Liberation Through Techmaturgy

“I am,” Viktor murmurs in reply, reaching towards her. “I am here, with you, and…”

And he hopes it’s enough. He hopes that he can somehow staunch the bleeding of this loss. He hopes that she will never have to feel as alone as he has.

He doesn’t blame her. The future comes before them all, and she’d needed to save Piltover’s. He can’t blame her for doing as he has done. But he’s wished that… things had been different. It’s a selfish thought. They both know that one life can’t ever be worth a nation’s, a world’s.

He embraces her regardless.

He’s soft, under his armor, in a way that very few know. Still human. (Still weak.) He’s warm, too, and beneath his cloak the autumn night is mild.

He’s here. It is enough.

She cries again, for a little while. It’s a selfish thing, maybe, but between grief and gratitude she finds she has too many feelings and they are all fighting for control. But she’s safe, here, in this night-time seclusion. She’s safe with him, to express herself, and to cry, and to find comfort.

Caitlyn has seen the impossible many times in her life. She has stood with gods and kings, she has spoken with death and felt herself shuttled between life by forces of magic greater than most will experience. She has known crooks and stars and Powers and demons and been present - and involved - when the world twists itself into a new narrative. She has been strong her entire life, bearing up under things greater than any mortal should.

Is it any wonder, then, that she should feel weak for crying? It is why she has never done it. She doesn’t have - shouldn’t have - such a luxury. She’s the Sheriff of Piltover.

She’s only human.

It’s easier to stop crying, this time, because the burden is not as heavy, and because he is here. He is here, he is here, he is here. And maybe it’s selfish, but she is only human.

This time is precious. Time is so fleeting. It comes to an end all too soon.

She sighs, and wipes her face with her handkerchief, then looks up at the sky. The star-rods of Piltover are still blazing, but there are some stars to see.

“I am,” Viktor replies, eyes cast towards the sky. “It is beautiful.”

Everything has always come to an end. He hopes that it will not always be the case, that stars and lives can shine forever in a better future. But... for now, there is this moment. There is a fading aurora still in Piltover. There are stars still in the sky. Trisha lives on in her city’s streets and memories.

I hope you have the chance to become close.

What can Viktor say to that? That he hopes so too? Isn’t such a thing too much of an admission, even more than… all of this? To hope is to be uncertain. To hope is to…

He rests his free hand on his knee. “He has made it clear that he will be spending time at my laboratory. I am sure there will be time to talk. Perhaps even about you.”

Is this how one comforts? Being comforted in turn? Or is this just how the two of them interact, out of step with the world of blue-blazing star-rods below? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Especially not now.

“It…” he trails off, tries again. “It is good that you are not alone. That you have your father and the Enforcer and… that you are not alone for this.”

If there are eyes on them, in the dark, at this point, then perhaps it will be noted that Viktor is no longer holding his staff, that there is even less threat now of him sweeping lasers across the city. But Caitlyn is not thinking about what other people may be thinking now. For now, her thoughts are confined in the air between them: the bench, the tree, the night sky, and Viktor. The future can punish her for her selfishness, if it chooses; she will read her sins in the tragedies that unfold, and find herself deserving. But for now… she holds his hand.

“That is good,” she murmurs. “I am glad the two of you have this chance.” 

Because sometimes chances are fleeting. Because sometimes things go wrong. Because she can never apologise enough.

She hears, in his gentle words, the pain that he has never quite left behind. The solitude of a whole world turned against him. Here she was, sitting at the head of a nation-wide funeral as the Sheriff of Piltover, and he… he had to be carried across the border, and he had to sit with her or risk being thrown aside again. And all this to say nothing of what he has known.

Gods.

If only she had known he needed her, when he did. But she had been hardening her heart and becoming sheriff, losing her truest friend and turning all of Piltover against him as a result (her sins and the tragedies that came from them). 

And he hopes it’s enough. He hopes that he can somehow staunch the bleeding of this loss. He hopes that she will never have to feel as alone as he has.

He doesn’t blame her. The future comes before them all, and she’d needed to save Piltover’s. He can’t blame her for doing as he has done. But he’s wished that... things had been different. It’s a selfish thought. They both know that one life can’t ever be worth a nation’s, a world’s.

He embraces her regardless.

He’s soft, under his armor, in a way that very few know. Still human. (Still weak.) He’s warm, too, and beneath his cloak the autumn night is mild.

But Viktor does worry. Zaun is a fickle city. He knows this better than most. And Blitzcrank, while beloved, could be one step from…

He shakes his head. “I am sure that he would be glad to know that. That you like him.”

A pause. A thought. A breath. “I do not think you should apologize, either. You have good intentions. I am just…”

Viktor waves his free hand, as if that could explain it all. Maybe it can, to her. He wants to explain that she meant well, and that perhaps it had been his own stubbornness - his own buried fear (own buried failure) - that had stopped him from seeking Blitzcrank out. He sighs instead.

“He is a good person. Better than most.”

“Perhaps I should tell him.” She hums, and rubs her thumb along the edge of his hand. Just enough pressure to be felt through his glove, just enough closeness that won’t burn either of them. “Or maybe you should. In case you need something more to talk about.” Her hum, this time, is closer to a chuckle. “I do not think I would mind being the subject of conversation.” The chuckle doesn’t last long, but it helps to keep the grief at bay.

And there is grief of a different sort as he tells her not to apologise, a pang that twists inside of her. You are worth so much more than you allow yourself to believe, she wants to say. But it will be misconstrued. She does not even know how to say how much she values him, without it being an indictment of where he will go in the passage of time, the projected arc she can see in her mind’s eye as clear as the circling of a falcon.

So she just squeezes his hand as he sighs, and holds the pressure in a way that could be a hug.

What can Viktor say to that? That he hopes so too? Isn’t such a thing too much of an admission, even more than... all of this? To hope is to be uncertain. To hope is to...

He rests his free hand on his knee. “He has made it clear that he will be spending time at my laboratory. I am sure there will be time to talk. Perhaps even about you.”

Is this how one comforts? Being comforted in turn? Or is this just how the two of them interact, out of step with the world of blue-blazing star-rods below? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Especially not now.

“It has been… recent,” Viktor murmurs, free hand curling in on itself. “And… your doing?”

Blitzcrank had said that Caitlyn had given him the address. The thought disquiets him - that she would give out information to another, even if it had ended… well. But this is not the time to discuss that concern.

“It is strange. He and I do not fully… understand each other. But he is- it is good to know him as a person, rather than my project. He has changed much.”

Viktor pauses. “It is good that he… has Piltover, if Zaun ever loses its fascination. Thank you for that.”

She breathes a quiet laugh, inclining her head. The gesture is apologetic. “Yes. My doing.” She looks at him, her eyes picking up a bit of light as she remembers the circumstances, though her head still cants to one side. “I know I should have sought your permission, first. Such a thing was an invasion of your privacy, and I did not have the time to properly assess…” She huffs a small breath through her nose. No excuses, Caitlyn. Put aside your pride and accept this. “Viktor? I am sorry. I do things with the best intentions, but even so…” She squeezes his hand. “You do not have to forgive me. I am sorry.”

Apologising twice in one breath, when she seldom says or means the words. Viktor has always been special, in more ways than one. For him, she would apologise until the stars fell into the sea.

Caitlyn is quiet, then, and listens as he speaks about Blitzcrank, and smiles at the ‘know him as a person’. That is what she had hoped for, given the construct’s request, and for the sake of Viktor’s own life. He needed company. He needed friends. He needed to see the good his creation was doing.

And speaking of… “Oh, the citizenship was not my idea,” she says, quietly, smiling. “It was his. He seems to have a knack for politely causing political uproar.” She hums a chuckle. “I like him.”

Mother liked him, too.

He shakes his head. “I am sure that he would be glad to know that. That you like him.”

A pause. A thought. A breath. “I do not think you should apologize, either. You have good intentions. I am just...”

Viktor waves his free hand, as if that could explain it all. Maybe it can, to her. He wants to explain that she meant well, and that perhaps it had been his own stubbornness - his own buried fear (own buried failure) - that had stopped him from seeking Blitzcrank out. He sighs instead.

Blitzcrank won’t be coming back. Viktor does not know this for certain, but the construct had gone to pay his respects and Viktor had said his goodbyes. Why would he return?

“I do not think he will come back,” Viktor murmurs. His hand squeezes hers. “I think… he will stay with the others.”

He falls silent again, mulling over her words. Talking. Caitlyn wants to talk about Trisha, about the dead, about her grief. He’s heard that it helps. He doesn’t know whether to believe it. If he were to talk about… he doesn’t consider it.

“You could. If you want to. Only if…”

“Oh, but… the Hall will close after my m– after the coffin is set down, so he may well…” He might socialise. He might linger in Piltover. Blitzcrank has every right to, as a citizen. But would he really leave Viktor just… waiting? Would he not want to go back to Zaun with Viktor together? Perhaps she has misunderstood the situation. Her mind is, after all, not… not clear. 

She returns the squeeze. She tries to find the words. “We will wait and see.” She will stay right here with him, as early evening pushes into proper night. “He should come back after the funeral tour is…” 

It’s over. It’s over now, isn’t it? All that is left is to put Trisha’s coffin in the hall, and then in the morning they will put her in the waters and inter her bones.

Caitlyn’s throat locks up for a moment. She holds Viktor’s hand. She breathes until she can speak.

“… I am glad you came together. How… how has it been? To know him again?”

Blitzcrank had said that Caitlyn had given him the address. The thought disquiets him - that she would give out information to another, even if it had ended... well. But this is not the time to discuss that concern.

“It is strange. He and I do not fully... understand each other. But he is- it is good to know him as a person, rather than my project. He has changed much.”

Viktor looks down at her hand, the amber glow of his mask’s lenses spilling across the park bench. He hesitates - there could still be eyes on them, still be people watching and waiting for their downfall - but places his hand in hers regardless.

“It is not,” he murmurs. “Not too much.”

Not if it helps her. Not at all, then.

It’s so quiet here. As if the world itself has stopped to mourn Trisha’s death - in a way, it has. A small part of it is at a standstill right now, paying respects.

“…Is there anything that you want to-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “I… do not know what to do.”

It’s a rare admittance from him, from a man so convinced that he knows what to do with not only himself but all of humankind.

It would take very keen eyes over quite a distance at just the right angle to see the hands of the Sheriff and the Herald so closely entwined. It could just be that they are resting their hands on the same space between them. Caitlyn cannot bring herself to think that she does not care if she is seen making such a gesture. She does care, she has to care, she is more title than person sometimes. But today she is a person, a daughter in mourning. She will earn her forgiveness another day, if she needs to. 

She laces her fingers between Viktor’s, and squeezes. 

“I do not know either,” she says, quietly. “We could just… sit. And wait for Blitzcrank.” In silence, together, just herself and Viktor. Nothing new about that, perhaps, though out here? Under the open sky, the wind blowing and the city glowing? New, novel, different, changed.

Is waiting enough? Mother wouldn’t have pressed her presence into the discussion without a reason. She wanted this.

“I do not think he will come back,” Viktor murmurs. His hand squeezes hers. “I think... he will stay with the others.”

He falls silent again, mulling over her words. Talking. Caitlyn wants to talk about Trisha, about the dead, about her grief. He’s heard that it helps. He doesn’t know whether to believe it. If he were to talk about... he doesn’t consider it.

She is quite possibly the only person in Piltover to think that. But Viktor leans against her side regardless, arm half-resting across her back, and stares out at the road stretching into the city. The lights flicker and twinkle, and he finds himself reminded of a flowing stream. One of stars.

“I… it is good that I can be here,” he murmurs.

It’s beginning to get colder. Fall is approaching, and with it does cooler nights. He looks over to her in her shirtsleeves, picking up the edge of his cloak and draping it over her shoulders.

It’s far from enough. But it is something, and perhaps that is more important.

It’s something. It’s more than just something. It might even be enough.

“Very good,” she agrees, leaning into Viktor. It’s dark enough that it doesn’t matter. No-one can see that they are now sharing his cloak. “I’m going to have to hug Blitzcrank for that very fact.” She manages a small croaking chuckle, her throat still tense from crying, as she thinks about how the steam construct had barrelled across the border.

Blitzcrank had proven how fast he was, less than a tenday ago. Mother had whooped and cheered and made notes and told him to come back again anytime for more races. He said he would; he moved very fast, today. 

Caitlyn leans against Viktor. She’s tired. Tired from grief, from grieving, from the long day of being laced up and in control. She feels very small and very weak, but he’s here, and the relief is giving her strength.

“It is not,” he murmurs. “Not too much.”

Not if it helps her. Not at all, then.

It’s so quiet here. As if the world itself has stopped to mourn Trisha’s death - in a way, it has. A small part of it is at a standstill right now, paying respects.

“...Is there anything that you want to-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “I... do not know what to do.”

She would rather cry privately, and yet he is here.

Viktor folds his hands on his lap. “I would not know. I-”

He hadn’t met Trisha. That… disquiets him, somehow. She had known his work, known it enough to use it for her husband’s arm, and had never known him. Now she never will. He never will.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again. It isn’t the type of condolence usually given, the type that says ‘it’s horrible that this happened’.

It’s the type of sorry that comes from someone who feels responsible. And he is, isn’t he? Over a decade of work, and nothing to show for it but his arm, his legs. Symptoms of the disease. Death is still inevitable for them all.

He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to will away the thought. He is here, not in Zaun. He is here to comfort and to mourn.

He is part of her privacy, of her private life, in a way that few others are.

She hears the weight of his apology, of the burden he tries to take when he does not need to. She finds herself humming, softly, then turning the sound to a soft shush. He doesn’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to take the blame.

It’s dark out here. The train of mourners following the road carry lights - hexphones, candles, torches (of either glassbulb or fire) - to guide their way towards the illuminated City of Progress. Starlight, glimmering: as above so below. But here, on Baker’s Hill, the Sheriff and the Herald have the benefit of a cloak of darkness, just a few dim lights for themselves alone.

She leans against Viktor, just a little more. Her head resting on his shoulder. There is a part of her that is not quite exhausted from the tears, a part of her that still hasn’t quite processed all that has happened to her. To the sight of Trisha, collapsed at her work-desk, as though she were napping mid-idea. To the sound Aaron and Elliot made as they exited the elevator behind her, and saw the scene. Trisha wasn’t old, she had more life to live, surely; techmaturgy shouldn’t have burned her out this soon, should it?

“I... it is good that I can be here,” he murmurs.

It’s beginning to get colder. Fall is approaching, and with it does cooler nights. He looks over to her in her shirtsleeves, picking up the edge of his cloak and draping it over her shoulders.

“I am,” Viktor murmurs. “…As are you.”

He looks up to the stars, shining cold overhead. Unreachable. Untouched by human concerns over love and loss.

It must be nice, to be that distant. To be that constant.

“I am sorry,” he adds, dropping his gaze back to the ground. “I… you should not have to be here. Blitzcrank was the one who wished to attend. I thought that it would… cause… what it has. But he insisted.”

He runs a hand along the surface of his staff, feeling how the metal pieces interlock with one another. The Hex Core glows a faint blue in the night. Not at all like Piltover’s star-rods, its hextech, which burn against the darkness.

“As am I,” she echoes. And for a moment, they can just sit in silence, and watch the stars, and say nothing at all. 

She assesses her grief, and finds that in the aftermath of the sobbing and the howling she feels much better. Tired, yes, and she wipes her face and nose again with the handkerchief to clean herself up, but she needed that. 

“You have nothing to apologise for, Viktor,” she says, and it feels significant to say his name on Piltover’s soil. “I am glad you both came. I am glad that we are here now.” She pockets her handkerchief and pushes her hair from her face. “I could not have made it back to the city,” she adds in a murmur. “I needed to cry, but I do not…” She falters. She was with her family. But the eyes of Piltover were on her, on that cart. So what is the word she is looking for?

Viktor folds his hands on his lap. “I would not know. I-”

He hadn’t met Trisha. That... disquiets him, somehow. She had known his work, known it enough to use it for her husband’s arm, and had never known him. Now she never will. He never will.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again. It isn’t the type of condolence usually given, the type that says ‘it’s horrible that this happened’.

It’s the type of sorry that comes from someone who feels responsible. And he is, isn’t he? Over a decade of work, and nothing to show for it but his arm, his legs. Symptoms of the disease. Death is still inevitable for them all.

There are always eyes on them. It’s the cost of being something to a city, bearing its legacy or its lunacy, and yet as they sit here on what passes for neutral ground Viktor hardly thinks of the spectacle.

He has never been one for grief. No one is, and yet… perhaps he should be, with all that he has to grieve. Perhaps he should know of a phrase or two that would lessen the pain. Everyone else certainly thinks that they know - I’m sorry, it was time, they’ll always be with you, at least it was peaceful - but they don’t.

The words mean nothing. They mean less than nothing; they mean a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is to grieve.

He puts an arm around Caitlyn, touch so light that it’s hardly one at all. He doesn’t look at her for more than a half-moment at a time. No one wants to be seen like this. There is a part of Viktor that says to leave, to let her be alone, alone as he had been. That he is an intruder, an interloper, a spectator to a grief that has been seen enough by Piltover.

He pushes the thought away. He stays.

Her senses return to her, little by little. She is exhausted: she has exhausted herself. She is tired, and headachy, and her throat is raw. Yet, for all that, she feels… less burdened. Lighter. Not yet entirely free, no, of course not. But she can at least take a shuddering breath, and straighten up. Her senses are returning to her, and she realises his arm is around her, and she is grateful all the more.

It is dark by now, fully dark, on this little hill with its tree and its bench and its two guests. Perhaps the only lights come from Viktor’s third arm and his staff.

She fumbles a handkerchief from her pocket, turning her head away to wipe her face and blow her nose, before leaning back, into his arm, into the bench, her head craning back to look up at the sky. There are a few stars visible. The city drowns out much of them, given how bright it glows, but the major constellations and many other clusters still fight for prominence.

He looks up to the stars, shining cold overhead. Unreachable. Untouched by human concerns over love and loss.

It must be nice, to be that distant. To be that constant.

“I am sorry,” he adds, dropping his gaze back to the ground. “I... you should not have to be here. Blitzcrank was the one who wished to attend. I thought that it would... cause... what it has. But he insisted.”

It has been a very long day. Viktor thinks back to the procession, to crossing the border, to seeing Blitzcrank once more, and to… before. To the aurora above Piltover.

The city’s star-rods burn blue against the sunset. He forces himself to look away from it all. To look back to Baker’s Hill, back to the bench, back to Caitlyn. He’s why she is here. He’s why she has to stand watch outside the city, instead of…

“I-” he begins, and thinks better of it. He sits down beside her, resting his staff against the bench’s wrought-iron arm.

There’s nothing to say in these times. He knows that well.

There is a moment where she does not know anything. She does not know she needs to pull herself together, she does not know that even in the relative privacy of distance and night that there will be eyes on them to make sure Caitlyn is not harmed by the Machine Herald, does not know that she needs to thank Viktor for making this perilous journey to enemy territory and for sitting with her now, does not know that there will be repercussions or how to plan for them. All she knows, in this moment, is the grief that has been building up in the last day - the last few days - is all that is of her. 

The noises that escape her are wild and unfamiliar, groans and hiccoughing sobs. Sounds of grief that has only the outlet of pain to vent itself through, and tears that blur her eyes and choke her mouth and nose.

He has never been one for grief. No one is, and yet... perhaps he should be, with all that he has to grieve. Perhaps he should know of a phrase or two that would lessen the pain. Everyone else certainly thinks that they know - I’m sorry, it was time, they’ll always be with you, at least it was peaceful - but they don’t.

The words mean nothing. They mean less than nothing; they mean a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is to grieve.

He puts an arm around Caitlyn, touch so light that it’s hardly one at all. He doesn’t look at her for more than a half-moment at a time. No one wants to be seen like this. There is a part of Viktor that says to leave, to let her be alone, alone as he had been. That he is an intruder, an interloper, a spectator to a grief that has been seen enough by Piltover.