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The Academy did not always have a Symphony in its three hundred year duration. But it being an institution of both science and progress, many students, donors, and faculty felt the necessity of the Symphony’s addition – music and math are intrinsically intertwined, and the implementation of an orchestra not only bolstered the students’ wherewithal to endure the torments of study, but it also enriched the lives of other students who had no talent for the musical. Donors and faculty also found great pleasure in listening to the sometimes awkward moments of practice, and the grand and final result during concerts and galas. It was the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Symphony’s installation, and the heads of the Music Department found it an opportune moment to seize in the supplication of funds for new instruments and for scholarships towards students of lesser fortune: A Symphony Ball, hosted by the Academy.
Anya stood alone in the foyer of the ballroom, where others mingled and laughed – officials from the Academy swam in and out of the crowd, hoping to ease friendly relations and create a generous atmosphere. Champagne was served liberally, but Anya found that she had not taken a sip from her glass. Instead, her attentions were focused on the entrance to the event, hoping to witness the arrival of her liaison and her companion for the evening – Viktor. He lived in an apartment at the Academy, and despite this, he was still late. She found herself anxious and mildly irritated that he left her to her own company, and she wondered if his nervousness had gotten the better of him. Viktor was an intelligent man, and stronger in spirit and integrity than any number of Piltovans combined, but his physical constitution was still weak. Nervousness often plagued him with malady. Her irritation turned to worry, and she conjured wild scenarios of her friend laden with sickness, stricken in bed and unable to move.
Viktor had been delayed by no other reason than the petrification he faced as he stared himself in the mirror upon dressing: he nearly did not recognize himself. He was, of course, accustomed to the white vests and ties of his Academy uniform, but his uniform vastly differed in both quality and appearance to the tuxedo he currently wore for the ball. It was a soft fabric, softer than he had ever touched before, with weight and stiffness to it, the jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, and the collar held taut around his neck. Anya purchased the entirety of the outfit for him: including the white gloves and handkerchief, and the glossy black shoes – he could nearly see his reflection in them. But the reflection of the mirror is what fuelled his misgivings for attending: when he watched himself, as he touched his face and ran a hand through his slicked back hair, he saw only the boy from Zaun who used to dread the company of his peers, who shied from events due to his lack of ability to participate and the strange looks he would receive. He never learned to dance. He had no reason, neither had he the coordination. The paralysis in his right leg rendered him incapable of keeping time. He feared he would only make a fool of himself – and of Anya.
But her gladdened smile greeted him as he arrived at the event – later than he realized and anticipated –, it alleviated his fears momentarily. She fought the crowd to approach him, and when she stood only inches from him, he took note of her: she had forgone the traditional clothing of her people, in favor of a Piltovan ballgown – it was a gentle mauve color that seemed to shimmer in the soft lighting from the chandeliers above them; its collar swept low across her chest and its sleeves hung off her shoulders; cream lace accented the decolletage and the sleeves, with light blue ribbon tying itself into bows at her shoulders. The skirt of the dress nearly obstructed her from leaning all the way to embrace him.
"Are you alright?” she asked, and pulled from him to look him in the eye.
He instinctively wrapped his free hand around her as she clung to him; the boning in the corset constricted her breathing – either that, or she had been holding her breath for some time: it was short and pale.
He leaned into her palm and nodded, taken off guard by her greeting. “I am fine. I apologize for being late,” he said.
She shook her head insistently, and cupped his face. “I was worried about you.”
“You do not need to worry over me, Anya,” he said, feeling somewhat defensive, that he should not appear frail or powerless. But he calmed the instinctive agitation that had arisen in him with the knowing of Anya’s mercy and grace. Instead, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm; he passed his cane from one hand to the other to accommodate her. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” she smiled and leaned her head on his arm.
The ballroom glowed from the polished floors to the high, gilded ceilings and walls; lively music floated the air as groups of dancers amused themselves in the center of the room. They spun and swayed as a collective force, and yet each individual carried on smiles and conversations all their own. It was an ocean of mirth and delight, yet Viktor felt himself uneasy. Anya gave quick waves and glances towards people to whom she had been previously introduced, though she was no more at ease than he – he could see it in the tightness of her face: perfectly restrained and held together, she reserved herself inward, and kept close to his side. They shared a glance of embarrassment at their awkwardness, neither had ever attended such a grand event, and neither knew the appropriate customs. All the other guests knew each other well enough to make genial conversation, and seemed to follow a rubric of etiquette.
The pair mingled through the crowd, and Viktor fulfilled his duty in introducing her to various officials from the Music Department, who imparted on her details of upcoming events: a graduation ceremony, and a Yule Ball at the end of the year were of particular interest to her. She asked numerous questions regarding them throughout the evening, and two members of the department entreated her to dance as they described to her their roles in each concert, and how her donation might help them.
Viktor watched from the edge of the ballroom as Anya spun gracefully among the other guests. If he listened for her, he could hear her laughter and the sound of her smile. The ribbons of her dress trailed behind her as she twirled with her dance partner, the bustle flowing lithely behind her footsteps. He saw now her hair: it was done in a long braid down her back, nearly past her knees, adorned with fresh flowers that resembled the color of her gown, and threads of silver that wound throughout the plait.
Out of every attendee of the ball, Viktor thought, Anya was the most elegant and the most celestial. He had not felt her beauty until that moment.
Viktor left the ballroom for the balcony behind him, and took a breath of the Summer’s night air. The balcony wrapped around the outer perimeter of the ballroom, with many doorways onto and out of it; guests mingled and held quiet conversation with each other as the music continued to fill the atmosphere. Viktor was among a few who were entirely alone, who needed respite from the large crowd inside. He doubted they were nervous in the same way as he, but there was a part of him that enjoyed the thought he was not alone in his anxiety. He saw an older man at the far end of the balcony with a pipe, and he found smoking a favorable idea.
He reached into the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo and made from it a packet of cigarettes and a book of matches. Viktor rarely smoked, but he was surrounded by it and many other pollutants as a child in Zaun. At times, when he was an adolescent, though he had never smoked once, he craved the taste of cigarettes – especially in moments of duress. Eventually, his rebellious and youthful curiosity and desire developed into an occasional indulgence, prompted by stress.
He rested his cane along the parapet, and leaned on its stone railing, taking one breath after another at a decreasing pace.
Anya listened to the officials with patience and concession, but her smile grew weary and thin. Many of the men with whom she danced enjoyed talking, and only talking – she was a fair listener, but she was seldom met with equal fairness in being listened to. It made her tired and fatigued, and as the song crescendoed, she welcomed its ending – along with the ending of her partner’s company.
She quitted him with polite gratitude, and fled the arena before anyone else could demand her society. Instead, she wandered the edges of the ballroom, looking for her friend. She could neither see him, nor hear the sound of his cane throughout the crowd; but she knew he would not abandon her completely. Viktor had the habit of retiring somewhere, disappearing entirely from view, when he felt overwhelmed and threatened. It was a trait they shared – though he to a far greater degree. As children, they sometimes encountered each other in the same hiding spots, though they never fought for territory. They welcomed each other’s lonesomeness, and in it they felt safe. Thus, it was not difficult for her to discern where he went to hide.
Anya made her way to the balcony, and searched only for a moment before she found her friend a few yards away. His head was in his hands, and a cigarette was between his fingers. She sighed and approached him gently, stopping just short of him.
“Are you bored?” she teased.
Viktor’s eyes landed on her immediately, and he stood as straight as he could. He simpered, almost ashamed to look her in the eye. “I don’t…like parties. I never know what to do with myself,” he admitted.
Anya smiled with compassion and came to his side, leaning on the parapet as he had been. She took the cigarette from him with a quick pinch. Then took a breath of it herself. “Do you remember,” she breathed out a white cloud of smoke, “when you stole your father’s tobacco? You brought it to the dam that afternoon, and we shared it.”
He chuckled quietly. “He was so angry with me. He made me work to pay it off.” He watched as she held in her laughter, and he found her even more fair in the starlight. He shook his head to rid himself of the notion and focused on the memory, instead. “What was it you took from your mother?”
“Cordial,” she said, and handed him back the cigarette. “It was cherry cordial. She hid it in the cupboard above the stove. But I knew all her hiding places,” she laughed.
“It was good,” he said, recalling the taste of its tart sweetness. “Back then, I thought it might taste like something from Piltover.” He looked on the skyline in front of them, illuminated by a thousand lanterns, and by millions of stars and a waxing moon above them. “Did you ever think,” he started, and the rest of his words felt caught on his tongue, “that you would be here? That you would be in a place like this?”
Anya remained quiet for a little while, and for a moment he believed he had offended her, or garnered in her sadness when he had not meant to. But she let a sigh and spoke: “I always had hope I would be somewhere other than Zaun. Otherwise I would not have bought a lottery ticket,” she eyed him, somewhat amused with her circumstance. “But I did not know what to expect outside of daydreams. The harder I worked, the farther I was from freedom. I felt helpless. That I would never taste fresh air. Even now, I wonder if it is a dream. But I had hope. It was the only thing I had.”
Darkness fell over her countenance, and an agony painted itself clearly across her features; despite the ill illuminated night of the half-moon, he saw her pain etched deep as stone. Viktor realized then, that from the time they reconnected he had viewed her as a gilded herald of fortune. Her misery in Zaun did not escape his notice, but he understood now he romanticized her life and her luck. The happiness in her fortuity must have only been met in equal measure by her grief.
“What of your parents?” It was the only time he asked of them. Since they met again, she had only spoken of them in the past tense, and he was acutely aware of their absence in her daily activities. He knew better than to reawaken old wounds, especially in the deaths of parents.
“They were murdered,” she said, her hand falling to her chest. He handed her the cigarette and she took a quiet breath. It embered and dissipated to the end of its ashes; she placed its remains in an ashtray beside her, watching as the last of its fumes withered in the night. “They were caught in crossfire – one of Silco’s endeavours. They went to make a delivery of spices. I never saw them again.”
His own parents had been killed in a bombing, he knew what it was to be an orphan: the pain of blood, with no blood relations to console him.
“Let us not dwell on such heavy things, zlatíčko. Dance with me, instead.”
“I…cannot,” he said. He downturned his eyes to imply his inability.
“You cannot sway me? You cannot put your arm around me, and hold my hand, and lean with the music? You do not need to waltz, to dance,” she encouraged him keenly.
He repressed a chuckle and took a step towards her. With a genial bow, he offered his hand to her. She placed her fingers in his, and upon them, he placed a mild kiss. As he rose, the symphony began another piece, and he noted most of the other guests who had been their company outside recused themselves to the ballroom. Viktor and Anya were nearly alone on the balcony.
He carefully placed his other hand along her waist, as hers fell onto his shoulder. She gave him an amused expression at his apprehension to touch her, and she fitted his hand more confidently along the boning of her gown.
“Don’t be so modest,” she simpered. “I won’t bite.”
He smirked and shook his head, beginning to sway in time with the music. “You relish in teasing me.”
“Only because it makes you laugh.”
Viktor was an austere man, as he was a young boy – what little giggles could be heard were scarce and often not by the cause of any common humor. As a girl, Anya found it a prize to make her companion laugh and smile; he was a child riddled with terrible misfortune, and she hardly had anything to give him that would alleviate his worries. But she laughed often and heartily with her parents – and it was the only thing she knew how to do for her little friend.
The lines around his eyes and brows as a man told of his stern and grave temperament, she saw few lines that indicated weathered grins. She hoped her company brought him some kind of happiness, and hearing his voice again – quiet as it always was, but deeper and hoarser now – brought her immense joy.
They moved back and forth to the instruments of the waltz that played in the other room, unaware of any other persons besides themselves.
The novelty of his surroundings was beginning to weigh on Viktor, yet he felt most himself in the presence of his friend. It was kind of her to invite him, and she had no reason not to. But all throughout his years in Piltover, he was acutely aware of the unkind glances his status garnered.
“Do you pity me?” he asked her.
She gave him a double look, taken aback by his sudden and odd query. “What?”
He did not repeat his question.
She sighed, her lips pursed and taut. “My compassion for you has never been insincere.”
“Not pity,” he doubted.
“Friendship,” she said. “With it inherently comes compassion. Why would I want my friend to suffer, as you have?” She shook her head, thinking of barons and members of the council who turned blind eyes and withheld aid, lest they infringe on their profits. “Pity is insincere and fleeting. It never lasts beyond the attentions of those who see what they want to see.” She looked on her friend, handsome in the moonlight, if not tired and worn. He was terribly young – even for his own species; yet he looked as though he had lived a thousand lifetimes of hers. “I thought of you often. I have never forgotten you, neither has my compassion.”
Viktor swallowed, left uncertain of what to say. He believed himself to have been left alone, with no one to think of him, neither remember him with fondness. To be proven wrong was a shock and a welcomed relief.
He said nothing for a while, and instead swayed his partner with gentleness and grace, turning her in a soft spiral as the music continued. They laughed as she hurried in a small circle, then returned to his hand. He had never danced with anyone before, and he found it a beautiful intimacy, to be so close with someone in tandem; it was foreign to him, but not objectionable. He could have danced with her for all hours of the night had his body allowed him, but by the end of the song, fatigue crept into his leg and back.
As the waltz ended, he bowed once more, and took her hand to place upon it another kiss. This time, after he rose, he gave her a small embrace. He could not look her in the eye, but he kept his head down as he pulled away.
“Thank you,” he said.
Anya at first thought he meant for the dance, or perhaps for her invitation.
“For not forgetting me.” It was only then he glanced at her.
She caressed his face, and thumbed the sharp edges of his cheek. “I could never forget you.”
The brief notion of her life, hundreds of years from that point in time crossed his mind – long after he expired and the impression of his life faded into reverie. He quickly dispelled the thought. Instead, he turned to lean on the balcony’s edge again, leaning one way then the other to stretch his back. She ran her hand along his spine, hoping to relieve some of the tension in his vertebrae.
Jayce was invited to the Academy Symphony Ball by Heimerdinger, who wished the rising pupil and engineer to become familiar with donors and officials who could provide him with funding and connections. He had never been to a white-tie event, but he had attended a fair share of donor events, both for the Academy, and for his father’s factory. Social graces and etiquette were not unknown to him, though he found discomfort in the way he was perceived by the other guests – a mixed reception of scepticism and welcomed change. His first instinct was to find a friendly face, someone with whom he was familiar.
He had been at the ball for nearly an hour, alone – except for the occasional company of Heimerdinger, who introduced him to various donors – when he retreated to the balcony for a breath of air. It was quieter, darker outside, and he felt more at ease in its arena than in the ballroom. There were few people who lingered there, and in the near distance he saw the profile of his newfound friend, Viktor. He had a cigarette in his hand, and he spoke with someone obscured, and in a language Jayce did not know.
As he approached him, he heard the beautiful song of laughter from a woman; he began to see the figure of Viktor’s companion: it was the starlit woman who entered their lab several weeks ago, in search of their mutual friend. He recalled Viktor telling him the woman’s name: Anya, a potential donor to the Academy. Viktor called himself a liaison to her, but as she massaged his back, and shared of his cigarette, it seemed the two were far more acquainted than business relations.
He watched as Viktor smiled: he now shifted and leaned his back against the stone railing, while Anya inclined herself to him, against his thin figure. Her eyes could not be taken from his, and Viktor was entirely unaware of Jayce’s presence nearby. He heard the sound of Viktor’s laughter, in a way he had never heard it before: free and unfettered by pain or constraint.
He had hoped Viktor might introduce him to Anya, and his hopes were more than that: that Anya would be in want of his affectionate company. But Anya’s affections were distinctly elsewhere, placed fully in the hands of his friend. There was no disappointment in Jayce, but a gladness for his partner – and an eagerness to hear Viktor’s perspective of his alluring companion.
Jayce left them undisturbed, and before he turned from them completely, watched as Viktor asked for her hand to dance. She took it without hesitation, and leaned her head on his shoulder as Viktor moved them back and forth, in the gentle company of a starlit night.