Chapter Text
Cirque De Magie. The M on Magie, illustriously illustrated in a great, swooping fashion, has smudged a little in the rain. It’s a bright red color, weeping like blood down the rest of the flyer, though the gold-gilded edges of the shape remain well-defined. Viktor thumbs over the beading color, and his finger comes away a dark crimson red.
“You’ll ruin that if you aren’t careful, dear boy!” Beside him marches Heimerdinger, dressed in plain clothes (or as plain as Heimerdinger can dress himself) and carrying a small parasol umbrella. He has their tickets ready. One for Viktor, one for himself, and one for Sky Young, the young woman being trained to take over for Viktor when he takes on the position of Professor at the academy.
“What does that matter?” He mutters softly. When Viktor looks up at the tent above him, he sees a woman handing at the entrance, handing out piles upon piles of the same flyer. “I highly doubt that I will keep it. Er- No disrespect, Professor.”
“Well then give it here, won’t you? I collect them.”
Finding out that the Dean of Piltover’s finest academy is a fan of a traveling circus was not something that Viktor had expected. But all of a sudden, he had come up to Viktor and Sky holding three golden tickets and exclaimed that in celebration of Viktor’s new position, they would all be attending. As he looks up at the noisy tent, he cannot help but feel it’s for everyone’s benefit but his own.
He hands the flyer down to Heimerdinger with a noncommittal hum. The woman at the edge of the tent is an avian Vastaya with feathered ears and arms, draped in thin golden tulle that bunches up at her back, flowing down like the wings she lacks to complete the ensemble. Her skin is dark and painted in glittering blue swirls. When she looks up at Viktor, she smiles, a mischievous little look. Then, her attention is caught.
“Ah! Heimer!” She says with a delighted little clap, looking down at the yordle. “What a delight to see you!”
“And the same to you, Anastasia!” He replies graciously, before they bow to one another, an elaborate little gesture that mimics the movement of wings. “These are my assistants, Viktor and Sky. Viktor here will be ascending the ranks of Piltovan society soon enough, and I’ve brought us here to celebrate!”
“Always delightful to see you accompanied by good fortune. And what a wonderful night, too. This is the first time this act will debut in Piltover. It’s been a smashing hit all across Runeterra so far.” She faces Viktor, and then Sky, with the same mischievous little look. “I hope you all come prepared.”
Sky giggles in delight. Viktor, for the sake of being polite, resists the urge to roll his eyes.
Heimerdinger has spared no expense, after all. They’re ushered to a large private box in the stands, a balcony hanging over the stands below. The tent itself is huge. There must be hundreds of attendees, from the lowest of houses to the highest of names, Piltovans and their excessive wealth splayed all about. There are some Zaunites too, though, sequestered away in the higher levels where the sights are only a little less dazzling.
Viktor sets his cane up against his chair and settles into his seat, shifting slightly to adjust the brace keeping his back in alignment. The chairs are hard-backed and uncomfortable, and he exhales shortly in frustration at the sensation of hard wood against his aching bones. Sky flickers a glance at him over her glasses, kind eyes concerned, though needlessly so.
“Viktor?”
His lips purse in a small grimace. “I’m quite alright Miss. Young. While I appreciate the concern, you’re better off concentrating your focus on the show. Heimerdinger might decide to demote me if I manage to take all the attention.”
She laughs, at that, and appears satisfied as she leans back into her seat. Her cheeks are a delicate, dusty pink, her eyes averted beneath her glasses. Viktor is well aware that she feels something more than just fondness for him. And yet, he makes no move to encourage it.
The circus is… Nice. A large production, with a lot of effort clearly put into it. Viktor leans back and attempts to enjoy it, though the cheers are overwhelming and the scent of the torches and incense too much. But Heimerdinger is enjoying himself, and Sky appears to be as well, and they’re the closest things to friends that he has. So… he sits, and tries not to massage at his aching leg too many times.
Waveriders come out with performers dressed in sheer satin swallowing fire. The woman from before, Anastasia, comes out and performs a beautifully done acrobatics routine, large wings incorporated into her costume as she performs. A yordle rides atop a lightcharger and balances several swords on their nose as they do, to resounding cheers when the swords fall and they catch each one. It’s all very… interesting, Viktor supposes, though he views it all with the skepticism of a man who grew up in the Undercity. Most of these things are either common sights from performers in Zaun, or clearly tricks rendered uninteresting by Viktor’s knowledge of the tricks behind them.
The lights begin to dim. The candles and lanterns are snuffed, until the tent is almost entirely dark, illuminated only the circular hole in the top, the moon hanging in a perfect circle directly above them. Viktor leans forward and places his chin on one of his fists, curious to see what might warrant such a vastly different atmosphere.
“Ancient Runeterra was a place of chaos.”
The voice rings out from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once. There’s been commentary throughout the show, yes, but this is different. The voice reverberates around the tent, a slight inhuman edge to it. In the middle of the empty tent a spotlight shines down. It’s been specifically made to look like a crescent moon, hung in the shadows of the sand beneath them.
“Hate. Death. War, ripping apart the fabric of the very world we all live in now.” The spotlight sweeps upwards, spinning across the tent at dizzying speeds. Viktor blinks and squints when it enters their booth, before it whizzes away just as quickly. “A world ruined by a cataclymic force. A world torn asunder by magic.”
The spotlight centers on the ground again. In the distraction of the moving light, someone has appeared. A tall, lean figure. They stand barefooted against the sand. Along their ankles sweeps a long, velvety skirt, sashes and rope adorned in chains nearly hitting the ground alongside it. As Viktor’s vision moves upward, he sees a broad, warmly tanned chest, nearly entirely exposed. Along the figure’s back is an immense scar, beginning at the middle of their spine. What little they do wear is a sheer golden shirt, painted in glowing blue fractal patterns, leading into long, thick fingers covered in opaque black gloves.
They are masked. A human’s skull, painted in similar blue swirls. From it hangs more string, more sashes, every inch of the figure adorned in trimmings and jewels. Their eyes are covered, but beneath the mask is a thick jaw, a neatly trimmed beard spreading down the sharp plinth of their throat. Hanging from their shoulders is a cloak, a deep navy blue that swings as they spin in a circle, exposing dazzling starlight painted all down its back.
The sky erupts.
Suddenly the tent no longer exists around them. The night sky swirls above them, and Viktor’s eyes widen, dazzled by the sudden display. It isn’t quite right, though. The stars are a frighteningly bright blue, a crisp, magical display in the air. The sky all around is so empty that to call the darkness a void would be to attribute too much to it — because it goes beyond nothing with its solitude. The stars whizz past Viktor, and his breath catches in his throat as each miniscule dot feels cool against his skin.
“Be not afraid, Piltovans, Zaunites! Magic is a lost science, an art faded to the annals of our colorful history. But today, this world around us is just as ancient as the mystical. Tonight, we touch the Arcane!”
Viktor feels at once utterly weightless. He gasps. It seems everyone in the tent is just as confused, as each and every body is given a similar sense. The pressure on Viktor’s spine and leg is suddenly aleviated as he rises, the base of his thighs dangling in midair. He looks to the side as if to snap himself from a daze, so sure he must’ve fallen asleep. But no- hanging in that starlit voice is Sky, and Heimerdinger, sharing expressions of dazed wonderment.
The man on the ground spreads his feet across the sand and opens his arms. Between them is a ball of light, flickering unsteadily outwards from his palms. His gloves light up, veins of blue electrical light spreading from his fingertips to the ball of light, brighter than any star in the room. It exposes the expanse of the man’s face. Manic eyes, barely visible under the mask. Slightly pointed teeth beneath bitten lips. Feet that begin to leave the ground as he tips his head back and laughs.
“Touch the stars, friends. Trace your fingers along the magic and imagine how it feels to feel the planets whiz past you. Float in the expanse of space. Exist now and exist a thousand thousand thousand centuries ago. Be the magic under your feet, friends,” the man says, as he begins to rise far above the ground, head tipped back as if in ecstasy. “Turn to your neighbors. Become not Zaunite, not Piltovan, but pure, exquisite magic.”
All around Viktor, he sees blue. Flickering, magnificent light, taking the form of the veinous structures of the people all around him. Blood thrums through the vessels around him. Rather than Sky or Viktor or Heimerdinger they become beings of pure light, the magic thrumming through their veins lit up in lichtenberg blue.
The man is floating nearly twenty feet in the air now. With spasming light collected at his fingertips, head raised in exaltation. His arms rise to the sky above, the ball of light transforming into something as immense as the moon above them, a perfect mirror to what Viktor knows must exist beyond the illusion. Mustn’t it?
For a single second, Viktor’s wide eyes meet those that lie under the mask. He sees— beyond hazel, beyond pupils lit up with blue, for a singular moment in time, fear.
And then it is gone. With a thunderclap, the ball of light is thrust downward by the man’s hands. It hits the ground.
All at once, everyone is seated in their chairs once again as if nothing at all has happened. The ball of light explodes into those beautiful fractal patterns from the man’s hands, then as it travels up the stands, flowers begin to flow out from the ground, dissipating as curious hands begin to fondle delicate petals.
The man in the middle of the magic is gone. Viktor feels the pressure of his aching bones sharper than ever before.
Later, when Heimerdinger and Sky have finished squealing about the beautiful illusionary technology and what must’ve been used, Viktor splits away from the group. He thanks Heimerdinger for a wonderful experience and wanders down into the depths of the stands, grimacing when he confronts the throngs of fascinated people touring the circus and greeting the performers. To his disappointment, the man from before has disappeared.
He leans heavily on his cane, the exhaustion of the night weighing heavily on him as he walks. He’s going to need to exchange it for a crutch, soon. His wrist has been suffering from spasms of pain for months now, and his leg has been slowly declining. That’s the least of his worries now, though. No— Viktor remembers weightlessness. Remembers a distinct lack of pain, his spine unfolding like the petals of fractal flowers. Magic, thrumming through every inch of bone in his body. And he yearns.
The Vastaya from before approaches him with that same twinkle in her eyes. She’s sweating, dark skin flush with the excitement, and carrying a large bouquet of blue flowers. Viktor eyes her curiously as she appears to single him out in the crowd, raising an eyebrow when she plucks a flower from the bouquet and holds it out.
“I thought that might be what caught your eye. Our Magus,” she explains. Viktor eyes her skeptically, but reaches out and accepts the flower regardless.
“Was my doubt really so obvious?”
A soft, lyrical laugh. She shakes her head, though her answer disagrees with the movement. “Oh, absolutely. I half expected to watch you ask the Professor to leave before you even got to the best part.”
“I have some manners.”
His flat reply only serves to make her laugh more. She shakes her head again, winged ears clinking with the sound of her delicate bangle earrings clicking together. “If you’d like to know his tricks, I know our Magus is always desperate for an ear. We’ve all gotten sick of him explaining his magic.”
“You keep calling it that. Magic. Are you aware of how highly illegal a concept that is? Freely used magic like that? Surely it isn’t actually…” He shrugs lamely. The idea of someone so willingly exposing themselves as a weilder of the Arcane, around so many people, it’s utterly baffling. The last time Viktor had heard of anyone attempting to use magic, it had ended in a man dead, a Houses’ line ended.
But the woman, Anastasia, seems remiss to release her secrets so readily. “He takes drinks with the rest of the crew behind the tent. Past the third caravan, where the waveriders roam, there’s a small lake. Go. Find out for yourself.”
The idea of such a trek through the cold air and the mud of a lake doesn’t sound promising. But something about the entire situation has Viktor unable to turn away from his own curiosity. And so there he ends up, standing outside in the chilly wind with a death grip on his cane and a flower tucked into his lapel. The moon above is bright, the stars twinkling just as perfectly as they had in the tent. Viktor slowly makes his way around the tent, shivering slightly in the cool air.
And sure enough, he hears the sounds of festivities. There’s the light of a fire, reflecting off the rippling surface of a lake, waveriders dipping in and out of the surface. Viktor can hear the sound of a lyre, laughter and singing. Bodies cast frantic shadows across the ground as people dance and make merry, the scent of roasting meat and fragrant liquor filling his nostrils.
The party hardly seems to acknowledge him at all. Viktor feels at once entirely out of place yet completely ignored, dressed in his traditional academy uniform and a cloak, so far removed from the beautifully crafted outfits of the performers. Around the fire is a ring of people dancing, hand in hand and cheering as someone in the background sings. There’s a dog running around and chasing after people’s scraps; Viktor watches as one of the yordle performers tosses it a bone, and it crushes it between its jaws with supernatural strength. He only has eyes for one man, though.
His back is turned. He’s shed his cloak, left only in that delicate sheer golden overshirt. His back is knotted with muscle, sliced right down the middle by that strange, wavering scar. His shoulders shake with mirth, golden firelight making his flesh look as molten as fire. Viktor approaches and sees that the confident hold he’d had on himself is different, now. He sags forward a little, and Viktor nearly startles when he sees the man leaning over on a pair of crutches.
Not one to be deterred by such a sight, Viktor continues. The man’s comrade must spot him as he approaches, because their face splits in a grin, and they tape the Magus’ shoulder. Viktor hears that laughter falter. The man begins to turn. His face is gold in the firelight, teeth sharp and gleaming. He smiles as he turns, and Viktor sees—
He remembers hearing about it, days after it had happened.
Heimerdinger had come to him. Mentioned a funeral he’d be attending in the coming days, with a heavy heart and slightly red eyes. Viktor had asked, curious as to why it had been mentioned at all.
“The boy. The Talis boy. He took his own life after the trial. He… Jumped from his apartment, I believe. I… I knew his father.” Heimerdinger had sighed tremulously. Viktor had reached down, and placed a hand on the Yordle’s shoulder, eyes soft and sad.
He’d almost gone there, the night of the trial. He’d found and read the man’s book, rummaged through the pages, all signed and dated. Musings of magic, of a wondrous power that could change the world. It had been fascinating, and Viktor had nearly gone to find him, the Talis boy. In the end he’d left the journal dogeared on his table and gone to bed. And so the boy had fallen, and died.
But now he looks up at bright hazel eyes and sees the expression of a dead man that has been caught still alive. He’s older now. His jaw is thicker, lined with dark hair just beginning to grey. His hair hangs in shaggy waves at his shoulders, several small braids scattered without and adorned with golden twine. His face is a delicate mixture of new scars and smile lines.
“You-”
Viktor takes a step backwards, stunned out of words. Jayce Talis stares at him as if he is the one seeing a ghost, and nearly slips before his companion steadies him by his elbow.
“You died. Nearly six years ago, if I recall correctly,” Viktor says, voice trembling. He could’ve gone there. Could’ve sought out the Talis boy and spoken to him that night, as he’d planned to. He’s held the guilt of this man’s death for years now. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been capable of convincing him away form the ledge in the end, but Viktor had a chance. And now he sees that same man here, face paling in the crimson light of the flames.
“Would you— Would you keep your voice down?” He hisses, hunching inward. Talis swallows, looking significantly less confident than he had within the confines of the tent, aided by magic. “Ximora. I- Go join the others, ok?”
The man beside Talis, Ximora, eyes him concernedly. “Jayce, are you sure? If you’re not comfortable, we can just…” He tips his head to the side, acting as if Viktor can’t hear him blatantly threatening him. The man, Ximora, runs his fingertips soothingly over Talis’s elbow, pale skin a delicate contrast to Talis’s tanned flesh.
“No.” Talis shakes his head decisively. “No, that- that’s not necessary. Just- Just some unfinished business, yeah? I’m fine. Everything is-” a shaken sigh, and Talis’s eyes flicker towards Viktor’s, then away again, almost shy in nature. “Everything is fine.”
When Ximora has left, it leaves Talis and Viktor staring at each other. Viktor tries not to tremble as he looks upward, his intrigue dashed into something like anger instead. Such needless guilt. Such pointless pain, for a man whose life had never ended. Talis looks down at him from a slight angle, worrying his lip between a sharp canine tooth.
And then he turns on his crutches and begins to walk away. Viktor follows, made unsteady by the sudden change of pace. “Uhm. Hello? You cannot just walk away from me-“
Talis hooks his head over his shoulder with an almost frantic look. “The implication was that you would follow-“
“Which I am doing, but still-“
“Would you just-“ Talis whirls around once they meet the tree line, brow creased in anxiety. He looks like he’s on the verge of panicking, hazel eyes wide. He’s rather handsome. Viktor’s not entirely sure where that thought came from. “Ok. Here’s the deal.”
“The deal.”
“Stop interrupting,” Talis grits out. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut as he tips his head back, throat bobbing. “Ask your questions now. Interrogate me while you’ve got me. Just- I don’t need some academy goon reporting me to Enforcers just for existing.”
Shaking his head with the discomfort of being referred to as an academy goon, Viktor sighs. He has to admit, though. He’s got plenty of questions to ask, both from before he was aware of who this man was and now, too. He starts off simple. In a flat tone, he asks without it even actually being a question- “You faked your death.”
This just seems to aggravate the other man more. He groans, then leans back, bracing himself against one of the oaks behind him. “I did not. I- well. I.” His mouth gapes, fishlike, a few minutes. Then he continues, voice less sure now. “I didn’t intend to. Not- not at first. But you- everyone had given up on me. On my ideas. There was nothing left for me in Piltover.”
Not even your mother? Viktor doesn’t ask, though the question sits heavy on his consciousness. Instead, he asks another, more relevant question. “Have you actually done it? Learned to harness magic?”
Talis eyes him from above, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Viktor assesses him without such nerves, challenging Talis with similarly narrowed eyes. Finally, he appears to win some sort of war with himself.
“It’s not… it isn’t magic in the way that it was… meant to be. All of my ideas, my research, it- it meant nothing in the end. Think of…” Talis chews on his lip for a moment, tipping his head back and forth. “I was researching how to make a gun. Or- or a canon. I mean, not really, I didn’t want to make weapons, I never wanted to make anything dangerous, or, or hurt anyone-“
“Yes, out with it-“
“I’m getting there.” Talis glares again, shaking his head. “My initial research was towards making some sort of weapon. A volatile, extremely powerful weapon. A weapon with the capability to destroy entire worlds. To change everything. What I do here is the equivalent of using a slingshot. With a penny in it.”
Raising a hard, soft blue sparks spread from Talis’s fingertips. Embedded in the base of the gloves are small misshapen blue stones, carved with intricate runes. He twists his hand in midair, and then snaps, and a small explosion of blue light flutters up from his fingers. “Or imagine a flower, versus the largest tree in the forest. No- no, a flower versus mycelium . One singular system of roots, shallowly buried underground, versus a complex patchwork of roots that can stretch for miles around, connecting to thousands of mushrooms.”
Viktor’s enraptured by the explanation. Talis speaks like a preacher, with religion imbuing every word falling from those delicate chapped lips of his. For a moment he finds himself watching those lips as they move, up and down, twisting with his words. They’re slightly damp, and as Viktor watches, he sees as the other man’s pink tongue darts out and licks at his lips. There are some scars on his lips. Thin stripes where he’d tugged off too much of the flesh of his lips, and a little divot that spreads to the bottom of his chin where he must’ve been injured at some point.
“But it’s magic, isn’t it?” Viktor’s eyes glint brightly. There’s a hunger within them as he steps forward, licking his own lips. “Highly illegal magic. Magic that has started and stopped wars. Magic that has killed thousands.”
Talis seems to be attempting to back away into the actual tree. His bare feet shuffle in the leaves, his crutches scraping the dirt beneath. His breath comes in short, sharp little puffs. He tips his head to the side, as if attempting to wrap it all around the tree to avoid Viktor’s scrutiny. “Y- yes. Magic.” Tanned, high cheekbones have turned red under the other man’s anxiety. He swallows, and the swell of his throat bobs. Viktor stares.
And then he jerks back, realizing abruptly that he’s so close he can almost feel Talis’s breath on his cheeks.
“Well. Tell me everything about it.”
Hazel eyes crack open. Surprise laces his pupils. Long eyelashes flutter over red cheeks, and he tilts his head forward again, curious as ever.
“You’re not going to report me?”
Viktor raises his freed arm and gestures it vaguely, giving Talis a noncommittal hum. He might. He might not. “I am no longer assistant to the dean. At least- as of tomorrow, I will not be. I’ve been offered my own position as a professor.”
Talis’ eyes widen again, comically so. “You- You’re a professor now? Wait- wouldn’t that give you even more of a reason to report me?”
“Perhaps,” he replies conspiratorily. Viktor shifts on his cane, elbow beginning to ache from standing in the same position for so long. “But I read through your notes, when you were arrested.” He fails to mention how he’s kept the booklet this entire time, like some sort of stolen trinket from a mad scientist crush of his. “There is great potential, in your work, Talis. The potential to help people. It’s being squandered here, on parlor tricks and magical illusions. Think of the great you could do. The help you could-”
“I’m not a Talis.”
His voice is suddenly so cold it has Viktor looking up at him again. His eyes have darkened, mouth a thin line. “And these parlor tricks are the only reason I’m still alive.” He takes a step forward, emboldened by his frustration. Viktor finds himself the one being crowded now, as a bulky chest enters his airspace, as a sweeping skirt billows up against his legs in the evening wind.
“I was shunned by everyone I knew. By my own mother. My work was dismissed as not only dangerous but foolish. An unintelligent, mad pursuit. Don’t stand in front of me and insult what little I’ve built myself back up with.” A sneer. Those eyes are cold now. Viktor’s stomach churns. “I don’t even know your name. ”
“Viktor.”
The sneer drops from Talis’s face. No- Jayce, as he apparently prefers to be referred to. He looks at Viktor with curiosity, now. “My name is Viktor.” He doesn’t not apologize for his insulting the other man, merely continuing on. “I do not aim to insult your work. I… Am fascinated by it. If anything, my aim is to study it.”
The fight seems to deflate out of Jayce as quickly as it came. He sags back down on his crutches, thumb picking at a scab on the cuticles of one of his other fingers. “Viktor,” he says softly, testing the name. “I am not a scientist anymore. I’m not a Piltovan professor or an assistant to a dean. I don’t have a name or status or sponsors. I am- I am a modern day mage. A warlock, as you might call it.”
“And I’ve never been Piltovan, Jayce no longer Talis. I was born and raised in the Undercity. My pursuit of knowledge is entirely selfish. I do not care about the laws of the city that subjugates my peers and I. I care, plainly put, about progress. About learning more about things such as magic, and how they can benefit myself and my world. My people.” Viktor glances back at the circus tent behind them. The Zaunites had not been intentionally segregated. There are laws in place to prevent that. But still, they had all ended up sequestered away in the higher stands, where Piltovans would not have seen them.
And then there is the matter of the weightlessness. Of Viktor’s aching body, and the magic that had made him feel so free. There isn’t much that’s entirely effective in alleviating pain like that. Not without something like Shimmer, which Viktor has not yet become desperate enough to use.
“No one can know I exist, Viktor.”
“I am not blackmailing you, Jayce,” Viktor says softly. He takes a few steps forward again. This time they meet on equal levels, an understanding beginning to bloom within them. “Jayce. Magic is simply a science that we do not yet have the concrete words to describe. It’s high time someone studied it.”
Jayce is silent for a few moments. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, and wind whistles through the leaves around. Viktor can still hear the singing from before in the background, slurred with happy drunkenness. It’s beginning to get cold, so far from the fire. Yet still, he holds Jayce’s gaze. Gold and hazel, penetrating one another with the depths of complex emotion.
Then Jayce grins. “Meet me here in two days. Bring my notes, if they haven’t been burnt.”