He's sitting on the floor of the great library, surrounded by books so much older than he is. Open in his lap now is one with pictures, or diagrams—old runes, perhaps, all written in black and illuminated in silver. Aphelios has his sleeves rolled up to reveal similar markings along his skin, and he seems to be comparing them right up to when Vladimir steps closer and grabs his (almost guilty for being so absorbed) attention.
What a strange thing, to witness the death of faith— Vladimir has never quite gotten used to it. Targon has always been far out of sight, and out of mind, but the Lunari’s destruction left behind holes that Vladimir could feel even in Noxus. His library’s become something of a graveyard, its ancient tomes bearing the names of the slain faith, and he’s been careful to keep them safe from prying eyes— even if most people could not even identify the language that they read upon the withered pages.
But the Lunari live. The young man who sits on the library floor seems to him like a living artifact, and Vladimir cannot help but study him: the paleness of his skin, the rich color of his tattoos, the large ornamental robes that spark long buried memories in Vladimir’s mind. A page’s information upon the skin of Aphelios’ arm.
And yet, despite the weight of history, the Lunari is just a human. He wears the ancient order all over his body— and yet he himself cannot be much older than Vladimir’s own students. Young and vibrant blood rushes through Aphelios’ veins. It is a quiet and steady heartbeat.
Vladimir adjusts his cloak behind him and sits on his knees, next to Aphelios, peering over at the book, then at his tattoos. He searches the confines of his memory, looking for the words that match.
It sounds slow and sleepy in his mind, as he slowly forms the words to the ancient Targonian language. Seldom used, it unravels from his lips like a dusty carpet.
“Am I speaking your language?” Vladimir asks, slow and uncertain. “Do you understand me?”
