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The morning was cool, not actually cold—for in Ionia it never was truly cold—but not warm as the sun had not yet risen. If one was to look outside from their house at the forest, they would see nothing, hear nothing, and feel nothing save the gentle breeze. If one was to look to the horizon they would see the pre-dawn grey and perhaps, depending on where they were, a dark speck outlined against the silvery horizon. They would brush it off as an animal as it was too early for travelers.
Few would think that it was a man on the run, even fewer would know the man on the run, and only a handful of the latter would know what the man was running from. One of those few was with the man, and it was the closest. This one was the man's sword, unnamed and unknown to the world at large.
This blade has always seen, felt, heard, tasted, and smelled the world through the man, who is known as Yasuo. The blade had also been with Yasuo when he was falsely accused of treason, the blade had been Yasuo's figurative shoulder to cry on, it loved Yasuo as one would love a brother. So, it should come as no surprise that the blade was always on the lookout for its wielder.
While the blade and Yasuo were close they rarely spoke, and when they did it was very... to the point, much like the blade's cry of "Stop!" that now echoed in Yasuo's mind as he slid across the damp grass of the prairie due to his sudden stop.
"What is it?" Whispered Yasuo, adrenaline now coursing through his veins and he anticipated a fight, for his partner never called a stop unless there was danger.
Even as the blade formulated a reply the danger made itself know. When out of the brush stepped another swordsman. This swordsman had his mouth set in a grim line. Standing at about 5' 10" he was small in comparison to Yasuo who stood at 6' 8"—not counting the high pony-tail. The other warrior also carried a shorter sword than Yasuo, putting him at a disadvantage, but the man carried himself in a way that bespoke years of training with a blade.
"Yasuo," called out the man, "you are accused and charged with the murder of the Elder Roku, the penalty for which is death. Will you lay down your arms and accept the punishment?"
Yasuo simply drew his blade and stood, waiting, as the wind blew the short cloak he wore backwards. His hair simply flew in all directions due to the wind—this would have elicited laughter from him and the sword at any other time—and he sighed. Still waiting.
"So, it is combat you want? So be it."
The other warrior drew his own sword after Yasuo had drawn his blade, and as dictated by the ancient rites of Ionian combat. They circled each other, watching, waiting, listening, for anything that would signal an opening to attack. There was nothing save the sounds of leather on earth, or the sound of the wind that accompanied Yasuo where ever he went.
Yasuo's opponent struck, rushing forward as Yasuo "tripped", the sword had seen this trick more times than it could count. It was the most commonly employed trick by the man who wielded the blade; make it look as though he stumbled so his opponent attacked, Yasuo then instantly whirled to the side striking them thrice: once through the side, once through the arm, and once through the wrist. They then were either dead or dying by the time the blade was returned to its sheath.
When the other warrior attacked, Yasuo did as expected; whirling and slicing before dropping his sword and running to the fallen warrior, tears streaking his face as he cried out in anguish.
The sword was shocked; it had never seen Yasuo cry in the fourteen years they had been partners, ordinarily when Yasuo had to kill he was saddened at the loss of his kinsmen but never to the point of grief such as this. This warrior must have meant an incredible amount to Yasuo to bring him to tears.
"Yone!" Cried the partner of the blade as he fell to his knees. "Why, why did you come after me you fool?"
"To-" the man, now known as Yone, was interrupted by a coughing fit as blood fell from his lips. "To avenge our master, you killed him. The evidence was—is—stacked against you; our master was killed using a wind technique, and you're the only being in a generation to master, or even use such a power." As Yone went to take a shuddering breath to continue his life ebbed away, as the blood that kept him alive was now pooled by his side. Where there had been a small light dancing in Yone's eyes there was now just Yasuo's reflection.
Yasuo let his legs fail him and he fell to the ground, sobbing silently as he held Yone's limp and lifeless body. "Brother..." now the sword, who was still left lying on the ground while his partner grieved, understood. Yone had been Yasuo's brother, the only being closer to Yasuo than the blade, and now he lay dead in Yasuo's arms: killed by his mourner.
Yasuo's eyes now burned with a fire that the blade had never seen before as Yasuo promised to find the one who forced him to kill his own brother. It was only then that Yasuo picked up his blade and cleaned his brother's blood off of it. Sliding the blade back into the sheath Yasuo asked the blade "Will you stand by me in my quest for vengeance, and to reclaim my honor?"
The blade solemnly responded "Yasuo you have been the other half of me for fourteen years, I have always stood by you, as I shall now. We shall track this killer to the farthest corner of Noxus if we must."
With that Yasuo turned away from his brother's body and toward the rising sun with eleven words falling from his lips as he walked away: "Know this: if I cannot reach Heaven, I will raise Hell."
At that moment the blade felt a shred of pity for the one who killed Yasuo's master, and by extension Yasuo's brother. For whoever they were, they had just made two very dangerous enemies, both beings with nothing to lose, and one of them had just accepted that redemption was out of the question for himself and sworn revenge. The other was just a blade that sought to help its wielder and all that threatened him.
Whatever pity the blade felt was now gone.