Chapter Text
When he wakes up, he’s in his bedroom, sheets pulled up to his chest. Swain blinks. He is alone, but there is a chair pulled up to his bed and a single Shuriman dagger sitting on his beside table. Talon, he thinks helplessly. Where is he? What happened?
He tries to push himself up, and suddenly, it all comes back to him in an instant: that night, that morning, that letter, that girl. Every panicked thought seems to flood his head at once—of the war, of his men, of his arm— and at the end of it all, all he can do is wonder if Talon’s okay, if he’s even here now, or if he’d left without ever knowing. Every time he blinks, he sees him and that look of resignation, of hurt, and knows that he can’t die— couldn’t die— without fixing things.
He falls back into the sheets and coughs. Coughs and coughs and coughs, until it devolves into nothing but a choking fit. A part of him is glad Talon is not here at the exact moment, if only so he could not see him in this state: weak and helpless. (The other part, the weaker part, misses him, wishes he were here to comfort him, though he does not deserve it.)
As he adjusts to his surroundings, it’s as if he suddenly remembers his mortality and thinks water, I need water. His throat is dry and his stomach growls with hunger. He looks to his arm, the one with his mark, the one he lost in his arrogance and foolishness, the one that will forever remind of him his most costly mistake. It is a wonder he did not lose more.
Stubbornly, he tries once again to sit up. He pushes the sheets off his body and tries not to look too long at the scars that cover his body, most white and faded, others red and jagged. How long he’d been out, he does not know, just that his body aches with disuse as he gets to his feet and ambles slowly toward the door.
He should get water, water and food and something to deal with this damned headache, but instead, he finds himself walking slowly toward the bedroom down the hall, to the room he’d left empty for so long until Talon came along and gave him something to care about. He doesn’t know what he expects to find when he pushes it open. Talon sleeping? Talon perched on his bed, wide awake and thinking about him? Talon packing, ready to leave and never coming back?
It’s empty, when he enters, but by no means untouched. The drawers are thrown open, clothes lying on the bed haphazardly, and his satchel is missing. So he’s away. A day trip? A mission? It has to be. It has to be, he tells himself, when his mind drifts back to the entirely possible and entirely horrifying other possibility.
His head pulses at the thought and for a moment, he shuts his eyes, except in the darkness, there is something there, something that shouldn’t be, something dark and sinister and red, red, red. He steadies himself against the door. His eyes fly open.
I must be delirious, he thinks and stumbles toward the kitchen, hand never leaving the walls until he gets to the cabinets. When he reaches for the glass, it’s like something in his skull cracks, and all he sees is a pair of glowing red eyes in the darkness, as the cup shatters against his floors. He’s leaning against the countertops when Marcus and Katarina come rushing in, eyes wide with surprise and concern.
“Swain, you’re—”
“Yes, yes, now get that cleaned up,” Marcus snaps, hurrying towards him. “Come, sit.”
Everything seems to shift beneath him as Marcus guides him over the glass, until suddenly, he finds himself seated in the living room, a cold glass of water in hand. Marcus sits close to him, and even through this haze, Swain can see the relief in his eyes. He smiles, and hopes it doesn’t look nearly as pathetic as he feels.
“You’ve been gone for too long, my friend,” Marcus says, after a moment. “We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you.” A pause. Slow, but telling. Then, quietly, “Talon has missed you.”
“Talon,” he breathes, a sort of clarity washing over him. “Where…?”
For a moment, there is silence. Marcus looks away and sighs.
“He left in the night,” he says evenly. “To Ionia, on Darkwill’s orders, I found— with great difficulty, mind you; Darkwill didn’t want him to be found and it seems your boy didn’t either. He’s likely on that wretched island by now. Listen, my friend—”
“He sent him alone?” Swain asks, suddenly afraid, terrified, when there’s no reason to be. Talon is no child, he reminds himself; he is quick and clever, dangerous and strong. It is nothing unsual for him to be sent alone, but still he worries, because he is his, and what if— what if— “And you let him go?”
“Yes,” Marcus says, sharply. “What choice did I have? Did you expect me to defy our esteemed emperor? I could not. Not without you. We have been betrayed, Swain. He tried to kill you. Darkwill is nothing but a treacherous rat; I always knew it, and I’ve been dealing with it in your absence.”
The revelation is worrisome and he should be furious, furious that all of it was a set-up, that Darkwill dared plot against him, that for all his loyalty, it still came down to this. And he is. For all his stifling of emotions, he is angry, insulted. But above all of that, there is fear. He worries for Talon’s safety, because with him out of the way, what other target is there, but his heir— his young, impressionable, reckless heir, who would go with him until the end? Who would kill for him, die for him— him and only him, not Darkwill, not Noxus, just him, despite everything?
“I must go after him,” he says. “They will kill him, they—”
“I’ll go.” Katarina stands in the kitchen, arms crossed. Marcus gives her a look, but she is only looking at Swain. “I’ll bring him back. I swear.”
The promise alone is comforting.
“Fine,” Marcus says, after a moment, before turning back to Swain. “But we cannot let this stand.”
“Agreed,” Swain murmurs, and with that, they begin, and for the last time, he pushes Talon to the back of his mind.
-
“He didn’t leave your side, you know,” Marcus says quietly, days later, when they are sitting in his office. Scars still litter every inch of his skin and though he will never admit it, he feels weakness creeping into his bones, uninvited.
He hums, noncommittal, and pretends he doesn’t feel all the guilt bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over into a frown. Just the idea of it— Talon curled up by his side, worried for him, caring after everything— makes his heart ache. He wishes he were here now; he left so much unsaid, hurt him in ways he doesn’t quite know how to fix, and all he wants now is to make things right.
He wants— needs him. Here. Safe. The loss of his arm hurt, the loss of their bond worse, but if he lost him, lost Talon, he doesn’t— wouldn’t—
“He’s going to be okay,” Marcus huffs, as if reading his mind. It seems it’s a skill that runs in the family. “Despite my… reservations, I do believe she will bring him back.”
“She is capable,” Swain says shortly, without looking away from the letter he is writing. He is both infinitely grateful and regretful that it was his left arm he took; at least, he thinks, he will not embarrass himself when he writes to request support in their cause.
It is silent for a while, and it gives him time to think. Will Talon even want him when he returns? What if he doesn’t want to come back? What if he’s given up on him, realized he’s given him far too many chances than he deserves, than Talon deserves, and finally left?
“It is alright,” Marcus says. “To be afraid.”
Swain laughs, mirthless and bitter.
“Is it?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “When I am less afraid for his life than I am of the possibility that he will never look at me that way again?”
“Yes,” Marcus murmurs, and then there is silence.
-
That night, Swain dreams of ink black ravens and red eyes— a promise of something more— and when he finds himself deep within the Immortal Bastion, body restored and mind filled with knowledge beyond comprehension, he feels assurance like never before.
-
When Talon arrives, the camp stinks of blood and shit. There are wounded everywhere, medics tended to the ones left behind. The last ship to Noxus leaves tomorrow and Talon wonders if, perhaps, it would be a mercy if they didn’t return. There is no life for them in Noxus now. Not for the lowborn cripples, not for Swain, not anymore.
Weakness has no place in Noxus, and yet just the thought of Swain, outcast and humiliated and broken makes him question what weakness really is.
Anxiety thrums through his veins as he walks through the camp, hood up, clean blue and silver armor a sharp contrast to the Noxian red tents, stained with dirt and blood and soot. He steps inside the commander’s tent, the Emperor’s sealed letter in hand, and clears his throat.
The commander looks up from his papers.
“Yes?” he scoffs. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Darkwill sent me,” Talon says, refusing to be cowed. He hands the man the letter and crosses his arms. “You are to give me all the resources and information I require.”
The man frowns and unravels the missive. He hadn’t thought it possible, but the frown deepens.
“You are… Swain’s boy?” he asks, an edge to his voice— infuriating for too many reasons at once.
“What of it?” Talon spits, suddenly defensive.
The man gives him a thin smile and nods, slipping past him toward the entrance.
“I will return shortly then,” he says, standing behind him. “Stay here.”
And with that, he goes, leaving Talon alone yet again. He’s spent the whole ride here alone, locked in his room except for meals. He can’t speak to anyone without getting angry, without thinking about Swain, hurt and barely clinging to life, without anyone caring half as much as they should. It’s as if they don’t understand how important he is, how valuable he was to their nation, to their emperor, to— to him.
He slips a blade out of its sheath, spinning it in his fingers, eyeing every little detail and committing it to memory. It is one of the blades Swain brought back for him, a token of his affection, even if he never said so. It brings back too many memories, memories of a broad chest and entwined fingers, of two hearts, beating in tandem, of desperate kisses and slow kisses, bruising fingers and gentle ones. It brings back memories that hurt. That remind him of all they could have had, if only—
If only.
There is so much to be angry about, so much blame to be placed, but all Talon can think of is how badly he needs him now, how much he is willing to forgive in a heartbeat, if only Swain would be okay. He shuts his eyes and tries to not tremble. He will not humiliate himself here, will not disgrace Swain by breaking down again and crying like a child.
He will have his vengeance. He will make her pay.
He is so distracted, that when the commander returns, footsteps deliberately softened, yet still easily detectable to Talon, he does not even turn around. The blade nearly connects with his throat before it falls, limp and useless. Talon turns around, heart thumping.
“Kat?” he breathes. The man’s body falls to the ground before him, and there she is, blades stained red, a pained look on her face. “Why— What are you doing here? And why…”
“Darkwill ordered your death,” she tells him. “He never intended for you to get revenge. He took you for a fool.”
He turns away. Neither of them speak. Even now, he can feel the sting of hurt, the accusation, in her tone. He left her without a word. Left all of them.
“Come home,” she says quietly.
“You know I can’t,” he murmurs. “Whatever Darkwill wanted— it doesn’t matter. I can’t— I can’t let his killer walk free. I will deal with him later.”
“You speak as if he’s dead.”
“Is he not?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. He feels a hand on his shoulder and for a moment, his heart hopes.
“He’s awake,” she breathes, and after that, there is no choice.
-
Go, Kat had said after leaving him alone on Swain’s doorsteps, late into the evening. His heart beats fast and hard in his chest, and with Kat’s reassurance that Swain was very much okay, all Talon can think about is whether he’s still the same, whether he wants him still, whether that ever-present guilt still plagues him.
With every step, he trembles; whether he will be welcomed home or met with cold silence, he does not know. Even still, he continues, and when he steps inside, the house is quiet, lit only by the fading light of the sunset. The door to Swain’s office is cracked open, just a bit, where normally it would be clamped shut. Talon inhales, his heart racing, his mind imagining a million ways this could go wrong.
He pushes the door open, and when he steps inside, all he sees is him, safe and healed and alive. Their eyes meet from where Talon stands, helpless, in the doorway to where Swain stands, papers abandoned on his desk. His heart stutters at the sight of him, familiar dark eyes and hard jaw, softened with something like relief, like affection, like love.
Neither of them say a word, and when Talon rushes toward him, thoughtless and desperate, Swain doesn’t move, doesn’t push him away, just wraps his arms around his waist and lets Talon bury his head in his chest, pulling him close and closer still, until there is only him, him, him.
Talon inhales him, taking in the familiar scent of clean linens and expensive cologne, and lets himself truly breathe for the first time in weeks. He listens to the thump of Swain’s heartbeat, strong and steady—a reminder that he is alive and well and that all is right.
“You came back,” Swain breathes, breaking the silence. Just the sound of his voice, rough and low, is enough to make tears well up in his eyes, like he is ten years old again and desperate for any form of comfort.
“Of course,” he says, willing his voice not to break. “Of course I came back.”
They don’t move for a while, and Talon relishes in every second spent in his warm embrace, clinging to his heat and memorizing every minute detail, so that if he never feels this again, maybe— just maybe— he’ll be okay.
“I’m sorry,” Swain rasps, and Talon looks up at him, slow and hesitant. Their breaths intermingle in the space between them, their lips too close for this to be anything but what Talon wants. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for leaving.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispers, the words spilling out, an uncontrollable torrent. “ You’re okay. You’re alive. You’re safe. Just— just tell me it won’t happen again. Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me, because I don’t know how to do this anymore. Swear it and mean it and if you can’t—” The words catch in his throat. “If you can’t, I’ll go and you won’t ever hear of it again.”
Swain’s lips are moving before even a hint of panic can sprout.
“Yes,” he says, a hand coming up to cup his face, warm and calloused just as he remembers. “Yes, I promise, I swear it. Never again.”
The words feel true, feel right, feel heavy with guilt and longing and a million other emotions long repressed, and when Talon kisses him, taking all that bitterness and turning it into something pure and innocent, Swain’s heart melts.
It’s soft and slow and everything Talon’s ever wanted. He keeps his arms slung over Swain’s shoulders and pulls him closer, down against his lips, tongues entwined, languid, like they have all the time in the world, because this time, they do.
When Swain pulls away, after what feels like blissful millennia, Talon gazes into his eyes and knows that he’s all he wants, all he’ll ever want.
“I’ve missed you dearly,” Swain murmurs, quiet and intimate— a confession.
“Me too,” he says, and when he goes to entwine their fingers, that’s when he notices it— that heat, that power, that arm. The stump, gone. Swain pulls it away when he reaches for it. “What is—?”
“You’ve been gone a while,” he says, the trace of humor in it warming his heart. Talon quirks a brow, as Swain explains everything: his dreams, his demon, his enlightenment. He learns of the betrayal, of the Black Rose, of that woman, and every word makes him seethe with rage and indignation, ignites a fire in him that will not be so easily quelled.
“I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done,” Talon swears, clutching Swain’s shirt. “I’ll kill every last one of them, I promise.”
“No,” Swain says, and Talon looks up. “We will. Together.”
Talon’s breath catches. He is beautiful like this, fire in his eyes, devotion and passion sending his heart racing with exhilaration, with excitement, with love.
“Together,” Talon echoes, and it’s a promise.