summoned glory

Footsteps fell on the cobblestoned path that led to the jail, treading lightly and precisely—Far more lightly and precisely than the woman these footsteps belonged to felt.

You could have cut her anger with a knife—Eighteen years of itemized frustrations and grievances tended to do that to a person. Fiora had thought her wedding would be the culmination of it all. There were, truly, nothing more earth-shattering that she could do than to stand up for herself then, so close to the altar, and loudly proclaim she was her own person and would not be sold off as a political pawn in her family’s games or the Crownguards’. These hadn’t been her words exactly, but this was her resolve. At the time, nothing could have been a worse humiliation for her family than that, but it should have given her the chance to prove her worth. Her worth, not her father’s, not her family’s. After eighteen years spent stealing Cassian’s rapiers and making him teach her everything he knew, eighteen years of her parents’ attempts at moulding her into what a proper lady of House Laurent should be, it had felt vindicating to finally get something that would be entirely hers. Fiora might have pondered on the selfishness of this had she not been so angry. This was meant to be hers—Her fight, her chance at redeeming the family honour she had broken. She was skilled and confident enough in herself and her own abilities to know, whoever House Crownguard could throw at her, she would have come up on top. She would have won, her family honour would have been saved, and no one would have dared try to force her in a role she had no interest in playing ever again. Yet even that had been taken away from her, and by the very people who had tried to raise her to be someone she was not. Another event to add to the long list that fuelled Fiora’s seething anger.

Worse than her father taking her place in the duel had been him trying to poison his opponent—And her anger turned to rage.

Demacia had been built on principles of honesty, honor, and justice. Lord Sebastien Laurent, in his despair to save his family’s honour, had broken all these values. The fact he got caught was unsurprising and did not phase her—A just if humiliating consequence of his actions. Fiora had wanted to see him one last time before his execution in the morning—As if talking to him would somehow satiate her anger and placate her soul. Mostly, she wanted to look at her father’s face and let him understand the weight of the mistakes he had made. The man she finds in his cell is, however, not her father. Sure, he looks like Sebastian Laurent and his voice is the same it had always been when he calls her name, but he looks pained and small, and the sound of her name in his mouth feels strained, and lost, and hopeful—A far cry from the imposing head of the household she had always known, the man who hired a personal seamstress for her in the hopes she would take an interest in clothing, and who had spoiled his only daughter rotten, though with all the material things Fiora did not want or aspire to.

The realisation that he might have been the most amazing father to an entirely different child, just not to her, is a sour one and Fiora stills herself and stands in it for a moment, taking a deep breath in. The next step forward she takes feels shaky and uncertain, but she nods in acknowledgement more than in invitation. A few short steps had taken him closer to the bars, and he now rolls his shoulders back and seems to regain some of the composure of the father Fiora used to know. The familiarity of the gesture is enough to restore her confidence—and her anger. “How could you? Death by combat would have been a far better outcome than poisoning someone. I would have welcomed it, but you let your own pride get in the way of my skills and determination, and now—” A pause. “—now everything is ruined.”

Sebastian’s brows furrow in pain and hesitation, but Fiora cuts him off before he gets the chance to speak. “Don’t bother with lessons now. I know I was reckless. That was the point. You and Mother have always thought about House Laurent first, as a collective unit, and in your children as human beings second, and I was done entertaining that misogynistic ideal. Did you know I am a better, more capable fighter than both Cassian and Ammdar combined? I’m more sharp, more precise. I bothered to learn the actual theory and art of sword fighting, instead of just the moves, and—”

“I did not do it for House Laurent.” His voice cuts her off, loud, stern, and authoritative. Before she gets the chance to continue, he follows: “I am still the Lord of House Laurent, at the very least until tomorrow morning, and you will show me the respect this title is owed, instead of this childish emotional outburst. This said, if you have quieted down, I did not do it for House Laurent. I did it for you.”

“I could have stood my own ground.”

“You’ll have no choice but to do that now, yes.”

“No one of importance will ever trust or associate with House Laurent again. If you had let me fight, my success would have at least granted you all pity, and it would have been an honourable fight.”

“No, Fiora.” His voice grows soft again, and he extends his left hand through the bars. Fiora eyes the gesture cautiously, her own hands remaining firmly by her side. She had come here unarmed—a gesture of good faith, in case the guards questioned her presence—and felt impossibly small and vulnerable without her blade, a pale impression of herself. “People of importance will respect you now.”

“Nonsense!”

His lips thin and, for a second, Sebastian Laurent is not the Lord of one of the most important noble houses of the Great City of Demacia, but a father, frustrated that his daughter yet again refuses to listen to him, like she had always done.

“They will. But for that, you must be my opponent tomorrow. You must ask that a Laurent yield the blade that will take my life, and that this Laurent should be you.”

A mirthless chuckle escapes Fiora’s lips as she shakes her head. Her father had well and truly lost his mind, the plans he conjured up vile punishments for her going against the family. Here, however, he was behind bars, and she was not. This false semblance of power, mixed with the anger that had not yet subsided, emboldened her next words. “Haven’t I been disciplined enough already? You took away my opportunity to be heard, and now you would have me fight you? This is some new kind of cruelty.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, as if this would get the young woman to listen. “There is cruelty in being the head of a household, and even more in loving and raising children.”

She had not expected him to agree. Hatred was easier when the object of one’s loathing was not reflecting on their wrong doings. In her silence, her father saw an opportunity. “You will have to learn about this now that this will become your role, but first you need to hear me. Volunteer to fight and execute me tomorrow. It is the only way for you to get what you want and preserve the family—The only way you stay alive and prosper.”

“No. You don’t mean that, there has to be another way.”

“There are plenty. This is the only one which will give you the power you seek.”

She wants to say that this was never about power, but about freedom—about her own agency—something which she is uncertain her father could understand. In Demacia, however, freedom and agency rarely went without power—At least not for noble families, not for her.

“All you need to do is win a fight. If you are truly an exceptional fighter, this should be an easy feat for you.”

“Of course, it would be. This is not about that, father.”

“What is it about, then?”

Fingers clasp against his still extended hand, as if she were suddenly pleading—Though what she is pleading for, Fiora is not quite sure. For her father not to die, for her to not be the one to execute him, for the heavy mantel of head of household to be passed on to someone who craved it more than her. Contrary to what everyone thought of her, her rebellion had never been about power—It had not had that foresight. In all the near-sightedness of her youth, Fiora had reasoned that she was important enough in her own rights, and had wanted the agency to act as such without pondering on the responsibilities that went with it. Pride, however, prevented her from admitting any of this, at least not in such blatant terms. Perhaps holding his hand could be enough.

“You are my father. It would hardly be appropriate for me to hurt my own family in this way.”

“Disavowing me is the only way this will work, Fiora.” Still his hand squeezes hers, a support far too slim for the task at hand, but the only support Fiora has in this moment.

“If you are so desperate to protect our family, why didn’t you consider it before poisoning your opponent?” And just like that, Fiora extirpates her hand from the man’s, away from the uncharacteristic warmth of his support. His lips thin again, this time in disappointment.

“Despair, child, is a situation I pray you never have to face, though you might ought to earn a few lessons in self-sacrifice in case you ever do.”

Fiora rolls her eyes at his tone, suddenly back to being the father she had always known but that had never known her, and he scoffs at her attitude.

“I am trying to protect you. Your victory and my death is the surest way to guarantee that.”

“No. You were going to fight instead of me.”

“I had hoped this issue could be resolved this way. When it became clear it couldn’t, I had a lapse in judgement, but I am thinking clearly now, Fiora. You must yield the blade, you must become the new head of House Laurent, and you must ensure our name remains respected.”

It is a poisoned gift. Meeting her father’s request would unequivocally tie her to the processes and protocols that had robbed her of her agency to begin with, placing a heavy burden on her small shoulders. Though perhaps she could beat them at their own game, make her family a better and more empowered one. And if she did not meet her father’s request, Sebastian Laurent would die anyway, the glory would go to someone else, and all honours would be lost. The reality of her lack of options left a bitter taste in her mouth, copper clinging to the back of her throat as she difficultly swallowed. Her anger tasted like bile and her sadness like blood.

“I’ll do it—For the sake of Mother, Ammdar, Alarick, Cassian, and Damian.”

Sebastian nods, solemn, but then Fiora is the one who reaches past the bars to squeeze his hands in hers, fingernails almost digging into his skin. He will have to forgive his daughter; she is trying not to cry. Copper, as it turns out, was the taste of tears.

“Where do I start? What must I know?”

“First, that I love you, child. You at least must be certain of that.”

Fiora thinks back to her childhood, and to everything that has led her here. She thinks of the countless trainings in secret, of the family that had never seen her, of the love and care they had had for a version of herself she would quite simply never be. She thinks that even now, in his last moments trying to protect her, her father is still bestowing her with insurmountable responsibilities. She thinks that she likes a challenge, and is grateful for the possibility to go through these responsibilities her own way. But most of all, she thinks of fathers and daughters as two ships in the night, struggling to see one another and yet crossing paths. She thinks of honour, duty, and justice, and how family can twist the meaning of these words.