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The ground crumbled beneath Jarvan’s feet. The silence of the night air gave way to a chorus of crunching dirt and snapping leaves under heavy metal. A cool breeze gently shook the forest above his head. He clutched Drakebane in his hand as it balanced on his shoulder, occasionally clanking against his armor.
Just up ahead, tents, wooden tables, and steel flickered in the light of a fire. A familiar insignia lay scattered around the camp, relaying a simple message: Trespassers would die by Demacian hands, in the name of King Jarvan IV himself. After a long day of escorting nobles and battling anyone who stood in his way, the mere sight of it welcomed him like a mother’s warm embrace.
But the peace was not to last. Jarvan’s senses heightened at the sound of scratching around him. The rustling of trees. He grasped his lance, and a figure dashed in his peripheral vision. He caught a brief glimpse of white, and his grip loosened.
“Your stealth technique needs work, Ana.”
He turned to meet Shyvana’s gaze. Her face was shrouded in darkness, her eyes blazing like dragonfire. She was crouched in a tree, ready to pounce, her nails digging into the bark like the claws they truly were. Her long dark hair had been streaked with white since her Ruination, a pair of horns her most noticeable side effect. Both constant reminders of when Demacia nearly fell to the Black Mist. When he had failed to protect her.
As much as the crown on her head was a reminder of his love for her, and their fight for a better future.
“So does yours,” she replied.
“Did you hear me or smell me first?”
“Both.” She fell back from her predatorial position, lounging against the trunk. Her eyes stared into the sky as she mused, “You have a very distinct scent. Blood, sweat, burnt metal, and sleepless nights running a kingdom.”
“You can smell that?”
“It’s a mix of scents from places you visit and people you hold an audience with.”
“So I smell terrible is what you’re telling me.”
Her mouth curled into a smirk, eyes catching his. “I like it. It’s the mark of a man who takes care of his own problems. No guards, no armies, no dragons. Just sweat and cold steel.”
Jarvan shook his head. He thought back to all his potential brides over the years, who would use the term “prince” every other sentence, and shunned the mere idea of him entering battle. Instead he married a woman who would fight by his side, praising the silliest things others would scorn him for - like body odor. He couldn’t help but notice the straightness of her posture. The slight upward tilt over head. She would always be a dragon at heart, and yet, that didn’t stop her from becoming the refined queen he knew she could be.
Someday Demacia would believe in her as much as he did.
“You have a very odd perspective on these things, Ana.”
She shrugged. “I suppose being normal is out of my reach.”
“I like it. It’s the mark of a woman I know I can trust to set me on the right path.” Jarvan moved Drakebane so it was standing upright. His smile fell delicately into melancholy. “Do you know how many people tell me the same things every day for approval? When you left for Wrenwall all those years ago...I missed having your advice.”
Shyvana’s expression softed, becoming sympathetic, understanding. She leaped from the tree, placing a hand gently on his armored cheek. His helmet felt cold to the touch from hours of him walking the forest. “I’m here now, and I’ll be by your side until my last breath.”
“King Jarvan!” An elite emerged from his tent. “You’ve returned. I take it your mission didn’t trouble you?”
“Armand, you look well,” Jarvan replied, and Shyvana’s hand slipped back to her side. “Assassins were a slight inconvenience, but the nobles have been escorted safely and we can move out by morning. I see you’ve had no problems here either.”
The elite glanced up at Shyvana, who yawned into her hand. “Her Majesty the Queen has been tirelessly guarding the camp.”
“Yes, and now that my husband has returned I believe I will be retiring for the night,” she added. “Would you be so kind as to take my place?”
“Yes, your highness. When shall the troops be awakened?”
“Arrange a departure in five hours,” said Jarvan. “I am eager to return home.”
“As am I,” Shyvana exhaled.
Armand bowed. “It shall be done.”
The queen retreated in the direction of her tent, sneaking a quizzical look back at Jarvan. “Are you coming? Or do you plan on adding another sleepless night to your scent?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, uh...I will be retiring as well. Be safe, Armand, and don’t hesitate to awaken us if anything arises. Good night.”
“I am sure there will be nothing to worry about. Good night, King Jarvan. Good night, Queen Shyvana.”
She held the tent flap open only long enough for Jarvan to not get hit in the face. Without a word, she discarded her armor and crawled into the awaiting makeshift bed, and he followed suit. Jarvan pulled her close, so close that her horns pressed against his chest. He found it uncomfortable when they first started doing this, but now he couldn’t imagine living without it. It was reassurance that it was her. That no matter how many times she escaped him - leading separate troops, spreading her wings, breathing from royal obligations - she would always end up back in his arms.
“Did the night watch give you any trouble?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Of course not. Although, we did have a bear get rather close.”
“What happened?”
“It attacked and killed a soldier.”
“It did what!?” he shouted so loud he was sure he woke up whoever was in the next tent.
“I’m kidding. I took care of it and our soldiers had a good meal tonight.”
Jarvan exhaled, Shyvana laughing devilishly to herself. “Don’t do that to me, Ana.”
“Just making sure your senses are still sharp at this hour.” She knew damn well she was one of the only people who could get away with it. She rested her head on his chest again.
“You’re such a fool.”
“I’m not the one who married a dragon.”
“But you married a prince, so who’s the bigger fool?”
“By the gods!” she groaned. “Fine, I shall grant you this victory.”
He stole a kiss before running his fingers through her hair, examining the white streaks. There was never a time he didn’t wish he had handled her Ruination differently. If only he hadn’t been so focused on his father’s killer to remain ignorant of the mist’s approach. If only he hadn't sent her away in the first place. If only...if only…
And yet, in spite of it all, she came back to him.
His arms kept her close, his head tilting to rest on hers, as he slowly fell asleep.
She would always come back.