Here we go, the last chapter.

2 years and 2 months later, I finally managed to finish this piece of work.

Me: Swain? Are you proud of me yet?

Swain: no.

Me: AW COME ON I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING! Er well, nevermind.

Swain: Can I leave your head now?

Me: Never son, you're a permanent resident.

(Without further ado, chapter 22...)

Chapter 22

Requited

Sunlight streamed in low rays through the high, decorative windows of the du Couteau manor.

No one was there to close them. Cassiopeia couldn't bother herself to fix the shades, much less do anything else. Besides, it was a servant's job.

Where were the servants?

She didn't know. Some had been victim to her fits of rage, others simply left. As the du Couteau family dwindled down, so did they.

Cassiopeia was certain by now she was the only one left.

The darkening manor brought swimming images of memory - the call from the League, telling her that Katarina had been captured after an assassination attempt. She recalled frantically trying to convince Katarina to speak in her own defence, to do something. But Katarina was broken, and as always there was absolutely nothing Cassiopeia could do. She would never see her sister again.

Swimming images no…

Swimming tears.

Blocking out her vision, she started to cry despite herself. Being attached to people - being attached hurt so much. In all the years, after their mother's death Cassiopeia had Kat, after her father's disappearance she still had Kat - the single constant pillar since her birth was gone.

Except…

The front door swung in, creaking on neglected hinges. Cassiopeia startled, weaving her way down the stairs to see who - or what - dared to impune upon the du Couteau manor.

"Cass?" A male voice called out.

She recognized the voice - but he had never addressed her by her first name before.

"Y-yes, Talon?" She slid to the top of the banister, "what are you doing here? Why did you come back unless…" Her voice failed upon seeing the assassin in full view...her sister leaning heavily on his shoulder, green eyes dull and apathetic.

"Katarina!" She cried, slithering down the stairs in an unkempt bundle, "how?" she peered between the two assassins, "how did you get her out?"

"I broke in," Talon shrugged.

"But-but-" she stammered.

"Cass?" Katarina whispered, voice grating from disuse. She made a vague attempt to push the ratted hair out of her eyes before reaching a hand out to her sister's shoulder.

Cassiopeia would have none of it. She pulled Katarina into a tight hug, crushing her as though to remind her she was still real. To her greatest surprise, Katarina hugged her back.

"DOn't ever do that to me again," Cassiopeia cried, "don't ever give up don't leave me-"

"I k-know...I won't," Katarina tensed and pulled back a fraction. Trembling, she uttered, "Father is dead."

Cassiopeia felt a shard of ice twist in her heart, "I had thought that to be the case…" It killed her to say so.

In the mean time, Talon had been sinking farther and farther into the background.

"Get back here," Cassiopeia ordered suddenly. She held out a hand, "you're a part of this too, you know. You helped bring out family back together."

"Our family?" Talon murmured, inching forward.

"Of course, idiot," Katarina teased.

The sisters nodded at one another and reached out a hand in unison to drag Talon into their embrace. At first uncomfortable, Talon stood stiff and still. Soon, he caved. This was about comfort. This was about mourning a mutual loss. This was about celebrating their reunion. He awkwardly hugged the two women back.

The last of the du Couteaus, reunited once more.

She found Talon in her father's study.

He was unabashedly poking through her family photos with revered curiosity.

"T-talon?"

His head shot up, chagrined to be caught.

"I, um, I never got a chance to properly thank you for rescuing me," Katarina muttered under her breath, wringing out her hands behind her back repeatedly.

"It was the least I could do," Talon said softly, "when I heard you were in jail...I just...you were right," he stammered, "I shouldn't have left you in Demacia. I won't leave you...not ever again." Talon's head hung and he ran an uncomfortable hand through his long hair.

"I'm glad," Katarina whispered, "that you came back," she slid closer to Talon, placing a hand on either side of his head. "You're a du Couteau and this is your home."

Talon looked down at her through half-closed eyes, hands moving against his will to rest against her hips. She had called him a du Couteau. This, from the girl who had scorned him as a child and called him street trash, who had repeatedly shut him and and tossed her status in his face, who he had grudgingly learned to get along with and become an unconquerable duo. Somewhere between putting worms in his hair and standing side by side when their worlds crumbled around them had Katarina finally come to accept him.

And in turn, Talon had finally come to accept the du Couteaus.

"A du Couteau," Talon murmured. He had been aware of his inherited name for years; but it still felt wonderful...coming from her. Thoughtlessly, Talon pulled Katarina against him, hugging her awkwardly to his chest. She exhaled into his shoulder, squeezing her arms around his neck. They stood like this for minutes, enjoying the unspoken comfort of each other.

Cassiopeia peeked inside to ask Katarina a question, pausing upon seeing the rare display of affection between assassins. Smiling, she slithered back to her chambers.

It was about dang time.

Once the healers deemed Swain well enough to function, he had retreated to his study, shirking the public service announcement he should be making. Frankly, he didn't care. The citizens could handle being in the dark for another evening until Swain felt he could walk without toppling. They didn't need to see their new leader so weak. Especially considering the gravity of the announcement he intended to make.

Instead, the tactician reached for blank parchment, a feather quill, and ink. With a drawn out sigh, he began writing a long-overdue letter to the Institute of War - a letter that respectfully requested they transfer the prisoner Katarina to Noxian prisons. He supposed they would be dropping her case from the national scope and leave her to endure judgement at the hands of her city-state.

Before sealing the letter, however, he hesitated. Taking Katarina's case was the right thing to do, it showed responsibility on Swain's part in the public's eye, and seeing her convicted was just retribution for her other many treasonous acts. A perfect finale, right?

But again, Swain wasn't content with the 'justice', this black and white ultimatum. Perhaps he hesitated because he never intended upon prosecuting Katarina in the first place, or perhaps because a small part of him still doubted their interests could ever align, or that bringing Katarina back to Noxus held the hidden threat of rebellion she could incite.

He set the letter aside, too exhausted to ponder any further.

Night fell in Demacia.

The opalescent domes that shimmered in the sunlight faded to a dull, brushed navy hue, scattering the reflections of the streetlamps like stars. Only guards milled around in hushed reverence. For them, everything was well.

Deep within the palace, Jarvan struggled to sit up. After hours of intense healing, his body still hadn't returned to normal. The demonic fire Swain had seared him with left spiralling, angry red scars wherever he had been burnt - even after his charred flesh had been repaired, the marks remained. They would fade, the healers assured, demon fire burns simply took longer to heal. For now they would rest as a reminder to Jarvan - a reminder of his hatred for the tyrant, and the shame of his pitiful defeat.

But were they ever agonizing...Jarvan sucked in a breath as he tried to grip the edge of the cot he lay upon. His raw hands could barely move, let alone be of any use. Jarvan instantly regretted sending Garen home earlier...he could have used his friend's aid.

Finally, the prince managed to haul himself upright using only his aching abdominal muscles. On shaky feet, he searched around for something more suitable than a hospital gown - seeing as most of his clothing had burned away or fused to his armor.

He took the back corridors of the palace, known only to the Royal Family, and trusted friends like the Crownguards. Upon reaching his chambers, Jarvan realized another issue: lifting the heavy latch on his door. In any other instance, this task would not have been given any thought. The prince winced at the mere thought of unfurling his hands enough to hold the metal -

"Your Highness?"

Jarvan's head whipped around, startled to see the one other person who knew about the back corridors.

"Sh-shyvana...what brings you here?" He stammered, attempting to cover his temporarily crippled hands.

The dragon woman regarded him through uncalculating amber eyes. Instead of armor, she wore loose breeches and a tunic, scaled feet bare against the marble floor. "I…" she dropped her gaze, "I was informed of the events that transpired today - "

"Who told you?" Jarvan interjected sharply, forgetting his pains for the moment.

"I forced Garen to tell me. Punish me if you must but...I had to know."

"No, carry on your way, I suppose you would have found out eventually," Jarvan muttered incoherently.

She dipped her head, "forgive my impudence but...may I see your hands?"

Jarvan went still; all this time he had held his hands behind him, in an attempt to make it appear as though he had them clasped behind his back.

"Garen told me you were burned by demon fire, and while it is not the same as dragon fire...I am familiar with its effect. Also," she continued hastily, "I know of a poultice that can heal dragon fire wounds almost instantly - it um, doesn't have as much of an effect on demon fire but it is still quite soothing er," she shook her head, "I have some here...if you would permit me to aid you."

Jarvan blinked. The mere thought of relief seemed too good to be true. "You...have the poultice with you?" He managed lamely.

Shyvana nodded.

"Very well, if you would please-" he motioned to the door.

She hurried forward, clawed toes scraping against the tile. Lifting the latch effortlessly, she ushered the prince inside, following silently in his wake.

The first room in Jarvan's expansive chamber was open and airy, floor to ceiling windows that faced the outside of the palace accounted for one wall, now covered with heavy velvet drapes. To one side of the room rested a set of tables and chairs that could be placed before the windows during fair weather, and to the other side sat a cozy array of chairs and couches ringing small table. The whole ensemble sat comfortably before a roaring hearth nearly one man's height tall. Though the thought of fire repulsed Jarvan, it did provide a comfortable warmth against the nighttime chill. He walked slowly to his favorite armchair, collapsing into it. Shyvana had trailed him the entire way, poised as though she expected him to keel over at any moment. Jarvan shrugged the blanket resting on the back of the chair around his shoulders - more for the comfort of the soft cloth than for warmth. The dragon woman knelt beside him, withdrawing a small ceramic dish. She uncorked it , reaching out for one of Jarvan's hands. The prince tried to hide his wince as her calloused fingertips grazed his skin. If she noticed, she was unaffected. Taking two fingers, she swept them around the inside of the ceramic dish, withdrawing a mint-green paste. With the utmost precision, she lightly spread the poultice over Jarvan's palm.

The instant the healing formula contacted Jarvan's skin, he gasped, for the cooling poultice somehow managed to penetrate deeper than the burning remnants of fire, leaving behind a pleasant chill, like an ocean wave washing over the burning midday sands.

"Did I hurt you?" Shyvana froze, voice stricken.

"No - not in the least! This poultice - it's working."

Shyvana permitted herself a small smile, "it won't heal the burns entirely, but it will give you relief."

"That...is all I can ask for right now," the prince sighed. "How did you discover this?
"I made it myself," she shrugged, continuing to spread the poultice all over Jarvan's hands and wrists, and most of the way up his forearm until the burns faded out. "Growing up a half-dragon, hunted by my own kind...I had to have a quick remedy for healing burns, whether from the other dragons, or from being unable to control my own fire."

"I see," Jarvan sounded impressed.

Shyvana heard his tone and quickly ducked her head

She finished applying the poultice. "Do you require anything else, sir?"

Jarvan's eyes were half-closed, finally in a state void of pain enough to sleep, "No. You're dismissed.

"Would you like me to stand guard outside your chambers?" She offered hesitantly.

"That isn't necessary," Jarvan slurred, voice heavy with exhaustion.

"Why won't you let me protect you?" She whispered.

"You do protect me," Jarvan chortled, "you do an excellent job in the palace."

"That's not what I mean. How can I protect you if you won't let me stay by your side wherever you go-" she halted, regretting saying too much.

"I just…" she tried to salvage her previous statement, "want to be of use."

Her head hung, strands of dark hair obscuring her face.

"Then perhaps…" Jarvan murmured, almost asleep, "I won't let you leave my side." His eyes flashed in her direction for a brief moment before fluttering closed.

Shyvana released the breath she was holding and quickly absconded. Her mind berated her childish antics - what was she thinking? Yes, she owed Jarvan a great debt but…

Even that didn't warrant her clingy behavior.

Did it?

Back within the walls of his chamber, Jarvan reflected on his fight with Swain. As full of hate as he had been, as much anger as he still harbored, and as ready he was to die taking the tyrant down, only now did Jarvan truly consider what he would have given up. His childhood friend, Garen. His comrade in arms, Quinn. His mentor, role model, and father, Jarvan III. The ever stolid presence of Shyvana, always there but seldom acknowledged.

I forgot all of you. He lamented, nearly in the crux of sweet repose.

As much as he cared about Swain's death, Jarvan found he had so many more people to cherish in life. People who existed for him unconditionally - irreplaceable people he had shoved to the back of his mind for a grudge. Love and camaraderie cast aside for hate.

What kind of a king does that?

Not me. Jarvan steeled his resolve. He would not be the kind of king who put hateful agendas before the good of his people. From now on, he would be stronger than that.

"Rise and shine," LeBlanc's voice pierced Swain's half asleep subconscious.

He cracked open a tired eye, only to squeeze it shut again when LeBlanc flung open the drapes, allowing in far more golden sunlight than he would have preferred.

"What is it?" He grumbled, rising stiffly to a sitting position.

"I believe you said something last night about wanting to make an announcement about the events that transpired at the Institute of War yesterday. Darius is anxious to see you, and my Rose is wondering when they'll be formally introduced," as she spoke she swept off to the closet and withdrew a rich green robe, embroidered extensively with raven designs in black, green, and gold.

"This should do, shouldn't it?"

Swain nodded, taking up his cane . LeBlanc helped dress him without question, taking great care not to exacerbate his injuries. His shoulder especially would take time to heal: the muscle severed down to the bone, which had been cracked all along its length.

She settled Swain's chestplate over his head; a lighter, more ceremonial piece, and strapped in the elaborate epaulets.

"Where is Beatrice?" LeBlanc asked, fussing over Swain's face mask. Fort

"When I'm stronger I'll release her. For today it will just be you, me, and Noxus."

"Need I prepare the Rose?"

"Need I think for a moment you don't already have them prepared?" Swain countered.

LeBlanc smiled, "of course. We're ready at your leisure."

Swain gave a curt nod and began the arduous task of walking downstairs.

"Just don't wait too long." The Deceiver lilted after him.

Fortunately for Swain, Darius waited outside his estate with a carriage. No sense in making the tyrant walk any farther than he had to (or in this case, could).

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Swain greeted, meaning every word.

Darius grunted, never one for pleasantries.

It felt good to have his right-hand man beside him again. After so many weeks of keeping a distance, dealing with his personal, underhanded plans, doing something as straightforward as sitting beside Darius on the way to a political announcement felt like a reprieve.

"Sir, are you...still planning on...the Black Rose?" Darius stumbled; he knew in general to stay silent and not give his council unless asked.

Swain was instead pleased - on one hand that Darius felt comfortable enough to share his concerns, and two because perhaps he was coming around on the idea of the Black Rose rejoining the government.

"I am. They will be reintroduced today, in fact, seeing as they played such a large role in my liberation."

"How do you plan to bring them back in? It might not be wise to replace the government with them…"

"Certainly not, the people would not stand for such a thing; it would be messy and ill conceived. No, Darius, what I have planned is simpler: just as Darkwill had his Raedsel, I shall have the Black Rose as personal guard."

"So...the government won't revert to an aristocracy?"

"No, the mere existence of rigid social classes is against everything Noxus stands for. We will move forward tentatively, keeping the spirit of Noxus but ensuring it does not continue on a self-destructive militaristic track."

Darius seemed to weigh Swain's words. "It won't be easy. Convincing people to trust the Black Rose, the end of conquest…"

"Only time will tell. Nothing worth doing ever came easy, does it, Darius?"

"Yes, sir," he allowed.

By that time the carriage arrived at the Fleshing arena , already packed with citizens.

Darius escorted Swain to the ring, keeping a wary eye out for potential threats. Journalists flanked the arena, sitting at the base of the walls. One handed Swain a magically altered microphone to project his voice. He accepted it with a shallow bow and proceeded to the center of the arena. A hush fell over the crowd as he did, cacophony of voices subsiding to a gentle hum.

"As you all have heard, in varying tones and nuances I'm sure," Swain began, voice rougher than he would have liked, "yesterday I was arrested by the League of Legends under false and blasphemous charges. The ensuing 'trial' erupted into chaos when the Black Rose intervened on my behalf." A murmur rippled forth at the mention of the Rose. Swain moved quickly to explain before further confusion could arise. "I wish to set the record straight: the trial's accusations were false - the actions of individuals within the League were bent on disrupting Noxus' recent ascent to stability coupled with my rise to power. These were the actions of a few; and the League as a whole is still cooperative. Within the next few weeks, the League, myself, and other city-state leaders will be reconvening to discuss terms for altering the League's relation and powers over the sovereign states of Valoran. We will continue to treat the League of Legends with due respect and raise no altercations with them so long as they continue to act as a just and cooperative body," Swain raked his eyes over the crowd, settled into a silence, "As for Noxus; the accusations of the League that coincide with our past penchant for bloodshed has wounded our proud city-state's reputation. I have set my sights in doing more than salvaging it: Noxus is on the verge of entering a new era." Swain paused to inhale deeply; this was the part that could change the course of history - either for the good or the dreadful.

"As such. I have seen fit to reintroduce the Black Rose into the government as my personal guard. As many of you know, the Black Rose was once a potent force in the Noxian government until Darkwill purged them nearly to nonexistence. I myself have had a hand in helping recultivate the Rose; not because I wish to use them to usurp the government again, but because I believe their esoteric knowledge and use of subtleties in negotiation are invaluable to bettering this city-state. I understand many may have qualms; for this deviates from Noxus' history of inimical behavior. Noxus cannot endure as a conquering inferno. We would burn bright and engulf Valoran in the mighty strength of our conflagration, but in the pinnacle of our conquest, we would burn out, crumbled into blackened dust, with none to mourn our ashes. Noxus in the bottom of the valley, we must climb and struggle to even see the light let alone climb the mountain! In order to create an enduring Noxus, we must mold her in the correct manner," he paused to let the words sink in, "Noxus is in a unique and completely new position, ripe for growth - for we are not constrained by the heavy hand of pre ordained hierarchy nor are we pinned back by limited ambition. Valoran has changed. The League of Legends has changed. Intrigue has surpassed belligerency, subterfuge has overcome conquest...as such I have seen fit to strive towards this. The time before Darkwill was the golden age of Noxus, despite what is the consensus amongst the common people. Noxus' strength comes from its ability to evolve, yet that is the very ability that threatens even now to tear it apart. We shall not return to the miring opulence of the aristocracy, nor will we be content with the heavy-handed absolutism of a dictator. The head generals will be my council. No direct action will take place without conferring with the entire council beforehand. The weight of Noxus' rule will still fall on my shoulders; however I have entrusted the Black Rose, in addition to being my personal guard, to check my power. Should I be on the verge of becoming the next Darkwill, they have my permission to remove me from power. In which case, the seat of Grand General will fall to the council of generals and the Black Rose to decide. This system is far from perfect, but it is a far cry from the barbarity of Darkwill's reign. We will amend relations with other city-states, but sacrifice none of our dignity. Noxus will once again attain its rightful place as a respected - not feared - member of Valoran," Swain concluded, sweeping his eyes over the crowd - not condescending, not meant to raze down opposition, but simply to gauge their reaction.

"As I once asked of my right hand man, Darius: are all of you ready to embrace this new strength and work towards a better future? All I ask of you is to band together as one Noxus, one strength, one mind, one soul, and rebuild from the ashes of our tumultuous past - for the promise of a future is bright indeed."

Darius had been slowly nodding throughout the speech and now moved to stand at Swain's right side, axe poised at his side. He needed not say anything; his stolid presence spoke volumes.

"And now, may I introduce LeBlanc, the Matron of the Black Rose and head of my personal guard," Swain gave a nod to the arena entrance and at once LeBlanc strode out into the sunlight; no magic, no tricks.

Breathlessly beautiful as always, the Deceiver wore a completely new outfit: shades of blue and purple accented with innumerable raven feathers - adorning the headdress, cowl, skirt and even cape. Her staff was accented with raven motifs; hair curled at the ends to frame her face.

The arrival of LeBlanc brought a new wave of whispers to the crowd, still enrapt from Swain's speech. They weren't angry; more curious than anything.

"Grand General," she gave a shallow bow, "I hereby swear my fealty to you alone; to protect you as leader of Noxus until such a time when fate determines otherwise."

Swain nodded his approval and she took her rightful place at his left.

"This is all I have wished to tell you, citizens of Noxus. I thank you for your patience and pray for your support in building a future for Noxus," Swain dipped his head and began hobbling off to the exit; flanked by LeBlanc and Darius. Just as he reached the exit, his keen eyes picked out the duo he had truly hoped would hear his rather ostentatious speech: Katarina and Talon.

In the tunnel, Swain ushered away all his guards, leaving only LeBlanc and Darius.

"I understand the two of you may not see eye to eye-" he began.

"I may dislike the deceit of the Black Rose," Darius interjected, "but if this woman is willing to set aside her agenda for the greater good, she has my approval."

"And while I am wont to trust a dog of the military, Swain approves of you, and he couldn't have gotten as far as he has without your support. Therefore I approve."

"I couldn't have gotten this far without either of you," Swain murmured, almost wistful. "LeBlanc, if you would please return to my estate, there is a letter on my desk; seal it and send it to the Institute of War."

She nodded curtly and swept away.

"Darius," Swain began, "I appreciate you support today - more than you will ever know and more than I can ever convey. The people look to you just as much as me for guidance."

"I hardly feel I can claim that credit," Darius demurred.

"There is nothing for you to claim; it is already yours. You are my right hand man, and as much as I rely on you to watch my back, it also gives you the permission to intervene should I stray from the path. If I ever become intoxicated by power and turn corrupt, if I ever begin to put myself before my people, you have my full and free permission to end me."

"Sir-"

"This is not a negotiation. You have earned the right and I feel it's time that you know it," Swain dipped his head, "I have some affairs to get in order; take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow begins the real work."

Darius clasped Swain on the shoulder - his healed one - in a gesture that could only be considered affectionate by Darius' standard. He nodded curtly, took up his axe, and marched out.

Several hours later…

Swain had returned to his estate and begun compiling papers necessary for a meeting he would hold with the Black Rose and the council of generals on the coming day. It would be a long, grueling process amending Noxus' government procedures, and Swain could already feel himself dragging. It was less than twenty four hours since he had been beaten within an inch of his life, and he supposed he would do well to rest.

"Going to bed?" LeBlanc asked when she noticed him limping up the stairs.

"Might as well," Swain grunted. She appeared by his side, hovering with a concerned look gracing her porcelain features.

The look didn't disappear until the tyrant was safely in his room.

Swain exhaled, sinking onto the edge of his bed as he did, "much has been achieved by our actions, but I can't help but wonder if they have solved everything."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Can you forgive me, Evaine?" Swain asked in a rush, "I know your forgiveness is not something I deserve, nor should I be asking for but-"

LeBlanc silenced him by swiftly closing the distance between the two. She seized Swain's hands in hers, shaking her head. "Jericho, you are the most brilliant man I know, yet sometimes you can be so daft."

Without warning, LeBlanc slid onto his lap, straddling the tyrant and bringing them closer still in a manner most intimate. Intimacy such as they had not experienced in many, many years.

"Such an ice king you are." Evaine whispered, moving her hands to rest against Swain's cheeks before gently sliding down his facemask. Swain's breath hitched. "A beautiful tyrant," she leaned forward to press a gossamer kiss to his forehead. He moved his hands to rest against her hips, gently, undemanding. "An angelic devil." she murmured coyly, placing a delicate kiss upon Swains' eyelids between words. "A raven with the wings of a dove," she caressed his cheeks again, hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck. Her forehead rested against his, tips of their noses brushing, her soft, hesitant breaths warm against his face. Swain was frozen, utterly frozen under her spell. "My very own Jericho darling," with those final words uttered breathlessly, LeBlanc closed the already miniscule distance between their lips. Swain reciprocated dizzily, a part of him still refusing to accept the evident.

The kiss was soft and shallow, yet still held its own undying passion that radiated like electricity through the tactician and deceiver.

LeBlanc drew back, gold eyes full of warmth, "of course I forgive you," she murmured, "I have, for quite some time now."

Swain couldn't speak; emotion was welling up in him unlike he had felt in an eternity. He buried his face in her chest, arms wrapping tighter around her waist. LeBlanc smiled resting her cheek atop his head and embracing him back.

"Thank you, Evaine, thank you," his voice was muffled.

"Of course darling," she fell silent a moment, one hand absent mindedly tracing the many scars lacing across Swain's face, "Jericho...may I?"

"May you what?"

LeBlanc tilted her head so she and Swain were eye to eye, "tch, do I really need to ask?" Without waiting for an answer, she recaptured Swain's lips, this time with unrestrained abandon.

The tactician rolled backwards, surprised by her sudden weight against his chest. LeBlanc kissed him with a growing fervor, Swain matching her move for move. Hands moved freely across their bodies, relearning the forms that had not so very long ago been second nature.

Evaine's hands found their way to Swain's shoulder, fumbling with the ties to his robe before the tactician winced under her touch. She was quick to deduce the source of the pain - disentangling herself from Swain's embrace in a heart beat.

"Don't you dare leave me," Swain panted.

"You're still healing. I'm not going to hurt you," LeBlanc scowled.

Swain's eyes softened, "Milady, such an expression is unbefitting of your beauty, please, do not leave my side." He clasped her hand in his, "all I ask is you stay here, to sleep, nothing more."

She nodded, "I will leave long enough to let you change into something more comfortable...and I will do likewise," LeBlanc dipped her head, ducking in for a light kiss before whisking away.

Swain lay flat on his back with a sigh, feeling some of the pains of the day alleviated. His shoulder still throbbed, but the ache dulled in comparison to the burning emotion in his chest - reawakened after so many years. Dimmed, but never gone, his love for Evaine was requited once more.

The woman in question reentered, clad in fluffy purple pajamas.

"You haven't fallen asleep already, have you dear?" She teased, crawling under the covers beside Swain.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he smiled as she settled her head in the crook of his shoulder, arms resting lightly around his neck.

"Sleep well, my love," she murmured, cuddling close.

"At last we can, knowing that all is well," Swain released a contented sigh.

LeBlanc frowned, glad Swain could not see it. She did not trust Vessaria to keep her word, not in the slightest. "Jericho?" she murmured, "Vessaria...she...she was an official member of the Black Rose, was she not?

"Of course, why do you ask?"

"Mmm," she nuzzled into his neck, "no reason."

As soon as she was certain Swain slept deeply, LeBlanc created a clone to sleep in her stead and leapt to work. She donned dark cloaks and swept through the underbelly of Noxus to her threshold: buried deep were the archives of the Black Rose, kept untouched even under the disastrous reign of Darkwill. There she dug through the files, finding at last a store of thorned onyx rings - remnants of Black Rose members now deceased. All except one.

Eyes glowing with power, LeBlanc summoned forward the ring of Vessaria Kolminye. She clenched the cool stone ring in her fist. With a faint smile she etched the runes to teleport her just outside the Institute of War in an abandoned catacomb.

LeBlanc approached Vessaria's sleeping form with a faint smile. The door and subsequent doors to her chamber had been warded with highly complex spells, impenetrable to anyone without knowledge of certain types of magic…

More specifically, the form of magic prized by the Black Rose. On one hand, Vessaria had been quite wise in utilizing this form to guard herself: out of the millions in Valoran, only a handful knew of this type of magic, and the Black Rose had been considered dead for ages. On the other hand, LeBlanc had pretty much invented this form, making Vessaria's room a breeze to break into.

The deceiver crept up to the woman's bedside, considering if killing her would be preferable. She still sported the burning handprint on her neck from their last encounter, and needless to say LeBlanc did not forgive easily. But she had a better punishment in store. Pulling the black onyx ring from her pocket, LeBLanc deftly slid the enchanted circlet upon Vessaria's ring finger. The smirk she sported stretched into a grin. Too easy, councilwoman, much too easy.

LeBlanc didn't even pause to consider whether she should gloat and alert the councilwoman of her new prison.

"You must be exhausted from writing out all of those city-state pardons," She announced airily, loud enough to cause Vessaria to jolt awake, fists full of fire and eyes flashing blearily.

"Over here, darling," LeBlanc lilted, taking a seat upon the woman's desk, noticeably empty of anything that resembled a pardon note.

"What are you doing here?" Vessaria snarled, finally focusing upon the form of the deceiver.

"Checking up on you, I wanted to make sure you weren't getting too overwhelmed with pardoning everyone," she nonchalantly adjusted the gems suspended in her staff.

"Ha, are you daft enough to think I'd actually be writing those?" Vessaria snapped, rising to her feet in cold, calculated movements.

"I would hope that after all the events that unfolded, you would have taken heed of the lessons being taught and do your duty, COUNCILWOMAN," LeBlanc's eyes narrowed.

Vessaria stood ramrod straight, "oh, I have written pardons for the Freljord, for Piltover, Demacia, Bandle City, Bilgewater, and even the abominable Zaun. But there will be no pardon for Swain nor you. I intend to have the both of you locked away so deep no one will remember your names."

"Such melodramatic threats from a woman who doesn't hold the kingpin anymore," the Matron sighed again.

"Excuse me?" Vessaria laughed mirthlessly, "I don't hold the kingpin, you say? Who is the one who openly revealed the true nature of her organization to the public, disrupting a trial and nearly inciting war all over again? Perhaps you need to reconsider your position, MATRON."

LeBlanc rose to her feet, "funny you should address me as such, dear Miss Kolminye." she laughed under her breath, "Swain did say your ambition would be your greatest shortcoming, and that somewhere in the midst of it we'd find a way to catch you in your own trap."

The councilwoman squared her shoulders, "is that a threat?"

"It's a fact," LeBlanc stepped closer to her, "your affiliation to the Black Rose has given me a momentous opportunity."

"And what might that be?" She demanded, eyes narrowed. Vessaria considered raising an alarm, but the deceiver hadn't made a move to attack, and if she did have murderous intent, why not just kill her in her sleep?

"it was ambition that led you to the Black Rose, and ambition that caused to you cast it off the moment you thought you'd outgrown it. You sought out the League of Legends because again you felt it may fulfil your ambitions, and clearly it has. But you've forgotten something critical, dear Vessaria, and that is when you leave behind the past, the past never really leaves you."

"Pretty words, LeBlanc, but that is all they are. Did you forget that you don't have any authority over me any more?" She sneer, upper lip curled in disgust.

"No, of course I don't," the deceiver chuckled, "but that ring of yours, that's a different story."

"What ring?" Vessaria snapped, instantly raking angry eyes over her hands, coming to a halt when she noticed the onyx ring, "What is this?" She growled, reaching to remove it.

"Ah ah ah, I wouldn't do that dear Vessaria," the moment she touched the ring, the blood seal, her blood, glowed bright red and the thorned circlet grew tighter.

"What have you done to me?" She hissed, grabbing her wrist, holding the hand with the ring away from her body as though it were a curse.

"Me," LeBlanc said with mock offense, "I haven't done a thing. You were the one who made the blood pact with the Black Rose."

"But..but...I thought I'd escaped that by-"

"Faking your own death?" the deceiver lilted and upon seeing Vessaria's aghast expression she finished with a smug, "oh, Swain tells me everything dearie, everything." Her face went cold, lifeless as a porcelain doll, "Try to usurp or even hinder Swain or the Black Rose or Noxus and I will use my power as Matron to destroy you. Attempt to remove the ring and the same fate will be afforded you. Don't try anything, councilwoman, all of the blood pacts are linked with the same magic that I as Matron have been imbued with. I will know if you double cross me. And, oh, what is it you like to say? 'you will rue the day you double cross me?' You'll be doing much more than rueing that day, Vessaria." LeBlanc appeared right in front of her, eyes burning, "because it will be the last day you walk this earth."

LeBlanc waved her staff in an arc, and the air around her began to blur. "Sweet dreams, Vessaria, you'll need all the sleep you can get with all those pardon letters you'll need to be writing."

An instant later, the deceiver was gone, leaving a bedraggled head summoner clutching her hand, abject fear and anger roiling over her sleep-deprived visage.

Caught in her own snare at last, she wanted to scream, to cast off the hand that bore the ring, knowing well the futility of either action.

LeBlanc reentered Swain's estate in the wee hours of the morning. She tiptoed so quietly across the foyer not even the birds in the aviary heard her. Before returning to bed, she paused before the chess set sitting out upon the tactician's desk as it always did. She sauntered over to it, shifting the black king and black queen pieces to surround the white king and queen.

"Check," she murmured with a wry smirk. While she would have preferred checkmate, somehow knowing their enemies were mired behind carefully planted trip lines was more satisfying.

Leaving the chessboard in better condition, LeBlanc returned to Swain's bedroom. She smiled upon seeing him there, still sleeping soundly without a care in the world. Evaine slid in next to him, recushioning her head on his shoulder and folding her arms against his chest. In his sleep, Swain subconsciously shifted closer to her, wrapping his arm lightly about her waist with a contented sigh. LeBlanc let her eyes slide closed. Now everything had been made right.

Relegated to grunt work at the Institute, Quinn found herself wrapped up in the drudgery of sorting letters. Valor had ditched her menial task for something more interesting, and Quinn was nearly to the point of drifting off when she noticed a letter with a bright red seal, imprinted with an intricate raven symbol. Swain's mark, undeniably.

Filled with the prospect of something - anything - more interested than the current task, Quinn sprinted to the nearest council member with the letter. She hovered while the senior summoner read it with great interest.

"Hmm, I must inform the provost immediately," he muttered.

"What is it?" Quinn pressed.

"Hmph, read for yourself," he passed her the letter.

To whom it may concern,

I, Grand General Jericho Swain, Ruler of Noxus and Champion of the League of Legends do request the immediate and permanent transfer of Katarina du Couteau's custody into my hands. I am well aware that she escaped incarceration recently and that the League is attempting to take her to justice. This is unnecessary; she must face justice at the hands of her own city-state. Since it is I whom she had offended, I wish to be in charge of her prosecution. Her insurrection is not a matter of national security and therefore can easily be dealt with within Noxus.

As long as Demacia has no qualms, of which I have been assured, the matter lies solely with Noxus.

And with the matter of her champion title being removed; rescind that order. She will receive her due punishment by Noxus - no intervention from the League is necessary.

Please send an official letter regarding the change in custody at the earliest convenient date.

-Grand General Jericho Swain of Noxus

Quinn whistled, "are you going to honor this?"

The senior summoner made a tsking noise, "of course; the less rouges we have to deal with, the better."

He squinted at Quinn, "don't you have mail to be sorting?"

"Uh, yes, sir!" She stood at attention, "will you be writing a letter of agreement?"

"While I must confer with the rest of the council, yes. Worry not dear, you'll be off mail duty by the time it's sent out, I can assure you that."

After a solid week of meetings and delegations from dawn to dusk, Swain moved about his daily work in a pleasantly happy haze. Thus far, everyone seemed of a cooperative mind; minus minor dissent, but that was to be expected. The tactician hummed to himself as he waited for his dinner to finish cooking when LeBlanc strode into the room, carrying a letter emblazoned with the seal of the League of Legends.

"Is that…" he asked.

"A reply to the letter you sent to the League? I believe so. Still I can't believe why you would want to pardon her, either of them," LeBlanc said scornfully.

"I see you took the liberty of reading my letter," Swain mused.

"It was unsealed, would you expect anything else from me?" She tossed the letter onto the oak table.

"I'm not going to pardon them unless they agree to end their pointless crusade against me. If they cannot move past our differences, I will have them locked deep in prison as you would have them, Milady. But first I am going to give them the same chance I gave their father: an opportunity to accept their importance."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You'll see soon enough; I'd prefer not to explain my rationale twice. Breakfast?"

"As long as it's not eggs," she muttered, taking a seat beside Swain, smile on her lips.

Swain summoned Katarina and Talon to his private office in the depths of the Great Hall. LeBlanc hung like a shadow in the corner, irritated to be in the presence of her would-be killer Talon and his cohort.

The two assassin's entered with an air of distrust, as though they expected armed guards to appear for their arrest any moment. Talon's glower deepened upon seeing LeBlanc while Katarina's face remained carefully neutral, though she couldn't mask slight disdain.

"Please sit," Swain motioned to twin mahogany chairs set out in front of his desk.

Neither moved any closer, so Swain began speaking with a low sigh.

"I suppose both of you wonder why I've summoned here."

"Not really," Talon interjected.

"You said you wished to speak on friendly terms," Katarina said sharply, "I find that to be highly improbable. We will hear what you say; but it guarantees nothing. People like you say one thing only to do another."
"While that is often true, I wish to be as painfully transparent with the two of you as possible," Swain exhaled, "You may be under the impression I mean to arrest or even execute you after this...rendezvous. That is not the case. But the result of our chat will have permanent and dire ramifications. Listen carefully," Swain pulled out the letter from the League.

"Katarina," her attention jolted to Swain, "I have here a letter from the League agreeing to pardon you of your crimes against the Institute and transferring your custody to me. I am of the mind to pardon you if-"

"IF I play your stupid game," she snapped.

"If you listen," Swain demurred. He directed his attention to the hooded assassin, "Talon you have equally grievous crimes weighing over your head. You tried to murder my partner. This is not something I will easily forgive, and it is certainly something she will never forgive."

LeBlanc nodded curtly from her corner.

"What is it you want," Katarina dropped into one of the chairs, Talon mirroring her movements. She sat tense and haughty, arms crossed and leaning forward.

"Only for you to understand your value. I tried to tell your father this once-"

"How dare you speak of him-" Talon snarled, hand shifting out of instinct to reach for a weapon.

Katarina placed a hand on his arm, mollifying him instantly.

"I don't believe you two will ever realize that you and Cassiopeia weren't the only people who cared about Marcus. He was my comrade, and I cared deeply for him, Darkwill's protege or not. Removing him from the picture is my only regret-"

"Then perhaps you should have reconsidered your actions," Katarina growled.

"Do you not think that I tried everything? Did everything in my power to protect him? To try to make him see reason? But no, his damnable du Couteau pride prevented him from listening to what I have to say as I fear it will blind the two of you!" Swain slammed his fists on the desk, shoulders shaking.

LeBlanc slipped over to his side, running a hand across his shoulders.

Swain shook his head, "I pleaded with him. I told him to cast off his poisoned dream of seeing Darkwill's work to the bitter end. Your father protected me when I hinted insurrection; so I gave him every opportunity to join me and my cause. Had he done so…" Swain squeezed his eyes shut.

"He would still be here today," Katarina's voice was blunt, emotionless, neither disbelieving nor sardonic.

"I will now pass that same offer on to his daughter and to his protegee. But first, I must give you both a bit of history that may perhaps help you to realize what the du Couteaus stand for." The tactician leaned back, "nearly thirty years ago, Darkwill set up a plot to purge Noxus of its aristocracy and the Black Rose - a plot which nearly succeeded. I was there when he ambushed an aristocrats gathering - one of their annual, lavish dinner dances. While the Raedsel began massacring the guests, one man stood up to Darkwill; he had no fighting ability, no special qualities, just the foolish bravery to fight a battle he had no hope of winning. Darkwill cut him down. Then his wife. But he hesitated at their child, standing defiantly over the bodies of his parents. Darkwill kept the boy. Trained him. Moulded the young aristocrat in the ways of war and power. This act of preserving a piece of the aristocracy did not come from Darkwill alone, but from repeated subliminal influence from myself. I convinced Darkwill that keeping a shred of the aristocracy alive would make his overthrow easier; that preserving a piece of the past would lessen resistance and in turn lead to an easier future. This lasting 'relic' of the aristocracy, the boy spared, was Marcus du Couteau," Swain paused to gauge the expressions of Katarina and Talon. They were predictable as always - Talon kept everything internalized, Katarina's eyes were wide, mouth hanging open.

"So you see, just as Marcus represented a piece of the Noxian aristocracy, the two of you represent a piece of Darkwill's reign. The du Couteaus have become a symbol, representative of Noxus' ability to evolve. If you were to become a part of this new era, Noxus would be much more willing to follow; for if the du Couteaus will endure, then so can they. Do you understand?"

"What does joining you entail?" Katarina scowled, "swearing our undying loyalty to yours truly? Being your personal assassins?"

"A place in the High Command," Swain countered, "Naturally, since Katarina is a du Couteau by blood and has been trained in politics, she would take the position vacated by her father. The generals would not take kindly to a former street urchin on the command; Talon you will have to be content waiting in the wings."

"I intend to," he sent a look to Katarina who nodded.

"In the interest of not being incarcerated, and in the interest of ensuring your power is checked, I accept the position," Katarina stood, arm crossed over her chest.

"Very well," Swain dipped his head, "I accept your oath of fealty."

"Know that this does not make us allies, nor does it forgive our grievances-"

"I would not expect such a swift change in sentiments; they would be interpreted as insincere. I do hope...that over time we will come to reconcile."

Katarina nodded curtly, as did Talon.

"Both of you are dismissed. I expect your presence, Miss du Couteau, at the war meeting this afternoon for official initiation. Talon, you may wait in the wings so long as you don't interfere with business."

The assassins slipped out of the room, leaving a vacuum of quiet.

"That went...better than I could have hoped," Swain sighed, sinking his forehead to rest against the cool stone desk.

"I still don't trust them," LeBlanc was haughty.

"This wasn't a matter of trust, Evaine, it was a matter of recognizing legacy. Which I feel...they finally did."

They fell silent, LeBlanc absently running her fingertips across Swain's shoulders.

"What was that bit with allowing Talon into the meetings? Letting him...wait in the wings?" LeBlanc smirked.

"Whatever would appease him, you see how he dotes on Katarina," Swain rolled his eyes.

"Always watching, like I was?"

"You were and are a most vigilant watcher," Swain stared up at her appreciatively.

"And for my precious raven, I would do it all again," she leaned down to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck - possessive and protective all at once.

Swain leaned up into her kiss, knowing that for once the words of the Deceiver spoke volumes of precious truth.

It was rare moments like these when Swain was permitted the opportunity for introspection. Just a man and his thoughts, tucked away in the aviary where only LeBlanc could find him, if she didn't know him well enough to respect his need for occasional quiet.

In the past two weeks, the Black Rose had been hard at work wheedling out traitors and insurrectionists. Petty crime was at an all time low. The people were optimistic, picking themselves up, and each other. The road ahead would be long, but the foundation was laid. While Swain worked with the council to improve the government, the Black Rose kept external affairs and the safety of the higher ups in check.

It was with great hesitance but with great joy that he could at last say: all was well.

Veni vidi vici. He came, he saw, but most importantly...he conquered. His city-state. His fears. His shortcomings. His foes. His love. From the depths of self-destruction and oppressing nemeses, Jericho Swain stood now atop the shining pinnacle.

The sun finally trickled out, doling rays of warming glow that brushed soft the glass facets of the aviary, slipping at last beyond the horizon until the sky was rendered black as the ravens that slept about the tyrant. And thus it will be, the Raven's Reign spread from shore to Noxian shore and shall be lifted...nevermore.