#+ the might of demacia; garen crownguard.

[dirgc]

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[miighted]

'i'm so sorry for being gone so long, for leaving everything to you.' he'd almost not come back, it would have been so much easier to stay shying away from all the pain and regret. but, for all it hurt to return, he could never miss such a day, he could never shun the one he loved so dearly. his arms wrapped around him so tenderly, desperately, almost afraid he would slip away like all else. 'happy birthday, my knight. i've missed you more than you know... let this year be better, for us all.'

                At the bottom of the sea lay Garen Crownguard and his soul, his heart the anchor keeping him buried in the depths of his own thoughts. Everything in him ached from his shoulders down to his bones, to his lungs, to his soul, the weight of death sitting heavy on his back. The cold eyes of the High Marshal had been no comfort when he returned home with only a third of the soldiers he’d left for Nockmirch with, all of them weary and tired, silent as they marched back into the capital. The number of shields he carried to the homes of different families all made him feel as heavy as stone, each step of his boots feeling harder and harder to lift, each time he pulled himself up on his horse to ride to another door became a greater and greater effort to heave his aching soul up. 

                The night they had returned, after standing in the wake of his aunt’s cold words and reprimands that felt like lashes to his already beaten back, Garen had dragged his heart with him to his quarters. He held his chin high and kept his jaw locked for his soldier’s sake, for their pride, for their resolve. He was to be their leader and pillar, to be the one who rallied their spirits to remain strong and bold. As soon as he shut the door behind him though, the armor of the paragon fell away to just the bare and beaten man with the guilt of too many lives carved into his back. 

                He wrote all of their names down, every one, lingering on each stroke of ink. Half way through the list, his fingers began to tremble, and by the end of it, his shoulders were shaking while he furiously bit his lip to keep from weeping over the still wet ink. When he was done, he collapsed in on himself, slumping forward into his folded arms and sobbing into them. The thin cotton of his shirt was clamped between his teeth in an effort to muffled his sounds, but the Protector was still his witness and She could see just how his grief and guilt raked through him body and soul. 

                He ached, he ached, he ached. 

                There was no joy to be had when his birthday came, no light to see breaking through the dark gray clouds of the sky. Luxanna was no longer in the capital to pull him away from his work or to take his arm during the Snowdown festivities and remind him that the day was special. Without her, there became ever little reason to find any desire in his heart to celebrate. What was there to celebrate? Garen could not think of any reason to seek out a senseless joy when the weight of all his fallen soldiers was enough to bury him with. Each night since the Vanguard’s return from Nockmirch, Garen read over the list of names he had written, and each one was another stone to build the castle of his grief with. There were new names among their ranks now, new names and faces for him to commit to memory and no matter his grief, he would stand tall when he met and welcomed them, but here in his own room he would allow himself this one respite to nurture his wounds. 

                Garen spent the day in solitude, locked in the confines of his own quarters, soaking in the well of guilt and grief he struggled with. If he had been stronger, quicker, if he had done just a little bit more, perhaps some of those precious lives would not have been lost. He had not expected nor did he want to address the knock that came against the heavy wood door of his quarters as he stewed in these thoughts. His body ached as he rose from his desk nonetheless, his limbs felt as if they were carved from stone as he tried to move them, but tiredly he rose and drug a hand down his face to try and rub color back into his skin. Despite how he tried to hold himself to the image he maintained as Sword-Captain and as the might, Garen could not hide the dark shadows under his eyes. 

                When he opened the door, the face that greeted Garen almost brought him to tears all over again for new and similar reasons. Emotion swelled in Garen’s throat, a broken cry of both relief and a desperate need to seek comfort in the one person he felt he could ripping him apart from the inside. Like a wave crashing against the face of cliffs, Garen fell into the arms of his prince, his charge, his love. His arms melded to Jarvan’s body, fingers curling desperately into the cotton of his shirt as he all but melted into his form, head bowed and face pressed against his shoulder. In a rush, exhaustion seeped into his bones, making his entire feel heavy and tired, only held up by the arms of his prince. 

                “Jarvan...” his voice broke as the name fell from his lips, muffled by Garen having his face buried in the crook of his lover’s neck. 

                He raised his head finally as Jarvan spoke, desperately trying to memorized the features he already knew by heart anyway, to feel the warmth of his body against his own, to ingrain the sound of his voice as vividly as he could into his memory. It was a straining attempt all in an effort to allow the visage of his prince take precedence before the memories of bodies strewn across a stone bridge within his own thoughts, to allow at lease a moment of reprieve. All he wanted was to bask in the golden light of his lover, the blue of his eyes, the dark tresses of hair that draped so elegantly around his shoulders. Something kinder, something warmer, something and someone that was the anchor that pulled him back to earth once more.

                “I missed you too, my prince,” he murmured as one of his hands unfurled from the grasp he held on Jarvan’s clothing to press it against the curve of his cheek. Oh, he wished for the kind words his prince spoke to be true, how deeply he wanted for a gentler future to grace them, but he knew in the back of his mind that they had simply felt the thunder before a storm. Garen did not want to linger on such thoughts despite knowing that the precipice of change was coming to their country, and it was not coming gently. 

                Instead, Garen fell into the pool that was basking in the presence of the man he loved. His other hand rose to join the first, holding the strong curves of Jarvan’s face in the palms of his hands all while he tried to paint his memories with the pale blue of those eyes he loved so. The rough callouses of his thumbs brushed against the stubble on the prince’s cheeks, now longer than he often kept it after he had been gone from the capital for so long. The rough feeling of hair against his hands was comforting, tactile enough for him to focus on more than the list of names he had been pouring over within confines of his quarters for weeks now. Garen liked it, liked the feeling and look of the dark shadow against his sharp jawline. Aimlessly, he pressed forward, cheek and nose laid against the rough skin of his lover’s face before making the half inch turn to press his lips against the ones he knew better than his own. 

                He kissed Jarvan fervently, deeply, with all the anguish of a man who had been tormented by his own guilt in solitude for days on end. It was only here, between these four walls, and in the arms of the man he loved, did he make that confession known and felt. 

                “Will you stay with me?” he asks ( pleads, begs, hopes ), words barely spoken as little more than a breath leaving his lungs against the other man’s lips. “Please,” shortly follows, heartache weighting down heavily upon his voice. 

                “I need you with me, Jarvan, please...” the voice of the Might of Demacia can hardly be found in his words, rather, there is little more than the request of an aching man, once more bowing his head and trying to take refuge in the curve of Jarvan’s shoulder.