The grass here grows up to her ankles and butterflies hover over the bushes that populate the meadow. The melody of birdsong carries in the air, a peaceful refrain that puts Irelia at ease. She can’t feel it, but she knows magic must thrive in this field, an unblemished scenery on a canvas of red.
Then, not five feet from her, the grass wilts and a desolate streak of brown covers the earth. It cries out for relief, choked by the thorns that grow along the warpath. The corruption seems to drip from Varus’ body, scorching the ground where he walks. Oblivion sears on the wind, a low hiss that scrapes through the sky.
She can see where the bow connected to his arm, where man and monster began to meld in a macabre metamorphosis. But Irelia keeps her gaze on him, her hands clasped and her blades sheathed. She does not have to fear what he is becoming.
“I visited your village once, before the war.” She remembers a temple, high on a hill apart from the houses. That is where the warden keeps vigil, her father had said. “The elders said that your duty was the highest calling. To protect, not fight. That is what our greatest soldiers become. Protectors of our land.”
Irelia makes a small bow, her gaze dropping for a second. “The vengeance that spurs you on now - it’s not for me to judge. But I know that it stemmed from a desire to protect, a desire to keep those you love safe.”
She fingers the necklace sitting on her collarbone, the keepsake her brother had given her before the war.
“If you must keep walking on this path, at least remember that. I am sure you will.”
Though it is not the response he expected, surprise barely registers on his face. Empty eyes shift in their sockets, as if it causes him too much strain now to look on her face. Instead, he glances at the mess he has left in his wake, and the corners of his lips twist downwards, only for a moment.
This place is rich with magic, and the corruption laps it up. Varus wants to tell it to stop, but knows it will not listen. It is a miracle that the birds still sing here, kept secure, perhaps, by the energy he can feel against his skin. When he turns his face to search for them, he looks for a moment like the man she speaks of. With his chin held high and his gaze fixed on something in the distance, he might be the paragon of honour who had defended the pit of Pallas with his life.
“It is kind of you to say so,” he responds at length, and the sharp edges of his voice tear through the illusion. Varus is no longer that man, but the one who unleashed the corruption into the world for the sake of his own vengeance. There are times like this, where he is lucid as any man—with the blight occupied, perhaps, with the magic in the meadow—when Varus wonders what he might have been had he not thrown himself into the murky waters and dedicated himself to a life of bloodshed.
These thoughts have no end.
Without thinking, Varus reaches up to clasp the necklace he still wears around his neck. Even the mention of his village causes an ache in his chest, so deep he fears he may never tear it out. He wants to say their names, to ask what she thought of it, but grief throttles him even now. It takes him a great length of time to say “Those dogs—,” and his voice splits further, splintering, before he can compose himself. “We have all sacrificed parts of ourselves in this war.”
And then Varus takes a breath. “There are times I can scarce recognise myself. I—... Thank you.”
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