thoughtsofvorfreude | (no subject)

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Coming Home 1/?

He was pacing before he realized it.

Garen Crownguard was a man of endless patience, honest. He had to be: ever since the moment of his birth this noble virtue and many others had been driven into him by his parents. He was the perfect example of a dutiful son. The perfect example of a Demacian soldier. And he was never anxious.

Garen commanded himself to stop pacing. It was easy for a man like him, with indomitable will, to do such a thing. Troublesome he'd even begun. He took a few deep breaths and relaxed the hands he'd reflexively balled into fists. He was a Crownguard: a relentless protector of Demacian royalty, and acting like this was unsightly. Despite prince Jarvan's insistence that he was the most stoic man he'd ever met, Garen himself sometimes wondered.

He was the perfect son his parents had always wanted. Handsome and broad-shouldered, he was an imposing figure cut from stern stuff. His brown hair was cropped short just above his blue eyes and he looked almost regal in his Dauntless armor. A man deserving respect--at least, that was what people said. A very different kind of person from the sister he'd known... years ago, now. How many? The number escaped him.
Where he was a dutiful, obedient son, she was in some ways the exact opposite. Where he'd been content to follow the linear path set out for him from day one, life had turned into something very different for his little sister Luxanna. Before his departure for the Vanguard, he'd thought he'd known her but when his thoughts turned to her during his training, Garen began to understand little things, little interactions in a different light.
Now, was she the same person?
He didn't know.

And he was pacing again.

He hardly even heard her knock the first time. But when the soft taps coalesced in his mind into the old, secret knock they'd used as children, he felt just a little lighter.
Garen walked to the door, noticing for the first time the boring, torn-up clothing he'd changed into after coming home that day. Nothing to be done about it now.

He never hesitated. He always went straight forward, straight ahead, never faltering.
He finally opened that door when she tried to knock a second time.

Her fingers rapped a familiar pattern against the wood, something she had done in those long nights alone, a soft pattern against the metal cot as she waited the night out. Occasionally drawn against the dirt when there was no cot to sleep upon. She didn't even remember when she had learned it, didn't think it mattered, the sound itself had become rather ritualistic, a odd sort of comfort.

She didn't expect a welcome home, any sort of fanfare to offer her a reward for her service. She expected it no more now than she did when she returned from her first mission into enemy territory. There had been no one to greet her then, and perhaps no one now; and in a sense she almost hoped for that. Hoped that when the door rolled open it would be staff or something otherwise, that let her retire to her old room in silence. What else could she expect? A simple pat on the shoulder and dry praise that simply told her good for doing what was expected of her. The bare minimum for a Crownguard; bring pride to the family name and continue things as they had always been. Or... would always be. Considering the service of either of her parents was limited to more formal matters; but one couldn't expect them to throw themselves into the field and die. She could, of course. Her breath escaped in a slow puff, and the warmth of her breath fluttered outward in a small spiral, mist curling into the aether as it dissipated.

As the door cracked open she found her face to face with an imposing figure-- though to be fair many of them cut quite a shadow over her when it came to size. She had grown, of course, developed over time, though still found herself to be quite petite. Her bouncy blond locks had grown out into something longer, a little wavy, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders, only held back by the copper colored band tucked behind her ears. Her eyes were as wide as they were blue as she stared up at him, taking in his figure and debating within herself. Garen? ….Garen. It had to be, in the same way she was the same yet different so was he. Much of him may have changed, but she knew the flop of his hair and the blue of his eyes. Knew his face even through the differences the years had offered them both. Her own still a bit youthful and round in contrast.

Her weight shifted, still dressed in those formal blues; the thin fabric clinging to her, fitted same as the plate metal and gold trim. All of it suited her, was clearly tailored to her; and her uniform wear was such a contrast to his own appearance which seemed far more casual. She straightened up, realizing she had spent several seconds too long staring, pulling her shoulders back in order to even her posture out, to try to cut a more self-assured figure than she had before.

“Garen.” She finally managed, her tone even as her lips pursed a little, one arm carrying a small bad of what was no doubt her things and the other just idling at her side having dropped since he had answered. “You're blocking the door.”

To be fair, he didn't really know it was his sister knocking at his door. It wasn't like his parents had told him the hour or even the time of day she'd be arriving--in fact, he was lucky they'd told him anything at all. Their parents were what Luxanna had called "so distant they might as well be disinterested." As long as their children didn't do anything to shame the Crownguard name, Garen supposed there wasn't anything they couldn't get away with. Some might have found that freeing, but for the two of them, it had only ever been a burden. It was why they'd come to rely on each other so much in the past.

Had she managed on her own?

He pushed the door open slowly, but when the sight of golden hair came into view he opened it all the way. There, in front of him, stood...

She was small, like he remembered.
Blonde, like he remembered.
And everything else was different.

She stood awkwardly on their doorstep, shifting her weight from one foot to another, staring up at him. Another pair of siblings might have rushed into each other's arms, and once upon a time even he would have swept her up. When they were young, he'd spent hours playing with her, making her laugh, picking her up and swinging her around...

And those days had been taken away from them.

Those fists began to ball up again.

She looked a little like a soldier, and she spoke like it too. Where was the exciteable, passionate, curious sister he'd known and loved? Would he ever see her again?

"Luxanna," he answered evenly, despite the storm roiling in his gut. "Come in." He stepped aside and ushered her through, then closed the door behind her. As she walked slowly in, looking around the room, he doubted she'd be able to find anything that had changed in years. Still the same paintings of their ancestry, still the same ceremonial weapons on display. All their history.

He opened his mouth but closed it again, opened and closed it. As she slowed down he walked past her, his shoulders stiff: "Welcome home," he managed, unwilling to let her see his face as he said it.

Those two words meant a great deal.

Was that what it was? Home? A welcoming? All of it seemed bland, and the taste on her tongue was almost sour. Not that she'd say it, instead she'd turn on her heel, toward him after she had looked over the place and noticed it was almost as trapped in time as she felt. Blues settling on his figure again, curious but lacking that same spark, something of sterner stuff instead settling on her expression. “Thank you.” If he meant it or not, if she believed it or not, it did not matter. The truth of it was politeness was just another facet of her training, just another part of being the youngest Crownguard. She had to be as much of a lady as she was a soldier. Now more than ever.

Of course by the time she had turned to catch his words, to trace his figure, she found him moving past her. She wondered if he intended to leave, to return to his room or whatever he had been doing and leave her to wander the halls she had known so well once. If she cared to. Resting her head and coiling her body among the barest warmth sounded just as good to her right now. She didn't know this man, this stranger with her brothers face and she knew not how to deal with him.

Her hands lightly folded behind her, her once free hand lightly toying with the strap of the bag her other hand held. Lightly tugging at the thin, scraped off threats, the heavy white thing carrying just a few supplies for her short term home. She could always get new clothes; would probably need to, if she looked in her closet it'd all be bright colors and little girl skirts, none of which she could wear now. It was like a testament to a person who no longer existed. A ghostly relic to remind any who passed of the little girl who had once been there.

The thought of hit makes her stomach twist. She didn't want to go up there, didn't want to sleep in that bed, not again.

“Are you on leave?” She tried, but it was a little dry, she wasn't sure what to say to him. This strange man with such a familiar voice.

"Thank you," she said, just as formally as she might if he was bestowing some kind of honor on her. "Congratulations, Luxanna Crownguard, for your safe return home." Should he salute? Should he snap to attention? He didn't dislike his lot in life--far from it: he considered protecting innocents his true calling--and he wasn't the sort of man who could come home and take his suit off, so to speak. A penchant for justice wasn't something he could just turn on when it was appopriate.
But it wasn't right for his little sister. At least, not the one he'd known all that time ago. She was supposed to be light and airy, in such danger of floating away he had to hold her down.

Was that girl still in there somewhere?

He had to find something to do with his hands, so he busied himself setting a fire in the hearth. This was work that a servant could have done, certainly, and in fact there were several specifically intended to. But he'd never been that good at making other people do things for him. Besides, there was a simple kind of pleasure in it. The same kind he enjoyed whenever an assignment took him into the woods or behind enemy lines--the times he had to make his own camp.

"You could say that," he finally answered her. "The Vanguard will call me when they need me, and the League has the same policy. I feel as if I spend more time doing nothing than actual work... despite all the attempts I've made to get myself on more assignments." He sat back as the fire crackled to life, and suddenly realized how long he'd been talking. He wasn't much for long speeches, and especially not around people he hadn't seen for... for a long time.

But maybe there was something about Luxanna he still recognized, even if it wasn't her looks or her tone. Maybe there was some kind of presence she still had that made him feel... at least a little bit... at ease.

Slowly, falteringly, he reached out.
"How... have you been?"

There was the soft sound of shifting fabric behind him, the soft huff of air from the couch as she slid herself down onto the edge of it. Settling with her weight leaning forward slightly, elbows pressed into her knees as she got comfortable. Pushing back a little bit she slid herself backward on the couch, sinking into it till her feet wouldn't comfortably touch the floor. Her posture wasn't relaxed, admittedly, she still leaned forward with her weight on her knees and her shoulders stiff; but at least she wasn't towering there, inspecting him as she struggled not to do now.

"I suppose that's the flaw in being valuable, you'll get called for the hard things but they don't want to call you for the simple things that could get you hurt." Not that she ever really imagined much hurting him, and perhaps that was layover from when she was a child. A point in her life when her still-growing brother had to have been the strongest person she knew, always picking her up with ease, moving things around, assembling the heavier parts of her fort when she was unable. But now that seemed to come to fruition in who he became. Towering over her now much like he had then. She didn't know what else to say, really, she didn't know much about what he did...

"Fine, of course." Fine was always the answer, she could be bleeding from her mouth and call herself fine-- because it was simply a learned habit at this point. She always had to be fine because any other answer was unacceptable. Ever the statuesque figure, cutting a proud shape in the name of Demacia and for her family. To be anything less would be... disappointing.

Still, a smile touches her lips, though it's a bit absent the usual kindness, if anything she looks tired, a bit worn from the way the upward tug at the corners of her mouth look forced, and better yet how the whole expression doesn't quite reach her eyes.

He didn't look around when he heard his little sister seat herself on the couch. He could see her doing it when he closed his eyes, after all: settling into the soft and impeccably-arranged pillows, messing up the perfect order their parents observed and their servants maintained. He could see a perfect, lifelike image of his little sister dangling her feet, kicking them lightly as she watched him start a fire. So small. So full of life.

Something gripped his heart right then, clutched it viciously, and he couldn't say exactly why he looked quickly back over his shoulder. All he knew was when he saw her slender feet straining to touch the wood floor, the grip relaxed. He could breathe again.

Garen looked back at the fire and blew into it once, twice, encouraging the flames to lick experimentally at the tinder he'd given them. Long ago, sitting just like this, he'd blown great lungfuls of air into the fireplace and emerged covered in ash and coughing. Luxanna had laughed, then: now he had a sudden, silly desire to do it again and see if her laugh could still tinkle like a glass bell throughout the house. The thought was quashed as soon as it arose: he was older now, and though his own balance of finesse and brute strength was always a tenuous one, he didn't want to appear childish in front of his little sister.

The flames caught. They held. They began to grow, and after a few new sticks had been added, there was simply nothing left for him to do.

"Fine." Of course she was. He dusted off his hands, leaving light grey prints behind on his pants. He suppressed a sigh and tried again. He was the older sibling: it was his duty to reach out. Not that he'd ever been any good at it.

But all the same, he tried again, as he turned his cool blue eyes and stoic expression upon her. He was no genius, but he at least understood what her stiff posture and half-smile meant.

"That's not what I asked."

"I meant... being away for this long..."

All this time, away from home. Away from their parents. Away from him. Doing... something even he couldn't be told. Even him, her own brother. A member of the Dauntless Vanguard, and he couldn't even know what his sister was assigned? Where she was and what she was doing?
With difficulty, he closed his eyes. With difficulty, he breathed slowly out and counted down from five. When he looked at her again, small and stiff, most of the old anger was tamped down again.

"How has it been? Tell me."

"What was I going to miss?" And for a brief moment there's something akin to bitterness in her tone, a sort of sharpness she had not quite bitten down on; but as soon as it was there, it was gone. "There'd be nothing but shame in idling my time away when we all need to do our service, I can only imagine life for me if I didn't." Of course, there was never that as an option; she never had a choice, breaking her nails on the floor as they scooped her up and dragged her out. She remembered it as well as she remembered the fireplace, or the bland paintings or the small nicks she had left in the wood as she counted the days he had been gone. She remembered all of it; but what good did it do her? What use were those happy memories to a soldier and a spy? If she was caught, perhaps it would give her more to muse on as she waited for whatever cruel end that would inevitably come.

"I'm sure you know well enough how it's been." She added, though her tone is restrained, much more even than it had been before. Her shoulders rolling backward as she leaned into one of the 'decorative' pillows. Her hands folded, fingers interlacing as they settled over her lap. Resting there ever so politely. If it wasn't for her feet dangling just a bit, she might have looked the proper picture of a true formal lady. As it stood, there was no doubt she did her best to paint that kind of image toward him.

"You left too, and you seem to be doing more than fine. Leader of the Dauntless, last I had been told." A tip of her head to the side, just faintly, those silky blond strands tumbling moreover one shoulder than the other. "It's quite impressive, really." The dry sort of 'They must be so proud' hanging in the air. She didn't need to say it, they both knew it, it was the reason either of them had been placed into this situation in the first place.

"I'm glad to see you're well." And perhaps it's the first real thing she'd said since her return, but even that was hard to tell.

"What was I going to miss?"

He looked away from her then, just until he could unclench his fists, and he gritted his teeth. "Not a thing. You had nothing at all here for you." In, and out. In, and out: counting down from ten. When had he last been so unable to control his temper? "I'm just glad you realized how important it is to pursue your duty."

The words came out cutting, and the tone was worse. Lingering in the back of his mind, he supposed, had always been this day. His deepest fears had told of it, and they'd agreed this was exactly what would happen. His little sister, his joyous and passionate little sister, always so inventive and inquisitive, would come home a cookie-cutter automaton sapped of all the qualities that made her unique.

It made him sick just looking at her, catching her out of the corner of his eye while he added yet more wood to the already spitting fire. She sat like a proper lady, beaten down by the same lessons in proper bearing she'd spurned when he knew her.

He supposed this was why there'd been no joyous reunion. His sister was long gone. She had been a long time ago.

Suddenly he wasn't so interested in hearing what she had to say. Suddenly he wasn't so curious about what she'd seen and what she'd heard, about what she'd been through. The mystery of what she'd spent her time doing coalesced into an ugly mass of grey. Who cares what kind of soldier she'd been made? Whatever she was now, she wasn't his sister.

"Our family has always exceeded expectations," he answered her half-praise curtly, unwilling to waste even one more word than he had to. He couldn't look back at her, couldn't see those pretty blue eyes hollowed out. Even the small peace offering she gave at last didn't mollify him. Why should it have?

His little sister was gone somewhere, and he'd never ever get her back.

"Our mother and father won't be home for a long time, if they return tonight at all. I suggest you put your things away."
He did well to avoid thinking about her room upstairs and what this strange young woman might do to it. He thought if he ever looked in to find it prim and proper, cold and sterilized, he might leave this house and never come back.

Her lashes lowered, casting half-moon shadows on her cheeks, her gaze lowering from his figure as he continued to work on the fire and refused to look at her. Perhaps this is what she should have been more prepared for. What was there to be proud of for her? What had mattered in all that she had done? Nothing, as far as they knew. Every trip into danger was known to so few, and if she had gone missing well... She wasn't sure who would mourn anymore. If anyone. Perhaps that thought should put her at ease, she was never keen on hurting anyone.

A fluttery sort of breath left her lips, brushing a few hairs out of the way, ruffling them into an absent tumble as her head dipped down just a bit. Chin toward her chest as she thought it all over. What was she even doing here? Running errands like a foolish girl. Coming back was perhaps the biggest mistake.

The void in her chest grew, the cold in the middle spreading toward her limbs as that numbness she had known so well threatened to strangle her. Hallow like an old tree, slowly filling with rotting water till she was nothing like what she used to be; useless as a person. Her throat worked, dry swallowing almost silently as she rocked forward, pushing up as her heels clacked against the floor. "You're right, of course." Was all she said at first, plucking her bag up from the floor beside the chair where she had set it. "I didn't expect to see them so soon anyway."

Though the truth of it was she wasn't expecting to see them at all, and that was more than fine. It was easier to be a tool than it was to pretend to be a daughter.

"Have a good night." Though it sounds firm, more like a command snapped out than a nighttime blessing, lacking the love that might have been there once. Instead, she was turning off toward the hall, still more than aware of how to find her way back to her room.

"You too." He said it like it was polite, like his butler had wished him a pleasant morning.

Garen didn't look up, not until she was halfway down the hall. He didn't look up at her, although he himself wasn't quite sure whether he was afraid of what he might see or if he was afraid of how he might react to seeing it. He just let her go, and made certain she was gone before that stoic face fell. He made certain she wasn't around to watch as he closed the grate with trembling hands and squeezed his eyes so tight they hurt.

He watched the fire as it guttered and suffocated in the thin oxygen he let it have. It went from sparking and spitting to soft licks, to small orange tendrils, to a dull glow.
And then it died.

He stood there for a few moments longer, thinking about nothing at all. Intentionally quashing any thoughts the moment they appeared.
And maybe he felt hollow too.

* * *

Maybe an hour later, he shuffled laboriously up the stairs. His hair and his back were soaked with sweat, and his muscles ached. Garen held tight to the banister as he ascended, and his bulging arms twitched as though they were waiting for the next torturous exercise they'd be put to. He controlled his breathing, all the same, and though the rest of him seemed strained to the breaking point, his face was calm and peaceful.

And then he passed his little sister's room. Not passed: stopped right in front of it. Slowly, slowly he reached up. Slowly, slowly, he brushed the door, too quiet to be heard, too soft to open it even if the latch wasn't slid home.

He stood there for a moment, waiting for nothing.

Then he walked to his own bedroom, and when he finally did sleep he dreamed of his young little sister being dragged, screaming, from their family halls.

Silence echoed through the halls during the night, offering nothing but the distance ticking of a clock, the faintest sound crawling up the stairs as time passed. In the morning her door was shut once more, and no sound came from behind it. She couldn't stay in that room, not for long; there were too many memories there, good and bad and she was sure the good hurt worse.

Today was her first day back, a single day of rest before she knew she would be called out once more, a new kind of duty that she had not expected. Another weight on her shoulders, another line for her to tow. Another chain to drag. She swallowed, taking in the crisp, cold air of the morning as a breeze tickled her cheeks, fluttering golden locks as she rested on the back porch. The view was beautiful, a home worth fighting for, had it been a home at all. She could see the pleasure her parents took in the ability to look down on so much land and water, on people, to have a home of status; second only to that of the crown, she wouldn't doubt. But what did it all mean? She blew a hard breath out of her lips and didn't allow herself to think on it too long. It would bring up nothing but those aches she had finally managed to swallow.

Instead she cupped the mug in her hands, cradled it like glass as she raised it to her lips, sipping the hot liquid that swayed inside. A morning glass of tea was a rare delight these days and while home may have been a mistake, it was something he had been longing for.... for weeks, waiting to return from her last mission, lingering as it did, and delight in such a simple pleasure.

"It's just a week." She told herself, breathed the words onto the wind. Just a week then she could leave, could return to the barracks, or perhaps find a home of her own if they required her to stay. Seven days and then she could flee away from the memories that haunted her every time she looked at anything in this house.

That morning Garen threw himself into his morning routine. He ran the edge of the lake near their ancestral home, he gathered wood for their fire and he did his early workout. After his training for the Vanguard, he could do an unreasonable number of pushups while wearing his armor. When his armor came off, that number became obscene--though he couldn't recite it exactly. He'd stopped counting long ago.

None of this was necessary, of course. If he didn't exercise, he would still be strong. If he didn't run, he would still possess impressive stamina. If he didn't collect firewood, a servant would do it. And some did in the hopes he might stop.

But it was necessary to start every day the right way. A colonel he'd known had once said "no matter what awaits you that day, you can manage it by just making your bed in the morning." That little amount of discipline would set the tone for the rest of the day, and Garen believed that strongly.
And, after all, having something to do was necessary for him to avoid thinking about the strange girl sitting on the back porch, drinking tea.

The sight brought him up short, when he crested the hill. He had to squint and rub his eyes: at first, he might have sworn he was looking at his mother, sitting there with her pursed lips and austere glare.
But the face was softer. The expression was kinder.
But the soul was gone. He knew that. He hated it.

"Good morning," he greeted her, his tone even and his eyes cold. His shirt was sweated through and his hair stuck to his head: his breathing was somewhere between rough and even. "What are you drinking?"

He kept the statements short and the questions simple. No need for him to enter any sort of long, drawn-out discussion: if he kept things professional maybe he wouldn't feel the void his little sister had left.

"How long will you be staying."

That tired gaze lifted, drifting up to him when he spoke, watching him thoughtfully. The truth of it was she didn't sleep too well in her own home, especially not in her own room. The whole idea of being back in that place, the memories of cold nights-- well, they almost hurt as much as the memories of warmer nights and closeness, of tired stories and so many other things that had been pulled from her hands. Dragged away from her before she even had a choice in the matter. She was a figurehead, of sorts, rather than a person and nothing about that had changed since she left. They would never see her as anything more than the girl who needed to push till she broke to prove that the Crownguards were worthy of the title.

"Just tea, with a little bit of cream." She lifted the cup, as if seeing the milky water would really offer any more explanation than the last. She wanted cocoa, or something sweet, but she knew those sorts of desires were childish. Not the woman she was meant to be, not the person she should let them see. So she drank her tea, almost as plain as the weather, settled on the back porch in order to pass the time. Seven more days.

A sigh escaped between her teeth.

Her head turned, a few hairs sliding free only to be tucked back behind her ear, her expression soft, but almost lost. Absent from the present, half lost in her memories and half caught up in things that would never be. It doesn't take her long to shake it off, lowering her gaze back to the cup as she took another sip.

"A week, about, from what I've been told. Then I need to get back to work."

He met those tired eyes and fought the desire to turn away. Tea. With a little bit of cream. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and he knew what it was from: how many days had they spent sitting on this porch enjoying the sunrise together? The sunset? Wrapped up in blankets on cold days sipping hot chocolate. Now here she was drinking plain tea, and he could almost imagine her reading the paper with a pair of glasses riding the tip of her nose. Scowling at him when he made too much noise. Telling him about the Crownguard name he represented.

It made him sick.

"A week," he echoed. A week for her to linger in this house, drifting like a ghost. A week for her to take up this space, intrude upon his privacy and spit in his face with this hollow mask of his little sister. It felt like life was laughing at him. Where was the justice in snuffing out the light inside his exuberant little sister? How was that fair?
If he'd still been here, could he have--

Garen slammed a wall down on that train of thought. He refused to even entertain it for a moment. For a second.

"A week," he repeated. "Understood." He busied himself splashing his face from a bucket of ice-cold water, then dried himself off with a small white towel. He continued doing his best not to look at her, and the frigid water helped distract him.
"I'm heading off to the Vanguard. I'll see you tonight," he told her curtly as he tossed the towel down and opened the back door.

But inside, he hoped he wouldn't.

Five minutes later, Luxanna heard the front door close. And then he was gone.

She didn't turn to see him, she didn't need to, she knew he wasn't going to stop. They never did, why would they? Her stomach twisted a little, sunk down, and the clatter of her cup against the saucer mattered to no one, same as anything else she did. The truth of the matter was she could completely destroy her room and the maids would clean it up and not a word of it would probably even be spoken to her at this point. Her chest tightened and she sunk back into the chair, watching the sky. The clouds were coming in, perhaps they'd have rain. Perhaps she'd get a little breather out finally.

Rubbing her face she waited, waited till she heard that door and turned around for the house.

Her day consisted of wandering, not unlike the ghost she had been accused of being, touching things here or there-- suffering under the memories of what had once been. She didn't know what to do with herself, admittedly. Without alleys to sneak through and battles to be fought she felt like a doll. Something pretty to be propped up on a shelf til she was needed, feet dangling and face blank. It's what she would be when she was finally too old enough to fight; a toy put up for auction, a woman to be bred to further their name. Probably one of the few who wouldn't take her husbands, not with ease-- lest it be a better name, but those were far and few between.

There had been a time, when she was young, that she dreamed of fantasy weddings, with large puffy dresses and more flowers than what probably existed in all of Demacia. White suits and jewels, and something more akin to a coronation of a princess than a young Noble girl. But the fantasy had been one she'd relished in secret. Practiced each step under the instructor of her dance tutor with the budding idea someday she could do such a thing, swathed in silks and whites, painted like one of her dolls at a wedding. It was the same sort of fantasy that left her ill, when she thumbed over the dusty trimmings of a doll still bundled on her shelf between old school books and her parents instructed readings. Those were the sort of fantasies reserved for other girls. If she was lucky, now, maybe she might learn to love the man she marries-- but at the very least, she hoped he'd be kind.

A sigh heaved from her chest so great it felt like the world pulled her body down, sinking her on the edge of the bed as she idly toyed with her old plaything in her lap, wondering just how she had let it come so far.

She didn't say a word to him as he passed, and that was alright. He didn't need her voice echoing in his head, and he didn't need to turn them over and over in his head all day. It was better if he just imagined today was a day like any other, like his sister had never come home at all. She was better that way--an ephemeral memory of laughter and childish joy.

He was, ever so slowly, coming to terms with the idea that he might never see that girl again.

He threw himself into the work that waited for him in the city, but found it lacking. There were gaps between his duties, between the things to be done, and they left him with an empty mind. Empty minds thought, and empty minds tended towards unpleasant topics. He did his best to hide his preoccupation, but couldn't quite manage it. During sparring his giant sword went clattering to the floor, and he stared at it with a perplexed expression. Like he didn't understand what it meant. His subordinates shared a glance and looked at him with an uneasy expression.

When was the immovable rock in their order ever shaken?

The rain agreed with his mood. The clouds burst during his walk home as sunset turned to evening, but he didn't quite walk straight to his door. He lingered, convincing himself he was investigating little leads he'd heard whispers of: maybe this alleyway really did have a smuggling operation running through it. Maybe this shop was a front. Maybe...
But these excuses fell apart the longer the night went. The wetter he got. The more the streets emptied. Finally when he was following up, of all things, the confused report of an old woman about her missing cat... that was when he gave up.

Maybe, with any luck, the girl in his house would be in bed already. So he walked home, finally, chased by loud cracks of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder.

He opened the door to his ancestral home and found a towel to dry his hair with. He patted himself down as best he could, then stripped off his wet clothing and found a dry pair just washed. Only when he'd slipped them on--prepared by some unseen servant, no doubt--he realized that there was someone else in the house who might have walked in on him changing. He looked around the downstairs of the large house but couldn't find her, and he breathed a sigh of relief: maybe she really was in bed already.

That was just fine. He just had to take this one day at a time.

Garen made his way up the stairs, intending to make for his bedroom. Or maybe a long, hot shower.

But for some reason--
A half-forgotten memory--

He paused then, in front of his little sister's door, and he listened past the thunderstorm.

It was a glaring flaw, a kink in her ever thinning armor, just another thing to be ashamed of. Crownguards were meant to fear nothing, same as the Demacians themselves, the sort that wouldn't even tremble before the grim endings that may await them in battle and instead meet them with pride, knowing they had done what was right.

So when the thunder cracked across the sky and her body jumped, it hurt her in more ways than just the obvious. Hurt her down to the aching depths of her core; struck to who she used to be, so small and weak. She wanted to withstand it, to be stronger than it, but it was something she never really for over. Never really got past.

Even now when it thundered far too loud overhead, cracked against the walls and sent the same chill down through her bones she could feel herself flinch and twitch. It didn't take long for that overwhelming fear to begin suffocating her, slowly squeezing around her heart as she laid herself down, but even laying, she couldn't quite settle. Sitting at the foot of her bed, then the headboard, then eventually just sliding to the floor.

She felt so little, so small and so different, hated it with every bit of herself. Even holding that tattered little doll didn't make her feel better, even though her brain hoped it would. It was like all those nights she had been locked in her room alone, when he had been gone, and there was nothing but the silence and thunder to keep her awake through the whole of the night, leaving her exhausted and helpless in the morning. Those had been the worst nights, the most lonely nights, the kind that made her feel a little more empty every time. It never really ended, the weight of humiliation building on her shoulder when she quietly cried into her pillow to muffle the sounds during training.

Some days she worried she was never going to escape the girl she used to be, and if she never did, was it ever going to stop hurting?

He wanted to keep walking, to immerse himself in that steaming shower and let it melt away everything about this day. Everything about yesterday. Everything about the next six. He could step into that warm shwoer and stay there until he just forgot.

But that wasn't quite the man Garen was, not really. He had an iron sense of justice that guided his every move, and he couldn't stand to see the weak trampled. Nothing made him more angry than the strong taking advantage of others. Nothing was worse than knowing what was right and refusing to do it.

No matter how much he knew it would hurt to see his sister in her old, cutesy room, he didn't have it in him to turn away.

Slowly, Garen knocked on the door. He waited, and thought about knocking louder--but in the end he pushed the door open instead. It took him a moment to find her.

There on the floor was a small, motionless girl staring at nothing in particular. Her golden hair wispy and tangled. Her eyes red and her cheeks streaked. So small she almost looked like she'd disappear, and with every threatening crack of lightning she tensed. "Big brother..." he could hear her whimper, and he could see her hold out her arms.

Then the moment was gone, and in that little girl's place was a woman, or someone becoming one. She had her back pressed against her bed and was motionless sitting on the ground, looking like a statue. Her face was dim until it was lit, suddenly, by a bright flash.

Garen came close. He didn't say a word, but he gathered his little sister into his arms and sat down where she'd been. His lap and his embrace made a cradle that she fit into as if it was natural.

"Shh," he whispered. "I'm right here."

Jolted just slightly, she hadn't expected him in the least; it had felt so much like he had just become another one of them. And maybe so had she. Broken and apart, little pieces of a family that never really fit right together. It made her stomach sick to think about, or maybe part of that was the startled sensation running through her veins when she finally noticed that towering figure in her room. Her mouth opened, like words might depart, but instead, it was just a small, ever so broken sound when he gathered her up in his arms.

He was always so strong.

Her breath hitched hard as she found herself planted in his lap, curling up in his arms like a doll in comparison to the sheer whole of him. Her face turning, attempting to hide the expression on it as she buried herself into his shoulder. She could pretend not to be so broken if he couldn't see her face-- never mind the shudders running down from her shoulders, or the rhythmic shaking that might not all be from fear. Her fingers clung to his shirt, digging in and tugging it close, not unlike when she was small, not unlike when she was so starved for comfort she'd hang off of him at any opportunity.

She didn't know what to say, embarrassed by her own inability to overcome such simple fears, instead just quietly crying into her big brother's shoulder like she had as a child.

The storm was loud, louder than they'd had for a long time: it almost drowned out the noise of his little sister's breath. The sound she made, when he gathered her up like jumbled pieces of a fallen glass... it almost broke his heart. It was a small and soft sound, but it conveyed just a glimpse of what she was feeling. He picked her up and found her light, shivering, small. Just like he remembered.

She was always so soft.

She buried her face in his shoulder and he let her, one hand coming naturally to rest on her head. He marveled at the feeling: Garen had forgotten just how soft, just how smooth, his little sister's hair was. Her fingers clutched and bound in his shirt, probably twisting the fabric and stretching it fatally. He didn't mind: he could always get another one. Another shirt.
Never another sister quite like this one.

Her crying was soft, barely audible, but when her whole body began to shake it was impossible to ignore. His expression might have soothed her or it might have made her sob even harder, if she'd seen it: he looked at his sister with such tenderness, such sorrow, and also such great indecision, that he couldn't even speak a word of it. He wanted so badly to believe his little sister was back, was the way she'd always been, but he couldn't quite hope. Not yet.

Over the crashing thunder, over her tears, over the way their chests rose and fell together, Garen began to hum. He stroked her hair and he hummed something from distant memory, something wordless but comforting. A tune that their mother perhaps sang to them when they were sick, or frightened, or both, long long ago.

It was a little startling to be back in his grip, to be back in some semblance of comfort after so long. So many nights spent crying herself to sleep, so many others just wishing she could cry so her chest didn't feel so empty and numb. Like a void inside of it was slowly growing, threatening to consume her and everything she was with each passing day. Sometimes she could dull it with missions or other busy work, stave off the hungry vortex that drew out everything she was, but it never lasted long enough. Never managed to keep the black wolves at bay when they bit at her heart. But for a brief moment, here, she felt comfort and it almost frightened her. When she heard his voice over the thunder, felt the brush of his fingers, it only made her cry harder. Made her chest ache in a different way, longing for all the time she had lost, all the love she had missed. The way their parents had torn thief family apart for their own means, for pride.

The fact that if she or Garen had died in battle it would have been considered a worthy honor.

That one of them probably still would.

Sometimes when she allowed herself to think of the future, and not just bemoan the loss of choosing her own, she realized that even the threat of marrying a man she didn't love wasn't the worst of it. The real fear was not even making it long enough to have that choice taken away from her. She was a spy, he was a soldier. She wasn't strong like Garen, couldn't live through much, and she had no idea if she could ever make it to the point where she could look back on her life with regret as she did her best to love the children she didn't decide to have.

A harder sob broke out and she buried herself deeper against him, flinching at a particularly loud snap of thunder in the air. Her chest heaved and shook as she seemed to curl herself up as small as she could in his lap, hiding away from the world with her brother as her shield. Mighty as he had always been, as large as she had felt him to be as a child, a barrier between her and the fear that plagued her even now.

It took a while, but eventually, even with the storm rattling the windows and the roof tiles, she quieted down. Settled into soft sniffles and sobs, her face pale in the dark evening. Swathed in the scent of her brother as her legs were drawn up and she just remained bundled there. Both still afraid and too embarrassed to move. Breathing eventually evening out, soft warm puffs half-brushing his skin as she remained curled up there, nose tucked into his neck.

Was it strange to say he felt more at home right here, right like this, than he had for a very long time? He wondered if it was odd to feel like this when fighting had so completely become his life. When combat, war, the Vanguard, his training... all of it hadn't made him feel nearly as peaceful as holding his little sister, and he'd forgotten that. For how long?

He supposed from the very beginning. From the start, he'd never once let himself look ahead and wonder if he would be better off. He'd never thought about the things he'd lose until they showed up missing. He knew part of that was just who he was: he always forged bravely ahead, never considering the consequences, never allowing a single speck of doubt to catch in him. It was why he was such a brilliant warrior, and it was why he was utterly fearless.
But perhaps it had been why he had lost his little sister in the first place.

Garen held her there, in her childhood room, in her bed, and felt his heart break as she sobbed. He did well to keep his voice steady while he hummed, even when she shook and even when a new wet sob wracked her body. He hummed until he couldn't quite remember how it went, and then he hummed a little improvisation that he was sure wasn't any good. He'd never had a talent for singing, really, or at least he thought he hadn't: it didn't mesh at all with the big strong warrior he was.

Then again, if he was all general, all leader of the Dauntless Vanguard, would he be misty-eyed as he held his little sister?

She shrank into him as lightning neared the house. He'd once been told that every four seconds after a flash bought another mile worth of distance, counted up until the thunder finally cracked. Now, as he bundled his little sister tighter, he counted. And when his count grew longer, he voiced it: "Don't worry, Luxanna. It's getting farther away now. See?" And he counted out loud as the lightning faded, brushing her head in time with the count. "One... two... three..." and it was a mile away, then two miles, then five... and soon they could barely hear the storm at all.

And then he was just a man holding his sniffling sister, squeezing her so tight, arms encircling her like he was trying to ward off evil. And as her crying quieted, as he became aware of her breath and her body nestled into his, he began to grow very, very embarrassed.

What had he been thinking? Holding his little sister like this, when she was so grown up already? It was like he'd snatched a woman and held her against her will. What would she say after her crying had ceased completely? To secure her identity, her new and soulless self, would she turn on him and demand to know why he had treated her like a child and of course she had been able to handle things herself, thank you very much?
He was almost relieved when her breathing slowed, when her crying stopped. He let a slow breath out as a minute passed, then two, without either of them saying a word.

"Please be asleep," he murmured, then slowly lifted his little sister.
She belonged underneath her covers, and he still needed a shower.

Now, though, he needed it to think--not to avoid thinking.

She counted in her head, followed along with his words, ear pressed into him to let that baritone voice rumble in her head. To feel the slightest vibration from his chest as he counted, wrapping herself up in it, focusing on every little thing about him to keep the storm out. Til it was gone, at least enough to breathe properly, fading into the distance as she remained bundled up in his lap. She felt so small, so young and foolish there, like she hadn't in so long.

...Like she hadn't since they were both so young.

A shaky breath or two escaped, quivering against his flesh and cloth as she remained as still as she could. Only the occasional rise and fall of her chest causing her body to press and relax against his own. She was embarrassed, terribly, and more so unsure. What should she say? What should she do. But when he murmurs, she feels her heart tighten and she keeps her eyes squeezed closed. Not asleep-- but perhaps pretending is what they both need now.

She would pretend to be asleep, even as he jostled her just a bit standing, slim frame limp in his arms; head pillowed against his chest. Delicate and small for the first time in forever, fingers half twisted into his shirt from where she had been so desperately clinging to him during the storm. She would fake slumber so they didn't have to talk about it, didn't have to face what was so different, or frighteningly what was the same.

She wondered if she had really grown up at all.

* * *

In the morning, he woke slowly. The clouds had parted and the sun was beginning to rise: on any other day, he might have already been up in time to see the sunrise. Garen wasn't much of an art critic, and he knew it... but he didn't need to be to appreciate a purple and reddening sky. It was one of the perks that came with rising early, along with the guarantee he'd be starting the day out the right way. Like making your bed. He'd remembered that yesterday.

And Garen was committed to efficiency. What use did he have for waiting and sitting around? If he was awake, why not spring out of bed and into action? Every minute gone was a minute lost, after all.

Garen stayed there, half in and half out of his covers.

Through his head, last night ran over and over and over. It stood out in almost perfect clarity, in contrast to the day he'd had before it or the shower he'd taken after. If he'd dreamt that night he didn't remember it. Only the hour he'd spent holding his little sister, comforting her, speaking softly to her over the noise of cracking thunderbolts...

He felt like he could recall every second of it, especially the whirling confusion that had filled his mind. For how calm he'd acted, he sure hadn't felt like it.

And now he was unwilling to leave his room or come down the stairs. Yesterday it had been because he couldn't bear looking at the woman his sister had become. Today it was because... what? Because he didn't know if she had changed? That was wishful thinking. It was obvious she was different, and for all he knew this had simply been a single crack in her otherwise perfect armor. For all he knew, he'd never see a glimpse of his little sister again.

It was almost an hour before he finally did come down those steps, walking carefully so the stairs wouldn't creak.

The morning had come slowly for her, but in a different way, like the draw of sleep wouldn't quite release her when she wanted it to. Instead it hung over her head, heavy and foggy, keeping her head tipped down and her steps a little more shuyffled than it had before. She was still so drowsy from the night before, the oddity that it had been. She hadn't expected that comfort from him, not after the coldness of before-- not after everything, the time apart, the way she had grown, their parents. It would make perfect sense for them to become as distant and cold as their parents; she half expected derision upon him hearing her crying. More mocking for being afraid of something so childish-- she could hear it in her head before a word had even been spoken.

But he hadn't offered her that, instead it had been that quiet kind of brotherly comfort that she hadn't expected. Comfort she hadn't felt in years.

It swam around in her head like a fish trapped in a cup, ever moving with nowhere to go. What was she supposed to make of it? Was it better to ignore it? Would he even want to speak of it?

Her breath left in a worn out sigh, shoulders slumping a little as she tried to keep herself together. She didn't know what to do just yet, but a choice would have to be made eventually.

Nimble fingers slid up, gently brushing a little crumbling bit of sleep from the corner of her eye, delicately rubbing together to brush it aside. Her gaze slipping back down to the warm creamy cup in her hands, a wafting curl of steam meeting her gaze as her lips puckered just a bit, allowing her to blow on the rippling surface. A morning cup of tea curled up on the couch seemed a fine idea. As far as she knew her brother would already have been up and on his way out, never the wiser to little Luxanna bundled up at one corner of the couch, wrapped in the softest pinks and blues, trying to fight the confusing pull of sleep and the even more confusing pull of her older brother.

Garen stepped down the stairs one by one, and two by two at times: he remembered all the secrets of this house he and his sister had found together and squirreled away for safekeeping. Little things, like which step creaked and which didn't, what floorboards were ever so slightly loose, and how to close or open a door so it wouldn't creak. Their parents had always believed children should be seen, not heard, and being either was a good way to be called into father's office for.... Something. A lecture, a talk, some sort of heart to heart. Garen bore them like strikes to the chin. Luxanna...

Well, all he knew about his parents' relationship with his sister had been from before he'd left. Now, for all he knew, they uwere the best of friends.
But he doubted it.

He made it down the stairs without too much noise, and he looked around the living room to see if he could spy his little sister... but the room seemed empty to him. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and slumped his shoulders, staring out the door. A long weary sigh. Last night was already being set away in his mind as a once in a lifetime glimpse of the girl he used to know. Just a final vision before she was lost forever, although whether that was a kindness or cruelty he couldn't tell.

Garen stood there for a moment in his blue pants and his white shirt, and he said nothing.

Then he walked over to the couch and rested his arms on the back, and came face to face with his little sister.

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