An Elaborate Dream

The stub of a soldier stared up at LeBlanc, his eyes as wide as valors. He sat helpless at the end of the bed, frozen in shock and by the magicks with which she'd bound his truncated body. For the good of Noxus. For the good of Noxus. For the good of Noxus. He slumped back against the four-poster, so terrified he could not even comprehend what had happened in the past few fateful moments. No blood leaked from his wounds--or from the severed limbs which lay now upon the blankets. They looked embalmed, surreal, two perfect cross-sections cut cleanly at the thigh, muscles and vessels gelatinous, as though partially cauterized by The Deceiver's ephemeral blade.

The Grand General’s trembling hands, barely more than skin and bone, stretched for the legs that lay beside him on the bed. Teeth grit, he reached across his sunken chest and sunk his nails into their tissues, dug into flesh and gore until his fingertips were swallowed. Green energy began to build like flames about his shrunken form; his un-patched red eye rolled back into his head. Emerald and onyx flames arced out over the offering, igniting the runes LeBlanc had inscribed upon them. A noise like rushing water filled the room as the Master Tactician drew in the remaining life force within the severed limbs, the runic energy with which it had been laced. His teeth chattered; the bed shook beneath the combined effects of their magicks. Long shadows wrought by spellflame fell behind Swain’s desk, his chair, the silhouette of his dutifully observing raven.

Flesh and muscle seemed to melt away, to slough off as the general absorbed their very essence until only ash and bone remained beside him. Purple inscriptions still glistened over every inch of femur and fibula, patella and tibia: runic writings that would grant him their illusory capacity for a while. Feeling returned to the lower half of his body in steady, tingling pulses, as though it were gradually reawakening. This sensation in itself was nearly agonizing—yet exhilarating, overwhelming. The flames died down, retracted into him, and slowly, arduously, he sat. The pallor of his face seemed to have improved, but the exaggerated rise and fall of his shoulders with each belabored breath indicated the exhaustion even this modest display of power had brought on.

His eye flicked up to her, an ignited ember full of appreciation for her power and prestige, her constancy and commitment to their cause. He set his jaw. To test her granted boons, he pushed the blankets back and lifted his legs up towards him, turning laboriously to position himself on the edge of the bed. His form, though still cadaverous, regained some color as he sat, as bare feet met the rug. He drew in a shaky breath before prying the encrusted oxygen mask from his face and setting it upon the bedside table.

For a moment he sat still, allowing himself time to adjust against the wave of vertigo that swept over him. Then, with a grunt, he got to his feet. The strength of the soldier's legs felt strange channeled through his own stick-thin limbs, heavy and yet oddly liberating. Calloused fingers plucked the IV from its attachment in the crook of his elbow and laid it, too, upon the nightstand. Despite the heavy dosages of painkillers and lifesaving antibiotics it had given him, movement was still torturous--but the strong endure; the strong press on; the strong rise to the occasion. And all the while the soldier sat frozen upon the floor, color draining from his face with every passing moment.

One step, two, he made his way to where LeBlanc had laid his clothes and began to dress. Trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as he sealed it over bloodstained bandages. He found it strange to evenly proportion weight upon each leg as he drew on his pants, buttoned them and turned to face her. The shroud he secured last, that none would look upon the rot that spread over his jaw and neck like spiderwebs spun of ebony. When he had finished, the double-click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth signaled Beatrice to alight upon his shoulder. He took up his cane as she did, less for his now-sturdy legs; more for his aching back and inexperienced apportioning of balance upon them, to maintain the illusion, and to prepare for the inevitable ebbing of the spell's effectiveness.

He crossed the room and took the matron's hand in his, the slightest smear of soldiers' blood staining her flawless white flesh beneath his grip. "My perfect dove," he rasped, his voice trembling with ardor, hoarse with illness. A moment of silence passed in which he held her gaze, crimson flames burning bright within his eye. "Forgive me when I doubt or when I falter. I will never let us fail." Upon his shoulder, his fiendish familiar trilled in accord, relieved to sit again upon her constant perch. He leaned in to embrace LeBlanc--the closest expression of affection he could muster beneath the weight of circumstance--and lingered there a moment before adding, "Warn me when it begins to fade," as he drew away.

With a grim glance towards the traumatized guard, the Grand General commanded, "You will not die before I return," and prepared to depart the bedchamber.

Slowly, the Grand General picked his way across the room from her and stepped over the threshold. He lingered in the hall a moment, fighting vertigo, crimson eyes closed and teeth grit behind his shroud. The medicines that kept him bound to life made maintaining consciousness and balance a constant struggle--but the strong press on. As the door closed behind him with a click, a trembling hand drew up to his missing eye. Calloused fingers lingered upon the silken patch that obscured the wound from view. Steeled by indignation, he turned and began to make his way towards Darius' office.

The noise of his own breathing became deafening, difficult as inhaling and exhaling was without the oxygen machine under which he'd lain for nearly a week. But he was not weak. No. The strong rise to the occasion. Cane, step, step, he walked, footfalls dragging on the carpet. Head spinning, he focused on the rhythm of his breath, determined not to falter--although his dizziness caused him to weave slightly as he went.

Just as he rounded the corridor corner, a slight sweat beading upon his forehead at the exertion of his trek, the very man with whom he so desperately needed to speak swam into view. "Darius," he croaked as the warrior drew upon the fifth story landing. The Master Tactician, though on his feet and apparently functioning, looked even worse for wear than when he and his second had last seen one another, his garments hanging off his feeble frame, his face gaunt and ghostly. There was something strange about his walk, something dragging when he talked--but he folded his hands over the head of his cane at the top of the stairs and waited for The Hand's address in affected semblance of normality.

As Darius alighted upon the landing, the contrast between the two men grew glaringly evident: one tall, well-armored, healthy and imposing in his crimson drape; the other frail, sickly, hunched over a cane, so thin his second could have seized him in one hand. Once well-tailored clothing hung loosely from the Master Tactician's frame; his shoulders shook despite his efforts to maintain balance and poise. A quiet exhalation of breath passed shrouded lips as his own eye dropped from the Hand's face: a fading ember in these dark and ornate halls, these corridors of grim importance in which they'd both sought to stand much of their lives.

And now, seemingly against all odds, stand they did, at the helm of their nation, partners before the rising cataclysmic tide. Heavy boots echoed on marble as Darius stepped closer to Swain. The Grand General swallowed with some difficulty over his second's question, lifting his gaze again to meet the Hand's. The hall was empty of guards, guests and servants, and the use of his first name set the tone for this conversation--as did the desperate look darkening Darius' features. The sight of this paragon of strength in desperation gave him pause.

"I'm.. telling you.. now," he finally wheezed. The general's brows knit, both over the exertion of speaking and the gravity of the message he bore. He hadn't expected to be called out so directly, but this would suit his purposes, even if it frustrated LeBlanc. "I need... you..." A shock of agony shot through his skeletal form. He paused, flinched, bowed his head. His one eye clenched closed against the intensity of his pain.

Stay awake. Stay standing. Steel yourself.[/font][/size]

Swain took a steadying breath. Head still bowed, he pressed onward. "I need you to.. manage things.. while I'm away. Just.. for a few... weeks." A grunt of exertion punctuated his command. His final words were issued forth as little more than a whisper, hoarse, without the characteristic eloquence or resolution the Grand General's speech usually bore: "For this."

Despite his pain, the Master Tactician managed to maintain his impassive expression as his second spoke--until mention of the Shadow Isles visitor. "...what." came Swain's desperate whisper. The mask cracked. His feeble body trembled. A look of utter disbelief widened his eyes as bushy brows knit over them. From her perch upon his shoulder, Beatrice puffed out her chest and issued a shrill shriek of dismay, as though feeding off her master's barely-concealed terror.

With a panicked breath, almost a sob, the Grand General brought his hand over his eyes and bowed his head. He stood in silence, wavering on the spot, his body all aquiver. Another gasp passed bleeding, rotting lips: a noise part dismay and part stifled breath. "...fuck," he said aloud, while inwardly he reached out for LeBlanc. Perhaps she would be angry now, but she could never throw away their millennia together, past and future, all they had worked for and all they had to gain over a minor disagreement. Especially when Darius' display seemed to have proven him right--and especially in the face of something so dire.

Take my bird and stay hidden. If he discovers you here, he will stop at nothing to destroy us... Evaine. Should he recognize your magicks...[/i]

The plan taking form in his mind was haphazardly constructed, dependent upon so many unknown factors--and for others to perform where he no longer could. Hate for these contingencies rose up in his throat like bile (or was that bile? The sensation of nausea building in his gut?) He took as deep a breath as he was able, lowering his trembling hand from his face, knowing that if there were anyone on Runeterra upon whom he could depend, it was his eternal partner.

You'll have to limit it to only the bare minimum required for me to function, my dove. If he should detect you...

He was unable to finish the thought.

As though privy to her master's silent conversation, his hellish bird took flight and soared up to the floors above. Without a glance after the perturbed raven, Swain returned his attention to his second. "I'll... meet him..." he said slowly, steeling himself. The limitations of his granted mobility weighed heavy on his mind.

...how long do I have?

"I will accompany you. This is not negotiable." Darius was not about to let Swain meet the damned shadow islander alone, especially after the "warm reception" he'd given. Darius once again steeled himself, he gripped the situation by the throat and suffocated any emotion. He was himself again, even when he cracked he did not crack for long.

Swain was obviously worried but he of course understood why. If Darius could get him through this hell, then he'll have done his duty.