Chapter Text
“Heretic!” the elders cry—“Blasphemer! Lunatic!”
Their voices tremble with unrestrained rage, and each denouncement sends chills down Diana’s spine. Clad in the blinding white warplate of the Lunari, Diana kneels before her elders in the familiar posture of repentance—head bent down and shins pressed flush against the chill marble floor. It hasn’t been long since the last time she’d knelt before them like this, and yet—to Diana—it has felt like a millennium.
“The sun will smite you for your heresy!” Elder Lorraine spits, her voice hoarse with its usual undertone of disgust. Her knuckles are barely visible within Diana’s field of view—gnarled, spindly, and clenched bone-white against the folds of her golden Solari robes.
Diana sneers down in response, stomach sick, and she glares at the floor with a burning hatred that the elders’ words have done nothing but fan. For years they had dismissed her. They had done nothing but berate her throughout the entirety of her life—disregarding her questions and scorning her any attempt at discerning the truth. And now—when she brings them the heaven-sent answers to her own “insolent” questions out of nothing but good grace—this is how they repay her. The marble floor below her is inlaid with the gilded, sprawling designs of the sun—designs that Diana had at one point admired, had loved—and Diana traces its rays with her eyes as she feels her resentment grip stronger around her heart.
She had been right to question the mindless teachings of the Solari elders; had been right to have searched for her own version of the truth. Listening to her elders’ words now—in light of the knowledge that the Aspects above had granted her—filled her with a heady rage and discreet, spindly inklings of despair. The Solari would never be able to change as they were—and how could she have hoped for otherwise? Their elders were fanatical zealots; thoroughly blinded by the sun after having fervently worshipped it for so long.
Diana bites her lip. What had she expected in bringing her knowledge to them? Reformation? Acceptance? The bodies of the Solari elders loom large over Diana’s supplicating form, and she watches as blood drips from her lip and splatters against the gilded marble floor. Stained. She should have known that she would never find acceptance here—not even with the gods at her back.
Yet still, Diana had hoped.
Not two hours prior she had been standing at the top of Mount Targon, proud and determined to fulfill her newfound destiny. She had uncovered the Lunari warplate—secreted away in that tiny decorated cave—and had donned the armor to the reverent urging of the unearthly presence that now inhabits her mind. That unwavering entity—the remnants of the Lunari, the essence of her people—had whispered to her the quiet truths of the world as she grasped at the handle of her newly gleaming crescent blade.
Her mind had been a mess of uncovered half-truths and foretold prophecies as she stumbled back down the mountain—the memories of a hundred lives she’d never lived flashing before her eyes. The wealth of information had been overwhelming, nigh oppressive, yet there had been one image that Diana had found herself returning to more often than the rest: the prophetic, haunting image of two beautifully blinding figures—one clad in silver and the other clad in gold—fighting side by side against waves of demonic beasts.
There was no doubt in her mind who those two warriors were meant to be:
Leona—head of the Solari’s Ra-Horak: noble, righteous, and the only individual who had ever remotely tried to understand her—and Diana, herself.
Leona had been brought to the Solari not long after Diana had, and her coming was met with fanfare and the delight of the entire conclave. The Solari had proclaimed her to be the foretold golden child—the warrior who would one day be graced by the sun. With eyes of gold, purity in heart, and a martial strength that rivaled all, Leona had grown up to be exactly what the Solari had wanted—everything they had hoped for and everything that they revered. Perhaps Diana should have resented her for that—and, in another world, she really might have—yet Leona’s light had been infectious, and Diana had spent her young adult years drawn to the other woman like a moth to a flame.
Diana had always understood why Leona was the one that the elders favored—why Leona was the one who went on to become a leader for their sun-blessed sect. Leona was beautiful and strong—undeniably so—but even more than that, there seemed some part of her that fit so perfectly with the ways of the Solari people. She had an affinity for it, having latched on to their religion and their teachings with nothing less than innate brilliance, and had followed in their ways—the ways of the Solari, the ways of the sun, the ways that Diana had always felt slipping just so out of her grasp—without so much as a question. Leona had found her power through the guidance of the Solari elders, and she had found her peace under the warmth of the blazing, luminous sun.
Diana had never found herself able to do the same. She had found the sun beautiful, certainly, yet there was always some small part of her that had questioned the words she was meant to take as gospel. She had always felt that there was something missing from the grand words of the Solari, but she had never been able to grasp at what. Try as she might, Diana had never been able to find divine peace under the light of the sun, and she had felt as though that blasphemous burden would be hers to bear until the day she shut her eyes from the sun’s light for good.
In those days, Leona had been her only solace. Leona had never understood her—how could she have, when she was their golden child?—but she accepted Diana for who she was and had sat with her every night when she cried herself to sleep. Leona had been the one to tell her that everything would be fine—that although the elders were cruel sometimes, they were simply old, stuck in their ways, and soon enough they’d be the elders here anyway, right? She had been the one to tell Diana that there was nothing wrong with her, that Diana didn’t need to change herself, and that not everyone would find peace under the sun in the same way as she.
Diana had eaten up those words—had eaten up Leona’s generosity, Leona’s pity—and had made peace with the fact that she would simply never burn as radiantly golden as Leona does, and that fact would never change.
In the end, Diana had realized she wasn’t meant to glow golden: her light is a brilliant white.
“Faithless wretch,” she hears one of the other elders cry as she looks up at them again. Their voices are held taut, cruel in their intent, yet Diana bears their burden. The elders have always been vile creatures, but if anyone could make them see—could help them reach out to the truth—then that person would be none other than Leona.
And Leona would surely be here soon.
The sun has begun to rise up behind the elders, and Diana feels her eyes grow momentarily wet amidst their cursing. She blinks away the tears that have begun to form at the corners of her eyes, before angrily casting her gaze downward so as not to look directly into the rising sun. Her bowed head seems only to encourage the elders’ words, and Diana feels a bubbling, anguished rage that is not just her own start to build up in her throat. The memories of the Lunari, still raw within her mind, reiterate tales of betrayal in darkly lit rooms, and the starry presence that had grafted itself to her soul atop Mount Targon earlier that night sings for her to take her rightful revenge.
Not yet, she tells it—not yet—Leona will come, Leona will help us.
Leona will make this right.
After all, making things right is what she’s always done before.
The cursing of the Solari elders is at once drowned out by the crash of the double doors as Leona slams her way inside the temple. Immediately, the elders’ attentions turn, tittering and scrambling about themselves as they each recount Diana’s heresy in their own, spiteful way. Leona strides her way onto the altared dais overlooking Diana’s kneeling form, and Diana suddenly finds that she cannot breathe. Words stick in her throat, thick like flower petals, and she keeps her head down as Leona steps up to her with a steadily drawn breath.
Leona’s body casts Diana’s in shadow, and Diana slowly allows herself to look up. The Solari leader’s form is grand, armored, and silhouetted perfectly against the light of the rising sun. Diana isn’t sure how to discern the emotions that arise on Leona’s face, but something feels off about the way she holds each breath, and Diana knows everything is wrong.
“Speak, Diana,” her best friend says, voice strangely biting, and a hush falls over the room as the elders turn all attention to whatever Diana’s next words may be.
Diana swallows—her mouth feeling yet drier—yet she pulls herself together, quiets her own concern, stifles the outraged voice of her celestial, and allows the truths that she had learned in that tiny cave atop Mount Targon to bubble forth from her mouth once more.
She tells of the dancing lights around Mount Targon’s skies, the tiny cave that she had found shelter in, and the frescos that had decorated the crumbling walls of it. Leona’s eyes grow wide as she continues, confusion, disbelief, and maybe something like fear, written stutteringly across her face. Diana doubles down—her words spun with even more fervor as she tries to bridge whatever chasm she now sits across—and gestures to her armor, her khopesh, her blinding white hair—
“They’ve changed me; don’t you see, Leona! I know my destiny, and now I’m here to share it with you—we’re meant to be fighting as one, and the entire mountain knows it—” Diana breaks off, her voice cracking as she reaches her crescendo. The elders are whispering amongst themselves, yet Leona remains silent—hesitating—and so Diana forges on: “I saw it at Targon’s peak, I can take you to the frescos, show you that it’s true! The celestials of our world have foretold our alliance, for you and I—we are nothing more than two sides of the same coin! The Sun and the Moon; the Solari and the Lunari; your people and mine—”
A sharp shout of “Pure insolence!” rings throughout the hall, and Diana braces herself for the stinging bite of an elder’s strike that she knows will soon come. When it doesn’t, she looks up to find Elder Lorraine’s arm locked in the tight grip of Leona’s gauntlet, and she feels some bubble of hope at Leona’s harsh words of “Elder Lorraine—control yourself, and stand down!” that immediately follow.
Leona releases her hand at the elder’s murmured reply, yet the rest of them continue to whisper amongst themselves—mumbled words of caution both to each other and to Leona. Diana looks down, heart in her throat, and does her best to calm her breathing as she waits for Leona to speak again.
“You cannot trust her words,” she listens to the elders say, “just listen to the heresy she speaks!”
“There’s no way she could have made it to the top of the mountain in a single night; she can only be lying to us—”
“It’s likely the moon has corrupted her; have a look at her hair—at that mark on her brow!”
“You know what must be done with the heretics, and there can be no denying that that’s what she is—”
“That’s right—after all, the Lunari were the ones to revolt against us in the first place; she is likely here to do the same!”
“The Solari people lie—” Diana hisses immediately, but she breaks off as the butt-end of Leona’s spear slams into the surface of the marbled temple dais.
“Quiet,” Leona snaps, and Diana recoils at the sudden fury that Leona unleashes upon her with a single word. Leona’s face has become cold, hard, her mouth drawn into a thin, angry line, and Diana feels her stomach drop. The weight of Leona’s tone becomes at once a heavy burden upon Diana’s shoulders, and—for the first time in her life—Diana finds herself afraid of the other woman’s blade.
“I don’t know what you saw upon the mountain, Diana, but the Lunari are not our friends. They might have been before, but they aren’t now.” There’s a hint of regret in Leona’s words, yet her words are hard and her face stays determined. Diana opens her mouth to respond—to speak, again, of their imminent future—but Leona silences her again before Diana can manage it. “You are a Solari, Diana; and you would do well to remember that. The Lunari were traitors—heretics, and I will not have you continue down their path; for your own sake—” Leona breathes out a tiny sigh, “and for mine.”
There’s a pause as Leona stares at her, considering her next words, but Diana has already bitten through her lip once more, the small split deepening and flowing with crimson blood. The metallic taste of it fills her mouth, and without another thought, she spits upon the floor of the Solari temple before Leona’s feet.
“I think you must have misheard me, for I am a Solari no more.”
The elders gasp, hands flying to the swords at their waists, but Leona slams her spear upon the floor once again, and shouts for them all to stay quiet. When Leona turns back to face her again, there is nothing in her face but solemn pity.
Diana sees red. “You think me mad, then, just as your elders do! You would brand me—me—a heretic, too—” Diana seethes, tongue burning with blood. It’s a statement more than it is a question, and Leona heaves out a sigh, keeping her blinding golden eyes level with Diana’s glazed own. The morning sun filters around her body in equally golden waves, and every part of Leona’s body appears gilded with light. Diana pulls away from the other woman, dwarfed by the majesty of her presence, and wishes she had never tried to return. The woman before her sounds nothing like the woman she had expected to find—nothing like the Leona that had accepted her and held her while she cried. This was, instead, Leona: Chosen of the Sun—leader of the Ra-Horak and the Solari people’s hand of justice. Diana had never expected that Leona would turn that persona onto her, yet she realizes now that she was foolish to have not.
“I really thought you trusted me,” Diana murmurs, her heart defeated but her voice still straining to reach the woman that she thought she had known. “You knew that I was different, and, every night, you reassured me that that was okay! And yet—I kneel before you now, as the person I was always meant to be, and you choose to cast me aside before even letting me prove myself.” Diana does not let herself cry, but her words feel strangled as they spill from her mouth. “Why would I ever lie to you?”
Leona’s face flashes with pain for a single second, before it hardens into an emotion that Diana no longer has the energy to dissect. Leona’s voice is even when she finally responds, soft and controlled, and Diana watches—her world growing grossly silent—as her hand slowly tightens around the shaft of her spear.
“I don’t know, Diana. But I don’t presume to understand the mind of a heretic.”
The mind of a heretic.
The words roll off Leona’s tongue, smooth like the hymns of Solari song, and—all at once—Diana can feel it when her heart finally breaks.
She doesn’t know if Leona says anything else after that, as her entire body has seemingly turned to lead. Slowly, she blinks her vision down, her own hand tightening around the solid weight of her blade. The world turns slowly as Diana steadily wills her heart to calm, but she can’t seem to breathe, can’t think, can’t move—for Leona had been her solace, her singular hope. If Leona couldn’t find it in herself to believe her, then honestly—who in Runeterra would? Diana continues to gaze at the ground, her vision starting to grow glassy. The world crashes down around her as Leona distantly calls her name, but the woman’s feeble calls become even quieter with time, as the cacophony of cries that ring about her ears steadily drown out all outside interference. The wicked, spineless grins of the now vindicated elders tease their way into her peripheral vision, and Diana feels herself flush with a sudden unforgiving fury that only serves to make her celestial cry louder.
Honestly—what else had she expected?
Diana screams, then—a sudden, savage sound that reverberates through her body and trembles the foundations of the sprawling Solari shrine. In a rush, she dashes forth, removing any prior restraint and allowing the heavy rage of the Lunari people to come crashing in waves around her body as if it were armor around her soul. Moonlight shimmers along the surface of her khopesh as she swings out the blade in one wide, furious arc, and her light strikes true through the individuals towering on the dais above her. The light is searing—burning—and the smell of scorched flesh immediately fills the room.
Diana does not retch.
The silvery moonlight that emanates from her figure grows to fill every corner of the shrine; it sinks its way into every crevice of the arcing, traitorous temple that she had spent so many years of her life kneeling in—claiming and reclaiming and making the space her own. Unrestrained, the moonlight drowns out whatever wayward tendrils of sunlight had originally crept upon the dais from over the horizon, and Diana strides forward to stand above the blackened bodies of the elders she once called family. Proud and unrepentant, her eyes trace the blazing crescent that has burned itself into the marble floor of the shrine before she lifts her gaze to meet the illuminated face of the woman she had once called friend.
“Heretic?” she whispers—the word a half-prayer as it rolls off her tongue. Leona does not shrink from the word, yet her face remains starkly pale in Diana’s dancing light. “No—it is you who are blind to the truth.”
Diana watches as Leona’s face remakes itself—a transition from dull horror to absolute fury—and Diana takes a small step back. There are tears gathering in Leona’s eyes—Leona has never cried before, not that she remembers—and the sight of it makes Diana falter for one tiny, fleeting moment. I’m sorry, she almost starts to say, but she bites her tongue and squares her shoulders and grips her khopesh in order to keep herself from doing so.
She will not have regrets.
Without another thought, Diana flees from her childhood temple, leaving the corpses of the Solari elders scattered around Leona’s broken body as a bloody, deathly welcome to the light of the new dawn.
Diana runs, sprints, claws her way past the village proper and well away from the silent shrine, and Leona’s shouts of betrayal follow her all the way. Diana does not look back. Instead, she forges onward unknowingly—allowing her feet to take her where they will—and pulls from herself every bit of energy necessary to fuel her flight. She staggers and scrambles and screams until—finally—all of Leona’s distant cries feel like nothing but a cloudy nightmare, cast off after lengthy sleep.
It is not until much later—once she knows that she is far, far away from the temple she had fled—far enough that Leona will not find her—that Diana finally allows herself to cry.
Her stomach turns violently sick, and she thoroughly empties it of last night’s meal before stumbling onward to find a river to cleanse herself in. Her celestial is blessedly silent—understanding, in its own way—and she finds some small amount of comfort in being left alone with her tears. Diana huddles at the bank of the river, scrubbing roughly at her skin, and wills the biting cold of the river’s waves to drown out all thoughts of the elders that she had burned alive in their own house of worship.
Diana sits, Diana cries, and she wills herself to breathe.
And, eventually—once the tears have stopped and the river no longer has hold of her tired, numbed body—Diana knows that she is free.
She had taken none of her belongings with her—she couldn’t have, in her haste—but it doesn’t matter; Diana knows there is nothing that she’d left that she would ever truly miss. Her next steps would surely be practical—a moment’s rest, then a search for some rural town to gather necessary supplies—but after that? Her future—and, ultimately, the future of the world itself—sits sprawled out before her in a mess of glittering uncertainty; and, shrouded by the fates though it is, her life was now no one else’s but her own.
By the time the sun enters its final stages of descent behind the horizon, the knowledge of the coming night has begun to send tingles down Diana’s spine.
Diana eventually dons her warplate under the light of the brightly beaming moon, and she relishes at the stars that wink across her vision when she is finally able to look up and greet them. The night brings with it a sense of familiarity that Diana knows has existed within her for years—abandoned and untouched out of her own hesitation and a trembling fear of retribution—and Diana takes time to revel in it. The dark wraps around her like a blanket, and she sinks to the ground, laying heavily on her back in a weary heap of plate armor.
Was she right to have done what she had?
Moonlight washes over Diana’s face as she closes her eyes and angles her head to the moon. Her new host murmurs to her in soft concern, yet Diana does not feel the return of the gross sickness that had befallen her hours before. In fact, there is nothing she feels but a quiet, encompassing calm that she holds close to herself as the night air runs chills over her skin and through her dampened ivory hair.
She will likely never forget the faces that the elders had made when her moonlight had seared through their flesh, and she will certainly never forget the anguished rage that she had felt the moments before she had struck them.
Diana blinks away the sudden image of Leona’s betrayed face and pushes the other woman from her thoughts. Right or wrong: whether her actions were one or the other didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, for what was done was done. She had spilled blood with her blade, and this time surely wouldn’t be the last. The Solari elders may not have deserved the death they had received by Diana’s blade, but Diana knows she will never repent. There can be no room in her heart for regrets—she herself will not allow it.
For in the end, it is how she proceeds from here that will determine the future of Mount Targon. Diana knows in her heart that the frescos she had seen at the peak of Mount Targon were depictions of a divinely prophetic future: the grotesquely distorted creatures would assail her homeland one way or another, and—when they eventually do—Diana knows she will be nothing if not ready. This fate—the one of a moonlit warrior, clad in silver, defending her world from the inhuman beasts of the abyss—is a fate that speaks to her, one that grips her heart in ways that her prior life with the Solari never had. Will she live, will she die? Will that golden clad woman—that partner in battle whom she had hoped was Leona— ever appear before her? A million questions, yet her celestial stays silent; it has told her what it knows, and now it knows no more of her future than she. Uncertain though everything is, Diana knows she will face her destiny head-on—with or without the help of that other woman, clad in gold.
The grass is thin this high up Mount Targon, yet Diana is happily comfortable. Her heart beats to its own slow, steady rhythm, and Diana can feel the low hum of Mount Targon’s nocturnal magic pulse alongside her. She feels free, born anew, and she looks up to the glittering night sky with starry, blurring eyes.
There’s a warm, softly pulsing light of hope for the future that sits inside her now—linked to the host that now inhabits her mind—and she tucks it carefully away into the depths of her soul. Then, Diana closes her eyes, clears her mind, and lets the lull of the softly rushing river ease her into the quiet, dreamless, and blissful unconsciousness of sleep.
Come whatever may, Diana will surely be prepared.