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The Children of Zaun. Brothers and sisters of Zaun standing side by side as the only defense against Piltover’s tyranny.
Loyalty. It was such a simple word with such a simple meaning. Built gradually and so easily destroyed—betrayed. Wielded by eager hands, the true meaning was often blurred by greed, selfishness and delusion. Few seemed worthy of loyalty and fewer were able to comprehend the importance of its sanctity. Oft it was desecrated, stolen like a thief in the night, leaving the victim alone and wilted.
For years I'd cultivated that trust with my fellow Children. We raided, ran, bled, and plotted together in the name of loyalty. In the name of Zaun. Janna knew the trials we'd faced, both united and separated. We trusted each other with every fiber of our beings—we had to. Else we’d bleed out in an unknown alley, surrounded by Enforcers, weapons drawn. However, there was one that I trusted more than anyone else. Someone that held my life in their hands with gentleness that belied his inner turmoil. Never before had I known trust, loyalty, let alone love. Zaun wasn’t one for such commodities.
We celebrated a mission well done with drinks and passed a cigarette between us. The Last Drop’s lights gleamed under the inky night sky. He compared it to an angry oil slick. I laughed.
“Loyalty is the most important aspect of our cause. It means you must believe—not just in the rebellion, but in the brothers and sisters that stand beside you. That laid down their lives for Zaun’s salvation. It means trusting that every second, every agonizing pain, will reach its zenith at Piltover’s fall from grace," he turned to me then, I hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t looking at me, ‘Loyalty...means standing true even when the sky is falling and ashes bathe the ground under your feet.’
I almost laughed when he told me that under the blur of neon lights. The smell of smoke wafted from the man I’d come to trust, the man that trusted me. My drunken mind overlooked the importance of the words he’d said, too inebriated to understand. Drink had addled my mind; his speech went in one ear and out the next. He had a lot of them—speeches. If they were currency maybe the cigarette we shared wouldn’t have been stolen nor the small morsel of bread.
I didn’t understand why he had gone on that tangent with me. My loyalty was guaranteed and not just to the cause but to Zaun. To him. Without loyalty the Children of Zaun would have crumbled long ago. It was the glue that bound us together. Our pain and trauma brought us together and nothing could separate us.
My confusion wasn't helped when I transitioned inside to stave off the chill, his jacket still draped over my shivering form. I had offered it back to him, but Silco waved me inside—he elected to stay outside and smoke.
"Why do you stick around?" Vander's question came out of nowhere and my drunken stupor made answering near impossible. I furrowed my brow at him—like my presence in the ranks was a mystery. Fresh whiskey in hand, I repeated the words Silco just relayed to me. Slurred, his articulate words were contorted when they came out of my mouth—each intricate reminder of loyalty to the cause, to our brothers and sister, to Zaun sounded much less effective. It pleased Vander nonetheless. He laughed, praised his brother's eloquence, and stomped away. Vander always had been one for sentimentality.
That sentimentality made throwing the hammer down so much harder.
The sky fell before I blinked. Filth and ash littered the already polluted air that smothered us. I could taste the flames and smell an overwhelming stench of copper. My ears rang from the intensity of the Molotov cocktail explosion. It almost covered the choked gasps. Their owner grasped at consciousness, sought purchase on rocks, sand, anything as lungs gulped greedily. Pain laced desperate sounds that grew as he thrashed: desperate.
He attempted to see out of an eye gone blind; he grappled at the blood; fingers slipped through it like an oil slick. His widowed oculus stared into oblivion.
What horrors played in his mind I could only imagine. It sent a shiver down my spine at the thought. Silco never faltered in wit, articulation or strategy. Seeing him reduced to a glassy eyed, torn wreck broiled the blood in my veins.
The agony that bit down on his windpipe, claimed possession of his mind, dimmed enough for him to regain vision. He grasped the first tangible thing he saw. Clammy hands gripped my ankle: a lifeline he refused to release. It was the only one that hadn't abandoned him in his suffering.
I listened as hoarse breaths were gulped down a reddened throat, felt worn nails as they scratched bloody crescents into my skin. He needed to know I was there—that he was still alive. It stung. I couldn't bring myself to care. I'd shed blood for him many times before.
Pistols weren't foreign to me; I kept mine secured on my hip every waking moment. This was not the first time I’d felt the guns weight in my palm, my aim steadied by determination as I cocked it. I doubted it would be the last.
He had the audacity to look surprised. Whether by the speed I made my decision or by the swiftness with which I unholstered and cocked the pistol, I couldn't tell. Not with the chamber aimed between his eyes.
'I'll kill you.' I was steady, a contrast to my shaken constitution. I never bluffed. I knew it, he knew it. People feared that determination…and so did he. He tried to hide how his heart skipped a beat in the face of death. Death was something each of us had escaped many times before. This wasn’t one of those times.
Had I been told I would stand here at the edge of oblivion with a pistol aimed at one of the men I'd so loyally followed all these years, I would have laughed until I cried. Then the same pistol would be shoved between their eyes, a blade to their jugular.
Gunshots rang on deaf ears and blind eyes.
Silence.
‘You picked me...’ A broken voice whispered, cradled in my arms as I attempted to comfort his aching bones. His skin was colder than it had ever been, warmed slightly by the congealed blood matted on his pallid skin. My heart broke at how his drained form sagged against me.
‘Always...because the sky fell when you were trying to hold it on your shoulders.'
Love didn’t matter at that moment. We both understood the implications. There was time for sentiment later—once the sting of betrayal faded. In that moment I just needed to hold him, to let him know he was safe, that he wasn’t alone. He never would be. Not as long as I lived and breathed.