Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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It’s a boy .

“Thank goodness…. Thank goodness… your father will be so pleased….” His mother’s voice is breathy, and their tiny house seems to sigh in relief with her, the old planks creaking with a hard wind, shaking in the cold. Darius feels the weight lift off his chest- she was fine, even the baby was quiet, surrounding the three of them with a peaceful lull.

The thing is tiny . A wrinkled sack of fat, swaddled in old blankets. Hardly any hair on its head, it looks like something inhuman, red skin blotted with blood and covered with some kind of cheesy mush.

“Darius…” She gestures from the bed, hair slicked with sweat, face pale as milk, but her fern-green eyes glowed with joy. There’d been cloths laid down underneath her, but they too were soaked with dark blood, dotted with black tissue. “Come meet your little brother.”

Darius looks from afar; too close and the smell of blood was nauseating, a meaty, metallic scent that makes him balk. Mother gestures again, and he takes a deep breath before stepping to her bedside.

She places the bundle into his arms.

It’s warm. Eyes squeezed shut, not yet ready to greet the world. Darius puts a finger near its hand; soft. Softest thing he’s ever felt. The fingers uncurl, grip hard about his pinky. He gasps, looks back up to his mother. She’s smiling at them both, lines on her weary face.

“His name?” Darius asks, crawls into the side of the bed free from blood. “I can think of a name, if you want!!”

His mother laughs lightly and reaches out her arms, so Darius carefully places the bundle back. She holds it to her chest. Inhaling slow, exhaling slower.

“Draven.” She finally says. “His name is Draven.”

[-----------------------1------------------------]

Father is late, again .

Darius paces along the docks, eyes trained at the horizon. Seagulls scream overhead, tracking thermals and gliding about the sky. He hops over a rope, back and forth, back and forth. Fishermen are unloading their catch onto the docks, a man built like a boat knocks him out of the way, and he falls into a pile of greened nets.

“Out of the way!”

Tangled, he rolls and tries to break free. His hands and feet catch in the loops, pull lines onto his wrists. Once he frees himself, flops onto the dock, scrabbles to his feet. Pulls up his cotton pants.

Moves back a little farther, takes a seat atop a barrel.

It couldn’t be that much longer . He always got back around this time.

Darius kicks his legs, listens to the fishermen sing a rowing song while they begin to shuck fish.

There, a new boat in the distance !

He waits, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watches the horizon intently. It continues to get nearer and nearer, eventually coming into port. The writing on the side is in green; Darius squints to read it against the sun. The Mordaunt. That’s it. Anchor is dropped, a gangplank lifted to bridge the deck to the wharf, men begin to call out, tossing ropes and drawing in sails.

“Father!” Darius weaves through the crowd, ducking and pushing his way to the dock. More men yell at him, one strikes him on the back of the head as he runs past. Yells of brat, nuisance, punk chase him as he runs, as he knocks into a man holding a large bucket of salt.

Then, he sees him. The tallest man currently on deck, he’s climbing down the netting covering the mast, jacket tied about his waist like a cape.

The man’s black hair is shorn almost to the skull – must have been a bug problem on board.

He looks up. Eyes the colour of russet, stern and boxy stare at him. Darius freezes, spine tingling with a trepidation, cold in the noon sunlight.

“Darius.” He says. “What are you doing here?”

Not pleased or happy, arms not held out for a hug. He sounds annoyed, and it prickles at Darius’ confidence. Still, he speaks.

“Mom had the baby!” He half shouts it – and shamed, chews his lip as soon as the words were out.

Some of the sailors whistled, yell congratulations, a closer man with a black-braided beard smacks his father on the back. Dad doesn’t react. Instead he focuses a bit, watches with slight more interest, but only slight.

“Boy or girl?”

Darius blinks; why did it matter?

“Boy – “ He says without thinking, and his father’s face struck with a grin.

“A boy? Good. Don’t have to worry about dowries, then. It’ll be a long while before the tyke will be useful, though.”

He laughs, loud, and flecks of spittle smacked him in the face. He reeks of rum and fish. Darius cringes. Feet itching to run.

“Are – are you coming or not?” He backs off, already retreating back to the wharf, back to the streets.

“Why, will she not be there when I get home?” He laughs again at this, though there’s something heavy behind it that Darius hates. He balls the fabric of his scratchy pants in his fists, but this cloudy feeling can’t be put to words.

Another man snaps at him to watch it, and Darius mumbles an apology, turns tail and sprints back onto the familiar broken cobble road, back through where houses crowd each other all windy like beggars pushing to the front of a breadline, where he could always hear their right-side neighbours, no matter the time. Back to their home with the sagging roof.

He tears open their door, slams it shut before sliding over the latch on the door.

“Dari? Is that you?”

His mother’s voice travels from a room in the back. The baby isn’t crying and her voice sounds half-asleep.

“Is your father’s boat at port yet?”

Darius swallows, unlaces his boots with two quick pulls of his fingers, and puts them aside. The stove is lit, it wasn’t when he had left. There’s a covered pot sitting on the flat stone top . All ready for when Father gets home. She must be in the bedroom, lying down with Draven.

He looks back at the door . No point to locking it. Not really. He’d get in, no matter what.

“No. Not yet.”

“Come then, lie down with me.”

He creeps back into the biggest bedroom, crawls up on the bed to lie near his mom, the baby napping in between them both.

“You’re such a good boy… you’ve helped me so much. You’re such a wonderful big brother.” Her smile matches the bags under her eyes. She reaches across, rubs her thumb across his right cheek, rest of her fingertips tracing around his ear. It always seemed somewhat sad whenever father was due to come home .

“Did you manage chopping that wood all on your own? I was so surprised to see our box so full!”

Darius nods proudly. He’s surprised she noticed, having been napping in the bedroom most of the day. The box in the corner, next to the woodstove. He’d managed to use the hatchet outside to chop the few pieces their neighbour left for them into splits. It had taken him most of the morning, but he’d managed it.

“Thank you so much! You’re getting so strong, but you’ll always be my little boy.” She croons, hand going to pinch his cheek lightly. “What will I ever do when you leave me?”

“Moooom, stop – !” He pushes her hand away, rolls to hide face-first in a pillow. She grabs one of his feet instead, pokes and pushes at the sole, scratching with her neat nails.

“I’ll just have to tickle you until you agree to stay! C’mon Dari, you love your old mum don’t you? Don’t you? Ahhh, what ever will I do when my little man leaves? Me and Draven will just be here, aaaallll aloneeee – “

She coughs and her hands stop their tickling. Darius waits a few seconds for them to resume but they don’t. Gathering his bravery, he looks up and over at her. His mom is wiping her mouth with her palm.

“Mom?” He asks.

She startles back to attention, clears her throat, swallows and her smile resumes. She wipes her hands on her apron.

“Ah, sorry Dari. Are you hungry? We can eat before Father if he’s going to be late…” She scooches off the bed. When she touches bare feet to the floor, she grimaces and lifts them back up. “Can you pass me my slippers honey?”

Now that she mentioned it, his stomach was aching. Not a new feeling. Darius chews briefly on his cheek while does as requested and swipes her slippers from the foot of the bed.

‘Won’t he be mad?” He asks, glances back over to the door and passes her the thickly crocheted shoes.

“He might not even be back tonight.” Mother says, walks over to their hearth. “We shouldn’t wait any longer on a man so unpunctual.”

“Punctual?”

“It means being on time – a good man is a consistent man. Who’s home when he promises.” Briefly she glares over at the door, but by the time she’s turned back to him she’s smiling again.

“…But – “ he shuffles back and forth from foot to foot, stops when her hand plops on his head and cards through his hair.

“Don’t worry honey. It’ll be fine. I’ll keep supper warm for him.”

[------------------------ 2 ----------------------]

Darius holds the bundle against his chest. How can a baby sleep through such a thing?

“He doesn’t even look like me, huh? How do you explain that? When I’m away, you get around? If you were opening your legs for just anyone, I’d think you’d be living better than this. Are your standards just low?”

The baby is so warm . Darius drops his head, breathes in the sweet scent. What did Dad mean? It’s only ever been them.

Now Mom’s crying. Darius pulls his knees up to his chest, with the baby lying sideways across his lap. He huddles in the corner of the room, tucked behind a chest of drawers. He’s not in a good spot. Hidden under a throw blanket. It would be easy to find him if Dad was really trying.

“Stop those serpent tears. You know it doesn’t work on me. Listen, I would never want to hold you back from sleeping your way up in the world.”

“Why are you saying this?? You know they’re yours, you know it – “

“I don’t know shit, except that you’re a liar and get months alone, throwing my money away while I’m off working. Where’d you catch that cough? From some patron while you were at a whore-house?”

“…Stop… at least not now. Not with the boys here. Darius can hear you.”

“Bah, what does it matter? They’ve heard worse from your clients. At this rate Draven will be walking into dock houses by the time he’s breeched.”

“Calder!”

“Pah, I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. I’m out.”

There’s stomping footsteps, then the door opens and slams shut. Darius waits what feels like an eternity before peeking out from behind the chest. Mother is coughing again, one arm braced across her front as if trying to keep her lungs in place, the other covering her mouth.

“Mom?” Darius shimmies out from behind the linen chest, lifts Draven up so they can both squeeze out. The baby is still asleep, breathing evenly.

“Ah, Dari – “ She turns her face away, wipes her eyes with her sleeves. “Don’t mind your father. He’s just grumpy - not used to being woken up by Draven every night, not like us. Don’t worry, if we keep saving, someday we can move out of the city and own a farm somewhere.” She winks, but to Darius it falls flat.

“…Without Dad?”

“Without Dad.” She nods. “This’ll be our secret.”

He holds out the baby, and she takes him back. Darius rolls back and forth on his feet, looks towards the door. Locking it won’t help. He’d be back by breakfast.

“Should I go find him?” Darius sticks out his chest, bites his cheek. Mom shakes her head.

“Just come lie in bed with me. Don’t worry Dari, once he calms down he’ll be back by morning.”

One last look towards the door, and he reluctantly follows.

[-------------------------------- 3 -------------------------]

“Boy, how old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

Darius looks over his shoulder. Father is reclined slightly on the step, half naked, basking in the summer sun. His sailor’s tan couldn’t possibly get darker. Darius pulls out another weed from their back-garden, and thinks that maybe the man and the shrub shared a likeness.

“Nine.” He says, flatly. Mom is inside cooking still, peeling vegetables while Draven crawled around at her feet, which leaves him to tend their tiny patch of tillable soil as a final chore for the day.

His father shrugs then laughs, barrel of a belly jiggling.

“Hah! Same difference. You’re old enough to be working. Doing real work. When I was yer age, I was out on the boat with me father every morning before the sun even was up.”

“You sleep in until noon every day.”

He hears the clap against his back before he feels it; the hard open palm of his father leaving a temporary mark, but Darius does not flinch.

“So what??! I work hard. I deserve it. Doesn’t mean you can be lazy.” His father says.

Darius drops his shoulders. Pulls out another weed. Things aren’t growing as well as they should be. He plucks a small red tomato off a vine, pops it into his mouth. A hand smacks him hard upside the back of his head, and he spits it out in surprise.

“I didn’t raise a thief,” his father rescues the tomato from the ground, rubs it against his pantleg, then drops it into his own mouth. “And your mother didn’t work hard growing this garden just for you to eat all of it yourself. Show some respect for her.”

I do more than you , he thinks, but doesn’t dare speak it for risk of another strike.

Juice squirts past Calder’s teeth when he chews, a single red drop rolls down his chin. Darius watches it, tongue tingling in want of the taste, but straightens out his shoulders instead while shooting a glare at his father. I can’t say anything, or he’ll get mad. Darius forces himself to turn back to face the garden, back on his knees and resumes pulling out weeds. After this was done he had permission to run off and have fun, so long as his ‘dear ol dad’ didn’t hold him up.

After a few minutes of uneasy peace, Calder speaks again.

“Hey, runt, I just got an idea. how about you come with me this time?”

Darius’ fingers halt where they are, half buried in the dirt. The smell of the earth fills his nostrils, somewhat calming him. He doesn’t turn, keeps facing the tiny garden.

“Where to?” He asks.

“On my boat, of course! I’ll get yeh a job. Swabbing the deck, cabin boy for the cook, or whatever. You’ll see the world, be with yer old man, make some money. It’s perfect.”

“It’s not your boat.”

“Pah! It might as well be.” Calder spits onto the earth of the garden.

“…What about mom?”

“Look, you’re offered the chance to stay with me and you wanna stay with mom? Listen kid, strength is being able to what you want, to do what matters, no matter how it affects people around you. Do you wanna be a strong man or a momma’s boy?”

“I wanna go play.” Darius says matter-of-factly, before he pulls out the final weed and jumps up to his feet. “It’s done like you said, I’ll be back in time for supper!” Then before his drink-addled father can react he runs out of the backyard and past the house, out into the streets until his father’s voice becomes a distant howl.

When he returns home that night his father is gone, and Darius thinks no more of it.

Chapter Text

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“It’s not fair!!”

“Draven – “

“ – No! Why do you get to go to battle while I stay here?”

Darius is kneading at his temples, dressed in full assigned-fatigues, army rucksack on his back. The traitor. He looks taller than normal, wider than normal, older than normal, standing in front of him like this.

“Listen – “

Draven folds his arms over his chest, glaring up at his brother. It's a cruel joke. This whole time, this past year in the army, being bossed around by the captains and commanders only to not be allowed to go to battle when it was upon them.

“ – You’re going to tell me I’m too young again?” He snorts; Darius wasn’t that much taller than him, just a foot or so at most!

Darius shakes his head; short straight-razor trimmed hair far too neat, collar popped up on his cotton shirt.

“No. You already know you’re too young.”

“I’m thirteen!”

“No, you’re eleven.”

“It’s close enough. I should be allowed to come! You’re going to need back up, you’ll need my help! I’m leagues better than the other kids my age.”

It was just a proven fact. Better with the knife, the short sword, the axe needs more practise – he’s too slow to swing it, but it didn’t mean it was too big for him.

“It doesn’t matter. Our Commander says our platoon is to go and yours is to stay, then we obey. You’ll wait here, protect the camp with the other boys. Hold the fort.”

“I’m not a boy!” He grits his teeth, bears them slightly at his brother. Darius continues to stare down at him, standing in front of the barrack’s door. Only now he brings it up, an hour from departure? That gives them no time to make a plan to sneak him to the war.

He should be able to do what he wants! It’s an army, isn’t the more fighters the better ? Darius should be glad, and Captain Cyrus should be in thankful tears that he wants to march with them .

Darius is watching him with a forced calm. Somehow, this makes his rage stir harder, building from a breeze to a hurricane. Does he not care? Is he happy to go without him? If Darius is happy to go alone, then he should be happy about it too! He’ll just… he’ll just make another army. A BETTER one.

“ I hate you.” He declares, and Darius’ cheek twitches. It’s not enough.

Still, voice frustratingly steady his older brother replies;

“It’ll be four months at most, then we’ll rotate with fresh troops. Maybe you’ll be allowed to join by then if you train hard, okay?”

“I don’t care. I hope you don’t come back.” Draven raises his chin, keeps watching his brother’s face. He waits; his brother’s brown eyes harden, his jaw clenching hard. His hand twitches up for a second and Draven flinches, expecting a strike, but instead Darius hefts up his own rucksack, pulls on the shoulder strap he had left dangling.

“Then I’m going.”

Too easily he turns and goes outside to join the rest of the young men gathering up into straight lines, preparing to march.

He shuts the door and stays inside the stuffy barracks, lies flat and face down on his own cot. It’s warm, the air was hard to breathe, but he refuses to open the door back open. Not until the men are gone.

Still he waits, and waits. There’s a horn sounding in the distance, loud enough to carry through the thick log walls of the building and a man’s loud tirade, and then nothing else of interest.

The heavy door to the sleeping quartres opens with a creak, and Draven freezes. Had Dar come back in to apologise? He better have.

Someone pokes him hard in the shoulder.

“Draven!”

The voice was far too high-pitched to be Darius. Grumpily he lifts his head from the pillow and stares at the other, his eyes narrowed. It’s Quintus, slightly sun-burned against his dirty blond shear-cut and heavy freckles. The one year between them seems like a mountain, now.

“What?” He snaps.

Quintus rolls his eyes, pokes him multiple times in the shoulder.

“Where were you? The older boys have left already!”

“So?!” He shoves his face back into the pillow, but Penton flips him over, gets him on his back then jumps up onto the bed beside him. He shoves his hand into Draven’s face, lying it flat over his forehead.

“So what, are you sick?”

“No.” He smacks the older boy’s hand away.

“Then why are you in here? Your brother just left for the Nockmirch pass, didn’t he? Didn’t you want to see him off?”

“I don’t care. I don’t have a brother.”

Quintus shrugs it off, throwing away his confusion.

“Well, okay, then come outside! Penton and Logan say they’re free to play before we gotta do drills, and Mich says he can convince Mateo to join. We can play Warriors vs ‘Jords. I want you on my team.”

Draven nods, pulls himself off the bed.

His limbs were sluggish to start, but by the time they’re through the doorframe his disappointment feels like the distant past. ‘

Draven has no brother, does not need a brother. He’s more than strong enough to be on his own.

[---------------------------------------------------------]

Mess hall today is… different.

Eyes on him when he enters; he can practically feel them rake over his body. His lifts his shoulders, sneers at the thrall of older boys sitting at the corner table.

He takes the slop ladled to him by their one-armed cook, goes to hop down on the bench next to Penton and starts to quickly scoop large mouthfuls of the stew into his mouth, dripping globs down his chin.

(Stop being so messy, are you a man or a beast?)

He lifts his sleeve to his face, wipes across. Even his friends are quiet. Eating themselves, hardly looking over at him as he joins them.

“Where’s Quintus?” Draven asks, mouth still full. The rest of the boys look back and forth at each other, no-one taking the first step. Draven taps the table impatiently with a finger, looking from one to the next while they fidget.

“The Lord Commander received a letter today. There was a big commotion outside when it was delivered.” Mich says, slow like it’s being forced out of him. He is staring down at his own stew. Draven looks to Penton – the boy is poking his spoon into the bowl, over and over. He seems much like a trampled plant.

“And…? What’s so special about a dumb letter?” Draven drinks from the chipped cup, lukewarm water clearing out the thick soup. He clears his throat, starts to scrape his bowl clean. The others must not be hungry.

“Are you going to eat the rest of your lunch or…?” He reaches for Mich’s bowl, and the boy surprisingly lets him take it without resistance.

“The commander hasn’t addressed us yet. I don’t think we were supposed to hear about it yet. Quintus wanted to go ease-drop. The men are overdue their return by months.”

“Who cares about a few dumb words on a letter?” Draven puts his spoon in Mich’s bowl, starts shovelling more gruel into his mouth.

“It was about Gaius.” Mich says.

“Who’s that?”

“Quintus’ older brother.” he says it a little faster, eyes narrowing slightly. Draven rolls his eyes; like he could be expected to remember the names of his lackey’s families .

“So?”

“So, he’s gone. There’s none left of his platoon – they got completely destroyed. Demacia ambushed them – General Janus is the only survivor of their group… they let him send a letter via falcon, used his handwriting to prove that it’s real. They want ransom.”

Draven laughs; the strong devoured the unable. Noxus would never pay to retrieve a disgraced soldier – Dar had always said that the strong rose to power, the useful would find success. If the general was not either, then he was more worm than man .

“What for? He’s weak. He wasn’t strong enough. There’s no way we’ll pay a ransom. They deserve it – if they didn’t want to die, they wouldn’t have gotten caught out.” Draven slurps his soup; Logan laughs, briefly the other boys look sharply at him, and it turns to a loud cough instead.

The four shift in place, fidgeting like the kids he’d fought at the pits.

“Draven,” Mateo says, almost too nonchalantly, “y’know, your brother was in one of the four platoons sent.”

The spoon freezes at his lips. He brings it down with a clatter that nearly cracks the clay bowl. Draven’s eyes narrow into slits, and wishes viscerally that his clutched spoon was a knife instead.

“Yeah, so? What’s your point?”

Dar wouldn’t die. He was undefeatable. Their info was wrong, that’s all. Besides, Dar was dead to him. He could spend as many months away as he wanted; he didn’t care if he came back. He didn’t .

Mateo shrugs, “My point, is that Quintus is now the first-born. So that’s why he doesn’t want to join us today.”

Draven slams the bowl against the table, and this time it does crack. The food was sand in his mouth, a rock occupying his stomach now instead of the stew. Our cook must really have been experimental today, he thinks.

“I don’t have a brother, remember?” He snaps, pushes the tableware hard away from him. His knife hidden under Darius’ mattress; he wants it. His fingers twitch, idle. The other boys look at each other with uncertainty. Draven stands abruptly before they can say anything further, though they still stare at him with such stupid, pitying faces. He doesn’t need it! He stomps out from the mess hall, retrieves his knife from its hiding spot in the barracks before heading out towards the training grounds. None of his squad try to follow him.

The army has dummies and crude targets set up along a perimeter, at varying heights and spacings, some even had different types of old battle armour. Though all the weapons are locked away in their armoury out of normal training hours, he could still practise with the knife he’d been given so long ago.

With a scream he throws the knife as hard as he can, watches it embed up to the handle in the round target-board.

Retrieving it, he goes back and throws again; misses the head by about a foot. Again. Again, he’d keep going until he got a bullseye. No matter how long it took.

“Draven?”

He whips around. Quintus is there, looking small and unsure. His eyes are red and tired. Was he finally tired of crying in his bedroll like a baby?

“What are you doing here?” Draven retrieves his knife, only to turn it in and out of his hands. He knows the others hate when he does it, hate the way he flutters it between his fingers as if it’s light as a feather, but Quintus does not react.

“… I could ask you the same thing.”

Draven shrugs, “I wanted to practise. Alone.” For emphasis, he threw the knife again. This time it hits the dummy with a soft thwak in the shoulder.

Quintus continues to watch him - stays several metres away, but stubbornly does not leave. It is late in the evening; most of the army are finishing up supper at the mess hall or heading back to their sleeping quartres. Draven is considering whether he should pretend to aim at the other boy just to force him to leave, but it is then that Quintus clears his throat.

“You heard the news then? Did Mateo tell you?” He starts hugging his arms and takes a step closer. “Gaius… all the men in the east bunks, they’re gone. Captain Cyrus says we won’t be recovering the bodies, either. They’re just being left there, for the Demacian dogs to deal with! We need to convince the Lord General Petras to send men over to parley for them!”

“Why should I care what they do with ‘em? They didn’t even win any territory, and then they died. Like a bunch of stupid, weak idiots.” Draven yanks the knife roughly from the dummy with more force than was needed, and some straw flies free with it. Quintus blinks, baffled. He takes another step closer.

“You should care!! Darius is there too isn’t he?!! Don’t you want his body back?“

The name hits him like a punch to the gut. Draven stops mid-throw, and turns away from the mannequin to face Quintus. The boy is still hugging himself, back hunched up. Looking small. Like a weakling. Lost without his brother’s guidance, weak and scared. Not like Draven at all.

In that moment, he hates Quintus more than anything.

Then Draven tackles him at the waist. The boy cuts off with a cry of alarm as he hits the ground. His straw-blond hair gets splashed with mud.

Shut up , he thinks. Shut up shut up shut up!!!

He strikes Quintus with his fist in the jaw, then the nose, then the cheek before the boy lifts his arms up to block. But Draven has a long history of getting into scrapes, and has been sneaking off to fight boys in the juvie pits much older than him, and much stronger too. The knife in his hand is warm and ready when he strikes Quintus with the wood handle to stun him, and for just a moment it’s like he’s in another place; he can almost smell the ocean on the air, the rush of the fight making his blood sing.

“Dray- Drahvhen – “ Quintus has blood on his face from a split lip, though it was quickly becoming obscured from the blood bubbling out from one nostril. His cheek is already starting to swell. Despite this, his face is open and pleading. “Stop, stop please! I yield…!! I’m sorry!!” he struggles to push Draven off him, but the other is tearing at him like a frenzied murkhound.

“Shut up!! What do you know, huh?? Nothing. Nothing!” Draven pushes hard down on Quintus’ shoulders and his head bounces against the dirt. Quintus bucks and tries to kick him off, but from where Draven sits on his stomach the knees don’t even reach.

Use the knife, something inside him urges . Punish him for making you feel this way.

As soon as the thought occurs Draven flips the blade around, and Quintus’ blue eyes go wide as a noble’s dinnerplates. Pathetic. Too easy. Noxian boys shouldn’t feel fear. Darius had told him so.

(Stop! What did I say about fighting other kids!?)

The voice seems as though its right behind him.

Draven flinches like he’d been shocked and jolts around, not quite sure of what he expected to see. But the plain is empty, only movement is that of the long grasses swaying in the wind. The distant murmur of the night-shift patrol carrying over the breeze.

Quintus uses his distraction to hard push him away, and he lands on his back. The other is upon him then, kicking and shrieking and scratching with his dirty nails. Draven lifts his hands to block, and then the two are grappling, Draven spitting and snarling while Quintus sobs, the tears and blood on his face both dripping onto both of their clothes while they both fight for possession of the knife.

Quintus grabs the hilt and immediately chucks the knife away, sending it flying and landing somewhere off in the dark. With that, the two break apart and collapse onto the ground, chests heaving as they catch their breath. After barely ten seconds, Quintus sits up first and throws a handful of mud at the other.

“You’re insane…!” Quintus breathes, “actually insane… you coulda killed me!!!”

“Whatever. I didn’t, did I?” Draven spits before sitting up too and starting to look around for the discarded knife.

“I can’t believe you… I’m telling the Captain!”

“Go ahead. I don’t care.” Even if he was locked in the woodshed for a few days rather than sulking in his bunk, it really made no difference. Either way he would cold, uncomfortable and unable to sleep. The two of them are both beat up, so if it was reported both of them would end up being reprimanded. He knows Quintus understands this too.

Grumbling under his breath, Quintus finally limps away, Draven ignoring his departure in the interest of his search. After a few minutes he finds the blade submerged in a puddle, and quickly cleans on his clothes it in fear of it rusting.

He waits alone for some time, lying on his back in the grass, before returning to the bunks.

By the next day, nobody of rank has approached to punish him, and though Quintus avoids him for a month, he does not bring up the subject again after.

Draven considers this a success. But it doesn’t make him feel any better.

[---------------------------------------------------------]

One day the blowing of a longhorn announces an arrival approaching the fort.

It’s the same as that day, long ago in Basilich. The walls of the military fort cut off vision, so Draven climbs atop the roof of their barracks to stare out into the dry fields that surround them. Lying on his stomach on the prickly thatching, he can see the shape of a platoon in the distance, flying red and black colours. They march towards the fort, though the crowd is a bit meagre to be considered a march.

He stands a moment, uses his hands like a visor over his eyes.

One, two, five, ten –

Barely thirty men now, when over a hundred had left.

Had there been more? Even with a hundred people, that doesn’t sound enough for a great battle at all . More camps had given men than just theirs, right?

He should have gone with them. He had told Dar that they needed his skills –

The gates open, the men march back within the camp. More horns blare out. Those with horses dismount. The man at the front has an axe on his back, holds out what looks to be a severed head.

Draven squints. Dark short hair. Heavy armour.

It can’t be .

He scrambles down off the roof, sprints to join up at the rear of the mulling crowd. Curiosity; no one knew whether to cheer or stay respectively silent. The men surrounding him… Draven jumps several times, tries to boost of the shoulders of other men, only to get shoved back down, hitting the dirt with a grunt.

Can’t see .

Something must have been said, because the crowd near the front begin to cheer, and it creeps through the rest of the recruits, spreading like a disease. Victory for the Motherland! Glory to Noxus! The screams are deafening.

“What?” He asks out loud, “ – what did they say?? What happened?!”

Nobody even looks to acknowledge him.

The people behind him are craning to look too, some stragglers join in behind him to gawk, the older teens have no issue with seeing. Draven glares up at the other men.

He’s boxed in .

Looking from side to side, bodies packed tight around him. His heart beats faster, hand goes to hover over the knife tucked in his waistband. His lifeline these past few months.

He can’t. Not now .

Instead he shoves his way out towards the thinner edge of the crowd, punching and biting if need be. The men pay him no heed and part with resistance, but eventually he gets free. Stumbles out onto the trodden mud of the campground, his feet heading straight for the barracks, as far from the homecoming as possible. He’s barely out of the throng when he sees Penton waving at him, and he immediately turns away, scowling.He was going to say something about Darius, he just knew it, and he cannot hear it right now.

Then Draven’s arm is grabbed. He turns his head back, yanks his limb roughly away.

“What??!”

Penton retracts his hand back to his side as if avoiding a biting dog, but otherwise seems nonplussed.

“You can get us in close, right? I want to talk to him!”

“Talk to who?”

Penton raps on his Draven’s forehead with his fist.

“Are you hollow in there? Darius!! He’s a hero!! They say he defeated a thousand men all on his own! They were outnumbered a hundred to one, and the last platoon left alive, but your brother led them to victory!!”

His stomach crumples in on itself. The void is yawning, gaping, and several months worth of yearning, fear and anger come upon him at once.

“Why do you think I can?” Draven crosses his arms in front of his chest. He should have hid away while he had the chance. Already he yearns for the solitude on the roof. “Go ask someone else.”

“You really are stupid. He’s your brother, duh! C’mon!” Penton maneuvers behind him and tries pushing him back towards the crowds, but it lasts all of two seconds before Draven jumps out of his way.

“Me and ‘Dar hate each other now, like I said, I have no brother. Anyway, he won’t do any favours for me.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Let’s just see if you aren’t rewarded from this,” the other boy snorts. Draven growls.

“Lay off. I’m going.”

“Going where?? They’re going to have a grand meal tonight and everything! Don’t be such a weirdo - ” Penton grabs for his wrist then, and Draven shoves him so hard the boy stumbles into another soldier, who gives him a clap to the ears for the audacity to trip into him.

“What’s your problem???!” Penton shouts while rubbing the sides of his head, but Draven does not hear him. The people running past him are hazy, and all he knows is that he needs out of here, now.

Past Penton, none try to stop him. His legs find their speed like he is back on the streets, and runs until they burn, until he retreats back to the barracks roof. Then covers his ears, shuts his eyes and waits for the sounds to stop.

[---------------------------------------------------------]

A second of eye contact over supper, that’s all they got. Dar’s been back for nearly a day, and that’s all I get?

It had taken several hours, but eventually he had gotten hungry enough to climb down off his hiding place and join the mess hall near the tail end of the banquet. Whatever he thought he had wanted, he had been unable to get it, and it left him more frustrated and confused than even before.

He stays only long enough to eat a single plate before creeping back to their empty barracks. The place is dim with the shutters closed and only one torch still lit, illuminating the rows upon rows of bunkbeds, the occasional half wall quartering the place into some semblance of privacy.

Climbs onto his original assigned bunk, even though it’s dusty and untouched for months. Darius would be wanting his old bed back, after all.

Why should he give it up, though? He didn’t owe him anything! He left, he had just left, and for months he had thought –

Draven screams into a pillow, then rolls off his bed, flicks his knife back and forth for a few minutes before, wholly dissatisfied with the repetitive action, skulks out of the empty barracks and into the night. Back to the training dummies, as always. What else was there to do around here to burn off steam? Nobody his age would agree to fight him anymore, and the older kids would just laugh at his challenges since a previous attempt almost had him break his arm.

Outside he can hear the revelry still spilling from the meal hall, from the entire camp still celebrating the ‘miraculous defeat’. He moves faster, pushes his legs to run as fast as he could muster towards the outer drill field. His muscles twisting tight like a charley horse, but he makes it without being caught or questioned.

Their training field had once been a field of wild wheat, but was worn to the dirt from the dozens of boots that go over it every day, and whenever it rained the place became a pool of muck. Any grass or weeds that tried to grow was trampled and torn up by their feet. Draven runs to the armoured straw man tied to the pole stuck into deep into the ground, stabs the knife into it as hard as he could and drags down, cutting a line down it’s pants until straw starts to litter the ground at his feet, then jumps and punches it in the chest piece instead.

It only hurts his knuckles, and that got boring too. He tries to pull the dummy off the pole, takes his knife and cuts at the rope holding it there. When it clatters onto the dirt he jumps upon it, punching and striking it with the butt of the knife over and over. Yells until his throat burns, until his lungs ache while he hits it as hard as he can, like his young life depends on it. The skin scrapes off his fists and bleeds, so he switches to his legs, kicks at the thing.

Straw and pieces of burlap and surrounding him feel like tribute to an altar and Draven stands, narrow chest falling up and down rapidly. Hurls the knife as far as he can across the clearing with an ear-splitting yell, then collapses back onto the straw and rough burlap to stare at the sky, still gasping for air.

His chest is still knotted up something terrible, like he took water in the wrong way, or he got kicked in the stomach. Usually fighting would help him feel better, but this time he only feels worse. Stars could be seen now along the pinkening sky, and somehow that angers him more.

Alive. Darius’ alive, and a hero . He’ll be promoted to Commander of his own squadron, probably. Get sent halfway around the world for his missions. Draven bitterly grins. Leaving me here.

The turmoil of earlier has mostly drained from him, leaving him oddly exhausted and feeling empty. He basks in it in some time, his mind wandering with no concrete thought, until the night air takes on a distinct chill.

Draven eventually rolls onto his feet, starts prowling through the dirt and scraggly patches of knee-high grass for the knife. He finds it on his fourth search of the area, and rubs it clean in his pants before carefully folding and pocketing it. By this time it is fully dark, and like it or not the autumn nights are cold. He wouldn’t be able to sleep outside alone.

Dragging his feet, he walks at half speed to the barracks. His hope for peace and quiet is quickly dashed once he gets close.

The celebrations seem to have continued on from the mess onto the barracks.

It’s more rowdy than usual for this time of night, and with three times as many people than are supposed to be there. People from many other areas of the military encampment thronged around their corner of the quartres, all asking questions with rapture. There is a prominent smell of ale. Draven’s mouth turns down.

Despite everything, despite the world practically kneeling at his brother’s feet, he still returned to the barracks to sleep in his old cot, rather than getting upgraded to some captain’s cabin. Surrounded by so many admirers, how was he supposed to get any sleep?

“You all don’t live here!” Draven starts pushing the men apart, interspersing with hitting with his beat-up fists just to get in through the doorway. “Get out! You can suck up to him tomorrow!”

He squeezes through the men, gets to their tiny half-walled section of their living quarters and sits on the edge of his cot, glaring daggers at the throng of starry-eyed men.

The other bed at his opposite; his brother’s, is occupied. Draven tries to stubbornly keep his eyes averted, but fails within three seconds. Darius is still in military slacks, his hair short. More scars than when he’d seen him last, bigger and broader too. His eyes have shadows still, that hasn’t changed. His brother’s back is stiff as though something heavy is braced upon it, and his jaw is tense. For a second brown eyes meet his own green, and Draven drags his lower lip across his teeth, looks away to the floor.

“He’s right. It’s curfew. Everyone back to your bunks.” Darius’ voice was lower than he remembers. It’s gruff but authoritative. The men hear it and the respect is clear in the way most discussion immediately stops.

Draven kicks off his boots so they hit the wall with a slap, tosses himself on his cot and turns his body to face the half-wall. Dozens of footsteps clear out. He continues to wait.

Something settles in between them, something uneasily quiet. There are words hovering in the air that no-one will say - like when two aggressors silently stare down each other in a fight – and it’s making the air thick. Finally the room goes dark, the torches one-by-one being extinguished as the soldiers closest to them settle to bed.

Something about this is like before, reminds him of something from years previous that he can’t put a finger on. Draven waits, hugging his pillow and curling half around it, waiting for the sounds of shuffling and stirring to cease. How dare he come back like nothing has happened? Like no time has passed ? His traitor eyes burn as he pushes his face harder against the coarse pillow-case. Darius had been dead for months – or thought dead. To him, it felt the same. The man in the bunk a few feet to the right was a ghost.

Maybe… maybe … He worries his lip. He waits a few minutes in the sleepy dark, only broken by a few snores from their fellow country-men or the occasional whisper.

Draven only manages to wait five minutes before deciding It has been long enough. Nobody will see me, of this he is certain.

He slips out of bed, bare-feet hitting the floor with a soft slap. He stops before getting too close to look him over. Darius’ dark shape seems calmed, just the single deep breath every few seconds.Asleep quickly. A soldier’s skill. Even better, he wouldn’t notice.

Draven lifts up the covers to his brother’s bed and pauses; but only for a second. What was the worst that would happen? If Dar wakes up he’d get shoved out onto the floor or told to go back to his own cot. That he could deal with.

With that, he slips under.

The immediate warmth of a bed heated from a different body was something he’d missed. It seeps through the mattress, through the blankets, and all throughout him. Scooting over the straw mattress, he tries to lie flush against the other’s … front? Side? He’s not sure in the dark, but he’s going to get comfy.

Arms then grab him immediately, like a leg caught in a bear-trap. Draven’s voice catches into a sharp squeak, but he’s pulled on top of his brother’s chest, arms hard as a statue hugging him too tight to breathe. He doesn’t bother pushing away. His face burns hot and indignant only a moment but settles just as fast. He inhales slow, and the tightness in his neck and chest start to dissipate. He smells the same.

This was his bed for the past five months, but only now did it feel like it was supposed to have.

Dar –

The hands at his back are firm now but no longer restrictive. Permission, of course. A physical question, waiting for his answer. A language they had long perfected. His own fists go to slink around Darius’ middle, turns his face to hide it flat in his night tunic. He does not speak.

Darius does.

“Next time, you’ll come with me.”

His voice is quiet, but sincere. Draven’s body shudders, fingers gripping in hard. He doesn’t mean it. He can’t mean it. And he was over this, over him! He was doing more than fine on his own.

So he doesn’t reply, but luckily the body under him doesn’t expect an answer. There is a period of slight shuffling while blankets are pulled up properly about his shoulders. Draven breathes in hard, his throat still catches the air somewhat. Hides his face amongst the fabric; lying outside, braced against the wind, a rumbling stomach, this was the only thing he could be sure of .

Let’s go back - he almost says. But he hesitates for too long, and then doesn’t. It has been a long time since he’s asked that question, to abandon their newfound purpose here to return to scraping together a living on the streets, but only now does he think he really means it.

A calloused hand moves up, slides across his back, running across his spine. Darius’ heart beats like a drum in his ears. It’s all the same.

“Thank-you for taking care of Quill for me. She says you were training hard.”

This was only partially true with the women’s and men’s camps being so segregated, and most interaction being strictly monitored, but only an idiot would throw away credit mistakenly given when it wasn’t due.

Draven makes a noise in response that sounds suspiciously like ‘ duhhh’. Darius chuckles quietly at that and says nothing further.

For the first time in almost a year, Draven sleeps well.

Chapter Text

-------------------------

The inn was as good a place as any.

Abandoned and derelict - all of Bilgewater has been cleared out for months. Even the rats and gulls have fled. One kick from a boot is enough to shatter the rotten wood of the door, revealing a dim entryway with tattered curtains and a ratty rug with suspicious rusty stains. Many homes back in Basilich had been like that, he dimly recalls; rotted over time from the wet salt wind, but now there is nobody left to perform maintenance.

Perfect. Soon all the world will be as this. For many years he had been possessed by the urge to burn the world to the ground and stand amongst the ashes as its King. Now he is thinking that rotting and empty is the better way. The slow burn of despair tastes so much sweeter than the quick death at an axe, or at the flash-burn of an open flame.

The mist had opened his eyes to that.

“What’s keeping you?” Shyvana pushes past him, striding to the lounge area. She kicks a chair over as she makes her way to the small bar counter, just for fun, and picks up one of the half empty bottles, sniffing at the cork.

“Does a place like this even have anything? We’re wastin’ our time.” Draven scowls, throwing an axe at the wall. With a raise of his hand, a new one forms in his hand, blade glowing eerie sea-green. So cool, easily the best part about this magic-fog-corruption business , he thinks. “Bilgewater’s runnin’ dry of booze and blood. How boring. Are we just too good at this?”

“’Shows it’s soon time to move on.” Shyvanna grins bloodily at him. “Any ships we haven’t ruined yet?”

“Hah! Ruined. You’re a laugh, Shyv. Of course all the boats are destroyed, you set fire to them, remember? Can’t you just become a dragon and then you can fly us both off this island? Imagine how awesome I’d look.” Draven noisily rights then drags a barstool over to the counter.

“If you ask that again, I’m turning into a dragon to eat you alive. No way I can carry your fat-ass to the mainland.” She quips. Draven laughs again.

The half-dragon finds two tankards from under the counter and slams them both on top of the cup-stained wood, then pulls out two dusty bottles with barely legible labels. “They’ve wine and spiced rum. Pick your poison.”

“Gimme the rum.” Draven crudely gestures with his gauntleted hand. Shyvanna rolls her eyes.

“Pour it yourself.”

She chucks the bottle at his head. Draven catches it lazily.

“Bitch.” He smirks, before pulling out the cork with his teeth.

“Whore.” She grins back. He pours the alcohol into the tankard while Shyvanna uncorks her bottle with her teeth and drinks straight from the neck. The taste is a bit cheap, far from the rich aged liquor of Noxus , he thinks, but hey, sometimes Draven doesn’t mind cheap.

If plans go well, then he’d get to taste it again soon anyway.

“So why do we need a dumb boat? I thought this mist was magical.”

“ You need a boat. I don’t need jack.”

Draven scoffs into his drink.

“Wha, you planning on stayin’ on this shit-hole of an island forever?”

Shyvanna taps at the black horns twisting out of the sides of her head.

“Dragon, remember? I can leave any time I want. Just fly away. The mist may not teleport us but it does give us strength and stamina. If your ass could swim we could be halfway to Noxus by now.”

Draven takes another sip from his tankard.

“Hey hey get it straight- I can swim great. But swimming across the Guardian’s Sea? Nu-uh. I’d get swallowed whole by some giant kraken while still in view of the shore. Have you ever tried to throw axes while underwater? They do like, no damage.”

“Your head’s pretty hard, you sure it will be able to digest you? I think it’s worth the shot.”

“You just want me gone so you can do all the fighting alone.” Draven is grinning again, even as the alcohol is fully burning his esophagus.

“Darn, you figured me out.” She returns easily, and chugs half of her wine-bottle. The blend is deep red like young blood. He can see it on her lips whenever she takes a swallow.

Draven leans backwards on the stool, his head tilts back. Boats… so they need a boat that hasn’t been destroyed. A somewhat difficult request right now after their week-long rampage through the archipelago. Though, the day before there had been those ships that had come to investigate the mist, all the way from Noxus prime…

The glorious executioner frowns.

“Hey Shyv’. Since we’re ruined and all that jazz, we feel nothing good right?”

“Yep. Why?” She lowers her wine bottle a moment to give him further attention. Draven could see the dragon bits of her in the way she looks at people, sometimes. Like she was waiting for just one show of weakness before swallowing you up.

Draven scratches his beard.

“I couldn’t kill a dude yesterday.”

“No. Way.” She slaps him on the shoulder. “You??” She slams her wine bottle against the counter. Draven is surprised it doesn’t break. He drags his hand across his face.

“I know!! It’s fucking with me because of all people… it was my brother. I had him and then I just – “

“What,” Shyvana tilts her head slightly, looking at him as if he is a small child caught doing mischief. He can feel her scorn acutely, though he doesn’t care how she feels one way or the other. “…grew a heart?”

“No,” Draven argues, “it was like, I was going to and then – “

He scowls; the memory brings some of that feeling back.

“… I physically couldn’t move and kill him.”

Shyvana laughs and slaps him again against his back, the force has him coughing up his last swallow of rum.

“For real?” She mirthfully crows, drumming her hands against the bar-top. “You, freezing up? That’s hilarious! I wish I coulda been there to see it.”

“Hey, even professionals need to leave survivors now and then, it adds more intrigue,it adds hope. Next time he’ll be worth the fight.”

Shyvana snorts, then chugs the remainder of the wine.

“If you say so. Now, shall we go find a boat?”

[\\\\\|||/////]

Night has melted into early morning and yet the reports continue dragging on. The words on the paper in front of him are barely registering, and each time he must reread a paragraph threatens to shorten his temper even worse. The shoulder scar from his recent trip to Bilgewater is acting up. Mist-rot , they call it. Injuries gained during the ruination are slow to heal, and long-aching. Darius feels it’s not the mist-rot but rather that he’s just getting old. Old and tired.

Darius pushes the thoughts from his mind and tries to focus on the recruitment records Captain Farron is giving him but he’s barely treading any ground.

His head hurts. Farron points to the breakdown of the troops, and his gauntlets are stiff. His knuckles crack as he tries to sort through the stack of papers. There’s a knock on the door.

“Darius.” A gruff voice behind his office door. Darius barely looks away from the work. Whoever it was could wait. Nothing was more important. Another knock at the door. Darius glares at his paper hard enough to bore a hole through the parchment.

“What? I’m busy.” That should be enough warning for the other to screw off, but in a few seconds they knock again. Captain Farron closes his administrative journal and backs away from the table, pushed away by the promise of upcoming confrontation and fading into the background as a member of the Trifarian Legon should, fully giving lead to Darius’ direction.

“Darius.” The voice again. This time he can tell it’s the Visionary Ruler of Noxus. Swain had kept some personal and professional distance since Darius’ return from Bilgewater, as it was him and the guile representative that had advised a wait-and-see approach towards initial reports of the mist. After returning from his off-the-record-campaign Darius had made it clear that if either of them attempted to talk with him about what had happened he’d free their head from their shoulders. Darius slams his fists against the table and stands up with a screech of his chair, taking the folded letters with him.

“What–!? “ he growls. Whatever Swain wanted better be important to be so persistent before the sun has even risen. He gets to the door with heavy treads and throws the heavy wooden door open.

It’s not Swain.

His brain blanks a moment as he stares at the man standing brazenly in his doorway. Long brown hair in a scrappy ponytail. Green tunic lined with wolf-pelt. He’s staring at a ghost, a ghost he saw consumed by the mist months before, though this time that sickly sea-green was nowhere to be found.

“G-guess who’s back?” The specter of his brother throws out his arms into a bizarre pose, as if posturing before an arena full of cheering fans rather than the empty antechamber of his office at five in the morning.

Once he had a second to compose himself Darius notes Swain is there also, just keeping his distance in the corridor with his arms crossed. He’s fully dressed in his travel gear; moleskin and drake-leather cloak with thick cow-hide riding gloves.

Draven by contrast, was in poor form. His clothes look brand new but his skin looks wan, washed out by the mist that had once empowered him. Even his shoulders stand slightly slouched. No trace of supernatural magics linger, but his eyes remain the bottle-green they were before, if not tired looking. His hair and mustache have gone limp.

The last time Darius had seen Draven, the other had overpowered him in a fight then put an axe to his throat. Draven had told him to leave, that he never wanted to see him again.

Darius had done so and regretted it ever since.

His pause must have been too long, because Draven begins to fidget and his forced grin falters.

“Look, I – “ He starts. Sweat is beading on his forehead. “I’m not saying sorry or anything, I – “

Darius thrusts the paperwork against Farron’s breastplate, who startles but catches the pile of letters just as Darius roughly throws his arms around his younger brother. After six months his stupid, arrogant, brazen, foolhardy brother was home again, leaving Darius unsure whether to hug him, choke him for his stupidity, or something in between.

Draven goes stiff, just as expected at the sudden contact. Maybe he was unsure too. But the younger is breathing and his heart beating, a solid figure before him unlike the figments he had seen so often out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re dead.” Darius says. The fur from the wolf-pelt is wet against his face.

It takes a moment, but he feels the younger tentatively hug back, and Swain and Farron respectfully turn their attentions elsewhere.

“Heh, you big baby. I’m not dead yet.”

It feels like he is thirty years younger. Darius allows this indulgent weakness a second longer, then gives Draven a hard cuff to the back of the head before pulling away.

“Leave us,” Darius directs to Swain and Farron with a wave of his hand. “We will finish our business in the morning. And you – “ he straightens his shoulders and pokes Draven in the centre of the chest.

“Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

----------------------------------------------------

“Quick, over here.”

Darius darts to the end of the back street, locks his arms and puts his hands like a foothold against the fence, crusty with salt and striped with green. Draven scrambles up the wall, and once he’s cleared the top, Darius follows up after him, snagging his shirt as he goes and earning it yet another tear. Another job for Quill…he thinks, his ears already ringing in anticipation of the lecture he was sure to get later.

Sighing, he frees the scrap of his shirt from the rotting wood and pockets it, before realising it’s been at least five seconds since he’s laid eyes on his younger brother, and any amount of misfortune could have unfolded by this point. Darius turns around – and Draven is nowhere to be seen.

They had jumped the fence to end up in a short alley between two stores, exiting out into a market district close to a richer part of town. A sealed crate sits against the wall of one of the buildings, marking about a halfway point through the passage. The street past the exit of the alley is busy for the evening hour with last minute shopping. There are still people hawking next to their stalls.

At least he could not hear alarmed shouting, that was a good sign. Maybe there was still time to resolve things peacefully. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls out.

“Draven! Quill is gonna be off work soon, and I don’t have time to… I’m not – gah, what’s the point. Dammit. I should never let him go first.” Darius sighs, sends a rock skittering down the alley with his boot. There was nothing for it, he’s got to find the boy before he gets them both on a wanted list for another week. Richer areas were less forgiving of mild-to-moderate misdemeanors, and their memories of them longer. The higher presence of soldiers and guardsmen didn’t help, either.

Darius rolls out his shoulders and heads down the alley two steps at a time, when something jumps out from behind the crate, shouting WAH as it throws up its arms in a huge flourish. Darius flinches back while raising his arms to fight – but then he sees his assailant clearly and bonks his brother on the head with a closed fist.

“Made ya flinch!” Draven crows, he rubs a hand against where he was playfully struck, though otherwise he is unaffected.

“Did not.” Darius says.

“Nu-uh did too! I saw! Draven saw!”

“I can’t win against two of you.” Darius is more relieved that he doesn’t have to sprint through half the city in a wild chase, and lets Draven has his fun. With any luck, the two of them may have a calm evening for once. He slaps the crate. “Sit. We’re waiting here, it’s not much longer.”

He leaves the crate for Draven and sits then on the ground with his back against the wall, his heartrate slowly returning to normal. The early fall had set in quickly, leaving the earth half-frozen and crunchy, though so far not too oppressive. They have been making do so far with their summer layers, but ideally they’d have stolen something to use as coats by the end of the month, then stake out some abandoned shack somewhere for better shelter… He refuses to let this be a repeat of last winter. Draven finishes cackling and, ignoring the crate entirely, plops down on the alley dirt next to Darius, sitting a little away from the wall so he could still watch the street without his brother blocking the view. He pulls an apple out from his pocket and takes a huge bite from it with a crisp snap. Darius doesn’t bother to ask him where he had swiped it from, or if he’d share. Despite his best efforts Draven was still too skinny, and Darius wants him in far better shape before the snow is down.

People continue walk past the gap between the shops, ladies with dark dresses and small hats. Businessmen wearing smooth leather jackets with not even a crease. Guardsmen in dull bronze armour. None of them pay any attention to the two brothers sitting pressed against the wall, just as they liked it.

The clopping of hooves, and a large, covered carriage makes its way down the street, people running off the roads to give way to the noble’s vessel. The large sigil of a three eyed raven is adorns the side of the carriage, flying just over its door. The curtains are drawn, blocking off all its windows.

The shoppers and store-keeps begin to whisper amongst themselves, keeping their eyes cautiously trained on the stagecoach.

Darius watches it pass, unbudging from his spot in the alley. Draven is watching too, he knows, but the presence of food has the boy momentarily tamed; the only times the child was still, when he is eating or sleeping. Even during the latter he’d be tossing and turning – Darius is certain that some of his ribs are permanently disformed from Draven elbowing or kneeing him in his sleep.

“Who’s the bigshot?” Draven asks with a mouthful of apple flesh. The fruit is nearly gone now; there’s barely even core left.

“It’s the Noble House of Swain, based on that symbol.” Darius explains quietly. It wasn’t something he would have known if not for Quilletta’s strange knowledge of Noble politics and basic education. Not too strange, he corrects himself, she does have a last name, after all, even if she doesn’t speak of it.

“Swain? Like the pig?” Draven swallows, then licks the remainder of apple juice off his lips, then his fingers. “I haven’t seen that picture before. What are they doing here?”

“’Dunno. I heard rumours that some of the Nobles are sending their younger sons off to war. He could be going, too.”

“Mhm-hm. Sounds dumb.” Draven shrugs and gnaws for a few seconds on the core, scraping every last bit of flesh off before chucking it over his shoulder towards the fence, before shuffling his bum a few inches on the ground so he could face Darius better. “Y’know, if I was a Noble, I’d do it so much better!”

“Would you now?” Darius leans back, hugging his knees against the chill. Draven nods excitedly.

“Yup. There would be meat for every meal, every day! I’d own ten – no – a hundred horses. And I’d live in the biggest castle, big enough to see from outside the city. It’d be so awesome. I’d be tough, but fair, and everyone will love me! They’d all talk about the awesome Noble Drrrrrrraven!” He grins, rests his cheek on his palm. “Anyone who didn’t like me I’d fight. Or kick out. Easy. Then I’d rule for at least a thousand years. They could keep me alive using magic! Just like Emperor Darkwill.”

He hums, caught up in the fantasy a moment. Darius looks at the child’s face, dirty but contented, and finds his own gaze turning to study the ground. The scar over his eye smarts a moment with phantom pain, and he can almost hear the crying of a baby, and the frantic begging of a woman. His heart burns too, and his shoulders have been so heavy, for such a long time. But for this… he had promised. And though hard it was worth it, worth more than almost everything else.

I hate the nobles. He thinks, but if it’s us it’d be okay.

He shakes his head. It was useless fantasy anyway, an impossible scenario with their lives as it is now. Quill kept insisting, but she didn’t understand. Any method of clawing up that ladder would be near impossible with Draven at his current age. He rubs the scar briefly with his hand, and it helps a little. It will probably rain tomorrow, he thinks instead.

“…I can see it. You’d be a glorious nobleman.” He says, and Draven glows at the praise. For a second, Darius can actually see it, his little brother strong and well-fed, wearing fine clothes. A warrior.

“Right???! I can just tell, I’ll be famous when I grow up.”

“When you are don’t forget about me.” Darius ruffles the boys hair, and he shouts in protest, shaking his head animatedly.

“Nu-uh, do it yourself! If I could do it, you can too.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he goads, “you’re so greedy. You have a hundred horses, you can spare just one. I’d ride to a distant city, then once I’m there I’d roast it over a huge fire.”

Draven taps his sharp chin, thinks it over a moment then shakes his head, tiny ponytail almost coming loose.

“Nu-uh! You’re not allowed a horse if you’re gunna leave. But… maybe you could have one bedroom. Maybe. But it’ll be in the stable or something, or the basement. Or the dungeons, and you’ll work your way up! You have to earn your keep, y’know.”

Darius laughs.

“That seems fair.”

“Of course! I said I would be.”

The younger schooches on his butt back to lean against Darius’ side, taking advantage of his potential as a wind-breaker.

They sit chatting for a few minutes more, until Darius can see the faint pinprick in the sky, marking the emergence of the first star. He gets to his feet then and nudging a now-drowsy Draven up with him to his feet.

“Quilletta should be done her work now. Let’s get her and go home.”

“Mnm,” he yawns, stretches, then shouts; “Race ya!”

For one about to fall asleep at his shoulder the boy goes resting to max speed in a remarkable amount of time and skids out of sight around the corner before he could even shout at him to come back. Darius curses and starts sprinting after the younger once more.

Some things never changed. In some ways, he hoped they never would.

Chapter Text

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“Again.”

Darius stands impossibly tall, back straight, eyes narrowed in judgement while he casts a pillar of shadow. Draven pushes back onto his feet, clothes grubby and muddy from his seventh fall onto the practise field. New bruises are already beginning to bloom over his flank, he can tell from the tenderness of his ribs. His older brother had nearly an entire foot of height on him, and he is distinctly certain that if not for that, Darius would be the one covered in shredded grass and dirt.

“Pick it up. Five. Four. Three. Two –” Darius kicks the wooden axe with his foot, getting it a few inches closer. Draven leans over and grabs it, ignoring the sharp tinge in his side. He holds it up, scowls at his older brother.

“ – One!!” Draven shouts a war cry and darts forward, mightily swinging at Darius’ left leg. The other swiftly steps to the side like a matador avoiding a bull and hits him across the back with the long handle of his own practise-axe. The force of it sends him stumbling, but this time he doesn’t fall. The younger brother pushes himself faster, through the aches and tiredness of his body. If he trained hard enough, he’d get to join the next campaign. Darius promised him so, and if he got left behind again he swears he will burn down the entire military camp.

He cross-steps, ducks under the next swing – one advantage of his lesser height – and swings, this time towards the elder’s chest. Darius swings his own practise axe and strikes the younger’s weapon mid-blow, and the thing flies out of Draven’s hands with a dull thwunk, embedding in the mud.

In the next breath the knob of Darius’ axe butts him in the sternum, and next Draven knows he is flat on his back, wind knocked out of his chest while his older brother barks orders at him, calm as ever. He isn’t even out of breath.

“Get up. Again. Grab your weapon.”

“How much more?” Draven rolls onto his knees and spits. Breaths were still hard to come. He grabs his axe and grips it like a crutch, staggering to his feet before hoisting it out of the ground. The sun was already setting; at this rate the two of them would miss supper. Darius grins at him in challenge.

“Until you learn to dodge.”