Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a new shop in town. It’s not far from Zalie’s, somewhat to-the-point in its signage and thus a little underwhelming for this part of Sapphilite Row. Despite its promises of grand opening sales and discounts, it’s half-hidden in the shadow of the street corner…and I never overlook the opportunity to poke into someplace new. 

No sooner do I step into the shop than the smell of gear oil hits me. I blink and my nose scrunches as the smell crawls up my sinuses. Turning this way and that, I see security devices winking from their crevices and cracks in the walls. Some of the lenses are even placed behind the very goods they’re meant to watch over. 

I smile. That’s a good sign. 

There’s a trip-wire embedded into the gold filigree of the oak floorwork, meant to be raised at night when the shopkeep goes home. I skip over that easily and take a closer look.

The shelves are stocked mainly with pawned items, along the lines of hextech gadgets that university students outgrew upon graduation, stray components, wares traded in by adventurers, a miscellany of curios and contraptions. This place is part second-hand store, part dumpster. 

But it’s all a front for plenty of contraband underneath the counter. Now, where to begin? My fingers itch. 

“Hello, prospective customer. Catchy song to make you spend, you won’t regret it in the end.”

The stockroom door swings open and the robot merchant glides into view, prim in a powder blue tophat and a tailcoat that flutters behind them like wings. I don’t recognize the model and make, but they’re cleverly articulated to rotate like a dancer on a central haft, movements smooth and graceful. That explains the gear oil smell. 

“Shall I help you make the optimal selection?” They settle behind the counter and their one green eye flickers expectantly. Their voice is tuned to be feminine but business-like. 

Oh, oops. “I’m looking for a diode compass.” 

Start her off with something simple. You don’t get these new anymore ‘cuz they’re vintage at this point. Makers all got put out of business by hextech. Still, nothing works better when you’re lost out in the middle of a magical blizzard that mucks with anything rune-based. 

The robot selects a shiny specimen from a drawer in the back shelves and I crane my head to peek. I thought I was being discreet, but as she deposits it into my hand, she singsongs, “Take a gander, or several. But if you touch without paying, you’re in for a caning.” 

Ha, my stupid Uncle used to say the exact, same thing. Didn’t stop me! He never could wobble after me fast enough to make good on that threat. “This is a pretty piece.”

I turn it around to play with the dials. “How much?” 

“18 Silver Cogs, 5 Bronze Washers.”

Clearly, she thinks I’m an idiot. Time to lay on the charm. “It’s not every day a face as handsome as mine graces your fine establishment. I think the occasion warrants a discount! What say you to 10 cogs, 5 washers and I’ll pawn you a limited edition, mint- in-the-box Jarro Lightfeather mask as a bonus?”

“Error. Your proposal decreases the value of remaining displayed wares by an unacceptable amount,” even for a robot, her voice just became 10 degrees colder. Oof.

Note to self: Robots might be a little more resistant to my patented good looks than expected.

I rap my fingers on the countertop. “Hmm, tell you what, I’ll do you eighteen-five, but only if you throw in a couple of those radial stonecutters under the display here.” 

“Negative. We do not carry those. My business operates within strictly legal confines.” The coldness is approaching 0 degrees now, and her single eye narrows with disapproval. 

“Eh~h,” I wave my hand around, gesturing vaguely at the shelves, “Not very smart of you to put the misbegotten jaull-ivory right on display next to the legal ones, then. After all, the only way to distinguish the legal from the contraband is a slight patina on the latter.” 

Somewhere under the top hat, a gear starts to crank in a grinding whirr. Oh, she’s definitely mad. Now, I just have to sweet talk her into letting me in on the illegal stuff and I got myself another supplier.

“You look too closely for someone with fingers too sticky.” Her curtness, combined with the way she holds herself - like a professor in front of a blackboard - really does remind me of someone, cuz my stupid Uncle used to say the exact…wait a minute - my eyes pan up to the dusty display above her -

THAT’S MY SWORD. 

Slung on a corkboard in between two fakes like an afterthought is my relic sword from my bedroom that I keep propped against the wall next to the drawers.

With an indignant gasp, I jab at it, “That’s the Blade of Galad! My dad gave it to me for my eighth birthday! He took it straight from the Ruins of Ashfell himself. What’s it doing here? How do you even have it?”

Suddenly, I have way more important matters than haggling with some penny-pinching robot merchant.

She swivels to follow my finger to the sword and does the coghead equivalent of a double-take at me.

“That item was procured from my creator’s personal stock,” she says.

That doesn't make sense. “Personal stock? Is your creator a thief? My father was - is - the one who’s accredited for its retrieval. It’s in official Explorers Guild records!”

“Please do not misunderstand.” She beeps and trills her words. Guess that’s her way of being just as flustered as me, “My creator authorized me to itemize all personal belongings in his residence and vend those I deemed fit for retail.”

I look at her. Closely. No make or model. Powder blue coat with gold trim like our family crest. The way she sings her zingy one-liners.

“Hold on. You were made by Cristobal Lymere.”

She straightens at the name-drop. “...Affirmative.” 

“I’m Ezreal.” I say. 

The robot stares. 

“I’m Ezreal!” I repeat, throwing my hands open to punctuate.

Her eye is empty and unblinking green, and I’m suddenly blustering a-mile-a-minute. “You know? Ezreal Lymere ! Renowned explorer? I’m Cristobal’s nephew ! If he’s gone, he probably left you a note about me at least? Or told you to come find me whenever I’m back in town. Listen, he might have even included me in the deeds to this shop.”

Long shot. Way longer than my trueshot can go. But I’m banging my index finger on the counter so hard, my finger’s bending. I frown at her. Anything to jangle her memory bank. 

“You are mistaken. As far as it concerns this shop, I am the sole proprietor.” The gear continues to whizz somewhere under her hat, concerningly loud. Folding her hands behind her and pulling herself ramrod straight, she fixes her eye on me, probably scanning me into her list of unwelcome guests. 

“Then where’s your creator?” I force my breathing to slow as I wait for her answer.

“He disappeared researching the Freljord. I am unable to generate emotions about this absence.”

“How long have you been running this shop?” I ask.

“Ever since the Professor left Piltover. 5 years.”

+++

I walk out of the shop with nothing in my pockets to show for it, except my clenched fists. Actually, I should take care of my nails while I’m back in civilization. After hearing the robot’s answer, I need a little self-pampering.

He’s been gone 5 years. 

5 whole years. That’s nearly the same amount of time since I left that goodbye note on his desk.

As my feet walk me back home on autopilot, I ponder. All those times I snuck back into the house, I figured I had just succeeded at dodging him. I even patted myself on the back for being clever, for getting even better at breaking and entering my own home. I never suspected he’d actually just…left. 

I stop on the sidewalk. For a moment, I don’t even know what to feel. 

I poise my foot over a puddle, half-reflecting me. 

Staring at it, a thought crystallizes perfectly clear: Nuncle’s always been petty. He didn’t even say goodbye.

Just like them - 

I shake myself off that train of thought, pronto. It never does any good. I splash right through the puddle, tromping home with twice the speed now.

Nuncle’s petty and he didn’t leave a note for me. Didn’t even mention me to the robot he built. Let her sell MY things. But what’s worse is when I still lived here, the old coot never touched anything my parents brought back. It was an unspoken agreement we’d never pawn those off! 

I grit my teeth harder and power up the last steps to the front door. The paint’s chipping around the knocker, and the arched glass windows are filmed over with dust. The last slanting rays of sunset struggle to pierce them.

I’m home.

It’s been years since I’ve entered through the front door. The spare-spare-spare key is still where I placed it, under the loose stepping stone in the pathway to the back garden. I unlock the heavy bolt, stiff with disuse, and push inwards.

Dust rises to greet me. Darkness and silence stretch down the hall. No one appears out of the gloom. As I shut the door, something moves in the corner of my eye. It’s so ghostly I whirl around in defense, but it’s only -

My reflection.

The mirror in the hallway. I’ve hated it ever since - well. Ever since everything in this house started to remind me.

The thoughts creep back in. 

Everytime I look in this mirror, I think - if they were here, my parents would be standing behind me, beaming at me, patting my shoulders and ruffling my hair in congratulations over my latest little victories. This is where I would run into their arms as soon as they came home. When I blink and see that the mirror is empty where they used to be, a pit always grows in my stomach. It skims too close to betrayal.

I try to bury the feeling. 

Just because I revisit my house doesn’t mean I pry those thoughts open every time.

I tear my eyes off the mirror and tread further in, lighting just enough lamps to make a beeline for Nuncle’s office. He locked the door, but that’s hardly a deterrent to me. There must be something in here indicating where he’s gone, when he plans to return. He’s an academic, he isn’t built for jaunts in the wilds, so the the fact that he hasn’t come back can only mean -

I yank out every drawer, throw open every cabinet and break into anything locked. Then, I find the illuminated tracking globe I once stole for fun in 4th year. It had been one of Nuncle’s prototypes sitting in his academy office, all pretty and unguarded. I stole a lot from him, but he gave me a huge amount of grief about this thing, enlisting his fellow professors to catch me and force me give it back. He didn’t even like his colleagues, but he’d been more than willing to sidle up to them to get me. 

“Hmph!” Watch me pawn this then, geezer, since nothing’s sacred anymore.

As long as it looks like a clue, I pile it to the center of the room to rifle through. Plans, blueprints, correspondences, journals, letters. I spend hours sifting through scraps of Nuncle’s life. At the end of it, I come up empty again. And my butt’s sore from sitting on this cold, sooty floor. 

There’s no deed. Neither to the house nor the shop.

No proof he ever thought about me before leaving.

I get to my feet over a pile of flaking, yellowing paper and ball my fists, squeezing Gauntlet tight. One little blast and this could all go up in flames. After all, it’s just me now, who’s to stop me? The whole house could catch fire and it wouldn’t even matter, like a tree collapsing in the forest with no one around to hear it. 

I thumb the gem in the center of Gauntlet.

There’s just…my bedroom to check on first. I drag my feet away and up the stairs. They used to creak, but now they groan like they’re on their deathbed.

The axe is safe thankfully. Nuncle made the robot an accurate appraiser - other than Galad’s blade, everything else here only has sentimental value. 

A few things need to be herded back into their proper place - shoes and extra socks under the bed, maps pinned back onto the walls, treasure boxes placed onto the shelf behind the curtain. Oh, so that’s where I left my limited edition Explorers’ Geographic magazine! I put it with the other zines on the nightstand. Grabbing my blanket, I shake it out and wheeze from the dust puffing off of it. Couldn’t she have made my bed - and dusted - and swept while she was in here raiding? 

When I’ve remade the bed and fluffed up the pillows as much as possible, I realize: it’s tiny. I used to snatch a few winks in here whenever I came back to Piltover - why blow money on an inn when I could spend a free night at home with all of my creature comforts? But now, I don’t think I’d sleep easy even if I curl up tight as a ferret-cat. And frankly, the sheets are too fusty. Unsalvageable.

Instead of milling around any longer, I open the window and climb outside. Easily swinging up from the ledge, I perch on the lucarne. The view at night is a bit brighter than it used to be - what was once my quiet, sleepy part of town is being commercialized.

The air is calm and refreshing. Above me, the stars stretch into indigo infinity.

This is where I would hide after Nuncle chased me out the window, thinking I’d disappeared into the camellia bushes below. He’d scream and shake his fist in what he thought was my direction, and I would silently laugh at him - right above him. Inches away! It never got old.

I fold my arms on top of my knees and rest my chin on them as I ponder.

I could still sell the house, use it to fund my next adventure, and the ones after that. It, along with everything inside, would bankroll me for a few years. It shouldn’t be too hard to prove I’m the only living Lymere.

The moon has sailed a quarter of the way across the sky by the time it finally gets too cold for even me to stay out here.

I still don’t know if I’m gonna sleep here tonight, but I do know my stomach’s hankering for some gumbo from my favorite bistro around the corner. Maybe I’ll make up my mind when I’m eating there. And after that? Well…

I think it’s about time to skip town again.

+++

I lied.

I’m actually back at the pawnshop and entering without knocking, certain documents folded in my jacket pocket.

“Taking inventory. Taking inventory. Taking inventory. Ah. Identifying potential customer.” The robot straightens behind the counter, but when she sees me, she is visibly disappointed. “Correction. It is just you.”

“Well, greetings to you, too.” I wave jauntily. 

“Greetings, Ezreal. Theft gauge at critical level.”

So you DID know about me! Figures it was only through the unfortunate conduit known as the Merchants Guild grapevine. “Hey! I only stole from Quazo’s new shop because they tried ripping me off first, and I’ve never jeopardized my long standing professional relationship with Zalie’s. You can ask them about what a generous patron I am.” 

Radiating austerity, she sweeps her arms behind her back the way Uncle used to (though he always looked like a strutting puffin), “Query: are you here on business or should I inform the enforcers preemptively?” 

I wave my hands frantically, “Whoa, whoa-whoa, hang on. I’m here on one-hundred percent legitimate business. I want you to give me my sword back.”

She draws her shoulders up straight as a House Ferros member and trills frostily. “Non-negotiable.”

“What? What do you mean?” I splutter, “That’s MINE. MY father gave it to me.”

Maybe I have to remind her who has actual authority as a Lymere. Bracing myself on the counter and leaning forward as much as possible, I state in clear, slow enunciation, so that her aural dials can’t mistake the instructions, “You do not have permission to remove it from my room and put it up for sale for -” 

I double-take at the price tag hanging under it, “FOR A MERE 10,000 Golden Hexes? It’s worth 10 times that! No, that doesn’t matter - it’s priceless to me!” 

Is it just me or do I see a little hesitation? Her green eye narrows as she computes and her shoulders slump ever so slightly. I hit her with my best pleading face. Eventually, her body language softens and she ends up leaning against the wall, folding her arms defensively across her chest. Instead of looking like a coat rack poised to attack, now she just looks antsy and prickly, like whenever I feel vulnerable. Then she speaks, previous frostiness gone, “Transaction.” 

I cross my arms too. And glare at her. The seconds tick by as we mirror each other.

Okay, well, I didn’t want to do this, but clearly you’re forcing my hand.

“If you return it to me, I’ll give you these in exchange.” 

From within my coat pocket, I retrieve the documents. Her eye tracks my movements like a laser sight.

Unfolding the first page, I read aloud from it, “Personal Economic Assistance Robot - model L. Personally, I think you should have been named W for the win bu~t, I guess you’ll just have to take that L. Heh.”  

P.e.a.r-L pulls away in shock so fast it wrinkles her fancy coat, and her single green eye flashes chartreuse-yellow, aghast. I wonder if there’s a red mode. 

“I found your specs,” I swish them aloft in my hand, “Nuncle left them in the usual spot for his schematics. Having these would make self-maintenance way easier, doncha think? Wouldn’t need to use so much gear oil for your central bearing anymore.” 

I smirk.

Warily, she straightens her coat and extends her central haft so she can tower over me to scan the pages, as if I’m a dangerous specimen that might bite her if she gets too close. I hastily shield the papers with my arms, “Hey, no peeking! And no fair that you can make yourself taller!”

Realizing we’re still at an impasse, she closes the scanning ray in her eye. Thankfully, she was programmed to be practical and says, ”Request to verify authenticity before transaction.”  

I pick a page that bears Uncle’s signature chicken scratch and lay it on the counter. “And you’ll finally give my sword back, promise?” 

She glances at me silently, no quips this time. And to my utter surprise, she extends her arms with a soft whirr two meters into the air, grasping the sword and retrieving it neatly. “I will return it now. Let me see all the pages.”

She gently deposits the sword on a velvet cloth and presents it to me. 

I smile with a huff. “You sure know how to drive a hard deal.”

I hadn’t planned on handing all of these blueprints over so easily. If push came to shove, I was prepared to use each page separately as a bargaining chip.

But, I give the entire stack to her and she arranges them in order, starting from Nuncle’s very first brainstorming sketches of her. He had experimented with giving her a few different silhouettes, some hulking and intimidating, some yordle-like with wings - so she could fly around his office - and my favorite: at one point P.e.a.r-L would have been a mechanical poro. 

After checking the Blade to ensure it’s in top condition, I settle against the counter to watch P.e.a.r-L instead. She’s like a doll come to life, animated from the happy spirit within her, not just clockwork. She gleans each page raptly, scanning them over and over. Seems enjoyable for her. Is it sort of like looking at her own baby pictures? I crook my lips in a small smile.

On one of the pages, Nuncle left something more unusual: “Note to self: If caught overheating again, remind Pearl not to bite off more than she can chew and to install her data entries one by one. No skipping.”

“Nuncle, mine uncle.” With a curled lip, I pick up the page and frown, “He was fond of putting his little nagging reminders everywhere. Did he do that to you, too? Leave a little line of code that activates whenever you’re getting too stubborn for his liking?”

“The Professor did no such thing. He personally instructed me in all matters relating to commerce, economics, social engineering and politics. I have received only the utmost quality education from him.” Pearl reluctantly pulls away from the blueprints and tries to retrieve the page from me, which I hold out of reach to emphasize my next point:

“Why didn’t he give these specs to you?”

Her silence speaks volumes.

“I knew it. He wasn’t supposed to be gone for so long, was he?”

When I return the page to her and she nestles it into its proper place, it feels as though she’s finally letting herself talk about what happened, “Affirmative. He initially planned for a 9-month journey, at the longest.” 

“Why Freljord?” 

“To research the Void.” 

What? That is absolutely not Nuncle’s area of expertise, and it’s unbelievable he’d suddenly disappear into the uncivilized, treacherous North on a lark. That’s - that’s what I’d do.

“He returned from his first trip successfully, but without any substantiation to his hypotheses. Subsequently, he made preparations for multiple forays but never returned from his second outing.” 

“Did he keep in contact with you at all?”

Pearl shows me the letters Nuncle sent to her, kept in a lockbox matched to a dainty key hidden in her own wrist compartment. The paper trail started solid enough; telegrams from the banks and postal offices of the more established westward towns. The further he traveled towards Demacia, the more unconventional his messages became, hiring eastward-bound merchant ships or express ponies to carry his fragmented remittances. I decode his cipher easily, but even in these, Nuncle never wrote anything more interesting than reminders to wire funds to him, giving Pearl approximate arrival dates for his next stops. 

“He never had a contingency plan in case he went missing?” 

“Never. His last directive to me was to run this shop. In any case, I am incapable of worrying.”

I smirk lopsidedly. “Yeah, I bet he thought he was doing you a favor. He doesn’t approve when people act overly emotional.”

“This may certainly be why he never calibrated me to care for his well being. I lack the impetus to confirm his status.” 

I look at her. Hard not to pity her, even if she might not truly feel that for herself. Robots can install pseudo-emotions that let them calculate what people feel in most situations. But it’s not the same as actually feeling them. Despite that, Nuncle still drew a clear line in the sand between himself and his own creation…It really doesn’t bode well.

I ruffle my hair and fluff it out - I’ve basically solved the whole puzzle. “I get it. He created you - to run a shop - so you could funnel money to him, through illicit networks or otherwise.”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”

“Which is basically ‘yes’. You’re registered for full autonomy. Don’t you think it’s a waste of your potential to do this for the rest of your life? You know, wherever the old fool is now, he can’t collect the money you’re sending him anymore.” 

“That is not my concern. I am designed to run this shop and exceed target income thresholds. Whatever becomes of these funds once transferred is outside of my function.” 

Frowning, I change tactics. 

“You know what I really think? If it were up to you, you wouldn’t even have these constraints on your emotions at all, and you resent the fact he took away your ability to care.”

“I am made for commerce.” Pearl repeats flatly. Though it may be hard to gauge a robot’s state of emotive calibration to begin with, I get the feeling she’s not so happy I’ve found her out. “The capacity to worry is simply unnecessary.” 

Almost got her. “Yeah but he just LEFT you here. Don’t you feel - I mean think that’s unfair?”

“Query: Is that not how you personally feel about him?” Pearl asks. “According to theories of psychoanalysis, you are exhibiting behaviors termed ‘projecting’.”

“Wut?”

“You are projecting your sentiments of betrayal and abandonment onto me.” 

Have you ever seen a freight train fly off its tracks into a howling abyss? Because that’s how I feel right now.

I run for cover and shoot from a different angle. “You at least reported his disappearance, right?”

“A missing persons report was filed.”

“Hire a merc group to search for him?”

“Unprofitable. The probabilities of success are close to zero. Return on investment is unacceptably low.”

“So you just gave up on him? Don’t you care for him at all?!” I realize I’m shouting.

Pearl looks at me. Closely. Then, with finality, she pushes the sword at me.

“Ezreal. Leave.” 

+++

At home, I end up cleaning the pile of papers in Nuncle’s room and then I sweep up my room too, because why not.

The Blade goes on a weapons rack I swiped from Dad’s study. In that room, I touched the thick film of dust on the walnut desk and rather than combat a decade’s worth of time, I went out to the lucarne again.

The sky keeps me company, wheeling with clouds and birds.

Seems to me, now that I’m older, I can remember some things clearer. Whenever my parents came home, it was always a relief for both me and Nuncle. I’d race down the hallway to the vestibule and crash into their arms where they’d sweep me up into tales of grandeur, our shared excitement and laughter always a ruckus. I never cared then, but Nuncle would step around us, and I’d see the tips of his spiky blonde hair disappear behind Mom and Dad’s shoulders as he went outside to take a long-denied smoke.

I remember one time he really tried his best with me. And I had only screamed in his face, “You’re not my real dad!”

That changed the way he looked at me. 

Overhead, a V-formation of wadoose are migrating southwards to Ixtal. I know exactly where they’re from. Freljord.

+++

The next day, Pearl is already at the door to kick me out. “Unless you are here to spend everything you have on a big, impulsive purchase, please enjoy the open air markets.” 

“Now that’s no way to greet your…” I flounder, reaching for a word to describe our weird circumstances, “...cousin.” 

“Ezreal.” Pearl’s deadpan is deader than ever. “We are not cousins.”

“We’re not?” 

“We are as related as poros are to trolls.” 

“That makes me the poro and you the troll.”

“Ha. Ha.” Pearl is considering violating the first law of robotics to push me off the front step when she spots the item in my hand - my gift for her.

“Query: Is that a non-Ineptian analyzer?” 

“Yep! I asked Zalie’s if they knew what was on your wishlist and presto.” I offer it to her. She hesitates briefly before giving in, accepting it with a tinny whistle of annoyance and finally letting me inside. I help myself to the counter space. 

“Please remove your hindquarters from the counter.”

“Excuse you. My hindquarters are pleasingly exquisite and charming.” 

“That is irrelevant to my display space.” She places the analyzer in a glass case under the weapons rack. There’s a fancy new chempunk chainsword hanging where my Blade used to be.

“Whoa, how’d you get ahold of that?”

“That story costs more than your charming backside can afford.” Pearl chimes musically, “Besides, I do not recommend it for someone of your stature. It is volatile. And sharp.”

“And loud.” We chorus together. 

Pearl fumes again, but I just laugh. “Jinx!” 

“So what would you recommend?” I ask gamely. “For a dashing adventurer heading into the frozen wastes of Freljord on a wadoose-chase after a long-lost geezer? Who may or may not be frozen into a counterfeit Avarosan idol by now.”  

“What?” Pearl warbles. 

“I’m going after him!” I flourish my bangs and strike a pose with Gauntlet. 

“That is pointless.”

“For you. But, you helped me realize…maybe not for me.”

Pearl lowers her gaze to her wrist compartment, laying deftly-cabled fingers on it, “I have been assessing. Even if I feel nothing in regards to the Professor’s whereabouts, I do wonder .” 

I blink.

“It may not be within the confines of my function to support someone’s endeavor to find him, but neither does it violate said function. If the Professor were to be found and returned to Piltover, that is something…I would look forward to.”

“Then it’s decided. I source you exclusive wonders from all over Runeterra and you outfit me with your latest and greatest adventuring gear.” Pulling a lasso off one of the shelves, I toss it like a cape over my shoulder. 

“Dashing. Do not perish out there before you become a valuable source of income.” 

“Only if you offer me the best prices - ‘cuz, not gonna lie, I think the analyzer would be useful.” I point to it under the glass. 

Pearl narrows her eye. “Standard market rates apply.” 

“Put it on my tab!” 

“You do not have one.”

“Start it today."

“Actually, there is a special deal today.”

“Sweet.”

“Buy 5 items and you will receive those 5 items.”

Spluttering, I punch the counter, “And you were angry when I called you a troll!” 

For the next few hours, we banter and haggle like friendly fire. 

“How much for Ionian boots if I throw in a voucher at Quazo’s? Zalie’s has been selling me defects for a while now, but I heard Quazo finally hit jackpot in Ixtal. Think about it - as soon as they bring their intrepid haul of fortune home, you’ll have first dibs. ” 

“Error. Coupons not accepted.”

“You’re killing me, Pearl. Refillable potions?”

“Minimum purchase necessary. Market price. After which, refills are…fr-f-re–fre–eeeeeeee.” 

“Do you need a tuneup?” 

“That is highly unnecessary.”

Just when we’ve finally sorted out the details, Pearl insists on counting coins. Manually.

“Twoooo…Thrrrrree.”

I glare at her, arms akimbo. “Pearl, I’m going to buy you a coin sorter.”

“That is exceedingly unnecessary. Fffffour.” 

“You’re doing this JUST to annoy me!”

“Misinformation.” 

“What if I got you a new coin sorter for the low, low price of 50 washers? Would you count faster?”

“Figure of speech: if you are trying to pull a fast one on me, Ezreal, you need to be much faster.” 

By three in the afternoon, I’ve finally ticked everything off the checklist and Pearl’s burned a nice hole through my wallet. Can’t charge these purchases to Nuncle, after all.

Pearl hands over the itemized receipt. “This was a slightly non-standard transaction. Declaration of gratitude. Complementary smile.“

“Great doing business with ya.” I stick my hand out.

We shake - and then Pearl winches her fingers around mine in vice grip, her eye scanning my coat pocket with a laser beam that could literally incinerate my wallet.

“Declaration of gratitude - withdrawn. Please remove those rune-sets from your pocket.”

I blink out of her grip to the other side of the counter. So close!

“Awww, c’mon! But I need those when I’m way up a mountain and I can’t get back down to buy another potion.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” She readjusts the torque of her wrist. Oh gods, I hope her hand doesn’t do the grab-thingy like Blitzcrank. 

“You’ve defrauded me already, isn’t it fair I rob you?” I shrug at her.

She rolls her eye as much as possible - which really just means the bulb flashes rapidly until it fizzes out - and holds her hand open expectantly.

After a moment, I throw the runes back to her. 

Despite the little trade, I’m feeling…hopeful. There’s a familiar anticipation building in my chest already - the fire burning for the next adventure, the next big twist into the unknown. Freljord might be sub-freezing, but it can’t smother what makes me a Lymere.

She stows the runes back into their compartment, but surprises me once more, “Try this one. For the astute wielder of arcane arts.”

She tosses me a small stone. It’s a lesser rune of Inspiration, but as I turn it over I see a hand-carved chicken scratch…capital letter L. 

“Is it really okay for me to have this?” I wrap my fingers around its knapped edges and the power inside rises in me.

“It is on loan. With interest.” In spite of the limitations of her faceplate, I can hear a smile in Pearl’s voice.

“So,” I smirk winsomely, “Do I get a family discount?”

Home, the place that never leaves you.