Chapter Text
The two soldiers on sentry duty hailed him from at least a hundred feet. Jericho's companion- Beatrice, he reminded himself- had spied a Noxian garrison and promptly returned to his shoulder. The trek from the Demacian capitol's walls dragged on over a long three days. His leg left him with a dull ache the entire journey. As his bird drew in prey, the ache lessened, but in between meals it throbbed. The limp appendage had taken a beating over tree stumps and boulders, and begun bleeding again shortly before the two sentries called to him. Jericho gave the standard Noxian pass-phrase and they allowed him passage, but not without gawking at his injury. He was met with a similar reaction entering the infirmary.
Jericho would have laughed at the portly medic's eyes as he caught sight of the young man's mangled leg, had his throat even begun to heal. The gruesome sight had nearly doubled the man's eyes in size, and they threatened to burst from his skull as he boggled at the protruding bone and discolored ankle. Unfortunately, Jericho's throat still ached, hindering him from expressing his mirth at the hapless infirmary charge.
That one has not see many battles, this one thinks. The fields of war yield many worse injuries than yours, his companion let out a croak similar to a scoff of her own kind of amusement. He patted her gently on the head, a gesture he had grown fond of. After scrambling for writing tools, the medic finally composed himself to gesture Jericho to an examination bench.
"Name?"
"Jericho Swain," he rasped, struggling with his raw throat. The strange harshness of his voice startled him. At least it seemed to have stopped threatening to crack at any interval, he supposed.
"Origin?"
"Noxus."
"No, where exactly are you from?"
"Noxus. My papers are here if you need more validation, but I find my leg may be a more pressing matter."
The medic swallowed hard under the adolescent's cold stare. His eyes seemed to be blue, with some kind of odd red tint ringing the outside of their irises. He uneasily continued the questions.
"Medical history, then?"
"No outstanding issues. No inherited ailments."
"Well then, this leg will need magical attention, I will notif-"
"No. No magic touches me but my own."
Taken aback, the medic protested, eyebrows furrowed.
"I can splint it, but you'll never regain full use of it again, not without an adept's attention. That's a death sentence, and you know it."
"Splint it. Give me a crutch."
"You'll never make it with a bum leg."
"Only the strong survive, doctor."
"Think of your future, you fool!"
"The only fool in this room is the one refusing to splint my leg."
The medic huffed in resignation and cross the room to retrieve his supplies. A half a dozen of the beds around him held ailing soldiers. A few were chronic malingerers, a few had true injuries and illnesses, but all were his patients. Training accidents mostly were the brunt of the reason for seeing him, as the post saw little real combat. The hypochondriacs were simply lazy, and persuasive to their higher ups. He figured they were serving their mandatory term and then crawling back to whatever slime they were dragged from to enlist. This station was a cushy post, the workload was entirely light. Still, better to keep a soldier that cut corners away from the honest ones, he felt, as such an attitude could easily undermine the entire operation. He rummaged a bit and returned through the infirmary to his new oddity of a patient.
"Take this to numb your pain," he handed the boy a packed herb capsule and turned to his work. The boy's leg appeared to have broken through the skin, then shattered as though ground like herbs in a mortar and pestle. Shards of bone protruded from flesh, and the more he re-opened the wound and examined it, the worse the fracture revealed itself to be. After setting what was left of the smaller ankle bone, the medic began the arduous process of piecing together what he could of the larger one. A full hour passed before he could finish the dressing and plaster. There was little he could do without magical assistance, the young man's stubborn refusal condemned him, very possibly to death.
"A crutch, if you please." Clearing his throat, the patient stood, a bit unsteady at first, but largely unphased. The medic could only stare as Jericho Swain and his strange bird hobbled out of his infirmary. Only after the pair had left and he turned to clean the bench did he notice the anesthetic capsule lay untouched on the end table beside it. One of the malingering soldiers nearby shook slightly with a definite pallor to his face.
"He never flinched, Doc. He put that numb-stuff there and never once did his face change... That lad. He weren't human."
The doctor muttered something about needing to write his report for supplies used and hurriedly left the infirmary.
Jericho pondered his options as he limped-much easier now with the addition of the crutch-toward Nox. From the capital he would seek his parents' estate, though he doubted a warm welcome home awaited him. Winter's bite still tinged the air as he passed the war-scarred Noxian countryside. Little infrastructure existed in this region. The stretch between the outpost and the city was dotted with ruined watchtowers, decaying forests and fields, and abandoned estates and farmsteads. Among the ruins were obvious military campsites.The countryside wasn't wholly inhospitable, but it certainly seemed to test the strength of those who travelled it.
He passed under a crumbling arch straddling the road. Beatrice gently prodded his ear, putting him on alert. He stopped and slid up against the blackened stones, his back to the inner wall of the arch. The terrain lent itself perfectly to an ambush, he realized.
His bird's warning proved correct as two thugs in ill-kept armor descended on Jericho with wicked smiles.
"Ay, lookit this shabby little scarecrow, must be lost in these parts. There's no crops 'round here need your protectin'."
"Careful Ryd, he's not a very good scarecrow. There's a mite-ridden winged rat on 'is shoulder. Squawker might cause us trouble."
Beatrice bristled on Jericho's shoulder. He could feel heat seep into his blood but remained calm. He put his free hand up in a feigned flinch and tried his best to look convincingly afraid of the brutish leader, now close upon him brandishing a dented morning star.
"Then let's take it first. We could use some fresh meat. 'Ere scarecrow, hand your birdy over and then y' can be on the way."
Sizing them up quickly, Jericho moved his arm from in front of his face to right beneath Beatrice's feet. The bandits were a foil of body types, and, if their weaponry was any indication, fighting styles. The one called Ryd was the largest and clearly the leader. He held an obviously two handed morning star in one hand and had a tattered billowing cloak. The other speaker was thin and wiry, wearing cracked leather armor and weilding a quarter staff. His reach would be a problem.
"Well, wee stickman, you'd best get on wit it."
"If you insist," he croaked in return, flinging Beatrice at them.
In an instant he felt the heat from his blood rush through his arm and into his raven. Acting as a focal point of the spell her beak erupted in white hot light, bathing the bandit leader in a painful beam. The man screamed and his partner leapt toward Jericho in his defense. Leaning heavily on his good leg, the boy ducked into a crouch and raised his crutch above his head. He caught the quarterstaff mid blow and pushed it back. Du Couteau's training still lay in his muscles, even after being broken.
"You little witchy bastard!"
Jericho's first spell had worn off, and Beatrice returned to his shoulder. He rolled on instinct. The morning star sailed past him and struck the crumbling masonry where he'd just sat. Carefully rising to his feet, he let the warm sensation of spellwork flow back through him. The bandits wasted time in rushing him again. He crouched again to dodge the staff once more, and thrust his cane forward into the lean man's stomach. Winded, the assailant doubled over with a wheeze. Blindly he extended his arm in the direction of Ryd, sending a ball of searing green magic at the man. Ryd shrieked as it connected squarely to his chest and sent crackling green tendrils across his body.
Ryd wailed once more in agony from the spellwork and finally crumpled in a heap on the ground, twitching. The man with the quarterstaff fiercely kicked his former leader with his boot and scowled. Jericho met his scowl with a leering smirk and raised his hand once more.
Talons erupted from the ground, pinning the man and his prone companion in place. Blood seeped down the man's ankles. The boy shuffled toward them. As he approached, a wind picked up and the beating of wings filled the air around him. Ravens swarmed from seemingly nowhere, enveloping the two hapless bandits. Gleeful croaks and desperate shrieks mixed in chorus, giving Jericho a chilling sense of self-satisfaction. A comforting warmth began in his chest as they tore flesh from bone and stole the bandits' life away. It spread through his limbs, and flooded into his right ankle.
It is mended. It will not hurt any longer, save in darkest winters. And yet...
Jericho waited for her to finish. The flock began to subside as they had eaten their fill.
...it will not be strong enough to carry you.
He shrugged in response and lifted a hand for her to land upon. At the sight of it he gave a start. Was this his own limb? Wicked talons extended from his fingers, and his knuckles were covered in of grey scales that transitioned into black feathers at his wrists. As he stared, the feathers retreated back into his skin and the claws softened.
Does this trouble you?
He narrowed his eyes a little and smiled at the six eyed raven. He shook his head and chuckled. The state of his forearm was certainly a surprise, but being troubled over a second chance was not even close to what was on his mind. With a little cunning, he wouldn't need his leg to succeed.
Jericho let his mind wander while his feet moved with purpose. The terrain slowly changed from scarred highlands to marshes and sloughs. Snow had recently fallen in a light dusting. Most of the ground was frozen, and by proxy much of the marsh itself. Pockets of running water trickled softy here and there as dusk began to fall. Termite mounds at least as tall as Jericho dotted the ground amid the riparian forest, their denizens tucked soundly inside, preparing for the long-off spring and swarming.
Weariness had crept into his muscles. Hobbling cross country, and disposing of two would-be bandits probably weren't wise actions, though necessary. He had to reach Nox before too much time had passed, there were arrangements he needed to make, and stock he needed to take of his situation. From his bearings, the capitol was north and east still at least a day's walk. The terrain should eventually give way to farmland, if he remembered the map correctly. The natural obsidian mountain that held most of the city had probably long ago rained fertile volcanic ash on the surrounding valleys. Naturally, Noxus took advantage of the resources available. Military units needed supplies, after all.
More pressingly than the major landmarks, Jericho scanned the area for any semblance of a campsite or place to recoup until morning. He wouldn't want to get caught trekking at night in an unfamiliar area. Predators seemed unlikely unless desperate, but the dead of winter was a lean time.
After rounding a bend in the road, he spotted a trail and what probably passed for a campsite a few meters off. The dead brush cracked as he pushed past and to the small clearing at the base of a relatively large tree. It had smooth bark and had grown with a unique hollow at its base. This hollow could fit at least two adult men beneath it, so Jericho had ample room to make himself comfortable. Beatrice nudged the side of his head.
Watch. You rest. Will not sleep.
He silently assented, and she flew to a branch above his makeshift camp.
The next morning came without a dawn. Overcast skies held the world in a dismal shade of cold grey. Jericho roused sometime well after sunrise, but before midday. He cursed softly. This would set him back a bit. Beatrice, perched overhead, acknowledged his awakening with a soft croaking caw.
Rising stiffly, he leaned hard on his crutch. His body was chilled. He flexed his knees, one at a time, testing his motion and letting blood flow return. Nothing throbbed or felt particularly weak- a marked improvement from the long trek between Demacia and the outpost. He couldn't quite piece together how he'd traversed those miles, and did not question it. Such knowledge held little revelation beyond what he already had proof of. His will to survive had bound him to his new companion and bought him a second chance.
Beatrice alighted on his shoulder once more, and they were underway. His steps were rhythmic to accommodate the cast he left in place. It would have to come off before he actually entered the city or it would instantly become a target painted on him. Noxus was not known for much recourse for those who were crippled, Du Couteau had been right about that much. Determination surged into him at the thought. He would have to see to it he wasn't right about anything else.
The road finally wound out of the swampland and through cultivated fields, their furrows frozen in winter's embrace. Stone cottages with thatch roofs dotted here and there, and the occasional barn of the same make accompanied them. Smoke curled from a few stone chimneys. A scarecrow made of nothing more than a crossbar and shredded burlap swayed as a chill gust of wind ripped through the farm country.
Jericho mused over his plans. He was now in the possession and trust of power and allies, both of which were magical and personal. There scope was not much more than protecting himself against those that would take advantage of his obvious handicap. His skills before had included forgery, basic close combat, basic survival, knowledge of much of the underbelly of Nox, and the uncanny ability to beat Du Couteau handily at chess. He very possibly would have a sum of money he could withdraw from the coffers, via his family, but it was unlikely these would be accessible. He supposed if the bureaucracy hadn't caught up with the report of his death before he reached the city he may have a chance.
As for his endgame, he would have his work cut out for him. Noxian society, and even Demacian, if his short trip had been any indicator, was so caught up in martial, physical strength. Yet was not Runeterra a world of magic? Summoners were powerful, sure, but they were hardly treated with any kind of respect. in fact, in Noxus many were treated with suspicion and dread. He hadn't really paid much thought to it before, but Du Couteau, who had never revealed the source of his knowledge, had only ever spoken of the Academies of Necromancy, and the summoners who were both loosely within the Noxian military. Of course, the handful of academies concerning Necromancy were also tied to Zaun, Jericho inferred.
He rounded a corner and spotted a village. The bleak clouds had drifted off and again the winter sun gleamed down. It appeared to be near midday, yet Jericho noticed a distinct lack of hunger in his gut. Thirst though was definitely upon him. He could make out a well in the middle of a ring of buildings. Houses, huts, and a large building-presumably an inn- made up the main thoroughfare through the town. As he neared he could see more. People on their routines bustled around, as much as a small village can. A goodwife swept the threshold of her home, a boy about Jericho's age mended a hitching post outside the large building, and a young woman filled her bucket. A pair of posts roughly twice as tall as Jericho marked the entrance from the road, with a man in a boiled leather chestpiece loosingly holding a longbow standing beneath the left one. Just under fifty feet out he was hailed.
"Traveler, what business have you here?" The man had his bow ready, though not brandished. Jericho stopped and responded with a rasp.
"I merely wish to pass through, perhaps with a drink of water to ensure I arrive in the captiol."
The man regarded Jericho, sizing up the young man. He held his gaze on his crutch and mangled leg.
"We do not abide those who cannot fend for themselves. From whence have you come, that I may know you will not tarry?"
"The outpost not a day's march southwest. My wound will not hold me here."
The villiage man lowered his bow and nodded. Jericho continued his hobble towards him. When he reached the threshold of the village he met the man's inquisitive stare. The man flinched and narrowed his eyes.
"I should not have insulted your character, stranger. Take your respite, and then your leave of us, that your misfortune not spread."
Jericho scoffed and nodded. This was the first of many who would question his strength, due to reliance on a cane. Once the void forsaken cast was off, it would be easier to hide, but until then he would have to entertain patience. He had a feeling they would become old friends.
Revived by the icy well-water, he found movement to be easier. He discovered near the opposite edge of the village, a trash heap. What caught his eye, was not the heap itself, but the glint of sun on steel. A notched dagger lay among the other objects unable to be re-purposed or awaiting reuse. After stowing it in the remains of his belt, he continued down the road, which continuously appeared more up-kept. If his leg was in fact healed, he could be rid of this clumsy cast, and that would require a somewhat sharp instrument. He could probably find a decent stone to hone the blade and then hope to cut apart the field surgeon's attempt at setting his leg.
An opportunity presented itself as he crested a hill and the obsidian mountain housing the city came into sight. A marsh began once more, at a place where the river broadened and spread out, spilling into branches here and there. Here it was warmer, and water ran freely through small tributaries throughout the marsh. Reeds, brown and dead littered the landscape. An outcropping of rock built up the road's bed amid the soup. It was down this that Jericho slid, only a few feet, to where a patch of clear water rushed over smooth stones. Extending his leg, he sunk down to rest on the bank and quickly began rolling up what was left of his trouser leg. With a deliberate motion he swung his ankle into the running water. While it soaked, he tested the knife against his thumb, it seemed like it would cut the plaster and linen well enough.
After about fifteen minutes, he tested the edges of the cast. They had softened slightly, and he began sawing slowly. The linen threads pulled here and there, but with patience and further soaking, he managed to remove the impeding bandage with only a single nick near the bottom of his ankle to show for it. The skin beneath it looked sallow and dyed yellow with a cleaning substance around a pale white scar where his bones had torn through and been replaced. He returned the knife to his belt and slid the tattered pant leg back down his shin. It wasn't the greatest he'd ever looked, but not many could say they'd knocked on death's door and lived to tell about, let alone dressed well after doing so.
Beatrice trilled softly as he gently scratched the back of her head. She had watched the whole procedure with interest, though he'd had a feeling her eyes were also on the road. Without trying he had been acutely aware that no one had travelled the road behind him, though he had also been readily absorbed in the delicate and messy work in the stream. He stood up carefully, leaning slightly on his cane, turning over the larger remains of plaster in his hands.
We will dispose of that.
Beatrice took it in her beak and with two great wing sweeps went aloft. She flew at least twelve feet out and dropped the cast into a mirey pool, where it could dissolve without leaving undue evidence. The rest of the remains had already washed away. Now, he carefully clambered up the road's grade, wary of misteps. His ankle felt cold to the air, despite it being a lukewarm day. He turned his attention back to his destination, the city in shades of slate, onyx, pewter, and indigo ahead.
Mid-afternoon heralded the advent of dusk during the winter, and also the lighting of Noxus' braziers. Fires appeared in waves, as though a dance. Knowing Noxus' military tradition, Swain surmised it was probably on a ritual basis for guard changes and shifts during the twilight hour. He recalled when he was younger and the two 'eyes' of the mountain- which had a distinct skull-shape to it, hewn from magic or might, or naturally formed, no one remembered- had blazed with enormous bonfires during a Demacian siege. On typical nights, like this one, the city's lights glowed like cinders. The mountain probably had never been dark in its history, from ancient lava plumes to the lamps and torches of today. As he neared, he could make out the larger fires marking the entrances to the Underground, where many of Noxus' wards lay. The cavernous mountain housed an entire second half of Noxus, and within it sprawled sections of the city ranging from elaborate terraced houses for the wealthy, to decrepit ruins from ages gone by. Much was in stark, untilitarian Noxian architecture. Flourishes were reserved for the wealthy, or broken apart during any of the power struggles in history.
Here the road crossed a stonework bridge over the marsh and wound directly north toward the southern gates of Noxus. Light's last grasp slipped off the stables outside the city. Lows and whinnies sounded here and there as he passed. The road broadened and ran across the threshold of a thick solid stone wall. No masonry was apparent on Noxus' first line of fortification, and the legend went that the wall had been erected through blood sacrifice, given to the stone below. An enemy army captured, arranged, and slain simultaneously. It was said the unit on wall duty rotated every month because any longer would drive guardsmen mad. No one lived directly against the wall, as the city kept a small buffer of fields and other useful utilities for surviging seiges between it and the grim fortification.
The guards barely acknowledged him, eyes under dark steel helmets glancing at his leg, then his face, both of which looked worse for wear. They nodded him through.
"Don't make more work for us later, boy," one goaded. Her voice was harsh, but sincere.
"Aye, we'd better mark that one, so when they pull his corspe from the gutter we can tut about the flotsam they tell us to let in," her companion chuckled.
Jericho kept his head down, and attempted to do the same with his temper. Suddenly he went cold as a vision of the two guards backed against the closed porticullis, eyes white with terror in moonlight. Steel rang and their bodies slumped forward, heads rolling. He twitched as his awareness returned and his vision faded. The two guards were watching him closely now.
Apologies, we thought you would like to see.
With more warning, he might've been able to process the prediction better, but in his current travel-weary state, it was disorienting.
"What was that, little wretch?" The woman asked, swallowing hard. Jericho shook his head and croaked at her.
"Nothing, I tripped, been unsteady since the fever came and went last summer." He assumed he had cried out.
She nodded warily and turned back to her watch and her guardmate.
"Death's in that one," he heard her remark.
"Aye, he must be close to the veil. Spooky."
Jericho quickly shrugged it off and conitnued hobbling toward the city proper.
Another more intricate song and dance at the larger gate that split to the underground and the wealthy aboveground wards and Jericho had finally finished his journey back to a city which would have tried to kill him. The night was cooling rapidly, his breath had begun to show in steaming puffs on each exhale. Beatrice tugged on his hair.
We're being followed.
Out of instinct he had wandered into the underground for warmth. The streets were not crowded and many of the markets had put up shop for the evening, with signs stating they would be open at dawn. He strolled through a set of buildings constructed on the floor of an enormous cavern. Fires and magelights blazed merrily in most places. He took a sudden corner to the right, cursing himself for not being more aware. Sliding down against the wall on the perimeter of one of the open markets, he thrust his crutch forward.
A figure in black robes not much taller than he turned the corner and caught its foot on the cane and promptly dissolved into a puff of smoke. Startled, he jumped to his feet- or at least attempted to. Scrabbling, he was aware of Beatrice staring down another hooded figure across the lane between markets. A scoff reached his ears, followed by a chuckle. Keeping his eyes down, Jericho slowly extended and upturned palm and then clenched his fist. Immediately wicked talons burst from the cobbles and grasped at the figure.
A gasp replaced the amusement. Jericho lifted his head and locked eyes with a young woman, not much older than himself. Her hood had fallen back when his spell caught her cloak. She only held his stare for a moment before pouting and then tearing her cloak attempting to free herself. He thrust himself forward, striding across the gap between them purposefully. She haphazardly flung her hand out and a black chain materialized and followed her hand's trajectory-towards Jericho's chest. He instinctively sidestepped, and the chain went its full extension and disapated, much like the doppleganger had before.
"Don't you dare come closer," she snarled. He stopped, just a few feet short of her.
"And?" He raised an eyebrow. Beatrice stretched her wings, shook them off, and preened herself. The grl glared at him.
Another comes.
"Tsk tsk, Evaine, he caught you off guard? No matter, we can manage this way." The voice was difficult to pin down exact traits, though it was definitely lighter pitched. It rang with charm and discernment, as well as self-possession. The words uttered in it made Jericho want to believe and trust everything, Beatrice prodding the back of his mind kept him from doing so.
A second figure appeared. There was a snap of fingers and Jericho felt his spell break. Beatrice cawed angrily.
"You have no where to sleep, and you look to need it, young man. This is Evaine, and I... well, I am of no consequence until we get to know one another more."
"Are you offering me such lodging? What's the price?"
"I am, indeed. Consider it an investment for the future."
"I don't make open ended deals."
"Ah, but time is short and you do not have much else to offer."
Untrustworthy, but not ill-intended. Not now.
He took a deep breath and nodded.
"Very well. "
"I'm not asking you to trust me, you know. Merely accept our hospitality," she chided gently. Her voice reminded Jericho of toffee, sweet, malleable, but also difficult to pry from one's teeth. She nodded to Evaine, who lifted a finger. His mind began to feel hazy. There was a tug in the corner of his awareness, and he shrugged it off, if they wanted secrecy, he'd let it be secret. Beatrice gave him a stare as his eyes glazed over and preened her wing. She then looked at the two women leading her ward through the underground of Noxus and let out a small croaking caw.
"We haven't forgotten about you, lady. It is out of respect we did not tamper with you, as you know. He'll be fine."
Six red eyes narrowed in scrutiny for a moment, then relaxed. The underground became a winding maze of tunnels with and without torches until finally the pair lead them to an ancient manor in an even older section of caverns. Beatrice was right at home, the magic in this place gave her some invigoration. Once inside, Jericho was laid down on a small but comfortable-seeming bed and a perch was brought for Beatrice.
"He may sleep better if you situate yourself there."
Beatrice cocked her head to one side.
"No tricks. I know it would be... unwise... to separate you two."
Assenting this, Beatrice flapped quietly to the perch and settled in for a watch.