Work Text:
Ambessa Medarda and Ximena Talis were two women from worlds that could hardly be more different. One, a general of Noxus, strengthened the Medarda legacy through bloodshed and power; the other, a widowed immigrant from Ionia, kept her husband’s dream and life’s work alive with quiet perseverance. Yet, for all their differences, they shared one thing: the love they bore for their children, a love so consuming it shaped the very foundations of Mel Medarda and Jayce Talis’ lives.
Their love, however, came wrapped in vastly different packages. Ambessa’s love for Mel was hard-edged and demanding, born from her belief that survival required strength and that strength required pain. To love her daughter, she thought, was to prepare her for the brutality of the world. Mel had to earn every shred of praise, every scrap of approval. Love was discipline, lessons delivered with the cold precision of a general training her successor.
Ximena’s love, by contrast, was sheltering. For Jayce, her only child, she was both protector and anchor. She raised him to value creation, to wield his brilliance as a tool for change. But her love came with its own shadows: a reluctance to let him stumble, a need to shield him from the world even when he was ready to face it. Ximena feared losing him, the last connection to her fractured family, and her love often manifested as a tight grip rather than an open hand.
In Mel and Jayce, these opposing forces found echoes of their mothers. Mel carried her mother’s steel resolve but softened it with her own vision of diplomacy and compassion. Jayce inherited his mother’s warmth and creativity but chafed under the weight of his perceived failure. Together, they stood at the intersection of ambition and vulnerability, each shaped by the complex legacies of the women who raised them.
Their mothers’ influences didn’t just mold who they were; they lingered in how Mel and Jayce loved, fought, and saw the world. And though they rarely spoke of Ambessa or Ximena, their presence was inescapable—a shadow and a light cast over their every choice.
As Mel and Jayce navigated their lives together, it became clear that understanding each other meant, in part, understanding the mothers who had shaped them. It was a bond neither could escape, one woven into the very fabric of who they were.
The Medarda Family.
Ambessa Medarda had never believed in coddling. To coddle was to weaken, to leave her children ill-prepared for the inevitable cruelties of the world. In Noxus, survival was not a right but something to be earned, and Ambessa would see to it that Mel and Kino earned theirs.
From the moment Mel could walk, Ambessa turned her childhood into a proving ground. Games were not for fun but for lessons. She would send Mel into skirmishes with children twice her age, testing her wit and resolve against stronger, sharper opponents. To Ambessa, it was necessary; she had clawed her way to power through cunning and bloodshed, and if her daughter was to uphold the Medarda name, she had to be sharper than a blade.
One particular memory clung to Mel’s mind like a scar. She had been ten years old, slight and gangly compared to the hulking boys Ambessa had chosen as her opponents. It was a mock battle, an exercise in strategy, Ambessa said. Mel was given a small, blunt dagger and a team of three children, none older than eight, and told to seize a flag from a fortified position held by six boys armed with wooden swords.
Ambessa had watched from a stone platform above the field, her face unreadable. The sun beat down as Mel scrambled to organize her tiny team, sweat dripping into her eyes as she tried to think, tried to plan. Every time they charged, the older boys overwhelmed them, pushing them back with ease. Every loss felt like a weight sinking into her chest.
By the fourth attempt, Mel’s teammates had begun crying, their determination shattered. She wanted to stop, wanted to cry herself, but when she glanced up at Ambessa, all she saw was silence. No reprimand, no encouragement. Just a heavy, waiting stillness.
In that moment, Mel realized what her mother wanted: not her tears, not her surrender, but her anger. Her defiance.
Mel wiped the sweat from her face and tried again. This time, she set a trap, digging shallow trenches in the dry dirt to trip the older boys. She used herself as bait, drawing them into the trap while her teammates circled behind. The plan was clumsy, hastily executed, and it still ended in failure—but not before she managed to seize the flag for a single fleeting moment.
Ambessa had smiled then, a rare, fleeting thing. “You lasted longer than I expected,” she said later, when the bruises were being treated. To a child desperate for her approval, those words felt like an embrace.
Years later, Mel would think back to that day and wonder if it had been love. She had won Ambessa’s pride that day, but at what cost? Was it love to watch your child bleed and let her do it again? Or had Ambessa seen her not as a daughter, but as a potential heir—another Medarda forged to bear the family’s name if her brother failed?
Mel’s adolescence brought different lessons. By then, she had come to understand her mother’s way of showing love, though it still cut. If childhood was about teaching her survival, adolescence was about teaching her ambition. Ambessa began to send her to gatherings of Noxian elites, instructing her to observe, to learn the dynamics of power and exploit them.
“She is soft,” Ambessa had said to a visiting general when she thought Mel wasn’t listening. “But her softness can be a weapon.”
Mel remembered those words more clearly than she wanted to admit. They had stung then, a sharp rebuke of the gentler instincts she could never seem to bury. But as she grew older, she realized her mother hadn’t meant them as an insult. To Ambessa, softness was not weakness—it was just another tool to wield.
By the time Mel had been forced to leave for Piltover, she and her mother were at odds. Ambessa believed in Noxus, in its creed of strength above all else. Mel, on the other hand, like Kino, had seen diplomacy not only as a means of power but also as a way to build. She wanted something different, something better.
Their last argument before her departure still echoed in her mind.
“You’re wasting your potential,” Ambessa had said, her tone cutting but her eyes betraying something close to fear. “You think the world will respect you for being kind? For making peace?”
“It’s not about respect,” Mel had replied, her voice trembling despite herself. “It’s about ensuring what we build is something that lasts.”
Ambessa hadn’t answered, but the silence had felt heavier than any retort.
Now, years later, Mel sat in her and Jayce’s shared penthouse, turning a blade over in her hands. It was her mother’s latest gift, the steel glinting with the Medarda family crest. She had sent it after their last meeting—a quiet, strained dinner where neither had said much.
She could still hear her mother’s voice, deep and certain: “You’re softer than I wanted you to be. But you’re better than I could have imagined.”
Mel wasn’t sure if it was praise or simply Ambessa making peace with the fact that her daughter had chosen a different path. Either way, it lingered in her mind, another reminder of the shadow Ambessa cast over her life.
She set the blade down on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Ambessa had taught her to be strong, to fight for what she wanted—but it was Mel who had decided that strength could come in more than just brute force, that it could be something more than raw power.
For all her mother’s lessons, Mel had learned her greatest one from others around her: that love didn’t have to be a battlefield. Didn’t have to be transactional. Didn’t have to be so cold it burned.
That she learned from Jayce and Elora, from Kino and their father. From herself when she thought of Piltover
The memory came unbidden, as they often did when Mel let herself linger too long in the stillness of her penthouse when Jayce went to the lab and she worked from home. It was from the early days of her investing in Jayce and Hextech (Viktor too, she supposes), back when she was still learning to navigate the labyrinthine politics of being his biggest investor and the strong feelings she had bubbling up while Jayce was nothing more than an ambitious cocky inventor, stubbornly chasing the impossible.
They had been sitting in his new office at the lab late one evening, the air thick with the smell of molten metal and scorched circuits. Jayce had been tinkering with one of his prototypes, Viktor was off somewhere, Jayce’s face streaked with soot, his hands moving with the kind of precision that spoke of years spent in his family’s forge. Mel had been watching him from the corner of the room, ostensibly reviewing investor concerns but really just marveling at how absorbed he was in his work.
“Why do you do it?” she had asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.
Jayce looked up, his brow furrowing. “Do what?”
“All of this.” She gestured vaguely to the workshop, to the mess of blueprints and tools and half-finished devices scattered around them. “What drives you? Is it glory? Legacy? Power?”
He chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. “None of that, really. I mean, sure, I want to make a name for myself, but it’s not about power or legacy. It’s about… creation. About proving that something better is possible.” He paused, his expression softening as he looked at her. “My mom used to say that the world is full of people who know how to destroy, but it’s the ones who know how to build who really matter.”
The words struck her like a blow, though she hid her reaction behind a carefully neutral expression. Build. Not conquer, not dominate—build. It was such a stark contrast to the lessons Ambessa had drilled into her, lessons that equated strength with victory and love with control.
Jayce went back to his work, oblivious to the turmoil his words had stirred in her. Mel, meanwhile, found herself turning them over and over in her mind, wondering what it would have been like to grow up with a mother who spoke of creation instead of destruction. A mother who saw strength in building bridges, not tearing them down.
That night, as they left the lab and he offered to walk her back to her home, she had asked him more about his mother. He spoke of Ximena with a kind of reverence that was almost foreign to Mel—a mix of gratitude and awe, tinged with a sadness he didn’t seem ready to articulate.
“She taught me everything I know,” he had said, his voice quiet but steady. “Not just passing on my father’s notes on forging and engineering, but about the kind of person I want to be. She’s the reason I can even dream about Hextech.”
Mel had nodded, her throat tight. She didn’t tell him that Ambessa had taught her everything she knew, too—about strategy, about survival, about power. But where Ximena’s lessons seemed to leave Jayce grounded and whole, Ambessa’s often left her feeling like a blade worn thin from too much sharpening.
Still, as they reached her door and Jayce turned to say goodnight, there was something in his golden gaze—a warmth, an unshakable belief in her—that made her wonder if it was possible to unlearn some of the harsher lessons she had inherited. If, perhaps, she could take what Ambessa had given her and reshape it into something more.
“Thank you,” she had said abruptly, surprising even herself.
Jayce blinked. “For what?”
“For reminding me that there’s more than one way to be strong.”
He had smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face, and for the first time in years, Mel felt something like hope. It was a small thing, fragile and fleeting, but it was there—a seed planted in the soil of her mother’s lessons, waiting to grow.
In the present, Mel sighed. So yes, her mother had taught her how to survive, how to fight, how to lead. But Jayce had taught her how to hope—and in a way, that had made her stronger than anything Ambessa could have imagined.
The Talis Family
Jayce’s earliest memories were filled with the rhythm of hammers against steel and they crackle of the forge fire, where his mother, Ximena, worked tirelessly to provide for them both. After his father’s death, Ximena had taken up the mantle as head of the forge, refusing to let the Talis name fall into obscurity. She worked long hours, her hands calloused but steady, and yet, she always found time for Jayce.
One of his most cherished memories was of the nights she stayed late at the forge, not to finish an order, but to teach him the art of sculpting. “Engineering is essential,” she’d said, her Ionian accent lending a lyrical cadence to her words, “but so is creation for its own sake. Remember, mijo, creation is an act of love.”
She had guided his hands over the cool clay, her fingers warm and firm as they shaped the beginnings of a sculpture. Jayce had been impatient then, frustrated when the clay didn’t bend the way he wanted it to. Ximena only laughed, her voice soft but encouraging. “Patience,” she said, “is part of the craft. When you shape something, you give it a piece of yourself. If you rush, you lose the meaning.”
That night, Jayce had fallen asleep in the forge, soot smudging his cheek, his hands still sticky with drying clay. When he woke up, Ximena was there, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. Even now, as an adult, he could still feel the weight of her hands on his, the warmth of her guidance—a love that was as steady and unyielding as the steel they forged.
As Jayce grew older, that love began to feel heavier. His teenage years were marked by a tension between Ximena’s fierce protectiveness and his growing desire for independence.
The breaking point came after an accident in the forge. Jayce, eager to prove himself, had attempted to repair a faulty mechanism without consulting his mother or the foreman. The explosion wasn’t catastrophic, but it left him with singed hair and a burn across his leg. Ximena had been beside herself with worry, refusing to let him set foot in the forge for weeks.
“You could’ve been killed!” she’d cried, her voice cracking in a way that made Jayce’s guilt sting even more.
“I’m not a child anymore!” he had shouted back, frustration bubbling over. “You can’t protect me forever, Mamá!”
For days afterward, the forge felt colder, her usually warm demeanor replaced by a guarded silence. It wasn’t until he found her sitting alone by the forge’s hearth, the firelight casting shadows across her face, that he realized how deeply his recklessness had shaken her.
“You remind me so much of your father,” she’d said softly, not looking at him. “Stubborn. Brilliant. Always chasing impossible things.” She turned to him then, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I can’t lose you, Jayce. You’re all I have left.”
Her vulnerability frightened him, made him realize how much his success—or failure—meant to her. From then on, Jayce threw himself into his work, not just for himself, but for her. Every late night spent perfecting his designs, every risk he took in his quest to merge magic and technology—it was all for his Mama, to prove that her sacrifices hadn’t been in vain.
Today, now sitting in his mother’s modest home, Jayce turned the small device over in his hands, its surface catching the soft light filtering through the window. It was a prototype he’d designed just for her—a mobility aid to help with the stiffness creeping into her joints. His mother’s arthritis had been a slow, unyielding reminder of the years she’d spent working tirelessly at the forge to keep the Talis name alive.
Ximena examined the device with a critical eye, her fingers brushing over the polished casing. “It’s clever,” she said finally, her tone thoughtful, “but this mechanism—it’s too delicate. It’ll wear down too quickly.” She handed it back to him, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Fix that, and it’ll be perfect.”
Jayce chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You always find something to critique, don’t you?”
“It’s my job,” Ximena replied, her eyes warm with pride. “How else would you keep growing?”
Her words landed with their usual weight, the reminder of all she had given him and all he felt he still owed her. For years, Jayce had worked tirelessly, his every achievement driven by an almost desperate need to honor his mother’s sacrifices. She had built her life around his success, and for a long time, he believed he had to do the same.
But then, there was Mel.
He remembered their conversation late one quiet night in their shared home, her green gaze sharp yet impossibly tender as she cut through his self-doubt with the precision of a scalpel.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Jayce,” she’d said, her voice low but steady. “Not even your mother.”
Jayce had stiffened at that, the words hitting a nerve. “She’s done so much for me,” he’d protested. “Everything I’ve built—everything I’ve accomplished—it’s all because of her. I can’t just…”
“Just what?” Mel had interrupted, leaning closer, her forest eyes searching his amber ones. “You can’t want something for yourself? Jayce, ambition isn’t selfish. Wanting to succeed for yourself isn’t bad—it’s human. You don’t have to live your whole life for someone else, not even for her.”
Her words had unraveled something inside him, something he hadn’t even realized was there. He’d always thought his drive, his ambition, was a reflection of his love for Ximena—a way to repay her for everything she had sacrificed. But Mel had shown him another way, a way to love his mother without losing himself in the process.
Sitting across from Ximena now, he saw her smile again, that unshakable pride that had always been a beacon in his life. For the first time, though, it didn’t feel like a weight. It felt like a foundation—a starting point, not an obligation.
As he tucked the prototype back into his bag, promising to rework the mechanism and bring it back better than before, he realized something important. His mother’s love had taught him how to create, how to hope, how to strive for something greater. And Mel’s love had taught him that it was okay to strive for himself, too.
He could build a life that honored both of them—a life where his ambition wasn’t a burden, but a gift. A life that was his own.
The Medarda-Talis Family
The dim light in their shared home office was warm, golden, softening the sharp edges of Mel’s face as she worked. Jayce leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her across the room. She was reviewing proposals for the public transportation system, her focus as absolute as ever. It struck him, not for the first time, just how much of her strength was quiet—present in her poise, her unyielding calm, her precision.
She was breathtaking.
Not just in the obvious ways—the striking beauty that drew stares wherever she went, the elegance with which she carried herself—but in the sheer force of her presence. There was something about Mel that was magnetic, impossible to resist. The way she could command a room with a single glance, the way her words carried weight even in silence, the way she made him feel like the center of her world even while handling crises he could barely begin to understand.
Jayce let out a breath, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. How could one person be all this and more? He didn’t know. What he did know was that she had changed his life, utterly and irrevocably.
“She’s all I have left,” Jayce murmured, the words spilling out before he could stop them. His thoughts had wandered to Ximena, as they so often did when the room grew quiet and he thought of Mel. Of introducing her to his Mama. “Mama.” He toyed with the small metal sculpture on his desk, his voice soft. “She held everything together after my dad died. She’s why I had a foundation to build on. She made sure I never forgot where I came from.”
Mel looked up, her sharp gaze softening as it met his. “She must be extraordinary,” she said, her voice steady.
Jayce smiled faintly. “She is. Everything I’ve done—it’s because of her. She taught me to dream of something better. To work for it. She made me believe I could make something of myself.” His eyes flicked to Mel. “She’d love you, you know.”
Mel raised an elegant brow, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Would she?”
“Yeah.” Jayce chuckled softly. “She’d probably try to recruit you into getting me to rest, maybe talk art with you.” He paused, his voice growing serious. “But more than that… she’d see you. For who you are. How brilliant, how strong, how…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “How extraordinary you are.”
Mel’s expression flickered—something unspoken passing through her eyes. “She sounds like she gave you the kind of love that builds. The kind of love that shields you, even when she’s not there.”
Jayce nodded. “She did. But it’s not like your mother’s, I know that.”
Mel exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. “Ambessa doesn’t love like that. Her love cuts first, teaches you to protect yourself. She made me unyielding because she believed it was the only way to survive. She made me strong because weakness wasn’t an option. But sometimes… I wonder if she saw me as a daughter or just another weapon to wield.”
The vulnerability in her voice caught Jayce off guard. He sat up, his expression softening. “She loves you, Mel. In her way. She must, because… look at you.” He gestured to her, his words tumbling out in earnest. “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met. You’re everything I aspire to be—strong, smart, kind, unstoppable. That didn’t happen by accident.”
Mel shook her head, a bitter smile on her lips. “Strength is all she taught me. There was no room for affection, for warmth. Just survival. I envy what your mother gave you, Jayce. The kind of love that feels like a shield instead of a weapon.”
Jayce crossed the room, sitting beside her, his heart aching for her in ways he couldn’t put into words. “You’re everything to me, Mel. Everything.” He took her hand in his, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care how you were raised or what you’ve had to endure. You’re not unyielding, not really. I see you. The real you. And you are… you’re beyond incredible. You’re my lover, my friend and ally, my inspiration, my…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “My everything.”
Mel’s gaze softened, her walls lowering for just a moment. “Jayce…”
He smiled, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You taught me it’s okay to want more—for myself. You taught me ambition doesn’t have to be selfish. You’ve given me so much, Mel. I just… I just want to be the man who gives you the same.”
Her hand tightened around his, and for once, she let herself lean into his warmth. “You already do.”
Jayce swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle over him. “I love you,” he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Mel looked at him, something unspoken passing between them. And then, with a softness that took his breath away, she smiled.
“I know,” she said quietly. “And Jayce… I love you too.”
He let out a shaky breath, his heart full. In that moment, surrounded by her warmth, he knew this was where he was meant to be.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, laid his head in her lap and closed his eyes, finding the peace that always came with being around Mel.
Jayce isn’t too proud to admit a few tears trickled down his cheeks as he hugged her tightly and felt her run her fingers through his hair.
This was now home.
With her.
Always with her.