Chapter Text
The process of meeting someone has never appealed to Talon. In fact, an idea has struck him on darker nights that he might be altogether unsuited for that sort of thing. Every important encounter that Talon’s had has been terse and tense and better yet—short. To the point. A knife digging into warm skin. One strike, dead, and nothing else.
Blood has soaked into the hem of his sleeve. Talon will have to scrub that out later. He only has one set of Ionian clothes after all, though it wouldn’t be hard to find more.
Busy cities in Ionia are nothing like Noxian cities. Noxian streets are claustrophobic. Buildings are jutting and angry. There is warmth but you need to know where to look, and there certainly hadn’t been any where Talon had grown up. (At some point you learn that there’s no use in looking anyway, because heat makes you tired and inattentive.) But Ionian cities are soft. The houses and shops are dotted with hanging lanterns and warm light. Many stores and tea houses are wide open, inviting the bugs and the evening air inside. Quiet music echoes through the streets, plucked from unknown strings. Talon doesn’t understand it. It’s dangerous to be so welcoming. Did they learn nothing from the invasion?
His sleeve is damp against his skin. Clearly not.
Pulling the hood of his cloak lower, Talon weaves quietly through the crowd. Despite his unassuming clothing he feels like he sticks out. He definitely doesn’t look very Ionian and he can’t speak the language. The few words he does know would be caught by his accent and Talon doesn’t believe in getting caught. That’s one of his personal tenets, broken only a few times, but still more than he’d like to admit. It can’t solely be understood as “caught in the act.” That idea is too forgiving. When he thinks of the word caught he thinks of ice down his spine that tells him there’s nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. A dead end.
A blade has found its way into his grip again and Talon tucks it away. Now is not the time. There will be no chance of suspicion from any Ionians whatsoever.
He crosses by a stand where a man and a woman are laughing together, fingers intertwined. Talon glances at them in passing. Are they soulmates? He can’t help but wonder every time he sees a couple. It’s a sort of game to try and figure out if they’re fated or not. Only once has Talon been certain. A season ago in Demacia he’d spied two matching marks and their owners. He remembers waiting there, perched on a nearby rooftop, watching for the magic, looking for whatever it was that made their relationship special. What made it so different from the people who chose not to wait?
For almost an hour Talon had observed them sitting together at the lip of a fountain, matching marks bared on their skin proudly. The longer he’d watched, the less he’d understood.
They’d been totally—undeniably—in love, that’s for sure.
He tucks his knife away again. Autumn air is thick in his lungs and he measures his breathing. Long and low, as if he’s still on the hunt. Technically he is. The traitorous Noxian he’d just killed had offered no insight on his true target. No matter. Talon will hunt down every single treasonous dog until he finds the one he’s after.
He looks up at the dark sky. Find the traitor, kill the traitor, then back to Noxus and the general—and then another task, maybe somewhere else. Demacia again? Talon doesn’t know why the general trusts him with such sensitive missions. That’s something he’s never fully understood.
He’d been told, once, that “others fall short where your steel still reaches.” That explanation is not enough for Talon. A mere month after being uprooted from the streets he’d been sent on a perilous assignment of utmost secrecy. After that, a new job. And after that one—
He still remembers that abysmal task. The horrific, world-ending swell of failure is still raw, even today. It’s jarring to understand that for the first time—ever—he had disappointed someone other than just himself.
On darker nights Talon knows that’d been the closest he’d come to dying. The closest he’d ever been to wanting it.
Maybe he’s trusted because Talon doesn’t ask many questions. But there must be more than just that. Thinking about it doesn’t get him very far. He would like to consider the idea that he’s better than every other assassin alive, but he isn’t. Not yet.
A handful of newcomers are still trickling in through the city’s western entrance. They must be here to visit the festival, whatever it is they’re celebrating. Talon barely looks at them on his way out. A short woman, an old father leading his two children, and lagging far behind, a swordsman. Talon glances behind him once he passes to get another look at the blade strapped to the man’s waist—
—except he sees it.
Dark and unmistakable, even by lantern light. Sharply edged, thin, imprinted on the lower left side of the man’s exposed back just above his hip like a curse—it might be a curse. It’s a symbol that Talon could recognize in his sleep because he knows it—he knows it because it’s his. That’s his.
A narrow, gently curving feather. More angular on one side, barely longer than his thumb. His soulmate mark.
A mark that now belongs to someone else.
One of his knives has arrived in his palm and this time Talon tenses his grip around the hilt til his knuckles are white and his arm is trembling. He is nauseous, suddenly. He feels almost robbed because how dare this man have what’s his? Before—before—he can’t think straight, every thought collides with each other in his head.
What are the chances? In all of Runeterra what are the chances of running into the one person who’s supposed to be his other half? Before—before—he locks his knees to keep from shaking, remains rigid and still as the man continues down the road into town. He’d paid no attention to him.
Hadn’t spared a single look.
From Talon’s limited understanding, soulmates are supposed to be special. A bolt of lightning, a rush of true love. Heart throbbing, soul pounding romance.
He feels sick, skin crawling with some unknown horror. Before—he rubs his thumb along the flat of his knife. Before he could have pretended that he was alone and that he wasn’t inexplicably connected to someone he would never meet.
Before he could believe that there was no one alive to tie him to the ground.
Calm is a closing casket and it settles over him slowly. Although his entire world has broken open, less than a minute has passed. He watches the swordsman wander into the crowd and disappear from sight
Who is this stranger, to have his mark? Talon looks down at the blade in his hand. He doesn’t really know what he’s feeling. There’s too much to process at once. Maybe it’s not really his. Maybe it’s just very similar. People can have similar marks, on occasion. He could convince himself of that—and leave, and go about his mission and forget what he thinks he saw.
For a long minute Talon stands, frozen in the road, deathly still. Finally he hides his knife away and starts back towards the city.
***
There’s no point. The thought repeats itself in his head over and over. There’s no point to this at all. His mark in this town is already dead and rotting. A body waiting to be discovered in the inn room where he lays. There’s no good reason for Talon to return. He should already be on his way to another city. On his way to carve answers from a doomed man's throat.
But here he is anyway. Slipping through the crowd in search of something he’s never wanted. He scans the groups of people huddled around the street vendors, hunting for the swordsman. How’d he look? A big ponytail, dressed in scrappy blue. Talon really can’t picture him well but he’ll recognize him when he sees him. He darts in and out of a few nearby tea houses. Can’t have gone far. The people in the streets are starting to grate on his nerves with their incessant chatter. And there’s too many of them. He notes every alley and exit as he retraces his steps, just in case.
After a few more minutes he’s worried that the swordsman has somehow disappeared, until finally he spies the man’s bushy hair. That’s him, exiting a warmly lit shop not too far away. Talon’s mouth is dry. He tails him through the crowd, following long behind the man. Does he live here? Is he staying here? As Talon continues following him he tries to glimpse the mark on his back. At first he can’t make it out but as he follows the man to the other side of the city the crowd thins and by the lantern light Talon is able to see it.
His heart sinks. It looks the same as his. He squints, stares.
It must be the same. His head’s starting to spin again and he ducks behind a sloping house to hold his knife and breathe.
How awful. What would the general say if he saw him dismantled by someone he hasn’t even met? Not even by combat but by just existing. Talon pushes his bangs out of his eyes. His skin’s still crawling from just the mere idea. How pathetic. He tilts the blade to see it glint in the moonlight.
I could kill him. The thought burrows its way into his head. Whoever he is, he could be nobody. He could be nobody by morning. I could make sure of it. Talon’s done it plenty of times, and then he’d have nobody to even bother thinking about.
He turns to peek around the corner at the road. The stranger is a lonely shadow as he leaves the town, path nearly empty. If Talon doesn’t hurry he might lose him.
The assassin glances up at the stars.
He doesn’t have enough time to think, so he follows.
***
The Ionian lives. Fighting against better judgement and mild nausea, Talon continues to tail him, perhaps the most careful he’s ever been. Thankfully the empty road cuts through a forest of towering trees and Talon gives the stranger a very wide berth, tracking him from the comfort of the woods. Late that night when the man finally stops to sleep by the roadside Talon climbs into the arms of a red leafed oak and watches, and waits.
For what? He doesn’t know. Maybe anything.
He doesn’t sleep much. A mixture of pent up energy, never ending thoughts, and the fear that he’ll oversleep keeps him from resting properly, and as the sky starts to lighten he catches his first good look at the stranger while he’s still asleep in the grass. He’s not terrible looking, Talon admits. He looks, in a single word, weathered. Like a traveller who’s spent too much time away from home. Talon’s a little far, but he can still glimpse his features from his roost. Not entirely ugly. A disappointing acknowledgement. At least the sword by his side is far more alluring than he is. Talon imagines holding it. Would it carry weight if he swung it through the air? Or would it glide lightly in his grip? Blades have always fascinated Talon. People come and go and a sharp edge will make sure they stay gone because he’s always found more success alone. No matter the situation Talon can trust the embrace of his cloak and rely on the safety of his knives. You can’t do that with people.
Wind rustles the leaves around him as the swordsman stirs, waking up to the sunrise. Talon watches as he picks grass out of his wild hair and ties up his bedroll, completely unaware that he’s not alone. When he stretches Talon spies the dark spot on his back that must be his soulmark.
So where is it? Talon is still waiting for the rush of feeling. Where is the flood? He’s supposed to be swept off his feet, absolutely heartsick because he’d found his soulmate. Sick is definitely the word to use here.
He looks—Talon eyes the man’s frayed clothes critically—messy. He measures his breathing, willing away impending queasiness. Killing him is still an option. Talon could descend from the trees and hook his knives into him and end him.
Or—totally—undeniably—in love—the road does go in the direction of some cities Talon needs to visit. He could always—leave him alive. For now.
There’s no point. He repeats to himself. There would be no point in it. It’d be more efficient to gut him and go. But—there’s also no harm in it. It’s getting hard to sort through his thoughts again. Talon isn’t one to bother with overcomplicated decisions. He only ever thinks for himself so it’s suddenly challenging to manage his thoughts when they’re centered around someone else.
If he—wanted to. The proposal starts to organize itself in his head.
If he wanted to he could let him live, for now, because at any point he could be done with him. Soulmates don’t interest Talon in that way, but they’re still interesting nonetheless. Because why would the gods—or whatever higher powers that decide these things—pair them together? Do they know something Talon doesn’t? What’s the meaning behind it? This Ionian might already have a family, kids even. Talon’s nose wrinkles at the idea of it.
Fine, he decides. He’ll track this man for a little longer. Maybe Talon will learn something about himself. If not, and even if he does, there will always be the option to cut his losses, and forget.