Seed of Rage - An Aatrox Short Story

Seed of Rage - An Aatrox Short Story By skumnasty

-- Preface --

Hey there! My ig name is skumnasty and I am a big fan of champion concepts and ideas. While I was reading Aatrox's lore (because the mini-rework was being discussed) I felt that I could maybe create a more interesting story to tell the tale of the Protectorates and Magelords that is briefly touched on. I put together this story as I was thinking about kits that would fit such a being as Aatrox, and as a result I also have an idea for a rework for him also on the boards (here). I am a novice writer, but I hope my short story can entertain a few fans out there. Enjoy!

-- From League of Legends’ Lore --

“Aatrox is a legendary warrior, one of only five that remain of an ancient race known as the Darkin. He wields his massive blade with grace and poise, slicing through legions in a style that is hypnotic to behold. With each foe felled, Aatrox's seemingly living blade drinks in their blood, empowering him and fueling his brutal, elegant campaign of slaughter.”

-- Seed of Rage --

Belgrin lifted his helm and brought the frayed corner of his yellow-trimmed tabard up to dab at the streams of sweat that so eagerly slid into his weary eyes. The late-afternoon Sun was merciless, and the already wavering spirits of his men were by no means being steadied by the blistering heat. Battle was imminent, and as he passed his gaze once more over the grey and brown mountain opposite the valley below him, he was reassured again that so was defeat. But the Protectorate people were stubborn, and not even a sure death was enough to persuade them to relinquish their lands. As stubborn as they were, even Belgrin himself couldn’t entirely submerge his flickering thought towards the prospect of abandoning his homeland for a chance to live.

Belgrin’s mind abandoned its wandering, however, as the sound of trumpets began to rise in the air. The mountain that loomed across from his small army began to first ripple, and then bleed into the valley below. As it neared the bottom, the individual Magelord warriors became clearer, clad in their blood-stained brown tabards and dull silver armor. Even a young Protectorate stable-boy could have recognized then that the opposing numbers were too great, and any chance of victory had been lost over the Protectorates’ previous numerous defeats.

Belgrin cleared his hoarse throat and opened his once clean-shaven mouth to order the answering charge, but heard instead a deep bellowing voice that was not his own. “Now we turn the tide!” His blood seemed to shiver in his veins as he turned his head towards the direction of the mysterious shout. He physically trembled as his eyes fell upon the dark winged being that stood only an arm’s reach from him. “Your pain will be temporary, your victory will be forever. Let your fear become fury!” Belgrin’s blood burned at the creature’s words, and he felt an inhuman seed of rage begin to build in the far corner of his mind. “There will be no retreat! Fight, or be forgotten!” The demon charged. Belgrin’s mind was rage-driven. He knew not what words came from his own lips, only that he screamed to his men as he drew his sword and followed the inspiring creature down the hill. A thundering battle cry filled the air as the men behind, apparently driven by the same madness as he, roared furiously, following the charge.

The battle was hardly a battle: it was a massacre. Belgrin had no thought for pain or death as he drove his blade through his foes like a madman. One, two… Twenty… Over the space of perhaps an hour, enemies without number were felled by his blade. The clang of metal, the horrified screams, and the vigorous shouts of war polluted the air. Out of the corner of his eye Belgrin caught glimpses of his men fighting with the same fury, cutting down Magelord after Magelord. Late into the chaos his mind briefly cleared as a crisp rush of air brushed his exposed cheeks, and he glanced upward to see the demon-warrior leaping over him with a flap of its mighty wings. Belgrin stared in awe as the graceful being landed in a flurry of dirt and blood amongst a large group of horrified Magelord swordsmen. This wasn’t a warrior he was watching, he decided as the demon cut down nearly a dozen men with a few swipes of his enormous blade: it was an artist.

After the helpless warriors were quickly reduced to limp corpses, the demon-man paused for a brief moment, seemingly observing the results of the battle around him. Watching intently, Belgrin let out an audible gasp and fell to his knees, burying his eyes in his hands. His eyes had began to process the scene around the demon, and his mind could not accept what was seen. Shaking his head fiercely Belgrin tried to clear his mind, sure he had been imagining, but as he lifted his head to confirm his doubts, he quivered as he accepted the phenomena his eyes had first presented to him. A thick deep-red mist was being drawn from all directions to the demon’s black blade. Not only was the near-liquid being drawn to it, but the blade seemed to be pulsing in life-like delight as it accepted the blood, as if quenching some hellish thirst.

Still fumbling with disbelief, Belgrin lost sight of the creature as it bounded numerous more times into small groups of remaining Magelords, delivering swift death to each. Battle began to slow. The sounds of steel on steel were now faint and few. Wearily, he lifted his energy-ridden body from the ground and began to make his way back up the hill to where his men had previously been preparing themselves for their certain deaths.

Belgrin shielded his eyes from the evening sun as he scanned the valley. Few men remained standing, all of them fellow Protectorates making their way up the hill towards him. Magelord corpses littered the valley floor. The impossible battle was won. Just before he turned his back on the horrific scene, his eyes caught sight of the demon once more. The creature stood deathly still with his face towards a distant edge of the valley, where Belgrin’s directed gaze noticed a few Magelord men desperately scurrying away from the unspeakable carnage behind them. “Does this being know mercy?” As soon as the question entered his mind, the demon launched itself high into the air and hung there for a moment, its enormous black wings flapping slowly. Belgrin felt horror rise in his heart as the demon made a few hard thrusts, gliding in the direction of the fleeing men. Suddenly, and with inhuman speed, the beast dove. There was a crash of earth and blood that shook the ground beneath Belgrin’s feet, and when the dust from the impact cleared, only Magelord corpses remained. That was the last any Protectorate saw of the winged demon-warrior.

Belgrin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and peering into his untouched mug of ale. The bench underneath his solid body groaned, begging for relief after bearing his weight for the majority of the past two months. Upon their return they were hailed as heroes, him and the surviving warriors, but even after two long months Belgrin still felt no pride in their victory. A dark cloud seemed to cover his mind as, day after day, he attempted to suppress all memories of his final battle with the Magelords. On that afternoon he had lost nearly all control of mind and feeling in an inhuman rage and thirst for blood, and that feeling of no control he could not bury. The celebrations, his friends, and even his concerned wife and children proved unable to lift his spirits, for the dark seed of rage that had been planted in the deep of his mind that dreadful day ate at his very soul. Belgrin finally mustered up the courage to sip from his mug, and immediately regretted it. He spewed the liquid in disgust and returned his gaze to the drink in his hands, trying to reassure himself that it was in fact ale he drank, and not the blood that he tasted. As his eyes pierced the gently rippling drink, a strange shape quivered on the surface. He sprang up with a start as he recognized the outline of a winged man, abandoning his mug as it clashed loudly to the floor. His back against the wall, Belgrin buried his face in his hands and wept.

True, the Protectorates had claimed victory, but for Belgrin and his surviving men it was no such thing.

"Peace is the greatest lie of all." - Aatrox