Chapter Text
“It was strange that a single death should attract so many crows.” —Alfred de Musset
The chill morning air around the glorious, dark citadel seemed to hold its inhabitants to their motto: “only the strong survive”. It bit and clawed, howled and screeched with a furious wind at the rooftops and towers of the massive mountain city. Noxus, as it had come to be called, had a bloody history of military might. Few outside it spoke well of the cutthroat society and many a grudge lay founded against those who fought for it.
This day, in the bitter cold, a pair of figures made their way through one of the city’s outer gates. The guards stationed there paid little mind to them, focusing chiefly on staying warm in the early hours. As the hooded men stepped into the wilderness on foot, their steaming breath easing forth from tight-drawn cloaks and scarves, the younger of the pair spoke.
“Master, are we certain this could not possibly run afoul? Enemy territory, a small window, it’s left extremely to chance.” His voice cracked a little revealing his age. The taller figure stopped and locked pale blue eyes with his apprentice.
“In this business, Jericho, it is all chance. Our missions are nothing more than calculated risks. Are you forgetting your lessons so readily?” The elder voice cut like steel, though quiet. Jericho flushed, only barely stifling a huffed sigh. He was far from a stupid boy. It had been his cunning which separated him from other applicants to train under the man who now lead him on the most important task of his budding career.
“No, Master Du Couteau. I defer to your judgment.” Despite relenting outwardly, doubt swirled in his mind. There were too many variables still unaccounted for. Fate was not a kind mistress, and Jericho was old enough to realize their departure felt premature to their knowledge of the situation. He resigned himself to silence on the subject for the remainder of their trek to the Demacian capital.
The bold gold and blue clad guards took careful measure of the pair of neutrally-dressed Noxians, and the clerk eyed their forged credentials with great care. He had detected nothing out of the ordinary, as Jericho had anticipated. His hand was steady and though he was relatively new to the craft, such documents were not difficult to counterfeit. A guilty part of Jericho wished the clerk would have caught the falsified papers and their mission would be over before it had really begun. He forced such thoughts to the shadows of his mind as soon as the approval left the aging official’s lips.
The city was bright, admittedly beautiful in some ways even, but overall it struck him as stifled. The atmosphere, the people, and their smiles seemed surreal. There appeared to be no measure of sadness publicly, as though feeling an emotion other than pride, elation, or determination was a faux pas. It both disgusted and fascinated Jericho, for among the positive he saw weakness. Many a cripple or frail citizen stood among the other, able-bodied folk. They were soft, coddled people. Perhaps crime did exist, but it was only as a shadow, a story told to frighten children into the moral mold of goodness that Demacia prided itself in. He could easily detect in the eyes of the city guards which ones had seen combat, which ones had taken a life. The brightness of the city hid that taint well, but his training was better. These passive tidbits of information were his routine when unfamiliar with a location, and they helped him quell the knots in his gut.
Master Du Couteau brought them to a small tavern in what must’ve been considered a ‘seedy’ part of the city. It still outshone much of Nox by no small stretch, however it did afford Jericho a taste of home and a small sense of comfort to calm the bubbling uncertainty in his mind. They ate a nondescript but hearty meal and retired to a single room with a pair of small beds, where his master began to carefully unpack a rucksack.
“Bring me water from the basin, the maid should have filled it already.”
Jericho obliged, and watched his master crush and mix a lethal concoction from a familiar set of herbs. Vials would have frozen on their journey, he realized belatedly, after pondering why his master would undertake alchemy in the enemy’s home.
“Jericho, your mind is uneasy. Speak it, so that we may have no hesitation when the moment arrives.” The apprentice inhaled sharply, caught off guard that Master Du Couteau had read him so easily. The boy had tried, and apparently failed, to reign in his emotions around his mentor. He trusted the man to an extent, that extent laying in his Noxian ideals. Should Jericho fail to exemplify the bloodthirsty strength and determination to survive, Du Couteau would cease his apprenticeship. This was roughly equivalent to a death sentence, a consequence the Master had hinted broadly at on more than one occasion. With a casual hand on the nape of his neck, Jericho answered.
“This target. Who designated him for you?” Jericho locked his young blue-grey eyes on his master’s face. Two day old rust colored stubble already marred the well-groomed nobleman’s face. Du Couteau looked older than his mid-twenties, and with his talent for shadowy executions, he was often treated as such. Even now, Jericho had a hard time believing him anything but a wizened senior at his craft. It was in his entire countenance. Jericho’s stomach knotted in anticipation of his master’s answer. He had listened carefully to the talk amongst his parents on his last visit home. The nobility had heard of High Command seeking a talented assassin in the underworld. Rumor had left him with his master’s name and a sense of unease.
“There’s no hiding anything from you, Jericho Swain.” Du Couteau clicked his tongue at his apprentice with a half-smile on his face. “High Command contacted me about a specific need our beloved Noxus has. The need to stifle the Lightshield line and snuff out the hearts of their subjects.”
“They want to defy the armistice already? Such a step seems premature…” he trailed off, musing silently for a beat, trying to reconcile his train of thought with his master’s. Demacia did need to be put in its place. Why the rising assassin and his novitiate for such an important target though?
“Noxus does not sit idle while our enemy rallies under their banner of peace. They’ve relaxed. My sources and personal observation tell us their guard is lowered. The pampered Lightshield heir will be the spark for a fire that will sweep through this city-state and begin our machinations. Surely you’re not suggesting otherwise, Jericho?” The younger boy had to break the gaze of his mentor. He stared at his hands, idle in his lap, and released a hushed sigh. He wasn’t about to argue with Du Couteau, despite his instincts screaming otherwise. This was not the time to lose focus.
“No, Master. I would never question.” An embarrassing voice crack on the second syllable of ‘master’ gave his reply an appropriate tone of submission. He deliberately toyed with his favorite armament to avoid his master’s piercing eyes.:The keen blade attached at the wrist and held slight retracting capabilities. Fiddling this way was more for comfort than anything else. His master had already briefed him on the weapon and method for this murder, a hexbow with poisoned bolts. Silent entry, distant placing, no chance of being discovered, no chance of turnabout and no antidote to administer for the deadly serum. One shot from the dark with practiced aim would finish their target. There would be no need for the familiar edge and tactics he preferred. Being close and cruelly personal in the blink of an eye; using the technique his master had perfected, gave Jericho a dreadful thrill. His targets and opponents never had a moment to react. One moment; one opening was all he needed to exploit and emerge successful. He had even started learning how to reduce blood splatter and evidence as needed.
“Go to sleep, boy. I need you sharp tomorrow.”
Jericho carefully replaced the blade into his rucksack and settled into the soft bed he’d previously perched on. Before drifting off, he mused on how much preparation his master had done for this mission. He had been training with the hexbow for weeks now, at Du Couteau’s insistence. The crafty bastard had known that long without cluing Jericho in. He’d have to afford more attention to the correspondence that reached their safe house. Still, he doubted such a grand message would have been left laying around for nosy apprentices to find. His last thoughts before leaving consciousness were on his own naivety and childishness.
Jericho Swain’s eyes snapped open, awake the instant he heard his master’s voice. Rising from the comfort of the inn’s quality beds, he found his eyes heavier than they should be. If this was an inn, what was daily life like here? One night and their softness had already started to creep into him. He rolled his shoulders back and forth, loosening the drowsy muscles. Du Couteau passed him his cloak, and the boy donned it with ease. Noting the light in the room for the first time, he realized it was mid-morning. He shot his master a curious look, and the man returned a smug smile. He handed Jericho the hexbow, folded compactly, and a set of three bolts within an oilcloth case. The boy tucked them discreetly within his clothing. The complex hextech bow fit comfortably under his left forearm and the bolts slid neatly into his right boot.
“Breakfast downstairs in the inn proper, and then we’ll pay the palace a rather memorable visit.” Du Couteau hoisted both rucksacks with ease and led his apprentice from their room. They took a seat near a window. Outside, sunlight beamed on the glorious marble structures. The brightness was overwhelming. Jericho began steeling himself for entering the glowing city; his eyes would need to adjust. Noxus and its primarily underground city could not have prepared him for such conditions. Mercifully, he would be performing his act indoors.
Their meal was a simple affair: toasted rye bread, with a scrambled egg apiece and an unfamiliar citrus juice to chase it down. The pair finished quickly, paid their tab and departed without much more than pleasantries regarding the innkeeper and his staff to satisfy the custom. The cobble streets were busy, the day was beautiful for the dead of winter, and much of the citizenry appeared to be taking full advantage of it. Plenty of them hadn’t even bothered with outerwear beyond unbuttoned coats. A pair of guards conversed in the sunshine as Jericho and his master passed by unnoticed. The white streets did not disappoint his anticipation of their glare and he squinted much of his way through the Demacian capital.
Ocular relief came when they arrived at the outer gate of the palace, mercifully sheltered by an arched alcove where palace guards-notably more armored and flourished- stood watchful. They eyed the pair warily as they passed through to the inner courtyard. Beyond this lay a stretch of cobblestone and the very obvious public entrance, two large honey colored wooden doors. These were propped open with guards on either side once more, and a chamberlain at a podium on a dais just beyond. Here the guards stopped them outright and checked them for weaponry. Du Couteau had spirited away their rucksacks without Jericho’s notice on their trek, leaving him burden-less as the guards patted his clothing, looking for any suspicious bulk. As they turned to the young man, Jericho stared evenly while they repeated the process. His master conversed politely with them, making a timely joke about the sunshine in winter. A wry smile cracked on the face of the one patting down Jericho’s leg.
Deciding they were harmless, the guards gestured towards the chamberlain. He managed a bow in synch with his master and barely kept pace as they approached the podium. Jericho passed his master the document containing their ‘credentials’. They were posing as a pair of concerned citizens from a border town near Noxus set to attend court for the next few days seeking support for a garrison to be sent to their town. The chamberlain, a blonde haired woman with fine lines creasing at the corners of her eyes and mouth, gave them a smile that reeked of pity.
“Welcome to the court of His Royal Majesty, King Jarvan Lightsheild III, please mind your etiquette. Disturbances will be not be tolerated. I hope you find support for your cause.” Her words had hardly passed her lips before his master was thanking her and the deadly pair were inside the palace proper. A grand open-air hall stretched before them, where two members of the royal family sat. The crown prince appeared to be absent, much to Jericho’s annoyance. With his target missing, he had no choice but to survey the other prominent figures in the room as they passed into a recessed doorway on the west side of the massive room. A few nobles stood out by the attention they commanded of those around them as the room hummed with murmured conversation. The king and queen appeared to be merely observant, their thrones on a raised dais flanked by white marble columns. He seemed haggard, his deep black hair had a few small streaks of dark grey peppered almost imperceptibly throughout it. Jericho gave the monarch one last look before disappearing into the side corridor behind Du Couteau.
“Alright boy. Down this hall is a flight of stairs leading to one of the balconies. Perch yourself up there and wait. I’ll keep the patrol over here busy so you’re unnoticed. Once its done I’ll meet you outside the city gate we entered through.” Jericho nodded once in response, and turned to take his position. His master’s hand caught his shoulder mid swivel. “Oh, and Jericho, botching this is not an option, lad.”
The look Du Couteau fixed him with made Jericho shiver a moment. The creeping doubt was back in his stomach, and the unease he had staved off through most of their preparations reared its head in his thoughts as the stairs rose beneath him. The young assassin took his place in the darkened overlook and began reassembling his weapon. In moments he was back to scanning the crowded court, the dais holding the royal family now fully occupied. He had missed the prince’s entrance in his ascent, and the young man now sat beside his mother, on the far side from Jericho.
He waited. Watched. The silent killer observing his prey. Moments ticked by, not a detail escaped his notice. As the day waned and red-gold light streamed into wall opposite Jericho, he noted the court beginning to empty. The king rose and took his leave, with much ceremony from the stragglers. As the depth of early winter night began to close in on the Demacian palace Jericho spotted his opening. The prince stood. The young boy strode across the platform, closer to the west wall, and turned his back to his killer. He was oblivious to his plight.
Jericho lifted the hexbow, now heavy in his hands. The potential repercussions of his action stared him in the face. High Command had guaranteed this to be the path to sparking new war, in which Noxus would emerge victorious. No. Wait. That was as his master had said. His mind swirled over his orders. He inhaled deeply, the cold night air biting his lungs. At the top of his breath he gently squeezed, releasing the poison coated bolt towards its tender target…
...and missed.
Jericho swore loudly on his exhalation. The bolt clattered loudly against the marble throne just to the side of Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV. A collective gasp escaped those still occupying the court. The queen screamed. If he had still been observing Jericho would have seen guards rushing in from all sides, but he had already flown his perch, abandoning his weapon and the remaining bolts. Instead of descending the way he’d come, he continued down a hall directly opposite the arch to his balcony, looking for any escape. Plate boots and a boy’s voice echoed behind him, the brat had enough sense to know the source of the attempt and now lead the search for his would-be killer. Swallowing bitter disgust at the young royal’s audacity, Jericho rounded another corner, his leather boots making little noise on the smooth polished floors. He turned, finally coming face to face with a window large enough to fit through and enough casement and ornamentation to clamber down without much trouble.
“Halt, murderer!” The high voice betrayed his only pursuer as Jericho’s quarry. The older boy turned and leered at the prince-ling.
“I take no orders from Demacian scum.” Jericho picked up a small table and shattered the window with little effort. Throwing it to the floor beside him, he leaped onto the sill, grinding the glass into powder with a crunch.
“Then to hell with you, Noxian cur!”
Jericho felt two hands, strong for their age, press into his back, pushing him off balance. He plummeted, smashing into the architecture he had previously hoped to aid him. He was aware of a simultaneous pain and cracking noise from his right leg as he scrambled to catch hold of the masonry sliding beside him. Finally his hands caught a windowsill and he stopped his descent. His heart pounded audibly in his skull. Adrenaline made his mind race, though his thoughts seemed to be in slow motion. Jericho’s body began to auto-pilot, instinct taking over as his mind crawled painfully slow to catch up.
He glanced upward. Jarvan IV’s upper body leaned out the window staring at him. Jericho eyed where the palace wall met the outer city wall and struggled his way across the stonework and windowsills toward it. His leg was utterly useless. The pain had numbed itself, but a dead limb made climbing an arduous process. He heard the sound of armor below him. Surely archers would be on him any second.
No arrows came. He could only assume that as night had completely fallen, darkness had come to his aid. The outer city wall approached and he fell in a heap to the floor of the rampart. Fortune had it that he was in between guard patrols. Their armor glinted as it passed torches placed in intervals on the walls. He unceremoniously shuffled to the parapet, favoring his injured leg. He hadn’t broken the skin with the bone, another mysterious turn of fortune, so there was no tell-tale blood trail to clue anyone to his failure and sloppy escape.
He slid down the side of the wall, the smooth stone offering little purchase. The impact with the ground sent new waves of pain up his injured leg and a couple shocks through his ribcage. He’d fallen several stories already today, adding the wall hadn’t seemed like a poor choice at the time. The bottom of the second fall made him realize how foolish his judgement had been. Breathing heavily, pain began to throb in his right calf, and he noticed now the flesh had swollen. It would be impossible to remove his boot without cutting it, and he lacked an edge to accomplish that. He leaned against the wall, his back flat against it. The memory of his failure flashed before him once more. How had he missed? It was impossible. He had practiced for weeks on end. His aim was impeccable. There was no conceivable reason for this utter fiasco.
Numbly Jericho recounted the conversation with his master only the night before. Du Couteau had been hiding information from him. High Command may have issued this order, but there was no way they could’ve expected success. He stared at his empty hands, his gloves in shreds from his fall and subsequent climb. A rustling came from the brush just beyond his resting place. He stiffened, his eyes scanning the dark wilderness with care. Overhead he heard a croaking call from a bird.
“Pity luck got you this far, Jericho Swain.” The familiar tongue clicking heralded his master emerging from the darkness, his hood drawn over his eyes. The apprentice rose to his feet, attempting a guarded stance. He favored his injured leg heavily, an unavoidable handicap. “You were so promising, Jericho. I’m almost sorry I had to hang you out to dry like this, it’s nothing personal.”
“What are you babbling about?” Jericho growled, gritting his teeth against shooting pain. He wobbled and tried to steady himself against the wall.
“You were right to have doubted me, boy. The royals had wards on them. No bolt could have hit them in that court. I knew it, High Command knew it, and they sent me to my death on this mission. The impossible mission I tasked you with.”
Shaking violently, from rage or pain, Jericho didn’t know or care which, he lunged with tight fists at Du Couteau. The man sidestepped him and brought his forearm down on his shoulders. The boy snarled and fell into a slump at his former master’s feet on the cold ground. Pain was beginning to take his consciousness, his failure and injuries tormenting him.
“I’m truly sorry our partnership had to end this way, but I plan on surviving to challenge those bastards that set us up. I hate to break this to you-” Jericho flinched with a gasping cry as a heavy boot came cracking down on his already broken leg- “but you’ll never make it in Noxus this way. I’m doing you a favor, boy. Lay down and die. The next life will be better anyhow.”
Warmth spread through his leg. Jericho knew he had begun to bleed. A kick impacted his ribcage. Another blow connected with his windpipe. More croaking bird calls rang through the air. It sounded like there were dozens of birds. Black shapes came between him and the stars. Jericho stared blankly into the sky, unaware that his master had stopped after three well-placed blows and departed. A chill seeped into his body, every throb accentuated. He actively felt his heart beginning to give up and he gasped for air, clinging to life.
He managed a hacking laugh, more wheezing than mirth. Even in utter failure and despair his Noxian will to survive held him in this life. One of the inky shapes drew close and Jericho felt a weight on his chest from two clawed feet. It leaned over him. With a small amount of horror, he realized the avian would probably be relieving him of his eyes shortly. Instead, six crimson circles leered at him. He heaved another tortuous breath into his lungs as he marveled at the visions his death throes granted him.
“Broken, beaten. Yet still so very strong. Terrible power, this will.” A raspy feminine voice penetrated his mind.
He laughed once more in hacking agony. Death was speaking to him. It was so typical. Predictable. Quaint. The bird turned her head to the side, fixing him with three eyes at once.
"This one is not of the realm beyond the curtain, young one. Though this one can save you from it. This one hungers."
Jericho supposed it could not be any worse than this pit of pain. Rage and despair coursed through him. He could no longer see the bird, his vision had deserted him, but heard her voice clearly. His soul burned at the opportunity to reverse his fate this day. He longed for the power that had eluded him.
"Such sustenance. Be still as this one repairs the mangling. "
Jericho felt a jolt in his mind. The cold in his body started to melt away and the pain disappeared. His consciousness began to return and he became acutely aware of the throbbing dying in waves. He opened his eyes and swallowed carefully, breathing deeply with only residual soreness in his diaphragm. As he rose to a sitting position he stared at the twisted figure of his right ankle. Both bones protruded from his boot, and the muscle looked infected. Dawn began to streak over the frost-touched scrub-land. In the pale light he finally saw his savior. She was a gorgeous black raven with six red eyes. Her beak and talons were a dull grey, and her feathers illumined the early morning hues. With a tentative hand he stroked her chin. She croaked in affirmation and seemed to beam as she explained.
“This one did what she could, but this one’s magic is still limited. We can do so much more together, new companion, though time is necessary.”
“Good.” His voice had become hoarse, it shocked his ears to hear his new gravelly tone. He rose, standing with relative ease. Pain seemed so much duller. His failure was no longer raw. He had room to think, to plan, without such distractions. It was as though she brought him true clarity of mind. What a fool he’d been letting his blind trust of his former master nearly lead him to ruin. No longer. He would rise, one way or another, and he would outdo any and all expectations Marcus Du Couteau had. This failure would forever remain in the depths of winter, merely a memory. Jericho Swain had found his strength; for only the strong survive. Grinning wryly, the young man limped slowly away from the ‘shining’ city of exemplars, his bird perched on his shoulder- as though she too had found her way.