Dust and Rubble
It happened on arguably the most important day of Avery’s youth. Quite akin to Progress Day, where it was for the inventors and pioneers, as Piltover very affectionately called them, only the day was conditioned for artists. Admittedly, Piltover’s artistic population was very scarce, what with their obsession with founding new and increasingly absurd technology; automatic nose-hair trimmers, honestly. The artistic population, if it even was suitable to call it that, was largely comprised of Avery’s own family, and even then her family wasn’t huge. Still, Avery was terribly honored to say that her family spanned across all artistic scenes in Piltover, some even flourishing beyond. That is precisely why foreign art critics and connoisseurs even showed up, when Piltover was entirely acknowledged as the City of Progress.
Avery did wonder now and again why the Roswyns even bothered to stick around when the city stank of oil and metal, and the streets rang out with the hammering of tin and brass, when instead it should’ve been the delightful aroma of finely brewed wine lingering down streets, and the sweet songs of old and new resonating through every open door. The city was molded to be an inventors’ paradise, and none else’s. Yet, a civilization was a civilization, and so the necessity for sophistication, artistry, boiled over until it came to. That’s what Avery tells herself, because what she was born to do was needed and beautiful. She felt like it was in her very blood, partly because she descended from a line of refined artists, and partly because she really saw something in her work. And thus, the determination to let the big names in the field see what she was seeing grew and festered until the blessed day arrived.
It was a small thing compared to Progress Day. Familiar faces, even more familiar greetings, although there were some common folk milling about the few stalls, some even looked to be from down under. Sculptures and paintings were displayed at the front of each, their makers, relatives of Avery, a few paces to the side, chatting and catching up. The industriousness of the city was integrated into each piece. Avery could only describe it as robust. The sculptures were all metal and the canvases hefty.
Avery could feel her mother’s hand ever so persistent on her shoulder as she stood beside a painting of her own, depicting a wild herd of horses amidst great grass planes. The horses appeared to be hoofing at the dirt and huffing at a specific pair in the fore-front of the painting. They both stood on their hind legs, manes flying in each and every direction, eyes blown open. One would describe them to be wrestling, and they wouldn’t be wrong. Wild horses tended to wrestle for dominance and leadership. She thought this scene was comparable to the Undercity and Piltover’s constant conflict. Although, in retrospect Zaun just wanted liberation. That certainly was a thought to mull over, Avery thought as a very familiar figure popped into view.
She huffed and almost rolled her eyes as she said to her mother, “What are they even doing here?” She smiled in a fashion that hinted that she was not unhappy in the least.
“Why, what a pleasant surprise we have here,” Caitlyn called out in the posh accent Avery knew well and loved. Beside her, composed and elegant as always, walked her mother, Cassandra Kiramman. Avery glanced at her mother moving to greet Cassandra by name, before setting her sights back on Caitlyn. “Did not expect to see you here,” Cait gave her a grin, and Avery rolled her eyes, stepping forward to wrap an arm around her. Avery had found herself quite worried when Cait’s height started to catch up to hers, and wished that the leverage she had by being taller wouldn’t come to an end.
Cait gestured towards her painting after breaking apart, asking “So, this is it then?” She seemed to be basking in it, as if she was seeing it for the first time.
“Done and dusted,” Avery replied, wiping her palms on her trousers and smiling. Glancing around, she found both their mothers conversing warmly. ‘How’ve you been’ and ‘Did you hear that Melissa-‘ drifted over before Avery looked away, knowing some vile gossiping was about to take place, and grimaced.
She’d been working on the painting for a few weeks, during which Caitlyn’s regular visits threatened to distract her. She’d see her working on it, and ask without fail, You’ll paint my portrait, right? And her answer would always be, Of course.
Last time she visited, she had quite a tale to tell. Apparently, when she and the young inventor that her parents had been funding went to his study, they found the entrance locked, or rather, blocked. During his efforts to force it open, a great explosion wracked his study, which wasn’t supposed to happen, and apparently, he was in big trouble for it.
“It’s fanTASTIC,” she breathed out, turning to meet Avery’s eyes, but they were cast elsewhere, narrowed. “You’ve do-“ Before she could finish whatever she was about to say, Avery all but tackled into her. They hit the ground with a bone-rattling impact. Caitlyn drew a breath in, fixing Avery with a glare, preparing to spew some choice words when she realized the sheer frenzy the crowd seemed to be in, and the bullet holes in the fountain next to her, just where she’d been standing. The peaceful and easy-going chatter was increases ten-fold until it was turned to distressed cries and shrieks. "What-"
Avery would've thought it quite ironic that an explosion wracked the site moments after she was thinking about explosions had she been in the right head-space. But, the whole ordeal, the utter loudness of it, proved to be quite blinding. For a moment, the ground seemed to disappear under her, leaving her wading through air. How very peaceful. Like she was floating through a pond, ears submerged. The moment passed briefly when she was dropped into the mass confusion on her rump.
Oh. She was confused. Confused like when you were violently plucked from deep sleep. She looked around dazed, blinking and coughing. A body felt to be under her, beside her, behind her, she didn't know. Narrowing her eyes, her flitting gaze landed on her mom's sleeping face. It didn't make sense why her mother wasn't on her own bed or room, but on dirty rubble and splintered concrete and dust and debris. It didn't make sense why she had soot and dirt on her plump face, not at all. Nor did it make any more sense that her lips were painted a vivid red when she hated the color so. So, to make sense of it all she crawled and crawled until her hand found her mother's. A healthy and living person's hand weren't supposed to be all that cold, which just did not make sense. A jagged and red-painted piece of metal also wasn't supposed to be sticking out of a healthy and living person's throat.
Through all the drumming in her ears, the rhythmic auditory over-load, she heard rasping. Red lips. Her mother's red and bloody, she just now realized, lips were parted and she saw a nightmarish red abyss beyond. Avery's watery, she just realized that now too, eyes flitted to her mother's. She saw brown there. Which made sense, because that was the color of her eyes as she remembered it. And suddenly, the hand in hers started squeezing and grasping for her. She would've welcomed the touch had it been soft and gentle like her mother's would've been. It was violent and harsh, harsh. Would've welcomed it had she recognized this ruddy creature on the ground, so bloody, bloody, bloody, so instead she scrambled back on her ass and hands.
Screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and SCREAMI-
Just fucking stop it! she would've yelled if there was room in her mouth aside from all the screaming she must've been doing. Her lungs weren't working anymore, her mind wasn't working, Avery wasn't working. Hands grasped her throat, pulling and pinching and scratching as if trying to open it and give her some air. Crude as it was, it seemed to have worked. She breathed.
I-I-In and o-ou-out. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
Dust and rubble. Screams and cries. Mother and daughter. Caitlyn and Cassandra Kiramman. They were huddled close together, and above them stood an enforcer. Actually, enforcers were swarming the place. It didn't make sense because all that was left was her mother's dead, She's died, body and dust and rubble. In pain then dead. She just wanted her fucking daughter, Avery. She was scared but you were scared, but she was dying, Avery! She's dead...
Her mind bounced around in her head, partially due to this death, but also because her fist was banging against the side of her head again and again. Stupid coward. What kind of daughter are you? Smack, smack, smack, sma-
A familiar voice whispered in her ear. "Stop it," it demanded, but Avery was too sad and angry that she didn't care to oblige. So, instead, the voice grew an arm that grabbed hers in a vice so she was forced to stop. Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a friend; a sister. Unharmed and alive, like her mother behind her, unhurt except for the hurt look in their eyes. Sobs wracked her then, and the hand on her arm drew her forward until she was embraced by Caitlyn. She cried like never before, the kind that revealed the veins in your neck and forehead, that gave you a migraine that pulsed, that made your spit thicken and made you drool.
Just like that, the sun and the purpose that made Avery's life broke it, too.
"Shall we retaliate?" asked one of them, an interesting mechanism rotating and prattling around her neck. She was also bald.
"Is that a genuine question?" Hoskel yapped, ill-tempered as always. "They ravage a... what was it?" he paused, wracking his ever-lacking memory, "An art affair, was it? They ravage an affair, kill our very dear Lady Grace Roswyn, and think to get away with it?" he scoffed. "How did they even manage it?" He turned to ask
"A witness claims to have seen several Zaunites hovering around the area,” A new voice supplied. The late sheriff of Piltover, Grayson, was murdered in the depths of Zaun recently, so the next in order was a man named Marcus. He seemed able enough for the job, bar the fact that this ambush was allowed under his command. "We think the goal was to ambush and terrorize-"
"Do you think we care why?" Counselor Hoskel snapped yet again. "If we don't retaliate, and soon, don't you think they'll take us for fools who don't care whether their people die or not?"
"That could very well spark a war," Came the cool and collected voice of Counselor Medarda.
"As if we're not used to that," Said Hoskel. "We'd sooner snuff them out once and for all for this stunt they've pulled now. Why can't we?"
"Counselor," started Marcus, "shall I remind you that Zaun has this... freak-of-nature drug that killed our late sheriff?" He finished hesitantly. Seems he was very eager to not start anything with Zaun. "I saw it myself... or, it was too quick to see. They call it Shimmer," He informed. "It was unlike anything I've ever seen." He said, thinking of that hunkering and unnatural figure dying on the ground, and the girl he took thereafter. "It transforms its user beyond comprehension," He finished.
Hoskel sees the apprehension painted on the sheriff's face and narrowed his eyes, huffing. "I just... suggest that we lay low unless something happens."
"I agree," Said Counselor Kiramman. "We need to grieve the loss of Lady Roswyn, Torman," She reasoned. The death of Grace hit her hard, not as hard as her daughter or her widower husband. Their friendship dated back to their youth, the best she'd had then and would ever have.
"We need to grieve, or you need to grieve?" Hoskel replied cruelly.
Cassandra drew in a harsh breath to answer, but before any sort of conflict could arise, Medarda spoke "I second the idea. We do need to breathe. Lady Roswyn was well-liked among the people. They would undoubtedly be grateful. And, think of her daughter and husband."
With that, the rest of the Counselors complied one after the other, and the meeting had come to an end.
The funeral and the memorial was an elaborate thing. It went as all of them went. A crowd gathered at the call from the Council, and then, the speeches began. How she was kind and generous and forgiving. How she contributed to the city. How she was the head of House Roswyn, the House of Arts. How she was a loving mother and a wife. The Roswyn Family insignia blew in the wind all around the city center; geometrical shapes composing a wine-red rose against a backdrop of gold. All this grandeur for her mother's funeral, Avery was glad for. She wanted the city to remember her mother, adore her, a grieve for her. She was deserving of that much and then some. When it came for her mother to be buried, all the tears came back. It hadn't really gone away. She hated to cry in front of everyone that had gathered, but Counselor Kiramman moved to hold her. Avery was suddenly glad that the attack hadn't taken her life, too. And Caitlyn. At least, they were alive. The intricate casket was lowered into the embrace of the earth forever, for Grace to rot and wither away. The last Avery had seen of Grace, her kind fat face had already sunken, and she just had a wan hue to her. She didn't dare to look lower at the jagged line of stitches spanning across the column of her neck. It was too painful.
Next thing she knows, her father, only a husk of the man he was, was spreading a handful of soil over her. She was next to do so. She found her hands shaking, so Caitlyn moved to steady it. A grateful glance was sent her direction. Avery doesn't remember much after that. Only the dread and grief seemed to settle even deeper, and there was this horrible weight in her chest that ached, ached. Worst of all was the guilt. If only I had provided some semblance of comfort. The guilt ate her, spit her out. Rinse and repeat until she herself felt only to be a husk.
Next, she found herself in Caitlyn’s bed, in her embrace, too. Sweet nothings in one ear and out the other, because it was just that, nothing. She was nothing now.
She didn’t find herself out of bed at all. Dawn, noon, dusk, night. It didn’t matter, she slept the dread away. She’d maybe even sleep herself to death, if possible. If only. Clouded with guilt, didn’t think much, eat much, or talk or move much. Eventually, though, Avery was hoisted up and out of what she hoped would become her deathbed, and was bathed and clothed to go see the Lady of the house.
Clack.
Clack.
The hallway was grand and spacious, made even clearer when her footsteps echoed. Counselor Kiramman had summoned her, for whatever reason, she couldn’t leave her to grieve, seems. So, on she walked towards… where? Where even was she? High ceilings and mezzanine balconies, Yep, just like anywhere else in the estate.
Stuck without a choice, she asked one of the passing house-servants where the lady was expecting to meet her. She led Avery to Cassandra and left promptly. All that was left to do was converse, hopefully she hadn’t forgotten how to.
Sympathetic eyes observed her. Avery shuffled on her spot, hands behind her back. A moment passes and Cassandra finally spoke, “Take a seat, please, Avery, dear,” she gestured across from her.
Avery did as bid, and met her eyes with her own. A shaky inhale and exhale. A teacup on a coaster filled with aromatic tea sat in front of her. Reaching out, she took a sip.
“How are you feeling?”
”Like one does when their mother has just passed.”
”Terrible, I imagine.”
”Well, yes,” Came her hesitant reply, after she realized how fragile the usually regal woman looked. “An-and you?” She felt obliged to ask.
Cassandra chuckled, brittle, and her gloved hand came up to let her forehead lean against it, elbow on the elbow-rest. “No matter, dear. We’re here for you,” said Cassandra.
“…Alright.”
”With your mother… gone, you will be head of your house,” she began, Avery was reminded again, “Of course, you won’t be forced to do so immediately-“
”What does it even mean to be head of a house? What do you even do?”
“Well,” she seemed quite peeved to be interrupted, “it means that you oversee the reputation, the legacy, decision-making, and traditions of your house.” She informed.
“I… I can’t do all that,” Avery was seemingly intimidated by all that she had to do. She shrunk into the sofa.
“Why-ever not?”
“I’m too young and- and inexperienced and I’m… grieving,” Avery made effort to look her in the eyes and let her see her inability to step up. That was the truth of it. It felt like an admission of sorts, to lay bare her feelings. “Have my father do it. He’s capable enough,” she huffed.
”You’re the heiress, Avery.”
”I have to be trained, don’t I?” She placed the teacup back down in favor of slumping against the sofa. “I don’t know the first thing of being a lady.”
Cassandra saw that to be true, seeing the way she’d slumped back. The adamant refusal to wear skirts and dresses were common enough not to be frowned over, but this? Unheard of. “I see now that you definitely do, young lady,” there was a sternness in her voice that had Avery taking furtive glances at her.
“I’m not leading a house. No way,” Avery quickly back-tracked.
“Do you want to be great, Avery?”
She glanced around reluctantly. “Someday-“
“You can’t be great in comfort. Greatness is born when you shoulder the discomfort and endure the challenges. The foundation is built when you take the first step and face it.”