Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ship comes in the morning.

Viktor eyes it from the window of his house, already wary of it. It is, in many senses, so much like the ships that have come before it: beaten, old, tattered. A hull that has been pierced, sails that have been torn, railings that have splintered apart. From this distance, it is impossible to tell how many men could be on the ship, what condition they might be in, if they are alive or injured or dead. It would not be the first time a ghost ship had found its way to Viktor’s shores. In many ways, he thinks idly, it would be preferred—easier to cast back out into the sea without consequence.

But, unlike so many of the ships that have come to Viktor’s shores, this one is marked by magic.

It hangs off each broken bow and plank like spiderwebs, powerful enough that Viktor can see it even from his house, sat along the top slopes of the hills of his island.

It’s enough to give Viktor pause. He taps at the windowsill, mulling it over. Out of all the ships that have found their way to his shores, this is the first one to show any signs of magic.

He can’t help but be curious as to which god’s magic it is. Already, he is making plans to investigate the ship after he deals with its occupants and before he sends it back out into the ocean to drift until it sinks into the waves.

But first, he must evaluate the intruders.

Pushing aside his disgust, Viktor closes his eyes and reaches out to the Evolved on the island. The disgust is tempered slightly by the relief of reaching along their connecting threads, like stretching a weary muscle. Still, just enough of the revulsion lingers, enough to remind him that he does not and should not enjoy this.

Through the threads, Viktor feels the long-dormant limbs of the Evolved, their senses and movements stirring back to life at Viktor’s will, their lidless eyes blinking awake. Even though it has been months since they’ve last budged, the Evolveds’ movements are fluid, even as they shrug off the plants that have begun to cover their limbs.

There’s one close to the beach, and Viktor lets it move like liquid through the forest, gliding down the slope and stalking along the edge of the treeline. Watching, but out of sight.

He doesn’t have to wait for long before someone finally makes an appearance.

Another surprise—rather than a crew of fifty, there is only a single man stumbling out of the ship’s broken hull. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscles easily visible through his torn clothes. It has been a long, long time since Viktor has let someone like this man be a threat, but even while looking through the eyes of an Evolved, he feels his body tense.

It would be so easy for someone such as this to hold Viktor down.

Although, maybe not—the man is stumbling, covered in grime, clearly starving and dehydrated. Viktor allows himself a moment of hopefulness. Perhaps this visitor will collapse on the rocky beach shores and leave himself to his fate, to be picked apart by vultures and whatever lies beneath the ocean waves.

Instead, the man grits his teeth, and clenching his jaw, he drags himself to his feet. Viktor can see as his gaze zeroes in on the trail just beyond the forest boundary, that well-worn path that Viktor has traversed so many times himself. The path that has the railing down the side that is obviously crafted rather than a feat of nature.

Step by torturous step, the man begins to make his way off the rocky shore and into the forest, to the path that will lead him to Viktor’s home.

At this rate, even slowed by whatever befell him during his shipwreck, he will be on Viktor before noon.

It’s fine. Viktor releases his sight from the Evolved, letting himself settle back into his body. He stands with a sigh, wincing on his leg as his joints protest against him. If someone this determined had to come to his island today, at least, Viktor supposes, it is good that it is just one man. One man, in pain and easy enough to subdue. He will make a fine addition to Viktor’s Evolved.

And until this man makes his way up the hillside and to Viktor’s home nestled within it, he can prepare.

It is easy to fall into the ritual of his usual preparations. Take out the plates and silverware, but do not set the table just yet. Have wine at the ready, but not poured. Food on the counter, but not served. Mix the draught—adder venom, crushed crickets, and ground bone, enchanted with a stasis rune—then sprinkle the result over the food and into the wine. Reseal the wine bottle with a bit of magic to make it look like it was never opened. Clean the needle knife, then tuck it back into its small sheath at his belt, hidden by the draped folds of his robes. Stoke the fire, ensuring that the man on the shore will see the warm smoke just within reach, the promise of a haven and help.

The feast is usually set for more than just one man, but it hardly makes a difference. It will all go the same—lowering the guard, the prodding of questions, the confirmation that Viktor is but a cripple alone on an island. Just a nymph and nothing more.

The man’s face will darken, and his eyes will glint with delight. He will go very still, like a cat honing in on a mouse. He will be watching Viktor as he finishes his drink, and Viktor will walk towards him. Perhaps he will think Viktor is willing. Perhaps he will think Viktor is simply naïve. Perhaps and perhaps—it makes no difference, the fate is the same. His body will seize up, he will fall unconscious, Viktor will carve in the runes for augmentation, axiom, and transcendence. Viktor will reach out and place his hand to the man’s head. His skin will shimmer, transform from flesh to the horrific white and gold of petricite, erasing all trace of imperfection, leaving him a docile and empty vessel.

Just like all the others before him.

For a moment, Viktor pictures all the ways that this could go wrong. If the man fights off the draught, if his priority isn’t food or drink but conquest...

Viktor pointedly shoves the memories to the back of his mind and forcefully places a plate of food on the table. The clanging of the metal makes it easy to ignore the way his hands shake.

It’s fine. He has other safeguards that haven’t failed him yet, runes etched deeply into every door and window frame in the house. Runes for ward, overgrowth, and shield, smeared with a paint made from rowan berries and marigold petals that Viktor reapplies once a year every summer solstice. It had been one of his earliest spells upon arriving, back when still feared that the gods, the fickle beings they are, would change their decision and opt for something worse than exile.

The wards are designed to keep out gods and monsters, but they will work perfectly well on a mortal, should the need arise.

This time will be no different.

Before Viktor can second-guess himself any further, there’s a knocking on the door.

Sooner than expected, but no matter. Viktor takes his cane, inspects his skin for any sign of purple flesh, for any of the runes that litter his body peeking out. While he is a weak god, cut off from the world as he is here, he can, at the very least, still muster a thin disguise over his form. His skin is pale, the runes hidden underneath his robes, and his illusion holds.

Straightening himself up as best he can, Viktor makes his way to the door.

It is amusing, when he opens the door, and the man almost topples over then and there.

Viktor watches as the man rights himself as best he can. He lets his revulsion build inside of him, safe behind his mask, as he makes himself smile. “Welcome,” Viktor says.

The man hesitates. This, too, is normal, as his eyes sweep over Viktor, then take in the open room behind him. Fresh-smelling herbs on the ceiling, a warm fire, chairs with cushions, a hearty meal.

“Are you the keeper of the island?” the man asks after a moment.

Viktor shrugs, walking inside. “I am,” he says, even though the truth is more complicated than that. This man does not need to know the details of Viktor’s banishment. “Come. I saw your shipwreck—you must be hungry and tired, no?”

“...Yes,” the man admits, but he doesn’t move.

Viktor tilts his head. “Is something the matter?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

The man hesitates. He looks over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be behind him, but there’s no one there. Then, shaking his head, he steps inside.

Viktor smiles.

He evaluates the man as he cautiously enters his home. Up close, he’s far more intimidating than Viktor had gathered from the eyes of the Evolved. He’s easily twice as large as Viktor, his tunic a rich blue and gold despite the grime. He wears the worn leathers of a seasoned soldier, yet he carries no weapon, which brings Viktor no small amount of relief. Most who come through his house don’t even get the chance to draw their weapons—or, if they do, it’s grand posturing to threaten Viktor into housing and feeding them. It’s the role Viktor likes the least, to pretend to be the meek host, timidly and reluctantly handing over his food, quietly waiting for the moment the draught is ingested and the spell takes effect. The weapons are useful, at least, for melting down later.

Fortunately, it does not seem he will have to worry about that for this man.

Unlike most visitors, he does not lunge to sit or shove food in his mouth. He walks in and around the space, taking in the entirety of Viktor’s dining room and kitchen, for as small as it is.

“Please, sit,” Viktor orders.

The man obeys, almost reluctantly.

Viktor tries to push aside the doubt crawling up his throat—where is this man’s desperation? His hunger?

“Do you get many travelers through here?” the man finally asks.

Viktor relaxes. So that’s it—the mortal fear of premonition.

“I do,” Viktor admits readily. “And, as I said, I saw your shipwreck, and I’d already prepared food for myself. Setting an extra plate was no trouble at all.” He uncorks the bottle and pours the wine. As he sets it down in front of the man, he cocks his head. “Do you have companions? I would be more than happy to serve them, as well.”

“...Just me,” the man says.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “With a ship that size?” he asks as he sets food in front of the man.

The man swallows. Then, haltingly, “There was a war. Then a storm.”

Viktor nods. Mortals often find their death in both those things. He even thinks he can recall Jinx speaking of a war the last she deigned it fit to visit him, loudly complaining that her father Silco, God of Death, had no time for her in between guiding bloodied souls down to the underworld. Truthfully, though, he’d begun to tune her out after it became apparent that she wasn’t going to actually tell him anything of the affairs of the world.

“What sort of war?” Viktor can’t help but ask, leaning forward. It’s been so long since he’s had the opportunity to get details of the outside world from a source that isn’t Jinx and her biased madness.

But, instead of answering, the man’s eyes dance to the side. Suddenly, his breath catches, his gaze zeroing in on the door leading further into Viktor’s house. “Is that a workshop?” he asks. “And a forge?”

Viktor blinks. “Yes,” he says, startled into honesty.

The man is already starting to stand, heading out of the dining room and further into the house before Viktor can stop him.

“Wait,” Viktor tries, standing and limping after the man. “Surely you would like to eat first, or have some wine…”

But the man isn’t listening, running ahead and down the hall towards Viktor’s workshop.

Viktor curses himself as he follows the man in—he should have thought to close the workshop door. But why would he? No one who has passed through has ever commented on it, or even thought to ask Viktor if they could see the rest of the house. Why is this man different?

By the time Viktor catches up to the man, he’s already pouring over Viktor’s notes. From the door, Viktor can just make out which notes they are—the ones for the lift system.

Hot shame rushes to Viktor’s face. Even though his leg protests at the speed, he crosses the room in a few strides and snatches the pages out of the man’s grasp. “Has no one told you to ask before poking through your host’s possessions?” Viktor snaps.

Just like every other visitor, all this man wants is to take. Granted, he is the first to be interested in the workshop rather than treasure or Viktor himself, but it matters little in the end.

A blush spreads across the man’s face. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… It’s been a while since I’ve been able to see a workshop.” He laughs a bit. “Years, actually. Not a lot of use for engineers during a war, as it turns out.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “I can think of plenty uses,” he says curtly, folding the papers up and placing them out of the man’s reach.

Better weaponry, deadly traps, more efficient ships—numerous opportunities for engineering creative destruction upon enemies.

The man chuckles bitterly. “You and my fiancée both.”

Viktor can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Your fiancée,” he observes.

If anyone before this man had been engaged or married, they had never said. Would it have mattered? Likely not—if the rest of the gods are anything to go by, marriage does not define character.

The man’s eyes flick to the folded papers that Viktor is now shielding with his body. “Are those runes?” he asks eagerly. “The symbols along the chains? Like for witchcraft?”

Viktor stuffs the papers into his pocket. Damn it. This man was never supposed to know Viktor could use witchcraft, let along see any of his designs implementing it.

“Are you using magic for the automation?” the man questions. “Or is there another piece to it?”

Viktor stares. He’s… Curious? He’s not filled with horror at the blasphemy of it all? Terrified of what witchcraft is capable of doing? What the gods do to those who practice it?

What is wrong with him?

Viktor resists scoffing, instead just narrowing his eyes. “I thought you were an engineer,” he challenges.

The man has the audacity to smile. “I mean, if it were me, I’d be using magic to keep it automated.” His eyes flick down. “These parts you have here,” he says, gesturing towards the half-finished chains and pulley pieces along the table, “Are those just to keep it running smoothly, or will they interlock to be part of the larger design function?”

Viktor taps a finger on his cane and glares. Running smoothly, in truth—he hasn’t found a good way to create the larger pieces of the design yet—but he doesn’t dare respond.

Still, interlocking parts is an idea that has merit to it…

“And even with magic making it run,” the man continues as if Viktor had answered, “You’d still need a consistent way to actually… Well, power the thing, right? Unless you’re planning on casting a spell every time you use it?”

Viktor can’t help but be a grudgingly impressed—less than thirty seconds of glancing at the blueprint drafts, and he’s already figured out the heart of the issue. There is no point to a lift system meant for convenience, after all, if Viktor has to gather the materials, carve the runes, and cast the spell every single time he uses it. It’s oddly refreshing, hearing magic talked of as a part of the engineering process, and not as the taboo craft the gods treated it as.

Still, he keeps his expression carefully annoyed. “What is your point?” Viktor snips.

“Could you use the runes to help with the power source?” the man asks.

Viktor eyes him. “In theory,” he says slowly. “But surely you are aware that runes provide focus and nothing more—not without a component acting as a fuel, no? And, as you said, magic itself could hardly be called consistent. Powerful, yes, but not what one would call stable.”

The man is nodding. “Exactly,” he says eagerly. “You’d need a stabilizing factor, or a way to self-sustain it. But if you can make it so the runes and source sustain each other…”

“There could be a feedback system,” Viktor realizes, straightening up. “But there would still need to be a way to limit the power so that it does not spiral out of control.”

The man frowns. “I think I recognized a couple of the runes—the repeated one is amplify, right?” he asks. “It’s possible that it could still work if you take those out. Is there a good replacement?”

“Manaflow, perhaps,” Viktor muses. “But then I would need to replenish the source every few months.”

The man smiles. “Better than every time you use it though,” he points out.

Viktor nods. “It could work—I would need to run tests to see if it works beyond the theory, determine what exactly the components should be and…”

He goes cold as he realizes what is happening.

No.

Viktor stops, shakes his head. He takes a half-step back, desperately trying to reinstate the emotional walls between himself and this man, who is now beaming like the sun. It’s brilliant and bright and, most unnervingly, genuine.

No, not genuine. It’s an act, it has to be.

“What about the other runes?” the man presses. “How do they play in? I thought I saw acceleration in there, too, and—”

“We should revisit this after a meal,” Viktor half-lies, cutting him off before this man can trick him into revealing anything else. The power source idea has merit, admittedly, and he will revisit it—just not with this man.

The man’s smile vanishes. “Come on,” he begs. “It’d take just thirty minutes to set up a test.”

Viktor clenches his jaw. “Do you do this in every stranger’s home?” he counters. “I do not even know your name.”

“It’s Jayce,” the man—Jayce—says, too quick and too eager. “Jayce Talis of Piltover.” And, after a second, “I don’t know your name.”

Viktor doesn’t resist rolling his eyes this time. Admittedly, he walked into that one, and now he will always think of this man—who should have been another nameless Evolved—as Jayce Talis.

“…It’s Viktor,” Viktor says with some reluctance. Then, turning his tone into something more placating, “Look, Talis…”

“Jayce.”

“Jayce,” Viktor corrects, smiling in a way that makes him feel like he is baring his teeth, already thinking of which far corner of the island will be the best place to shove the hideous Jayce Talis Evolved form, “We will both think more clearly after a good meal, no? When was the last time you ate?”

Just then, Jayce’s stomach chooses that moment to let out a growl.

Viktor nods. “See?” He doesn’t wait for a response, limping forward and grabbing Jayce’s arm. “Food first, then science.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Jayce denies, trying to twist his arm free, but there’s trepidation there, Viktor knows—the fear of causing the poor cripple to fall.

Well, he is not one to deny himself an easy advantage.

“Is the prospect of my cooking so horrendous?” Viktor asks, as teasing and casual as he can, even as he keeps his grip tight and uses his cane to maintain his balance as he all but drags Jayce out of the workshop and down the hall.

Jayce startles, a fly caught in the web, and a flush rises to his cheeks. “No,” he rushes to say, “It’s…”

In the few seconds it takes to get through the hall and back to the dining table, Jayce’s eyes have turned to pinpricks of panic, his breathing unsteady and too fast.

Viktor frowns, his gut churning with unease.

Something is wrong.

“It’s what, Talis?” Viktor prompts.

Jayce hesitates, his eyes flicking between Viktor and the table. Then, traitorously, to the door.

Viktor releases his grip, and Jayce only has a moment to let out a sigh of relief before Viktor snatches the front of his tunic and yanks him down to eye level. Sick pleasure blooms in Viktor’s chest as Jayce lets out a yelp, but Viktor can’t fully bask in it, much more focused on the horror of the situation: somehow, Jayce knows.

“Who warned you?” Viktor demands.

Jayce raises his hands up, pleading and beseeching. “No one!” he denies.

“I do not think that is true,” Viktor says steadily, his grasp on Jayce tightening.

Jayce finally, finally shows that strength that Viktor knew he had been hiding, and wrenches himself free from Viktor, stumbling backwards as he clutches the front of his shirt like he’s been burned. He backs up to the counter, eyes wide and shoulders hiked up in fear. “You can’t hurt me,” Jayce warns, but there’s a note of doubt there.

Viktor smiles at that, and finally, his posture relaxes. They are back on track to Viktor holding the cards. There is magic in his veins and rushing to his fingertips, setting his blood ablaze, and he knows his eyes are glowing gold. In this moment, no matter how disgraced and weakened he is, he is still a witch and a god.

And Jayce Talis? He is just a mere mortal.

“You have no idea of what I am capable of,” Viktor says.

Jayce lunges for the door.

Even starving and dehydrated, he’s fast, but Viktor is quicker still. He strikes with his cane as he has so many times before, right to the back of the knees. Jayce cries out in pain, falling, and Viktor is on him in an instant. He reaches for Jayce’s forehead, even as Jayce yells and tries to kick and thrash and knock him off. He can feel the heat of Jayce’s body, the threads of life within him, desperate and writhing and waiting to be seized.

So close, so close—!

Jayce rams a knee into Viktor’s ribs.

Nothing could have prepared Viktor for the strength of Jayce’s blow. The brace wrapped around his chest does nothing to lessen the hit—if anything, it makes it worse, Jayce’s knee aimed right where the brace meets skin, not just bludgeoning but pinching. All the air leaves Viktor’s lungs, and before he can recover, Jayce has grabbed his hair and is yanking him off.

Pain erupts in Viktor’s scalp. He shouts, clawing at Jayce’s skin, but Jayce doesn’t loosen his grip. He throws Viktor to the side, sending him sprawling. Viktor pushes himself off the floor, seething, but pauses—the skin at his arm has torn. For a moment, he can only stare in wonder at the shimmering indigo substance, beading up and beginning to run down his arm.

Blood. His blood.

All at once, memory overtakes him—hands at his throat and across his ribs and holding him down and—

He’s only a nymph, after all.

A scream wrenches itself from Viktor’s throat, and he throws his threads of magic out.

Elsewhere, on the island, every head of the Evolved turns towards Viktor. The closest begin to rapidly skitter towards him.

Viktor does not want them here. He doesn’t want to have to see them, to be reminded of their perfect and hideous forms, but the alternative is so much worse. At the very least, with extra bodies at his whim, Jayce will not be allowed to hurt him.

As fast as he can, Viktor takes his needle knife from its sheath and frantically scratches two runes on to the ground: grasp and overgrowth. He presses his hand to the ground, letting his blood run from his arm and into the divots, and lets his magic wash over them.

A few seconds, just a few extra seconds...

Jayce isn’t near him—not even close, he’s trying to make for the door again—but that doesn’t stop the spell from working. Tendrils of wood erupt from the floor, writhing green and purple, and surge towards him, wrapping around his legs.

Viktor smirks, standing, and—

Jayce yanks his legs free like the wood is made of wet paper.

Viktor’s mind roars in panic—why, how could he prepare for such magic, what does he know—and, before he can second-guess himself, he grabs for his cane and throws it.

It hits Jayce in the back of the neck.

Jayce stumbles and falls forward with a shout, clutching the injured area. He tries to get back to his feet, but he’s disoriented, and he sways and falls to the side, barely catching himself on the counter. Before he has a chance to recover, the door slams open, and Viktor’s Evolved pour into the room.

They are quick, unnaturally so, and swarm around Jayce like insects, their joints clacking together. They force Jayce back to the ground and to his knees with ease, even as he thrashes and screams.

Heart pounding in his ears, Viktor painfully makes his way across the floor, each step deliberate as he fights to keep his balance. He will not fall, not now, not after he has already been brought so low by Jayce. Keeping his gaze on Jayce, he ignores the pain in his leg and back, picking his cane up off the ground and straightening himself up.

Jayce’s teeth are bared, each muscle taut as he strains against the Evolved. He’s still facing the door, away from Viktor, still desperately fighting for a way out, as if making it out of Viktor’s house will keep him safe. As if this entire island isn’t Viktor’s. One of the Evolved grips Jayce’s chin, forcing his head into place. His breath is coming out short and panicked, his expression wild with fear as he looks back and up at Viktor.

“Be still,” Viktor says, voice calm even as his eyes glow with power.

Of course, Jayce continues to thrash and strain against the hold of the Evolved.

Viktor coldly looks down at the scrape and the blood on his arm. No more need for the needle knife with the organic material right there.

He places his finger against the wound, wetting his finger with blood. He writes the runes across Jayce’s forehead: augmentation, axiom, transcendence. Usually, the targets are asleep for this part, but rage keeps Viktor’s hand steady, and the Evolved keep Jayce still.

The runes across Viktor’s own body pulse and thrum like a hive, energy gathering and waiting to be released. If Viktor were to look down, he knows they would be illuminated in prismatic light.

Viktor smiles. “It will be over soon enough,” he promises.

He gently places his hand on Jayce’s forehead.

The rush of strength that floods into Viktor is dizzying and beautiful in its relief. The blood-written runes shine, brilliant as a sun. Viktor’s fingers sink into Jayce’s skull, reaching for those threads of life, ready to tug and rearrange, to make him perfect and no longer a threat. There is light flooding from Jayce’s eyes and mouth, all the air leaving him in a single breath—the last breath he will ever take. Viktor tugs, and—

Nothing.

Viktor blinks. That… That can’t be right.

He reaches again, grasping, but the threads of Jayce’s very being slip through his fingers like they are made of mist.

Viktor’s heart is in his ears. Abruptly, he retracts his hand from Jayce’s head. All the magic leaves Jayce at once and slams back into Viktor. The backlash of the failed spell sends a wave of exhaustion through Viktor’s body, his muscles aching like he has just scaled a mountain, the runes on his skin stinging as if they were freshly carved and not thousands of years old.

Jayce goes limp for a moment, his eyelids fluttering. As his senses return to him, he gasps, the glowing white of his eyes returning to hazel. The blood on his forehead has dried up and begins to flake off. The runes are gone, and in their place are steaming fingerprints, spiraling and ivory. So much like the fingerprints of the Evolved, yet still so different.

Bile rises in Viktor’s throat. The fingerprints—their color, their shine, the faint webbing within them—look exactly like the lesions of the nymphs he’d tried to heal so long ago.

He thought the Evolved forms were bad, but this… This is so much worse.

Jayce, oblivious, lets out a breathy laugh. “It worked,” he whispers.

Viktor bites back a snarl. Even though he wants to do nothing more than—in no particular order—sit down, vomit, and throw Jayce and his new fingerprint scars into the ocean, Viktor stalks around the Evolved still holding Jayce, standing so that he is in front of him and can look at Jayce directly. He leans down, letting his human form slip away.

Jayce’s jaw briefly goes slack, his expression caught between awe and fear. He can’t see the runes scattered across Viktor’s body, but the rest is apparent—the metallic purple skin, the indigo light that thrums in his veins, the pure gold of his eyes. And, of course, the magical power that radiates from him like heat from a fire. Like this, Viktor knows his short hair is floating around him like a halo, adding to the otherworldly effect.

Viktor lets his lip curl, revealing just a hint of sharpened teeth. “What worked?” he asks, soft and dangerous.

Jayce swallows. He’s misstepped, and he knows it. He does not answer.

Viktor considers it. There are very few things that can block a god’s power, and even less that can block witchcraft. That is why they have locked him on this island, after all.

There is no overt magic on Jayce, Viktor would have felt it. Gods, even the lesser ones, like to take credit for their shields. Which just leaves…

“A flower,” Viktor guesses. “White petals, black roots, white sap. You consumed it, no?”

And there it is—Jayce’s eyes narrow, lips pressed tight together.

“Moly,” Viktor says, tapping a finger on his cane. “I’d be interested as to how you acquired such a thing.”

Finally, Jayce smiles. “I picked it up.”

Viktor stares at him flatly. “Mortals cannot acquire moly on their own.”

Jayce’s smile vanishes. “They… Can’t?” he says weakly.

Viktor sighs. Why did he think for even a second that this man might be clever or smart? “Who?” he demands.

Jayce stays silent, but it doesn’t matter—Viktor can guess well enough. No gods save one are mad enough to even come past the border, much less keep a wayward mortal from Viktor’s reach.

Jinx. The Goddess of Madness and Misfortune, meddling in his affairs.

Again.

Viktor sighs again. He is going to have some choice words for her the next time she is struck by the whim to visit. But for now, he is stuck. Moly granting temporary immunity against witchcraft and the acts of gods aside, Viktor is not fool enough to kill a human under Jinx’s explicit protection—especially not when her interference was to protect Jayce specifically from Viktor himself. Like so many gods, she does not take kindly to having her toys smashed to bits.

“I admit, I am surprised you accepted the Lady Jinx’s help,” Viktor says mildly, even though his gaze is sharp. “I was under the impression that mortals tended to avoid her.”

A faint flush rises to Jayce’s cheeks. “Do you think I’m stupid?” he snaps. “Do you think I don’t know what happens to people who offend the gods or refuse their blessings?”

That, Viktor has to admit, is fair—while better to not attract Jinx’s attention at all, if it cannot be avoided, placated is the next safest option.

But still, he smiles. “But you would risk offending me?”

Jayce sets his jaw and looks Viktor in the eye. “Forgive me for not wanting to get turned into a mannequin.”

A mannequin? Viktor’s blood boils at the implication, however true it may be. “Evolved,” he snaps.

“The point still stands,” Jayce says.

“And yet, even with the protection from my magic, you still did not eat or drink,” Viktor observes.

That smile again—this time, a bit sheepish. “Jinx isn’t exactly a goddess known for honesty or reliability.”

Viktor lets out a snort before he can stop himself. But, quickly, he schools his expression back into neutrality. “Then why come up here at all, even after Jinx warned you of my intentions?”

Jayce hesitates. Then, carefully, “Jinx said I’d need your blessing to stay on the island. That even if I managed to make camp and hunt for food, I wouldn’t last a day before you’d kill me.”

Viktor fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she would say that. He would love to know her plan, assuming she even has one. While she would be the first to claim her own insanity, she also is far more cunning than most everyone around her is led to believe.

“She was correct,” Viktor lies. Then, disdain dripping from every word, “So, tell me, Jayce Talis of Piltover: why should I not kill you?”

“Your lift system.”

The answer is so immediate and unexpected that Viktor finds himself momentarily stunned. “What?” he manages.

“I can help you make it,” Jayce says.

His arrogance, under any other circumstance, would be very nearly funny. Now, though, it grates against Viktor.

“What makes you think a witch such as myself needs help from a mortal?” Viktor retorts coldly.

If Jayce hears that note of danger there, he shows no sign of it. He just nods best he can towards the Evolved still holding him down. “Besides the stuff with the power source? There’s your materials.” He fidgets. “Can I…?”

“Make your case,” Viktor says flatly, not so much as letting his Evolved twitch.

Jayce sighs. “You’re using the wrong metal alloys,” he explains.

“Steel is the most durable,” Viktor replies.

“Not for something meant for the outdoors,” Jayce shoots back. “It’ll rust to pieces in a year, unless you do maintenance every day.”

Viktor frowns. Admittedly, he does not have the physical capabilities to clean the steel every day, and Jayce probably knows it, too. “And what would you suggest?”

“You need a combination of aluminum and something else,” Jayce says. “Wood, maybe, if you can treat it with the right kind of varnish, but you could also use the steel in more limited quantities if you forge it correctly.”

“And you would be the one who could forge it correctly?” Viktor says, tone dripping in disdain.

But Jayce either doesn’t pick up on it or ignores it, giving a stilted nod while still being held by the Evolved. “As long as you have the ore and materials, I can forge you any pieces you’ll need for it, and then some—I’ll even help you assemble it,” he says. “Look, I… Please. I just need to fix my ship, and then I’ll be gone. I won’t tell anyone about you or your island, I’ll swear it on anything you want, even the Wild Rift.”

It takes everything within Viktor to not instantly recoil.

How does he…? Why…?

“…The Wild Rift?” Viktor repeats. He is proud that his voice doesn’t shake, that his confusion and horror comes off as disbelief.

Jayce once again nods as best he can. “It’d be the ultimate insurance for you, wouldn’t it?” he all but begs. “An oath on the Wild Rift would hold even a god. I break my word, I’m doomed to be consumed by the Wild Rift and join the nymphs of the Waiting Dead, right?”

It’s a dull surprise, that this is how mortals and gods alike have twisted his worst mistake. Which god had the idea to use the Wild Rift for oath-binding? Maybe his old mentor Singed with his sick sense of humor, or perhaps the one of the Fates twisting Viktor’s creation into the cruelest irony, or maybe even mortals with their powers of belief and fear alike.

It hardly matters now.

“Then swear it,” Viktor says softly. “You will help in the creation of my lift, and I will help repair your ship. After both are completed, you will leave, and never tell anyone about me or this place.”

“And you won’t turn me into one of your… Evolved,” Jayce adds, a shudder going through his body.

Viktor narrows his eyes. “So long as you do not attack me in any way, I will neither harm you in turn nor turn you into one of the Evolved,” he says pointedly. “I swear upon the Wild Rift.”

Jayce lets out a sigh of relief. “I also swear on the Wild Rift.”

Viktor doesn’t know if the oaths and magic of the rest of the world can reach them here, in this place so intentionally shielded from all magic that is not contained within the island itself, but there is something sharp in the air between them, smelling like metallic and sweet rot.

Still cautious, Viktor waves his fingers, and the Evolved release Jayce.

Jayce all but collapses on the ground, clutching his chest and heaving for air. He’s shaking, and a slightly hysterical laugh escapes his mouth. He touches his face, tracing along his forehead, where Viktor has left the fingerprint scars. If he cares, though, it doesn’t show, nothing but palpable relief on his face.

Viktor braces himself. If Jayce is to attack, now would be the time. But he doesn’t move from his position on the ground, doesn’t so much as lash out at either Viktor or his Evolved.

Jayce just unsteadily gets to his feet, legs trembling like jelly. “Thank you,” he croaks.

Viktor ignores him, exhaling through his teeth. It’s fine. He might not be able to touch Jayce, but Jayce cannot touch him either. This… Arrangement, is only temporary. Jayce will be gone in a month, maybe less, and Viktor will be left to his solitude.

It’s only for a little while.

Chapter Text

Viktor decides to set Jayce up in one of the spare rooms.

As they walk through the house, Jayce nervously trailing behind him, Viktor can feel the way his gaze flicks from wall to wall, door to door.

“While you are here, I have some terms,” Viktor starts by saying.

Silence from Jayce.

Their steps in the hall are enunciated by the clink of Viktor’s brace and cane as well as the clicking limbs of the Evolved. Viktor tries not to shudder at the noise of the Evolved. He is in control; he will not be more disturbed by his creations than the man he is supposed to be intimidating.

“You may enter the workshop, the garden, the baths, the main hall, and the kitchen,” Viktor says. He doesn’t pause in his step as he speaks. “The rest of the house and the island is off limits unless I am accompanying you. You noticed the runes outside, I’m sure.”

“...Yeah,” Jayce says after a moment.

Viktor nods. “That will alert me if you go outside any boundaries within the house.”

Not true, but Jayce doesn’t need to know that. The more precautions he thinks Viktor has, the better.

“How?” Jayce asks. “Is it a sense of some kind? Or are they rigged for an alarm of sorts? Or—?”

“If you trespass anywhere outside,” Viktor interrupts, “One of the Evolved will contain you until I can make my way to where you are.” He glances back, letting a smile play on his lips. “I would not recommend that. I am quite slow, you see, with my cane, and it might take a while to get to you. Who knows what might happen before then. I would not even have to harm you.”

The threat of the loophole is not lost on Jayce, who blanches. “No exploring, got it,” he says weakly.

They pass by the main hall, the plush chairs and coaches Viktor has set up with pillows and blankets, the currently empty hearth. Viktor hears Jayce pause for a moment, and when he looks back, he can see Jayce staring at the packed bookshelves, the tomes left out on the coaches that are so stuffed with paper that they look seconds away from exploding.

“What kind of books do you have?” Jayce can’t seem to resist asking.

Something in Viktor’s chest tightens. “Almost nothing I have not written myself,” he says shortly. Then, tilting his head, “Unless your ship happened to be carrying books?”

He hasn’t found many tomes on previous ships, true, but if Jayce was an engineer...

Jayce’s gaze flits to the large window, at the glittering ocean past the treetops and over the horizon, then shakes his head. “No. Nothing that can be salvaged.”

Viktor waits for a moment, half-expecting Jayce to elaborate. When he doesn’t, Viktor shrugs, continuing down the hall.

New books would be too good to be true, he supposes.

“Could I look at what you have?” Jayce blurts out. “Your books, I mean.”

Viktor bites back a sigh. “Maybe some,” he allows. Then, more sharply, “Later.”

Jace seems to get the message, nodding before falling silent again.

Another thing he now needs to do—sort through the volumes of tomes he’s created and added to over the years, then decide which ones are safe and which are too dangerous to trust in Jayce’s hands. The ones on plants would be the soundest bet. They detail poisons, yes, but nothing that would be deadly to a god such as Viktor. The ones on his inventions will need to be hidden, though, as will the ones on witchcraft, in case Jayce can parse out any weaknesses or protections from those pages. Perhaps they can be tucked into one of the spare rooms…

He's pulled from his thoughts as Jayce clears his throat. “…You’re sure it’s just you and your puppets here?”

“Evolved,” Viktor corrects coolly, not looking back. “And yes.”

“But they don’t…” Jayce trails off, seemingly searching for the words. “They don’t need to eat or anything, right?”

“No,” Viktor agrees. “They are beyond such things now.”

Even without looking back, he can picture the way that Jayce surely must be hesitating, how he must surely still be brushing his fingers over those new scars on his forehead, thinking of how he might have been turned into one of them.

But when Viktor glances behind him, he’s surprised to see that Jayce is just staring at him, like he’s trying to figure out where a missing puzzle piece has gone.

“Then why all this space?” Jayce wonders.

Viktor’s heart curls in on itself. “It is not that large,” he says, trying not to sound bitter.

Jayce snorts. “You’re joking, right? This is almost as large as my fiancée’s place back home, and she’s practically royalty.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Royalty?” he remarks offhandedly, continuing to walk down the halls. “You did not mention you were a prince.”

Jayce lets out a laugh. “I’m not. I’m just on the Piltover Council. And honestly? I might not even be on that once I get back.”

Is that relief in his tone, or is Viktor imagining it? He decides not to comment. He does not care, after all. Jayce is a particularly persistent visitor, to be tolerated and then sent away, and it will be better for both of them if Viktor does not care.

Viktor eyes the doors as he walks past them. It would be best, he decides, to keep Jayce on the opposite side of the house than his own chambers. Should anything happen, that will give him the most time to sufficiently prepare. There are plenty of old rooms and beds back there, back when Viktor had grand dreams of hosting travelers.

Most of them are now simply for storage.

Still, it shouldn’t be too difficult to free up a bed to place Jayce in.

“My fiancée, Mel, though,” Jayce continues, jerking Viktor from his thoughts again, “She’s Noxus’s Princess. Or, was. Before she was disowned and sent to Piltover, I mean. She still found a way to get power, though, by winning herself a seat on the Council.” The admiration in Jayce’s voice is thick enough to choke on.

Viktor grits his teeth and doesn’t rise to the bait. He does not care about this Mel and her lovesick, hopeless betrothed he’s been shackled with.

“But her mother’s still the Warlord and Queen,” Jayce continues. He scoffs. “It’s ridiculous—she abandoned Mel for years, and then as soon as the war opened up a chance for power, she started trying to get Mel to come back to Noxus, and…” He trails off.

When Viktor looks back, curious as to why he stopped talking, there’s a frown on Jayce’s face, as if he’s realized something.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Jayce points out. “Why all this space? Do your puppets sleep here, too, or do you get other guests?”

Viktor clenches his jaw. “Evolved,” he snaps. “And no.” He stops in front of a door, so fast that Jayce almost trips in his haste to stop. “Besides, I make use of the space I have.” He opens the door before Jayce can start trying to ask follow-up questions. “You may reside in here for the duration of your stay.”

Jayce wanders into the room slowly, taking stock of it with an amusing amount of caution, as if an Evolved might jump from the shadows to attack. But there is no such thing—the room is large, the bed is as neatly folded as it has always been, the open window looks out over Viktor’s central garden, and the desk and shelves are packed with old bits and bobs of abandoned projects.

Jayce picks one up, seemingly at random—a globe with an outer layer of arcs that rotate as Jayce spins them. He runs a finger over the engravings on rings, mesmerized. “Are these meant to track star movements?” Jayce asks, breathless and wide-eyed.

Viktor blinks. “Yes,” he says, too surprised to even think to lie. Why is Jayce asking about that old thing?

“And you made this?”

“Who else would have?” Viktor snips, turning his face away.

“No, I didn’t mean…” Jayce lets out a laugh. “It’s incredible.” He turns it over, inspecting the tiny markings along the golden arcs. “It’s catalogued constellations by the seasons? And recurring comets?”

Viktor studies Jayce dubiously. Is he being sincere? There’s something about his tone, that genuine wonder, that makes Viktor long to take Jayce to the telescope in his observatory. The telescope is one of the more useful things he’s scavenged from a ship that had no longer needed it after its occupants had been taken care of, but it’s been at least a hundred years since Viktor had found the telescope—how would it compare to what Jayce is familiar with? And the larger-scale model of the device in Jayce’s hands, the one he’d created and cast in gold—if Jayce likes Viktor’s small draft model so much, what would he say about the real thing?

Viktor makes himself stop that line of thinking. Jayce does not actually care about the globe or telescope, and he will drop the façade as soon as he realizes that Viktor cannot be swayed by such base things as compliments.

So instead, Viktor presses his lips together and keeps his demeanor disinterested and icy. “Surely you have seen such things before.”

Jayce snorts. “Believe me, I haven’t.” He sets it down, moving to a stabilizing stand. “And this one? Does it use magnets?”

Viktor scoffs. That confirms it, if the previous sucking up hadn’t already—there is no way that this man is being sincere. “Flattery will not get your boat repaired faster,” he warns.

Jayce looks at him incredulously. “I’m not…!” He shakes his head. “You just have this stuff lying around? Through your entire house? Can you show me?”

Viktor almost laughs. Jayce’s eyes are large and pleading, borderline ridiculous. How much of a fool does he take Viktor for, to think that he would buy an act like this?

“Rest first,” Viktor says with a sigh. Then, wrinkling his nose, “And perhaps a bath. You’re quite sure that you do not have any supplies you wish to recover from your ship?”

Jayce shakes his head. “Like I said, there’s nothing to salvage,” he repeats, fiddling with a leather bracelet fixed around his wrist. It has a gemstone in the center, something blue in the shape of a teardrop. “Trust me, I checked.”

His voice is bitter in its certainty, but Viktor ignores it. He needs to see what materials he is working with for the boat, after all, not to mention the magic he’d seen hanging off of it. But more than that… A ship from the outside world, even destroyed, is sure to have information on it. How long has it been since he’s last heard news of life beyond his island, much less had the opportunity to search to his curiosity’s contentment? Not since the last ship, and that was at least a decade ago by now.

Already, he is itching to investigate.

Viktor shrugs in nonanswer. “The baths are in the back of the house, down the hall and out the central door.”

Jayce nods, but he’s already distracted, now inspecting an old motor that had been one of Viktor’s first prototypes.

Honestly, Viktor thinks as he walks off, his cane and leg brace clinking against the stone floor, How much of a fool does he take me for?

No matter—Jayce’s obscene performances of flattery over the simplest things will die off soon enough, and with Viktor’s magic to help, his boat will be repaired within the month, and then he will leave.

Viktor reaches out into the mind of one of the Evolved behind him. Stay—keep an eye on him. Subdue if he goes near my room.

The Evolved obeys, silent and pliant as ever. Viktor grimaces as he hears its faint clatter of limbs as it heads back down the hall and positions itself just outside of Jayce’s door. Still, as disturbing as it is having the Evolved around, it will be nice, at least, for unsettling Jayce. Viktor allows himself a small, grim smile, thinking of the way Jayce will surely jump and swear when he opens the door and sees an Evolved waiting for him, reeling backwards from the scare. It will, hopefully, be enough to make Jayce second-guess any snooping he is surely planning on doing.

Viktor makes his way outside. He wearily looks down the stone path leading downwards, the railing on the side that can only do so much to help the climb. Already, his leg and spine ache in preemptive protest, his body still wrung out from the failed spell.

It is not an ideal day for this.

But, then again, no day is, and the information he can get from the ship will make the trek well worth it. Besides, if there is anything to be gained from this arrangement with Jayce, then it will be the creation of the lift, which will hopefully limit this trek or eliminate it in its entirety.

Gripping his cane tighter, Viktor clenches his jaw and begins to descend.

As he walks, he begins moving the Evolved around the island. If Jayce is to stay, even if it’s only for a short period of time, some degree of measures need to be taken. Evolved at intervals around the house, then down the main paths. Would Jayce be the type to wander through the forests and off the path? If he is, hopefully one of the Evolved around the house will see him before he can get too far and stumble upon any of the more dangerous island specimens.

The Evolved have moved more today than they have moved in years, and so many of them are creaky with disuse, plant matter beginning to creep through their joints and decorate their limbs. But none are gone just yet, that last golden thread of life in each of them still connected to Viktor. Unlike the distant, frozen shells of his former nymphs—the Waiting Dead, as they’re supposedly called now—he is still connected to these ones. It’s been a while since an Evolved has faded away, and hopefully, it will be longer still until the next.

Viktor decidedly does not want to deal with that while Jayce is on the island.

It’s well into the afternoon by the time Viktor makes it down to the beach, every single crooked muscle and bone in his body making their displeasure known. Still, the pain is not enough to dull the wonder of seeing the ship in full.

The ship is large—so much larger than Viktor would have guessed. Seeing it through the eyes of the Evolved cannot compare to seeing it with his own eyes. Even in its destructed state, Viktor can so clearly imagine the graceful curve of the hull, the elegant carve of wood, each flourish and careful line of the rail: a ship designed to be as beautiful as it was functional.

It is truly a pity, to see both the outline of what this ship once was and also just how thoroughly it has been smashed.

Unease creeps through Viktor as he pulls himself up through one of the holes in the ship and carefully begins to pick through the wreckage. Even beached, there is water still flooded through the floors, ice cold and sloshing around Viktor’s ankles.

Out of all the ships that have passed through this area, this one’s damage is… Unusually bad. Most often, it is the crew that is suffering the most—they’d run out of provisions, they were lost, they were missing the one vital tool needed for a repair. Not to say that there wasn’t ship damage, of course, but it was more… Incidental. Minor, comparatively.

Not like this.

Viktor takes the ship room by room, trying not to jump at each stray shadow or creaky bit of water-logged wood. There are storage trunks and barrels, and for a moment, Viktor allows himself a bit of hope as he scratches runes into the wood and weaves his magic around the hinges, loosening the locks with magic and prying open each compartment.

Everything—from the mush of food to the ruined maps to the tattered supplies—has been left in ruins.

With the first one, Viktor uneasily chalks it up to a leak that had caused it to take in water. In the second trunk, he finds a book, cover and pages coated in a sheen that speaks to water-proofing, but all the pages have been bled completely of ink. By the time he reaches fifth trunk, it’s no longer a surprise to see the debris, and Viktor’s fingers are shaking as he closes the lid, Jayce’s bitter certainty ringing in his ears.

Whatever caused this, one thing is obvious: this was no ordinary storm.

Viktor chews the inside of his cheek. There needs to be something here, a single thread of information, anything that might hold a hint of what transpired.

Taking great care where he steps, Viktor makes his way up to the deck, wishing not for the first time that he had some way to float and not have to worry about a misplaced foot going straight through the wood. From the distance of his house, the boat had looked damaged, certainly, but now on the deck, looking at the cracked and splintered planks, the bent mast, even the way the magic itself hangs faded and loose like strings of dust…

Viktor shudders. Given the extent of the damage, it’s frankly surprising that Jayce had survived the storm at all, much less made it out with hardly more than a couple scrapes.

He crouches with some effort to get a better look at the strings of magic, so fine that no mortal could clearly see them. Despite its flimsy appearance, there’s still power there, buzzing like static and strong enough that Viktor can feel its hum through the wood. His mind races—could it be a curse on the boat itself?

He runs a finger along a long crack. A shiver runs through his bones, setting the hair at the back of his neck on end. He has no herbs on him, but he has his body, and that has magic enough for these purposes.

The scrape from earlier has mostly sealed, so Viktor pricks himself on a splinter. Blood, shining indigo, beads up on his finger. Viktor traces out the runes: revitalize and plating. As soon as they are drawn, he presses his magic into them, a thin and testing trickle.

Almost immediately, the crack begins to seal up, until it is an intact plank of wood.

Viktor frowns. So, not a curse to destroy the ship—even though witchcraft can overcome magic of the gods, there still would have been some resistance. Confirmation then, that the magic came from the storm itself.

But at the will of which god?

A breeze drifts through, and something moves out of the corner of Viktor’s eye. He almost falls over in his haste to turn around, a spell already at his fingertips, but it’s nothing. No—not quite nothing. There’s something caught on a long splinter of wood, tangled up and fluttering.

Slowly, Viktor makes his way over. It’s… A bag?

Viktor, with utmost caution, disentangles the bag from the wood. It’s impossibly silky, glinting and shimmering in the sunlight, and shifts with faint geometric patterns. Unlike every other part of the ship, it is completely intact. Everything about it screams of something unnatural.

Despite the trepidation crawling up his throat, Viktor opens the bag, tensing.

It’s empty.

Viktor, though troubled, tucks the bag into a pocket in his robes. Everything about this situation is disconcerting, to say the least. How did a ruined warship get here? How did only Jayce and a single silken bag come out of such a thing when everything else was so thoroughly destroyed?

An insistent wind suddenly blows by, harsher than before, catching in Viktor’s robes and hair and sending a prickling across his skin. There’s something sharp in the air, smelling faintly acrid and burning at the insides of Viktor’s nose.

“Do you have something to say for yourself?” Viktor asks flatly, not bothering to look at the source.

There’s a snort from a few feet behind him. “Not even a hi? Yeesh. Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

And whose fault is that? Viktor wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he rolls his eyes and composes himself as he turns around, leaning heavily on his cane, and evaluates Jinx from where she’s perched on the broken rail of the ship.

She’s balanced on her toes as if the broken wood and metal means nothing, her head tilted inquisitively to one side as she stares at Viktor with unblinking purple eyes. Her robes and braids and tattered bits of colorful woven fabric whip around her like stormy clouds, those dark streaks under her eyes like lightning.

“Careful,” Viktor says, more out of habit than anything.

Jinx huffs and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet as if to prove a point.

Viktor shrugs. Fair.

He makes his way over to where she’s perched, testing each step with his cane. Like Jinx, he is immortal and cannot die. Unlike Jinx, he is not particularly inclined to test the limits of physicality and pain.

“You did not answer my question,” Viktor observes, looking out over the ocean. It’s calm, no sign of stormy waves or even clouds.

Jinx blinks, then hums, fingers tapping out a rhythm on her knee. Viktor doesn’t press. She will answer in her own time, after she’s gathered up and strung together her thoughts.

It’s not long before she answers. “What do you want me to say?” she demands, lip curled up. “Should’ve I let you kill him?”

Viktor sighs. This again. “I would not have killed him,” he says flatly. “You know as well as I do that killing is forbidden by the terms of my imprisonment, no?”

Jinx laughs. “Call it what you want.” She fiddles with one of her braids, inspecting. “Doesn’t eat, doesn’t bleed, doesn’t breathe,” she says in a sing-song, then tosses her rope of hair over her shoulder. “Sounds dead to me, even if it apparently takes a bit before Silco has to collect them. So this would just be, what? Keeping them locked in a fancy mannequin soul jar?” She tilts her head, considering, then grins. “Gotta say, that’s dark, even for you. Still holding on to the good old Herald days?”

Hot anger burns through Viktor’s heart, but he doesn’t bother to refute her. They’ve had this argument before, and her jabs, though as sharp and provoking as the first time, are expected.

He runs a finger along the crack of the rail. “So this is a protest on how I handle intruders?” Viktor asks.

Jinx scowls. “Come on,” she protests, jumping off the railing and landing perfectly on the deck, the wood not so much as creaking under her feet. “Don’t tell me you’re not even a litttlle bit curious about which gods the pretty boy pissed off.”

Gods, Viktor notes. Not just one.

He presses his lips together. He is curious, more than he’d care to admit, but he isn’t going to rise to her obvious bait tell Jinx that.

“I have a feeling you will tell me whether I want to know or not,” he says instead.

Jinx cracks up. “Can’t fool me,” she says. The space around her is distorted, like looking through a warped mirror, leaving Jinx at its spiraled center. “I saw you down there, you know,” she continues, smile sharp and wide and dangerous. “Picking apart anything for the chance of information. What would’ve you done if I hadn’t told the pretty boy anything? You’d be down here staring at wood and trying to find a pattern in it and hitting yourself over everything you could’ve learned.” She laughs, the sound sending splinters through the air. “You’re so predictable.”

Viktor frowns. “Is there a point to this needling?” he snips, trying to block out how the ship now has scratched lines of color phasing in and out and over it. “Because if not, I must be going back to the house. If you recall, I have an unexpected guest to indulge now, and I would prefer—”

“You’re starving,” Jinx interrupts, crossing over to him in a too-large step and leaning up so she is staring at him directly in the eye. “And you don’t even know it.”

Viktor fights every urge to stumble away from her and clutch at his head, even as everything around him bends and cracks.

It’s not real, he tells himself. It’s just Jinx. It’s not real.

“What do you mean?” he makes himself ask out loud.

Jinx’s grin, if possible, just gets wider. “Exactly what I said,” she says softly. “But don’t worry. I can fix it. I can keep it from getting both of you.”

Viktor’s head throbs, part from the distorting effect around Jinx and part from trying to parse meaning from madness. What is she trying to prove from this? What is her goal? And both of them? Does she mean Jayce and himself?

“Why him?” Viktor demands.

Jinx shrugs. “He’s interesting.”

Viktor laughs at that, not even bothering to clarify what he’d meant. Jinx has to know the implications there, doesn’t she? True, Jayce doesn’t seem mad—not yet, anyways. But with Jinx taking an interest in him, it can only be a matter of time, whether Jinx wants it or not.

Why is he even bothering questioning her? It’s not like she will suddenly decide to be helpful of all things and provide him with the straight answers he so desperately desires.

He squeezes his eyes shut, letting bursts of color erupt behind his eyes before his sight settles back into darkness. When he opens his eyes again, the world has reoriented itself somewhat. Enough that, as he takes a step backwards, he doesn’t sway from Jinx’s imbalance.

“Do me a favor, Jinx,” Viktor says tiredly, turning to leave as he limps across the broken deck, “And next time you take interest in a mad mortal, do not make it my problem.”

Jinx only laughs in response, a sound that resounds and echoes through his ears as Viktor makes his way out of the ruined ship and back up towards his home.

It is only after Viktor is halfway back up the hill that he realizes that Jinx never told him how Jayce invoked the wrath of the gods.

Viktor decides not to broach the topic right away.

Despite his interest in Jayce’s history, Viktor tucks the silk bag into the drawer of his nightstand, and he leaves Jayce alone for the night. Well, mostly alone—Viktor keeps an Evolved by his door and window, ready and waiting for the moment when he decides to try something. Sneak out, snoop through the house, anything.

But he doesn’t. After the bath that Viktor pointedly does not watch, Jayce returns to his room and spends longer than necessary going through each and every old item on the shelves and table, breathless with what surely must be faked interest in case the Evolved are (rightly) watching, before he’s finally swaying on his feet and fighting for consciousness. When Jayce does at last succumb to his exhaustion, it’s less falling asleep than passing out, collapsing on the bed without even taking his shoes off.

Despite the deep and steady breathing, Viktor is on guard the entire night.

Those fingerprints on his forehead seem to glow in the darkness of the night. Viktor hasn’t felt a mental connection to Jayce—not like he had with his nymphs before his banishment, and certainly not in the way he does with the Evolved on the island—but the similarities in the markings are undeniable. If Viktor tried, would he…?

With no small amount of trepidation, Viktor reaches out, trying to feel for the thread to Jayce’s mind amidst the threads of the Evolved.

There’s nothing.

Viktor, despite it all, feels himself relax. Not like the nymphs, then.

Good.

It’s late morning when Jayce finally wakes. Viktor is waiting for him in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter near the window. He has forgone the illusion of humanity—it is best for the both of them if Jayce doesn’t forget his true nature.

Besides, it gives him a rush of delight to see Jayce startle.

“You’re up,” Jayce says—just a little too loud, a little too out of breath— “I, uh… Didn’t think you’d be here.”

“You are a guest,” Viktor says pleasantly. “What sort of host would I be if I did not make sure my visitor did not know where to find his meals?” He waves towards the cupboards and cabinets, and, smiling, “Please, Talis, help yourself.”

Jayce eyes him, but doesn’t say anything as he slowly starts looking through the cabinets of food.

“You’re sure I can eat anything?” Jayce asks, half-skeptic.

“Creation and harvest of food is a simple magical process,” Viktor replies, not moving from his position.

Jayce hesitates, and for a moment, Viktor can see that same gleam in his eyes that he’d had before when looking at the decrepit inventions left in his room. That curiosity, that need to know of how. But then he shakes his head and shuts the cabinet. “I meant that you’re not going to…” He gestures vaguely. “You know.”

“I do not,” Viktor says, quirking an eyebrow.

Jayce groans. “You know… Poison?”

“Poison,” Viktor repeats, tapping a finger on his cane as he bites back a smile.

“Or… Drugging?” Jayce guesses. “Whatever you were going to do yesterday.”

Viktor considers it. It is nice, to see Jayce squirm, to have that level of fear and control despite the moly still in his system. But, admittedly, having a starving guest will not bode well for their productivity.

“No,” Viktor says with a shrug. “I swore that I would not harm you, did I not? That includes poison or the like in the food.”

Jayce nods, but there’s still a level of caution there as he takes out a selection of fruit and bread rolls. He The first few bites are slow, testing. Then, hunger overtaking him, he begins shoving the food in his mouth seemingly as fast as he can, like it will disappear if he isn’t touching it.

“That means nothing though if you eat something off the island I have not prepared that happens to have ill effects,” Viktor adds offhandedly, unable to resist.

It gets the reaction he wanted—Jayce chokes on his food, coughing as he tries to dislodge the bread from his throat.

Viktor chuckles. “Nothing from my kitchen cabinets can harm you,” he says. “My gardens host a variety of deadly plants, though, and there are a number of scorpions and venomous snakes on the island, so I would advise caution outside of my house.”

Jayce swallows. “Good to know,” he mutters, picking up the rolls with significantly more wariness than before, like they will turn into scorpions or nightshade in his hands.

Viktor could do that, admittedly. His specialty is transformation, and it wouldn’t even be a difficult one, given the general size and mass. The right runes, a smear of blood or a pinch of hazel or a crushed butterfly wing, and a twist of his fingers, and it’d be done. But he isn’t willing to risk the repercussions of the Wild Rift, whatever they may be.

He remembers his own strength well enough.

Now that Jayce has eaten and slept, some of the gauntness and weariness in his posture has left. There’s still the fear there, whenever he glances in Viktor’s direction, but as he finishes his meal and stretches, that energy that had peaked through as he’d inspected Viktor’s old gadgets now seems to have consumed his entire being.

“Where should we start first?” Jayce asks. “Forging, or the power source?”

“...Forging,” Viktor decides after a moment.

He needs to see what this Jayce Talis is actually capable of.

Viktor leads Jayce back to his workshop area, looking over his shoulder every other second to make sure that his guest is not breaking off to explore or examine.

“Do we really need your puppets with us?” Jayce asks, gesturing to the Evolved that Viktor had follow them, now walking a few paces behind Jayce himself.

Viktor grits his teeth. “Evolved. And yes.”

He looks away from Jayce, from those fingerprints on his forehead. Gods above, is this how it will be every day until he can get Jayce to leave?

He opens the door to the workshop. Morning light streams in through the window, illuminating stray bits of dust. As they walk past one of the crafting tables, Viktor swiftly picks up a stack of notes and tucks them into the pockets of his robes in one fluid movement.

“Come on,” Jayce protests. “I’m helping you, I should know—”

“These designs have nothing to do with pulleys or lifts,” Viktor interrupts, voice tight as he settles in a chair next to the forge.

“Still,” Jayce huffs, lingering over the crafting table and evaluating some of the pieces. His frustration quickly morphs to intrigue as he picks up a half-finished piece of interlocking joint gears. “What metal is this?” he asks. “I’ve never seen anything this color before.”

“An alloy,” Viktor says curtly. “Copper, gold, and silver.”

Jayce’s expression brightens. “If you got the balance right, it’d allow for malleability while not taking away durability, and…” He shakes his head in wonder. “What are you using this for? It almost looks like a spine. And the material—is it naturally occurring on the island?”

“It is not,” Viktor says, pointedly not answering Jayce’s first question as he takes poker to the coals of the forge. He reaches over and finds his flint and iron striker, and with a practiced motion, lights the coals aflame.

Jayce shakes his head and walks over to the forge. “Then how? Because no offense,” he gestures towards the shelf of casting molds, “But this forge doesn’t look like it gets a lot of use outside the bare minimum of molds.”

Viktor frowns. It’s true, it doesn’t—his back won’t let him do more than pour and set the molds, so more intense hammering and smithing is out of the question—but something about how Jayce phrased it sets his teeth on edge.

“I have the raw materials,” Viktor says after a moment. “Some salvaged from ships, some from deposits on the island. That particular alloy was… An experiment.”

A failed experiment, he does not say. The melting point is still too low to be effective.

Jayce eyes the Evolved standing in the doorway. “Not magic?” he asks. “Jinx said you were witch.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Did she?” he asks, unable to help his morbid curiosity. “What else did she say about me?”

He can picture Jinx spilling it all too easily—his mutilations, his ascension, his murders.

But Jayce just shrugs. “Not much else,” he admits. “Just that you’re a powerful witch, you’re the keeper of the island, and that you’d turn me into a, in her words, ‘glorified mannequin’ unless I accepted her help.”

Viktor lets out a small sigh of relief. Good. True, he had doubted Jinx would divulge much about his past—especially given that Jayce, while afraid, is not outright weeping and cowering in abject terror—but it is still reassuring to have that confirmation.

He wants to be feared as the witch, not as the Herald.

Jayce looks over the tools Viktor has laid out by the forge, a crease between his brow as he studies them. “You’re missing tools,” he says, dumbfounded. “How can you have a forge and no tools?”

Viktor bristles. “I have what I need.”

What else is needed besides the casting molds to pour the melted metal into?

Jayce picks up the hammer, weighing it in his hand before shaking his head. In Viktor’s hands, it is large and heavy, but Jayce handles it like it weighs no more than a twig. “This isn’t even a punch set hammer,” he mutters. “What do you use this for?”

Viktor presses his lips together. He has a feeling that any answer he gives will be the wrong one.

Jayce shakes his head, setting down the hammer that isn’t a punch set, whatever that is, and picks up the tongs, poking the coals dubiously. “Do you have a rounding hammer?” he presses. “Stake sets? Beeswax? An anvil? Please tell me you at least have an anvil.”

Viktor stares at him. Jayce may as well be speaking a foreign language. “Beeswax,” he manages. “I have beeswax. But why would you need that for forging?”

Jayce lets out an incredulous laugh. “How much can you make with your transforming magic?” he asks instead of answering the question.

“Almost anything, so long as it is the correct size and mass,” Viktor says warily. After a second of considering, he adds, “And so long as I know what the end result should be. But nothing inorganic.”

Jayce pulls up one of Viktor’s chairs, grabbing the nearest quill and ink well. Before Viktor has time to get angry, he says, “Can I use some of your paper? What you have isn’t going to cut it—we’re going to need to make a couple of things before we get started. If I draw the tools we need, could you make the shape for casting the mold out of wood or something?”

Viktor stifles the need to smack Jayce with his cane and chase him out of the workshop. How does he think Viktor was making the molds before? How dare he, a hapless soldier turned unwilling guest, come into Viktor’s space and tell him that his materials are inadequate?

Instead, he takes a steadying breath, squaring his shoulders and passing Jayce some blank paper. “That is what I typically do, anyways,” Viktor says as calmly as he can.

If it gets Jayce off his island faster, he can endure.

If Jayce hears the stifled ice in Viktor’s words, though, he doesn’t comment on it. He just smiles, a thing so bright and charming that Viktor is sure that it would enchant most anyone else. As it is, though, Viktor just scowls.

If Jayce cares, though, it doesn’t show. He just dips the quill into the ink and begins to sketch.

Chapter Text

They fall into a pattern over the next two weeks, between the two of them.

They spend the first part of the day in the workshop, when the heat from the forge is welcome in the cool autumn morning. They break for lunch. They then make their way to the shore, where the ocean breeze wards off the worst of the sun. They eat dinner, they go to bed, they rinse and repeat.

Viktor has never been so grateful to not require sleep—it allows him to spread his senses through the eyes of the Evolved, keeping guard in case Jayce chooses to use the cover of night to do anything untoward. And, after the week of protection from the moly is up, Viktor works up the nerve to reach out through his magic once again and see if a thread to Jayce’s mind is there.

It isn’t.

The relief that crashes through him at that realization very nearly makes his legs give out from under him. If he can’t have Jayce safely disarmed as an Evolved, at least he doesn’t have him connected like his nymphs once were. Even if his stomach still lurches when he sees those scars on Jayce’s forehead, even if he still gets flashes of blank eyes and ivory lesions over old wounds, there is at least that.

Still, Viktor keeps a vial of his sleeping draught in his pockets. Just in case. Even if Jayce isn’t trying anything now, he surely will. He must be biding his time, or coming up with a plan in secret, something.

But he doesn’t. The worst he does is light a candle and work until the sun rises, scribbling and muttering over calculations. Occasionally, he sketches, impressively accurate flowers from Viktor’s garden lining the margins with arrows pointed back to equations, or the outline of a woman that is always scratched away before Viktor can make out the details. Once or twice, Jayce even goes into the workshop to grab some materials before bringing them back to his room to test. From what Viktor can tell, it’s for determining the fuel for the lift’s energy source, so he leaves him be.

The sooner they finish calculations and inventions and repairs, after all, the sooner Viktor can be rid of his unwanted guest.

Viktor is not used to having such consistent company, and is wholly unprepared for just how much it taxes him to keep his walls up. There is the satisfaction from Jayce’s fear, yes—especially in those moments when he turns and realizes that there is an Evolved watching them, and he jumps and swears, his hand sometimes even briefly going to his head to touch Viktor’s ivory fingerprints—but every day, there comes a point where Jayce’s curiosity wins out over the terror.

And that is when the questions begin.

“Where did you learn witchcraft?”

It’s the first question Jayce asks, and is unexpected enough to make Viktor nearly jump out of his skin.

He warily turns from his set of measurements, eyeing Jayce up and down. He debates the merits of answering for a good minute before answering, “...Singed.”

Jayce’s reaction is perfect—open gaping, a flash of fear, and taking an instant step back. “Singed?” he repeats. “The God of Monsters?”

Viktor nods, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “I was his apprentice for a year before coming here.”

It has the intended effect of Jayce backing even further away, like Viktor can summon his former mentor’s power and turn Jayce into a monster just by snapping his fingers. Viktor allows himself to bask in Jayce’s terror—his unwanted guest does not need to know the specifics of that year. How terrified Viktor himself was of Singed and what he could do.

Jayce nervously looks to the window, as if the gods might be able to hear them talking. “Singed is…?”

“No,” Viktor says, shaking his head. “He was not a witch. He knew of it, though.”

Enough to bait Viktor into learning more. Enough to give him that damning push over the edge.

It is hardly surprising, Viktor thinks bitterly, that Singed’s knowledge of witchcraft never made it into the myths. Singed always was skilled at working behind the scenes, pulling threads no one else knew existed, and being a safe distance away when one of the strings inevitably triggered a bomb.

For a moment, Viktor thinks Jayce is going to press further. But instead, he frowns, and comes up next to where Viktor is sitting, leaning over his shoulder.

Viktor physically bites back the instinct to recoil—his hand goes to his pocket, ready to slam the sleeping draught against Jayce, but then—

“Does this account for the lessened weight?” Jayce asks, tapping a finger to one of the equation lines, his fear apparently forgotten. “If we’re going with aluminum and chrome, it’s not going to be as heavy, and it’ll also change the weight distribution.”

Viktor almost snaps his pen in half with rage.

Jayce is—annoyingly—correct.

“...I will adjust it,” Viktor mutters, glaring at the now useless equations like he can fix his stupid mistake by the force of his anger alone.

“Do you want some help?” Jayce asks. “I did something similar back in Piltover to bring materials to the upper docks of—”

“I can do it myself, Talis,” Viktor snaps, snatching the papers from the table and grabbing his cane before standing.

He leaves the workshop, refusing to look back and give Jayce any shred of satisfaction.

He redoes the equations in his room, without Jayce looking over his shoulder, offering his damnable and unneeded advice.

And, of course, when Viktor comes back the next day with the redone and triple-checked equations, ready to present to Jayce, the man doesn’t even wait before hitting Viktor with his next question.

“Why use a forge at all if you can just,” Jayce waves a hand, “Magic it?”

Viktor sighs. Already, there’s a headache pressing at his skull, threatening to turn into a migraine. “If you recall, witchcraft only works on organic matter, which has its limits in crafting, even when strengthened.” He shoves the papers at Jayce. “These now account for the lessened weight on the lift,” he says. “Is this enough to work with?”

Jayce frowns, inspecting. “I’ll still need to clean the forge out and get the right tools,” he says, “But yeah, this should do it.”

Viktor is relieved when the matter is dropped. The last thing he needs is Jayce poking and prodding at his magic.

Which means, of course, that Jayce is right back to pestering him the next day over breakfast.

“So… For your magic,” Jayce starts, and Viktor has to fight the urge to flip the dining table right then and there, “Organic matter means no metal or stone, right?”

Viktor sighs. “Why do you want to know?”

Jayce shrugs. “I’m curious how you made the other molds. Is there any magic in the process?”

Viktor eyes him dubiously. It’s a fair question, admittedly, especially since Jayce will need new molds to create the forge tools.

“...Only for the wood used for the base draft,” Viktor says slowly, keeping careful watch on Jayce’s face for any sign of ill intent. “I smooth it out, add a tincture coating, then enchant it to be more durable, then I shape the mold around it.”

Jayce nods along. “And what’s the mold itself made out of? Just clay?”

He seems to genuinely want to know. It’s written into every line of his face, the way he leans forward, the way Viktor can already see him doing math behind his eyes.

It would, Viktor has to confess, be helpful to have a second pair of hands with creating the casting molds.

And—most importantly—it will get Jayce off the island faster.

“A mixture,” Viktor says, standing. “Clay, sand, sea water. Come—I will show you how it’s made.”

Viktor ignores Jayce’s obviously faked wonder when he leads him to the sloping area just north of the creek, where the ground makes each step heavy with its mud and swirls of rust-colored clay. Jayce runs a hand along the ground where the mud meets the creek, where there are thick lily pads with yellow flowers and curling pale green roots, seemingly uncaring of the grime.

Viktor tries to tamp down his irritation. How far is Jayce going to take his act of the hapless, awestruck traveler?

“Have you never seen lily pads before?” Viktor can’t help but snip.

Jayce shrugs. “There’s not a lot of nature back home,” he says, sheepish. “I honestly don’t think I can remember seeing a tree until I left Piltover to go fight in the war.”

Both the witch in Viktor and the small part of him that remembers what it was like to be a nymph wants to recoil in horror—what kind of terrible city is Piltover, to not have even a single tree? Surely, that can’t be true. Surely Jayce is lying.

But there’s something in his tone, something about the soft joy in his face, that gives Viktor pause.

Why lie, about never seeing a creek? About never seeing lily pads in the mud? He has to know that such a confession just makes him look ignorant. What is the purpose in that?

Before Viktor can question Jayce’s motives further, Jayce reaches into the mud, pulling up a fistful of orange clay. “This is what we need, right? Do we need to worry about how much mud is in it?”

It’s so easy, to let the annoyance fade. To bask in Jayce’s attentiveness as Viktor explains what they need. Jayce picks up on the process more quickly than Viktor would have given him credit for, and he carries not only the buckets of clay, but also the jugs of salt water and sand from the beach back up to Viktor’s house without complaint, saving Viktor multiple days worth of transporting materials. He gets the mixture right on the first try with minimal commentary from Viktor, and the casting mold he creates for the stake sets is perfect.

When he holds it up for Viktor for approval, Viktor can’t help the small smile on his face as he nods.

Jayce whoops with joy, turning to Viktor with that radiant grin of his, showing off a slight gap between his top front teeth, and—

No.

Viktor wipes the smile off his face and backs away. “Excuse me,” he says, keeping his tone carefully flat and his face blank, “We will resume this tomorrow.”

He all but runs out of the workshop.

Viktor barricades himself in his room, heart pounding, and desperately wills that thorny barrier around his heart to go back up.

Jayce Talis is a fool. A curious, flattering, mortal fool. So what if he is brilliant? His attempts to make Viktor lower his guard will be in vain, Viktor is determined of that. He will not let Jayce Talis see any sign of his weakness.

He keeps the window latched, and he doesn’t move from his position in front of his door the entire night. Through the eyes of the Evolved standing guard, he watches Jayce Talis work in silence, then fall into his bed well after the sun has gone down.

Viktor is prepared, the next morning, to keep up his image of the aloof and powerful witch of the island.

He needn’t worry—Jayce chooses the second Viktor sits down at the workshop table to hit him with his worst question yet.

“So, if you can’t use magic on inorganic materials,” Jayce starts off, “Then what are the puppets made of?”

“Evolved,” Viktor snaps.

“Evolved, then. What are they made of?”

Viktor stays silent, ignoring that inquisitiveness on Jayce’s face. Knowing the material could lead him to all sorts of other conclusions, and Viktor is not so desperate for Jayce’s fear that he’s willing to open up that possibility.

Jayce rubs his chin, considering. “You know,” he muses. “Your puppets… Your Evolved,” he corrects quickly, as Viktor fixes him with a withering look, “They look a little bit like Demacian architecture.”

Viktor grips his cane harder. He has never heard anything about Demacia’s architecture. He has some older maps of the continent—brown and weathered things from a ship hundreds of years ago—and while remarkably detailed, they do not show any city aesthetics, just the layout.

“Or their weapons,” Jayce continues, oblivious, “White with those golden streaks.”

“Of course,” Viktor says curtly.

It’s fine, he tells himself. Jayce doesn’t know how long he’s been imprisoned on this island. Jayce has no way of knowing how little of the world Viktor has seen, and Viktor wants to keep it that way. He is the witch of the island, he is in control, and Jinx is the only reason why Jayce is not an Evolved that doesn’t prod Viktor with questions and remind him of everything about the outside world that he does not and will maybe never know about.

Viktor refuses to think about just how much that stings.

Whatever reaction Jayce is looking for, he doesn’t get it, and he presses, “You know, like petricite.”

Viktor can’t reel in his reaction fast enough—he can feel his eyes widen, his breath catch. He turns away, trying to hide it, but it’s too late. Jayce has seen.

Damn it.

Jayce grins, ridiculously pleased at managing to have teased information out of him. 

Viktor braces himself for Jayce's inevitable questions about how he knows about petricite, or his connection to it, or any of the millions of other probing questions that Viktor would rather die than answer.

Instead, Jayce just remarks, “I thought petricite was a stone.”

Viktor clenches his jaw. He’d almost rather Jayce gloat. It would be more bearable, he thinks, than this pretense of the innocent and curious engineer that Jayce seems determined to keep up.

He should leave it be, he shouldn’t rise to the bait, he shouldn’t…

“It’s a wood-based mixture,” he says, keeping his words curt. “Wood, ash, and lime. After it solidifies, it appears stone-like, but it is far more durable and flexible.”

Jayce hesitates, his eyes darting towards the Evolved always present by the door. For a moment, Viktor hopes that he’s finally gotten the hint, or that his fear will perhaps keep him silent.

No such luck.

“How do you transmute mixtures?” Jayce questions. “Are pure substances easier?”

“There is no such thing as a pure substance,” Viktor says shortly.

Jayce huffs. “You know what I mean.”

Viktor closes his eyes and prays for patience. “Some substances are easier than others,” he admits. “It is a matter of practice.”

Jayce doesn’t pick up on the ice in Viktor’s words, though. Instead, inexplicably, he hums with intrigue. “Everyone thinks it’s magic absorbent,” he says. “The petricite, I mean. Demacia says it siphons and then nullifies magic, but you’re creating it with magic.”

“Ridiculous,” Viktor mutters before he can stop himself.

He realizes his mistake a second too late.

Jayce’s eyes are fever-bright as he leans forward. “What do you mean?” he asks, breathless.

It is dead energy, Viktor wants to say. Petrified and deadened energy, shielding the last remaining threads of life.

Viktor presses his lips together and wills himself to stay silent.

Jayce sits down in the chair next to Viktor, seemingly unaware as Viktor pointedly scoots his chair a couple of inches away. He picks up a pen, taking a piece of paper, and begins to sketch. "It's theorized Demacian inventors found the formula for petricite after studying the Wild Rift…”

Viktor’s stomach lurches.

The Wild Rift. His nymphs, his creations, his corpses, forever entombed…

“...But if you’re making petricite with magic, then that means it’s not the magical void we thought it was,” Jayce says. Viktor can practically see the gears in his mind spinning, evaluating and turning over every bit of information he has. “So that means the absorbed magic stays within it—when you transform it, does that mean you can still reach inside it and manipulate it?”

Viktor says nothing. The fingerprints on Jayce’s forehead have narrowed in to be the sole focus of his vision, encompassing everything else.

It takes Viktor an embarrassingly long minute to realize that Jayce is looking for a response.

“No,” Viktor lies. “I have a… Mental connection, of a sort. But it is not the same as control.”

He refuses to look at the Evolved he has standing guard in the corner of the room. If he looks, he might just vomit.

Jayce hums, considering, and continues to idly sketch. The scars on his forehead gleam like opals. Viktor makes himself look away, down to the paper. Immediately, he regrets it—Jayce’s loose sketch is an unmistakable pointed face with only the faintest impression of what were once features, smoothed into doll-like divots and streaked with faint swirls. Even in sketch, the face has that reverent, accepting passivity, the edges marked by what looks to be fungal growth.

“The myths say that the Herald, the God of the Arcane, was able to control the Waiting Dead,” Jayce says. “Back when they were nymphs and when he cursed the land with the Wild Rift, before his defeat at the hands of the God of Time.”

Viktor could swear he can still feel it—that moment right after the world had gone white, when all he could feel were threads like roots, curled inside his bones, steadily rotting away but still stretching and reaching, still seeking connection even now…

“With the Evolved,” Jayce wonders, “Since you were the one who created them, and you have a mental connection to them, would you be able to... I don't know, influence them at all? Or—?”

Viktor stands up so fast that his chair skids out from underneath him, screeching against the stone floor.

“This theorizing is useless,” he snaps. “Now, if you need me, I will be in the garden.”

He leaves as fast as he can, but it’s still not quick enough to miss the hopeless hurt and confusion on Jayce’s face.

Viktor spends the rest of the day in the garden, digging through the dirt and harvesting nettles and oleander until his fingers have gone numb from the stinging and poison. Every time the oleander petals catch the light, those subtle shades of white and pink and purple, Viktor has to close his eyes to block out the memory of the shimmering lesions of those exact shades.

By the end, his heart has almost calmed.

He watches Jayce work all night over the forge, tracing out patterns and diagrams for the lift—thankfully, just the lift, nothing of those horrible and blank faces—until the sheets of paper from his sketches are numerous enough to form a blanket across his lap.

The annoyance at Jayce’s needling, though, does not stop Viktor from asking questions of his own.

Yes, he’s a hypocrite, Viktor can admit that much, but the information is right there, in his house, whistling as he cleans out Viktor’s forge with beeswax. When will he get another chance to learn anything about the world outside of his island? A decade? A century? Longer?

He isn’t willing to pass that chance up.

“With the amount of questions you have asked me,” Viktor begins as Jayce scrubs at a particularly stubborn stain, “It is only fair I ask you some questions in turn.”

Jayce tenses, ever so slightly, and for a moment, Viktor thinks he can see a flash of anxiety in his eyes.

But, just as quickly, the look vanishes, and Jayce nods. “Of course.”

Is it Viktor’s imagination, or has his voice lost some of that ever-present enthusiasm?

Viktor shakes his head. Even if it is gone, it doesn’t matter. He does not care about Jayce Talis’s feelings.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me about Piltover,” Viktor says as Jayce spreads some more beeswax across the forge—as it turns out, the inflammable beeswax is the perfect cleaning agent for the years of buildup of soot and grime. “Your city without a single tree.”

Jayce pauses, glancing up from his scrubbing with the wire brush. He shrugs. “It’s the City of Progress. What else is there to know?”

Viktor frowns. He needs details—politics, weather, temples, inventions, anything.

“Why is it called the City of Progress?” Viktor decides.

Jayce huffs. “It was founded on the basis of invention, but it’s a merchant city, really. Everyone hawking for trade and innovation. Power and influence at any cost.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up. The visitors that came before Jayce have boasted of their lands—the indomitable Noxus military, the dignity of Demacia’s walls, the bountiful archipelago of Ionia—as if hoping to impress upon Viktor that their grand homes made them equally impressive.

Yet, Jayce’s words are flat and hard as stone.

Viktor crosses his leg and leans back in his chair. “Is it that horrible a place?”

Jayce shrugs, gaze trained resolutely on a patch of soot that he starts scrubbing away at. “Not really,” he admits. “There’s corruption, but overall, the Piltover Academy has turned out some of the finest inventors on the continent. Before I’d left, I created and launched the first airships.”

“Your design?” Viktor asks.

Jayce allows himself a smile. “Yeah. I designed all the blueprints.” He chuckles. “I had to dumb down drafts and proposals so the Piltover Council would actually approve it, but still. Later, I even built the first airship myself.”

Viktor would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.

“Are all Piltover politicians also engineers?” Viktor asks.

Jayce laughs. “No, just me. I really shouldn’t have even been working on the airship build—the rest of the Council said I was crazy and that it was beneath my station. I don’t think even Mel understood, not really, but…” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t have felt right, letting someone else build my design, you know?”

Viktor nods slowly. He does.

He tries to imagine it, Jayce crafting the airship. What would a vessel like that even look like?

The first thing that comes to mind is a sea ship like the one Jayce arrived in, somehow able to fly through the air with its sails. That wouldn’t work, though—Viktor starts mentally designing it in his head. It would need to be made of lighter materials, equipped with a propelling engine strong enough to lift it off the ground, sails meant to steer and angle rather than catch the wind and drive the craft forward. It would need to be cylindrical, perhaps, for optimal speed and design, although that may negatively affect storage if it was meant for trade and shipping…

Viktor doesn’t realize he’s started sketching out the design until he looks down and sees it half-way finished on paper.

He almost crumples it up, but the thought of a flying ship… It’s intriguing. It’s ingenious. It’s new.

Slowly, then more quickly, he begins writing out the equations and measurements, what would be needed.

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Jayce inhales sharply next to him.

Viktor drops the quill immediately and stands up, backing away. He reaches out to the Evolved next to the door, threads of control waiting to be seized. How could he have forgotten Jayce was right there? How could he have let himself get distracted enough to let someone as large as Jayce get that close to him without him noticing?

He tries to control his breathing, even as Jayce quietly picks up the rough sketches and studies them with wide eyes.

“How did you know…?” Jayce asks, his voice trailing off, his eyes never leaving the paper. He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You got it exactly. How…?” He finally looks up, a funny look on his face. “Can you read my mind?”

Viktor can’t help but laugh at that. Gods above, if only.

He shakes his head. “I cannot,” he admits.

“Then how’d you figure out the design?” Jayce asks in wonder. “This looks exactly like my later drafts. You even got the measurements right for where the reinforcement beams should be installed on the sides!”

Viktor feels a blush rising in his cheeks at the open admiration in Jayce’s voice. “It was just… The most logical,” he says stiffly, turning away. “If you will excuse me,” he says, “I need to start the required mixtures to power the runes for repairing your ship.”

“Wait!” Jayce blurts out before Viktor can make it out the door.

Viktor should ignore him. He should keep walking. He should leave Jayce to cleaning out the forge and ignore him.

He turns his head towards Jayce.

Jayce swallows, fidgeting with that leather bracelet of his. “The mixtures,” he says, “You’ll be using magic, right? Can I watch you work? Please?”

There is something so sickeningly fragile and hopeful on his face.

Viktor should say no. He needs to say no.

The word dries up in his throat.

“...If you wish,” Viktor mutters.

He pretends he doesn’t feel Jayce’s grin as he follows Viktor out of the forge and out into the garden.

It’s easier, Viktor tells himself, to have Jayce nearby. To not have to work while keeping his vision split between his tasks and the Evolved’s vision.

Viktor’s garden is in the center of his house, an open courtyard framed by his halls. It’d been nothing but beds of weeds when Viktor had first arrived, dilapidated and barely clinging to life. Now, though, the wooden flower beds have been reformed and expanded and raised so Viktor does not have to lean down, the plants are vibrant in their shades of green, and Viktor has even added a small grove of fruit trees with a bench.

Jayce furrows his brows as Viktor grabs a basket near the door and proceeds to start harvesting plants. “Why plants?” he asks.

Viktor exhales through his teeth. “I thought you knew that runes require a component to power them,” he says flatly.

“I do,” Jayce says quickly. “I just mean… Why do you need plants? I thought you could use witchcraft without them, like when you turn people into puppets.”

Viktor turns away from him and rips off a bundle of witch hazel leaves with enough force to cause the branches to whip back and make the whole bush shake. “Evolved.”

“When you turn people into… Evolved,” Jayce amends.

Viktor shouldn’t answer. Jayce doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t…

“The very nature of witchcraft requires components,” Viktor hears himself say. “Intent, materials, and language.” He snaps off a stalk of lavender. “The intent comes from within me. The materials can be plants, or animal parts, or even pieces of myself. What I need depends on what spell I cast. For the transmutation required for the Evolved, blood is best.”

It is gratifying, in a strange way, to see how Jayce’s face lights up in understanding. He touches the fingerprints on his forehead, as if recalling the sensation of Viktor’s blood against his skin, in those moments before the failed transformation. “Is it flesh for flesh, plants for plants?” he asks.

Viktor startles. “...More or less,” he admits, trying to hide his shock that Jayce made the connection so quickly. “But they can be mixed to… Enhance the effect. Blood is especially potent. The botany book I gave you the other day has some details in it on which plants work best for which spells, if you are interested further.”

Jayce nods slowly. His hand goes to the bracelet at his wrist, a thumb tracing over the blue gemstone. “Please,” he says. Then, after a moment, “You have no idea how hard it is to find information on this stuff normally.” It comes out soft, almost like an admittance.

Viktor plucks a pomegranate from a tree and tries to ignore the ache in his chest. “I have some idea.”

There’s a few minutes of silence from Jayce. The sun is bright overhead, likely one of the last truly warm days they’ll have before the late autumn chill turns into winter. Viktor already is running through the list of preparation he’ll have to do—mount the garden roof, gather wood for the hearth, bring out the fur-lined cloaks from his storage trunks. It will be nice, to have the routine back, after he sets Jayce well on his way.

He refuses to think of the alternative, that Jayce will have to stay the winter.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts as Jayce clears his throat. “Could you show me a spell?” he asks, that awful bit of hopefulness in his voice.

Viktor fixes him with a flat look. “You have seen me cast spells before,” he reminds Jayce. “Did you forget when you first came?”

Jayce huffs. “Come on, I barely saw that at all,” he protests. “I was running for the door, remember?”

Viktor considers it. On one hand, he absolutely does not want to show Jayce more than he has to. On the other…

Jayce is getting far, far too comfortable with his questions. Lulled into calm by the oath they’d both sworn, distracted by pretty trinkets and a garden, and he’s forgotten that the witch of the island still has tricks and teeth.

He’s only a nymph, after all.

Fire burns in Viktor’s heart.

Viktor takes his delicate knife from his belt. Long, just barely thicker than a needle, and with a wickedly sharp point. He plucks an apple from one of his trees—green and shining and exploding with ripeness. He sits, and with utmost care, he carves a rune on to the skin of the apple, watching as the juice bubbles up and runs down in sticky lines.

“Which rune is that?” Jayce wonders, craning to look.

“Harvest,” Viktor says.

It has other names—drain, reap, transference—but harvest is the most commonly used. And, in this case, the most applicable.

“Does the order matter?” Jayce asks. “With the runes and the mixtures?”

“Runes first,” Viktor replies. “To provide… A direction, if you will.” He runs a finger over the rune, letting his intent and power run from his veins to right underneath his skin. For something as simple as this, he doesn’t need a concoction—he just needs the juice of the fruit itself to serve as the material. “If I wanted to ripen a fruit picked too early, I would use an overgrowth rune. If it had gone rotten, then a revitalize rune. But, conversely…”

He lets his magic flow into the juice pooling into the divots of the rune. The rune flashes dark red, and in the blink of an eye, the apple withers and rots in Viktor’s hands.

Viktor allows himself a smile. He can feel the life from the apple writhing in his palm, waiting for a direction to flow. He looks up, ridiculously pleased, ready to gloat in Jayce’s fear.

But it’s not terror on Jayce’s face, not even close. It’s wonder.

“That’s incredible,” he breathes. “What happens with the energy?”

Viktor stares. The world around him is a roaring rush, Jayce the only focus. He’s seen what Viktor can do, how easy it would be for Viktor to destroy anything he touches with hardly more than a tap of his finger.

How is it that Jayce can see that and still have that fascination? How is he not scared?

“You know, from the apple,” Jayce continues, taking Viktor’s silence for confusion over his question. “Does it follow the same laws of physics and chemistry, with not being able to be destroyed? Where does it go?”

How dare he have that curiosity as Viktor himself once did. How dare he have the gall to ask those familiar and pointed questions. How dare he attract the attention and protection of the one goddess who is insane enough to meddle in Viktor’s affairs. How dare he look at Viktor with that glow and undisguised hunger for knowledge.

How fucking dare he.

Viktor lets the pile of rot that was once an apple fall to the ground with a disgusting plop. “The energy goes to me, unless I redirect it somewhere else,” he says coolly. There’s still a smear of black on his palm from the apple, and he wipes it off on his robes, trying to rid himself of the slimy sensation that suddenly is crawling through his skin.

Jayce, oblivious to the ice in Viktor’s words, is nodding along. “So it’s the same principle as healing,” he presses. “Right?”

Yes, part of Viktor longs to answer. The temptation of finally, finally having someone who understands, who craves this knowledge, who can see all the interconnected pieces and weave them together like thread on a loom.

“More or less,” Viktor hedges instead. “The difference is that healing is… Impermanent. It is a repairing, of sorts. A true transformation such as this is irreversible.”

Jayce knits his brows together. He hesitates, as if debating internally, but then that damned curiosity of his wins out again. “Can I ask a dumb question?”

“My permission has never stopped you before,” Viktor says curtly.

Instead of taking this as a deterrent, which Viktor had intended, Jayce chuckles and takes it as permission.

“If you can heal with witchcraft,” Jayce says, “You know, organic matter and all…” He hesitates, glancing to the side.

“Out with it,” Viktor sighs.

“If you can heal,” Jayce continues, “Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

Something inside of Viktor snaps.

The breeze becomes a hurricane in his ears, the world a red blur.

Jayce must be able to tell that he's made a mistake, something must be showing on Viktor’s face, because he’s already stammering out an apology, but Viktor can barely hear him.

“I will be in the kitchen,” Viktor snaps, interrupting whatever Jayce was trying to say. “Do not disturb me until dinner.”

He does not look at Jayce as he leaves.

He can’t feel his body as he storms through the halls. Even the aches in his leg and spine are gone, dull against the thud of his heart in his chest.

How dare he ask that?

Viktor stalks into the kitchen, slamming open every cupboard and yanking herbs down from the ceiling. He grabs glass jars of preserved plants, ignoring the way they dangerously clink and clack against each other, and all but tosses them on to the counter. He grabs the nearest one, nearly breaking the glass while trying to open it up. He glares at the stubbornly stuck lid, seething, trying to resist screaming.

Does Jayce think he likes living like this? That he wouldn’t magic away his twisted leg and spine with the right combinations of runes and poultices and tinctures? That he wouldn’t have done it by now if it was at all possible?

But no. He cannot and will not pay the blood and worship necessary. Not again.

Jayce has already said it himself. Flesh for flesh. Why hasn’t he, for all his intelligence and ability, pieced that together?

Viktor exhales slowly, closes his eyes. By the time he opens them, he is almost numb again. He takes a bowl from one of the cabinets, then grabs the nearest bundle of dried flowers and starts ripping them up, watching coolly as they fall with only the softest of sighs.

It’s hours later, well into the monotony of grinding flowers and herbs into a thick paste, that it strikes Viktor just how little Jayce actually said about himself and his life in Piltover.

Chapter Text

By the third week, Viktor and Jayce run into a new problem.

Matters of the forge have been good—more than good, Viktor has to admit, with how skilled Jayce is with both smithing and engineering. And after the incident with the healing question, Jayce’s barrage of questions about magic have slowed to a much more manageable number, and he hasn’t asked a single new question about Viktor himself or his past, thank the gods.

But despite all that, the progress on the ship has been… Minimal, to say the least.

The task of getting the ship on to the shore takes a week on its own. It’d take fifty soldiers and a mile of rope to haul the ship up—both resources that are notably absent from the island.

“I don’t suppose the puppets… Evolved can help?” Jayce asks, quickly correcting himself before Viktor can say anything.

“No,” Viktor says, firm.

It’s bad enough that he has to disturb the Evolved to watch Jayce. He will not reach into them and control them more than he has to.

Jayce throws a glance at the Evolved that Viktor always has following him, but says nothing more.

Still, Viktor has to admit that Jayce has a point—even after cutting away the worst of the damage to lighten the ship, it is still far too heavy for anyone to move on their own. Viktor spends his nights weaving plant fiber together and strengthening it with runes, then has Jayce loop and tie it around the sturdiest parts of the ship while he carves runes for acceleration, fleet, and celerity into whatever undamaged part of the ship he can find.

He has no way to help pull the ship up, not with his leg being what it is, but Jayce, fortunately, is plenty strong. It’s slow and grueling, but between Jayce tugging and Viktor’s runes helping to lighten the boat, they manage to get the boat on to the beach.

The relief and rush of victory that goes through Viktor once the boat is fully out of the water is enough to make him very nearly giddy.

“I was almost afraid we would have to start from scratch,” he confesses to Jayce on their way back up to the house.

Jayce grins. Despite his musculature, the labor has strained him, and each step back up the hill is wobbly. “Me too,” he admits. Then, almost reluctantly, “I’m still not sure how we’re going to repair it. I was only captain by default of being the highest ranking soldier—I’ve got no idea what goes into a ship. Not this kind, anyways.”

That gives Viktor pause. He’d been counting on Jayce having some knowledge to help guide the process.

“We will be able to figure it out,” he says, trying to sound more decisive than he feels. “That is what sketches and measurements are for, no?”

Jayce, at least, seems more reassured by Viktor’s words than Viktor himself.

While Jayce spends the night, for once, fast asleep, Viktor makes his way back down to the beach, notebook and measuring tape in hand.

The night is cold, and even with a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders, Viktor’s teeth refuse to stop chattering. Inch by meticulous inch, he catalogues the ship, making note of each broken bow and plank, what is missing, what needs to be cut away, which parts can be stretched and mended. His fingers lose feeling as he measures every part he can reach.

When Jayce stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, bleary and obviously sore, Viktor places the notebook on the table in front of him before he can get so much as a bite of breakfast in.

Jayce stares at the equations, something unreadable on his face.

“I would appreciate if you looked these over and checked my math,” Viktor says, more to fill the silence than anything. “We do not have to work on this today, of course, but it would be best if we were prepared for what materials we will need.”

Jayce doesn’t respond for a while, to the point where Viktor wonders if he perhaps is too tired to comprehend words. Then, incredulous, “When did you find the time to do all this?”

Viktor turns away so Jayce doesn’t see the flush that is surely spreading across his cheeks. “I do not require sleep,” he says stiffly. “It was no matter.”

Jayce nods slowly. “Still,” he says, “You should rest today, too.”

An unexpected surge of bitter anger climbs up Viktor’s throat at that. “I will consider it,” he lies.

As if he could even think to rest with someone like Jayce here. Even exhausted, Jayce is still strong enough to physically overpower Viktor. What if he uses this opportunity to try and fight against Viktor? It would be easy, when Viktor’s limbs are stiff, when his eyelids are scratched, when his reaction time is delayed by even just a fraction…

Viktor presses his lips together and clenches his fist hard enough for his nails to dig into his palms.

No. He won’t let that happen.

While Jayce rests, Viktor carves runes into the frame of his bedroom door and window—ward, smite, and aery—then paints over them with over them with a red ink made of rowan and nightshade berries, all while cursing himself for not thinking to take this precaution earlier. He still has the sleeping draught, yes, but if he misses…

Well, better late than never for a back-up, at least. If Jayce tries to enter now, all it will take is a single touch from Viktor against the wall, and the spell will release a paralyzing agent that will thoroughly immobilize the target. Viktor almost wants to dare Jayce to try, to test the rules and boundaries, to find the consequences, to let Viktor show his unwanted visitor what he is truly capable of.

Jayce doesn’t try, though. He doesn’t even so much as go to that side of the house. He just spends the day in the central hall, reading one of the books Viktor had deemed safe enough to share.

By the time they both head down to the beach the next afternoon, Jayce seems recovered, and Viktor has gotten his heart to finally calm.

It is only after hours spent clearing out the water, cutting away the splintered wood, and hauling off the debris, that Viktor is forced to confront the fact that he should have thought of from the start: the ship is, quite possibly, beyond repair. Even with the debris they’ve managed to salvage and Viktor’s magic aiding them, stretching the wood to cover the holes will be a long and grueling process. And even then, that might not be enough, given that neither Viktor nor Jayce have any idea about the inner workings of a ship.

Jayce frowns as he looks over the tattered fabric and shattered wood that had once been the mast and sail, then looks up at the structure that now looks closer to a skeleton than a ship. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

It’s not a question.

Viktor sighs. “Yes,” he admits. No point in lying about it.

Jayce stares at the ship. It’s so barebones, the few parts still remaining so dilapidated, that it looks like a stiff breeze could cause it to fall apart. Slowly, Jayce sits on the nearest rock, and buries his head in his hands. For all his confidence in the forge, for all his arrogance in claiming how he could help Viktor, it is impossible to ignore just how helpless and tired the man looks.

“What do we do?” Jayce asks.

Viktor grimaces. The odds of them being able to cobble together a working boat before winter sets in are slim to none, especially since neither of them know how to build said boat. “Magic first,” he decides. “The outer parts should not be too difficult patch since we know the measurements. We can figure out the inner workings later.”

Jayce brightens immediately. Viktor tries to ignore him—the look of awe and interest on Jayce’s face whenever even the possibility of watching Viktor use magic is brought up is… Off-putting, to say the least. Especially when he gets that analytic glint in his eyes. As if searching for any flaw or sign of weakness.

Without waiting, Viktor begins to drag out some of the larger planks of wood from the pile. His bones groan in protest, the thin muscles in his back and leg promising to ache for the rest of the week, but Viktor ignores it.

“Do you need help?” Jayce asks.

“No,” Viktor snaps, even as his cane slides against the rocks and sand and threatens to make him lose his balance. He’s still irritated from the cold of the night and the paranoia of still having a guest in his house, and the suggestion that Viktor might need Jayce of all people to help him is enough to boil his blood with the indignation of it all.

 He widens his stance and grips his cane tighter. Jayce wants another demonstration of magical power? Fine. He can have another demonstration of power.

It should be simple enough, Viktor thinks as he lays the wood in front of him and kneels on the ground. Infusing life back into plants then stretching them into new forms is relatively easy, and the same should hold true for wood. He pulls a vial of lavender oil from his pocket, dips his fingers in it and traces the runes for revitalize and growth. As the runes begin to glow, Viktor runs his fingers over the grain of the wood, cataloguing each sweep and curve and crack. Whatever power blew the ship apart is long gone, leaving an empty vessel for Viktor to work with. He closes his eyes, visualizing the process as he pours his power into the spell—how the splintered wood will twist and merge back together, leaving perfectly intact planks on which Viktor can apply the resin, then have Jayce hammer them back into place, then Jayce will leave.

Magic bubbles up in him like a spring of water. Viktor could get drunk on the feeling—it soothes his nerves like a balm, refreshing and consuming, as his power reaches the wood.

The wood takes on a distinctive greenish tinge, each crack smoothing over, expanding and becoming whole again.

When Viktor looks up, Jayce is standing just a foot away from him, awestruck.

“That’s incredible,” Jayce breathes. “You can do that with all of them?”

Some of the indignation cools, just a little bit.

“I can,” Viktor confirms.

It’s easy to fall into the pattern. Viktor sorts the debris, using their measurements to reshape and mend it, and Jayce dutifully takes each completed plank, hauling it over to the ship and hammering it into place. Occasionally, he calls Viktor over, has him adjust the size, to fit it in more snugly.

By the time the sun has started to set, Viktor’s wrist is cramping, and the rush of strength that comes from magic has turned to dizziness, not completely unlike a high. The new wood makes the ship look not completely unlike a patchwork quilt, or a shabby coat, but Viktor can’t bring himself to mind. It’s progress, however small. Jayce seems to think so too, his step light as they make their way back up to the house, not even seeming to mind the Evolved trailing after them as much as usual. Viktor even catches him whistling as he works into the night, safe under the eyes of the Evolved.

It's taken longer than he would have liked, but now that they have a system down, the rest should be simple.

As they make their way down the next afternoon, Viktor allows himself to indulge the thought of Jayce being gone in a few short weeks. No more watching through the eyes of the Evolved. No more traps carved into his doorframe. No more always keeping on hand on the vial of sleeping draught. No more eager questions and strange fascinations with Viktor’s witchcraft. It's enough to put a spring in Viktor’s step—or, at least, make his brace feel less restricting—and makes the trip downhill less punishing than usual. 

But, as the shoreline comes into view, Viktor can immediately tell that something is wrong.

The hull of the ship—the small section they’d spent all of yesterday repairing—has been smashed to pieces.

Jayce sees it a second later. He freezes, jaw dropping, something between shock and terror settling on his face.

“No,” Viktor whispers, like that one word will keep reality from being.

Jayce doesn’t say anything. He just takes off, tripping over his feet, faster and faster, until he’s at the beach.

Viktor is slower, but only due to his leg. He can’t feel his body as he moves, as quickly as he can, sliding down the rocks and only just managing to catch himself with his cane.

He can’t hear anything but the wind in his ears, the world around him blurry and numb, the ruined ship the only focus.

By the time he arrives on the shore, Jayce has sunk to his knees, staring at the wreck. It’s worse, so much worse, up close. All their work undone, and a little more besides. If the ship was a skeleton before, now it’s nothing more than shattered twigs.

It’s a long couple minutes before either of them speak. “I didn’t…” Jayce starts, voice cracking. “Viktor, you have to believe me, I didn’t… I wouldn’t...”

“I know,” Viktor whispers. A small part of him had thought, for the briefest of moments, that it might’ve been Jayce himself who had destroyed their work. But no—the fact that Viktor had been watching him through the eyes of the Evolved aside, Jayce’s horror is genuine.

Jayce turns to him. “Do you know who would’ve done this?”

Viktor can only shake his head. “No,” he says hollowly. He brings himself to approach the ship, to run a hand along the smaller splinters of wood. “We… We will need to collect the pieces,” he hears himself say. “Gather what we can, or bring down some of the forest trees. I will need to prepare a more advanced concoction. Something to make the wood more sturdy. Or a protection against storms.”

Jayce makes a disbelieving noise from the back of his throat. “You think a storm did this?”

No. Viktor doesn’t. The clear skies aside, the damage is too deliberate.

Unwittingly, he thinks of the silken bag, still shoved into his nightstand.

“Cause aside,” Viktor says, “It’s nothing a little additional magic can’t solve.” He tries to sound confident, pointedly ignoring the doubt curling in his stomach.

Jayce stands, fiddling with his leather bracelet. “You’re sure?” Unlike Viktor, he makes no attempts to hide his doubt.

“Of course not,” Viktor admits with a sigh. “But what other choice do we have?”

Jayce swallows, nods. “Can I help?”

No, Viktor wants to say. He doesn’t want Jayce anywhere near him when he’s working witchcraft.

But he can’t deny a second set of hands would be helpful, especially given how far they’ve been set back. And, if the bite in the air is anything to go by, their window for getting Jayce off the island is rapidly closing.

“If you wish,” Viktor says tiredly. Then, sharper, “But you will need to keep quiet. Do exactly as you are told and nothing more. It will take the night to prepare.”

Jayce smiles at that. Small, but real, like the sun peeking out from behind a storm cloud.

Viktor works with Jayce through the night, harvesting the plants and methodically grinding them into a mush, sprinkling and mixing in each new ingredient through gritted teeth of determination. Through it all, Jayce doesn’t falter once. He obeys Viktor’s requests, diligent and steady, and remains silent the entire time, not asking any of the questions Viktor knows he surely must have.

Viktor pointedly does not think about how empty the space feels without Jayce’s questions.

When they come back down to the beach the next day, it’s with a jug filled to the brim with a thick, glittering balm of mugwort, nettles, lavender oil, and boiled sea water. Even though it took the entire night, it doesn’t seem like enough, not when they are face to face with something so absolute and daunting.

They wordlessly comb the beach, finding the largest pieces of wood they can. Viktor tries to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck as he spreads the substance over the wood and uses his fingers to once again paint on the runes for revitalization and growth.

He can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him as the spell takes without even a shred of resistance, the wood expanding and devouring every stray chip in the vicinity, leaving them with an intact plank.

“It worked,” Jayce breathes, sounding practically giddy with relief.

“You sound surprised,” Viktor quips, even though he can’t keep the tremor of relief out of his own voice.

Jayce laughs, running a hand through his hair. “More like relieved.” Despite that, his brows are still twisted with concern as he looks out over the horizon and at the glittering waves reflecting off the afternoon sun, as if searching for whatever smashed the hull.

“Gather all the wood you can,” Viktor instructs, already dipping his fingers into the balm again. “We will get the planks ready today, then start adding them to the ship tomorrow.”

Jayce nods, immediately beginning to comb the beach. Viktor makes plank after plank, until his fingers have gone raw, the purple of his skin tinged with glittering green. He thinks he could trace the runes in his sleep by now—revitalize and growth, revitalize and growth, over and over and over again. And, as an extra protection, he adds plating and conditioning runes to the finished pieces.

If something—or someone—tries to ruin their work again, the planks will hold.

Still, Viktor decides, they will need another concoction once they start assembling the ship itself. A paint of rowan berries could work, similar to what he used in his room, but moly would be best. Already magical, and strong enough to prevent any interference from the gods.

The gods…

Viktor swallows. Hopefully, he’s being paranoid. Hopefully, the damage was from a naiad or monster that was in the mood for mischief. Not that any have come near his island before, but there’s a first for anything.

That’s what he tries to tell himself, at least.

Viktor looks up. The sun hasn’t set yet, still beating down from overhead. They have a few hours still. He could gather it now, preventing interference overnight. He glances at Jayce, still hauling debris into a pile to be mended by magic. Viktor could leave him here without consequence, in all likelihood, with just the usual Evolved watching him. But if it is a monster who had destroyed their work…

“Talis,” Viktor calls out before he can stop himself.

Jayce snaps his head up immediately.

“We need a new substance for the ship,” Viktor says, standing. “Something to help protect it.”

Jayce’s brows knit together in confusion before evening out, understanding dawning on his face. “Moly,” he says. “Right?”

Viktor nods, making his way to the path. “Come,” he says, “I’ll need your help gathering it.”

He hears Jayce jog up behind him.

“I thought mortals couldn’t pick moly,” Jayce says.

“They cannot,” Viktor confirms. “But for the amount we need, I will need your help bringing it back.”

Half true—it’s not like the flowers are heavy, and even a large number would be manageable. Still, Viktor is not going to leave Jayce on his own, not when they don’t know what destroyed the ship. Besides, it would be a hassle to keep an eye on Jayce while also trying to gather the small white flowers.

Jayce is quiet as they walk through the forest, those inquisitive eyes of his observing anything and everything. The leaves rustle overhead, the birds cheerful and undisturbed by the witch and his guest trekking down the brush. All leaves, save for the needles on a couple spruce trees, are shades of orange and yellow and brown, and about half the branches are bare. It won’t be long now, Viktor thinks, before the trees lose their leaves entirely, before the cold and winter storms set in and keep Jayce bound to the island until spring.

Unwittingly, Viktor picks up the pace, even though his leg aches in protest.

The clearing of moly is nestled in the heart of the island, through a narrow passage created from a sheer slate of rock and a grove of draping trees. There are other plants in the clearing, wildflowers in shades of purple and yellow and white, the pale petals of the moly almost indistinguishable from the rest of the florals unless you know where to look.

As they make their way down the passage, Viktor catches Jayce throwing a wary look at an Evolved knelt next to a large oak tree. It’s an older one, still intact, but with ivy wrapped around its legs and brown leaves littered over its shoulders. Inactive and content. Jayce glances back at the Evolved following them, cleaner and alert, but with the same golden marks of Viktor’s scarring fingerprints.

“How many of those are on the island?” Jayce asks.

Viktor hesitates before answering. “Forty-two, currently.”

Jayce trips over a root. “Forty-two?” he repeats, incredulous. “Where are they?”

“Around,” Viktor says evasively. “They have different places where they prefer to be.”

Different places Viktor prefers them to be. The Evolved don’t have preferences, with their quiet minds and bottled-up souls, but Jayce doesn’t need to know the intricacies of the transformation. He doesn’t need to know how many there have been before. How many are now gone.

“So they’re still sentient in there?” Jayce asks skeptically.

Viktor’s heart curls in guilt. “Yes,” he says curtly.

That’s not quite right, and is wholly dependent on what definition of “sentient” is used, but it’s easier than going into the specifics of that thread of golden soul existing in the shell of petricite.

“Why are they…” Jayce flounders, gesticulating vaguely. "Evolved?"

Viktor turns his gaze firmly ahead. The leaves crunch under his feet, deafeningly loud. “They are perfect beings,” he snips. “No hunger, no disease, no fear.”

No needs, no goals, no desires.

Jayce frowns. “Do they like it?”

“They are perfect,” Viktor repeats. “What more could they ask for?”

“So you, what?” Jayce asks with a snort. “Give them perfection and they act like your bodyguards?”

“Yes,” Viktor lies. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Jayce throws his hands up. “I wasn’t sure!” he says defensively. “You didn’t exactly ask before you tried to turn me into one.”

Overhead, a strong wind rustles the branches, sending a swirl of leaves falling down around them as they walk.

After a moment, Jayce asks, “When you transform them, does the energy from the transmutation go to you, or is it converted into something else inside them?”

Viktor presses his lips together. “The moly is just up ahead,” he says, ignoring Jayce’s question as he trudges forward.

He half-expects Jayce to say something else, to make the connection between the petricite of the Waiting Dead and the petricite of the Evolved, but Jayce—thankfully—remains silent.

Viktor feels himself relax as the clearing comes into view. With the afternoon sun overhead casting dappled shadows across this patch of wildflowers, it’s hard not to let a little bit of optimism seep in.

Optimism that is immediately crushed, when Viktor steps into the clearing, to the spot where he knows the moly lies.

Where the stalks have been uprooted, shredded, and crushed.

Like with the ship, there is a moment of disbelief before anything. Denial that what is in front of him isn’t real. Surely, if he closes his eyes, if he looks again, if he goes to another part of the clearing, the moly will still be there, intact and cheerful and alive.

But when he opens his eyes again, the crushed stalks still lie at his feet, curled and withered from the sun. Mutely, Viktor lowers himself to the ground, picks up a handful of the stalks. The flowers are dead, the leaves and stalks dried out, the roots too young and too far beneath the ground to be useful.

“No,” Viktor croaks. “No.”

“Are… Are those all moly?” Jayce asks, voice strained.

Viktor opens his mouth to answer, but finds he can’t. There’s a lump in his throat that blocks out all his words. Denial and anger, hot and heavy, strangle him.

Distantly, he is aware of Jayce, crashing through the clearing as he desperately searches through the grasses and flowers, looking in vain for those white flowers of protection. Viktor doesn’t move. Why should he? Searching will only confirm what he already knows: every single stalk of moly on the island has been uprooted and destroyed.

Jayce has collapsed on the ground on the other side of the clearing, a fistful of ruined stalks clenched in his hands. His stare is vacant, his breathing unsteady, something undeniably hollow in his expression. Like his last bit of hope has been crushed with the flowers.

Something disquieting settles in Viktor’s chest. Suddenly, all he can think of is the ship, of the pile of fresh planks. Unguarded on the beach.

Viktor pushes himself to his feet fast enough to make his head spin.

“Viktor?” Jayce asks, head snapping back up.

Viktor ignores him, closing his eyes and throwing his vision out to the Evolved closest to the beach. It’s knelt on the ground, amidst the rocks and sand, next to a slope, and Viktor pulls it upwards immediately. Joints clattering, it runs. It has no pulse, no heartbeat, no lungs to contract in exertion and fear, but that doesn’t stop Viktor’s own body from reacting.

It takes only a minute to reach the area where they’ve been working. Where a humming girl with blue braids and dancing robes is cheerfully hauling the freshly completed planks into the sea, each one making a solid plunk as it hits the water. Where the sunlight catches her skin, it distorts, glinting sharp as shattered glass.

Jinx.

Viktor runs with the Evolved as he never could if it were his own body. He’s unthinking as he charges, unable to formulate a plan beyond stop Jinx now.

Jinx turns, a lazy grin on her face. “Sorry, Cookie,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

Before Viktor can do anything—what, exactly, he doesn’t know, just that he needs to do something before she destroys the ship again—Jinx vanishes into thin air. There’s something next to the Evolved a moment later, like pressure before a storm.

Viktor swats at the air next to the Evolved, whipping around, but there’s nothing there.

Then, directly in his ear—his ear—he hears Jinx laugh.

He shouts, stumbling backwards, and he’s distantly aware of his body—not the Evolved, but his body—slamming up against a tree, the breath leaving his lungs all at once. He thinks Jayce is yelling something, but he can’t make it out. His senses are split between himself and the Evolved, the flowers and the beach, the pain and the peaceful numbness.

He scrambles to grasp those connecting threads, to order the Evolved away. Then, right next to the Evolved—

“Why was everyone so scared of these things?” Jinx wonders in her horrible and lilting tone. “It’s just a soul in crystal bottle. Easy enough to kill if you know the tri—”

A force like a dagger plunges into the head of the Evolved, through the thin gaps of petricite and straight into the center of something, and yanks.

Viktor’s vision cuts off.

Somewhere in his mind, the golden thread is snapped, and an Evolved is gone.

Viktor is falling before he can comprehend it, dark spots filling his vision and his limbs little more than deadweights. Through the dull roar in his ears, he can just make out a shout, and then arms are around him, strong and warm and sure. Around his shoulders, his arms, his back, and Viktor can’t stop it he can’t move he can’t—

“Don’t touch me!” Viktor screams, the words ripped from his throat as he pushes himself away.

Jayce releases him immediately, hands held up as he backs away.

Viktor gulps for air as the world slowly starts to come back into focus. There’s blood in his nose, dripping on to the flower petals, staining them a dark indigo.

He violently wipes it away on the hem of his robes.

Five seconds, he tells himself firmly. You have five seconds, then you are dangerous again. Ten seconds, then you need to move.

The flowers around Viktor sway in the breeze, lazy and blooming bright, but all Viktor can feel is the scratch of the dead stalks of moly underneath his hands. He tries to push himself to his feet, but then he realizes—he doesn’t have his cane.

His head snaps around to where he first fell, to Jayce. Jayce is still as stone, regarding Viktor like he’s a rapid animal.

Good, Viktor thinks fiercely. Be scared.

But then, cautious and so, so careful, Jayce reaches down, picking something up. It takes Viktor an embarrassingly long second to recognize what it is.

His cane.

There’s something unbearably gentle in his gaze as he holds the cane out to Viktor, as if presenting a peace offering.

Everything in Viktor screams not to take it. He glares at his leg, his damned and useless leg, bound and twisted and traitorous thing that it is. He’s unable to look at Jayce when he snatches the cane from his hands, when he makes himself stand despite how badly he’s shaking. He can only hope Jayce doesn’t notice.

The hesitation on Jayce’s face is palpable. He wants to ask, Viktor knows he does, but that trepidation is still there.

It’s a long few seconds before the need to know wins out.

“What happened?” Jayce asks.

The snapped connection is raw in his mind, threatening to make him collapse once again.

Viktor forces himself to stand straighter and finally look Jayce in the eye. “We need to go back to the ship,” he snaps. “Now.”

It hits Jayce immediately, the meaning behind Viktor’s words. His eyes widen, and he’s on his feet, looking like he wants to take off running, but also not willing to launch himself ahead of Viktor’s slower pace. Viktor doesn’t think he’d stop Jayce, even if had enough presence of mind to explain, but his throat has closed up again. The ever-present pain in his leg and back are distant things, nothing next to the roar in his head and the burning of his lungs as he stumble-runs through the forest. His familiarity with the terrain is the only thing keeping him from tripping or running into a tree.

Why did he wait to gather the moly until today? He should’ve thought it over, he should’ve been more prepared, he should’ve known…

Let it still be there, Viktor begs, falling leaves whipping past his face. Let the planks not have drifted too far away. Let us not be too late. Please don’t let us be too late.

But he knows. In his heart, he knows, and it’s confirmed when he and Jayce both crash through the treeline and on to the beach.

Every single one of the planks is gone.

Jinx, of course, is nowhere to be seen.

Viktor has the unbearable urge to sink to his knees and scream. He doesn’t, though. He’s frozen, no better than stone, the world around him a roaring blur, leaving little room for anything else. All he can do is stare out at the sparkling ocean waves. Are the planks out there? Could he reach them if he could swim far enough out? He can picture them so clearly, still glittering with magic and runes, floating just past the bubble of his prison boundary.

At least the severed Evolved is also gone. At least he doesn’t have to explain that to Jayce.

Neither Viktor nor Jayce say anything for a long while. Until, Jayce, hollowly, “The ship’s still here.”

The ship wreckage, in horrible irony, has been untouched. Still there, tantalizing with the hope that maybe they could still fix it. Viktor can grow new trees, create new materials to use. Even the moly will regrow come spring. But how long before that too is taken? How much time will they have to waste trying to create a way off the island before it’s snatched from their grasp?

As far as torture goes, he could not devise something more cruel.

Viktor storms up to the bare wooden bones that had once been a ship. The rage inside of him is a palpable thing, boiling and begging to be released. At Jinx, at his prison barrier, at Jayce, at the rest of the damned gods of this forsaken world. It’s not enough to confine him in solitude for eternity, leaving him with nothing but his plants and the dread of visitors, but now this, too?

The sheer futility of it threatens to consume him.

“If this is your idea of a joke,” Viktor snaps, glaring at the wreckage, “You have had your laughs. Now let me repair the ship.”

Silence meets his declaration.

Viktor strains his ears—if he concentrates, he can just make out the sound of mad laughter in the breeze. He’s clutching his cane so hard that he can feel an indentation forming in his palm. Bad enough that she gave Jayce the moly and shielded him from Viktor’s magic—she has to sabotage their attempts to get him off the island, too? Since when has the Goddess of Madness dealt in protections, of all things?

“…Who are you talking to?” Jayce finally asks.

Viktor doesn’t answer, too angry to speak, uncaring that he probably looks as mad as Jinx herself right about now. Jinx’s voice rings in his head— I can fix it. I can keep it from getting both of you.

Ridiculous. Viktor is fine on his own. She knows nothing of him. Nothing.

But, staring at the pile of debris, Viktor can’t help but wonder what she knows of Jayce. What about him has the Goddess of Madness so worried that she’d strand him on an island prison with someone as dangerous as Viktor? She knows what Viktor has done, what he continues to do. How can she think her mortal is safe here?

He still remembers the power he’d felt on the destroyed ship, like barely contained lightning. Which god would be so obliterating in their vengeance? He can think of several, each worse than the last.

All Viktor can see is that silken bag, caught on the wood splinter, fluttering in the breeze. Intact despite everything.

“We should go back to the house,” Viktor says.

Jayce opens his mouth, like he wants to protest, but then closes it. He swallows, nods.

The trek back up the hill is silent save for the wind in the trees and the birdsong. How can they be so cheerful, Viktor can’t help but seethe. Each step and accompanying ache only adds fuel to his frustration and rage, stoking the fire into an all-consuming blaze.

When they reach the house and walk inside, Viktor says, “Wait here,” gesturing at the dining table.

Jayce, at last picking up on the mood, sits down immediately.

Viktor stalks down the halls until he reaches his room, practically flinging the door open as he yanks out the nightstand drawer. The silk bag is still in it, just as pristine as when Viktor had first taken it from the ship. He balls it up in his hand, and not bothering to close the drawer, makes his way back to the dining hall.

Jinx wants to keep her newest mortal toy trapped on his island? Fine.

But not without some answers.

He ignores how Jayce sits up straighter when he enters. Before he can say anything though, Viktor tosses the bag on the table.

Jayce’s reaction is instantaneous—he blanches, then freezes, like the first wrong move will have Viktor going for the throat.

It is, to be fair, not a wholly incorrect assumption on Jayce’s part.

“I inspected your ship,” Viktor says unnecessarily. “After you first arrived.”

Jayce works his jaw for a moment, trying and failing to find his words. When he recovers, straightening up, it’s beyond obvious just how much of a bravado he is putting on, with his squared shoulders and clenched fists and the way he works his jaw. Now that Viktor knows what it looks like, it’s borderline ridiculous to think that Jayce ever could have been putting on an act in all their conversations, if this is how transparent he is.

“Not much to see there,” Jayce finally manages to get out. “The storm destroyed most of it.”

“Funny you should mention the storm,” Viktor muses. “I have seen shipwrecks before, and yet, none quite so… Deliberate, as this one.”

Jayce swallows. “Deliberate?” he repeats weakly.

Viktor nods. “Yes,” he says, voice hard as steel. “Sealed trunks and oil-treated books, and yet everything was water-logged and torn beyond repair.”

Jayce stares down at the table.

“I also spoke to the Lady Jinx, briefly,” Viktor continues. “She seems to think she is shielding you from something, by keeping you here.”

Jayce exhales slowly. He looks completely unsurprised.

“Which gods?” Viktor questions.

Jayce, to his credit, drops the façade of ignorance almost immediately. His shoulders slump, and he runs his hands over his head before letting them rest on the back of his neck. “Renni,” he admits. Then, more quietly, “Maybe Violet. And… Janna.”

Viktor exhales through his teeth. Renni, Goddess of Vengeance, and Violet, Goddess of War, are not altogether surprising. Horrible, certainly, but understandable, given their divine domains. But Janna? Goddess of the Winds? From what he can recall of her, she is a gentle being—unrelenting towards injustice, but kind, and with a fondness for children.

“That seems quite unlike Lady Janna,” Viktor remarks.

The guilt on Jayce’s face is almost too much to bear. “She was one of the few gods who still wanted anything to do with us,” he explains. “After… Everything.”

The war, Viktor realizes—he means the war.

Viktor taps a finger on his cane, tilting his head as he studies Jayce. “You never said,” he says slowly, “What your war was over.”

Jayce lets out a hollow laugh. He stares at the open window, at the sea and slowly setting sun. There are red shadows cast across his face when he speaks. “What else? Love.”

Viktor blinks. “I do not understand.”

Jayce sighs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I didn’t either.”

A breeze blows through the open window, soft but chilling. Viktor strains, listening for Jinx and her laughter, but there is nothing but silence. Still, he walks over, closing and latching the window. For good measure, he draws the curtains, as well.

Immediately, the room seems to shrink, the darkness pressing him and Jayce closer together. The runes across Viktor’s skin beat in time with his heart. He has the Evolved in the room leave, going just outside the door. Out of sight, but still waiting, just in case. A faint bit of surprise flickers across Jayce’s face at that, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Viktor pulls out the chair closest to Jayce and takes a seat. “Tell me,” he says.

Jayce swallows. His gaze remains fixed on the table, his hand twisting and fiddling with his leather bracelet. For a moment, Viktor doesn’t think he’ll speak at all.

Then, “...It was between the gods and Piltover at first.”

Viktor inhales sharply before he can stop himself.

Mortals? Rise up against the gods? It’s blasphemy of the highest degree. And against such forces…

How did anyone survive? Did they…?

“Did anyone live?” Viktor can’t help but ask.

Jayce snorts. “Of course they did,” he says bitterly. “I made sure of that.”

Viktor tilts his head, motioning for Jayce to continue.

Jayce brings a knee to his chest. “It started with Violet, Goddess of War.” His tone is detached, his gaze distant. “She appeared before the Piltover Council. I’d just been appointed. I was so… Eager. I wanted to prove myself to Piltover and the rest of the Council. I thought it was the greatest honor.”

“She asked your city to go to war?” Viktor inquires.

Jayce laughs. It’s a dull sound. “No,” he says. “The opposite, actually. She said that, if she could wed the fairest maiden in Piltover without protest from the Council, the city would not only have her blessing, but we’d also remain at peace for the next thousand years.”

Viktor exhales slowly, dread creeping down his spine. A bargain like that… “It was a trick,” he guesses.

Jayce shakes his head. “Maybe. I’ll never know.”

Viktor blinks.

“We rejected her blessing,” Jayce explains, “And, in a fit of rage, one of the Councilors ordered her Piltover temple destroyed.”

Viktor’s heart pounds. He remembers two men who had spurned the blessing of Singed, early into the year of his apprenticeship. They had been mortals—nobodies, really, in the grand scheme of things. But Singed had cursed them into monsters, made them murder their families and ravage their city, leaving nothing but burnt earth in their wake.

What would the Goddess of War do to the leaders of a city over worse sacrilege?

Viktor leans back in his chair slowly. “That was an extremely foolhardy thing for that Councilor to do,” he says quietly.

Jayce laughs. “You’re telling me. We didn’t even know what she’d done to Violet’s temple until it was done. Mel begged her to make reparations—prayers, offerings, anything—but she’s always been stubborn, especially when it comes to her dau—” He stops, mouth snapping shut. Then, before Viktor can jump on the slip, he quickly says, “It probably wouldn’t have mattered, in the end, even if the entire city burned offerings in Violet’s name. Gods aren’t exactly known for leniency.”

Viktor chuckles before he can stop himself. “That they are not.”

Jayce startles, then lets out a small laugh of his own, his mouth briefly cracking into a faintly incredulous smile. Quickly, though, it vanishes, that shame creeping back over his face.

How had Viktor never noticed, how much guilt was written into every line of his body?

“Violet set monsters against the Council,” Jayce continues. “She said she’d stop only once the entire Council had stepped down. They all refused, of course. I should have said something, but…” He shakes his head. “Then, one of her monster’s attacks made it to the Council building itself. Mel’s mom, the Queen of Noxus, heard about it, and she showed up with an army. Tearing down every temple and shrine in their path, of course.”

Viktor can see so clearly the thread of events, the way everything snowballed. “And the gods called on their champions,” he murmurs. “And the champions called their armies. And...”

Jayce nods. “And the leaders split their armies,” he confirms. “Between who was loyal to the champions and gods, and who was loyal to the throne.”

Viktor closes his eyes. Gods above, the entire world would have been at war. Noxus, Demacia, Ionia, likely dozens more that he’s never even heard the names of. There is so much Viktor is dying to know. Which gods fought? Which gods abstained? Who survived? What did the world look like after?

Who won?

Somehow, it feels silly to ask.

“I was ordered to help lead the army,” Jayce says.

Viktor blinks. A Councilor? Ordered to lead the army? “That seems unusual,” he remarks.

Jayce shifts in his seat. “It was,” he admits, voice strained. “What can I say? We were desperate.”

Viktor narrows his eyes. He’s lying, or at least not telling the full truth.

Before he can press, though, Jayce continues, “I killed… So many people, Viktor. Champions, soldiers, anyone who came at me with a weapon, really, until I was almost numb from it. But, at the end of the war, I…” Jayce swallows. “I didn’t mean to, but I killed a kid.”

It’s the confirmation Viktor has been waiting for. That Jayce is exactly as bad as every other visitor who has come through. Yet, in Jayce’s mouth, those words don’t feel like conquest. They feel like a confession.

All Viktor can think of are broken bodies underneath his hands, illuminated in prismatic light, pain turning into bliss.

“I don’t even know how he got on the battlefield,” Jayce says. “But that was it for me. I was the highest ranking general, and Piltover expected me to fight until the war was won. Instead, I lit a pyre, and sent out prayers and offerings to Silco, God of Death, and I issued a surrender.”

Viktor can’t hide his shock.

Surrender?

“What did the Piltover Council say?” Viktor asks.

Jayce stares at the bracelet around his wrist. In the evening light, it almost looks like a chained cuff. “They were furious, naturally,” he says. “But I didn’t care. The war was done—everyone knew it. I was ready to go back to Piltover and live out my days hated and as anonymous as I could get. I gathered all our remaining ships and started the journey back home.”

It doesn’t end there, though. There’s still Renni and Janna.

And sure enough, Jayce continues. “The kid I killed…” he says. “He was the mortal son of Renni. Her only son.”

Viktor’s heart stops.

Oh.

“Yeah,” Jayce says, smiling without an ounce of mirth. “You can imagine what the Goddess of Vengeance would do to avenge the death of her son. Even after retreating, we had her monsters chasing us, and she summoned hurricanes to block our way home.”

Viktor frowns. Block the way home? “She did not kill you?” he questions.

Renni is many things—spiteful, cruel, monstrous—but she does not draw out suffering, he remembers that much.

Jayce rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m not sure why she didn’t just kill us. Maybe it was Jinx preventing her.”

His voice is tight, and he won’t look Viktor in the eye. Viktor has spoken to Jinx enough times that, while she absolutely chooses favorites among mortals, she does not give much regard to the collateral damage around them. It is believable she would protect Jayce from Renni’s wrath, yes. The rest of the Piltover soldiers?

No.

It’s a lie, or at least a hedging of the truth, but Viktor doesn’t point it out. He’s enthralled, and maybe even a little terrified—if he presses too hard, he’s not sure if this story will ever be heard again.

“Didn’t stop Renni from making our journey miserable, though,” Jayce continues. “Normally, it’d have only taken a month to get back home. We’d been trying to get from Ionia back to Piltover for almost a year. Our supplies were running low, and if we didn’t find a way…”

Viktor nods. “She did not have to break the protections to kill you,” he murmurs. “Not outright. Not when she could starve you out.”

Jayce closes his eyes. “I thought I was being smart,” he says, almost to himself. “I’d heard that Janna still favored Piltover for the old shrines and that she was showing amnesty to anyone who asked, so I asked. Begged, honestly.”

“From my knowledge, she does not seem the worst god to pray to,” Viktor says.

She’d been soft before his banishment, and before today—based solely on Jinx’s occasional comment about the windy lady who dotes too much on mortals—Viktor would have said she was still soft.

Evidently not.

Jayce lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I thought, too. I haven’t done a lot to earn the favor of the gods, though, so she proposed a test. She gathered up the storms, then handed me that bag.” He nods to the silken bag on the table. “She said that it contained a secret magical power within it, and that it would keep away the storms as long as it remained closed, but as soon as we arrived in Piltover, the bag and the secrets of magic within it would vanish.”

Viktor’s heart sinks. He can see the trap in what Jayce has described, the hidden test Janna had devised, exactly what someone such as Jayce—Jayce with his fascination, Jayce with his questions, Jayce with his arrogance and brilliance and desperate hunger to know everything about magic—would have done.

Jayce looks away, eyes focused on some point out the window, as if he can see through the curtain and into the past. “We were in Piltover’s waters,” he says quietly. “I thought we were safe. I’ve spent my entire life trying to learn anything I could about magic. I thought, even if it was just a glimpse…” He trails off, his expression lost.

Viktor sighs. Punished for the sin of curiosity. “You would not be the first to fail a test of the gods,” he says.

It’s meant to be reassuring, but the words sound hollow, even to him.

Jayce doesn’t even seem to hear him. His face seems grey in the filtered evening light. “The storm that came out of it was the worst I’d ever seen,” he says, voice far away, “And we were at the center. It swept everyone and everything away. It felt like every breath was just inhaling water. I tried to close the bag, but it did nothing. I tried to get the ship under control, but everything I touched shattered in my hands or splintered apart before I could touch it.”

Viktor can see it playing out so clearly. Each broken beam and plank he’d catalogued, how it would have been ripped apart at the seams, Jayce desperately searching for something, anything, he could use, all while everything continued to unravel around him.

“In the end,” Jayce says, his voice scathing in its guilt, “All I could do was watch as everyone disappeared under the waves or was blown away by hurricane winds. I don’t know how I lived.”

Viktor doesn’t answer. His throat closes up at the thought of telling Jayce that living, of witnessing every single death and knowing it was his fault and still living, was likely the punishment.

Jayce no longer looks like the threatening soldier or dangerous visitor. Now, he just looks weathered and horribly, horribly lost. "Will any of them still come for me? While I'm here?"

Viktor shakes his head. "No," he says with certainty. "There is a... Bubble, of sorts, around this island. An old blessing on the land from Ekko, God of Time."

A curse, more like, but Jayce doesn't need to know the shameful truth of Viktor's imprisonment.

"Things are frozen here," Viktor continues. "Life unaging, gods less powerful and cut off from worship outside of the island. It would be foolish, for a god to confront you directly here, especially with a witch on the island."

And, Viktor has to admit, likely the entire reason why Jinx has chosen Viktor's island, of all places, to keep Jayce confined. 

Jayce fiddles with his bracelet as he processes that information. It is truly a sign of how much his recounting has rattled him, that he doesn't ask any follow-up questions of the island's barrier. Instead, "How long do you think,” Jayce asks, a tremor in his voice, “Until Renni will let me go?”

Viktor’s mouth is dry.

Never. That’s the answer—not until Jayce has been killed, or until everyone else around him has died. Janna likely won’t bother him again. Even Violet might be sated with her victory in the war.

But Renni?

Viktor looks away instead of answering.

It doesn’t matter—the meaning is clear to Jayce anyways. He swallows, nods. Then, quietly, “Jinx… She’s never going to let me off this island, is she?”

Viktor sighs. “No,” he admits.

Jayce slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. His hair has gotten longer, and despite the fact that he certainly looks cleaner and healthier than when he first arrived, his cheerful front is gone, leaving nothing to mask the guilt and exhaustion that has wrapped itself around him.

Viktor stares at his hands, unsure of what to do. Comfort would be out of place, any reassurances nothing but a lie. Besides, Jayce would not want any kindness from the witch who is little better than his jailor, Viktor is sure of that.

After a minute, Jayce speaks again. “If I’m not there,” he says slowly, like he’s afraid of the answer, “If I’m not in Piltover, will Renni hurt Mel?”

Mel. The fiancée.

“No,” Viktor says, voice soft. “No. Not with you gone. There would be no point to that revenge unless you were there to witness it.”

Jayce’s shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good. I mean, Mel can handle herself, but…”

Viktor nods in place of answering. Whatever capabilities this Mel possesses, he doubts they would be a match against a god, but he refrains from saying so. The room has darkened further with the setting sun, only a bit of light filtering in through the curtains, casting the room in darkening purples and blues and leaving an unmistakable chill in the air.

Gods above, what are they going to do?

“We will find a solution,” Viktor hears himself say. "Gods are indestructible, but more easily outwitted than many care to admit. There will be a way to outsmart or appease Lady Renni’s vengeance. Then the Lady Jinx will surely have to let you leave.”

Jayce’s looks up. Even in the dim light, the disbelief on his face is apparent. “You’ll still help?”

Viktor shrugs. “I swore, did I not? A way off the island for your help.”

“I think the exact phrasing was you’d help repair the ship, which you did,” Jayce points out, even though he has to know that such an observation isn’t to his benefit. “It’s not your fault that Jinx is keeping it from being finished.”

Viktor can’t help but roll his eyes. Honest to a fault. “Believe it or not, Talis, I am also eager to have you off the island,” he says.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have thought…” Jayce trails off, shaking his head. “Helping me might just set Renni after you. You’d risk that?”

Viktor scoffs. “The gods already hate and fear me for witchcraft,” he says flatly, “And they cannot interfere with Lord Ekko's blessing on the island." Not without the risk of freeing Viktor himself, and none would dare do that. "We will figure something out.”

What, exactly, he has no idea. But there will be a solution. There has to be.

Jayce just nods. Not wholly convinced, but also not protesting.

Viktor sighs. “We can brainstorm tomorrow,” he says, standing up, turning away so Jayce can’t see the doubt on his own face.

There is no way off the island. The gods have made sure of that. But Viktor has witchcraft, the one thing that can overpower the gods, and that has to count for something.

Right?

Viktor almost doesn’t hear it, when Jayce says quietly, “Can I ask you a question?”

Viktor pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Jayce. His voice is hoarse and raw, his eyes downcast. It seems… Cruel, to deny him a question, after everything he’s just told Viktor.

He nods once.

“The fact that I have gods after me, and that Jinx is meddling in my life,” Jayce says, each word so careful, so terrified of a misstep, “Is that why you’ve been so scared of me?”

Viktor freezes.

Jayce knows. He can see past the runes like armor on Viktor’s skin, past his cold words, past the centuries of magic that once made his fellow gods quake in fear. He knows, he knows he knows he knows…

No.

Viktor shoves the memories to the back of his skull. He clenches his fist, hard enough to leave indents in his palms, and lets the brief flare of pain become the center of his focus until nothing else remains.

“You are mistaken,” Viktor hears himself say. The words sound flat in his ears, disconnected, completely separated from the roar of his pulse. “I am not scared of you, Talis.”

He does not look back as he leaves Jayce at the table.

He can’t feel his legs as he walks down the hall. His heart is somehow beating louder than ever, yet numb in his chest. The world around him is nothing but angles, as disjointed as if Jinx were right there next to him, and the ground sways underneath his feet. It’s not until he opens the door to his room that he realizes that his hands are shaking.

Viktor all but slams his room door shut. His legs wobble, then give out, as he slowly sinks to the ground, propped up against the door and holding on to his cane like it’s his only port in a storm.

He’s not scared of Jayce. He’s not.

He’s not.

He still doesn’t move from his usual spot across from the door, cane in one hand, the sleeping draught in the other, as he keeps his guard through the night, vision split between the door and through the eyes of the Evolved. Still out of sight, but still watching Jayce.

Just in case.

Jayce stays in the kitchen for hours. He gets up to pace every now and then, but will inevitably sink back into the chair, staring off into space, his mind seemingly thousands of miles away. Viktor has accepted that he’s going to be there the entire night, either eventually passing out at the table or delirious from lack of sleep by the time morning comes, but then he stands.

He doesn’t go to his room as Viktor expects. Instead, he goes to the hall, to the overflowing bookshelves. He looks around, guilty, then quickly selects a book.

Even though Viktor is not there, only watching through the Evolved, he doesn’t dare move, his breath frozen in his lungs.

Jayce takes the book and walks away.

Viktor can’t see which book it is from the Evolved’s vantage point in the shadows. It could be one of the tomes that he’d said Jayce could read. It could be Jayce just wants something to read to distract him or help him get to sleep.

But the furtive look over his shoulder as he hastily steals into the workshop says otherwise.

He closes the door behind him, leaving Viktor paralyzed in the shadows.

Chapter Text

“Should we start the lift today?” Jayce asks as they head into the workshop. “I got the new tools ready, and you finished the calculations, right? It might help us decide what to do while we… You know. Figure out what to do about Jinx and Renni.”

Viktor doesn’t say anything. He just follows behind Jayce silently until they are both inside the workshop room. He brings the hand not holding his cane to the pocket of his robes. His fingers slide over the evidence he’d gathered, the tome taken from Jayce’s room, filled with Jayce’s notes of scribbled and crossed out lines of equations and runes. Then, over the fresh glass vial he’d prepared last night after witnessing Jayce’s act. Adder venom, crushed crickets, and ground bone.

The sleeping draught.

All he needs to do is toss it on Jayce, wave his fingers, and Jayce will fall asleep until Viktor wakes him. Unharmed, true to his word, but neutralized until Viktor can find a more permanent solution.

But first, answers.

He directs the Evolved that he always has following them to the window, guarding it.

It is not until Viktor closes the workshop door—the ever-open workshop door—that Jayce seems to realize that something is wrong.

The smile on his face wavers. So similar to that first day, his eyes become pinpricks of fear, glancing to the other exits, and his breath catching when he realizes they are all blocked.

“...Viktor?” he asks.

“What were you working on last night?” Viktor questions without prelude.

Jayce freezes. “...What?”

Viktor advances on him, and Jayce nearly trips over his feet in his haste to back away. “I saw you last night,” Viktor hisses, eyes narrowed. He can feel the pure and furious intent of his magic thrumming through his bones, wrapping around his fingers and begging to be released.

“What… What are you…?” Jayce stammers, but his denial is futile. His fear is a palpable thing, fueling Viktor like oxygen to a flame.

Jayce had let himself grow too comfortable, Viktor can’t help but think, like he’d been feeding a feral wolf, forgetting that the monster had fangs and claws and hunger. He’d forgotten, but now, he’s remembering—his gaze snaps away from Viktor for just a moment, towards the Evolved, all at once reminded at just what Viktor is capable of.

Perhaps it is his own fault, Viktor acknowledges. He’d also grown complacent, letting himself get used to Jayce and his unfailing warmth, letting himself forget for a few lethal moments that the flattery was manipulative rather than genuine. If any of the gods could see him now, they’d be laughing, he’s sure. Perhaps Jinx is watching and laughing now.

But no more.

“I have seen you in the workshop,” Viktor continues. Despite the hurricane in his chest, his voice comes out calm and even. “I had thought you were working on the energy source for the lift, up until last night.”

Jayce swallows. “I… I was,” he tries to claim.

Viktor fixes him with a sharp glare before tossing the tome on the table. It lands with a solid thud, the pages fluttering open, Jayce’s notes falling out and scattering across the floor like petals.

“I will admit, you had me fooled briefly,” Viktor says coolly. “Your act yesterday was nearly perfect. For a moment, I even thought your choice in books was innocent, despite the fact that you tried to hide it under your pillow.”

It had been a simple matter, to have an Evolved slip into Jayce’s room while his guest was wolfing down breakfast. Not quite as simple to keep his reactions under control as he took in all of Jayce’s notes through the eyes of the Evolved, but it hardly matters.

Jayce blanches. “It’s not what it looks like,” he protests. “I was—”

“—Researching the limits of magic, yes,” Viktor interrupts. “That was the subject of the book you were reading, no?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Viktor knows the subject well, considering that it’s one of his oldest tomes, consisting of centuries' worth of research as he repeatedly tested the limits of witchcraft. The materials needed, the time it took to cast a spell, the preparation that needed to be done beforehand.

All the ways, in short, that Jayce could use to sabotage a spell.

Jayce’s gaze flicks down to the notes. He gapes like a beached fish, as if searching for the words to protest, but none come. It would be difficult to deny, after all, considering that he signed every page of his notes.

It's as if he were trying to get caught.

“Admit it,” Viktor hisses. “You’ve been waiting for this opportunity, for me to lower my guard just enough for you to make your move.”

“No, Viktor, listen,” Jayce tries to say. He reaches for the notes—

—And Viktor slams his cane against Jayce’s knee. It’s a hard hit, fueled by rage and determination, and Viktor can feel the vibration of the hit from Jayce’s bones, through the wood of his cane, down to his marrow.

Jayce falls to the ground with a gasp, his wrist hitting the table on the way down and sending notes and gears falling down around him. He clutches at his leg, wincing, the gears clinking and rolling across the floor. For a moment, Viktor’s heart rises to his throat—did he break Jayce’s knee? No, there’s no blood, the leg still bent correctly, but it doesn’t matter, Viktor doesn’t care.

“How long were you going to keep pretending?” Viktor presses, leering over Jayce. “Playing the friendly and tragic mortal? Was any part of your story true?”

“It was!” Jayce insists, voice tight. “All of it, I swear, I wouldn’t—”

“Why should I believe you?” Viktor snaps. His hand curls around the sleeping draught in his pocket, his thumb at the stopper.

Jayce struggles to get to his feet. “I just wanted to learn—”

“My limits, yes,” Viktor says impatiently. “All the ways you could overcome my defenses, get past the runes.”

“No! Would you just listen—”

“I am done listening,” Viktor hisses. He takes the vial from his pocket, raising it above his head, ready to slam it down on Jayce’s head, and—

“I was trying to create magic!” Jayce explodes.

Viktor freezes.

...What?

“Teleportation,” Jayce continues, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “With witchcraft and science.”

Viktor narrows his eyes, the draught still raised. “That is impossible,” he says.

Jayce shakes his head. “It’s organic matter,” he says stubbornly. “Just moving it. I… Look, here—I’ve been going over your notes for runes,” he continues, frantically gathering up the fallen papers and shoving them upwards for Viktor to see. “Here, and here. I know it’s possible—when I was a kid, my mom and I got lost in a storm, south of Piltover, just on the border of the Wild Rift. We… We were saved. A witch like you, I guess. He teleported us to a meadow outside of Piltover, and he handed me this.”

Jayce holds out his arm, the one with the leather bracelet strapped around its wrist. Viktor looks down, examining it in detail for the first time. The leather is worn, but the teardrop crystal in its center is pristine.

At the center of the crystal is a rune.

“Acceleration,” Viktor murmurs before he can stop himself.

Jayce nods quickly. “Witchcraft was forbidden by the gods after the creation of the Wild Rift—”

—and Viktor can’t quite hold back a flinch at that, the way his eyes briefly flick to the Evolved still standing behind Jayce, its featureless face overlaid with the warped and prismatic skin of the people he’d once tried to heal—

“—But this is a different kind of magic, combined with science.” He ruffles through the papers, pointing to different equations. “The gods are limited to their domains, and you’ve said that even your magic has limits to organic matter. But there might be less limits than you think. Think of the implications—based on what you've said, a crystal that can channel magic shouldn't be possible, but the fact that the gemstone even exists proves that there's possibilities we've never even thought of before. With this, we could harness the elements, metal, even time and space.”

Viktor’s mind is racing. It shouldn’t be possible.

Jayce’s equations on the page, balanced and artful and perfect, say otherwise.

“Nobody believed me in Piltover,” Jayce continues. Then, with a bitter laugh, “Or, well, some of them did—my mom begged me to forget about it, said I wasn’t in my right mind and that I’d only bring down the wrath of the gods. Then, with Mel... She actually found out about my research, and she convinced me to destroy it before anyone could find the truth.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Probably was for the best—I would’ve gotten exiled from Piltover if it wasn’t for her. Maybe even imprisoned.”

Viktor—suddenly and viscerally—has a rush of absolute detestation for this Mel.

How could she see this brilliance and make him destroy it before even giving it a chance?

“Then, I came here,” Jayce says, fidgeting, “And, well… You have all these notes, all this research, knowledge I’d never even heard of before. I’ve been trying to decipher runes my entire life, but this is the first time I’ve seen them. And I couldn’t stop thinking—if I could find a way to mimic that teleportation, with the resources you have here…” He wavers, shaking his head.

Viktor slowly takes some of the papers. They’re centered around Jayce’s gemstone, the acceleration rune, containing sketches of a device Viktor can only assume he once tried to make in Piltover.

“I don’t know, I could at least make a blueprint based on my old work, even a theory. I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I know, I just thought, if—”

“It’s not a theory,” Viktor interrupts.

Jayce stops. Stares.

“What you have,” Viktor says. “You’re on to something.”

He hesitates—the glass vial is still in his hands, pleasantly cool at his fingertips and tempting in its reassurance.

Deliberately, Viktor puts it back into his pocket.

“Magic draws on existing energy,” Viktor says, taking more of the papers from Jayce. He sets them on the table, grabs the nearest quill, and begins to write. “What you are proposing defies the laws of it, but you could reroute the source, making a feedback loop, of sorts.”

“Like with the lift,” Jayce says quickly, eyes shining.

“Like with the lift,” Viktor confirms, sketching. “But with additional transmutation to provide energy.” He taps the page. “Perhaps a phase rune? Paired with both the acceleration in the mainframe, it would account for the transference from one space to another, but—”

“—But it still needs stabilization,” Jayce says. “Like you’ve been saying with your plants and the runes—something to direct the flow.”

“So we stabilize it,” Viktor says simply.

Jayce laughs. “You say that like it’s easy. I’ve been trying—I’d been experimenting with lower frequencies of oscillation to keep it from spinning out of control before I came here.” He laughs. “That was how Mel found out—late night at the lab, and I put the frequency too high, and it blew out all the windows. She helped cover it up, saying it was a zinc compound explosion.”

Mel. Her name is like sandpaper against Viktor’s skull, but he pushes the strange feeling aside for the time being.

He circles one of Jayce’s equations, starts scribbling next to it. “The idea is sound,” Viktor acknowledges, “But caution will get you nowhere.”

Jayce blinks. “What do you…?”

“These equations account for the lowest possible frequency before the crystal becomes ineffective,” Viktor explains, drawing a line from his notes to the highest frequency Jayce had written.

He can feel Jayce leaning over behind him, his body an inch from Viktor, impossibly warm. It’s suffocating, that presence, but it doesn’t bother Viktor as much as it normally would, that constant prickling of fear diminished.

“You’ve been afraid of going faster,” Viktor continues. “But look at these numbers. If the crystals only stabilize at higher frequencies, then you would have to—“

“Crank it!” Jayce finishes, grinning. “We crank it.”

Viktor turns in surprise. Then, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, matching Jayce’s own, he says with some amusement, “...Yes. Yes, we have to… Crank it.”

Jayce lets out a disbelieving laugh. “It works. You made it work.”

Viktor shrugs. “Eh. On paper.” He starts clearing off the workshop desk. “We have to test it.”

Jayce blinks. “Wait—now?”

“Of course,” Viktor says, already shoving stray gears and tools into boxes. “Why not?”

Jayce runs a hand through his hair, laughs again. “I just… After everything…” He stares at Viktor. “Why?”

“Why not?” Viktor counters. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “The gods have no eyes on us here, and your Piltover is an ocean away. What is stopping us?”

Jayce fidgets with one of the papers. “But Jinx…”

“Can do nothing to anything inside of this house,” Viktor says firmly.

Jayce gives him a dubious look.

“The wards along the house are meant to keep gods out,” Viktor admits.

Jayce startles at the admittance, but doesn’t say anything.

“No gods or monsters can enter without my permission,” Viktor continues. “Not to mention Ekko’s blessing. It makes the island… Less attractive, to godly interference.” Then, smiling wryly, “Besides, what is the point of harnessing the one thing that can overpower the gods if we do not push the boundaries of magic and science to their limits?”

Jayce laughs, cracking a smile wide enough that Viktor can see the slight gap between his front teeth.

He pointedly ignores the way his heart flutters.

Viktor looks away, focusing on the notes detailing the stand set-up in an attempt to shove his ridiculous feelings to the side. “Show me how you intended the wiring to be set up,” he says.

Jayce runs to the shelf, gathering up materials in his arms. “Here,” he says. “We need to create a magnetic stand of some kind. Something to keep it in place without actually touching it.”

Viktor blinks. “Why not?”

Jayce sets the materials down on the work table, then rubs the back of his neck. “The explosion I caused—the crystal’s sensitive to certain kinds of pressure.”

Viktor can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “And you have been keeping it in your bracelet?” he questions, disbelieving.

Jayce laughs, then pries the crystal out of where it’s embedded in the bracelet. Without warning, he tosses it at Viktor.

Viktor scrambles to catch it, his breath catching when it barely lands in his hands. “You just claimed—!”

“It’s inactive right now,” Jayce says. “Look.”

Viktor does look, still cautious, but is surprised to see that Jayce is right. The crystal is a dull blue, and as Viktor turns it over in his hand, there is none of the rush or feel of any threads of the arcane that he would expect from something like this.

“After the witch who saved us used it, it became like that,” Jayce explains. “I spent years trying to find another, and then when I couldn’t, started trying to find ways to make it active again. Electricity’s the only thing that’s done the trick so far, but it’s still unpredictable and inconsistent.” He shakes his head. “For a minute, I thought blood might be the answer—Mel had cut herself on the gemstone right before everything exploded. But I tried it again later with my blood, and nothing.”

Viktor hums, turning it over in his fingers experimentally. “Blood is a powerful component for witchcraft,” he muses. “But for a reaction of that size, it would usually require existing magic of some kind.”

Unless the gemstone contains dormant magic? Possibly, Viktor can admit—he closes his eyes, concentrates.

To his surprise, he can sense threads inside it, not too different from the threads of the Evolved; however, they’re dead and limp, no better than grasping wisps of fog, similar to trying to animate and pull the strings of a corpse.

“Intriguing,” Viktor murmurs. Then, opening his eyes and turning to Jayce, “It is not entirely inorganic—there is something else there. It makes sense that electricity would... Momentarily invigorate it, as it were. You might be right, though, with the blood—it would strengthen the bonds, solidify them, and could ease the conversion of energy.”

Jayce snorts. “I thought that too, at first. Then, I tried bleeding on it, and nothing. I got half-way to asking Mel to put some of her blood on it again, just to confirm. She shut me down before I could even finish my sentence.”

Viktor laughs despite himself.

Of course he did.

There’s something strange curling around his heart—I would have done the same, I would have let him take my blood for the experiment, how could she not be curious, how could she not wonder what would have happened?

Viktor shakes his head, trying to dispel the thoughts.

Still, he muses, electricity is sound—he saw Singed bring mortals and monsters alike back to life with it, before Silco could ferry their souls to the underworld. If timed correctly, with oscillations mirroring a pulse, then the thrum Viktor has felt in souls and their threads of life… And, paired with his own blood, being able to manipulate it as he does in witchcraft, it could serve to jumpstart the connection, making…

“…Making a conduit,” Viktor breathes.

Jayce’s eyes light up in understanding, as if he can read Viktor’s mind and connect it all himself. “It’d mimic a heart,” he says, an incredulous laugh escaping his mouth. “And with your blood, like with the transformations you do with witchcraft, as long as it's yours… Viktor, you’re a genius!”

Viktor turns away so Jayce can’t see him flush.

“Wait,” Jayce says, shaking his head as if clearing away a fog. “I shouldn’t… I mean, I don’t want to use your blood if you’re not comfortable…”

“I want to, Talis,” Viktor says impatiently.

Jayce hesitates. "But—"

"I would not offer if I did not think the theory held weight," Viktor snips.

Jayce shakes his head, letting out another small laugh, looking at Viktor with something like wonder.

Viktor ignores the heat rising to his cheeks.

Ridiculous. He's being ridiculous.

He begins hooking up wires and magnets, using Jayce’s notes as reference. He takes his knife, sharp as ever, and begins carving runes into the stand. Then, gesturing to the side, “Set up something for oscillations. On the bottom shelf, there are—”

Jayce sets something on the table, causing Viktor to startle and look up.

“Copper wires,” Jayce says. “To conduct the oscillation waves. Right?”

Viktor stares. Then nods slowly. Something close to giddiness is coursing through him. It’s as if someone has lit his brain ablaze, set all his senses sharper. When was the last time someone had managed to match him like this? Singed? No, not quite—that had been patronizing, manipulation at its root and core. This is... More equal, he supposes. Like the feedback loop they're trying to create.

It's exhilarating.

The stand begins to come together, the both of them working in perfect conjunction as they move around each other. Viktor should mind, he thinks. Shove Jayce out. Work on it himself.

But gods…

“You said phase runes, right?” Jayce asks. “I think I saw that one in your book—next to manaflow, right? Or would velocity be better since it needs to stabilize at the higher frequency?”

Viktor nods. “Velocity,” he confirms, turning back to hooking up the magnets so he does not have to look at Jayce.

How did Piltover allow this man to waste himself as a Councilor? As a soldier?

“It will still need a destination point,” Viktor muses as he works. “Something to give the gravity focus. Without it, you will be… Without direction, as it is.”

Jayce frowns. “We should add that later,” he points out. “Once we’ve done calculations. Otherwise, we might end up in the ocean.”

Viktor hums. A valid point.

Jayce hesitates, looking longingly at their device. “We should wait,” he says reluctantly. “I mean, what’s the point if we don’t know—"

“We should still test it now,” Viktor says suddenly.

Jayce whips his head around, staring.

Viktor can feel a flush rising to his cheeks. “It would… It would make sense,” he says haltingly, “If we were to… Well, make sure the base design and theory is sound. This design should serve for short-term travel, no? And it would be… Better to work out any flaws with it now, rather than when we are too far in to turn back, or…”

He’s babbling, he’s sure of it. But what’s the point of waiting? When has caution or patience ever gotten invention anywhere? And, fine, why not admit it—he wants to know.

Slowly, Jayce’s face breaks out into a grin. He puts a hand on the dial, nodding at Viktor.

Viktor takes his needle knife, turning it over his hands, inspecting. Carefully, he cuts at the tip of his pointer finger, letting indigo blood bead up like a dark pearl.

Deliberately, he smears it over the acceleration rune on the gemstone and channels witchcraft through it.

Acceleration.

Teleportation.

He just needs the intent.

Immediately, the blood spikes around the gemstone, then a thrum erupts through the room. Jayce lets out a shout and cranks the dial almost to the end, but not quite.

There’s something like a shriek in the air, deafening and splitting Viktor’s cells, so loud that he can feel it in his teeth. He grits his teeth, trying to focus, to feel each particle of blood as it sinks into and warps around the acceleration crystal. He can’t manipulate inorganic material—he can’t. But there’s something about the crystal and the long-dormant threads within it that is tantalizingly within reach, just waiting for Viktor to grasp them.

So close, so close—!

There’s a tornado around him, of metal and paper and everything in between, the workshop upended and whirling around the stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jayce, arms in front of his face as he shields himself from the storm, move towards the dial.

“Higher!” Viktor manages to shout. “As high as it can go!”

Jayce hesitates.

“The resonance will stabilize it!” Viktor yells. “Trust me!”

He realizes the foolishness of his words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. Jayce? Trust him? The god who is a witch, who tried to turn him into an Evolved, who has been nothing but ice and thorns and bitterness since he’d landed?

But Jayce looks at him, the tornado of metal and paper whipping around them at the center of the storm, and presses his lips together and nods.

Jayce presses his hand forward, baring his teeth as he reaches for the dial, the wind and gravitational force pushing against him, and—

He cranks it to the farthest end.

The winds grow, faster and faster, the world becoming a blur. The very air around them is pressurized, thunder in every breath that Viktor takes. Finally, finally, he can grasp at the threads within the crystal.

It’s like grabbing a hurricane.

His whole body seizes up. There’s a metallic whirring and ringing, starting low and reaching a dangerously high pitch, and then—

Viktor loses his balance, falls, and—

Floats.

He blinks, disbelieving.

He’s…

Floating.

Flying.

The air around them is still, specks of blue hovering between them. Everything in the workshop has levitated, machinery and mechanisms lazily drifting by as if they are underwater. There is still a ringing, but it is lower, closer to music. Resonance stabilized.

And, in the center of it all, is Jayce’s crystal.

It is still on the magnetized stand, somehow, the wires rotating around it like the rings of Viktor’s constellation tracker. All the runes are illuminated blue, reflecting around them like stars, and the acceleration rune at the very center thrums and glows as brilliant as the sun. It is self-sustained, active without Viktor needing to grasp the threads.

It’s positively breathtaking.

Jayce floats on the other side of it, limbs loose and expression joyous. Here, with the blue of their magic glowing around him, he is ethereal—no longer mortal, but something else entirely.

Viktor can’t help but feel the same way about himself.

No longer fallen witch. No longer disgraced god. No longer helpless nymph.

No longer prisoner.

For the first time in thousands of years, since those brief moments when he was a full god unbound and drunk on magic and the minds of everyone he’d healed, Viktor is uninhibited by pain, by fear, even by gravity. He looks at Jayce, floating next to him, an identical smile of pure and unfettered joy on his face, framed by soft blue light, and he knows in an instant:

He is never coming down from this high. He is lost.

He is free.

There is a gear floating in the air. On a whim, Viktor touches it with his still-bleeding finger, flicks it.

It is sucked in through the vortex the hextech has created. There’s a warp in the air, a shimmer, and a faint thrum. Then, it appears the opposite side, right in Jayce’s hand. It is crackling with electricity, sending rippling shocks across Jayce's skin, but Jayce doesn’t even seem to register it. He just stares at it, awed and with a bright smile that seems to illuminate his entire face.

It works.

It works.

Viktor’s mind is already spinning—they have mastered the short-form teleportation with this, but how will they have it work for longer distances? With larger life forms? Since it is based on witchcraft and not godly magic, they will likely have no trouble getting subjects past Ekko’s barrier, but they’ll need to test it. Not to mention dampeners—if it creates this anti-gravitational effect every time, they won’t be able to continuously perform experiments and…

“...Viktor?” Jayce finally asks. “How do we get down?”

There is something so spectacularly funny about that, that Viktor can’t help but burst into laughter. Jayce joins in, kicking his way through the air towards Viktor. He reaches out, then hesitates.

Ridiculously, Viktor longs, more than anything else in the whole world, for this moment to last forever, for it to just be him and Jayce, orbiting each other in the magic-filled air.

Viktor looks him in the eye. Those beautiful hazel eyes, specks of arcane blue reflected in them. Not breaking Jayce’s gaze for even a second, Viktor reaches out and, shaking yet sure, places his hands on Jayce’s arms.

He is warm, so warm, even though his shirt. Viktor can feel the solid muscle, each curve and line. Slowly, steadily, both of them kick their way down, using their combined weight to lower themselves to the ground. Even then, they are drifting, each movement buoying them slightly upwards.

Viktor desperately doesn’t want this to end. He wants this magic to stay forever.

Before the lump in his throat can overtake him, he reaches over and turns the oscillator off.

They fall less than an inch, their feet back on solid ground. The rest of the materials in the workshop crash around them, metallic and wooden and clay showers, but Viktor hardly notices.

“It maybe still has a couple of kinks to work out,” Jayce admits.

Viktor shrugs and pulls a spring out of his clothes. “You can make it work, though,” he says, dismissive and confident. “You have proven the theory now. It should not be difficult to make the teleportation work from here. Then it should be a simple matter of returning to Piltover.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or at least to the main continent.”

Even saying it out loud, Viktor knows it won’t be that simple. But the experiment is sound—they just need to run more tests, iron things out.

Jayce knits his brows together. “We’ll need to run tests first,” he says, echoing Viktor’s own thoughts. He takes a pen, scribbling something down, those gears of his mind already turning as he tries to figure out the puzzle. “And figure out if it’s even safe.” He looks at Viktor with pleading eyes. “You’ll help, right?”

Viktor leans up against the wall so he can remain upright without his cane and nods. “I told you I would, did I not?”

It’s more than that, though. It’s like the airship. It’s something innovative, something exciting. Something new. If they can get this to work, who knows what else could spring from it? 

Jayce laughs. “I mean, I really don’t think you did, but…”

“Do not tempt me, Talis,” Viktor says, smiling to let Jayce know he’s teasing.

Jayce writes down a last note, then straightens up, running a hand through his hair. “I still need to help you with the lift, too. You think this could also work for the power source for that?”

Viktor’s pulse quickens. “It could,” he agrees. “Something less powerful, maybe, and we will need to experiment with different rune combinations. Your acceleration crystal would likely send the whole thing flying into the air.”

Jayce laughs again, a sound so sincere and dazzling that Viktor feels his heart clench in his chest.

Gods above, what is wrong with him?

Jayce picks up the teardrop crystal, examining it. “Guess we should put this aside for now and work on the lift first,” he remarks.

Viktor looks out the window. It’s been blown open by the force of the experiment, leaving nothing to shield them from the brisk morning air. There’s no frost yet, but it’s hard to imagine that it won’t come soon, quickly followed by slick ice and snow that will make the testing and installation of the lift impossible.

He should agree with Jayce. He should agree to put the acceleration crystal and teleportation theories aside for now. To work on the lift to get it finished before winter. To...

“It would be best,” Viktor hears himself say, “To put the matter of the lift aside until spring. Even if we rush the process, we run the risk of either damaging the materials or having to find a way to store them over the winter.”

Jayce hesitates. “I’ll have to stay longer if we do that,” he points out.

Viktor bends down and picks up his cane so he doesn’t have to look at Jayce’s expression when he says, “That will not be any trouble.” Then, straightening back up, “We can use the time to work out the issues of the teleportation method. And…” He hesitates, then presses on, trying very hard to sound like he doesn’t care, “Perhaps some other experiments. If you would be amenable.”

Jayce’s eyes light up, bright as the glowing runes.

Viktor pretends he doesn’t feel the way his heart soars.

Chapter Text

It would be more logical still to work on the lift designs.

Despite what Viktor told Jayce, he knows this to be true. The more they do now, the less there will be to do once spring comes. There will be less rush, more time to test the design, and give Jayce the maximum time possible to work on the teleportation device that will send him home. To Piltover and his Mel.

Instead, Viktor and Jayce ignore the matter of the lift and devote their days to the acceleration crystal. Or, as Jayce has started calling it, hextech.

It isn’t what Viktor would call the most inspired name, and he almost refutes it the first time Jayce calls it that, but the expression on his face is so sincere, so pleased…

It’s fine. It isn’t like the name will matter, after Jayce leaves the island.

Until then, there is no harm in humoring Jayce.

Viktor hasn’t felt a need this great, this consuming, since he’d first cracked open his own magical potential and begun experimenting with witchcraft. It’s the same feverish drive from back then, a race against his own clock, waking up and neglecting everything else around him. In the brief moments when Viktor closes his eyes, equations and runes dance over his lids, brilliant and searing and blue. For the first time since he’d begun unlocking the secrets of witchcraft, he ends the days wanting more, eager to get things as banal as rest over with so they can begin again. Hours and days fall around him, the work sweeping him away like a tsunami, and Viktor cannot bring himself to care.

So busy are they with hextech, Viktor only just remembers to mount the glass ceiling cover over his garden, to cast the spells that will keep the soil warm through the winter. It’s a task that would usually take an entire day, given how many spells Viktor needs to cast to help him mount the glass without breaking it, but Jayce offers to help, and they finish in a record two hours.

It’s just so they can get back to the workshop faster, Viktor tells himself as he watches Jayce secure and lock the latches from up on the ladder Viktor had fashioned from a tree with a spell.

It’s just for convenience, he tells himself. Convenience alone.

“How bad is winter in this part of the world?” Jayce asks as he secures the last latch and descends down the ladder.

Viktor hums, writing the last rune in the sequence around the garden perimeter. Manaflow, scorch, revitalize, and font of life, repeated in a chain all around the entire perimeter of the garden, written in an ink he will wash away come spring. “Not terrible comparatively, from what I can remember, though I do not know what it is like for Piltover,” he says, pressing his fingers into the already-chilling earth. The spell is familiar, and the effect is almost immediate as warmth blossoms through the roots. Almost imperceptibly, the plants relax and brighten. Viktor stands, brushing his hand off on his robes. “Wet, mostly. A couple bad storms, and some frost, but it usually is mostly cold sleet.”

Jayce frowns. “Any snow?”

“Probably,” Viktor says, waving it off, “But the house is well-insulated, and with the garden now protected, there will be little reason to leave. And with the garden and my magic, you will not have to worry about food.”

He was hoping to reassure Jayce, given how easily mortals fall into death from things like cold and starvation, but Jayce doesn’t seem reassured at all. In fact, there’s a crinkle between his brow as he fiddles with his bracelet.

Before Viktor can press, Jayce blinks, then fixes Viktor with a funny look. “What do you mean, from what you can remember?”

Damn it.

Viktor keeps his expression carefully blank. “Just that it has been a while since I have left the island,” he says mildly, doing nothing to betray the way something lumpy and bitter has lodged itself within his throat. “Come,” he says, “You had a theory about how to sync the oscillation with your hextech more effectively, yes?”

Jayce brightens just as the flowers have. “Our hextech,” he corrects with a laugh. “You’re my partner in this, remember?”

Viktor frowns. Partner. It’s a terribly mortal term, ripe with expectations and implied closeness. "If you insist," he says mildly, keeping his head angled just so, out of Jayce's direct line of sight.

Still, he joins Jayce in the workshop without protest, Viktor’s momentary stutter of his situation blessedly forgotten. Despite the fear still present, he has to admit that Jayce's presence is… Nice, in a strange way. Watching Jayce hang on his every word, then chime in with a thought of his own, picking up Viktor’s thoughts exactly where he left them off. The simple act of working with someone.

It’s nothing, Viktor tries to tell himself. It means nothing. It is only that Viktor knows what it looks like when Jayce is hiding something, which makes it easier to relax in his presence, and nothing more. Still, he refuses to let himself fall completely into stupidity—the rune wards remain in his room, he still stands guard in the night, and at least one Evolved always remains nearby.

But, one day, he forgets to put the sleeping draught in his pocket, doesn’t even remember it until late into the night. The next day, he hesitates, then deliberately does not replace it.

And even though he is not so foolhardy as to order the Evolved away, he starts leaving them out of sight. No longer in the doors or by the windows.

It's fine. They both make more progress when they aren’t stealing glances at the Evolved, anyways.

As he said, it means nothing.

It is two weeks into this arrangement when, as the sun rises on a grey horizon, Viktor realizes that the island has been coated in snow overnight.

He sighs, rummaging for a blue cloak in his drawer and pulling it around himself. From now until at least a month after the last frost melts, he will have to deal with stiff joints and the persistent ache in his body that the cold always brings. The house is insulated, yes, but it only does so much to ward off the damp chill that already is working its way into Viktor’s bones.

At least it’s better than his days before witchcraft, when he’d have to hunker down and try and sleep through the winter as best he could, never quite succeeding and always stuck in a half-awake state between nightmare and delirium.

Viktor makes his way to the kitchen. As he heats up water for tea, he finds himself staring out the window. A heavy cloud blankets the entire sky, and thick and wet flakes continue to drift down, piling the already tall snow mounds even higher. He can’t help but scowl at it. A large snow this early into winter does not bode well for the rest of the season, and means Viktor and Jayce will be all but trapped in the house. Even if they may have, admittedly, spent most of their time indoors anyways working on the hextech, it irks Viktor to not have the option to leave.

But, on the subject of Jayce…

Viktor frowns, looking towards the door, but there is no sign of Jayce.

That’s… Odd. They tend to rise around the same time, waking with the sun. Most days, Jayce has even been beating Viktor to breakfast.

Enjoy it, Viktor tries to tells himself. So little of his time is his alone now with Jayce ever-present.

He stares at the cup of tea until the steam vanishes, until the ceramic turns cold in his hands, until he can see the smallest bits of leaves separate out from the liquid and drift down to the bottom of the cup. There’s an almost anxious anticipation in his chest, bracing himself for Jayce’s footsteps, for him to come around the corner any moment, exuberant as ever and ready to enthusiastically launch into his latest hextech-related theory.

But there is nothing.

Viktor scowls, standing. It’s fine. Jayce is allowed a day off. Gods know he likely needs it, with how much the both of them have been working.

And yet.

Viktor ignores the disquieting disappointment in his stomach and makes his way to the workshop, the cup of tea forgotten. His footsteps echo through the hall, strangely empty. Had his brace always been this creaky? Had the tap of his cane always sounded so forceful against the floor?

The door to the workshop is open, tinkering sounds coming from within it. Viktor ignores his rush of relief. So, he is up—just had an idea strong enough to skip breakfast over.

As soon as Viktor enters the workshop, he can tell something isn’t right. Jayce is there, hard at work as ever, but there’s an… Edge, to him. He moves with a frantic air, darting between one side of the workshop to the other, alternating between tinkering and scribbling equations. His hands work so fast that they look to be shaking. Even though he doesn’t appear to be using it, the forge fire is lit, hot enough to leave a sheen of sweat on Jayce’s forehead.

Usually so attentive, it takes Jayce almost a full minute before he realizes that Viktor’s standing in the doorway.

He jerks upwards with a start, his knee hitting the table and sending a couple tools and bits of gears flying. It has to hurt, but the pain doesn’t even register on his face. “Viktor,” he says, too loud. “I, uh… How long have you been standing there?”

Viktor slowly enters the workshop, half-circling around Jayce. It’s warm enough with the forge fire that he finds himself unfastening his cloak, hanging it over the back of the nearest chair. “...Not long,” he says after a moment.

Now that he’s looking at him directly, it is more obvious than ever that there’s something wrong. Usually clean-shaven and groomed, his hair is a mess, and his tunic the same one he was wearing yesterday, stained and sitting almost lopsided on his frame, his belt incorrectly buckled.

Jayce fidgets with the hem of his tunic. “I was thinking we start with the range experiments today,” he says, so fast that Viktor almost can’t make out the words. “The warp rune seems to be working best so far in conjunction with the phase rune, but it’s not consistent. We should start ruling out some of the precision category runes, then see if any of the inspiration category can help with the overall effect…”

Jayce is still talking, but Viktor barely hears him. He can only focus on the glassy look in Jayce’s eyes, the way his hands won’t stop moving, the manic tint to his words.

Jinx’s voice echoes in his head—I can fix it.

Is this what she…?

“...I think you were on to something the other day, with how to aim the magnetism. I mean, ideally there’d be a secondary point back in Piltover where we could direct that energy, but since that can’t happen, all my numbers are based on estimations for—”

“Perhaps we take a break for the day,” Viktor interrupts.

Jayce freezes. His jaw drops almost comically—Viktor would laugh, if not for the panic settling in on Jayce’s features.

“A break?” he repeats, a nervous edge to his voice. His eyes dart back towards the equations. Then, seeming to decide something, he grabs the top sheet, handing it over to Viktor. “At least tell me if this looks right to you.”

Viktor fully intends to dismiss the question—he’s already waving Jayce away with a, “It looks fine. We can—” He stops, actually looking at the equations. He squints. “What are you basing this estimated average on for the Piltover destination?”

“Geo-coordinates,” Jayce replies.

Viktor sets the paper down and pulls up the nearest chair, tapping on the desk as he thinks. “It could work,” he admits. “But without a focus point at the destination itself—”

“—We’d have to compensate with higher precision, which might put too much stress on the device,” Jayce finishes. “Any ideas on how to reinforce it?”

“Too many runes may have an adverse effect,” Viktor decides, crossing out a line in the string and beginning to sketch. “Too many avenues for misinterpretation, as it were. Metal would be ideal, but the magnetism may cause it to warp.”

“We still have some alloy samples over here, right?” Jayce asks, already going across the workshop and picking up a couple ingots. “These ones don’t tend to have too high magnetism. Let’s test them.”

Viktor almost says no. But they’re so close to a breakthrough, and if this works…

It’s fine. What’s the harm in a couple simple tests?

It is easy to get swept away in the experiments. Adjusting the alignment, taking a note, adjusting again. As he fires up the acceleration crystal on its stand, a thrill goes down Viktor’s spine. Even now, it’s a wondrous thing to behold. The blood and electricity combined keep it active for long periods of time, letting them run tests with only minimal interruption. Every time, Viktor swears he can feel the blood still inside his body hum in resonance, not dissimilar to when he was connected to his nymphs all those thousands of years ago.

They’ve managed to dampen the gravitational effect, but the pulse of power still sends a slight shudder through the room, like the slight cresting of a wave. Every time Viktor holds his hand out for the next material on their list, Jayce is there, placing it in his hand and setting everything up, again and again.

Viktor doesn’t even think to check, when Jayce hands him a new piece. When he places the ingot on the testing stand, cranks the dial, pen poised to take note of the chromium, and—

The metal warps, crumples, and screams.

Viktor’s eyes widen—shit, higher magnetism, we need to stop, we need to turn it off—and with a shout, he tries to grab the dial and yank it back.

The stand vibrates and jumps, unpredictable movements that put it just out of reach, and without warning, part of the stand shatters.

It’s metallic and cracking, sending bits of copper and gold flying through the air. Viktor brings his arms up to shield his face just in time, the shards slicing against his skin.

Too late, he realizes his mistake.

The world seems to freeze for a moment as droplets of his blood fly in an arch.

Then, fast as light, they sharpen and race at the gemstone, hitting it with a ringing shriek.

The dial spins, faster and faster, and forceful waves slam through the room. The blood spikes and warps around the crystal, pulsing in and out, in and out, almost hungry in its movements, making each wave of energy stronger than the next. Viktor falls out of his chair with a cry, metal and tools and papers whipping around him. He reaches for his cane, but it’s joined the whirlwind, flying out of reach.

Viktor gropes along the table, trying to pull himself to his feet, but there’s something wrong with his leg and back brace—they squeeze and warp, twisting and pinching his skin, and he can’t help the scream that falls out of him as he collapses. Frantically, he tries to find the leather straps, but the pain is blinding. He can’t see, he can’t think, his fingers are suddenly stiff and clumsy and he can feel blood making his hands slick and useless and—

There’s a click, and everything stops.

Tools and paper fall and clatter to the ground. Jayce stands over him, gulping in air. There are cuts over his arms and hands, that glassy look in his eyes returned. Slowly, he sinks to the ground, next to Viktor.

“Gods, Viktor,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m so sor—”

“Get it off,” Viktor interrupts. He can barely make out Jayce’s words through the pain. His leg is twisted and screaming, worse than it’s ever been before, and each breath is too constricted and tight. “My brace. Talis, get it off.”

Jayce moves quickly. Viktor would have accepted him cutting through the leather straps—might have even welcomed it, if it meant getting the brace off faster—but Jayce undoes each strap with a speed and precision that Viktor thinks he should find terrifying. It’s hard to care now, though, as Jayce undoes the last strap, then, lips pressed together, grabs the sides of the metal encompassing Viktor’s leg and pulls.

Viktor had known Jayce was strong. Had seen it demonstrated plenty of times in both the forge and when carrying supplies. But with the metal of his brace bending under Jayce’s grip—his beautiful, horrible, helpful, restricting brace—Viktor has to physically bite back his panic. His teeth sink into his tongue, only a muffled, choked noise coming out instead of a cry.

“I’m sorry,” Jayce croaks.

Is he apologizing for the pain? The fear? Breaking the leg brace? Viktor doesn’t know, and he frankly can’t find the space to pick apart the meaning.

It takes every ounce of self-control that Viktor has not to recoil when Jayce, with trembling and careful hands, eases his leg out of the cage of ruined metal and tries to help straighten it out. Now that the pain is less severe, Viktor’s sense is coming back in blurry spurts.

“Do you need me to get any plants?” Jayce asks. “Tinctures? Supplies? I… I don’t know what you’d need to heal…”

“Rabbit blood and poppy mixture,” Viktor rasps. “With the others in the kitchen. Top cabinet. The red one in the back. Go.”

Jayce nods, and with a speed that would almost be funny in any other circumstance, stands and takes off for the kitchen.

With Jayce gone, Viktor slumps over, clenching his jaw to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. In any other circumstance, he’d want to dissect this—his back and leg brace are non-magnetic for this exact reason. What caused the shift? Was it one of the runes? The amount of blood spilled? A specific combination of them both? Or conflicting effects that reversed certain properties in a radius?

It’s so hard to think with the metal warped around his ribs.

The back brace, he tells himself. You need to get the back brace off while he’s gone.

Fumbling, Viktor peels back just enough of his robes to undo the back brace. It’s not as distorted as the metal of the leg brace, fortunately, and though he very nearly dislocates his shoulder in an attempt to get his arm out from the shoulder strap, the rest of the brace unhooks and slides off with relative ease. He doesn’t have to swallow even more of his pride to ask Jayce to help, and that’s the important thing.

Just in time, he fastens his robes back up, just as Jayce comes back into the workshop, the tincture in his hands.

Viktor all but snatches it from Jayce. With his other hand, he reaches for the needle knife at his belt. Like the rest of the materials in the workshop, it’s warped, but the tip is still sharp enough to function.

Without hesitation, Viktor carves into his leg, ignoring Jayce’s cry of protest. First the runes for revitalize and conditioning, then the encompassing resolve rune. They’re not deep, his blood only beading rather than flowing, and the pain is nothing next to everything else. He hesitates at his chest. He decides not to—Jayce is watching, after all.

Uncorking the tincture, Viktor doesn’t hesitate as he downs it whole.

The first wave of wooziness threatens to pull Viktor into unconsciousness, but the sting of the runes and the throb in his leg and chest keep him centered. Viktor presses his hand over the resolve rune and casts the spell.

The relief is instantaneous and dizzying. Viktor watches as the runes glow green, magic coursing through his veins. His blood fizzes, then sighs, the cuts knitting themselves back together, his leg slowly righting itself. Or, well, as righted as it can be. Viktor sways, sighing as the pain is replaced by pleasant numbness. His breathing is still too short, too ragged, but it’s easier to ignore now.

But now, freed of both his destroyed braces, and his injuries as healed as they can get, Viktor is faced with another horrifying and mortifying fact: he has no way to walk.

He lets himself slump against the table leg. He could crawl, he supposes—that would be slightly less demeaning than asking Jayce for help—but the poppy in the tincture has started to take effect. Numbing the pain, yes, but also bringing on the slowly building wave of drowsiness.

Jayce is alternating between looking at Viktor and the window, where the snow continues to pile up. Is he debating fleeing outside to escape? If he is, he’ll have a difficult time getting more than a couple feet past the door. Even with Jayce’s height, the drifts will be up to his waist.

“Talis,” Viktor starts.

Jayce startles, attention snapping fully to Viktor.

Viktor swallows and, trying to keep his tone as flat as possible and to dampen the fear that threatens to spill over, “I will need your assistance getting back to my room.”

“Of course,” Jayce says immediately. He reaches, then hesitates. “How…? Do you want me to…?”

Viktor sighs. “Just supporting me will be enough,” he says tiredly.

Jayce nods. Carefully, he puts Viktor’s arm over his shoulder, then eases them both up. Viktor tries to put weight on his legs, only for his bad leg to twist inward and slide out from under him. Immediately, Jayce redistributes the weight and changes the angle, and they both remain standing.

Viktor closes his eyes and forces back the urge to scream. This is, perhaps, the most humiliating moment of his life. “Any day now, Talis,” he says.

Jayce presses his lips together and nods again. Slowly, his steady grip not leaving Viktor once, he guides them both out of the workshop and down the hall.

The distance isn’t that long, not really, but it may as well be miles. Without the back brace, Viktor can’t help but feel as though he’s lost a layer of armor, leaving him thin and frighteningly fragile, especially next to someone as large as Jayce. Still, Jayce is uncharacteristically quiet. Even their footsteps seem muffled against the backdrop of the snowstorm outside.

When they arrive in Viktor’s room, Viktor all but shoves himself away and on to the bed. His bed chambers are the largest in the house, boasting wide windows and wall-to-wall shelves of books and gadgets and projects. His face burns—he doesn’t want Jayce in here, with his wondering eyes and questions. He especially doesn’t want Jayce in here now, after the disaster experiment, when Viktor is without his mobility aids and fighting the sleep the rabbit and poppy tincture threatens to bring on.

Why did Jayce hand him that damned ingot? Why did he insist on working? Why did Viktor have to indulge him and go along with it?

“You can leave now,” Viktor says, the words coming out snappish.

Jayce doesn’t seem to hear. He’s not looking at anything in Viktor’s room, as Viktor would have expected, the gadgetry and tomes seemingly going unnoticed. Instead, he’s staring out the window, at the snow still falling.

It is suddenly impossible to ignore the wrongly buttoned shirt, the glassy sheen over Jayce’s eyes, the unnatural stillness.

That unease from before grows in Viktor’s chest.

“Talis,” Viktor says, “Close the curtains.”

Jayce obeys quickly. As soon as the curtains are drawn, the snowstorm hidden and the room growing dim, he lets out a small gasp of breath.

“Sit down,” Viktor orders quietly.

It’s less sitting than his legs giving out, but Jayce sits on the bed.

Suddenly, Viktor is wide awake, the drowsiness from the tincture gone. He studies Jayce as if seeing him for the first time. “You did not tell me you were afraid of snow,” he murmurs.

Jayce swallows. “I’m not,” he denies feebly.

Viktor raises a skeptic eyebrow.

“I’m not,” Jayce insists. “Not… Not really. I just don’t like the storm. Or…” His eyes dart to the closed curtains. “Being trapped in it,” he admits, words barely above a whisper.

Viktor suddenly wants to draw his knees up, look anywhere that isn’t Jayce. He’d almost forgotten, over the past couple weeks. That Jayce was trapped on the island.

The scars on Jayce’s forehead from Viktor’s touch seem to glow in their damningness.

“It’s usually fine,” Jayce continues. “As long as I can just… Keep busy.” He shakes his head. “Look, I know you probably don’t believe me, but I really am sorry—I didn’t know that the metal would react like that, and I never would’ve tried to keep working if I’d known—”

“I believe you,” Viktor interrupts.

Despite Viktor's voice being quiet, Jayce falls silent immediately, fixing him with a skeptic look.

“It is not as if the fault lies solely with you,” Viktor says, words clipped as he looks away.

It’s true—he should’ve noticed how bad of a state Jayce was in and put his foot down on the matter. Or at the very least insisted on some additional precautions. His own fault, really, for getting swept away in the act of invention.

A running theme of his life, Viktor supposes.

Jayce lets out a croak of a laugh. “I can fix it, you know,” he says, tone distant.

Viktor flinches. For a moment, the faces of scarred and decaying nymphs flicker over his vision, their skin rotted and brittle and—

I can fix it.

Jinx’s voice echoes in his head.

“The lab,” Jayce continues, oblivious, “The magnetic stand, the tools, your…”

“Not now,” Viktor interrupts firmly.

Jayce’s brows knit together. “But…”

“At least until the storm has passed,” Viktor says.

Jayce is silent. He sits awkwardly, hands fiddling with his tunic, his leather bracelet. His gaze is fixed at some dark corner of the room, his eyes growing hazier by the second.

He should send Jayce away. He should tell Jayce to go to his room, to hunker down and wait out the snow. He should…

Gods, why does Jayce have to look so lost?

Slowly, Viktor makes himself scoot forward, pushing aside the aches in his muscles, how unsteady he is even sitting up straight without the back brace, and reaches forward. He ignores his shaking hand and every instinct that is telling him to shove Jayce away.

He places his hand on Jayce’s back.

The reaction is instantaneous as Jayce melts into the touch.

Viktor can’t move. Jayce is warm under his touch, and he can feel each rise and fall of his breath. He’d only intended for it to be a quick, momentary gesture, something to retract after a poor attempt at soothing Jayce, but now…

No. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care...

Viktor swallows, instead opts for moving his hand lower, a facsimile of comfort that Jayce would surely reject if there were literally anyone else around to provide something better. Instead, inexplicably, Jayce leans further into the touch. And, as Viktor leans back into the cushions, intending to retract, Jayce follows him, slumping and curling over as he all but falls over, then—

His head is in Viktor’s lap.

Viktor hardly dares to move. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing, with how every nerve in his body has turned to jagged stone. His heart is a deafening roar in his ears, every sense screaming danger. Viktor waits for what must surely be coming—a creeping hand and a demand masked as a plea for something more.

But it doesn’t come. There’s just Jayce, only Jayce, warm and unnervingly fragile.

Like he’s about to touch fire, Viktor brings his hand up. To do what, Viktor doesn’t know—to shove him away, to stroke his hair, to draw him in closer—but his hand freezes right above Jayce’s head.

Through his fingers, those ivory scars on Jayce’s forehead are more glaring than ever.

Resolutely, Viktor brings his hand down, curls it into his side and shifts his weight against it, making it so his body can’t decide to betray him and dare to reach out again.

Still, the slight shift in movement is enough, and Jayce looks up. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Then, with a short, self-deprecating laugh, “I’m the one who hurt you, and you’re comforting me.”

“I would not call this comfort,” Viktor says quietly.

Jayce lets out a chuckle. “Then what is it?”

Viktor stares at the closed curtains of the window. The runes all along the edges are still fresh, the red berry paint still bright enough to look like blood. “...A lapse in judgment,” he finally says.

Jayce snorts “On whose part?”

Viktor shrugs. “I do not see why it has to be mutually exclusive.”

Jayce laughs again—a real one this time. “Whatever it is… Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere. “It’s… Helping.”

There’s a glow in Viktor’s veins, gentle and warm as embers, only made stronger by Jayce’s presence.

This close, looking down, Viktor can see every one of Jayce’s eyelashes, the angle of his jaw, the spiraled scars on his forehead. His breath tickles Viktor’s thigh in a not wholly unpleasant way.

Something inside Viktor’s heart, something he thought was long-dead, flickers into life.

Viktor’s breath stills in his lungs.

No. No...

“You must hate me,” Jayce murmurs. His eyes are half-closed, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Viktor lets his head fall back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling so he does not have to look at either Jayce or the runes carved over his door and window. He waits until Jayce’s body has gone fully limp with sleep, until his breathing is steady. Then, he whispers, “I do not hate you, Jayce.”

And even though Jayce must surely be asleep, Viktor swears he can feel his smile pressed against his leg.

Chapter Text

Viktor doesn’t mean to fall asleep. Jayce is right there, and he swears he won’t, he can’t. But the poppy dulls his senses and pulls his eyes closed, and Jayce’s presence is steady, and his weight settles like a warmed blanket over Viktor, and Viktor is so, so tired, from the pain and the fear and…

He doesn’t realize what’s happened until he slowly starts to come back to his senses, when the only thing he registers is that the presence that was keeping him warm is gone. Viktor only has a few seconds to be sleepily annoyed at the lack of that steadiness and warmth before thin rays of light are streaming in through the curtains and hitting his eyes.

Then, all at once, he remembers everything from yesterday.

Viktor snaps up in bed, eyes flying open and inhaling sharply. Immediately, he’s greeted with a sharp and punishing wrack of pain in his spine and hip. Viktor hisses, wincing as he belatedly tries to correct his posture, but it’s a losing battle without his brace and without anything to dull his nerves.

He takes stock of himself, his bed, his clothes. There’s an indent in the bed from Jayce, the faint smell of pine from Jayce’s preferred soaps, but nothing else. Viktor’s robes are rumpled, but none of the clasps have been touched, and all the aches in his body are old and familiar.

Viktor slowly falls back against the pillows again, trying to calm his heart. Why? he curses to himself. Why did he let himself do something that foolish? Let Jayce get so close? Let his guard down enough to sleep, of all things?

And now, worse, without his cane or either of his braces or even Jayce for support, he has absolutely no way to move from his bed.

Viktor glares at his useless leg. The runes he’d scratched in yesterday are still there, albeit faint, but will do him no good now without any proper components.

He’s resigned himself to having to crawl when, out of nowhere, there’s a knock on the door.

Viktor eyes it warily, half-expecting Jayce to barge in. But he doesn’t, and the door remains respectfully closed.

“You can come in, Jayce,” Viktor says tiredly.

The door opens, and Jayce comes in, grinning and with a hand conspicuously behind his back. “I almost thought I’d imagined it last night,” he says, too cheerful.

Viktor narrows his eyes, suspicious. “Imagined what?”

Jayce’s eyes have the audacity to twinkle. “You calling me by my name.”

Viktor levels Jayce with the most withering glare he can manage while still bedbound. “I call you by your name all the time, Talis,” he snaps.

Jayce’s smile, somehow, just gets wider.

Viktor sighs and leans back into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling in frustration. “You seem to be doing better, at least,” he observes.

It’s true—that glassy look in his eyes has gone, his clothes sit right on his body. He’s even washed his hair. He hasn’t shaved, though. It’s the longest Viktor has ever seen Jayce go without shaving—now that the stubble has gone and a beard has started to fill out, Viktor can’t help but think how nice it looks.

No sooner has Viktor had that thought than he tries to stomp it out. Still, he’s unable to stop traitorous heat from rushing to his face. He makes himself look away from Jayce again, clamping down on his emotions.

Jayce, at least, doesn’t seem to notice. “The storm stopped overnight,” he says. “The sun’s been out for a few hours now.”

A few hours? Viktor peers at the closed curtains. “Do I want to know what time it is?”

“Sometime in the afternoon,” Jayce says vaguely.

Viktor tries not to groan as he runs a hand down his face. Gods, he was unconscious for that long?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jayce inch a bit closer, hand still conspicuously hidden.

“Out with it,” Viktor says with a sigh. “What are you hiding?”

Jayce laughs again. “Can’t keep anything from you, can I?” Before Viktor can respond, he walks over to the bed and takes his hand out from behind his back, setting something down on the bed. Viktor—

Stares. And stares.

A cane. His cane, mended and wrought from metal. Even just looking at it, he can tell that it is not only perfectly measured, but stronger and more reinforced than his previous one.

But that’s not it. On the bed, lying there in shimmering gold with faint swirls of silver and purple, is a new back brace.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Viktor is leaning forward and reaching out, running his hands along it with trembling fingers. It’s skeletal in its framework, elegant, and with scales following the line of a spine down its back.

It is, in a single word, beautiful.

“I found the measurements you took,” Jayce rushes to explain, “On the blueprints for your brace design. It’s not the design exactly, but this one should work better.”

The words are earnest, without an ounce of shame. Viktor can’t even bring himself to be irked by the arrogance of it.

“I reused some of the parts from your old brace,” Jayce continues, “Not all of it—most of it had to be melted down and reforged, but all the essential pieces are still there. And I made some modifications to the metal compound itself—the old one was pretty heavy, but this should be lighter, and with the way the design works, it shouldn’t even pinch around your ribs." He sits down on the bed, pointing out specific parts. "That alloy you made, that you were testing for the design? It was almost perfect. I adjusted the proportions, and I…” He trails off, swallows. “I tested it against the magnetism I accidentally triggered yesterday. Multiple times, actually. It won’t warp. 

Viktor barely hears Jayce. He picks up the brace. Jayce is right—it is light, almost impossibly so. The design curves, metallic bones that mimic ribs. And what's more, there are runes etched into the spine and along the inside of the ribs. Transcendence, conditioning, warp. Exactly the runes Viktor would have chosen. But with inorganic metal, why...?

"I also added some plant matter to it," Jayce explains, "So you should be able to use magic on it, to, you know...”

Viktor traces a finger along one of the ribbed areas, testing and reaching. His breath hitches.

“Sage and fan palm,” Jayce says, confirming what Viktor already knew. He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “I looked in some of your books. Your notes said to use it in endurance spells. I was thinking you could use it to…” His voice wavers. “Well, you can manipulate organic matter with witchcraft, right? It'd still be a brace, but it could help with, you know...”

There’s something lodged in Viktor’s throat, something that won’t go away no matter how much he tries to swallow it back down. Perfect measurements, lining up with his shoulder blades, his spine, his ribs. Built-in support.

“I…” Jayce looks away. “I can adjust it, if it needs it. Or redo it. I’m sure there’s something I overlooked, or forgot about, or that I still need to—”

“It’s perfect,” Viktor whispers. But, even though it physically pains him to do so, he sets the brace down, makes himself pull back. “But Jayce, I can’t.”

Jayce blinks. He picks the brace up, inspecting. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, fiddling with the interlocked pieces of the spine. “Is it this part? Because I can rework it—are the measurements off?”

“No,” Viktor says, shaking his head, “Jayce, it’s perfect. But it will never work on me.”

Jayce stops fiddling with the pieces, looks at Viktor, eyebrows knit together.

“Gods are fixed points,” Viktor explains sourly. “Transformation of plants, of mortal flesh? You are adaptable beings, able to evolve on your own. Your threads are easily manipulated. But for a god such as myself?” He shakes his head. “As you said before, flesh for flesh. Can you guess how much it would take to heal a god?”

He looks away so he doesn’t have to see the dawning understanding on Jayce’s face. He closes his eyes, begging for Jayce not to ask follow-up questions. How Viktor knows this indisputable fact. If Viktor had tested it before. What it took to heal the corroded lungs of a dying nymph.

There’s a shifting of weight on the bed. Viktor opens his eyes—Jayce has moved backwards, jaw dropped in almost comic disbelief.

“You’re a god?” Jayce questions, stunned.

Viktor scowls. Damn it. He’d forgotten that Jayce didn’t know that.

Jayce inhales sharply at the confirmation, standing, and begins to pace the room. “I didn’t… Shit, I didn’t… Should I…?”

“Stop that,” Viktor snaps, a flush rising up his face.

Jayce shakes his head. “You’re a god,” he repeats, mystified.

Viktor throws his hands up, gesturing to himself, with his swirling purple skin and golden eyes. “What did you think I was?”

Jayce huffs. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “A powerful witch? Jinx didn’t say anything about you being a god, and it’s not like I have a point of comparison for what witches look like.”

Viktor sighs. That is fair, he supposes.

Jayce is still staring. Slowly, he sits back down on the bed, shaking his head again. “What are you the god of? Why haven’t I heard of you before?”

Viktor fights to keep his expression under control. “I am a minor god,” he lies. “The son of a god and a nymph. It is not like half-children of the gods are rare. Hardly a step above a nymph, when you get down to it, especially when you consider that a god’s power is directly correlated to worship and offerings, and I prefer my anonymity here.”

That part about his parentage is true, at least, as is the part about what fuels a god’s power. That will hopefully be enough keep Jayce from pressing with any further questions.

Jayce still looks stunned, like he’s half-expecting Viktor to rise off the bed and start ordering him to kneel. “You don’t seem like most gods,” he murmurs.

Viktor scowls at that. He knows he’s weak, his form strange and diminished next to the might of every other god, but does Jayce have to rub it in?

“No, not like that,” Jayce rushes to say, holding his hands up. “Just...” He runs a hand through his hair, considering. “You don’t act like a god.”

Viktor narrows his eyes.

“It’s a good thing,” Jayce says, smiling a little. “Trust me.”

Viktor can only stare. After how long he fought to be recognized as a powerful god, on the same level as the rest, and after everything he sacrificed to get there…Before his exile, if he had heard such a thing, he would have smited Jayce on the spot.

Now, though, he’s not quite sure how to feel about that declaration.

“Regardless of how you see me,” Viktor eventually says, “That does not change the facts of the matter.” He sighs, busying himself with adjusting his robes so he does not have to look at Jayce and see the disappointment in his eyes. “I appreciate the gesture,” he says, tone as mild as he can make it, “But I would not waste any more time on this venture. You cannot heal a fixed point.”

Jayce shifts closer. “That’s the thing,” he says, bright-eyed. “It’s not healing, not really—it’s just adding to, right? I’m not reaching in and reworking your bones.” He furrows his brow. “You do have bones, right? Do gods…?”

Viktor chuckles despite himself. “I have bones, Jayce. Gods are powerful, not immaterial.” He shakes his head. “It still won’t work. Even if it is… Adding to, as you put it, an offering from a mortal would still be needed. Blood would still be needed.” He gestures needlessly towards Jayce. “Even with witchcraft, you have said so yourself. Flesh for flesh, remember? It would be a strong spell. The Evolved…” He hesitates, hands clenched around the blue folds of his robes. “Even that transmutation needs my blood in addition to the subject’s blood to have it take. For something like this—”

“I’ll do it.”

Viktor blinks at the interruption, head snapping up towards Jayce. “Excuse me?” he says, certain he’s misheard.

“I’ll do it,” Jayce says, too earnest. “If you have my blood, an offering from a mortal, it’d work, right? So, use my blood.”

Viktor’s mouth falls open. Unwittingly, he feels himself draw away, as far into his cushions as he can go. “Absolutely not,” he says heatedly. “Do you have the faintest idea how much I would need to take?”

“Then take it,” Jayce says without an ounce of hesitation. “You said you need an offering for this to work. Well, I’m offering.”

“Jayce, no,” Viktor snaps.

“Look, it’s my fault you got hurt in the first place and that your cane and both your braces broke. Let me help fix it.”

Viktor is silent. There's something wrong—with him, with the entire situation, with Jayce. There's something bubbling up from him, like a cool fountain spring on a hot day, tantalizingly within reach. On the island, magically cut off from the rest of the world, the prayers of any worshippers—worshippers that likely don’t even exist—are shielded from him. Now, though, with Jayce trapped in his little bubble with him, sitting mere inches away, there is nothing to cut off the flow, nothing to keep Viktor from feeling the limitless potential of an offering.

And the offering…!

“Let me do this for you, Viktor,” Jayce pleads.

All at once, he remembers the rush of it, how easily he had gotten lost before. Even now, with just one, after centuries without, it is borderline intoxicating. It isn’t worship, not quite, but it’s close enough. And it’s been so long...

Viktor closes his eyes, trying to ground his senses. Jayce would not offer this, not if he knew what Viktor had done.

“Please,” Jayce begs. Then, traitorously, “Don’t you want to see if it works?”

It’s like a cup of mulled wine over a fire, spreading through his bones like fire, making him woozy. Paired with his own insatiable curiosity, it’s a force strong enough to make the last of his walls crumble.

Viktor swallows, nearly swaying. “...Fine,” he hears himself whisper.

Jayce’s sigh of relief is audible. “Thank you,” he murmurs, like this is for his benefit instead of Viktor’s.

Viktor shifts in his bed. “Are all humans this self-sacrificial?” he mutters.

Jayce has the audacity to laugh. “Some of us,” he allows. He reaches out, then hesitates. “How should we…?”

Viktor’s mouth goes dry. He… Had not considered this part.

He reaches up to the front of his robes. His hands tremble against the clasps, his blood going cold, his fingers stiff with fear.

Jayce should not, cannot, see this part of him.

But that brace… That beautiful, perfect, golden brace…

Just then, as he inhales, his spine chooses then to wrack him with a stabbing pain, traveling from his back to his ribs to his lungs, a stark contrast to the drunkenness from Jayce’s offer.

Not once looking at Jayce as he does so, Viktor eases himself off the pillows, swings his legs over the side of the bed. His heart is a roar in his ears. He stares at his wiry purple muscle, the legs that are emaciated next to Jayce’s strong and healthy body. Viktor stares at the ground, focusing on a single swirl of wood grain, so he does not have to look at Jayce.

Slowly, Viktor undoes the clasps around his robes, letting the fabric fall from his shoulders and chest. It’s louder than it should be, the moment when the last bit of fabric slips and lands around his lap. He can hear Jayce's breath catch, the way he goes still.

The house is warm, but the air is cool against Viktor’s bare skin, and he can’t help but shudder. The runes scattered across his chest and back and shoulders feel as raw as they did when he first carved them in, each scarred line thick with desperation. The weight of Jayce’s stare on them is almost too much to bear. Viktor can physically feel his eyes tracing each curve and sweep and line, cataloguing each rune and its meaning, trying to piece together what they would accomplish when strung together.

“I will need you to put the brace on,” Viktor says, when the silence becomes too large.

“Of course,” Jayce says quickly, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in.

Viktor hears the soft clink of the brace in Jayce’s hands. Then,

“Can I…?”

Viktor jerks his head in a nod.

Then, there are hands on him.

Viktor fights through the initial wave of revulsion, clenching his jaw and tensing his muscles. He’s felt Jayce’s touch before. He’s even initiated it. This time should be no different.

And yet, the warmth of Jayce’s skin, so careful as he lowers the brace over Viktor’s head, lifting his arms and securing the metal over his shoulders and ribs, is intimate in a way that defies description. The metal is cool in contrast to Jayce’s hands, and Viktor can’t help but shiver.

Jayce pauses. “Still okay?”

Viktor exhales, nods.

Jayce continues, fastening the brace at the spine, slowly righting Viktor’s posture with every new clasp, his touch borderline delicate. Viktor can’t help but notice how he avoids brushing against skin as much as possible, and how, in those rare instances he does, he takes great care to avoid touching anywhere near the runes.

The lump in Viktor’s throat has returned. He’s unsure what to make of it.

When he’s done the last clasp, Jayce pulls away. Viktor opens his eyes, staring at the golden brace, the bone-like structures that wrap around him.

“Does it feel alright?” Jayce asks.

Viktor nods, unable to find words. What words are there to describe how this brace is unbelievably weightless? How it doesn’t chaff at his shoulders or waist? How the metal is like relief against his skin? How it doesn’t pinch despite the clasps and thin boning? How he can sense the threads of plant matter within it, ready and waiting to be pulled?

Jayce hesitates. “How do I…?”

Viktor makes himself look up. He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he simply reaches to the drawer at his bedside table, where he keeps a spare dagger. He takes it out, studying. It is bigger than the needle knife, better suited for butchering or carving. It’s as sharp as ever.

He should put it away. He should tell Jayce he’s changed his mind, that this is actually a horrible idea.

The offer hangs in the air between them, borderline devotion and everything that entails.

He doesn’t realize, how long he’s been staring at the knife, until Jayce is gently taking it from his hands.

“You shouldn’t…” Viktor tries weakly.

“Where?” Jayce questions, voice firm.

Viktor swallows. Already, the pain seems to be fading, replaced with intoxication. Hadn’t Singed said, once, that the offers from indebted mortals were one of the most powerful?

“Along your forearm would be best,” Viktor hears himself say. “Avoid veins. Make sure as much blood as possible falls on the metal. Having it touch the runes will make it more effective.”

Jayce nods, unflinching. He studies the knife, gaze flicking to Viktor, evaluating. For a moment, Viktor sees doubt there, the way his heart stutters in hesitation, as he questions what he’s about to do.

That moment is enough for Viktor’s senses to snap back into him. Panic fills his lungs—gods above, what was he thinking? Asking a mortal to give him an offering of blood, and to what? Breathe more easily? Stand with less support? After everything he’s already taken from this world?

Viktor reaches out, a sound of protest falling from his lips. “Jayce, wait—!”

Jayce slices into his arm.

Bright blood slides out from Jayce’s skin, ruby-like and slippery. Without waiting for even a moment, he presses it to Viktor’s back.

Viktor inhales sharply. Reaching in and feeling the threads of life within an organism, even working with the preserved blood of animals, is nothing next to this. It’s like a heart over his skin, syncing up with his pulse, and he can instinctively feel himself drawing the life force in, like a dry sponge thrown into water. All the colors around him sharpen, each breath clearer, each sound like crystal.

How could he have ever forgotten what this feels like? Is this what every other god experiences? All the time, multiplied? No wonder they are so powerful. No wonder they are so greedy.

Just as Viktor is beginning to lose himself in the sensation, his eyes focus on Jayce, and his breath stills in his lungs.

Jayce’s skin has started to grey, his arm shaking. But he doesn’t move it from Viktor’s skin.

He doesn’t even try.

Panicked, Viktor grasps at those fleeting offerings of life and casts the spell.

Immediately, the blood draws into the metal brace, seeping into the runes, into Viktor’s skin. The brace tightens, fast and searing, as something like spikes shoot out into Viktor’s skin. Viktor lets out a short cry, but he grits his teeth. Physical pain, he can deal with.

His blood joins with Jayce’s, intermingling in his veins and reaching into his bones. It’s electrifying, the sensations from before multiplying further until they are overwhelming, but Viktor doesn’t stop the spell. The runes bear into him, nearly blinding with their sting, but then the agony turns to a soothe. Viktor could swear the brace lets out a physical sigh as it melds into his flesh, his body humming, alight with deep indigo and prismatic rainbows and metallic gold.

And then, it is over.

Viktor gasps, keeling over.

He… He can breathe. His ribs, his spine, his back…

He slowly sits up, straightening and testing.

For the first time since before his exile, there is no pain.

That is not entirely true, Viktor supposes—the pain is still there, lurking under the surface, waiting for the wrong bit of movement or a pinched nerve before it rears its ugly head again. But for now, it is silenced.

Viktor lets out a breathy, incredulous laugh. It worked. Jayce’s impossible idea and invention worked. He turns to Jayce, smiling, but it quickly fades.

Jayce is swaying, his skin fully grey, blood still trickling from the wound in his arm.

Viktor curses, grabbing Jayce’s shoulders to steady him. Why didn’t he insist they move to the lab first? Or a spare room? Or literally anywhere else?

Right.

Because you are the true fool between the two of you, Viktor admits to himself. A sham of a god too drunk on the possibility of worship and invention and everything in between to consider anything beyond it.

Viktor yanks open his dresser drawer again, pulling out a roll of bandages. There’s still some of Viktor’s own blood, beading up along his ribs, and he dabs it over his fingers before tracing runes over Jayce’s skin—revitalize and conditioning.

He quickly casts the spell, refusing to acknowledge the relief that spreads through him when it takes, when the skin on Jayce’s arm knits itself back together with bright green webbing.

“Jayce?” he says sharply. “Jayce, are you with me?”

For one long, horrible, dangerous moment, Jayce doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, his breathing slow and shallow. Then—

“You just… Have bandages here?” Jayce asks weakly.

“They are useful when I need to use my own blood,” Viktor says curtly, “And you are in no position to critique.”

Jayce shrugs. Then, cracking a grin, “...It worked.”

Viktor scowls. “You are the biggest mortal fool I have ever met,” he snips. He glances down at his bedsheets, at the mix of red and indigo blood that has dripped on to them. “Lay down,” Viktor instructs, guiding Jayce down to the far end of the mattress, the part of the bed that is not covered in blood.

Jayce lifts his arm, staring at the still-glowing motes of green under his skin. “Feels…” He works his mouth, searching for the right word. “Itchy,” he decides on.

Viktor can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, as out of place as it is. “That would be the healing.”

With expert hands, he wipes down Jayce’s arm, then wraps it in the bandage. Viktor holds it up, inspecting. If it weren’t for the still-greyish pallor of Jayce’s skin, it’d be impossible to tell just how dangerous that injury had been.

It would be ideal, to keep Jayce bedbound for a few hours, to bring him sufficient food and drink while he recovers.

With the mess of blood on the bed, that is impossible.

“Can you stand?” Viktor asks.

Jayce frowns. Testing, he eases himself off the bed, only for his legs to immediately give out from underneath him.

Viktor presses his lips together, grabbing the new cane and standing. Even with his twisted leg, he’s able to easily keep himself upright, the back brace keeping his upper body from sending him toppling. The cane, too, is annoyingly perfect—measured exactly to Viktor’s height, and with a soft leather grip at the top.

He decides to find time to be irritated about it later, when Jayce is not in danger of passing out.

Viktor reaches down, tugging Jayce to his feet. “Come,” he says with a sigh. Then, “You will still need to keep most of your weight off me.”

He is not strong enough to support Jayce’s entire weight, after all, even if he did also have his leg brace.

Jayce, thankfully, obeys readily, keeping a hand on Viktor’s shoulder for balance only as they both slowly hobble out of Viktor’s room and down the hall to the kitchen.

Even that short trip, though, is enough to wind Jayce, and he all but falls into the nearest chair.

Viktor limps to the cabinets, starts grabbing plates and silverware and any food he can, not bothering to see what is what, and lays it out on the table in front of Jayce. He takes out his knife and begins carving in runes. Jayce’s eyes, while still slightly unfocused, follow every movement with awe as platters of cooked meals are filled.

Viktor nods in satisfaction. “Eat,” he orders.

“I’m fine, Viktor,” Jayce says, exasperated and wholly unconvincing as he shovels food in his mouth.

Viktor just rolls his eyes.

As soon as he's sure that Jayce isn’t in danger of immediately passing out, Viktor stands again, taking the time to prepare and pour some orange juice. It truly is a testament to how hungry Jayce is, that he doesn’t look up from the cooked vegetables as Viktor casts the spell to drain the orange.

“Seriously, though,” Jayce asks after a minute, already scraping his plate clean, “How does it feel? Any issues?”

“...None that I can feel,” Viktor admits, setting the glass down in front of Jayce. “The cane, too. You did a remarkable job.”

It’s true—no matter how reckless the spell was on both their parts, Jayce’s craft is impeccable. The brace hums over Viktor’s skin, warm and alive in a way that is greater than magic.

“Let me know if you feel anything later,” Jayce says, downing the juice in a few gulps. “It’d probably be a good idea to fix it before trying something similar for your leg.”

The meaning of Jayce’s words hits Viktor like a ton of bricks.

Viktor slams his fist on the table, hard and sudden enough to make Jayce jump. “Are you insane?” Viktor hisses. “After what you just did? How badly it affected you? No. You will not do that again.”

“Come on,” Jayce protests.

“No,” Viktor snaps. And, before Jayce can try and argue further, “My back is a symptom of my leg. Do you have any idea how much you would need to offer before I would stand a chance in completing a similar spell? You would die, and it still likely would not be enough.”

Jayce mulls it over for a moment. “Does it need to be fresh blood?”

Viktor groans and runs a hand down his face. “Yes.”

He is glad he doesn’t have to lie about that, at least—he’s not sure what he’d do if a blood offering for something this extreme didn’t have to be fresh, and if Jayce began trying to argue his way into blood collection over the course of several days.

As if to prove Viktor’s point, Jayce opens his mouth, saying “But—”

“I thought you wanted to get home to your Mel back in Piltover,” Viktor cuts in, narrowing his eyes and pointedly ignoring how even thinking of Mel’s name sends something bitter spiking through his heart. “Or have you decided that returning in one piece is not priority?”

It is, admittedly, a dirty move, to bring up Mel and the promise of home, but it should be effective. It should have an easy answer for Jayce and cause him to relent.

Instead, Jayce hesitates.

His gaze darts up to Viktor, then down to his leather cuff, then to the window overlooking the dark sea and stormy winter sky.

Before Viktor can begin to dissect that, Jayce shakes his head, then, “At least let me help with making you a new leg brace?” he begs. “No magic involved, I promise.”

“I made my own leg brace well enough,” Viktor says shortly, looking away.

Jayce huffs. “I know. This isn’t about…” He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I know you can do it on your own,” he says, “But you don’t have to, you know?”

Viktor opens his mouth to refute. Of course he knows that, he wants to snap.

But, gods—thinking about it, really thinking about it, has anyone ever offered before? Perhaps his nymphs had, with the blind devotion of corruption that Viktor had only seen far too late. But any other gods? Any mortals?

“I can at least help with making the pieces,” Jayce presses, taking Viktor’s silence for consideration. “You can do the full design.”

“Why is it so important to you to help?” Viktor asks, the question coming out more snappish than intended.

Jayce looks towards the window. It’s closed, the curtains drawn to block the view of the piles of snow outside, but it’s still all too easy to picture, with the way it seems to press the walls of the house further in. “You’re helping me with hextech, aren’t you?” he challenges.

“That…” Viktor swallows, looking away. “That is different.”

Jayce blinks, like he can’t possibly see how.

How does he not see? Hextech is new, an invention, a twist of magic gift-wrapped in a puzzle. Assisting Viktor? Making him new mobility devices? When Viktor has shown Jayce nothing but thorns?

Since when has anyone done something so unbeneficial to them?

“Please?” Jayce presses. “Let me.”

It’s incomprehensible.

And yet, all Viktor can do is nod. “If you insist,” he says, his voice coming out in a whisper.

Why must he smile? Why must his expression light up? Why must he reach out, his hand running down Viktor’s shoulder, something that’s a mix of admiration and joy on his face? Why…?

Oh.

Viktor’s heart races until it’s a roar in his ears, and he desperately tries to shove the feelings back down, into the farthest corner of his shriveled heart.

Like sunlight through the clouds, they continue to seep through, as golden and brilliant as Jayce’s smile.

Viktor swallows, trying to smile, even though it feels closer to baring his teeth.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

In the end, it is easy for Viktor to decide what to do.

Pain is a constant companion. To be tolerated and endured.

So he endures it.

Their days are busy, packed with equations and experiments, staining their fingers dark and oil-slick, and leaving the workshop perpetually aglow with blue lights. The runes and crystals, in all their brilliance, burn dancing specks across Viktor’s eyes long after they’ve stopped working for the day.

And, if in his worst moments, Viktor imagines those large hands—calloused and strong and still forge hot—running down his skin, or that adoring and burning gaze looking up at him, blushing and wanton and needing…

It’s fine.

It changes nothing.

They construct the leg brace. It’s more or less the same design as before, but seeing the new pieces and freshly assembled gears and notches and screws, Viktor can admit that perhaps the old one had been due to have a couple parts replaced. The new one barely creaks, and with Jayce’s forging abilities, the material is lighter than ever. Viktor does still insist on doing the assembly—he refuses to end up causing even more damage to his twisted leg because Jayce doesn’t know which parts need to be load-bearing or how much give the joint gears need. Part of him hopes that Jayce protests, that he tries to take over, or insist that he knows better than Viktor does. Something, anything to force Viktor back into the world where disliking Jayce Talis was as easy as breathing.

Jayce, of course, doesn’t. He watches, he asks questions, and every so often he suggests if perhaps one material over another would be better.

Per usual, as Viktor has come to grudgingly accept, all of his suggestions are correct.

And when the new leg brace is created in a record two days, when Jayce helps Viktor slip it on and secure the leather straps, Viktor has to bite his tongue to keep himself from shuddering as Jayce’s thumb brushes the inside of his thigh.

This is ridiculous, Viktor can’t help but think to himself later in his room, pacing relentlessly until his leg aches and begs for him to stop, before folding himself up in his usual defensive corner. You are being ridiculous.

It is a sentiment that is confirmed, when he ends up drifting into sleep, and his dreams are hazy and warm, filling him with a pleasant and syrupy feeling in his veins, coiling low and urgent. It’s quickly joined by softly lit images of Jayce, smiling, his hands like coals as they run down Viktor’s skin. In the moment, all his inhibitions seem so distant, so silly, and he lets himself sink deeper. It is so, so easy to drown himself in the feeling of it, to let himself get lost in Jayce’s touch, winding him up in all the best ways, palming at his cock, letting him rut up against Jayce, again and again and—

Viktor wakes with a cry on his lips, nearly slamming his head into the wall with how fast he jerks upwards from where he’d been slumped over.

Immediately, the warmth of the dream vanishes, replaced by the undeniable horror of what his mind has just conjured.

He does not move for a good ten minutes, waiting until the last bit of arousal has faded from his mind. Then, walking as slowly as he can, careful not to let his cane clink against a single tile, he makes his way to the baths to furiously scrub the evidence of his body’s treachery off of him.

It was better when you were on guard against Jayce, Viktor seethes as he scrapes the washcloth against his skin. When sleep was a danger because of lowered defenses and not because of how his own dreams might betray him.

And, just to spite him, as the week passes, the snow refuses to melt. Just when it has barely started to lessen, the edges turning into a greyish slush, another storm sweeps through the island. It brings less snow than the first, only sprinkling another inch or so on top of the previous layer, but it is no less thick and no less damning.

When it starts that evening, when they are both curled up in opposite chairs by the hearth and reading, Jayce’s whole body tenses the moment he catches a glimpse of the storm through a crack in the curtains.

Viktor frowns. Jayce has nearly finished his book, making it the last of the tomes Viktor had said he was permitted to read. Already, Viktor can see Jayce’s breathing becoming shorter, his pupils becoming pinpricks and his expression going clouded. His gaze darts to the hall, where the workshop and forge is just around the corner.

“Try this one,” Viktor says before he can stop himself, reaching behind him to the shelves and grabbing a book at random.

The shadow over Jayce's expression vanishes. He raises his eyebrow dubiously, but he still gets up and takes the book from Viktor’s hands, inspecting. Now, Viktor can see which book it is—a more recent one, outlining theories and experiments on runic strings. Before, Viktor would have rather cut off his own hand than allow Jayce to look through it.

Jayce must know it, too, because he asks, “You’re sure?”

Viktor nods. “I would be interested to hear your thoughts on the matter,” he says, trying to sound as dismissive as possible, “Especially as they pertain to the runes we are using on your hextech.”

“Our hextech,” Jayce corrects, a small smile on his face. “Partners, remember?”

Viktor turns back to his own book to hide the flush on his face. “If you insist,” he says flatly.

Try as he might, he isn’t able to completely stifle the warmth blooming in his chest.

Jayce stays up until the storm fades, well past morning’s light, engrossed in reading. He stays sat across from Viktor, giving Viktor a clear view of each and every one of Jayce's reactions, the way his eyes shine with intrigue with every new page he turns. Viktor can’t help the glow of pride in his chest when Jayce’s initial hitch of fear doesn’t return.

He’s falling, harder and faster than he has any right to, and he can’t bring himself to stop.

There are a hundred reasons why Viktor should not want this. Jayce is mortal, for one. (Viktor pointedly does not think about how several other gods have gifted immortality to human lovers, or the fact that Jayce will remain unaging while inside Ekko's barrier.) Jayce is here only temporarily, for another, just until they can get the hextech working. (Jayce wanting to stay, obviously, is so outside the realm of possibility that it isn’t even worth considering.) He is arrogant, he is too curious for his own good, he is oblivious, he is foolhardy, he is impulsive…

He is engaged.

Engaged happily, at that.

And there is absolutely nothing Viktor can do to change that damning fact.

He’s seen Jayce’s sketches, in the margins of his notes. Of a beautiful woman with dark skin, soft features, sharp eyes, and braids elegantly coiled up and spilling over her shoulders. There are partial sketches of Viktor, too, of angular features and swirling patterns.

Laid next to each other and interspersed between Jayce’s notes, it is more obvious than ever that Viktor cannot possibly compare next to Mel the fiancée.

Viktor has never considered himself particularly vain, but now, he makes a point to avoid his reflection, the stray mirrors he’s never given much thought to. Once, as a young and healthy nymph, he might have passed for somewhat attractive. Now, with eerie golden eyes, unnatural purple skin creeping just shy of his face, and the scars resolutely hidden under his robes…

No. He does not need any additional reminders of the mutated form he once thought could be evolved.

Which is why, the next morning, after the snow has finished falling and they are beginning their work, Viktor says, “Perhaps we start the power source for the lift today.”

Jayce, if he is upset to be taken away from hextech or confused as to why Viktor suddenly is interested in the lift again, says nothing of it. He just nods, then pulls out the old notes they haven’t touched in weeks. “Did we figure out if the manaflow rune paired best with an alacrity or celerity rune?” is all he asks.

“Celerity,” Viktor says, and that’s that.

After hextech, the solution for the lift’s power source is laughably easy—all they need to do is install magnetic pulls, half of which has already been completed for the hextech’s magnetic stand. Add in the runes and keep the chains oiled with the correct components, and they will be set.

It would be best, Viktor can’t help but think, if they had a stone like Jayce’s to help power the lift. But there are none on the island, and Viktor wouldn’t have the first idea on how to create one. Now, they just need to complete the construction, which can’t be done until after the snow melts.

Viktor stares at the blueprints and scribbled measurements they’ve re-pinned to the chalkboard, now annotated with Jayce’s notes on how the new metals and wood will affect the weight and balance. All that time spent mulling out equations and physics, and Jayce comes along like a summer storm and solves everything.

That should irritate him, he thinks. Instead, looking at Jayce hunched over the desk, carefully carving runes into the metal…

“Your old notes said something about an angelica concoction, right?” Jayce asks. “Going off that book you had me read last week, would it help if you added hyacinth to it?”

Viktor can physically feel his heart clench in his chest.

“It would,” Viktor says, his voice somehow steady despite everything. He grabs his cane and stands, suddenly unable to stand looking at Jayce for a second longer. “I have some petals in the kitchen that I can grind.”

He leaves before Jayce can say anything.

Even with his immortal lungs, even with the new and beautiful brace around his ribs, breathing has never been harder.

Viktor grabs the stone mortar and pestle, two small glass vials—one of hyacinth petals and leaves, one of angelica. Even though the hyacinth batch is older, the petals are still solid, the leaves still a fresh green. He selects a few stalks, systematically stripping off each petal and watching it fall into the wooden bowl, desperately trying to put that numbing wall back up around his heart.

How is he supposed to go back to solitude after this? After getting used to someone as beautiful and ingenious as Jayce, whose mind can fire in a million different directions and come up with the perfect solution?

There’s the faint sound of footsteps behind him, then the unmistakable sound of someone pulling up one of the dining chairs.

“Surely you have more important things to do than watch me grind flower petals,” Viktor grumbles without turning around.

He can practically hear Jayce shrug. “I wanted to see what you were doing. Besides,” he adds, something sheepish in his words, “I like watching you work.”

Viktor is grateful that he is facing away from Jayce, so he cannot see the way his hands briefly still, the way a flush climbs up his cheeks.

It would be easier, Viktor thinks as he grinds the petals into an unrecognizable purple paste, if Jayce were not so brilliant. If his hands weren’t so clever. If he didn’t insist on looking at Viktor with that open desire to simply know and learn.

Determined to prove Viktor’s point, Jayce starts to ask, “Do you want any h—?”

“Tell me about Piltover,” Viktor says without looking up, interrupting Jayce’s request to help.

The pestle scraping against the mortar is deafeningly loud against the silence from Jayce. Then,

“I thought I already told you about Piltover,” Jayce finally says. “Progress and war, remember?”

Viktor resists pointing out that the amount Jayce has told him about Piltover is pathetically close to nothing. Instead, he shrugs, says, “Then something else. Your life there, beyond the Council. You must have had friends and colleagues, no?”

“...Not really,” Jayce says quietly.

Viktor pauses, raising an eyebrow. He turns, considering Jayce, whose eyes are on the ground, his hands fiddling with his leather bracelet. Viktor is sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jayce is lying.

But why would he lie about not having friends?

“Seriously,” Jayce says, likely sensing Viktor’s disbelief. He offers a smile with a hint of self-deprecation. “I was a menace to every department—I was convinced I was smarter than everyone else. No one wanted to work with me.”

“Your fiancée, then,” Viktor says, narrowing his eyes, challenging. “Mel.”

The name is bitter on his tongue, as much as he tries to stifle it. But he needs the reminder, of what Jayce is returning to, of what is waiting for him after this brief and unfortunate part of his journey.

They both do.

Some of the tension leaves Jayce’s posture. “Mel,” he repeats. “She’s…” He shakes his head. “I mean, she’s incredible.”

Viktor ignores the way his heart drops in his chest, the way that despair seems to fill his lungs.

It’s fine. It’s not like he was expecting a loveless arrangement, the two of them paired off at the hands of those more powerful than themselves. It’s been obvious from the start how much Jayce adores Mel.

“She can read a room the second she enters it, size anyone up in a moment,” Jayce continues, a smile on his face. “She’s a political genius—I mean, she basically runs the Piltover Council single-handedly.” He chuckles. “First time I tried to pass something without talking about it with her beforehand… I don’t know what I was expecting from the rest of the Council—they’d see the value of the motion, or something—but not a single one of them voted until Mel threw her opinion in. She just has this… Presence. It makes you want to listen, to do better. She’s inspiring.”

Something curdles in Viktor’s stomach. The awe in Jayce’s voice is impossible to ignore. This is what you wanted, he reminds himself.

But gods, it still hurts.

“I didn’t think anyone would ever want to go against her,” Jayce says quietly, “Or that they even could. Not until the vote on Violet’s blessing, and everything… After.”

Viktor makes a vague humming noise that he hopes sounds like neutral interest. “She voted for it?” he asks, already turning back to the hyacinth, ready to let Jayce’s open admiration of his fiancée eat away at him while he stews.

“Against it,” Jayce says, almost offhandedly.

Viktor stills. Turns back around. “…Against it?” he repeats.

Jayce freezes. His mouth opens, closes.

“I thought the Council had already voted to reject the blessing,” Viktor says slowly. “But if the Council voted opposite of her...”

“Please don’t ask me about that,” Jayce interrupts.

Viktor blinks. There’s something raw in Jayce’s expression, a freshly flayed wound. “I…”

“Please,” Jayce whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t… I…” He breaks off, shuddering.

The pestle in Viktor’s hands is heavy and cold.

“...Very well,” Viktor says. He turns back to the hyacinth petals, half ground in the bowl. “Apologies. I did not mean to pry.”

“No,” Jayce says quickly. “Don’t… It’s fine,” he says, some normalcy returning to his tone.

The silence stretches between them.

“Will any more molds be needed for the lift?” Viktor finally asks, unable to stand the awkward quiet. Their work, at least, seems to be a safe topic.

He hears Jayce let out a small sigh of relief. “I don’t think so,” he says. “The hardest part now is actually going to be installing the thing once spring comes around. You’ll have to show me the location you had in mind, after the snow melts…”

Viktor feels himself relaxing as the conversation turns towards the safe, familiar subject. He is deathly curious about the Council, about Violet and her rejected blessing, but he remains silent.

It is not like he, too, doesn’t have secrets of his own.

Viktor starts trying to remind himself of the situation he’s found himself in as often as he can.

As soon as morning comes, when he heads to the kitchen to meet Jayce—He’s leaving.

Once they go into the workshop—He has a fiancée.

Hooking up copper wires soaked in his blood to try and enhance the teleportation effect—He doesn’t belong here.

Reading together by the hearth—You and Jinx are his jailors.

And, when they go their separate directions down the hall and to bed—He would hate you, if he knew which god you actually were.

That last one, out of all of them, is the one that grips Viktor in its cold finality.

With the Evolved no longer overtly lurking in every corner, Jayce’s questions about them fade, and with it, the chances of him piecing together the truth about them. While that small reassurance brings relief, it also leaves Viktor’s stomach twisted and tangled in knots.

They make chains for the lift, each link engraved with a different rune. With the system they’ve designed, the chains will run through the angelica and hyacinth mixture as the lift moves, the spell being cast as it runs, and the movement in turn allowing for the spell to continue to be cast. As Jayce had first proposed—a feedback, a self-sustaining loop.

With this, Viktor will just need to replenish the hyacinth and angelica once a month.

He’ll need to clear out a new patch in the garden, Viktor muses as he uses a forge-heated knife to carve runes into the chains. With frequent use of both flowers, a bed for each would be more than warranted. He has rather limited space as it is, but perhaps if he ran another bed along the wall, or even moved some plants to hanging baskets to free up ground space...

“You got something on your cheek,” Jayce says.

Viktor rolls his eyes, distractedly rubbing at the spot, before turning back to the chains.

Jayce laughs. “No, here—”

And then, Jayce’s hand is on his shoulder.

Every nerve in Viktor’s body freezes.

There are memories under his skin, clawing to the surface, screaming that the touch is danger, but Viktor doesn’t think he could move, even if he wanted to.

And gods help him, he doesn’t.

Slowly, Jayce leans over, his other hand reaching up to the side of Viktor’s face.

Viktor doesn’t think he’s breathing. He’s not quite sure he can remember how to. All the world is focused on Jayce and only Jayce. His touch is warm against Viktor’s cheek, his thumb gracing right along the mole under Viktor’s eye. There’s a smile at Jayce’s lips and something unfathomably gentle in his gaze.

What is happening? Viktor wants to ask, but his tongue is useless in his mouth.

Jayce’s thumb brushes over the bone of his cheek. Then, just like that, he’s pulling back. “There,” he says, apparently satisfied. “Looks like it was just a bit of ash.”

Is he aware, just how badly he’s pulled the world out from under Viktor?

Likely no—seemingly oblivious, he turns back to the shelves, eyeing the stacks of molds that Viktor has amassed over the years. “I think we’re good on the chains,” he notes. “Should we make the counterweights or buffers next?”

“Counterweights,” Viktor manages, proud that his voice doesn’t stutter or show any signs of the embarrassment still flush through his body.

Jayce nods, selecting a mold.

Viktor gives up trying to assemble the chains, instead turning his attention to Jayce. It is truly unfair, that a mortal could look so handsome. He’s adjusted his tunic, shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it pool around his waist, to better deal with the forge heat that is made all the stronger by the closed windows and the insulated house. Like this, every new movement gives Viktor a more than generous view of his muscles, the ridges of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine.

Perhaps Jayce’s imprisonment here is meant to be torture, Viktor thinks bitterly. The gods have left him alone for so long, he’d assumed they’d considered him written off, but perhaps this is a new angle to his punishment.

“You okay?” Jayce asks, concern in his voice.

Viktor straightens up. “Fine,” he says, voice thin as he shakes his head. “Simply resting my hands for a moment.”

Jayce chuckles. “Who knew that all I needed to do to make you take a break was to give you something monotonous,” he teases.

“I would like to see you assemble these without your hands cramping,” Viktor shoots back, even though his hands haven’t cramped at all.

Jayce rolls his eyes and turns back to the forge. He stokes the fire, adding metals into the pouring cup. Viktor watches, hypnotized, as the metal melts, silvery bright and nearly blinding in the flames. Jayce’s movements are liquid smooth, expertly stirring and measuring, before he pours the new metal into the mold.

“We should be able to install this as soon as the ground’s not frozen,” Jayce says. “Does winter stay late here?”

Viktor hums. “It varies year to year.” He glances out the window. The curtains are closed, but from his angle, he can just make out a sliver of grey sky, promising another round of wet snow. “The early snow is not a good sign, admittedly,” he acknowledges.

“Maybe it will leave early?” Jayce says hopefully.

“Perhaps,” Viktor says, even though it’s unlikely.

If Jayce is concerned, though, it doesn’t show. He just hums, not taking his eyes off the now cooling mold.

“Is Piltover’s climate much better?” Viktor inquires.

“It’s warmer,” Jayce admits. “A couple bad storms during the winter, but the snow doesn’t usually stick in the city.” He shrugs. “It’s fine as long as I don’t go outside too much. Honestly, my last year in Piltover, I barely even noticed winter—I spent so much time working on the airships, I didn’t leave the lab for weeks. I even missed the Kiramman Winter Gala.” He snorts, absentmindedly stoking the forge fire. “Cait was furious.”

Viktor furrows his brow. Cait? Jayce hasn’t mentioned that name before.

“Who is Cait?” he asks.

Jayce drops the fire poker.

It clangs on the ground, piercing and echoing through the workshop. “Shit!” Jayce curses, scrambling to pick it up.

Viktor’s stomach curls in guilt. He’s not quite sure how, but he’s said something wrong, touched on something better left buried. He starts to turn away. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s okay,” Jayce says quickly. He rubs the back of his neck, looking away as he sets the fire poker down.

The silence presses in around them. Viktor looks down at the chains. Methodically, he begins sorting them by rune, then begins linking them together, piece by metallic piece. They’re still warm from the engraving and from the forge, but Viktor can hardly even notice the burn.

He’s accepted that the matter will be dropped, that Jayce will not answer. Then,

“She’s… It’s Caitlyn, actually. I’m the only one who can call her Cait without getting their arm twisted.”

Viktor looks up in faint surprise.

Jayce is staring into the fire, eyes somewhere far away. There’s a brief flicker across his face, a fond smile, and then it vanishes with a shake of his head. “She was my best friend before the war started.”

Was.

...Oh.

Viktor swallows. “Jayce, I… I am so sorry.”

Jayce startles. “No,” he says quickly, “She didn’t… She wasn’t fighting. At least, I don’t think she was.” He lets out a small laugh, a sound so bitter that Viktor unexpectedly startles.

“I don’t understand,” Viktor says quietly.

Jayce sighs. “No, it’s…” He shakes his head. “Sorry. She… I didn’t leave on good terms with her. She was engaged to a woman in the army, someone her mom chose. It wasn’t… Bad, I don’t think, but Cait wasn’t happy with it.” He fiddles with his bracelet, staring down at the leather etchings. “She tried talking to me about it, but I didn’t understand.” His mouth quirks up in humorless smile. “I think I just ended up making it worse, actually. We were both shouting by the end of it. I exploded—I asked why she even wanted my opinion if she was just going to disagree with it, then told her she should just do what would make her happy.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “I hardly see how that would make things worse.”

Jayce doesn’t look up, hardly seeming to hear him. “I didn’t know what she was talking about,” he mutters. “How could I? She seemed fine with Maddie, then she comes up to me, suddenly talking about how she’s been sneaking into fighting rings, then she starts talking about this girl she met, then…” He breaks off, seeming to realize he’s still talking.

“She fell in love with someone else?” Viktor inquires, trying to keep his voice gentle, trying not to press too hard.

Jayce nods.

“Someone her mother would not approve of?”

Jayce snorts. “No one would’ve approved of it. Probably why Cait didn’t say what her name was when she was talking to me.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. She ran off to marry… The other woman. The one she met in the fighting rings. Right before the war started. Her… New wife…” Jayce’s face briefly contorts, like the very thought of the new wife refuses to fully compute in his brain, “She… She took Cait away. I haven’t seen her since.” He stares off, somewhere in the middle ground. “She’s not even going to be in Piltover when I get back.”

Viktor stares down at his hands. “She might write to you,” he offers. “Or come visit, after things have cooled, or...”

“She won’t.”

Viktor can’t help but startle at the hard edge in Jayce’s voice.

Jayce seems to realize this himself, and he holds his hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “She won’t. Trust me.”

Viktor doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. What can he say to that?

They continue working in silence, Viktor trying his best to ignore Jayce’s distant expression.

Chapter Text

Viktor does not mean to bring up the matter of Caitlyn again.

But now, with her name being out and known, it’s as if she’s everywhere. The floodgates have opened, and Jayce seems to see her in everything.

When making dinner— “Cait once tried to make a dish like this. Tried being the key—I never knew anyone could burn pasta.”

When in the garden— “Cait had a garden at her house. This huge, sprawling thing. Not as many plants as yours, but it was practically a park. Just rows and rows of these purple flowers. I never learned what they were.”

When assembling the gears for the lift— “Last thing I made in Piltover before the war was a new gun for Cait. It was the most intricate thing I think I’ve ever built, all these little lenses and sensitivity triggers. She hovered over my shoulder the entire time I was assembling it, constantly demanding I make changes or fix something or adjust the balance. Half the changes I didn’t understand, but it worked in the end, and Caitlyn said it was the best rifle she’d ever owned, so I must have done something right.”

It is that detail that sparks Viktor’s curiosity. The question is out before he can even comprehend that he’s speaking— “Did she work in the lab with you?”

Jayce startles. For a second, Viktor thinks he’s misstepped in pressing deeper into the matter of Caitlyn. Then, Jayce laughs.

“No,” he says with a chuckle. “She maybe should have. She’s smarter than most of the engineers I ended up working with. Her parents were actually my first sponsors—that’s how we met. She spent more time either in my lab or at the shooting range than at her own house. Probably could have landed herself a place at the Piltover Academy studying anything she wanted, if her mom wasn’t…” He trails off, shaking his head.

Viktor debates pressing. He almost doesn’t. But gods, so much of Jayce’s past has only come out through accidental slips or from being plied out with all the delicacy of an iron hammer. Viktor wants to know, wants to understand, wants so badly that his teeth ache with it.

“Her mother was not what?” Viktor asks.

Jayce is quiet for a moment, visibly mulling over his words in his head. Then, “Her mom had… Certain ideas, I guess. Expectations. For what she wanted Cait to do with her life. She wanted Cait to take over her position when she retired; Cait wanted adventure.” Something dark passes over his features. “Guess she got it, in the end.”

Viktor sets the gears he was fiddling with back down on the workshop table. “It sounds like you were close,” he ventures.

Jayce snorts. “‘Were’ being the key word there. Her mom probably would be happier if I died in the storm with the rest of my crew.”

Viktor can’t help but gape.

That… Seems excessive.

Jayce, seeming to realize how it sounded, shakes his head. “No, I… Her mom, she’s…” He hesitates, then. “Her mom’s on the Council.”

Ah.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “So she has twice the reason to dislike you?”

It’s perhaps not the most tasteful quip, but Jayce laughs, the tension around him breaking like a storm.

“I think ‘dislike’ is putting it mildly,” Jayce says wryly, “But pretty much.”

“I cannot imagine anyone hating you for long,” Viktor says with a wave of his hand. It is laughable, really, how quickly Jayce lowered Viktor’s own guard and managed to worm his way in.

Jayce snorts. “I surrendered the war, remember?” he says. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be the most hated man in Piltover by the time I get back. No one’s going to want anything to do with me.” He smiles ruefully. “They probably won’t even let me anywhere near anything remotely related to the Council, my lab included.”

That gives Viktor pause. Jayce? Not in a lab? Not working tirelessly towards invention? Viktor remembers that eagerness he’d had, their first encounter, when he’d thrown everything aside—including his fear—as soon as he realized there was a workshop and forge.

If Jayce is correct, Piltover’s Council may as well cut off his arms.

“You could go somewhere else,” Viktor offers.

“...Maybe,” Jayce allows, but doesn’t sound convinced. He stares at the window, like he can see out of it and through the snow outside, to the rest of the island and the world beyond.

“And if nothing else,” Viktor continues, “You will still have your Mel, will you not? When you go back to Piltover.”

Jayce hesitates. “...Yeah.”

Viktor blinks in confusion.

Jayce’s love for Mel has never been a doubt in his mind. It has been the most steadfast certainty, in fact, that delicate profile haunting the margins of Jayce’s notes, even if it has admittedly been a while since Viktor has seen it.

So why does he have that strange frown on his face? And why has his gaze turned to Viktor?

Viktor can’t help but tense. “Is something the matter?” he asks.

That hesitation again. But before Viktor can press it, Jayce just shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

But that strange frown doesn’t leave his face for the rest of the day.

It’s little things, at first, that Viktor begins to notice.

Jayce putting off working on hextech. Jayce coming to breakfast every morning with one of Viktor’s old gadgets, insisting that Viktor tell him the specifics of it, asking if they can work on it today. Jayce asking if Viktor would let him fix a creaky door hinge, or repair a crack in a window, or any number of mundane tasks that seem to inexplicably take up most—if not all—of the day.

Then, one day towards the end of winter, Viktor catches Jayce staring out the kitchen window and down below towards the beach, where the more weathered than ever bones of his old ship remains. He sees Jayce give a slight shake of his head before resolutely closing the curtain. He then turns to Viktor, and asks, “The railing you have going down to the beach—are there any others on the island? We could install a couple more in the spring, after the lift.”

That’s when it hits Viktor: Jayce doesn’t want to go back to Piltover.

Immediately, a giddy rush of happiness hits Viktor, like the warmth of the sun after coming out from the cold.

Then, horror.

No.

Jayce can’t stay. Jayce shouldn’t want to stay. Viktor is the worst of the gods, this island is a prison, and Jayce has a life waiting for him outside. Jayce can’t stay.

“Perhaps later,” Viktor replies before the silence can stretch on for too long, putting every ounce of his will into making sure that his voice remains steady. “I was thinking—we still need to find a solution to the issue of Lady Renni. I have some wards that may work.”

Something flickers across Jayce’s expression. “Are you sure?” he asks weakly. “I mean, is there even a way to test them?”

Viktor shrugs, standing. “However weak I am comparably, I am still a god,” he says, “And I know my own spells’ weaknesses. That should be enough to give us some idea of what will or will not help.”

Jayce opens his mouth, like he wants to protest, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just nods, mutely following Viktor to grab some of his tomes before heading to the workshop.

This is for the best, Viktor tells himself as he pours over pages of runic strings.

The ward like the one on his house, with marigold and rowan, would be most reliable, but it only lasts a year. Teaching Jayce how to use witchcraft to recast the spell himself is out of the question, considering that the goal is to prevent the gods from coming after him. Moly would be the best solution, but its effects are even shorter, and the odds of Jayce being able to find more after leaving the island are slim.

Frustration builds inside of Viktor as he stares at the useless and impossible solutions in front of him. Somewhere between the lines, there has to be an answer. Something that will allow Jayce to get back to his life.

A life without a lab, the traitorous part of Viktor’s mind whispers. A life without invention, in a land without trees, in a city that will hate him for surrendering the war, without his best friend, constantly looking over his shoulder while waiting for Renni’s vengeance.

But he has his fiancée, Mel. That has to be enough for Jayce to still want to leave.

...Right?

The solution comes to Viktor the next day.

A draught.

He can adjust the warding spell, make the components into something drinkable, and give Jayce a trunk full of them.

Viktor wastes no time explaining it to Jayce over breakfast, triumph in his voice.

Jayce, instead of relief, though, just has a strange, drawn look on his face—something that, if Viktor didn’t know any better, he’d say was hopelessness.

“Is something the matter?” Viktor asks.

Jayce hesitates. Then, “Are either of those poisonous to mortals?”

Viktor hums. “Yes, but the spell will neutralize the poison.”

Jayce swallows, looking to the closed and curtained window. As if to mock them both, one last winter storm has come, swallowing up the island in its fury. Even from inside, they can hear a wind ripping through the trees, the way the trunks and boughs sway and bend and creak. If they were to open the curtains, Viktor knows that they'd be greeted by nothing but a wall of white and grey as heavy snow whips down from the sky, making the sea and sky nearly invisible.

It’s a long couple minutes before Jayce responds. When he does, his voice is quiet. “...If you think that’s best.”

Viktor tries not to let out an obvious sigh of relief.

He begins immediately, mushing rowan berries. He strains them, letting the juice drain into one bowl, then another and another, until he’s lined them up along the entire countertop.

Jayce watches the entire process in silence. For the first time since Viktor can remember, he doesn’t offer to help.

Still, his curiosity gets the better of him eventually, and he’s soon stood, wandering over to watch the process. “You’re sure this will work?” Jayce asks as he looks over Viktor’s shoulder, doubt evident in his voice.

“Of course,” Viktor says, not looking up from measuring out the marigold petals. “The spell will be dormant until you drink it, and I can make enough to last you until the end of your life.” He hesitates, then, “I could make enough for your Mel, as well.”

There’s a slight hitch in Jayce’s breath. Then, “...Yeah. That would be good. Please.”

Viktor swallows and adds the petals to the mortar dish, methodically grinding them with the pestle into a beautiful and golden paste. He adds them to the juice, watching the red and gold bleed together, mixing until the substance has thickened and begins to glitter. He tries not to think of Jayce drinking this together with his Mel, the two of them safe and intertwined in a sunny and grand Piltover home.

The jealousy and hatred he has for this woman—this beautiful, charismatic, wonderful woman he has not and never will meet—is thick enough to choke on.

“Is it done?” Jayce asks, dubious.

Viktor can’t help but chuckle. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “There is still the matter of runes.”

Jayce frowns. “How does that work with a potion?”

Viktor shrugs, taking a fresh jar of marigold petals down from the shelf. Fortunately, as a versatile protection component, he always has a good deal on hand. “I will put the runes on the petals,” he explains, “Then add them in. That will be enough to ensure the magic will take, although it will not activate until you actually drink it.”

“Are you sure?” Jayce asks weakly.

“Of course,” Viktor says, taking the needle knife from the sheath at his side.

Outside, through the crack of the curtain, Viktor can see that the snow has finally stopped, at least for the time being. The clouds are still there, though, grey and watercolored together, making the line between the sea and the sky indistinguishable.

“Just…” Jayce flounders for a moment. “I mean, if Renni really won’t stop—not that I doubt your witchcraft, just… I mean, if…”

Viktor’s heart pounds.

No, no no no…

“Maybe it’d be best… For Mel, I mean… If I didn’t...”

“I thought the goal was to have you returned home,” Viktor says shortly, not looking up as he etches delicate runes into the petals. Ward, overgrowth, and shield.

“Of course,” Jayce says quickly. “It was. Is. Just…”

Ward, overgrowth, and shield.

“Just what, Talis?” Viktor questions, not looking up from the runes and trying not to snap.

Ward, overgrowth, shield.

“What if the hextech doesn’t work?” Jayce says. “If the geo-coordinates are off, if there’s any delay… And I mean, Mel won’t just drink something because I tell her to. She’s too discerning for that.”

Ward, overgrowth, shield; ward, overgrowth, shield.

“Then we will give you moly to take with you,” Viktor says, irritated. “Surely your Mel will know and trust the properties of that, at least.”

“Won’t that block witchcraft along with god magic?” Jayce asks, skeptic. “And Renni just needs a moment, and—”

“Lady Renni is not as smart as you might think,” Viktor interrupts. He's pressing too hard into the petals, hard enough to tear instead of etch, but he cannot bring himself to stop. “You will drink the potion,” ward, “We will teleport you with hextech,” overgrowth, “You will go home,” shield, “And you will find a way to have your Mel understand the importance of this potion.”

“But…” Jayce makes a disgruntled noise. “Look, Viktor—”

One of the golden threads in Viktor’s mind snaps.

He doesn’t comprehend it at first, what’s happened.

Then the pain of the recoil hits.

The floor falls out from underneath Viktor’s feet, and he’s screaming before he can stop himself.

An Evolved. No, no…

“Viktor?” Jayce asks, panicked.

Viktor thinks he can see Jayce standing, surging towards him, but his sight is blurred and dizzy. His body is shaking, bile rising in his throat, and the snap of the thread has sent his mind reeling into all-encompassing pain.

Marigold petals, golden and mocking, drift down around him, blurred and bright enough that they almost seem to glow.

Not now, why now…?

He can just make out Jayce’s hands reaching towards him.

Viktor bats them away, grabbing his cane as he tries to stand. Immediately, he starts falling over. He stumbles, leaning against the counter, taking deep gulps of air, trying to keep conscious through the splitting agony in his head.

This can’t be happening—not today, not when Jayce is present. Viktor desperately reaches out, trying to grab on to that golden thread, a vain attempt to pull it back and forcibly tie the ends back together.

It slips through his fingers like sand.

And then, just like that, it is gone.

The world is muffled. He’s fallen again, he thinks, taking a bowl of the incomplete potion with him. Jayce is saying something, his hands on Viktor’s shoulders, keeping him from fully collapsing on the ground, even as red streaked with gold slides off the counter and pools across the floor.

Through it all, Viktor can just make out a slow indigo drip, falling from his nose and to the ground, mixing with the red and gold.

“...Viktor? Viktor!” Jayce is shouting. “What’s wrong?”

“...Evolved,” Viktor mumbles, only half-comprehending the words, his tongue made loose through the pain.

Jayce’s touch stills.

Viktor curses himself internally.

Shit.

“The Evolved?” Jayce asks, baffled. He looks around, frantic. “I… Shit. You haven’t had one around for a while. Where…?”

“Forget it,” Viktor says quickly.

Jayce fixes him with an incredulous look.

Viktor presses his lips together and tries to get his bearings, but his legs are no better than jelly. His hands and feet are slick with the potion, making standing all but impossible. “It’s… It’s fine,” he manages to say. “Just… Give me a moment.”

“What? No!” Jayce exclaims. “Viktor, I’m not going to just ignore this! What’s going on? Are the Evolved are doing this to you?”

“No,” Viktor denies, lying through his teeth. “It’s not…” He shakes his head, pulling himself away from Jayce, even though that slight movement sends another pounding headache through his whole body. “I will be fine,” he says. “Just a bad round of pain.”

Jayce gives him an incredulous look. “Viktor, you’re bleeding.”

Viktor fixes Jayce with a glare and pointedly wipes the blood away from his nose. “It is just a nosebleed,” he says stiffly. “I am immortal, remember? I will be fine in five minutes.” He grabs his cane, finally managing to pull himself back to his feet, doing his best to ignore the pangs shooting through his nerves. He wipes his hands off on his robes, trying to ignore how much the red of the rowan berries looks like blood.

He tries to focus. He… He needs to get to the Evolved. Take care of it, before Jayce sees...

He takes one step, and even with the cane and brace, his legs refuse to obey him, his body betraying him yet again as his knees buckle.

Jayce is up and next to him in an instant, grabbing his arms and keeping him upright. “Viktor, stop!” he demands—

—And there’s something there, something angry in his tone, that makes Viktor freeze straight down to his bones—

“What’s going on?” Jayce says harshly. “What about the Evolved? What are they doing? Just—” He looks at Viktor with pleading eyes. “Let me help.”

Viktor laughs out loud before he can stop himself. Help? No, Jayce can’t help with this. “Let go of me, Talis,” he says harshly, trying to pull away.

Jayce’s grip remains firm.

Panic claws its way up Viktor’s throat. “Let go,” he demands, but the words shake, his voice coming out weak.

“Are you going to collapse again if I let go?” Jayce presses, and—

—Something flashes over Jayce’s face—his skin paler, his face sharper, his eyes narrowed with dark delight, his mouth curved in a hungry smile—

“Get off!” Viktor shouts, dropping his cane and shoving Jayce away with all the force he can muster, his body flaring with light.

Jayce’s eyes widen, and he starts to pull away, but it’s too late—he goes sprawling backwards, hitting chair and losing his balance. He falls, sending the chair toppling to the ground, and as he tries to catch himself on the table, the table tilts, crashing down with him.

Viktor can only watch in horror as jars and plates and silverware cascade around him, all of them seemingly determined to hit Jayce as they cascade around him. One particularly large glass jar slams into Jayce’s shoulder before it hits the ground with a crash, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.

The shattered bits of ceramic and glass clink and roll against the floor, taking too long before they settle, like the aftermath of an explosion.

Neither Jayce nor Viktor move.

What has he done? Gods above, what has he done?

Jayce has a hand on his shoulder, face tight with pain.

There’s no blood, Viktor tells himself. At least there’s no blood.

But does that matter? An injury doesn’t need blood to qualify as painful.

Viktor clutches his cane like it’s his last tether to reality. He swallows air in unsteady gulps, his free hand grasping the front of his robes, trying to calm the trembling in his body to no avail. He closes his eyes, bracing himself. Then,

“...Viktor?”

Gods above, he sounds so scared.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, I…”

He hurts Jayce, and Jayce is the one apologizing.

Viktor opens his eyes. All he can see are those horrible, disgusting fingerprints—his fingerprints—marring Jayce’s forehead.

There are forty still-active threads in his mind. Forty Evolved.

Forty puppets.

Viktor slumps. Already, cold acceptance is beginning to crawl through his skin. His head is still stabbing, his body still fragile, but he can walk. He needs to end this, before he hurts Jayce again.

He picks up his cane starts towards the door. “This way,” Viktor says tonelessly.

Jayce blinks. “What do you…?”

“You want to know,” Viktor says harshly. “And you should. This way.”

For a brief, wonderful moment, he thinks Jayce won’t do it. That he will say that it doesn’t actually matter. That he will change the subject. That they will be able to move on with business as usual.

But Jayce swallows, sets his jaw, and stands.

Good, Viktor tells himself through his sinking heart. This is good.

It’s time to end this façade of a partnership. For both their sakes.

Jayce’s hands hover, like he wants to reach out, to help support Viktor, but he must see something in Viktor’s face, because he lets his hands fall back to his side, only stopping to grab his cloak hanging by the side of the door.

Viktor does not look at Jayce once as he unsteadily makes his way to treeline just beyond his house. His cane is deafeningly loud against the crunch of snow, his vision blurred at the edges, his body numb. Even broken, he can feel the echo of the thread. He knows where every Evolved on the island is.

It is easy to tell which one is now gone.

Between the thick snow and the low-hanging sky, the world is a horrible blur of grey.

The body of the Evolved is not far from the house. It is only a short walk, not too deep into the island, nestled within the forest. Viktor remembers positioning this Evolved there when Jayce had first arrived, as a safeguard against his visitor trying to sneak out.

The snow is wet and heavy under their feet. Viktor moves slowly, in part due to his leg and cane and not wanting to fall into the snow, but more due to the dread seeping through his limbs. Behind him, Jayce is completely silent.

Viktor can feel Jayce’s breath catch when the Evolved comes into view. It is slumped over, its limbs slack. Viktor is always surprised at how much shine the Evolved lose when they become like this, like they really are little more than the mannequins Jinx claims they are.

They both stand there, a mere five feet away from the lifeless Evolved, with nothing but the rattling of branches in the breeze between them.

Finally, Jayce speaks. “What’s wrong with it?”

Unexpectedly, there’s a lump in Viktor’s throat. He ignores it, pushing himself forward, crossing those few feet between him and the lifeless Evolved.

You told him to come, he reminds himself. You wanted this.

Viktor kneels next to it. He runs his fingers over its cheek, testing for what he already knows. There are no more threads of life. The petricite is cold, the magic gone, the soul finally separated from its prison, claimed by Silco and his domain. It has gone, past the point where any witchcraft, no matter how powerful, would ever be able to drag it back.

Especially when it would not want to return.

“Viktor?” Jayce repeats. “What’s wrong with it? Why is it…?” His voice wavers, and Viktor knows, can so clearly picture what his face must look like as he struggles to find the words for the lack of animation in the Evolved.

Viktor swallows. His throat is closed up, his tongue no better than lead. Slowly, he takes the needle knife from its sheath at his side and begins to carve into the Evolved’s body.

“Harvest,” Jayce murmurs.

Viktor closes his eyes briefly. Foolishly, he’d been hoping against all hope that Jayce wouldn’t recognize the rune.

Sentimental, stupid foolishness. Jayce never forgets a rune once it’s been shown to him.

“Are you… Killing it?” Jayce questions, something like disbelief in his tone.

“...No,” Viktor says after a moment.

“Then what…?”

For a moment, Viktor considers lying. But no. He won’t do that disservice. Not now. Not when he’s already hurt Jayce so.

He makes himself raise his head so he can look Jayce in the eye. “It is already dead.”

He regrets looking immediately—Jayce’s face morphs from confusion to disbelief to horror. His mouth works itself for a moment, but nothing comes out. Then, the word coming out in a croak, “How?”

Viktor breaks his gaze, looking back down at the Evolved so he doesn’t have to look at the scars on Jayce’s forehead. “It happens to all of them, eventually,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

Viktor stares at the ground. He wants to bury himself under it, under the roots and the snow, with his eyes closed and hands clasped over his ears. Somewhere in his mind, there is a chorus of screaming.

“How, Viktor?” Jayce demands. “You’ve said these things are perfect, that they’re beyond suffering and whatever else. You’ve said that things are unaging here. So why the hell is it—!”

“Because it wished to,” Viktor snaps. He tries to keep his posture, but his shoulders tremble, wanting to fold in on himself. “They are perfect. I have forced perfection on them. And after perfection, what else is there left to do?”

Silence meets his words. The birds have gone quiet, the snow keeping the world in stillness. All Viktor can hear is the rattle of empty tree branches in the breeze.

Next to him, he hears Jayce stand. “What does that mean?” he questions, voice shaking.

Viktor lets out a shaking breath. “Exactly that,” he says. “You have seen them. They… They cannot sleep. They cannot eat. They cannot dream. They have no desire for anything more. They do not wish to even move after I transform them. Their thread of life is so thin. Without pursuit…” Viktor closes his eyes. “They have no will to live. There is no pattern to it. One day, the magic keeping their soul anchored just… Runs out. And they have no wish to stay.” He clenches his hands into fists. “So they don’t.”

The snow under his legs is so, so cold. It is soaking through his brace, the water doubtlessly doing damage to the metal gears, but he cannot bring himself to care. When the silence has stretched for far too long, Viktor forces his eyes open, looks up at Jayce.

His expression is horrified.

His pupils are pinpricks, his breathing shallow and fast, a hand at his head, right over those ivory scars.

Viktor braces himself for the questions. The how, the why, the if he’s still in danger of Viktor transforming him.

But Jayce just stares at the corpse of the Evolved. Then, “How many?”

Viktor swallows. “I…”

“How many?” Jayce repeats.

The ground is dizzying underneath him. Viktor tries to make his voice come out even and calm. “Does it matter?” he says. “I haven’t—”

“How many, Viktor?” Jayce yells, whipping around. His eyes are wild, his face desperate. There is snow blowing through the air, huge flakes like acid eating at the space around them, but Jayce hardly seems to even notice it.

Viktor stares at the Evolved, the knife in his hand. The dull petricite, the harvest rune carved into it. The featureless face that Viktor cannot remember what it once looked like no matter how hard he tries. “...Three hundred and eighty-three,” he whispers. And then, because he needs to make it worse, to make himself truly deserve Jayce’s hatred, “Five hundred and seventy including the nymphs I condemned to the Wild Rift.”

More if he includes the casualties from when the gods came for him, when he was too far gone to bother counting how many more fell at his hands. Try as he might, he can’t recall the number.

He can’t even remember all of their faces.

Viktor looks up at Jayce, at the stunned horror, the dawning realization.

“The Herald,” Jayce whispers. “The God of the Arcane.”

Viktor refuses to flinch at the name. It is kinder, all things considered, than any of the other things he has been called. Witch-God. God of Mutilation. God of Decay. The God Who Split the Earth. More that he will likely never know. All curses, all hatred. All justified.

Jayce laughs.

It’s an ugly, discordant sound, jarring against the snowy forest. Viktor can’t help but recoil at the noise, as deserved as it is.

“How didn’t I…?” Jayce chokes, then shakes his head. “The witchcraft, son of a god and a nymph, the time with Singed, the fucking Evolved… They even look like the Waiting Dead!”

Viktor stays silent.

“So you just, what?” Jayce questions harshly. “You couldn’t stop at nymphs, you couldn’t stop at splitting the world? You had to try, what? Some sick experiment on doing it to mortals, too? Gods, do you do this to everyone who comes here? Turn them into puppets and wait for them to hate their existence enough to kill themselves?”

No, Viktor wants to protest. But he stays silent. It’s true enough.

“And if Jinx hadn’t…” Jayce’s voice wavers. He starts backing away. “All the Evolved? They were all people like me? People you transformed and killed?”

Viktor swallows. Nods.

Jayce fixes him with a hardened glare. “Change them back,” he demands.

Viktor gestures helplessly. “I can’t.”

“You—”

“I can’t, Jayce,” Viktor says wretchedly. “Transformations cannot be reversed. You know that.”

Jayce works his jaw. He paces in the snow, back and forth, back and forth. “Have you let anyone go before Jinx made you spare me?” he snaps. “Ever?”

Viktor drops his head. His silence is answer enough.

Jayce laughs again, incredulous and biting. “I thought you…” He trails off, staring at Viktor like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Viktor desperately tries to will the thorny barrier to go back up around his heart. Jayce’s anger, Jayce finally understanding what exactly Viktor is, is worse than if someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his lungs.

And he isn’t done yet. “You’re not even killing them!” Jayce seethes. “Even Violet…! Gods, you’re like a cat playing with food. Is this fun for you? Taking everything away from them and waiting to see how long it takes before they’ve had enough?”

“No,” Viktor whispers.

But Jayce doesn’t even seem to hear him. He continues pacing in the snow, running his hands through his hair. “You’re a god! You’re a fucking witch! You can just… Why this?”

Viktor’s throat has closed up. His breathing is coming out short and funny, one hand still clutching his cane, the other with a death grip on the needle knife, as if it could possibly help him if Jayce chooses to charge. All he can think of is his empty pocket, the sleeping draught he has neglected for so many weeks now.

Jayce whips his head towards Viktor, furious. “Why are you still scared of me?” he explodes.

Shame, hot and terrible, floods over Viktor’s face. “I am not—!”

“You are!” Jayce yells. “You have been since the second I landed here!”

“I am not scared of you, Talis,” Viktor snarls, refusing to give Jayce the satisfaction.

Jayce’s face contorts. “Don’t lie to me!”—

—And the rage on his face, his twisted expression, his angry and waving hands, it’s suddenly all Viktor can see, and—

—His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, his hands come up to shield his face and throat. His body pitches to the side as he loses his balance, his cane falling into the snow with a soft whumph. As Viktor’s back hits the ground, his knife slips from his hand and disappears somewhere into the snow, leaving him defenseless. He scrambles backwards, curling inwards and squeezing his eyes shut, bracing himself.

He waits. And waits.

When the silence and weight of nothing is too much to bear, Viktor risks peeking.

Jayce is a few feet back, staring, still breathing heavily.

Viktor wants to break his gaze, to stand, to resume the pretense, to continue his role of the untouchable witch-god.

His limbs remain frozen.

For a moment, Viktor thinks Jayce might actually do it—lunge, attack, use those muscles to finally try to bring down the cursed witch of the island.

But then, Jayce just backs away. One step, then two, then three. Then, he is turning, storming through the snowy forest, back in the direction of the house.

Viktor doesn’t move for nearly fifteen minutes. He can only stare at the space where Jayce had been standing, at the tracks he has left in the snow.

Somewhere, birds begin to sing.

When had they stopped singing?

Viktor lets his body slump, one muscle at a time, until his knees are curled up against his chest, his arms wrapped around himself. His teeth are bared and chattering. His body feels raw, torn and frayed at the edges.

This is what he wanted, Viktor tells himself.

He finds the knife from where he dropped it in the snow. He carves the harvest runes into the rest of the limbs.

This is what he wanted.

The Evolved disintegrates into sparkling grey ash with hardly more than a sigh. The remaining magic within the petricite floods back into his body, and even though it soothes his aches, it helps little else.

This is what he wanted.

Now, finally, Jayce will leave.

And Viktor will be left alone.

Viktor stands. Step by step, he follows Jayce’s footprints back to the house. The walk back is too short, the winter around him suffocating.

The door hinges creak when he slips back inside, too loud.

The house is dark and empty. The shattered remains on the floor stare back at him, damning and horrible.

Viktor does not try and find Jayce. Each movement as slow as if he were moving through mud, he cleans up the mess in the kitchen. The spilled potion, the marigold petals, the sharp bits of glass and ceramic. Then, he goes to his room, quietly shutting the door. His body numb, he curls up in his usual position in the corner, facing the door.

In the end, there is nothing that can be done to deny the irrefutable.

Jayce was going to be turned into an Evolved. Viktor was going to turn him into an Evolved. A puppet, exactly as Jayce has always said they were. Puppets doomed to a short life, to be dead and forgotten to the rest of the world.

He puts his head between his knees. Tries to remember to breathe, even if he doesn’t need to, but only manages a couple gasping hiccups.

Finally, Jayce gets to see Viktor as he truly is: a cruel and selfish god, the worst of them all, capable of ruining lives with a wave of his hand. This is what Viktor wanted.

Viktor stares at the ground and tries to ignore the tears running down his face.

Chapter Text

Viktor does not see even a glimpse of Jayce for the next three days.

It tears at his chest, making every action raw and heavy. He tries to go about business as usual, as best he can while working exclusively at night to keep his distance from Jayce—he finishes the warding potions, he lines them up neatly on the counter, he tends to the garden, he fine-tunes the hextech, he makes adjustments to the blueprints for the lift, and he tries to keep his mind carefully, carefully blank in its business.

He does not think about Jayce’s careful touches he’d grown so used to.

He does not think about Jayce’s warm smile.

He does not think about the seamless conversation, the ease with which he and Jayce bounced ideas off each other.

And he does not think about the horror on Jayce’s face.

This is what you wanted, Viktor reminds himself for what has to be the millionth time, curled up in the farthest corner of his room. This is what he wanted from the start—Jayce sufficiently terrified, too scared of the witch-god of the island to try anything untoward. The shameful truth of Viktor’s existence is a small price to pay for that.

And yet.

All he can think of is Jayce in the same position Viktor himself has taken every night since his arrival: back against the wall, a knife clutched in his hand, eyes forced wide open out of fear for what defenseless sleep will bring.

Viktor’s breath is caught in his throat, too thin, his lungs being squeezed by iron fists. The perfect brace around his ribs, that brace wrought by Jayce’s kindness, is guilt incarnate. Viktor wants to tear his fingernails along the seams, where golden metal meets purple skin, and rip that undeserving gift off of him.

Unexpectedly, a whimper falls from his lips. He curls further into himself, clutching his cane—the cane Jayce also made, he can’t help but think wretchedly—as close as he can to his chest.

When did Jayce manage to so thoroughly weave his way into every single thread of Viktor’s life?

There is something screaming under his skin, where metal has been melded with plant and bone. He can’t stay inside. He needs… He needs…

He needs to get out.

He stumbles out of his room, not bothering to be silent. He walks past the workshop, past the garden, through the kitchen, then out the door.

The outdoors is alive with night. The snow has finally begun to melt, leaving slush and mud in its wake, but a frigid cold front has come through, freezing every last bit of moisture. With every step, frost and pebbly drops of ice alike crunch under Viktor’s feet. At this hour, the birds are silent, but the wind is strong as ever. When it blows through the ice-coated trees, it sounds like singing.

He isn’t quite sure where he’s going, just that he needs to keep moving, that he needs to do something, anything to help remedy the situation.

As he stares up at the clear sky, the shining white stars cascaded over the darkness and peeking out from the bare tree branches, the answer comes to him.

Moly.

Even though Viktor knows the woods by heart, knows every root and slope and stone, his movements are slow. The air is crisp in his lungs. When he exhales, he can see the pale outline of his breath. He wants to collapse to the ground, let frost crawl over him, let leaves and ivy take over his limbs like they have for the Evolved.

He keeps moving.

When he gets to the beginning of the narrow passage, that tunnel of rock and sweeping boughs so tangled that they threaten to block out the sky, Viktor pointedly does not look at the hideous form of the Evolved knelt next to a large oak tree, the golden fingerprints splayed across its face that mirror Jayce's ivory scars.

Finally, he arrives at the clearing. The flowers are all dead with winter, waiting to come to life again come spring. While the forest is dark, this clearing, lit by the moon and stars, is visible in its silvered lighting.

Viktor kneels to the ground and begins to dig.

There was just enough time before the snow hit, he thinks. Just enough time for the magic of the roots to begin to take shape, to start pushing back to the surface, to expand and grow under the earth. Still, relief crashes through Viktor when his fingers find what he’s looking for. The roots are stubborn, but Viktor is more so—he pulls and pulls, uprooting fistful after fistful of the moly roots. His fingers are numb with cold, stained with dirt and dead leaves and white sap, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He digs and pulls, digs and pulls, until there are almost none left. 

He stops. Surveys his work.

There.

That should be enough.

Viktor swears he can feel eyes on him from above, dagger-sharp in their disapproval and judgment. But, when he looks up, there is only an owl in the trees, brown with a pale white face and cold, gleaming eyes.

“Do not look at me like that,” Viktor snaps. “I was not the one who started this.”

Only a breeze like a sigh meets his accusation. Then, completely silent, the owl glides off the branch and disappears into the forest. If Jinx or any other god is, in fact, watching, they stay quiet.

Viktor stands and trudges back, trying to ignore the way the stars overhead glint neon out of the corner of his eyes and how the space around them almost seems to crack.

When he returns to the house, he places the moly roots on the kitchen table. He doesn’t wash them, too worried of losing an ounce of that precious sap.

Now, all that’s left is to make sure that Jayce can leave.

Viktor stays in his room, watching the sun rise, then creep across the sky through the crack of his curtain. He waits until well after the sun sets before he makes his way to the workshop.

Try as he might to be quiet, his cane clinks against the tile. Despite the walls meant to keep the chill out, there is a draft in the halls. For the first time, Viktor’s house feels too large to hold him.

He slips inside the workshop, lighting just enough candles to ward off the worst of the darkness. He’s numb as he sets up the magnetic stand, the blue crystal with the acceleration rune carved into it. He flips the dial, watching it whir to life, the runes along the copper tubing and the base of the stand flickering brilliant and bright.

It is more difficult than usual to get lost in the experimental process.

The fundamentals of the design are completed. They’ve confirmed that the teleportation will work on organic matter. Every bit of bone sent through remains intact when it comes out the other end. Now, Viktor just needs to nail down the size and accuracy of the target projection.

It would be ideal, Viktor thinks as he runs more wires into the stand, if they had more of Jayce’s crystals. Even better if he knew how the crystal had been created, where it was harvested, how it is powered. It would be wonderful to run more tests against it, but neither of them have exactly been willing to damage the only crystal they have. If it is, in fact, both singular and irreplaceable, then they will have to make do. Jayce’s theory of geo-coordinates is sound, though. Though Viktor has no way of knowing what the coordinates are for this island, perhaps he can rig something up, connect it to a magnetized source, bring it somewhere on the island. Would Ekko’s barrier interfere? Maybe. But, if he can get a good reading, perhaps he can set up an accuracy test. They won’t be able to do much in regards to range, but still, a subpar test is better than no test at all.

Viktor turns in his chair, ready to reach for one of the magnetized ingots, and—

Jayce is standing in the doorway.

Jayce is standing in the doorway.

Viktor is standing and catching himself on the table before he realizes he’s lost his balance. How did he arrive so silently? Why is he here? Why is he here?

Neither of them say anything, both avoiding the other’s gaze.

After the silence has stretched on for too long, Viktor gestures towards the hextech. “I fixed the wiring issue,” he says quietly. “It should be more effective for long-range now, though I still need to run a few more tests to perfect the accuracy.”

Jayce’s eyes dart to the papers spread out over the table, the calculations for magnetism and geo-coordinates. He must surely have an opinion on them—his brow crinkles, something like confusion on his face—before he shakes his head. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand.

In his palm are the roots.

“Moly,” Viktor says unnecessarily. “Not bloomed, but the sap is there, albeit in small amounts. There should be enough to last until you can leave.”

Jayce is still silent.

Viktor swallows through his dry mouth. Why isn’t he saying anything? He should… He should be angry still. He should have a reaction. Why is he just staring?

Viktor’s eyes dart to the side, desperately searching for an exit, and—oh. Outside, though dark, he can just make out the patter of sleet through the window. It splatters against the glass, congealing and dripping down. He can hear the wind howling just outside.

Of course. It’s storming, and Jayce needs a distraction. And here Viktor is, insisting on occupying the workshop, taking away one of the few places where Jayce can find a distraction against the backdrop of terror.

“I… Trust you know what to do with it,” Viktor manages to say, groping for his cane as subtly as he can and failing completely. “If you will excuse me…”

Jayce doesn’t move from the door. Why is he staring at Viktor with that scrunched brow, that mouth that gapes open and closed like a beached fish? Why does he look confused?

Viktor’s knees threaten to start knocking together. His heart is hammering in his ears, made louder by the storm, which before had been so easy to ignore before but now is deafening. Viktor clenches his jaw. He is a god. He is a witch. He will not be cowed by this.

Squaring his shoulders as best he can and narrowing his eyes, he starts moving towards the door,

It is grimly satisfying, how Jayce’s eyes widen and he all but falls out of Viktor’s way.

Viktor forcibly shoves the guilt at Jayce’s terrified expression to the very back of his head. He keeps himself steady until he reaches his room, before he all but slams the door shut. His body trembles, then gives out from under him, and he slides to the floor, barely keeping himself propped up with his cane.

This is how it is supposed to be, he tells himself

It is both their faults, really, for forgetting what the other was capable of.

Viktor stares at the runes he’d carved over the door and window frame, the red glistening in the pale light, like the safety they were supposed to bring could possibly comfort him now.

Viktor isn’t sure how many more days pass. Two, at least, possibly four. It’s always harder to measure time in the winter, and the storm combined with his avoidance of Jayce isn’t helping.

When he’s sure Jayce is in his room for the night, he slips out, setting up a magnetized needle and coil. He assembles a dial based on some of Jayce’s scribble of geo-coordinates, or what he assumes are the geo-coordinates.

He tries not to think about how this would be easier with Jayce.

Viktor glances outside. There is no rain or snow, but the sky is cloudy. It will be easier to get a read when the sky is clear. Hopefully, it won’t take longer than another day.

In the meantime, there is nothing to do but wait.

He stares at his hands. Time is empty around him. He’s restless, something about him fragile as a dried leaf, prone to fall apart at the first sign of a breeze.

The house has gotten colder over the past few days. The garden has been left untended.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s something to do.

Viktor harvests flowers and herbs and fruits, takes inventory of what he has and doesn’t have, what will need transplanted, what will need transformed. He strings up some herbs to dry, sets others in jars.

He looks around, trying to think. There has to be something else to do. Something else he can organize, a chore he can complete, something.

His mind comes up blank.

Viktor sighs. It’s getting late. A damp chill has settled in the air, seeping deep into his bones.

Stumbling, he makes his way to the living room, fumbling his way through starting fire. He sinks into the chair closest to the hearth, watching the flames eat away at the wood as warmth begins to return to the house. He resists every urge to let his head fall between his knees. Gods above, he’s so tired. It’s bone-deep, leaving his soul feeling stretched and too thin. When was the last time he was this exhausted?

It’s fine. He can truly rest after Jayce leaves. The house and sea will be empty, and Viktor will be safe, and Jayce will be safe, and both of them will move on from this short but horrible chapter of their lives. Viktor will have his solitude, and Jayce will have his homecoming.

It’s for the best.

He keeps telling himself that, knees drawn to his chest, ignoring the cold guilt curdling in the pit of his stomach that even the fire can’t quite quell. He needs to accept that he made the right decision. This is how it’s supposed to be—that Jayce hates him, that Jayce will rightfully keep himself locked away, that Jayce will stay as far away from him as possible until the hextech device is completed and he can finally, finally leave. That Jayce…

...Is standing in front of him.

For a moment, Viktor can only stare, convinced that he’s finally lost his mind. There is no other explanation, for why Jayce would be standing there, a mere few feet away from Viktor, making himself look Viktor in the eye.

His face, normally so open and expressive, is drawn and carefully blank.

“Can I sit here?” Jayce asks quietly, gesturing to a chair across from Viktor.

Viktor is unable to do anything but nod.

Cautiously, Jayce sits down. His back is ramrod straight, his hands stiff in his lap.

The fire between them crackles. The dim orange light casts shadows across Jayce’s face, making that blank expression all the more difficult to read.

Finally, Jayce opens his mouth. “Can… Can you at least tell me why?” His voice cracks over the last word, something horrible and pleading in that sentence.

Viktor fights to keep himself composed. “Why what?” he asks, as tonelessly as he can.

Jayce sets his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“I do not,” Viktor lies, staring at the fire, the way the embers creep and eat at the wood.

Jayce makes a disgruntled noise from the back of his throat and throws his hands up. “Could you not…?” he groans, then, “Can you please not be deliberately obtuse about this?”

Viktor grits his teeth and says nothing.

“Please, Viktor,” Jayce begs. “Tell me none of it was true. Tell me you lied.”

Viktor clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. So, this is it.

Denial.

“I have not lied,” he says flatly. “I am the God of the Arcane.”

Jayce, infuriatingly, does not so much as flinch. “Fine,” he snaps. “Then tell me what I’m missing here.”

Viktor blinks. “What do you mean?”

Jayce lets out a humorless laugh. “Viktor, I’ve seen you—you’re not the same as what the myths say.”

“You have seen nothing,” Viktor snaps. “You have known my nature from the start, and now you have confirmed the truth of it. I am a cruel and heartless god—”

Jayce interrupts him with a scoff. “We both know that’s not true.”

Frustration boils in Viktor’s chest. “You saw what I tried to do to you, did you not?” He gestures at Jayce’s face, at the scars on his forehead. “It is not my fault that you forgot what I could do and that you forgot to be scared of me.”

“It’s hard to be scared of someone who flinches every time I enter a room,” Jayce shoots back.

Viktor bristles at Jayce’s words. “I do not—!”

“You do!” Jayce snaps. Then, without warning, he seems to deflate. He slumps, running his hands over his face. “I just… It doesn’t make sense. You’re supposed to be the most powerful god in existence, and you’re scared of me. And I can’t figure out why.”

Viktor stays silent, not trusting any words that come out of his mouth to not damn him.

“Viktor…” Jayce begs.

In the firelight, the scars on his forehead are brighter than ever.

“Whatever you think you have seen in me, you are wrong,” Viktor says tonelessly. “You were not turned because of Jinx. There is nothing more to it.”

“Then what about that first snowstorm?” Jayce challenges.

Viktor blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “What of it?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“I’d hurt you,” Jayce says, “And you could have transformed me right then and there. But you didn’t.”

Viktor swallows. He could have. He hadn’t even considered it, that by the very conditions he’d placed upon the oath they’d both sworn, that he could have. He would have, if it had happened earlier into Jayce’s stay.

Even now, he could—he could slot his fingers into those scars, end this once and for all.

The thought of Jayce’s features melting into placidity, that expressive face smoothing into blank petricite, all his desires and fears smoothed away, is enough to make Viktor want to vomit.

“The conditions were if you attacked me,” Viktor snaps. “That was hardly an attack.”

Jayce narrows his eyes. “Okay. Fine. Then why did you dig up those moly roots?”

Viktor opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Guilt, he wants to say. Guilt, sentimentality, and idiotic affection.

None of those answers will convince Jayce to drop the subject.

He can’t do this. He can’t…

“And why did you comfort me during the storm?” Jayce continues. “That didn’t benefit you at all. You could’ve just sent me away. If you’re so heartless, why do that?”

Viktor grabs his cane, intending to stand, but the cane rattles against the ground. He’s shaking, bad enough that his fingers refuse to curl around the cane’s grip. He’s falling apart and losing whatever thin ground he had to stand on, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

“Stop,” Viktor croaks.

“And why,” Jayce presses on, relentless, “Do you transform people into Evolved if their death hurts you?”

Viktor draws his knee closer to his chest. “You would not understand,” he whispers.

“Then help me understand!” Jayce explodes. “Why turn them into Evolved puppets? Why would you do something like that when you know what will happen to them? Why not send them away or ignore them or even just kill—?”

“I can’t, Jayce,” Viktor hisses. His anger and frustration are boiling in his throat, spilling over his tongue, threatening to explode.

“Why not?” Jayce shoots back.

It’s a condition of my exile. Because the other option if I break that condition is eternal torture.

Viktor takes a deep breath. He has to give Jayce something, some tiny little piece of information, just enough to satisfy him. “I am a witch,” he say, voice controlled. “Whatever else I am, you must know the gods’ views on witchcraft. I exist here in obscurity. If I were to use my abilities to kill, the gods would not be able to brush off my continued existence on this island. Transforming trespassers into Evolved is a… Loophole, of sorts.”

There. That should be enough. It’s more than Viktor would have wanted dragged out, but it should be enough to make Jayce turn away from the matter.

Jayce makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You’re still not answering the question,” he snaps. His hands move as he speaks—wide movements that Viktor can’t look away from, leaving him as frozen as a cornered rabbit.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Viktor knows he wouldn’t, but—

“You could just send people away,” Jayce continues. “Ignore them.”

“My island is too small for that!” Viktor snarls. “Do you think I have not tried to? They always find this house!”

How many times has he tried and failed to put the hearth out in time? Locked and barred the door? Pressed himself up against the wall and away from the windows as strangers circled his home, pounding on glass and rattling the handles, demanding entry?

“You’re a god,” Jayce scoffs. “It’s not like they could hurt you.”

His leg throbs, his spine aches, his nerves pinch, his throat burns, and—

“As if godhood and immortality has ever protected me from anything aside from death!” Viktor yells.

Jayce falls silent.

Then, slowly, dread in every word, “What does that mean?”

Viktor’s breath dies in his lungs. Any words he had are gone, disintegrated, blown away like ash in the wind.

He’s only a nymph, after all.

“Viktor,” Jayce pleads. “They couldn’t hurt you. Right?”

Viktor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. No, he wants to say. Even now, he wants to stay untouchable, the all-powerful witch who could end a life without blinking.

Except Jayce has seen how he flinches. Has seen his weakness. And now knows that he cannot kill.

And Viktor only has himself—his weak, foolish self—to blame.

“I’ve seen your magic and protections,” Jayce continues, near-frantic.

It’s not like they could hurt you.

How sure he is. How ignorant.

Gods, he is so tired.

“No one…” Jayce flounders. “I mean, why would they… No one could hurt—”

“What do you want me to say, Jayce?” Viktor interrupts.

His voice is soft, so soft, but Jayce stops talking immediately.

The fire crackles between them.

Viktor swallows, looking at the orange glow of the hearth so he doesn’t have to look at Jayce. The words fall from his lips slowly, dredged up from beneath the weight of thousands of years. “Shall I tell you of the first ship that came through here? The weary soldiers who came and sought shelter in my home?”

He can still remember how excited he’d been. He’d even made his way down to the beach to greet them and lead them up to his house. Those first two centuries with only the island wildlife for company had taken its toll, as much as Viktor hated to admit it.

“Should I tell you,” Viktor says, the words coming faster now, dark and quiet, “Of how much I did not want to scare them? How I told them I was only a nymph when they asked who I was? How, as soon as they heard that I was alone, the captain came up behind me and pinned my hands? How they jabbed their elbows into my ribs and throat to keep me pliant as they took what they wanted?” He curls his hands into fists. “How I transformed them while they slept?”

He hadn’t been aware of what he was doing, not really. His body had moved as if puppeted by a stranger. He hadn’t comprehended that his bruised hands were reaching forward for the captain. He didn’t even know what he wanted to do, just that there was a roar under his skin, screaming to be released, for him to do something.

He couldn’t kill. But he could still transform.

“Viktor—” Jayce tries to say.

“Or the second time,” Viktor continues, not looking up from the fire, “When the sailors held me at knifepoint. I set out food laced with the sleeping draught when I saw the ship approaching, and I let them eat to their heart’s content before they started to pillage. Then all I had to do was twist my fingers.”

He hadn’t had a plan as he’d drizzled the draught over the food. He’d been gripped by terror, by the need to do something, anything that might help him stand a chance. They’d started with the food first, then started making their way through the house and thrown anything they thought might be of value in a burlap sack. The sword had still been pointed at his throat when the last sailor had finally bitten into a roll and swallowed, sealing his fate.

Afterwards, Viktor had taken sick satisfaction in making their biddable Evolved forms clean up their mess. Just hours later, he’d been horrified at his own actions, how easy it had been to fall back into his old habits of transformation and control. He had spent the night retching into bushes until all that came up was blood.

It hadn’t quite been enough to make him regret it.

“Vik—"

“Or perhaps,” Viktor interrupts, venomous, “I should tell you about the third time. He was a single sailor, the rest of his crew dead, like yours.”

A piece of the firewood splits and falls, sending up a small and brief cloud of embers.

Viktor feels his mouth twist into a lightless smile. “He was much like you, you know,” he says. “Inquisitive. Agreeable. He had a soft smile and quiet laugh. Finally, I thought, someone different from the rest.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jayce recoil, but he cannot bring himself to stop, the terrible and ruinous words refusing to relent in their flow.

“Should I tell you,” Viktor continues, voice shaking, “How I agreed to help repair his ship, as well? How I thought that this time, I could choose something different, too?” His heart is hammering so hard that Viktor is faintly amazed the whole house doesn’t beat with it. He clutches at his robes, hard enough that he can see the ridge of every bone under his skin. “Or how,” he says, barely recognizing the low and wretched words that come out of his mouth, “Five weeks in, he came to my door, late in the night.”

Viktor will never, for the rest of his immortal life, forget the way the door had creaked. The way his eyes had snapped open, instantly alert. The way he’d waited, disbelieving, second by petrifying second as the man he’d thought could be his friend had crept up to his bed, smiling that soft smile of his but with a wholly unfamiliar glint in his eyes, pale skin glowing like marble in the moonlight, before reaching to gently peel Viktor’s blanket away.

No, Viktor remembers whispering.

Then that smile again. And,

“Do you know what he said to me?” Viktor questions, voice tight. Then, not waiting for Jayce to answer. “‘I know you want this.’”

Maybe Jayce says something, maybe he doesn’t—everything is made inaudible by the roar of memory in Viktor’s head.

It is too easy, to remember the feel of his fingers as they’d just started to touch Viktor’s chest.

Viktor squeezes his eyes closed, trying to shut it all away, back to the furthest corners of his mind where it belongs, but the words still come out, harsh and sharp-edged. “He did not know,” he says, “What the Evolved were, or what I had done to the visitors before him. He did not even know I was a witch. He did not get the chance to fight back before I reached into my pocket and hit him with the sleeping draught.”

His paranoia, left from the previous two times, had paid off. He’d slammed the glass vial into the man’s face. Everything after that is a blur of darkness and panic, right up until Viktor had thrown the newly Evolved off of him, scrambling out of his bed and backed up against the wall, arms wrapped around his body, trying to pull his robes back up as he’d stared at the stilled body of the Evolved, splayed harmlessly across the floor.

He remembers wondering why his cheeks were wet. Why he suddenly wasn’t quite able to catch his breath.

“I could tell you I am sorry,” Viktor says, ruthless, “But I am not. I could tell you that I have let some go, but I have not. I cannot tell you they all deserved it, because I am sure they have not. I cannot tell you how many came before I stopped giving the benefit of doubt, because I do not know.” His voice is hoarse, his throat bone dry. Viktor swallows. “So, you see, Jayce, I am exactly as heartless as you thought. I—”

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else before Jayce falls from his chair.

Viktor almost panics, almost shouts, almost flings himself from his own chair to see what’s wrong, but then realizes—Jayce is kneeling.

Kneeling at the foot of Viktor’s chair, one hand on the ground right next to the foot of his cane, the other on chair and just gracing the hem of robes, at the threshold of the very worst of all the gods.

“Gods, Viktor,” Jayce croaks. “Gods. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Viktor stares. “You kneel?” he chokes out. “You sit there and kneel? Before me?”

Jayce says nothing.

“Stop that,” Viktor bites out. “Stop that.”

Jayce doesn’t move.

“I have nothing to show for my immortality but destruction,” Viktor snaps. “I would have turned you into a puppet and left you a shell of yourself and thought nothing of it. I would have condemned you to death and been glad of it. I have done nothing but try and make you afraid of me.”

Jayce looks up at him, undeterred. The scars on his forehead are shimmering, pale and ivory and refracting every color of the rainbow.

There’s something hot in Viktor’s eyes, blurring his vision. “You have no idea what you ask,” he chokes out. “I am despicable, I am unforgivable. I am this world’s most monstrous coward. And you seek forgiveness? From me?”

The gentleness in Jayce’s eyes is breaking. “Yes,” he says simply.

A hysteric sound between a laugh and sob leaves Viktor’s mouth. He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, frantically trying to wipe his tears away, but it’s as if a flood has been released, and Viktor is powerless to stop it. He is slipping and sinking, further and further away from his thin grasp on his semblance of a self. He doesn’t realize he’s slid off the chair until he’s on the floor, his cane useless as it clatters on the ground, his hands finding Jayce and clutching to him like his life depends on it.

Jayce inhales sharply. His hands hover, like he’s not quite sure what to do—something that, despite everything, Viktor wants to laugh at.

Then, Jayce’s arms are wrapping around Viktor, holding him and holding him and simply holding him. Warm and strong and undeserving in all the comfort they offer. Is Jayce shaking, too, or is it just him? Viktor can’t tell any longer.

Gods above, what is wrong with him?

“You are a fool,” Viktor whispers through his tears, not sure if he’s talking to Jayce or himself.

Jayce chuckles somewhat wetly. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s called me that.”

Everything about this is a mistake, Viktor knows, some small part in the back of his brain beating at his skull and trying to make him see reason, but he doesn’t have the strength to pull away.

All he can do is sob into Jayce’s shoulder, Jayce murmuring comfort in his ear that he doesn’t deserve, Jayce’s hands moving up and down his back, soothing and sure. Eventually, some part of Viktor’s mind quiets, his eyes too heavy and sore to stay open, as he slowly lets himself fall into sleep, still safely wrapped in Jayce’s arms.

Chapter Text

Viktor wakes still in Jayce’s arms, nestled against his chest, both of them leaned against the chair and next to the hearth that has long-since died down. There is a blanket draped around them that Jayce must have pulled from the chair at some point, making the warmth of Jayce’s body even more intense.

Viktor’s face burns, and he almost starts to peel himself away, determined to forget that that night had never happened.

Then, he sees—Jayce is also awake.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Then, cheeks flushed a beautiful red-pink, Jayce whispers, “Is this okay?”

Viktor should say no. He should pull away and pretend this never happened. He should end this before it spirals even more out of control.

“Yes,” he whispers instead.

And just like that, Jayce sighs in something like contentment, easing himself out of his sitting position and fully laying down on the rug, then proceeds to curl around Viktor’s body and relax. His face presses up against the back of Viktor’s head, his breath soft and even on Viktor’s neck, his arms more comforting than any blanket could ever be. Jayce holds him like he is something precious, and not a god with hundreds of deaths on his conscience.

It's wrong. It goes against every iota of common sense that Jayce should have.

And yet, Viktor cannot bring himself to protest.

It is easier than it should be, to fall back asleep, to let himself stay tucked into Jayce's chest. Easier still to let the day slip away, to get lost in the warmth and comfort. When they do finally get up, Viktor finds himself reluctant, of all things, to let go of Jayce.

It doesn’t make sense. It is foolish. It is selfish.

And yet, as if sensing Viktor’s unwillingness to let go, Jayce allows it. They stay that way, the god of destruction and the trapped mortal, hands intertwined, scarcely leaving each other’s side for more than a moment. If Viktor didn’t know any better, he would say that Jayce is just as reluctant to let go of him.

As he said, foolishness.

Worse, after that night, there is a… Shift.

There is no other way for Viktor to describe it.

Even after all of that, Jayce should know better than to still seek Viktor’s company. He should carry on with business as usual, eager to finish the hextech that will bring him home. And yet, Jayce—inconceivably—continues to drift closer.

It starts innocently enough. Walking towards him to pick up a hammer rather than wait for Viktor to move. Asking Viktor to pass him the screwdriver. Reaching over into Viktor’s space to grab the hinges. He even moves his chair from the opposite side of the workroom, moving it so he is closer to Viktor, so he can more easily talk to him and look over his shoulder and ask questions about what they are working on. But, even after spending an entire night and most of a day pressed up against each other, Jayce, at first, keeps his hands to himself, painfully, painfully careful. Almost every sentence begins with “Can I…?” or “Do you mind if I…?”

Viktor makes it through about four days of this before he finally snaps.

“I am not made of glass, Jayce,” he snips after what has to be the hundredth time.

Jayce hesitates. “I don’t want to scare you,” he says.

Viktor rolls his eyes. “I assure you, I am not scared of you.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes—this time, it’s true.

He’s no longer scared of Jayce at all.

Somewhere in his hindbrain, Viktor still knows that this is foolishness. That Jayce could still easily hurt him.

But he won’t, a larger, more insistent part of Viktor whispers. He won’t.

Viktor turns away, ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks. “You do not need to ask my permission to exist around me,” he snips. “I do not mind if you touch me, truly.”

It’s as if Jayce has been waiting for those words.

The first time after that when Jayce brushes against Viktor, it’s an accident. He reaches for an ink bottle at the same time as Viktor. Viktor reaches without looking, and then suddenly, his hand is over Jayce’s.

Jayce stares at him, the question in his eyes. Viktor gives a small nod, barely imperceptible, and Jayce smiles.

After that, it never stops.

A hand on his shoulder. A brush against his back. A finger pressed against his pinky. A tuck of a strand of his hair.

Viktor cannot understand it.

Jayce knows everything now. He knows what Viktor is, what he’s done, what he would have done if Jinx hadn’t interfered.

And he isn’t afraid.

It would be kinder, Viktor thinks, if the touch had left a physical burn. Something he could press his thumb into and feel the sting of, to remind himself that it is supposed to hurt.

But it doesn’t. Worse, it’s addicting. Now that Viktor knows what Jayce’s arms feel like around his frame, the warmth and surety he offers, he can’t get it out of his mind.

He doesn’t ask for it, though. He does not initiate. He is not that weak.

It will be less painful, this way, when Jayce leaves.

As if to taunt them, spring insists on arriving late.

The cold drags on, the sky gray, the ground insistently wet and icy. And with every day they do not take the lift materials outside and begin the work, Viktor can physically feel himself wanting to clutch tighter to Jayce.

It would be logical, to withdraw. He even tries it.

He lasts about half a day before Jayce comes up behind him, a hand around his shoulder, brows knit in concern.

“You doing okay?” Jayce asks.

You will be gone in a few short weeks, Viktor wants to say, And you have made me undone. How can I possibly be okay after this?

“Of course,” Viktor lies. “Simply… A bit tired.”

Jayce frowns. “It’s not… One of the Evolved, is it?” he asks haltingly.

Viktor shakes his head. “No,” he assures Jayce. “Nothing like that.”

Jayce hesitates, looking over the hextech and piles of materials for the lift. “You know, I still haven’t seen most of the island,” he says. “It doesn’t look like any storms are coming—maybe you can give me a tour?”

What is the point of that? Viktor can’t help but wonder. What is the point of seeing the rest of his small, stifling island, when Jayce will soon be gone?

“...If you wish,” Viktor murmurs instead, because he is weak.

His resolve, as it turns out, is no match for Jayce’s beaming smile.

The island is tinted grey from winter, washed out and with puddles that remind Viktor of dirty dishwater. The trees are still bare, still skeletal, still rattling. And yet, Jayce's smile doesn't leave his face. With the slight sting of cold still in the air, his cheeks take on a pinkish glow, one that has Viktor turning away to hide the traitorous heat in his own face.

They walk slowly, Viktor’s leg aching, but Jayce seems to be in no rush. He just hums in acknowledgment with each tree and plant Viktor points out, as Viktor quietly lists their names and uses, eyes shining with interest. The island is beautiful, Viktor has to admit, even in the winter. The ground hums underneath his feet, each dormant root stirring, each bow of tree swaying. Even without the aid of witchcraft to grasp them, he can feel the threads, thrumming and electric and alive. He tries to mirror some of Jayce’s enthusiasm, let that infectious optimism take hold. Tries not to think of the seemingly endless ocean surrounding the island, the dark trees that for all the world look like prison bars.

It is not Jayce’s fault, after all, that the island is so small.

They are reaching the end of the downward slope that leads to the center of the island, near a creek that turns into a small waterfall, when Jayce stops suddenly. His brow furrows, then, “What happened to this tree?”

Viktor, confused, follows his gaze, and…

“Ah,” he manages.

It’s an older tree, angular and twisting, positioned so its roots cling around the slope and edge of the creek, so wrapped into it that it’s impossible to tell if it has grown despite the angle or if its roots are the only thing keeping the earth from collapsing into the water.

There's a crack in it, bark that has begun to heal over a scar of spiraled prismatic patterns.

Viktor approaches the tree, running his hand over the bark, letting his fingers trace the swirling pattern. “When I first… Retreated here,” he says carefully. “I was… Not in a good state. Though weakened, I still have some godly power. Some baseline of divinity, I suppose. I thought, perhaps, I could prove to at least myself that it was not…” He gestures in disgust. “This. Mutilation. Corruption. Manipulation.” He shakes his head. “The things I marked have long enough lifespans, at least, that they have mostly grown around the scarring.”

He still remembers how much he used to love those circular webbings. How much pride he’d taken in it. A mark of healing, rather than a mark of manipulation.

Jayce approaches the tree, quiet and considering. Viktor watches him, waiting for the fear and disgust to follow, but Jayce says nothing—instead, he reaches out, letting his thumb run over the webbing.

“It feels like the marks on my forehead,” he remarks.

It’s not a malicious comment—the opposite, even. It’s stated plainly, a base observation. Still, Viktor turns away. All he can think of is the faces of the Evolved, Jayce’s face smoothing into fossilized blankness for eternity.

“I am sorry,” Viktor whispers.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and then, Jayce is in front of him. “Stop,” he says sternly. “Viktor, it’s okay. I don’t mind them—really.”

Viktor swallows. A lump has lodged itself in his throat, making so he can’t respond, even if he wanted to. What does he say to that? Jayce has to be lying, he must be.

But there’s nothing but honesty in his eyes.

Viktor averts his gaze and pulls away, sitting down on a nearby rock. He can’t look away from the scarring on the tree, as bright as it was when Viktor first tried to heal it that first and horrible year on the island. “That does not mean that I cannot be sorry for it.”

Jayce frowns. He glances over to the creek. It is clear and crystalline, and Viktor knows that if he were to run his hand through it, the water would chill him straight to the bone.

Jayce, of course, kneels down and splashes some of it directly on his face.

The shock of the cold hits him immediately—Jayce sputters, making a face as he draws back, letting out a noise that sounds like all the air escaping his lungs.

Viktor can’t help but chuckle. “I am not sure what you were expecting from that.”

Jayce shrugs. “Can you blame me? We’ve been walking for a while, and I run hot." Then, eyes sparkling, "You’re lucky I didn’t just take my shirt off.”

Viktor swallows. Is Jayce joking? He must be—he has that wry smile on his face, the teasing look in his eyes. Gods above, the forge is bad enough—he does not need to have anything else to fuel his imagination regarding Jayce’s physique.

“I’m more amazed you aren’t overheating yet,” Jayce notes, sitting back down next to Viktor. “I mean, you’re bundled up in, what? Three layers of robes plus a fur-lined cloak?”

“Hazards of a weakened form,” Viktor deadpans.

Instead of laughing as Viktor expects, Jayce just fixes him with a pained look.

Viktor runs his hand over the rock, over the scratchy and dried moss. That was, he supposes, the wrong place for a joke.

Jayce hesitates, then comes to sit next to Viktor. He’s only an inch away, but there may as well be a cavern between them. Still, Viktor can feel the heat of his body, tempting him to reach out.

He keeps his hands folded on his lap.

It’s longer than Viktor expects, before Jayce finally seems to work up the nerve to ask the question. “Can I… Can I ask what happened?”

Viktor exhales slowly, stretching out his legs and leaning back so he can look up at the clear blue sky overhead.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jayce says quickly.

Viktor shakes his head. “I want to,” he says. “It is just…” He hesitates.

How to begin it? How to even put any of it into words?

They sit in silence for a minute, the sound of the creek is crystalline. Somewhere, birds begin to sing. Usually, Viktor appreciates their musical noises, the way it breaks up the loneliness from the rest of the island. Now, it only seems to enunciate the space between him and Jayce.

“What do your myths say of me?” Viktor finally asks.

Jayce startles. “Um…” He fidgets with his bracelet. “You were the mortal son of a god. When your father wouldn’t give you immortality, you learned witchcraft, then turned to Singed to cut out your heart, which you used to transform yourself into a god. Then you transformed nymphs into the Waiting Dead and marched on the gods. Ekko, God of Time, was the one who stopped you, and you were forced to retreat under the earth until the day you could regain power.” He glances up guiltily. “I’m guessing that last one isn’t true.”

Viktor chuckles. “It is not,” he agrees.

The air is pleasantly cool against his skin. The rock under his hands is rough, easy to trace patterns on while he tries to sort through his thoughts.

“...The first part is true enough,” Viktor says slowly, testing the words on his tongue. “I do not know who my godly parent is, though. No god took responsibility before, and no one wanted to after. Maybe they never even knew. Half children of nymphs are far from uncommon, and my existence was unremarkable in the grand scheme of things.”

Jayce flinches at that.

“Nymphs do not age,” Viktor continues, “But their health is connected to the earth, to their plant, and they can be killed. I was no different.” He plucks a leaf from a nearby brush, brown and dry, still clinging on despite the long winter. “There was a… Disease, I suppose. A disease in the soil, or the plant itself, causing a defect. I was born tangled, and I thought that, perhaps, was the worst of it.”

“It wasn’t,” Jayce guesses.

Viktor’s lips quirk up in a humorless smile. “No,” he agrees. “It claimed my mother first. Then it started to come for me.” He lets the dry leaf fall from his hands, joining the rest of the dead brush on the cold ground. “You must understand, I was terrified. I prayed to any god I could think of, but none answered. Why would they? When you got down to it, I am only a nymph, after all.”

Something like anger flickers across Jayce’s face. He lets a noise out from the back of his throat. “You’re not,” he says fiercely. “But how could they…? Not even your…?” He can’t get the rest of the words out before he shakes his head in equal parts frustration and disbelief.

“It is not in their nature,” Viktor says quietly. “Our nature, I suppose. But,” he says quickly, holding up a hand before Jayce can protest further, “It hardly matters the reason. In the end, no one came, and I was staring down my death. How unfair, I thought. How pointless. I had barely lived thirty years. There was so much I still wanted to do.” He shrugs. “So I went to Singed.”

The creek bubbles happily behind them.

Jayce hesitates, then, “Why Singed?”

Viktor stares down at his hands. As unchanged as they are since that day, it is too easy to remember the atrocities he’s wrought with them. “He is skilled at keeping the worst of things alive,” Viktor says, “And I was desperate. I thought… Well, if I could not live as a nymph, perhaps there were other options. And did it really matter, what I looked like at the end of it?”

He refuses to look up, to see the horror on Jayce’s face.

Viktor swallows, continues. “He said he would do it, if I assisted him in his creations for a year. He assured me I had at least that.” He fixes his gaze on the pond, trying to focus on the clear sounds of the water, to not let his senses become lost in memory. “The things he did… I often thought he was perhaps more monstrous than the beings he created.”

Chimeras, wraiths, things Viktor had no name for but had triggered some bone-deep reaction that screamed danger. The smell of rot and blood that had permeated the air, so thick that Viktor had never managed to grow used to it. The tear-streaked faces of the unfortunate mortals who sought Singed out. Worse, the despair of the ones who spurned him. What little was left of them in the end.

“So many nights, I debated leaving,” he admits. “But I withstood it. The prospect of death was...”

He doesn’t realize that he’s shaking, not until a hand wraps around his own. Viktor looks up in faint shock, seeing Jayce has somehow inched closer so that he is pressed up against Viktor, warmth and reassurance practically bleeding from his body.

“You’re not the only one who’s afraid of dying,” Jayce says quietly.

Viktor nods, because it’s easier than trying to explain the shame of it now, that very mortal fear of his. How ignorant he’d been, to think that death was the worst he could ask for.

He exhales through his teeth. “I began to take note of Singed’s processes for myself. And I began to notice the patterns he was carving into the skin of his subjects.”

Understanding dawns in Jayce’s eyes. “Runes,” he breathes.

Viktor nods.

“I thought you said he wasn’t a witch?”

“He was not,” Viktor agrees. “He knew of it, though." He grimaces. "And I think he wanted to see what I could become with it.”

Another experiment, though he hadn't known it at the time. He’d only discovered the truth after his exile, that the runes Singed had carved into monster skin were little more than decoration, after he’d begun to throw himself more fully into witchcraft and understanding it. It’d been early into his imprisonment, when the numb acceptance of his situation had worn off, leaving him raw and volatile.

The sheer humiliation at how easily he’d been manipulated had wiped out a mile of forest.

“It was only a matter of time, really, before I began to mimic. Before I began to join the experiments." Viktor's shoulders, unwittingly, curl inwards, a poor attempt to shield what Jayce already knows is there. "Before I began to try the experiments on myself.”

Jayce inhales sharply. “Your—” He cuts himself off, eyes traitorously darting down to Viktor’s body before he quickly looks away.

“Yes,” Viktor says.

He can still remember the feel of the blade on his skin, that sharp and stinging relief. How he’d practiced using a mirror and paper before attempting the ones on his back. How sickeningly pleased he’d been with himself when the runes, in all their bloody beauty, had turned out perfectly.

“I had been taking notes,” Viktor says. “And Singed… He had a way, of asking questions. Pressing just enough, leaving just enough open. Why had my godly parent not responded? Had no one before praised my quick and gifted mind? Did my godly parentage leave me with nothing divine of my own?”

How angry he’d been. How malleable.

“I thought godhood, that perfect immortality… It was what was owed to me.” Viktor shrugs. “It was foolish, to make it my first spell. But I had the intent, I had the language. And my blood, with that bit of godliness in it, was enough for the component.”

The transformation had been blinding. All his nerves exploding, his organs melting, his bones cracking. And, at the end, Viktor had been curled up on the floor.

Still weak. Still in pain.

“It worked, but I was still… This,” Viktor says, gesturing to himself—his twisted and bent body—with the hand Jayce isn’t holding.

He hadn’t been dying any longer—he had been able to tell that much, with how the world around him seemed to have slowed, how his senses were more alert, his mind clearer—but his leg and spine were still twisted, his muscles still weak, his lungs still raw and bloody.

He can’t help but make a disgusted noise at it. “I thought the ritual was supposed to have fixed me. Then, when Singed found me, he explained that godly power was dependent on worship, the offerings of followers. That, if I wanted to cure the rest of my defects, I would need to amass a following. And who better to follow me than my fellow nymphs?” His mouth twists in a smile. “They called me the Nymph God, the God of Healing.”

There had been so many like him. Injured, diseased, dying.

Viktor shakes his head. “I was so ignorant. Singed was the only god I knew, and I let him guide my inexperienced hand. I had no comparison point, to what worship and offerings were supposed to feel like.” He shudders. “And truthfully, I did not want to look deeper.”

That drunken feeling had been so easy to get lost in. It had been so easy to think that he’d been doing good, when all the nymphs’ expressions—those horrible, placid, reverent expressions—had told him he was spreading healing and perfection.

“They offered themselves up wordlessly, cutting themselves open to fix my rotted lungs,” Viktor says, scathing. “Witchcraft and godhood, intertwined to finally make me whole. And I was so far gone, I did not even think to protest.”

He can still feel it. Their pulses combined into one, the rot vanishing, the threads within him renewed.

Viktor swallows. He looks up, at the dark boughs overhead against the clear blue sky, so he does not have to look at the sure horror on Jayce’s expression. “Of course, word got to the gods,” he says. “How could it not?” His hand curls into a fist, nails digging into his palms. “Lord Silco especially took issue. Not only unnaturally extending life, but then prematurely ending it. Lord Vander, too, saw it as perversion, disrupting the natural balance he had vowed to maintain as King of Gods.”

“The war,” Jayce says quietly.

Viktor nods.

The war. If it could be called that. Admittedly, he does not know how much time passed during it. The events of that time are hazy, highlighted only by bursts of strong emotions.

“The nymphs’ new bodies were designed to be difficult to kill, if not impossible. Lord Ekko found the trick, that part is true, although I do not think he meant to.” Viktor swallows. “Lord Vander could not undo the transformation or manipulative threads around them, and Lord Silco could not claim them with how tight my grip was. So Lord Ekko attempted to reverse it.”

Jayce inhales sharply.

Viktor’s mouth twists into a smile. “You have seen the backlash of a single Evolved. All their pain? Returning all at once?” Viktor shakes his head. “I regretted, then, making myself immortal. I would have welcomed death, if it meant an end to the agony. Everything after that is... A blur.”

Pain, pain, and more pain. Leaving his nerves shaking, his mind senseless. He’d reached along every thread, not sure what he was doing, just that he had to do something. Something to keep the nymphs from dying. Something to keep the threads he’d woven around himself from pulling him apart at the seams.

“You know what happened next,” Viktor says dully. “My divinity was nothing next to the force of every other god. But I still had witchcraft. All I wanted was for it to stop. They were all connected, and I just needed one. I carved the runes into them—augmentation, axiom, and transcendence.” He takes a breath. “And I froze them in time.”

Petrified. Petricite.

“I did not expect that the land would react, creating the Wild Rift, though I should have,” Viktor says. “I knew better than most how the land affected nymphs. I should have known that the inverse would be true as well.”

He’d come back to his senses slowly, convinced he was hallucinating from the agony. What other explanation was there, for the sea of white that surrounded him?

“I surrendered myself, naturally,” Viktor says, “Once I saw the horror I had wrought.” He hesitates, then, “Once the gods… Could not decide, what they should do with me, I came here.”

He’d been mute for the entire tribunal. Simply sat in the center, on the floor, staring at nothing, the arguments of the other gods a dull and distant roar next to the ringing still in his ears.

Then Ekko had stepped forward. He’d seemed every inch a god, green cloaks billowing around him, the white hourglass shimmering over his dark features. He’d proposed the island prison, on the condition that Viktor never try to escape, never kill.

Viktor hadn’t even thought to protest.

Jayce blinks. “That’s it?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Were you expecting more?”

“What about Singed?” Jayce asks.

Viktor blinks. “What about him?”

Jayce stares at Viktor in open disbelief. “What about him?” he repeats, incredulous. “Viktor, he manipulated you! He’s the reason—”

“My actions were my own,” Viktor interrupts firmly.

“But if he hadn’t—!”

“He brought me to the edge of the cliff, yes,” Viktor says, “But I jumped off it of my own free will.”

Jayce makes a face that says he disagrees, but he says nothing. He exhales, slow enough that Viktor can see the fog of his breath in the air. Even though it is warmer than it’s been, the wet chill in the air lingers. Jayce’s hair is still damp from the stream, and he shivers slightly.

Viktor almost reaches over, almost uses his thumb to wipe away a stray droplet of water.

He keeps his hands still.

“I thought you ran hot,” he teases instead, breaking the tension with a small smile.

Jayce startles, then laughs. “I’m not completely immune,” he teases back. Then, with a wry smile, “Guess it’s good, then.”

“What is?” Viktor asks, baffled.

Instead of answering, Jayce nods upwards, pointing at the boughs above them. “There’s buds on the trees,” he says, a smile at the corners of his lips.

Viktor looks up in faint surprise. It’s true—the branches, while still dark and bare, are tipped with near-imperceptible buds of red and purple.

“So there are,” Viktor says quietly.

Spring. Finally, spring.

Jayce grins. The afternoon sun streaming through the trees makes his skin look golden, the fingerprint scars on his forehead shimmering and casting reflections around them like stars.

Viktor has the insane urge to stand, to straddle him, to wrap his arms around Jayce’s frame and beg him to stay.

Instead, he just pushes himself to his feet with his cane. “We should continue while it is still light out. The forest is rather difficult to navigate in the dark.”

Jayce nods. When he offers his hand out to Viktor as he stands, Viktor hesitates for a moment before taking it. It is only a little surprising, that Jayce doesn’t let go after, that he keeps his hand intertwined with Viktor’s as they continue to walk around the island.

The sky is clear, the snow has all but melted. If he were to crouch down and bury his hands in the ground, run his hands over the deadened leaves and brush, he knows he would find the beginnings of fresh green sprouts.

Spring is just around the corner. Soon, it will be warm enough to install the lift.

And then, Jayce will be gone.

Chapter Text

After that, winter breaks all at once, like the final night of a bad fever. Spring erupts on the island, all the buds on the island bursting seemingly overnight, painting the trees in shades of red and pink and green. The air is thick with warmth, the sea surrounding them cool and tempting.

They remove the garden roof, and Viktor clears a new bed for angelica and hyacinth, the lacy white and bulbous purple petals weaved around each other. Then, for good measure, he plants a fresh row of marigolds. For the first time, he allows Jayce to help him with planting the garden.

It is just to make the work go faster, Viktor tells himself.

He tries to ignore how happy Jayce looks in the garden. How his large hands somehow manage to be delicate in how he handles the plants. How Viktor's own traitorous heart flutters at Jayce’s easy smile.

He fails.

The lingering wetness from winter makes the installation of the lift more difficult, but they manage. More than manage—Jayce makes the work go by three times faster than Viktor could ever manage on his own.

The end result is more than Viktor could have hoped for.

It runs along the vertical-most edge of the slope, with trees as wooden supports, wrought by Viktor’s witchcraft. Jayce works in the metal, slotting it together perfectly with each panel of wood. Together, they install the counterweights, the rune-inscribed chains, the oil of hyacinth and angelica.

From the first test, as Viktor casts the spell, watching the mechanisms whir to life as the lift does just that—lift—slowly and steadily making its way up the cliff side without faltering even once, he knows: it is perfect. No more will he have to make the trek up and down the stone path whenever he wants to get down to the beach, or waste energy and strain his leg while making his way to the lower areas of the island.

And, just like that, his agreement with Jayce Talis has been fulfilled.

Viktor tries to give his most convincing smile as Jayce whoops with joy.

“We did it!” Jayce cheers, grabbing Viktor by the arms, looking like he’s about to jump up and down before he remembers Viktor’s leg. Then, more restrained, he pulls Viktor into an embrace.

It is warm and crushing and perfect. Viktor returns it as best he can, even though something choking has lodged itself in his throat and hollowed out his heart. He lets his hand limply rest on Jayce’s back, resisting every urge to hold him as tightly as he can. He needs to keep his emotions under control, for both their sakes.

Jayce is the first to pull away, still laughing, half-giddy with delight. “We should run more tests,” he says, still grinning as he runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe get some boulders, make sure it can hold weight. Wouldn’t do us any good if it collapses under our weight, or if the extra encumbrance causes any issues with how it runs, or—”

“I can manage that well enough,” Viktor interjects gently.

Jayce turns to Viktor, frowning. “But—”

“We still need to complete the hextech,” Viktor interrupts. “We should test teleportation somewhere on the island before we try transporting you, yes?”

Jayce opens his mouth, closes it. “I thought…” His voice wavers. He swallows. “...Sounds good,” he says after a moment, with significantly less enthusiasm.

He doesn’t care, Viktor reminds himself as they make their way back inside. He doesn’t care. There is only one way this ends: with Jayce returning to Piltover, freed from Viktor and Jinx’s grasp. It is for the best.

Jayce will thank him for it, later.

“You are positive these geo-coordinates are correct?” Viktor presses.

“Yes,” Jayce says testily.

Viktor clenches his jaw. “If they are, that would put Piltover further south than you seem to have implied.” He stretches out the old map between them.

“That map is outdated by at least two centuries,” Jayce protests, snatching it up before Viktor can begin to trace the route.

Viktor bites back a sigh.

The first teleportation experiment had ended in utter failure. The goal had been to get a plant just down to the beach, by Jayce’s old and destroyed ship. They’d powered up the hextech, the room illuminating in a blinding blue flash of light, and the plant had vanished, not even leaving a single stray leaf behind. Viktor and Jayce had been thrilled, at first, at the apparent success.

Then, they had gone down to the beach and been unable to find the plant. Finally, Jayce had spotted it, the small and bobbing spot of green at least a mile out at sea.

All their equations had fallen apart from there.

“Look, say what you want, but I know this part,” Jayce points with his pen, stabbing at a part of the equation and runic sequence, “Is correct.”

“I did not realize our subjects finding themselves in the ocean was the intended outcome,” Viktor deadpans.

Jayce groans.

Viktor pinches his brow and leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks, distantly, that his eyes have started to play tricks on him, to make it look like the ceiling and walls are now embedded with the electric blue sparks of hextech. Or maybe not. Maybe this is just a consequence of repeated exposure.

He’ll have to examine more closely, once his head has stopped throbbing. Maybe in the morning, when they are not relying on candlelight and the bluish afterglow from their last failed test.

“Are you listening to me?” Jayce gripes.

“The equation is correct, the geo-coordinates are correct, and the fault must lie in one of the later runic sequences,” Viktor says flatly.

Jayce scowls, confirming that Viktor has guessed correctly.

Jayce hunches over, propping himself up on his elbows and massaging his temples with the heel of his palms. “Maybe this just wasn’t meant to work,” he mumbles.

Viktor snaps up. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says abruptly.

It will work. They will make it work.

They have to.

“There has to be some way to narrow down the range,” Viktor gripes.

“Unless you have a way to measure the stars, we’ll have to work with this,” Jayce snaps.

Viktor falls silent. He sits up straighter, then stands. Taps at a bit of gold along the edges of the magnetic stand.

Measuring the stars.

Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner?

“Jayce, you are a genius,” he breathes.

“Viktor?” Jayce asks dubiously.

Viktor’s lips curve into a smile as he starts towards the door. “Come with me.”

To his faint surprise, Jayce doesn’t protest. In fact, he all but leaps to his feet, practically stumbling over himself to follow Viktor.

Viktor tries to tamp down the rush of pleasure that comes from that small action.

He walks down the hall with a brisk pace, down the corridor opposite of Jayce’s room.

After a moment, Jayce clears his throat. “You’re sure I’m allowed down this way?”

That’s right, Viktor remembers—he had limited Jayce’s movements to only certain sections of the house.

“It is fine,” Viktor says dismissively. “There is hardly more in this section of my home than any other place. More outdated gadgets and the like. Besides,” he adds with a chuckle, “I think we are past the point of restricted movements.”

For some reason, this causes Jayce to blush.

They walk through the east hall, to the back of the house, passing by a couple of Viktor’s old spare rooms, the ones he has filled with trinkets salvaged from ships before casting them back out to see.

Looking back at Jayce, Viktor sees him eye a cracked open door and shake his head. “Any historian would kill to get a tour of this place,” he mutters.

Viktor chuckles and says nothing.

He guides Jayce to the end of the hall, to a set of doors. This area of the house is more recently constructed than the rest, the result of a summer of furious measurements and finding ways to manipulate trees to pick up, transport, and wrap around stone. The final product, to Viktor’s pride, had turned out far better than he could have dreamed of.

As he opens the doors, he hears Jayce gasp.

“You just had this here the whole time?” Jayce asks, voice hushed.

Viktor shrugs. Truthfully, they’d been so busy, he’d nearly forgotten about it.

The room is round, with a massive rug in the center, a dark blue color with silver, geometric designs. Demacian-made, Viktor thinks, but he can’t quite recall where that particular batch of sailors had been from. The walls are lined with all the maps Viktor has gathered over the years, marked with notes to show corrections and observations, as well as some of Viktor’s own poor attempts at mapping both the sky and his island’s location. There is a window in the ceiling, the moonlight showing the speckles of dust floating through the air, and casting the perfect spotlight on the room’s main feature.

The telescope.

Jayce approaches it almost cautiously, his footsteps hushed against the velvety carpet. Reverently, he brushes a finger along the side. “Where did you get this?” he asks, breathless.

Viktor hesitates. Jayce knows what he’s done by now, but…

“Never mind,” Jayce says quickly. Then, shaking his head, “I don’t… Viktor, this is amazing. I’ve never seen one with this many lenses before.”

“I did some repairs,” Viktor admits, walking along the side of the room. “And I have added a couple of features over the years. Additional lenses, some needles to help with measurements, the like.”

Jayce lets a breathless, amazed laugh. “You’re incredible.”

Viktor smiles, pleased despite himself. He approaches a thick trunk of one of the trees melded to the wall, where runes have been carved into the side. The etchings are old, but still clear. Selecting a tincture from a nearby table, Viktor wets his fingers, brushes over the runes.

Blue and green light begins to creep up the tree, the glow illuminating the room. When it reaches the ceiling, Viktor curls his fingers, directing the movements. Slowly, the branches twist and part, taking the small window with them as they retreat, revealing a dark sky swirling with silver stars.

Jayce’s jaw drops almost comically, unabashed wonder in his eyes as he stares up.

“You have never seen the stars before?” Viktor teases.

Jayce snorts. “Not like this. Piltover’s lit up almost all the time. It blocks out and dims most of the stars.”

Something tugs in Viktor’s heart.

He shakes his head, trying to clear out thoughts of the city with no trees, no stars, and no lab for Jayce, instead joining Jayce over by the telescope.

“Stargazing aside,” he says, “Based on my mapping of the constellations, we may be able to triangulate a point. If you are able to recognize even one constellation from this time of year that is visible from Piltover...”

Jayce’s eyes light up in understanding. “You’re a genius,” he says, utterly sincere.

Viktor looks away, ignoring the flush that must surely be spreading to his cheeks. “Yes, well…” He distracts himself by fiddling with some of the notches and lenses. “Have a look, and let me know if anything needs adjusted. I have mapped out quite a few constellations in my own time, including on the device you first pointed out in your room, if you need a reference point.”

Jayce shakes his head again, a small, disbelieving smile on his face. Gods, Viktor wants to bottle up that soft expression of his, to savor and keep close to his chest forever.

Instead, he stands to the side, letting Jayce work with and test the lenses of the telescope.

He doesn’t work on finding a constellation, not right away. He fiddles with the dials and lenses, adjusting the angles and scope, every other sentence out of his mouth a question directed at Viktor, asking which part is which and what it does, how it works, why.

He should have known, Viktor can’t help but think, that Jayce would love this. After the workshop and forge, after his fascination for Viktor’s collection of gadgets and books.

How had he ever thought that Jayce could be anything less than sincere?

“Up there,” Jayce finally says, clicking a lens into place, then pointing. “The Brothers.”

Indeed, even without looking through the telescope, Viktor can see the silver forms of the Brothers, an outline of two forms laid next to each other, hand in hand.

“More casualties of Lady Jinx’s insanity,” Viktor can’t help but mutter.

Jayce gives him an odd look. “I thought that it was Silco who killed them, when he fought against Vander for his throne as King of Gods.”

Viktor shrugs. “That is not the way Lady Jinx tells it.”

It is, admittedly, a story he has only gathered in spurts. A small family of demigods under Vander’s protection, a conflict between Vander and Silco, a battle. Jinx ordered to stay home, Jinx sneaking out from Vander’s palace to help Violet and her brothers fight anyways.

An explosion.

The brothers killed, Violet and Jinx both near-death. Vander granting Violet godhood, but not knowing about Jinx bleeding out just around the corner.

Silco finding Jinx and breaking the very laws of his domain to save her from death.

Jayce steps away from the telescope to write something down. “I’d forgotten Jinx talks to you,” he admits.

“Eh, not often,” Viktor shrugs. “Once every couple years, when she is bored. I have not spoken with her since the day you arrived.”

Jayce lets out a huff of laughter. “Good.” Then, pen hovering over the paper, “She won’t… She can’t do anything to me here, right?”

“She cannot,” Viktor confirms. “The house is warded against all gods, Lady Jinx included. And even outside, with Lord Ekko’s barrier, her power is limited. I would not let her touch you, you have my word.”

No sooner have the words left his mouth than he regrets them. Not because it isn’t true, but because of how it sounds, like an oath or confession.

Jayce must sense it, too, because he goes quiet, studying Viktor with those soft hazel eyes.

Viktor clears his throat. “It is not like any other gods visit, regardless,” he says curtly, turning back to the telescope, pretending to study the chart laid out at the nearby table. “I am still not sure if it is out of fear or utter disregard, at this point.”

He can hear Jayce’s smile. “You’re lucky, you know,” he says quietly. “That you found this place.”

Something curdles in the space right below Viktor’s heart. “...I suppose,” he murmurs.

They work in silence for a while, Jayce adjusting the lenses, making notes of the numbers on the needles and dials, comparing it to the maps while Viktor starts the new calculations.

Then, suddenly, “You have some constellations missing, you know,” Jayce says.

Viktor shrugs, not looking up from the equations. “I figured as much,” he admits, scratching out a line with an error in it. “The world did not stop moving when I came here, after all. I am sure there were other myths formed well after I departed. Other tales deemed important enough to immortalize in the sky.”

Jayce hesitates. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The outside world?”

Viktor stops writing.

He carefully sets the pen down, leans back in his chair heavily. He doesn’t respond for a moment, simply staring up at the sky overhead, the fabric of patterns and constellations. “…All the time,” Viktor admits, not bothering to hide the ache in his words. “I scarcely knew it before coming here, but I miss it, even though I only spent a minute there.”

There’s a soft creak and shift, as Jayce pulls up a chair next to him. “I never asked,” he says, “How long you’ve been here.”

Viktor lets out a shaky sigh. “Longer than you could likely comprehend.”

Jayce reaches over without warning, grabbing Viktor’s hands in his. Viktor startles, but doesn’t pull away.

“I can show you,” Jayce blurts out. Then, blushing, “The… Constellations, I mean. The ones you don’t know. Their stories. If you want to know.”

Something rises in Viktor’s throat. “I would like that,” he says quietly.

Another thing Jayce will leave him. More knowledge he will never be able to repay in kind.

Jayce beams, brighter than the sun.

He half-expects for this to be something to do later, but instead, Jayce stands and pulls his chair over to the telescope, adjusting the lenses and stand to Viktor’s sitting height, and motions for Viktor to take a seat, half-bowing as he holds out his hand.

Viktor chuckles and shakes his head, coming over and allowing Jayce to guide him into the chair.

“Good height?” Jayce asks as he clicks the lenses into place.

Viktor hums in affirmation, unable to help the smile on his face. “Has anyone ever told you that you are ridiculous?” he quips.

“You,” Jayce shoots back, also smiling.

He picks up a pen and a large map from the table—one of Viktor’s, one that has outlines of all the constellations that he knows of—and kneels on the ground next to Viktor, spreading the map out over his knee and Viktor’s leg. Like this, this close and looking down at him, Viktor can see each of Jayce’s eyelashes, the bright hazel of his eyes, the perfect curve of his smile. His hair and beard are close enough to touch, and Viktor has the inexplicable urge to reach out, to feel if they are as soft as they look.

He doesn’t, though. He keeps his hands firmly in front of him, only reaching out to hold the map steady as he leans forward to look through the telescope. 

Then, guiding the telescope towards each new bundle of stars, Jayce begins to speak.

“The Hourglass. If you look, those spots around it, they're old comets—in memory of some soldiers, I think—but it was put up after an old victory in Ekko’s name.”

“The Wolf. That one’s from an old Noxian tale, about a queen raised by wolves. The wolf ruled by her side until it was killed in battle.”

“The Golem. There’s conflicting myths around that one—some say mortals created it, others say the gods gave it life.”

“The Anomaly. It was put up after the Wild—” Jayce stops short suddenly.

Viktor pulls away from the telescope. “After the Wild Rift?” he guesses.

Jayce nods, looking away with a flush on his face.

Viktor leans back, staring up at the sky. It’s a circular constellation, smaller stars inside of it forming fractals that almost look like the sides of a crystal. It’s a dull pang, seeing it, the reminder of his shame as immortalized in the sky as it is on the land. “I am surprised the gods chose to put the reminder of it up there,” he remarks.

Jayce is quiet for a minute. “...Ekko put it up,” he admits. “I think it’s from defeating you, more than anything. Or maybe in memory of the nymphs. Both.”

Viktor nods slowly. A strange name and shape for a constellation meant for his nymphs, in his opinion. But, if Ekko put it up, perhaps there is some logic or greater symbolism behind it, something Viktor has missed by being locked away before he could see the greater effects of his actions.

“That is good,” Viktor decides after a moment. “The nymphs... They deserve to be remembered in a constellation, not just as the Waiting Dead.”

Jayce hums in response. Suddenly, Viktor is aware of how close he’s gotten. The map is fully spread across Viktor’s lap, and Jayce’s arm rests over his legs, his head inches away from resting against Viktor himself. Like this, Viktor swears that he can feel the threads that make up Jayce’s life thrumming, like he could reach out and caress them, letting each one sing as if plucking the strings of a lute.

“It does look like your magic, though,” Jayce says after a minute. Then, gesturing to his forehead, “You know, if you look at the smaller stars. It makes that same pattern, that circular webbing.”

Viktor looks away, trying and failing to ignore the guilt curling in his stomach. How can Jayce sound so blithe about it? The scars should disgust him, or at the very least bother him—not make it so that Viktor can feel him smile against his leg.

“When I was younger,” Jayce continues, oblivious, “I thought it looked like a crystal. Probably didn’t help that I was obsessed with figuring out how my crystal worked.”

Viktor can feel Jayce’s breath against his thigh. He clenches his fist, digging his nails in as deep as he can, then bites his tongue for good measure, begging his body to stop reacting.

This means nothing. This means nothing.

Then, after a moment, Jayce says quietly, “It seems right, to call it the Anomaly.”

Viktor raises a questioning eyebrow. “Because I am an abnormal deviation?” he quips, offering a smile so Jayce knows that he’s joking.

But Jayce’s head snaps up, his eyes widening as his blush deepens. “No!” he says, immediate and fervent. “Because you’re… You know." He gestures vaguely. "It’s like witchcraft—here, despite everything, alive and incredible and…” His voice drops low, so quiet that Viktor can barely make out his next words, “…And beautiful.”

Viktor’s heart stops.

No. No, he’s… Jayce isn’t saying what Viktor thinks. He’s mistaken, misinterpreting Jayce’s likely innocent words.

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Many would say that is a bad thing,” he says carefully. “Witchcraft, and me being alive.”

He refuses to address the beautiful part of that. Jayce finds witchcraft beautiful. Not… Not Viktor. Never something like Viktor.

“Not me,” Jayce says.

Viktor closes his eyes. There is something dangerously close to worship coming off of Jayce in waves—You’re beautiful, I could stay here forever, you’re a genius, you...

Why does Jayce have to do this? Say these things that allow Viktor to misinterpret his affections? Is he even aware of what he is doing, offering up this sort of prayer? Why does he have to make everything with this situation so much more difficult?

Jayce's hand is on his knee, almost but not quite touching the inside of his thigh. There's heat in Viktor's face, coiling low in his abdomen, and every cell in his body is screaming at him to just give in. Jayce wants this, Jayce doesn't know what he wants, Viktor doesn't know what he wants, this is wrong, this is right, this is...

Jayce is leaning up, eyes hooded, mouth slightly parted.

Viktor clears his throat. “Tell me more about the constellations for other seasons," he says deliberately, angling his head away. "I’ve observed some myself, but would appreciate your insight in differentiating the patterns.”

Jayce startles. “Right! Of course,” he says quickly. He draws back, shifting off Viktor’s lap, blessedly pulling his hands away. “Here—I think I saw your map of the summer and autumn constellations over there? Let me just… And if you mark them on the map…”

It’s so easy, to get lost in the explanations, to get drunk on Jayce’s voice as he explains every bit of myth and history he’s missed over the centuries. Jayce is beautiful, animated as he explains, encouraged by Viktor’s questions.

In the night, against the carpet of a black and silver sky, the scars on Jayce’s forehead could almost be mistaken for stars.

Chapter Text

Even with the updated equations, there are still kinks to work out for the teleportation.

The first test with the new coordinates, once again trying to get a plant from Viktor’s workshop to the beach, goes disastrously. Viktor activates the device, and ten minutes later, Jayce has returned from the beach, holding a shredded pile of dirt and leaves in his hands.

“I think it fell,” Jayce offers helpfully.

Viktor frowns. “We will need to find a way to put in some kind of cushion,” he mutters. “Something to slow the descent. It would not do us any good to transport you safely only to have you shatter your bones from a fall.”

Jayce just grimaces in response.

They eliminate a few precision runes, increase the number of phase runes in the sequence, replace some of the phase runes with warp runes, rewrite the sequence, again and again and again.

Each time they get a little closer to the answer—when their test plants come back a little less destroyed, when the whirring becomes smoother, when each activation begins to not send a forceful and disruptive rush through the entire workshop—Viktor can physically feel the dread inside his chest mounting. In his most shameful moments, he imagines ripping up the wires one by one, smashing that acceleration gemstone to bits, making it so Jayce will have no choice but to remain with him.

He pushes those traitorous imaginings to the side, grits his teeth, and determinedly tries another rune combination.

Quietly, firmly, he begins pulling away from Jayce’s touches, even as it withers something inside of him.

He pretends he doesn’t notice the hurt and despondence on Jayce’s expression.

By the end of the week—just over six months since Jayce arrived at the island—the hextech is working.

They can teleport a plant, a bush, even a mouse, from one end of the island to the other, all without any issues. The process has worked its way into Viktor’s dreams—the whirring of the machine, the push of air, the pulse of his blood beating in time with the electric oscillations, the flash of blue, the distortion in the space around the acceleration gemstone as it slows, leaving nothing but a few floating motes hanging in the air.

It is the most marvelous feat of technology and witchcraft Viktor has ever witnessed.

The sight of it makes him sick.

Outside, the sun is setting, red and purple stains across the sky that make the walls look like they’re bleeding. Even still, the shining blue of the acceleration crystal illuminates the table, as brilliant and perfect as ever.

Viktor pushes his chair back. “The tests are finished,” he says unnecessarily, voice quiet as he stares at the hextech, like he can acclimate himself to its presence with sheer willpower.

Jayce says nothing.

Viktor swallows. “It would be best,” he continues, gaze turning to his folded hands in his lap, “If you were to leave tomorrow.”

Again, silence.

The workshop is busier than it has ever been, even with the parts from the lift now gone. Papers spill over the table and floor from where neither Viktor nor Jayce have bothered to pick them up. The table is littered with gears and wires and screws, stained with glittering ink. The forge has gone cold, its interior as blackened and uncleaned as it had been when Jayce first arrived on the island.

His surroundings have never felt emptier.

Viktor risks looking over at Jayce.

Jayce is standing at the edge of the room, something unreadable on his face as he stares at the hextech. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even so much as smile, his eyebrows scrunched in what almost looks like physical pain.

This… This is Jayce’s life’s work. Why he pursued engineering. Why he wanted to learn about witchcraft. What he’d been working on even before he was shipwrecked on Viktor’s shores. This is the thing that will get him home. Finally, finally, he will get to go home, safe with both Viktor’s potions and the knowledge that his theories of witchcraft and science were right.

It makes no sense. With the lift’s completion, he’d been jubilant.

Why isn’t he celebrating now?

Viktor forces his gaze away, instead staring at the carpet of papers around his feet. It has been a while since he has seen one of Jayce’s sketches of Mel, but he knows that they’re there, somewhere underneath the notes and runes and equations and strange lines that half-resemble Viktor’s profile.

“We will need to pack for you tonight,” Viktor continues, “Clothes, and your potions. Perhaps some moly, for emergencies. Prepare you for the journey, in case the equations for the geo-coordinates are inaccurate, or in case you run into trouble. We could perhaps even make you a sword, or—”

“Come with me.”

Viktor stops. Blinks.

What?

The world is a rush in his ears.

“Come with me,” Jayce repeats when Viktor doesn’t respond.

Viktor’s throat has closed up. Suddenly, the clutter of the workshop is too much, the brace around his ribs suffocating. He coughs to clear his throat, looks away so that Jayce can’t see his face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says shortly.

Jayce shakes his head. “No, listen—”

“Do you hear yourself, Jayce?” Viktor snaps. “Where would a creature such as myself go?”

“You can live with me,” Jayce says immediately. “In Piltover.”

Viktor wants to cry, or scream, or maybe both. Him? In Piltover? Jayce has to know all the reasons why that would never work.

He turns to the papers, quickly trying to gather them up to hide how his hands have started to shake.

“Or anywhere,” Jayce rushes to say. “We could go anywhere, do anything. Inventions, witchcraft, you name it.”

Witchcraft? While traveling with the Herald?

Gods above, maybe Jayce really has gone insane.

“Viktor, say something,” Jayce begs, crossing the room. Before Viktor can even think about how to respond, Jayce has fallen to his knees, grabbing Viktor’s hand—

—And suddenly, it is like Jayce offering his blood all over again. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop the sudden rush of prayer directed at Viktor.

Come with me. Don’t leave me. I love—

“Have you lost your mind, Jayce?” Viktor hisses, snatching his hand away. “The forbidden nature of our work aside, did you somehow manage to forget what I am?”

“You can disguise yourself,” Jayce says immediately. “Like you did when I first met you, remember?”

Viktor can’t help but let out a choked laugh. A disguise? As if his appearance were the only issue!

He makes himself look Jayce in the eye. “You know what I have done, what I am capable of,” he says. “There is no universe where I am forgivable enough to rejoin the world.”

Anger suddenly clouds over Jayce’s expression. “Do you think you’re the only one?” he spits. “You know I fought in the war! I started the war! And you know what happened when I opened Janna’s bag! Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed with my actions?”

“That is different,” Viktor denies.

“It isn’t,” Jayce shoots back. “That number you told me? The Evolved? The Waiting Dead? I can't even count the number of people I killed in the war! I got my entire battalion slaughtered with Janna's bag! I murdered a kid! I have just as much blood on my hands as you. If you can’t rejoin the world, why am I any different?”

Viktor’s mouth has gone dry. Everything about this situation is wrong. Once again, Jayce has turned all of Viktor’s expectations on their heels, kneeling and praying at the feet of a bound and monstrous god when he should be running as far away as he can.

Jayce is supposed to leave. He isn’t… He can’t be…

Viktor stands, crossing to the other side of the room, as far away from Jayce and the hextech as he can manage. He gestures out the window, to the bloody sky and thick forest outside. “Why do you think I am here, Talis?” Viktor snaps. “Alone, imprisoned on this island? If you make me leave, you will have far worse than just Lady Renni after you!”

Jayce startles.

For a moment, Viktor thinks he has perhaps finally gotten through to him, made him consider the impossibility of what he asks.

Then, voice hushed, “…You’re imprisoned?”

Viktor reels backwards, heart hammering.

No—he hadn’t meant to…

Fuck.

“I’m…” Viktor swallows, turning away from Jayce. “No. Forget it.”

Jayce, of course, refuses to accept this. Viktor hears him cross the room quickly, and then, Jayce is in front of him. “Ekko’s barrier,” Jayce murmurs. “Weakening gods, keeping things frozen, blocking worship…” Then, louder, “It’s not a blessing—it’s to keep you here.”

Viktor presses his lips together. He’d almost forgotten about that lie, that he’d claimed the barrier was a blessing. It’s not like it matters now—any confirmation or denial he could offer would be too late.

Jayce places his hands on Viktor’s shoulders. The red light of the sunset paints his face in dramatic shadows, making the confusion and pain on his face all the more harsh. “Why didn’t you say something?” he demands. “Viktor, why didn’t you tell me you were trapped?”

“Because it does not matter,” Viktor spits. “I cannot leave, so what difference does it make?”

Jayce stares like he can’t comprehend what Viktor is saying. “What difference?” he echoes in disbelief. “Viktor, listen, I’m not going to leave you alone and imprisoned here!” He backs up, running a hand through his hair, beginning to pace. “Look, we’ll find a way out. We can… Witchcraft can overcome the magic of the gods. Maybe the hextech would work the same. If we can figure out—”

“No,” Viktor hisses, interrupting Jayce. He draws himself up to his full height, letting power curl in his veins and his eyes flash with gold. “You will do no such thing.”

Jayce makes a sound of frustration. “I—”

“Listen to me: you will not,” Viktor interjects, glaring. “You will not bring down the wrath of even more gods on you. Did you forget what I am?”

“Vik—”

“I am the witch who made myself a god,” Viktor says coldly. “Everyone who once worshipped me is dead. I split the earth in my pain and created the Wild Rift. I only exist here—here, imprisoned on an island and not in eternal torture—because I surrendered willingly.” He draws in a breath. “If I were to try and escape, if I show any sign that I am defiant or that I have enlisted help to escape or rise to power again, do you have any idea what sort of punishment would be waiting for the both of us?”

Viktor has heard tales of the punishments for immortals—limbs repeatedly ripped off as soon as they can regenerate, bodies chained beneath the ocean to be eternally drowning, even minds broken at Jinx’s touch for daring to claim madness as a defense. He can only imagine how much worse it’d be for a mortal soul like Jayce.

But Jayce doesn’t back down. He sets his jaw, crosses his arms. “Then I want to stay.”

The world grinds to a halt.

Jayce wants to stay.

Jayce wants to stay.

It is everything Viktor has ever wanted to hear. It is the worst possible thing Jayce could say.

“You do not,” Viktor hisses.

“I do,” Jayce shoots back, a challenge in his eyes.

“No,” Viktor begs. “You can’t… You shouldn’t…”

His breath is coming out too fast, too short. The world is spinning again, dizzying and unending, his body as fragile as if he’s been hit from the backlash of a failed spell.

Then, some of that defiance fading, Jayce pauses, looking at Viktor with pleading eyes. “...Do you not want me to?” he asks quietly.

Viktor presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut. “Do not do this to me, Talis,” he says, voice thin.

“Viktor, just tell me—”

“You have a life outside this cage,” Viktor spits, glaring at Jayce and his horribly pathetic and imploring face. “A home. A fiancée.”

It should be the ultimate temptation, the goal he’s been working towards, thrown back in his face. And yet Jayce doesn’t even flinch.

“Do you think I can just go back to Piltover after this?” Jayce snaps. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been there?”

“You—”

“Seven years, Viktor!” Jayce shouts. “And they know me as the man who started a war just to surrender it! I’m not going to be allowed within a mile of anything resembling a lab. Cait’s gone, Mel probably hates me, the Council will want to keep me under house arrest, and my mother thought I was insane even before I left for the war with how much I obsessed over magic and witchcraft! Mel—she might not even be in Piltover anymore. She might’ve returned to Noxus with her mother after I surrendered. I can’t go back to Piltover, Viktor. I can’t.”

“Then go somewhere else!” Viktor spits, throwing his hands up. “Demacia, Ionia, Noxus—there is an entire world outside this island. Nothing is stopping you from pursuing your own inventions by yourself.”

“I don’t want that,” Jayce begs, voice breaking.

“Then what exactly do you want, Talis?” Viktor snaps.

Immediately, he knows: he’s made a mistake. Asked the wrong question.

Jayce doesn’t move, doesn’t even say anything. Just looks at Viktor with that horrible, heartbroken expression.

Viktor grips his cane so tightly that he’s faintly amazed that it doesn’t shatter in his hands. “No,” he whispers.

Jayce crosses the room, grabs Viktor’s hand in his once again.

Let me stay. Let me stay. I love you I love you I—

There’s something screaming in Viktor’s mind. The red sunset is blinding around them, the faint whir of the hextech suddenly deafening. He wants to pull away, snatch his hand back, but his limbs and traitorous mind alike refuse to obey him.

He wants Jayce to hold him. He wants Jayce to hate him. He wants Jayce. He wants…

“Viktor,” Jayce whispers—and Viktor knows what he’s going to say, what the words will be before they’ve even crossed his lips— “I lo—”

“Do not,” Viktor hisses.

There’s something hot in his eyes, searing him straight down to his nerves.

“Please—please, just listen to me,” Jayce begs. “I’ve never met anyone before who’s as ingenious as you. Who can do the kinds of things you do, these amazing feats of magic and engineering, and…” He wavers, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath. “Look, if you don’t feel the same way, I’ll drop it, I swear. But please. Tell me the truth. Tell me these past few months working together as partners haven’t meant nothing.”

Viktor keeps his untrustworthy and traitorous mouth shut.

“Viktor,” Jayce pleads, “Please. I can’t just leave you here.”

Viktor makes his mouth curl up into a snarl. Deliberately, he wrenches his hand free from Jayce’s grasp. “You will,” he says, voice steady.

“I—”

“You will,” Viktor spits. “Listen to me now, Jayce Talis: you will leave, you will go home, and I will become a story that you can tell. The Herald you escaped the grasp of.”

Jayce flinches at the name, but Viktor ignores it.

“There is no other way this ends for either of us,” Viktor says sharply. “You go back to Piltover, and I will remain here. Do you understand?”

“Viktor—”

“When you leave in the morning,” Viktor interrupts, glare as hard as steel, “At least do me the service of not saying goodbye.”

With that, he exits the workshop, fighting every cell in his body to not look back.

If he does, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from begging Jayce to stay.

He storms outside, taking care to slam the front door behind him. The spring air is cool, a welcome relief against his skin. So focused the both of them have been on completing the hextech device, Viktor has hardly stepped outside the house at all. It’s beautiful out, a lazy breeze tickling his short strands of hair, a warm mix of florals and sea salt in the air.

If he weren’t still fuming, Viktor almost thinks he’d enjoy it.

As it is, he resists every urge to rip up every stray weed and blade of grass in his path as he stalks to the bluff. And if his cane hits the ground with more vengeance than usual, well, what does it matter?

The dirt deserves it, in all likelihood.

The drop from the bluff down to the beach is steep and dizzying, but Viktor doesn’t care. He sits down on the cliff side, just a few feet away from the lift. He debates moving, but in the end, stays put. It is not like being further away from Jayce’s creation will help him not think of it. Not when his work is also melded to Viktor’s skin, supporting his spine and ribs, literally wrapping itself around his heart.

How many centuries, he wonders, until he forgets about the man who helped in its creation? Until he forgets Jayce’s smile, those strong hands, the sound of his laugh?

Viktor wraps his arms around himself and shivers. Even through his robes, he can feel the raised scars on his skin. If he closes his eyes, he can still recall it all: the blade against his body, the blinding godhood he’d forced upon himself, the aftermath of the lives of his nymphs breaking. That white-hot agony, the way his heart had expanded and contracted, the way his nerves had burned up from the inside out.

He hadn’t thought there would ever be a comparable pain to that.

Something like a sob escapes his throat.

In the evening light, he can see beetles lazily floating and buzzing from plant to plant, occasionally illuminating with a soft green glow. Overhead, the sun paints the sky in searing shades of green and purple, pink and blue, unnatural in the way they clash against each other.

“Why did you do this to me?” Viktor whispers.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, really—an answer, for Jinx to appear, for any other god to come down and deem him worthy enough of this small mercy—but there’s nothing. Not even the sound of mad laughter on the wind.

This is for the best. Why can’t Jayce see that?

He stares at the horizon for what feels like hours, watching the bright hues turn dark as night creeps across the sky. He doesn’t move, letting his limbs become numb and his sight become blurred. There’s something like a spot on the edge of the horizon, dark and coming closer. A spot like...

Viktor snaps up, breath catching in his throat.

A ship.

A ship.

Instinct overcomes his fear. Viktor grabs his cane and pulls himself to his feet, so fast that he’s faintly surprised he doesn’t lose his balance and topple over the ledge. He all but runs to the house, barreling the door open before slamming it back shut, frantically lodging the lock in place. He limps to the cabinets, opening them up one by one, and begins to get out the fine plates and silverware.

There’s a faint sound of movement from the doorway.

Jayce.

“Viktor…?” Jayce asks, trepidation in his voice. Then, sighing, “Look, I—”

“I will handle it,” Viktor says curtly.

He can hear Jayce’s confusion. “Handle it?” he echoes. “What do you—?” He cuts off abruptly, inhaling sharply as his eyes fall on the open window.

In the span of a couple of minutes, the ship has moved closer than should be possible, cutting through the open water like a knife.

Viktor moves quickly, falling into the ritual with ease. Plates and silverware on the counter. Wine taken from the cabinets and at the ready. Food prepared on the platters. Viktor reaches up to the cabinet, searching, and—there. The draught of adder venom, crushed crickets, and ground bone, enchanted with a stasis rune. It should still be fresh enough to use. He uncorks the vial, ready to sprinkle it over the food and wine—

Jayce’s hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him.

The scars on his forehead are as bright and fresh as if Viktor had only just carved them there.

“Viktor,” Jayce whispers, voice breaking. “Viktor, please.”

He doesn’t need to say what he’s asking—Viktor can hear the prayer, clear as crystal, echoing in his skull.

Please don’t turn them into Evolved. Please don’t condemn them to being short-lived puppets. Please, wait.

Viktor’s eyes dart back towards the window. The ship has docked in the waters, completely still save for the faint bobbing from the waves. If he squints, he can just make out a smaller boat, specks of figures loading on to it. Soon, they will row to shore. Soon, they will head up the trail to the house.

Jayce’s hand trembles against Viktor’s skin.

Viktor swallows. Slowly, he corks the draught again, slips it into his pocket.

“Alright,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce relaxes. He glances out the window, at the small boat making its way to the shoreline. “Red and black,” he says quietly. “Noxian colors.”

That gives Viktor pause. Out of all visitors, the ones from Noxus are the ones most thoroughly armed.

Jayce hesitates. “Before… During the war…” he says haltingly. “We, Piltover… If they’re soldiers…”

“Go to the workshop and shut the door,” Viktor orders.

Jayce swallows. “But—”

“You are afraid of being recognized, no?” Viktor questions. “Go. Wait in the workshop. I will feed them and send them on their way.”

For a moment, Viktor thinks that Jayce is going to protest. Then, he nods. And, finally, even though it looks like each step physically pains him, Jayce obeys, heading out the door and down the hall.

Viktor lets out a slow breath of relief as he hears the workshop door click shut.

His heart pounds as he looks out the window. The sea looks silver in the moonlight, making the black blot of the ship all the more obvious. The smaller boat has made it to shore, and the figures are standing there, presumably discussing what they should do. Viktor can imagine so clearly their faces as they point to the lift, to the well-worn path lined with its crafted railings.

They will be on their way up soon enough.

Viktor takes out his needle knife, mechanically wiping it down before tucking it back into its small sheath at his belt, artfully arranging his robes so it is hidden. He lights the candles and stokes the hearth, then sets the table as he has so many times before. Food and wine out, but not yet served. Hearth lit with the promise of a haven and help.

It’s fine, Viktor tells himself as he places the illusion over himself, turning purple flesh pale. He can handle one set of visitors. He can serve them, send them on their way. Jayce is right. This does not have to end in tragedy.

He reaches into his pocket and clutches at the sleeping draught, trying to make himself believe it.

There’s a knock at the door.

Viktor steels himself, walks forward, relieved that his step is steady and that his cane doesn’t clatter against the ground. He undoes the lock and swings the door open.

The soldiers outside are like so many before. Well-fed, muscular, confident.

Armed.

Viktor makes himself smile. “Welcome,” he says smoothly. “I am the keeper of the island. I saw your ship—you must be tired to have made it this far out at sea, no?”

There are five of them total, each staring at Viktor with equal parts curiosity and desperation. No, not curiosity—that is too benign, Viktor thinks, for what is written on their faces.

Hunger.

Viktor’s stomach churns as he keeps the smile on his face, beckoning them inside. “Please, sit. Eat,” he says, gesturing to the table. “I had just finished preparations for dinner.”

The soldiers all enter sit, staring at him with shining eyes and wolfish grins. Viktor quietly takes note of each of their weapons: two axes, two spears, and a longsword. His stomach churns. That is… Not good. There is not much he can do against longer-range weapons.

Viktor shakes his head to clear his thoughts. No. He can't think like that.

It’s fine.

There is one, with a decorated fur cloak and a well-kept beard cut in a sharp line, that nods at Viktor as he pours the wine. “To whom do we owe the pleasure for this meal?” he inquires in a gruff voice.

Viktor pauses. He sets the wine down, corks it. “...You can call me Viktor,” he says after a moment.

They all stare at him, like they are trying to see through his illusions and mask of a face, trying to determine if he is a threat, if he could harm them. He feels the gaze of five pairs of eyes as, one by one, they all notice his braced leg and cane.

The shift in the room, as it hits them, is as palpable as it is familiar. The relaxation, the dropping of the guard, the way their smiles take on a cruel and pitying glint as they feast.

A cripple, and nothing more.

Anger simmers in Viktor’s chest, and he fights to keep his lip from curling as he watches the soldiers wolf down plate after plate of food.

“Are you alone on the island?” the one with the sword asks through a mouthful of food.

“I am,” Viktor lies easily.

He knows he isn’t imagining it, the way the air changes, the way the shadows over their eyes grow darker.

Viktor tries to ignore the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck.

“I recognized your sails as Noxian,” he says as he begins to clear the empty platters from the table. “What brings soldiers of Noxus to this corner of the world?”

Viktor knows how to balance the tone of the question, to make it light and inquiring, to make it seem harmless.

And, sure enough enough, one of the soldiers laughs, beating a fist at the table and leaning back in the chair, grinning. “Expansion, of course,” the soldier boasts, “In the name of our Warlord Medarda.”

Viktor hums noncommitedly as he heads back to the counter with the platters, taking great care to make sure his back is not turned to the soldiers. “Yes,” he says mildly, “I have heard much of Noxian might.”

Why does every visitor need to brag of the quality and strength of their empire?

“It is a shame your island is… Well, this,” one soldier says, words already slurring from drunkeness as he waves a hand around. “And so far from Noxian shores. We would find a way to make this a fine addition for Noxian conquest.”

Something in Viktor's stomach shrivels. “I have no doubt,” he says, not bothering to hide the ice in his tone.

With their hunger sated, their weary limbs rested and loose, Viktor sees them begin to look around. There is not much to see in his kitchen, truth be told. Herbs and platters, shelves of food and closed cabinets full of components and potions, a small cooking hearth that only Jayce uses. Still, their eyes creep towards the door leading further into the house.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry at the familiarity of it. His fingers reach into his pocket, curl around the sleeping draught.

Noxian conquest, the soldier said.

Viktor is all too familiar with the types of conquest these soldiers engage in.

He walks towards the front door. Quickly, but not too quickly, keeping his shoulders squared. Even now, his body remembers how to act, how to play the role. “You are welcome to rest on my shores,” he says, voice as neutral as he can make it. “If your ship needs repairs, I would offer my assistance.”

The one in the fur cloak laughs, an ugly and booming sound. “You?” he chortles, gesturing towards Viktor like that is explanation enough, with his cane and brace. “Help?”

Viktor does not stop, this time, his lip from curling up in disgust.

“But if you’re offering,” one of the others says suddenly, standing, “I’m sure we can find something in this hovel we can use, or bring back to Noxus.”

“Ambessa may want this island,” another murmurs, stroking his chin, eyes glinting. “An outpost. Part of a strategy, maybe. Noxian might in even the farthest corners of the world.”

Viktor’s mind is racing. He clutches the sleeping draught, its cold reassurance buzzing at his fingertips. He should have protested against Jayce, he should have slipped it into the wine. There might still be time, though, if there are others on the ship, if he can persuade these soldiers to bring the rest up…

“We could arrange something,” Viktor says, “Perhaps, if you gather the rest of your crew, I could show you the rest of the island—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before the man with the fur cloak lunges forward, hand on the axe at his side.

Viktor reacts on instinct—he ducks, raising his cane, and slams it directly into the soldier’s knees.

The reverberation rips through his cane and up his arms, sending him stumbling and reeling backwards into the wall.

The man hasn’t even flinched.

Viktor whips out the needle knife in one smooth motion, ducking as the soldier’s hand slams through the air, aimed at his throat. He plunges the needle knife right between the gaps in the armor, twisting, sick satisfaction blooming in his chest as the soldier gasps and blood begins to stream down his side, soaking the fabric underneath his armor.

In this moment, Viktor does not care about the conditions of his imprisonment, how he is forbidden from killing.

He’d take eternal torture, he thinks venomously, if he gets to see the life bleed out from this Noxian soldier.

Before Viktor can seal the soldier’s fate, grip the needle knife and pull it out, the soldier kicks Viktor’s leg.

Right at his knee, on the leg supported by his brace.

Viktor shouts and falls, pain screaming its way up his leg and through his hip, blinding and agonizing. He barely registers the fact that he’s fallen, not until the soldier has grabbed the front of his robes and is pulling him up.

He slams Viktor against the wall, and white spots like sparks explode behind Viktor’s eyes. The room is spinning, and all Viktor can feel is hands on him, at his throat and chest.

He’s only a nymph, after all.

“You think you stand a chance?” the man growls in Viktor’s ear. “You’re nothing. You—”

He stops, his body going rigid with a dull crack. Then, he slumps, his entire weight falling against Viktor.

Dimly, Viktor is aware of something hot that has splattered against his face. He looks up, past the man’s slumped form.

Jayce.

He’s standing right behind the man—the dead man, the man with a caved-in skull, the man who now has bits of bone and blood dripping out of his head—holding what Viktor deliriously realizes is his punch-set hammer.

Jayce’s breathing is hard and erratic, a wild look in his eyes as his head swivels to the soldiers still in the room.

There is a moment of stunned silence. Then, an outcry as the other four draw their weapons and rush at Jayce.

Jayce sinks into a stance with a practiced ease and barrels through the soldiers like a tsunami. He parries each blow with the hammer, ducking down and in and out of each weapon’s path, shrugging off each attempt to grapple him.

Viktor shoves the dead man off of him. There’s something lurching in his stomach, but he refuses to acknowledge it, instead scrambling for his needle knife, yanking it out of the soldier’s side. Blood makes his movements slippery, but he doesn’t falter, not once as he frantically etches runes into the floor.

Grasp and overgrowth.

Branches like ribbons spring to life from the ground, wrapping around the soldiers. They shout and writhe against the bindings, but the fresh blood keeps the wood strong as it strangles the soldiers’ limbs.

Jayce barely seems to comprehend the magic, just turning around and swinging his hammer into one of the restrained soldiers, again and again. The space around him seems to distort, like shattered shards of glass. When he’s finished, Jayce turns to the next one, unhesitating and unflinching, even as blood drips down his face and pools on the floor.

Viktor thinks he can hear something in the air like a distant ringing.

The second soldier with the axe has managed to free his legs, and with a grunt, he wrenches himself free, raising his weapon and aiming it at Jayce.

Viktor doesn’t think as he uncaps the draught vial in one swift motion and pitches it through the air.

It lands directly on the soldier’s face, right before he is about to hit Jayce. There is a moment of dazed confusion, then his whole body goes slack, falling to the floor with a thump.

Jayce turns, not hesitating as he slams the hammer into the sleeping soldier’s face.

Viktor should be disturbed, he thinks, by the violence.

All he can manage is dull shock.

The remaining one is still working to free himself, but before he can even take a step forward, Jayce is on him, grabbing him by the front of his tunic and yanking him forward.

“How many more are on the ship?” Jayce demands. Then, when the soldier doesn’t instantly reply, “How many?”

“Just us!” the soldier begs. “Just us, I swear—we were separated in the main fleet in a storm, they were headed north. Everyone else on the ship is dead. Please, let me live—we’re just additional supplies transport, I swear, I—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Jayce drives a knee into his stomach. While the soldier reels, the air leaving his lungs in a single choked breath, Jayce raises his hammer and brings it down on the soldier’s neck. There is the audible snap of bone, then nothing.

Viktor can only stare. At Jayce. At the blood. At the dead bodies splayed across his kitchen floor. The world seems to stand completely still.

Jayce whips his head around to Viktor. Viktor can’t help but inhale sharply.

The hazel around Jayce’s eyes is gone, replaced with glinting neon fractals.

For a moment, Jayce doesn’t even seem to comprehend that Viktor is there. Then, that wild and unseeing frenzy in his eyes fades. His breath hitches as he backs away, his hammer slipping from his hands and falling to the ground with a clang.

All at once, the hazel in his eyes returns.

“Viktor,” Jayce gasps. “Gods, I… Are you alright?”

Viktor doesn’t know if he can speak. Is he alright? Jayce is asking him? Him?

Unable to summon words, he just jerks his head in a nod. His body feels… Displaced, somehow. His mind floated away from the rest of him.

He finds his cane on the ground, pulls himself to his feet. The world is dull and removed around him as he stares at the corpses littering his kitchen floor.

He’s safe. The soldiers are dead.

He’s safe.

“I’m so sorry,” Jayce stammers, “I… I didn’t think, I…”

Viktor steps forward and crashes his lips against Jayce’s.

There’s only a moment of stunned confusion. Then, Jayce’s hands are at Viktor’s arms, at his waist, kissing back with a frantic need that borders on starvation.

It is beautiful and violent and perfect. Something sick within Viktor is singing—finally, finally.

Viktor doesn’t realize that they’re moving, not until Jayce’s back hits against kitchen counter. He’s biting and sucking at Jayce with tongue and teeth, his cane discarded, leaning against Jayce for all his support. Jayce has one hand at his waist, the other cupping his jaw, angling each movement so Viktor can better bite.

There’s blood mixed in, Viktor thinks. Is it his? Jayce’s? Some soldier’s? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t think he cares.

He moves quickly, peeling off Jayce’s clothes and letting them fall in a haphazard pile on the floor. His own robes soon follow, leaving absolutely nothing between them.

Jayce breaks away for a moment, panting. His lips are swollen and red, his face flushed, his hair disheveled. “Is this a good idea?” he croaks.

“Does it matter?” Viktor retorts. Then, before Jayce can protest, “I want this.” He narrows his eyes. “Do you?”

Jayce swallows audibly. Then, low and needing, “Yes. Gods, Viktor—yes.”

It is everything Viktor has ever wanted to hear.

Distantly, he is aware that he will likely regret this come morning, but those thoughts here and now are hardly more than a whisper and ridiculously easy to dismiss. There is still fear in his veins, mixing freely with arousal and creating a heady and addicting cocktail that banishes every thought from Viktor’s head that is not simply want. He presses himself even closer to Jayce, matching each grind and press.

He breaks their messy kiss, and Jayce whines at the sudden lack of contact. And oh, Viktor realizes, that is doing something for him. Before Jayce can protest, though, Viktor reaches to the side, fumbling for only a moment before he finds what he’s looking for. With a raised eyebrow, he holds up the bottle of olive oil.

Jayce sucks in a breath, his gaze a black pit of desire.

“Don’t move,” Viktor whispers. Slowly, he pours the oil over his fingers, then begins to work it over his cock.

Jayce eyes are wide, hypnotized as Viktor strokes himself. If he is put off by the strangeness of Viktor’s skin, the near-metallic smoothness that extends even to his cock, it doesn’t show at all. He just lets out a breathy whimper, and Viktor watches, fascinated, as Jayce gets harder.

Jayce obeys, though, and even though his fingers twitch as if to touch himself, he remains still, his only movement the erratic rise and fall of his chest.

And gods, that should not be as hot as it is.

Viktor places his other hand at Jayce’s thigh. “Lean back,” he orders, “And spread your legs.”

Jayce obeys with a speed that Viktor should find terrifying, but now only sends a shuddering wave of arousal through his body. Viktor pours oil over his fingers. Then, slowly, he begins to work Jayce open.

The effect is immediate. Jayce throws his head back, gasping, hands grasping to find purchase at the edge of the counter. Viktor tries to be patient, he really does, but Jayce is so desperately grinding against him, almost instinctive movements as he tries to press Viktor’s fingers deeper into him.

“How long have you wanted this?” Viktor can’t help but murmur, curling his fingers deeper.

“Months,” Jayce gasps, letting out a cry as Viktor hits some spot inside of him. “Since… Since the back brace.”

Viktor pauses, stunned. The back brace? When he’d very nearly killed himself offering up his blood? “You liked that?” he questions in faint amazement. “Offering yourself up to me?”

Jayce just groans in response.

Everything about this is wrong, Viktor can’t help but think. Jayce is mortal, Jayce is trapped, Jayce is engaged. He should say no, he should stop this, he shouldn’t want this.

But gods above, he does.

Viktor removes his fingers. Jayce’s head jerks up, a hopeless noise of confusion escaping his mouth. Viktor’s heart is in his ears, pounding so hard that it is making him dizzy. He doesn’t wait as he lines himself up and thrusts his cock inside of Jayce.

Jayce moans, a hot and senseless sound.

Viktor begins to move, pleased when Jayce gasps and starts to match his rhythm, each movement heavy and fast. Jayce is wrapped around him, hot and alive, and Viktor swears that he can feel every beat of his heart as it echoes through him.

Mine, he can’t help but think.

He doesn’t think he’s spoken aloud, not until Jayce gasps, “Yours. Yours.”

Heat coils in his abdomen and spreads through his body like fire. He’s fallen, hard and fast and past the point of no return. It’s like learning witchcraft all over again, exhilarating and intoxicating and all too tempting to throw himself over the edge. And just like before, he is unable and unwilling to fight against it.

Then, Jayce arches into him, taking him in fully, and Viktor gasps, pleasure singing through his veins. He clutches at Jayce, aware that his nails are digging in, but Jayce doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Viktor,” Jayce babbles. “Viktor. I’m close, Please, Viktor, please.”

Viktor is helpless to resist. He snaps his hips forward, so hard that he’s faintly amazed that Jayce doesn’t scream. The pain in his body is a distant thing, and though it will surely hurt tomorrow, it is so hard to mind. All that matters is Jayce, the way he moves in time with Viktor, the way he’s begging, perfect and needing and—

Then, he is coming, harder and faster than he ever has in his life. His vision explodes in white, a cry escaping his lips, clutching at Jayce as his legs turn to jelly. Jayce moans, then quickly follows, release spilling out of him.

They stay like that for a minute, both panting and clutching at each other as their cocks soften. Then, slowly, Jayce slides off the counter, gently gathering Viktor up in his arms. Viktor presses his head against Jayce’s shoulder, unwilling to move just yet. He can hear Jayce murmuring something sweet in his ear, pressing protective kisses all along his neck, fingers stroking so tenderly along each bony line of the brace, all along his spine and ribs.

He can still see blood on the floor, the bodies cooling behind him a palpable presence.

Let the rest of the world come, Viktor can’t help but think drunkenly. Soldiers or madness or even gods. Jayce is here, and Jayce is his.

Chapter Text

For one brief moment, when he wakes, Viktor is sure that the night had been something between a dream and a nightmare, conjured up by his desperate and infatuated brain.

Then, Jayce sighs, somehow sinking even further into his embrace, and Viktor thinks he has perhaps finally found a way to both forsake godhood and earn himself a way into the perfect afterlife. What other explanation is there, for why Jayce’s arms are nestled around him? For why Jayce is burying his head into Viktor, a sleepy and needy sound briefly escaping his lips?

He wants me, Viktor's heart sings. Jayce wants me. Me.

Thinking about it is enough to make him near-delirious at the impossibility and horror of it all. He should address it, move before he can fall even deeper into whatever this is. But Jayce is so warm, his arms wrapped around Viktor so protective, his breath against Viktor’s skin so gentle. Already, Viktor can feel his mind slipping, getting lost in their tangle of limbs, basking in the sheer reassurance and comfort of Jayce.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, to let this brief and respiteful dream continue.

He must fall asleep again, because the next thing he is aware of is sunlight streaming through the living room window and Jayce’s absence.

Viktor sits up, suddenly intimately aware of the dried… Organic matter across his body. All at once, the memories come rushing back to him, the terror and desire from last night now in stark contrast to each other, leaving nothing but absolute shame in their wake.

Gods above, why did he do that?

He’s been laid across the couch and wrapped in a blanket, but otherwise, is still naked. The hearth is empty, recently cleaned and with a neat pile of fresh wood nearby. Viktor's eyes dart to the floor, where fresh robes have been laid out and folded, right next to his cane.

Viktor studies them for a moment, considering, before taking his cane and standing, pulling the blanket a little tighter around him. His brace creaks when he moves, both metal and flesh protesting. The soldier’s kick must have done some damage—he’ll have to go to the workshop, see what needs to be done for repairs.

But first…

Viktor looks around. No sign of Jayce.

His heart sinks.

Stop that, he tries to tell himself. This is a good thing.

This is good. A clean break, as it were. With any luck, he will have taken Viktor’s loss of control as just that: a loss of control. Something to look back on with no small amount of horror and shame, but to ultimately be pushed aside in favor of everything else. Never mind that Jayce had begged for it, had looked up at Viktor with an absolutely wrecked expression, had said…

Viktor shoves the thought from his mind and makes his way towards the bath.

His body is equal parts aching and numb, and scrubbing himself down with a washcloth only relieves some of it. But he is clean by the end of it, and that is what matters. It makes it easier to ignore the pit of loss forming in the space around his heart.

The fresh robes are nice, at least. It clenches at his heart, and he has the ridiculous urge to press them to his face and inhale, to see if any trace of Jayce's pine and forge smoke smell still lingers.

He fastens the robes and pointedly does not smell them.

Slowly, Viktor makes his way down the hall. He’s unable to help himself as he passes by Jayce’s bedroom, seeing the cracked door.

Empty.

Viktor tries to swallow back the disappointment there, the despair at the confirmation already beginning to claw at his heart. It’s fine. It's fine. He’d even told Jayce to leave without saying goodbye. Surely, in the light of morning, reality caught up to him, the fact that he'd slept with the God of the Arcane when he has a beautiful and waiting fiancée. Their... Intercourse, was just the thing to finally give him the push he needed, and he’d been ashamed enough to finally leave.

The click of his cane and brace echo in the hall as he limps towards the kitchen. Something is climbing its way up his throat, clawing and screaming with despair. Viktor closes his eyes briefly, trying to ground himself. He's fine. He's fine. Jayce being gone changes nothing.

Back to routine. Back to being alone.

He can deal with any unnecessary feelings after he cleans the kitchen and disposes of the bodies.

He makes his way in, the door creaking open at his touch.

Viktor blinks.

Jayce.

He is still here—not gone, but here—standing in the kitchen, an old mop in hand, in the process of lathering the floor with soapy water. There is golden sunlight streaming in through the open window, leaving the whole room feeling open and fresh and smelling faintly of lemon.

There is no sign of the bodies.

The door creaks slightly as Viktor steps in, and at the sound, Jayce’s head snaps up. Immediately, a warm smile spreads across his face. “You’re up,” he murmurs, leaning the mop against the table and crossing the room towards Viktor.

Viktor takes an unwitting step back.

No, no. This… This isn’t right. Last night’s loss of control was a mistake, Jayce should be gone, Jayce shouldn’t…

Jayce stops just short as Viktor pulls away, hands hovering in front of him for a moment, like he isn’t sure what to do with them.

Viktor glances past Jayce, at the half-cleaned kitchen. He hesitates, then, “...Can I ask what you did with the bodies?”

“Buried,” Jayce says quietly. “Just past the treeline.”

Viktor nods.

Good.

He walks past Jayce, evaluating the rest of the kitchen. Jayce has wiped away the worst of the viscera, cleared out the broken plates and platters of food. Viktor’s needle knife sits at the table, polished and perfect and free of blood.

Slowly, Viktor picks it up, turning it over in his hand. Then, he kneels, only wincing a little as a sharp stab of pain races up his leg. He finds one of the darker stains on the ground, running his hand over it. It is too easy to remember last night, the sound of Jayce’s hammer against bone, the way the bodies had hit the floor.

Viktor pushes the memory away, focusing on the floor in front of him. Carefully, he etches two runes into the center of the stain: absorb and harvest.

The blood is still fresh enough for a spell as simple as this, and a golden glow begins to sweep through the wooden grains of the floorboards. Then, each stain shimmering, something like a sigh echoes through the room, and slowly but surely, the rest of the blood disappears, dispersed and absorbed into the wood.

When Viktor stands and turns, Jayce’s eyes are alight with wonder. “I recognize harvest,” he murmurs. “What’s the other one?”

Viktor shrugs. “Absorb,” he replies curtly. “Combined together, they strengthen the wood with the blood, making future spells used with it a bit more powerful. It is best done when fresh, but I was not… In the best state for it, last night.”

A bright red blush floods over Jayce’s cheeks.

Viktor studies the kitchen. Like this, now, it is impossible to tell of everything that transpired.

“What do we do next?” Jayce asks quietly.

Viktor glances out the window, at the ship still docked in the water. “I will need to cast the ship out to sea,” he says. “Place a hole somewhere to ensure it will sink.”

Usually, he would go through the ship first, searching for materials and information, anything to give a hint of the outside world. With his brace still creaking and with his muscles still aching, though, the mere thought of going through that ship is enough to send a wave of revulsion through his mind.

Jayce nods slowly. “Can I help?” he asks quietly.

Viktor shakes his head. “I would not ask you to do such a thing,” he says.

Jayce reaches over, takes Viktor’s hand in his, and Viktor briefly loses his breath.

After last night, something so simple shouldn’t be enough to weaken him. He isn’t some virgin nymph, blushing at the simplest of touches. And yet.

He can hear the prayer of it—Let me help, let me help you.

He almost misses it when Jayce says, “I want to. Please.”

Viktor is helpless to do anything but nod.

It’s fine.

Jayce can leave after.

They make their way to the lift slowly. Jayce falls perfectly in step with Viktor, looking as if any moment he will reach over, take Viktor’s hand in his. He does not, though, his hands staying firmly at his side as they board the lift and Viktor taps the rune-engraved chains, the machine bringing them to the ground so smoothly that it feels like gliding.

Viktor walks across the beach, to the small boat the soldiers had taken to shore. It’s been dragged out of reach of the tides, nestled safely by the rocks.

“We will need to take the boat out,” Viktor says.

Jayce hesitates. “That’s okay?” he asks dubiously. “That’s not going to… I don’t know, violate the terms of your imprisonment?”

Viktor shrugs. “It has not before.”

There’s a brief flash of something across Jayce’s expression, the reminder of how many times Viktor has done this.

“You do not have to join me,” Viktor reminds him.

Jayce scoffs. He goes to the boat, and with a grunt, begins to push it off the shore and into the waters.

Despite the fact that Viktor knows how strong Jayce is, has witnessed it firsthand multiple times at this point, it still comes as a faint shock at how effortless the action seems when it is Jayce performing it, especially when, in previous efforts, Viktor has needed to rely on some clever combination of runes.

When the boat hits the water, swaying gently in the calm waves lapping at the shore, Jayce wades deeper in, holding it still.

Thankfully, he does not ask if Viktor needs help getting in.

Viktor boards with practiced ease, clutching his robes tighter around him as Jayce pushes the boat out, then pulls himself in. Without waiting for Viktor to say anything, he takes the oars and begins to row.

The sea is calm this morning, the breeze warm, and the boat hardly rocks at all as the oars cut through the water, Jayce’s muscles rippling as he rows them out to the ship. Viktor does his best not to notice how attractive it is, Jayce's arms flexing with each movement, the way the beaming sun make him look golden.

He fails.

When they are almost at the ship, Jayce clears his throat, asks, “How do you usually do this?”

Viktor tears his gaze away as he takes out his needle knife. “I warp the wood to create a hole near the bottom, then sever the rope or chain of the anchor. The tides do the rest.”

Jayce nods. He watches silently as Viktor carves the runes into the side of the ship, drinking in every movement as Viktor pricks his finger to smear blood over the wood. It is simpler this time, to do this without worrying about the logistics of boarding and searching a ship anchored in the ocean rather than wrecked on the beach. The anchor, thankfully, is connected to the ship by sturdy rope, rather than obscenely heavy iron chains, and a simple harvest rune is enough to weaken it, leaving it frayed and fragile as ash.

It is nice, Viktor has to admit, to have Jayce there to keep the boat steady, to not have to worry about the smaller vessel capsizing or being pushed away from the ship while he works.

It hardly takes more than a touch from Viktor before the rope shudders and dissolves completely, leaving the anchor to rot at the bottom of the ocean with all the rest. Already, Viktor can feel the tides underneath them, ready to push the ship back out to sea, to slowly sink in the deeper parts of his coast or into the vast ocean beyond Ekko's barrier.

Jayce, thankfully, does not ask about investigating or rummaging through the ship. There’s only a sag of relief in his shoulders as the ship groans, then begins to slowly but surely drift away.

“Is there anything else…?”

“No,” Viktor says, shaking his head. “That is it.”

Jayce nods again, a flicker of something across his face as he begins to row them back to shore.

Already, the sun is beating down upon them, promising a hot day. It makes the discomfort prickling at the back of Viktor’s neck even worse, and he has to suppress every urge to reach back every other minute to awkwardly scratch.

“What do we do with this boat?” Jayce asks after a while.

Viktor shrugs. “I typically use a harvest rune to disintegrate them, or reuse the wood, if there is a current project that requires it.”

“I’m surprised you don’t just use the harvest rune on the entire ship,” Jayce admits.

“I have considered it,” Viktor replies. “But given the size of most ships, I would have to carve all along the sides. No matter where the ship is, it is not what I would call an easy task.” He chuckles despite himself. “I did try it once, though. It ended with me capsized in the sea. Suffice to say, I was quite… Waterlogged, by the time I managed to get back to shore.”

Jayce blinks, then unexpectedly, he laughs out loud. “That’s… Oh gods, I can picture it perfectly,” he says with a chuckle. “You must’ve looked like a wet cat.”

Viktor stares. “A wet cat,” he echoes, half-incredulous, half-dumbfounded.

Jayce grins. “You know, with your long robes, and your hair...”

“I do not see what my hair has to do with that,” he says, trying to sound stern, but unable to help the smile on his face.

Jayce snorts. “Are you kidding? You keep it so maintained and…” He gestures helplessly. “I don’t know, fluffy.”

Viktor stares. “Fluffy?”

Jayce groans. “Look, I couldn’t think of a more dignified word, okay?”

He maybe shouldn’t, but Viktor can’t help it—he bursts into laughter.

It’s bubbling and almost hysteric, but with both the comparison and Jayce’s clear embarrassment... Gods, it feels wrong to have this levity now, with the events of the previous night still fresh. Still, maybe because of it, it doesn’t take long before he and Jayce are both doubled over, laughing so hard that Viktor is amazed that the boat doesn’t capsize then and there.

Viktor is still smiling by the time they get to shore. As Jayce drags the boat up and through the rocks and sand, he reaches out, offering a hand to Viktor.

This time, Viktor accepts it.

Slowly, they walk back to the lift, Viktor activating it, and they ride it back up to the house.

It is not until they reach the front door, with the kitchen right there, that everything from last night comes fully slamming back into Viktor.

Maybe Jayce feels it too, because he stops just short of the door, hands fidgeting awkwardly at his sides, and suddenly he can’t quite look Viktor in the eye.

The silence stretches between them.

Jayce clears his throat. “Listen, last night…”

“I am sorry,” Viktor interrupts. “For… All of it. I was not thinking.”

For a moment, Jayce’s expression goes blank, blinking as if stunned. “What?” he croaks.

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. He can still taste blood there, sharp and bitter with iron. “I understand last night was…”

Volatile, intense, wonderful.

“...A miscalculation,” Viktor decides on. “For the both of us. It does not change anything.”

For a moment, there is nothing between them but the gentle breeze as it rustles through the trees.

Jayce hesitates, then, “What if I want it to change something?”

“You should not,” Viktor says. His mind spins, trying to find the words to make Jayce understand. “It’s not… I should not have done that, allowed me to lose myself. It was a mistake.”

Immediately, Viktor knows he’s said the wrong thing. Jayce’s gaze darkens. “A mistake?” he repeats.

Viktor brings a hand to the front of his robes, looking down at the ground. “You were clearly not in your right mind,” he says flatly, “And it was cruel of me to take advantage of you in that way.”

Jayce lets out an incredulous laugh. “What about any of that made you think that I didn’t want it?” Then, quietly, “Did you not want…?”

“What I want does not matter,” Viktor says coolly. “Especially since you are still leaving.”

Silence meets his declaration.

When Viktor risks looking up, Jayce is staring at him, looking as if Viktor has reached into his chest and yanked out his heart.

“All that,” Jayce says, “And you still…” He shakes his head. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I want to stay here with you?”

“You do not,” Viktor says dismissively.

“Don’t tell me what I don’t want,” Jayce snaps. “I told you I—”

“You do not,” Viktor repeats, more forcefully. Then, in the most neutral tone he can manage, “You are lonely, and you will forget about me as soon as you are back in Piltover with your Mel.” He takes a breath. “I am sorry for my loss of control, truly. You have my full permission to pretend as if it never happened, or to place the blame solely on me if you relay these events to your Mel upon your return.”

Jayce takes a step forward, eyes flashing. He holds Viktor’s gaze for a long moment, daring him to look away.

He doesn’t.

This is for the best. Jayce needs to understand. He…

“Fuck you, Viktor,” Jayce says with quiet venom.

He turns on his heel, yanking open the front door and storming down the hall. A moment later, even from outside, Viktor hears his door slam shut.

Viktor spends the day in the workshop.

He disassembles his leg brace. Finds the crooked bend of metal, the notch gear with the broken spoke. Replaces it. Reassembles.

He does not think about Jayce. Does not look at the hextech on the table, the acceleration gemstone glinting as it rotates on the magnetized stand, mocking in its bright hues.

It’s ridiculous. If Jayce thought about the situation for more than a minute, he would understand. He isn’t like Viktor. He doesn’t belong here.

Viktor slips his leg brace back on, tightening each leather strap. There.

Perfect.

He leans back in his chair, heavily looking around the room. Without him noticing, it has gotten dark, the room only illuminated by the glow of the hextech. Without Jayce here, the workshop suddenly is unbearably large and empty.

He glances at the floor, at the table, at the notes strewn across them, in both his and Jayce’s hand, each scrawled line feeding into each other until their handwriting is indistinguishable from the other.

Viktor swallows around the lump in his throat.

When did his solitude begin to become suffocating? His breath is lodged in his throat, his heart tight. He needs… He needs…

No.

Viktor mechanically begins to pick up the notes, shoving every single memory of Jayce’s touch to the back of his mind.

It will be better, he decides, when he doesn’t have to look at the reminders of Jayce’s presence.

It has to be.

He tries to sort them as best he can without looking too closely. It’s difficult, with how many of their notes run together, feeding into each other. Viktor presses his lips together and determinedly does not think about it—the lift, the molds, the runes, the geo-coordinates, the hextech, the…

Viktor stops. Blinks. Looks at the notes in his hand.

He… Doesn’t recognize these ones.

He pauses. Looks them over.

Viktor’s breath stills in his lungs.

It’s for his back brace.

The notes are scribbled, frantic, the sentences and calculations running together, arrows going off the page and to some other piece of paper. Viktor doesn’t realize what he’s doing, spreading them out across the floor, connecting each arrow and number and word to each other, until it is completed. He—

Stares. And stares.

The alloy. The plant matter. The runes. The way each part interlocks. The measurements of Viktor’s form exactly.

The illustration at the center, with sweeping curves defining the spine and ribs, daring angles and sharper lines for Viktor’s body.

He looks like an equation. He looks like a masterpiece.

Months. Since the back brace.

Is this truly how Jayce sees him?

He tries to put it to the side, but underneath it, there’s more.

Designs for railings. Layouts for the garden. Notes on runic strings. Lists on components found on the island. Plans that are estimated for one month, six months, a year into the future. Every page signed. Every page dated.

Even then. Even then, even before the back brace.

Even then, he wanted to stay.

Viktor doesn’t realize what he’s doing, until he’s stood, until he’s halfway down the hall.

The tile is silvery in the moonlight. Even with his brace and cane, his footsteps hardly make more than a gentle padding noise, accompanied by a soft cl-clink.

He manages to avoid thinking until he reaches the door. Jayce’s door.

It’s open. Just barely, but it’s open.

From his position, just off to the side, he can see a sliver of the room, of Jayce sat on his bed, hunched over and staring at the floor. Even with his hair dangling over his face, Viktor can still clearly make out the glint of those prismatic scars on his forehead. He’s only wearing a loose tunic—bedclothes, really, not even fastened—making it so that Viktor can see the stretch of his collarbone, the dip to his chest.

Viktor’s heart races.

He can’t hear anything around him save for the roar of his pulse. He looks down, at his shaking hands, his twisted and scarred form. He swallows. He shouldn’t…

What about any of that made you think that I didn’t want it?

He takes a step forward.

At the noise, Jayce’s head jerks up. “Viktor,” he says, too loud, eyes wide with shock. “I—”

“May I come in?” Viktor interrupts, voice soft.

Jayce’s mouth snaps shut. For a moment, he is frozen, unsure. Then, he nods.

Viktor steps in.

He leaves the door open.

He is proud he does not shake, as he crosses the room, as he stands in front of Jayce. The room has transformed from the storage space it was when Jayce first arrived—now, comfortable blankets and pillows line the bed, some of Viktor’s old gadgets have been disassembled and reassembled across the desk, and notes and sketches have been tacked up along the walls.

The outline of Viktor’s form is on all of them.

Gods above, how did Jayce manage to make a god of destruction look gentle?

They stare at each other for a long moment.

Viktor is the first to break the silence. “You are making a mistake, with this,” he says.

Jayce opens his mouth.

“I am serious,” Viktor says before he can speak. “You do not want… This. A life in a gilded cage.”

Jayce lets out a rueful chuckle. “It’s better than Piltover’s.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

“Do you want me to stay?” Jayce asks quietly.

Viktor inhales slowly. “I shouldn’t…”

“Do you?”

Viktor brings a hand to the front of his robes. “I do not deserve this,” he murmurs, "And you deserve far better than anything I could possibly offer you."

"Vik—"

"I am a cruel god," Viktor interrupts, scathing. "I am impatient. I am greedy. I am nothing but bitterness and thorns.”

Jayce says nothing. In the thin starlight streaming in through the window, his hazel eyes seem almost gold.

“I will bring you nothing but pain and heartbreak if you choose this,” Viktor warns. “I am unforgivable.”

Jayce reaches up, takes Viktor’s hand. His touch is warm, his fingers rough and calloused, and Viktor can’t help but shudder. He’s not sure which one of them initiates it, just that suddenly, slowly, he is sinking down, on top of Jayce’s lap, then he is placing his cane to the side.

And still, Jayce doesn’t move, just keeps hold of Viktor’s hand. “No more unforgivable than I am,” he whispers.

Viktor’s breathing is ragged in his chest, something like heat coiling in his abdomen and sending a shiver down his spine.

Perhaps this is fate, of a kind. Both of them so twisted by pain and horror until only the other can understand.

Slowly, he brings a hand up to Jayce’s face. With careful, trembling fingers, he traces the line of Jayce’s jaw, brushing over his cheek, gentle and exploring. Jayce’s beard is just as soft as he’d imagined. Viktor pauses when he gets to the chin. Then, heart beating wildly, he brings his thumb to Jayce’s lip.

A sound dangerously close to a moan slips from Jayce’s mouth. Immediately, he blushes, his pupils blown wide, his mouth slightly parted, but he still doesn’t move.

He won’t, Viktor realizes, not unless Viktor does so first. Unless Viktor tells him to.

The thought is dizzying.

He presses his other hand to Jayce’s chest.

A strangled noise of want comes out of Jayce’s throat. “Viktor.”

Like this, even his name sounds like desire.

Slowly, Viktor leans forward, giving Jayce all the time in the world to pull away.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t move, not once, until Viktor’s lips are on his.

Viktor should be embarrassed, he thinks, of how quickly he melts into the kiss. Jayce’s lips are as hot as a forge, his mouth wet and soft and so easy to fall into. No sooner has Viktor started than Jayce is reciprocating. Viktor lets out a sigh into Jayce’s mouth, his body relaxing unbidden.

Unlike last night, Jayce moves slowly, taking his time, so sweet and deliberate that Viktor’s teeth sting from it. And despite that, just like before, it lights embers inside Viktor’s lungs, leaving him desperately, desperately needing more.

He sinks deeper into Jayce, pressing his hips forward, cupping his jaw with one hand and wrapping the other around his back. Jayce lets Viktor take control of the kiss, eagerly accepting the second that Viktor’s tongue slips in, letting out a whimper as Viktor’s teeth find his lip.

It’s not until Jayce places a hand at Viktor’s waist and starts falling backwards—like the mere act of kissing is enough to make him lose his sense of gravity—that Viktor feels that shuddering heat spread through the rest of his body.

He pulls away, breaking the kiss. A small, broken noise of protest escapes Jayce’s mouth. Already, his eyes are hazy, his expression a wreck.

“Take your clothes off,” Viktor orders before Jayce can protest.

Jayce swallows audibly. The hazel in his eyes has nearly vanished, engulfed by black. He obeys without hesitation, sending a heady rush to Viktor’s mind. Already, he is a sight to behold—muscular and loose-limbed, that warm brown skin glowing like gold even in the moonlight.

Tentatively, Viktor begins to move down, running his hands down Jayce’s body, savoring each touch and bit of movement. He can feel each thread under Jayce's skin, the connecting strings that make up his life. How easy it is, to caress them, coaxing pleasure from every cell of Jayce's body. Jayce’s head falls back, pupils blown open, soft moans escaping his mouth. Viktor's fingers trace over Jayce’s collarbone and down his biceps, down his chest, his stomach, and—

Viktor withdraws his hand as fast as he can, bringing it to his chest.

Where his fingers have run down Jayce’s skin, there are paths of prismatic light, thrumming strings that are stark against Jayce’s dark flesh.

Jayce blinks back into awareness, worry crossing over his features. “Too fast?” he asks, quiet. Then, he looks down, eyes widening as he notices the afterglow of the light, even as it fades back under his skin.

“I… I am sorry,” Viktor whispers. “I did not mean to. I did not know I would… I should not…”

“Don't stop,” Jayce blurts out. Then, face blushed with red, “It felt good. Whatever you were doing, it felt really good.”

Viktor hesitates. Be that as it may… “I do not want to scar you again.”

Jayce takes Viktor’s hand, bringing it back up to his chest, right over his heart. His skin begins to glow again, in the shape of Viktor’s handprint, strings rippling underneath it, pulsing in time to the steady thrum of his heart. “I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Jayce murmurs, immediate and earnest.

Something like insanity washes over Viktor’s senses at the new prospect of further claiming Jayce, another and another mark that proves that Jayce is his.

Maybe Jayce is right. Maybe the both of them are too fucked for anyone but each other. The witch-god and the Council soldier, both with too much blood on their hands to ever scrub clean. And perhaps, even still, it is selfish to keep him here, to want to keep him here, despite it all.

Then let him be the selfish and evil witch-god everyone thinks he is.

Distantly, he is aware of Jayce’s moans, as Viktor’s hands continue to run patterns like galaxies across his skin. So entranced is he, it takes him a moment to realize that there is light coming from underneath his robes, as well.

Jayce draws back, hesitating. “Can I?” he whispers.

Viktor nods.

Jayce peels back his robes with more delicacy than those large hands of his should be capable of. Viktor shifts, letting his robes spill off him, fall to the ground like a waterfall. Where his robes fall away, revealing those thick runes, the scars pulse and glow in time with both their hearts.

“They… Have not done that before,” Viktor manages, staring at his body with something between fascination and horror.

Jayce doesn’t hesitate as he presses a kiss to the one nestled between his collarbone and shoulder.

Viktor gasps. The skin there is sensitive, so much sensitive than he would have thought, sending thrills of pleasure down his skin and straight to his core.

“More,” he can't help but beg, “Just like that, Jayce. More.”

Jayce obeys without hesitation.

Viktor lets his hesitations melt away under Jayce’s tongue and teeth, lets Jayce draw him back in so Viktor is straddling his lap once again, lets him move his mouth all down Viktor’s body. On the corner of his lips, along his jaw, down his neck. Jayce is hot, so hot, his mouth like a fire against Viktor’s skin. Viktor doesn’t recognize the sounds coming out of him, small and senseless things. Even to his own ears, he sounds pathetic with it.

He cannot quite summon up the will to care.

For a delirious moment, Viktor wishes his skin was thin and warm flesh like a mortal, so that the gentle scraping of Jayce’s teeth will lay a mark on him, as well: proof, undeniable and proud, that no matter what Jayce might have had in Piltover, for this moment in time, Viktor matters to him.

“Stop,” Viktor murmurs—he doesn’t want Jayce to stop, not really, but he needs to see if this even can stop.

Jayce does, immediately.

Viktor swallows, nearly woozy with relief. Gods above, this is real. This is happening.

Jayce’s throat bobs as he swallows, his chest heaving with each breath. The scars on his forehead are glowing, something prismatic and swirling just under the surface. Seemingly unwillingly, his hips buck upward, seeking contact and release. His fists clench at the bedsheets, his thighs tense and trembling. But he does not touch.

They are fucked, the both of them.

He moves down, hooking his thumbs through Jayce’s thin underwear. He can already see a clear tent, and even more telling, a small patch of wetness. He looks up at Jayce, eyes narrowed, daring him to move, to beg.

He doesn't—he just looks at Viktor, wanton and needing.

Viktor hooks his fingers at Jayce’s underwear and pulls.

Jayce gasps as his erection is freed. He’s achingly hard, red and flushed, precum beading at the tip. Experimentally, Viktor runs a finger up his length, swiping at the slit of the tip, and Jayce lets out a choked sound, hips bucking up.

“Viktor, please, please,” he begs. “Touch me.”

Viktor’s hard himself, he can feel it, sensitive and needing. This is new to him all over again, very nearly overwhelming with all the things he wants. Without waiting a second longer, he’s shucked off his own underwear, then moved forward again on top of Jayce. He grabs Jayce’s hand, putting it on the thigh of his bad leg.

“Hold here,” he orders, “Keep my leg in place. And do not let go.”

Jayce nods, expression absolutely wrecked.

Slowly, slowly, Viktor brings his hips forward, rutting their erections together.

From that first moment of contact, Viktor is seeing stars in the corners of his eyes. Each grind sends his senses into overdrive, made worse by Jayce’s hands. One is not just holding, but petting his thigh, and the other is running up and down his back and ribs, tracing along each edge of his bone-like brace. And maybe it is some feature of the new brace, or maybe it’s truly just been that long, but each stroke sends thrills of pleasure through him, and Viktor can’t help the hot moans that fall out of him.

He wraps his fist around both their lengths, pressing them closer, getting the angle just right. Jayce’s breath hitches, spasming and gasping as his fingernails dig into his back and thigh.

And gods, that little bit of pain against the pleasure is so good.

“Just like that, Jayce,” Viktor moans.

Jayce’s head falls back against the pillows with a keening sound.

Those few trysts with nymphs before his illness and ascension are nothing next to this, next to Jayce’s touch, the senseless words and sounds spilling from his mouth, begging.

Viktor leans down pressing their foreheads together, both their breath coming out fast and hot. The pleasure is building, higher and higher. His nerves are like faulty wires, firing off in a million directions, sending electricity through his veins, so volatile that Viktor doesn’t know if he has any hope of fixing them.

He wants Jayce’s mouth on him. He wants Jayce underneath him, writhing. He wants to be pressed inside Jayce, intertwined until they can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. Jayce is babbling in his ear—more, faster, please, Viktor. Viktor is no better, whispering praise, relishing the way that Jayce arches and keens. With each kiss, each stroke, each murmur, Viktor feels himself unravel even further under Jayce’s steady hands.

“Mine,” he whispers into Jayce’s ear.

That is enough to send Jayce over the edge. With a cry, he spills into Viktor’s hand.

It is hot and sinful, messy and perfect. Viktor groans, teetering for just a second more before he falls, release torn out of him. His head falls against Jayce’s shoulder, gasping, all the tension leaving his body as both their cocks soften in his hands.

He lets himself become loose in Jayce’s arms. Doesn’t protest as Jayce lowers him down, kisses him, hot and slow and open-mouthed. They’re both still glowing, Jayce with Viktor’s fingerprints, Viktor with his runes. Jayce is all softness and warmth, and it is so easy to fall into it.

Viktor hesitates. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, he doesn’t want to even risk it, but he needs to say it. He swallows. “If you ever do wish to leave…”

“I won’t,” Jayce says with more surety than Viktor has ever heard.

“But if you do…”

Jayce places one hand at Viktor’s waist and the other at his jaw, guides him up into another kiss, silencing him. All the things Viktor wanted to say evaporate from his tongue, leaving something pleasant and fizzing at the front of his skull.

After what feels like an eternity, Jayce pulls away. “I won’t,” he whispers. Then, a small smile on his face, “Don’t worry—it’s not like I’m going to break the hextech. But this is what I want. Here, with you. Nothing else.”

He should protest more, Viktor thinks. It’s so hard to, though, with Jayce right there, here and not leaving and wanting him in spite of everything.

So he closes his eyes and lets Jayce kiss him again, letting all his protests fizzle out into nothing.

Chapter Text

Even after everything, Viktor still has to remind himself of it, of these new facts of his life.

In the workshop—he’s here.

In the garden—he loves me.

In the forest—he’s not leaving.

This is, he imagines, what drunkenness feels like. A happy haze and disconnect. It is so, so easy to forget about his past, all the horrors he has both seen and wrought, letting thoughts of Jayce replace everything. To let Jayce pull him into his bed, again and again, until it is no longer Jayce’s bed, but theirs.

Viktor spends countless hours learning Jayce’s body, what makes him writhe, learning each curve and divot and scar, piecing together what has happened to it before coming to his island, until he knows it as intimately as his own form.

Jayce has a thick scar down his back from the last battle before his surrender of the war. A thin line at his eyebrow, from an experiment gone wrong. His arms and chest are filled with smaller cuts, only visible in certain lighting, from his days working his father’s forge as a child. His hands are calloused and rough, scraping but never hurting. Every time Viktor pets or bites along the inside of his thighs, he turns into a quivering mess, erection flush and leaking against his stomach within seconds.

And Jayce, in turn, maps out the mess of Viktor’s body.

His hands stroke his spine and ribs, following the metallic curve of his brace, the warped bones set straight by Jayce’s own hand. He mouths along the lines of his wrist and hand and arm from centuries of witchcraft. He spends what must be hours tracing each scarred rune.

“…Does it hurt?” Jayce asks one night, voice hushed as he pauses at a domination rune just off-center of Viktor’s lower back.

“…No,” Viktor says after a moment. “Not anymore.”

The opposite, actually, he has to admit. Jayce holds him with the kind of reverence that should be reserved for something pure and holy, and despite the worst of Viktor’s mind knocking every so often to insist that this is wrong, that Jayce deserves better, that Viktor deserves worse, it is increasingly easy to push those thoughts aside. To instead let Jayce press the kind of heat against his skin that turns him into a puddle of pleasure.

After thousands of years of imprisonment, it can’t be wrong to let him have this.

It is at the end of summer, when Viktor sees Jayce’s nightmares for the first time.

They are asleep in their bed, Jayce curled up against Viktor’s chest, nestled in a tangle of blankets. Viktor does not need sleep as Jayce does, and before, had only succumbed when he was truly at the end of his magical and physical reserves. Now, though, with Jayce, he has found that he… Enjoys it, strangely. It’s an unusual sensation, but Jayce makes it easy, with his loose and warm embrace, content to be pressed up at Viktor’s side and resting his head against Viktor’s chest.

Which is how Viktor can tell immediately that something is wrong.

Jayce’s heart quickens. At the same time, his breath stills in his chest, something catching in his throat as a pained noise escapes his mouth.

Viktor jolts straight up. Immediately, his mind goes to panic—is Jayce dying? Ekko’s barrier prevents him from aging, but what if he’s sick? What does it look like when mortals die? Is it his heart? His blood? His lungs? Something else entirely?

“Jayce?” he whispers.

Jayce doesn’t respond. His head jerks to the side, and his body seizes up. His eyes are rapid underneath his lids, twitching and frantic. Another wretched noise works its way out of his throat.

The scars on his forehead are pulsing with light.

As if they have a mind of their own, wisps of threads pool around the edges, then curl upwards, almost beckoning in their movements. Hypnotized, Viktor reaches out unwittingly, his fingers ghosting over the imprints.

Without warning, the smell of blood fills his nostrils—the bedroom around them flashes in and out, and suddenly all Viktor can see is corpses piled around them. The world is burning, blood and organs mixing with wet soil, a rain beating down from the sky so hard that Viktor can feel it in his bones.

No, Jayce whimpers in his head, Help me. Caitlyn—come back, help me, help—!

Viktor yanks his hand away and grabs Jayce’s shoulders. “Jayce!” he says, louder and more urgently.

Jayce’s eyes shoot open.

For a moment, he doesn’t seem to know where he is, something neon glinting just under the surface of his hazel eyes. Then, his gaze focuses, settling on Viktor, and the neon fades to hazel. “Viktor?” he croaks.

“I am here,” Viktor tries to soothe, speaking softly so Jayce can’t hear the tremor under his words.

Jayce doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, almost desperate, he wraps his arms around Viktor, clutching him like his very life depends on it.

Viktor can do nothing but embrace him back, murmuring reassurances as he cradles him, stroking his hair and down along his back. “Can I help?” he whispers.

He doesn’t need to keep his voice low. It is just them, after all, no one else in this tiny corner of the world. But it feels wrong, somehow, to disturb the space.

Jayce swallows, a shudder going through his body. “Just… Hold me?” he whispers back. “Please?”

Viktor presses a kiss to his head, stroking his hair, letting his nails scrape against Jayce’s skull. “Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

Jayce lets out a sigh, fully leaning into Viktor.

Even after Jayce falls back asleep, Viktor lies awake, staring at the dark shadows of the ceiling, stroking Jayce’s arm and along the threads of his being, running galaxies under his skin until Jayce’s breathing evens and his heart slows to its normal and steady th-thump.

Viktor exhales, letting his fingers drift up to Jayce’s forehead, along the edges of his scars. For a moment, he is tempted to slot his fingers there, to reach along the most delicate and complex of Jayce’s threads and into his mind. He can feel it there, thrumming, just under the surface, singing and begging for Viktor to see, to understand, to manipulate.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than Viktor jerks his hand back as if he’s been burned.

He stares at his hand, his heart hammering. No. Gods above, no. Never. Even if it could work in theory, there is no universe where rooting through Jayce’s mind would be acceptable.

Viktor tries to settle back into bed, pressing his forehead to Jayce’s and praying to any god who will listen that his is the only time that paralyzing terror comes for Jayce in his sleep, that whatever he just experienced from Jayce’s mind will never happen again.

He should have known, that even if a god outside of his island could hear his prayers, they wouldn’t respond.

It’s not the first of the nightmares. It’s not even the worst.

As winter comes again, they grow in number, and nearly every night has Jayce shooting out of bed with a cry, panicked and unseeing, only calming down when Viktor is holding him, drawing Jayce back into himself with hands and lips alike.

And, even though Viktor tries to snap himself away as soon as heavy iron and deafening screams begin to fill his senses, he still sees flashes of it.

He thinks he’s doing a half-decent job hiding it, until, after one particularly bad bought of nightmares, Jayce asks, soft and unsure, “Can you see them?”

Viktor blinks. “...A little,” he admits. “No details—only bits and pieces. You crying out.” Then, somewhat guiltily, “I am sorry.”

Jayce shakes his head. “I figured,” he says quietly. “I see you there, sometimes. In the background, trying to get through.” He clutches Viktor a little tighter. “It’s nice. It… Helps. Knowing that you’re there.”

Viktor leans down, presses a kiss to Jayce’s mouth. “Always,” he swears.

After that, Jayce begins to talk about them, low and murmuring.

Battlefields with wet soil that dragged him down, so thick was it with blood. Warriors blessed by gods, each with fanatic gleams in their eyes, marks across their skin so blinding that it hurt to look at. Storms and tides that turned on their fleets in an instant, as something just beyond the soldiers’ line of sight sneered at them. Nights where horrific visions from the gods lit every soldier’s mind, demanding surrender, over and over again.

He doesn’t talk about the ones where he cries out to Caitlyn, and Viktor doesn’t press.

Unlike last winter, there are limited projects to complete, limited distractions for Jayce’s frantic mind. Which is perhaps why, on a sleet-filled morning, as Jayce’s eyes go cloudy as they repeatedly drift towards the wall of grey just outside the window, Viktor blurts out, “I could teach you witchcraft, you know.”

Jayce’s head snaps towards Viktor.

“It…” Viktor stares at his hands. “I find it… Helps, in some ways. Control. The act of transforming the world around you.” He swallows. “It would be difficult, you understand. Years of slow practice and—”

“Yes,” Jayce says immediately. Then, laughing, “Viktor, are you kidding? Yes. That’s… Ever since I was a kid…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think I could, or that you even wanted to teach me.”

Viktor clears his throat. “Yes, well,” he says, standing and turning towards the shelves of books, “It was more of a problem before, when you were planning to leave and there was potential for more gods to come after you.” He selects one of his earlier books, detailing the base abilities of each rune with some simpler pairings. “But, you have the potential, and besides, if you truly plan to stay…”

“Viktor, yes,” Jayce says, exasperated. “I’ve told you, I don’t want to leave.”

It’s nothing Jayce hasn’t said before, but still, Viktor’s heart flutters. He keeps his back to Jayce, putting his weight on his cane as he flips the book open, selecting a suitable page to start with. Jayce already has a fair understanding of witchcraft, after all, and can accurately detail correct components and effects. Still, starting small would be best, in case there is any backlash…

Viktor startles as Jayce’s arms wrap around his waist from behind, his head coming to rest in the crook of Viktor’s shoulder and neck, his beard and breath tickling Viktor’s bare skin.

“Thank you,” Jayce murmurs, pressing a kiss against Viktor’s neck.

Viktor flushes. Instinctively, he feels himself leaning into Jayce, tilting his neck to give Jayce easier access as he continues to mouth his way up to Viktor’s jaw, then to Viktor’s lips. “You are ridiculous,” Viktor murmurs, a protest made ineffective as he lets Jayce turn him around and press their bodies closer together, capturing Viktor’s mouth with his own.

What kind of creature has Jayce turned him into? He hardly recognizes himself, soft and insatiable at Jayce’s hands.

Reluctantly, Viktor disentangles himself, making himself ignore Jayce’s sound of protest. “I cannot teach you magic if you insist on taking me here,” he reminds Jayce.

Jayce laughs. “Okay, fine,” he agrees. “After.”

After… Gods, this man is going to be the death of him.

Hand in hand, he leads Jayce to the garden. Jayce’s eyes briefly flick overhead, brows knitting together as the sleet platters down across the glass ceiling.

Viktor gives his hand a slight tug, just enough to bring him back. “Look at me,” Viktor says softly. He runs his hand up Jayce’s arm, fingers trailing along his jaw. “Are you here?”

Jayce exhales slowly. Nods once, then rotates his head to kiss Viktor’s palm.

Viktor smiles. He sits on the edge of a garden bed, the one nearest to the rows of trees, motioning for Jayce to do the same. “Here,” he says, taking the needle knife from its sheath at his belt, handing it over to Jayce hilt first. “Until we can forge you one of your own.”

Jayce takes it carefully, examining it with a sort of reverence as he turns it over in his palms. “What first?”

Viktor shrugs. “You know the theory well enough,” he says, reaching over to a low hanging bough and plucking a nectarine. “But we should start simple for now, in case of magical backlash.”

Jayce raises an eyebrow. “Backlash?” he asks skeptically.

Viktor hums. “If the intent is not there, or divided in some way, the spell will either fail or, in some cases, go awry. Regardless, there will be significant strain on the body.” He smiles, holding the nectarine out to Jayce. “Hence why we are sitting. But, a simple transformation should go well enough. Tell me, Jayce is there a fruit you are craving?”

Jayce takes the nectarine from Viktor’s hand, studying it. Underneath the grey sky, the orange skin seems to reflect silver. “Transmute rune,” he says, “Right?”

Viktor nods. Something easy, for Jayce’s first time, with complicated runic strings.

With the delicacy of an artist, Jayce holds up the nectarine, then carefully begins to etch the rune in. Despite the light way he holds the knife, his hand is sure. He presses his thumb against the fruit, just enough for juice to bead up and fill the tiny cracks made by the rune.

Jayce closes his eyes, brows scrunched as he concentrates.

For a moment, Viktor can sense it—the tugging of a thread, a string plucked. But it’s brief, its resonance sour.

The nectarine twitches, then wrinkles, then—

Nothing.

Jayce’s eyes fly open and he doubles over, his face suddenly paling as he gasps for breath. The nectarine falls from his hands and rolls across the ground, thick juice oozing through the split skin.

Viktor places his hands on Jayce’s shoulders. “Breathe,” he orders.

Jayce inhales through his teeth, exhales. Then, cautiously, he draws himself back up, shuddering. “Backlash?” he guesses, his voice a little hoarse.

Viktor nods. “Hence why we are starting slow.” He plucks another nectarine from the branch. “Would you like to try again?”

Jayce shakes his head in faint amazement, but still, he takes the fruit again. “And godhood was your first spell?” he mutters, disbelieving as he begins to trace in the rune again.

Viktor shrugs. “As it turns out, fear of death is a powerful motivator,” he says wryly. “And I would not call the end result ideal by any means.”

“Still,” Jayce says, glancing up and giving Viktor a small smile, plain adoration in his eyes. “Something that powerful? On your first try?”

Viktor clears his throat, heat rising to his cheeks. “Be that as it may…” He reaches over, placing his hand over Jayce’s. “You will need to press harder,” he says softly, right in Jayce’s ear, pleased when Jayce’s breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile. “Magic is not a fragile thing. You cannot be cautious with it, or leave any room for doubt or hesitation.” He guides the knife in Jayce’s hand deeper into the nectarine, the skin splitting as juice streams out. “It is fully dependent on the willpower of your soul. You need to be decisive, with both your actions and intent. Can you do that, Jayce?”

He sees Jayce’s throat bob as he swallows. His face is flush, his pupils dilated. “Yeah,” he says, voice strained. “I can do that.”

Viktor smiles. “Good.” He pulls away, gesturing towards the nectarine and the transmute rune now on it. “Now, you have the component, and you have the language. Focus your intent through it. The change you want to see. How it will feel in your hand, transformed. The shape, the feel, the power of it, down to the last atom.”

Jayce closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. The hand holding the nectarine shakes slightly. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, Viktor feels it—the moment the threads of Jayce’s life electrify.

The potential and will was there, has been there. And now, the rune illuminates a brilliant blue, and the nectarine is consumed in a flash of light. Jayce inhales sharply.

Now, where there was just a nectarine, he holds a pomegranate in his hands, ripe and already half split open.

Jayce lets out an incredulous laugh. He cracks it open fully, letting lines of purple juice mix with the orange of the nectarine. Testing, he pops a couple seeds into his mouth, chews, swallows.

His face splits open in a grin. “It doesn’t even taste like a nectarine any more,” he breathes. He laughs again, unadulterated amazement. “I can use magic.” Then, turning to Viktor, eyes wide and pleading, “What next?”

Warmth blooms in Viktor’s chest. Already, his mind is racing, all the new things he can begin to share with Jayce, but first… “How do you feel?” Viktor prompts. “Any further dizziness? Nausea?”

He remembers his first few spells after his exile well enough, the experimentation that had left his nerves burnt and then numb, before he’d begun to understand the right runic chains and effects, before witchcraft had begun to make him feel good.

Jayce shakes his head. “None.” He smiles. “Even the backlash effects are gone. If anything, I feel… I don’t know. Energized.”

Viktor lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he murmurs. “That is how it is supposed to feel.”

He kneels on the ground, motioning for Jayce to join him. Jayce immediately crouches next to him, the freshly transformed pomegranate still in hand.

His speed is endearing, so much so that Viktor debates cutting the lesson off right here and now, pressing Jayce against the nearest tree and ruining both him and the garden. He shakes his head slightly.

Later.

Kneeling on the ground takes some effort and sends aches up his bad leg, but Viktor cannot bring himself to mind as he leans forward and lightly traces a circle in the dirt, tapping the center. “For more complex commands, you will need runes in multiple places, paying close attention to order to determine the effect,” he explains. “If the string is out of order, or if it does not match the intent…”

“Backlash, or the spell goes off wrong,” Jayce guesses. “Right?”

Viktor nods. “Precisely,” he confirms. “Now, can you speed along the growth of the pomegranate?”

Jayce hums, thinking for a moment. As he reaches back and takes the needle knife, there is no hesitation in his eyes, no fear. Only that breathless anticipation and eagerness, that willingness to dive headfirst into magic, consequences be damned.

Viktor has never been more in love.

Jayce carves new runes into the skin of the pomegranate. It’s hard to see, but Viktor can just make out the lines for transcendence and overgrowth. Jayce studies them, giving a brief nod of satisfaction, before digging into the dirt and burying the pomegranate. Eyes closed, he places his hand on the mound.

The soil grows warm beneath Viktor's hands. Then, there's a pulse, energy and potential colliding together, making the ground rumble.

Almost tentative, dark brown wood splits and curls from the ground. Then, faster, it shoots upwards, buds unfurling into leaves, glistening and heavy fruits erupting from the branches. It shivers once, then it's over. The newly formed tree glimmers with magic, silvery blue and bright, running in sparkling lines across the bark and dancing in the air like tiny stars.

When Viktor turns to look at Jayce, he’s gone completely quiet, awestruck as he takes in the tree. The light of magic is a palpable thing all around them, reducing the grey and sleet above them to nothing. With trembling and disbelieving fingers, Jayce reaches up, his fingers tracing along a delicate branch. He gasps, and Viktor just knows that the lingering buzz of magic is reacting with the magic in his veins, ready and waiting.

Jayce turns to Viktor, grinning and ecstatic. “I can use magic,” he repeats, laughing again.

It’s impossible for Viktor not to feel that boundless, infectious joy for himself. “So you can.”

Jayce, somehow, grins harder. He sets the needle knife down, and without warning, seizes Viktor’s face in a kiss.

Viktor can’t help his small gasp of surprise, but begins returning it almost immediately. Like this, Viktor can feel Jayce's life, his magic, thrumming just under his skin, hot and charged like electricity.

It takes Viktor a moment to realize what Jayce is doing, lowering them both to the ground, guiding Viktor to be on top of him as he sinks backwards on to the soft grass. The ground is lush and warm, in stark contrast to the grey sleet directly overhead, blocked out by the dark and bright leaves of the new pomegranate tree.

It is cruel, perhaps, but Viktor cannot help but lean down, letting his lips brush against Jayce’s ear as he whispers, teasing, “If I did not know any better, I would say that lesson turned you on.”

Jayce’s breath hitches. Further down, Viktor feels something begin to press up between his legs.

Viktor’s mouth curls into a smile. He presses himself upward, tilting his head. “Do you like that?” he wonders. He runs a hand up to Jayce’s neck, watching as magic curls through his fingers and under Jayce’s skin, swirling and radiant. “Learning from the witch who seduced you? Letting him also corrupt you with magic?”

In response, Jayce lets out a small whimper.

While part of Viktor begs him to restrain himself, it only takes one look at Jayce, at how desperately and completely he wants this, for all those pesky little thoughts to be silenced.

Well, Jayce did say that they would have sex after. And who is Viktor to deny them both?

Viktor shrugs his robes off, relishing in the way that Jayce’s pupils blow wide open. Shucking the fabric off to the side, Viktor lets his fingers trail down Jayce’s chest, teasing. “I wonder,” he muses, “Would you like another lesson? Something to do with sex?”

Jayce’s mouth falls open, a small sound of want leaving him. “Yes,” he gasps. His hips lift slightly, seeking contact.

Viktor feels himself smile. He brings his lips to Jayce’s, hot and open-mouthed. Then, murmuring into Jayce’s mouth, “Something to enhance the experience, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Jayce repeats, immediate and breathless. “Viktor, please. Please.”

Viktor’s last thin thread of restraint withers away. He strokes Jayce’s face, brushing away strands of hair. “Then let’s have a little bit of fun, no?”

He pulls off Jayce’s clothes, leaving them in a heap next to Viktor’s. He takes a moment to admire Jayce, legs parted, spread out on the bright green of the garden’s grass, naked and eager and waiting. Already, he's hard, and Viktor's own cock jumps at the sight. Making sure that Jayce is watching, Viktor takes the needle knife from the ledge of the garden bed, and so carefully, he traces runes on his palms.

Jayce’s brows knit together. “What runes are those?” he asks. “Domination type?”

Viktor just smiles. “Clever,” he says. Partly, it’s to make Jayce blush at the praise, but, quite truthfully, he’s also impressed Jayce was able to figure that much out from his limited viewpoint. “Now, can you guess the specific ones based on effect?”

He reaches over to one of the garden beds, grabbing a fistful of petals. The bit of blood beading up from the fresh runes slides over the petals, and as Viktor casts the spell, the petals turn to oil in his hands, pooling and dripping down over Jayce’s body. Even though it’s only a mild effect, Viktor can begin to feel it himself, buzzing heat spreading through his palms and through his veins.

Jayce’s eyes are wide, his breathing ragged. “Rose and jasmine for the components,” he murmurs, “For the runes... Sense, on your right hand. And…” Viktor can see him struggling to think through the haze of arousal. “Electrocute?”

“Close,” Viktor says mildly, though he can’t keep the teasing smile out of his voice.

Slowly, Viktor eases himself downward, and keeping one oil-slick hand on Jayce’s stomach, he then presses a finger into Jayce. Immediately, Jayce gasps and arches, starting to grind down.

Gods, he is beautiful. The properties of the oil, while not as potent from where it touched Viktor’s skin, are not entirely ineffective, and Jayce looking the way he does isn’t helping, spread out beneath him like a masterpiece, flush and all but begging.

By the time Viktor curls a second finger in, Jayce’s movements have begun to get desperate. He moans and whimpers, panting as his cheeks turn a beautiful red. Viktor moves his other hand down to his thighs, deliberately petting the areas that Jayce is most sensitive, watching magic swirl prismatic under his skin, gleaming with hints of pink.

Suddenly, Jayce cums with a shout. Viktor pauses in his ministrations, tilting his head as he watches. Jayce’s release has not brought him any relief; in fact, his cock is already hardening again, red and weeping against his stomach.

“Enhance,” he gasps. “For the second one.”

Viktor smiles. “Very good,” he purrs.

“Aphrodisiacs,” Jayce groans, pressing down as far as he can on Viktor’s fingers. “Right?”

Viktor leans down, kissing Jayce up along his jaw and towards the corner of his lips. “Excellent,” he whispers, right into Jayce’s mouth. “I think a correct answer deserves a reward, no?”

Jayce just whimpers in response, hips bucking. The garden is lush around them, the air ripe with rose and jasmine from the oil. Overhead, the pomegranates still sparkle with Jayce’s blue magic, glistening like stars. Viktor begins to move his fingers again, teasing.

“Viktor,” Jayce gasps. “If you don’t fuck me now…”

It’s tempting, Viktor can’t help but think, to make Jayce cum again from his fingers alone. But gods, Jayce begging is doing something to him. He pulls his fingers out, placing a kiss to the corner of Jayce’s mouth. “How can I resist when you beg so prettily?” he murmurs.

Viktor angles himself, using Jayce’s leg for support. Jayce is already adjusting himself—with Viktor’s brace still on, he does not have to worry as much about his bad leg twisting inward, but Jayce knows by now the best positions to accommodate Viktor's leg, something that never fails to make affection swell in his chest. Still, Viktor takes the extra moment to make sure he is stable—his body will not fail him now, not when the desire coursing through his veins is hot enough to burn.

He takes his cock in his hands and enters Jayce.

Jayce’s reaction is instantaneous. He’s gasping and jerking upright, but Viktor moves a hand to his chest and gently pushes him back down.

“You can take this,” Viktor teases. “Can’t you?”

Jayce nods fast enough that Viktor is faintly amazed it doesn’t rattle something in his skull.

This is going to be an addiction, Viktor realizes as he begins to thrust. Getting Jayce into this state, where he is reduced to nothing but wanton moans while lost in pleasure at Viktor’s hands.

Viktor eases deeper in. “You’re doing so well, Jayce,” he breathes.

Gods, Jayce feels incredible. His whole body seems to pulse around Viktor, hot as a hearth and as sure as a heartbeat. The air is thick with the aphrodisiac—though it’s a mild one, Viktor can’t deny that it quickens his blood, making him only able to focus on the way Jayce is like hot velvet around him, making it easier for him to loose himself in the way he moves inside of his partner.

Viktor pulls out an inch, then slides back in, settling into a steady rhythm.

Jayce whimpers, his hips stuttering as he starts to match Viktor’s speed. His eyes are glassy, his expression wrecked, holding on to Viktor like he’s going to float away if he doesn’t have an anchor.

“Just like that,” Viktor murmurs as Jayce begins to move in time, meeting each thrust. “Perfect. You take me so well.”

That little bit of praise seems to light something in Jayce. His movements become more sure, more eager, and he brings himself downward to sink fully into Viktor.

And oh. Viktor can’t help how his mouth falls open, the low moan that escapes him. Pleasure is building in him, faster and faster with each roll of Jayce’s body, all the threads of control within him unraveling.

With a shout, he cums inside of Jayce. The aphrodisiac keeps him hard, though, and Viktor groans as he continues to thrust. Everything around them is blurring, Jayce and his hands and the moans spilling from his lips the only focus.

“More,” Jayce groans. “Viktor, please—more.”

Viktor grunts, picking up his pace. There’s light pulsing in his body, and where his hands touch Jayce, he can feel and see every thread moving in Jayce’s body, buzzing and brilliant with magic. He is warm and loose around Viktor, soft and slick. Each moan from Jayce reverberates, going straight down to Viktor’s cock.

Without warning, Viktor cums again with a gasp. Then, Jayce too is spilling release, back arching.

Viktor is ready to pull out, but Jayce’s hand suddenly reaches out, holding him in place. “One more,” he begs. “One more. Please?”

Something bubbles up in Viktor’s chest, excitement and giddiness all at once. He presses back in, deeper. Suddenly struck by inspiration, Viktor grabs Jayce’s cock and begins to pump.

Jayce makes a choking sound. “Viktor,” he groans, his head falling back into the grass. “Gods, yes.”

For a moment, Viktor could swear that he can physically feel Jayce’s pleasure along with his own. Both their hearts beating in tandem, each string of their beings plucking in harmony. Everything is sensitive, so sensitive, stars exploding behind his eyes, the world centered only on them.

“Gods, Jayce,” Viktor breathes. “You are so good, so good like this.”

Jayce keens and gasps. His hands have found Viktor’s hips, his thumbs rubbing circles along the most sensitive areas of his bones. Slowly, Viktor is growing hard again, every nerve in his body now in overdrive. Jayce underneath him is shining and slick with oil and sweat, almost glittering from it.

He is radiant. He is beautiful.

“I’m close,” Jayce warns, voice thin and strained. “Viktor, please, please.”

Viktor keeps his eyes on Jayce, not wanting to miss a moment. He gives one last stroke, one last thrust, right into the bundle of nerves at Jayce’s prostrate. Jayce lets out a cry, seizing up, and he spills into Viktor’s hand.

He clenches around Viktor, and that little bit of sensation is all Viktor needs to quickly follow him, releasing into Jayce.

Viktor falls against Jayce’s chest, panting. His cock softens, and he pulls out. The adrenaline from his body is fading, leaving a familiar ache in his leg and hip that's already beginning to crawl up his back, but Viktor cannot bring himself to mind. It’s easy, to let Jayce guide him up to his chest, so Viktor’s head is resting right over Jayce’s heart. He shivers, aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through his nerves.

“You feeling okay?” Jayce asks quietly. “That was...”

“Intense,” Viktor agrees. Then, lips quirking up in a smile, “I should be asking you that.”

Jayce chuckles. “I feel good,” he assures Viktor. “Spent, but… Good.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I never knew that sex could feel like that.”

Viktor snorts. “I think this can safely be chalked up as an… Outlier, of sorts.”

Jayce hums. “Still,” he murmurs, sleepiness working its way into his voice as he yawns, his body loose and relaxed underneath Viktor. “You’ll show me more?” he asks. “How to use witchcraft?”

The ground is warm underneath them, the air still sweet with fruit and florals. Viktor stretches out, suddenly tired, an unfamiliar laziness settling into him as he makes himself comfortable on Jayce’s body.

Viktor smiles. “Of course,” he says softly. Idly, he traces a finger over Jayce’s chest, watching the glowing threads swirling underneath his skin. “Perhaps we can also try this particular experiment again,” he murmurs, looking up at Jayce with half-lidded eyes. “But without the flowers, no?”

He’s unable to help the smile that creeps across his face as Jayce’s eyes widen at the meaning behind that.

Jayce adjusts his position, bringing Viktor upwards and angling his jaw so he can press a kiss to his mouth. “I love you,” he breathes.

Even now, Viktor can't help but internally preen at that. He loves me, he thinks, mind light with delirium. He loves me.

It will be a process, a new type of experiment—getting them both to the point where they can cum in succession. Viktor’s heart quickens at the thought. Him and Jayce, able to explore each other, immortal and together.

They have all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

Jayce takes to witchcraft like a duck to water.

It becomes routine, after a point. During every bad storm, every nightmare, every time that haze so much as begins to creep into his eyes. Jayce working with witchcraft is nothing short of resplendent, his face lit with delight, every thread within him thrumming in a perfect harmony. He learns quickly, never faltering, never hesitating.

Some distant part of Viktor thinks he should be concerned with it, the clear distraction of it all and the fact that Jayce throws himself into witchcraft with a ferocity that Viktor can’t help but see himself in.

It is so hard to protest, though, when Jayce is so clearly happy. When every spell he casts leaves him radiant, begging to try again, to have Viktor teach him more and more and more. For every drop of blood he spills, Viktor presses his lips to the cut, ridiculously pleased whenever Jayce lets out a sigh and becomes loose and pliant under his hands.

By the time the next spring comes around, Jayce all but insists on helping Viktor with every spell, no matter how mundane or tricky. In Jayce’s eyes, it’s all new, all a challenge. At Jayce’s request, Viktor even lets him be the one to cast the annual ward over the house. While part of Viktor still bristles internally at the prospect of help, it is, he has to admit, easier with Jayce. His partner, with two good legs and a physicality Viktor can only dream of, can reach the highest points of the wards, can re-carve them in and apply the rowan berry and marigold paint with hardly any breaks.

And, even though Jayce is swaying and dizzy by the end of it, he’s grinning, magic like electricity running through his body in waves, so much so that his eyes and the scars on his forehead are glowing.

When Jayce presses Viktor up against the wall right then and there, copper and petrichor on his tongue and his very touch making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, Viktor is helpless to resist.

I will never tire of this, Viktor can’t help but think deliriously, each and every time he gets Jayce writhing with pleasure, earnest and all too eager to follow Viktor’s lead, with sex and witchcraft and everything in between.

Now, Jayce is in the garden with him, as he so often is. Viktor had hesitated to bring him out, an unfamiliar fear striking through him at the thought of any of his poisonous plants in Jayce’s hands, a stray drop or barb slipping into some vulnerable spot of his soft and mortal body, that sure and fragile heart of his stopping. But Jayce had taken Viktor’s hand in his, brought his knuckles to his lips.

“I’ll need to learn, at some point,” Jayce had said, smiling, “And you know I have all the spells for treating poisons memorized. Besides, I’m not leaving you all the chores in our home.”

Our home. He’d said it so readily, so easily. It’s a presumption that Viktor knows would have once made him snap, but now, it melts something inside of him.

Their home.

Two years into Jayce’s decision to stay, and he still can’t quite believe it. Most days, he finds himself looking to the horizon, to the stars, over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely, this can’t continue. Surely, this is an oversight of someone somewhere.

And yet, nothing happens, and Jayce shows no sign of ever wanting to leave.

Today, Jayce is working on moving one of the trees, not only shifting its roots so they don’t begin to wreck the foundation of their house, but also so they can clear a bit more grove space in the garden. Viktor’s heart blooms in his chest as he watches Jayce knelt over the base of the tree, his brows knit together in concentration. His knife is steady in his hands as he traces along the root.

Viktor wanders over, letting his hand run down Jayce’s back. “You will need to cut a bit deeper,” he gently points out.

Jayce nods, obeying, retracing the runes in. Then, delicately, he pricks his finger, squeezing out a drop of blood and letting it fall into the grooves of the wood. He reaches to the pouch at his side, pulling out a vial of balm from the house, and smears it over the runes. He presses his hand to them, closing his eyes and exhaling.

Slowly but surely, the root begins to move.

The tree groans, stretching, and Viktor feels the way each leave shivers, the way the roots curl and twist underneath the ground.

Jayce releases his hand, and the tree stops moving. He sits up a bit straighter, stretching. There’s a flush in his cheeks, his skin practically glowing from the rush of witchcraft.

Still, Viktor can see the exhaustion there, the way he sways, the high from magic having turned from euphoria to dizziness.

“Perhaps we stop for the day,” Viktor says, not unkindly. “This is your fourth large spell since this morning?”

“Fifth,” Jayce admits. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t protest—he just groans as he gets to his feet, nearly falling over and barely catching himself on the tree he'd just finished moving. “How do you make it look so…” He gestures. “Effortless?”

Viktor chuckles, reaching out to help steady his partner. “Centuries of practice.”

He helps guide Jayce back inside, to the living room and on to the couch. When Viktor sits down with him, Jayce doesn’t hesitate to stretch out, letting his head come to rest in Viktor’s lap. His eyes flutter closed as Viktor lightly scratches along his skull, threading his fingers through Jayce’s hair. Viktor can’t help but smile as all the tension leaves Jayce, his face going slack and a contented sigh leaving his mouth.

“Seriously,” Jayce murmurs, “I’ve seen you cast hundreds of spells in a single day. Where do you get the energy for that?”

“It is a matter of endurance, mostly” Viktor says with a shrug. “Being able to focus your willpower and intent. You have felt the threads there, have you not?”

“A little,” Jayce admits. “Not exactly like you describe them, though. It’s like…” He thinks for a moment, frowning. “Less like I’m manipulating them and more like I’m directing energy through them. Like water through pipes.” He looks up at Viktor. “Has it always been like that for you? With being able to… I don’t know, just tug on threads?”

Viktor hums, thinking back to that first spell. When all he’d known was that there was blood on his body, hot and blinding and alive, and that suddenly his mind lit on fire with the sheer amount of power just at his fingertips. He’d reached out, amazed that there was something tangible to grab, and had pulled.

Had there been anything different? He doesn’t think so—but then again, he hadn’t thought to do any smaller tests before he’d yanked his body into immortality.

“My memories of that time, the immediate after, are… Hazy,” Viktor admits. “But I believe so.” He shrugs. “Perhaps it has something to do with my godhood. My domain does extend to manipulation, after all.” He smiles wryly. “Perhaps why I am able to activate your acceleration gemstone.”

Jayce sits up so quickly that he almost hits his head on Viktor’s chin.

“Jayce—!”

“What do you mean?” he asks, breathless.

Viktor blinks. “Only that… Perhaps my godhood, it gives me more exercise over the arcane, the same way it does over mortal life itself, though I have no point of comparison to what it is like for other gods, admittedly. But the threads within the crystal, even dormant, are not too different from your own, so—”

Jayce stands up before Viktor can finish his sentence, nearly falling over in the process.

“Jayce!” Viktor says sharply. “You—!”

“It’s fine, just a bit dizzy,” Jayce says offhandedly, using Viktor to steady himself as he teeters to the side. Then, he shakes his head, standing up straighter as he makes towards the hallway.

Viktor fumbles for his cane and stands. “Where are you—?”

“The crystal,” Jayce says, breathless. “I can use magic now—maybe my blood can activate it.”

Viktor pauses, blinking. That… Is a good theory. They’d assumed it was Viktor’s own witchcraft abilities that had allowed him to put new life into those dead crystal threads, his blood combined with electricity and magic. With Jayce’s witchcraft, would it…?

“We need to test it,” Viktor says, excitement bubbling up in his chest.

“You set up the stand,” Jayce says, grinning. “I’ll get a plant to test with.”

“Will you be…?”

“What?” Jayce blinks, then waves it off. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine—just got a quick head rush. The dizziness is mostly gone.”

Viktor isn’t entirely sure if that is true, but he can’t bring himself to press it. The prospect of a new experiment, of new theories and abilities, has overtaken everything else.

As Jayce takes off outside, Viktor rushes to the workshop. Quickly, he gathers up all the bits of materials and tools, haphazardly shoving them to the side as he dusts off the magnetic stand, carefully cleans the grime out of the rune carvings, and rehooks the wires in. Even after two years, his fingers fly over the controls like second nature, effortlessly putting each notch and wire back into its function.

How will Jayce's magic show in the hextech, Viktor can't help but wonder. Will there be a difference in its shape? Its feel? In the very way the hextech reacts itself? Viktor's mind is alight with all the possibilities, all the different hypotheses and spells and tests that they'll be able to run with it.

Jayce comes in a minute later, breathless and grinning and with a small bush still glowing with magic that he must have just uprooted from outside.

“Sit,” Viktor says sternly, gesturing to the chair. And, before Jayce can even open his mouth to protest, “I will not have you passing out in the middle of an experiment because you overextended your magical abilities.”

Jayce chuckles, setting the plant down. “Fine, fine,” he relents, obliging as he sits down heavily. He hesitates. “We could do this later,” he says, almost as a cursory statement.

Viktor frowns. Yes, they could, truthfully, but…

Gods, even now, even the thought of waiting is something that sends a wave of revulsion through his entire body.

“No,” he decides, “An initial test is not too difficult.”

Jayce beams, brilliant as the sun itself. He takes out his own needle knife, delicate and gleaming in his hands. Where Viktor has slightly raised and coarse skin, Jayce has developed lines and pricks of tiny white scars from repeated witchcraft. They litter his skin, across the pads of his fingers, through the lines of his palms, along the inside of his forearm.

“I could still heal those scars, you know,” Viktor murmurs, more out of habit than anything. “They are still faint and young enough—it would be a simple spell.”

Jayce shakes his head, as he always does. “I don’t mind them,” he says dismissively. Then, with a slight grin and glint in his eyes, he adds, “Besides, I like it when you kiss them.”

Viktor flushes. Even now, Jayce still manages to fluster him.

Without any further hesitation, Jayce pricks his index finger, his red blood instantly beading. As soon as it’s welled up, Jayce reaches over and smears the blood against the crystal, right over the acceleration rune. He turns the dial on the magnetic stand, letting the crystal hum as it raises up, caught in the field as sparks of electricity flicker around it. Viktor braces himself, breath in his throat, ready and waiting for the moment that the crystal sparks to life with its familiar heartbeat.

But there is nothing.

Viktor and Jayce both stare, neither daring to breathe. Jayce’s brows are scrunched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted with concentration. His fingers twitch, reaching, trying to push magic through the crystal. Jayce frowns, reaching over and squeezing his finger, letting another drop of blood fall on to it. He’s trying, Viktor can tell, but the crystal still remains inert.

“You cannot feel anything?” Viktor says after a moment.

Jayce shakes his head, falling back in his chair, befuddled. “Nothing,” he admits. “It’s like trying to push a needle through a rock.”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. Testing, he extends his own hand, reaching. Sure enough, though faint, those dormant threads of life are there, as well as the still-hot threads of Jayce’s blood, though it’s quickly cooling. Experimentally, Viktor tries to reach himself, only faintly surprised when the dormant threads refuse to activate, the crystal remaining an insistently dull blue. There is some life there, but it’s only a fraction, Jayce's blood refusing to take with the threads within the crystal, like trying to merge oil and water.

Scowling, Viktor deactivates the stand, then promptly removes the crystal. He wipes Jayce’s blood from it, then pricks himself with his own needle knife, letting his indigo blood slide over the edges and into the cracks of the rune carving. He places it back on the stand, turning it on again. “Try now,” Viktor orders.

Jayce nods. He reaches out, face taut with concentration. The crystal sparks, Viktor's blood coiling around and in it, spiking slightly as it reacts.

Viktor's heart leaps.

“There’s… Something, that’s there,” Jayce manages through a clenched jaw, his eyes never once leaving the crystal. “I can feel it, I just…” He lets out a gasp, all the tension leaving him at once as he falls back in the chair.

The crystal remains on the stand, alive with electricity and Viktor's blood, but there's nothing. No sparks in the air, no resonance, no flash of teleportation.

Nothing.

Jayce swallows air, sweat beading at his temple, and he shakes his head. “I could feel it,” he repeats, frustration evident. “I just couldn’t grasp it, or even push anything through it. It feels like… Like it’s something dead, or…” He trails off.

Viktor hesitates. He can feel the crystal and hextech, refined power, ready and waiting to be used. It isn't a problem with the hextech or the crystal. So why...?

“You could simply need more practice,” Viktor tries.

Jayce grimaces. His eyes are distant, his brows knitted together in thought as he fidgets with his bracelet. There’s still blood from where he pricked himself, leaving a faint red stain over the patterned indentations in the leather.

It isn’t a surprise, really, that he’s so frustrated by his limitations. How often has Viktor had the same irritations himself? At his failing body, his limited power, his very imprisonment itself?

Jayce picks up the crystal, staring at it. He rubs his thumb over the rune, his skin staining indigo from Viktor’s blood. Even with an open window, the workshop seems greyed and dim, the still-glowing gemstone the brightest point. Viktor can feel it, a tangible thing in the air, its electrified magic pulsing in time with Jayce’s heart.

Viktor takes his cane and stands. “We can try again,” he says softly, his hand gracing over Jayce’s shoulder. “I have the experience of centuries—you have only been using witchcraft for the last year and a half. I have notes on more complex spells I have performed over the years—perhaps we start working on those, then revisit the hextech.”

Jayce is silent for a long moment. “…That might work,” he acknowledges, but there’s doubt in his voice.

It seems to stay with him, long into the night, so he’s still staring out the window by the time Viktor finally falls asleep.

Determined to figure out what part of Jayce’s witchcraft is lacking, Viktor spends the better part of the next two days pouring over all his tomes and research, mentally checking off every skill that Jayce has mastered, leaving him with frustratingly little.

Maybe it truly is just practice, Viktor thinks, glaring at a page of inspiration category runes where Jayce has annoyingly added correct notations for supplemental uses. He knows the runes. He knows their uses. Perhaps he just needs to work them more. Like a muscle.

So, by the time Jayce awakens on the third day, Viktor has already dressed and pulled his leg brace on, standing over Jayce impatiently.

Jayce blinks slowly into consciousness, eyes still hazy from sleep. The sun has just begun to peak out over the horizon, thin blue and pink light from the window dappling over his body and the sheets tangled around his legs, leaving him looking like something ethereal. “Viktor…?” he murmurs, still not fully awake.

“I have noted several plants on the island that you have not yet worked into any witchcraft spells,” Viktor says without prelude, holding open a book. “The weather is acceptable—we can walk the course of the island, have you practice spells using some of the more difficult materials as components. I have thought of several runic strings we could try.”

Jayce stares at him for a long minute, until heat has begun to work its way through Viktor’s cheeks.

“What is it?” Viktor can’t help but ask.

Jayce has the audacity to smile, untangling himself from the blankets before swinging his legs over the bed and bringing his hands to Viktor’s waist, pulling him down over his lap into a searing kiss.

Viktor makes a small sound of surprise, but quickly melts into it, all his limbs becoming loose under Jayce’s touch. The book falls to the ground with a dull thump, forgotten under Jayce’s ministrations.

By the time they pull apart, Jayce is still grinning, face flush and eyes shining with adoration. “I’m in love with you,” he says, soft and earnest.

Viktor presses a kiss to Jayce’s forehead, something buzzing at the edges of his scars and sending a pleasant thrill through Viktor’s lips. “And I you,” he murmurs. Then, after a moment, “So, do you want to go?”

Jayce laughs. “Is that even a question?”

Viktor can’t help but smile. It isn’t, not really, not for Jayce. Not where magic is concerned.

By the time the sun has fully crept over the line of the sea, they are both well on their way, out of the house and already trekking through the forest of the island.

There’s a light fog that is settled over the ground, pale and curling around their feet. A not entirely unpleasant chill is in the air, both their breath visible as it mingles with the morning mist. The ground is still wet from the last rain, making every movement just a little bit more difficult, Viktor’s cane sticking into the mud and his brace creaking in protest in the dampness.

He’s set to grit his teeth and persist through it, but by the time late morning rolls through, Jayce suddenly says, “Maybe we take a break for a minute.”

Viktor flushes. Trust Jayce to see how his joints and step are stiff with his all-too familiar pain. “I can continue,” Viktor tries to protest, voice taut.

Jayce shrugs. “I know,” he says, “But I want to try using the bindweed here. And the elm—that was on your list, right? For transformation into living things?”

Viktor frowns. Jayce is correct, but still. "Witchcraft deals in nothing but living things," Viktor snips.

Jayce rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean." Then, taking his hand, “Come on, Viktor,” he says, guiding him to a nearby tree, where the trunk has bowed so deep that it is almost completely horizontal to the ground. “Besides, I’m tired, too—I’m not the soldier I used to be.”

“I have seen you in the forge,” Viktor mutters, even as his muscles let out a sigh of relief upon sitting down. “You are still in remarkable condition.”

Jayce only laughs. He wanders over to the elm tree, snapping off a few branches and leaves, then begins yanking up a patch of the nearby bindweed. He hums, tapping his finger on his thigh as he examines the materials, then squats on the ground, laying the components out in front of him as he takes out his needle knife.

Viktor can’t help but let his irritation soften as he watches Jayce work, muttering as he traces runes on to the thin elm branches, spreading bindweed sap and nectar over the runes—transform, infuse, sense, font of life. He’s beautiful like this, deep in concentration, magic singing through him and illuminating the air with stray sparks as he casts the spell.

The air crackles around him, the pale blue of Jayce’s magic mixing with a reddish hue from the domination type runes he is using. Even though Jayce hasn’t been hit from the backlash of a failed spell in a year now, Viktor still watches anxiously.

But, of course, nothing happens—nothing bad, anyways. There’s a moment, where the spell hangs in the air, waiting, as if undecided on Jayce’s intent. Then, Jayce closes his eyes, his fingers twitching over the materials before him, and then, the elm and bindweed begin to warp, to split, to shine. Magic crawls over Jayce's hands, shimmering and settling into a bright green. Then, it settles, solidifying.

Now, firelight beetles crawl and glow all over Jayce’s hands. Viktor can’t help the fierce burn of pride in his chest at the sight, Jayce’s wonder that he still has over every successful spell, how he exudes happiness as the beetles buzz and flitter around him for a few minutes before dispersing into the forest, leaving a faint trail of their green afterglow.

“That was incredible,” Jayce breathes. “You can’t grow elm any closer to the house? So we can do this more often?” He smiles so Viktor knows he isn’t serious in his complaint.

Viktor shrugs, returning the smile. “Some plants do better in different types of soil and at different elevation levels,” he says mildly. “I cannot accommodate everything in my house with magic, as tempting as it is. Besides,” he adds, “I find it… Helpful, sometimes, to force myself to leave the house.”

Even if the island isn’t large, and more often than not his surroundings make Viktor feel like an animal pacing a cage, he has to admit that not looking at the walls of his house helps during the worst of his moods. Even now, being outside, Viktor can feel some of the tension leaving his body despite himself. Still, he has to purposefully block out the sound of the ocean that is always in the background—a constant reminder of his imprisonment.

Jayce is quiet for a moment. Slowly, he sits down next to Viktor. He reaches over, taking Viktor’s hand, his thumb tracing over the witchcraft scars. Then, soft and unsure, “…Do you ever want to leave?”

Viktor opens his mouth to respond. Closes it.

There’s a lump suddenly formed in his throat, something he can’t quite manage to swallow back.

He turns his gaze away, to the flowering brush around them. There are still a few firelights from Jayce’s spell trailing through, lazily hovering over every petal, the soft buzz of their wingbeats loud against the quiet around them. They will never leave this island, will never even be able to know what is outside of it. Like all the creatures on Viktor’s island, they were born here, and they will die here, never knowing anything different, never knowing that there could be anything different.

Viktor isn't sure if he envies them or not, for that ignorance he has never had.

“No,” Viktor hears himself say, the word bitter on his tongue.

He can hear Jayce hesitating, the shape of his thoughts before they leave his lips. “If you ever change your mind…”

“No,” Viktor says firmly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the sky overhead, the tree branches like bars against the blue sky. He gestures, trying to find the right words for it. “This… Here, is more than I already deserve.” He pauses—he doesn’t want to ask, but he needs to know. “Do you want to leave?”

“Never,” Jayce says immediately.

Viktor’s hand comes to clutch at the front of his robes. There are old thoughts beginning to resurface, slow and boiling and insistent. He is keeping Jayce here. He has wrapped chains around Jayce’s body and mind and soul. He doesn’t deserve...

“Viktor,” Jayce says softly, “Hey, look at me.”

He does, turning. Jayce’s eyes are bright as the sun, his expression as open and earnest as ever.

“Never,” he swears. Then, with a slight laugh, “Being here with you? Free and able to work together as partners? It’s more than I deserve, too." Then, bringing Viktor's hand up to his lips, he kisses along the knuckles. "I love you,” he murmurs.

Even now, part of Viktor wants to scream in protest. Who could want this? Who in their right mind could ever want this?

Still, Viktor can’t help but reach over, cupping Jayce’s cheek with his hand, all his will to protest dying like a snuffed out candle as Jayce leans into the touch. “And I love you,” he whispers, meaning every word of it.

When Jayce leans over, kissing him with a sigh and melting into Viktor’s embrace, Viktor returns it without hesitation. It is so deliciously easy to let himself get lost in it, to let Jayce and his addictive touch dissolve any and all of his doubts.

Jayce begins to move Viktor up on to his lap, and gods, Viktor loves how easily Jayce can support him like this, how he keeps himself steady on the trunk of the tree even as Viktor devours him.

“I thought we were supposed to be practicing your witchcraft,” Viktor can’t help but tease, murmuring into Jayce’s mouth.

Jayce grunts. “I’m taking a break,” he decides, quickly going back to kissing down Viktor’s jaw and neck.

Viktor smiles, arching into Jayce’s touch as his hand caresses down his waist. “Insatiable,” he breathes.

“Look who’s talking,” Jayce shoots back. Then, with a grin, “Besides, me using witchcraft turns you on—don’t even try to deny it.”

It does, Viktor has to admit—it turns them both on. Still, before he can point that out, Jayce begins to suck at his collarbone, and all of Viktor’s retorts die in his mouth, replaced by a soft gasp.

Suddenly, Jayce pauses, his breath catching.

Viktor frowns, turning his head to follow Jayce’s gaze, and—

Oh.

There it is, nestled in the roots of a large and twisted tree, only barely visible from where it's knelt on the ground, shielded by brush and shadow. Practically invisible, unless seen from this specific angle.

An Evolved.

It is easier than it should be, to forget about them. To let the threads in his mind fade into the background. Still, Viktor curses himself internally—how did he not think to take them along a route without any Evolved?

Jayce’s hand, seemingly unwittingly, goes to brush at the scars along his forehead.

“I am sorry,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce’s gaze snaps back over. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says quickly. “Really.”

Viktor averts his eyes and says nothing.

Jayce hesitates. “I never asked,” he says quietly. “Why call them Evolved?”

Viktor stares down at the ground. “It was what I called my nymphs,” he admits, “Before I realized the truth. I thought it was fitting, I suppose. The next natural and glorious stage of evolution, brought forth by my hands.” He sighs. “Now, it is a lesson. A reminder of the cost of my hubris.”

Jayce’s comforting touch is suddenly unbearable. Half-disgusted, half-ashamed at himself, Viktor eases himself off Jayce’s lap, grabbing his cane and standing, even as his leg groans in protest.

Insects hum around them, starting to wake up as the day has gotten warmer. Still, there's a damp spring cold in the air, and Viktor can't help but shiver.

“Can I ask something?” Jayce says quietly after a moment. “You don’t have to answer, I swear, but…”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, motioning for Jayce to continue.

“The runes for the Evolved transformation,” Jayce says, “You said they were augmentation, axiom, and transcendence, right?”

“Yes,” Viktor replies.

“What are the components?”

Viktor shrugs. “It is a blood and bone based transformation,” he says. “The target is… Its own fuel. Some of my blood, with its divinity, is enough to spark the change.”

Jayce’s brow furrows. He fiddles with his leather bracelet, as if considering. Something passes over his face—doubt, paired with fear, then resolve. He motions towards the Evolved. “Can I…?”

Viktor hesitates. No, he wants to say. Stay away from it. Let me keep it from you.

“You may,” he says quietly instead.

It is not like there are any secrets between him and Jayce. Not any longer. Jayce knows his scars and sins—a closer look at the puppet that was once human will not change anything, even if the worst of Viktor’s thoughts say otherwise.

Jayce approaches the Evolved with no small amount of caution. He kneels on the ground in front of it. Viktor tries not to shudder. He fails.

A perfect, sickening mirror at what almost was.

Jayce, though there’s still that fear in his eyes, reaches forward, his fingers skimming over the petricite, brushing off some of the leaves and debris that have settled over the Evolved's head and shoulders. There’s still a dot of blood on his finger from his spellwork, and it leaves a faint red smear over the perfect white cheek. Jayce’s hand draws back, then hovers over the face of the Evolved. His brow furrows. “It feels like your magic,” he murmurs. "Just your magic. There should still be something from..."

Suddenly, Jayce pales. All the color drains from his face, and a strangled noise leaves his mouth.

Panic rises in Viktor’s throat. “Jayce?” he questions, rushing over. “Jayce, what is it?” He places a hand on Jayce’s shoulder, and—

Jayce snaps his head around, inhaling sharply. Then, quickly, he forces his face into something calmer. “I’m okay,” he says. He’s still pale though, looking like someone has hit him over the head with his own hammer. “I’m okay. I just…” He swallows. “You… The Evolved…”

“What do you need me to do?” Viktor begs. He’ll do anything. He’ll send the Evolved into the ocean. He’ll bury the Evolved so deep in the soil that Jayce will never have to see them again. He’ll make barriers of bone to prevent any ship from ever coming near the island again. He’ll find a way to break the terms of his imprisonment and kill the Evolved, every single one of them, once and for all.

Anything.

“…Can I try something?” Jayce asks. “With the Evolved. I… It's probably nothing. I don’t know, I might not be… I just need to…”

Viktor wants to recoil, to beg Jayce to leave it alone. He shouldn’t look at the Evolved, touch the Evolved, even think about the Evolved. Viktor doesn’t even want to think about the Evolved. But…

“...Of course,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce nods, a brief flash of gratitude in his eyes. Then, it turns to focus, that narrow line of determination where the only things in the world that exist are Jayce and his experiment. He traces his hand over the face of the Evolved, examining. “Petricite,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It'd keep it contained, right? So where does the energy go if it isn’t...?”

Viktor blinks. What is Jayce talking about?

Jayce reaches around, to the back of the Evolved’s neck, thumb lingering on the thin gaps between the petricite plating, and—

—Suddenly, Viktor can feel it, as if it were his own neck. The ghost of Jayce’s touch, along that golden string and at the back of his skull.

His skull. Not the Evolved’s, but his skull.

Viktor’s vision flashes outwards, and with a shout, he stumbles backwards, and—

—Without warning, he is staring at Jayce, through the eyeless gaze of the Evolved, Jayce’s other hand steady against his face. There is terror rising in Viktor’s chest—is this the last thing that all his victims saw? A hand, a pressure, something foreign in their brain? No—no, no, no…

Viktor reaches forward—too quickly, not fast enough, and— “Jayce, wait—!”

All the threads within Jayce electrify with magic.

And suddenly, all Viktor can feel is that golden line, that single point of connection between him and the Evolved. There is something that has grabbed on to it, foreign and unfamiliar and choking. It’s water filling his lungs, hands over his windpipes, a dagger in his gut. Like when Jinx killed an Evolved on the beach so long ago now, but with none of the quickness.

Viktor is only distantly aware that he’s fallen to the ground, that he’s curled up and gasping. The world is distant and muffled, sickness rising in his throat, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t—

—And just like that, it’s gone.

Viktor gulps down air. His mouth is dry, all his limbs shaky. All his nerves are fried, and with still-blurry vision, he gropes for his cane. When he finds it, he doesn’t stand, he just keeps hold of that anchor, keeping it dug into the ground, his only means of support. Instinctively, he reaches out the golden thread connecting him to the Evolved.

It is still there, sure as ever, without any sign of decaying, or that anything had even just happened to it.

What did Jayce do?

Jayce.

Viktor’s eyes snap to his partner, ready to yell, but his anger dies in his throat.

Jayce is also collapsed on the ground, doubled over and gasping, trembling like a leaf and his skin a sickening grey-green.

“Jayce!” Viktor shouts, voice hoarse, and he drops his cane and scrambles across the ground, uncaring of the mud and brush digging into his palms and getting caught in his brace. He reaches his partner, grabbing Jayce’s shoulders, a horrible knot of fear rising in his throat as Jayce’s head lolls to the side.

Gods, no, please, no…

“Jayce!” Viktor cries, his voice breaking. “Jayce, please—please, look at me, please…”

Jayce lets out a weak groan. Then, slowly, blessedly, his eyes focus on Viktor, hazel and sure as anything. “I’m…” He coughs, tries again. This time, nothing comes out but a croak, and he looks anything but okay.

Viktor gathers Jayce up in his arms, pressing face to Jayce’s hair. He runs his hands along Jayce’s arms, his back, desperately searching along the threads of his being for any sign of danger. He is only slightly relieved when he feels nothing. Jayce’s heartbeat, though faster than usual, is as strong as ever. Distantly, he’s aware of Jayce holding him back, whispering reassurances into his chest that Viktor can barely hear.

Neither of them let go for a long few minutes. Then, Jayce’s voice, shaking, “I’m… I think I’m okay now, Viktor. Really.”

Viktor doesn’t let go. Jayce’s mortality is suddenly all too real, his body all too fragile. If he weren’t a weakened god who couldn’t trust the consequences of his own power, he’d break down right here and now and beg Jayce to accept an offer of immortality and godhood. He still wants to break down, to beg Jayce to let him carve horrible and bloody runes into his body, to let Viktor forcibly ascend his partner the same way he’d once ascended himself.

He bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, hot and bitter.

Viktor still can’t manage words for another minute. Then, swallowing back the blood on his tongue, when he’s sure his voice isn’t going to break, “...Can I ask what happened?”

Jayce doesn’t respond immediately. He looks at Viktor, as if deciding something. Then, slowly, “I… I wanted to see if I could feel anything. Through the petricite, I mean. Absorbed magic stays within it. I thought, if I can use witchcraft now…” He swallows. “I didn’t think it would have that reaction. I’m sorry.”

Viktor hesitates. Jayce’s explanation makes sense, at first glance. But there’s a… Flatness, almost, to his words. That same careful avoidance from when he had skirted around Viktor’s questions about the cause of the war.

Jayce eases himself upwards, taking some of his weight off of Viktor’s lap. Viktor resists every urge to snap and yank him back closer. Possessiveness coils and writhes like a snake inside of him, wanting to bite and constrict and keep. His, his, his. To keep and to keep safe forever.

“Viktor?” Jayce asks quietly. He reaches over, wipes a tear from Viktor’s cheek.

Viktor hadn’t even realized that he’d started crying.

“You want to go somewhere else?” Jayce asks.

Even though it shrivels up something inside of him to admit it, Viktor jerks his head in a nod. If he has to look at the Evolved—its blank face, its flawless white, its unblinking and eyeless gaze—for even another second longer, he thinks he’ll start screaming.

Jayce is nothing but gentle as he guides Viktor to his feet, finding his cane and placing it in his hands. Slowly, they walk away, step by unsteady step, further into the island.

The mist has fully evaporated, though the air is still cool. Viktor tries to keep his pace steady, to not reveal how badly seeing Jayce—grey and curled up on the ground—has shaken him. Jayce doesn’t look too much better himself, something queasy on his face, his expression distant, even as he keeps a warm hand on Viktor’s back as they walk. Thankfully, with Jayce’s additions of railings around the worst of the island’s dips and slopes, the walk is easy. Viktor lets his hand linger on it, sun-warmed and smooth, still new enough that the wood has not yet fully softened.

They don’t talk, not until they’ve made it to a meadowy clearing. While there’s patches of soft and fresh green grass, most of it is still scraggly from the winter. Still, with the warmth of spring having settled in, there are now small bursts of yellow and purple and white dotted through it. Viktor had initially planned to spend some time here, having Jayce try a spell with heather plants and moth wings, but the mood has dropped, both of them still shaky.

Finally, Jayce clears his throat. “Can anything be done for them now?” he asks, something trembling in his voice. “The Evolved. To… You know…”

Viktor sighs. He should have expected this sooner, really. “To make them die faster?” he asks, his lips quirking up in a dull and lightless smile.

Jayce looks away, but doesn’t deny it.

Viktor kneels to the ground, even though his leg twinges at the movement. His knees and hips are aching, spread up to even his back now. He picks a few myrtle petals, more as something to do than anything else. He’s running low on them back at the house, anyways. “Not at my hands,” he admits after a moment. “I cannot kill, per the terms of my imprisonment. That includes the Evolved.”

Jayce is quiet behind him.

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut. How does he fix this? How is he ever supposed to fix this? It’s not like he’s…

He snaps his head up, suddenly determined. “Lady Jinx,” he murmurs.

He hears Jayce’s breath catch. “Jinx?” he asks, baffled. “What about her?”

Viktor pulls himself to his feet, excited now. “I am not sure how, and she has not shown me, but Lady Jinx seems to know the trick to… Prematurely ending the Evolved.” He looks Jayce in the eye. “I can ask her, the next time she decides to visit. If she would consider doing it.”

The sun beams down on them, warm despite everything. In a strange, rare moment, there’s no breeze today, leaving nothing to break the silence between Viktor and Jayce.

Something indecipherable flashes over Jayce’s expression. “Doesn’t it hurt you?” he questions.

“Yes,” Viktor admits, refusing to let his voice waver. “But it will hurt regardless. It might be better to… Get it over with, as it were. It is not like it will kill me."

Jayce gapes. "You'd do that?" he says, horror and wonder in his voice.

Viktor forces himself to keep his expression neutral. Truthfully, even the thought of that much pain, the backlash of forty Evolved in such a short period of time, is already enough to make his lungs constrict in dread as fear seeps heavy in his veins.

“It will be fine,” Viktor reassures Jayce. “Besides, it is not like I intend to transform any more visitors into Evolved.”

Jayce startles. “You don’t?”

Viktor opens his mouth, closes it. He… Hadn’t thought about it, really. Hadn’t even realized that the thought had become enough of a decision to articulate it. But he doesn’t. He truly doesn’t.

“I do not,” he confirms.

Jayce leans down and seizes Viktor’s face in a kiss.

Viktor gasps at its suddenness, its urgency. The myrtle petals fall from his hand, scattering into the field and lost beneath him. Before Viktor knows it, he’s being lowered down, on to the edge of the meadow, into a soft bed of grass.

Jayce crawls on top of Viktor, still kissing. Viktor leans into it hungrily, biting at Jayce’s lips, catching his tongue in his teeth. The tension from the Evolved and the scare with Jayce breaks all at once, leaving something yawning and starving in its wake. For Jayce's touch, for his body, for anything and everything he will offer. Viktor runs his hands down Jayce’s back, his biceps, relishing in how Jayce gasps into his mouth. When Jayce pulls away, pupils already blown dark and wide, Viktor resists every urge to whine.

“You mean it?” Jayce whispers.

“Never again,” Viktor vows.

Jayce kisses him again, fierce and ravenous, licking all along the inside of Viktor’s mouth. His movements are fast, almost desperate, peeling off Viktor’s robes and spreading them out underneath him to better touch along his body.

Then, when Jayce breaks away— “Thank you,” he whispers into Viktor’s mouth. “Thank you.”

Viktor’s heart is racing. There’s something there, right under the surface, threatening to burst with all the things that Jayce isn’t saying. He opens his mouth to say something, but—

“You’ll never have to use that spell again,” Jayce vows, voice low and frantic. He mouths down Viktor’s jaw and collarbone, pressing heat into his skin with every word. “Never. I’ll protect you from anyone who comes here. You know that, right? I’ll protect you, Viktor, I swear.”

Viktor’s breath catches, heart soaring.

It’s the same as that night two years ago, with the Noxian soldiers in his kitchen, the Noxian soldiers that had fallen under Jayce’s hammer. That exact same intoxicating relief. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe.

Viktor reaches forward, caressing the side of Jayce’s jaw, letting his fingers trail up and into his hair.

He’s about to tug, to bring Jayce closer, but Jayce catches his hand. “Let me,” Jayce begs.

Viktor is helpless but to nod.

Jayce kisses down along Viktor’s ribs, his tongue and teeth marking up the map Viktor knows Jayce has surely made of his most sensitive spots. It’s endearing and humiliating all at once, especially as Viktor feels his body go soft and pliant with pleasure under Jayce’s touch.

Through half-lidded eyes, he watches as Jayce’s cock twitches from under his robes.

“I cannot believe you are already hard,” Viktor murmurs.

Jayce pauses in his ministrations just long enough to shoot back, “You’re one to talk.”

It’s true—his body is already betraying him, the runes pulsing with a soft glow, beating bright as Jayce works him into relaxation.

Still, what Jayce is doing doesn’t become clear until he has made his way down to Viktor’s hips, until he has spread Viktor’s legs open, and shows absolutely no intention of coming back up.

Viktor’s heart quickens and his breath hitches. “You… You do not have to…”

“Let me,” Jayce repeats.

I love you. Let me.

Viktor swallows, nods.

He has not been on the receiving end of this before. A couple quick blowjobs with other nymphs, before his ascension, something he’d enjoyed for its exercise in control, but nothing anyone had ever reciprocated, or that Viktor had even wanted them to reciprocate. He tenses, hopelessly trying to hold on to his thin threads of control, grasping for purchase in the ground like it will make it easier.

He is still unprepared for Jayce’s tongue against his groin.

It is hot and wet and so steady, licking right along that sensitive line on the underside of his cock, and Viktor moans. He digs his fingers into the soft earth, through the cool soil and warm grass, but he doesn’t pull away. How could he, when Jayce’s tongue is so effectively taking him apart, sending wave after wave of pleasure through him?

And Jayce is horrible, so horrible, because his hands keep Viktor’s legs spread, keep stroking along the insides of his thighs to keep him relaxed, keeping him as weak-kneed as a baby deer. It takes an embarrassingly short time for his length to harden, twitching and seeking contact.

Jayce doesn’t hesitate as he takes the head in his mouth.

Stars explode behind Viktor’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, letting his head fall back against the grass.

Jayce doesn’t respond, doesn’t even relent as he slowly begins to take more of Viktor—his mouth is warm and wet and soft, and his tongue moves across the underside of Viktor’s length. His teeth are blunt, occasionally catching, but that dull bit of pain only adds to the addicting sensation. He’s going slow, too slow. One of Viktor’s hand releases its grip in the grass and fumbles, grasps at Jayce’s head, his fingers burying themselves in his hair, and pulls him in.

Jayce moans around his cock.

It sends vibrations through his legs and straight to his heart, and as Viktor looks down, at Jayce’s blown-out eyes, at his swollen lips and how he is swallowing and sucking at Viktor, and he watches as Jayce somehow draws him in deeper.

“Just like that, Jayce,” Viktor babbles. “You look so good with your mouth wrapped around me, so hot. Drunk on my dick.”

Jayce’s breath hitches, his movements quickening as he continues to suck, cheeks hollowing out as he takes Viktor in deeper still. His lips are pressed right up against Viktor’s balls, close enough to be kissing them.

He should draw Jayce back. He should yank him away before he unravels completely in Jayce’s mouth. Instead, he tightens his grip in his hair and tries and fails to tense his trembling legs.

“I’m close,” Viktor warns, aware of how thin and desperate his voice must sound.

And Jayce just looks up at him, eyes hazy and bright, and breathes through his nose as he follows Viktor’s movements and sucks and—

Viktor comes with a shout, spilling into Jayce’s mouth.

For a moment, Viktor can do nothing but stare up at the beautiful blue sky overhead, dizzy as he breathes heavily. Something’s buzzing in his ears, and his toes curl as Jayce keeps him in his mouth as his cock softens. There’s a rush of satisfaction in his veins as he hears Jayce pull off of him with a lewd, wet pop. And, miracle of all miracles, he hears Jayce swallow.

“And you say I am insatiable,” Viktor says, voice breathy and completely and utterly fucked.

“You are,” Jayce says mildly, like he hasn’t just sucked Viktor’s brain into oblivion.

Viktor lets himself stay still for a moment, basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, body tingling. The brace around his back and ribs is warm under the sun, not quite burning, not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. With great effort, he raises his head. "Would you like me too...?"

"You don't have to," Jayce says quickly, red in his cheeks. 

Viktor's eyes drift downwards, to the lack of a tent in his robes. Though faint against the dark blue, there's a stain.

"You came from that," Viktor says, half-accusing, half-disbelieving.

Jayce's cheeks somehow, get redder.

Viktor pushes himself up from the ground, bringing his hand to Jayce's face and gently bringing him forward. He kisses him, soft and languid. It is so easy, to forget the fear from before, to bask in the sheer presence of Jayce's love.

When they break, Viktor asks, "Would you still like to walk the rest of the island today? To practice witchcraft?"

It wouldn't even be a question, usually. But after everything that has happened, Viktor can't ignore the tiredness around Jayce's eyes, the doubt that is still eating away at part of Viktor's own heart.

Jayce hesitates, then, "...Let's go back to the house," he says. "We'll still have tomorrow."

Viktor nods, allowing Jayce to redress him, to fasten the clasps back along his robes. They will. 

They take the shorter way back to the house, along the beach, so that they can use the lift to get back up. The waves are gentle today, calm and steady against the shore, their sound fading into the background. Viktor keeps hold of Jayce's hand, trying to ignore the slight distance in his eyes.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Viktor can't help but ask quietly.

Jayce's step falters. He opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something, then shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says, convincingly enough that Viktor almost believes him.

Viktor tries to put his doubt to the back of his mind. It's fine. They've both had a long day.

He can ask Jayce about it later.

As they approach the lift, it is easy to ignore the shell of the ship still on the beach, if it can even be called a ship any longer. Two years, while leaving Jayce and Viktor untouched, have left more than their fair share of a mark on the already dilapidated ship. Now, it is hardly more than a couple rotted planks held together by long-rusted nails, the last few stubbornly clinging to the rocks of the shore, the rest long since having been swept away by the tides.

Viktor has almost turned away, ready to step on to the lift, when there's movement out of the corner of his eye.

He turns, panic unexpectedly seizing his heart.

He blinks.

There’s an owl perched in the bones of Jayce’s old ship.

Dark brown with a white face, it regards the both of them with an almost judgmental glare.

That is ridiculous, Viktor thinks. You are being ridiculous. It is just an owl. It cannot judge anything.

Viktor, half to prove a point, glares right back at the owl.

They hold each other’s gaze for a minute, then two. Then, the owl—somehow—lets out what Viktor could swear is a sigh. Completely silently, it flaps its wings, soaring off the broken planks of wood and into the air out over the sea.

Viktor stares at the vanishing speck of the owl, something twisting inside of him, everything about the situation sending screaming waves of danger through his entire body.

Jayce touches his shoulder, and Viktor nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Viktor?” Jayce asks, brows knit in concern. “Is something wrong?”

Viktor spares one last look at the speck of the owl, quickly vanishing into nothing over the open water. “No,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. "A bird just startled me. That is all."

But the disquieting feeling doesn’t leave him for the rest of the day, sitting with him even after evening settles over the island like a thick blanket, Jayce wrapping Viktor up in his arms as they both fall asleep.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Viktor has put the owl out of his mind.

Plenty of animals act strangely, after all—one abnormal owl is no cause for alarm.

Here, in bed with Jayce, with sunlight streaming in through the window, blankets tangled around their legs, it is impossible to not give in to the sense of stability and safety. Two witches, invincible to everything.

Jayce is sound asleep, face slack and peaceful. It has been, Viktor realizes with a start, over a month since his last nightmare. A rush of joy blooms in his chest. Like this, with Jayce loose and radiant in the morning light, it is almost impossible to picture him as he was yesterday, grey and shaking. Already, that fear is fading into a distant thing. Viktor can already picture how it will be in his mind’s eye—Jinx will come, Viktor will argue that he owes her, and since he has spared her favored mortal, she will agree. The Evolved will be gone, once and for all, and neither he nor Jayce will have to concern themselves with them ever again.

Struck by something like giddiness, Viktor adjusts his angle, placing a kiss on Jayce’s forehead, right in the center where his middle finger had left a scar, and Jayce’s skin buzzes under his lips. Viktor can feel the magic there, his own combined with the electric sensation of Jayce’s, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

Jayce must feel it too, because his body responds, back arching before his head nuzzles deeper into Viktor’s chest.

Viktor chuckles. “Come, we should get up.” He leans down, kissing along Jayce’s jaw, ridiculously pleased as Jayce sighs into an open-mouthed kiss and begins to return Viktor’s ministrations.

“That’s not fair,” Jayce says, the protest made wholly ineffective by the way he’s smiling, already running his hands across Viktor’s ribs.

“Hm,” Viktor hums, falling into the touch. “Is that so?”

“Come on, Viktor,” Jayce murmurs, “Five more minutes?”

“I thought you wanted to do more witchcraft experiments today, hm?” Viktor reminds him, smiling. “We did not get to everything yesterday, after all. Besides, the route I had planned will take us along the path to the spring with the clay.”

It is, admittedly, a dirty argument—the shallow and bubbling spring, with lily pads and thick beds of mud and clay—is one of Jayce’s favorite places on the island.

Jayce groans, but he’s already easing himself up, chuckling. “Breakfast first,” he says.

It’s a familiar pattern now, between the two of them—Jayce swinging his legs over the bed and tugging a robe on, Viktor sliding up next to him to put on his leg brace. Jayce kneels, and with a tenderness that makes Viktor’s heart melt, secures each strap and gear.

“I can put my own brace on,” Viktor says, the old protest falling from his lips without any real fight.

Jayce places a kiss to Viktor’s knee. “And you don’t have to,” he says easily, his thumb stroking at the inside of Viktor’s leg.

“Ridiculous man,” Viktor murmurs with a smile, letting Jayce help him up as he slips on his own robes and fastens each clasp.

Already, just by looking out the window, Viktor can tell that it is the perfect kind of spring day. It’s rained just recently enough to add a vibrancy to the greenery, and there’s only a few streaks of clouds in the sky. The chill from yesterday is gone, and there’s a salty sea breeze coming through the curtains to help ease the warmth. The ocean outside is calm, the waves steady and gleaming a brilliant turquoise.

Jayce, apparently thinking the same thing, nods at the window as they pass it. “We could also put some more railings up along the beach cliff sides and slopes while the ocean’s calm,” he notes. “You still have the notes on the tide patterns, right?”

“Yes,” Viktor teases, “It would not do us any good to have another week’s worth of work disappear in the night.”

“That was one time!” Jayce protests, but he’s grinning. “And it was my first time using that spell, and my first time trying to install something on a beach—cut me a little bit of slack.”

Viktor hums as they enter the kitchen. “I suppose I can let it slide,” he says, smiling so Jayce knows he is still joking. “You should have seen the state of some of the areas when I first tried my hand at modifying them. Collapsed cliffs, fallen trees, the like. A lost week of railing work is nothing in comparison.”

Jayce laughs. “All because I had a good teacher,” he murmurs, his hands finding Viktor’s waist.

It’s the easiest thing in the world, to allow Jayce to draw him up into a kiss. Then Jayce, in turn, is all too willing as Viktor presses him into the nearest kitchen chair, cups his jaw in his hands, meets him halfway with an all-consuming kiss.

It is a wonder, he thinks, that he ever survived without Jayce before, that he ever could have existed in a world where he didn’t have a partner ready to indulge him with sex and invention and magic and everything in between.

“I was thinking,” Jayce says in Viktor’s mouth, in between loose lips and his partner’s ministrations.

Viktor hums for Jayce to continue, but doesn’t stop as he mouths along Jayce’s face, down his jaw and to his neck, freely beginning to suck another mark on to Jayce’s sensitive skin.

“With the two of us, with you teaching me witchcraft,” Jayce begins, sighing and somehow becoming looser as Viktor works a sensitive bundle of nerves on his collarbone, “After we put up the new railings, we could really work on expanding the workshop.” He lets out a slight laugh. “I never would’ve thought it when I first came, but we’re running out of space.”

Viktor stops, sitting up straighter. “We could,” he agrees. “It would be a good project, allow you to practice some more complex runic strings. It has been a while since I have modified the house, anyways.”

Jayce blinks. “You’ve modified the house before?”

Viktor can’t help but chuckle. “Of course,” he says. He gestures to the space around them. “Did you think this was just here and waiting when I arrived on the island?”

Jayce shakes his head. “I’m not sure what I thought,” he admits.

Viktor shrugs. Idly, he begins playing with Jayce’s hair, running his fingers through his locks. “I am sure the gods would have been happy if I had simply spent my days sleeping in the forest,” he remarks. “But I wanted the protection and space. I can show you the process—we will have to map out the new dimensions first, make sure the root systems are accounted for—but the runic strings are simple enough.”

Jayce’s eyes shine as he leans forward. “We should also expand the garden while we’re at it,” he says eagerly. “Make some space for more trees. It will help regulate the temperature there in the winter, and it might save us some transmutations for fruits.” He taps a finger against the table.

Viktor watches as he traces the outline of the house. Already, he can see Jayce’s mind already firing at a million miles per hour.

“If we take out one of the older spare rooms,” Jayce says, excitement building in his voice, “Consolidate on the west wing of the house, then—”

A loud knock echoes from the door.

Both Jayce and Viktor freeze.

Immediately, Viktor’s eyes dart to the open window, to the shoreline. The horizon is clear, the beach empty. His mind races—he would have seen if something had been approaching. The tides wouldn’t allow any ships to wash up anywhere else. So who is…?

Jayce sees it, too, and Viktor hears his breath catch. "No ship," Jayce whispers. "How...?"

There’s another knock on the door, louder and more insistent.

Viktor grabs his cane and gets off Jayce’s lap before his partner can say anything. “Go,” he hisses.

Jayce swallows. “But…”

“I can handle it, Jayce,” Viktor says sharply, softly. Then, after a moment, “Get your hammer, make sure you have a sleeping drought ready—I will signal you if I need help, I swear. Go.”

Jayce, blessedly, obeys. He stumbles, giving Viktor one last terrified look before he slips out of the kitchen, hidden.

Viktor lets out a small sigh of relief. He straightens up as he marches to the door, trying to keep control of his shaking muscles.

It’s just an intruder, he tells himself, Another lost sailor. There is an explanation for the lack of ship. It sank, then they swam to shore, or something equally logical.

It’s fine. This time will be no different.

Viktor exhales through his teeth, clenching his jaw. He sets his expression to pleasantly neutral, then, before he can second-guess himself, he opens the door.

There are two women standing outside.

No, not two women. It’s in their stance, the glow about them, the sheer and steely power that radiates from their every pore.

Viktor grips his cane tighter, keeping his eyes narrowed. The first, he recognizes, even if her style is slightly different from what he remembers.

From what it was when the gods rose to fight against him.

Fiery pink hair, shaved on one side, longer and wavy on the other. Black soldier’s leathers that accentuate her rippling muscles and numerous blackened scars. Her eyes are a lightless and pale blue, and she regards Viktor with a tight-lipped grimace.

Violet. Goddess of War.

The other, Viktor does not know. She’s taller, narrower, built in that lean and dangerous way. She wears similar leathers, paired with a cloak of blue and gold that pings as familiar somewhere in Viktor’s mind. Her dark blue hair is pulled back into a bun, her eyes are as sharp and unforgiving as crystal, and she fixes Viktor with what he can only describe as a sneer.

He does not know her, no. But by the way she regards him, she clearly knows who he is.

Viktor places his hand on his hip, right where his needle knife is sheathed. “Goddesses,” he says by way of greeting, keeping his tone carefully devoid of emotion.

“Herald,” Violet says.

Viktor presses his lips together.

So, that is how it is going to be.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Viktor says, words dripping with unpleasantness. “To think the gods would honor me with their presence after so many centuries.”

Hopefully, Jayce is listening, knows that he needs to stay back and stay hidden.

The unfamiliar goddess next to Violet scowls. Her eyes sweep up and down his form, her arms crossed, seeming to regard him with an expression that says, Is that all?

Viktor immediately, vehemently dislikes her.

Violet sighs. “Look, we don’t want to be here anymore than you probably want us here, so let’s cut the crap, okay?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. Nods once. “Alright,” he agrees, letting all his ice seep into his voice. “I will be blunt, then: why are you here?”

Violet crosses her arms. “We’re not here for you.”

Viktor’s lungs go cold.

Piltover. The rejected blessing. The desecration of her temple.

Jayce.

Viktor grips his cane, planting himself firmly in the doorway, using his frame to block Violet and the other goddess’s view of his and Jayce’s home as best he can. He looks Violet in the eye, letting his godly power curl and flare under his skin and around his eyes, and he snarls, “You cannot have him.”

The second goddess’s eyes flash, like an eagle about to strike. She bodies past Violet, and with clenched fists and squared shoulders, she stalks towards Viktor, teeth bared like she plans to throw him out of the way and charge into his home.

Viktor does not move an inch.

It is more pleasing than it should be, when the goddess slams into the barrier, the ward Jayce had cast holding as it pushes her back with an audible crack through the air like lightning.

She reels back with a gasp, clutching her face. There’s a fresh red mark right over her eye and down along her cheek, red and steaming.

“Whatever hold you think you have over me,” Viktor says slowly, letting power drip from each enunciated word, “Know this: this is my island, and you cannot touch anything in my home without my say.”

The goddess’s face contorts. “You listen here, Herald or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself these days. I don’t know what kind of sick game this is to you, but you don’t get to just keep Jayce like he’s some common possession, not after—!”

There’s a metallic clang behind Viktor.

Jayce—!

Viktor whips around, and—

“Cait?”

Jayce’s voice is hushed, cracking over the name.

Viktor’s mind goes blank.

Cait. Caitlyn. Daughter of the Councilor. Jayce’s best friend. The one who had been unhappily engaged. The one who…

Oh.

All at once, the last piece of the cursed puzzle clicks into place.

Jayce takes a shaky step through the door and into the kitchen, his hammer slipped from his hand and laying on the tile of the hall, his face is ashen and looking for all the world like someone has smacked him right between the eyes with a brick.

“Jayce,” the goddess—Caitlyn—says, her relief apparent even in just that one word.

Jayce haltingly walks forward as if in a dream. His face is spasming, going through a hundred emotions in the span of a second. “You… You can’t—” His breath stutters. “What are you doing here? You left—you…”

“We’re here for you,” Caitlyn says, too fervent and too earnest.

The ground drops out from underneath Viktor.

You can’t! he wants to cry. He’s mine! He wanted to stay. Please, he wants to stay, don’t take him from me, don’t...

“The gods have ordered your release,” Caitlyn continues, unknowing and uncaring of how thoroughly she’s destroyed the very foundation of Viktor’s world. “We have a ship to summon for you, to sail back to Piltover and—"

“I’m not leaving,” Jayce says quietly.

Caitlyn scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever he’s told you, he’s imprisoned here, and there’s nothing he can do to keep you. You’re to be released from his hold—”

“No,” Jayce interrupts. His hand finds Viktor’s, holding tight, like the goddesses in front of them will reach through the ward and yank him away if he isn’t touching Viktor. “Cait, I… He’s not keeping me here, I swear. I’m not leaving him.”

Outside, the very air itself seems to darken with his declaration.

The space around Caitlyn turns stormy, her already sharp eyes turning into daggers, sheer and deadly power rolling off of her in waves, like a clap of thunder about to burst the sky.

Viktor flinches, but before he can even think to do or say anything, Jayce moves in front of him, shielding him from the wrath of the goddess that is his friend Caitlyn.

Caitlyn grinds her jaw. “Do you know who he is, Jayce?” she demands. “He’s the Herald, God of the Arcane, God of Corruption and Mutilation and—"

“I know,” Jayce says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t—!” Caitlyn throws her hands up. “Jayce Talis, are you serious? Do you know what he’s done to every other human who’s happened to enter his prison? He—”

“I know, Cait,” Jayce snaps. “I want to stay. I’m not leaving Viktor, and you can’t make me.”

Viktor could kiss and slap Jayce in the same breath, could laugh or cry or both. You can’t make me—the most foolish and brave thing he could ever say to a god.

Caitlyn’s expression twists. “Are you kidding me, Jayce?” she hisses. “Do you even…! He’s the Herald! You know exactly what the myths say about him!”

Jayce scoffs. “That’s rich coming from you,” he snaps. “What do the myths say about Violet?”

Caitlyn, looking wholly unlike a god, flushes furiously. “Violet is dif—!”

“And Viktor isn’t?” Jayce challenges. “You don’t get to just show up again and tell me what I’m supposed to be doing or not be doing with my life!”

Caitlyn’s hands curl into fists at her side. “I’m not!” she says hotly. “This isn’t about me or what I want—”

“That’s a first,” Jayce mutters.

“Would you shut it for thirty seconds?” Caitlyn snaps.

Viktor can only stare. In the depths of his mind, with the image Jayce has painted of Caitlyn, he’d been picturing a young and refined woman, smart and precise. Perhaps a bit like Jayce, sad and locked into a life she did not fully desire.

Not… This.

“Fine,” Jayce snaps. “Talk. You said the gods ordered my release. First problem: I’m not trapped. But besides that, why the hell are the gods taking an interest in me now? I’ve been here for two and half years. They’ve had plenty of time to interfere earlier if they really wanted to. What’s changed?”

Caitlyn levels her steely gaze at him. “Mel,” she says simply.

Viktor’s heart briefly stops in his chest.

Mel. The fiancée.

How long has it been since he’s thought of her? She hasn’t mattered, not really, not when Jayce is here and his, when Jayce has made it clear that he has chosen Viktor over her.

“What about Mel?” Jayce says. He’s trying to keep his voice steady, Viktor can tell, but there’s a waver there that he can’t fully hide.

“She’s in trouble,” Caitlyn says. “She needs you.”

Jayce rolls his eyes. “Mel hasn’t needed anyone a day in her life,” he says.

Caitlyn scoffs. “We both know that’s not true, even if she’s too proud to ever admit it.”

Jayce is silent.

“While you’ve been… Busy,” Caitlyn continues, eyes flicking to Jayce’s neck, the fresh bruises in the unsubtle shape of Viktor’s mouth, “Noxus has invaded Piltover. Ambessa and her soldiers have all but taken over the Council. They—”

“Since when have you cared about Piltover or the Council?” Jayce snaps. “Last I checked, you abandoned them so you could run away with her!” He gestures to Violet, unflinching and silent behind Caitlyn.

“That’s not fair!” Caitlyn seethes. There’s a tempest gathering around her body, but Jayce doesn’t so much as flinch back an inch. “You’re the one who told me that I should do what I wanted with my life!”

“I didn’t think that meant starting a war!”

“I did not start a war! That was you, Jayce! You and my mother and the rest of the damned Council! And last I checked, no one forced you to fight—you did that all on your own, convinced that you could do something as stupid and senseless as ‘save me’ by taking up arms against my literal wife!”

Jayce’s mouth clamps shut. Still, he seethes, his whole body shaking with rage and frustration.

“Look,” Caitlyn says, pinching her brow, “I didn’t come to…” She shakes her head. “After everything, the least you can do for Mel is—”

“I’m not leaving!” Jayce explodes. “I heard when you hit the barrier—you can’t make me leave, and we both know it.”

Caitlyn sucks in a breath, looking a second away from throttling Jayce. “Mel—"

“—Will be fine,” Jayce says.

“Against Renni?” Caitlyn challenges.

Jayce, though he does a decent job of keeping his expression neutral, goes grey. “Renni isn’t after Mel,” he denies, even though there’s doubt in his words.

Caitlyn hesitates.

“She isn’t!” Jayce nearly yells. “She’s… Renni’s after me. She wouldn’t… If I’m not there to see it…”

Acid rises in Viktor’s throat at hearing the reassurance he’d once given Jayce so long ago. Revenge back then would have been pointless, he’d claimed, if Jayce wasn’t there to actually experience it.

But now? With Jayce safely sealed away, with no intention of leaving? He can see the path so clearly.

Bait, and draw him out.

“Mel can handle herself,” Jayce repeats. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “If that’s all you’ve come to say, you can go, Caitlyn.” He turns, tugging slightly at Viktor’s hand, to go further back into the house.

“I cannot believe you, Jayce,” Caitlyn seethes. “You’d abandon Mel to play house with the fucking Herald? How could you be so damn selfish?”

Jayce lets out a choked laugh and whips back around. “Me? Me?” he echoes. “After you just… You’re the one who abandoned everyone in Piltover so you could go be with the Goddess of War!”

Caitlyn's fists clench at her side, crackling with electricity. "I don't want to hear it," she hisses, "Not when you were all fully willing to accept the deal before my name was even brought into it! Besides, Vi is not just—”

“Vi?” Jayce repeats incredulously.

“—Not just the Goddess of War!” Caitlyn says hotly. “She’s about protection, and commitment, and bravery…”

Jayce makes a strangled noise. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

Caitlyn bares her teeth. “You’re the one who is sleeping with the God Who Split the Earth! You have no goddamn right!”

Viktor, almost distantly, notices Violet, off to the side and quiet. Unlike Caitlyn, she isn’t raging. She doesn’t even look surprised. She’s just looking at Viktor, shoulders slumped in defeat.

She jerks her head, nodding off to the side, and raises an eyebrow in questioning.

Viktor swallows. Nods.

He removes his hand from Jayce’s grasp. Jayce’s head immediately jerks towards him, panic in his eyes.

“I will give the two of you a minute alone,” Viktor says quietly.

Caitlyn lets out a sound of satisfaction, but Jayce’s breath catches. He immediately grabs Viktor’s hand again, terrified. “Viktor, please—”

“I will be right there, just outside,” Viktor reassures him, squeezing his hand. “If you need anything, just call my name. And…” He hesitates.

Jayce nods. “Don’t worry,” he mutters darkly. “I’m not leaving the house.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flash again, a strangled and very ungodly noise escaping her throat. “You’re not leaving the…!” she sputters. “Of all the immature things…!”

“Like you’re one to talk!” Jayce snaps. “How many times did you lock me out of my own lab to hide from your mom and make her think that I was the one who’d forgotten where I’d placed the key?”

“I was fourteen! You, on the other hand, are thirty-five goddamn years old, and somehow acting more like a teenager than I ever—!”

Viktor silently sidesteps Caitlyn, careful to not so much as brush against her. Caitlyn, fortunately, doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t look at Violet as he makes his way to the treeline, each step careful. Surreptiously, he slips his hand at his side, easing his needle knife out of its sheath by less than an inch. In one smooth motion, he cuts his fingers over the exposed metal, relishing in the way his blood slides over his skin and wets his hand. If Violet is to try anything, he will be ready. Already, he can feel the harvest rune on the tips of his fingers, waiting to be written, to weaken Violet before she can strike. Then, when she is enfeebled and helpless at his feet, a transformation to follow. Perhaps as a small rodent or patch of flowers.

Still, as Viktor slowly makes his way along the side of the house, he hears Violet matching his step behind him. It would be so easy for her to draw her weapon, and though Viktor keeps an ear out for the sound of ringing metal, there’s nothing.

Viktor takes a seat on a large, sun-warmed rock by the treeline, where he can clearly see both Violet and anyone else who might come from around the corner of the house.

It takes Violet a moment to speak. “You seem different,” she says at last, eyes sweeping over Viktor’s form.

Viktor says nothing in response. What did she expect? That he would still be towering and monstrous, fueled by the souls of nymphs, unafraid of his own power? That he would act as though he had not been struck down, left in solitary imprisonment for centuries?

His voice is steadier than he expects, when he finally finds his words. “Which god has ordered Jayce’s release? Truly?”

Violet sighs. She looks for all the world more like a battle-weary soldier than the Goddess of War as she leans against the nearest tree. “Ekko.”

Viktor closes his eyes. Ekko. Of course, Ekko. God of Time. Creator of Viktor’s prison.

How fitting, that he would be the one to twist that knife in deeper.

“For the record,” Vi says, “Most of us didn’t think you were keeping him captive. But Cait’s stubborn, and—”

“What does Ekko want with Jayce?” Viktor interrupts, not bothering to hide his disdain as he says Ekko’s name.

Violet, though her eyes flash with fire, doesn’t rise to the bait. “For him to finish his fate,” she says flatly. “To go home.”

Something curls up and withers inside of Viktor. “This is his home.”

It’s a feeble protest, but to her credit, Violet doesn’t deny it. “Piltover,” she clarifies instead. “You know he has a fiancée there, right? Mel Medarda.”

Viktor bristles.

What does his fiancée matter? he can’t help but silently seethe. Why should she matter, when she tried to cover up Jayce’s dreams and inventions instead of encourage them? When she is an ocean away, and Jayce is here? When Jayce has chosen him over her?

“I am aware,” he says shortly instead.

“She’s in trouble,” Violet says. “Her mother, Ambessa, the current Noxian Warlord and Queen—she’s taken over Piltover. Mel’s been trying to hold her off, but—”

“Why does that matter?” Viktor can’t help but interrupt.

“Ambessa fought against the gods, in the war,” Violet says. “Even after Jayce surrendered, she didn’t stop. The rest of the gods think she means to challenge us, using Piltover as her starting grounds.”

“And the gods cannot abide by that, can they?” Viktor says bitterly.

“Mel is barely holding Ambessa at bay,” Violet continues, as if Viktor hasn’t spoken at all, “She’s saying there’s no proof Jayce is dead, using that as an excuse to not to fill his empty seat with Ambessa. She’s also using Jayce and her engagement to him to keep Ambessa from forcibly taking her back to Noxus. Some old marriage law from Noxus that even Ambessa has to yield to or else she’ll be seen as dishonoring Noxian culture. And if Renni goes after Mel now, with Ambessa egging the Council on…”

There is a roar of rage in Viktor’s ears. “He is not a pawn to be used!” he snaps. “He wants to stay here! He wants to stay with me. Not with her!”

“You think this is just about Mel?” Violet shoots back. “If Ambessa starts tearing down temples and burning cities again, it’s not going to stop at Piltover. The whole world will be at war again—how many people do you think will survive that?”

Viktor lets out a choked sound. “You ask me to care about the rest of the world? Me? Now?” He stands, scoffing. “Get out.”

Violet narrows her eyes, a challenge flashing across her features, the space around her narrowing until she is the only focus. “Make me.”

Viktor’s lip curls. His blood is alive in his hands, thrumming and begging to be channeled through magic. “This might be my prison, but it is still my domain—or did you forget the power that witchcraft holds over the gods? With both of us using it—”

He doesn’t get to finish before Violet lunges forward, fist drawn back, pointed gold and iron forming around it in a flash.

Viktor ducks, quickly skirting to the side, knowing where to place his weight so his bad leg doesn't fold out from under him. He swipes his blood-soaked hand against her side, smearing the shape of the harvest rune faster than he’d thought possible, but Violet is bringing her fist forward and—

Stops.

Viktor hardly dares to breathe. Violet’s gauntlet is frozen in the air, half an inch short of his face. Below, he has a hand against her leather armor, a harvest rune written, the spell as yet uncast.

Neither of them move for a moment. Then,

“I’m going to pretend,” Violet says, voice quiet as she enunciates each word, “That you didn’t just say that. For everyone’s sake, you didn’t just say that.” Then, after a moment. “Got it?”

Hot shame rises to Viktor’s throat. Slowly, he slumps, letting his hand fall as he sits back down on the rock heavily. He jerks his head in a curt nod. He stares at the indigo blood on his hands, sparkling like jewels in the sunlight.

Next to him, butterflies flutter over flowered bushes, oblivious to the violence that almost occurred.

Violet lets out a huff. Her fist drops, the gauntlet dissolving into golden sparks. “You know what’s going to happen, right?” she questions. “If he doesn’t go back, you’re going to get more of us poking around in here. If any god suspects you’ve been teaching him witchcraft, or that either of you were even thinking about using witchcraft against the gods… You know what kind of punishment that’d bring on, right?”

Viktor swallows. “Teaching others witchcraft was not a condition of my imprisonment,” is all he can think to whisper.

Violet gives him a look that’s almost pitying. “That’s not going to matter, and we both know it.”

Viktor drops his head.

He does know. Gods, he knows.

Your fault, your fault again, his mind whispers. How did you not learn from the first time? How could you even think to endanger him?

In the background, he can hear Caitlyn and Jayce, still arguing.

“…I swear, Jayce, it’s like you’re purposefully being dense about… Kept here like some doll and…”

“…I’m not…! I thought you of all people would… With Maddie…”

“…Maddie was a power-hungry, brown-nosing, sadistic piece of… Would’ve sold the entire Council if it meant she… Mel, on the other hand, deserves better than...”

Viktor wants to throw runes into the ground and send earthquakes through the entire island. The day, which had started so beautifully, now is mocking around him, with its disgusting warmth and sunshine.

“For what it’s worth,” Violet says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to hear it. Not when Jayce is already slipping away through his fingers.

Violet sits on the rock next to Viktor, slouched as she props her face up in her hands. This close, VIktor can smell blood and iron and soil on her, exactly as he remembers from Jayce's nightmares. He tries and fails to hold back a shudder.

Thankfully, Violet doesn't seem to notice his reaction. “Look, I’m just the messenger, alright?” she grumbles. “It wasn’t even supposed to be me. Everyone was set to send Jinx until she…” Violet trails off, shaking her head. “I volunteered instead.”

Viktor says nothing. It doesn’t matter, in the end, who delivers the message. The result is the same.

Violet gestures to the bloody indigo mark at her side. “What were you even going to do?” she questions. “You know gods can’t die, right?”

“But we can be weakened,” Viktor says bitterly. “Am I not evidence of that?”

He does not mention that his limited plan had entailed crippling her and perhaps transforming her into small clump of harmless flowers.

Violet sighs. “Fair.” Then, after a moment, “Look, I get it, I really do. I don’t know what I would’ve done, if Cait…” Her voice wavers. “He doesn’t have to stay there forever. From here to Piltover, without any storms in the way, it’s just a couple months. Just let him go for one year. One year, and then, if he wants to come back, you can have him.”

Like you did with the Piltover Council, Viktor thinks bitterly. Another trick to get what you want.

But, not quite.

Violet doesn’t look gloating. There’s no victory in her body, and she looks at Viktor with an almost pleading expression.

She must see that hesitation, because she repeats, “One year. That’s it. Then, as long as he doesn’t go around challenging gods or anything, we won’t come after him. None of us will. For either of you. I swear on the Wild Rift.”

Viktor isn’t sure if he should cry or scream or start tearing his hair out, or possibly a combination of all three. How dare they come for Jayce? How dare they come for Jayce now, when Viktor had finally accepted that he was here to stay? How dare they leave him with this, the knowledge that keeping Jayce would be to doom him?

Instead, he stands, turning away from Violet so she can’t see him furiously wiping tears from his eyes. “Why can you not leave him alone?” he whispers. “Why can’t you all just leave him alone?”

Violet snorts. “He kind of blew any chances of that, between the war and the weird crystal shit he kept trying to do. He’s just lucky Jinx likes him enough that Silco was fine ignoring that when Jayce didn't succeed in making something with it.”

The back of Viktor's neck prickles, and though his heart stutters, he says nothing. The hextech inside—safe behind the warded walls of his house—is a palpable presence. He keeps his eyes firmly away, begging that Violet won't be able to somehow see this last thing that he and Jayce are hiding, even as dread builds in his lungs. Even if witchcraft is somehow, some way, forgivable, even if the gods place the blame solely on Viktor and spare Jayce, the same won't apply to the creation of hextech. Not when a god such as Silco is aware of it.

Something in Viktor's mind catches. Why would Silco be interested in Jayce's crystal?

Before he can press the matter, Violet sighs. “Look… Talk to him, okay? If he doesn’t go…”

“I know,” Viktor says, voice dead.

One year. It’s nothing. It’s infinite.

How the gods must be laughing at him, at this cruel new trick of torture.

Already feeling like his heart has been torn out from his chest and left in the sun to rot, he numbly follows Violet back around the house, back to Jayce.

Jayce and Caitlyn still are arguing, separated by the ward over the house, on opposite sides of the doorway. Still, Caitlyn is close enough that Viktor can see the ward rippling, small spikes of magic forming in warning, already trying to push her back.

“I can’t go,” Jayce is insisting, frantic. “Look… Do you think Renni is just going to let me go back peacefully? And Jinx won’t let me leave the island. I can’t, even if I wanted to.”

“Jinx has been ordered to stand aside,” Caitlyn says. “Silco, too, for that matter.”

That explains it, Viktor thinks dully. Jinx has had her current favorite toy snatched away from its hiding place, and Violet is here to take the blame while Jinx throws a tantrum.

Briefly, he wonders if Caitlyn still would have come, if Violet had not volunteered. If she would have deemed this a worthy enough occasion to see and talk to Jayce again.

“And Renni?” Jayce challenges.

Caitlyn hesitates. “…It’s complicated.”

“Explain it,” Jayce snaps.

“It’s politics, Jayce,” Caitlyn shoots right back. “She has cause for her revenge, and it doesn’t help that she is literally the Goddess of Revenge. She won’t stand down on this, but I have some hold on you still—I can protect you again, make sure you at least get back to Piltover safely. And if you help Mel, keep the world from going to war against the gods again, it might be enough to get her stand aside.”

And if it is not? Viktor wants to beg. What about after he’s in Piltover? Before he helps his Mel? How will you shield him then?

But he remains silent. Caitlyn does too, not making any further promises that they all know she won’t be able to keep.

Jayce doesn’t say anything for a long moment, staring at Caitlyn with unfiltered rage. “So that’s it?” he finally says. “You come here to ruin my life, just so you can leave again the second it suits you?”

Caitlyn doesn’t reply, having the grace to at least look ashamed as she stares down at her boots. Then, after a long moment, voice thick, “…I still care about you, you know. You, Mel, even my mother. Which is why I’m begging you—go home. Before any other gods start getting involved.”

Jayce’s eyes are pinpricks of fear. Without warning, he reaches over the barrier, past the door threshold, grabbing Caitlyn’s hand.

Caitlyn’s breath catches. “Jayce, don’t,” she warns.

But she doesn’t pull away.

“Caitlyn—” Jayce’s voice cracks. “Cait. Please. If you’re telling the truth, if you’ve ever cared about me at all, don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

Caitlyn is silent.

“You can…” Jayce struggles for words. His shoulders slump, his head lowered. “I understand now, why you left the way you did, I really do. Cait, please. You can protect Mel, like you did with me, right? Please understand—I can’t leave Viktor. I can’t. I…”

Something cold settles over Caitlyn’s expression. And just like that, Viktor’s heart sinks along with his last hope that Jayce might somehow, some way, appeal to Caitlyn.

She straightens up. “Three days, Jayce,” she says, almost sounding sorry. “That’s all I can give you.”

Jayce gapes at her. His whole body is shaking, his legs looking seconds away from giving out. “No,” he croaks. “Cait, please—no…”

“Three days,” Caitlyn repeats, wrenching her hand out of Jayce’s grasp. Then, harshly, “Then, a ship will come, and you will get on it and go back to Piltover, whether you want to or not.”

Chapter Text

Neither of them talk after that. Viktor doesn’t even remember the rest of the day. There are cracks in his mind again, time missing. It shouldn’t matter—he’s lost what must be centuries of memories, from when he’s retreated so far into the back of his head that seasons pass like seconds. But now, with the hourglass on Jayce’s time on the island suddenly returned and its sands moving too quickly, he can’t help but rage at his own mind, for stealing this from him even as he’s helpless to stop it.

All he knows is that he and Jayce do not leave each other’s arms.

The sun sets, red to purple to black, and their living room is cast into shadows. He’s aware, dully, of slight movements. Of Jayce taking a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around both of them. Of Jayce whispering something muffled to him in a hoarse voice. Of Jayce getting up to light the hearth.

Viktor makes a small sound of protest at that, the brief moment when he leaves Viktor’s arms. Jayce presses a kiss to his forehead, something soft and pained on his face.

He must still get up, though, separating from Viktor for just enough time, because there is a crackling fire in front of them, taunting them with its steady warmth. Just outside, Viktor can hear crickets, soft and melodic.

Caitlyn’s words echo in Viktor’s head.

Three days. Then, a ship will come, and you will get on it and go back to Piltover, whether you want to or not.

He clutches Jayce a little bit closer.

He’s not sure how late it is, when Jayce finally speaks. “I’m not leaving,” he whispers. “Viktor, I swear. I’m not leaving you. We’ll fix this. Tell me we’ll find a way to fix this.”

Viktor stays silent.

“Viktor,” Jayce begs, “Look at me.”

Viktor swallows and keeps his eyes on the ground. “I think,” he says, each word slow and thick in his throat, “That you forgot to mention a few things about your friend Caitlyn.”

He feels Jayce’s body freeze next to him.

Viktor stares into fire. That’s fine—he wasn’t expecting an answer, really.

“It’s my fault, you know.”

Viktor blinks at the sudden declaration, turning his head towards Jayce.

“The war,” Jayce continues. “The Council. Caitlyn. All of it.” He fiddles with his leather bracelet, the brown turning a warm orange against the fire’s light. “I… I thought I was being clever,” he says, so soft that Viktor almost doesn’t hear him. “After Violet proposed the terms of her blessing, we asked to deliberate for a bit, and Violet agreed—the Council could talk it over for a day, without her listening. The debate lasted for hours. We didn’t want to spite her, and the idea of guaranteed peace, having the blessing of the Goddess of War…” Jayce subtly draws further into himself. “But Mel was like you—she thought that there was a trick to it.”

Viktor tenses, the comparison to Jayce’s fiancée grating against him.

“So, I proposed adding a term into the agreement,” Jayce says flatly.

The fire crackles and pops, enunciating the silence in the rest of the house.

“The maiden that Violet chose would have to be willing. If she wasn’t fully willing, or if she was only doing it to keep the peace and not because she wanted Violet, then Violet wouldn’t wed her, and Piltover would still have both her blessing and its thousand years of peace.” Jayce stares into the fire, something inscrutable in his eyes. “Mel disagreed. She thought we should reject Violet. She said it was safer, that while Violet was promising a guarantee, we could still forge a thousand years of peace by ourselves, without the gods’ interference.”

Mel was, Viktor has to grudgingly admit, likely right.

“I persuaded her not to,” Jayce continues, “And the rest of the Council sided with me.” He chuckles dully. “It was the first time I think any of them voted against her. A god as powerful as Violet? Backing Piltover and the Council? It was too good to resist.” His smile is like acid. “We came back with our terms, and Violet agreed. She even swore upon the Wild Rift.”

Too good to resist, and too good to be true. Viktor can tell that much. He can imagine how Jayce would have looked—that pride at having found the perfect solution to outwit the gods.

The shock that would have followed.

“And she chose Caitlyn,” Viktor says quietly.

Jayce exhales through his teeth. “And she chose Caitlyn.”

One of the logs in the hearth breaks apart, sending up a small cloud of embers.

Viktor takes Jayce’s hand, his fingers tracing over each knucklebone. “The Council must have been furious.”

Jayce lets out a croak of a laugh. “I was furious. So was her mother. It didn’t help that Caitlyn’s fiancée was a high-ranking member of the army. Caitlyn was waiting just outside the Council Chambers, and Violet threw the doors open and brought her in, proposed to her right then and there. Caitlyn…” He lets out a choked noise. “She didn’t even look at me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, she didn’t look at anyone on the Council, not even her mother, but…” His voice wavers, dangerously close to breaking.

Viktor clutches the blanket closer around them.

“She’d been courting a goddess, and I never…” Jayce trails off. Then, in a whisper, “How could she not tell me?”

Viktor remembers what Jayce had said, all those years ago. The war that was fought over love.

How accurate that statement was.

How cruel.

“And now she comes here,” Jayce says, his words quiet with anger, “And tells me I can’t… After what she chose?”

Viktor stares down at the floor. “I think Violet is very different from someone such as myself.”

Jayce grabs his hands. Viktor looks up in faint surprise. Jayce’s eyes are as blazing as the fire in front of them.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Look, I…” Jayce takes a shaky breath. “We have another two days—we can prepare defenses. More wards. You saw Caitlyn—she couldn’t even get through the front door. They won’t be able to touch us as long as we’re inside. It will buy us some time to negotiate, or to—”

“You should go, Jayce.”

Jayce falls silent.

“You deserve more than this,” Viktor says quietly. “A life trapped in a house, constantly afraid. More gods will come, and when they find out you know how to use witchcraft?” He exhales, unsteady. “They… Jayce, I have seen the punishments they enact. Death would be a kinder fate than whatever they decide for you. And…” He swallows back all the bitterness and jealousy in his throat. Then, “And you owe it to your Mel.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jayce begs. “I’m not… Viktor, what life? I don’t want a life outside here. Not without you.”

“Jayce…” Viktor tries to plead. “Listen, please. Lady Violet, she said you are just needed for one year. One year, and then you can return. You can help your Mel, end things with her and with Piltover, then come back here. If you do not go, they will—”

“No,” Jayce interrupts, something flashing in his eyes. He grabs Viktor’s hands. “No. Don’t even say it. I’m not leaving you. Mel…” Something like guilt flickers over Jayce’s face. Then, he shakes his head. “She can figure it out. Find another solution that isn’t me.” He gives a self-deprecating chuckle. “Besides, knowing me, I’d come and just make it worse.”

Never, Viktor wants to say. You could never make anything worse.

He says nothing.

“Viktor,” Jayce whispers. “You know how the gods are. There’s going to be some trick. It’s not going to just be a year, and we both know it.”

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut.

“Please,” Jayce begs, “Work with me. I don’t want to leave. Do you hear me? I’m not leaving you.”

A sob escapes Viktor’s mouth.

You will, he wants to scream. You will whether you want it or not. Whether I want it or not.

“I never should have taught you witchcraft,” Viktor whispers instead, furiously wiping the tears from his face. “I should have burned all my books the moment you decided to stay.”

“I would’ve found a way to learn, anyways,” Jayce says. He chuckles, sardonic. “Viktor, you know me. Sooner or later, I would’ve started trying to work it out and learn myself. Especially after hextech.”

Viktor doesn’t say anything. Jayce is, in all likelihood, correct—the force of all the gods combined would not be enough to stop Jayce’s curiosity. But it doesn’t change the fact that Viktor was the one to guide his hand from the very first spell.

Just as Singed had done to Viktor himself.

God of Corruption, indeed.

“I have doomed you,” Viktor whispers. “A thousand times over, I have doomed you.”

“No,” Jayce says fiercely, pulling Viktor closer. His hand comes up and finds Viktor’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears. “Viktor, listen to me—no. You haven’t, and you never could.”

It’s a lie, and Viktor knows it. But he doesn’t deny it—instead, he selfishly lets Jayce hold him closer, letting his head fall into the crook of Jayce’s shoulder.

“I’m here,” Jayce murmurs, rubbing up and down Viktor’s spine, where enchanted metal meets skin and bone. “I’m here. Please, tell me what you need.”

You, Viktor wants to cry. Just you. Only you.

Instead, though, he just guides Jayce forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss.

It starts hungry, Jayce’s tongue entering Viktor’s mouth immediately, Viktor’s teeth scraping. Quickly, it turns starving, both of them needing and desperate. They move in tandem, clutching to the other like the world will fall apart if they are not touching. Viktor barely registers it, the moment when Jayce lowers him to the floor, laying him out across the rug. All he can focus on is Jayce, only Jayce, above him and haloed by firelight.

Viktor is the first to move, to let his shaking fingers find the clasps of Jayce’s robes, to frantically fumble with them until each binding is released, the fabric slipping off of Jayce with a sigh. Jayce, thankfully, does not ask if Viktor is sure, does not try and stop him. He just gently undoes Viktor’s own robes, letting the dark blue fall off his body, adjusting Viktor so that he is spread on top of it.

In the firelight, Jayce looks to be made from gold, fresh from the coals of the forge, cast in red and black. “What do you want?” he whispers.

You, Viktor wants to cry. You, here forever and safe.

Instead, he lets his hand come to rest at Jayce’s neck, his thumb stroking along his partner’s jawline. He doesn’t have any words, only a burning need for his partner, here and now. Slowly, Jayce lowers himself, beginning to grind against Viktor.

Viktor can feel himself coming apart under Jayce. All he can do is hold on, continuing to kiss Jayce as he moves, desperately trying to memorize the shape of his hands on Viktor’s skin, the taste of his mouth.

One of Jayce’s hands is on the ground, keep him propped up, the other is stroking across the brace lining Viktor’s ribs, where metal meets skin and bone, where Viktor is most sensitive. Then, his hand moves from Viktor’s ribs to his hips, touch sure and featherlight, making all of Viktor’s nerves sing. When Jayce moves down, wrapping his hand around both their cocks, Viktor lets out a sob.

Jayce stops immediately. “Viktor…?”

“Keep going,” Viktor orders, even though his voice wobbles. When Jayce still hesitates, Viktor starts to move, something sick and desperate blossoming in his chest as Jayce’s mouth falls open, as his pupils blow wide open. “Don’t stop,” Viktor begs, “Don’t you dare stop, Jayce.”

Jayce obeys.

The world is made hazy in the firelight, and Jayce’s face is taut with both concentration and pleasure above him. It is all Viktor can do, to try and hold on, to let Jayce work them both to hardness, to let him move their hot and slick erections against each other.

He isn’t sure if this is a kindness or a cruelty, for this to feel so good.

Stay, Viktor wants to cry out. Stay with me.

Jayce would in a heartbeat. He’d press his mouth to Viktor’s, swear until his last mortal breath, fate be damned. He’d fight the gods again. He’d break the world for the both of them.

There are tears streaming down Viktor’s face, hiccuping cries escaping his mouth in time to sharp movement of his and Jayce’s hips. He reaches up, pulling Jayce down into a searing kiss that steals all the breath from his lungs. Everything within him is tight, and he needs Jayce, he…

Something within him snaps, and suddenly, he’s cumming, hard and fast against Jayce. He sees Jayce’s eyes flutter, and he groans into Viktor’s mouth, quickly following.

Viktor is mute as Jayce kisses him again, gently murmuring something that sounds like I love you, over and over again. He shivers as Jayce licks along his stomach, down to his groin, cleaning him up and sending shooting sparks of arousal through Viktor’s body. Not enough to get him erect again, but enough to keep him sensitive, weak with pleasure under Jayce’s mouth.

He lets Jayce carry him to bed, his heart no better than a pit in his chest, even as Jayce continues to hold and kiss him, until he falls asleep on Viktor’s chest. Viktor tries to join him. He really does.

That night, Viktor’s dreams are filled with all forms of torture.

Jayce chained to a stone table while monsters tear him apart.

Jayce thrown into a fiery pit, burning for eternity.

Jayce wandering a frozen wasteland, alone and lost and terrified, eyes nothing but neon fractals.

Each time Viktor wakes with fresh tears streaming down his face, reaching and grasping for Jayce, to reassure himself that his partner is still there, whole and safe. In sleep, Jayce is calm, all the worry washed from his face, his arms wrapped around Viktor’s torso, his head nestled against Viktor’s chest.

Beautiful, perfect, arrogant Jayce, once again sure that he will be able to somehow outwit the forces of nature that are the gods.

Once again sure to be doomed by his own determination and hubris.

Viktor runs his shaking fingers through Jayce’s hair, tracing around the edges of those ivory scars on his forehead. Even if they both try and fight against it, Viktor knows—Violet was right. More gods will come. They will discover what Jayce can do. The ward won’t hold forever. In a year, they will have to reapply it, and the gods will be waiting. And then there will be no mercy, no forgiveness.

No. There is only one true way to save Jayce.

Viktor buries his head into Jayce’s hair and inhales his scent, fresh pine soap and just a hint of forge smoke. He needs to memorize this, the smell, the touch, the warmth.

He presses a kiss to Jayce’s head and tries not to weep.

It is the last thing he wants to do, but the next morning, Viktor makes himself wake Jayce up.

“...Viktor?” Jayce murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

“Come,” Viktor says, faintly amazed at how calm his voice is. “We have work to do.”

Jayce’s brows knit together in confusion.

“The ward,” Viktor explains. “You remember the potions I made when you first planned to leave? Like the one around the house? I will show you how to make it.”

Jayce frowns. “Shouldn’t the ones you made before still be good? Back when I was still planning on leaving?”

Viktor curses internally—shit. He’d forgotten he’d already told Jayce how those worked.

“They are,” Viktor agrees, getting out of bed and quickly pulling his brace on so that Jayce can’t see his face. “But you should learn how to make it. The practice and knowledge will be useful if we are to protect you from the gods, no?”

He fastens the final strap of his brace, pulling it tight enough that it digs into his skin.

When he looks up, Jayce is nodding. He swings his legs over the bed, pressing his body next to Viktor’s and placing a kiss on his shoulder. “Whatever you think is best,” he murmurs.

Viktor ignores the clench of guilt in his heart.

He tries to keep himself present as he shows Jayce exactly how to prepare the potion. The proportions of marigold petals and rowan berries. The ward, overgrowth, and shield runes.

Jayce, of course, gets it all exactly right on the first try.

Viktor tries to mirror Jayce’s smile and whoop of triumph as he holds up the finished vial of potion, glistening and swirling with gold.

“Drink it now,” Viktor orders.

Jayce nods, bringing the vial to his lips. He hesitates, frowning. “What about you?” he questions.

Viktor tries to offer a reassuring smile, even though it feels more like baring his teeth. “I am a god myself, remember?” he reminds Jayce. “Who knows what the effects would be for a god, even one as weakened as myself.”

To his relief, Jayce nods in understanding. “We should experiment,” he says. “See if there’s a way we could apply it to you, too.”

“Of course,” Viktor agrees readily.

Jayce smiles.

Then, blessedly, he tilts the vial back and swallows its contents in a single gulp.

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying.

Jayce shudders, pulling a face as the potion slides down his throat. “It’s bitter,” he comments, coughing once. “Would’ve expected it to be a bit more floral, with the marigold.”

“Effect is more important than taste,” Viktor says mildly. “And now you know how to make it for next time. One year, remember.”

“One year,” Jayce repeats absentmindedly, already turning to the jar of marigold petals. “Is it the same proportions for the paint used for the house?”

Viktor swallows through the lump in his throat. “It is,” he confirms. He’s unable to help himself as he takes Jayce’s hand. “Jayce, listen, if you have to leave…”

“I won’t,” Jayce interrupts.

“But if you do,” Viktor continues, “Would you still return? After one year, would you still return?”

Something must show in his voice, some desperation, because Jayce’s gaze softens. He takes Viktor’s hand, then cups his jaw, drawing him up into a kiss.

When they break, Jayce says, voice low, “Viktor, there is no force in this world that would keep me from getting back to you.”

Viktor swallows. Nods. He tries not to cry when Jayce kisses him again, lips hungry and needing.

It takes all of Viktor’s willpower to push Jayce back, gentle yet firm. “What would you like to do today?” he asks before Jayce can protest.

Jayce hums, thinking. “We should experiment,” he decides, “See if we can figure out a way to make the wards last longer and make them apply to you, too.”

Viktor fights to keep his expression neutral. “If that is what you want,” he says quietly, unable to completely hide the tremor in his words.

Fortunately, Jayce is distracted now, drumming his fingers against the counter as he thinks. “We could add some oak,” he murmurs, already reaching towards the cabinet and taking out jars and vials full of components, “Or carnation? I thought I saw something about that in one of your books. I don’t see any of it here, though. We could make some…”

Viktor tries to be as present as he can for the day. He drinks in all of Jayce’s words, helping him with every rune, every spell, every transformation. It is so tempting, to give into despair, to sink to the floor and beg Jayce to hold him and forgive him for everything he’s done and will do.

But he doesn’t. He smiles in the right places, even if it’s tight and strained. He runs experiment after experiment in the kitchen, letting Jayce take the lead in the spellwork. He takes every excuse to lean up against Jayce, to brush against his hand, to press their lips together. Outside, the sun is shining, a warm breeze drifting through the open window, carrying in the scent of fresh flowers and salty sea air.

A perfect day.

When night falls, Viktor doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t know if he can. His brain is still firing, pleading with him, trying to find the answer to an impossible puzzle. If they fail, the gods will come, and they will torture Jayce for eternity, and they will take him away from Viktor. If they succeed, Renni will come after Mel, and the world will be at war with the gods again, and Jayce will never forgive himself, even if he says otherwise.

Jayce here, or Jayce safe.

He’s fallen fully into numb acceptance by the time faint light begins to bleed through the curtains. Outside, there’s a gentle rain, coating the world grey, the soft patter on the roof and windows almost soothing. Usually, they’re both up by daybreak, but Viktor can’t bring himself to move from underneath the covers, where his partner keeps himself wrapped around Viktor’s body, steady and warm.

He thinks he’s ready, by the time Jayce wakes up, his face set and heart successfully walled off. Still, something must show on his face, because Jayce’s features go from soft with sleep to concerned in an instant.

“Viktor?” Jayce asks.

Something inside of Viktor crumbles—he can feel it, the moment the crack appears on his face.

Jayce props himself up in bed, draws Viktor in, pressing kisses all along his face. “Viktor, it’s okay. We’ll find a solution, I swear.”

“I know,” Viktor whispers.

It’s kinder than the truth.

The day passes in a blur of grey. More research, more experiments, all with results that have Jayce excited and beaming by the end. Viktor tries to mirror it, even though his mind has already begun to curl into itself, ready to shut the rest of the world away.

He does not cry when Jayce touches him. He does not collapse when Jayce kisses him. He does not break down and beg for forgiveness for everything he has done to Jayce and everything he will do.

He will not.

When night falls, they curl up on the couch together, tomes in both their laps. Rain, soft and insistent, echoes from where it falls on the ceiling and windows. Jayce is fully immersed, muttering to himself, twirling a pen between his fingers as he thinks.

Viktor stares at the same page for an hour. The words are nothing but nonsense, the sketches of plants alien. His muscles scream at him to do something, anything, that will keep the inevitable from happening, to keep Jayce here, even for just one more day.

But nothing can change the facts. Tomorrow morning, Caitlyn and Violet will come. Jayce will refuse them. More gods will come. They will discover what Jayce can do. And Jayce’s fate will be sealed.

It has to be now. It has to be now.

Viktor sets his book down.

The world is a screaming haze, something ringing in his ears, but he ignores it.

This is for Jayce. This is for Jayce.

“I need to get something in the workshop,” Viktor murmurs, rising and pressing a kiss to Jayce’s head as he brushes hair from his eyes, fingertips trailing the edges of the scars he’d left so long ago. He swallows, begging himself not to start crying. “I will be right back.” Then, trying to keep the despair from his words, he murmurs, “...I love you.”

Jayce nods distractedly, not taking his eyes off the book he’s reading, tapping his knee as he studies runic strings.

Viktor turns. He does not look back.

He furiously wipes at his eyes. He can do this.

He has to do this.

Viktor slips into the workshop. There’s something in the air, tension before a rainstorm. It’s dark, only the thinnest rays moonlight streaming in through the window. With the still-clouded sky overhead, it’s darker than usual. It’s no matter—Viktor could do this blindfolded if needed, so familiar is he with the process.

The crystal is exactly where they left it. Dull blue and dormant, sat perfectly in the center of the inactive magnetized stand.

He rehooks the wires to the stand. Sets the dial to Piltover’s geo-coordinates. Double-checks that the runes along the copper and the stand are still clear. Takes his needle knife, slices his finger. Runs his blood over the wires and the gemstone. Flips the dial.

The hextech whirs to life. Electricity and blood, witchcraft and science, each with a life of its own, each impossibly working together, fueling the other and pulsing with a rhythm like a heartbeat.

Jayce will understand, Viktor tells himself. Jayce has to understand.

Carefully, carefully, he picks up the hextech. Makes sure it is facing the right way, towards the door. He backs to almost the end of the room. Just within range, just long enough of a space that Jayce won’t make it in time.

Viktor barely hears his own words over the pounding of his heart. “Jayce? Can you come help me with something in the workshop?”

There is nothing for a few moments. Viktor can imagine each of Jayce’s next steps as clearly as if he were witnessing them himself: Jayce frowning, setting the book down, dog-earring the page he was on, absentmindedly placing the pen somewhere he will forget. Pushing the blanket off, swinging himself off the couch, walking from the living room to the hallway, thinking as he makes the turn to the workshop, trying to guess what Viktor might need, but trusting.

Always, always trusting.

Viktor closes his eyes.

Then, the creak of the workshop door. “Viktor? Did you say you needed…?” His voice trails off. His breath catches. “Why do you have—?”

Viktor fires up the hextech.

There are a thousand bells in his ear, ringing in time with the acceleration crystal. Even through his eyelids, he can see the blinding, electric blue.

“No!” Jayce shouts.

Viktor doesn’t mean to look. He doesn’t mean to open his eyes.

Jayce is lunging towards him, hand outstretched and desperate, something wild and terrified on his face. “Viktor, stop!” he yells, voice breaking. “I love you—don’t—!”

There’s a warp in the space around Jayce. His words are cut off, his form distorting.

And then he is gone.

Viktor stays in the workshop for the entire night, waiting for Caitlyn and Violet to return.

Somehow, he sets the hextech back in its place on the table. He stares at the gemstone, rotating on its stand, humming to the beat of his pulse, loud enough that it echoes in his ears. He must sit at some point, though he can’t quite recall actually doing it. He only knows that one moment, he is standing, and the next, he isn’t. He just continues to stare at the hextech.

Some horrible and foolishly optimistic part of him half-expects the hextech to activate again, for it to spit Jayce back out into the workshop, furious and crying, demanding to know why, why, why. Just maybe, if he appeared, Viktor would be too weak to send him away again.

It doesn’t matter.

The hextech stays stagnate, and Jayce doesn’t reappear.

He’s startled out of his numbness by a knock at the door, loud and pointed and insistent. He hadn’t even noticed that it was morning.

Slowly, painfully, Viktor rises from his chair, every joint creaking. Outside, the rain has stopped, but the sky remains a monotone grey, mist beginning to congeal across the ground.

Viktor trudges through the house, down the hall, to the kitchen, to the door. Opens it.

Violet and Caitlyn stand before him, powerful as storms, both of them brighter than the sun against the washed-out grey of Viktor’s island. Caitlyn’s arms are crossed in expectation, and Violet next to her has squared shoulders and a set jaw, as if preparing herself for a bloody and inevitable battle ahead.

“He is not here,” Viktor says before either of them can say anything.

The air turns hard as steel.

Lightning crackles around Caitlyn’s eyes and hands. There’s a weapon at her back, something long and with a barrel, that begins to glow a dark blue as she whips it out in the blink of an eye, aiming dead ahead at Viktor.

Viktor doesn’t even register fear. All he can see is the shape of the weapon, the carefully wrought iron, the delicate magnifying lenses. Viktor knows in this moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is the rifle that Jayce made for Caitlyn.

He barely hears it, when Caitlyn speaks. “And what,” she snarls, slow and deadly, “Does that mean?”

Viktor swallows. Makes himself look past the rifle, towards the goddess with the fury of a hurricane around her. “I sent him away,” he says quietly, “With witchcraft.”

Neither of them need to know the details of the hextech. He will not doom Jayce again, with admitting the existence of his invention.

Viktor swallows. “He should be in Piltover now.”

Silence meets his words. Overhead, the sky rumbles with thunder.

The rifle lowers, something like shock passing over Caitlyn’s features. “You could have sent him back?” she whispers. “This entire time, you could have sent him back that easily?”

Viktor nods.

“Why?” Caitlyn demands, her voice cracking like lightning.

Viktor stares down at the ground. “As he told you,” he says, voice clipped and dull, “He did not wish to leave.” Then, after a moment, “One year. You swore after one year, he could return?”

“Yes,” Violet says immediately, something sharp in her voice. “Right, Cait?”

Even without looking, Viktor can hear Caitlyn’s frown. “Only if he wants to,” she mutters.

Viktor clutches the front of his robes, desperately trying not to think about what his life will look like if Jayce doesn’t want to come back. There’s something building in his chest, panic and despair frothing, transmuting into something that is already beginning to rip through his veins.

He’s gone. He’s gone he’s gone he’s—

Viktor grips his cane and robes a little tighter. “Will you require anything else from me?” he asks, knowing his voice is trembling, but not able to bring himself to steady it.

The goddesses are silent for a moment. Then,

“…No,” Violet says.

Viktor makes himself look up at them both. “If you will permit me a question, Lady Violet,” he says quietly.

Violet cocks an eyebrow, but nods.

“It was your Lady Caitlyn who came up with the plan regarding your blessing for Piltover and marriage, was it not?” Viktor inquires.

Violet doesn’t even try to deny it. She just nods.

Viktor exhales. That Jayce knew, or at least guessed, he has no doubt. “He mourned you,” he says to Caitlyn, quiet anger in his words. “The entire time he was here, he mourned you, even if I did not know it at first.”

Caitlyn swallows. “I know.”

He should say something, he thinks. Offer understanding. For what she’s done to Jayce, to what he’s done. Something besides the anger.

He can drum up nothing.

Despicable creatures, the both of them.

After a long moment, Violet clears her throat. “Look, if you need…”

“Leave,” Viktor whispers, drawing further back into the house, clutching the front of his robes so tightly that he’s faintly amazed his fingers don’t break from it. He shakes his head. “Please, just… Please. Leave me.”

Violet quietly puts an arm around Caitlyn’s shoulder, turning her away. He blinks, and the goddesses have disappeared.

And Viktor is alone.

Chapter Text

From the very first breath Viktor takes, the sheer weight of loss threatens to crush him.

He somehow stumbles back inside. He doesn’t know how long he spends in the workshop, going back to staring at the spot where Jayce had been standing. He can’t feel regret. He can’t. This is… This is what was right. The right thing to do. Jayce will understand.

Someday, Jayce will understand.

It is… A while, he thinks, before he moves again. Hours. Days, perhaps. Longer than it should be, until his mind catches up and begins to accept the facts of his new reality.

Then, slowly, he gets up, his legs creaking with the effort. He does not look out the window at the cliff side, at the invention running up its side. He stumbles through their…

His.

His house.

One year, he tells himself. One year. Violet said he could come back after one year.

Help Mel for one year, then he can be with Viktor forever.

What is one year against eternity? Nothing. It’s nothing. It means nothing, he’s lived through longer, and he’s lived through worse than this before. He just needs to wait. Wait and not think about it too hard.

He wanders through the house as if a ghost, searching for something to do. The doors are loud as they creak open, deafening in the silence. Viktor’s feet echo against the floor, the cl-clink of his brace and cane as loud as a crack of thunder.

How did he never notice how much Jayce filled up the space? How much brighter he made the surroundings?

The days pass as if moving underwater, slowed and muffled. It’s so, so easy to imagine that Jayce is still here. He’s just in another room. He’s just in the forest. He’s just at the beach. It’s fine. He’ll come in any second, he’ll be talking about a new idea for an invention, he’ll wrap his arms around Viktor, he’ll…

Viktor forces himself to remember to breathe.

He starts going through each and every room of his house, unearthing all his old gadgets and inventions. His hands demand movement, to be kept busy, to focus on something. He disassembles and reassembles a miniature boat, completes a half-finished spell for cooking, finds an old coil device intended to keep the forge fire going without needing constant tending to.

As soon as he sees the coil, his mind jumps on it. Now, he knows what he'd done wrong before. Now, this is something he can fix.

He spends days with the coil, figuring out what is wrong, what can be improved. He tears through his old notes until he finds the pages on it, half-finished sketches and incorrect equations and theories on the metals that can be used. He rips the old pages up, starts fresh, redoes all the calculations and proportions for the metal alloys.

He frowns as he holds the melted alloy in the crucible over the forge fire. It's hot in his hands, stinging his eyes, the metal like lava in its container. It doesn't look quite right, he thinks. There is a step he's forgetting, he's certain, some part of the process that has slipped his mind.

Viktor turns around, a question on his lips. "Jayce—"

He freezes, the words stilling in his mouth a second too late.

There is nothing there. The workshop is empty and grey. In the thin light from the window, Viktor can see small particles of dust drifting through the air. The emptiness and silence swallows him, stealing all the air from his lungs.

His eyes fall on the hextech on the workshop table, dormant and horribly still. 

There’s something eating away at Viktor’s insides, as bad as it’s been since he was a nymph and dying. Something falls from his hands and clatters to the ground with a dull clang. Swirling metals of orange and red crawl across the floor, quickly cooling to black, but Viktor hardly notices. Searing heat prickles at the back of his neck and around his eyes, burning its way down and through his insides. His lungs ache as if he’s drowning, his surroundings reflect and distort. Suddenly, the only thing he can see is the threads of the island around him, each one twisting and strangling around his heart. His thoughts swarm around him like bees, each one demanding attention, each one refusing to accept that Jayce is—

Jayce is—

You made him leave. He won’t come back after this. He won’t come back he won’t come back he won’t—

He can feel something inside of him splintering, an axe taken to an already-decaying tree, the last string holding him together finally beginning to fray, and—

—Viktor frantically, deliberately, shoves each and every thought to the back of his skull, as if locking a chest and throwing it into the deepest part of the ocean.

The string holds.

Despite the heat of the day, he shivers. He brings a hand to his cheek, faintly and dully shocked when it comes away wet.

Don’t think about it, he tells himself.

Don’t think about it.

He’ll be

fine.

So many nights, he catches himself going down the wrong hall. He stands there, blankly staring at the way the sun casts shadows, trying to remember what he’d been doing, why he isn’t supposed to go into his room. What is now missing from it.

Then, he slowly turns, going back to the room with the old runes carved over the doorframe and window.

He sometimes remembers to close the curtains before he crawls under the covers and lets his numb body fall asleep.

Eleven months, he tries to remind himself. You can make it through eleven more months.

Somehow.

Time fades around him. The world seems coated in something that makes his senses fuzzy, makes each movement feel as though he is wading through thick mud. Distantly, he is aware that he is losing days, weeks, months, as bad as it’s been since he’d realized how Singed had tricked him.

It is increasingly hard to care.

In small spurts of awareness, he tries to remember… Things. There are things he needs to do. Routine. Responsibilities.

It is truly a miraculous feat of muscle memory, that brings him to the garden.

Prune the bushes. Harvest the fruit. Collect components. Tend to the flowers. He pauses at the beds, the bright purple flowers with bulbous and fragrant petals on a thick green stem, interwoven with delicate white blooms that sway in the breeze. Hyacinth and angelica for the lift—

He turns. Leaves.

Tries to sleep.

He barely begins to notice, when the nights creep in earlier and for longer, when the days begin to get colder. Not until his teeth start to chatter.

Somehow, he muddles through the perimeter runes. Manaflow, scorch, revitalize, font of life. Even the flow of magic through his body, trying to coax his blood into flowing again, doesn’t have the soothing effect that he remembers, doing little to fill the hollowing sensation in his chest. Still, he presses the spell through, remnants of warmth buzzing at his fingertips.

Then, the backlash hits him.

It’s a shock to his system, electricity racing through copper wires, briefly awakening something—Jayce, Jayce, Jayce—!

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls his knees to his chest and refuses to breathe.

He stays that way until his body settles back into its numbness.

He leans against the wall. Inhales. Exhales.

For a moment, he can only stare at his hands blankly, thin and the purple of a sickly bruise, covered in blood and dirt.

Did he… Not cast the spell correctly? The plants don’t look that much brighter, and from what little he can feel of the roots, they are cold and dormant. Maybe it’s a problem with his intent. It hasn’t been an issue before, but then again…

He grabs his cane and stands, hobbling back inside.

It can wait.

That night, his skin begins to tear along the edges of his ribs, where golden brace meets flesh.

He ignores it.

It isn’t until weeks later that he realizes—he forgot to mount the glass roof.

By then, it’s snowing, mounds of fluffy white smothering his flowers, drifting in from the windows and piling up in the halls from where he forgot to close the windows.

He pulls the blankets tighter around him and shivers.

He does not even bother trying to get up.

It’s another week before the snow stops. Another week still before he can summon up the will to go out to the garden again.

He swallows as he looks at the dry and withered plants around him. The pomegranate tree with long-dead fruit and brittle brown leaves. He should… Care about that, he thinks. It was… Important, for some reason, though he can’t for the life of him remember why.

Maybe the roots of the garden are still intact. It would be a simple enough spell, just a repetition of revitalize and growth runes. 

He stares at the sky overhead, grey and suffocating.

First, the roof.

With sluggish movements, he goes to the side of the garden, starts to prepare the glass roof panels. He goes to try and pull it up.

He fails at casting the first spell.

The backlash, this time, is easier to take. Like pressing against a bruise.

He stares at the glass panes, like he can make them suddenly make sense. How did he do this before? Before J—

No.

He stumbles back inside, almost falling in his haste, his legs thick and clumsy and somehow both twisted in on themselves. He lurches into his bedroom, slamming the door shut with a reverberating crack. Something is leaking through the wall in his brain, threatening to overflow. He places both his hands on the door, imagining it as his mind, desperately and desperately willing it to hold.

Stop, he begs to himself. Don't think about it. Please, stop.

It takes a while, but it does.

He still keeps his head pressed up against the wood for a long time, trying to ignore the pounding.

It’s fine. He doesn’t need the glass roof.

It’s not like the cold or lack of food will kill him, anyways.

Five more months.

He thinks.

What if he doesn’t come back? his mind whispers. What if he doesn’t want…?

No. He will.

He promised.

For the first time, he understands why J… Why he hated the snow. The way it makes the world even more muffled, sapped of every single color.

It makes it easier to sleep, at least.

Somewhere on the island, an Evolved’s thread snaps.

He doesn’t even realize it, until the shock of pain jolts him from sleep. Even then, he doesn’t comprehend what’s happened, not until he processes the blood dripping from his nose, staining his pillowcase a deep indigo hue.

He stares at it for a long moment before turning over on his side. There’s still echoes of pain in his body, deep and throbbing, and he hugs his arms across his ribs, trying to disassociate from it. He can feel the outline of his ribs and spine, torn flesh stinging and raw against the stiff blanket, made all the more prominent by the brace—

He closes his eyes and tries to banish the thought from his mind.

Tries not to think about how much harder it’s been to do that lately.

It is at the end of winter, when all his surroundings are covered in grey slush, that he begins to hear voices.

Jubilant and echoing down the hall—Viktor! I fixed the wiring issue. Well, not really wiring issue. I think it was something with the rune string, actually.

A sheepish laugh from the living room—Viktor? Can we go down to the stream with the lily pads today? Please?

A soft sigh coming from the workshop—Viktor, I love…

It is a simple matter, in the end, once he realizes the trick.

He can ignore everything, the voices of his partner included. Then, he doesn’t have to bother to distinguish what’s real. Ignore it, and it will eventually go away.

It will. It will.

Exasperated—I swear you do this on purpose, Viktor.

He dreams of soft hazel eyes and hands as hot as a fire, running down his ribs, his back, his thighs. Something hot pressed against his mouth. A voice gasping his name like a prayer—Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…!

When he wakes, his face is wet with tears, and his pillow is even more stained, gold and indigo streaked and running together like pools of shimmering ink.

Just two more months.

Maybe they will laugh about this, after.

Maybe one day, he will even be forgiven for it.

Spring comes—finally, finally comes—and he doesn’t leave the beach for a month.

His eyes sting from salt and wind, but he refuses to move, refuses to so much as blink, keeping his gaze locked on the horizon, waiting and waiting for the speck that will become a ship.

You made me leave, the voice snarls in his ear, more vicious than he’s ever been. You made me leave, and now you think I’m going to come back?

No—no, he said he would, he promised.

A moment later, the voice of his partner is laughing, his usual warmth returned—I’ll come back, Viktor. Trust me.

For a moment, he swears he can feel it, a large and calloused hand over his, warm and reassuring, so full of life next to his skeletal purple.

Trust me.

Gods, he wants to. He’s trying to.

It’s anxiety that ends up driving him back to the house. Makes him start alternating between the workshop and the shore.

If he can’t get a ship for some reason, he’d find a way to recreate hextech. He’s a genius—if anyone could find a way, it would be him.

He takes to sleeping at their table, their piles of notes serving as his pillow. He keeps the magnetized stand on, the blue gemstone rotating. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can hear the gentle whumph of its rotation, feel its slight pull.

He stares at the gemstone for so long that spots begin to burn into his eyes.

But he doesn’t stop.

Just in case.

When the workshop and horizon remain empty, he starts to panic. How long is it from here to Piltover? Three months? Four months? Five? Six? Surely not more than six.

He spends a day and a night in the observatory, frantically measuring stars, pouring over old notes and geo-coordinates, trying to make the blurred numbers make sense.

Two months. Just two months.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Violet had said one year—quite possibly, she meant one year just in Piltover, not accounting for the travel time back. With the extra count, he still has time. Besides, the weather is never guaranteed to hold—who knows how difficult the waves are, back in that part of the world.

It is easier, after that, to keep calm. To resume his stoic and unmoving position on the beach.

The sun against the waves is crystalline and blinding. He clutches at the front of his robes, staring at the horizon, waiting expectantly for the ship with his partner, to hear that laugh and smile carrying on the wind.

Even with the new count in his head, the ship doesn’t appear.

There are a good couple weeks, where he’s convinced himself he’s miscounted. It’s a different week than he thinks. A different month. Understandable, really. An easy mistake.

He’s never been good at keeping track of time, anyways.

It’s not until the leaves begin to turn once again, hideous shades of red and purple and orange and yellow, that the emptiness in his heart begins to start swallowing up his whole body.

He takes to sitting in the workshop again. He bleeds on the crystal, over and over again, until the indigo looks like it's part of the table itself. He continues to stare at the rotating gemstone within the hextech, silently begging for something to happen.

The emptiness presses down around him.

He stares at the blinding blue, at the sparks like stars around him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember, for just a moment, what it felt like to be weightless.

When the first flakes of snow begin to fall from the sky, Viktor is on the beach.

The first hits him almost directly in the eye. He blinks for a moment, dumbfounded.

Then, they start coming down in earnest, faster and faster, obliterating everything else in his sight. He can’t tell the difference between the sand, the rocks, the ocean, the sky. It’s all pale, all chopped up, all disjointed and echoing, until he’s not sure if he’s seeing doubles or triples or if the world really has just gone completely grey.

It’s a late snowfall this year, he thinks. It’s hard to be sure, though.

Slowly, he stands, sending a small cloud of powdered snow tumbling from his shoulders and to the ground. He… He needs to make sure their home is safe, he thinks. Closed curtains. Lit fire. Jayce would…

Jayce.

Viktor doesn’t move.

He… He should be back by now. He said he would come back. He said he would...

The world is buzzing around him.

Something claws its way up his throat. It’s less of a sob than a gasp, when it leaves his mouth, a hiccuping and wounded sound that is swallowed up by the suffocating grey.

Jayce is… Jayce is…

He shutters something closed inside of him.

Slowly, painstakingly, he limps back up the path, back up to his house.

Alone.

He attacks his routine with a determination that should be terrifying, but is instead easy to get lost in.

He redoes the garden beds. Forces life back into the plants. Revitalize and overgrowth runes scratched into every surface he can manage, then painted with deep indigo, slamming magic through them, again and again and again. The roots explode in size, twisting through the very foundations of his house. The rainbows of the plants are blinding, vines and branches stretching and casting themselves upwards, as if trying to reach the sky.

He ignores the dead pomegranate tree in the corner.

He cleans the house, abandoning spells in favor of scrubbing grime and blood from pillowcases and blankets and floorboards. He clenches his sharpest and most bristled sponges in his hands, gritting his teeth as he attacks each stain. Back and forth and back and forth and…

It takes longer than it should, to realize that he’s adding bloodstains, rather than cleaning them.

He bandages his raw hands and moves on.

He casts every spell he can think of the second he feels it. He grinds and mashes petals, berries, nectar, blood, bone, anything and everything, experimenting like magic and witchcraft are new all over again. Balms for transformation, tinctures for pain, concoctions for transmutation. He creates every type of creature he can, transforming plants into beating flesh and bone, be they fish or insect or bird. Once, he turns a dead tree into a swarm of rainbow butterflies, just because he can.

See, he tells himself, feeling the rush of their delicate wings around him, fluttering and cascading from ground to sky, bright as jewels. You are alright, after all.

There’s a huff in his ear, exasperated. Can you please not be deliberately obtuse about this?

He ignores it.

He empties the workshop of everything save for the hextech, then closes the door firmly shut.

When the house gets to be too quiet, he goes into the forest. He doesn’t bother bundling up against the cold.

His leg twists, even in the brace. His skin is pulled tight and thin, his new scars barely stretching to hold on to the golden metal around his ribs, but it doesn't matter. As it turns out, the pain in his body is laughably easy to ignore.

It won’t kill him, so what’s the point in trying to lessen it?

He runs through every single component and combination and rune, then runs through them again. He carves in the spells, again and again and...

His hands still. He's... Out of spells. He wracks his mind, trying to think of something new he can do.

Nothing.

He has... Nothing.

He growls, storming through his house, pacing across the island like a caged beast, searching for something, anything that can fill up the space.

He comes up blank.

What now? What can he possibly do now? He searches through the recesses of his mind, running through every runic string and component, trying to draw lines and connections.

He can’t stay still. He can’t think, he can’t…

He desperately reaches out to that dormant godly power within him, wrapped and tied and held together with every ounce of control he has in him, and he

lets

go

It isn’t what it was, at the height of his power and worship.

But it is enough.

He reaches into the ground, pulls on roots, finds the threads of the underground insects and mammals, and bids them to reshape the island.

The life around him obeys without so much as a breath of hesitation.

The relief of it is so great he almost sobs.

How could he ever have thought he could contain it? The relishing of pure and utter control, of being able to manipulate the very ground itself. Gods, why didn’t he do this sooner? How could he forget how good it feels, to stretch his power, to get lost in it?

There are so many things on the island, so many things that demand to be fixed. Old and dead plants, torn insects, broken bones, even things that didn’t heal quite right. It is an easy thing, to correct them, to heal with godly power instead of the careful deliberation and change of witchcraft.

The trees soon all bear marks of webbing and spirals, his prismatic touch like an infection.

It should disgust him, he thinks. If he tries, he can drum up some slight revulsion, but it’s like recalling the echo of a memory. It is laughably simple, to shove those whispering doubts aside, to continue to shape his surroundings to his whims.

Like this, he can almost believe he is somewhere else, that he has finally found a way to join another part of the world.

He has mapped out the new terrain in his mind’s eye, what he’d like it to look like. It will require a combination of things, more spells and transformations, mixtures poured over the earth to create chemical reactions, things that will help solidify the changes, make it so the ground does not collapse, so the new shapes hold.

It’s slow-going, but it’s working. His world shifts around him, brilliant and prismatic and shaped to his image.

It’s in the middle of a thunderstorm when he gets to the bubbling spring, where mud and clay mix together, where the ground is thick with lily pads. He wades in, blood already wet in his hands, a spell already at his fingertips, and—

A thread in his mind snaps.

He’s falling before he can comprehend it. He reaches out to try and grab at the nearest branch, but his leg slips in the mud, dizzying gravity yanking him down as he careens into the spring.

His skull hits a rock with a resounding crack.

Another Evolved. Gone.

He doesn’t move for a long couple minutes, letting the rain echo around him and patter against his body. Then, slowly, he starts trying to right himself. His limbs are shaky with pain, his blood drifting and swirling with the water and mud like watercolors.

Suddenly, he is aware of just how thin he is.

His hands are skeletal, a bruise stretched over bone. His robes, heavy and wet, hang loosely on his frame. It’s hard, to make out his face in the ripples of the water, but he doesn’t recognize the pale and gaunt creature staring back at him, with long and limp hair and eyes that seem closer to a sickly yellow than the gold he remembers.

How can this thing be a witch? A god?

He makes himself look away. He gropes, finding his cane. Stands.

Nearly slips and falls again when his cane slides out from his hands.

His hands are still bleeding.

He should… Fix that, he thinks. He starts trying to line his thoughts back up into logical lines. The components around him are not ideal, but he can make them work.

He reaches towards the lilies, white and yellow with thick green pads, and—

Have you never seen lily pads before?

Viktor recoils at the sound of his own voice in his head, snappish and sarcastic.

No, no…

His lungs are tight in his chest, and—

There’s not a lot of nature back home, Jayce admits quietly.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to focus on the rain against his skin, cold and sliding. He tries to move his legs, but his movements are heavy, both his legs bound and clumsy. There is mud in the gears of his brace, and—

Does it feel alright? Jayce asks, hands trailing over his ribs, a thumb brushing over his thigh.

A senseless sound, hoarse and ugly, escapes Viktor’s throat.

Viktor? Viktor! Jayce is shouting. What’s wrong?

Desperately, Viktor tries to hold it back, stomp it back down, keep it locked away, but—

Jayce’s eyes are on him, lit up and sincere. He wades through the water, hand outstretched and waiting.

Viktor frantically tries to gather up his senses. That can’t be right. Nothing about this is right. This isn’t real. Jayce isn’t here, Jayce is—

Gone.

Jayce is gone.

You made him leave and he isn’t coming back he isn’t coming back he—

isn’t

coming

back

Something breaks open inside of Viktor.

His legs give out, and he is sunk up to his ribs in the water. His hands wrap themselves around his body, rocking him back and forth. He can feel Jayce’s brace—Jayce’s work, Jayce’s hands, Jayce’s touch—circling around his bones, keeping him upright, keeping his crooked body from bending too far and twisting too deeply, and—

He—

He can’t—

…Does it hurt? Jayce asks, right in his ear, voice hushed.

…No, Viktor remembers saying. Not anymore.

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts and—

Viktor’s not sure if it’s a scream or a sob or something else entirely that tears itself out of his throat, but it’s loud, animalistic and primal and raw. He doesn’t stop, even after he’s run out of air to push through his dead lungs, long and bloody and until he’s sure his heart will tighten and explode from it. Something rips in his vocal chords, flesh and bone and muscle breaking themselves apart at the seams, and hot and bitter blood pools on his tongue and spills out of his mouth.

It’s wires in his heart. It’s an ocean drowning his lungs.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t think he can.

All he can do is let the sound carry in the howl of the wind and rain, as if the sky could possibly contain his grief.

Chapter Text

Someone’s hands are on him.

Blind panic grips Viktor, and he shouts, thrashing and kicking. He needs to get them off he needs to get them off—!

“Hey! Quit it!”

There’s something about the voice that gives Viktor pause. He stops, heaving, trying to remember how his lungs are supposed to work. There’s something wrong though, his body refusing to obey him, his lungs—

His lungs are filled with mud.

All at once, memory floods through him.

Jayce.

He can’t cry through the mud and clay burying him, which is just as well, because his throat still feels screamed raw. Determinedly, he curls in on himself, set to go back to drowning for eternity. It’d be less painful, he thinks vehemently. Better off for him, better off for the world at large. It'd maybe even be a good experiment. Finally test the limits of that immortality he’d once been so damn desperate to obtain.

But, because the world seems determined to spite him, sharp hands grip him by the front his robes and yank him upwards anyways.

“I thought you wanted to live,” the voice snaps. Then, in a hum, “Or did someone make that up? Hard to tell anymore. Where myth ends and the real world begins. That’d be nice, huh? If it’s all only real cuz someone believes it." A snort. "It’d save me a lot of trouble, lemme tell you.”

Before he can even try to process that statement, Viktor is unceremoniously dropped on the ground.

He coughs and sputters, expelling the earth from his body, heaving until he can’t anymore. His body is a burnt out shell, weak and fragile and shuddering.

He blinks grime from his eyes, but his visions refuses to cooperate. “…Jayce?” he croaks feebly.

A snort of disgust. “Yeesh. You’re worse than I thought.”

Viktor manages to wipe the last of the muck off his face, to focus on the crouched figure in front of him, robes and braids and hands caked in a mud that can't fully hide their brightness.

Oh.

Jinx.

How fitting, he thinks bitterly. How fitting, that she would be the one to see him like this, when the last vestiges of his control have finally slipped.

He doesn’t move from the ground.

Jinx stares at him, those purple and shining eyes unblinking, braids and rainbowed robes coiling around her as if they have a mind of their own. She drums a sharp-nailed hand against her knee, tilting her head as she considers him. Then, seeming to decide something, she rocks back on her heels and uses the momentum to jump upwards. “Come on, Cookie,” she says.

Viktor looks up blankly at her, uncomprehending.

Jinx huffs and rolls her eyes. “Gotta do everything myself, don’t I?” she mutters. Then, without waiting for an answer, she leans down and grabs Viktor’s arm, yanking him to his feet.

His legs are stiff and shaky, unable and unwilling to support his body, and he almost collapses again, his brace letting out a truly horrendous screech.

Jinx lets out a groan of clear annoyance. She all but shoves him onto a nearby rock, then, “Wait here.” Then, with narrowed eyes. “You’re not going to try and drown yourself again, are you?”

Viktor manages to shake his head. He hadn’t even been trying to drown himself the first time, not really. Not with any seriousness. It isn’t like he could have, anyways.

He’d just been so tired.

He watches with an almost detached interest as Jinx hikes her robes up to her knees and sloshes into the water, trudging through the mud and clay, then plunges her hand into the bubbling spring and mud. She gropes around for a minute, then, her face splitting into a grin, she pulls out Viktor’s cane with a victorious crow. She washes it off in the water, then wipes it down on her robes before skipping back over, mock-bowing as she holds it out for Viktor to take.

For a moment, it isn’t her, but Jayce—flickering and warm and unreal, something unbearably gentle in his gaze as he holds the cane out to Viktor, still hopeful and cautious as he presents his peace offering.

He blinks, and Jayce is gone.

Viktor stares at the cane a second longer before he accepts it, albeit reluctantly, and lets Jinx pull him back to his feet.

She is, at least, stronger than she appears, and is able to easily support him as she starts guiding him through the forested terrain of his island.

She hums as they walk, her eyes sweeping over crested ledge and twisted bough. “You really did a number on this place, huh?” she comments.

Viktor blinks. For a moment, he doesn’t understand what she means.

Then he sees it.

…Oh.

Shimmering and opalite lesions, stretching over the bark of the trees, infecting the leaves, even creeping through the grass and brush. Webbed patterns and spirals, almost fungal in their reach, pale and beautiful and disgusting.

Like the nymphs. Like the Wild Rift.

Like Jayce.

All his revulsion slams back into him all at once. What had he been thinking? How could he? How could he? Fire crawls up his throat as Viktor pushes himself away from Jinx and vomits.

There is nothing in his stomach, nothing but mud and acid and blood, and it all comes up and out anyways. He chokes and heaves, expelling everything he can from his body until he is absolutely, completely empty.

Next to him, Jinx wrinkles her nose. “Gross,” she says.

Viktor doesn’t respond.

“Welp, at least it wasn’t inside your house,” Jinx says cheerfully. “You probably got a lot more to do in there without worrying about pieces of yourself all over the place.”

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. He can’t deal with this—not today, not ever. “Please,” Viktor croaks. “Please leave me alone.”

Jinx’s gaze sharpens, those dark lines underneath her eyes flashing. Her lip curls up and she storms back up to Viktor, grabbing his arm again and yanking him back up. This close to her, the prismatic gleam of his work is even more distorted, fracturing and splintering like sunlight underwater.

“Nope,” Jinx snaps. “You don’t get to do that now. Not to me. Come on.”

If he were stronger, perhaps, Viktor thinks he would risk fighting her. As it is, he can barely keep his limbs straight as she pulls him along.

It takes Viktor a shameful second to recognize when they reach his house.

There are new vines creeping up the sides, new trees and plants at the center garden, all stretching upwards as if they can touch the sky. Every window hangs open, creaking on their broken hinges in the faint breeze. Still, Viktor can see the runes of the ward along the sides, repeated and sure as ever.

He only gets a moment of reassurance before Jinx kicks the front door down and steps over the barrier, tugging them both inside.

Viktor gapes up at her as she dumps him into the nearest kitchen chair. “You… You should not be able to…”

“Wards only work if you keep them active, dummy,” Jinx snorts, blowing her bangs out of her face. “Aren’t you supposed to be a genius witch or something?”

Ah.

That’s right. He’d… Forgotten. How did he forget to do that? Thousands of years of warding his house, and just like that, they’re gone. Did he forget this year? The last? It must have been recent, surely, since Violet and Caitlyn…

He doubles over and gasps, clutching at the front of his robes. There is absolutely nothing now, to hold back the onslaught of memories and all the emotions they carry with them, and he doesn’t have enough energy to try and put up the walls again or to try to throw himself back into a dissociative routine.

Jayce is gone.

Jayce is gone.

“Why are you here, Jinx?” Viktor whispers.

She shrugs. She meanders over to the counter, running a finger along the wood, then letting her sharp nails clink against some dusty glass bottles Viktor had forgotten he’d even taken out. “What? I can’t visit sometimes?”

Something scathing rises in his chest. “You have never cared about me before,” Viktor spits. “I do not see why you would start now.”

Jinx rolls her eyes. She picks up one of the smaller glass bottles, tossing it carelessly in her hand. “’Course I care about you, Cookie. Don’t know where you got the idea I didn’t.”

Viktor laughs, an ugly and choking sound he hardly recognizes as his own. “You visit me for your own amusement and nothing more. Do not try and pretend now that you suddenly have had a change of heart.”

Jinx lets out an exasperated sigh. “Hate to break it you, but I like it here,” she says dismissively. “It’s quiet. Actually room to think past all the stupid prayers. Only gotta deal with you and the dead, and lemme tell you, even if your head is screwed, it’s still easier than everyone else’s.”

Viktor bristles. “My head is not, as you put it, ‘screwed,’” he snips.

Jinx laughs, long and hard and mad. “You kidding, Cookie?” she snickers, gesturing around her. “This look like the place of a guy with all his nails hammered in right?”

There’s leaves and dirt and debris across the floor, small puddles from left open windows, insects in every corner, and something dark and suspiciously purple stained into almost every wooden grain. In some cracks, weeds have started to push their way through.

Viktor presses his lips together and says nothing.

“You hide it better than most people do,” Jinx acknowledges. Then, after a moment, “Well, you used to. With all your crisp words and I’m-so-reasonable logic.” She laughs again, eyes glinting. “But can’t fool me. I can’t go anywhere I’m not already present. All you did was put up paranoid walls and lose time and try to convince yourself you weren’t starving out here.”

Viktor clenches his fists in his lap. That’s not true, he wants to deny. It’s not.

Isn’t it?

When he doesn’t respond, Jinx nods, satisfied. She tosses the bottle into the air again, up and down, up and down, the glass clinking and ringing in her glinting hands. “You should be thanking me, really,” she says, almost offhandedly.

Viktor snaps his head up. “Thank you? You?" he demands, disbelieving.

Jinx grins. “You’re welcome!”

Viktor sees red. He stands up so fast that his chair skids out from underneath him, his hands shaking badly enough that his cane chatters against the ground. “Why would I ever thank someone such as you?” he snarls. “You are the one who did this to me!”

Jinx snatches the glass bottle out of midair. She throws her head back and laughs. “Me? Me?” Then, just as quickly, her face twists. “Hate to break it to you, Cookie, but you cracked all on your own.” Then, she’s grinning again, tossing the bottle into the air, again and again. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” she says in a sing-song. Then, harsher, her gaze snapping to something next to her, “Shut up—I did nothing this time. Nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing at all—”

Witchcraft and godly power alike course through Viktor’s veins, illuminating his entire body, and his voice echoes as he screams, “You did this to me when you forced Jayce to stay!”

Jinx whips her head back around, braids flying around her, and throws the bottle against the wall. It shatters on impact with a crash, sending out a spray of glittering broken glass, and without warning, she is right in front of Viktor’s face, her eyes hardly more than an inch from his.

“Shut,” she hisses, “Up.”

Viktor hardly dares to move. His brief show of power is nothing, absolutely nothing, next to the sheer godly aura emanating off of Jinx. She encompasses all of Viktor’s vision, the space around her distorted with fractals that seem to cut at his eyes. In fact, he realizes with distant panic, they are. Blood pools from his eyes like waterfalls, heavy and stinging and dripping down his face.

Then, without warning, Jinx’s eyes widen and she stumbles back.

The fractals around her fade.

Before Viktor can even think to say anything, Jinx threads her fingers through her hair, shaking her head back and forth. Slowly, she sinks to the ground, letting out a whimper. “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasps. Shimmery pink tears begin to flood down her face. “I… I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to help.” She slams her palm against her forehead, hard enough for the strike to echo. “I only wanted to help, I only wanted to help…”

Like this, she doesn’t look like a goddess. She doesn’t even look mad. She just looks like a teenage girl, too small and too trembly on the kitchen floor, mud still caked to her legs and stains smeared across her robes, sobs wracking her thin and fragile body.

All at once, the anger drains out of Viktor, leaving something cold and numb in its wake.

He sighs. Even though his leg aches in protest and his broken brace creaks, he kneels on the ground so that he’s eye level with her.

She sniffles, looking up with watery and too-bright eyes, furiously wiping away her shimmering tears.

Viktor holds out a hand. “Come,” he says quietly. “We should get cleaned up. I will set you up in a bedroom. Would you like that?”

Jinx swallows. She regards Viktor’s skeletal and filthy hand with wary confusion, and for a moment, Viktor swears that she’ll disappear in a flash of neon fractals and laughter.

Then, she takes it, allowing Viktor to pull them both to their unsteady feet.

The room he decides on is older, full of old trinkets salvaged from ships, things Viktor intended to disassemble or melt down at some point.

He clears boxes of warped metal and broken glass off the bed, shakes the covers out, watching as dust spills off of it in a cloud.

Jinx is unusually silent in the doorway. She’s still in her bright robes, fiddling with bits of equally colorful fabric wound and threaded through it. When Viktor gestures to the bed, she’s almost timid as she approaches, head low and shoulders curled inwards. She wraps the old blanket around herself and falls into the mattress, knees drawn up to her chest.

Viktor stares at his hands. Even carefully scrubbed clean, they are too thin, bearing new scars along his knuckles, looking as if his bones themselves will collapse around him if he moves wrong.

What sad creatures they have both become.

“Do you require anything?” Viktor asks, feeling a bit foolish doing so. Jinx is a god, after all, and far more powerful and with far more worship than he.

Jinx says nothing. She’s staring somewhere in the middleground, fixated on something only she can see.

Viktor sighs. He looks down in one of the boxes on the floor, oddly shaped knobs he’s never quite found a good use for.

“They’re for steering, you know,” Jinx says suddenly.

Viktor snaps his head over to her.

“On the ships,” Jinx continues, still not looking at him, “With the wheel. They’re supposed to keep extra sheaves and tillers and shit, in case things break down.” She shrugs. “I make ‘em go missing sometimes, just to mess with people. Make the sailors think they’re going crazy for a minute.” She holds up one of her braids, inspecting a bit of wire she’s woven into it. “Thought you would’ve known what they do, with how many you’ve poked through.”

Viktor carefully puts down the knob. “Making the ships serviceable again was never a priority.”

Jinx snorts. “Good thing you never fixed his ship,” she mutters. “Woulda crashed and burned before he even got past the barrier.”

Viktor’s heart clenches. “Was that why you stopped us?” he asks softly.

Jinx doesn’t answer at first. She stares at her braid, picking at the wire, slowly untangling it until it’s worked free. Then,

“I can feel it, you know. Your mind. Everyone’s minds.” She rolls on to her back, staring up at the ceiling. “No one wants to admit it, but we’re all so damn breakable. One slipped gear away from slipping. They all pray to me about it.” She smiles lifelessly. Then, pitching her voice higher and mocking, “‘Don’t make me go crazy, Jinx!’ ‘Fix my head, Jinx!’” She scowls. “Thought they’d have figured out by now I just make it all worse. I should’ve figured it out by now. But nope. Had to go play the big fat hero and try and keep it from getting the both of you.”

“Keep what from us?” Viktor asks, even though his sinking heart already knows the answer.

Jinx snaps her unblinking gaze towards him. She raps her knuckles against her head twice. Then, soft and lilting, “What else?”

Viktor closes his eyes briefly. Some part of him wants to deny it.

Even he can’t ignore the evidence piled up around him.

Viktor sighs. “Why me?” he whispers. “There surely were others. Better fits for him. Not… Someone like me.”

A god who would have erased his mind and condemned him to death as a puppet without sparing it even a second thought.

Jinx is quiet for a moment. Then, “I saw his first notes, you know. For the shiny little soul he called a crystal. The things he wanted to do with it.” She smiles a little. “I loved it, even if he had to be a little bit insane already to even think of it. His mother begged him to leave it alone, and he shut himself away to try it anyways. Then the golden girl came along and saw it was magic powered on blood, and she shut it all down, and he started cracking a little bit more. Then Vi’s girlfriend left him alone and mortal and broke his heart, and he broke himself more over it. Then his Council declared war, and I tried to tell him not to go, but no one listens to the crazy voice in their head.” She shrugs. “Only a matter of time before he fell off completely, really.”

Viktor is silent.

“I was everywhere on those battlefields,” Jinx continues, her voice a song. “In all the broken minds of the confused and stupid heroes. Sister, sister. War and Madness, hand in hand.” Her lip curls for a moment, anger flashing in her eyes. Then, just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes. “Then he snapped himself out of it,” she says, tapping a nail against the wall. “Just a little,” tap, “Too,” tap, “Late.”

“I do not understand,” Viktor admits.

Jinx rolls her eyes. “He needed someone who understood,” she says like it’s simple. “Death and crazy and genius all at once. When he opened the Windy Lady’s bag and he got blown off to this corner, I thought…” Her voice wavers, breaks. Then, her smile wobbly and falsely bright, “Welp, it worked for a little bit, didn’t it?”

Viktor sighs. “For a little while,” he admits.

He’s still not sure if it would have been better for it to never have happened at all, if it’s made his loneliness so much more insidious.

Viktor swallows. Part of him doesn’t want to know. But… “Jayce,” he begins, dread in his words, “Is he…?”

Jinx eyes him. “You really want to know?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

Viktor doesn’t respond.

Jinx lets out a huff. “He’s alive,” she mutters.

Viktor closes his eyes as relief crashes through him, dizzying and terrifying. He nods once, exhaling.

It’s the confirmation he wanted. Alive.

But if he’s alive and not here…

Jayce would have found a ship back to Viktor’s island. Found a solution to hextech again. Found something. Viktor knows he would have. And if he hasn’t…

Viktor brings a hand to the front of his robes, clutching them so tight that he's amazed his fingers don't break. “Is he… Happy?” he makes himself ask.

Jinx shifts. “I don’t know,” she admits, eyes on the ground. “Whatever you did before he left, it worked. He’s been cut off from me and the rest of the gods.”

Viktor, despite himself, feels his shoulders slump in relief.

The ward worked. Jayce is safe.

“There was just a minute, a few years ago,” Jinx admits, “When it slipped. I didn’t go to him then, but Caitlyn did.” She snorts. “Whatever happened, it left her pissed. Worse than when she came here to try and do something as stupid as free him.” Jinx’s mouth twists, her eye twitching, and she jerks her head to the side. “I don’t know what she was expecting. I told them not to make him leave. I told them. Not my fault no one listens to the crazy girl!”

She slams a fist against the wall, hard enough to send a cascade of dust down. It sprinkles over her like snow. Her nose twitches, and she scowls, but she doesn’t bother to shake the dust off.

Viktor hesitates. “You did not go to him then?” he asks carefully.

Jinx’s head snaps back over to him. She studies at him for a moment. “I thought about it,” she admits. “But if he can’t be here, I thought…” Her voice wavers. “It’s so easy to break someone’s brain. I don’t mean to. I… If he’s okay over there, I don’t want to…” She shakes her head. "Besides," she mutters, curling further into herself, “Best thing gods like us can do is stay away.”

It takes everything in Viktor not to physically recoil at her words. For a moment, the world is a rush in his ears, worse than the ocean during a storm. His partner’s voice snarls off to the side, You did this to me. You made me stay. You made me leave. Why did you do this, Viktor? Why…?

Viktor closes his eyes. “I know,” he whispers.

Let Jayce be happy, without the interference of any more gods in his life.

“Silco said he’d tell me, when he dies,” Jinx says, her voice a whisper. “I could tell you when it happens.”

The moment when Jayce is definitively out of his grasp forever.

“…No,” Viktor says quietly. “Thank you.”

It would be best to move on.

Jinx nods. “He might still come back,” she offers.

Viktor inhales, trying to calm himself and not bristle with hostility. Jinx likely means well, but the false reassurance is just that: false. Jayce won’t come back. It’s what Viktor had warned him about all along, after all. He always deserved more than a life imprisoned with Viktor, and now, he’s back in the outside world, free and with his Mel. After that, who would willingly turn around and walk straight back into a cage?

He doesn’t respond, though, not trusting himself to not react with anger at Jinx’s attempt at comfort.

Still, she maybe feels it, or at least feels some hopelessness of her own. She rocks herself up into a sitting position, and without warning, plops her head on Viktor’s shoulder.

Viktor makes no effort to move, even as the space around him cracks and his vision is overtaken by scratches, leaving him unable to distinguish whether the ringing in his ears is real or not.

Chapter Text

Jinx stays with him longer than she’s ever stayed before.

While Viktor busies himself with painstakingly trying to piece his house and life back together, for however worthless it is, Jinx trails after him, keeping up a running conversation that she only sometimes expects him to contribute to.

It’s helping, more than Viktor would care to admit.

Is she living here now? Jayce’s voice asks, disbelieving. What happened to not visiting that often?

Viktor makes a point to ignore it.

He uses witchcraft on everything he can, letting stains either be consumed or dispersed, and cleans everything else by hand. He sweeps out the leaves and dirt and debris blown in from open doors and windows, and when that’s done, oils and fixes the hinges.

He tries not to think about Jayce, every time he touches something his partner had once repaired.

Already, it is almost winter.

The timelines don’t quite line up in his head, from when he thinks he collapsed into the mud and when Jinx pulled him out. The island’s plants, too, despite the prismatic scarring, are overgrown in a way that speak to longer than a couple short months.

Viktor decides not to ask Jinx how long he spent asleep.

Chances are, he reasons, she doesn’t know either. Gods are not reliable creatures known for feeling the passage of time.

“Will any other gods notice your absence?” Viktor can’t help but ask one day, taking a break from hammering nails into the newly replaced windowsill.

Jinx snorts. “Puh-lease. I disappear all the time. They won’t ask anything.” She thinks for a moment. “Well, maybe Vi will. Maybe Cait now that she’s apparently here to stay and joining Vi in the whole concerned-sister act. But they know I come here.”

Viktor nearly drops the nails he’s holding. “They do?” he can’t help but inquire.

Jinx nods. “Yeah.” She smiles a little. “Silco, too. He nearly stormed the island when he found out—he was all ready to do his whole…” She drops into a deeper imitation, glowering and crossing her arms behind her back, “‘Make that sorry excuse of a god know the real fear of shadowy death.’”

Viktor shudders. He remembers enough of Silco—with his liquid movements and disdainful glare and sheer roiling power—to never wish to encounter him again.

“I talked him down,” Jinx reassures him. “He knows it’s quieter here, with Ekko’s barrier keeping out all the prayer and worship bullshit.” She scowls and kicks at the dirt. “Definitely helps he still gets all guilty about the ‘giving Jinx godhood’ mess.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You dislike your godhood?”

Jinx hums. Shrugs. “I don’t know. Woulda died if Silco hadn’t done his thing, but…” She trails off, staring into the middleground as she so often does, tapping out a rhythm on her leg.

Viktor sighs, accepting that this is yet another time when he isn’t going to get an answer. He adjusts his position, stretching his leg out in the grass, trying to make himself enjoy the warmth of the sun as it soaks through his skin. A breeze tickles his hair against his neck. It’s gotten long, longer than Viktor has ever worn it before. He should cut it, he thinks. He would have before.

Even just the thought of self-maintenance exhausts him.

He sighs and props himself back up, ready to start hammering nails into the windowsill again.

“Maybe still would’ve cracked as a shade,” Jinx says without warning.

Viktor stops, regarding her.

The breeze gently teases at her braids and robes, letting them twist in the air around her. “Plenty of ‘em go crazy down there,” she continues, not seeming to even be talking to Viktor. “Not even the ones doomed to eternal torture or whatever. Not always, anyways. They all just break their ghostie souls apart while doing nothing but thinking about their life’s mistakes.” She stops tapping her leg. Frowns. “Probably would’ve been me. You know, with my brothers…” Her voice wavers, then stops, as she falls into silence.

Viktor turns back to hammering at the windowsill, deciding not to comment. He frowns, adjusts the angle. It won’t do for the sill to be crooked—otherwise the frame won’t set right, then the window itself won’t close, then…

“I never understood it,” Jinx says suddenly, snapping her head towards Viktor and looking at him accusingly. “Why you wanted to be a god.”

Viktor subtly turns away from her. “I thought it better than the alternative, at the time,” he says.

Jinx just snorts and rolls her eyes. She kicks at the ground again, sending up a small cloud of dirt. “You’re just lucky you don’t have to hear all the nutjobs thinking they can get your blessing if they pray hard enough,” she mutters.

Viktor scowls and lines the hammer up with the nail. “I am aware.”

Jinx cackles. “Bunch of idiots, if you ask me,” she comments. “I mean, it's just asking for trouble. Who wants uncontrollable forces of nature poking our hands into their shit?” She considers it. “Or turning it into your creepy mannequin paradise, I guess, in your case.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, we all thought Ekko had cracked when he wanted to send you here instead of something, ya know. ‘Torturey.’” She snickers. “And even I thought I’d finally made him crack when he suggested I start hanging out around you.”

Viktor slams the hammer into his thumb.

“Haven’t broken any other god’s mind before, but hey, first time for everything,” Jinx says offhandedly, apparently not noticing as Viktor drops the hammer and loudly curses, flapping his hand in the air as if he can dispel the pain.

Viktor gapes. “Ekko?” he repeats, certain he’s misheard. “Ekko told you to come here?”

Jinx shrugs. “Suggested it,” she corrects. Then, blowing her bangs out of her face, “Said his barrier kept out the worship noise, that it might help with my… Everything. Even said you wouldn’t hurt me, after I brought up the whole ‘almost ended the world’ thing.”

Viktor’s mind is reeling. Ekko? Ekko? Why would the god who defeated him then built his prison tell Jinx to come here? With him?

Before he can say anything else, Jinx skips over and taps at dangling piece of windowsill. “Can you witchcraft up any paint?” she asks, eyes bright.

They finish the repairs just in time for winter. Viktor would be the first to admit that the fixes are not ideal by any stretch, but they’re functional. Still, Jinx mounts the glass roof in the garden hours before the first frost hits, and then pokes him until he manages to get up and finish creating the sealant for the cracks that have emerged around the house.

All at once, with the first morning that brings an onslaught of grey, the phantom limb of Jayce sends Viktor crashing back into a thick and dark fog that threatens to overtake everything.

Come on, Viktor, Jayce’s voice teases in his ear. I’m supposed to be the one scared of the storms, remember?

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut and ignores it.

It doesn’t stop.

Can you show me the spell you use to keep the garden alive in the winter?

How bad do you think the storms will be this year?

Viktor, please, please…

Viktor curls up on the couch, pulling a blanket over his head and trying to block out the world.

He makes it about thirty seconds into wallowing before Jinx pulls the cushions out from under him.

“Come on, Cookie,” she says while Viktor is gasping on the ground, clutching his braced leg and physically biting back every single curse he knows, “I want to paint. You get that pink one ready? That dusty room with the old maps needs some color.”

He’s helpless but to follow her, watching as she hums and skips around the room, dabbing paint and scribbled patterns wherever it seems to suit her, unwilling to summon up the energy it’d require to stop her.

It is probably a bad sign, Viktor can’t help but think, that his mental stability is currently hinging on the Goddess of Madness.

When a clear day comes, Viktor half expects her to barrel outside with every color of paint she can find to smear his house in rainbows, but she doesn’t. Instead, she wanders over to the doorframe by the kitchen, tapping a glinting nail against the long-dormant wards.

“You ever gonna reactivate these things?” she wonders.

We should experiment, Jayce’s voice says from next to Jinx, and Viktor can hear the smile in his voice. They won’t be able to touch us as long as we’re inside.

Viktor hesitates. “I should,” he admits.

Still, he doesn’t move from where he’s seated in the kitchen chair. What’s the point of it, really? What can the gods possibly do to him now? What more can they possibly take from him now?

Jinx snaps her fingers an inch from his eye, loud and sending a splintering rainbow crack through the air that almost makes Viktor fall out of his chair. “Still there, Cookie?” she asks.

Viktor blinks, trying to focus on Jinx through the distortion in the air around her. Through the fractals, he could swear he can see Jayce, whole and beautiful and seething.

I’m not leaving, and you can’t make me, he spits. You can’t make me leave. Do you hear me, Viktor? You can’t—

Jinx walks back to the door, her braids and robes swishing behind her. “Yeah, you should get those back up,” she snorts. Then, eyes shining, “You can make it so they don’t keep me out, right?”

It takes Viktor a second to parse the question. “...Yes,” he says. “I will just need a little of your blood. Only a drop will do, it—”

Jinx rakes her nails down her forearm.

Like daggers, they cut into her flesh, a shimmering purple substance that looks closer to oil than blood spilling down her skin. Where it catches the light, it shines every color of the rainbow.

Viktor gapes.

“Well?” Jinx demands, holding her arm out. “Hurry up. This shit dries up quickly.”

Viktor raises from his chair, stumbling across the kitchen, groping his way through the cupboards for an empty vial. Quickly, he presses it to Jinx’s arm, watching her blood pool in the bottom of the glass.

“Good,” Jinx says approvingly, her grin as sharp as a wolf’s. “Come on, Cookie. Can’t have you cracking yet.”

Somehow, Viktor adjusts.

He keeps lists in his mind, making himself go through the motions. Modify the warding spell with Jinx’s blood. Fix something in the house. Pick something from the garden. Eat something if he can keep it down. Let Jinx tell him what he should do to keep his surroundings from getting too dilapidated.

He continues to ignore Jayce’s voice always, always echoing in his head. Smiling, whispering, cursing. Swearing to be there forever.

By the end of winter, his house almost looks back to normal, as long as he can ignore the paint so bright that it sears his eyes.

It is more of a surprise than it should be, when Jinx announces one day, out of nowhere, “You going to be okay? If I leave?”

Viktor pauses in harvesting flowers from the garden. Slowly, he sets the basket down. The hyacinth is finally beginning to spring back, after weeks of careful spells and maintenance. The angelica, too, is finally beginning to lose the last of its deadened brown leaves. Good. After they are fully alive again, he can make the oil, reapply the runes to the chains of the lift. The metal is probably rusted—it will be difficult to clean, but it will be good to have a project…

Jinx’s head drops into his line of sight. She’s balanced on her tiptoes, at the edge of the garden bed, leaning over so far that her head is nearly upside down, leaving her braids dangling in the flowers. “Hey, Cookie, you listening?”

“I heard you,” Viktor says tiredly. He looks up at the glass ceiling, at the snow turned to slushy ice smattered across it, casting strange and dappled shadows across the garden.

“And?” Jinx prompts.

“And I will be fine,” Viktor says evenly. “I have managed on my own before.”

Jinx jumps down from the garden bed with a snort. “Sure you have. All on your own with your creepy mannequins.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re positive that them just hanging around in the corners isn’t what made you start slipping?”

The Evolved.

Something pings in the back of Viktor’s head.

I can ask her, the next time she decides to visit. If she would consider doing it.

Somewhere behind him, he can hear Jayce’s worry. Doesn’t it hurt you?

It will hurt regardless. It might be better to… Get it over with, as it were.

“I mean, at least you’re not talking to them,” Jinx continues. Then, humming, “They can hear, right? No ear holes or eye holes, but seems like an oversight if they don’t keep any basic senses...”

“Can I ask a favor before you leave?” Viktor interrupts quietly.

Jinx stops. Raises an eyebrow.

“You have… Ended the lives, of my Evolved before,” Viktor says. “I cannot kill. That applies to the Evolved, as well. But, as no such terms apply to you…”

Jinx snorts. “You want me to off your creepy mannequins for you?”

Viktor frowns. Even now, he wants to bristle and protest against the term.

Instead, he just says, “If you would not mind.”

Jinx stares at him for a long while, tilting her head as she considers. Then, shrugging, “Why not? They’re basically dead anyways.”

Even though it shrivels up something inside of Viktor, he is inclined to agree.

It’s only a little surprising, when he follows a skipping Jinx out of the garden and towards the door, that she takes the lead and makes a beeline towards the nearest Evolved.

Of course she would have memorized exactly where they are.

The Evolved in question is the one near the moly clearing in the center of the island. Knelt by a newly prismatic and scarred tree, standing silent guard before the narrow passage of twisted boughs and slopes of rock. Viktor can feel the golden line of connection to it, how easy it is to reach along it. Even through the disgust in his throat, there is still the temptation there, to reach along the absorbed threads of his magic within the petricite and make the Evolved run as far away as he can get it.

He doesn't make the Evolved move even an inch.

Although it hasn’t snowed in days, there are still piles sitting on top of the Evolved’s shoulders and head, wet and heavy. Jinx wastes no time in brushing it off in a single swoop of her hand, letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground with a whumph. She crouches behind the Evolved, tilting her head, eyes unblinking as she inspects it. Around her, the air glints with neon fractals that make Viktor’s head hurt just to look at.

She stares for one minute, then two, unmoving.

Unease writhes in Viktor’s stomach. He clears his throat. “Do you need anything before—?”

Without warning, her hand shoots out, burying right in the gap between the Evolved’s head and neck.

Immediately, Viktor can feel it, something dagger-sharp and unbelonging, in not just the Evolved’s but his skull. He can’t help but shout, stumbling back, clutching at his head as his cane falls and his bad leg twists and gives out.

Then, something is yanked away, and that golden connecting thread snaps.

Viktor lays sprawled on the ground, trying to remember how to breathe, how to use his own erratic pulse to center himself. Shivers wrack his frame, and there is blood in his mouth and nose, staining the white snow a deep indigo. He coughs once, then twice, trying to get it out, before spitting a glob of it out on to the ground. He glares at it, then, resolutely, he wipes the blood off from his face with his cloak.

One down.

When his vision stops swimming, he finds his cane and pulls himself to his feet, trying to hide how badly his legs are shaking. Jinx is still crouched on the ground behind the Evolved, grinning. She has something between her fingers, twisting it to catch the light coming in through the tree branches. Something small and blue and—

Viktor’s heart stops.

He takes one halting step forward. “Lady Jinx,” Viktor says, so careful, trying to hide the croak and tremor in his voice, “What is that?”

Jinx snorts. “Been a while since you’ve busted out the ‘Lady.’” She smirks, rolling the crystal between her knuckles, the blue reflecting off her skin and gleaming. “Mannequin death have you rattled enough to try and be polite again?”

Viktor grits his teeth. “Let me rephrase,” he snaps. “Lady Jinx, why the hell do you have a gemstone like Jayce’s?”

Silence meets his question. Overhead, the birds have gone quiet. The prismatic scarring on the trees shimmers around him, reflecting pale rainbows across the snow.

Jinx raises her eyebrows. Tilts her head to the side. Stands. “He didn’t know,” she says, almost to herself. Then, brighter and crowing, “You didn’t know! They locked you away for it, and you didn’t even know!”

Viktor stalks over, towering over Jinx as best he can while still clutching his cane. “Know. What?” he hisses.

Jinx is still grinning. “And they call you God of the Arcane,” she says liltingly. She tosses the crystal lightly in the air. Then, without warning, flicks it to Viktor. “You’re always going on and on about willpower and intent. Thought you’d have figured out what powers it.”

Viktor barely manages to catch the gemstone, even as his blood makes his hands slippery. It’s warm and alive in his hands, but the threads are in pieces, ripped out by Jinx’s hand. Sure enough, that golden line is faded, the blue of the stone going from searingly bright to dull and inactive, the last remains of the soul already untethering itself and slipping away. But, as it touches the smears of indigo blood on Viktor’s hand, Viktor watches in horror as the blood spikes, then shivers, crawling into the stone as it convulses in time with his pulse, raw and uncontrollable energy.

Jinx’s voice echoes in his head, reverberating and bright and mocking.

Locked in a fancy mannequin soul jar.

Just a soul in crystal bottle.

For the shiny little soul he called a crystal.

He barely comprehends it when the crystal slips from his hand and into the snow. He stumbles backwards, acid crawling up his throat. That golden line of connection. Souls condensed down, the thing that was once a person trapped inside a webbed cocoon of petricite, being slowly drained away until all their life energy had gone to Viktor.

This whole time, the hextech, the blood—they were reanimating…

Viktor staggers to the bushes and upends the contents of his stomach.

Souls.

He’s been eating souls.

“All of them?” Viktor whispers. “The nymphs? The sailors? They all…?”

“Shrinked down into a crystal,” Jinx confirms, far too cheerful. Then, tilting her head, “Seriously, you never cracked these guys open before to see what that petricite was shielding?”

No, Viktor wants to say, Why would I?

He should have. He should have set aside his disgust and looked.

It’s his ascension, his nymphs, his corruption all over again. Why doesn’t he ever think to look deeper? He should have learned, he should have known…

"Why has no one stopped me?" Viktor croaks. He clutches his hands around his stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. "I have... I have been..."

"You're working on technicalities here," Jinx says with that same obscene cheerfulness. Then, humming, "Don't get me wrong, Silco and Vander both wanted to, after they realized what you were doing, but Ekko jumped in and said there was a difference. Something about you being the thing that keeps them up and running until they get weak enough that your grip slips." She shrugs. "Didn't make a lick of sense to me. Maybe because you didn't intend it? But, I mean, hey, what do I know about souls? Not exactly my domain."

The world is a roar around Viktor. All he can think of is the hextech in the workshop, the crystal from which they’d channeled magic. A dead vessel, briefly reanimated with a spark of divinity. Reanimated with the life Viktor himself had stolen.

Did Jayce know?

No. He wouldn’t have, Viktor is sure. Who would have guessed what was hiding behind the skulls of the Evolved?

But he…

That day they’d walked the island, Jayce practicing witchcraft, rings in his head.

Viktor’s magic in the petricite. Nothing of the threads that would have once been a person. The way Jayce had gone pale. How he’d asked about the energy, where it went. How he’d reached around the neck of the Evolved, through the thin gaps in between the petricite.

Right to the single point where that golden thread was connected.

What had Jayce said about his witchcraft? Water through pipes? If he could feel where the energy was going, then he…

Viktor’s heart crashes into his stomach.

Jayce figured it out.

Viktor laughs.

Once he starts, he can’t stop, great hiccupping gasps that cause him to double over. He runs a hand through his hair, half ready to start ripping it out at the roots.

Jayce knew. Jayce knew.

Gods, no wonder he isn’t coming back.

Viktor stumbles back over to the dead form of the Evolved. With shaking hands, he takes out the needle knife, etches the harvest rune in. He fumbles in the snow, searching for where the gemstone dropped. When he finds it, lip curling, he places it directly in the center of the Evolved’s chest. There’s still blood on his hands, leaving a smear of an indigo print on the flawless white of the petricite. His pulse is in his ear, hammering in time with the crystal, intent made incarnate.

He presses his hand against the dead Evolved and casts the spell.

Red and purple writhe in his hands like worms, burying into the petricite and tearing it apart. Its entire body shudders, its limbs clattering—then, it dissolves.

And with it, so does the crystal.

The relief from the spell’s energy does little to soothe Viktor’s aches. Frankly, he doesn’t want it to. There’s still acid in his throat and mouth, mixing with the bitter iron of blood, only adding to the waves of nausea rolling through Viktor’s body.

He must look worse, because Jinx stands, eyeing him. “If you’re going to barf again, can you do it somewhere else?” she asks.

Viktor swallows. “I… I am fine,” he lies, his voice cracked and raw.

Jinx pulls a face. “You sure you still want to do this?” she asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “You have, what? Thirty-seven more?”

Viktor nods. “Do it,” he whispers.

For the first time, Jinx hesitates. She eyes him, and Viktor just knows that she’s reaching out, trying to determine how much of his mind has broken.

“It’s gonna hurt,” she warns after a moment.

Viktor manages a smile through what he knows are bloody teeth. “Do it,” he repeats. “It is not like it can kill me.”

Jinx has to carry him back to the house, in the end.

Viktor isn’t sure how she manages it, but he’s beyond the point where words make sense, and he isn’t quite sure if gravity is working the way it should, either. His nerves are shot, his brain nothing but a burnt-out husk, and he swears he can taste electricity intermingled with the blood in his mouth.

Every single connecting thread in his mind is gone. All his bones feel as if they’ve been shaken and rearranged in his skeleton, every well of energy in him drained dry.

His body has never felt lighter.

It’s a long while, before he realizes that Jinx has placed him on the couch. It’s another embarrassing minute longer before he realizes that he is still bleeding from his nose and mouth.

He works his jaw, not so much spitting as letting the blood fall out. When he’s sure it’s stopped, he brings the stiff fabric of his cloak to his nose with stiff and shaking fingers, pressing the already-stained cloth to his nose until the flow is staunched.

The house is dark around them. Jinx’s eyes and nails glow like neon stars in the shadows, her skin luminescent. “You sure you’re going to be okay, Cookie?” she asks dubiously.

Viktor tries to form something resembling a sentence, but all he manages is a mumble that vaguely sounds affirmative.

The Evolved are fully corpses. Their bodies and gems reduced to ash, the tattered remains of their souls sent to the underworld by Jinx's hand.

Jayce would be proud, he thinks.

“You want me to stay for another few days?” Jinx presses. “Make sure you can actually walk?” She hums. “Well, maybe not walk, with the leg and all.” She taps her fingers against her leg. “String a couple words together. That’d be a better test, right?”

After a long moment, Viktor realizes that he should probably respond.

“I… I will be fine,” he manages. The words are slurred together and thick with pain, but it is at least audible. He thinks. He coughs, spitting out another glob of blood from his mouth.

Jinx nods, apparently satisfied. She starts towards the door, then hesitates. “You sure you don’t want me to let you know if I hear anything on Jayce?”

Viktor’s stomach lurches. He swallows. Shakes his head in a firm no.

Better for the both of them, if he moves on.

“If you say so,” Jinx mutters. “Just don’t make yourself too crazy before I can visit again.” She huffs, blowing her bangs out of her face. Then, sharper, “Got it?”

Viktor manages to nod.

She offers him a smile, sharp and threatening, or maybe Viktor’s just imagining it. “You’ll be okay, Cookie.”

Will he? He can’t picture it now. How will he ever be okay after all of this?

Before he can think to try and speak, Jinx vanishes, leaving nothing but neon fractals in the air and a ringing in his ears.

Chapter Text

Despite his best efforts, it is harder for Viktor to keep his mind connected to his thoughts and surroundings after Jinx leaves. He had not realized just how much the Evolved were sustaining him, not until they are gone, leaving a hollow wake of energy in their absence. His body hasn’t felt this empty since he first ascended, when he had absolutely no form of worship or offering to draw from.

Viktor tries, though.

He makes himself leave bed. Maintain the garden. Eat, if only to keep the skin around Jayce’s brace from tearing any more than it already has.

It’s a dull shock when it rips anyways, stinging and raw and leaving stiff patches against his robes.

Viktor grits his teeth forces himself off the couch, limping to the kitchen to prepare a new batch of concoctions. His brace clinks more than usual—something else he'll need to look into later, to see what's broken now—but he shoves the matter aside. He roots through the cupboards, taking longer than he should to find the rabbit blood and poppy. The blood has gone bad, dried and flaking inside its jar. With a weary sigh, Viktor rummages through the kitchen, looking through what feels like every single corner before he finally finds the bones shoved in the back of a drawer. They're old and yellowed, but all clean.

He barely feels it as he cracks them open, as he scrapes them clean of marrow. He scratches new runes along his ribs and stomach with shaking hands, visualizing the way the magic will take hold, how it will stretch over his frame, how it will mend him into something resembling a body.

He will not break. He will not break.

He presses his hand against the runes and concentrates. His skin stretches, indigo and green weaving together, and—

Breaks.

Viktor falls to the kitchen floor, the backlash setting his nerves on fire and his eardrums splitting apart with a ringing. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to breathe, even as his heart and lungs stutter.

It takes longer than it should, before the pain subsides. Before he is left with nothing but the deafening silence. There’s something blurry in his eyes, prickling and burning. How much had the life force of the Evolved been helping his witchcraft along? Or is his intent just that weak?

Suddenly, all he can feel is that echo of the golden threads, the remnants of energy like a ghost inside his veins. He can practically taste the souls, acidic and dizzying in their temptation.

Viktor wraps his arms around himself and gags, even though there’s nothing left to come up. He clenches his jaw, letting the feeling crest, then subside, until he is left shuddering on the floor.

He lets his head fall back against the bottom cabinets. His house is painfully empty and impossibly large. Even the still-bright streaks of Jinx’s paints seem dull against the shadows.

He can’t even hear Jayce’s voice.

Viktor eyes the window, the slit of grey sky through the curtains.

Not for the first time, he debates trying to leave.

He wouldn’t be able to, of course—even if he made it through the barrier, he is sure that some god somewhere is watching, would catch him immediately—but that would be the point. It would perhaps be justice, after what he’s done.

Jinx would be furious, to catch him thinking such things.

Still, Viktor finds himself staggering out of the house, down the path to the beach. Ice has congealed over the rocks and settled between the cracks, letting out dull and painful crunches as Viktor walks over it. He stands at the edge, letting the frigid waves curl around his bare feet. He can see the barrier, like the outline of a bubble. How difficult would it be, to swim out there? To let the tides take him?

Viktor takes a single step forward.

Don’t leave me, Jayce whispers in his ear, panicked and pleading.

Viktor stills.

Viktor, please.

Please.

…It is night, by the time he finds the will to drag himself back up the path. His legs are numb and shaking, his lungs rattling in his chest.

Viktor forces himself to eat something. For Jinx, if nothing else.

He can only imagine how enraged she would be, if she came back to see him half-drowned again.

It is another month still, before Viktor forces himself to address the matter of the hextech.

The reanimated soul that powers it.

Viktor stands outside the workshop door for days. His blood is a drum in his ears, the threads he was once connected to quickly becoming a distant memory.

He might still come back, his mind tries to weakly protest.

Except.

It’s been years. Viktor can’t deny the evidence. Years, and he’s alive, and he’s in Piltover, and he’s safe. He would have found a way back by now, if he wanted to. He would have.

Don’t make me leave, Jayce’s voice begs him. Then, distorted and overlaid, Why did you make me leave? I hate you—I hate you I hate you I hate—!

Viktor shoves open the workshop door and stumbles in.

His stomach lurches at the sight of it, of the dark shadows and layers of dust, the cooled spill of metal on the ground, the long-dead forge fire, the curled edges of paper still scattered over the table and floor.

Jayce’s handwriting jumps out from every single page.

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut, gropes his way to the table, blindly shoving away tools that clatter to the ground with resounding clangs, grasping, and—there!

The wires and magnetic stand.

His throat is raw with acid by the time he manages to free his needle knife from its sheath, nearly dropping it as he scratches out every single rune, one by one by one. Then, heart beating hard enough to explode in his chest, he grabs the crystal. His hand shakes as he holds the needle knife no more than a hair above the acceleration rune.

Viktor, Jayce begs in his ear, Viktor, please. I’m not leaving you. Do you hear me, Viktor? Don’t do this! I’m coming back, I—

“Forgive me, Jayce,” Viktor whispers. “For all of it.”

He brings the needle knife down.

He feels, rather than sees, the familiar shape of the harvest rune.

The exhilarating rush that comes from using magic, paired with the energy that flows into him, is almost enough to offset the nausea.

Almost.

It’s only somewhat surprising, that the seasons still insist on moving around him. When stubborn roots come up in the spring, then fully blossom in the summer, they are fully free of the prismatic scarring Viktor wrought on their predecessors.

Maybe one day, none of the life on the island will bear his mark.

Viktor runs a hand over the webbing worked into the bark of a tree, gleaming and smooth. Already, bark has begun to creep over it, hair by hair, ready to begun the long process of healing. He closes his eyes briefly, shoving back the creeping guilt, and plucks off some unmarred leaves.

The world marches on.

Something that Viktor is suddenly and viscerally aware of, the day at the end of summer, when, from his kitchen window, he sees a ship pulling in from over the horizon.

Viktor is bolting for the cliff side before he can comprehend his legs moving.

For a moment, the hopefulness threatens to overwhelm him. He’s running, nearly tripping over himself while trying to keep his legs and cane separate from each other.

Blue and gold. Blue and gold and blue and gold and…

Green.

Flags of green.

Viktor stops at the edge of the cliff.

Swallows.

Carefully, deliberately, he pushes his feelings aside and lets numbness take over. He turns back to the house.

What were you expecting? Jayce questions, voice harsh in Viktor’s ear. I’m gone. You sent me away, remember? Did you think I’d want to come back after everything you’ve done?

Viktor ignores it. Glances towards the window.

The ship does not stop in its approach.

His body moves through the ritual on its own. Plates and silverware. Wine at the ready. Food on the platters. He pauses at the potion cabinet—the last of the sleeping draught is long inactive.

Viktor stares at the deadened liquid, as if he can will the magic into being without action. Slowly, he pulls the materials from the components cabinet.

Would Jayce want him to do this? What would he say if he could see the ship?

It doesn’t matter, Viktor tells himself. Jayce isn’t here.

It’s just him.

Adder venom, crushed crickets, ground bone. Delicate stasis runes, swirled in and making the draught glisten. For a moment, Viktor has a spike of fear that the spell won’t work—but, just as quickly, the spell takes, settling over the drought with a familiar shine.

Viktor lets out a sigh of relief. He can, at least, still do this.

He glances to the window.

The ship is at the shore.

Viktor doesn’t hesitate as he drizzles the draught over the food. He doses the wine, then reseals it.

He leans against the counter, crosses his arms, and waits.

There’s something nagging in the back of his head, reminding him of something forgotten. He stares at his hands for a moment, uncomprehending, before it hits him.

The illusion.

It’s more effort than he cares to admit, to place the disguise over himself. After a moment of thinking, he pushes it a little further. Arms that are not completely skeletal. A face that is not quite as hollowed out. Eyes that are not nearly sunken in. Posture just a little bit straighter. He adjusts his angle to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the window. He doesn’t look well, no, not with his long and lank hair and his lightless eyes. But this way, at least, he looks a step further away from death.

There’s a knock.

Painfully, Viktor limps across the kitchen. Opens the door.

Sailors. At least two dozen, each more unrecognizable than the last. Distantly, Viktor wants to note their features, their expressions, their weapons.

He can’t.

“Welcome,” Viktor says blandly. “You must be hungry and tired, yes?”

If the sailors hear the bone-deep weariness in his voice, they say nothing of it. They simply nod, muttering thanks as they enter Viktor’s home, all but collapsing into the chairs, grabbing cushions and placing them on the floor when they run out of places to sit.

Viktor wordlessly places food on the table. Silently watches as the sailors rip into the dishes, tearing off chunks of bread and fruit and meat, pouring glass after glass of wine. Notes the spilled drinks, the greasy fingers, the crumbs, the carelessness.

He stays stood near the counter, unmoving.

Attack, he wants to hiss. Come at me. Do it.

They all stay seated.

Gradually, the sailors begin to loosen, the tension leaving their shoulders, their indistinguishable faces lighting up, their voices growing louder and laughing.

It is still a while, before one stands, before he approaches Viktor and bows.

“Lord of the house, thank you for your generosity,” the sailor says, voice ripe with the kind of reverence that makes Viktor want to scream. “Might we know the name of our gracious host?”

Viktor digs his nails into his palm. Barely keeps his lip from curling. “Viktor,” he says tonelessly.

If any of the sailors sense his disgust, they don’t show it. They all murmur thanks, praises on praises, before turning back to each other and to the food, ignoring Viktor entirely.

His heart burns—there is witchcraft in his fingertips, pulsing and ready. The threads of each sailor sing, slicked and ready with the sleeping draught. It would be easy, so easy.

Viktor waits.

He glances out the window, at the ship anchored in the dark waters.

“You’re curious of our ship?” one of them says suddenly.

Viktor hesitates. He isn’t, not really—these sailors have nothing that could possibly interest him.

The sailor laughs as if Viktor had answered. “Tell me,” he says, his smile dripping with condescension, “Have you ever had Ixtal wine before?”

Viktor has not. He hasn’t even heard of Ixtal before.

Before he can respond, though, another laughs. “Of course he hasn’t,” she scoffs, gesturing around him. “Look at this place! You think trade comes to this far corner of the world?”

Something inside of Viktor’s heart shrivels up. He should… Protest, he thinks. Deny it. Defend his home.

His tongue is no better than lead.

Before he can comprehend it, a small group of the sailors are getting up. “Wait here,” the second sailor says, grinning, her eyes twinkling in something that could be mirth or pity or both.

It isn’t long, before she and her small group have returned, carrying a large shipping container, packed with bottles of wine. The sailors all let out a cheer, clammoring for the bottles, pouring the contents into their emptied cups, the dark purple liquid sloshing over the sides and spilling on to his table.

“Come, Viktor,” the sailor says, offering up a glass, her smile something fierce. “Join us.”

It isn’t a conscious decision, to move, to accept the glass. To sit. To drink. To accept a second, when it is passed his way. A third. A fourth.

Viktor says nothing as the sailors laugh and holler around him. His house is shadowed, the night strangling, his head thick, the noise around him a deafening roar. He cannot remember the last time he drank, let alone had enough to get drunk. Not since his days as a nymph. He isn’t even sure he’s drunk now, or if he’s able to be, considering his godhood. All he knows is that the wine is dry and heavy, that is skin is uncomfortably warm, and that it is increasingly impossible to block out the press of disgusting sailor bodies around him. Someone has lit candles, started up a drinking song, brought out yet another bottle of wine.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s loud, it’s unbearable, it’s awful. But finally, finally, Jayce’s voice is silent.

“Should we really be doing this?” one of the sailors slurs, his voice high and younger than the rest. “This shipment…”

“Don’t worry about it,” someone else says. “They always send us the extra. Something about…” She flounders, waving a hand vaguely. “In case of damages.” She laughs, too loud. “I think getting lost in a storm and needing take refuge on a strange island counts as damages, don’t you?”

The rest of the crew whoops and cheers in agreement.

Viktor is silent. Another glass has found its way into his hand. The liquid is as red and dark as blood. In the candlelight, his illusioned skin looks too pale. When the flames flicker, Viktor swears he can see his true skin underneath it—gleaming purple and stretched thin over bone.

“Better enjoyed by us than that mad lot it was intended for in Piltover,” someone crows, directly in Viktor’s ear.

The heat from the wine is suddenly gone.

Viktor slowly turns his head. There is icy dread in his heart, creeping steadily over his lungs, spreading through his veins. “What of Piltover?” he asks, voice low.

The sailors don’t hear the note of danger that must surely be present, the way that Viktor’s eyes have sharpened. They just laugh.

“Surely you’ve heard the stories, even out here,” someone across the table snickers. “They let the Noxian queen sit on their Council for years, then, get this—one of the Pilties, Mel Medarda, her daughter, is the one who finally offs her.”

Mel Medara. Jayce’s Mel.

The ice in his veins melts, then turns to a dark and steady boil. They send the gods to get Jayce, to protect his Mel, to save her, and she…

Mel hasn’t needed anyone a day in her life.

Viktor sets his glass down. “I had not heard,” he says. Though quiet, his voice carries, dark and low. “Tell me, what else happened in Piltover?”

No one hears the barely-concealed menace in his words. Instead, inexplicably, they brighten, leaning closer in, their eyes lit with frenzy and delight.

“You know the War of the Gods, right?” the nearest sailor says eagerly, their voice ringing directly into Viktor’s ear. “The hotshot Councilor who started it just to surrender the whole thing? Jay something or other?”

Jayce, Viktor wants to hiss. His name is Jayce Talis.

He keeps his mouth shut.

“He disappeared after the surrender,” the sailor continues, gleeful. “Everyone thought he ran, or maybe killed himself, that the shame of it was too great. But then he shows back up in Piltover—get this—ranting and raving about how he was saved by the God of the Arcane! Saved! Can you believe that?”

“Think any of it’s true?” someone across the table crows. “That the Great and Mighty Herald heard of his deeds, and decided to take pity on him?”

More laughter, echoing and distorted.

“I heard he ran away, stole one of those fancy Piltover airships and went straight to the Wild Rift,” someone says eagerly.

“I hear he has a crown of madness branded across his head,” another chimes in with delighted venom.

“I heard they locked him up in their ocean prison,” a third snickers, “That it was Medarda herself who gave the order.”

Viktor’s head is a roar. How much of it is true? All of it? None of it? All he can picture is the face of his partner—Jayce screaming to a faceless audience, Jayce with eyes overtaken by madness, Jayce terrified and in chains…

“Gods, I would kill to know the details,” a woman snickers. “Think he snapped during the war?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he was crazy even before that all began,” someone across the table snorts. “Can’t exactly be stable to go around challenging the gods. And then trying to defend the Herald, of all things! No wonder Medarda locked him up.”

“Probably for the best,” another slurs, grinning and drunkenly slamming a fist against the table. “They should’ve locked him up ages ago, if you ask me. I heard he blew up one of their buildings, even before the war started. Piltover’s Council must’ve been on every drug under the sun when they decided to put him and that Medarda lady in charge.”

“Which Medarda?”

“Either. Both. What’s it that they say? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?”

Viktor says nothing as the sailors laugh, ugly and hooting and echoing through the house. There is fire in his veins, red creeping in at the corners of his vision.

Viktor, Jayce’s voice whispers. Viktor, please.

“Not all men are like you, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs.

A sailor next to him—the captain, the one who bowed—sits up straighter, grinning as he snaps his fingers. “Jayce!” he exclaims. “That’s it—Jayce! Jayce Talis!” He frowns. “Wait, how did you know…?”

Viktor takes his cane and stands. “I wonder,” he starts, each word slow and menacing, “If anyone has considered where he went after the war. Where a ship such as his ended up. Where he must have landed before returning to Piltover. What must have happened to the rest of his crew.”

The table has gone silent.

“Perhaps,” Viktor continues, “He was like you. Perhaps he came to an island such as this. Perhaps he was offered food and shelter after being shipwrecked by a storm.” Viktor smiles. “Where would he have gone, this far out at sea?”

Around him, a couple sailors faces have gone grey, understanding and horror dawning in their eyes.

Viktor begins to circle the table. His hand graces along the sheath of his knife before he draws it, letting it glint in the candelight as he moves. “What would have happened to him? Who would take mercy on the man who fought against the gods?” He stops. Slowly, his illusion begins to disintegrate, speck by speck, line by line. “All speculation, of course,” Viktor says, teeth bared in a facsimile of a smile. “But still, one wonders.”

The air is vibrating around him, sharp and brittle. Every single sailor now is staring, pale and shaking. There is power in Viktor’s veins, and he can feel each and every thread of each and every sailor. It is ripe and palpable, as it had once had been with the nymphs he’d looked to save. It’s an electric and heady sensation, so different yet so similar to the drunken rush of worship.

Fear, he supposes, is its own flavor of reverence.

It is the easiest thing in the world, to reach out along it.

The feel it, they must, because an exhale like a gasp goes through all of them, their hands coming to reach at their heads, their throats, their hearts.

Viktor can hear their physical voices, crying out, begging, but it is reduced to nothing but a dull roar next to the flood of Herald, Herald, Herald echoing in his head.

Please, please, no!

Help us!

Spare us!

Please, Herald, we beg—

Viktor’s lip curls into a snarl. He reaches out, and—

Viktor! Jayce shouts. Viktor!

He stops.

Shifts.

“Know this,” Viktor whispers. His hair is floating around him, all the runes on his body illuminated, his eyes dripping gold. “This Jayce you mock? You live by his grace, not mine. The next time, you might not be so lucky.”

He seizes the threads of the sailors and pulls.

One by one, all the sailors around him go limp, the strings keeping them aloft going slack. Their eyelids droop, their bodies slump, one by one by one, until only the captain is left.

Viktor knows he isn’t imagining the fear on the captain’s face as he nods, desperate. “Please,” he rasps, “Herald, Lord of the Arcane, please. We’ll do anything, we’ll—”

“Leave,” Viktor hisses. “You will do nothing but leave.”

He yanks the threads of the captain’s mind, made pliable with the sleeping draught.

It is more satisfying than it should be, when the captain’s eyes roll to the back of his head and he falls to the floor.

Asleep and unharmed, along with the rest of his crew.

It takes more effort than it should, to drag the sailors’ unconscious bodies back to their ship. To pile them on the lift, to manipulate wood and vines to place them back on their vessel. Viktor’s hands are numb and shaking by the end, the rush from all the completed spellwork making him dizzy.

He waves his hand and releases the sleeping spell the moment before the ship crosses Ekko’s barrier.

He sits on a rock, watching the ship become a speck on the horizon, then as it disappears completely.

It might not be true, he tries to tell himself.

It doesn’t help the onslaught of images.

Jayce gone mad. Jayce put in chains. Jayce locked away.

Something writhing and desperate has lodged itself in Viktor’s chest, hope and terror all at once. Jayce having stayed away from Viktor not because he wanted to, but because he’s being kept away.

The world is alive underneath him, beating in time to the hammer of his heart, his bones rattling with every ragged breath. The fearful worship from the sailors is still echoing inside of him, fueling a raging fire, burning away each and every emotion that isn’t Jayce.

Viktor doesn’t hesitate as he raises his hand.

Light swirls around him, purple and gold white. Power seeps from his hands, pours from his eyes and mouth. It is not what he once was, at the height of his godhood, or even when he had the life force of the Evolved unknowingly sustaining him, but he refuses to think of that.

There is nothing else in the world now, nothing except him and the pathetic distance between his power and Ekko’s barrier.

Viktor releases his power like a storm.

It cracks against the barrier, louder than thunder. Overhead, Viktor can just make out golden splinters in the sky where his power has slammed into the barrier, each echoing like the tick of the hands of a clock, each fading far too quickly. Viktor reaches out, blindly grasping along each and every thread, desperately trying to find one that is loose, that he can pull, that he can snap, anything that will make the barrier unravel around him.

There is nothing.

Nothing but void, nothing but the steady and insistent reversal, with Ekko’s power pressing him back.

“Let me go!” Viktor howls. He throws his godly power against the wall, like slamming his fists against stone. “Do you hear me? Let me go!”

The barrier holds.

Viktor screams again, something tearing in his throat. Blood swirls around him, mixing with his godly magic, and there is an earthquake in his hands and a storm on his tongue. He feels his body collapse on the ground, his fists burying themselves in the sand, reaching along each and every groaning thread of his small world. He pulls every ounce of power he has out of himself, throws it forward, and—

There’s a resounding ting that reverberates through the air, time and space freezing for a single horrible second, and Viktor only has a moment for his eyes to widen before all his power is thrown back into him.

All his nerves explode. It’s the nymphs again, the reversal of his magic, and he physically feels the moment all his bones shatter before his brain shuts off.

When he awakens, everything hurts.

He doesn’t move for a minute, then two, then ten. Finally, he forces his eyelids open. Even that small amount of effort is enough to send ripples of pain down his body.

There is a web of prismatic lesions around him. An explosion with Viktor at its center.

The barrier is as intact as it ever was.

Come and break me, Viktor tries to beg, but it comes out as a garbled croak. Come and punish me. Do it. Do something.

Anything.

The world remains still.

Viktor slowly forces himself upwards. Sand clings to his skin and robes, blood uncomfortably clumped on and around him. He coughs, thick viscera pooling in his mouth and dripping to the ground. He works his jaw, his bones cracking, before he spits out a chunk of something that looks as if it was torn from his stomach. There’s a prickle at the back of his neck, the slow and dawning awareness that he is being watched.

His eyes drift upwards. There is a familiar owl in a tree, brown with a white face and cold eyes.

“Please,” Viktor croaks. “You can do anything to me. Anything. Just let me go to him.” His breath catches in his throat, something broken escaping his mouth. “Please.”

The owl stares, unmoving. Then, it closes its eyes, turning its head away. Viktor blinks, and it is gone, leaving nothing but a few faint green and golden sparks.

He stays frozen on the beach for what feels like hours, nothing but his breath and the deafening waves of the ocean in his ears, waiting for something to happen. It is a long while, before he accepts that no one is coming. That his plea has fallen on deaf ears.

Viktor chokes on a laugh. What was he expecting? Why would any god ever listen to him?

He is trapped. For the rest of his immortal life, he is trapped. He has done nothing but prove his cage’s effectiveness.

He stares at his hands, frail and with a tremor that refuses to lessen. There’s something hot and wet on his back, from where his skin has torn yet again along the spine of his brace.

Viktor places his head into his hands and weeps.

After that, Viktor makes an effort to ignore the horizon. There isn’t fear, not like before. Not even anxiety. Just something dull and empty where he distantly recognizes those emotions used to be.

More will arrive, as they have done so many times before. It may be one year, or two, or ten. But they will come, they will feast, they will want.

And then they will leave.

He thought he knew the expanse of his immortality before, the intimate loneliness, the distance between himself and the rest of the creatures in the world. But never before has it been this overwhelming, this intense, this despairing. Jinx will visit when she can, but there will be months, if not years, in between, where Viktor will try and find something resembling a routine in the vain hope that it will keep him held together again. There will never be another Jayce. No one else will stay. No one else will worm their way into Viktor’s heart and cripple him this deeply.

The world will continue to march on.

And Viktor will stay alone.

Could you have done it if you still had the Evolved? Jayce’s voice whispers. If you’d kept those sailors and their worship there?

Maybe.

He doesn’t know.

He wants to dig his nails into his skin. He wants to tear out his hair. He wants to rip out his own bones. He wants to cut into the raw areas where flesh meets Jayce’s brace and crack his ribs open. He wants to take his sharpest knife and recarve the runic scars and shred every single thread that holds his body together in the vain hope that he will be mortal. He...

...He plants new flowers in the garden. Smears of gold and red that leave the soil warm and the air smelling fresh.

Still, Viktor notes, he will have to revisit them later, when his hands are not shaking, when tears are not making his sight blurry.

It is two months after the Ixtal sailors have left when Viktor is awoken by the sound of wind like thunder.

It jolts him out of bed with a shout. All at once, that fresh and blinding panic returns, as if it’d never even left, just waiting for the right moment to erupt inside his nerves and skull again.

He scrambles for his cane and his knife, standing as fast as he can and facing the window. He’s half-expecting a storm—a hurricane, a tornado, something—but there is no sign of precipitation. And yet, the wind is a visible thing, sweeping and stirring up every loose branch and leaf and blade of grass, whipping it through the air as it whirls and circles.

Viktor wastes no time in running out the door. Even during the worst storms of the year, there has never, not once, been something like this.

As soon as he steps out, the wind whips around his robes, blustering through with a strength that nearly brings him to his knees. Viktor braces himself against the wall and grips his cane, digging it into the dirt as best he can.

An act of the gods. It has to be. Despite it all, victory and bitter relief crawl their way up into Viktor’s heart. Finally, finally, punishment for his crimes. There is no other explanation. Why else would…?

Viktor looks up.

Stops breathing.

A ship.

A ship in the sky.

Huge and breathtaking, the hull slowly cuts through the air, kicking up a wind with its fans and giant sails.

Sails of Piltover blue and gold.

Terror and joy alike rise in Viktor’s throat. He runs, his bad leg dragging and screaming in pain, his cane colliding with his knees in his haste, and he very nearly spills across the ground, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except for getting down to the wide expanse of the beach, where the airship—Jayce’s design exactly—is lowering itself to the ground.

Where his partner has at last returned.

Chapter Text

Jayce, Jayce, Jayce.

Viktor barely remembers how to operate the lift. And when he does, when the silvery and purple glow lights up the chains and begins to send the platform down, it goes far, far too slowly. Never before has its pace felt this glacial, and with every passing second, Viktor’s heart pounds in his chest furiously, as if he were mortal and in danger of it giving out.

Hurry, hurry, Viktor begs as the lift finally grinds itself to a halt, settling on its platform at the bottom of the cliff side. He nearly falls over again in his haste, tripping over what seems like every single rock on the beach, his cane refusing to find purchase, but it doesn’t matter.

Will he kiss Viktor? Cry? Simply hold him? Viktor can picture it so clearly, the love and plain relief as he stumbles out of the airship, beautiful and glowing and here.

Just in time, the airship sets on the ground, letting out a final fwoosh of air as its fans exhale and slowly spin to a creaking stop, as if they’ve exhausted themselves on the journey. From somewhere inside the airship, there’s the rusty scrape of machinery and shifting gears, the sound of something sputtering down.

Those will need to be oiled, Viktor can’t help but think, something like giddiness bubbling up in his mind. The journey must have been long, and Jayce must have been in a rush, for him to not have even oiled the gears.

No matter—they can fix it together later, Jayce eagerly telling Viktor of every single internal mechanism, of the way the pulleys and fans and levers all connect, how the sails are maintained, everything.

There’s a door in the side, and Viktor watches as something opens up underneath it, a wooden plank pushing itself out and hitting the ground with a thunk.

Viktor hesitates—should he go up to the door? Throw it open? Knock?

Before he can decide, the door opens on its own.

Viktor can’t wait any longer—he moves to run up to the plank, ready to meet his partner in the middle. Already, his face is breaking out into a grin, his body practically vibrating. His partner’s name is on his lips— “Jayce—!”

He stops before he can set foot on the plank.

The person in the door is not his partner.

Not even close.

This is a woman, poised and imperial, with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. Her skin and hair are dark, highlighted by glowing symmetrical lines of gold, so artfully applied that Viktor can’t tell if they are ornamental or the result of some blessing of the gods. Her features are soft, but her eyes are sharp. Despite the regality she so clearly holds, she is dressed in nothing but simple white robes.

Even still, even if this is the first time he’s physically seen her, Viktor would recognize her anywhere.

“...Lady Mel Medarda,” he says. The three words come out hard and with no small amount of wariness.

The woman—Mel, Jayce’s Mel—startles for only a moment before her features settle back into calm neutrality. “Lord Viktor,” she replies in a pleasant and musical voice, “God of the Arcane.”

Viktor scowls. Not for a single day in his life has he been deserving of the title of Lord. She is mocking him, she has to be.

The waves crash against the shore and curl around the wooden edges of the airship. The landing wasn't perfect, rumpling the lower sails. Viktor thinks he can see how they were supposed to fold, how the mechanisms were designed to have them neatly collapse, but the fabric is torn and soaked with ocean water, the wood cracked. Viktor can't help but let a bitter seed take root in his heart—with the airship sails broken like this, he won't be able to demand that Mel simply take off and leave.

“...I admit, I am surprised you know who I am,” Mel says after a moment.

“Jayce drew you often,” Viktor replies flatly. Then, because he is resentful and furious and cannot let it stand just there, he adds, "During the first month or so, at least."

Mel's lips press together, the subtle reference to Jayce's swayed affections hitting its mark.

Still, seeing her now, Jayce’s sketches did not do Mel justice. Even he, with preferences that lie firmly in the opposite direction, can acknowledge her beauty. She is radiant in a way that refuses to be catalogued. Even the greatest artists, Viktor suspects, would have trouble capturing her profile.

Viktor detests her.

“Tell me,” Viktor says, not bothering to keep the edge from his voice, “What brings a Councilor of Piltover to my shores?”

Mel hesitates. She nods at him, then, “May I descend?”

It irks something deep inside of him, for her to ask to step foot on his shores. No one has asked before. No one has thought to ask. It is perhaps something he would appreciate, if it were coming from anyone else, but because it is Mel…

“Make your case,” Viktor says, narrowing his eyes.

He knows how he must look—thin and frail, a farce of a god, still unrecovered from years of self neglect, barely keeping himself propped up with his cane. Mel, on the other hand, is perfect, the picture of power and grace as rays of sun cause those golden markings on her skin to dance and gleam.

She evaluates him for a moment, wary from her position above Viktor. “Fine,” she says. “I…” She lets out a heavy sigh, some of the poise leaving her for just a moment. “I need your help.”

Mel hasn’t needed anyone a day in her life.

Every single cell in his body is screaming danger, danger, danger! as loud as they can. Whatever Jayce had said about Mel and her genius, he was underselling it—Viktor can already tell by the few sentences she’s said, see the act that she’s putting on. She is cunning. She is manipulative. She could sway an entire Council to vote in her favor.

She could likely sway Viktor the same way.

Viktor clenches his jaw. “And you would seek the help of a god such as myself?” he says icily. “Whatever you may believe about me, I have remarkably little power.”

Mel scoffs. “That isn’t what Jayce has said.”

Something raw and painful ignites in Viktor’s heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he’s being unreasonable—what Mel said wasn't even an insult. But just hearing Jayce’s name in her mouth, the implication that Jayce has talked to her about Viktor, that she has any idea of what Viktor is capable of…!

“I do not know what Jayce has told you,” Viktor says slowly, power building up inside of him, setting the runes on his body ablaze and wisps of magic curling around his fingers, “But you are in no position to make demands of me.”

“Considering what you have done, I am in exactly the right position,” Mel says coldly.

Viktor refuses to flinch—whether it is a reference to the deaths at his hands or him taking an engaged Jayce to bed, he doesn’t know, but he will not let Mel see that her comment has hit its mark.

“You come to my shores,” Viktor says, scathing, “With your blundering Piltover airship, and you ask for my help with the expectation that I will, what? Roll over and do what you ask because you can invoke Jayce’s name? That I will perhaps feel guilt? What sort of god do you think I am, Lady Medarda?”

Mel’s eyes flash gold, her composure slipping. Immediately, all of Viktor’s suspicions are confirmed: the power of her words aside, she has magic. Likely not witchcraft, likely some blessing from a god, but magic all the same.

Gold light swims around her, grace and power all at once. “I have done nothing—!”

Before she can finish, a cry rips through the air from inside of the ship. It’s raw, ending in a sob, and sets every single one of Viktor’s nerves on end. He would recognize the sound anywhere.

Jayce.

Viktor doesn’t hesitate as he storms up the plank. He bears down on Mel, magic screaming in his veins and dripping from his every pore. “What have you done to him?” Viktor snarls. “Where is he? Let me go to him! You have no right to—!”

He stops.

Mel is… Deflated, almost. It’s the only way Viktor can describe it. The grace has been replaced with a weariness, her eyes and those golden markings all along her skin now dulled. Even though she still stands straight, there is something else there as she regards Viktor.

Fear. Plain and simple fear.

Viktor waits for a moment, to see what she’ll say, if she’ll protest, bluff, threaten. But she’s just silent, shoulders tense as she regards Viktor. Ready to react to his next move, accepting of whatever it may be.

The airship and the island are quiet around them, as if they are the only two beings to exist. Slowly, Viktor slumps, and his power fades from him, the light vanishing, his magic quieting.

“…Perhaps,” Viktor says after a moment, “You should explain what brought you here.”

Mel sighs. “It would be easier to show you,” she says. She turns and begins to walk into the ship, nodding at Viktor to join her. “He’s further in.”

Viktor swallows. He hesitates, but he still follows her. It isn’t like he has a choice, not really.

Not where Jayce is concerned.

The inside of the airship is a combination of wood and what Viktor recognizes as aluminum, or at least a compound of it. Just like the lift Jayce had helped him design.

His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that it takes him a moment to realize how silent the ship actually is.

Viktor furrows his brow. For a ship this size, he would have expected a crew of at least ten, likely more. Engineers to keep the ship running and to keep up repairs, a navigator to steer, a dozen other responsibilities that surely must exist.

But, despite the cramped corridors and muffling fabric, his unsteady step and clink of his brace echo just as loudly as the gentle tapping of Mel’s heeled shoes. The ship is empty.

“Do you have a crew?” Viktor asks after they pass an empty engine room with tools spilled out all along the floor, grease haphazardly spilled and staining the wooden floors.

Mel hesitates. “I do not.”

Everything about this situation is strange, wrong and unsettling in ways Viktor can’t put his finger on. Before he can press, though, there’s another sound from further down the ship's small corridor, a whimper. It's quiet, but in the silence of the rest of the ship, it echoes.

Immediately, Viktor is pulled from every other thought that isn’t Jayce.

Still, the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. This... This isn't right. Why did Mel not bring Jayce out immediately? His presence would have been the best way to guarantee her safety at the hands of the Herald. Why leave him inside the ship? Unless...

"If you have harmed him..." Viktor starts to threaten.

"I have not," Mel says sharply, cutting him off with a pointed glare.

So she says, Jayce's voice whispers in the back of his head, scathing.

Viktor presses his lips together and says nothing more.

Mel stops by the door at the far end. She stands off to the side in the hall, nodding for him to enter.

Viktor’s mouth has gone dry. Cautiously, he approaches. His hands shake, his cane jittery as it clacks against the floor with every movement. The door is mostly closed, but still cracked.

He takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

His first reaction is that Mel must be mistaken—the room is clearly a storage space, a short staircase leading down to the bottom hull of the ship. Even in the dim light, Viktor can see crates stacked on top of each other and pressed against the sides. His second thought is that this is a trap. Clearly, this is a trap.

But for what? What purpose does it serve?

Viktor lets his hand drift to the needle knife at his side, letting his fingers surreptiously curl around it, and—

“If you would like to carve runes or cast a spell, by all means,” Mel says, crossing her arms. “But I would appreciate it if you don’t attempt to be underhanded about it.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, fighting to keep his expression calm as he evaluates Mel. She could still be playing him.

He nods once.

Making sure Mel is watching, he takes out the needle knife. Lets the blade run over his finger. Then, deliberately, traces the runes for grasp and overgrowth at the frame of the door, the indigo of his blood shining and bright.

Then, step by torturous step, he descends down the stairs to the storage space. His still-bleeding finger leaves a thin trail of blood on the railing as he grips it in an attempt to keep his balance.

As he reaches the ground, Viktor pauses, warily studying each shadow and crate. For a moment, he is convinced that Mel has succeeded in tricking him, using his love of Jayce against him.

Then, something in the corner shifts. Lets out a hoarse whimper.

Viktor approaches slowly. He wants to run, to grope for Jayce’s body, to sweep him up and hold him, but something in his hindbrain is still screaming danger.

“Jayce?” he whispers.

No sooner has the name left his lips than something shoots upwards in the corner.

Viktor can’t help but inhale sharply at the sudden movement. He stumbles forward as fast as he can with his limp, and—

Stops. Stares.

His hair has grown longer, hanging greasy and unbrushed around his face. He’s haggard, thinner than Viktor has ever seen him, and even in the dim light, it’s easy to see that his skin has lost its healthy golden glow. He sits on a pile of old pillows that have been haphazardly arranged into a bed of sorts, his body is covered in a scratchy blanket. His eyes are wild, glinting fever bright.

Neon fractals have completely swallowed up his irises.

And yet, it is still beautifully, unmistakably his partner.

“….Viktor?” Jayce croaks.

Viktor nods. There’s something welling up in his throat. He takes a shaking step forward, another, and another. He doesn’t so much as kneel as collapse to the ground, uncaring of the pain in his leg. “You came back,” he whispers, unable to think of anything else.

Jayce stares. In the dim light, the scars on his forehead are brilliant and bright, seeming to reflect every shade of bright color from his eyes. “I… I don’t…” Jayce murmurs. Slowly, his hand comes up, trembling. He traces the side of Viktor’s face.

Viktor keeps eye contact with Jayce, his own hand coming up to cup against Jayce’s, pressing it closer to his cheek.

Jayce’s breath stutters. “I… Are you… Real?” he whispers.

Something in Viktor’s heart shatters.

He swallows. He leans closer, positioning himself so he is sitting at the edge of the makeshift bed, not letting Jayce’s hand leave his face. Viktor sets his cane down, and with his other hand, reaches over and brushes a long strand of hair from where it falls over Jayce’s eyes. Carefully, he smooths it back, tucking it behind Jayce’s ear. “I am real,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady and failing.

Jayce’s breath hitches. His chest heaves, and all at once, he falls against Viktor, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s thin frame.

Viktor can’t bring himself to be embarrassed at how quickly he falls into the embrace, at the tears welling up in his eyes, threading a hand through Jayce’s long and greasy hair. “You came back,” he can’t help but repeat, voice hoarse. “You came back.”

Jayce just holds him tighter, sobbing into his shoulder.

Something clinks against Viktor’s brace.

Startled, Viktor pulls back.

Jayce’s brow knits together. “...Viktor?” he whispers.

Viktor barely hears him.

Slowly, he takes the edge of the scratchy blanket covering Jayce. Heart hammering, he pulls it back.

A brace.

There is brace wrapped around Jayce’s leg.

Metal and leather, it’s something that looks almost haphazardly pieced together. There’s a stabilizing rod running up the side, gears in place to support the knee, four straps around the calve. Even with scratched metal and worn leather, it is undeniably Jayce’s work.

Unwittingly, hypnotized, Viktor reaches forward, fingers outstretched to trace the thickest metal band around his knee.

Something panicked flashes in Jayce’s eyes. “Don’t touch me!” he shouts, recoiling as he shoves Viktor away.

Viktor is wholly unprepared—both for the blow itself, and for the strength behind it—and doesn’t have time to even think to defend himself as Jayce’s hands slam against his chest. He goes tumbling off the makeshift bed and sprawling across the ground, his cheek slamming against the wooden floor and scraping against his palms.

For a moment, all Viktor can do is gape. Jayce pushed me, he thinks, disbelieving. Jayce wouldn’t… Jayce never… He wouldn’t.

And yet, when he brings a hand to his face, stunned, it stings, his fingers coming away with a faint stain of indigo blood.

When he looks up, Jayce has shoved himself into the farthest corner and up against a crate, knees drawn to his chest, his breathing ragged, his expression horrified. “I’m…” he stammers. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t…” Then, he blinks. His head falls between his knees, his hands coming up to clutch at his hair. His voice is a million miles away when he begins to mutter. “No. No. You’re not real.”

Viktor’s heart drops to the floor and shatters into a million pieces.

“Why did I think…?” Jayce shakes his head and laughs. “You’re never real. You’re not real."

Viktor wants to scream. He wants to burst into hysterical laughter. He wants to weep.

Instead, he somehow manages to numbly drag himself back across the floor towards his partner. He finds his cane, trying to ignore how his fingers refuse to curl around the grip without shaking. As he approaches Jayce, it takes everything in him not to sob as Jayce flinches away from him.

Viktor swallows. “We should… Get you out of here,” he says, only the slightest tremor in his voice. “Get you up to our home. I still have your room as we left it. I…” His voice breaks. He has no words, no evidence, nothing that can convince Jayce that he is real. “Please," he whispers, "It would be better than down here, at least, would it not?” He can barely keep the hollow desperation from his voice. He forces his mouth into a shaky smile and holds out a cautious hand.

Jayce looks up, staring uncomprehending at Viktor’s hand. Viktor holds his breath. What does he do if Jayce doesn’t take it? If Jayce tries to shove him away again? Gods, he doesn’t know if he could take that again without fully breaking, making it so even Jinx couldn’t possibly drag him back into being again.

Then, shaking just as badly as Viktor, Jayce accepts Viktor’s hand.

Viktor lets out an unsteady exhale.

Jayce’s hand is clammy and cold, completely unlike how he remembers.

He shakes his head, trying to banish the thought before it reduces him to a collapsed and sobbing mess. He focuses on keeping himself upright as he pulls Jayce to his feet. As soon as they’re standing, both their braced legs nearly buckle.

All at once, Viktor is struck by a thought—We match.

Two bad legs, both trying to keep themselves upright as their bodies fight against them.

Viktor smooths his face into neutrality as he carefully and intentionally locks that traitorous thought away. He adjusts his stance, angling so Jayce’s arm is around his shoulders, so that his weight is distributed between his good leg and his cane.

Then, step by torturous step, Viktor begins to lead Jayce out.

Chapter Text

As soon as she sees them come out, Mel lets a sigh of poorly disguised relief. “You got him out,” she murmurs. “I haven’t been able to make him move in days.”

Viktor doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know if he’s even able to.

Jayce is quiet next to him, breathing shallow and ragged. Where he clutches to Viktor, his hands shake.

Mel’s gaze darts between the two of them. She hesitates, then, reaching out slightly, “Do you need—?”

“No,” Viktor snaps, cutting her off and adjusting his stance so that he is firmly planted between her and Jayce.

Mel, gracefully, does not respond to that.

What are you doing? Viktor screams at himself. You should be thanking her. She brought Jayce here. She wants to help.

Does she?

Slowly, the three of them make their way down the cramped halls and out of the airship. Jayce stumbles as they carefully limp down the ramp, a hand coming up to shield his face against the sun.

As they cross the beach, part of Viktor ridiculously hopes that the lift will spark something in Jayce, that its presence can pierce through whatever veil of madness has come over him. But Jayce says nothing, barely reacting at all as Viktor guides him on to the lift.

Viktor runs his hand over the chains, the runes illuminating silver and purple as the lift groans to life, beginning its ascent upwards.

Mel delicately touches the side railing, examining. “This is Jayce’s work,” she murmurs, “Is it not?”

Viktor turns away from her. “Both of ours,” he replies curtly.

The lift grinds to a halt above, the glow of the runes on the chain fading.

Jayce's eyes dart around as they step off the lift. Viktor has only made it a couple of feet when, without warning, Jayce's legs freeze up.

Viktor looks up, intending to ask what’s wrong, but his words die on his tongue.

Jayce is staring at the forest, at the jeweled butterflies lazily drifting back and forth between prismatic scarring that trails along the bark and leaves. His chest heaves, his whole body beginning tremble, his eyes wide, his pupils pinpricks. “No,” he croaks. “No.” His gaze snaps to Mel. “Why did you bring me here?” he demands. Then, anger building in his voice, “I thought… You said you’d help me get back to Viktor!”

Panic flares in Viktor’s chest—what does he do? What can he do? He looks at Mel, but she looks just as startled, hands anxiously wringing in front of her.

Jayce rips himself from Viktor’s grasp, stalking forward towards Mel, his brace letting out an awful and grinding creak. “You’re tricking me again, aren’t you?” he questions.

Mel doesn’t move, her shoulders square, but Viktor can see her swallow, gold light curling around her fingers.

“I should’ve known,” Jayce growls. “Pretending to be him, shoving me out of the way, all so you can—!”

Viktor can’t take it any longer—he steps forward and grabs Jayce’s hand, bringing it up to his face, so Jayce is cupping his cheek.

Jayce whips his head around, his entire body going still. He stares at Viktor, unseeing. His hand is little better than a dead thing on Viktor’s face—cold and shaking and horribly unlike the Jayce that Viktor remembers.

“We should go inside,” Viktor hears himself say, somehow steady despite everything. “It is not… Changed, in there, not like it is in the forest. I promise.”

Jayce stares at Viktor a second longer, confusion on his face. For a moment, Viktor thinks he’s going to explode again, go back to yelling at Mel. As much as Viktor would rather not so much as think about Mel, much less give her something as kind as concern, it is difficult to not feel a little sorry for her. Unless that’s part of her trick, too? Pretending to be him. What did Jayce…?

Before Viktor can contemplate it further, all the tension bleeds out of Jayce at once, replaced with defeat. He shakes his head and, seemingly unable to fully process anything else, resolutely closes his eyes. "Back inside," he mutters. "Fine."

Viktor tries not to breathe a sigh of relief.

Jayce lets Viktor guide him forward, though his eyes remain squeezed shut. Viktor has to adjust his stance again, half propping himself up against the frame, but he manages to push the door open.

No sooner have they crossed the threshold than Viktor hears a familiar crack behind them.

He whips around, half-expecting to see Caitlyn and Violet, demanding Jayce’s release again. But it’s just Mel, wincing as she carefully touches her face, where a fresh red mark is steaming. She hesitates, then brings her hand forward, watching with fascination as magical energy vibrates around her hand, spiking and rippling, pressing her back like opposite ends of a magnet.

Viktor narrows his eyes. “Is there something the matter, Lady Medarda?” he asks coolly.

Mel breaks his gaze, staring at her feet. “I have… Recently learned,” she says carefully, “That part of my parentage may be divine.”

Viktor scoffs. “Jayce never mentioned—”

“Jayce did not know,” Mel says sharply. Then, folding her arms over her chest, more softly, “Neither did I, for that matter, not until after he returned to Piltover.”

Is she lying? Telling the truth? Some combination of both? All of Jayce’s praise of Mel, how she could read and manipulate a room in seconds, echoes in his head.

Of course, Jayce chooses then to blink, shaking his head slightly as some level of awareness settles back over him. “...Mel?” he whispers. “What’s happening? Where are…?” His breath hitches as he looks around the kitchen, his eyes growing more panicked by the second.

Viktor sighs. As gently as he can, he guides Jayce down in the nearest chair. “It is alright,” he says softly, letting his touch linger on Jayce’s shoulder for just a moment. Then, squaring his shoulders, he walks back over to Mel as he takes the needle knife from its sheath. He steps just over threshold. “Your hand, Lady Medarda,” Viktor says coolly.

“Just Mel,” Mel corrects, voice equally chilled. “I do not use my mother’s name.” Her gaze darts to the knife, then right over Viktor’s shoulder to where Jayce is seated. “And why?”

“I require your blood to add to the ward,” Viktor says flatly. He moves slightly, as if to turn around back into the house. “Of course, if you would rather reside outdoors…”

Mel elegantly takes the knife from Viktor’s hand before he can finish. Her glare is something fierce, and she doesn’t break his gaze for even a moment as she slices into her palm. Without saying a word, she hands the bloodied knife back to Viktor, stained with gold-tinted red.

Viktor takes it with a slight nod. “For future reference,” he says mildly, taking the needle knife and tracing over the runic inscriptions on the frame, “The forearm is best for drawing spellwork blood. Less nerves, and you do not have to cut nearly as deep.”

Even turned away from her, he can feel Mel’s scowl.

Viktor runs a hand over the newly bloodied runes as he casts the spell. The ward pushes back against him, hissing in his mind as the trace amounts of Mel's blood squirm and writhe.

I want her here, he reminds himself, gritting his teeth. For Jayce.

For a moment, he fears the spell won’t take. But then, there’s a sound like a sigh, and the runes flash gold for just a moment, the addition to the spell settling in. Something warm shifts in the air, the ward seeming to accept his intent for Jayce if nothing else. 

Viktor wipes the needle knife down on his robes. “You may enter now, Lady Medarda.”

Although the ice coming off of her is palpable, Mel doesn’t comment as she primly steps over the threshold and into Viktor’s house.

Viktor tries to ignore her, the wrongness of having Jayce’s fiancée in his home. He kneels on the ground next to Jayce, who is now staring at the kitchen counter with a furrowed brow. When Viktor places a soft hand on his arm, Jayce startles again, sucking in a breath as he looks at Viktor.

“Viktor?” Jayce whispers. “What are you doing here?”

Viktor swallows. “Let’s get you to our room.”

Jayce nods, looking dazed with disbelief. He lets Viktor help him to his feet, his brace creaking, the gear at the knee painfully clicking into place.

“You will need to oil that,” Viktor murmurs before he can stop himself.

Something dark clouds Jayce’s expression. “Not allowed in a lab,” he mutters. “Remember?”

Viktor’s heart clenches. “We can remedy that,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. “This is not Piltover. There are no eyes here.”

Something in Jayce seems to relax at that, though the cloud doesn’t fully leave him.

Viktor starts to guide Jayce towards the hall, but pauses as he hears the clicking of heels behind him.

He spares a glance back at Mel. “Wait here,” he says, hoping that Mel can infer the unsaid we will talk later.

She seems to understand, thankfully. She nods, settling down into a chair, folding her hands in her lap.

Viktor resists letting out a sigh of relief as he limps down the hall, Jayce next to him, unsteady but there.

Jayce freezes as they reach the workshop door, sudden enough that Viktor nearly falls over. He stares at the closed door, as if he can see past it and into the lab and forge inside. His fingers twitch at his side, as if to reach for the handle. Then, he flinches, shoulders curling inwards and his eyes squeezing shut as he brings his hands to his forehead, hissing in obvious pain.

Viktor keeps his hand at Jayce’s arm, trying to steady him. “What do you need?” he begs.

Jayce looks up at Viktor, neon and hazel warring in his eyes. “Where am I?” he demands, panicked. “Where am I?”

“Home,” Viktor tries. “You are home, Jayce, please…”

Jayce shakes his head. “Stop telling me that!” he snaps, pulling away. Then, urgently, “I… I need to leave, I need to get back to Viktor, I promised him I’d...” He gasps, fingers digging into his hair. Then, in a whisper, “He sent me away. Why… Why did he send me away?”

Viktor’s heart and lungs are heavier than lead.

As gently as he can, he tries to guide Jayce back up, subtly press him away from the workshop. Thankfully, Jayce obliges, seemingly not wanting to look at the workshop and everything it entails for longer than he has to.

What is happening? Jayce's voice pleads in Viktor's head. Are you really here? Where did Mel bring me? Tell me, please, please...

Viktor swallows and ignores it.

The walk down the hall is short. When they reach the bedroom door—the door Viktor has resolutely kept shut for years—he hesitates only a moment before turning the handle. The bedroom door squeaks open, the hinges rusty from disuse. Viktor lets out a sigh of relief when he sees that Jinx has spared this room her paints. There is some dust still on some of the shelves and gadgets, but it is, overall, clean and preserved exactly as it had been.

Jayce, still in a daze, allows Viktor to guide him in. He looks down at himself, as if taking stock of his dirtied and stained clothes, the grime caked into the very beds of his fingernails. There’s something dark along the edges of his leather bracelet, flaking and congealed and with the appearance of dried blood.

“Would you like a bath?” Viktor asks quietly. “Or to lie down?”

Jayce hesitates. He warily looks between the bed and Viktor, like he’s still trying to determine how much of his surroundings are real. Eventually, though, he slumps, limping forward and collapsing on the bed, almost curling into himself as he closes his eyes.

Viktor swallows. Like this, Jayce seems impossibly fragile, like one wrong move will shatter him completely. In this moment, he is beyond grateful that Jinx and her bright paints never made it into this room before she left—he has no idea how Jayce would react to that unfamiliarity, when his mind is already so brittle. Carefully, Viktor sits down on the bed next to him. Close, but not touching.

Jayce jerks upwards at the shifting of weight. Hazel and neon war in his irises, his face tight with pain.

“Would you like me to take your brace off?” Viktor asks. “It will hurt, sleeping with it on.”

Jayce is silent for a moment. Then, subtly, he jerks his head in a nod.

Viktor reaches out slowly, like he’s approaching a feral animal, hating himself for the comparison. He tenses as his fingers touch on the first strap.

Jayce flinches, but otherwise, doesn’t move.

Viktor waits a moment to be sure, then, carefully, carefully, he begins to undo the straps of the brace. The leather is cracked at the edges, parts of it flaking off on to the bed. Keeping an eye on Jayce for any sudden movement, Viktor works his way down, until the fourth and final strap at the calf is released. As Viktor moves on to the metal bands, loosening each rusted and scratched hinge, he tries to catalogue the parts. It’s made of salvaged materials, clearly, things so old that they should have been trashed.

How did this happen? Viktor wants to cry. You should have been safe. You were supposed to be safe.

With the release of the last creaky band, the brace loosens. Without the brace, there is nothing to block the mess of scar tissue at Jayce’s knee.

Worse, there is nothing to block the scars in the shape of runes.

Viktor tries to keep his expression blank through the wave of queasiness that threatens to overtake him. For a moment, he can only gape, the runes glaring back as if to mock him.

Revitalize. Conditioning. Resolve.

They circle around the knee, ragged and messy, like Jayce had scratched them into his skin with his own nails.

Even with the right components, even with intent, there would be no way that runes like these would ever be able to properly channel witchcraft.

He makes himself tear his gaze away from the runes in Jayce’s leg. “I… I will leave this here,” he manages to say, making sure Jayce is watching as he places it on the side table, easily within reach.

You did this to me, Jayce’s voice hisses in his ear. You did this. You, you, you…

“…Do you need anything else?” Viktor makes himself ask.

Jayce doesn’t respond for a minute, silent as he regards Viktor, something warring on his face. Then, all the energy seems to leave him at once, his body falling back on to the pillows.

Viktor sighs. He begins to rise from the bed, then without warning, Jayce’s hand shoots out, grasping his wrist.

“Don’t,” Jayce gasps. Then, quieter, head falling slightly, “Don’t… Don’t leave me. Please.”

Viktor’s heart is tight in his chest. He inches closer, hand extended cautiously towards Jayce’s face. Relief unravels in his chest as Jayce melts into the touch as he has a thousand times before. Viktor lets his thumb brush against Jayce’s cheek, lets his fingers brush hair from Jayce’s eyes. “Never,” he swears.

Never again.

It takes a while, before Jayce relaxes enough to fall asleep. Viktor doesn’t move from his position on the bed, and he doesn’t stop stroking Jayce’s face.

You are real, Viktor keeps telling himself. You are real, you are here, and I will not let anyone touch you. Not ever again.

Viktor waits until Jayce’s breathing is even, until the last bit of tension leaves his shoulders. Then, slowly, he eases himself off the bed, letting his hand linger on the side of Jayce’s cheek for just a moment. When he draws it back, Jayce thankfully does not so much as stir. With all the care in the world, Viktor pulls the blanket up and over Jayce’s body. Then, making sure his cane does not so much as make a single clink against the floor, he slips out of the room.

The sun has almost set, casting purple shadows across the hall. Outside, the birds have fallen silent, replaced by the soft hum of crickets. Viktor can’t help but glance out every window, half-expecting to see Jinx peeking in, or at least the feeling of her glinting eyes following him. But there is nothing.

He is only somewhat surprised, to see that Mel is no longer seated when he comes back to the kitchen.

She is in front of an open cabinet, eyeing its contents with interest, a finger tracing along the edges of a jar filled with marigold petals. When she sees Viktor, she hums, saying, "Jayce had me collect these every year, you know. Had me guard the door to make sure no one saw while he mixed components. Did he learn that spell from you?"

Viktor storms forward and slams the cabinet shut. “Has no one ever told you—!”

“You left me alone for an hour,” Mel interjects coolly, crossing her arms and raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “And you never said I couldn’t look at anything. Besides, Jayce has said so little of this place—can you blame me for being curious?”

Viktor clenches his jaw. “Then I am telling you now,” he says scathingly, “Do not touch any of my belongings without permission.”

“Fine,” Mel says, tossing a braid over her shoulder. Then, with less ice, “Jayce. Is he…?”

Viktor sighs. “Asleep,” he says, softer.

Mel exhales slowly. “Good,” she murmurs. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him fall asleep.”

Immediate, boiling jealousy fills Viktor’s chest.

It’s unreasonable—he knows it’s unreasonable, that Mel likely meant nothing by it, at least not in the way that he’s thinking—but the thought of her sitting at Jayce’s bedside, trying to ease him into sleep…

Viktor scowls. “This way,” he says, snappish. “I have a spare room.”

Mel surely has to hear the bite there, but she says nothing of it, gracefully following after Viktor as he stalks through the house.

He tries not to notice the stark differences between them. The elegant demigod with soft features and perfect posture and an even step and golden grace, put up next to the fallen and crippled witch-god with a bitter tongue and creaking limp and hollowed-out face.

Viktor deliberately marches towards the room Jinx had used when she was staying. It is the most recently cleaned, after all, even if the walls are covered in bold splashes of paint. The fact that it is the one farthest away from Viktor and Jayce’s shared room is irrelevant.

As Viktor gestures towards the open room, Mel enters wordlessly. She says nothing of the piles of boxes overflowing with knick-knacks, and she only raises her brows a little at the neon paint on the walls. Her steps are careful and precise as she takes it in, silently evaluating the haphazardly made bed and window that looks out towards the forest.

After a moment, she nods, apparently deeming it as acceptable. She turns to Viktor, her hands still perfectly folded in front of her. “I am sure you have questions,” she begins.

“What happened to him?” Viktor snaps.

Mel hesitates. “You will have to be more specific.”

“Take your pick,” Viktor spits out. “His leg. His mind. Him. What. Happened?”

Mel runs a hand over the quilt. “I was hoping you would tell me,” she says, something careful in her tone. “His leg was like that when he returned. His mind has gotten worse in the past year or so, but it was already half-gone by the time he appeared in Piltover.”

Viktor’s head turns into a blinding roar. “That… That cannot be right,” he manages. “Jayce was… Like this? When he arrived in Piltover?”

It’s subtle, but Viktor sees the way Mel’s breath catches, the shock she conceals a second too late. “...Yes,” she replies after a moment.

Despite the grip on his cane, Viktor has to press his hand up against the door frame to steady himself. He shakes his head, slowly at first, then faster. “That makes no sense,” he murmurs. “He was fine when I sent him to Piltover. The hextech was working. The geo-coordinates were correct. He should have been deposited exactly outside the city.”

How many times had they double and triple and quadruple checked those equations? Every single test by the end had been a success. Viktor knows the calculations were correct. He knows they were.

“He was fine when he left,” is all Viktor can say. “He was not… He was…”

Mel bites her lip. “I don’t know what happened,” she admits. “Even before things got worse, he refused to speak of what happened to him. All he’s said is that he needed to get back here.”

To you, is left unsaid, but Viktor feels it regardless.

“Is that all?” Mel asks after a moment.

Viktor hesitates before answering. Is she telling the truth? Part of it? None of it? He needs something to verify her words, or at least to help give him ground to stand on. Jayce would be ideal, but Viktor cannot, will not, press him more than necessary in his current state. Which leaves…

“…Not tonight,” he decides. “Tomorrow.”

When he will have enough pieces to see through whatever story Mel attempts to spin.

Mel just nods, sitting down on the bed. “Tomorrow,” she agrees.

Viktor inclines his head briefly before all but fleeing the room, unable to look at Mel and her golden perfection for another second.

She thinks she can just waltz in and present him with Jayce, sit in his home and evaluating his belongings and his past with that quiet judgment, thinking that Viktor will tolerate or perhaps even ignore her presence with Jayce to keep him sated?

No. Not without answers.

Viktor waits in the kitchen for thirty minutes, one hour, two hours, waiting to see if Mel will tiptoe out of the room to continue her unwanted explorations. But she doesn’t. And, even though Viktor strains his ears, he doesn’t hear so much as a peep from her room.

Cautiously, he rises, sliding out of his chair and across the kitchen, each movement slow as can be.

For the first time, he wishes he still had Evolved on the island. As sickening as their presence was, it did, at the very least, provide him an extra level of security. With any luck, Mel will stay in her room until morning, choosing caution while dealing with both a mentally ill Jayce and volatile witch.

Still careful not to make a single sound, Viktor slips out the front door.

The night air is cool and fresh. Thin clouds float overhead, drifting over and past the moon. Viktor pauses at the lift, thinking, then turns and makes his way down the well-worn trail down to the beach. The lift, for all its usefulness, is far from silent, and he would rather not risk alerting either Jayce or Mel to his activities.

As he makes his way down to the beach, the wind picks up, whipping his robes around his legs. Viktor grips his cane and the railing tighter, trying not to shiver.

The airship sits on the beach just as they left it, huge and breath-taking and imposing. Viktor can’t help but pull it up next to that first trial sketch he’d done after Jayce had mentioned the airships, the measurements that he’d scribbled out on a whim, enthralled by the theory. Despite the apparent accuracy of his sketch, it is different seeing in-person, the sheer scale and breadth of it making it look closer to an impossibility. If Viktor hadn’t seen it flying, he’d scoff at the idea that it could ever leave the ground.

His hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Viktor looks once behind him, but there’s nothing, not even an animal. Just the trees, gently swaying in the wind.

In the few hours since Jayce and Mel arrived, the tide has fully come in, and the waves now pool and lick at the edges of the wooden plank leading up to the still-open door. Try as he might, Viktor can make out nothing but shadows past it. Before he can begin to talk himself out of it, Viktor squares his shoulders and walks up the plank, into the Piltover airship.

In the dark of the night, it’s eerie, every creak of wood reverberating louder than it should. Viktor can hear the wind buffeting against the fabric, making it seem like something is trying to batter the sides and force its way in. His heart races, so loud and so fast that it is near-indistinguishable from the wind.

You are fine, Viktor tells himself. You are being ridiculous. There is nothing here. Nothing.

Nothing, hopefully, except for answers.

Still, he’s careful as he picks his way through the airship, pausing to open every single door. It is immediately apparent that, as Mel had claimed, there is no one else here. No extra luggage, no crates of food, no supplies meant to last for a crew.

Viktor’s stomach churns in unease.

Even the most ransacked, lost, storm-wrecked ships have had more supplies than this airship.

There is an old toolbox in the engine room, all its contents spilled out on the floor as if someone was desperately searching for something, but none of them look as if they’ve been used recently. Nearly every single crate is empty, and what little food is left has been nearly picked bare, the tanks of clean water down to the last few drops. Save for one carefully packed suitcase full of fine sheets of robes and elegant golden clasps, there is practically nothing else. Even Jayce’s corner—with its lump of pillows in the shape of a mattress and its grime-stained, scratchy blanket—only has a single bag next to it, shoved full of gears and wrenches and screwdrivers.

Viktor is scowling, ready to toss the bag to the side, when something rustles in it. He goes still. Considers it. Then, carefully, roots through it.

At the very bottom, there are crumpled messes of papers in Jayce’s hand. More scrawled and illegible than usual, but still undeniably Jayce’s hand. In a torn corner, Viktor can just barely make out Jayce’s signature.

You still sign all your pages, Viktor can’t help but think, his mouth twitching into a soft smile.

But, as he unfolds the pages, his breath stills in his lungs.

Hextech. Undeniably, it is hextech.

Every single rune is laid out, every single gear and wire accounted for. The notes overlap between pages, scribbled lines and equations bleeding together, but at the center of the mess is a sketch of a stand holding up a gemstone.

A gemstone that is not Jayce’s teardrop. A gemstone that has the undeniable acceleration rune scratched on it.

Viktor drops the papers as if they’re coals. They flutter to the ground, their soft rustle as loud as thunder in the quiet of the night. He stares at them on the floor, heart hammering, half-expecting the crystal to leap from the pages and into his hands, ready and taunting with a fresh golden thread and the promise of a soul to siphon.

But they only lay there, still and harmless.

It’s a long few minutes, before he kneels to the ground, before he begins to study the equations. Still, he does not touch them. He doesn’t know if he can without shredding them to pieces.

The notes are messy, filled with near-indecipherable tangents, but they’re accurate. Jayce was working on hextech. Even in Piltover, even knowing what powered it, he was trying to crack hextech again. But why are the notes here? Why are they here, on an airship? Why didn’t it work?

Where is the gemstone?

Heart hammering, Viktor shoves the notes into the pocket of his robes. Quickly, he rises, and nearly trips over his own feet ascending the staircase. He gropes the walls, trying to orient himself. The steering bay. Someone had to navigate. There has to be something there, some kind of answer, something, anything…

Viktor throws open a door, unable to help the breath of relief that leaves his lungs when he sees a steering wheel surrounded by panels upon panels of dials and gears. Finally, something with answers.

More carefully, he approaches, taking note of where each knob and dial has been set. On the nearest panel, there are fluttering papers, spilled across the ground. Viktor picks one up, examining.

He’s only faintly surprised to see sketches of constellations. They’re paired with equations for triangulation, so many crossed out and overlapping that it is impossible to understand. Viktor scowls, ready to toss them aside, but then his eye catches on a desk in the corner. A desk with a map pinned to it. 

Viktor makes his way over, papers still clutched in hand as he stares. There's clean black ink marking a line from Piltover to somewhere in Demacia. A highlighted route with stops circled on it. And, next to it, a log with a schedule. Then, scribbled and circled at the bottom, a line of geo-coordinates Viktor remembers from one of their tests, when they'd tried to get a plant teleported down to the beach.

There’s a soft creak of wood behind him.

Viktor closes his eyes briefly. “Lady Medarda,” he says without looking.

Mel’s footsteps approach him, soft despite the click of her heels against the wooden floor. “If you still wanted answers, all you had to do was ask.”

“And trust that you would have given the full and unequivocal truth?” Viktor replies flatly.

Mel lets out a sigh. “I deserve that, I suppose.”

Viktor looks up. She stands next to him, a trailing hand on the desk. Even with the low moonlight, the golden lines over her hands and nails glint like rays of sun.

“Where is Jayce’s crystal?” he asks.

Mel blinks. “The one in his bracelet?” she inquires, doing little to rein in her surprise at the question. “I thought it was here—it was gone when he arrived in Piltover.”

Viktor studies her. Is she telling the truth? It seems like it—why else would she jump to the crystal in Jayce’s bracelet rather than the one he’s sketched in his blueprints? But then, if she is as good at manipulation as Jayce says…

He shakes his head. He will need to revisit that issue later, once he’s had time to gather more answers. In the meantime, there is a more pressing issue.

“Was that it?” Mel questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Why did you run away from Piltover?” Viktor asks flatly.

Mel pauses. Then, with a careful tap of her finger against the desk, “You are mistaken. We did not flee—”

“This airship is stolen, is it not?” Viktor interrupts. He gestures towards the map and the schedule. “By this log, this ship was set to arrive in Demacia just under two months ago, a mere week-long journey from Piltover. If Jayce’s calculations are correct, and it took you two months to fly here, you would have just skirted by with the amount of food meant to be sold there.” He looks up. “Although, I confess I am a bit surprised the airship is still functional, and that you have not yet run out of fuel. Has Jayce been able to work any repairs, or have you simply gotten lucky?”

Mel is silent.

“What happened?” Viktor demands. “Truly?”

Mel carefully turns, walks towards the steering wheel, where directions and equations are still spilled over the panels. “Jayce told me you were clever,” she murmurs. “I confess, I thought he was exaggerating. Not anything against you, of course, but he has always had a bit of a blind spot when it comes to magic.”

“I notice you are avoiding the question,” Viktor snips.

Mel sighs. “Fair enough.” She hesitates. “Jayce said Violet and… Caitlyn…” She swallows, something pained flashing across her face before it disappears, carefully hidden away. “That they both visited you. How much did they say of my situation?”

“I am not playing this game, Lady Medarda,” Viktor snaps. “Either tell me exactly what happened and why you are here, or kindly take your stolen airship and leave.”

Mel’s head snaps up, every line on her body flaring gold. “I am not playing games! I am here because Jayce—” She stops, takes a deep breath, composes herself. “I apologize. It has been a stressful few months.” She snorts. “Years, really.”

Viktor doesn’t respond, keeping his face unphased and neutral. He will not react, not give her anything that she can use to veer off into a different direction.

Mel picks up some of the papers, smoothing out the creased edges. “He’s been trying to get back here for ages,” she admits softly. “Since the moment he returned to Piltover.”

Viktor bites his tongue to keep silent, even as he wants to scream and cry at the confirmation.

Mel slowly gathers up the papers around them, carefully arranging them into a neat stack in her hands. “He wouldn’t tell me where he’d been, at first,” she says, just a hint of hurt bleeding through the words before she composes herself again. “Everything I’ve learned has been from the moments he slips and starts ranting, or when he thinks he’s somewhere else, or when he thinks I’m…” She stops, swallowing.

When he thinks you are me, Viktor realizes with a dull pang.

Mel picks up the last stray paper, neatly adding it to the stack before coming over to the desk and carefully placing them down. “I didn’t realize what he was doing,” she says softly, “Making his hextech again. Using witchcraft.”

A chill goes down Viktor’ spine.

“He was forbidden from the labs,” Mel says, quiet. “Not my orders, for what it’s worth, but it hardly mattered. He snuck in regardless, and he was caught, just a few months after his return. There was a trial, a tribunal, a sentencing. He was about to be imprisoned, but his mother…”

Jayce’s voice echoes in his head—My mother thought I was insane even before I left for the war.

Viktor closes his eyes. He knows what Mel is going to say, even before the words leave her lips.

“She said that her son was not in his right mind,” Mel says, confirming Viktor’s suspicions. “That the Herald himself had scarred and broken him. She begged the Council for leniency for her mad son.”

Viktor clenches his fist. How could she. How could she?

“She called madness down upon him,” he murmurs, anger laced in his words.

Mel sets the papers down with a soft but sharp thud. “She was trying to save him,” she says, eyes flashing as she turns to Viktor. “If she hadn’t intervened, if she hadn’t placed the blame on you instead of admitting that Jayce himself had purposefully been using witchcraft, Jayce would have been imprisoned, likely fully bound in chains and unable to even move.”

The cold certainty in her voice is impossible to ignore.

Viktor closes his eyes briefly. “And then?” he asks, hating how raw his voice sounds.

Mel sighs, resting her hands against the desk and slumping over. “And then?” She shakes her head. “He was already in a poor state. Hearing that only made it worse. Anyone could see that he’d gone insane. He was remanded to his mother’s care.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Not yours?”

As his fiancée, Mel should have been the obvious choice.

Mel looks up at him. “I ended our engagement,” she says softly. “Just a week after he returned.”

Viktor’s heart drops to his stomach so fast that he’s amazed his immortality doesn’t leave him right then and there.

He’s no longer engaged. He’s no longer engaged.

He should be joyous. He should be relieved. He should be on his hands and knees thanking Mel, begging for her forgiveness, praising her for understanding.

Instead, something cold is creeping in through his heart.

It is another minute, before it hits him, what is wrong—the word choice. Mel ended it. Not Jayce. Mel.

Why didn’t Jayce end it?

Why did Mel end it?

How dare she not stand by him? How dare she forsake him only a week after he’d returned? How dare she? How dare she?

“I’d appreciate it if you spared your judgment,” Mel says sharply.

“How could you?” Viktor hisses. There’s something building in his veins.

“You have no right,” Mel snaps. “Do you have any idea the sacrifices I’ve made? What I’ve given up for his sake? I brought him here for—!”

“For you,” Viktor interrupts, lip curling. “For you—is that right? So you could simply pack him away on an island prison, where you and the rest of Piltover never have to see or think about him again, no?”

Mel says nothing.

Somehow, that’s worse.

The wind has gone silent, the ship around them too quiet and too still. When Mel turns her gaze towards him, Viktor can’t help but take a step back.

Her eyes are pure illuminated gold, light falling from every shining line across her body.

There is a false and deadly calm spreading over her features. “The first night he was in Piltover,” Mel says, slowly and clearly, “I brought him up to our chambers. He said nothing. I thought he was in shock, that it would perhaps fade along with his worst memories of war. He let me bring him to bed, but he recoiled from my touch. He wouldn’t even look at me.” Mel sets her jaw. “I woke in the middle of the night. He was sat up straight in bed, staring into nothing. I touched his shoulder, and he finally looked at me, right in the eye. He reached out as if to touch my face, and in the most broken voice I’d ever heard in my life, he called me Viktor.” She tosses her braids over her shoulder. “What would have you done, Herald?”

Without waiting for a response, she turns and leaves, the click of her heels echoing through the empty airship.

Chapter Text

Viktor tries to explore more of the airship. He really does.

All his curiosity is dampened after his conversation with Mel. To his annoyance, he can’t even drum up a sliver of fascination at the mechanisms of the engine—something he’s been dying to do ever since Jayce had first brought up the existence of an airship all those years ago.

He leaves the airship in a huff, not even bothering to be quiet as he stalks down the wooden plank and lets his feet loudly splash in the high tide sloshing against the shore. What's the point? Jayce won't be able to hear him down here, and he's already failed in trying to hide his investigations from Mel.

It will still be here later, he reasons as he begins the long and painful trek back up to his house. There will be time to unravel its mechanical mysteries later.

After all, Jayce is up at the house, and Viktor needs to be there when he wakes. Anything less is out of the question.

Fortunately, by the time he makes it up the slope and back inside, slipping into their room, Jayce is still sound asleep.

Viktor sits at the edge of the bed for a minute, his hand ghosting over Jayce’s head. He brushes hair from Jayce’s forehead, parting it so he can see those gleaming scars. In the darkness, Viktor can just make out the webbed patterns within them, a facsimile of his fingerprints.

For a moment, temptation stretches up through Viktor’s nerves—it would be so easy to slot his fingers in, to reach into Jayce’s mind. If he tried, would he be able to fix…?

Viktor inhales sharply and yanks his hand away.

No. Gods above, no.

What is wrong with you? he curses internally, seething. After all this time, why is this still what you first think to do?

Viktor stands. This… This was a mistake. He needs to leave—his presence is the absolute worst thing for Jayce at this moment. He needs…

Jayce curls inward, a small gasp leaving his mouth that sounds painfully close to Viktor.

Viktor closes his eyes and swallows. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair.

He was supposed to be safe.

When Jayce’s hand twitches, reaching out, something inside of Viktor crumples. Slowly, as not to disturb Jayce, he slides into the bed next to his partner. Immediately, Jayce’s body relaxes, a sigh escaping him as he adjusts instinctively, settling into the position they have taken so many times before as he wraps his arms around Viktor’s torso.

It is the height of selfishness, Viktor thinks, to allow this to happen. To let an unconscious Jayce hold him. But he is so tired, and it has been so long, and despite everything, Jayce’s touch here and now feels exactly the same—warm and sure and protective.

Viktor curls his fingers into Jayce’s tunic, suddenly feeling hopelessly and painfully small.

He buries his head into his partner’s hair and tries not to cry.

He must fall asleep, at some point.

When he opens his eyes, he is surrounded by darkness. His heart is in his ears, hammering loud as thunder. There are splotches of color, strange and sickly plants that seem to physically be crawling around him. The air is stagnant, thick and choking and cloying with rot.

With each breath, pain rakes its way through his leg.

(It’s the wrong leg, Viktor realizes, panic clawing up his throat. It’s the wrong leg.)

There’s something wet and stinging at his hands. Despite the trepidation crawling up his throat, he looks down.

In front of him is a circle of blood.

There are runes all around it—harvest, sense, and bind, all repeated in glowing red. At the center of the circle is a creature cloaked in shadows, a gash at its side dripping a bright and vicious green.

His gaze travels down to his hands, and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from crying out in horror. His hands are drenched in blood, sparkling with witchcraft, his wrist bleeding freely. His whole body is pulsing, his vision swimming with fever, the blood against his skin slick and boiling. But that’s not the worst of it.

Cradled in his palms is a gemstone.

It’s blue and jagged, shining impossibly bright, an acceleration rune carved into its center. Electric green and searing red spike and writhe around it, the crystal beating in time to his heart.

The monster in the circle laughs, long and screeching.

Look at you! she crows. Just look at you! What more could I possibly do to you? You’re perfect.

Viktor jolts awake with a cry.

Jayce’s heart, steady in sleep, jackrabbits the moment Viktor moves. He jerks up, inhaling sharply, before his eyes land on Viktor. There are wisps of quickly-fading magic at his forehead, trailing off those fingerprint scars.

Viktor flushes as he looks up at Jayce. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he whispers, not quite sure what he is apologizing for.

Jayce stares at Viktor. Slowly, he adjusts his body, a hand coming up to Viktor’s face. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, something between wonder and disbelief in his words.

Viktor wants to resist. He wants to pull away. But the nightmare has left him rattled, and he is no better than putty under Jayce’s touch, weak and starved. “So are you,” he whispers back.

Jayce traces along Viktor’s jaw, brushing over the mole under his eye, over his lip. “I thought…” His voice wavers. “Yesterday—you were…? I’m really…?”

“Yes,” Viktor whispers.

When Viktor looks into Jayce’s eyes, they’re clear, nothing but warm hazel, familiar and sure as anything.

He’s here. He’s here.

Jayce runs his thumb from the mole over Viktor’s lip down to his mouth. A small, helpless noise falls out of Viktor. He should be ashamed of it, he thinks. This weakness.

It is so hard to care, though, when Jayce is finally back in his arms, warm and breathing and alive.

When Jayce leans forward, he is helpless to refuse.

It is warm and clumsy and perfect. Viktor’s entire being melts into the kiss, responding instinctively to the ebb and flow, even while his mind is still trying to remember how to do this. Quickly, though, the kiss deepens, Jayce hungrily sucking at Viktor’s lip. Viktor is all too quick to respond—his whole body is oversensitive, eager and yearning for Jayce’s touch, Jayce’s scent, Jayce’s taste.

Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.

Viktor feels his body tense, then go still.

Jayce’s voice in his head continues, even as the Jayce in front of him continues to kiss him.

Please be real, Jayce’s voice begs in his head, Please, Viktor—please be real.

Is it prayer? His own mind?

Viktor is pulling away before he realizes it. All the warmth from Jayce is gone, replaced by an undeniable and numbing cold.

Jayce makes a small noise, helpless and confused. “...Viktor?” he whispers.

What did I do? Please be real. Please don’t be Mel again. Viktor, please…

Viktor starts shaking. Suddenly, his body feels stretched, too thin and hopelessly fragile.

What was he thinking? Kissing Jayce like this? When they’re both unable to trust their own minds?

“Viktor?” Jayce repeats, lower and more urgent. He props himself up, wincing as he does so, but his hands find Viktor’s arms, drawing him back in. “What’s wrong?” He hesitates, then, like he isn’t quite sure of it himself, “Why are you crying?”

Viktor blinks, bringing a hand to his cheek. It’s a dull surprise it comes away wet. “I…” He swallows, pulls away. “We should get you cleaned.”

Jayce doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, his hands fall from Viktor, shoulders curling forward as something on his face dims, that momentary spark retreating. He droops his head in a nod.

Viktor ignores the way his heart clenches.

Jayce doesn’t react as Viktor helps put his leg into the brace.

“It is just down the hall, true,” Viktor finds himself rambling, “But better the hassle of removing your brace again than to have you fall mere feet away from the bath. We do not have to do every strap—just enough to keep your leg from buckling. Perhaps we could make you a cane, to save the hassle for the shorter distances. That would be good, no?”

Jayce says nothing in response. His face is drawn, something still unsure as Viktor helps him to his feet then starts leading him out of the room and towards the bath.

It is nothing Viktor hasn’t seen before, but he still finds himself averting his gaze as best he can as he helps Jayce first unrobe, then descend into the bath. Time has taken its toll, made Jayce a stranger again. Still, Viktor can’t help but catalogue the changes. His body is leaner, greyer than Viktor remembers. His hair is longer, and there’s a few strands of white, stark against the black. New scars litter his skin—jagged and raised things that look like they’ve been scratched open, a deep and clean cut at his side, a stretch of raw pink scarring peeking out from under his leather bracelet.

The thick mess of tissue at his knee, ringed with those scratched runes.

Viktor wants to gather Jayce up in his arms, trace every injury and press his mouth to them, ask Jayce to tell him the story behind each and every pain, beg Jayce to tell him how to fix it. But, remembering how Jayce reacted to Viktor brushing against his knee on the airship, Viktor keeps his touch reserved, not letting his hands wander down too far. He hikes his robes up, lets his legs dangle in the warm bath to better reach Jayce, but stays seated at the ledge.

Jayce furrows his brow, looking at Viktor’s braced leg. Suddenly, his gaze sharpens, focusing as he shifts. His hand comes up, and he carefully runs a finger along the straps and the gear at the side of the knee. “It’s loose,” he murmurs.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry. Jayce is right—the straps and bands no longer fit, not small enough to properly support his emaciated form. The gears, too, need replaced, each notch so worn down that the brace bends without proper resistance.

How had he not noticed sooner?

Suddenly, he wants to snap his leg away, hide the brace underneath his robes—something, anything to keep Jayce from seeing the evidence of his neglect.

“Lean back,” he says softly instead, pooling soaps into his palms.

Jayce hesitates, then withdraws his hand, his shoulders curling forward. He obeys wordlessly, then, as if even staying upright is too much effort, his head falls back against Viktor’s lap.

Viktor works slowly, delicately, lathering Jayce’s body, washing away the grease and grime. He uses his fingers to gently work through each tangle and mat of hair. He isn’t sure whether he should be relieved or terrified at Jayce’s complete lack of resistance, the way his face doesn’t change at all as Viktor softly directs him.

Is this a dream?

Viktor snaps his head up.

Jayce’s voice again, hoarse and raw.

His face is horribly still, his eyes closed. Viktor’s fingers remain frozen at the edges of the scars over his forehead.

Should he ignore the voice? Respond? What if it is actually Jayce?

What if it isn’t?

Viktor remains silent as he uses a washcloth to wipe away the last of the soap suds.

Jayce says nothing as Viktor helps him out of the bath, even as they both struggle not to slip and fall with their bad legs. Carefully, Viktor slips a clean dark blue robe over Jayce’s shoulders, fastens it at the waist, smooths and adjusts it with fingers that refuse to stay steady. He takes Jayce’s leg brace, holding it out with an unsaid question.

Jayce nods once, sitting down at the edge of the bath and extending his leg slightly. An open invitation.

Still, Viktor tenses as he slips the brace on, cautious with every strap, careful not to so much as skim his fingers against Jayce’s skin. He can’t help but stare at the thick scarring at his knee, where it physically looks like something has cracked his skin open only to clumsily stitch it up with that circle of runes.

Viktor notes each one: revitalize, conditioning, and the encompassing resolve.

“I was trying to heal it.”

Viktor snaps his head up.

Jayce isn’t looking at him, his gaze somewhere distant. “Stupid,” he mutters. “I didn’t have the components. Just my blood and the lizards. I was scared using anything else there would…” His eyes glaze over for a moment, a quick burst of a hazy rainbow. Then, Jayce shakes his head, and it’s gone. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t work.”

Viktor’s mind is spinning.

What is he talking about? What does he…?

Viktor’s eyes travel up Jayce’s body and freeze.

Jayce is bleeding.

At his wrist, that stretch of pink scarring has broken open, and thin red rivelets trickle from his leather bracelet and down along his hand. Viktor watches in faint horror as a bead of it gathers at the tip of Jayce's pointer finger, then falls, hitting the floor with a steady and terrible drip.

“Your… Your wrist,” Viktor manages to whisper.

Jayce’s brows knit together in confusion. He glances down, then holds up his hand, staring at the blood uncomprehendingly.

Viktor fumbles for his cane, rising so quickly that he gets a head rush. “We need… Bandages,” he says, “A spell—I have some fresh vials in the kitchen, we can…”

Jayce stands abruptly, only for his legs to immediately slip out from under him. Viktor lets out a cry, reaching out to try and catch him, even though he logically knows he won’t be able to, but Jayce manages to catch himself on the edge of the bath. Only, not quite—he catches himself with his left hand.

The hand with the bracelet. The hand that is bleeding.

Jayce’s eyes widen, and he lets out a shout as pain travels up his face, contorting it. He falls to his knees, hissing, clutching his wrist to his chest.

Viktor kneels down, grabbing Jayce’s shoulders before he can stop himself. “Jayce,” he pleads. “Let me help—please, let me…”

“No!” Jayce interrupts before Viktor can finish talking, eyes flashing in panic. He angles his body away, breathing ragged, wrist curled protectively against his chest. It’s bleeding more heavily now, staining his fresh blue robe a dark shade of purple. Where it hits the light, Viktor could swear that it glistens and gleams like oil.

“I…” Viktor swallows back his protests. “…Alright,” he whispers, wishing that one word did not sound so much like defeat.

Jayce, at least, relaxes at it, slumping forward.

Viktor stares at the wrist, the bracelet wrapped around it. While the bath washed away most of the grime and dark flakes of blood in the leather, fresh red is beginning to congeal around the edges and work its way back into the cracks. Viktor wants to reach out, to gently remove the bracelet, to press a kiss against whatever injury is hidden beneath it, to slam every bit of spellwork he can into Jayce’s body—something, anything, that could possibly stand a chance at fixing…

“What did I do to you?” Viktor whispers before he can stop himself.

Jayce freezes.

The silence stretches between them, taut and tense.

Then, Jayce breaks his gaze from Viktor. “You did nothing,” he says. “It's not your fault, okay? I’m the one who screwed it up. I should’ve realized it sooner. I didn’t think the subject…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says harshly.

Before Viktor can even think of what to say to any of that, Jayce pulls himself back to his feet with a grimace, testing his balance. Then, without another word, he limps out of the bathing room, the creak of his brace echoing down the hall.

Viktor isn’t sure how long he waits, before he finds the will to move again. He should be more panicked, he thinks. But the heat from the bath and the surrealness of Jayce’s presence leaves his senses off-kilter, time seeming to dilate around him.

Finally, when he rises, carefully walking down the hall, he pauses at the door to their bedroom. The door has been left ajar, and inside, Viktor can see Jayce Jayce collapsed on to the bed, blankets curled around him, his breathing slow and steady with sleep once again.

He risks inching in, just enough to see Jayce’s wrist.

The blood, at least, is no longer actively flowing.

He’s tempted, for a moment, to slip in, to ease the bracelet off and peek at whatever injury is under it. His hand hovers in front of him, reaching out, before he resolutely withdraws, quickly walking away and down the hall.

No. He will not betray Jayce’s trust like that. Jayce will come to him and ask for help if the injury truly needs it.

Won’t he?

Viktor suppresses a shudder, trying not to think of what it could possibly look like under the bracelet. It looked deep in the nightmare—low long has it been since then? Evidently, not long enough for it to fully heal. He… He needs to come up with a plan for that. Find a spell for treatment, gather the components for preventing infection. Maybe something for Jayce’s leg, too. Although, if that injury isn’t recent, if it’s been set incorrectly… Worse, if the spell Jayce had tried to cast initially had backfired…

Gods, how much blood will it take to fix?

By the time he makes it to the kitchen, Viktor is as brittle and shaky as a dried leaf. His mind is spinning, desperately trying to latch on to a task. He should… Get food for Jayce, as well. Humans need to eat, and Jayce has lost so much weight, so much color. He won’t let Jayce die of something as mortal as starvation, not after everything.

He manages about two steps into the kitchen before he stills.

Mel.

She holds a frying pan over the kitchen fire, frowning and tense, like whatever is inside it will jump out and attack her. She maybe, Viktor has to admit, is right—there’s wisps of black smoke coming from the pan, smelling absolutely vile.

“If you wanted breakfast, Lady Medarda,” Viktor says, causing her to jump and drop the pan into the fire with a curse, “There are surely simpler ways.”

“Mel,” Mel corrects, casting Viktor a withering glare before turning back to the fire, where the contents of the frying pan are now blackened and bubbling, spilling out and over the coals with a hiss.

Viktor ignores her, limping over to the fire. He takes the handle of the pan—it’s hot, hot enough to sizzle against his skin, hot enough that he can feel the burn settling into his nerves, but the pain is easy to ignore. He takes it to the kitchen counter, examining the charred remains for only a moment before opening the cabinets and selecting a small tincture. He pours it over the blackened dish, then traces the runes for augmentation and harvest, then casts the spell.

The burnt food glued to the bottom of the pan dries, then shrivels, turning to a dusty layer of ash. Viktor sighs as the spell’s energy dispels over his body, helping to soothe the burn in his hands. Then, limping to the window, he dumps the ashes out before setting the pan back down on the counter with an audible clang.

“Useful,” Mel comments.

Viktor narrows his eyes. “Based on what Jayce has said, I would have thought you would be more wary of witchcraft.”

Mel snorts and selects a fruit one of Viktor’s bowls. “I can find it useful while still harboring wariness. I read enough of Jayce’s notes to know how difficult it is.”

Viktor presses his lips together and says nothing. There is jealousy boiling up in his throat again. Logically, it makes sense—of course she would read Jayce’s notes, they were there, in the airship with her, and she was his fiancée—but his mind rages at it despite it all. How dare she say that like she cared at all for Jayce’s interests? His notes, his work? Like she was not the one to shut it all down, however justified she may have been? How could she—?

“You could stand to make your contempt for me slightly less apparent,” Mel says, acid dripping from her words as she elegantly sits down in his kitchen chair, primly crossing her ankles.

Heat rushes to Viktor’s face. Still, he clenches his jaw, keeps his eyes narrowed, refuses to show even the faintest reaction to the sting of Mel’s words. “As if you feel any different,” he spits.

Mel’s eyes flash, gold flaring out from every single marking on her skin. “You are the one who slept with my fiancé and kept him here for two and a half years!” she snaps. “I think I am warranted a little contempt.”

Viktor opens his mouth to retort, to argue that Jayce initiated it, that Jayce wanted to stay, but all his words come up empty. Does it really matter, in the end, when the result was the same?

Suddenly, his body is heavy, weighed down with guilt and exhaustion. He leans against the kitchen counter, resisting every urge to fall to the floor and curl in on himself. “...That is fair,” he admits, voice quiet.

He would hate him, too, in Mel’s position.

Still, with the words out there, Mel seems to deflate. She sets the fruit down, and slowly, she stands and walks over, until she is leaning against the counter next to Viktor. Like this, so close to him, it is suddenly easy to see the bags under her eyes, the exhaustion lining her face.

“Why did you bring him here, Lady Medarda?” Viktor can't help but whisper. “Truly?”

To the God of the Arcane, to the island of the cruel and cursed witch her fiancé cheated on her with.

Mel casts him a sidelong glance. “He’s been stubbornly silent for the most part,” she says, “But the one thing he did tell me, when he first returned to Piltover, was that he was only there because of you. If you hadn’t sent him back, I…” She grimaces. “I had run out of time, much as I hate to admit it. And then he appeared by magic—ragged and injured and half-mad—but he appeared. He was the only reason why my mother wasn’t elected into the Council. If he hadn’t turned up when he did, then…” Her voice wavers.

“So you, what? Feel indebted to me?” Viktor asks, unable to keep the bitter note from his voice.

“Partly,” Mel admits.

"But?" Viktor prompts.

Mel neatly smooths down some of the creases on her robes, brushing off some of the blackened ash. She runs her hands up over her face and letting them rest at the back of her neck as she stares up at the ceiling. Viktor can practically see her trying to arrange the words in her head to come up with a perfect nonanswer.

He adjusts his position, trying to keep weight off his braced leg. “You still care for him.”

It’s not a question, and Mel doesn’t take it as one. She nods.

“What did you intend?” Viktor asks hollowly. “Bringing him here?”

Mel lets out a slow exhale. “He kept getting worse," she says, "And I had thought you might at least be able to tell me what happened to him. Maybe help him. Anything, really, that wasn’t leaving him to slowly wither away in Piltover.”

Jinx’s voice echoes in Viktor’s head—Best thing gods like us can do is stay away.

Then, Jayce’s voice in a growl—Help me? You’re the one who did this to me! You…

Viktor turns away. He stares out the window, at the scarred, iridescent leaves and flowers. With the glittering ocean, the world almost looks as though it has been cast in jewels. “I do not think,” he says quietly, “That I am in a position to help anyone.”

He doesn’t miss the way that Mel sighs. “I had suspected as much,” she murmurs.

The silence stretches between them. Outside, the rustling of the leaves in the breeze is unnaturally smooth, closer to the sound of fabric than nature. If Mel is as disturbed by the strangeness of the noise, it doesn’t show. She just stares at her hands, at those golden lines running down to the very tips of her nails.

“Do you know which god?” Viktor asks, surprising even himself with the question.

Mel’s head snaps up towards him, her eyebrows shooting upwards.

Heat rises to Viktor’s face. “I apologize,” he says. “That was… Too forward, of a question. You do not have to respond.”

Mel taps her fingers against the counter. Then, unexpectedly, “I do not,” she says. “I have my suspicions, naturally, but no confirmation.” She grimaces. “Killing my mother likely did not help my odds there. Some gods revel in violence, but I think far more would rather not deal with a potentially murderous offspring.”

Viktor blinks at not only the bluntness of her words, but also at her flat tone. But more, something tugs in his brain at her words.

So it was true, he thinks dully. Mel Medarda was the one to kill her mother.

The gods ordered Jayce back to Piltover—broke him in mind and body—for nothing.

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek, closing his eyes briefly, to keep himself from screaming out every obscenity within him.

They don’t say another word to each other. Mel sits back down eventually, picking at a meager meal of fruit, and Viktor stays standing. He should say something to her, he knows. But what? What could he possibly say to Jayce’s former fiancée?

Viktor doesn’t know how much time has passed, before he startles at the sound of a creaky metal, paired with a heavy, uneven step.

Jayce stumbles into the kitchen, using the wall to support himself. He blinks, stares. His gaze darts between Viktor and Mel both. “You’re both here,” he mutters after a moment, dragging himself to the nearest chair at the table. “That’s new.”

Mel stands. “Jayce?” she asks, trepidation in that single word. “Are you…?”

“I know where I am,” Jayce interrupts, the words tired in a way that makes Viktor wonder how many times he’s had to repeat them over the past few years. Still, he eyes Viktor warily, neon clouding his irises completely.

Viktor averts his gaze, shifting his weight and trying not to lean too heavily on his cane. He wants to say something, anything. Go to Jayce, hold him, kiss him, Mel’s presence be damned.

His body is no better than stone.

Jayce fidgets under the weight of both Viktor and Mel's combined silence. "Am I missing something?" he demands.

"...No," Mel says after a moment.

Viktor frowns, but says nothing. He, admittedly, does not want to tell Jayce the details of his and Mel's conversations, either.

Jayce is still tense though, suspicion in every line of his body. He glances around the kitchen, something desperate in his eyes, before his gaze lands on the open window. Every single muscle in his body locks up. Without warning, a strangled noise escapes his mouth, and he stands abruptly, stumbling backwards.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry. What happened? he wants to beg. What happened to you?

Before he can gather up the courage to ask, though, Jayce crumples to the ground.

Viktor and Mel are both running towards him—Viktor, even with his cane and limp, is closer, and gets there first. Even though his leg screams in protest, he falls to the ground with Jayce, letting his cane clatter to the floor.

He grabs Jayce’s shoulders. “Jayce?” Viktor begs. “What’s wrong?”

Jayce’s gaze snaps up to Viktor, his breathing ragged. Distantly, Viktor is aware of Mel next to him, also trying to support Jayce’s form. Jayce reaches out almost blindly, clumsily grasping on to Viktor. “Where are we?” Jayce gasps. “Viktor, where are we?”

“Home,” Viktor tries to reassure him. “Home, on our island. Remember?”

Jayce barely seems to hear him. His gaze zeroes in over Viktor’s shoulder, towards the open window, then snaps back to Viktor. “Why did you send me back here?” he begs.

Viktor looks towards Mel, helpless, but she seems just as flummoxed.

“You said you wanted to go back to Viktor,” she tries to say, reaching out, but Jayce flinches back from her touch, nearly falling into Viktor in the process.

Viktor tries and fails to not notice the flash of pain across Mel’s face at that. Recoiling from her arms and sinking into Viktor’s in the same breath.

“Jayce,” Viktor begs. He tries to steady them both, adjusting so that Jayce’s face is even with his own. “Jayce, look at me. Please.”

Jayce swallows air, his body heaving with every breath, fractals glinting all around his eyes, but he keeps his gaze on Viktor. “Don’t make me leave again,” he gasps. “Don’t send me back there. Please.”

“I won’t,” Viktor swears. “Jayce, please, I promise you: I will not send you back to Piltover.”

Jayce's expression contorts. "Then why am I back here?" he explodes, neon crawling up from his eyes and spreading around his face. "I escaped—I got out of the ravine, I know I did, I..." He winces, a flinch traveling through his entire body. "I... I got out," he repeats hoarsely, sounding less sure of himself. His eyes dart from Viktor to the window, back and forth, his breathing ragged.

Viktor's mind goes blank.

Ravine? 

Slowly, the pieces are lining up in Viktor's head. Jayce arrived in Piltover already injured. He returned by magic. He found another crystal, carved an acceleration rune into it. A crystal not from Viktor's island. 

The realization hits Viktor like a burning bolt of lightning.

He wants to scream and fall into the earth, his stomach lurching as if someone has reached in and ripped out his intestines.

The Wild Rift.

He’d sent Jayce to the Wild Rift.

Chapter Text

Viktor isn’t quite sure what happens next. He is drowning again, underneath a thick and impenetrable layer of water, where things like noise and corruption and guilt can’t touch him. He thinks Jayce is saying something to him, but it’s impossible to make anything out through the dull and insistent ringing in his ears.

All he can see is a sea of white before him, Jayce overlaid with the featureless petricite.

He thinks Mel gets Jayce to let go of him at some point. Her voice, though foggy through the haze that seems to have consumed his mind, filters through, begging him to help get Jayce to his room.

It’s all Viktor can do to nod in agreement.

Truthfully, though, it is mostly Mel who does the lifting to get Jayce to his feet and down the hall. She is deceptively strong, shouldering the majority of Jayce’s weight with a set jaw, and she wastes no time in getting him to his room. Perhaps realizing that whatever lays outside Viktor’s home had sparked the panic, she firmly closes the window and draws the curtains shut, so quickly that the brackets screech against the rod.

Through it all, Jayce has found Viktor again, and he keeps an iron grip on Viktor’s arm.

You did this, Jayce seethes in his head. You sent me to the Wild Rift.

Then, so fast that Viktor swears he can physically feel the whiplash in his brain—Don’t make me leave, please, I love you, I love you…

Viktor bites his tongue and stays silent.

It’s all he can do to sit on the bed with Jayce until his grip on Viktor’s wrist slackens, all the while trying not to scream as Jayce’s voice continues to echo in his head.

Then, as soon as Jayce’s muttering has faded to a murmur, as soon as his eyes close again and his breathing evens and slows, Viktor wastes no time stumbling to his feet and bolting from the room, trying not to trip over his own feet as he all but runs through the hall and shoves the workshop door open. Distantly, he is aware that Mel is behind him, her anxiety a palpable thing, but Viktor cannot bring himself to care.

The workshop is grey and dusty from disuse, thin light filtering in through the curtains, but Viktor can’t bring himself to care. He grabs every single paper he can find, starts laying them out across the floor, scrambling to comprehend the lines of equations he and Jayce had written.

“What’s going on?” Mel’s voice cuts in sharply.

Viktor ignores her.

He clutches the notes with trembling hands, tracing Jayce’s inked numbers. Here, the line of runic strings that Jayce had written. There, the calculations from measuring the stars. Then, the tests, the hypotheses, the trial and error, over and over again, until everything had been narrowed down.

It’s correct. It’s all correct. Every line, every number, every rune. It should have worked. It should have…

“Herald!” Mel snaps.

Viktor looks up.

Mel is standing in the doorway, her eyes shining gold, jaw set and with a steely look on her face.

Ah, Viktor thinks faintly. She wants answers.

He can only imagine how he must look right now—breathing ragged, kneeling on the floor, papers spread out all around him.

“The hextech,” Viktor manages. “I thought… The equations should have been… No, they are correct. I am sure of it. But Jayce, he… I am not sure how, but…”

“But what?” Mel questions.

Viktor shakes his head wordlessly.

Mel crosses her arms, fixing Viktor with a withering glare. “Tell me,” she demands. “What happened? What did you do to him?”

Viktor stills.

You did nothing—It’s not your fault, okay? I’m the one who screwed it up.

How can Jayce say that?

He’s the one who activated the hextech. He’s the one who was arrogant enough to think that it would work perfectly, that their calculations couldn’t possibly be wrong, that his magic was foolproof.

Your fault, Jayce’s voice confirms, scathing.

Viktor takes a steadying breath that does little to actually steady him. He pulls himself to his feet, clutching his and Jayce's notes like they stand a chance of being a lifeline. “The Wild Rift,” he confesses. “The.. With hextech, I…”

Mel catches the meaning immediately. Gold flares from her body, her lip curling, her hands closing into fists at her side. “How?” she demands.

“I… I don’t know,” Viktor whispers. His legs suddenly are no better than water, and he fumbles, just managing to pull the workshop chair out in time to collapse on it. He leans forward, burying his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”

He is half-expecting Mel to rage, to throw her own godly power at him, to wring every last breath from his body. Instead, she’s silent. Perhaps she can hear it, the defeated truth in his words, because the gold vanishes. She slowly approaches the worktable, subtly leaning up against it. “You have no theories?” she presses. “Not even one?”

Viktor wracks his brain. The runes were right. The geo-coordinates were correct. The tests came back successful. “There could have been… A distance factor?” he tries helplessly. “Or something similar I did not account for when I…” He chokes, something lodging itself in his throat. “I don’t know,” he whispers, helpless. “I don’t know what I did to him.”

Mel bites her lip. The gold across her skin is no longer shining, her momentary rage deflated. “He’s said you’re not responsible for what happened to him,” she murmurs. “Every time anyone said otherwise, he insisted you weren’t to blame.”

Is there an accusation in there? Some subtlety that he’s not picking up on? He can’t tell.

He stays silent. Let Mel blame him. She is, in all likelihood, right to do so—no matter what Jayce says, Viktor is the one who activated the hextech, sending him to Wild Rift and setting off whatever chain of events led to his fractured mind.

Mel sighs. “Would Jayce have figured it out? What the error was?”

I should’ve realized it sooner. I didn’t think the subject…

Viktor swallows. “It is likely,” he manages. “You said he appeared in Piltover by magic?”

Mel nods.

Viktor swallows. Jayce’s nightmare is overlaid across his vision—the jagged crystal, surrounded by writhing blood of green and red. He swears that he can still feel the throb in his leg, the fever that set every pore of his body on fire.

“Then he figured it out,” Viktor says. “He must have, to have teleported successfully.”

Something is withering in his heart, with the unspoken question of it.

Why didn’t he return here? He had the geo-coordinates for this island from our previous tests. Why did it take Mel commandeering an airship to get him back to me?

Mel is silent for a moment. Viktor can practically feel the judgment as she takes in the workshop, with its dusty shelves and ruined projects and long-solidified metallic mess on the floor. His cheeks burn—he has the urge to physically shove her out of the workshop, to beg her to ignore the evidence of his own insanity in Jayce’s absence.

He braces himself for her inevitable question—Are you sure you’re not the one who did this to Jayce? Are you sure the error didn’t lie with you?

No, he’s not sure, and in fact, Jayce is likely wrong about it not being Viktor’s fault.

You did this to me, Jayce seethes, confirming it, You you you…

Mel studies him, something curious in her expression. “Right before we left,” she says carefully, “His mother caught him working on hextech again. He’d been working on it in secret for years, apparently, trying to disassemble half the house to get the materials for the stand.” She snorts, shaking her head. “His mattress was practically overflowing with them.”

Viktor swallows. If he didn’t know any better, he would say that Mel is attempting to comfort him.

Ridiculous.

Something about her words tugs in his brain. "Why would he try to work on it again?" Viktor murmurs. "Without a gemstone..."

There had been a gemstone in his nightmare. Had Jayce found a way to transport himself with the gemstone? Ripped a second out of the head of another Waiting Dead? 

Where did it go?

Mel picks up a stray piece of metal, one with a line of runes etched into it that Viktor had long ago realized were not in the correct order. "He might not have realized," she says. "I don't know what he sees, but it wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated things that weren't there."

Viktor frowns. It isn't a... Bad theory, not necessarily, but it still doesn't quite line up. The crystal had been the very foundation of the hextech experimentation—even driven into madness, would Jayce just forget about it that easily? Not think to double and triple check? Not come up with a number of systems to account for his own faulty mind?

He doesn't know.

When he doesn’t respond, Mel looks over at the magnetized stand, surrounded by torn-out wires and metal shavings from the scratched-out runes. As if hypnotized, she runs a finger over the edge, where ash from the gemstone has collected with the dust. “I didn’t think he would actually do it again,” she murmurs, “Not after the first time.”

“After you shut it down,” Viktor mutters before he can stop himself.

He regrets the accusatory words the second they leave his mouth.

He tenses, preparing mentally for Mel’s anger. Instead, she pauses in her movements. She taps the stand with a delicate fingertip. “I regretted that, you know,” she murmurs. “I can’t tell you how many hours I debated it, wondering if I’d made the right call in ending the project before Jayce could even get it off the ground.”

Viktor blinks. “Then why?” he can’t help but ask.

Mel doesn’t answer right away. Then, she turns, letting her hip rest against the workshop table as she lets out a sigh. “I felt it,” she says, “The power, when my blood hit the crystal. How it pulled, like someone else had wormed their way into my body and was manipulating my very pulse itself.” She hugs her arms around her torso and shudders. “I was shocked when Jayce couldn’t feel it, when he was confused at my terror, when all he wanted was to see if his blood had a different reaction.”

Viktor grimaces. He decides not to mention how he had found that same pulse exhilarating, how it left him buzzing and brimming with the possibility it presented. His stomach curdles—knowing the truth of the crystals now, he’s horrified at how easily he’d slipped without even realizing it.

What would Mel say, if she knew what he had done to those crystallized souls?

“I suppose I cannot blame you for that,” he admits.

Mel tilts her head, something inquisitive in her eyes. “Could you not feel it either?” she wonders. “When the pair of you activated the crystal?”

“I did,” Viktor admits.

Mel frowns, obviously baffled. “Then why?”

Unlike Viktor, there’s no anger in her tone, no accusation. Just puzzlement, plain and simple.

Viktor stares at his hands, thin and scarred and frail. “You surely know the myths, Lady Medarda,” he says quietly, unable to keep the sour note from his words. “Do I strike you as the kind of god who would have been concerned with such things?”

Mel drums her fingers against the wood of the table. “And yet, you destroyed it in the end, anyways,” she muses.

Viktor can’t help but chuckle in response. “I am aware of the irony,” he says bitterly.

Mel raises an eyebrow. Though she must surely still be curious, she says nothing of it. Instead, she straightens up. "Alright," she murmurs. Then, louder, "How do we help him?"

Viktor blinks. He looks around his workshop, at the layers of grime and dust. Jayce's exuberance and laughter rings in his ears, echoes of what this place was before Viktor activated the hextech and destroyed all of it in a flash of blue.  "I thought I told you, Lady Medarda," he says, trying not to sound bitter, "I did this to Jayce. I sent him to the Wild Rift. I am in the worst possible position to help him."

"And yet, he wanted to get back to you," Mel counters, crossing her arms and fixing Viktor with a steely glare. "You know him better than anyone. What would help?"

Viktor falls silent. The musty air is thick in his lungs, his body suddenly impossibly thin. As much as he hates to admit it, Mel has a point.

He's the one who did this to Jayce. The very least he can do is try and guide him back out of it. And, after that, once Jayce has come to his senses and realizes the truth, if he then no longer wants anything to do with Viktor...

Well. It would be the very least of what Viktor deserves.

Viktor has, by nightfall, come up with a semblance of a plan, ways to slowly coax Jayce back into his senses. Invention and engineering projects that Jayce would enjoy. Some new projects for the garden, the one place Viktor’s corruption of the island has not touched.

He decides not to broach anything on the subject of witchcraft.

Mel, curiously, seems dubious of that last one. “Are you quite certain?” she asks, eyebrows knit together.

Viktor leans back in his chair. “Witchcraft relies on willpower,” he explains. “Without clear intent, there is… Backlash, of a sort. With Jayce in his current state…”

Mel hums in what sounds like agreement. But then, she looks towards the shelf with the haphazard pile of notes that Viktor had shoved away. Almost delicately, she selects the one off the top, her eyes raking across its contents. Even from his seated position, Viktor can see it’s one of the papers with scribbled strings of runes, certain areas circled and with notes where his and Jayce’s furious scrawls overlap and feed into each other.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mel says after a moment, setting the paper down. “Despite his mental state, his intent was the one thing I think no one could ever doubt.”

Once, Viktor can admit, he wouldn’t have, either. Jayce’s ability to throw himself headfirst into everything, leaving absolutely no room for hesitation, is one of the things Viktor had admired and loved most about him. But now…

“And what if he casts a spell and it does not work?” Viktor counters, crossing his arms. “If the backlash hits him, what would it do to his body and mind in his current state?”

Mel glances towards the workshop window, overlooking the edges of the prismatically scarred forest, and says nothing further. Then, wringing her hands together, “Do we ask him?” she questions. “About if he knows what caused it?”

Does she mean the misfired hextech? Whatever was the thing that splintered his mind so greatly?

Perhaps both.

Viktor stares at the window, at the glistening lesions just outside. In the sunset, they are blinding, warm and shimmering rainbows. “Based on your experience,” he says, “Would he react well to the question?”

Mel’s silence is answer enough.

She wanders over to the window. She’s careful in her step, artfully avoiding the area near the forge where Viktor had spilled molten metal. It’s such a careful and easy act, Viktor could almost believe that it wasn’t intentional. “It didn’t used to be like this,” she murmurs. “Before the war, I used to joke that telling him a secret was as good as telling all of Piltover. It was so easy to tell what he was thinking and feeling.”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing. While Jayce was always open with his emotions, he can’t say that he was even half as open about his past. Just how different was he, this Jayce that Mel knew and was in love with before the war?

He’s not sure he wants to know.

Mel stares at the island outside. In the sunset, the light reflects off both her golden markings and the opalite webbing on the plants, making her almost painful to look at. She keeps her gaze outside for a long moment, as if searching for something. Then, she shakes her head, turning back to Viktor. “Jayce, he…” She pauses, then, carefully, “He doesn’t know where he is, most days. The… Effects, that are on the island’s plants—if they are anything like the Wild Rift, do you think…?”

Viktor takes his cane, pulling himself to his feet and grimacing at the twinge of pain that shoots up his leg and through his hip. “I will draw all the curtains tonight,” he says, his voice hollow.

Mel nods, shoulders slumped in something like defeat. Then, echoing Viktor’s own thoughts, “I detest it, you know. Discussing him in this way.”

Like he is a liability. Like madness has made him wholly inept, and not just scared and confused.

Viktor lets out a sigh. “I do, as well,” he admits.

As he leaves the workshop, he begins a methodic sweep of the house, latching every window and drawing every curtain. Without asking, Mel follows him, silent and determined as she helps. When they are finished, Viktor only lingers in the newly darkened hallway for a moment before determinedly turning, following Mel to the opposite side of the house, back to his old room away from Jayce.

It’s not even midnight, when he’s awoken by Jayce screaming.

Viktor shoots up in bed immediately, panic overriding every other instinct that isn’t Jayce. He grabs his cane, not even thinking to bother with his leg brace, and is tearing through the hallway as fast as his legs can take him. He hears a door behind him, only distantly registering that Mel is also awake, rushing but not passing Viktor in the hall.

That small fact grates against him like sandpaper and he resists every urge to snap at her and tell her to just run ahead of him.

Stop it, Viktor tells himself. She’s trying. Why can you not just let her try to be kind?

But gods, the urge to slam his cane into her legs is beyond tempting.

Not even bothering to knock, Viktor flings the door to Jayce’s room open.

It’s hard to make out in the darkness, but Mel’s mere presence provides light, her markings letting a soft glow in the room. Immediately, Viktor’s eyes go to the bed, and his heart drops to his stomach when he sees that Jayce isn’t there.

Panic seizes his lungs before movement by the window catches his—Jayce.

He’s on the ground, pressed up against the wall, trying to get to his feet while his unbraced leg refuses to stay straightened and solid. His expression is taut with panic, and the fractals in his eyes are strong enough that they distort the very space around his head.

Viktor doesn’t hesitate as he rushes forward and kneels next to Jayce, heedless of the pain in his leg and back. There’s something wet at his spine where his skin has torn yet again, but he can’t bring himself to care. He reaches out to cup Jayce’s face.

Jayce’s eyes find him, unfocused and panicked. “Viktor?” he croaks.

This close, Viktor sees what the neon fractals had been hiding—the fingerprint scars on Jayce’s forehead, pulsing with light, wisping tendrils curling and dripping down. Before he can pull his hand away, one of the tendrils ghosts along his fingers—

—And suddenly, he is in a ruined landscape, grey-green fog swirling around him. He’s running as he has never been able to run before, sprinting through a darkened landscape of sickly shades of green, pink, purple, and yellow.

Viktor! Jayce’s voice shouts. Viktor! Send me back! Do you hear me? Send me back!

He tears through towering ruins, structures that may have once been buildings before being frozen then overtaken by rot. He rounds a corner, stumbling, and suddenly, he is face-to-face with an Evolved.

No—not quite an Evolved. The petricite has been overtaken with fungal growth, the body decayed and littered with holes, webbed circles crawling up the legs where it has been rooted to the ground.

The Waiting Dead.

Acid crawls up his throat—

(His throat? Or Jayce’s? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know…)

—But he doesn’t hesitate. He reaches forward, groping around the back of the skull. His hands grasp around something, small and jagged and sharp enough to cut, and he pulls.

The Waiting Dead jerks, something like a scream erupting from its body. There’s a burst of blazing light, white interspersed with spots of electric blue. He stumbles backwards, blinded, and then—

He’s falling.

Vertigo overtakes him, for a single beautiful moment, he is weightless.

Then, jagged rock hits his back, strikes against his shoulder, smashes into his hip. He tumbles, down and down and down, his body smashing against every single piece of stone, and he only has a moment to comprehend that he is hurtling towards a rock jutting out of the wall like a spear before his knee slams into it. Agony like fire rips through his bones, reverberating up his entire body like a scream, and—

Viktor throws himself backward with a cry. He curls up on the ground, gasping, hands wrapped around his ribs. Distantly, he can hear Mel shouting, but nothing he can distinguish as words. His vision swims, senses unable to differentiate between reality and not.

Gods, the smell of rot is still in his nostrils, thick and cloying, with the underlying taste of metallic blood.

Exactly as it’d been when he’d reached along each nymph’s thread with the spell for petrification at his fingertips.

Someone is calling his name— “Viktor? Viktor!”

He looks up, a response in the form of Jayce’s name on his lips, but stops.

Mel.

She’s knelt over him, hands hovering, hands writhing with anxious gold magic, energy without direction.

“I…” Viktor swallows back the vomit in this mouth. He inhales, rights himself back up, even though his body trembles with the effort. “I am fine.”

Mel frowns, obviously not believing him, but doesn’t press further. She glances to the side, where Jayce sits frozen.

His gaze darts between Viktor and Mel, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why are you both here?” he demands. “You shouldn’t be… You’re not…” He draws in a sharp breath, panicked. He brings his wrist up, the one with the bracelet wrapped around it, and presses his thumb to the center of his wrist. A shudder wracks his body, pain flashing across his features. Then, all the fight seems to leave him at once—his shoulders slump, his head falling. He brings his hands to the back of his neck, drawing his knees up to his chest. Then, his voice a broken whisper, “I don’t understand.”

Mel rises, takes a few steps forward, then kneels down next to Jayce. “Jayce?” she ventures.

Viktor tries not to feel bitter, when Jayce’s head snaps up to look at her, when he whispers, “Mel? Please, just tell me where we are. Please.”

“The Herald… Viktor’s island,” Mel says.

Viktor fails to suppress the stab of disgust at hearing the name Herald.

Jayce, for his part, remains silent.

“We arrived yesterday,” Mel prompts. “Remember?”

Jayce’s brows furrow, then he flinches, hissing as he threads his hands through his hair. “Stop it,” he grits out. “Stop lying to me! Where’s Viktor?”

“I…” Mel hesitates, her gaze flicking towards Viktor, still curled on the floor. “Jayce, he’s right here.”

“Shut up, Mel!” Jayce explodes. “I don’t need you trying to… To…” He gestures helplessly in front of him. “To spin this, okay? I know he’s not there, alright? He’s never actually there! I don’t know what game you’re playing this time, but stop trying to get me to talk, or to… To think that I’m somewhere else, or…” He flinches again, away from Mel. “Just stop it, alright?”

Viktor swallows back the lump in his throat. His heart has been carved out of his chest, leaving something gaping and hollow in its wake, almost worse than when Jayce hadn’t been here at all. It is, he thinks bitterly, the worst curse the gods could have possibly given him. His partner, alive and returned, but just out of reach.

Mel sets her jaw. “I have only ever tried to help you,” she says, some of that hurt leaking in again, a barely contained tremor.

Jayce stands up, so suddenly that his leg buckles out from underneath him, and he only barely manages to catch himself on the windowsill. “Don’t,” he snaps. “I don’t need your help, or your pity. Just…” He draws in a breath, turning away from her, even as he can barely support himself standing. “Just fucking go.”

Mel doesn’t move for a moment. There is unabashed pain and guilt written across her features. Slowly, she stands, hands crossed neatly in front of her. She takes a few steps away, then bends slightly, offering her gold-lined hand to Viktor.

Viktor hesitates, eyeing her hand with suspicion for only a moment before he accepts, letting her help pull him to his feet before she hands him his cane. It is humiliating, to accept her help, but it feels worse in this moment to deny her, when Jayce’s words have so clearly hit their mark.

“I will talk to him,” Viktor says quietly, surprising even himself with the promise.

Mel’s eyebrows shoot up, unable to mask her surprise for a moment. Then, her expression smooths out, and she murmurs, “You do not have to.”

Viktor sighs. “Let me do this, at least, for you, Mel.”

Mel startles. Then, she nods.

Viktor watches as she gracefully makes her way to the door, as she slips out with barely a sound, leaving the door cracked open. The soft padding of her even footsteps grow softer still, then, they disappear. Only once the silence has stretched for longer than a minute does Viktor allow himself to lose some of the tension in his shoulder.

He turns to face Jayce, who is studying Viktor with no small amount of suspicion. “You’re still here,” he mutters.

Viktor hesitates. “You could be kinder to her,” he says quietly. “She is telling the truth, from what I can tell. She brought you back here.”

Jayce blinks, like he hadn’t expected Viktor to respond. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He slumps against the wall, adjusting his stance so his bad leg is lifted slightly off the ground. In the darkness, the scars around his knee seem to almost glow. “I know,” he whispers. “I just… Gods.” He runs a hand down his face. Then, hollowly, “You were really there this morning.”

Viktor nods.

Jayce studies him. “She’s really telling the truth?” he asks quietly. “I’m really here? With you? On the island?”

Viktor leans heavily on his cane. “You are,” he says, “But I would not expect you to believe it, just based on my words alone.”

Jayce lets out a chuckle at that, though he cuts himself off abruptly. He grimaces, eyeing the distance between where he’s standing and where the bed is.

“Would you like help?” Viktor asks, tentative.

Jayce hesitates. Then, slowly, he jerks his head in a nod.

Viktor makes his way over. He extends his hand, but pauses.

Jayce, in the end, is the one to close the distance. He takes Viktor’s hand, angling himself so he’s half-draped over Viktor’s shoulder, putting nearly all his weight on his good leg and keep the other slightly lifted off the ground.

“You will need to be careful with that,” Viktor can’t help but murmur. “If you favor the other leg too much, you will strain it.”

Jayce startles. “You’ve never given me advice on it before,” he mutters as Viktor lowers him down to the bed.

Viktor hesitates, then, “What do I usually do?”

Jayce grimaces. “You’re silent, mostly. Staring at me with this… Look. Like you already know everything that’s about to happen.”

Viktor stares down at the ground. “That seems quite unlike me.”

Jayce snorts.

Carefully, Viktor lowers Jayce back on to the bed. As Jayce adjusts his position with another wince, Viktor can’t help but look at his wrist. No fresh blood, from what he can see, but…

Before he can think of what to say next, Jayce’s hand comes up to the side of Viktor’s face.

Viktor freezes. He’s no better than stone, every nerve in his body paralyzed as Jayce traces the lines of his cheekbone.

Jayce lets out a small sigh of relief, seemingly finding whatever it is he’s looking for. Then, slowly, he draws Viktor forward, unbridled and unguarded need in his expression.

Viktor’s head is spinning. This… This isn’t right. Jayce is recovering, both physically and mentally, and does not need the added stress of Viktor inserted into the equation.

Something wavers on Jayce’s expression. “Do you not want to…?”

Viktor looks away so that his resolve won’t waver. “You are recovering,” he says instead of answering. “I do not think you want me here, considering everything.”

Jayce is silent for a long moment. Then, softly, “…Viktor, I want you here.”

Viktor swallows. “I…”

“Please,” Jayce interrupts. “I…” His voice cracks, and he swallows, looking away. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

Viktor’s heart breaks.

It’s less decision than instinct, that makes Viktor accept it, that makes him let Jayce lower him into bed and pull the covers up around them. After all the years apart, he is weak in the face of being able to be near Jayce again, even if it's selfish, even if it's only for a moment.

They face each other, heads against the pillow, both hardly breathing. The world is quiet around them, save for the soft rustle of leaves outside. Even without being pressed up against him, the heat from Jayce's body is a palpable thing, seeping through every single one of Viktor's muscles. In the dark, the scars on Jayce's forehead are as brilliant as the moon itself. Even now, with years of abuse written across his body, he is beautiful.

I want to kiss you, Viktor thinks.

Before, back when they didn’t have years of madness and separation between them, he would have kissed Jayce in a heartbeat. Now, though, he hesitates, searching every line of Jayce’s face, looking for even a hint of doubt or hesitation. His hazel eyes are clear, but Viktor swears he can see neon spots in them if he looks hard enough.

Are you serious right now? Jayce says, breaking through the silence, incredulous. You’re just going to let this happen? You have no right, after what you did to me.

Jayce’s hand come up again, gracing the side of Viktor’s face, brushing hair from his cheek. “What are you thinking?” he whispers.

Viktor swallows, averting his gaze.

I hear your voice all the time, he wants to say. I hear you, and I do not know how to tell if it’s really you or not.

The silence grows between them.

Something shutters closed on Jayce’s expression. Shoulders curled in, he turns on his side so his back is facing Viktor. It isn’t long, before his breathing steadies, before his form goes limp with sleep.

Why won’t you say anything? Jayce’s voice whispers. What did I do? Why don’t you want me?

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut and blocks it out, trying to will himself into unconsciousness.

He must succeed at some point, even though he doesn’t remember falling asleep. Just that one moment, he is on his back and staring at the ceiling, and the next, he is blearily blinking awake, sunlight pressing through the drawn curtains and something warm wrapped around his body.

It takes Viktor a moment, to realize that he and Jayce have both shifted in the night, their arms and legs tangled together, Jayce’s head pressed to Viktor’s chest. Their bodies betraying them, even in slumber.

Chapter Text

Viktor half expects resistance from Jayce after his outburst at Mel. But, the next morning, he follows Viktor into the kitchen without protest. Mel is already seated at the table, a fresh cup of steaming tea in her hands. She raises an eyebrow when she sees them enter together, but says nothing.

It isn’t what it looks like, Viktor wants to say defensively. Nothing happened, I swear.

No, no. Mel made it clear that she and Jayce were no longer together—he shouldn’t have to defend spending the night in Jayce’s room, he shouldn’t…

Jayce turns to Mel, something weary in his expression. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet. “Last night, I…” He swallows. “You’ve been trying to help. And I’ve been an ass.”

Mel doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, she sighs, gently setting her cup down. “How about I apologize for knocking you out to get you on the airship and we call it even?”

Jayce snorts. “Fair.”

The ground nearly gives out from underneath Viktor’s feet.

Jayce… Had to be knocked out? To even get on the airship? He…

The realization crashes through Viktor like a tsunami, so devastating that he is faintly shocked he is still standing. He tries to grip his cane harder to hide how his hand shakes, but it only rattles against the floor.

Returning to Viktor was an obligation, a promise made under duress, and Mel had tried to bring Jayce back to the island as a last-ditch effort to help. Despite Mel's claims that Jayce wanted to come back, she can’t hide the truth of it.

Jayce doesn’t want to be here. Not truly.

Thankfully, neither Jayce nor Mel seem to notice how difficult Viktor is suddenly finding it to stand.

Suddenly, like a wall coming up over Jayce’s face, he draws into himself, guarded. “You never said how you did that,” Jayce says, wary.

Mel hesitates. “Your mother…”

Jayce sighs, running a hand down his face. “The sleep medicine?”

“Well… Yes.”

Jayce scowls, pulling up a chair and sitting down, his brace creaking as it bends at the knee. He brings his hands to the back of his neck, staring at some point within the wooden grains of the table. “I didn’t realize she’d given it to you,” he mutters.

Mel bites her lip. “She thought it was best,” she says softly. “With how often I came to visit, and… After your… Episode…”

“You can say ‘when you broke the window with your chair and tried to climb out and run away,’” Jayce says tiredly.

“I was trying to be a bit more tactful than that.”

“Well, don’t,” Jayce snaps.

Mel glances over at Viktor, half-anxious, half-apologetic. For what, Viktor doesn’t know, but it grates against him.

Jayce sees it, he must, because he scowls, digging his fingers into the back of his head so tightly that Viktor is faintly amazed that he doesn’t draw blood. “And don’t give Viktor that look!”

“I wasn’t—!”

“You were! You always do! Like I’m not even aware of anything outside my own head! You and my mother and…” Jayce breaks off, shuddering. Then, clenching his jaw, “I’m not crazy enough that I can’t see when everyone’s looking at me like I’m a second away from shattering.”

Mel opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but stops. Swallows. Then, head bowed, “You’re right,” she admits. “I’m sorry.”

Jayce looks at her warily, saying nothing. Viktor braces himself for another argument, but then, Jayce nods, a reluctant acceptance of the apology.

With the closed windows, the kitchen walls seem to press in around them, grey and suffocating. In the shadows, all the new creases and lines on Jayce’s face are painted dark and dramatic, the small flecks of neon in his eyes bright as a sun. Even without the leather armor, it is suddenly impossible to deny how much Jayce looks like the battle-weary soldier who had first arrived at Viktor’s island so many years ago.

“...Do you still have it?” Jayce finally questions.

The sleep medicine is left unsaid, but Mel seems to understand regardless. She scoffs. “Please. I threw the last vial out of the airship an hour after we took off. I believe it’s somewhere in the middle of the ocean at this point.”

Jayce chuckles, then falls into silence again.

Viktor wanders over to the cabinets, mindlessly opening and closing them. None of the food looks appetizing, the mere sigh of the dried meats and fresh fruits and loaves of bread turning Viktor’s stomach. He sighs—he should eat, he knows, for Jayce if nothing else, but the temptation to curl up on the couch and try to shut the world away is overwhelming.

He glances back at Jayce and Mel, still silently sat across from each other at the table. The tension in the air is thicker than mud.

Mel picks up her tea and sips it. Viktor can tell she must have grabbed an old, bitter batch of herbs, something from so far back in the cabinet that the dust has seeped into the flavor, because she barely manages to keep herself from pulling a face. Then, setting it back down, “You know, I’ve been quite curious of this place—perhaps you could give me a tour?”

Viktor bristles. He doesn’t want Jayce giving Mel a tour—he doesn’t want her to stay long enough to the point where she’d even need a tour. Moreover, he doesn’t want Mel to see anything in his house, for her to pick apart all his barely concealed failings with that discerning gaze of hers. Perhaps he can go down and work on repairing her airship tonight. Wait until Jayce is asleep, then fix the sails. The fuel might need some experimentation, but if Jayce knows the right formulas…

Jayce clears his throat. Then, as if he can read Viktor’s mind, “Look, Mel… You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he says, echoing Viktor’s own thoughts. “You got me to Viktor. You can leave, go back to Piltover. Or Noxus. Or wherever you want, without worrying about me.”

Mel studies Jayce for a moment. Then, she stands, something resolute in her expression as she walks over to Viktor and sets the still-full cup of tea in the sink. “I will be staying, for the time being.” She glances towards Viktor. “That is, if it is alright with the Herald.”

Viktor presses his lips together and says nothing—whatever thin band of trust stretches between them in regards to Jayce’s well-being, he supposes it only stretches so far. It is understandable, really, considering who he is and what he is done. If he were in Mel’s position, his trust would only go so far, as well.

He nods, accepting, but Jayce blanches.

“I…” Jayce swallows, gaze fearful as his eyes dart between Viktor and Mel. “You really, really don’t have to,” he says.

“I want to,” Mel says simply. Then, crossing her arms, “Is that so hard to believe?”

Jayce casts a fearful look at Viktor, almost begging.

Viktor’s mouth has gone dry. What does Jayce expect him to do? Demand Mel leave? He’s not even sure she’d listen to him.

When Jayce realizes he’s not going to get a response to Viktor, he turns back to Mel. “I thought I told you on the airship,” he says, something pleading in his words. “He’s the Herald.”

Viktor’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.

It’s the truth. Jayce has known for years now who he is. But hearing Jayce refer to him as the Herald…

The closed window and the scarred landscape it blocks away mocks him. There's a ringing in his ears, faint and high-pitched and resembling a scream.

It’s fine, Viktor tells himself. It’s fine.

“He’s…” Jayce swallows. “Look. I’ll be fine, but…”

“Is this about your claim regarding the puppets?” Mel questions, tossing a braid over her shoulder. “I’ve seen nothing of the sort since we landed, and I’m still not sure what you were talking about with gem—”

“Nothing,” Jayce rushes to say, standing up so fast that the gears of his brace don’t quite manage to click into place, causing his leg to buckle as he barely manages to catch himself on the table. He recovers quickly though, and, something tense in his words, “It… It was nothing. I was having a bad day, mixing up time again. You know how I get.”

His gaze remains firmly fixed on the ground, not so much as glancing Viktor’s way.

Viktor doesn’t think he is breathing. He isn’t even sure the rest of the world is moving.

He'd almost forgotten—Jayce still thinks that he doesn’t know about the source of the crystals.

Mel clearly doesn’t believe him any more than Viktor does, but she merely hums. “If you say so.”

Jayce sighs. His gaze is somewhere distant, and he anxiously fiddles with his leather bracelet, still stained with flecks of blood. There's still an empty indentation at its center where Jayce's crystal once was embedded into it, a reminder of the dead and transformed soul he carried around for years without even realizing it. “The airship’s on the beach, right?” he says to no one in particular. “It’s too big, not meant for docking on the ground—it’ll just take one summer storm before it gets washed away.” He jerks his head up, eyes zeroed in on Mel. Then, almost accusatory, “How’d you land without breaking anything?”

Mel hesitates, stealing a glance at Viktor, who can only shrug helplessly. Quite honestly, it’s a miracle Mel managed to land without outright crashing the entire ship.

“Okay,” Jayce mutters, running a hand through his hair. He stands, his brace letting out a horrendous creak. “Did you get all the tools out? The notes?”

Mel says nothing, but Viktor swears he can see a faint flush in her dark skin. He can’t even blame her—he’d been so distracted with finding answers, he hadn’t thought to collect the notes. He hadn’t even wanted to look at them, not for a second longer than necessary.

Jayce starts towards the door. “We’ll have to get them,” he says. Then, nodding at Viktor, “Come on. We should go—”

Viktor closes the cabinet so quickly that the wood bangs, echoing through the room and causing Jayce to jump.

Jayce and Viktor stare at each other for a moment, both seemingly stunned by Viktor’s own actions.

“You should not…” Viktor stops. Swallows. “There will be time later.”

“But—”

“Please, Jayce,” Viktor says, trying not to beg. “We should… At least fix your brace. Or…” He flounders, useless. None of his excuses to keep Jayce from the outdoors seem like enough.

Jayce doesn’t move for a long minute. Then, "So that's it?" he mutters. Then, whipping his head to Mel, "You finally listen to me and get me out of Piltover, but you still won't let me outside?"

Mel starts to protest, "It isn't like—"

"Isn't it?" Jayce snaps. He flinches, hissing and bringing a hand to his forehead. The neon around him is gleaming, so sharp that it hurts to look at. Jayce looks up, suddenly panicked. "Gods, did you even...?"

"Yes," Mel says, almost begging. "Jayce, I swear, you're not in Piltover."

"How can I know, Mel?" Jayce explodes. "After everything you've done, how am I supposed to know that this isn't another lie?"

Without waiting for her to respond, Jayce storms out of the kitchen, not bothering to look back at either of them.

Viktor stares at the few pieces of old dried fruit he managed to get from the cupboard. Even just looking at them makes his stomach turn.

Go to him, Viktor screams at himself. He’s back. This is what you wanted. The least you can do is go to him.

He should ask Mel what Jayce meant. He should go after Jayce. He should...

Mel clears her throat. “I hate to be a bothersome guest,” she says, “But mortals do need to eat, and your cabinets seem rather sparse. You wouldn’t happen to have any food sources on the island, would you?”

Viktor sighs. “I will show you the garden.”

It is a shock later, to see that Jayce, without any prompting, has begun rummaging around in one of Viktor’s spare rooms, muttering as he goes through old boxes.

Viktor cautiously approaches, and Jayce startles, turning at the sound of his cane against the tile. He blinks for a moment, confusion on his face.

“Were you looking for something?” Viktor asks after a moment, after the silence stretches on for too long.

Jayce huffs, gesturing to the now-empty box, old gadgets and bits of springs littered across the dusty bed. “Did you reorganize your tools?” he demands.

Viktor blinks. “Some of them.”

Some Jinx had blown through. Some he had forgotten to put away after his repairs. Some had rusted to uselessness and Viktor had discarded in disgust, unwilling to try and repair them. Most of them, Viktor suspects, lay scattered in various rooms, their initial project long forgotten after those first few desperate weeks of distraction.

Jayce picks up a handful of screws. “Do you know where the spare wood is? Half your doors need replaced.”

Viktor hesitates. He does remember, actually. They’d been by an open window, and by the time he’d been dragged out of the water, they’d been wet and near-disintegrated with rot. Why he’d even left them nearby an open window in the first place is beyond him, but he’d been so far gone at that point, it was only a dull shock at how badly common sense had failed him.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Never mind,” Jayce says after a moment, shaking his head. “I can go outside and…” He trails off. He glances towards the closed window. “Why are all the curtains drawn?” he asks, as if noticing it for the first time. “You never draw the curtains. Is there something…?”

Without warning, all the screws in Jayce’s hand clatter to the floor. Jayce falters, blinking. He holds his now-shaking hand up as if he doesn’t even recognize it. Small flecks of neon are in his eyes, growing larger by the second.

Does he know, what is outside? Or at least suspect?

“You can use the ones in the garden,” Viktor says quickly. “We can regrow them after.”

He turns to leave, then hears Jayce scoff. “You fell apart that badly when I was gone? It couldn’t have been that difficult to maintain the house.”

Hot shame rushes to Viktor’s face. “I’m sorry—I did not mean to,” he pleads as he turns back around, a hand coming to clutch the front of his robes. “I… I know there are still repairs, some things to do, but I can get the materials, and…”

He stops suddenly.

Jayce is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Viktor?” Jayce says cautiously. “What… What are you talking about?”

Viktor’s mouth goes dry.

He… He’d thought…

Fuck.

“It’s nothing,” Viktor says quickly, stumbling backwards. “I… I am sorry. Forget about it.”

Jayce’s eyes widen. “Viktor, wait—”

Viktor turns and all but runs before Jayce can put two and two together.

Before the imagined voice in his head can become a reality.

He is determined to stay away from Jayce’s room that night.

He’s curled up on the couch, rereading an old chapter of a tome that Jayce had added in after their first year together. Something on the versatility of inspiration category runes, he thinks, but he’s having a difficult time comprehending the words. They slide over his brain like oil over water, slippery and meaningless.

Jayce clears his throat from behind Viktor, snapping him out of his trance.

“Can you…?” Jayce starts to ask, trailing off. He swallows, staring down at the ground. “Look, I… I understand, that I’m not… That my mind isn’t…” He wavers. Then, he lifts his gaze, looking at Viktor with pleading eyes. The question is left unsaid, but Viktor feels it in the space between them, fragile and tentative.

Can you come to bed with me? Please, Viktor—don’t leave me alone.

Viktor hesitates. He shouldn’t. This isn’t good, for either of them.

But he is the one who did this to Jayce.

Keeping his former partner from facing his nightmares alone is the least Viktor can do.

Wordlessly, he sets the book down, not even bothering to bookmark the page. He rises, nodding at Jayce, trying to ignore the way Jayce’s shoulders slump in obvious relief.

When they curl up together in bed, blankets pulled up and the darkness pressing in around them, Viktor tries to suppress the wave of disappointment when Jayce turns on his side, facing away, not even attempting to caress or kiss him.

It’s for the best, Viktor tells himself, turning away and biting the inside of his cheek hard enough that it bleeds. It is good that he does not want you. Besides, neither of you are in the state for affections right now.

He is here to ward against nightmares and whatever else Jayce’s mind conjures, and nothing more.

When sleep finally takes him, it’s to a numbingly familiar scene.

He is underwater. His lungs collapse and burn, every pore of his body flooded with water and mud. Each breath is more painful than the last.

So he stops breathing.

His heart stutters, then stops completely. The world falls away, and the pain subsides, replaced with peaceful black. Then, like clockwork, his heart jumps, beating and screaming wildly, trying to force his body back into life. Every rune on his body sears his skin, as blinding in the godhood they promised since the day he scratched them in.

You did this. You corrupt everything you touch. I hate you—I hate you!

He shuts his mind off and sinks.

It’s relieving in a way, like falling asleep. Falling deeper and deeper, until the pain is nothing but a distant memory, until thoughts of heartache and missing partners are meaningless.

Viktor! a voice cries. Viktor, can you hear me? Gods, please, please wake up, Viktor—please, please…

When he wakes, it's still dark out, and Jayce is already up. He’s shifted in the night so that he is now holding Viktor, his arms wrapped around Viktor’s body, carefully cradling him like he is something fragile and precious. Jayce’s whole body is shuddering, his face wet with tears. As soon as he notices that Viktor’s eyes are open, he lets out a small sound like a gasp, his grip on Viktor tightening.

Viktor shifts, a hand coming up to brush against Jayce’s cheek. “Jayce?” he says quietly. “Jayce, what’s wrong?”

Jayce gapes at him, incredulous. “What’s…?” He opens his mouth, closes it. Then, cautiously, “Are you… Okay?”

Viktor looks up at him in confusion. He takes stock of his body—his leg is no more twisted than usual, his pain levels are more than manageable, and there’s none of the telltale signs of stiff robes or stinging skin that speak to anything tearing around his back brace. Even his ears seem fine, deciding not to play any of their usual tricks. “Yes,” he decides after a moment. “Why?”

Jayce swallows. “…No reason,” he says, even though his voice shakes.

Viktor’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. It’s fine. It wasn’t like he was expecting Jayce to suddenly open up and start talking, not after only two days of being back. But still, he can’t help but wither in the face of just how much trust he has to try and rebuild, brick by crumbling brick.

Sighing, he starts to move, ready to disentangle himself from Jayce’s arms, but then, Jayce’s fingers tighten in their grip on Viktor’s robes.

He freezes. What is Jayce…?

“Please,” Jayce whispers, voice trembling. “Can we just… Stay here? For a little while?”

Viktor’s heart clenches. “If you wish,” he murmurs.

It's too easy, to let his head settle back into the crook of Jayce’s neck and shoulder. Still, he closes his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm as to not to get too comfortable, even as Jayce begins to stroke along his arms, tender and trembling, the familiarity of the act slowly bleeding his tension away. It is the height of selfishness, to benefit from Jayce’s need for companionship while he’s recovering from what Viktor did to him. But Jayce is so warm, and despite everything, it is easy to drift off again, to let the reassurance of Jayce’s body lull him into something like relief. Distantly, he’s aware that Jayce’s hand has moved to his back, his fingers soothing as they run down the braced and boney knobs of Viktor’s spine. Like this, he can almost believe that the past few years of heartbreak and crippling isolation haven’t happened, that it was all just a nightmare, that he will wake to sunlight streaming in through the window and Jayce pressing kisses down his face and laughing like nothing is wrong.

Viktor, dream-Jayce murmurs, adoration thick in his voice. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving you. I love you, I love you, I love…

By the time he blearily blinks back into awareness, the bed is cold and empty, and Jayce is gone again.

And if Viktor throws himself out of bed, his breathing erratic and short as he frantically stumbles down the hall, not even thinking to bother with his leg brace, desperately groping at the walls to keep his balance, throwing open the doors to each and every room, only to barrel into the kitchen to see Jayce blinking at him owlishly as he holds an apple in his hands, eyes caught between hazel and neon…

It’s fine.

Viktor quickly stumbles away before Jayce can realize anything, his feet dragging against the cold floor.

It’s fine.

It quickly becomes a pattern.

Mel rises before the sun, exploring both the island and, Viktor suspects, the contents of his rooms, even if she never comes out and says it. He can grudgingly respect her for calling his bluff, even if he has to fight down a surge of annoyance every time he spots an old map or odd star chart spread across her bed. Jayce spends the day repairing small odds and ends in the house—crooked frames, cracked foundations, rusted hinges. Viktor watches from the corners, a thousand and a million words on his tongue.

What do you see? he wants to beg. When you flinch, when you stare at nothing, when you dig your thumb into your wrist. What do you see?

The questions die before they even make it out of his throat.

Neither of them broach the subject of the workshop.

Every night, Viktor avoids going to bed for as long as possible. He tends to the garden, casts the spells for food preparation, tries to repair the cracks he missed after Jinx first dragged him out of the water. Inevitably, Jayce’s uneven step comes up behind him, heavy and with the rusty creak of the brace he still refuses to let Viktor look at. He will wait a few moments, maybe clear his throat. Then,

“Will you come to bed?”

Viktor will swallow, his heart dropping. “You are sure you want me there?” he will ask.

And, every time, Jayce nods. Sometimes he looks exasperated. Sometimes he looks hopeful. Mostly, he looks pained. “Please.”

Viktor nods, pulling himself to his feet, wordlessly following Jayce into their shared room, his guilt curling around his heart like twisted roots.

Only once, does he ask, “Does it… Help? Having me here?”

Jayce is silent for a long moment. Then, he curls into Viktor’s side, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s torso. “Yes.”

Then, once the last of the sun's light fades, the nightmares come.

They start slow, with faint wisps of white curling at the edges of Jayce's forehead scars, subtle enough in the darkness that Viktor can’t always tell. Unlike before, Jayce never reacts—he doesn’t thrash, he doesn’t cry, his heart doesn’t so much as quicken even a single beat faster. Then, the second Viktor blinks, there they are—taunting and hideous and strong enough to steal every ounce of air from his lungs.

In a grand chamber of blue and gold and white, judgmental eyes bearing down on him, while a woman’s voice echoes—My son is not in his right mind.

Curled up against a jagged stone wall, pain throbbing through his leg, staring at a fire, where his own warped face stares back at Jayce—You should go, Jayce. You should go.

That shadowed figure, trapped in the runic binding circle, laughing and laughing and laughing.

Look at you! What more could I possibly do to you?

You’re perfect.

Worse are the nights when there are no nightmares. When there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to distract Viktor’s mind from the drunken realizations that Jayce came back, that Jayce is here, that Jayce is holding him. Even the reminder that Jayce will not want him after he remembers that this is all Viktor's fault is not enough to keep his body from betraying him—despite his best efforts, too often, Viktor can physically feel every last one of his reservations being chipped away, his muscles beginning to unwittingly relax, his eyes sliding closed, his mind drifting.

Every time he catches himself, Viktor digs his nails into his skin and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. He is here to be there for Jayce. He will not, cannot, let himself slip.

It’s two weeks in, when the exhaustion that has been gradually eating away at him finally claims him.

Everything around him is warm and syrupy slow, a pleasant and not wholly unwelcome sensation humming through his veins. For the first time in years, his heart is calm, that aching gape of loneliness inside of him closed. He is wrapped in something soft and reassuring, making his head heavy and his body buzzing.

It’s okay, the voice of his partner whispers, I’ve got you.

Viktor sighs and lets himself fall deeper.

There’s something low and insistent coiling in his abdomen, a lazy and aching need. Languidly, Viktor shifts, and is rewarded by a hum of arousal.

His head is in the clouds, heat spreading through him like honey. There’s a faint hiss in the back of his skull, warning him to stop now while he still can, but it’s pathetically easy to ignore. For the first time in… Years, he thinks, he’s safe.

You're safe, the voice confirms.

Viktor moves again, lazily chasing the pleasure that is keeping his mind in that happy, dazed state, each movement only adding to that building and buzzing pressure.

There’s the sound of a moan, soft and encouraging, that goes straight down to Viktor’s cock.

Keep going, Jayce’s voice begs. Please, please.

...Jayce?

Viktor’s eyes snap open and he inhales sharply, suddenly and horribly awake.

In sleep, he has rotated to his side, Jayce’s arms wrapped around his ribs and fingers gripping into his robes. Viktor’s legs are tangled around Jayce’s, leaving his groin pressed right against Jayce’s hip and waist.

Where he is completely, obviously, hard. Where his cock has tented his robes, flush and pressed into Jayce’s side. Where Viktor can see a traitorous and telling wet spot where his cock has started leaking precum.

Heat rushes to Viktor’s face—quickly, he begins to pull away. “Jayce, I… I am so sorry, I…”

“It’s okay,” Jayce rushes to say. Then, voice shaky, “Don’t stop.”

Viktor hesitates. He shouldn’t. He should pull away. Gods, he needs to pull away, he needs to stop this now for both their sakes. There’s a buzz in his ears, a voice he can’t entirely decide is real or not.

Viktor, please, I want you, please…

When Viktor doesn’t move, Jayce shifts, taking Viktor’s hand and guiding it to his hip. At first, Viktor thinks it’s to help steady him, give him something to grip, but then Jayce guides him further down, and…

Oh.

Even through his tunic, Viktor can tell—Jayce is achingly erect. Before he can stop himself, Viktor runs his hand down and up, his fingers grazing beneath Jayce’s underclothes to brush against his cock. With even that small touch, a sound escapes Jayce’s lips, like air being punched out from his lungs. Jayce’s hips lift slightly, leaning into the contact, and at the same time, he presses Viktor closer, making that steady pressure against Viktor’s own erection suddenly unbearable.

All common sense is fleeing Viktor’s mind at alarming rates. Even though his vision is blurring, even as every thought that isn’t immediately Jayce and want quickly becoming meaningless, Viktor tries to get a good look at Jayce. His pupils are blown out, and he’s already flush and panting. In the slim ring of his irises, there is hazel and neon both.

“Viktor,” Jayce begs, voice thin, “Viktor, please.”

The very last ounce of Viktor’s resolve shatters.

He shifts with a grunt, moving so that he is on top of Jayce. Jayce moans as their erections press together, the friction from their clothing and each other near-overwhelming. Viktor pauses, then takes the pillow from his side of the bed. Though his hips protest at the angle, Viktor ignores it, twisting around so that he can position the pillow underneath Jayce’s injured knee.

Immediately, tension bleeds out of Jayce’s expression. Still, his hands hover over Viktor’s body, something like disbelief on his expression. He trails from Viktor’s ribs to his hips, then he begins to move to unclasp Viktor’s robes.

Panic shoots up Viktor’s throat. Frantic, he grabs Jayce’s hands, pinning them down to his side. Before Jayce can protest, he leans down and silences him with a kiss.

Dimly, Viktor is aware that this is only their second kiss since Jayce has returned. There’s something clawing at his heart, begging him to realize that this is a horrible idea, but then Jayce moans into the kiss, low and vibrating through Viktor’s entire body, and that guilt is instantly silenced. It is everything Viktor has wanted since the day Jayce left—hungry and consuming, warm and sweet enough to sting his teeth.

Then, slowly, Jayce begins to move, grinding their erections together.

In this moment, Viktor doesn’t care if either he or Jayce has gone mad. Nothing matters except for the desire pooling in his abdomen and spreading through him like a wildfire.

Jayce gasps into his mouth. “Viktor,” he begs. “Harder, please…”

Viktor presses down, picking up his movements, rolling his hips in time to Jayce’s own thrusts. He is teetering on the edge of something, arousal and desperation and madness alike cresting and coursing through him in crashing waves.

Something is blurring in his eyes. Tears? He can’t tell—he doesn’t know if he cares. All that matters right now is Jayce beneath him, Jayce moaning and gasping, Jayce’s voice echoing and echoing inside of his head—Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…!

With a cry, Viktor cums, release torn out of him in spurts. With a grunt, then a moan, he hears Jayce finish underneath him, his partner’s body going limp.

Viktor all but falls against Jayce’s chest. He can hear both their hearts hammering, furiously beating in tandem. He’s numb as Jayce begins to sit them both up, pressing soft kisses down Viktor’s neck, trailing down to his collarbone, as familiar and comforting as the fire of the hearth. His hands hold Viktor, warm and secure, gracing along the ribs and…

Something tears along his spine.

The last vestiges of the afterglow of sex vanish in an instant—Viktor is pulling away before he can comprehend it, cold and horrifying reality bleeding into his mind.

What did he just do? Gods above, what was he thinking?

Viktor’s breath seizes up as he clutches the front of his robes. Already, he can feel hot blood at his back, staining his robes. There is a ringing in his ears, echoing with the faint sound of Jayce’s laughter.

“Viktor…?” Jayce murmurs, still sounding dazed.

What did I do? This… This is real, right? Please, Viktor, say something…

Viktor scrambles off the bed, frantically tugging on his leg brace while keeping his back angled away from Jayce. His body is shaking and far too thin, the still-tender skin around his ribs and spine threatening to crack open even further. This time, he knows he isn’t imagining the hot tears in his eyes, making his actions thick and blurry.

Jayce can’t see him like his. He can’t be there for Jayce like this.

You use me, and you leave me. Just like before.

“I’m... I'm sorry,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce’s brows knit together in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he whispers. He sits up in bed, reaching over and finding Viktor’s hand. He brings it up to his lips, placing a kiss along the knuckles.

Please don’t go, please. I love you—Viktor, talk to me, please.

Are his lips moving? Is he actually talking? Viktor can’t tell any longer. He doesn’t know…

Why would you do this to me? Why, Viktor? Why?

Shame rises up in Viktor’s throat, choking him. He pulls his hand away and stands. His brace isn’t fastened properly, and he can feel the leather slipping, the metal digging into his skin, his leg unsecured and already insistently twisting inwards.

Jayce shakes his head. “No…” he murmurs. Then, shoving the rest of the covers off, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, his hand outstretched. “No—Viktor, wait—!”

But Viktor is already moving, out the door and gone.

He isn’t sure how much time passes between when he leaves Jayce’s room and now. The sky is grey outside, the air thick with a mist that almost feels like a drizzle, but it doesn’t matter. The walls of his house and the missing partner they contain are suffocating.

Viktor stumbles through the island until his leg is moments away from giving out. Everything around him is grey, his very eyes themselves misted over.

Best thing gods like us can do is stay away.

Viktor can’t help but laugh. Gods above, what is he doing? He can’t help Jayce—he can’t even help himself. All he does is make things worse, destroying everything he so much as touches. The island itself is a testament to his corruption, with its beautiful and hideous scarring. Viktor blinks, and the island is suddenly the Wild Rift in Jayce’s nightmares—greyish green mist, blistering and blooming rot erupting from every surface, the air thick with death.

Then, he blinks again, and it’s gone. The mist is a normal pale grey, the corruption shimmering and silver in the clouded light.

Absurdly, he wishes Jinx were here. With her, at least, it was more obvious when his mind was splintering. Even if she wouldn’t know what he should do, she would at least give him a solid shove in the generally right direction. What would she say, if she could see Jayce? If she knew that the madness she’d tried to keep him from had still taken him in the end.

All he can see is her on the floor of his kitchen, gasping with tears pouring down her cheeks, small and shuddering and wholly ungodlike as the world splinters around her.

Viktor lets out a weary sigh. No. It’s perhaps better that she isn’t here to see either of them so thoroughly falling apart.

Without warning, his leg twists inwards, nearly toppling him to the ground.

He stops reluctantly, lowering himself onto a moss-covered rock with a grimace. He stretches his leg out, leaning back and staring at the drizzly sky overhead. As much as he hates to admit it, Jayce was right—he does need to fix his leg brace. Still, what would be the point? It isn’t like the pain matters in the end. He can walk well enough for short distances, and besides, the pain won’t kill him.

For the rest of his immortal life, the pain won't kill him.

Something rustles off to the side, and Viktor snaps his gaze towards it. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment. Just when Viktor is ready to write it off as his ears betraying him yet again, a figure begins to form in the mist. Tall, elegant, and outlined in gold.

Mel.

Viktor says nothing as she approaches him, studying. Her hair is not in its usual braided coils, instead hanging loose and spilling over her shoulders. Still, there are small bits of jeweled clasps woven into the curls, keeping it away from her face. Somehow, it makes her look softer, less like the sharp and composed woman Viktor has come to expect.

For a moment, Viktor could swear that she can see straight through him, the evidence of what he did that morning. Self-conscious, he clutches the front of his robes around him a little tighter.

Then, unexpectedly, Mel sits down on the rock next to him, as if they are longtime friends and not… Whatever they are. The former fiancée and the other man.

Mel glances around, gestures to a nearby tree completely overtaken by the spiraling webs. “I’ve been wondering—has the island always looked like this?”

“…No,” Viktor admits. Then, quickly, “Neither you nor Jayce are in any danger of it spreading, or of it harming you.”

Mel chuckles, soft and melodic. “I wasn’t worried,” she says. Then, “At least, not after the first hour or so, when it became apparent that you truly had nothing to do with Jayce’s condition.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You did not think I was lying?”

Mel snorts. “No. It’s obvious just by looking at you how much you care about him.”

Shame eats away at Viktor’s heart. “That does not mean that I have not harmed him.”

Mel hums. “Perhaps,” she acknowledges. She smooths down some invisible crease in her robes. Then, “I have to admit, you are unlike any other god I’ve seen before.”

Viktor scowls.

Mel, unperturbed, just chuckles. “Please—it’s not a bad thing.”

“Jayce said something similar, once,” Viktor mutters. “Although I am surprised to hear you say it, being of godly descent yourself.”

Mel grimaces.

“You dislike it,” Viktor notes.

Mel sighs. “I haven’t known about it long enough to know if I dislike it or not.” Something over her face darkens. “It would have been a simple enough matter for my mother to tell me—and now, I have the rest of my life to wonder why she didn’t.”

Viktor stares down at his hands. In the grey, they look even more bruised and corpse-like than usual. Not for the first time, he wonders about his own godly parent. Who they were. What he inherited from them. If his own mother would have told him anything, had she lived long enough to do so.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

Mel casts him a sidelong glance, curious. “The myths don’t say which god you were descended from,” she notes.

Viktor sighs. “No,” he says quietly. “They do not.”

Mel smiles a bit at that, small and rueful. It’s almost imperceptible, but for just a second, Viktor swears he can see a slip in the mask of the politician she seems to constantly wear, revealing something genuine and warm underneath it.

“Might I ask you something somewhat callous?” Viktor questions.

Mel tilts her head curiously, but nods to him to continue.

“Why are you still here?”

On an island with her mad former fiancé and the God of the Arcane.

Silence sits between them, long and heavy. Mist clings around Viktor’s skin, chilling and damp, but he refuses to so much as shiver. The drizzle has left miniscule droplets in Mel’s hair, making it look like she’s been covered in silver glitter.

Viktor half expects Mel to continue to evade, to deny, to dance around her own response as she has every other time before. Instead, she sighs, slumping over and propping her head up in her hands. “I lost everything after the war, you know,” she admits. “Piltover barely tolerated my presence, and the Council turned on me the moment my godly parentage became apparent." She smiles, small and rueful. "I think Cassandra Kiramman is convinced I somehow had something to do with her daughter’s… With Caitlyn, leaving the way she did. And Noxus…”

“They take issue with a queen who killed her mother?” Viktor asks.

Mel snorts. “Quite the opposite. If I were to go back and declare war on the gods again tomorrow, they would be more than eager to follow.” She chuckles humorlessly. “I could go back to Noxus still, I suppose. Try and salvage what my mother destroyed, make it into a home worth saving. Still, I’m not overly fond of the place, after everything. One of my earliest memories is seeing my mother behead a former queen, spilling blood across the throne—the very throne I would be expected to sit on.”

Viktor can’t help but gape. The words aren’t dramatic—far from it. They’re spoken with a blunt matter-of-factness that makes their truth impossible to ignore.

Then, shaking her head, “I have no one left in Piltover or Noxus. While Jayce was gone, my brother died fighting my mother’s war, and my best friend died at my mother’s hand. Even Caitlyn…” She sighs. “Jayce is the only friend I have left. Even if he spends the rest of his life hating me, I…” Her voice wavers. 

Viktor closes his eyes briefly. That last day with Jayce rings in his head. Betraying him to save him.

“I understand,” Viktor says quietly. Then, “I apologize. I’m afraid I have been a terrible host.”

Mel smiles at that, wry and warm all at once. “A little bit,” she acknowledges without an ounce of bite or accusation, “But I can hardly blame you. I did crash my…. What did you call it? ‘Blundering Piltover airship’ into your home without any forewarning.”

Viktor chuckles. “I admit, I did not mean it,” he confesses. “It is an engineering marvel. But I was, eh… Jealous, I suppose.”

Mel bursts into laughter. “You? Of me?”

“You cannot tell me you did not have hoards of jealous admirers back in Piltover.”

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Mel agrees, still smiling. “But I’ve been jealous of you since the moment Jayce first uttered your name, and I’m quite afraid it’s gotten worse since we landed here.”

Viktor snorts. “You do not have to falsely flatter me, Mel.”

Mel rolls her eyes. “Please—I’m not above lying when the situation demands it, but I swear I’m not lying now.” Then, apparently seeing that Viktor is not convinced, “Look at you—the powerful witch of the island, mysterious and alluring?” As she speaks, she holds her hand up in front of her, seemingly hypnotized as she watches each golden line catch the pale grey light. "Jayce's affections aside, you're the man who has mastered the magic of godhood and witchcraft both. I’m not too proud to admit that I was envious."

Suddenly, viscerally, Viktor is reminded of those first few weeks after his exile, when he’d been freshly weakened and grappling with his powerlessness, forced to confront his changed and mutilated body.

“Do you wish to learn how to use it?” Viktor asks before he can stop himself.

Mel’s gaze snaps to him.

“Your… Your godly power, I mean,” Viktor says, heat rising to his cheeks. “I am not… I am not a full god any longer, not truly, and I do not know how much help I could be. But I do remember how to… Channel it.”

Mel says nothing for a long minute.

Heat rises to Viktor’s face. “I am sorry,” he says, grabbing his cane and standing. “That was overstepping. You have my permission to pretend I never asked.”

Mel lets out a hum. Then, almost casually, “Why not?”

Viktor pauses. “Are you certain?”

Mel nods, rising from the rock and brushing her hands off on her robes. “I have it—I may as well learn how to use it,” she says simply. Then, smiling slightly, “Besides, I would rather like to not glow every time I experience high emotion. I’m sure you can imagine the problems that causes for a politician on the floor.”

Viktor laughs before he can stop himself. He stops quickly, eyes widening and an apology on his lips, before he sees that Mel is laughing, too. Her expression, for once, is unguarded, something teasing in her eyes like a shared joke.

Perhaps, Viktor concedes, Mel Medarda is not so bad, after all.

Chapter Text

They begin working on Mel’s magic the very next day.

According to Mel, her godly magic has mostly manifested in deflecting attacks and glowing like the sun whenever she experiences heightened emotions.

He almost debates asking how she learned about the former before deciding against it.

Viktor stays up all night, writing down theories, ideas for tests, anything and everything he can think of. It makes it easy to ignore Jayce’s voice in his head, pleading with him, until it finally diminishes into nothing but a whisper.

It isn’t until the sun crests over the horizon that Viktor realizes: Jayce didn’t ask him to come to bed with him.

The realization stings more than it should.

It’s fine, Viktor tells himself, resolutely shoving his pile of books and papers to the side with a scowl. What did you expect, after running from him?

It’s fine. It is healthier this way, for the both of them.

If Mel thinks anything of it, seeing him come out of his own room next to hers rather than Jayce’s that morning, she says nothing of it. She only hums, saying, “Is it too soon to start now? I was thinking we could work on the beach.”

Viktor blinks. “Why the beach?”

Mel shrugs. “The larger space aside? Shortly after awakening my abilities, I set fire to a fellow Councilor’s robes. I’m still not entirely sure what caused it, but I’d rather stay away from flammable plant life for the time being.”

Viktor chuckles despite himself. “That is fine.” Then, after a moment, “I am sure you did not intend to, but this Councilor…”

Mel laughs. “Oh, he deserved it. He had made some comment on how I was… What was the phrasing he used? ‘A godly beast’ who would see the Council brought low.” She rolls her eyes. “As if Salo and all the others ever needed my help doing that. Over a decade serving with them, and I’m not convinced I managed anything of value there.”

Viktor hesitates. “Jayce often spoke of you, you know,” he says quietly. “Of your command of the Council floor. I refuse to believe the woman he claimed single-handedly ran the Council never accomplished anything.” He offers what he hopes is a kind smile. "Based on what he's said before, I can only imagine how thoroughly they are falling apart without you there."

Mel’s startles. For a moment, Viktor thinks she’s going to say something. But she simply taps her fingers on her arm and remains silent.

Still, as they are leaving, she is the one to scribble a note to Jayce, placing it on the kitchen table.

“Do you think he will come looking for us?” Viktor can’t help but ask, glancing behind him as they slip outside.

Mel hums. “Probably not. He hasn’t exactly been seeking me out lately, and it doesn’t seem like he’s been overly eager to try going outside.”

After yesterday, Viktor has to admit, it is unlikely Jayce will be seeking him out, either.

The day is warm and bright with hardly a single cloud in the sky, the sea calmer than usual. Even the warped trees and plants don’t seem quite as glaring. When Mel steps on the lift, Viktor notices that her gaze lingers on the runes across the chains.

“Did Jayce ever explain any witchcraft to you?” he asks.

Mel hums. “A little—nothing voluntary.” She sighs. “I think he was scared that the Council would lock him in prison if word got out. He only explained your warding potion, and even then only because I wouldn’t give him the ingredients until I knew he wasn’t going to use them to poison himself.”

Viktor swallows, trying to ignore the implications behind that statement. Jayce, he… No, he wouldn’t have tried to kill himself.

Would he?

The lift slowly comes to a halt at the beach. Viktor steps off, taking care to make sure his cane doesn’t slip in the sand or catch on a stray rock. To the side, the airship seems to have deflated somewhat. Around the broken sails are bits of wood that the tides have begun to ease off, and Viktor can see crusting salt stains across the bottom.

If either Jayce or Mel decide to leave, their window of time is quickly closing.

Viktor turns away from the airship, pushing the thought out of his mind for now. “What would you like to try first?” he asks.

Mel hums. She leans down, picking a rock out of the sand, testing its weight in her hands. “Perhaps you try throwing this at me.”

Viktor chuckles. “Of course,” he says wryly. “What better way to test your abilities than to have the God of the Arcane attack you?” He shakes his head. “In all seriousness, I’ve seen the wisps of light that come off you—perhaps we see if it has any physical substance or...”

Mel tosses the rock towards him.

Viktor startles, but catches it easily—it’s rather light, its size barely larger than his palm. There’s a few granules of sand on it, and it’s sun warm against his skin.

He looks up from the rock with dawning horror. “You cannot be serious.”

Mel huffs in annoyance and crosses her arms. “Please. This is the guaranteed way that I’ll be able to show you how it works. Besides, next to swords and axes, this will be child’s play.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up. He opens his mouth, closes it.

“My mother,” Mel says by way of explanation, walking a few paces away from Viktor. She rolls her shoulders back, her position almost casual as she looks on at Viktor expectantly.

“I am the God of the Arcane,” Viktor tries to warn. “I have killed hundreds, most without meaning to. I—”

“Viktor,” Mel interrupts, annoyance clear in her voice, “If I were at all worried about the potential of you harming me, I would have incapacitated you the day we arrived.”

Viktor scowls in response. Part of him wants to put on a display of power, some show of force to prove that he isn’t some weak and pathetic thing who would have gone down without even an attempt at a fight.

He swallows the urge down.

Still, he purposefully throws the rock slowly, trying to aim below Mel’s chest.

Before it even gets within a foot of Mel, there’s a flash of gold in the air, and the rock goes flying backwards.

Viktor’s eyes widen and he stumbles back, the rock barely missing his own chest by an inch. It lands on the ground, harmless, a small black mark like a miniature explosion on its surface. Viktor leans down and picks it up, inspecting. It’s warm to the touch, and when he rubs his thumb over the mark, it smears like ash. “Impressive,” he says.

Mel snorts in response.

“No, truly,” Viktor says, straightening up with some effort. The gears in his brain are turning, already forming theories, more tests that he can run. “When you described it last night, I thought it was a mere shield, but you seem to be reflecting it back. Have you measured distance? How weight and force come into effect?”

Mel blinks. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs, warm and bright. “No wonder Jayce likes you so much,” she says.

Viktor tries to smile, though his face is suddenly stiff, no better than a mask.

Would Jayce want to help with this? If Viktor or Mel asked, would he…?

No. No magic. Especially not godly magic.

Viktor turns to the small pile of stones, busying himself with looking through them. He weighs them in his hand, testing. He should really get a scale for this. The measuring tape, as well. Considering his diminished muscle mass, perhaps it would be better to set up some kind of device, or to even use a spell of some kind to throw the rocks for him. That would also help with calibration and consistency...

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Mel says out of nowhere.

Viktor turns back to her, blinking.

“Jayce,” Mel clarifies.

Oh.

Viktor sighs. All his muscles are heavy, exhaustion and despair pressing in around him as if he were drowning again. “It is rather difficult not to, considering everything,” he murmurs.

“That is fair,” Mel admits. Then, “He’s already doing better than he was in Piltover, you know. I’m not sure what you’ve talked about, but he’ll come around.”

Viktor stares at the lift running up the side of the cliff and says nothing.

Working with Mel is, in many ways, similar to working with Jayce. Both share the same determination, the same curiosity, the same uncanny ability to see right to the heart of the issue. Where Jayce will obsess over the minutiae, Mel can see how each piece connects to the larger picture—and, more importantly, how it all comes together. Even if it isn’t quite the same, it’s easy to get lost in the experimental process, working with a different kind of magic once again.

And, even though it makes Viktor’s heart wither in guilt, it gives him something to do besides endlessly fixate on Jayce.

Mel’s magic is a new puzzle, new and exhilarating, consuming nearly every other waking thought. With how rapidly she progresses, Viktor finds himself working faster than he has in years to keep his theories and tests up to her speed.

She now can form shields easily, though they still are strongest when she summons them to ward off an attack. The golden lines on her body, to Viktor’s surprise, are harder than than the rest of her skin, smooth and almost shell-like, and can expand to form a sort of armor. And, most surprisingly, her power grows stronger when not only she, but also Viktor himself, experiences heightened emotions.

When she glows, the light isn’t tangible, but it is more easily manipulated than Viktor would have thought, even if neither of them have figured out yet if it can be made solid.

“Why do you think that is?” Viktor can’t help but ask.

Mel pauses in her attempts to wrap wisps of golden light around a small stone. Her power is strongest when she’s standing directly in the light—in the afternoon, like now, it is almost painful to look at her with how brightly she glows. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “I’d say it’s a limitation of my power, but it happened once before.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. He hums, wandering over to the treeline and into the shade. Even with the ocean breeze, it’s warm today, and some of the more raw parts of his skin scrape and scratch against his back. Being out of direct sunlight helps somewhat, but not by much. “With any circumstances that can be replicated?” he asks.

Mel’s movements stutter. The golden light around her flickers, then dies down.

Viktor flushes. “I apologize,” he says quickly. “You do not have to talk about it.”

Mel is quiet for a moment, expression distant, and Viktor swears he can see her physically weighing the words in her head. Almost unwittingly, she raises a hand, watching as a thin stream of light forms around it, winding and weaving. Every display of power comes with a faint metallic ringing—even now, Viktor can hear it in the air, echoing in his ears.

It’s sudden, when Mel finally speaks. “It was when I killed my mother.”

Viktor can’t help the way his jaw briefly drops in shock. He recovers quickly, smoothing his face into neutrality—fortunately, Mel doesn’t seem to have noticed.

She stares at her hands, at that twisting band of light, something unreadable on her expression. “My mother was the one who started the war, if you get down to it,” she says bitterly. “Charging through the continent, desecrating every temple she could find, then coming into my city and trying to take control. She whispered anger and poison into every other Councilor, and they all bought it. Even Jayce couldn’t see it, blinded by Caitlyn… Leaving, the way she did.”

Viktor notes the carefully concealed tremor over Caitlyn’s name, the shock and hurt she has deliberately and delicately buried.

“And after Jayce returned, he…” Mel flounders. “It was obvious he wasn’t in a good state, but I managed to keep his position on the Council, even though he made it clear he didn’t want it.” Her voice is thick with self-loathing. “I told him it would be fine. I assured him it was temporary, just until I could find a way to get my mother to leave Piltover.”

Viktor shifts his weight. Even if he is no longer angry at Mel, it’s difficult to tamp down the wave of acidic rage at her words, at Jayce yet again being used as a political pawn.

Perhaps something shows, because Mel smiles ruefully. “Believe me, Jayce already yelled at me for it. If I’d had any other choice…” She shakes her head. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter what I intended. I searched my mother’s chambers, later. I believe the plan was to make it appear as though Jayce had killed himself—then, if she couldn’t make me see her reason, kill me and frame Jayce for it.”

The forest is silent around them. Horror is writhing in Viktor’s stomach.

What mother could do that to her child?

Mel smiles ruefully. “Please, don’t look like that. It was inevitable, after how many years I spent fighting against her. I was hardly a cooperative pawn.” She shrugs. “Jayce hardly slept—he heard her come in, and woke me before she could take advantage of our surprise. She attacked, and Jayce was hardly in good shape to defend himself. There was this… Burning, in my veins. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. The next thing I knew, I had my mother on the floor, golden light wrapped around her body like ropes.” She shakes her head. “I should have let her go. But I was angry, and Jayce was terrified, and my mother’s rage…” Her eyes flash golden, small spots lingering around her like flecks of stars. “It was fast, in the end.”

Everything unsaid weighs in the space between them. Behind them, the waves crash against the shore, oblivious to everything.

Viktor looks away. “I am sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t be,” Mel says, voice tight. “She was a monster.”

“And she was your mother,” Viktor says. “Both can be true.”

Mel looks up at him, something flickering over her face. Then, “I don’t know if I ever thanked you. For sending him back.”

Viktor swallows. He shifts his weight again, leaning on his cane. “I…”

“I know it wasn’t either of your choice,” Mel says quickly. “But I’m still grateful. If he hadn’t returned when he did… The rest of Piltover was set to sign my mother on as a Councilor. The damage would have been irreparable, and whatever she had planned for me…” She shakes her head. “I’m grateful.”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to diminish Mel’s thanks—now that he knows her, he’s quite glad she wasn’t harmed, but…

You broke me, Jayce’s voice hisses. You sent me to the Wild Rift. You broke my leg, you broke my mind—I thought you loved me. How was she worth it?

“Have you talked to him at all this week?” Mel asks, interrupting his chain of thought. “Or are the two of you still doing your best to ignore the other?”

Viktor flushes. “You misunderstand. We are not—”

“Please don’t lie, Viktor,” Mel says, waving him off with a snort. “I have eyes, you know. Besides, it is rather obvious when he asks you to go to bed with him and you pretend he isn’t there.”

Viktor scowls instead of answering. Mel’s uncanny insight, while useful in working through her magic, is beyond irritating when turned on him. Something uneasy settles in his stomach, though, at her words.

He hadn’t realized that Jayce’s voice begging him to please come to bed every night was not just in his head.

He reaches over and snaps a dead twig off a nearby tree, then scratches a growth rune into the bark, pressing witchcraft into it and letting it grow green with life. He sets it down on a rock in the shade, where the nearest beam of sun is at least a foot away. “Can you set fire to this?”

Mel, though she must surely know what Viktor is doing, says nothing. Instead, she hums, wandering over to the shade. Even out of direct sunlight, she glows. Viktor can feel the threads within her illuminated, warm and still humming with energy. She flexes her fingers, gaze turning focused as she twists light around her hands. The threads inside of her sharpen, reflective and biting as shards of glass, and there’s a sound in the air like a finger circling a glass cup, the very light itself bending to Mel’s will.

Though, not quite—there’s a twist, a sour note in the air, and the threads in Mel’s fingers coil and squirm. Mel frowns, furrowing her brows as she presses harder, but to no avail.

Viktor hums. “Try refocusing it from this angle,” he advises, gesturing a few inches to the side.

Where Jayce would pause, ask why, demand to know the explanation and the science, Mel simply nods. She repositions her hands, and just like that, the light around her twists, then beams into place. The twig erupts into flames, blazing bright and brilliant for a moment before withering into ask.

Mel shakes her head in faint wonder. “How could you tell?”

Viktor shrugs. “Your magic deals in reflection, does it not?”

Mel's eyebrows shoot up. Something pensive settles over her face, her brows knitting together as she considers it. “I hadn’t considered it, truthfully,” she admits. “It’s mostly been sensations, intuition—not anything I’ve had a greater awareness of.” Almost experimentally, she angles her hand into a sunbeam, faint through the leaves overhead. She curls her hand, watching in fascination as the light follows her movements. “How did you know?”

Viktor shrugs. “Likely the same way you can sense the emotions of others. It is an aspect of my domain, being able to see magic and its workings.”

Mel’s eyes light up with interest. Though she has made leaps and bounds of progress over the past week, she can’t seem to fully conceal the glimmer of gold that passes through her dark eyes every so often. “Is the sensation enhanced with witchcraft?” she asks.

Viktor can’t help but chuckle. Despite her wariness of witchcraft, she can’t fully hide her fascination with it, either. Increasingly, it is easy to see how she and Jayce got along before Viktor came into the picture.

Strangely, the thought doesn’t make him nearly as blind with jealousy as it used to.

“Likely,” Viktor admits, “Though I never experienced godhood without witchcraft, or witchcraft without godhood.” He cocks his head. “How does it feel for you?”

Mel pauses. She considers it for a moment, brows knit together. Then, slowly, “It is like…” She hums, a hand coming to her chin. “Emotion, I suppose. Strong surges, moments when I look at another person, like looking in a mirror and knowing each hidden thought behind the mask put forth.” She hesitates, then, guiltily, “A few months before we left, Jayce asked me if there was a single genuine emotion within me, or if I was only capable of reflecting back what everyone else expected to see.” She smiles, wry and bleak. “I suppose he was right, in a sense.”

Viktor shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “Please, Mel, believe me when I say that he was not correct.”

Mel startles, blinking. “You do not have to lie for my sake,” she says.

Viktor chuckles. “Truly, I am not.” He adjusts his stance, shifting his weight. “Quite honestly, it would have been easier, if he was correct. It would make it easier to hate you.”

Mel laughs at that, unexpected and delighted. “So you do not hate me either, then?” she teases.

Viktor hums. “If anything, I owe you an apology,” he admits. “In my envy, I judged you unduly.”

Mel’s smile is a warm and beauteous thing. “Please, I think we’re both past the point of apologies by now, wouldn’t you agree?”

Viktor hesitates. “I suppose,” he acknowledges. “But still, you would be justified, in seeking some kind of retribution for all I have done.”

The guilt eats at him, raw and acidic. How can she laugh with him? How can she stand there without an ounce of detestation? He slept with her fiancé, then broke his mind, and…

Mel’s face lights up with something like mischief. She flicks a finger, and a ray of light shoots forward, hitting Viktor squarely in the eye.

He lets out an undignified yelp, staggering backwards as his hand comes up to clutch at his face as spots erupt across his sight. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize—there’s no pain.

When his vision recovers, he sees that Mel is shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,” she gasps out in between chuckling. “What is that old saying across Renni’s temples? ‘An eye for an eye?’”

Then, unexpectedly, Viktor is laughing with her, the sound bubbling up out of him almost hysterically. There’s something wrong with him, to be able to laugh with Jayce’s former fiancée, or maybe it’s because of it.

Suddenly, a twig snaps from behind them.

Viktor whips around, his laughter dying in his throat.

Jayce.

He’s outside. Why… Why is he outside?

Next to him, Mel also freezes, like they’ve been caught in the middle of some illicit activity. “Jayce,” she says, too loud, too unsure. “What are you… You…” She flounders. “You’re outside.”

Jayce stands in the treeline, a few wary paces away from Viktor. His expression is guarded, suspicious as he looks between the two of them. The space around his eyes is a blur of neon light. “Yeah, well,” he says, “The walls were starting to suffocate.” He grimaces, flinching as a hand comes up to his head.

Mel hesitates, then, “Are you sure being outside is a good idea?”

It’s the wrong thing to say—Viktor can tell immediately. Jayce’s eyes darken, that now ever-present crease between his eyebrows growing deeper. “I shouldn’t be outside?” he questions flatly.

Mel sighs. “Jayce, that isn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

“As you keep reminding me, we’re not in Piltover any longer,” Jayce says in that same flat tone. “Right?”

Viktor wants to disappear into the background—have Jayce and Mel had this argument before?

"Jayce..."

“I can only spend so much time staring at the same walls before starting to wonder what my mind is lying about,” Jayce interrupts. He grimaces. “At least this is an easier test,” he mutters, “Figuring out if I’m actually trapped or not.”

"We weren’t trying to trap you, Jayce,” Mel tries. “It was a precaution…”

“A precaution?” Jayce interrupts, eyes dark.

“Not against you, Jayce!” Mel says, throwing her hands up. “I don’t know why you’d want to—”

“Why I’d want to leave the house?” Jayce interrupts. He laughs, long and bleak. “I don’t know, Mel, why would I? After spending five years trapped inside my mother’s house, why would I want to do something like go outside?”

The world is spinning around Viktor, too fast and too dizzying. Five years trapped inside his mother’s house. At least one year before then in the Wild Rift. Another before his trial and imprisonment. Time in between. Travel, complications, arguments. Time and more time. Acid is crawling from his stomach to his heart to his throat, decaying him from the inside out.

It’s not going to just be a year, and we both know it, Jayce’s voice echoes in his head, as clear and sure as it had ever been.

He knew it wasn’t just a year. He knew it was longer. But just how much longer…

“Besides,” Jayce continues, “With you two working so hard to try and keep me from even looking out the window…” He shakes his head. He places a hand on a tree, wary as his thumb traces the spiraling patterns. "Is he actually there?” he says, voice tight.

Viktor tries and fails to hide his flinch.

“Yes,” Mel says, voice even.

“Then why isn’t he saying anything?” Jayce demands. Something like fear flashes over him. He brings his hand up, clutches the wrist with his bracelet. “You're not lying again, are you? Pretending to be him?”

“I am here,” Viktor says, the words coming out as a hoarse whisper.

Jayce startles, blinking. For a moment, there’s something raw and pained on his expression. Then, Viktor blinks, and it’s gone. “Okay,” he mutters. He brings a hand up to a nearby tree, his thumb tracing over the prismatic webbing embedded into the bark. Then, “Okay," he repeats. "So, if this is real, and you're here, why does this place look like the Wild Rift?”

Viktor’s stomach churns, his body turning cold.

I was weak. I was mourning. You were gone and I tore myself and the world apart to try and not feel it.

His words die in his throat.

Mel hesitates. She glances towards Viktor, pleading. “I don’t know what you see…”

“Don’t,” Jayce snaps. “I might wake up and not know where I am half the time, but I’m not stupid, Mel.”

“I’m not saying you are,” Mel says, frustration building in her voice.

"Then stop trying to convince me that what I'm seeing isn't real!" Jayce explodes. He brings his hand to his head. "Look. I'm not going to try and hurl myself off a cliff just by being outside, okay? Just... Just don't try and keep me inside all day. Please." 

Mel and Viktor are both silent for a moment.

Viktor is the first to speak "Alright," he says. Then, hesitantly, "I will open the windows when we go back up."

Jayce startles. He nods, something like relief passing over his features. For a moment, Viktor thinks he's going to say something else. 

Then, Jayce turns, limping across the beach and up the sloped path, back to the house.

Neither Mel nor Viktor speak, even after Jayce has disappeared from sight.

Finally, “Is he telling the truth?” Viktor asks, voice dull. “Did you ever pretend to be me?”

Mel sighs, “…Once,” she admits. She sits down on a nearby log. “I came to visit, and he thought I was you. This was before I realized that you and the Herald were one and the same.”

Viktor cannot help his surprise. “You did not know?”

Mel snorts. “No. All he said when asked was that Viktor had saved him, and that he needed to get back to you. I thought perhaps you were a fellow soldier he’d fallen for.” She shakes her head. “I thought I could find you, or if you were dead, then find where you were buried. Or, at the very least, locate your family.” She slumps, resting her head in her hands. “It doesn’t matter, really. I got only a few questions in before he realized what I was doing. He screamed at me to go, then refused to talk to me for a year.”

Viktor takes that in. He wants to hate her, for that. For trying to take advantage of Jayce’s unstable mind. It is so difficult to, though, when she is so clearly wracked with guilt over it.

Mel stares at the ground, like she can see every event of her past etched out in the sand. “I’d try and visit, and he would just sit there in silence, arms crossed and glaring. I don’t think I heard him say a single word until his trial, after he’d been caught sneaking into a lab. Then his mother said that the Herald had driven him to insanity, and he broke down, saying that no, the Herald had saved him. Viktor had saved him.”

Viktor swallows. The air between them is thick with something, tense and dragging them both down with exhaustion.

Mel sighs. “We don’t have to continue…”

“No,” Viktor interrupts before she can finish her sentence. “Please. We do not have to stop.”

He holds his breath. As horrible as the scarred forest is, his house is worse, with the missed repairs that seem to grow more and more numerous be the day, with Jayce haunting every corner.

Mel bites her lip. “If you insist.”

They don’t return to the house until the sun has set, until Mel’s face is lined with exhaustion and Viktor can see nothing but spots dancing across his eyes.

While his friendship with Mel blossoms, Viktor can physically feel his relationship with Jayce withering.

Viktor, Jayce’s voice begs, following him through every single room of his house, Talk to me, please. What did I do? Why won’t you look at me? Then, twisted in anger, I hate you. I never should have come back here. I should’ve known from the start that being with you was a mistake.

Viktor grits his teeth and ignores it.

Jayce alternates in a strange half-state between not wanting Viktor to be out of his sight and not even seeming to want to look at him.

The days where he’s in that latter, Viktor is restless. He sometimes paces, ignoring the shooting pains in his knee that spread up to his hip. Sometimes he goes to the garden, casting spell after spell, gritting his teeth through the backlash of the failed ones, resolutely ignoring the blood dripping from his nose until his dizzy and sick eyes can no longer stay open. Usually, he stumbles out of the house, wandering through the cage of his island in desperate search of something he cannot name.

Fortunately, Mel seems just as antsy in the house, with its latched windows and drawn curtains, and is more than willing to join him outside, working with her godly power until her fingers are singed black.

In the end, when they are both too exhausted to keep themselves upright for more than another second, Mel will quietly retreat to her room, and Viktor returns to the couch of the living room, staring blankly at the door, hopelessly waiting for his partner to emerge and beg him to come to bed.

Every time, Jayce is silent, leaving Viktor’s heart to crash to the floor and shatter like glass.

He tries to ignore just how pathetic the whole thing makes him feel.

Viktor? Jayce’s voice pleads in his head. Tell me what I need to do. Please, please turn around. Why won’t you look at me?

Viktor clutches the front of his robes and shivers. Is it really Jayce this time? Imagined? It is getting increasingly difficult to tell. Just yesterday, he swore he saw Jayce’s mouth moving, demanding to know how Viktor could have let his power slip and transform the island into a living hell.

He’d gotten halfway to an apology before realizing that Jayce was staring at him in mute confusion.

Did you think getting me back was going to solve everything? Jayce’s voice hisses in Viktor’s head. You did this to me, and you can’t even make me better. You only make things worse. You…

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut and blocks the voice out.

It takes longer than Viktor expects, before Jayce’s anger finally snaps.

There’s usually confusion in the morning, when Jayce first stumbles out of his room and into the kitchen, reaching for things that aren’t there and staring out the window, like he can drag meaning from the warped island beyond it. This morning, though, it's worse than usual—Jayce glances at the window and immediately, his body goes rigid with panic. He clutches his hands to his head, letting all his breath out in a hiss, waiting for whatever is taunting him to subside.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Viktor can’t help but ask one morning, when Jayce hasn’t moved from in front of the closed window for a full ten minutes.

Jayce winces at the sound of his voice. “No,” he says shortly.

Viktor hesitates. He can’t help but stare at Jayce’s wrist. There’s no blood—there hasn’t been blood in nearly two weeks, actually. Has whatever was underneath the bracelet finally been left alone long enough for it to heal on its own? Still, he can’t help but notice the way Jayce favors his other hand, how he still winces when he picks up something too heavy with the injured one.

“There are spells we could try,” Viktor offers after a moment, “That might at least help with the pain. If not for your head, then your leg, or your wrist…”

“I said no, Viktor!” Jayce snaps, whipping his head around, his eyes exploding in color.

Viktor freezes, a hand coming to clutch at the front of his robes.

Some of the frustration seems to melt around Jayce. “Just…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I know, okay? I’ve been dealing with this for years. I know how to handle it.”

Something shrivels up inside of Viktor at the reminder of years.

Gods, maybe Mel was wrong—even if the island is better than Piltover, Viktor’s presence clearly isn’t helping. Not when Jayce looks outside and sees the Wild Rift, when every glance at Viktor is a reminder of what he did to Jayce.

Viktor swallows. “You… You do not have to stay,” he says, voice shaking.

Silence meets his words.

The few scant feet between them suddenly seem as wide and deep as an ocean. Viktor doesn’t know if he’s even breathing. He’s not even sure Jayce is breathing.

After what seems like an eternity, Jayce shakes his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you again,” he snaps.

Viktor wants to protest. He wants to break down and curl up on the floor. He wants…

He reaches for the cabinet and slowly takes out plates and cups. They clink against the counter, deafening in the silence between them. Every movement is like someone else is pulling his muscles along, puppeteering his body into a strange and twisted act of normalcy. “You were right,” he says tersely, “About the airship. The beach is slowly breaking it down—the fans and sails on the lower parts are beginning to decay. I am not sure what other repairs need to be done, but the longer you and Mel wait, the—”

“Shut up, Viktor!” Jayce explodes, neon light bursting like fireworks around his face. “Why do you keep trying to make me leave?”

Viktor freezes.

Jayce inhales shakily. “All this time, I kept telling myself you didn’t want me to leave,” he mutters. “Not really. That Violet and Caitlyn made you do it." Then, louder, "Why are you still trying to make me leave?"

“I…” Viktor swallows. His heart is hammering, reverberating through his entire body.

He glances at the door again, desperate.

Where is Mel? She… She would know how to help, to take the attention off him, to…

Jayce snaps his head around, following Viktor’s gaze to the kitchen door. He inhales sharply, body going taut with panic. “You… The workshop…” he whispers. He brings the hand with his leather bracelet to his chest, holding it against him almost protectively. “Is that what you’re waiting for?” he demands. “The repairs, trying to get me to work on inventions… Are you trying to get me to the workshop again? Teleport me away without even saying goodbye?”

“Jayce, no,” Viktor begs. “I… I did not mean to…”

Jayce’s expression twists. “You didn’t mean to?” he repeats, something dark building in his words. He takes a step forward. “You didn’t mean to trick me?” Another step forward. “You didn’t mean to activate the hextech?” Another. “You didn’t mean to spend two days acting like things were fine before teleporting me to the Wild Rift?”

Viktor can’t breathe. Jayce is too close, close enough that Viktor can see every furious line of his face, every color of every speck in his eyes.

“I did not mean to,” Viktor can only repeat, words lost. “I did not know… I was trying to keep you safe.”

Jayce lets out a bitter laugh. He presses his hands to his face, eyes squeezed shut in pain. “Well, you didn’t.”

Viktor closes his eyes, trying to breathe through the shattered and jagged edges of his lungs. It would have been kinder, he thinks, if Jayce had thrown him over the ledge of a cliff. The lingering smell of rot and blood is still in his nostrils. On the back of his eyelids, he can still the decayed face of the Waiting Dead that haunts Jayce’s nightmares.

He stares down at the floor, ignoring the cold spreading through his limbs. “No,” Viktor says quietly. “I suppose I did not.”

“That’s enough!”

Both Viktor and Jayce freeze.

Mel is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, gold dripping from every line of her body, illuminating every strand of hair. She storms over, inserting herself between Jayce and Viktor. Despite being shorter, she suddenly seems to dwarf Jayce in size, her presence like the sun in Viktor’s tiny kitchen.

“You’re the one who keeps claiming that Viktor wasn’t the one who did this to you!” she snaps, glaring at Jayce. “You don’t get to turn on him now and—"

“Since when have you wanted to defend him?” Jayce spits. His shoulders are hiked in defensiveness, but he doesn’t back down from Mel’s glare. “You asked every single day on that airship if I was sure that he hadn’t hurt me, if I was sure he wasn’t actually the reason my mind broke.”

“And you refuted me every single time,” Mel counters, crossing her arms. “Unless you’ve suddenly remembered something and want to get back on that airship and leave?”

Viktor’s heart drops to his stomach, his legs shaking so hard that he's amazed his bones don't turn to ash right then and there. Even though he had suggested the idea himself, even if Jayce justifiably hates him, the mere thought of Jayce leaving again is enough to make his legs turn to water, to kill every ounce of air in his lungs. He closes his eyes and braces himself for Jayce’s spitting response.

Fine, Jayce snaps. Let’s go. Now.

I was wrong. You did this to me, Viktor.

I should’ve known coming back here was a mistake.

I’m not leaving.

…What?

Viktor opens his eyes.

Jayce is standing before Mel, jaw set, hands curled to fists at his side.

“Then stop blaming Viktor,” Mel snaps.

“I’m not—!”

“You are!” Mel exclaims, throwing her hands up. “I swear to gods, Jayce, you wanted so badly to get back here, and now you won’t even talk to him! Either tell us what happened to you or just—”

“What happened to me? Me?” Jayce interrupts. His eyes darken, making the neon all the more glaring. “You want to play this game? Fine. Why did you get kicked off the Council?”

The very world itself seems to freeze at Jayce’s words.

Neither Viktor or Mel dare to move.

Then, Mel’s gaze drops to the floor. “I didn’t think you knew,” she murmurs.

Jayce barks a laugh. “Turns out, everyone thinks you stop listening when you lose your mind,” he spits. “I saw the way they looked at you during my trial. Then out of nowhere, you suddenly have all the time in the world to visit me? All my mother’s attempts at talking about Piltover politics suddenly stop including your name? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened.” Then, his gaze snapping to Viktor, “And that’s not even getting into you.”

Viktor’s legs wobble, no better than twigs in a storm. He grips his cane harder, trying to keep himself standing, but only succeeds in the tip rattling against the ground, his body betraying his fear yet again.

“Nothing happened to me,” Viktor says quietly.

Jayce’s expression twists. “Stop lying to me!” he explodes. “Do you think I’m blind? If you weren’t immortal, I’d be worried that you’d been replaced with a ghost.”

Viktor tries to remember to breathe, but there’s something lodged in his lungs. He knows—he knows how he looks. Lank hair he has never gotten around to cutting, a sickly pallor he hasn’t been able to shake, a thin frame that barely keeps itself standing.

He wants to defend himself, somehow, but all his words have dried up in his throat.

Viktor takes an unwitting step backwards, slamming his hip against the counter, but he barely even feels the pain.

Jayce is pacing now, his brace creaking furiously with every step. His eyes are as clear as they have ever been without even a single fleck of neon. “You both want me to talk?” he spits. “Fine. I sent myself to the Wild Rift. I broke my leg and spent a year at the bottom of a ravine. A year convincing myself that you didn’t hate me while I waited for that warding potion to finally wear off!”

Viktor can’t breathe. The warding potion? What… What is he…?

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. The runic circle. The crystal that needed divine blood to activate it.

Renni.

No, Viktor wants to scream. No, please… Jayce, you didn’t…

“I nearly bled myself dry for the binding circle,” Jayce snaps. He’s still pacing, that damned leg brace continuing to creak, deafening with its rusty metallic screech. “But it worked—Renni appeared. And after getting her blood, to send me back to you in Piltover—” He gestures to Mel as he speaks, his lip twisted up in a snarl— “You know what she said to me?”

Viktor closes his eyes briefly.

The shadowy figure dripping electric green flashes in his mind, her laughter loud and shrieking in delight.

“She asked what more she could possibly do to me,” Jayce seethes. “I didn’t understand. Then, I got myself to Piltover, got locked up, and spent every day for five years trying to scrape together the pieces of my broken mind while everyone around me tried to get me to admit to things that would’ve landed me in the Stillwater prison!” His voice has risen to a shout, and he gestures at Mel furiously as he yells. He takes a shaking, steadying breath. Then, voice dropping, deadly quiet, “And you know what, Viktor?”

Viktor’s whole body is trembling, his leg loose and rattling inside his brace. His ribs sting like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper and soaked in acid.

Jayce’s jaw clenches. “Renni was right,” he hisses, “Because none of it, none of it, has made me feel even half as insane as you do when I try and talk to you and you act like I’m not even there.”

The words hit Viktor squarely in the chest, hard enough to make his heart stutter, then shatter.

No… He… He didn’t mean to. He didn’t think… He was trying…

“And you’re still doing it!” Jayce shouts, stepping closer. “Even now, I… Can you even hear what I’m saying? Why won’t you just talk to me? I—” Without warning, Jayce’s words cut off, his whole body freezing.

For a moment, Viktor can hear nothing but the erratic beating of his own heart. Then,

“…Viktor?” Jayce croaks, abject horror on his face. “Viktor, what happened to you?”

Viktor knits his brow together, confused. Then, he follows Jayce’s gaze downwards, and…

No.

No, no, no…

Viktor desperately clutches the front of his robes, trying to rearrange the fabric, but it’s futile and he knows it.

Nothing can hide the stain of blood spreading across his chest.

“It’s nothing,” Viktor says shortly. “An old injury. It is not as bad as it seems.”

Jayce lets out a choked laugh. “Not as bad as it…” he repeats, incredulous. “Have you seen yourself?”

Viktor grinds his teeth. He has made a point not to look at his body too closely, as of late. He knows what he’ll see—protruding bones, stretched skin, and those old runic scars marred by his own self-negligence.

Jayce reaches towards him, and—

Immediately, a cascade of alarm bells ring through Viktor’s head. He can picture the next chain of events, crystalline clear—Jayce removing his robes, Jayce revealing the torn skin along the brace, Jayce angry and horrified, Jayce demanding to know why, why, why—

Viktor slaps Jayce’s hand away.

The sound is loud enough that it echoes through the kitchen.

None of them move for a minute. Jayce stares at his own hand, like he can’t believe Viktor refused his touch. Mel is off to the side, still as stone, but Viktor hardly notices her. He sets his jaw and glares up at his partner, daring Jayce to challenge him.

Jayce swallows, gaze dropping to the floor. With all the weariness of surrender, he takes a step back.

Viktor ignores the guilt shooting through his heart. With his shoulders up and teeth clenched hard enough that he can feel an ache spreading through his skull, Viktor stalks out of the kitchen and away from his partner.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Viktor stays in his old room for the rest of the day in his horribly familiar position: curled up in the corner, knees drawn against his chest. This time, though, he doesn’t bother taking a defensive position. His needle knife is dull with disuse, his fingers stiff from where they curl around his legs. He doesn’t even bother looking at the door. It's all he can do, to watch the path of the shadows across the floor, as the light turns from day to orange sunset to suffocating night.

Why did you do that? he screams at himself. Jayce is here again. You wanted this—why can’t you let him see you?

Immediately, as if to counter, Jayce’s voice swoops in. You sent me away, he seethes. You did this, to both of us.

A whimper escapes Viktor’s mouth before he can stop it. “I know,” he whispers. “Please, I know.”

And still, Jayce’s voice doesn’t stop. Did you think I’d feel sorry for you, seeing you like this? Look what you did to me!

All he can see are Jinx’s neon fractals. Madness incarnate. Madness Viktor doomed him to.

You suffering doesn’t make this better, Jayce growls. You deserve it. I hate you. I hate you I hate you I—

There’s a soft knock on his door.

Viktor jerks his head up, momentarily startled.

Viktor, Jayce’s voice whispers, hoarse and gentle, Viktor, please. Can I come in?

Viktor hesitates. Real or not? Jayce or madness? Is he…?

None of it has made me feel even half as insane as you do when I try and talk to you and you act like I’m not even there.

“You can,” Viktor whispers, just loud enough for it to carry.

The door creaks inwards. Jayce studies him from the threshold. His eyes dart to the window, but the curtains are drawn, shielding them both from the mess Viktor had wrought outside.

“…I wasn’t sure if you’d answer,” Jayce admits after a minute. “You don’t respond half the time.”

Viktor looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. How can he possibly begin to explain that Jayce’s voice has not been real for years now?

After it becomes clear that Viktor isn’t going to respond this time, either, Jayce lets out a sigh. Slowly, he limps forward. He gestures towards the floor. “Can I…?”

Viktor nods.

Jayce lets out a small breath of relief before all but collapsing on the ground next to Viktor. His shoulders slump as he lets his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

Even with the closed window, Viktor can hear the hum of crickets outside, soft and melodic.

Viktor is the first to speak. “I thought you were angry at me,” he ventures, words careful.

Jayce lets out a bark of a laugh. “I was. Am.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. “Did Mel tell you to come here?” he asks bleakly.

“No,” Jayce says. He pauses, then, “She’s worried about you, though.”

Viktor stares down at the ground, drawing his knees closer to his chest. “Why?” he says, unable to keep the bitter note from his voice. “I am a god. It is not like anything could truly harm me.”

Jayce sighs. “Viktor, we both know that’s not true.”

Viktor curls his fingers into his robes and says nothing.

“Look, I…” Jayce closes his eyes. Swallows. “I know what my mind’s like. I know I’m not the same. But can you…” His voice cracks. “Can you please just tell me what I did wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong,” Viktor says quietly.

“Then why won’t you even look at me?”

Viktor swallows. Turns, makes himself look up into Jayce’s neon-flecked eyes. Tonight, at least, it hasn’t crept past his irises, begun to cloud his eyes and face entirely, like a storm passing over the moon. Even now, there’s a slight disconnect in Viktor’s brain, what he expects to see what is actually in front of him. Jayce with new lines, Jayce with grey hairs, Jayce with a weariness that seems permanently embedded into him.

But still, he is beautiful.

Absurdly, Viktor wants to reach up, to brush the hair from Jayce’s face, tuck it behind his ear.

He keeps his expression neutral, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from trying.

Still, something must show, because Jayce lets out a sigh runs a hand down his face. Then, completely unexpectedly, “You must hate me.”

Viktor startles. “Never,” he swears. “Jayce, never.”

“Then why do you ignore me?” Jayce questions.

Viktor swallows. Subtly, he feels himself curling inwards. “I… I do not intend to,” he says.

Jayce is quiet for a long moment. Outside, Viktor can just make out the faint howl of the wind through the trees. Then,

“I’ve pictured what it’d be like,” Jayce says slowly, “When I came back here. I’ve imagined it so many times now. I thought… I thought you’d be overjoyed. I imagined you running up and kissing me, begging forgiveness, then swearing that you’d destroy any god who tried to separate us again.”

Viktor closes his eyes. “I should have,” he murmurs.

Jayce snorts. “No. I remember how bad I was by the time we landed. I don’t even remember the journey over—I spent most days convinced it was another hallucination my mind had conjured up to taunt me with, and that I’d wake up still trapped in my mother’s house. Then, I would wake up seeing those walls again, and I just...” He swallows. “Somehow, I thought that I’d come back here, and everything would be perfect. That whatever madness I had in Piltover would just disappear the second I crossed the barrier border.”

Viktor draws his knees closer to his chest. If only Ekko’s barrier kept out madness. If only he had a ward or spell that could protect the mind from itself.

Jayce hesitates, then, “Is… Is that why you don’t want me anymore? Because I went mad?”

“No,” Viktor whispers. “Gods above, Jayce, of course not.”

Jayce gestures at himself helplessly. “Then why?” 

Why did you make me leave? You broke my mind. You drove me to insanity. You...

Air refuses to move through his lungs, to thin and too tight. The darkness presses in around him, and the old and worn runes over the doorway glare at him. Another reminder of how he'd tried to shove Jayce away, how scared he was, how...

“...Viktor?”

Viktor snaps his head up.

Jayce’s expression is washed out with exhaustion. In the darkness, his skin is borderline grey, the opalite scars on his forehead seeming to wash out all the color in his face save for the faintly glinting neon fractals in his eyes.

He lets his head fall back against the wall. He shudders, letting out a ragged exhale. “I’m so tired, Viktor. I don’t know if you hate me or not. Most days, I don’t even know if you’re even real. If I’m actually here with you again or if I’m stuck in my childhood room in Piltover, waiting for my mom or Mel to come and try and tell me for the millionth time that keeping me locked up here is for my own good.”

“This is real,” Viktor says. “Jayce, I swear this is real.”

Jayce barks a laugh. “Is it?” he questions, running a hand through his hair.

Viktor wraps his arms around himself. “I do not know how to convince you otherwise,” he murmurs. “Not when I have betrayed your trust so thoroughly. I have no right to want you and to want to keep you here, after everything I have done to you.”

Jayce is quiet for a moment. Almost imperceptively, he shifts closer. “You didn’t do this to me,” he says. “I promise, okay? I’m sorry, for earlier. I was frustrated, with you and Mel treating me like I’m made of glass, and…” He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, I swear.”

“Isn’t it?” Viktor asks, the words bitter. “You were right: my only goal was to keep you safe, and I failed it, utterly and completely. You should blame me.”

“Viktor…”

“Don’t,” Viktor snaps. Then, more quietly, voice shaking, “Please, Jayce—don’t.”

Jayce swallows.

Viktor can see the way his eyes trace around the bloodstain still on his robes. He just knows that Jayce’s inquisitive mind is already tracing its path, where the injury is, the pattern, already firing a thousand different theories on how it happened, each one better than the ugly and shameful truth.

Suddenly, Jayce’s gaze snaps to Viktor’s leg. “You still haven’t fixed your leg brace.”

Viktor flushes. Even though he knows it’s futile, he wants to angle himself away and draw his leg back, hide it from Jayce’s focused eyes that can pick apart any mechanical problem in the span of a second.

Before he can formulate a response, Jayce huffs, pulling himself to his feet with a grimace and wince. “Okay. Come on.”

Viktor blinks owlishly.

"We’re fixing your leg brace," Jayce says, renewed determination on his face. "Now.”

Viktor's mouth goes dry. No. A thousand times over, no. Jayce should not, cannot see the full extent of how badly he's ruined himself. Besides, it’s late, the sun long since set, the shadows dark. With closed windows and curtains, Viktor can hardly see more than a foot in front of him.

He opens his mouth, fully intending to tell Jayce that it can at least wait until morning, but Jayce is already at the bedroom shelves, rummaging, then lets out a small noise of victory when he produces an old candle and set of matches. He lights it, lips twitching into a smile, the small flame illuminating his skin golden.

It’s as if someone has punched the air from Viktor’s lungs. For a moment, it isn’t Jayce of the present, but Jayce of the past: glowing and healthy and sane, with an easy smile and sparkling eyes.

Then, it’s gone.

The candle flickers, making the shadows all the more dramatic. Like this, Jayce’s cheeks are more gaunt than usual, the bags under his eyes all the more prominent. Even with proper rest and food since he’s returned, time hasn’t quite managed to heal him.

"Come on, Viktor," Jayce says with a familiar exasperation in his words, snapping Viktor out of his thoughts. “You and Mel keep trying to get me to work on new projects, right? Well, here's the new project." He bends slightly, holding out his hand for Viktor to take.

Viktor half-expects Jayce to reach down and grab him, to forcibly drag him to his feet.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, expectant and waiting.

Viktor sighs. In the face of Jayce's determination, he is helpless to resist. "If you insist," he murmurs. Then, unable to stop the tremble in his limbs, he reaches out and takes Jayce’s hand, allowing Jayce to pull him to his feet and place his cane in his hands.

He and Jayce do not touch as they both limp down the hall. Viktor’s steps are heavy, the clink of his brace and cane against the tile loud in the night. As they get closer to the workshop, Viktor’s stomach drops. Without warning, all he can see is the blue of hextech, the air illuminated with sparks like stars, the crystal pulsing and beating like the heart that it once was.

Viktor falters. The hallways narrows, the ground yanked out from underneath his feet.

Jayce pauses, turning his head. “Viktor?”

“I…” Viktor swallows. “I am fine.”

Jayce hesitates, obviously not believing him. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t press—he just turns, continuing to walk.

Viktor follows.

Still, once they reach the workshop door, Jayce also freezes. His hand hovers over the handle, his pupils pinpricks. He glances back at Viktor. Where the candle flickers, Viktor can see neon over his face.

Are you trying to get me to the workshop again? Jayce’s voice rings in his head, thick with accusation and fear. Teleport me away without even saying goodbye?

“The hextech is destroyed,” Viktor says quietly.

Jayce startles. Blinks. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “When?”

“A few months ago,” Viktor says. He grips his cane a little tighter. “Jinx… Visited, for a time. She ended the lives of the remaining Evolved on the island.” He swallows. “And I ended the last one in the workshop.”

Jayce stares. The hall is quiet, even the wind outside dulled to hardly more than a murmur.

Then, defeat in every word, “You figured it out.”

Viktor nods. Swallows. “Jayce, I—”

Jayce grips the handle and shoves the door open before Viktor can get his apology out.

Viktor is no better than a statue, silent and unable to move as Jayce walks into the workshop, his movements jerky and unsteady, his shoulders tight with fear. “I was wondering why there weren’t any Evolved,” Jayce mutters. “Even when I went outside…” He shakes his head. “I thought I could convince Mel to leave, if she could see them.”

Viktor blinks, briefly taken aback. “Why would you want Mel to leave?”

Jayce pauses, turning to give Viktor a pained look. “I thought she was why you were…” He gestures vaguely. “I don’t know. Why you were pulling away.”

Viktor grimaces. If only it were that simple. Maybe if he were a better god, restrained by respect and deference, rather than his own shame.

He moves to take a step forward and—

Freezes.

His legs refuse to move. Viktor can only stand in the doorway, his body locked in place. There’s bile in his mouth, memories bubbling up, threatening and burning.

Viktor, stop! I love you, don’t—

Jayce walks towards the shelves, his brace creaking in the empty silence of the workshop. He runs a finger over their worktable, leaving a trail through the dust and ash. His eyes linger on the magnetized stand and torn out wires for a moment. Then, he flinches, a hand coming up to his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, most of the neon is gone. He blinks, gaze turning towards Viktor. Immediately, his brows knit together with worry. “Are you okay?” Jayce asks, voice quiet.

Viktor nods. Then, though he has to grit his teeth, he forces his legs over the threshold.

With the wind outside and the particles of dust hovering in the air, the workshop seems haunted. It is next to impossible, to picture it as it once was, with he and Jayce both brimming with excitement, their hands hardly able to keep up with their thoughts as wires and ingots and notes spilled from the shelves and all across the floor.

“It should be easy enough to fix,” Jayce says as he gathers up tools from the workshop shelves, breaking Viktor out of his spiral of thoughts. “The brace, I mean. It’s just a sizing adjustment—in theory, the metal alloy we used should be malleable enough to just hammer out. It was always made to be adjustable, since that’s how you take it off, but…” He stops, his voice wavering. He is still for a moment, staring uncomprehendingly at the tools he’s gathered in his hands. Screwdrivers, notch gears, wrenches.

Something tugs in Viktor’s heart. How long has it been, since Jayce has touched these tools? Even set foot in a workshop?

“You do not have to do this, you know,” Viktor says quietly. “Waiting a bit longer will not kill me.”

Jayce shakes his head. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the nearby chair.

Viktor hesitates. “Your knee...”

“My knee can handle it,” Jayce interrupts.

Viktor eyes the rusted brace around Jayce’s leg. He knows that stubbornness—he is that stubbornness, more often than not. The refusal to take any accommodation, to ignore the pain as if it doesn’t matter, as if it barely even exists, as if that could possibly bring proof that his crippled leg means nothing.

With some effort, Viktor limps not to the chair, but to the worktable. Letting out a small grunt, he hoists himself on to the table, adjusting his position and letting his legs dangle. He looks at Jayce with narrowed eyes, daring him to protest.

Jayce presses his lips together, but says nothing.

He surveys the workshop warily. When his eyes land on the forge, he flinches, recoiling as if he’s been struck, a hand going to the front of his head again.

Fear shoots up Viktor’s throat. “Jayce—”

“I’m fine,” Jayce interrupts, his voice a hiss. He shakes his head as if to clear it, tearing his gaze away. He tuns to the shelves. He blinks, hesitation and confusion settling over his expression as he surveys the tools. Cautiously, he picks up a small artificing hammer. His hands shake as he holds it, his breathing ragged.

“We do not have to do this,” Viktor repeats. “I can fix my brace on my own.”

Jayce snaps his head up to look at Viktor. For a moment, Viktor can see a small cloud of neon fractals over his eyes, but then, they are gone, as if they were nothing more than a quick trick of the light.

“Will you?” Jayce says flatly.

Viktor, despite himself, bristles at Jayce’s tone. “I do not know what you are implying—”

“I’m crazy, Viktor, not stupid,” Jayce says tiredly. “I might not know where I am or what day it is half the time, but I’ve seen what the house looks like. I mean,” he gestures to the workshop, “Besides destroying the hextech, when was the last time you used anything in here?”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek and looks away.

“Yeah,” Jayce mutters, as if he can hear Viktor’s thoughts anyways. “That’s what I thought.”

Viktor watches as Jayce gathers up the remaining tools, plus a cloth and some oil. He sets it all down on the table next to Viktor before sitting down on the chair so that he is eye level with Viktor’s leg. He doesn’t go about fixing it, not at first. He just looks at it, eyes more focused that they have been in weeks, taking in every inch of Viktor’s brace. He brings a hand up, gently skimming over the metal rods, the rusted gears, the worn leather.

“When did you last clean this?” Jayce murmurs, half to himself.

Viktor doesn’t respond. He… Doesn’t remember. He honestly doesn’t remember. He’d rinsed it of the mud, after Jinx pulled him out of the spring, but hadn’t thought to give it any maintenance beyond that. Why would he, after all?

“Is that…. Clay, in here?” Jayce questions, incredulous as he runs a nail along the band near Viktor’s ankle. “How did you get clay in this?”

Viktor stays quiet.

Jayce sighs. “Okay,” he mutters, beginning to unfasten the brace. “Okay. We’re back to this.”

Viktor doesn’t take his eyes off of Jayce once, not for a single second, as he works. Jayce’s movements are shaky at first, unsure, almost as if he needs to remember how to hold each tool. But he recovers quickly, hammering out each band of metal, adjusting the position of each gear and screw and notch, fingers flying over the brace like a dance. Viktor feels almost drunk with it, the relief of watching Jayce working again, invention flowing from his fingertips like magic.

He’d almost forgotten, Viktor realizes. How could he have ever forgotten, how much a wonder Jayce is to behold in the workshop?

Jayce takes out the measuring tape, but pauses. He looks up at Viktor, the question in his eyes.

Viktor nods.

He tries not to shudder, when Jayce’s hands encircle Viktor’s leg with the tape, murmuring the numbers under his breath as he takes the new measurements. Heat spreads from Jayce’s hands and goes straight to Viktor’s abdomen, then moves through the rest of his body, leaving him nearly lightheaded with it.

Stop it, Viktor orders himself. This is not the time, for either of you. Jayce hates you. Jayce is recovering. Jayce…

“We’ll have to adjust this again in a few months,” Jayce says, interrupting Viktor’s stream of thoughts, “After you get some weight back and regain a little muscle.” He shakes his head. “How’d you not tear or strain anything while wearing this?” he mutters.

Viktor hesitates. Truthfully, he isn’t sure that he didn’t strain something. The more he thinks about it, the more disquieting it is, the fact that he could have torn or strained any number of muscles without realizing it.

Jayce runs a hand over Viktor’s thigh, brows knit together as he feels the indents and sores the incorrectly fitted brace has surely left, but Viktor can barely concentrate on that. Gods, Jayce’s touch is like a hit of a drug. It is so easy to put his mind out of it, to let himself get lost in the feeling, to let all his muscles melt like snow under the warm press of Jayce’s fingers.

Viktor digs his nails into his palms, trying desperately to ground himself. He looks to the side as Jayce begins replacing the gears at the knee. Unwittingly, his eyes fall on the destroyed hextech. When he blinks, he swears he can still see the blue glow around the stand as motes dance in the air around them. Then, he blinks again, and it’s gone.

Jayce follows his gaze to the hextech. “I didn’t blame you for it, you know,” he says quietly. “For the crystal. The Evolved. Any of it.”

Viktor brings a hand to the front of his robes. "You should," he murmurs.

The crease between Jayce's brows grows deeper. "See, this is why..." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Why you did not tell me?" Viktor presses. He sighs. "You assume I did not already know about it."

Jayce’s lips twitch up into a lightless smile. "Viktor, I know you didn't know about it."

Viktor blinks. “How would have you?”

“If you’d known about it, you would’ve brought it up when you were first trying to make me leave,” Jayce shoots back. He grimaces. “Any of the times you've tried to make me leave, really.”

Viktor sighs. He can’t, he suppose, argue with that.

Jayce takes a pair of gears from the table. He slots them into place, steady and sure, testing their slide with unshaking fingers.

“What did you mean?” Viktor asks, breaking the silence. “When you said it was your fault?”

Jayce stills.

For a minute, the only thing Viktor can hear is his own heart, loud enough that he swears that Jayce can hear it too, echoing through the silence between them.

Then, Jayce’s movements resume. He angles the brace on the table, frowning, then takes a tiny screwdriver, beginning to loosen one of the bands. “I didn’t listen to you,” he says flatly.

“Jayce…”

“I’m serious,” Jayce says, eyes not leaving Viktor’s brace as he methodically begins to remove the long-rusted screws and set them aside. His movements are quick and precise, his hands practically flying over the brace. “What was the first thing you taught me about what was needed for witchcraft for a spell to work?”

Viktor stares blankly for a moment, barely comprehending the question. Why is Jayce asking about that? It’s a simple answer—language, components, and…

Oh.

The realization sucks all the air from his lungs and drains the blood from his face.

Intent.

“Yeah,” Jayce says. He snorts. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I had a lot of time to think about it. There’s an entire wall at the bottom of a cliff in the Wild Rift with useless equations and theories scratched on to it.” He shakes his head. “I should’ve thought of it sooner,” he mutters, his voice as distant as if it’s coming from the very bottom of the ravine he’d fallen into. “Why didn’t I think of it sooner? What would happen if the subject wasn’t willing, or had a different destination in mind, or…”

Without warning, the screwdriver slips from his hand and falls to the floor with an echoing clink.

Neither of them move for a minute. It’s only then, Viktor realizes, how badly Jayce’s hands have begun to shake.

Jayce leans down, picks up the screwdriver with an unsteady exhale. He holds it in his palm for a moment, as if trying to will his hand into stillness. Then, not taking his eyes off the screwdriver, “And then… Right before. If I’d just listened, gotten on that ship Caitlyn had ready for me…” He trails off, gaze distant.

Viktor wraps his arms around himself, trying to swallow back the acid climbing up his throat. How hadn’t he thought about intent? Hextech relied on witchcraft for its very basis—the subject was as much a part of the activation as anything. How had he not considered that earlier?

No! Viktor, stop! I love you, don’t—!

“That was not your fault,” Viktor whispers, voice hoarse. “I also should have known.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “For all my years of witchcraft, I keep making the same mistakes. You would be right to hate me, for everything I have done. For the crystals. For my carelessness. For sending you away like I did.”

Jayce brings a had to Viktor’s knee. Gently, firmly, he rubs his thumb over the worst of the indents, kneading feeling back into muscles Viktor had long forgotten had gone numb. “I’ve replayed those last two days in my head so many times now,” he says quietly. “What I missed. If I could have done anything differently.” He swallows. “I was angry at you for so long, Viktor.”

Viktor’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t want to ask, but… “And now?”

Jayce’s movements stop. His hand lingers on the inside of Viktor’s thigh, warm and heavy. “At the bottom of the cliff, after I bound Renni…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t care if you didn’t want me back. I was ready to shred her, drain her, use every single spell I could think of to make her suffer, then use her blood to send me back to you.”

Viktor holds his breath. Then, when Jayce doesn’t continue, “And then?”

Jayce laughs hollowly. “Then? Caitlyn showed up.”

Viktor closes his eyes.

Caitlyn.

Jinx had said she had gone to Jayce for a minute, when the ward slipped.

“She told me,” Jayce says, voice quiet, “That if I returned without going to Mel and Piltover, as soon as the gods figured out that I used witchcraft against Renni to return to you…” He lets out an unsteady exhale. “She was detailed, this time. What the punishment would be, for both of us. Said she’d stay silent, if I went to Mel. That she’d make sure Renni wouldn’t talk, either.”

Viktor says nothing.

“That’s what they threatened you with, isn’t it?” Jayce presses. “Torturing me?”

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. “I would not call it a threat,” he says hollowly.

“I would,” Jayce shoots back. His thumb runs underneath Viktor’s eye, wiping away the tears that have begun to leak out. He takes a strand of Viktor’s hair and tucks it behind his ear. “Why didn’t you tell me how scared you were?”

“I tried,” Viktor whispers. “I tried, Jayce. But you…” He lets out a choked sound. “Mortals have never understood just how much the gods can take away. There is always something left to lose. And I…” He curls his shoulders forward, shivering against the chill of the night. “I could not bear to lose you to something as foolish as my own selfish want. I thought, this way, there was at least a chance of seeing you again.”

Jayce is silent for a moment. Then, “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you could go back?”

Viktor chuckles hoarsely. “Often.”

“Would you have changed anything? Not sent me away? Even if it was to protect me?”

Viktor hesitates. Yes, he wants to say. I’d change everything. I’d destroy the gods and doom the world for the chance of you staying in my arms, sane and healthy again.

But would it have changed anything? Would it have made any difference at all, weak as he is, when the gods inevitably came to collect?

“I... Am not sure,” Viktor admits quietly.

Jayce’s gaze flicks towards his wrist. In the candlelight, the pink of the scar peeking out from under his bracelet seems warmer and brighter, and Viktor could swear that he can see colors in every shade of the rainbow moving just below the skin.

Then, Viktor blinks, and it’s gone.

Jayce nods, something like defeat on his face. Silently, he goes back to repairing Viktor’s brace.

It doesn’t take long for Jayce to finish adjusting the bands, to put in fresh leather and polish off the last of the rust. Carefully and with a dizzying amount of reverence, Jayce slips the brace back on Viktor’s leg. His hands are as gentle as they have ever been as he secures the straps. He lifts Viktor’s leg, inspecting, eyes sharp and focused as he checks every gear and screw and band.

Viktor resists every urge to shudder as Jayce’s hands as they roam over his bare skin. All his thoughts are slowly fizzling into nothing, replaced by nothing but the sudden and intense craving for Jayce, his touch, his lips, his...

“Can you tell me now?” Jayce suddenly asks. “What happened to you? After I left?”

Viktor freezes.

All the drunkenness from Jayce’s touch is gone, leaving something cold and empty in its wake. Viktor swallows. He wants to say it. He wants to tell Jayce so badly that it hurts, something physical that tears at his chest.

“Nothing,” Viktor hears himself say, the word hollow. He turns his head away, bringing a hand to the front of his robes, as if he can possibly hide the stiff and stained fabric.

Suddenly, Jayce’s hand is covering his, right over his chest. Viktor’s breath catches.

Jayce looks up at him with softly shining eyes. There are flecks there, small bits of mad neon, but they’re faint. Like this, sat in front of Viktor, one hand outstretched and over Viktor’s own fist, he looks like he’s in prayer.

“I…” Jayce starts, then stops. He swallows. “Please?”

Viktor shudders. Nods.

With all the tender reverence meant for a god unlike Viktor, Jayce lowers Viktor’s hand, then begins to slowly unfasten each clasp along his robes. In the quiet night of the workshop, each small sound echoes, soft clinks and rustles that are deafening in Viktor’s ears. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t protest, even as the last clasp comes undone and his robes slide off.

Jayce’s breath catches.

Viktor keeps his eyes closed, refusing to look at Jayce. He knows by now what this looks like. The raw skin along the edges of the brace. The scars that are still fresh. The way his skin barely stretches to cover his bones.

How dare you fall apart? Jayce’s voice whispers with barely contained fury. Look at me! Viktor, look at me! How could you? After what you did to me, how could you?

Viktor ignores it. This time is no different from any other—ignore it, and it will go away. Ignore it, and it will...

Viktor? Jayce’s voice whispers. Viktor, can you look at me?

Viktor refuses to open his eyes. It’s not Jayce. It’s not Jayce. Jayce wouldn’t… Not like this. Not with that gentleness.

There’s a hand on his cheek.

Viktor’s eyes fly open.

Jayce’s expression is caught between pain and abject horror. His thumb brushes along the mole right underneath Viktor’s eye with unbearable gentleness. His other hand comes up, tentative, and graces along Viktor’s waist, right along one of the largest tears meets an old sorcery rune.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce blinks. “Viktor, why…?” He swallows. “Can you talk to me? Please?”

Viktor’s ears are ringing. This… This isn’t right. Jayce hates him. Jayce should be yelling. Jayce should…

Jayce hesitates, then, “You’re not… It wasn’t just my nightmares, you know.”

Viktor blinks.

“At night,” Jayce says. “I… Viktor, it goes both ways.”

Viktor’s mouth goes dry.

Oh.

“What have you seen?” Viktor asks hollowly.

Jayce’s fingers trace along the edges of the golden ribs of the brace. He brushes a scar near the center of Viktor’s chest, in the area that had just been torn open today, unbearably gentle. “You,” he whispers. “Drowning. Mud in my lungs. Roots wrapped around my limbs. Water pressing down around me and crushing my bones. Something shredding my skin like it’s paper. Brief… Moments, I think. Of the sun. Then you just turning away from it and sinking deeper.” He hesitates. “I heard my voice in them. Screaming, in pain, or…” He swallows. “I wasn’t sure if it was real or not, not until this morning.”

Viktor can say nothing through the lump in his throat.

Jayce looks up at him, pleading. “Viktor, is that what you hear all the time? The things I say to you in those nightmares… I wouldn’t.”

Viktor looks away. “Does it matter?” he asks harshly, voice thick. “You should say them, or at the very least think them. You deserve to hate me.”

Jayce pauses in his strokes along Viktor’s ribs, blinking. “Viktor, no,” he whispers. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” Viktor interrupts, venomous, “I created the Wild Rift, and I destroyed our island in my grief. I am the one who broke your mind, and I am the one who created the Waiting Dead, and I am the one threw you off the cliff when you tried to obtain a crystal. I kept you imprisoned in Piltover. I made you leave our island. I taught you witchcraft. I—” He breaks off, something lodged in his throat. “It does not matter, if I intended it or not,” he says, voice thick, “Because it was my actions that caused it all. I set you on the course to madness and despair thousands of years before you were even born, and I never even knew it. And I… I’m sorry, Jayce. I’m so—”

Jayce pulls him down and kisses him.

Before Viktor can even think to pull away, Jayce breaks, but he keeps his forehead pressed against Viktor’s, both of their breath low and panting. “You didn’t,” he swears, desperate. “Please. You didn’t.” He swallows. “I thought you hated me,” he whispers. “For using another crystal. For not coming back. For going insane. I love you, Viktor. I love you so much, and I’ve…" He shudders. "Gods, I've been an idiot. Viktor, if this is you dooming me? I'd want you to do it again."

Viktor lets out a choked laugh. This, more than anything, proves Jayce's madness. How can he say that, after everything? How can he...?

"Viktor, look at me," Jayce whispers. "I love you. I’ve wanted to come back to you since the moment I left. Did you think…?”

“I thought you were never coming back,” Viktor admits hoarsely, the confession raw and torn. “And I knew I would have deserved it if you did not. I wanted to die, even if I could not. I thought you were going to die, and that I was never going to see you again.”

Jayce is silent for a moment. Then, he presses his lips against Viktor’s again with an urgency. “I’m here now,” he swears. “I’m here.”

Viktor lets out a noise between a laugh and a sob. Hysteria and desire are bubbling up inside of him, mixing into an intoxicating cocktail, breaking something open like a storm, his entire body folding under the feel of Jayce’s lips on his. There is something screaming at him to pull away, to stop this now, before it’s too late for either of them. But another, stronger part of his mind is pushing him forward, ravenous with want and helpless under Jayce’s touch.

Just like their very first kiss, just like when Jayce had slaughtered the soldiers so long ago, all his inhibitions are falling away under the crashing relief that he is finally, finally safe again.

He presses kiss after kiss on Jayce’s face along his jaw, at the corners of his lips. He is a man made starving, and each and every touch from Jayce only stokes his hunger.

Jayce’s hands move along his back, down to his hips, hot and heavy and delicious, sending waves of exhilarating pleasure through Viktor’s bones. When Viktor moves his mouth down to his partner’s neck, sucking along the soft areas where he knows Jayce is most sensitive, Jayce lets out a sound between a gasp and a moan, all the air sound like it’s been sucked from his lungs. “Don’t ever make me leave you,” he gasps, “Viktor—Viktor, please...”

"I would not have the strength to do so again," Viktor confesses. Suddenly, fear floods his mind. “Unless you wish it…”

Jayce crashes his lips against Viktor’s again, a low and dark sound in his throat. “Viktor,” he whispers, parting briefly, “Never. Do you hear me? Never again. You would have to kill me first.”

It should scare him, Viktor thinks, this level of devotion. But gods, he can’t bring himself to care about that, not when that same reverence is burning him, consuming him like a fever. He can’t wait any longer, he decides—madness be damned, Jayce is here, and he isn’t wasting another second. Fingers moving faster than he thought possible, Viktor unfastens Jayce’s robes, shucking the fabric to the side, letting his hands and mouth wander all along Jayce’s chest. Then, Jayce’s hips move, jerking up and grinding.

Viktor lets out a guttural moan. Already, he’s growing hard, his cock pressing insistently against his underclothes. “Jayce,” he gasps.

Jayce looks at him with hunger, his pupils blown so far out that his eyes look like pools of ink. “You’re… You’re sure this time?” he asks, even though it looks like it’s killing him to even ask.

“Yes,” Viktor insists. Then, looking at Jayce with doubt, “Do you not…?”

Jayce tugs Viktor’s underwear down with a single swift moment in response.

For once, the world around Viktor is silent, narrowed down so his only focus is Jayce.

Jayce kisses him, again and again, like he’s trying to devour Viktor whole. Viktor lets the rest of the world bleed away, everything within him crashing like the ocean against the shore. His hands roam down Jayce’s body, desperate to remember and rediscover every line and curve.

“Jayce,” Viktor murmurs in between kisses. “Jayce.”

Viktor hooks his fingers through Jayce’s underclothes, shimmying to pull them down as far as they’ll go. Jayce’s cock springs up, flush against his stomach, aching and weeping.

This is a horrible idea. They are going to fast. They are both hurtling off the edge of something, uncaring of whatever lies below. For the first time in years, Viktor’s body is beating and sure, thrumming and undeniably alive.

Unwilling to wait, Viktor grinds forward, rubbing their hardening lengths against each other.

Jayce groans. “Gods,” he gasps, voice choked.

“No gods here,” Viktor whispers, unable to help the small smile at his lips. “No gods. Just us.”

Jayce lets out a noise like a sob. He wraps his arm around Viktor, digging his nails into Viktor’s back, holding on like his very life depends on it.

The workshop echoes with their gasps and moans as they rut up against each other. The single source of light is the candle Jayce had brought, pressing them even closer together. After so many years without use, the air is still thick with dust, evidence of ruin still all around them, but Viktor can hardly bring himself to notice. Not when Jayce is underneath him and writhing, gasping Viktor’s name with every thrust.

Viktor wraps his fist around both their cocks, pressing them even closer together, and Jayce lets out a dark swear.

Jayce is like velvet against him, hot and sensitive, and Viktor can feel himself quickly approaching a peak. It has been so long, and his endurance and willpower both have crumbled in the face of time. Hand slick with precum, he moves it up and down, faster and faster.

Viktor, Viktor, Jayce’s voice begs in his head. I love you, I love you—please, touch me, kiss me, I’ll do anything…

Then, just as fierce—This means nothing. Nothing! Did you think I’d forgive you? Just like that?

Viktor’s movements stutter, his breath catching.

You’re nothing, Viktor, Jayce seethes. I could never forgive you. I would never…!

Jayce surges forward, capturing Viktor’s mouth in his, biting down hard on Viktor’s bottom lip and sucking. “Come back to me,” he begs. “Don’t stop.”

Viktor’s lungs tighten like he’s drowning all over again. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block the sounds out, divorce himself of every sensation that isn’t the feeling of Jayce rutting up against him.

Just like that, Viktor, Jayce whispers against his skin. Harder. Faster. Please.

His whole body is pulsing, arousal and magic and madness, dizzying as they crash together. He jerks his hips up and forward, moves his hand. Jayce groans against his neck, sucking at his collarbone, tongue trailing over an inspiration rune just over his chest. Viktor’s name is a prayer in his mouth—Viktor, please, please, I need you, Viktor…

Viktor squeezes his hand around their lengths.

That little bit of extra pressure is enough—with a cry, Viktor teeters over the edge and into his orgasm. It is blinding, tearing out of him at the same time as Jayce’s.

Neither of them move for a few minutes, foreheads pressed together, both their breath low and panting. Viktor keeps hold of their softening cocks, staring at the cum across both their chests with a detached sort of pride. He’s here, Viktor can’t help but think deliriously. He’s here, finally, and he’s never leaving me. He’s mine. He’s mine.

“You still there?” Jayce whispers.