mad," said an all-too familiar voice.

Leona whirled around, startled. She'd been so lost in thought, she had overlooked the sounds of his approach.

"Pantheon," she greeted, still a tad shocked. "So you returned as well."

"Leona," he returned easily. Obscured by his helmet, his expression was unreadable, but she had known him long enough to sense the small smile dwelling beneath. "It feels as though we've not spoken in ages."

"The Institute has kept us rather busy," she observed, regretfully. "It is good to see you again."

The Artisan of War bowed his head slightly in agreement. "Indeed. Though... what is this talk of you going mad?"

The Radiant Dawn paused, debating on whether or not she should tell him. Pantheon was an old friend, but he was also fiercely loyal to Rakkorian ideals – including those of the Solari. Would he be as ill-disposed towards her proposal as the elders had been? Would he be tempted to turn his back on her as the high priest had threatened to do? What would she do if he did?

For an eternity of a second, Leona wondered.

"I made an appeal," she admitted, at last. "For the Scorn of the Moon to be granted a proper burial."

There was a long period of silence. "Ah," he said after awhile. "I see."

The Radiant Dawn frowned, glancing up at him with uncertain eyes. "Do you... believe this is foolish?"

Pantheon looked away from her briefly, crossing his arms. "Not so much foolish, as unwise... You know as well as I the likelihood of success. This can only serve to damage your reputation."

"What's important here," she began firmly, "is not my reputation. What's important here is that justice is done."

"You've always loved that word," he remarked, somewhat dryly. "Justice."

"Are you making light of this?" she asked threateningly, stepping forth.

The Artisan of War sighed, the sound rattling off the sides of his helmet. He leaned down so that they were eye level, hands going to her shoulders.

"Leona," he said, with the familiarity of a childhood friend, "your efforts will be in vain. You know this."

Her eyes narrowed, shoulders already tensing as she prepared to shrug him off.

"But," he continued, pulling back, "regardless, I will offer you my support."

The Radiant Dawn froze, eyes widening as her hand shot out to seek his arm. He couldn't really mean...?

"Pantheon?"

"We will see," he began, characteristic haughtiness seeping into his voice, "if they can refuse both the Chosen of the Sun, and the Artisan of War."

A smile spread across her face. With a nostalgic sort of affection, she moved close to embrace him in a grateful hug.

"Thank you. Truly."

"No matter what, I will stand by you," he told her, returning the gesture, and she could hear the fondness in his voice. "Just as when we were young."

"The dalliances of childhood seem so long ago," she remarked with a wry smile, when they both pulled away. "I remember when you were weak."

He started to make some irritable retort when the loud ringing of bells silenced him. Leona looked down the long hallway, towards the distant doors at its end. Those bells were rung for one purpose.

"It's time," she said, expression settling into stone.

Pantheon pulled on his cape so that it fell about his shoulders like a shroud.

"Lead the way."

.

.

.

Next Chapter: http://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/fancreations/EhknkmyF-fanfiction-fracture-chapter-5