War and Mercy
War and Mercy
The battle rages, a blur of steel, smoke, and blood. Caitlyn moves through it like a ghost, her rifle steady against her shoulder, each shot precise—she doesn’t miss.
She can’t afford to.
Every step is calculated, weaving between the fallen, ducking beneath the sweep of a Noxian blade. The air is thick with gunpowder, the distant roar of Warwick tearing through the din like a death knell.
And then she sees her.
Vi is holding her own, as always. She moves like she was made for war, fists crushing into armour, body twisting to avoid incoming strikes. There’s a fierce, reckless beauty to it—the way she fights with everything she has, like there’s nothing to lose.
But Caitlyn knows better. Especially against them. The Noxians.
She wants to call out, to warn her, but the word sticks in her throat as she watches the moment unfold in slow, agonising clarity.
A Noxian soldier, heavier and taller than Vi, wields a serrated blade. Vi’s attention is elsewhere—dealing with another opponent—she doesn’t see the way the blade lifts, doesn’t see the glint of steel in the firelight—
Caitlyn does.
She moves, instinct overriding thought, the want to pull Vi as close to her as possible, to close the distance that has grown between them, but she’s too far.
The blade comes down, slicing through fabric, through flesh. Vi staggers, the impact knocking her off balance, a sharp cry leaving her lips.
Caitlyn’s breath catches, her stomach plummeting.
She runs.
Vi drops to one knee, a hand pressed to her side where blood spills between her fingers. Her breathing is shallow, uneven, and Caitlyn barely registers the way her own rifle clatters to the ground as she falls to her knees beside her.
“Vi,” she breathes, her hands already moving, trying to assess the damage. Her vision narrows to the crimson pooling beneath them, the too-pale look on Vi’s face.
Vi’s lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Hey, cupcake,” she murmurs, voice tight with pain. “Didn’t know you—” she winces, sucking in a breath, “—cared so much.”
“Shut up,” Caitlyn snaps, but her voice wavers. She presses down on the wound, earning a sharp hiss from Vi. “You’re bleeding too much, we need to—”
A blade swings past her, narrowly missing.
She barely ducks in time, her fingers twitching for her rifle, but Vi’s already reacting. Even injured, she surges up with a snarl, landing a punch that sends the soldier sprawling. She sways on her feet, a grimace tightening her features, but she doesn’t fall.
Caitlyn is up in an instant, steadying her.
"You need to stop moving.”
“No time for that.” Vi’s fingers tighten around Caitlyn’s arm, grounding. “Where’s Jinx?”
Caitlyn hesitates. The battle is still chaos around them—screams, the clashing metal, Warwick’s guttural growls in the distance.
Somewhere in the fray, Jinx is fighting her own battle.
She stands frozen in the chaos, her wide, unblinking eyes locked on the beast before her.
Warwick—Vander—or what’s left of him.
The monstrous form shifts under the firelight, his hulking figure a mess of scars and sinew, his claws soaked in blood that drips onto the cracked pavement. The snarl that rips from his throat is deep and guttural, reverberating in Jinx’s chest like something primal, something that knows her.
Her fingers twitch at her sides.
He’s a beast, a monster, but there’s something—someone—underneath. She can feel it, the remnants of an old warmth buried beneath all that rage.
A part of her knows she should run, should fire at him, end this before he does something he can’t take back.
But she can’t.
She steps forward instead, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Vander?”
His ears twitch. The tension in his body shifts—just slightly, just enough.
Jinx swallows, chest tight. Her heart is hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that feels too much like before—like every other time she’s lost someone she loves.
She can’t do it again.
“It’s me,” she murmurs, reaching out a shaking hand. “It’s Powder.”
The name feels strange in her mouth, a ghost of a girl long gone. But if there’s anything left of Vander in there, he’ll remember.
For a breath—just one—it seems to work. Warwick’s snarl softens, his nostrils flaring as if something in her scent stirs familiarity. The grip of his claws flexes, uncertain.
Then something shifts behind his gaze—recognition—before it all goes horribly wrong.
A deep, rattling growl tears from his chest, and his body locks up, convulses like something inside him is tearing apart. His claws grip his head, his whole frame trembling, and then—
A howl, raw and agonised, splitting through the battlefield like a shockwave. His instincts are overtaking him, pulling him away from whatever thread of memory she managed to reach. He swipes Jinx to the floor in one fell swoop.
He’s fighting it. And he’s losing.
Isha understands before anyone else.
She steps forward, quiet and deliberate, her gplden eyes solemn. The storm of battle rages around them, but she moves like none of it matters—like she’s already made peace with what comes next.
Something cold and final settles in Jinx’s gut.
No.
“No, no, don’t—” She lunges, but Isha is already moving, stepping into Warwick’s path, her body relaxed, accepting.
A sacrifice.
"Isha!"
Vi sees the answer in her silence.
She exhales sharply, pushing Caitlyn away from her gently, determined even as her legs threaten to give out. “I have to stop–”
“You need to stay still, or you’ll—”
Vi turns, and Caitlyn sees it—the fire in her eyes, the raw desperation. It makes her hesitate.
Vi wipes the blood from her lips, exhales through her nose.
Caitlyn’s heart twists, but there’s no time to argue. Not yet.
It happens too fast.
Warwick swipes, and Isha doesn’t flinch. There’s no scream, no struggle—just a breath, a flicker of something peaceful in her gaze before.
The world stops.
Jinx’s breath catches in her throat. She can’t move, can’t think.
No.
Not again.
Not again.
Something inside her shatters, breaks beyond repair, and she lashes out.
She’s screaming, her voice raw and wrecked, her hands grasping for her weapons, for anything to make this stop—to undo what’s just happened, to stop the flood of grief from swallowing her whole.
But before she can move, Vi is there.
Her grip is firm but careful, wrapping around Jinx’s arms, holding her back—not to restrain her, but to ground her.
Jinx struggles.
She fights, shoves, but Vi doesn’t let go.
“I have to—”
“It's too late,” Vi says, her voice strained, exhausted—but steady. “Jinx, you don’t. She's gone."
Thr blue glow illuminates the air, sending that pulse of familiar energy between them. It knocks all the soldiers close enough to the ground, reeling. Vi sways on the feet, clinging to Jinx to hold her back just as much to keep herself upright.
Jinx tries to push her away, her vision blurred with anger and grief, but then—
Then she sees.
Blood.
It’s everywhere. On Vi’s shirt, her hands, dripping from her side, soaking into the ground beneath them.
It’s hers.
Jinx freezes.
She’s covered in it.
Her breath stutters, her chest tightening. The fire of grief dims just enough for something else to take over—something rare, something terrifying.
Fear.
For Vi.
For the first time in so, so long, the voices inside her shift, refocuses.
Because no matter how much she’s lost—how much she’s already breaking apart—she can’t lose Vi, too.
Not her.
Not again.
Vi just sways on feet as Jinx pushes her away.
The world tilts, colours blurring, sound fading in and out like a dying heartbeat. Jinx is still in front of her, still trembling, still looking at her hands, at Vi’s blood covering them.
But Vi barely sees her.
She tries to speak—to tell her it’s okay, that she’s okay—but the words don’t make it past her lips.
The ground rushes up to meet her, and she feels herself fall.
A sharp gasp—then hands on her.
“Vi?”
The voice is distant, warped—like it’s coming through water. But it’s warm, familiar.
Caitlyn.
Vi tries to lift her head, but her limbs are leaden, her body sinking into itself. She’s too tired, too cold—when did it get so cold?
Another shake, harder this time.
“Vi, wake up,” Caitlyn pleads, her voice cracking.
She can’t move.
A second stretches into eternity.
Then Caitlyn is pulling at her, trying to turn her over, her hands trembling against Vi’s clammy skin.
“Vi—please—”
Vi doesn’t respond.
Caitlyn’s breath hitches. Her mind snaps shut against the possibilities, against the thought—against the truth—that Vi might already be—
No. No.
"Wake up, dammit! I—you can’t—” Her voice breaks apart into something raw, something desperate.
Jinx is silent. She doesn’t hear anything except the thick, wet sound of Vi hitting the ground.
Her eyes flicker, unfocused, breath sharp and ragged in her throat.
Vi isn't moving. She's just lying there, still and pale and wrong. The crimson soaking her clothes, pooling beneath her, is all Jinx can see.
Something inside her snaps.
A choked sound rips from her throat—not a sob, not yet. Just something broken.
Then she moves.
The first soldier who steps too close gets a fist to the face—bone cracks, blood splatters. The second barely has time to react before Jinx snatches his blade straight from its sheath and drives it through his gut. He gasps, staggers, eyes wide—Jinx wrenches it out before he can hit the ground.
Someone shouts her name, but she doesn’t hear it.
More soldiers come, but she’s already on them. Her body moves like a live wire, frantic and feral—slashing, kicking, clawing. There’s no strategy, no planning, just raw, desperate violence.
Because Vi is dying.
And Jinx won’t let anyone take her, too.
She swings, wild, barely registering the way her fists split open, the way her knuckles turn raw against helmets and armour.
A soldier grabs her from behind—she jerks, snarling, slams her elbow into his ribs. He grunts, loosening his grip just enough for her to twist free. She drives her boot to his stomach.
He drops.
Another rushes forward. Jinx lunges first.
The knife is still in her hand. She drives it up, into soft flesh, he gurgles, chokes on his own blood.
There are more.
There are always more.
And Jinx keeps fighting.
Because if she stops—if she lets them near—if they take Vi away from her—
“Jinx—Jinx!”
A different voice this time.
It cuts through the frenzy.
She whirls, panting, eyes wild.
Caitlyn.
She’s still kneeling beside Vi, hands pressed to her wounds, blood soaking through her fingers. Caitlyn’s breath shudders. She can’t do this alone.
She looks up at Jinx. Not as an enforcer. Not as an enemy.
Jinx stands there, eyes fixed on Vi’s still form, and for the first time, she doesn’t know what to do. The grief in her chest swells, crushing her lungs, stealing her breath, but it’s tangled with something sharper, something new.
The fear.
Jinx has lost everyone. Every single person she’s ever loved has been taken from her, ripped away, shattered in front of her eyes. And now—now—
“Get my sister to safety.”
For a moment, something flickers in Caitlyn's expression—like a wire sparking, frayed at the edges, uncertain.
She wants to say no.
Every instinct screams at her to fight that blue haired monster, to let her disappear into the smoke and never live to see another day.
But Vi isn’t moving.
Her throat tightens.
She gives the smallest nod then doesn’t waste another second.
She snaps her head up, searching the battlefield until she sees a familiar figure. “Jayce!” Her voice is sharp, commanding, cutting through the chaos like gunfire. “I need you—now!”
Jayce turns, face bloodied, hands still gripping his hammer.
His eyes land on Vi—crumpled, bleeding out—and all the air leaves his lungs.
Jayce’s arms are burning, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.
Vi’s body is heavy in his arms, her weight dragging against him, but it isn’t just that—it’s the wrongness of it. The limpness. The eerie stillness.
She should be fighting. Squirming. Alive.
Instead, her head slumps against his chest, breath shallow, barely there, the blood soaking through his coat still warm.
Too warm.
Too much.
He keeps moving. The battlefield is chaos behind them, but the bridge to Piltover looms ahead, stretching out in cold, unwavering stone. The clash of metal on metal, the distant rumble of explosions, the screams and shouts—they’re all dull, far away, drowned beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
Caitlyn runs beside him, steps quick and sharp, her rifle gripped tight in her hands.
Her posture is rigid, her eyes locked ahead, jaw clenched so tight it looks like she might shatter.
She doesn’t look at Vi.
She can’t.
She only watches the enforcers stationed at the bridge—the ones already moving forward, weapons raised, faces blank and unreadable.
Jayce slows. Caitlyn steps forward.
Between them. Between the law and Jinx.
She raises her rifle.
The enforcers falter. A ripple of hesitation moves through their ranks. Some glance at each other, uncertain. Others tighten their grips on their weapons.
They’re ready to fight.
To arrest.
To kill.
But Caitlyn doesn’t move. Her voice, when she speaks, cuts through the air like the edge of a blade. “Not now.”
Silence.
The words hang there, heavy and dangerous.
Jayce shifts Vi’s weight in his arms. Caitlyn doesn’t lower her rifle. She holds her ground, back straight, eyes unyielding.
She is Commander Caitlyn Kiramman, golden girl of Piltover, heir to one of its great houses. The enforcers standing before her know her—they respect her.
And yet, she stands in their way, her gun pointed at them.
Jinx breathes heavy behind her.
Caitlyn hears the way she shifts, the way her boots scrape against the blood-slick stone, the way her breath trembles, uneven.
Then—movement.
Jinx steps forward.
Slow. Deliberate.
She raises her hands.
Caitlyn stiffens. Her fingers twitch against the rifle’s trigger, but she doesn’t turn. She could take the shot. She could end it. But then she thinks of Vi. How she'd pleaded to get to her. If Caitlyn finishes it, finishes her. Vi would never forgive her.
Jinx’s voice is quieter than anyone expects when she finally speaks.
“I surrender. Arrest me."
It’s not a trick. Just the last thing she can give.
Caitlyn’s throat tightens.The words weigh down on her. Slowly, carefully, she lowers her gun. Then, at last, she turns.
Jinx stands behind her, shoulders hunched, hair tangled, her skin streaked with blood—some of it hers, most of it not.
Her hands are still raised, her fingers trembling slightly, her wrists pressed together.
Caitlyn swallows.
Jinx meets her gaze.
And for the first time in a long, long time, her eyes aren’t wild. They aren’t burning with mania, with mischief, with the electric spark of chaos.
They are just tired.
Empty.
Broken.
Caitlyn almost wants to say something to her.
She doesn’t.
She just gives a sharp nod.
Then she turns back to the enforcers, her voice steady, unwavering.
"Strip her of any weapons and lock her in the deepest dungeons under the council building."
The words taste like ash.
But Jinx doesn’t fight. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t laugh or smirk or throw out some flippant remark. She just stands there, silent, as the enforcers move forward, as they take her by the arms and begin their search.
Caitlyn watches. She watches as they strip away every last dangerous thing, until there’s nothing left except a girl with empty hands and hollow eyes.The choice hurts. But she makes it anyway.
Because she has to.
Because there is one thing they have in common. One person in this world they both cannot lose.
And right now, Vi is bleeding out in Jayce’s arms.
Jinx doesn’t flinch, doesn’t resist, doesn’t move. But as the enforcers grip her arms and begin leading her away, she looks back—just once. Her gaze flickers to Vi.
Then to Caitlyn.
Then, finally, she speaks. The last thing she says before they take her.
“Save my sister.”
The Kiramman estate looms in the distance, its pristine white walls untouched by the battle they’ve left behind.
The estate gates swing open at their approach. Servants and guards hesitate, their eyes widening as they take in the scene, but Caitlyn doesn’t stop.
She strides forward, shoving the front doors open
The world should not be this quiet.
Not when Vi is bleeding out in Jayce’s arms.
Not when everything Caitlyn has loved is breaking apart right in front of her.
She forces herself to move, to keep walking, to keep pushing forward.
She doesn’t stop until they’re in the dining room.
“Tobias!” Jayce shouts, voice sharp, urgent.
Footsteps echo down the hall. A door opens. Then—Caitlyn's father appears.
Tobias Kiramman is a man of composure, of poise, of measured control. But when he steps into the room, his usual neutral expression shatters. His eyes land on Vi, on the blood, on Caitlyn’s trembling hands.
For a brief moment, he hesitates.
His gaze flickers to Caitlyn, searching, questioning, his lips parting like he’s about to speak. But then she meets his eyes, and whatever words he might have said—whatever disapproval he might have voiced—die on his tongue. Because Caitlyn is looking at him like she hasn't in years.
Like she is still his little girl.
Like she is still pleading for his help.
And Tobias Kiramman—for all his strictness, all his discipline, all his rules— has never been able to deny his daughter. He exhales sharply. Then he moves.
“Clear the table,” he orders, his voice firm, composed, a stark contrast to the raw panic clawing through Caitlyn’s chest. “Get me clean linens, hot water, alcohol. Now.”
The staff scatter.
Caitlyn does not move. She stays frozen, standing at the head of the table as Jayce carefully, gently, lays Vi down.
Vi doesn’t react in the slightest.
Her body slumps against the polished wood, her head lolling to the side, her breathing barely there.
Caitlyn stares.
Jayce steps back, rolling his shoulders, his arms trembling from the strain of carrying Vi this far. “I’ll— I’ll find a doctor—”
“No.” Tobias doesn’t even look up. His sleeves are already rolled back, his hands steady as he examines Vi’s wounds. “Send for my colleagues, yes, but I’ll start treatment myself. If we wait, she won’t—"
Caitlyn’s stomach twists. She grips the edge of the table.
Tobias barely glances at her as he nods toward a servant. “Fetch the medical kit from my study. And brandy—bring the strongest we have.”
The room moves around her. People rush in and out, linens and bottles and tools appearing, orders given and followed, the space transforming into something cold, clinical.
And Caitlyn—
Caitlyn does not move.
She stands rooted to the spot, her hands still braced against the table, her breath shallow, sharp, every muscle in her body screaming at her to do something, anything— “Caitlyn.”
Her father’s voice snaps her back. She blinks. He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, his hands busy with a scalpel, peeling away Vi’s blood-soaked shirt, exposing the deep, jagged wound across her side.
“If you’re going to stay,” he says, evenly, “you need to be useful."
Caitlyn nods.
She moves. She gathers cloth, holds bottles open, steadies Vi’s body when Tobias needs access to another angle.
But she doesn’t leave. Break the contact.
She doesn’t let go.
She stays.
She takes Vi’s hand in both of hers, pressing her fingers against knuckles now cold. Her thumb traces scars. Her grip tightens.
“Please,” she whispers, leaning in, her forehead almost resting against Vi’s temple. She brushes Vi’s hair back, tucking damp strands away from her face. Her voice is so, so quiet.
“Please, Violet. Come back to me.”
Tobias does what he could, but it isn’t enough. It was never going to be enough. Caitlyn knows this before the doctors even arrive.
The fabric of her sleeves are stiff with drying blood—Vi’s blood. It stains her palms, smears across her wrists. She barely feels it.
She barely feels anything. Not until the doors swing open and the doctors file in.Three of them, older men, all dressed in dark coats with hands calloused from years of precise, practiced work. They bring leather satchels that clang with metal instruments, bottles of antiseptic and delicate tools for stitching flesh back together. Caitlyn still doesn’t move as they set to work.
She just watches.
Watches as one doctor leans over her, dabbing at the wound with shaking hands, while another threads a needle with surgical silk. The third works to keep her breathing steady, muttering to himself as he prepares an injection of something dark and syrupy. There is nothing Caitlyn can do. She knows this. And yet—
She stands at Vi’s side as they stitch her back together, inch by painstaking inch, slow and steady and unflinching. She doesn’t flinch, either. Not even when the needle pierces Vi’s skin, not even when blood wells up and dribbles down her ribs, slow and sickly. She just grips the edge of the table, breath tight in her chest, waiting.
Waiting.
Minutes drag into hours.
The wound is closed—stitched, cleaned, bandaged. The doctors wipe their hands, exchange low murmurs, nod in satisfaction.
They’ve done all they can do.
Tobias exhales, wiping his own hands clean before turning to Caitlyn. “She needs rest,” he says. “Now, it’s just a matter of whether her body can—”
“She’ll make it.” Caitlyn’s voice is sharp.
Tobias studies her, gaze unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Instead, he watches as she straightens, composing herself, and turns to the staff hovering near the doorway.
“Take her to my room,” she orders, voice clipped, precise. “Make sure she’s comfortable. I want doctors checking on her every hour.”
The servants hesitate. A glance is exchanged. One of them shifts uncomfortably. “Miss Kiramman, we—”
“Every hour.” Her voice cuts through the room like steel. “And assemble my team. I need them here immediately.”
She’s already moving, already thinking through her next steps. This is not over. There is still too much at stake. She needs to regroup, needs to—
A hand touches her shoulder.
Gentle, grounding.
She stops.
Her father is looking at her. “You can’t do everything, sweetheart,” he says softly.
"There's a war outside father I can't just abandon the people, they need me we need a plan, I —"
"Need to take a breather. Sit it out. Sit with her. The problems will still be there tomorrow."
The words hit her like a wall.
She realises, suddenly, that her hands are shaking. That her breath is uneven. That exhaustion is curling at the edges of her vision, tugging at her limbs, weighing her down.
She swallows, jaw tight. “I—”
“Sit,” Tobias says, guiding her toward a chair. “She’s alive. She’s here. You need to rest, Caitlyn.”
She should argue. She should fight.
But—
She looks at Vi, at the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
She lets herself breathe.