Everyone wants to believe that their life meant something.

Yorick has done his job for longer than any know. The gravedigger has been working for years, decades, centuries… he cannot remember how long. He has seen Valoran change time and time again; empires and kingdoms rising and clashing before falling once again, population booms and genocides, eras of peace and great rune wars. Through it all, he has done his duty. He has taken care of the dead, leading them tirelessly to the next life. Never hurrying, never dallying, he continues on with the same pace he has for eons.

No longer is he affected when he sees injustice in the world. When a young life is cut short, robbed of years with ones who loved them, his heart is untouched. He has seen it too many times. He has seen the family cry, heard the comrades say strong words. He can no longer join; his heart both empty and solid stone. He knows that the tears will not last; that life will go on, regardless of the loss. Those who remembered the dead would soon die themselves. And the dead would be forgotten.

In the end, nobody remembers the dead. Jarvan IV and Swain both believe that their legacies will stand the test of time. But they will be buried in the mountain of time, just as their fathers were. Jacob the Great, the founder of Demacia and her first king, is mentioned in historic records for his deeds and accomplishments. But nobody knows of his love for music, nor that he took a blind woman to be his wife. Nor do they know of his now-forgotten laws to take care of the poor and homeless, his unusual cravings for sweets, or his skill with the pen and poetry. They care not for such information; and so his true legacy is forgotten.

In the end, nobody wants to believe that they die alone. Most think they will be surrounded by family and friends, in the peace of company. Not gasping for breath on the battlefield, an arrow through their chest, as they look at their slaughtered companions around them in their last minutes of life.

That was Aaron.

They don't know that they will succumb in an alleyway, shivering from the cold and convulsions, as yet another fix courses through their veins. As their eyes wander, they recognize the bodies strewn around them; fellow junkies. Nobody that cares, or even knows, the life that is ending among them.

That was Elisa.

Yorick knows their names. He knows their stories, each and every one. And he knows that, no matter the circumstance, no matter where they are, they are alone when they die. Even those surrounded by people. It is inescapable. And he cannot bring himself to care.

He will continue to do his job; he will take care of the dead. It is his duty, his whole purpose, his entire existence. None know the scope of his work, or the lives of those he transports, save the Starchild. She alone has seen what no other mortal can hope to see. She alone knows of his legacy. And she alone knows that, despite his cold heart, he commits to memory the small details of every life, every being. So that they will never be forgotten, never buried, never destroyed.

Even though they died alone.