Trust. A Tryndamere fanfic.
So this is a story I wrote up a while ago and never got around to typing it. Been in a negative mood creative wise lately so I decided to type it up today. I hope you all enjoy, and if you can, please comment below.
Trust
“Father!” the boy screamed as he raced through the burning wreckage that was his village. Many of the warriors were still fighting, but the surprise attack from a clan that had recently been defeated had cost them many lives. The newfound battle frenzy that they possessed only made it worse.
“Father!” he screamed again. Every fiber of his being urged him to run away, to retreat with the rest of the women and children as the warriors gave them time. But his father was still wounded from the last battle, making it unlikely that he would return from this one.
He could hear his father fighting behind their home, a cabin consumed in flames. The warmth of the fire collided with the chill of the freljord winds, making him forget the intense temperature around him as he sprinted around. He was determined to help his father.
He found him standing, but not by his own strength. A monstrous blade had been skewered through his heart. Its wielder stood out like a black dot across the snow. Massive wings unlike anything the boy had seen rested against the back, while the horns atop its head betrayed the smooth and effeminate face.
The boy’s knees fell into the snow as the swordsman withdrew his blade. He stared helplessly as his father’s body fell limp, his tears freezing in the freljord winds as he refused to avert his eyes.
The wind stopped. Or perhaps he stopped feeling it. Every sense, from the taste of his saliva to the feeling of the ice across his legs, dulled. The quickening of his heartbeat drowned out the world around him as he watched the figure walk away. He screamed, not even realizing he was moving as he did. He ripped his father’s sword from the iced earth and readied a swing, feeling nothing but the intense desire to kill.
The swordsman peered behind him. His inhuman red eyes looking directly into his own.
Tryndamere awoke clamped in cold sweat and panting heavily from his bedroll as he lay upright. Another dream, another memory. The barbarian king sighed as he calmed down, briefly checking to see if he had awoken his wife. Ashe slept peacefully next to him, as she had grown used to over time. He was amazed she could sleep through his struggles, convinced that even the cry of a frost serpent would not wake her.
He however was very much awake and saw no point in returning to sleep. His nightmares usually cost him a peaceful rest, so he spent such nights training with his blade. Such focus made him into the man he was today. Bravely leading the charge for a united Freljord.
It had been a long times since he’d had those nightmares however. They had stopped after he was considered the “Barbarian King” among multiple clans. He didn’t like that they were back, but there was little he could do about it.
There were no clouds in the sky tonight, or was it now morning? He couldn’t tell nor did he care as he looked up to the moon as he walked to the training grounds. Ashe liked to say that a full moon in a freljord night was a beautiful thing to behold. For its light reflected against the snow and revealed the beauty of their home.
He didn’t see it. The Freljord was a harsh and bitter place, but he’d be damned if he didn’t fight for it. Ashe had a vision for this land, one that he would gladly follow despite growing up in the opposite.
Still, he guessed the moon was rather nice. Its light- he stood still as he glimpsed up to the moon, his eyes wide open in suspense. A black shadow flew across the moon, with wings unlike a bird and a form like that of a horned man.
Rage ignited as Tryndamere watched where the shadow flew, already in pursuit as he ran past the gates and sentries of their camp.
This was why the dreams returned, to remind him what he lived for: Vengeance.
Trundle looked on to the Avarosian camp with utter boredom. Being sent as a spy was beneath the troll king, it would have been better to send his own trolls out alone. But no, the Ice Witch wanted him to lead this scouting mission, like another underling.
He spat into the snow, he was getting tired of playing the loyal follower. He longed for the moment where he could usurp the three tribes and claim the Freljord as a troll kingdom, his troll kingdom.
But Trundle was no fool, despite how he acted around others. He knew he couldn’t kill Lissandra on his own or with his trolls. His only hope was this war weakening her enough for him to strike the final blow. So he would wait and watch as the three sides exhausted their resources fighting each other. And when the Winter’s Claw and Avarosians fall, he will strike.
He dared not speak this plan. The Ice Witch may be blind, but nothing whispered escaped her notice. So he had to pray that the loyalty of his trolls outweighed the fear of the Ice Witch.
“Someone’s coming.” said one of his trolls. Trundle looked out over the hill, seeing a single man with a sword running towards their location. Had they been discovered? Impossible he thought, they would have sent more than one man if that was the case. And no alarms had been rung.
“Keep hidden. Don’t want them to notice.”
“We’re hungry!” one troll shouted.
“Rabbit flesh ain’t enough!” shouted another.
Trundle wanted to cave their skulls in, but he held back. People die in the Freljord all the time, and as long as they don’t find the body then they were safe. The trolls needed a moral booster and manflash was very tasty.
“Wait till he’s deep in the woods. Leave no leftovers.” he said with a grin.
The wind buffeted Tryndamere as he searched for the black swordsman. The fires of his burning village counted the cold under his feet. His fellow warriors screamed as they fought, but he had no concern for them. His rage had already buried it.
Warriors of the invading tribe blocked his path, brandishing clubs and axes. They boy didn’t slow his pace, screaming in fury as he diced through them. More and more warriors came, only to be cut down by him again and again. He didn’t tire, he didn’t feel pain, and he didn’t stop. Even upon finding the winged swordsman his pace did not falter. He charged recklessly and screamed as much as his lungs allowed as he swung.
The swordsman parried his blows, slicing into Tryndamere’s skin with every counter. The boy felt nothing, no pain or fear to deter him from pressing forward. Soon his strikes made it through, slashing madly across the midsection and sweeping under the legs. The winged swordsman tripped, letting Tryndamere to follow through and pierce its head. With the intention of leaving the sword there. A black pillar impeded him.
Trundle panted heavily as he ran away, the sting of his wounds healing pushing him forward. How could he have been so foolish?! That was no scout, that was the Barbarian King! Trundle had heard stories of Tryndamere, and by human standards he seemed strong. Trundle had to question what was “human” about him after seeing the king cleave through his own trolls so easily.
The roars from behind startled Trundle. He was still coming? Did he feel no pain?!
He was upon Trundle before a plan could be made, slashing wildly from the left. Trundle barely parried the blade, using his club as more of an impromptu shield.
So is this all you can do?
Another strike, the inhuman strength was enough to make his arms waver.
To be pushed back by a mere human.
Trundle’s grip tightened as something stirred inside him.
Some King.
Trundle’s rage broke free, pushing himself forward with his club tackling the Barbarian King and pinning him to the closest tree. With both hands on the handle, the Troll King swung with all his might, shattering the tree with pure brute force and sending the human flying.
He was the Troll King. The future King of the Freljord! No one, NO ONE, would best him!
Tryndamere wasn’t phased by the strike, too lost to even feel pain. Trundle was to lost to care as the human charged forward. Steel and true ice clased throughout the frosty night air, neither combatant backing down. The remaining trolls who rushed to their king’s aid could only watch in fear from the sidelines.
They dare not enter the domain of kings.
Lights off in the distance changed their minds. The trolls knew they must remain unseen, else the Ice Witch would give them an icy death that not even they could stomach. With haste, the remaining trolls tackled the mad human while others dragged their king off. Their fear of the witch triumphed over anything Trundle could do. They would have left him behind if not for his weapon. The Avarosians had no need for another weapon of true ice.
Despite his struggles, Tryndamere watched helplessly as the swordsman flew off. The distance increased with every warrior that got in his way. Arrows nicked his shoulder, the cold air making the wound feel frozen. He turned to see more warriors, with a bowman in the front.
How many more must get in his way? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand?! It didn’t matter, he would cut them all down. Nothing would stop him as he cleaves these marauders in two!
The winter enveloped him as he charged, slowing his movements until he froze right upon the archer. Voices echoed through his head, the most prominent was of a woman he did not know, yet it felt familiar.
The flames were gone, as were the huts they burned. There was no evidence of a fire, nor even a village around him. He tried to look around, but his body was too stiff to move, forcing him to see straight into the eyes of his wife. With her true ice bow armed and pointing at him.
“Ashe?” he whispered before falling unconscious. The frost archer breathed a sigh of relief as her husband drifted away from consciousness. She ordered her men to return him to camp for recovery. She decided to stay and survey the carnage.
Why were trolls so close? She wondered.
“I don’t think the brace is REALLY-” Tryndamere screeched as the medic pushed his bones back together. The tribe doctor had grown used to healing the Barbarian King’s outrageous wounds, from setting bones back into place, to sticking up arrow and sword holes. The only thing he had lost was his sympathy for the man, now rarely bothering to be gentle unless it was absolutely necessary. A broken leg and several fractures in the upper rib area did not require any gentle carass. Maybe if he feared the doctor more he wouldn’t keep breaking his body.
The King panted heavily as the pain faded away. How long would it take for this wound to heal? He wondered. How long had it been since he felt such rage? His battle fury wasn’t unknown, it was his defining trait in his tales. But he always had some semblance of control after his training. If not control, then at least he could point it in a direction.
But tonight...he remembered it all so clearly, even the warmth of the flames that weren’t there. Was the shadow in the moon just another illusion?
Ashe entered the tent before he could finish the thought. With a quiet nod, the medic left the two of them alone.
“What happened?” the question was quick and cold.
“I decided to go for a walk.” He said with a grin. He didn’t need to tell Ashe about the shadow, she had enough worries and responsibilities with the war. Besides, this was his vendetta.
Ashe sighed and shook her head disapprovingly, “Unbelievable. Even with one leg you continue to dance around me.”
“Pardon?”
“I had to shoot you! You were too far gone to even hear any of us when we found you, covered in wounds and a mixtures of yours and troll blood. And yet you think you can just lie and say it was a walk?”
“Ashe, this isn’t a big d-”
“Not a big deal? So when my husband has night terrors, I should just ignore it? I should just treat, treat this!” she pointed all over his body, “As a minor detail?!”
“It’s my problem, not yours.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It won’t hurt our alliance.”
“Yes, it does.”
“How?!”
“Because if you can’t trust me with your burdens, then how can I trust you with mine?!”
Tryndamere stared wide eyed at his wife. She normally contained her anger, keeping up the queenly guise for the tribe. Even upon insults that he would kill for, she would never retaliate.
Yet here she was. Angry at him and out of worry no less.
“You once told me that you trusted my vision. I trusted you to help me see it happen. When we married, we were no longer two people with different problems. We are one, and that means we share each other’s burdens.” She hugged him softly, “I am your wife, Tryndamere. You’re not alone anymore.”
He was stunned. His throat tightened and his vision blurred as tears rolled down his cheeks. Those words dug deep like a dagger, lightening his burdens as he cried into her shoulders. She was right, he wasn’t alone anymore. He didn’t have to hide if from her.
***
“You stupid trolls!” Trundle shouted as he smacked one of his subordinates around, “How dare you interfere!”
“But the humans-” His club didn’t let the troll finish, “You think I care?! That was my kill, my right as king!”
“Still bloodthirsty I see.”
Trundle froze. He didn’t hear anyone move. The chilling winds stopped as the voice continued, the only hint of it getting closer was the increase in volume.
“The last time I saw that weapon, it was in the hands of an iceborn warrior queen. You certainly don’t wield it like her.”
A shadow descended from the night sky, with wings unlike a bird stretched out wide. Trundle looked on in terror as the black figure stood before him, like a living nightmare. It held a blade that looked as much a limb as its own arm, and despite its deadly shadow, the being had an almost human appearance. It spoke softly, but every word seemed ready to kill.
“Why don’t you tell me how you stole from Lissandra.” said Aatrox.
