The Exile

                    ❝ the child is gone.❞

                                  「independent & selective kayn.」                                                home || rules || ask

Or opening up to Riven, for that matter.

(But it felt good.)

Good as in, a torrent of emotion was relinquished from the pool of her mind. Good as in, truth took its place on her lips with endless reprieve. Good, as in letting Riven into her arms, her body, her life again made her feel as if she was no longer living in Noxus alone.

Despite Riven’s inability to return to the city, it was enough knowing that the warrior’s heart remained where it was.

Katarina only realized today, in this moment.

“For one, it doesn’t change anything,” she responded. “Not between us.”

She let go of Riven’s face, moving her attention to scars that had found its place after her disappearance. Her gaze went to her legs.

“Do you know how long I’ve went with accepting your death?” A calloused finger glided against a rough line on tinted skin. “It’s like seeing the dead come back to life. You do the counting on how long it took me to stop denying you were alive.”

With a breath she unwrapped the bandage she tied too tightly on the left, redoing it with more care and without the anger that distracted her from the job before. “What I am saying, is that you need to stop thinking you don’t have anything to give, when the very fact that you are standing and alive is enough to bring me reassurance of things left dark in the past.” 

Finishing with the last touches, deft fingers tied up the bandage neatly.

“The chemicals only stripped you of your skin, not of who you are, Riven.” 

If it had been, perhaps she would still be within Noxian territory with its scaling cliffs and darkened streets, head bowed low before Jericho Swain to await her next orders. (Or perhaps she’d be in another part of Ionia, dead and forgotten like the rest, a number to be read and cast aside.)

If it had been, perhaps she would have mindlessly adopted the filthy truth of the regime she once loved, always and forever a soldier above all. (Or perhaps she would have been drawn and quartered years ago, left to rot in isolation or granted the reprieve of execution. Noxus had never been kind in the face of insubordination.)

If it had been, if it had been; oh, but if only it had been. Years ago, homesick and lost, left with nothing but broken dreams and broken ideals and a pitifully broken sword, she had wished it. But the years had tempered her well, and Riven had spent enough time licking her own wounds. (She’d been taught to fight and die for her country, for her ideals; as Noxus had carved it into her, so too would she carve it into them--with steel, fire, and blood.)

"...I wonder,” Riven replied, her voice low with the weights of thought and memory. It was only when Katarina finished re-wrapping her wound that Riven reached to take hold of a slender wrist, pausing more in contemplation than hesitation before bringing it to her lips. (It was cowardice, surely, to silence the words that had long since been robbed of sound with something as tender as a kiss.)

THIS IS CALL OUT POST FOR @strengthprevails 

DONT CALL ME 2 INCHES I WILL SOCK U INT HE FACE FDCSID WEAW REHNFJDABGSFJLHDBGJKALDSNF;OLKNVGKJFSN BHKFJDSMNBL’

Art by: haonguyenly

Woooow, What’s the matter Riven? Have a lil crush on the captain?

“Mm…just a run in with a demon.” he spoke cryptically and there was a slight smile of amusement on his lips, though the humor seemed to be of a more gallows sort rather than light-hearted.

Demons were cowards.

Demons were men.

Demons were fears and regrets, and sometimes, they could not be vanquished with a blade.

(No. Their story was not meant to be romantic. It was dark, and gritty, and full of madness.)

“You,” Katarina murmured against Riven’s shoulder.

(It was explosive like the burst of stars, and as free as the wind that ripped through air.)

“I just need you,” she said, lifting her face up to gaze into deep, ruby hues.

(They were a story not meant to be romantic, but one that was daring, dangerous, and hopeful.)

“Give me you, in your entirety, of your hopes and dreams and share them with me.” Hands, now ungloved, touched Riven’s face to feel the soft and rough of her skin. “Because I don’t care if you can’t keep promises. Whether we can return to each other or not, take all of our moments and live in it.”

(Me?)

You.

(But I can’t give myself to you, I can’t give myself to anyone; I am mine and only mine--mine, mine, mine.)

“...Never thought you’d be one for dramatics,” Riven replied wryly, though the affection in how she leaned into a calloused touch was unmistakable. With a soft breath, she raised her hand to cover Katarina’s own--not under any guise of wanting to feel, but under every desire to keep. “But what would change from this, Katarina?”

Will it bind me to your side? (It will make me want to.)

Will it welcome me home? (You remind me of home.)

Will it bring our Noxus back? (You remember.)

“Riven,” she whispered, after years of not saying that name.

“Riven,” she said again, as if not saying it would make her leave.

“Riven,” she called once more, to satisfy her own tongue and convince herself that she is real.

Arms clutched on to wide shoulders, squeezing them as if letting go would mean letting Riven off to disappear again, and to leave her behind with what was left of Noxus. It meant pretending to be strong even during the moments she felt weak, and that her death had no effect on her and she is Katarina Du Couteau and she did not care for anyone other than her family. It meant curling up in bed and punishing herself for every time she thought of her, and withholding the sorrow she so deeply wanted to let go of through the shouting and yelling and punching against walls. It meant mourning for her hero, her friend, her lover. 

And she wasn’t sure she would be able to do it all over again.

“...I don’t have much else I can give you,” Riven admitted, her lips tugging into a frown as she subconsciously tightened her hold. (Don’t let this be what takes you away from me.) “What is it that you want?”

Jewelry? No, Katarina was hardly the type to care for such things. Life? Not that either; the Sinister Blade was a force to be reckoned with, and if Katarina Du Couteau wanted someone dead, Riven didn’t doubt--and with pride--the unfortunate target would be found dead within the day.

“I can’t make you any promises,” the Exile continued, soft against the assassin’s skin. “Unless it’s to fight for what I--we--believe in.”