Death upon the Doorstep

When Darius was knocked against the wall, Swain's eyes widened, but he remained still as the winded summoner strode from the chamber--save for the uncontrollable tremor of his wasted form. Several Raedsel followed at a safe distance, according to protocol. They would not escort him, but they would watch him as he went down the twisting staircases and draw open the door for him to exit. The echoing thud of heavy oaken doors indicated Azazel's departure--and only then did the Grand General lower his chin to his chest. Blazing eyes shut tight and his face contorted in some horrible expression of agony and despair. The aura of terrible power that had surrounded him retracted into his pitiful body, leaving him vulnerable there in the chair: ill and painfully mortal.

Shrunken shoulders rose and fell with the Master Tactician's sharp intakes of breath. Movement was becoming laborious now; the constant medicines administered by his IV over the previous week were fading. His allotted thirteen minutes were nearly up and then, he knew, he would not be able to even stand. He should have attempted to get to his feet. He should have asked for Darius' assistance, but the words would not come, only the blinding ache in his core, the slow spread of numbness and the crushing weight of his new realization: the king would attempt to use Noxus against the League, then turn upon them after the destruction of their mutual enemy. Or... he could seek Vessaria again. Risks and plans. Plots and deception.

The general grew dizzy and leaned forward, trembling, until his forehead met with the table. A strangled noise, a half-sob, echoed against the polished mahogany, somehow more haunting than the powerful voice with which he'd addressed the Ruined King for all the desperation it bore.

The general's pace was sluggish, a shuffling gait that laid bare the gravity of his condition. With each step he seemed to slow, to lean more heavily on his second as they went--but he would not resort to being carried. Somehow, the mismatched pair made their way to the general's bedroom door, where Swain wavered on the spot and would have doubled over if not for his firm grip on Darius' arm. His right hand clutched his cane. His head bowed. His shoulders shook. His teeth grit behind his shroud.

After a few painful moments of silence, he rasped as well as he was able. "I... have to... fix this... Darius." His single eye lifted to meet his second's gaze. "Whatever happens... Noxus will.. prevail." This was beyond tears, though the general's voice shook with more than utter weakness. "The strong... endure." The strong survive. The strong thrive. Only the weak fall by the wayside.

Swain retracted his trembling hand from Darius' arm to wipe the accumulating sweat from his forehead. The numbness had spread from waist to toes and he was not entirely certain he'd be able to cross the threshold. But the strong prevail. "Give me... two weeks..." He gasped for breath. The number was conjured from nothing more than an estimate, but if Singed took longer than a fortnight to prepare the fortifying serums, this broken body would surely give out entirely. "I... won't be gone... long."

While they wavered on the threshold, the Grand General's wordless warning reached his mistress beyond: "...I'm coming in. Darius is with me."[/color] Even the voice of his mind sounded utterly exhausted. By the time Darius' calloused hand closed around the door handle, the room beyond was already immaculate: no bones, no soldier's torso, no medical equipment, no LeBlanc. It looked as though it had hardly been occupied at all over the previous week, the bed made, the shelves dusted, Beatrice perched proudly atop the general's desk chair. When the two men entered, she squawked with relief, but did not fly to them, sensing the need for restraint.

Swain followed Darius to the bed. Every step seemed to fall in slow motion. He squinted his eye as they walked. Cane... step... step... cane..... step..... step....... cane....... step. Finally, they drew nigh the four-poster. With great effort, still gripping Darius' forearm, the Grand General lowered himself down upon it. The stillness in the room amplified his belabored breathing: the ragged sound of in-and-out so forced it sounded as though it might cease at any moment. Seated upon the bed, the Master Tactician allowed his cane to clatter to the floor, releasing his second to grip the bed itself for balance. The burn of nausea building in his core had become nearly unbearable.

"Noxus... will... rise..." he repeated in his feeble rasp. Then, "Darius..." He turned his single eye up to meet his second's, brows knit in desperation. "...none of... High Command... can know." The general swallowed hard against the bile building in his throat, then continued, "I.." A gag, unexpected, caused his failing form to lurch forward. "L-leave me..." was all he could choke out, "please...."

If he were going to be ill, the Master Tactician would at least wish to maintain some shred of his dignity.

The moment Darius left the room and Swain was left alone, LeBlanc did not reappear. Evaine stepped out through the shadows and stared at Swain, tears welling up in her eyes. Her circlet hung around her wrist like an oversized bracelet.

"J-Jericho...You...You're fine. You're here. Thank every star in heaven. Thank every star..."

With a sniffle and a quick brush, she maintained her regal composure and walked over to him. She waved her hands about, and a bucket appeared in them. The Deceiver motioned to one of the chairs and made it scratch across the floor, perfectly positioned behind the Grand General to catch him. She wanted to ask question after question from him, but she knew better to do so.

"Breath in, and breath out, Jericho. You're alright now."

If it disturbed or bothered Evaine, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she held her matronly, regal demeanor, and without a word, weaved her hands. The illusion was dropped, her missing pinky now exposed as she weaved her spells. Perhaps even in this state, the Grand General would notice her meticulous spellcrafting was slower than usual, any illusions on her half completely dropped.

Despite the air she carried, he could see her as who she truly was now: Exhausted beyond words and near the point of complete collapse.

Once her sigils activated, Swain feel a cleansing sensation wash over him. The bucket disappeared, along with the bucket, the urine, and any unpleasant bodily fluid that had leaked from him, and he was dressed in a night shirt and loose pants, revealing his thin, sickened figure at its fullest. As it currently stood, Evaine had more muscle mass than the Grand General.

She slowly stood up, dusted her knees off, and instead of summoning her staff, grabbed his cane and dropped one shoulder towards him.

"Come along, Jericho. I'll take you to bed. Tonight was...a long night. I'll watch over you as you sleep. No dawdling now," she said in her best attempt to sound as though she were not panicked, as though she were not sure as to what else she could do.