bleeding - heart .

            “Turn your shoulder to me, little flower. Let me see the sun on your face.”

            She is so warm it feels like the sun is inside her; breathing in the hyacinth and forget-me-nots, Ahri casts a glance over her shoulder, impish amusement already bubbling up on the tip of her tongue, and preens for him. Her artist sets aside his sketchbook and leans forward, a smile mischievously working its way across his countenance. He had eyes so dark they sparkled.

            Ahri takes the bait, with a knowing smile to match his own. “Aren’t you going to draw?”

            “Ah,” he says, and leans back. “I lied. I only wanted an excuse to look at you.”

            “You can’t be trusted,” Ahri laughs, and in one fluid motion she rises to pounce. They tumble over and over through the wildflowers, a scatter of laughter in their wake, and roll to a stop with Ahri victoriously straddled across his lap. She brushes a strand of dark hair from her love’s eyes and smiles, coyly gloating. “That is what you get for deceiving me.”

            A clattering tumble of movement draws both their eyes downwards.

            “Take care not to lose these,” he says, and reaches for where Ahri’s tokens had fallen, two perfect halves laying open in the grass. She takes the stones gingerly and slots the pieces together, smoothing the pads of her fingers over the intricate whorls.

            “I can’t bear not to carry them with me,” she murmurs. She was rarely this careless; it would not happen again. Ahri glances away to secure them, and as she does her artist sits up, his palm braced against the grass. His other rises to cup her face, thumb smoothing softly over her cheekbone.

            “You’d like to find them, wouldn’t you?” he says. “Your family.”

            “I…” She had not once spoken the desire so plainly, but he knew her in ways she often didn’t even know herself. “I have thought about it,” she admits uneasily. “But I am… afraid. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

            “I’ll go with you.” He smiles, handsomely boyish, dark hair always falling into those dark eyes of his, and Ahri feels the rhythm of her chest go aflutter. “We’ll scour Ionia together, as far and as wide as it takes. Just imagine the places we’ll go. This forest begins to feels so small once you get to know it.”

            “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Ahri laughs, reaching to cup the back of his hand against her face. “I have never known my family. It would be a long and disappointing journey. “

            “You deserve to have a home,” he insists. “I would follow you to the ends of the world, jihelya.”

            Ahri’s doubt falters. She feels so warm- a rising sun, born again. She pulls back his hand and leans in to kiss him, tenderly and in silent thanks. “Then we’ll go,” she says, and their shared smiles are like new budding life.

            This is not the first time he has come.

            At first Ahri was skeptical, as she always is: his intrusion so near to her home was unwelcome, and was more than enough cause for concern. She would let the offerings the man laid out for her go completely untouched, left to be carted off by wildlife or taken by rot. She would watch him come and go when she could, concealed in the branches of a towering oak, and sometimes she would arrive and find the gifts already there, his brief visit long since passed.

            (  Once, after he had already left, Ahri curiously plucked up the fragrant stick he had left behind in the earth, still curling sweet - smelling smoke into the air. She liked it so much she kept it —  just once —  and the next time he returned he left behind an extra, tucked in among the fruits. That cowed her into not approaching again for a long while.  ) 

            Ahri feels a strange frustration prickle her skin. He gained nothing —  she had hoped remaining impassive would dissuade him from returning, but he did time and time again, seemingly unswayed. She watches this time from a high bough of the very same tree he kneels at —  closer than she has ever dared approach —  her tails picking up an irritated, jittery sway. Words swell in her chest and stifle at the barrier of her tongue. 

            ‘ Why do you come here ?  ’

            The fox blurts out her demand almost without thinking. She sees him freeze, notices every muscle go cold and still halfway through the motion of lighting the incense. His gaze tips back, and for a long moment their eyes meet, hers a burning gold gleam in the shadow of the great oak. Ahri drops to the forest floor nigh soundlessly, tails fanning out to retain her balance. She reaches down to the bowl with her eyes still not leaving his, poised tense like an animal readying flight or fight, and gently plucks free a white pear — the motion of rising it to her nose to smell is one slick with suspicion. She wonders if he means to make her ill with poison… but the fruit is so clean and fragrant it makes her mouth water.

            She does not indulge in a bite, but she does not throw away the fruit either. She lowers her hand, cradling it close to her chest.

             hi there !  i actually have been making my own psd’s for a while so unfortunately im not comfortable releasing the one i’m currently using for other people

            Over. Under. Over.

            Ahri takes an errant strand of Irelia’s hair in her fingers- gently, like she’s handling something fragile- and tucks it back into its proper place. She has never braided another person’s hair before; everything is backwards from how she remembers it, the once familiar pattern turned on its head, but there is something methodical and soothing about the challenge. They talk while she works, about anything and everything, and that lulls her too. It opens her up in ways she has never opened up before, between the rhythm of Irelia’s voice and the feel of her hair in Ahri’s fingers, soft and weighted like silk. She does not mean to divulge as much as she does.

            Under. Over. Under.

            Ahri is thankful in that moment that Irelia’s back is to her. She has eyes that look like they see everything, and Ahri is too poor at concealing herself  ─  it makes her feel clumsy.  ‘  One is… generous,  ’  she says. She had committed crime after crime, without restraint and without any capacity or willingness to learn, and Irelia does not seem to mind. She is so earnest, so present, she only sees Ahri for what she is now- whatever that may be, Ahri allows herself the luxury of hoping it is kinder than what she sees in herself. The laugh that suddenly grows present in the hollow of her throat surprises her, but she lets it come regardless ─  it is short, a little breathless, and Ahri feels lighter for it.  ‘  …but If I’d known it was going to be a competition, I could have tried harder.  ’

            Over, under. Ahri smooths the final plaits into place and ties off the ends with a length of leather cord. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. She slides the length of the braid over Irelia’s shoulder so she can see and follows the movement, leaning around to look at her, her palm propped in the grass.  ‘  I think I’m getting better,  ’  she comments, still looking at the braid, but her eyes have turned soft and thoughtful. Everything felt backwards, still ─  that might not ever change… but the prospect of piecing it together again no longer seemed so daunting. 

            the hounds of noxus were baying at her heels. 

            they’d already given chase through a kilometre of dense forest, drunk off the scent of fresh blood. moments before, they had been driving native ionians from their quiet homes and taking steel to the ones that did not cooperate, but the enemy forces were soon captivated by the sight of such a rare ionian prize: a timid gleam of white fur emerging from the underbrush, shadowed in sharp relief against the flames of the home they had just razed to the ground. 

            and they were all the more enraged when she struck down a dozen of their men.

            she led them astray as best she could, sprinting through the foliage like a deadly guiding star, but the noxians are quick and relentless in their pursuit. two arrows slung in her direction scream at ahri’s ear, close enough for her heart to claw into her throat, but the next slices horizontal against her calf and brings her sprint to a stumble; another gouges across her forearm and pins her sleeve to the bark of an old oak. it is agony to rip it free and continue on.

            as she breaks into an expansive grove as fast as her limp will take her, the warband not far behind, she faces what seems- at first- to be her death. he blends into the darkness so well she nearly runs straight into him, a lamb sprinting to its slaughter: ahri brings herself to a jarring stop, wounds screaming in protest. her chin tips back, scratched and smudged with filth, pupils blown wide with shock. she is met with the impassive gleam of steel, a cold ember of red burning beneath. and she, like any wounded, cornered animal, does the only thing she knows how. she strikes.

            blue flame ignites at her fingertips. ahri heaves back her uninjured arm, teeth grit into a scowl, her chest heaving with exhaustion; despite her injured state, her unnatural speed persists, and she darts forward, tails a violent lash of white behind her. she will kill him and be done with it. his essence will go to the maggots for all she cares.

            his hand closes around her wrist, and all comes to a cold standstill.

            ahri’s composure breaks. she heaves a pained gasp and watches the magic at her fingertips sputter and choke out like a dying flame, swallowed by something more sinister. shadows coalesce over her flesh where he touches her, his grip firm enough that she fears her bones will give way; her arm begins to feel like it no longer belongs to her, an empty void of ache and cold settling in and draining her vitality. she snarls a guttural, wounded sound, fangs bared, but he seems to know it is nothing but a defiant display.

            ‘  watch your tone,  ’  he says. a trickle of cold runs down ahri’s spine.  ‘  i’m doing you a favor.  ’ 

            the man releases her, and all at once her knees buckle, as if he had sapped away the last of her body’s will to stand. he steps past her just as the noxian hounds burst through the treeline. they seem affronted by this new aggressor, but seeing that the grove is otherwise empty, are unswayed in their confidence. they raise their weapons with renewed bloodlust.

            ahri can do nothing but sit and watch the slaughter as it unfolds.

            the man in front of her melts into shadow, a darkness so hungry it swallows the moonlight. eight of them are dead before the warband realizes they are the lambs: they erupt with wounds so grotesque they are soon nothing more than flesh and blood. a spray of it touches ahri’s cheek, smears the front of her robes with gore. a ripple of primal fear travels through what still remains of their ranks. the once peaceful grove becomes soaked in noxian blood; their cries of retreat are silenced as soon as they come. eventually, quiet reclaims the forest.

            the grass she kneels in has begun to pool crimson. ahri stands, trembling with exertion, just as the man who had saved her life melts back into view. he says nothing, regarding the fallen noxians through a mask that conveys just as little. only once she steps forward, falling under a shaft of moonlight, does he seem to remember her presence. she can smell it now, no longer masked by her own desperate will to live: that same cloying darkness. it is an assault on her senses, and her tails pick up an anxious sway.