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The silvery light of a pale moon softly shone through the ragged leaves, painting ghostly shadows on the frayed, moss-covered remnants of stone slabs.
Irelia loved the Fields of Justice at night, when all was silent, all the blood of the day had dried out. She often came here, in the pale hours of the morning, before the sun began to rise, when no summoners, no greater powers of ill or good demanded her presence and filled the Fields of Justice with more cries, more agony, more death.
Her blade whispered softly beside her, reminding her of her duty, of the need to always be alert, to not lose herself in dreams of peace and equilibrium, that it was but a fleeting illusion in this troubled time and place. Irelia smiled.
„I do know that. And to train, not to dream I have come here, as usual.“ She lifted her hand and the blade shot forward, cutting into a nearby bush before it returned. Irelia took a deep breath. She always found it easier to unleash her might in a place she knew, where she was a part of the balance of things, where she knew how it felt like when everything was in equilibrium, a feeling she could recall, even in the heat of battle.
It was then that the bush behind her rustled.
Irelia swung around, her blade surging into the air beside her, ready to pierce any enemy. A slender figure emerged from in between the tangled branches. Carelessly, she brushed a strand of white hair back with her free hand, murmured something, then lifted her eyes and froze. Riven had clearly expected to be alone. Irelia smiled coolly. Too bad she wasn’t.
Somewhere deep inside her, Irelia knew that Riven wasn’t a soldier anymore. That she had exiled herself. That there was a not too small chance that she really and genuinely wanted to atone for what she had done.
She knew all of this. But she could not see it.
When she looked a Riven, black-clad, the broken sword in hand, eyes burning with dark flames, she could only see one thing: Noxus.
The cries of all those who had fallen in this dark, twisted, gruesome war ringing in her ears, Irelia dashed forward, catching her blade in the movement, and attacked. The animate steel cut through fabric, skin, flesh as if it was nothing. Warm droplets of crimson splattered Irelia’s face, but she did not care. It was only when she realised Riven did not make the slightest effort to defend herself that she slowly came to her senses again. Her blade hovered in the air unsteadily, waiting for a command, a simple thought that did not come.
The former Noxian had dropped to her knees without making a sounds. Irelia could see the deep gashes her blades had left, see the tainted earth eagerly drinking up the thick blood welling from them. She stepped back.
„Why?“
Riven coughed and wiped her mouth with her wrist. When she lifted her head, pride and defiance were glimmering in her eyes. And something else… „There are so many answers to this question. Which one would you like to hear?“
„Why are you here at this hour of the night? Why did you chose not to defend yourself? Would I see a point in it, I would ask you why you slaughtered my people and then left the battlefield, instead of basking yourself in the gruesomeness of your deeds, like the others of your kind, but you are a Noxian and I do not expect the likes of you to tell the truth when it comes to war and honour.“
Riven smiled. It was a cold smile, full of bitterness. „Nothing else would I expect of you, Captain of the Guard.“
Irelia barely kept herself from flinching at hearing her formal title out of this mouth. Her mouth tightened as Riven continued: „You have no reason for trusting me, or anyone who has ever associated themselves with the state that has robbed you of so much. As for your questions: I was searching for solitude, just like you, I presume. And I did not draw my weapon“, there was a pause. It was ever so small, but it was there and what flickered across the former soldier’s face was a trace of… sadness. Irelia doubted her eyes.
„-Because I want to die at your hands, Captain.“ She lowered her gaze again, and it took a moment for Irelia to realise she was exposing her neck at the same time.
She heard the blade whisper at her side. Why are you hesitating? Do it. It’s just what you have waited for. The torturer of your country. She deserves to die, doesn’t she? Irelia shook her head and took a deep breath.
„I am afraid I have to ask you again: Why?“
And Riven laughed, cold and tormented. „You would not believe me if I told you, for in your eyes, I am nothing more than a Noxian liar. And maybe I am. Still Noxus is as dead to me as I am to it. Never again will I bear arms in its name. And never again will I be the one I was, the one as which you still see me. You ask me why I want death from your blades, however impermanent? Because to me, they are the essence of Ionian spirit. I have killed so many who believed in this spirit. It is only just that I find my end facing them.“ She coughed again. Her face had become ghastly pale, she was losing a lot of blood. Even without any further strike, Irelia could see Riven would not last long.
„But above all - you can chose to believe me or not - I want to atone. I am truly, deeply sorry for what I have done. I deserve death, I deserve it every time I meet it in the arena. And I deserve it now. Without weapons, without a chance to defend myself, because that is how Ionia was facing the Noxian invasion.“ Again, she looked up, meeting Irelia’s gaze. „Will you grant me that honour, Captain?“
The whispering of her blade was so loud now, Irelia could hardly hear herself think. Go on, it urged her, let me taste her blood. So long you’ve waited. Do it! But it was not the haunting whispers that moved Irelia to firmly lay her hand around the blades handle. It was not the smile on Riven’s lips, taunting her. It was the simple fact that she believed her.
Irelia lifted the blade over her head. „I forgive you.“
And with that, she brought it down, piercing the Noxian’s - no, the Exile’s - chest. Riven died as silently as she moved, but Irelia felt as if a sudden gust of wind had brought a last, silent murmur to her ears.
„Thank you.“
Never would Irelia know that in the grey limbo between life and death in the arena, it was her image that danced in front of Riven’s eyes. Wielding her blades. Commanding her allies. Slaying her enemies. That for Riven, she was Ionia. And that forgiveness from her meant everything.
And never would Riven understand that the stirring in her frozen soul was so much more than the satisfaction of a slate cleared, a debt repaid.
But then again, in an arena where even death was not the end, never was an awfully final thing to say.