CRESCENTSWEEP & DARIAMUS
A roleplay set before Xin Zhao’s escape to Demacia and Darius’ enlisting in the Noxian military. Art by Nabii, used with permission.
“They know he’ll save them.” A guard taps the ash of his cigarette onto the floor. “That’s why they keep acting out. They’re clever little rats.”
Darius’ eyes follow the falling ash. His gaze peers downward but his posture is tall, arms held behind his back with wrist in hand and an unreadable look on his face. His fellow guard pulls him out of his thoughts with a nudge, prompting Darius to look down at him instead. “Why do you have such a serious look on your face?” The guard asks, his tobacco ridden breath exhaling in a laugh.
“This is just my face.” Darius turns his head to get away from the smell.
“Just lighten up a bit.” Darius is patted twice on his back. His body remains completely still like a wall. With a displeased look on his face, the guard drops the remains of his cigarette butt onto the floor before its crushed for good beneath his foot. “He’ll stop eventually. They always do.”
“I know that.” Darius, not wanting to be touched, removes the other man’s arm off of his shoulder. “But why do they do it all? They know why they’re here.”
The guard lets out a scoff. “Are you really questioning a bunch of low lifes? What’s it matter?” The guard waves dismissively as he turns his back on Darius with disinterest. “Don’t think on it too much. We’ve got too much other shit to do.”
Darius watches him walk away, the other man hunching over lazily with his hands stuffed in wrinkled pockets. He’s not busy, Darius thinks, he’s only walking away to get another cigarette.
The prison reeks more than usual tonight. Darius does his rounds alone not because he’s meant to, but because everyone else has decided that half-starved Ionians weren’t much of a threat. He steps over cement marked with streaks of dirty boot soles and water, except Darius is quite certain it’s not water. When the prisoners hear his heavy footsteps, he hears their weak voices. He doesn’t understand a single thing they’re saying and takes it only as sad sounding Ionian and whimpering. The truth, unbeknownst to him, is that they are all asking the same thing: Where is Xin Zhao?
If Darius knew that, he’d consider telling them that he’s at the end of three doors and four dark halls, in a room where people change from when they’re put in and when they’re taken out, and everything is much, much quieter.
Everything is also much, much worse.
At the end of that fourth hall, Darius removes a set of black keys from his pocket. The irrelevant ones look exactly the same, but one has its head carved for distinction. As always, Darius contemplates using it before he actually does.
The rest of the keys jingle softly as the door is unlocked and pushed to a creaky entrance. The room is pitch black without a single barred window or torch. When Darius finally raises his lantern, a figure on the floor squints at the light.
“You.”
The man has a name but Darius doesn’t care for it like the Ionians do. He puts the lantern down and holds it at the side of his leg as he unconsciously tilts his head higher. The act makes that extra half an inch of elevation feel better than it really is. Meanwhile, the bloodied prisoner is already on the floor; he cannot possibly go any lower. Not yet, anyway.
Darius squats down in front of Prisoner Number-Something-or-the-Other. His crisp and clean uniform of the Noxian guard creases behind his knees. Not a single part of him aches.
“Saving the dead is a pointless effort.” His voice speaks suddenly in a deep, low tone. The conversation he hopes for is not taboo, and yet the open door behind him makes him keep hushed without even realizing. “When are you going to learn your lesson?” A second passes. Darius rephrases his question and begins by leaning in.
“Why do you do it?”