Chapter Text
He’s too late.
He remembers Jayce’s stories—the words murmured as a hoarse confession in the dead of night, over steaming cups of coffee at the lab table while the winter winds howled outside. His friend had been tense and distracted all night, and one too many mistakes had led to him snapping out words he’d come to regret. After a bit of coaxing, Jayce had admitted the cause for his mistakes, rooted in his fear of the snow.
He hadn’t understood, then, why the golden boy of Piltover harbored such an unusual fear.
But he thinks he does now.
There’s a hand sticking up out of the snow, stiff and turning blue. A body, half-buried, with a weeping child thrown overtop of it to try and protect it from the elements. The Herald stares down at him with what he thinks is pity, though it’s difficult to recognize he’s feeling emotions at all, let alone put a name to them. He listens to the boy cry, wailing his grief into a storm that swallows it up. The life is fading from those little hands, stiff where they bunch up in the shirt of the corpse beneath him. It won’t be long before the mountain claims another victim.
It would be simple enough to walk away. He’s not entirely sure what brought him here in the first place. Curiosity, perhaps. The universe was too quiet, in his timeline, devoid of life entirely save for the little flowers beginning to grow where the world first ended. He… wanted to see Jayce again. He’d followed the pull of the magic in his veins and the infinite knowledge in his mind, and this is where it brought him. To a stiffened body in the snow, and a little boy who doesn’t even know him yet.
The Arcane hums in his veins, coaxing him to take a step back and try again. It would be as easy as breathing, though technically the Herald is still learning how to do that again. No longer fully machine, but not fully human, either. He thinks his heart must still be made of gears, for him to even be able to contemplate leaving this child behind to pass away quietly in the cold.
It would be a solution, wouldn’t it?
If Jayce dies here, Hextech would never be created. The version of himself from this timeline, too, would cease to exist, stolen away by his illness before he ever gets a chance to create so much evil in the world. It’s a quick solution to a persistent problem that plagues every single universe, save for the ones that Jayce isn’t in. The Herald could turn away now, before the child ever sees him, and it would be easy.
Perhaps a human part of him still lingers somewhere in his heart, though. He’s never much been one for the easy way out of a complexity like this.
He sinks to his knees in the snow beside the child. It’s cold beneath his knees, an unfamiliar sensation to him. How strange it is, to feel so human again. So vulnerable. A part of him wonders if he, too, could succumb to the storm, or if the Arcane still at work within him would simply chew him up and spit him back out somewhere else. It’s not the same as it was once, pliant in his hands and letting him choose where to direct it. It rebels, now, simmering beneath his skin like the power of a mage. Natural and wild, rather than something to be tamed.
The boy looks up at him with the eyes of his best friend. They’re wide and wet, but still the same shade of hazel that was projected onto every poster in Piltover. The golden boy, the Man of Progress—long before the world was kind to him.
If it ever was.
“Hello, Jayce,” he murmurs. The Herald doesn’t reach out to comfort him, nor to warm him. He just stares curiously down at the sniffling, trembling child, as though somehow this little one holds the very secrets of the universe in his gloved hands.
“M-My mom,” the boy says in a tiny, stuttering little voice, his teeth chattering audibly in the cold. “Please—you have to help her, she won’t wake up!”
“She’s dead, Jayce.”
The boy flinches, and the next sound out of him is something like a sob. The Herald just stares at him, his held tilting as he ponders the reaction. Is it not the truth? She was painfully human to the end. It’s strange, to see the face of the woman that was once so kind to him, now slack and pale and stiff in death. Ximena was a gentle woman. Though he was never her son by blood, she treated him like he was, welcoming him into her home for the holidays whenever Jayce was able to convince him to leave the lab behind for a few days. He supposes the feeling in his chest now must be grief, but… it’s been so long. He can barely even remember the sound of her voice, and now, in this timeline, he’ll never hear it.
“Mom… mamá, get up. Please…!”
Jayce is crying again. The ugly, full-body sort of tears as he wraps his arms around the body and tries to pull it up out of the snow. But his hands are too stiff, his body too weak. He loses his grip on her and tumbles back into the snow at the Herald’s feet.
“You have to help her,” the boy says, and his words are slurring, his eyes wide and desperate as they fix upon him. “Please. Do something.” The Herald, still crouched beside him, merely shakes his head.
“There’s nothing even I can do for her now, Jayce. She’s already gone.”
Perhaps, if he were even a few minutes sooner, he would have been able to pull them both away from this mountain—to help them cross to the warmth of the other side, where help would have been able to find them. In the next universe, he’ll be sure to rectify his mistakes. He’ll arrive to this point in time and space again, and he’ll be the savior Ximena needs in this moment. In that universe, perhaps history will be doomed again to repeat itself, with the meeting of two brilliant minds that would one day destroy each other. But in this one…
In this universe, a little boy collapses into his arms.
He stares blankly down at Jayce as the boy throws himself into his chest. A frostbitten nose presses into the skin of his neck beneath his clothes as the child sobs against him, those little hands clawing for purchase in the loose, warm fabric that was once a blanket. The Herald doesn’t react at first. He doesn’t pull Jayce close against him, or push him away. He lets Jayce cry until he’s all wrung out of tears—until sobs give way to deep, slow breathing as the boy goes limp against his chest, too tired to carry on another step.
Only then does he lift a hand, bracing a palm at the child’s back, just between his shoulders. It’s not really an embrace. Not a proper one, at least. But for the first time in centuries, he feels the warmth of another human’s touch.
The Herald’s eyes are wet. He must be malfunctioning.
A cheek presses to the exposed skin above his collarbone, where synthetic skin and metal no longer spans up the length of his neck. He doesn’t know how far the humanity has spread on his body, like some sort of disease he can’t cure himself from. He hasn’t had the strength to look in years, but he swears he can see the fog of his breath in the air now, mingling with the snow coming down all around them.
“I am… sorry, Jayce,” he whispers. He didn’t have the strength to say it aloud when the boy was actually awake. Now, it’s not nearly enough to atone for the damage he’s caused in this universe, too. He doesn’t know what is. He doesn’t even know if it’s mercy, as he drags the boy up out of the snow and cradles him against his chest. It’s easy to wrap him up in the folds of his cloak, though the weight of the boy’s body in just one arm is almost too much to bear. It’s another testament to the failures of this form, he supposes. With one hand he holds the child gingerly against him, and with the other he holds his staff.
When he reaches out to the Arcane, it shrinks away from his hands. Like a wild beast, it lashes out, and he stumbles backward in the snow as pain shoots through his body.
The Arcane rejects him. It’s skittish and wily in his hands, like a horse that’s yet to be broken in. Gone is the ease through which he was able to parse through the universe, the visions of the world and everything in it gone from his mind.
But the Herald grits his teeth, refusing to be cowed. In life, he was a stubborn man. Now, he is a machine, and there is single-minded purpose in him as he lifts his staff to the sky and forces the Arcane to bend to his will. With his staff he traces runes long-memorized into the fabric of the universe itself. Light crackles and magic thrums in the air, the wind swirling all around them and lifting him into the air. All of it goes unnoticed and unseen by the boy in his arms, sleeping peacefully through the moment that once opened his eyes to the world of magic.
He has no control over where they land, and yet it seems the Arcane is willing to do him one last favor. It spits them out at the foot of the mountains, sending them rolling down a muddy, grassy slope. Instinctively, he draws Jayce to his chest and cradles him beneath his chin. His staff goes clattering out of his hand, tossed aside by momentum, but more important than that is the precious burden he shields with his own body. Down the incline he tumbles, until the world finally slows to a stop. For a moment, all he can hear is the ragged sound of his own breathing—a sound that’s almost foreign to him.
He lies on his back with his face to the sky, staring tiredly up at it.
It’s blue.
There’s a village not far from the base of the mountains.
He sees the smoke rising from the chimneys, just above the forest that lines the foothills. The Herald doesn’t know what sort of reception they’ll receive there, but anything is better than keeping Jayce out in the elements any longer. The air is warmer here, but they’ll be safer in a village, away from predators or potential thieves lying in wait along the road for unsuspecting travelers. They’d be sorely disappointed to apprehend this duo, with little more to steal than the clothes off of their backs.
Jayce wakes when they’re halfway there. He knows this because he hears the shift in the boy’s breathing long before he makes any attempts to stir. A little hitching whine of a sound escapes him, no doubt from the discomfort of going from the freezing cold to warmth so quickly. The Herald can feel it too—a strange prickling along his skin, or perhaps beneath it. It isn’t painful enough to warrant any concern, though he’s not entirely sure he’s familiar enough with pain to know any better. The tumble down the hillside had certainly been painful, though nothing looked obviously out of place when he checked over his body and Jayce’s. Though… perhaps he’s missed something. The thought is an unwelcome, nagging thing that has his pace slowing almost instantly.
The Herald pauses mid-step, glancing down at the small bundle cradled in his arms. The boy’s brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if fighting his own waking body Another sound escapes the child, a soft, plaintive noise that tugs at something deep and unfamiliar within his chest. Jayce doesn’t have any injuries, but his face is contorted as though in pain, and the skin beneath his eyes is wet.
“You’re safe,” the Herald murmurs, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He doesn’t know if the words carry any meaning to the boy, coming from a total stranger, but he feels compelled to say them nonetheless. “Rest if you need to.”
But Jayce’s lashes flutter, and hazel eyes blink blearily up at him, clouded with confusion and something sharper—fear, perhaps. His breath comes in little gasps, his small hands scrabbling weakly at the fabric of the Herald’s cloak. He seems to be a little stronger now, at least. That’s good. He’d been worried for a moment that he might lose the child to his own detachment from the human body and its needs.
“M-Mamá?” Jayce’s voice cracks, hoarse and trembling. His fingers clutch the fabric tighter, his gaze darting around as if searching for her in the shadowed woods.
The Herald’s steps falter, his grip adjusting instinctively to keep the boy steady as he squirms and writhes in his arms. The truth rises in his throat like bile, cold and unyielding, but he swallows it down. He’s been blunt enough for one day. Cruel, even. It’s hard for him to remember that he needs to soften the blow. Not only because Jayce is human, but also because he is a child, with a fragile mind that could so easily be damaged by the trauma.
“She’s not here,” he says at last, his tone carefully even. He doesn’t elaborate any further. Jayce has cried enough today, and he’s sure that if the boy doesn’t remember the truth now, he will later. “...But you are safe. I’m keeping you safe.” It hadn’t been his original intention, but now he finds himself inexplicably bound to this child in his arms. He has a responsibility to keep him safe, no matter the cost. At the very least, until he can find someone he trusts with the task of keeping something so important.
Jayce’s lip trembles, and tears brim in his eyes, threatening to spill down those rosy cheeks.
“Where’s mamá?” he whispers again, his voice breaking.
The Herald is quiet for a very long time. He was trying to avoid this. He was hoping that the child might be free of his pain a little longer, but it’s still so fresh, like an open wound bleeding out across the grass.
“She’s gone, Jayce,” he says, not unkindly but with a finality that he knows the boy will understand, no matter how young he is. “There was nothing more I could do for her.”
The boy’s face crumples, his small body beginning to tremble with the force of his grief. He buries his face in the Herald’s shoulder, his muffled sobs piercing the stillness of the woods. The Herald remains motionless, unsure of what to do, his arms holding the boy close in a way that feels too delicate for a being like him. He has witnessed countless moments of death, grief, and despair, all the doing of his own two hands. But to cradle it in his own arms? The proof of his shortcomings laid bare? It threatens to overwhelm him.
“It hurts,” Jayce hiccups between sobs, his fists tightening in the fabric of the cloak.
“I know,” the Herald answers softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the boy’s awful cries. “...I know.”
He doesn’t. How could a machine possibly understand grief?
He stands there for a long moment, letting Jayce’s sorrow run its course. When the boy’s sobs finally subside, giving way to soft, shuddering breaths, the Herald adjusts his hold and begins to walk again. The rhythmic sway seems to lull Jayce into a half-sleep, his watery eyes half-lidded whenever a glance is spared his way. But his grip on the cloak remains firm, as if he’s afraid to be left alone again. The Herald has no intention of doing so. To do so would mean forsaking Jayce, and that’s something he cannot do again.
The woods are dense here, the underbrush thick with ferns and fallen branches. Each step takes more effort, the uneven, dangerous terrain testing even the Herald’s detached sort of resolve. The boy’s weight isn’t much, but when it’s all gathered up into one arm, it takes its toll on even the most well-oiled machine. There’s a strange feeling in his leg—the one he used to loathe so much. It feels like a screwdriver has been stuck into it and left there, leaving him struggling to carry on. By the time the forest shows signs of thinning and the faint scent of woodsmoke reaches him over the breeze, his breath is coming out in shallow, strained puffs.
There’s still a ways to go.
His systems are failing him.
“Jayce,” he says at last, his voice low but insistent. The boy stirs, his head lifting slightly from the Herald’s shoulder. “You must walk now. I cannot carry you any further.”
Jayce blinks up at him, his eyes swollen and red. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his arms tightening around the Herald’s neck in silent protest.
“But I’m tired,” he says, his voice small and plaintive.
He crouches, setting the boy gently on the ground. His knees protest the movement, a sharp jolt radiating through him. He ignores it.
“I know,” he says, adjusting Jayce’s hat to shield him better from the lingering chill. He doesn’t want to make the boy walk, but he fears what will happen to him if the Herald’s body is no longer operational. He cannot afford to take risks. “But we’re close now. If you walk, we’ll reach warmth and shelter much faster.”
Jayce sniffles, rubbing at his eyes with one small fist. He looks up at the Herald with a mixture of reluctance and trust—the latter surprising him with its intensity. What has he possibly done to earn such an emotion from a child who sees him as all but a stranger?
“You promise?”
The Herald hesitates.
“I promise.”
The boy’s lip wobbles, but he nods, his small hand reaching out to grasp the edge of the Herald’s cloak as though for reassurance. The Herald cannot possibly fathom why a bit of fabric would help, but he’s not going to protest if it keeps Jayce on his feet and walking.
“...Okay,” he says, his voice barely audible.
The Herald straightens, leaning heavily on his staff, and begins to walk again. He keeps his steps slower to match the boy’s uneven pace. He feels the gentle tug of the cloak as Jayce holds onto it, a reminder of the fragile life he’s chosen to protect. The forest stretches out before them, an endless, suffocating labyrinth—but for the first time in a very, very long time, he feels the faint stirrings of something more in his hollow chest.
“Careful where you step,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “The ground is slick here.”
Jayce nods, concentrating so hard on his footing that his tongue pokes out between his teeth. His cheeks are flushed, more from exertion than the cold now, and his hands are tucked into his armpits for warmth.
“Are we almost there?” he asks, his voice tinged with fatigue.
The Herad glances ahead. Truthfully, he’s not certain, though the undergrowth seems to be thinning out.
“Not far,” he says. He considers reaching out to take Jayce’s hand in a show of support, but stops himself. He isn’t sure how much comfort touch could offer, when his own hands feel so foreign to him. He stares down at them, wondering how it’s possible for something connected to him to feel so detached.
Jayce stumbles over a root and catches himself with a yelp. The Herald turns sharply, crouching to steady him before he falls. The boy looks up at him with wide, startled eyes, his breath coming in quick little puffs. He looks rattled rather than hurt, but he’s so young that even a small fright like that is enough to have tears gathering in his lashes.
“You’re alright,” the Herald says, as if stating a fact. He waits until Jayce nods in agreement, the boy’s small fingers clinging to the edge of his cloak for balance. “Are you tired? Do you need me to carry you?”
Jayce straightens, brushing at the dirt smudged on his trousers.
“I’m not tired,” he says, but the wobble in his step betrays him. He hesitates before looking up again, his brow scrunching up in thought. “Are you tired?”
The question catches the Herald off guard.
“No,” he says, his voice tinged with a rare flicker of amusement. “I do not get tired, Jayce.”
“Then why are you breathing so hard?” Jayce’s hazel eyes narrow, his quick suspicion a stark reminder of the brilliant mind already at work. “And you’re leaning on your cane.”
“It is not a cane, Jayce. It’s a staff.”
“You’re still leaning on it.”
“Mmm. Insolent child.”
Jayce’s watery giggle makes the disconcerting wave of emotions worth it.
They make it to town by mid-day. Only a few hours of walking, and yet it’s almost proven to be too much for the both of them. Jayce is wobbly on his feet and looks minutes from tipping over. The Herald won’t admit it aloud, but he feels much the same.
He has every intention of taking shelter here for the night. The town is small, but it’s bustling with warmth and life. It looks like a safe place for a child, and the market he finds is a welcome surprise. There’s plenty of food to go around—fresh fruits and vegetables, and meats, and hearty, grainy bread that smells like it’s just been baked.
His mother used to bake bread like this, back in the Undercity. Of course, it was never anything quite like this. She made do with what she had, and the bread was often flat and unleavened. It was enough to fill an empty belly, though, and it was baked with love.
Baked with love. Such a strange concept. How can something inanimate be imbued with emotion?
“You got money to pay for that, stranger? Or am I gonna have to get those damned Piltie Enforcers over here?”
The Herald’s hand pauses, hovering just over the loaf he had been about to take.
He frowns.
It has been a very long time since he’s had to deal with trivial things like money. Even in the commune, food was given freely. Basic necessities were just that—a necessity, and nobody was denied the things needed to sustain them, even if they had nothing to offer in turn. He has no coins to pay this woman with. He carries nothing on his person but the clothes on his back, the staff in his hand, and the child that clings to his robes with one chubby fist. His lips open, as if to try and persuade the woman of their need. But everyone in this world is hungry, and she must have mouths of her own to feed. He’s sure he’ll find no sympathy here.
Especially not when she’s threatened to call Enforcers. He had no idea their presence reached into the towns on the outskirts of Piltover, but he’s not exactly surprised.
It just means they can’t stay here.
“...No. I’m afraid I don’t.” He holds her gaze for a long moment, before turning. “Come, Jayce,” he instructs. Once more, he bends down, gathering the boy up into his arms. It wears on his strength, and he finds himself relying on his cane far more than he’s needed to in a while. Jayce looks over his shoulder as they begin to walk away. The growl of his stomach is loud, pressed right up against the Herald’s own.
“Wait.”
His footsteps pause. Warily, he turns back to face the woman, and finds that her expression has softened, the lines of her face less harsh than before. She seems to study him for a long moment, before throwing up one hand.
“Ah, hell. Damn bleeding heart’s gonna run me outta business one day.” She laughs to herself, and picks up a cloth napkin. In it, she wraps up the loaf of bread he was going to take for Jayce, and then, after a moment of careful consideration, she places another beside it. “Take ‘em. I was closing up shop soon, anyway, ‘n they would’ve gone bad. One for you, and one for the kid.”
“Ma’am, I assure you that I don’t need—”
“Take ‘em, before I change my mind.”
She shoves the cloth-wrapped goods toward him. He just stares at her, taken aback by her kindness. It’s only midday. Surely she isn’t actually closing her stall any time soon, and he very nearly protests to give them right back. It’s Jayce who reaches out to take them, with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that’s missing his front teeth.
“Thank you, miss!” he chirps with all the charm of the golden boy he’ll grow to be, hugging the bread close to his chest. To the Herald’s surprise, she smiles right back at Jayce.
“Such a well-mannered child,” she coos. “Your momma must have taught you right.”
Jayce goes very still in his arms. The smile drops from his face in an instant.
“...She did,” the boy murmurs, and he buries his face in the fabric of the Herald’s cloak.
“Was it somethin’ I said?” The woman looks aghast.
“We… just made it to town after traveling through the mountains,” the Herald says, slow and careful. It’s half true, at least. “His mother didn’t survive the journey.”
“Poor dear,” the woman breathes. “Those mountains are treacherous. Ain’t nothing worth crossing ‘em for.” She squints at him, taking a look at his state with a raised eyebrow. His long, tostled hair and his overgrown beard, his feet wrapped in little more than cloth, and his robes which are no doubt filthy by now. What a sight he must make to someone who actually cares about appearances. “You two headed to Piltover, then?
“No, ma’am.” He wouldn’t take Jayce back to that place for anything in the world.
“Good,” she says. “Stay away from that place. Nothin’ but bad news, in my mind.”
He fixes her with a weary smile. It seems they can agree on something.
“Agreed.”
“You take good care of that boy now,” she tells him, fixing him with a firm look that has him taking a wide-eyed step back. “Don’t go letting him get into any trouble. You keep him safe, you hear me?”
“Of course. And… thank you, for the bread.”
“...It was nothing. Nobody deserves to starve.”
And so the Herald leaves the market with two loaves of bread and a crying boy in his arms. He doesn’t say a word as he leaves town, putting the distant skyline of Piltover to their right, rather than in front of them. He lets the boy cry until he exhausts himself again, although this time he doesn’t feel those clinging hands go slack. Instead, the boy noses closer to him, wrapping his arms tight around his neck with the bundle of bread wedged between them.
“Careful, Jayce,” he murmurs, with a wry, tired sort of smile. “You won’t enjoy that bread as much if you drop it in the mud.”
“Where are we going?” Jayce asks instead of responding. He stares over the Herald’s shoulders at the village, little more than a distant smear on the horizon now as they walk along the well-trodden dirt road stretching through the vast green fields. “Um. If we aren’t going to Piltover, like mamá wanted to.”
“Somewhere safe.” Somewhere far away from Piltover’s wars and greed. Somewhere where Jayce’s creativity can prosper without the Council trying to sink their claws into him and distract him from the good his brilliant mind can do. The Herald wants to foster that mind—to see it bloom the way it was always meant to. It’s strange, how a being without a heart can feel so attached so quickly. Then again, it’s strange to feel anything at all.
“Where’s that?”
“...I don’t know, Jayce.” For all his vast knowledge of the universe, he’s learned that for all of the good there is in this world, there is also evil. There isn’t a place in Runeterra where he can bring Jayce where pain won’t somehow find him. But he knows that no matter what, he will not bring Jayce to Piltover like a lamb to slaughter. He’ll find someplace new. A chance for a fresh start for the child he carries in his arms. Not for himself, but for Jayce.
After all, of the two of them, only one actually deserves that chance.
“You never told me your name,” Jayce says.
“Mmm,” the Herald answers. “And what if I told you I don’t have one?”
“Everyone has a name,” the boy points out, in that clever, know-it-all voice of a child that knows he’s right. “And you know mine, but I don’t know yours. That’s not fair!”
“The world isn’t fair, Jayce.”
The boy huffs, but goes back to eating. Together, the two of them sit at the base of a rocky hill, just outside of a naturally-formed cave. The Herald has decided that it’s best for them both to get some rest early tonight. His knees are in need of rest and potentially repair, and Jayce can barely keep his eyes open. They’ve spent nearly the entire day walking, and the next town isn’t for at least a dozen more miles.
It’s further from Piltover, though, and that’s what matters.
So the Herald builds a fire while Jayce eats his bread. It takes him a few attempts, showers of sparks dancing across the pile of leaves and timber he’s foraged. It does, eventually, take. But forges and fires were always Jayce’s specialty, not his own.
He settles down beside Jayce as the sun begins to set. It’s much more beautiful when there’s a world for it to set upon. The light paints everything in a beautiful golden glow, from the grass in the fields to the tops of the trees to Jayce’s smile between mouthfuls. The Herald has gone a very long time without seeing that smile. It’s still the same as he remembers, if missing a few teeth.
“Does it hurt?”
“Mmm?” The Herald looks up at Jayce, perplexed by the question. The little boy stares up at him with wide eyes, tiny fists clutched tight around the bread. There are crumbs dusting his cheeks. He really is a rather messy little thing. It isn’t hard to reconcile him with the man the Herald knows he’ll grow to be, always covered in some manner of grease or grime from their shared experiments. Neither one of them were afraid to get dirty for the sake of science, but Jayce always seemed to attract the worst of it without even trying.
A little hand reaches out, touching the cool swirls of opalescent metal that curl around the Herald’s cheekbones. He goes very still, startled by just how warm the touch is against him.
“This,” Jayce says, with all the wide-eyed curiosity of the child that he is. “Does it hurt?”
“Aren’t you going to eat, Jayce?” he asks instead of answering. “You must be hungry.”
“You are, too,” Jayce replies. The Herald’s mouth opens to protest, but before he can he hears a strange rumbling from his stomach. He places a tentative hand over his abdomen beneath the cloak, and for the first time realizes that the ache he’s been feeling must be hunger.
Jayce passes him a piece of bread. The Herald just stares down at it. He remembers how eating works, but something has him hesitating. Perhaps he just doesn’t want to admit that he needs something so human as food to carry on.
“So, does it hurt?” Jayce asks.
“…Only the human parts,” the Herald answers.
His legs are no longer metal. He stares down at his bare, filthy feet swathed in fabric rather than shoes, the bottoms blistered and callused. How long has he been this way? He remembers the strangest sensation of metal flaking off of his skin, but those had been tiny—barely anything worth noticing at all. He supposes, though, that given enough time, even the strongest metal can rust away.
“Eat,” Jayce tells him.
So he does. The bread tastes like ash in his mouth. He keeps eating anyway.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” the boy says, his own meal finished and his hands clasped in his lap. There’s a sadness to his eyes that still lingers. He expects it will linger there for the rest of Jayce’s life. Grief is not so easily forgotten.
“If I tell you, will you sleep?”
Jayce brightens. That toothy smile returns.
“Uh-huh!” he enthusiastically agrees.
The Herald sighs, turning away from that bright light. He looks instead toward the sun, and the way it dances on the water of the river running through the valley.
A name . What a curious thing. Everyone has one, but he’s not certain everyone deserves one.
“What good is a name, if there’s nobody around to use it?” he muses aloud.
“I’ll use it,” Jayce murmurs softly from his side, those hazel eyes golden in the light. “Promise.”
The machine sighs, pressing his face into his hands. When he pulls them away, there’s flecks of metal resting in his palms.
“It’s Viktor,” he murmurs. “My name is Viktor.”