|| also one last go ‘fore i roll into bed but like. for actuals if any of you guys wanna do some plotting or some shit anytime or throw ideas at me to write shit, please do feel free!! can be re: garen, graves, whatever. i enjoy doing things. :y
this is too much for my sad gay little soul to handle,,,,,,,,,,, the dark, dry husk of my emotions is finally being watered,,,,,, u are providing sustenance for me thank u
His face is remembered as if in a dream--hazy and uncertain in some places, but clear as day in others. There’s a few things that have stuck in Garen’s memory without a doubt, lasting against the weathering efforts of time like resolute stones resisting the inexorable tide of the sea. The curve of his lips, the calm tones of his voice--and those eyes. They’d caught his attention the first time he’d seen Taric, and they hadn’t left his mind yet.
They’d been friends once. Back before the Dauntless Vanguard, before exile--he’d been proud to call the man his companion, and he’d held him in high regard. But then he’d fallen from grace, and Garen hadn’t questioned the will of those far higher in rank than he was. He’d kept his head down and hadn’t spoken out to defend him, hadn’t dared to breathe a word; it had been an act of cowardice, plain and simple. He’d doubted, but action had been the furthest thing from his mind. In another time, perhaps a few months down the road, he wouldn’t have stayed silent. He could’ve, would’ve done something--
But the ideas of what could have been do nothing more than fill his head with noxious smoke, curling through his thoughts and clouding his mind.
He knew of something more hiding below the veneer of pleasantries they exchanged so often, hypothetical feelings never shared or acknowledged--and back then, Garen wouldn’t have known how to react in the first place. Perhaps it was for the best that those words were never spoken, lingering in the empty halls of someone else’s heart where he could never hope to tread.
There was so much that could have been. Each and every possibility had been crushed all at once, so he’d thought. There was a graveyard of these roads left untrodden, slipping further and further behind him with all the passing of days. What had once been remained in the past, unwritten history that had long since slipped his mind.
Taric was--a traitor. Exile. Deserter of his duty, betrayer of the trust of Demacia. Friend, once warmly loved, now lost. He’d convinced himself that there was no way things could be how they were, and that had been the end of it. There was nothing to be done, no way to change what had transpired--Taric had been lost to him years ago, claimed by Targon and reshaped into something more than human. The man he knew was gone, and he’d once seen that as a kindness. Now his former friend was a memory, finally at peace after so hard a fall; it was mercy, really. He wouldn’t have to suffer far from home, kept from what he’d once known.
But the flash of those eyes in the summer sun remained, accompanied by the sound of laughter over some joke long since forgotten. How much else had been lost, slipping away before Garen could even realize it?
He remembers a shade of blue, and the dull ache of regrets left too long.
It was a busier day than most others, but considering the fact that Garen Crownguard had returned along with the other soldiers, it wasn’t very surprising at all. Xin Zhao had stayed at the King’s side, assisting his plans where he could and accompanying him as his steward and bodyguard when he couldn’t. Many honors had been given, some with ceremony and others in private, and Xin Zhao attended them all. These meetings were hardly as long or ornate as the original grand welcome they had given Garen and the other soldiers who had been marked high prestige or awarded for their feats of valor and bravery on the field, but they were still given.
So as the day ended, and the King finally retired, Xin Zhao found himself wandering the halls of the castle in quiet reflection. He had hardly had the time to speak to Garen alone before the man had been swept away for this or that honor or meeting… would the man even want to see Xin on his first few days of peace? It would have been more considerate to let the man rest while he could… right?
The steward stopped at the barracks, hovering at the entrance way as he blinked and stared in. While he had not had the time to completely acclimate to Garen’s increased bulk or size, there was no mistaking his figure hunched over the table within. Xin hesitated before quietly stepping in. There wasn’t any harm in greeting him, at least… if he was a bother, Xin could simply leave.
It was hard to gauge this familiar stranger, after all… he wasn’t sure if Garen would still welcome him after the trials that must have surely changed him beyond Demacia’s borders… it would have been naive to think Garen would have remain unchanged… the man had clearly matured past the need of a mentor but…
But still.. a part of him hoped that the same kind heart and welcoming smile would turn to greet him all the same.
“Am I interrupting…?” Xin stepped forward, stopping at Garen’s side as he glanced down with a tentative smile, “I did not expect you to still be here…”
The voice is quiet, respectful--he immediately knows who it is. It’s hard to mistake Xin for anybody else in Demacia, and Garen would know him anywhere. There were some memories that time couldn’t quite erode on its own, and the Seneschal’s voice had stayed true in his head despite all the miles and years apart.
He looks up when his friend draws near enough, returning Xin’s smile with one of his own--it’s small, but far more genuine than any of the pomp and circumstance he’s been putting on since he got back.
“No--no, you’re fine. I’m just keeping myself busy, is all.” He’d gotten good at that, as he’d come to find. Sometimes it was to his frustration, but filling time wasn’t always such a bad thing. “And I do owe you a conversation, I think! Although I’m pretty sure it’s not so much one as it is...well, a lot more than that. Letters aren’t quite the same as speaking face-to-face, and we’ve swapped more than enough of those since we last spoke.” The stack in front of him could certainly attest to that--the lion’s share of the correspondence was from Xin himself, although Garen couldn’t remember if he’d spotted a few half-finished notes he’d never quite managed to send. There were likely a few in there--he’d have to pull them out and do...something with them later.
Another half-sip of his coffee, and he finally made his peace with the fact that the drink was long since too cold to be enjoyable. He grimaced down at the mug before pushing it a little further to the side, shuffling his largely unfinished reorganization efforts over to cozy up with the exiled cup.
“On the plus side, I think most of the ceremonies in my name are over, so I don’t believe I’ll be shuffled away to get something else pinned to me. We’ve got some time to chat and catch up, if you’d like?” His expression changes, subtly--there’s something hopeful in his eyes, and he cants his head just so to the side in a way that almost echoes his behavior from years passed. “--unless you’re busy, that is. If you are, ah...we can try again later.”
There had been time enough now to decompress--to begin to try and settle back into the pace of things, now that he’d gotten through all the pomp and fanfare of a soldier’s homecoming. Demacia felt like a world apart to him, a fact that had become all the more prevalent the more time he spent attempting to ease the transition to peace. Was this how it was for everyone? He couldn’t be alone in this, but Garen wasn’t about to open up that can of worms. He’d calm down on his own time, and get through it as best as he could. This was no warzone, though--he could deal with this. He’s handled worse.
The barracks were warm and quiet, and Garen had settled into the common room for the time being; it was more or less empty, save for a few lingering soldiers. Swapping his usual uniform for his fatigues had been a welcome change, although his officer’s scarf hadn’t moved--civilian clothes were out of the question just yet, and a few constants weren’t a bad idea anyway.
He’d taken the opportunity to try and unwind a little, idly going through his parcel of letters in an effort to organize it at least somewhat. It had gotten somewhat mixed up when he’d packed his belongings, a good handful slipping out of order--the leather case they’d been contained in lay open on the table before him, about half of the stack of papers inside neatly arranged in between it and a mug of slightly lukewarm coffee. A few had already caught his attention, and Garen had managed to get fairly distracted by reading them instead of actually doing the reorganizing he’d set out to do. The one currently in his hand was from the early days of his first deployment, well-pressed and a little fragile after so long compressed; it was clear that it hadn’t been opened in a long time, but it was still in good shape.
He knew there was plenty of other things he could--should be doing, but indulging himself in a little relaxation didn’t seem like a bad idea right now. Where was the harm in that?
Garen silently took a sip of his coffee, lightly shuffling the letter back into the stack; he’d likely have to go over the pile he’d sorted again, but for now, it was fine how it was. Anything more structured than this was task for another day, and one he’d leave until then. He was careful not to make too much noise as he set the mug back down, despite the fact that he’s already far from the loudest person in the room--the clamor of conversation filled the air from other corners, doing a fine job of muffling his contribution to the noise.
Garen was all settled in for a quiet night at this point, even if he’d have to work a little more to call himself truly relaxed--he’d just have to make his own calm here and see where it led.
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There’s a particular kind of loneliness that settles into the heart after a while, and it aches, it aches-- that’s how it calls out to the world, a quiet howl that resonates in your ribs and trickles down your spine like ice. It’s something he’s grown used to, now tucked away in a box under lock and key on the chance that it may someday be forgotten. Garen’s made his peace with that, but sometimes, all the restraints slip just enough.
They’ve sat in silence for a few minutes now, looking out over the edge of the balcony at Demacia below. He’s braced his elbows against the railing, and Lux stands a few feet behind him to his left--his guard is down and his back is turned, and the number of people he allows to stay out of his sight is small. (Not that it would’ve mattered much in her case; if, for whatever reason, she’d have had to kill him, Garen knows full well that her magic would be more than enough to match him. He’s not even armed, the usual shortsword on his belt left elsewhere for the time being.)The skyline cuts a silhouette’s edge against the sunlight, the bustle below only serving as a reminder that he should be working right now. Instead, he’s here, taking deep breaths to try and slow his heart while he does his best to focus on something else. Lux had the misfortune of stumbling in on something Garen would’ve much preferred to leave a secret--it was only a small panic attack, yes, but still a moment of what he’d willingly call weakness no matter its true name. He’d gotten through most of it by now, although the effects hadn’t quite left him yet--
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
Her voice snaps him back to the moment, and he almost startles--but she’s been there all along, as his thoughts remind him. She hasn’t left, hasn’t tried to crowd him--she’s probably worked through this sort of thing a few times herself, he’d wager. They’ve had their distance and their problems, but Lux was a constant in spite of all that, a guiding star that he’s followed more than a few times. Garen breathes out in a slow sigh, straightening up and turning to face her. She’s wearing a tiny smile, one meant to be reassuring; he’s pretty sure he looks tired as hell by comparison, worn and frayed like the battered soldier he was. (He should ask Lux how she manages to keep her composure so effortlessly. He’s mastered the art in public, but in private--not so much.)
She raises her arms, giving him a slight nod when he hesitates. The hug is awkward at first, a little stilted and uneven--but he relaxes after a moment, and Lux squeezes him tighter in response. “See, I’m the one doing it so you don’t wind up cracking my spine.” Her voice is muffled, and Garen pulls back just enough to where her face isn’t quite as mashed into his shoulder. Lux gives a quiet chuckle, and he flashes her a genuine smile; after a pause, he reaches up to ruffle her hair, even laughing when she protests. Although she tries, she can’t manage to do the same to him--he’s too far up to reach, and the fact that she’s pretty well constricted at the moment isn’t helping.“You’re not even playing fair-- Come on!”
He rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning forward just enough to where Lux can get him back for it. She’s practically giving him a noogie at this point, and it’s clear that she isn’t showing him any mercy; he’d been the one to give her the window, so he couldn’t exactly complain. (This had been expected, anyway. It could’ve been worse.)
They’ve eased apart by now, and Lux glances up at him. “...doing any better?” she asks after a long pause, cocking an eyebrow. Garen hesitates to answer, and she doesn’t try to rush him. He’s thankful for that as he sifts through his thoughts, wordlessly checking and rechecking all manner of things bouncing around in his head.“Yeah. Yeah, I’m-- I’m alright.” Tired, but--’alright’ was good enough, he reasoned. Better than he was earlier, that was for certain.“Good.” Another block of silence, although this one’s far more relaxed than before. She joins him at the railing, leaning against Garen rather than anything else--he’s more than sturdy enough to support her weight, and he hardly even notices.
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
2087
