Risen

Katarina waited patiently while Riven grasped for emotions and stumbled for words. Though Katarina's face betrayed no emotion, there was no longer a dagger at her throat, and it was enough for Riven.

“It’s been a while,” Riven whispered so softly her words were nearly lost in the wind. Even though she’d been home for months, between her responsibilities to the throne and 'business' with LeBlanc, she didn’t have the time to seek out her old friend.

Katarina narrowed her eyes but didn’t spare the Grand General an answer.

“Can we talk?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Katarina replied almost tiredly.

Taken aback by how curt and devoid of anger the assassin’s words were, Riven felt her stomach twist into a knot. She expected Katarina to be furious. Perhaps even a bit murderous. Sure, she did have a dagger poised at her throat just moments ago, but anyone who knew the Du Couteau would also know that anyone lacking enough sense to show up on her doorstep uninvited in the middle of the night should expect the same treatment.

She could shout and throw a few hooks. Hurl some knives, even. Anything to show she still cared. But she was uncharacteristically patient and it hurt Riven more than a spear through her gut.

“You’re not angry?” Riven asked lamely.

She had played out their encounter in her head nearly every night since the day she decided to return and many nights before then. She had come prepared—or so she’d thought. She came with all the cards in her hand, but never once did she consider the possibility that Katarina could and would refuse to play. Katarina no longer cared.

“What would I have to be angry about, your Majesty?” Katarina asked. She sounded innocent and genuinely bemused, but Riven knew better. Katarina wanted her to admit her wrongdoings, to hear her say it.

“I left.”

Katarina frowned. “Well, that’s what good soldiers do when duty calls, no?”

Riven simmered at the feigned ignorance in her tone but tried again. “I didn’t… keep my promise.”

“Oh?” Katarina spat in reply. “And what promise was that?”

“That I’d come home.”

Katarina fingered the knife on her belt. “Ah, well, the dead usually don’t.”

Riven stiffened, feeling like a child being interrogated by a parent who already knew that it wasn't the dog who had broken the vase.

“I didn’t die,” she began to explain but she was interrupted by Katarina who scoffed and gave her a quick study from head to toe.

“Clearly not.”

The two locked eyes in a silent stalemate, Katarina with one brow cocked as if the conversation was confusing and meant little—if not nothing—to her, and Riven with her lips pressed together in silent frustration.

“I came to apologize, Kat.” Riven sighed. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Don’t be.” Shifting her eyes away from the Grand General, Katarina stepped towards her front door.

Riven quickly moved aside and watched the assassin walk right past her as if she were nothing more than a ghost. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. To Katarina she was just that.

“My days of mourning are over,” Katarina said over her shoulder, hand resting on the half open door. No servant came out to greet her.

Riven’s heart soared as she allowed herself to believe that Katarina’s words implied a degree of forgiveness. Her relief was short lived, though, and the fluttering in her chest became an agonizing pounding of fists when she heard the words that followed.

“There is nothing to forgive, Grand General. Riven died ten years ago.”

“But I’m—”

“The Riven I knew and…” She paused, choosing her next words carefully, “Cared for… is dead. She died in Ionia.” Katarina turned to give her one last steely gaze before entering the mansion, leaving behind the unspoken words that hurt just as much as if they had been said.

You are dead to me.

Riven swore she felt something inside of her shatter.

The ride home was long. There was nothing to do in the open but repeat the encounter in her mind, still reeling from what had been said. The wind blew roughly against her solid body, yet inside she was hollow.

It seemed to be punishing her, whispering quiet accusations as it breezed by her ears even once she reached the forest and was sheltered from the worst of it. The trees stood stiff and tall while its branches hovered threateningly over her. Rabbits stared from the edges of the improvised trail with wary, accusing eyes.

What was this feeling that overwhelmed her? Was it guilt? She’d never felt guilty of anything before. Was it shame? No, she didn’t know the meaning of it.

She was sorry she’d hurt Katarina, but she had her reasons for not returning. Was she angry at the assassin for refusing to listen? No, she didn’t deserve to be angry. Anger was all she’d harboured for the better part of ten years and she was tired of it. She wanted to feel again.

Happiness, excitement, passion, hope, and even fear were all things Commander Riven knew well. But Grand General Riven had forgotten all of those things. Grand General Riven only knew bitter loneliness.

Ah, perhaps it was sadness tearing her gut to pieces.

“One step at a time,” she mumbled. Only her cantering horse replied with a snort.

Once clear of the forest, she kicked her ride into a race up the paved mountain path.

When they got within sight of the stables, Riven was relieved to see that the stable boy was the only person around. She continued towards him at a trot and he had the reins in his hand before she even dismounted.

“Did you have a good ride, your Majesty?” he asked, petting the black horse affectionately as it breathed quickly for air.

Riven stared at the boy, surprised at his cheery disposition despite his job which, if she had to guess, also entailed shoveling horse shit in the middle of the night. He couldn’t have been any older than fourteen years old. Taking her silence as a command for respect, he quickly remembered his place and bowed his head.

“It wasn’t too terrible.” She gave him a small smile which he immediately mirrored brightly. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Marcus, your Majesty.”

“You’re good with horses, Marcus,” she told him. The name tasted bitter on her tongue.

“It’s my job, your Majesty.”

Riven didn’t know if she wanted to slap herself for the obvious statement or laugh at this child’s bluntness. She ended up doing the latter, and the light chuckle sounded foreign to her ears.

Why in Valoran she was talking to a child servant in the middle of the night at the stables was beyond her, but she was feeling less lonely. Besides, the longer she stayed outside, the more likely it was that those who waited up for her would give in and try their luck again for an audience tomorrow.

She frowned at the palace—the Immortal Bastion—where her councillors and all of High Command undoubtedly were waiting to play tug-of-war with her patience which was already dangerously worn.

Sitting on a nearby bench, she patiently watched Marcus unsaddle her new companion.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“He’s a she, your Majesty,” he replied, “And she doesn't have a name.”

“Oh.”

Marcus watered the mare and before long her breathing slowed to normal. "She was found wandering at the site of a battle and was badly injured. We're not sure if she's one of ours or Demacian cavalry. I guess it's hard to tell who's who in a war."

"Yes," Riven agreed. "It is."

She knew all too well of the confusion amidst the heart of battle. To hesitate was a death sentence. Once helmets were knocked off and shields lay splintered, there wasn’t much to go by but the bloodied indiscernible crests on their backs.

She had known her men and their faces well enough. Any good leader would, especially after years of training together, eating together, and living together.

When she looked into the eyes of her next kill and watched the life drain out of them, she had to believe that if it hadn’t been them, it would’ve been one of her men or her. So why did their faces still haunt her?

She carried the images with her like demons seared to the back of her memory, and after a decade of torment, she could no longer tell the face of her first kill from her last, her fallen allies from her victims.

In the end, they had all amounted to just one thing; arrows in a quiver to be used and discarded.

"You should name her, your Majesty!" Marcus suddenly exclaimed, breaking her out of her bitter reverie.

Riven blinked. "Me?"

He nodded. "She likes you."

Riven stood and stroked her mare's neck. For the first time she noticed the marks on her coal black horse. There were multiple light patches on her sides from where arrows had pierced her, as well as long, deep scars that were likely the works of swords or spears.

In a battle where no one had survived, this single horse had made it out alive. She had stood back up despite her injuries and turned her ears from the sweet lulling call of oblivion, just like Riven had. Like her, the mare had knocked on Death’s door and was turned away.

She should've died in that valley. That much she was certain of. But by the grace of whatever had been watching over her, she was granted time. It took her years to figure out what to do with said time, but she was certain of it now. She would not—could not—rest until Noxus was reborn into the great empire it once was.

Not one born of sacrifice and murder, but of strength and unity.

And when her clock stops ticking, she'll return to that valley...

Perhaps the warhorse also had a higher calling; turned away by Death to fulfill some ulterior purpose. Perhaps she would somehow aid Riven in her quest to restore glory to the empire.

It was a strange thought, but one that made her smile.

"Valona," she finally said. Belonging to the valley.

Marcus beamed. "That's a pretty name."

"She's a pretty horse."

Once Valona recovered, Marcus led her back to her stall and Riven followed.

"Do you ride, Marcus?” she asked him. It was a silly question, the boy was a groom after all, but she couldn’t imagine such a small and lanky child atop a creature built almost entirely of muscle and speed like Valona.

Marcus shook his head. “I was only taught how to care for them. Is it hard?”

Riven thought back to when she'd first started training with mounts. She couldn’t walk properly for days after only a few hours in a saddle. At first she couldn’t wield a weapon and ride at the same time, so often times she had to pick herself up from the dirt and run after her horse, spitting expletives left and right. Her old captain had said that she rode like a sack of oats.

She considered her words, not wanting to discourage the boy should he one day learn but start off as roughly as she did. “Once you find your balance, no. My advice: don’t rush a horse up a hill and don’t race him down a slope and he will get you where you need to go just fine.”

Marcus, like the child he was, asked, “And if the way is flat?”

Riven smiled. “Then you ride like hell.”

She must’ve been at the stables for longer than she cared to notice since by the time she made her way to her private chambers, the only people still awake and moving around the palace were the servants.

Of course, there were guards posted throughout, and although she had removed more than half the guards from all the posts she deemed unnecessary, her council insisted that two would remain at her private apartment at all times.

Ironic, how the public display of her power depended mostly on that of her ridiculous entourage of guards and elites. LeBlanc had once told her that power didn't come from brawn alone, and that sometimes simply the illusion of power was enough.

Politics.

She dismissed their bows with a nod and strolled past the doors held open for her and into her quarters. Out of habit, she took a quick glance at her private armory to ensure that her runic blade was where she’d left it. It was.

Satisfied, she shoved open the door to her bedroom.

Half expecting LeBlanc to be there, but more than glad to see that she wasn’t, Riven allowed herself to fall ungraciously onto her sharply made bed, burying her face into her pillows and ignoring the pile of clean sleeping clothes that had been laid out for her.

She must’ve fallen into a dreamless sleep because when she opened her eyes, she found herself in the spacious bedroom under a blanket that had kept her warm from the night chill. Weird, she didn’t remember covering herself.

It was at least a few hours after sunrise judging by the angle the sunlight had warmed her face. Yawning, Riven rolled over onto her back and stretched, her stomach grumbling loudly in reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast the morning before.

Half awake, her mind worked backwards to make sense of the events of the previous day. She purposely steered her thoughts away a certain encounter and somehow lulled herself back to sleep.

This time, she did dream.

She was travelling with Valona, riding through a forest similar to the patch she’d ridden through on her way to the Du Couteau mansion, when all of a sudden the horse reared in an angry start and tossed her from the saddle. Caught unaware, she landed ungraciously on the hard dirt. Riven tried to calm her down, but before she could grab the reins, Valona galloped off.

She chased after it at a hastened jog for what seemed like hours, calling the mare’s name and throwing a few curses in here and there, until her dream-throat went dry and her dream-legs started to ache.

Finally, she reached the forest clearing, and her dream turned into something of a nightmare.

She spotted Katarina, sitting atop Valona and looking not at all out of place with her regal posture and noblewoman’s clothes.

“Valona,” Riven called, snapping her fingers. “C’mere, girl.”

The mare paid her no attention and shifted on the spot, impatiently waiting for her rider to take her elsewhere while Katarina expertly kept her in place.

“She won’t come,” Katarina said dryly. “No matter how loud you shout, how often you plead, or how many tears you shed; she won’t come.”

Riven didn’t understand. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you taking her from me?”

Katarina’s face twisted in confusion. “I’m not. She wants to leave you.”

“You’re lying! She wouldn’t just abandon me!” shouted Riven, unsure why she was getting so worked up over a horse when the woman she was supposed to care for was right in front her.

“She doesn’t love you anymore,” Katarina stated with conviction.

“That’s not true!”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Katarina asked bitterly before gripping the reins tighter.

Valona was kicked into motion and Riven was caught between shouting for Katarina or her horse. The two whirled and closed the distance between them and the horizon so quickly that Riven was thrown from her dream in a panic as abruptly as she had been thrown from the mare’s back.

“Bad dream?” someone asked.

Riven nearly jumped out of her skin, snapping her attention in the direction LeBlanc spoke from to find the woman resting leisurely on the sofa in her sitting room through the wide open bedroom door.

She scowled. “You can see my dreams now?”

“No.” LeBlanc smiled. “You talk in your sleep.”

“I do?” Riven wondered how long she’d been doing so, as it was her first time being made aware of it. It must’ve started some time after the war. Surely Katarina would’ve mentioned it if she’d been doing it back when they were…

She shook the past from her thoughts just in time to hear a polite knock on her door.

LeBlanc elegantly swung her legs into a sitting position. “Eat first, then we’ll talk,” she ordered. Then she turned in the direction of the knock. “Come in,” she called in a voice that matched Riven’s pitch perfectly.

The door opened and a servant ambled in carrying a platter of food followed by a stone-faced sentry trailing along behind him.

“Lunch, your Majesty.”

Neither noticed LeBlanc, so she must’ve made herself visible only to Riven. Some days Riven wondered if the woman was even real or if she had just gone a bit mad. She noticed LeBlanc wink in her peripheral and sighed. It was going to be one of those days where LeBlanc will prove just how real she was.

“You know,” Riven huffed when the servants left, “if I can’t tell who can and can’t see you, or even what disguise you’re hiding behind when they can see you, sooner or later they’re going to think I’m losing my mind.”

“Fret not, darling,” LeBlanc assured, joining her at the table where she inhaled her breakfast with as much etiquette as LeBlanc’s presence demanded and as little as her hunger could manage. “While the self-proclaimed strongest and most skilled of mages struggle with combinatorial magic, it is least of what I can do.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Have my powers failed you before?” LeBlanc countered.

“No,” Riven mumbled between bites. But they’ve never been used against me before, either.

She was able to enjoy her lunch in companionable silence almost right up until the end but LeBlanc didn’t wait for her to finish before starting her interrogations.

“Did your little pleasure visit last night go well?” she asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Riven choked on her last bite, coughing a few more times than was necessary in order to give herself time to compose an answer. How careless of her to think, even for a second, that LeBlanc had been too busy to notice.

“It was hardly pleasurable,” she finally answered.

“Ah. She’ll come around soon enough.”

Riven narrowed her eyes, unsettled by the mage’s words and the devious smile that had yet to disappear. Answering would keep more of LeBlanc’s attention on Katarina than she would like, so she remained silent and let the matter lie.

Instead, she asked, “So what’s on my agenda for today?”

There was a sense of mutual understanding that Riven’s agenda was actually LeBlanc’s agenda, but every so often the mage allowed herself to be coaxed into giving Riven leeway in regards to some decision-making. After all, there was no better way to convince a woman into taking action than to let her believe she’d arrived at the decision on her own.

Sometimes, the illusion of power is all you need.

“The city is buzzing with the rumour that our troops are coming home.”

“Good or bad?” Riven asked, making a mental note to be more attentive to public opinion and that her subjects extended outside the circle of her inner court.

“A bit of both. We’ll need to change that before you start recalling any units, so you’ll be making an announcement.”

Riven fought to keep her dismay from showing. She enjoyed public speaking as much as she did dancing. That is to say, not at all. Her speeches had been good enough to rally her men in battle, but she saw no reason to do any more beyond that. To masquerade her edict as anything less than a command with ceremony and discussion was tedious.

"I'll be making an announcement, or you will?" she asked, hoping for the latter case.

LeBlanc entertained the question at length. Finally, she said, "It appears that I would be the wiser choice. You've no time to waste rehearsing lines and it's clear which of us is more proficient with words.”

Riven nodded in gratitude, ignoring the insult. She cared naught for politics but did not neglect the fact that she owed much of her success to LeBlanc's love of the game and ability to play it well. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand reached across the space of the table to rest firmly on top of LeBlanc’s.

“Thank you.”

She suffered the scrutiny of the mage’s accusative eyes only for a brief moment before LeBlanc rewarded her with a mischievous knowing smile. Riven let her fingers be raised to LeBlanc’s soft lips, let them be kissed with a softness and chasteness that the woman rarely ever allowed her.

And for the first moment since waking, she found respite from her memories of a certain Du Couteau.