Chapter Text
“You took a chance with this kind of thing
Amidst this poor tranquility”
Art of war, Avenoir.
Viktor could feel his pulse decelerating with every breath. His legs felt weak, and his cane wasn’t of help, as his arms were now as frail as a butterfly’s wing. His eyes, too heavy to blink properly, witnessed his people in pain, suffering, dying. Cries of newly orphaned kids echoed with the ringing in his ears.
Yet Viktor wasn’t surprised. In Zaun, you’re either born a nameless nobody like him, or you become one; it was a shame his people thought that a protest would fix it all. If truth be told, others were lucky they had something to lose and yearn for, when Viktor only had fragments of his health get even more broken.
Amidst this cataclysm, a slim silhouette approaches Viktor. Once his eyes were finally able to break free from oblivion, they gradually adjusted until he was able to see the man clearly; face covered in ash, raven hair with a few grey strands, he seemed to be in his late thirties. But most noteworthy, his left eye was gravely bruised, covered in blood, and its white part seemed to be darkening.
“You are young and undecayed. Do you mind helping such a stale being like me?” The man spoke resonantly as he put his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. He talked with composure, though his state told another story; one of a man wronged by a world he tried saving.
It was laughable to Viktor that this man, whose name he revealed to be Silco, seeked help from a cripple out of all the other healthy-looking men in the massacre. Silco wrapped his arm around Viktor’s neck as they both shuffled their way out of the bridge, on their way to some doctor Silco claims might be able to help.
They walked for a long time, but only exchanged talks when Silco was giving directions, or giving speeches about betrayal, how ‘the saddest part about betrayal is that it never comes from enemies’. Viktor let him go on with his blabbering, not being able to relate as he doesn’t have any ‘brother’ who could backstab him.
After hours of unreciprocated advice, they finally reached their destination–an unwelcoming cave with odd creatures as chandeliers, barrels of a malodorous purple liquid, and finally, a sinister-looking man poking needles at a fresh, still beating heart. Viktor fought the urge to throw up, simply observing the place as Silco narrated his side of the story; a brother, Vander, assaulted him for involuntarily causing a fire–who would have thought?
“I know just how to help.”
The doctor declared stoically before reaching out for a needle gun and injecting the purple liquid in Silco’s eye.
Screams of throes echoed through the cave. Viktor winced, the mere imagination of such agony sent waves of phantom pain to his eyes.
On their way out, Viktor bid Silco farewell, leaving to go and rest at his sanctuary, an old abandoned shack. But before he could make another step, he was stopped by a gravelly voice.
"Say, boy. What’s your name?"
It had only now come to Viktor’s consciousness that Silco still hadn't even heard his voice yet. Viktor was quiet by nature, he only spoke when necessary. A part of him hoped people didn’t deem him as rude because of that since he, at least in his own eyes, was very gentle and kind.
“It’s Viktor.”
He responds, tentatively.
“Viktor. You are a young, kind man.” He drew nearer, his voice now barely above a whisper.
“But be wary. In this world, every trait is either a weapon you possess which you can use for your own good, or one that people use against you. Stay with me, and I will show you.”
Looking back at this memory, years later, Viktor still isn’t sure what he would have done differently if he could go back in time. Silco gave him a home, took care of him, fostered his potential through education, even chose a day on which they’d celebrate his birthday–December 29th, and demanded it became a holiday widely celebrated in Zaun, he called it 'Blessing Day'. Because, as Silco says, “You are a blessing from Janna, with gifts disguised as curses”.
Yet Viktor never felt home.
Maybe because he doesn’t even understand that word, or possibly because he was simply a greedy beast whose appetite will never be fulfilled.
For someone who’s lived for 20 years–a number divisible by the number 5, Viktor’s most unforgettable ‘five years’ were the ones spent with Silco. One memory however was more vivid compared to others. He was seventeen years old, two years as Silco’s apprentice. He asked if he could refer to Silco as his father, and had to spend two weeks locked up in a basement as an answer.
“That is no way for The Eye of Zaun’s pupil to talk. I see you still haven’t learnt virility. Weakness is not a good look for a feared, respected leader”’
But Viktor didn’t want to be feared; quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted somewhere to belong, and that somewhere was definitely not Silco’s definition of virility or manliness. Why must one check every box in a list society invented in order to be worthy of respect and love?
Viktor assumed he wasn’t compatible with Silco’s list since he was never treated with respect nor love. A mere failed prototype the world forgot to destroy, he was.
The day Viktor told him that he was approached by Piltover’s founder, Heimendinger, and was offered tutelage at the Piltoveran prestigious academy, Silco’s indifference made it clear as day that he never truly cared. It was a lose-lose situation, anywho. Had Silco given any reaction, it would have been a hostile one, due to his loathing for Piltover.
“Go. But I warn you, you and I are now strangers. Serve their forces and we become enemies.”
And so it was. Viktor took his books and inventions, then left for Topside, a place where he’ll be more of a misfit than he ever was before.
“Don't use a soft tongue when you speak of love
Art of war takes it to betrayals”
Art of war, Avenoir
Tears of agony came running down Mel’s cheeks, each teardrop reflecting the sorrow of losing someone who was once her everything. Such were the throes of love.
Her father’s funeral was like any warrior’s in the kingdom of Noxus. Companions in war giving words devoid of any thought they deemed to be comforting, orchids surrounding the lifeless cadaver… The world seems to have moved on too quickly, when her mind has yet to ingest the fact that he is gone, and that she has just lost the only remaining person from her family.
The following day was like any other–attending Vesta's priestly college of priestesses, studying how heroic and prodigious the Gods are, learning what it’s like being a priestess; an occupation she had never even taken interest in. But it was her father’s dying wish, written in neat latin cursive at the very end of his will:’ I wish for my daughter to continue her education and become one of the six sacred priestesses.
How fortunate.
“Yet those Gods everyone idolizes have done absolutely nothing to save my very religious father.”, Mel muses as she sighs, words of High Priestess flew to her ear and escaped the other one, eyes fixed on the burning flare. In two years, her 20th birthday, she too will become a vestal virgin in charge of keeping the fire alive, just like the generations before hers have for thousands of years.
She finally regains consciousness when she catches sight of the High Priestess, then her peers bowing. She promptly joins the obeisance and moderately lifts her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of her.
Ambessa Medarda, Noxus’ queen and warlord, feared by both enemies and allies. Her amber eyes met Mel’s golden green for a second, her gaze piercing like an arrow. She quickly shifts her eyes to the queen’s feet before she finally leaves. Mel exhaled in relief–those five seconds felt like an eternity. That burning gaze of hers made Mel momentarily believe that she could read minds and was about to punish her for her blasphemous thoughts, earlier.
The rest of Mel’s day passed by blurry, like a distant memory. She took a bath, dwelling on the misfortunate events she had experienced for the past week. Voices of all tones, images of all colors, emotions of all sorts…
She hopped out of the bathtub once she sensed tears forming at the corner of her eyes–she wasn't in the mood for another hour wasted on crying. She now has one goal; becoming a priestess. Mel didn’t care if it was nothing but guilt motivating her. Pursuing priesthood gave her a false sense of comfort; it made her too focused on one objective, and too distracted to pay attention to her struggles.
Once dressed, she contemplates her own reflection in the mirror as she twisted silver-colored strings around her twists. Suddenly, she hears knocking at her door. Curiosity consumed Mel. Who could have come at such an hour?
She settles with the idea of it being someone who knew her father and wished to give condolences. She walked over to the source of the sound and cracked the door open, only to be met with a masked man. Before she could ask for his name, he spoke up.
“I am sent by Jayce Talis of Piltover. He has a letter for you.”
The man hands out the letter to Mel then gives her his address so he could deliver Mel’s response to Jayce once she’s written it.
‘Ah, yet another letter’, she says to herself before closing the door with her foot and heading to her bedroom, eager to read the letter. Jayce Talis was a Piltoveran friend she made a few months ago. He was visiting a mining site for research, but was struggling due to the language barrier. Being fluent in both English and Latin, she helped translate and naturally, they became friends and stayed in touch.
His letters were all a mirror reflecting his personality; very informal but friendly. He drew bears everywhere, wrote in block letters, except for his signature which was in cursive, and his writing was very amateurish. He described life as a Piltoveran student, and often made sure to include a few lines poking fun at people at the academy he wasn’t very fond of.
In response, Mel also wrote about the Vestal university. Part of her wanted to include her uninterest in religion and the weight her father’s wish carried, but she found it’s best to not pour out such emotions on a fairly new friend.
…
The following five years went by in a blink of an eye. Like foreseen, she was able to make it as one of the six priestesses, and was three years into priesthood. Her days went by without any mirth or happiness. With each day, the Gods’ statues went from a representation of deities in her eyes to just carved stone, and the fire went from a dedication for Noxus’ vitality to a mere mixture of fuel, oxygen, and heat.
A vestal virgin. Aside from the white linen shawl on her head and her preserved chastity, who was she, really? The problem wasn’t within the attire nor the celibacy. It was within the definition. A servant of the Gods. That wasn’t her. Nor was it where she wanted to fit.
So, to hell with it. If Mel’s fate was to be buried alive for not following a path she had only started because of a dead man, then so be it. The dead cannot choose.
She wore her late father’s clothes, carried a pocket knife, and left a letter on her bedside table to whomever might find it, declaring resignation from the temple. And so, in one night, with a fake deep voice imitating a man’s and a small flare of hope within her soul, Mel paid for a substandard boat ride to her destination, the place where all might change...
Piltover, the city of progress.