Chapter Text
ACT 1
—
Her heartbeat is in her ears, her breathing hard and labored– her chest heaves, her bow clutched tightly in her hand, eyes scanning the decimated ‘battlefield’. Fires burn somewhere in the distance, probably somewhere nearby too, thick plumes of smoke swirling in the air around her. It smells of ash and blood, pungent and acrid, burning deep in her nose. Bodies are strewn about on the ground, some stuck there by a sword through the chest, others with arrows or spears. Those that remain alive can’t move, confined to their place on the concrete ground of Zaun.
Her regiment had been stationed in Piltover, supposed to be on the frontlines– Zaun was supposed to be nowhere near the frontlines, Zaun was only supposed to be the southern front… and yet– and yet–
As soon as she saw the horse– Vi’s horse –she knew. Something had gone terribly wrong, and she needed to get there– get there now.
Let it be known, she is not a good person; not by any means. In her pursuit of revenge, she has– well, she has lost herself, quite frankly. Did she ever know herself to begin with? Was there a person underneath the darkness to know? Was she born wicked, or was she molded to be this way?
She can see Ambessa’s face in the back of her mind, smirking triumphantly as she hoists the Noxian flag over the town square in Piltover, claiming her kingdom for Noxus. Her homeland, her kingdom. Some Crown Princess she is; some Commander.
In her pursuit of greatness– of turning Piltover into a formidable power, she has turned her back on the people she swore to protect in the first place.
The evidence is laid out before her, soldiers lying dead on the ground– a war originally fought on its front, before Caitlyn turnedcoat. These streets have been stained red long before this fight– will probably be stained a deep red for a long time–
But she needs– she needs to find her–
Her breath hitches as she runs down alleyways and streets, desperately searching for the familiar shape of Zaun’s Head General– a familiar head of red hair, the goggles on her head, the black armor, her weather-worn boots, the freckles, anything. She’s sure she hates her, oh Gods, she would understand the hatred; welcomes it, wants it, deserves it after what she has put her people through. It was a miracle she ever even agreed to help Piltover in the first place, a miracle that Vi had found the empathy to help her–
But she also realizes there was a necessity to Zaun’s help. While Zaun’s army is underfunded, not very well trained– let it be known, the Zaunite military is nothing if not patriotic and formidable. They are determined, they are brick walls, they will stop at nothing to protect their homeland; their homeland, being threatened by the Noxians if Piltover falls.
And, Oh Gods, what has Caitlyn done?
The Lanes, all around her, are destroyed, plundered beyond belief by the Noxians. What does it mean for Piltover, if Zaun has fallen? Piltover is surely next, especially since Caitlyn has abandoned her regiment Topside to find her General. Does Caitlyn care? She isn’t sure– not when what was left of her humanity could be bleeding out here, alone, dying. Dying on the streets that raised her, the streets Caitlyn razed–
Her chest heaves, her heart thunders in her ears, her bow is still clutched in her hand. In the distance, she thinks she can see red hair, can see a bandaged hand gripping a sword stuck into the ground, trying to stand up. Caitlyn breaks into a sprint, boots getting caught underneath her cape– she stumbles, nearly falls face first into a pile of bodies, the ground still slick with blood –but she makes it, ultimately. Vi stops struggling when she sees Caitlyn, lets herself drop back onto the concrete, chest shuddering with each breath she desperately tries to inhale.
She drops her bow, first.
Caitlyn’s knees buckle beneath her as she falls to the ground, grabbing at Vi, hoisting her into her lap– eases up immediately when she lets out a pained whine, when she winces and gasps.
“Vi,” She says, desperate, voice hitching when she sees the amount of blood pooling out of Vi’s mouth, the way her gray eyes are slightly glazed over. Vi’s bandaged and gloved hands press over a wound on her stomach– her stomach, unprotected by the chestplate she wears. What is the point of the chestplate, when there is a wound in her stomach? And– and what about that slit across her throat? It’s shallow, that much Caitlyn can tell- but it was intended to suffocate, intended to– to slowly– “Oh, my Violet–”
This was a message from Ambessa. They pillaged Zaun, first– a message to Caitlyn: You betrayed me for her? Well, what happens when I kill her?
Vi’s hand raises shakily, falls limp at her side when she overexerts herself. Caitlyn is quick to grab it, to bring the hand to her face, to hold it against her cheek as if it were a caress. Vi tries to smile at her, but it's more like a pull of her lips than a true smile– her teeth, stained red. “Cupcake,” She answers, voice barely even there, quiet amongst the destruction around them. Fires burn, smoke rises, Piltover will fall in the coming hours, and Zaun has already fallen– Caitlyn holds Vi in her lap, and she pleads to every God she knows the name of to save her . If only to save herself, in the end; Where is Caitlyn’s humanity when Vi is gone? Caitlyn has only ever been good for her, for her sake. Violet, her Violet, she is so good– so very kind, so very sweet, and how could the world treat someone so good, so bad?
“You… came,” She forces out, her thumb feebly trying to brush against Caitlyn’s cheek. Her hand, even just the fingertips exposed by the gloves she wears, are as cold as the River Pilt. “I didn’t think–”
She gets cut off by a cough, thick clots of blood flying out of her mouth, splattering on Caitlyn’s face. She doesn’t care.
“–Think you… woul’ake it…”
“Oh, Violet,” She whispers, tears pooling in her eyes– with her other hand, the one not holding Vi’s to her face, she reaches forward to push her hair out of her face. Red hair, matted with red blood; it makes her hair look brown, nearly black. “Of– Of course I came, darling, you know I– I always will come when it’s you.”
Only her. Only her, only her, only her; Only Vi, only Vi, Only Vi.
“Can… I ask you– somethin’,” Vi whispers, her vision clouding further– no, no, no, no–
“Anything,” Caitlyn answers, because Vi– maybe if she answers– maybe Vi will–
“Y’re… name,” She gasps, chokes, blood gurgles in the back of her throat, and Caitlyn feels helpless. “What’s… it.”
This has to be some kind of sick, sick joke.
But Vi is looking up at her– but not really, not when her eyes look so far away –and she doesn’t… she doesn’t ask anything else. Caitlyn curses herself, curses her family– because it’s their stupid rule that prevents her from giving her real name. She knows, of course, that there was a valid reason– that it’s to protect her, but– but Vi–
“It’s–”
Something squelches on the floor behind her, boots thud against the ground, panicked. “Commander!” The person behind her– a soldier, one from her own regiment, she’s sure –calls. She closes her eyes, tries to take a deep breath, clutches Vi’s hand just a bit tighter.
“...Yes?” She responds, voice hoarse, looking up and past Vi– her sword, her beloved sword, stuck in the ground beside her. A sign of surrender; a sign of defeat.
“It’s– Noxus–” He stammers, gasps for breath, seemingly can’t force the words out. “They’re coming, Commander.”
The title feels like like bile in her throat–
Vi’s hand goes limp in her hold. She looks down, finds her eyes have rolled back in her head–
Something snaps in her, then. Something human, broken beyond repair. She lets out a shaky breath, willing back the tears that cloud her vision, swallows the real bile rising in her throat. She will come back, in due time– will collect her body, give her the proper burial she deserves. After that, who knows? What is a human without a heart? What is the earth without the sun? The ocean without the moon? Caitlyn without Vi?
She pulls her hand away from her face, places a kiss to the palm of her hand– reaches forwards, shuts her eyes with a trembling hand. She takes a moment, tries to see if her chest still rises and falls–
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. She leans down, presses her lips to her blood-stained forehead gently, shakily. There, she whispers: xiūxí, bǎobèi.
She stands with a surprising amount of resolve, picks up her bow from off the ground, faces away from the soldier behind her. She breathes in, out, jaw clenching and unclenching– and what happens now? Is there anything to do?
She straps her bow to her back, gloved hands reaching forwards to pull Vi’s sword out of the concrete ground. Her thumb travels over the engraving on hilt, can feel the phantom indents through the thick leather; Furor she had named it.
“Commander–” The soldier begins shakily; she snaps Vi’s sword into the empty sheath at her side.
“Give no quarter,” She demands, glances over her shoulder at the soldier. “Raise the black flags.”
He trembles, but he nods– yet, he does not move. She narrows her eyes, fingers clenching at her sides. “What are you waiting for?” She prods, turning abruptly– cloak whooshing from the movement. “Go!”
He swallows thickly, nods once more– turns on his heels, runs straight across the bloody battlefield, back towards Piltover. She waits until he’s out of sight to turn back around, to glance down at Vi’s body at her feet– she lets herself cry. Not loudly, not very dramatically even; it’s a silent thing, the falling of tears down her cheeks– tears that drip off her face, that land on Vi’s dirty uniform, wetting it. She sniffles, wipes her face harshly with the back of her gloves, stands just a bit straighter.
Vi is dead; Caitlyn might as well be, too.
Vi, her humanity– there’s no difference; dead, all the same.
“I will come back,” She says to the air, to Vi, as if she can hear her. “Please– wait for me.”
—
The main road is, surprisingly, empty for it being the middle of the day. Her boots thud against the pavement, arm twinging with pain every now and again, as she advances towards the Grand Martial Hall– the building on the top of the hill in Heaven, home to the Empress. The Empress, who she is supposed to report to as soon as she is out of the infirmary.
The Grand Martial Hall is, probably, one of her least favorite parts of Heaven– it’s big, spacious, and rather gaudy. All blues and golds, whites mixed in– but it’s very Piltover. Which, yes, that does make sense, but sometimes it’s just so– it’s just too much at times. But, whatever! She’s only obligated to be there maybe three times a year, outside of any last minute meetings she has to attend (she got too important at work, unfortunately; that’s what happens when you’re one of the top five Martial Gods in the entire place) and summons.
Like this, right now.
(Her real least favorite place in all of Heaven is her palace– erected a week after her ascension seven centuries ago, and it is everything she never had as a child: capacious, sprawling, devoid of all real life. It’s distinctly Zaun, with its stained glass and darker colors, and its rounded roofs. It’s bright in a way that is almost lifeless, however– and that’s how she feels about a lot of the palaces in Heaven. They’re all very distinct to a certain nation, but it lacks the flair of them. It lacks hominess.
She feels it a lot in hers; it’s why she never actually uses it for anything outside of quick rests or hanging out with the Gods she can actually stand. Which is very few and far between.)
She loathes the fact, actually, that she has to check in with the Empress– she would’ve preferred being able to leave her prison (read: infirmary) and jump back down to the Earth, continue her roaming and answering the more urgent prayers while sending her Deputies on the more miniscule tasks and prayers being offered to her.
But, alas, the current Empress actually (unfortunately) gives a shit about the Gods under her, especially the higher ranking ones (read: her), and thus has to show the Empress that she isn’t dead. Yet. She’s come close a few times, but, she’s still kicking– much to the shock of many, she’s sure.
“General Morrígan!”
She furrows her brows, stops in her tracks when she recognizes the voice but doesn’t see the man behind it– and then he appears in front of her: tan skin, hazel eyes, that stupid beard he insists on having, hair just slightly longer than she lasts remember it being– but its combed over slightly, a little more wild. He forgoes his usual armor for what lays underneath it, a (nearly) skintight black, silver, and red shirt with clasps across the front. He has the topmost clasp undone, lets it hang open a bit– but the collar is folded neatly, the detailing around his shoulders and collar popping out. He looks more put-together like this, more aristocratic; not quite the military general she knows him to be.
That brace is still on his leg, too. She snorts, rolls her eyes.
“General Giopara,” She nods, reaches forward to initiate their handshake– the one he made, not her, it would never be her idea to have a secret handshake. Never. “No armor today, pretty boy?”
“I’m on break,” He shrugs, returning the handshake and falling into step next to her. “I see you’ve returned from the dead, huh?”
“Regrettably,” She jokes, elbows him in the side good-naturedly. “I’m sure you were happy to hear I made my triumphant return to the Heavens.”
“Oh, no, I was not,” He corrects, but she can hear the jest underneath. “I thought this would be the time they killed you out there, Vi.”
“Oh, come on,” She rolls her eyes, lifts up the folded edge of her shirt sleeve to show the newly scarred skin. “I get cut by a God Slayer once and everyone thinks I’m gonna die!”
“ Vi,” He says, exasperated beyond belief, narrowed eyes tracing over the white, raised line across her bicep. “It’s a God Slayer. They’re called that for a reason! They can kill us! If it went anywhere higher, it could’ve– you know, killed you!”
“And yet I’m still here,” She sighs dramatically, shoves her sleeve back down, making sure it’s still folded and clasped. All of her armor was dropped off in her palace when she was brought back up for medical attention– another thing she finds irritable about this place –and only remains in her underclothes (a similar shirt to Jayce’s, though it’s not a button-up; it’s a black turtleneck that isn’t quite short sleeve or long sleeve– but she folded them up, clasped them to a button on the uppermost part of it so that the sleeves ended mid-bicep. It’s terribly skintight, which is good for when she armors up, but like this… she just sort of feels bare; especially with the front-piece overall type thing she snagged from Jayce one day).
He huffs out a breath, surely rolls his eyes, “I guess Mel ordered you to check-in before you disappear for another six months?”
“You got it, pretty boy!” She exclaims, beams up at him in a way that she hopes comes off as sardonic as she feels. She lets out a sigh after a moment, shakes her head. She wishes her scimitar was still strapped to her side; it gave her something tangible to hold on to, a comfort. “If I had it my way, I'd just– go back down without a word.”
I hate it up here, goes unsaid. It is a reminder of everything I'm not.
“Yeah,” He agrees quietly, “I get that.”
He doesn't, but it's okay. Neither of them say anything for a while, after that– quietly walking down the long stretch of wide pavement on the way to the Grand Martial Hall.
“I like the hair, by the way,” He says out of the blue, mimicking flipping hair over his shoulder. She narrows her eyes, runs a hand subconsciously over the shaved sides before it hits the back piece– long, much longer than she normally has it. A thin braid is weaved in, there; a new addition, something she did while bored waiting for her wound to scar. It hangs over her shoulder with the rest of her hair. “It's nice, with the back all long and the sides shaved. You– you have a mullet!”
“Yeah?” She replies, looking him up and down pointedly. “I like the brace– is that still left over from our assignment two years ago or did Viktor fuck it up the last time you two fought?”
Jayce turns sheepish, suddenly. “Well, you see– It– You have to understand, Vi–”
“So, Vik fucked it up again,” She points at him, clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, tries to hold back a smirk. “Gotcha.”
“Well–!” He huffs, swallows harshly, pointedly looks away from her. “Have you made any progress on your search for–”
“No,” She cuts him off abruptly, very visibly sagging with defeat. “...I haven't.”
“Oh,” He breathes out, understanding for real, this time. “Vi, have you ever thought that– maybe she isn't…”
Coming back, is what he means to say– what he doesn't have the heart to. She hears it in his silence all the same, however, bitterness seeping into her chest.
“Jayce,” She starts, stops, starts again. “The patterns– some of these cases I go after, they absolutely reek of her. She has to be out there, somewhere– my sister, she–”
If she wanted to be found, she would echoes in her head, unfortunately wise words from the Heavenly Empress. You have to let her come to you.
Vi doesn't want to. She doesn't want to wait, not when she has lost almost everyone– Jayce, the only one remaining, and he is only a reminder of the last person she lost. Of the Princess.
(He was her brother– not by blood, but as far as the Princess was concerned, Jayce was her brother.
And then she died, and Jayce was all she had left when she ascended to Godhood. Her only Deputy– until he became a God, too.)
“You'll sooner find the Blind Sniper before her,” He responds, obviously trying to make some kind of joke– but all Vi does is furrow her brows in confusion.
“The Blind Sniper?” She repeats, glancing over at the man next to her. “What the fuck is that?”
Jayce balks at her, “The Blind Sniper,” He repeats, as if that'll help her understand any better. She blinks at him, and he continues, “The Silver Bullet Striking True? White mask that covers half her face, sort of looks Ionian? The best marksman in the world? Silver butterflies?”
“Not ringing any bells, I'm afraid.”
“ Violet Ferrarius-Faherty!” He gasps, absolutely scandalized.
“ Jayce Talis,” She mocks, lip curling upwards into a half-hearted snarl.
“You're, like, the top Martial God!” He exclaims, grabbing her by the bicep and pulling her along towards the Grand Martial Hall at a quicker pace. “How do you not know who the Silver Bullet is? She's a Calamity! A Ghost King!”
Ah. Well, that explains the overly dramatic titles.
“She's the one who killed Ambessa,” He explains in a hurry, pushing her up the marble stairs. “Mel will tell you everything– Gods I can't believe you! How do you not know this? Most of the Gods are paranoid she's gonna shoot them dead, next!”
“I'm not really all that interested in the gossip up here,” She replies, watching the grand doors of the Martial Hall open slowly. “I'm here maybe three times a year for the big festivals and then I head back to the mortal realm.”
“ Dude,” He says, exasperated, “She's the main Ghost King, besides the Loose Cannon and– and, you know, Vik.”
“Well, she obviously isn't if I never heard of her.”
“That's because you're a recluse!” He shouts, hands shooting up in the air– his words bounce around the walls of the Grand Martial Hall, not paying any mind to the Empress on her throne. “You chase after trails of your sister, which never intertwine with the Silver Bullet! Of course you've never heard of her, the locals are afraid of even uttering her name!”
“What's all this about the Blind Sniper?” The calm voice of the Empress rings out around them, serene and peaceful in her place dozens of feet above them, on a throne at the top of a set of dais.
“Empress Medarda,” The two of them say in unison, bowing before her as a sign of respect. It takes them all of ten seconds to straighten back out, and for Jayce to start up again–
“General Morrígan, here, doesn't know who she is!”
Empress Mel Medarda is too far away for Vi to discern any real facial movements– but she can imagine the way one brow, perfectly manicured, raises curiously.
“Oh?” She hums, amusement coloring her tone into something akin to– to embarrassment, in Vi. “Is that so?”
She scoffs lightly, rolls her eyes, crosses her arms over her chest and desperately tries to avoid the gaze of the Empress– because, yeah, this is super embarrassing, actually. Maybe she should read up more on the Ghost realm…
“Well, you know,” She gestures vaguely, a little petulantly– because she can afford petulance, now. War hardens a person, she knows– it’s why she is a God of War, after all –and it… well, it has been so long so she has been afforded any kind of emotion that wasn’t related to fighting, to War. “I’m… super connected with the mortal realm. Not much time to look into Ghosts.”
Mel stands, smooths out the wrinkles in the white robes she wears– her heels thud softly against the carpet on the dais. “She’s the eldest active Ghost King,” She explains patiently, taking her time as she walks down the seemingly never-ending steps leading up to the dais of her throne. “Around our age, the three of us.”
“Is that true?” Jayce asks, abruptly turning his head to look at Mel– shock written all over his face, clearly having not known that fact. “She’s as old as us?”
“Have you not read up on her, darling?” She fires back– and she’s close enough, now, for Vi to make out the whites of her eyes, the golden freckles that dot her skin. She practically glows, her beauty radiant as it always has been. If Vi’s heart hadn’t been stuck on another– well. The writing’s on the wall, with that one.
Jayce opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again– and Vi snorts, elbows him in the side harshly. He clamps his mouth shut for good this time, face darkening with an unfortunately (for him) visible blush. “...No,” He admits after a minute, practically coughing it out, not daring to meet Mel’s eyes. Vi feels oddly smug about it. “It appears I… have not, Your Majesty.”
She waves him off, a benevolent smile on her face as she stands before the two of them– and like this, directly before them with her hands clasped in front of her, she looks more like Mel than Empress Medarda. She looks– well, she looks like their friend.
“Mel is fine when it’s just us,” She tilts her head to the side ever-so-slightly. She winks, then, “We have appearances to keep up in front of everyone else– but the three of us have been through enough.”
“Right,” Jayce swallows thickly, nods resolutely. “Absolutely.”
She huffs out a laugh, rolls her eyes– and for a moment, Vi can pretend it’s seven centuries prior, before Piltover fell at the feet of Mel’s mother, before the Kiramman reign had ended. Before Vi was shackled with an ugly scar across her throat, or the one in her abdomen– she can almost imagine the only scars on her body are the burn scars on her face from the explosion when she was fifteen, and the scars prison left on her body.
Mel looks her over, then, eyes softening, “It’s good to see you up and about again, Vi.”
“Yeah, whatever,” She mumbles, flustered, averting Mel’s eyes– maybe her and Jayce weren’t all that different, actually. “I guess I’m glad to be up, too.”
“You’re never one to stay down for too long,” She muses, more so to herself than… really to anyone else. “In that case, I'm sure you'll be back to the mortal realm soon?”
She glances back at Mel, nods her head affirmatively, “Yeah, probably. Caught wind of a couple prayers just outside Piltover that I thought I'd attend to personally.”
“How generous of you,” She comments, eyes narrowing slightly. “You're not one to answer meager prayers, so this is a shock.”
“Gotta do some light work after cutting it so close on my last assignment,” She explains, patting her wounded arm. “You know how it is.”
Jayce opens his mouth, “I thought you said–”
Vi is quick to cut him off, “It was a God Slayer, Jayce! I could've died if it hit me somewhere else!”
She feels pleasantly satisfied when he shoots her a glare. She feels even more smug when Mel takes her side, “Yes, I agree. You ought to be more careful out there, General.”
She sighs dramatically, “All in a day's work..”
“You are so obnoxious,” Jayce hisses, eyes narrowing at her, lip curling into a snarl. “You think you're so–”
“I am not–”
Mel clears her throat loudly, glances between the two of them pointedly, “ Anyhow, ” She says, voice a smidge louder than both of theirs. They shut up immediately, sufficiently chastised– and Mel's tranquil voice bounces around the walls of the Grand Martial Hall, enveloping the three of them in her tone. “If the rumors are to be believed of the Blind Sniper, then she was likely alive at the same time as we were mortals.”
Vi's brows furrow, “Huh. No shit.”
“She was likely from Piltover, as well,” Mel continues, inspecting Vi quietly, oddly. She doesn't quite understand her undivided attention– or the soft, indiscernible look in her eyes. It's a similar look she gives to Jayce a moment after, as if she were trying to convey some… kind of message. Jayce looks at Vi quizzically, and she simply shrugs in return. “Small world, isn't it?”
“I thought Jayce said she was Ionian,” Vi points out, raising a brow. Mel tsks, shakes her head.
“The mask she wears is,” She corrects, looking between the two of them. “But if you've ever encountered her, you'd understand.”
Jayce and Vi exchange another a confused look, and then–
“Are you implying you've run into her before?” Jayce points out, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. Mel waves him off easily, as if it's no big deal.
“Once,” She confirms lightly– again, as if encountering a Calamity rank Ghost in the wild was nothing. Ghost Kings are– well, they're just that: Kings. They're the top of the food chain in the underworld hierarchy, power levels akin to Gods– in some cases, stronger. They are formidable foes, feared; seen as a nuisance to the Heavens, their number one enemy. “We crossed paths, the two of us. She was quite reasonable, for a Calamity.”
“So, like,” Vi drawls, tapping a finger against her bicep. “Does that mean she was slightly less crazy than Viktor, or normal?”
Mel thinks about it for a moment, pursing her lips, “She was… quiet. Reserved. Not what you would typically expect.”
“And you just–” Jayce lets out a breath, gestures vaguely, “–let her go?”
“Of course,” She shrugs, uncaring, nonchalant. “She seemed resigned when I ran into her, as if preparing for her fate. She subverted my expectations, so I found it only fair to subvert hers.”
It’s a very… Mel thing to do, if Vi didn’t hear the underlying message: a Ghost King owes the Heavenly Empress a favor.
“...And how long ago did this happen?” Vi asks, narrowing her eyes at Mel. Mel, for her part, smiles– no, no, she smirks as a response.
“ Several centuries ago,” She says, something hidden in her tone. “Maybe a century before my mother was… tragically killed.”
Vi opens her mouth, closes it– opens it again, for good measure; closes it when Mel sends her a look.
“Anyhow,” She waves them off once more, begins her ascent back up the stairs towards her throne. “There’s much to learn, General.”
“I–”
The door to the Grand Martial Hall creaks open, followed by the sound of hurried steps. Jayce and Vi both turn to look, both watching as one of Mel’s Deputies bow lowly to both Generals and the Empress. “Your Majesty!” The Deputy calls, still stuck low in a bow. “I’ve retrieved the scrolls you asked for!”
“Ah, perfect, thank you,” She responds, voice taking on that lofty, confident tone she typically gets when she reverts back into Empress Medarda. “You can go ahead and give those to General Morrígan; They’re for her, dear.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” The Deputy responds, straightens up rather abruptly and thrusts the two scrolls towards Vi. “For you, General.”
Vi is hesitant to take them, “Thank you…?”
“You may leave, Deputy.” Mel cuts in, heels thudding against carpet. The Deputy, then, is quick to scurry out– first bowing to the three of them, saying their goodbyes, then leaving.
Vi furrows her brows, unrolls one of the two scrolls– and there, at the top, in big print: The Four Great Calamities. Below that, in slightly smaller print, reads: The Silver Bullet Striking True; The Blind Sniper. Status: ACTIVE.
Below a rather extensive history and myths surrounding The Blind Sniper:
The Loose Cannon. Status: INACTIVE.
Vi’s heart squeezes, and she rolls the piece of parchment back up.
“What’s all of this?” She asks, hoping Mel and Jayce ignore the way her voice strains.
“A gift,” Mel says, as if it wasn’t obvious– and, was it really a gift? It felt a little backhanded in a… good natured way, somehow. “I called for one of my Deputies to bring those two scrolls for you to read while you’re in the mortal realm; They’re about Ghosts and the Underworld. Since you’re rusty.”
Vi taps one scroll against her bicep, nods resolutely, shoves them in her pockets– not caring for the way they quite literally hang out. She’ll have to stop by her palace on her way out, grab a satchel of some kind. Maybe her armor, too, depending on how things go– she doesn’t think the small town she’s dropping down in will be dangerous by any means, but… well, she never knows.
(God of War, she is always on guard– her fists are always clenched, jaw tight and eyes tunneled to the view in front of the tip of her scimitar Morrígan. God of War, she is a weapon, not human, not mortal. She knows war, knows it intimately, falls into the steps of its dance like an old lover; and, perhaps it is an old lover. Perhaps it is the only constant in her life– war, anguish, the longing in her chest for those who are long gone.
She resolves to visit a few graves when she descends; it’s been a while. God of War, she is– but she is also the God of Storge; God of Forgiveness.)
“How– how old are these, also?” She asks, just to be sure. She needs– she needs to know. Mel looks down at her, the sympathy clear on her face even so far up.
She sighs, the sound taking a few seconds to reach Vi and Jayce, “A few weeks old.”
“Oh,” She responds, voice almost a whisper– and Jayce reaches a hand up, places it on her shoulder as a comfort. It feels like dead weight against her. “I see. Well– thank you, then, for this. When should I have them back?”
Mel waves her off easily, “Keep them, love. They’re yours.”
And Vi smiles, tight-lipped, nodding her head.
(God of War, she is; Always the fool.)