Work Text
“… the Great Weaver taught that everyone was bound together in the warp and weft of life.
T
o leave one thread to fray would, in time, affect them all.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
1
Exhaustion
We plummet down the clocktower, howling a wordless promise. Even the divides. Raise our homes to the sky. Fall and fall truly.The bells of Zaun toll five times. Five peals, five hours since dawn. Morning's last hour bellows like a dirge before the brink of noon. But to me, it's new as a fresh-opened wound:Five bells after sunrise. The same hour when a man shot Ajuna, my best friend, dead.I shouldn't waste any more time.From an aching hunch, I stir awake. Tools and spare parts scattered all over my desk roll and clink to the floor as my arms unfold, scribbled notes peeling off my sweaty elbows.I yawn. Polluted air, like a waft of sawdust, hits the back of my throat. It tastes of soot and slag— familiar flavors. I wipe their taste off my tongue anyway, only for black-green drool to streak the back of my left wrist like tarnish on copper. Too much accumulated. No blood at least. Healthy as I can ever be.I stretch. Chair creaks. Bones click. Torsion loosens. Sleeveless shirt soaked in sweat; loose shorts wrinkled as paper mache. I tug my collar to cool myself, but it's pointless as swallowing spit to slake thirst. Rather not spruce up though. It'd be a waste of time.My right glove scratches my face more than it clears my vision. Yellow chem-lights beam from my room's only window down its only desk. Out there, apartments cantilever off the cliffside opposite mine; patchwork hives of peeled paint and rusty pipelines. Hanging chem-lamps festoon them; their lights, dim and scattered, struggling to gleam through the Gray, like sleepy, farflung eyes that glimmer behind the smog-acid shroud. Watching me.The bells haven't stopped. Cliff-sides almost seem to tremble to their drawn-out clamor; granite ribs to a mallet. When the tolls die out, quiet returns and the earth is still. Relief washes all over Zaun; from the deepest junk-heaps of the Sumps to the skylit avenues of the Promenade. Minds at ease in every street, every room. Save for mine.I wince in the silence. A sound at earshot's edge shakes my entire world. The bells' reminder comes and goes, forgotten until they toll again. But my own reminder is constant. Relentless. Tick-tick-ticking on top of my desk.Numbered wheels line a stopwatch's dusty brass panel. As the seconds pass, the rightmost wheel rolls and ticks. The amount of time since I slumped asleep. Wasted time. Too much accumulated. Today's the last Gray-damned day and I gave in to exhaustion. Rake my hair. Clench my teeth. None of that can muzzle the gnaw of anger, except to see those seconds freeze.With a jab of my thumb, the digits cease rolling:
Three hours. Six minutes. Zero seconds.
Doesn't matter. Time moves on despite them. Stopping for no one. Always running out. But not for me. For Ajuna. For my best friend.A note's taped on the stopwatch.On it, thirty-two pen strokes make black fences. A tally count, not to record the days, but to remind me that they are numbered. Forgot to continue the count last night. I scour for a pen among the mess of graphs and calculations, and use it to continue the tally. One more stroke. The last one. Today.Thirty-three days have passed since the day we buried Ajuna. Thirty-three days since we painted his face on the Wall and let the solemn lights of arrayed oil lamps dry his final memory. Thirty-three days since I've refused to mourn.Thirty-three days is the end. And yet, I overslept. Damn me.The creak of metal, the rush of water: someone starts to shower in the flat above mine. I crane my neck with a huff. On the ceiling, pipelines shape a tracery of rust and rivet. Paths that meet and split, diverging and converging. They rumble all the same to the flow of water inside.I stare at those paths. A worry stone for the eyes. Press even your greatest worries against stone, and it won't ever break. Troubles don't last before the simple fact of the now:Time is not the pipes, not the methodical yet arbitrary arrangement of ends and beginnings. One pipe spreads into a web of lines, seemingly unpredictable and complex, but it always starts and ends somewhere. Still, an illusion of order. There are no starts. No ends.Time is the water inside. A sliver of the element that carves the world rattles within the hollow metal. Seas batter coasts. Rivers etch mountains. Rain nurtures life. All the world's water, flowing in countless, perpetual directions. That is time. But in the pipes, the water doesn't craft valleys, forge storms, or nourish fields.There, they wipe away a man's filth.Time is not the pipes. Time is water. The pipes are a means to guide it.That is the simple fact of the now. The stone to my worry. When the shower pauses, quiet returns and the tubes are still. Water, nature's wild chisel, is forced to a halt by the simple turn of a valve. A scrap of primordial force, brought to heel. Controlled. Time isn't any different.On one of the pipes above me, a clear dew of water emerges. It forms a teardrop, before trickling down the metal dial affixed to the back of my right glove.Time is not the pipes. Time is water.And I am the one who turns the valve.The Zero Drive towers above all the work on my desk.Riveted brass lids cap both ends of its hourglass-shaped main chamber. Inside, crystalline blue shards float and dance— yet drift all the same— as they cast turquoise light through and within the glass. Remains of a hex crystal, almost part-ethereal. Like pieces of a cobalt dream.My fragmented reflections peer through their encapsulated light; my eyes in a daze as I listen to the shards. They call out. They always do, in hums as faint as whispers; disjointed moments of some shattered cacophony; loudening and fading, then loudening again. Vague and distant. A fractured song, weak as an earth-buried lullaby.Under a heap of scorched metal and blasted concrete, I first heard them "sing." I never discovered where they came from. Didn't matter. The shards showed me their power, and that was enough reason to make the Z-Drive to harness it.With Ajuna's help, we scavenged and swiped the components. He didn't know what the parts were for, 'til I showed him the first stable prototype. Only he really understood the Z-Drive's purpose. To everyone else in the gang, it was a toy at least, a weapon at most. But to me and Ajuna, it was salvation. Everyone's salvation.It still is, especially now.But it won't be enough.Networks of thick wires and reticulated tubes connect the Z-Drive to another machine, one I call the Median Augment, an assemblage of plated cables and steelwork mechanisms built around techmaturgical components. After we painted Ajuna's face on the Wall, I made the Augment with help from the gang and assistance from outsiders.Still wasn't enough. Trade-offs had to be accepted. Sacrifices made. All for the most vital element of my work, now attached to the Augment's top panel.There, a metallic orb no larger than my fist rests atop three gear-shaped stabilizers. Its name, gilded and embossed, brands the axis of its ornate chassis:
PROJECT 35-4. ISA CORE.
A name I didn't give for a device I don't own. Skulls had to be cracked; blood spilled. Trust broken. Violence and betrayal. Too much accumulated. Doesn't matter. All worth it in the end. Has to be. Can't live with myself otherwise. No. Won't live at all.Eddies of red energy swirl and blend behind the Core's coin-sized viewport. A whirlpool of fire rages inside it; the casing, cool to the touch. Unlike the Z-Drive's passive glow, the Core's light beats with lifelike pattern. More heart than machine.Ajuna's face gazes through that scarlet well of power. Young, bright eyes in a daze, a laughing smile. I've imagined them there so many times and, always, they prove that nothing and no one I've lost were in vain. Hope gives life to his face. Hope for Zaun's future. Hope that I'm about to fulfill.
You and the gang's the only family I have left, Ekko. When you leave, I'll be the one to watch over us all. Promise.
The energies of the orb pulse. Muzzle flash. As the light fades, his eyes and his smile disappear. Now, he sleeps. But not forever. Just a few more pieces to attach and calibrate, and I can bring his face back. Wake him up. The Zero Drive's crystal fragments hum and the ISA Core's energy pulses. The Median Augment, the link, will merge them together. Almost complete.All I need is time.A pang of relief. I sigh, but a mountain's weight bears down my head. My body's trembling; vision blurring; my heart, a windblown ember. Only got three hours of sleep after a whole day's work. I need energy. To that rest is my body's plea, but I don't listen. I never listen. Exhaustion obstructs progress. Sleep equals time wasted.Stay awake, must stay awake.I reach down to the floor. Hollow tin cans of Vigorburst collide with my hand, as do paper shells of leftover takeout. My fingers graze one can, the very last, fat and full of manufactured glop. Glop that keeps me going.Got it. Pop it open. Take a deep breath. Chug the whole thing down.With every gulp, the frizz of hyper-sweet liquid tingles the length of my throat, intensifying 'til it feels like a stream of molten lead. Once emptied, I let the can fall and, no sooner than it clunks by my feet, the taste and potency rock my head into a convulsion. Legs jig. Hands twitch. Eyes pop awake. The final stages of my work lift from a drowsy fog and wait ahead of me, pressed closer by the Vigorburst.But my body is a stubborn contraption.On its own, my head lurches. Jaw forced open. Throat shivering. Water pools under my tongue and around my eyes. It's happening again. A reflex, my system wanting to evict the Vigorburst. Too much accumulated. But I need it. Can't afford sleep and exhaustion to stop me now. Of all the days they've wasted, not today.Stand up. Hold my breath. Resist the urge to belch. A liquid surge rises. My jaw gapes. I grip my neck. Strangle myself. Choke it back down to the pit, but I lurch again. This time I feel my innards crawl up my throat. Out my mouth.Yellow-brown gut matter comes surging out and onto my desk. Notes and tools, drenched in pieces once in me, soaked even more as I lurch again, harder than the last. I try to aim away, only to spread it out even further. Splosh. Splatter. Trickle.Catching my breath, I groan, hands planted on the desk. Quiet returns and my body is still. Blood might come out next so I wait with gnashed teeth and a gritty throat. Nothing does. If it's a mercy or a warning, I don't want to know. Either way, I'm spent.My stomach aches; my eyes water, and cold snot seeps out my nose. It's over. Wipe whatever fluid on my face off. Sniff in that putrid odor. Spit in an empty Vigorburst can. Stomach juices coat my work. Gut slurry leaks down my desk's edge. I snap curses under warm, sour breaths. Can't work like this.Though puke flushed out my insides, the worst is yet to come. Cleaning the vomitus up will take too much time. I clench my eyes shut and shake my head, because I know what I have to do.I begin operating the Z-Drive's activation triggers. Turn its brass knobs and yank the pull-chain at its side to ready the device.But I stop. A noise penetrates the walls: keys crinkling and gritting into a keyhole outside my room. Hands frozen, I snap my head toward the sound. The flat's main door opens. They're finally here. Need to move faster.Once I'm done with the first two triggers, the Z-Drive's activation cycle begins. Rotors within the hourglass chamber whir to life, interrupting the crystalline fragments' dance. Momentum gains. Swirling and blending, the shards gain more speed. More energy. Their passive glow transforms into a voltaic flurry. Not ready yet though. The Gray-damned thing needs a little more time to warm up. A little time's never enough.On the back of my right glove rests the dial, the Z-Drive's final trigger, still part-wet with the fallen dew of pipe water. My fingers pinch it, prepared to turn and complete the activation cycle once the device gathers enough power.They open my bedroom door. Too late.I haven't seen Mom and Dad in thirty days, and their smiles, for even longer. Powder conceals the aged, almond tone of Mom's face, while Dad's new round-lensed glasses glisten over the shadows of his wrinkled, milky brows.Back from their stay in Piltover, dressed in upside fashion, not one bit of them seemed Zaunite. They'd come home sweating in their grime-stained attires and work boots, and that's the sight I'm used to. Now they look as if they've never lost sleep or broke their backs in the under-city. Like many Piltovans.Seeing the puke and the active Z-Drive, their smiles jerk into mouths now agape. Luggage they'd carried all the way down from Piltover thud against the floor."What in Janna's name..." Dad says, eyeing the vomit-drenched glows of the Z-Drive and the ISA Core on my desk. Mom fans a hand before her nose. The stench of sweat, an unclean room, and half-digested takeout drags her head away. She coughs as if she's never smelled anything worse in Zaun.Our looks meet and I grin back with grime-stained teeth.The hairs on my neck tingle to an electric aura. The Z-Drive begins to rattle; the shards within reaching maximum velocity. Azure bolts spark and roar into existence. Their power is ready. It is mine, and it waits for me.I twist the dial on my right glove. An explosive vortex. The rewind cycle begins. With as much force as a river out of a jar, time-warping energy bursts from the Z-Drive. Power encompasses the room. The walls and all their pipes crumble away. Crystalline shards, once humming, now shriek as their blue light engulfs all color. Splintering reality. Countless cobalt pixels breaching from the cracks. Shards of fractured continuum, swirling all around.Time rewinds.Mom and Dad pace backward. The door shuts on its own in front of them. The puke overflowing my desk pumps back into my mouth, and the water splattered on my glove floats back up into the pipes. Thirty-three pen strokes become thirty-two. The stopwatch's dials roll back. The bells of Zaun ring in reverse. Rewind, rewind, rewind, then. . .Stop.Cobalt pixels surge inward back into the Z-Drive, reassembling reality on their way. Some remain, only to dissipate like fireflies before dawn, leaving only motes of dust that float in the window-light. Quiet returns and the room is still.Time resumes.From an aching hunch, I stir awake. Static crackles inside my skull. Woozy, unbalanced, but intact, I clench my eyes. Delirium clears. Vision returns; scattered notes and parts; black-green streak of drool on my left wrist; chem-light beams from the window, and a clean desk. Everything as before. Save for me. Vigorburst continues to course through my veins. The acid sting of puke still lines the back of my throat.I inspect the Zero Drive, unmoved atop my desk. Its rotors spin with fading momentum, and the shards drift and hover as before. Their energy 's dormant once again. All else seems unaltered. Lucky as I can ever be. I sigh, relieved, but not totally. If I activated the Median Augment and started linking the ISA Core and the Z-Drive, I wouldn't be here.They're not ready. Need more time to finalize my progress. The Z-Drive isn't going to give that to me, not yet. To reverse time means to reverse progress, to let exhaustion accumulate. Have to force my way through this, find some way to salvage the situation, or I squander everything and everyone I've gambled.Mom and Dad are coming home now. Tomorrow, I leave for Piltover as an apprenta, the clan-sponsored scholar my parents have always wanted. Another obstacle to deal with. Once I'm done, there will be no tomorrow. There will be no apprenta. One last sacrifice: their dreams for mine. Shouldn't matter. All will be reversed in the end.Crimson energy swirls and blends within the ISA Core. Soon, the Zero Drive will have that energy. The Median Augment will be the key, the bridge. Enough power to bring me back to that day. The day I lost him.
You and the gang's the only family I have left, Ekko. When you leave, I'll be the one to watch over us all. Promise.
"I'm not leaving, Ajuna," I mutter. "I'll never turn my back on Zaun."The bells of Zaun toll five times.Five peals, five hours since dawn. Morning's last hour bellows like a dirge before the brink of noon. But to me, it's new as a fresh-opened wound:Five bells after sunrise.Thirty-three days ago, in that same hour, I hummed Ajuna a sob-broken lullaby. All I could do in the time I had left with him.
I feel so tired, Ekko. I just want to go to sleep.
Shh. It's alright. Go to sleep. When you wake up, everything will be okay.
He gave in to exhaustion. Cradled in my arms, he fell asleep and fell truly. Doesn't matter. In my mind, he's still falling. Falling with everyone else.As long as I'm still awake, they never fall truly.Our promise. Only thing left beneath the blood and grime. Just one supercharged rewind to wash the dirt away, and Ajuna's face will be the first I see. The first of many.Even the divides. Raise our homes to the sky.All I need is time.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
2
Distance
Father, mother, my tribe. Only one need stand, yet all rise for me; I, in the middle.
I am their chosen, a little girl, blessed with the Great Weaver's gift, cursed by its power. Loved nonetheless.
Song, chant, and praise. Sonorous betrayals of their fear. They echo into the night.
Yet mine, a whisper, is louder than all:
For them, I will rise someday
I was only six high summers old. A lamb had strayed from the caravan on our way to the southern pastures, and I alone went after her.Upon the coarse sands of the east, I tracked her trail, hollering her name, Mishai, as I followed her little hoof prints deep into a box canyon. I will watch her, I coaxed Father, I vow—the Great Weaver, my witness—that she will be safe. Even as night came, the thought of the poor lamb, lost from her flock and devoured by desert wolves, loomed in my mind. Only I would be responsible. Only I could retrieve her.But I had been followed too; not by a beast nor a stranger, but by a force—cracking and warping the earth in my shadow; whispering, in want of control so long deprived. With every subtle tremor, every shifting pebble by my heel, it yearns and pleas; a tremendous power, restless and untapped; a power I did not heed. But when at last I found Mishai, I had no other choice.The lost lamb was trapped atop a rock face, higher than any child could reach. Daring to trust that strange force, I spread my palms on the wrinkled sandstone before me, and closed my eyes. Earthborne threads coiled gently around my fingers, unseen yet tethered to my will. The stones trembled and, as if knowing my thoughts, began to shape into handholds. But Mishai's hooves scraped from above, slipping for an instant.Fear. Though I felt only a twinge, it overwhelmed the threads. The earth burst open. Wads of wool torn asunder.A landslide— the rock face crumbling, Mishai yawping, falling with the dust and gravel as all collapsed toward me. I screamed, struggled to dash away, but not even the swiftest, most desperate sparrow can escape the shadows of one's own doing. Shadows that soon devoured my world.My thread in the Tapestry would have ended there; another life— that of a fearful, reckless, naive little girl— lost to the callous barrens of the east, taken first by honor then by whim. But Mishai saved me. Father followed the sound of her wavering mewls the morning after, and there, beneath the rubble, he found me, his only child, slumped unconscious.Three days later, I woke to a weaving song, strained and tremulous. Mother's.I was only six high summers old. At the cost of pain, of knowing power and the fear of it, I kept my word. I kept Mishai safe.But whom I pursue now is no stray lamb.Her boot steps fade upon the sands, thinning as I approach a field of cobbled shale. Between two plateaus, a wide ravine gapes open before me, where crenellated walls and colonnades of statue-pillars—mortarless works of magic— overhang from its steep flanks. The dusted skeleton of a temple-fortress; the ravine it guards yawns like the maw of an earthen basilisk, quaffing the savory desert air after thousands of years buried and forgotten beneath the sands.There she must have taken refuge, for the noon-eve sun is a crown in the sapphire sky and all but the dark path ahead feels its scorching glare. Though its shade promises rest, I clench my eyes shut, resisting its prospect. The bitter. throat-searing kouaxi she offered last night, and the miles of earth I've drawn out to propel me forward, take their toll. Yet I stand, stifling the urge to fall on my knees and sip from my deflated waterskin. Better pain and thirst, than distance wasted. I cannot lose her.Keeping to one side, I enter the wide ravine, shadow and still air enveloping me like a rough and musky mantle. Rowed statue-pillars above— that of the half-beast god-warriors and mortal emperors of old— gaze down from the sheer rock face and into the shale-covered pass; monuments of slaver-conquerors, now effigies of the dead. Yet, with my every step, their imperious scowls distort into mockful leers, as if their pale limestone eyes can sense my dread. They are not truly gone. A part of them survives, and it lives within her.But I press on, for I know she is different. She must be different. Or all is lost.There's no trace of her still. The moldered parapets and colonnades above reveal only desert sparrows perched among their shaded alcoves and overhanging shrubs. They are a scattered flock, forced into hiding, for over the ravine a hawk circles; its silhouette, a restless mote of ink in the clear blue emptiness.I shudder. The shrubs, the birds; water draws them here; flowing under my feet, beneath the walls, and beyond this ravine. This fortress, with time, will be a skeleton no longer— a haven for more than just desert fowl and old statues. All this, because the water has returned to Shurima, coursing within its wizened earth, through bone-scattered dunes and bloody velds alike, turning barrens into grainfields; blades into plows; dust into gold. Old doings into new ways.It is an ill omen, a revenant from the history that scars this land like the tormented back of a slave. And yet it is only one of many. Not all of them bring life.I must find her."You're wasting your strides."I stop. Her voice echoes, soft yet hoarse, weathered from a lifetime of bloodshed and liquor. She must've been waiting for me, observing me from a vantage unknown. I turn my head up, searching, but with no sight of her, I speak; mouth parched, teeth gritting."I rescued you from the riverbank, tended to your wounds, protected you from the sky fires that burned Vekaura, and yet. . .""And yet I abandoned you in your sleep. Fair trade."At last, she comes forward. The scrape of her boots draws my attention to her. By the chipped toes of an empress's statue-pillar— of Setaka, the last great warrior-queen— she emerges. Split and wispy from sweat, her long dark hair flutters to the wind, while her eyes glint blue in the sunlight trickling from above.Her knapsack, tattered like the rest of her loose rider's outfit, dangles from her shoulder. It bulges with rations, extra waterskins twined to it like bulbs. Supplies we were supposed to share.The ground begins to crack and tremor by my feet, but it halts when I draw a deep breath. My next words are true yet bitter:"I vowed to protect you. I won't let you leave this pass alone.""I know." She sighs. "Honorbound as an arrow to its mark. You'll land on the wrong one someday. Or maybe you already have.""Many times, in many lands," I say. "Yet I've not become like you."She sneers."That's why you're down there, and I'm up here, little sparrow.""And fate is above both of us. You cannot escape yours, Sivir, but call me 'little sparrow' again and maybe it will be down in the dust.""Seems your skin's as thin as your tolerance. No wonder you passed out from the kouaxi so quickly. Calm yourself, Taliyah, else you might forget: You're so close."I furrow a brow. "What do you mean?""I said I'd guide you, didn't I?" Sivir turns westward, to the end of the ravine. "Right there's the Sai Ziyunin," she continues. "Just beyond its sands, is the Capital. Massive walls, streams of water, giant floating Sun Disc; exactly as the legends say. You'll know it when you see it. It'll take a week's journey to get there at least. Only have to worry about the naksharyii before then. With their old home turned into a bustling city, they'll be roaming the surrounding sai; starving, and in packs. Even a power like yours won't scare them. But I'm sure you've seen worse in the lands beyond the sea."From the end of the ravine, the first of the Sai Ziunyin's dunes peek. Tufts of young bushes wane where those distant, saffron waves begin, like a fence or perhaps a warning. A sai could go on ceaselessly with no water or living thing in sight. Yet I begin to stare, unafraid. That is the way to my tribe. The way to home."Keep west and stifle your appetite," Sivir continues. "The supplies I left you should last until tomorrow. Plenty of caravans and refugees to help you with that, now that there's water in the west and fire in the east." She pauses, meeting my glance. "With luck, you'll see your family again.""And where will you go?" I say. The supplies she carries are for a journey far longer than mine."Only place worth going." She shrugs, then frowns. "Away from all this mess."Her look renders me silent. That same face glowed over the firelight the night before, when kouaxi prickled in our throats; warm, numbing, inducing our words to wander. We were friends now, she said. Years away from my homeland, severed from its people, made me believe her.I will have forgiven her betrayal and let her go, if only for that night.But fate is above both of us.The hawk circling over the ravine screeches, and I look up. On and on, it traces the sun, seemingly laying claim to it, and all the sparrows below hide in fear. So long as the hawk flies, the sparrows cower in its dominion. Tenderness leaves Sivir's face when I turn back to her. Now she scowls, as if she knows what I divine from the desert birds."We cannot part yet," I say. "It is not only my family that awaits in the Capital. Azir still rules there, over the city he's rerisen, the empire he's unearthed. The Shurimans of today are not those of his time, and they will suffer the Old Ways, as his people did.""Whichever way brings grain, water, and gold, the people will go."She looks off to the sai. "Besides, if that hawk-faced fossil becomes a problem, then it isn't mine. I'm not going back to the place where I died.""And lived again, chosen." I say. "So much has returned. Their legacy has returned; unburied, above the earth, around us. . ." I gesture to the statue-pillars—to the god-warriors and the ancient emperors and empresses of Shurima— before pointing at her. "And within you. Will I see my family again, only to watch us become slaves? We need you, Sivir, for Azir will only listen to his-""I am no one, Taliyah," she snaps. "I'm not his heiress, not your prophetic savior. I'm a hired blade. I do not follow destinies. I end them."Her hand hovers to the large ringlike artefact hanging down her waist. Even in the shadow, its ancient alloy glows faint with dormant power."Then why do you still carry the Chalicar of Setaka?" I say. Sivir notices, and pulls her hand away from the weapon."It's good for fighting. Nothing else. If I want to make a living, it stays.""No. You were meant to wield it." I say. "With the Chalicar, you can help protect my tribe and countless more— your people, all of Shurima. . ."She goes quiet, turning away from me. Once again, I remember her as she was the night before; one who laughed and shared stories by the fire— tales of Shurima, of a homeland I've not walked in years. And stories, of my life and hers. Yet that memory will soon waver; its goodness sealed away to the past. I must keep it alight."You told me you were tired," I continue. "Tired of chasing blood and gold, of running from those you've crossed. You said you wanted to make your death mean something. Please, Sivir. If not for the sake of your people, of your destiny, then. . . for the sake of a friend."Sivir glances at me, brows lowered in pity or perhaps shame. But she doesn't speak. She turns and stares toward the end of the pass, to the Sai Ziyunin and the Capital beyond it. I know she sees him, for anger rises in her eyes, tightening her hands.There, in the tombs of that once-sunken city, she died and lived again. But she wasn't alone. The bringer of water, the raiser of ruins; the hawk above, circling, laying claim to the sun: Azir. I know she envisions him. He resurrected Sivir, and his lost empire with her, for his own blood— ancient, noble, powerful— courses within her. Blood that awakened him.But her eyes show no gratitude, no joy. Not even indifference. Only rage.Did she wish that he had not saved her?No matter. The answer is lost as a star to the dawn, for when Sivir turns to me, a scowl hardens her face; pitiless and imposing as Setaka's statue above her."I will make my death mean something," she says, yanking out a pendant hidden beneath her collar: a teardrop of jade hanging down golden links. "But only I'll get to do it. Not destiny, not prophecy, and certainly not you and a thousand bickering tribesmen."Sivir hurls the pendant to me. I catch it. A talisman, given to her before its owner faced the source of all the sky-fires to save us. This was supposed to protect her."How could you-" I stammer, but her unpitying eyes answer all my questions. I coil the pendant around my hand, the chains wrapping almost as if to cut through the callouses. "You can't do this, Sivir. You can't betray all the sacrifice done for you. This land, your people, your destiny-""Destiny?" she hisses through a mocking smile. "Was it destiny to see raiders mangle my father, ravage my mother, massacre my family and tribe? Did I lose them only so I can become the protector of this cursed land and its broken people? No, Taliyah. I was betrayed. Destiny betrayed me. Now, it's my turn.""Sivir," I say."I vowed-""Enough with your vows! Save them for the myriad, nameless lives you and your Great Weaver care so deeply about!" She takes a pouch tied to her belt and dangles it before her. My eyes widen. The ground beneath me quakes."You can't." I say."I would've returned this to you, if you just listened. But I was right to keep it. Like I said, honorbound as an arrow to its mark."With her other hand, she grasps the Chalicar of Setaka, readying to use it. "I'm not chosen. I choose. This is the path I want, one I'll walk alone. And I'll be needing the rest of the supplies."She flings the pouch and follows with the chalicar. Mid-air, four blades arranged in a cross extend out of it. I recoil as the flying blade rends the pouch and approaches me, but the weapon stops in the air and returns to Sivir. The blades retract; the chalicar, a harmless ring once again."No!" I run to where the pouch's contents land. A headpiece of gold and silver, split in two, rests on the dusted ground. It is my most precious belonging, one my tribe toiled to forge; a mark of my coming-of-age. "No, no..."I salvage what's left of my headpiece, stowing its hewed remains into my pack. My hands shake. So does the ground. I am silent. But the earth is not. It cracks, ruminates, fissures around my feet."Destiny betrayed you too," Sivir says. "That 'gift' from your Great Weaver. You would've stayed by their side if it had never marked you. When you find them in shackles or rotting in the sand, don't blame me."I stand. Our eyes meet. Roaring tempests rip the words from my thoughts.A downward thrust of my arms and the earth juts out beneath me. Into mounds of braided hanks, they form, clumping, elevating, hurtling me upward to Sivir. I land where she once stood, but she has darted away, leapt to the next statue-pillar in the colonnade. I do not stop. I ride at the helm of contorting braids of earth, bringing me like a living wave toward her. Walls crumble. Statues fall. Sparrows fly into the sight of the hawk above. No other purpose guides the earth I weave, except to seize her.But when I land on the next statue's threshold, something bursts open at my side. My scream stops short as a forceful surge engulfs me. Water, a river's worth, rushes out from the fortress walls and into the ravine, carrying my body flailing with it.I kick, gasp, and paddle, even as the water begins to settle around me. I am a daughter of the desert; I am no swimmer, I have been drowned before. Yet these thoughts do not rush through my mind. They exist in every gasp for air, every kick, and every flail; sound and color blurring and clearing. Yet the golden glint of Sivir's chalicar still reaches me from above. She knows I cannot swim. She knows I will die.My limbs fail. My mind goes blank. Before the darkness, I hear. . . a splash?No matter. The shadows come now. Shadows of my own doing. They devour my world, as they had that day, so many years ago, when home was so near. But now I am far. Now I am alone.There is no Mishai to cry for help. No Father to find me. No Mother to wake me with her song.There is only me. Fearful, reckless, naive little girl.And cold, empty space.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
3Line
Even in a pile of broken things, some pieces stay the same.
Everything's in place. Only took a few rewinds to do it.I've replaced my filthy top, belted on clean pants, and slung over my suspenders. Beads of tap water now run trails down my face, cold water and a lemon-scented soap masking what remains of the puke-stench. My eyes, no longer shot with blood, widen as I take a deep breath, clear and fresh as coolant. The Vigorburst still throbs in my head. Doesn't matter. So long as Mom and Dad don't notice anything wrong.A black cloth's draped over the Drive, Augment, and Core. I had stuffed them under my study along with the spent soda cans. Now facial mirror's propped up where they used to be. I repeat the line. One word at a time"Mom, Dad, I'm not taking Clan Medarda's apprenticeship. I've decided to stay here with you and my friends. I'll never turn my back on Zaun."A step closer to progress, to completion. I'll have a few more hours— all I need to harness the ISA Core's energy, to splice it with the Z-Drive's power. To clear Ajuna's face from the Wall.I see my lips quiver. The Vigorburst holds back the pent-up fatigue like an iron dam turned porcelain. No more rewinding now. Just a few more minutes left. One thing left to do.A small jar of white face-paint rests beside that mirror on my desk. I dab two fingers into it, raise them up before my brows, and picture the outline of my symbol. The symbol Ajuna and the rest of the gang knew me for: an hourglass, spanning my chin and forehead, centered between my eyes.It is a message, how I'll make myself clear. Go all-in. A look will be enough for Mom and Dad to understand. I am a Lost Child, a true cliff-blood. My hands belong in Zaun, not in Piltover.This is the truth, the last thing between me and erasing Ajuna's face off the Wall. My brows press down. My heart jumps, my chin up. No part of me feels unprepared for what I have to say."Mom, Dad, I'm not taking Clan Medarda's apprenticeship. I've decided to stay here with you and my friends. I'll nevER—" my voice cracks, "—t-turn my back on— argh!"I clear my throat, grunt, and pinch the bridge of my nose. Everything else has gone wrong. Have to get this right."I'll never turn my back on Zaun!"Silence. Smoke in my head. Temples pulsate to diminishing Vigorburst. Eyes stare at the mirror. Mom and Dad's faces appear like ghosts on top of my own; the smiles they carry gone in an instant, the hope in their eyes dimmed. After all they've worked for, their only son's going to burn their dreams down. No amount of rewinding can change this. A simple fact of the now. All the more reason to get this over with.Just another price to pay, like everything else. Like everyone else. I close my eyes and turn away from the mirror. The dab of white paint on my fingertips waits. I'm trembling. I can't bring my hands up to my face. Just another mistake to revert, like his death, their deaths. I've made my choice. I'll fix this all. When I'm done, they'll never know this happened. They won't notice a thing.Time is running out. I have to bring Ajuna and everyone else back. Have to put my mark on now. Make my stand. Set things right. For the people I've lost because of Piltover. Because of me. I press my fingers to my forehead. The cold touch of thick paint. The start of a line. A new beginning.Keys jangle outside. Bullets ricochet in my chest."Oh, come on!" I grunt. Wasted time. I swipe the paint off my fingers under my desk. The door of the main room outside opens. Too late to do anything now. I take a deep breath, running hands down the trimmed sides of my hair. When my bedroom door opens, I stand up like the nervous, Vigorbursted idiot I am.Mom and Dad comes through with all the posh and finery of Piltovan clothes; Mom, an off-white dress, and Dad, a teal overcoat. Seeing them stand there, smiling when they see me, churns all the wrong gears in my gut. Without even so much as a greeting, my mouth begins to babble the line:"Mom, Dad, I—"Mom drops her luggage and wraps her arms tight around me. Her perfume, the scent of some southern flower, pierces through the barely-filtered air. She kisses both my cheeks— once on the left, another on the right— and looks at me with the same eyes she gave before she left. Dreams dwell there, raging against wrinkles and white-ended hairs. A glance is as far as I could go into them."My little genius. How are you holding up?"I have to say it. I bash the line against my skull, but it won't come out. Her smile doesn't let it. An engine starts and stops; I'm ready, and then I'm not."I'm… doing well. I mean, have been doing very well while you were gone—" I fake a chuckle, scratching the back of my shoulder, "—you know, getting things in order, preparing. For tomorrow."Her face lightens and, in the same moment, fades. She spots something on my face and wipes it off. A line of white paint streaks her thumb. Waves of needles prick all over my head. I glance at the black cloth under my table, where the Z-Drive promises another chance, but Mom looks at me again, like nothing's wrong."Well, don't prepare too hard now. Ah, ah, no, it's alright we'll deal with the luggage later." she said, not wiping the paint off her thumb. "How about we show you what we got you from Piltover? Surely that wouldn't hurt a newly admitted apprenta now, would it?""Hah, apprenta?!" Dad says before I can mumble an answer. He's next to hold me, hugging me in his lean arms, his cologne like sugary ice-water. "He may be an apprenta now, but at this rate he'll have his name on a plaque: Eli Costanzo, Lead Artificer of Clan Medarda!" He laughs, gives me a hard pat on the back, and pulls away, a hand still gripped on my shoulder.All the pride and expectation in the world glints through the round lens of his glasses. The only things shining after a long day's work. The only things I've ever seen in them. Dad's smile grows, the pink of his face hiding all the tired, pale furrows, if only for a while. It takes every Vigorbursted fiber in me to do the same."We can't ever be more proud of our lucky boy," he says, a frown interrupts his grin. It dares to spoil the moment. I know why.He brushes over my head, messing the ridge-like hair, as ge puffs a hot breath. "Ah, what did I tell you about that hair? Tomorrow is the day, Eli. You can't go around looking like some Factorywood punk anymore, my boy! The Wood takes anyone, and you're not anyone, and you've proved it. When you ride the Rising Howl tomorrow, you'll be more than anyone in this Gray-suffused city could ever hope to be, hah!" He pats my shoulder and shakes it as if to bolt the words inside. I can't look at him. This isn't the first time he said this to me, and both of us know it. "Let's get that silver sawblade of a hair all fixed up first bell in the morning, eh? ""Wyeth," Mom says to Dad. "The luggage."He looks, confused, but Mom tightens her lips and rolls her eyes, and he's zapped into understanding. "Oh, right." Dad steps back and brings one of the suitcases forward. "No, wait." He starts to wriggle out of his overcoat. "Let me deal with this thing first. Didn't realize how bulky it'd feel in here. Our room up-side was a lot bigger, certainly."Dad goes off to hang it somewhere and Mom smiles at me, almost as if to giggle. "Don't listen to your Dad. You can keep that hair. I'll stop him," she whispers.I manage to smirk back, less difficult than with Dad. When my smirk fades, Mom's smile does the same. She notices something in me and right there I know I've made my second mistake, after not painting my face. All the while, a sore, acidic sting is carving what feels like a hole in my chest and a vein in my head grows hot, about to burst. Maybe the Vigorburst. Maybe the frustration, since nothing's going according to plan. But the Z-Drive can make it right, in the cloth under my table. It draws my eyes more often than I've expected.I sit back down before my study table, just in case.When Dad comes back, he's carrying a rickety chair. He sets it down by my door, sits, and starts unclipping one of the heavy suitcases they've carried into my room. Mom watches him from the bed. So far, so good. Don't have to rewind but I feel like doing it when Dad starts to recount all the things they saw upside. His tales are set beyond the smog and sun of the Entresol, the boundary between Zaun and Piltover, and further above, to the Sun Gates, and inside North Piltover, where the air flows fresh from the sea and the valleys past the River Pilt.Mom joins in, and they've already lost me when they begin to talk about their hotel in Sidereal Avenue, how it was so close to the shops and bistros of the Mainspring Crescent. There they'd burn Medarda's allowance for the day, saving some for their inevitable return to Zaun.I nodded along, not hearing all these names and places I didn't care about, as I feign interest with a question or two.All those happy times they spent all on a Piltie's say-so. They'd throw Zaun under a conveyor anyday. None of this talk matters. All wannabe-upbloods sound the same. Mom and Dad included. Tell them the truth and get it over with.Dad's in the middle of remembering their first time at Madame Zailie's shop down some street called Sapphilite Row. Heard of her. She's a tailor. Kids Ajuna's age make the buttons she uses. Bruised for them."I just couldn't believe my eyes," Dad goes on. "I could finally buy all those fine clothes I wanted for you and your mother. I asked Aldher, the usher Medarda sent for us, if this was all real, and he said: 'Of course. You are the raffle winners after all. All your allowances are at the courtesy of Kaspar Medarda. Do with his generosity what you wish.' And oh, you should've seen the look on your mother's face!"She's not smiling. The ground is where her eyes look, until she turns up, Dad's words finally reaching her. "Ah, yes. I was so surprised, wasn't I? I couldn't think of any other perfect time. Winning the first ever workshop raffle right after you passed your applications. Janna's grace, Eli, I spent an hour just looking for a suit that'd fit you."My chin's against my elbow, which is against my chair's headrest. My focus wanders to reasons why I haven't said the line. I shoot a hint of attention their way."Yeah, the timing's impeccable," I mumble."You should thank Kaspar Medarda," Dad says, "when you arrive at his estate at Bluewind Court; the first chance you get! While you're at it, congratulate him for his brother Leopold's inauguration as Arch Minister. The right people have made you the luckiest boy in the world, Janna be praised."I half-chuckle, shaking my head. Dad mistakes it for agreement and does the same."Wyeth," Mom says. "The luggage. What, will he be waiting all day?"Dad looks at her and almost jumps at the reminder. "Oh! Don't fret now. Here it is, here it is." He finally unclips the suitcase he'd forgotten about at the start of the conversation. "Can't forget this now, can we?"With the suitcase open, he passes it to Mom, who then passes it to me."What's this?" I say, placing it on my lap. Mom smiles again and Dad raises his chin, the pink in his cheeks flaring. I sit straight, feeling dumb once I understand. Of course. Gifts from Piltover. Oh no."Well?" Dad says. "Aren't you going to look inside?"Now's the time. My eyes race between them and the black-clothed mass resting just beside my toes. The suitcase holds an impossible weight, the pull of storm waters like the words welling up my throat. Here's the perfect moment: close the briefcase, take a deep breath, look them in the eye, and begin.
Mom, Dad, I'm not taking Medarda's apprenticeship. Say it.
But a look is as far as I can go. Water rushes and freezes at the sight of their dreams. I watch their smiles fade, confusion gradually being realized.
Say it, Ekko!
"Is something the matter, Eli?" Mom says, her head tilted. I'm crumpled up inside as my eyes meet and stray from theirs. I see what's inside the briefcase and for one second, I forget about Ajuna. All the right thoughts, the confidence, and the conviction gives way to fear.Neatly organized and arranged, are sets of elegant clothes, a stack of books, an assortment of colognes and waxes, a small safe, and a specially made multi-tool. Everything I need for the life Mom and Dad wanted. They stare back at me; a future without Zaun, the gang, and Ajuna. A new beginning.A rewind their kind."No, no. Nothing's wrong," I say, taking a deep breath. "Just a bit. . . a bit hungry. That's all."Mom and Dad glance at each other. The silence feels thicker than the Gray, choking us all. Finally, Dad looks at me. "Well, that won't be a problem. I'll go fix us up something to eat. Some upside delicacies ought to help the day's spirits. Inna?"Mom nods. "Yes, that would be splendid. It was a long trip down the Howl, and at five bells in the morning? Hadn't a chance to eat!""It's the right time. Any later and we'd lugging through a crowd full of pocketsnipes." Dad stands up. " Help your mother unpack now, will you, Eli? Don't spend too long fawning over all the goodies now, eh?"I am coiled in hate, barraged by my own curses, because I can't bring out the voice to reject those "goodies"."Yes," I say. Dad nods and leaves the room, closing the door, a hint that he didn't like something I've said or done. Either way, there goes the earliest chance to say the line."Does it have everything you need?" Mom hasn't moved from the bedside. Her smile's gone. Nothing but the hard look of concern now. "Aldher said all those were essential for the workshop. We spent a whole day finding them, believe me."I nod while I place the briefcase on my study. Only the books and the multi-tool catches my eye. The rest, props for a Piltie costume. But I don't let Mom know. "It's got everything and more. Thanks."Her expression doesn't change. I stand up, unpacking the other bags."Eli," Mom says. I stop, turning an ear to her. "Is something not right?"A clamp twists my stomach as I shake my head, turning to her, faking a smile. Can't remember the last time she asked me that, yet she sees through me, and I feel like some dazed shimmer addict pretending all is fine."Sit down with me, won't you?" She pats the spot beside her. "It's alright."I sigh and do as she says. My shoulders tense and I keep my eyes to the floor. Anticipation tingles almost as if to scratch my right cheek, where Mom looks."You seem so tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?""I've been practicing on little projects," I lie. "Don't want to be rusty for the apprenticeship tomorrow, after all. I'll get some rest later. No worries.""I know how excited you must be for Piltover, for Medarda, but please, you don't have to break yourself over it. Oh, the Gray take me if I hear you've worked yourself to death.""I get it, Mom. I get it. There's nothing to worry about. Really, nothing at all." I look at her, half a smile bending tight on my face. She isn't moved. She knows the son she's raised, but not his secrets. Still, I'm about to break. I wish she knew. Her look, anxious about all the things it manages to understand, starts to grip me."Tomorrow will be the last time we'll see each other for a long while. I suppose it's your turn to leave. We will miss you, you know that?"What am I doing? I can't bear to look at her. I am a Lost Child, a Zaunite for life. But all she sees is her son. I 've just started to feel like it.I turn my head away, end up staring at the briefcase. Crazy ideas rise, only for me to put down. Sell out. Start fresh. Forget about it all. No, I don't deserve it. No, I don't, never will."No," I mouth. The memories race in my head. The gunshots. The betrayals. The sacrifices. Reminders. Too much accumulated. "No," I murmur, soft as a whisper."What?"I'm almost startled when I look at Mom. Her mouth's half-open, head cocked. It's a struggle to catch myself. "I-I mean, I know. I'll," a choked breath, "I'll miss you guys too. It's just-" I look up to the pipe-webbed ceiling. Stones to my worry, cracking. I blow out the bitter air as I gather energy to ready myself.
Here we go. Say it.
"Just? What is it, Eli? Eli?"Memories cycle in my head. I look at Mom and the briefcase. I can't muster the line though I remember it, so much, so repeatedly, that the words have lost their meaning. My eyes grow moist, my face, red. Mom starts to look distraught. How broken I must've appeared in her eyes."Mom," I say. My voice cracks, "I feel like I've made a mistake. A huge mistake."Her eyes can't see the meaning of all this, so they resign to pain and worry, to care It's all they can do. "Eli, what mistake?" she says her voice gentle. Her hand holds mine. "Please."I shake my head. She'll never understand. Dad'll never forgive. How much can I tell them? Does it matter? Too many questions, weighing me down. I fall to her shoulder. All the years we haven't seen eye to eye, don't matter. She holds me as she's done a hundred times before, and kisses my head. My neck beats with sobs."A huge mistake, Mom, a huge mistake...""You don't want to leave," she says, rubbing my shoulder. "Is that it?""I can't," Can't tell you. I shake my head, urging myself not to complete the sentence. "I can't. I can't, I can't, I-"She hushes me, tender and drawn out."I understand."For a while, we sit there, quiet. I've done so much, lost too many, and through it all there wasn't a single person to see my wounds; see me hurt, and comfort me. Now I'm here, with Mom. I glance at the briefcase, as if it were the door to a cliff, and to the black mound of cloth under my table. The thought of rewinding crosses my mind, but I can't stand to do it. Mom still held me. Maybe I can stay for a bit longer."I left my home long ago," She breaks the silence. "Long, long ago. I was around your age. My fath— your grandfather, forced me to marry a man I'd never met, wanted me to live far away in a land I had never seen. Just as it had been with my sister. Your aunt."I pull away. Mom holds her breath, second-guessing telling me. But her glances know she has my attention. She never told much about her family. It was never the right time, was her excuse. It is now."She was all that I had," Mom continues, "before you and your father. She was my best friend, moon in a world of night; beautiful, wise, and brave. Of all my sisters, she was the only one who cared for me. I never imagined losing her, never dared to. But then, your grandfather took her away, offered her to a man who worshipped gold, craved power, treated her like…" She stopped herself. "I thought she was enough, Eli. But your grandfather wanted more, so he arranged a suitor for me, a complete stranger, more a word than a face. For our family, the man was wealthy and that was enough. I couldn't accept my fate. So I did what your aunt could not do. I left. But even then, as I packed my belongings, I thought I was making a mistake.""But why? It couldn't have been-""Eli," Mom leans closer. Warmth leaves her eyes; the sincerity twisting into something dark, a flower growing thorns. "You must understand. My marriage with that stranger would have lifted my family from the ashes. But I chose to leave. I chose to be here. I chose to love your father, and I chose to have you."Her softness returns as quickly as it left. "My only regret, will be for us to force you into a life you do not want to lead. A life you never chose. Do you understand?"I am silent. My thoughts a moment ago slip away, and in their place, questions come up in trickles. I can't even begin."But whatever you choose," Mom says, "I want you to keep this."She reaches down her collar and pulls up a lace comprised of two threads, revealing a pendant. Not long, she cups it in my hand."Your aunt and I made each other mementos before she left, reminders of our childhood. This is all I have left of her. She would have been proud to see you have it."The pendant hangs from my palm. Simple beaded woolen strings loop around a cloth-covered coin. A design fills the coin's center, embroidered in brown thread: a wheel with curved spokes, like a spiral, flanked by insectoid wings."What does this mean?""It was our favorite design," Mom says. "Your aunt and I loved to embroider.""No, Mom, what does this all mean? Why are you giving this to me? Why are you telling me about all this now, your family?"She pauses, for a moment lost in thought. "Because I don't want you to repeat her mistake. Your father's gift is that briefcase. This is mine."A pounding starts to waltz in my head. The Vigorburst. Heaviness in my eyes; fatigue flaking away the strength in my limbs. I slip the necklace over my head, run fingertips down the beads and the embroidery. Her gift. A choice. When I look at her, she knows I understand, so she smiles. I smile back.Yet I can't make my choice. The briefcase, Z-Drive in that mound of black cloth, and the withdrawal pounding in my head, they won't let me.Instead, I fall into Mom's arms. She holds me, swaying,until my head drifts down on her lap, as she begins to hum the first line of a lullaby. The only lullaby she's ever sung to me, wordless, looping, and incomplete. Like the shards within the Zero Drive.When the drowse becomes too much to bear, I yawn. My eyes begin to close, the humming face of my Mom the last sight I see."Mom, where was your home?"She shushes me and holds back her answer. In her mind, this is the last lullaby she'll sing before I leave. She wants to make it count, so I let her.I fall in between the lines of her song; with every repeat, a child again, filled with love again, in her arms. Back to the beginning. A rewind. Her kind.