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—
The world ends on the bridge between Piltover and the Undercity when she is ten years old, her little sister singing a broken lullaby and gripping her hand. She flinches every time a gun fires, but when the intervals begin to close, when the sound gets louder– she almost stops flinching, expecting it. Powder doesn’t get used to it, only seven years old– too young to be on the bridge with her, too young to be offering her older sister comfort.
That’s besides the point–
She catches sight of her mother, unmistakable, always recognizable– eyes wide, lifeless, blood dribbling out of her mouth. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe– she knows, oh Janna, she knows. Her father is underneath her, face obscure, but she knows from the hair.
Her parents are dead.
The world ends.
. . .
There’s a room off to the side of The Last Drop, one you would only know of if you were brought to it. Behind the door, there is a small shrine built by the loving hands of two sisters and a brother.
Vi, Powder, Vander– it was his idea, to set up the shrine in their old room. He tried to keep a brave face, but Vi could see through it; he was good at hiding it, really, but the way his eyebrow twitched was always his tell.
It twitched, staring at the altar built by the three of them. Powder drew the photos– crude stick figures of the whole lot of them, Vi, Powder, their parents, Vander. They’re rather imaginative, and Vi had to hold back tears just staring at the photo– so childlike, so innocent.
Powder still doesn’t quite understand the severity of the situation; Vi wishes she was as oblivious, as naive. She waits by the bartop everyday, blue eyes shining brightly, waiting for the moment their parents will walk through the door– waiting for their father to come in, swoop her off the ground, twirl her in the air before bringing her in and hugging her, smelling of sweat and ash. She waits for their mother to walk in, smile, pull off her mining hat, make bunny ears with her index and middle fingers, bring them up to her forehead and wiggle them at them.
Vi kneels on the prayer pillow, swallows thickly, hands folding in her lap as she stares at the framed photo of her parents. Vander taught her how to light the incense, taught her the rituals and rites that she never learned; a prayer in Shuriman, meditation, cleansing of the objects on the altar, cleansing of the offerings left to the dead being honored.
All she has for them today is a singular, close to wilting blue peony.
( Our love, is a bubblin’ fountain, the jukebox downstairs prattles on, muffled by the walls and height separating the room from the music player, but Vi hears it all the same: our love, that flows into the sea/ our love, deeper than any ocean/ our love, for eternity.)
She sits there for a long while, incense burning and twirling around the small room. It smells smokey, woodsy, and Vi finds an odd comfort in that. It’s not like the smell of Mother– axle grease, violets –but instead, it’s closer to the smell of Father– ash, sweat, sandalwood.
Her fingers dig into her legs, eyes burning– and she can’t bear to stare into the eyes of their photograph, can’t bear to look at the picture Powder drew. She stares at her knees, blinking tears back furiously. She thinks of nothing to tell her parents, nothing of importance at least– she can’t exactly tell them, proudly, about another fight she got into; can’t tell them how she is so scared of losing Powder, too. They would– they would want to hear about something happy.
She wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her bandaged hand, sniffles furiously, shakes her head. She mutters the Shuriman prayer again, and leaves the room before she can embarrass herself any further in front of her parents.
( Beyond these walls, the storm’s fury grows,
Over land and sea, the storm’s fury grows,
But I have nothing to fear,
For the blue bird is with me.)
. . .
And after all, the rain will fall,
On us too,
But I’ll keep movin’ on,
Proud and strong, with you
It plays more often than not in The Last Drop, something that plays absentmindedly while Vander cleans the bartop. Vi hadn’t questioned it at first, hummed along when the melody became familiar– later, would sing along to it with Powder. Mylo would roll his eyes, exasperated– acting annoyed with them for singing over the song. Claggor just looked happy to be there, in Vi’s opinion.
She grew curious, one day– and the way Vander hesitated, the way his eyes darted around the room, up towards the room, it told Vi everything she needed to know. Ultimately, he cleared his throat, kept wiping down the counter.
“It was your mother’s favorite,” He had said, avoiding eye contact for the most part. “Listened to it all the time, when she was pregnant with you.”
And Vi– she was too young to know when to stop and when to keep going.
“Why did she stop listening to it?”
He sighed, a melancholic kind of smile on his face, “I don’t know, kid.”
( Our love, is a bubblin’ fountain,
Our love, that flows into the sea,
Our love, deeper than any ocean,
Our love, for eternity.)
—
She is fifteen, hunched over the body of Vander– crying, screaming, flames rippling up in the air, when the world ends again.
Mylo, Claggor, Vander– her brothers, her father, dead. Why? Why does it have to–
And then her sister rounds the corner, ecstatic, practically bouncing with joy over her monkey bomb finally working.
In a matter of minutes, the world ends again with the slap of her hand across her sister’s face. It ends when she says, Because you’re a jinx, do you hear me? Mylo was right.
It ends when she realizes what she’s done– that she’s hurt her last remaining family member, her baby sister, after trying so hard to save them all.
And then it ends again, trying to get back to Powder– desperately trying, Janna, she tries so hard, but there’s– there’s a hand on her mouth–
( But I have nothing to fear,
For the blue bird is with me.)
—
Prison is cruel and unforgiving, even for a young girl. Scratch that, actually– especially for a young girl.
She is a few weeks shy of sixteen, thrown into a cold prison cell, and all she can think about is Powder, where is Powder, is Powder okay, Janna please protect Powder, please wait for me–
And she sits there on the floor of her cell, sobs and wails and asks every God she knows the name of for a salvation she knows will never come. She only stops when she cries herself to sleep, something no one else in her cell block appreciates very much, if she goes by how they beat her the next day– spit on her, kick her while she’s down, seething out complaints about how she wouldn’t just shut up and let them sleep.
It happens a few more times before she finally fights back.
. . .
The guards manage to beat her worse than any of the prisoners, never pulling their punches or holding their steel-toed kicks to the ribs. A stab in the bicep from a shiv is nothing compared to the way the warden’s cane comes down on her shoulder, the way his boot slams against her right knee.
She was weak, at first– tough by her standards in the Undercity, but in Stillwater Hold? That means nothing, it all means nothing– Stillwater Hold is a completely different animal than the Undercity, than the Lanes, than the Sumps. It’s jarring, almost, but she’s reminded of it every time a guard comes down to beat her for ‘not kicking her drug addiction’.
It takes her longer than she would’ve liked to admit to figure that one out– she was a lot of things, but she was never hooked on any kind of substance like that. Vander always steered them away from it, pipe hanging out of his mouth, smoke billowing out of the thing as he swirled a cup of gin in his hand.
Powder– every time she asked about her sister, they thought she was asking about drugs.
It makes her feel sick.
She doesn’t say her name anymore.
. . .
Blood pours out of her nose, her mouth, onto the hard concrete ground of her cell in solitary ( minus thirty, they called it). Her most recent beating was for disobedience, so they say– but they beat her within an inch of her life, if the way her lungs burn every time she breathes in slightly says anything.
It’s happened before, she knows, eyes drooping shut, bloodied fingers twitching against cold concrete.
It’s been nine hundred and fourteen days since she was thrown in Stillwater. Today is her birthday.
She is spending her eighteenth birthday bleeding out on the floor of her cell– her permanent cell –on minus thirty, and with every blink, she sees something different. She blinks once, and she sees her old childhood home; she blinks again, and it's the bars of her cell; blinks thrice, she’s in the Last Drop, Our Love playing over the jukebox, her sister dancing as if no one is watching.
She closes her eyes, exhaustion seeping into her weary bones, and– and there’s a hand in her hair, the pungent smell of axle grease and violets wafting in the air around her. Mom cards her hands through her hair, her lap beneath Vi’s head, beneath her fingertips– and she shushes her, quiet and so gentle.
“Dear friend, across the river,” She sings softly, that old lullaby she always sang to put them to sleep. “My hands are cold and bare.”
She pauses, waits a beat, keeps singing, “Dear friend, across the river, I’ll take what you can spare.”
She stops, then– and Vi is so desperate for anything else, desperate to hear her mother’s voice– but it never comes, not even when she shakily keeps the lullaby going:
“I ask of you a penny,” She sings, breath catching and voice hoarse, shaky. “My fortune, it will be.”
( I ask you without envy,
We raise no mighty towers,
Our homes are built of stone,
So com across the river,
And find the world below.)
. . .
The other prisoners steer clear of inmate 516. Most of them have seen the devastation she leaves in her wake, the others have heard the stories– they’ve heard about inmate 436, whose eye popped straight out of their socket after trying to shank her; they’ve heard about inmate 210, whose arm she shattered.
They do not bother Vi, but Vi can’t exactly return the same sentiment. It used to be a lot more frequent, her picking fights– but time mellowed her out just a bit. Anger surges in her veins at every hour of the day, thinly veiled rage that she can only let out in the only medium she knows. It always happens when she thinks of Vander, of Mylo, Claggor, Powder– sorrow that turns to white-hot fury.
There is no time to mourn in Stillwater Hold.
Each punch that connects with another inmates face–
( Beyond these walls, the storm’s fury grows–)
–Each kick that lands in their stomach–
(–Over land and sea, the storm’s fury grows,)
–Every time she draws their blood–
( But I have nothing to fear–)
–Every time her own knuckles bleed, it is the pouring out of her sadness, the release of her anger.
( –For the blue bird is with me.)
It is a sick form of salvation, broken noses and split open lips, but it is salvation nonetheless.
It is all she knows.
(She builds her body, hardens it into something unrecognizable to how she used to look– she prefers herself like this, feels safer in her skin, feels more like herself, but she hates why she has to do it. To feel like a weapon, a threat; she builds her body into the weapon Stillwater Hold demands she be made into, the weapon the Undercity began to carve out of her.
Who is she, if not for her fists? Who is she, if not for the love that seeps out of the wounds she tries to lick?)
—
The world…
Begins with an odd, naive enforcer opening her cell door, recruiting her for some kind of mission. Vi follows along, only because it means getting out– and getting out means finding Powder, even if it also means helping the enforcer. But– hey! She sounded pretty sure of herself, spouting all that nonsense about wanting to help the Lanes, blah, blah, blah. She knows a Piltie that plans to screw her over when they spit at her feet and go on about wanting to help.
…But this one– she seems… genuine. It’s odd, it sounds like an oxymoron to her own ears, in truth– a genuine enforcer –but the more she spends around the girl ( Caitlyn), she… sees something in her. Something old, something familiar– something that pulls her just a bit closer, something that gets her to trust the woman.
There’s a gap in between her two front, top teeth; her eyes shine with that tell-tale Piltover naivety of someone who has never seen the world without a silver spoon in their mouth; She is extremely tall, and Vi sort of hates the way she wants to–
( Our love, is a bubblin’ fountain,
Our love, that flows into the sea–)
–She rids herself of the thought quickly, eyes drifting towards Caitlyn again, hates the way she notices the way the neon lights of the Undercity catch on her cheekbones– high, chiseled, as if she were made lovingly from stone and promptly turned human because of her beauty.
(–Our love, deeper than any ocean,
Our love, for eternity.)
. . .
She is twenty-two, standing on a building, desperately trying to talk to her sister, her Powder–
But she does not listen, does not want to hear it, not when Caitlyn is there.
The world ends.
. . .
(A hand caresses her face, gentle as a feather blowing in the wind, but all the conviction of a woman on a mission– and Vi…
Vi, ultimately, is a weak woman, staring into Caitlyn Kiramman’s bright blue eyes– eyes like the ocean, deep and all consuming. She falls, and she falls, and she falls; a willing fall, a fall she looked dead in the eye and gave in to, because if it means Caitlyn will catch her?
Well, she’ll do it without question.)
—
She’s still twenty-two, watching a rocket fly across a blood red sky towards the council building, Caitlyn at her side, leaning into her, screaming– and it is such a familiar scene, that all Vi can do is watch in abject horror as the world ends in Piltover, this time.
She thinks the world ends for her, too.
. . .
She gets Caitlyn back to Piltover, and she demands to be brought to the Council building– and Vi is weak, and she knows that nothing good will come out of this, but Caitlyn… needs it. She won’t stop shaking, won’t stop mumbling, ma, mama.
She takes her to the Council building– and she can’t help the tears that spring to her eyes when she sees Caitlyn’s mother laid out on the floor like that, blood pouring down from her hairline, eyes wide and lifeless–
And all Vi can think, staring at her body, feeling the way Caitlyn collapses into her side– all she can think of is the bridge.
( Dear friend, across the river
My hands are cold and bare,
Dear friend, across the river,
I’ll take what you can spare–)
—
She is twenty-two, still.
Caitlyn hands her a badge, asks her to help them.
The world ends.
—
How many times can the world end in just a year? It seems Vi is on a personal mission to answer that question–
She takes the badge, the world ends.
She goes against her principles, goes against every warning sign in her, tramples red flags and walks across burned bridges, to gas Zaun ‘for their own good’, as Caitlyn puts it– the world ends.
(The lengths she will go to keep Caitlyn at her side, the things she will do– worse than anything, worse than anyone. All so that she won’t lose her, too.
But she’s lost her, she knows; Lost her the second Caitlyn’s face hardened into something Vi didn’t recognize; Lost her the second she said I am a decorated officer, Leader of House Kiramman.
Lost her the second she said, please, everyone in my life has changed– promise me you won’t.
Lost her the second Caitlyn kissed her so gently, so tenderly, and whispered against her lips, I won’t.
Vi thought she meant, I won’t change; She hears her words for what they are really worth, in hindsight.
I won’t promise.
And yet, Vi persisted; Vi held on, anyways, refusing to accept that Caitlyn has changed.)
She finds her sister, fights her– the world ends.
…Caitlyn slams the butt of her rifle into her side.
The world ends.
. . .
She never had a drug problem, that much she knows, downing her seventh drink of the hour. She doesn’t have any kind of problem, in fact– she is problem free, if she ignores the fact that she sees shadows of people who aren’t there in her periphery; if she ignores the fact that she blinks sometimes, and in Loris’ place, Vander stands.
She doesn’t have a problem, as she slams back the tenth drink.
She doesn’t have a problem, as she sways on her feet, vision doubling in front of her as she swings at her opponent in the ring and just barely connects with their face.
She doesn’t have a problem, as she stumbles home on her own, Loris fucking off to Janna knows where after she got into another argument with him.
( ‘ts your fault ‘m… like this, She had slurred out, pushing him weakly. You… encour’ged me to drink.
And he stared at her for a long time, his figure splitting and then merging again, and she thought he hadn’t heard her– so she said it louder, this’s your fault.
He left, and he hasn’t come back.)
She doesn’t have a problem, throwing up something clear-and-bloody into her sink, hair slick with oil and ash, body covered in the same concoction.
She doesn’t have a problem, taking a swig out of a vodka bottle– falling over, miraculously landing on the couch cushions she pushed together to create a bed.
She doesn’t have a problem, blinking and for a second seeing Caitlyn laying down on her side, staring into Vi’s eyes, hand coming forwards to graze her cheek.
She doesn’t have a problem, falling asleep with the bottle in her hand.
. . .
Her body trembles and can barely hold her upright, the light of the commune far too bright for her light-sensitive eyes. She sweats, not really sure why– it’s perpetually cold in the lower parts of Zaun, especially so in the Sumps. She feels… oddly disoriented; tired yet restless. She feels like she could throw up at any given moment, headache pounding behind her eyes.
“Is there anything to drink, here?” She asks the Herald the second Jinx and Isha walk away. He regards her curiously, a furrow to his brow and a frown on his lips.
“Yes, of course,” He answers after a moment– and for the first time in days, Vi finds herself relaxing with the promise of a drink. “I can show you where the water is.”
She visibly recoils.
“Water?” She repeats, her own brows furrowing– water? Where did he get that from? “No– I meant, like– alcohol.”
He blinks once, twice– and there is such a profound look of sorrow on his face that Vi almost feels ashamed. But, then her hands shake so violently at her sides, and the headache only increases– and she can’t find it in herself to care, anymore.
“There is no alcohol in the commune, Violet,” He says, tone just a shade away from condescending. “It is prohibited, for the well-being of my people.”
Well, if you were really looking out for them, there would be alcohol, she thinks bitterly, brushing him off and deciding to find where Jinx and Isha went.
. . .
She finds Caitlyn– or, well, Caitlyn finds her, and is able to pin her to the ground because of Vi’s slow reaction time, because of the way her limbs shake so hard she can barely control the tremors.
She agrees to help her, because she looks more like herself than she did six months ago– but she can’t help the way rage bubbles up inside her gut, can’t help the way she wants to grab her by the shoulders and scream in her face, can’t help the way she just wants to hug her and sob into her shoulder.
Besides, it’s for the better; it’s for Vander, to save him
( But I have nothing to fear,
For the blue bird is with me.)
—
She is still twenty-two.
The world finds another way to end.
—
She isn’t sure how long she stays on that platform, staring up at the dome of the Hexgates, just– just sobbing, praying to Janna that the platform will finally snap on its hinges and take her with Jinx. What is she supposed to do now? How is she supposed to go on? She has fought her whole life to keep her family safe, and it– it seems the harder she fights, the quicker they fall.
Her mother, her father; Claggor, Mylo, Vander–
Powder, Jinx.
Her breath catches in her throat, her sobs only coming harder– and she slams her feet against the platform, hears the creak of the steel but never feels the snap. It makes her cry harder, furiously.
She is the lone survivor of her family; the eldest child, the eldest daughter, left alone by her younger brothers, her younger sisters.
What is there left for her, now? Who is she, if not for her fists? Who is she, if not for the love that seeps from wounds she tries to lick? Who is she, if not an older sister?
She isn’t sure how long she spends there, wishing Janna will send a gust of wind strong enough to send her over the edge. She isn’t even fully coherent until there’s a thud on the platform, until there's a hand on hand on her shoulder, her hand, pulling her up into a sitting position.
Ekko crouches in front of her, worry etched onto his bruised, bloody face. “Vi?” He says, voice unusually high– panic. He’s panicking. She reaches a shaky hand– shaky from the adrenaline or lack or drink? She isn’t sure, but she thinks she deserves a drink or six after this –up to his face, cups his cheek, caresses the skin beneath her gloved hand to try and calm him down. “Vi– Vi, what happened? Where’s Jinx?”
And she stares at him, lip trembling, eyes watering– and he understands. She watches the understanding wash over his face, so young, his innocence robbed from him– watches the way his face crumbles into something she never wants to see again, the way he reverts back into the boy she used to know, scrappy and following her on her heels, always trying to learn from her.
“Ekko, she–” She starts, abruptly cut off by an ugly wail wretching itself out of her throat. It is all the love she could not give, all the love she still has overflowing in her body, laid bare on the steel beam that should’ve killed her.
He pulls her in, lets her grip the back of his head– sobs wracking the both of their bodies, an ugly, terrible, primal thing that reverberates around the Hexgates.
This, she thinks, is raw, unfiltered grief. It is the loss of a sister, not of a monster– it is the loss of someone they both knew, someone they both loved. In their own separate ways, Vi has her own suspicions about Ekko’s feelings towards Jinx– but they loved her so ardently.
When the worst passes, and they both pull away– there is an emptiness in Ekko that Vi is sure she mirrors tenfold. They sit there for just a moment, the world silent around them– and for just that moment, they can pretend like the world mourns with them; a lament for the girl with bright blue eyes and an affinity for tinkering; an elegy to a family broken apart by tragedy.
Ekko shifts on the beam, it creaks under his weight– but he sits with his knees tucked under him, hands in his lap, facing up. He clears his throat, “Kneel.”
It’s a simple, small request; Vi does as asked, just this once. She copies his position, sitting so that their knees touch ever-so-slightly; it reminds her of lifetimes ago, sitting in front of an altar with incense wafting around her. If she breathes in now, she thinks she can smell the sandalwood.
“What are you–?”
He reaches forwards, grabs her hands, bows his head down and closes his eyes. She watches him silently, tears clinging stubbornly to the corners of her eyes.
“Beyond these walls,” He begins slowly, carefully, his Shuriman a tad-bit off, but it’s still understandable. “The storm’s fury grows.”
Vi chokes on her breath again, swiftly bowing her head and closing her eyes with him for the prayer, grips his hand tighter.
“Over land and sea,” He continues, stopping briefly when the emotion clogs his throat. “The storm’s fury grows.”
She breathes in, hates the way it wavers– and behind her eyes, she sees her sister, smiling at her, hears her say, always with you, sis.
“But I have nothing to fear,” She continues, voice thick with unshed tears– it shakes with the emotion she holds back, if only for the prayer. “For the… the blue bird is with me.”
Always with you, sis.
. . .
Piltover is, for lack of a better term, in a complete and utter shit storm. It’s mayhem on the streets, and Vi– well, Ekko told her he had come to get her because something was wrong with Caitlyn.
Because Caitlyn– oh, Janna, Caitlyn was still alive.
(“ We might not survive tomorrow,” Caitlyn had murmured into her collarbone the night prior, fingers trailing down her bicep, forearm, traces the self-inflicted scars along the inside of her arm, her wrist. “And I just– I want to… I don’t want to die with regrets.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Vi whispered back, lips pressed against the side of Caitlyn’s head, her sweat-sticky hair plastered along her skin. “You’ll be okay, Cait.”
“And what if I’m not?” She responded, stubborn as ever. “Just– let me speak, alright? Let me say my piece, and then we can go back to pretending like there isn’t a war on our doorstep.”
“Fine,” Vi had huffed, held Caitlyn closer to her body. “Go ahead, cupcake.”
And Caitlyn took a deep breath, pulled back, looked Vi dead in her eyes–
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” She breathed out, eyes so intense, so sincere– Vi felt as though she was looking into her soul. “You are– my pillar, Violet. I am– I regret everything I have done these past 6 months, Gods, I have hated myself for it, and I am so– I am so sorry I ever hurt you–”
Tears clouded her vision, and Vi couldn’t help the way she cupped her cheek, the way she brushed away the tears.
“–I’d take it all back, if I could. Never hurt you again,” She closed her eyes, as if looking at Vi had become– too much. Vi understands the feeling, she thinks; loving someone so much she can barely look at them. She feels that way with Caitlyn, a lot– a permanent paradox of loving her so much it hurts to look at her, and loving her so much she can’t stop looking. “I don’t… deserve you. You are gentle, and caring, and you are the greatest person I have ever known– and I don’t deserve you. I won’t delude myself.”
Caitlyn laughed a self-deprecating laugh, shook her head, “But, for as long as you’ll have me, I swear to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. To Zaun.”)
And if Caitlyn is still alive, then– then she has someone to protect. Ekko, too, he– but he never really needed her, but then again, Caitlyn doesn’t either–
“Where is she?” She asks, pushing through crowds of people. “Where– where is she!”
There’s a hand on her shoulder, and she swings around so fast she nearly hits the person– but it’s just Steb. They seem to sense the anxiety, the pent-up fear, the grief on her. He brings his hands up, he signs: She’s in the town square by the Hexgates.
A punch of breath escapes her lungs– she signs back, thank you.
She doesn’t care that she’s running, she doesn’t care that she’s shoving anyone and everyone out of her way– Caitlyn needs her, she needs Caitlyn.
She reaches the square soon enough, sees a hunched over blue figure– and oh, how could that be anybody else except for Caitlyn?
She sprints, falls to her knees the second she reaches her, searches for her hand urgently– finds it, holds it between her own. Caitlyn looks up, her left eye shut with pools of blood streaking down– her nose bleeds, red oozes out of her mouth– oh, Janna, what happened to her? Her eye– her eye, it’s swollen and bruised– the rest of her face, too, but her eye the most –and the blood is so… it’s so much, it’s…
(She thinks of her mother on the bridge; thinks of Vander and all of his deaths. She thinks of herself at the bottom of a pit, passed out, seeping blood out of every conceivable place.)
“ Caitlyn–” She says, tries to ignore the way her voice cracks. “Cait, what are you– are you–?”
She notices the second Caitlyn’s open-eye truly focuses on her, the way her pupil dilates– the small, delirious smile that finds it’s way to her face. One of her hands clutch at her side, and one glance down tells Vi everything she needs to know. “Vi,” She responds in lieu of a real answer to Vi’s disjointed words. “You’re bleeding– are you… alright?”
Her eye (and entire face, actually) is bruised, forced shut, blood just– just seeping out of her, and yet she’s asking Vi if she’s okay. She doesn’t know what to do with that information. So, instead, she brings both of her hands up, cradles Caitlyn’s face in them– tries, futilely, to wipe at the lines of crimson on her cheeks. It smears, instead. Caitlyn leans into the touch, and something constricts in Vi’s chest.
Her ears ring, her mouth is moving but she has no idea what she’s saying– if she’s saying anything, even. Her world has ended, her sister is dead, and the world might just end again if she doesn’t get Caitlyn to a medic now.
“I’m okay,” Caitlyn assures her quietly, trying to comfort Vi– Vi, who doesn’t have any real major injuries. Vi, who should be picking Caitlyn up and running to the nearest doctor to get her patched up. Caitlyn is comforting Vi, because Vi trembles so violently that Caitlyn can feel it– Vi, who has tears running down her face and is stuck to the ground, because Caitlyn’s eye, her eye, she’s a sniper, her eye– “I’m alright, Violet. I’m okay.”
And– and Vi works on autopilot, then, keeps talking even if it feels like there’s a sob stuck in her throat and a hole in her heart that feels a suspicious amount like a monkey bomb. She picks Caitlyn up, stumbles just a bit when she realizes how much Caitlyn is leaning on her, relying on her– her knees are weak from blood loss, and the wound in her side certainly doesn’t help. She takes several missteps, nearly brings Vi down with her– a lack of depth perception, Vi supposes, with the way her left eye is… surely gone, if the amount of blood tells her anything.
So, when Caitlyn passes out– Vi tries to quell the hysteria in her chest, tries to push down the sense of impending doom, the anxiety that comes with not knowing when it will end but the resignation of knowing that, soon, the world will end again.
But I have nothing to fear, she recites in her head like a mantra, for the blue bird is with me.
(But I have nothing to fear, for the blue bird is with me.
I have nothing to fear.
The blue bird is with me–)
—
The shoe never drops; the world never ends–
The cloud remains over her head, sitting at Caitlyn’s bedside, watching the way her sickly skin slowly gains its color back. Around her, the world moves on, but not Vi– there is no time to move on, to mourn, when Caitlyn is still fighting tooth and nail for her life.
Because that’s what this is, Vi supposes– everyday Caitlyn doesn’t wake up is another day she spends fighting to remain in the world. Vi’s handwraps have been discarded in favor of feeling Caitlyn’s cold hand in hers, in favor of being able to press her bare fingertips to Caitlyn’s wrist and feel the heartbeat there.
She’s the one who cares for her– her father going into a near catatonic state when he got the call from the hospital, when he heard that his daughter’s life was on the edge. He had hope, once– hope that maybe his wife would come back to him, but that hope was snuffed out long ago. Vi supposes that extends to Caitlyn, too; she supposes she understands, would likely be in a similar state if it weren’t for the fact that she…
Jinx is dead; her sister is gone. Sitting on that platform, she thought she had no family left to fight for–
And she refuses to call Caitlyn that, refuses to curse her life by tacking on the label of Vi’s family. But Janna, Vi will fight alongside her if she has to, if only to keep her tethered to the mortal plane; Vi will fight alongside her as long as she feels that heartbeat under her calloused, scarred fingertips.
(There is no time to think when she is caring for someone else’s well being– there is no time to grieve when she has Caitlyn to focus on–
There is no time to mourn in Stillwater Hold, there is no time to mourn in Stillwater Hold, there is no time to mourn in Stillwater Hold, thereisnotimetomournin–)
. . .
She is the one who changes the bandages on Caitlyn for the time she is unconscious. The doctor taught her how to change them after the third day, told her to make sure the bandages were never wet, to keep the area clean at all times, always change it if it begins to bleed.
She is the one who props Caitlyn up, who gently unwraps the dirty bandages around her head, her eye– the one who carefully wipes the bruised, swollen skin. She can just barely see the stitches through her eyelids, is careful to not touch it directly. She is the one who gently grazes the bottom of the scar through her eye, the one who wraps a fresh bandage around the still-healing eye.
All the while, she softly sings under her breath, “Dear friend, across the river, my hands are cold and bare. Dear friend, across the river, I’ll take what you can spare.”
—
The shoe never drops, the world never ends.
Caitlyn wakes up.
The birds chirp just a bit louder– her chest constricts just a bit harder.
( But I have nothing to fear, for the blue bird is with me.)
—
The fire crackles in front of her, she swirls the drink around with her wrist. Caitlyn is suspicious of her habit, side-eyeing her each time she sees Vi with a glass that definitely does not hold water in it. She hasn’t said anything, not yet, but Vi is no fool– Caitlyn has kept quiet because she doesn’t have enough proof to formulate any kind of accusation.
Vi knows the conclusion she will come to, knows the accusation that will be made.
She stares down into the glass, finds herself reflected back– but for a second, oh, just one second, the eyes that stare back at her aren’t the blue she has grown used to; what stares back at her is bright pink, vibrant, a light in the dark. She clenches her jaw, brings the glass up to her lips– knocks back the alcohol without flinching, having been long past that point, even when the vodka carves an acrid taste into the back of her throat. It buzzes around her chest, settles in the hole there, eases the ache slightly. She stares into the fire, thinks of a bridge from over a decade ago, full of smoke and littered with bodies–
She hums the song her sister sang, that day. She hums it in time with the grandfather’s clock ticking in Caitlyn’s office, a metronome that marches her to the drunkenness she craves in moments like this. The song, like this, is faster than it should be– speeding towards it, a head-on collision.
The fire crackles, she sees Jinx in its embers.
She wonders where she is, if she’s somewhere with mom and dad, with Vander and Isha. Is she looking down on her? Is she watching?
Always with ya, sis, she had said– and is that still true? Is she still–
She takes a shaky breath, keeps humming.
( I ask you without envy,
We raise no mighty towers,
Our homes are built of stone
So come across the river,
And find the world below)
She almost hopes her sister isn’t watching, hopes Jinx can’t see her like this– sitting on a table with an empty glass gripped between her fingers, desperately chasing a state of inebriation that is so vile it might as well just kill her.
But beside her, Caitlyn asks, are you still in this fight, Violet?
And she answers, I’m the dirt underneath your fingernails, cupcake.
—
Spending so much time Topside is bad for Vi, she thinks a little bitterly. It’s nice, bright, fresh air– but the call of the void is strong, and who is Vi to deny it?
Besides, there is rebuilding to do, a world that has moved on without Vi yet again– Caitlyn has gone back to work, not with the Enforcers, but… something else. Something she’s working on, something she’s keeping a secret for now, but she’s back to work nonetheless. She has a purpose, has something that keeps her busy all day, that keeps her distracted from the loss of something as monumental as half of her sight.
Caitlyn has something to do– but what does Vi have? Her entire family is dead, and all she has left is one person in an entire city that seemingly wishes she’d crawl right back where she came from.
She can’t help but feel like, sometimes, she should– especially after Jinx’s death.
So, everyday after Caitlyn goes off to do the things she does, Vi does her march of death back over the bridge, into Zaun. The air is thick with the smell of fried food, of tobacco, of grease, of all the things that make the Undercity what it is. It doesn’t exactly feel like a homecoming, but it’s as close as she’ll get to it when she’s not walking through the door of the Kiramman mansion, walking through a door and home to Caitlyn.
Zaun is home in a weird way– familiar, but not.
( Beyond these walls, the storm’s fury grows,
Over land and sea, the storm’s fury grows–)
Jinx is written all over the city, the city practically screams her name at Vi. It’s a futile effort, searching every face in the crowd hoping one will bear the same features of her sister– but she does it anyway. She does a double-take each time she sees someone with hair the same shade as Jinx, has to push her back flush against the wall of an alleyway when she brushes past a girl the same height as Jinx, the same hair color– and for that split second they made eye contact, she swore she saw her sister.
It wasn’t her sister.
Her sister is dead.
But foolishly, Vi hoped.
(– But I have nothing to fear,
For the blue bird is with me.)
. . .
She helps Zaun rebuild alongside Ekko, who desperately needs the help after the way the war (and martial law, she tacks on bitterly) managed to ravage the Undercity. Ultimately, he’s the one who is the hardest on her about the drinking thing – because he sees through her in a way Caitlyn refuses to. He sees her in a way a brother would, he sees the struggle– he sees the signs Caitlyn has never had to look for in someone.
( “Nope,” He said, snatching the glass straight out of her hand. “No drinking on the job, Vi.”
“But, Ekko–” She tried to take it back, tried to maneuver around him, but he was always somehow two steps ahead. “–Little man, come on, I need it.”
“What you need,” He narrowed his eyes, fingers still gripped tightly around the glass. “Is to get back on the wagon.”
“I–” She scoffed, rolled her eyes, tried again to grab the cup. A futile effort, really. “–I am. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Yeah?” He challenged, lips pulled into a scowl. “If there’s nothing wrong, then you’ll go through the whole day without drinking.”)
Ultimately, Ekko is the one person who remains from her past. He’s the only one who understands, who sees the Powder in the Jinx. He’s the one who sits next to her silently on the roof of The Last Drop, watching the Piltover skyline in the moonlight. It reminds her of that night with Powder, telling her that one day, this city is gonna respect us. She still remembers her sister’s smile, so shy, so hopeful– and Vi wants to bottle the memory up, wants to live in it forever, never having to experience the horrors that came after. Never having to witness that hope die in her sister’s eyes, never experiencing the way her eyes were so devoid of any kind of life after Isha died.
Ekko clears his throat, “Don’t you have a fancy mansion to go and dirty?”
She huffs a laugh that doesn’t really have any humor behind it– she tries to ignore the way her hands shake, the way she feels slightly nauseous. “No, not yet,” She responds, elbows him in the side to try and make herself feel better. “Cait– She’ll understand.”
He takes her words for what they are, nods his head, stares out at the skyline with a faraway look in his eyes– something wistful, something nostalgic.
“We used to sit up here,” She swallows thickly, her bare hands digging into her pants– tailored, made just for her. On Caitlyn’s insistence, of course. She doesn’t remember when she stopped wearing her handwraps, just remembered Caitlyn pulling them off one day and– she never put them back on. “Powder and I. We watched the city, made up stories, talked about what we wanted to do when we were older.”
She remembers it, oh, she remembers it as if it were yesterday. Isn’t time such a fickle thing? Always slipping through her fingers, always just out of reach– grains of sand that she’s always sifting at, trying to grab at definitively, never getting a handle on it. The harder she sifts, the faster it goes– she tries to hold on, tries so hard, but she– she took the gem out of her gauntlet, she– she fell–
“I tried so hard, Ekko,” She whispers, voice hoarse and cracking– and like this, here in the light of the moon, the stars shining down on them, she just… feels it all. The bitterness, the agony, the sadness. “I tried… she was right there– she was right there, but she– she just… decided she couldn’t be saved.”
“Maybe she couldn’t,” Ekko mutters in response, an odd sense of resignation in his voice– there’s something underneath it, though, something Vi can’t pick out. “Maybe she knew that, too.”
Always with ya, sis.
Vi closes her eyes, drags her knees up to hug to her chest. Quietly, so quiet she can barely even hear herself, she says, “It should’ve been me.”
“But it wasn’t,” Ekko shakes his head, digs around in his pocket. “She figured you were worth saving, Vi. She sacrificed herself so you could live–”
She opens her eyes, glances at him, looks at the blank piece of white paper he holds out to her. “–And that should be worth something to you,” He explains, his dark eyes holding an intensity to them she only ever saw when he was speaking of the Firelight cause, of Zaun. “That she thought you should live. You don’t think you have a reason to live? Think of that, Vi. Of Jinx, and– and Caitlyn.”
He shoves the paper closer to her, she takes it hesitantly. “Live for them,” He hands her a pen, next. “Live in honor of your sister. Keep going because she wanted you to– keep going because you still have Caitlyn to fight for.”
Tears well in her eyes, clutching the pen in one hand, staring at the blank paper cradled in her other hand. He’s right, and she hates it– and has she really even been living? What has she been doing all these months? Passing time, waiting for the next time the world is going to end, waiting for when the next bad thing happens to her.
She thinks of the alcohol, her dependency on it– she thinks of Caitlyn, of her sister. Her sister, however short of a time she spent with her before her death, made it clear her distaste for her new habit. Caitlyn has yet to comment on it, but she sees the concern in her eye every time Vi reaches for the bottle, every time Vi knocks a shot back like its water.
So, she has a problem.
(Her hands shake in her lap, her head throbs– and yes, yes, she has a problem. This is not adrenaline, this is not a cold–
This is withdrawal.)
So, she has to fix it.
If not for herself– when was the last time she did something for herself? –then for Jinx, for Caitlyn.
She sniffles, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as discreetly as possible. “What is this?” She asks, raises the pen slightly. Ekko huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes, knocks his shoulder against her arm.
“You weren’t there when the memorial on the bridge happened,” He says, eyes tracing the cityscape below them. “I figured you would’ve wanted to write a name or two on a piece of paper.”
She looks down at the blank sheet, clicks the pen. She blinks down at it a few times, mind blanking– but in the end, in messy scrawl, she writes:
Jinx, Isha, Vander.
She folds it neatly, holds it out in the air– and Ekko pulls out a lighter, lights the paper on fire. They watch it float up into the air, watch it burn as it ascends to the high heavens.
( I have nothing to fear,
For the blue bird is with me.)
—
She tinkers with the record player, brows furrowing as she tries to get it to work. They never had record players like this, just a janky jukebox that was full of static that played background noise in The Last Drop– and she missed that, missed the music that used to play absentmindedly as she went up the stairs to the room dedicated to her parents’ memory.
She frowns, hitting the button that should play the record– but nothing happens. Again. It makes her chest tighten, makes her want to reach for a drink– no, she won’t give in –makes her want to just give up altogether and lay down, stare at the ceiling for hours until someone finds her.
(She thinks of the Hexgates, thinks of a Jinx’s crashed lair, thinks of always with ya, sis–)
“Vi?”
She cranes her neck over her shoulder, finds herself graced with the image of Caitlyn in just a purple camisole and ungodly short shorts. Vi has to blink herself out of stupor, has to look up at Caitlyn as she comes closer and closer.
“What are you doing?” She asks gently, amusedly, as she bends down to be at the same eye-level as her. Vi smiles despite her sour mood, eyes tracing Caitlyn’s face– and oh, what a sight for sore eyes she was. With her usual eyepatch left discarded, surely, somewhere in their ( their!) room, leaving her scarred eye out on display for Vi– oh, Vi can only stare reverently. Her brave, her kind, gorgeous girl.
“Well, I was trying to get the record player to work,” She sighs, turns her attention back to the thing. “But it won’t– I don’t know what I’m doing wrong–?”
Caitlyn reaches forwards, turns a few dials, clicks something into place, picks the needle up and situates it at the beginning of the vinyl’s grooves again. “Now try, baobei.”
Vi’s mouth goes dry at the term of endearment– still not quite sure what it means, but she’s not a fool, she knows it’s a pet name . It’s sweet, she thinks as she glances back at Caitlyn, that she’s comfortable enough with Vi to slip into her mother tongue. She should probably get to learning Ionian soon, when time permits.
She reaches forwards, hits the button– and the familiar opening drum beat, the familiar opening guitar of Our Love begins to play. Her smile is so wide it nearly splits her face, she’s sure– and she turns to Cait, cups the side of her face, brings her face down to press a kiss to her lips– but it’s more of her just pressing her lips there, not even a kiss, not with the way she smiles so brightly.
She hops up, offers her hand to Caitlyn– who takes it, who will always take it if it’s Vi that’s on the other end –and pulls her up.
“Dance with me, Cait,” She asks shyly, the record player louder than she remembers the jukebox ever being in The Last Drop. Like this, the song is so much clearer– she’s able to make out the instruments clearly, the voices in the back. It tugs at her heart, reminds her of a time long since gone. It reminds her of mom, of dad– of Vander, of Powder. Reminds her of that room in The Last Drop that always smelt of sandalwood and smoke.
And Caitlyn indulges her, wrapping her arms around Vi’s neck as her arms wind around Caitlyn’s waist.
(Our love, is a bubblin’ fountain
Our love, that flows into the sea
Our love, deeper than any ocean
Our love, for eternity–)
“Where did you get this?” Caitlyn asks, swaying to the song– even if it’s rather upbeat, they find the downbeat, find the hidden beat and sway to that, to the lyrics.
“Ekko found it, actually,” She responds, leaning forward to rest her head against Caitlyn’s collarbone. If she were to move her head down a fraction, she’d be able to hear her steady heartbeat. “Gave it to me, because– Dad– Vander always used to play this in The Last Drop.”
A beat of silence, Caitlyn undoubtedly taking in the piece of information– but Vi isn’t done, not yet, not ever, “It was my mother’s favorite song, apparently. Used to always play it when she was at the bar– when she was pregnant with me, too.”
Caitlyn hums, hand inching up to twirl around in a wavy piece of Vi’s hair– a new thing, as Vi had found out. Her hair is wavy, who knew?
“And– I don’t know,” She mumbles, presses a featherlight kiss to the skin beneath her mouth. Caitlyn makes a small sound in the back of her throat, Vi smiles. “I missed hearing it, I guess. And– and in The Last Drop, after Vander took Powder and I in, we built this… this memorial? Shrine? Something like that– for my parents–”
“Breathe, Violet,” Caitlyn murmurs into the top of her head, kisses there as a way of returning the favor. “It’s okay, baobei.”
She takes a deep, shaky breath– she hadn’t realized how quickly she had been speaking, hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. She exhales, hears the way it hitches in her throat, and keeps going, “–We all used it pretty frequently. I hated going in there with other people, so I would try to go in at weird hours– but without fail, every time I went in, this song would be playing downstairs.”
She puffs out a breath of air, shakes her head, “The walls were thin, I could always hear it.”
Caitlyn is silent for a moment, contemplative in her silence– Vi could always tell the differences between Caitlyn’s quiet. It was odd, how she could pick them apart, but Vi supposes that just comes with knowing someone as intimately as she knows Caitlyn.
(She likes to think fate played a part in this– all of this. She likes to think they were always meant to be together.
It’s a foolish thought, but one that brings her an odd sense of comfort; A comfort that, maybe, the shoe will never drop, and the world won’t end again.)
“You know, there’s a room– upstairs,” Caitlyn begins cautiously, dragging her head towards Vi’s cheek, pushes her gently away from her body so she can look her in the eyes. “Up the spiral staircase in here, there’s a room. It was originally another office, but if– if you want to use it, for an ancestral shrine… I’d be more than happy to let you have it.”
Maybe the shoe does drop– but it’s a different kind of shoe. It sort of sounds like the sound of glass shattering against the ground.
“Cait–” Vi starts, stops abruptly, voice suddenly thick with unshed tears. “I couldn't– I wouldn't want to impose any of my traditions on your home–”
“–Vi,” She cuts her off– tone… firm, not harsh, but firm. Her thumb caresses her cheekbone, reminiscent of all the times Vi has done something similar to her. “This is our home, darling. You can do whatever you wish to do with it. Besides– I… I want to know about your culture, too.”
Vi stares at her for a moment, long and hard, just searching her face for any signs of hesitance or insincerity– as always, there is none. Vi swallows harshly, stands on the tips of her toes to press her lips against Caitlyn's, pouring every ounce of love she can into the kiss.
“Okay,” She murmurs against her lips. “I'll make one, then.”
And Caitlyn smiles at her, so bright and vibrant, that it rivals the sun.
(And after all
The rain will fall,
On us too–
But I'll keep moving on,
Proud and strong with you.)
—
Soon enough, the once barren room is full of trinkets and knacks that Vi was able to find hidden away in The Last Drop: the old prayer pillows, the entire shrine, in fact, was still completely intact. It was as if no one even touched the room after Vander died and took over– and it made things easier for Vi, actually. She was able to just… haul everything back Topside to situate in the new prayer room.
There were new additions, of course: She found her old bunny, the one she gifted to Powder all those years ago, and stuck it on the altar. She included a rather old looking photo she found of Vander and Silco– because they were brothers, and they were mom's brothers –and stuck it next to the family photo. There was no photos of Jinx, at least not ones that were her wanted poster, so Vi had to draw it, instead.
It was purely from memory, a detailed-hand drawn and shaded photo of Jinx and Isha together in the commune. She remembers how happy she looked, the way the lights shone in her eyes– and for a second, those vibrant pinks turned baby blue. That's how she chooses to remember Jinx, the version of her sister that wasn't broken on the floor of a cell in the bunker, or the version of her sister that sacrificed herself because she thought it was the only way out–
She chooses to remember the version of Jinx that was at peace. Happy, an arm wrapped around Isha, her fingers in the shape of bunny ears and pressed against the side of her head– like mom.
When the shrine is done, the altar full of things belonging to each of those she has lost, as well as photos (drawn or actual photographs) and flowers, she shows it to Caitlyn.
“Wow,” She breathes out, eye full of wonder as she takes in the room. Vi takes the opportunity to light the incense, let the smoke fill the room and relax them both; an offering to the dead; a call to ghosts. “This is– beautiful, Vi.”
“Yeah,” Vi agrees, settling back in her knees on the prayer pillow. “A lot of this stuff was still in The Last Drop. I got lucky, I guess.”
She hovers awkwardly in the doorway, not quite inside, but not quite outside either. Vi waves her over, pats the pillow next to her, “Come on, Cait. Kneel down with me.”
“But I thought–”
“–It's okay,” Vi assures her, smiles over her shoulder. “I want you to meet my family.”
And isn't that sad? The fact that Cairlyn ‘meeting her family’, means sitting down in front of their photos and praying?
She doesn't move, not for the longest moment– and Vi feels her blood run cold, thinking she's overstepped. Just– just because she offered to let her use the room, it didn't didn't she wanted to–
“I'll be right back,” Caitlyn says, nods her head, a look of determination on her face. It's odd, but Caitlyn has her quirks– she's not one to judge.
So, she waits with her hands folded in her lap, breathing in the sandalwood scent; she thinks of her father, and his smile. She thinks of her mother, and how Powder acted so much like her–
There's a girl in town, and words gone around
She's just fine,
So I don't worry my head, ‘cause I know
Her heart is tied to mine–
The door to the shrine opens, revealing a rather sheepish looking Caitlyn as she closes the door behind her. She steps in the room fully, now, and kneels down beside Vi.
“Sorry,” She mutters, mimicking the way Vi sits. “You just– you said that this was always playing when you– So I thought–”
Vi laughs softly, reaches over to grab Caitlyn's hand and hold it in hers. “Cait,” She says quietly, her smile surely only being able to be described as reverent. “This is perfect, relax.”
And she nods, lips pursing– and oh, Vi loves her so deeply, she needs to marry this woman.
She shakes the thought from her mind quickly, clears her throat, bows her head down. Caitlyn watches her, Vi can see from the corner of her eye, so she simply squeezes her hand. She gets the message easily enough.
“Beyond these walls, the storm's fury grows,” She begins the prayer, as natural as breathing, as familiar as the back of Caitlyn's hand. “Over land and sea, the storm's fury grows, but I have nothing to fear, for the blue bird is with me.”
She looks up, smiles at Caitlyn when she catches her looking– there's awe, etched into every line of her face; there is unwavering love.
Vi looks away, looks towards the window–
And outside, on the ledge, sits a bluejay.
(Our love, deeper than any ocean
Our love, for eternity.)
—
And years later, when the world hasn't ended again for nearly a decade, and time has weathered them at a rate normal for their age, they will be back in this room. There will be a photo of Cassandra propped up on the altar, and Tobias will be there– Ekko, for Vi.
Here, they will have their wedding– or, well, the first half of it, at least.
They will light the incense on the table, the two of them dressed in red marriage robes– another Ionian tradition, one Vi was happy to participate in –and Vi would begin the small ceremony by saying her prayer to Janna:
Beyond these walls, the storm's fury grows
Over land and sea, the storm's fury grows
But I have nothing to fear,
for the blue bird is with me.
From there, Tobias will have them tie pieces of their hair together, reciting the traditional Ionian marriage prayers. From there, once the hair is tied together and their souls are intertwined from then until forever, the two of them will do their three bows:
The heavens, the parents (in this case, the altar, plus Tobias), and then each other.
With the three bows done, they will essentially be married– they then will go to the tea ceremony (Caitlyn called it that, at least), which will officially recognize them as wives– the tea ceremony will be much more public, to both of their dismay.
And there, they will smash their glasses on the ground, and as far as they are concerned, they'll be married officially in both of their cultures.
(And, if Vi sees a blue bird in the garden during the tea ceremony, that's all she needs to know; That her sister is truly always with her.)