Chapter Text
When I watched the Council Chamber explode, I did not scream.
I did not rush downstairs to take shelter. I did not hastily board up the windows to my library. I did not run into the street and cry out to the sky, asking, “Why?”
No, as I watched that familiar building in the distance explode into a cloud of shimmering gold and white, glass and metal, I did not scream.
I reached for a pen.
I rushed around my small, cluttered room, searching for anything to write on. Lists and documents spilled out of every drawer in the desk that sat in the corner. Disorganized boxes of files and records were shoved under a twin-sized bed that sat next to it, but not a single notebook was to be found.
Shouts of panic drifted in from my agape balcony doors, and I ran over to shut them. Only moments ago, I’d been engaged in my nightly ritual of watching the far-off Council building disappear against the dimming skyline, sipping my coffee mournfully, when the flash of light filled my vision.
My heart still raced from the shock of the attack, and my hands trembled as I locked the door. But my first thought after the fiery explosion still coursed clearly through my mind.
If I die today, my story dies with me.
So, while the other citizens of Piltover prepared for war, I prepared to write.
I took an uneven breath, allowing my forehead to rest against the cool glass of the door for a moment longer as I pulled my shaking hands to my chest—my pen still tucked between my fingers.
It was hard not to think of him.
Even after all these years… I still could not close my eyes without seeing his flash in my mind.
His crooked smile, his shaky laughter, the perfectly unique way he spoke, the sound of his breathing when I was in his arms—suddenly, standing there with my eyes shut, it felt as if I’d never left.
A suppressed memory prickled at the edge of my mind, and my heart sank.
The box buried deep in my closet—the one I swore I’d throw into the river but could never bring myself to do it.
The only sound in my room was the muffled hysteria growing outside as I tore through layers of clothes and file cases. Until, finally, my fingers touched something smooth.
I pulled out the wooden box, about the same length as my forearm, and traced the engraved symbol of Piltover on it tentatively.
The full memory of receiving the box played in my mind, and my chest tightened.
I dropped it on my desk, pulled up my creaky chair, and flicked on a lamp. The hazy, warm glow was the only light in the room as the sky turned black.
With a breath, I opened the lid.
The interior contained a variety of dusty items I never wanted to see again: A silver pin adorned with a signet similar to the one on the box, exactly as it had been when I had proudly worn it; A gold necklace with a dangling stormy blue stone that made me feel sick to look at; A thin white box on top of folded paperwork littered with my signature and, to my relief, a blank leather-bound notebook.
My hand reached toward it when a sliver of maroon caught my eye. I lifted the folded papers to reveal a hardcover book stashed in the bottom of the box.
A pang of sorrow shot through me, and I didn’t dare to open it.
Years of longing, regret, and grief flared in my chest. I wrapped my arms around the book and pressed it tightly to my ribcage—as if somehow that would make this sickening feeling go away.
This missing piece of me, this hole where a heart should be, these secrets and lies and suppressed tears I’ve held in for so long—I feared it would tear me open.
I glanced again at the dark leather journal and weakly readied my pen.
I did tell him I would write a book, I thought numbly, glancing back at my balcony.
Tendrils of smoke drifted up from the Council building and disappeared into the dark sky—and fearful screams could still be heard outside.
I dropped my eyes back to the journal.
If I die today, our story dies with me.
With that stinging thought in mind, I put my pen to paper.
I never meant to fall in love…