#azir's shitty parents

[talesofmetalandmagic]

CW for this one: it’s about a child character who almost drowns and there are mentions of ca

It’s a beautiful summer afternoon in Shurima.

His Radiant Perfection Saif the Great, his wife Safiya, their adorable gaggle of princes and princesses, their caretakers Nasus and Renekton and the requisite army of dignitaries, guards, handmaidens and worse are relaxing by a natural lake. Swimming, splashing, re-enacting naval battles and building entire cities in the damp sand.

The water is thick and it goes very deep – not a hassle for the crocodilian Renekton, who can swim all the way down to the bottom as if he was born in there and brings rocks to each of the children.

He basks in the admiration of the small ones; most notably the youngest and least loved, Azir, whose eyes shine as if he’s seen the coolest thing alive.

Minutes pass, and Saif wakes up from his afternoon slumber. He looks around at the children. One, two, three… seven.

Seven.

“Where did Azir go this time?” he asks, almost angrily. That child has a habit of putting himself in bad situations.

And it’s at this point that Nasus casually looks down into the water, almost as if guided by an instinct unknown, and cold sweat coats his fur.

The scream that follows is hoarse and desperate.

“RENEKTON! DIVE!”

“Oh sh-“ the Crocodile’s vulgar response drowns with him as he launches himself into the water, down and further down, where no human could ever go without proper training – and where, barely visible in the long shade, something small and brown floats.

When Renekton swims to the surface, Azir lays in his arms as stiff as a mace. His arms are spread to the side, his body is limp, his dreadlocks are scattered about and his face doesn’t respond to the gentle kiss of air.

Nasus’ heart clenches. No, no no no no… please no.

“What happened to my son?” His Most Glorious Resplendence asks.

“He dove deep, my lord,” one of the guards says. “I’m afraid… he…”

“No. Give him to me.”

Nasus pretty much snatches the child from Renekton’s arms and lays him onto the sand. Then he presses his small chest with force at a regular pattern.

“Come on, Azir. Come on!”

The children form a gaggle around Nasus, hugging each other as they witness what could possibly be the end of their youngest. A couple of them are crying.

“Is he dead?” “Please, Azir, wake up” “Mother, I’m scared”

Her Majesty holds her husband’s firm hand, her eyes fixated on the limp child in whose mouth Nasus is pumping fresh air from his own. Everybody’s looking at them. What kind of Emperor…

“Come on, Azir. Wake up!” Nasus presses his hands so strong he feels a bone creak. It can happen in this kind of procedure. What matters is…

“He’s not dead… is he?”

…that Azir comes to…

“Should we call Xolaani?”

…and meets another day.

“I should have been faster! Dammit! DAMMIT!”

Even Renekton’s own screams of guilt fall on the Jackal’s deaf ears. He presses and pumps, pumps and presses, praying the Sun Disc and all the Masked Ones not to take his favourite child, not him, not one so young and helpless.

And at last a stream of water falls out of Azir’s mouth and his eyes blurt open.

“Hey… hey!” Nasus’ hands barely shake of excitation. “It’s alright, child. I have you. Spit it out.”

He turns Azir to the side and holds him tight as the water keeps streaming down the sand, his little body twitches and clenches, and tears coat his cheeks alongside the water that clogged him.

Among the siblings’ hugs and Renekton’s wail of relief, all Azir sees is Nasus’ smile.

“I feel… funny.”

“It’s alright. You’re safe. I got you.”

Nasus wipes his own tears and, once he’s sure Azir has spit out all the water, he wraps him in a towel and cuddles him. The moment those small arms cling to his neck is the moment he realizes… yes. He saved him.

He sits onto the ground and holds the child close as Saif, holding tight onto the khopesh at his belt to steady his hand, his long thick braid swinging behind him, walks to the son he almost lost.

"Have you gotten it out of your system, Azir?"

"Y-Yes, father" the child blurts out.

"Eyes up. Back steady. You put yourself in grave risk. What pushed you to pursue such a dangerous stunt, pray tell?"

Azir coughs a bit, clinging tighter to Nasus' chest. The Curator massages his back to steady him and soothe him. He's so agitated.

"I merely wanted to imitate Renekton."

Saif takes a deep breath. "Do you fancy yourself an Ascended?"

"Maybe..." he whispers, but one gaze from Saif is enough to freeze him.

"You didn't just put royal blood in grave danger, frightening your mother and siblings and ridiculing our name among all those onlookers, then. You disrespected the very Ascended as well"

Azir covers his face with his small arms – Nasus pulls him tighter as a response. Renekton's thick fingers wrap around the tip of his loincloth.

"Your Radiance, he meant no harm. He's a child."

"And are you a parent, Nasus? I thought so. Don't speak back."

More tears dampen Azir's baby face, but his father turns back. It's done.

"Please, lord Nasus. Accompany this scapegrace back to the palace. His retreat is over"

Azir bows his head and snivels.

"My prince? Could some grapes cheer you up?"

"Nh. Thnk."

Azir sits in the back of the cart, still wrapped in the same blanket he was put in after he recuperated. It's not the first time this happened, nor will it be the last. He's been known for doing... things his siblings don't do.

One year ago he climbed atop the temple roof to see the doves' nests. He was unable to get down and spend the day up there until he passed out for heatstroke. Had Lady Xolaani not been flying nearby, he'd have been lost.

Two years ago a ring he was fidgeting with slipped into the sewers and he dove into them to get it back. Not only did he lose it – which resulted in a a nasty caning from his father, for the ring belonged to his sister who died in battle at only seventeen – but it took five vigorous baths to remove the stench.

Three years ago he went to the stables to pet Father's horses. He was kicked so hard he needed ten stitches – and since Azir is terrified of needles they had to put him to sleep before the healers could get to work, hardly a display of imperial courage.

And now this.

"Why am I so stupid, Nasus?"

Nasus holds the reins with one hand and lends Azir the other, open and welcoming. "You're not stupid, child."

"But my siblings don't act like this. It's all me, and..." he sighs, curling up tighter into the blanket. "I don't want to make Mother and Father upset. They were worried about me. I thought being like Renekton would make them like me more."

Nasus stops the cart.

"Oh, baby bird..."

He slips in the back and holds the child to his chest, rocking him as if he was smaller. He pets his still damp locs, wraps him tighter into the blanket and shushes him, as his pained whining subsides.

"You don't need to imitate Renekton for us to like you. We already like you, and the thought of losing you would have torn us apart. There's nothing wrong with you. Not at all."

Azir sniffles and hugs Nasus' neck. He always knows what to say.

"You don't have to be Renekton, or me, or your father. Just be Azir. We love Azir anyway."

"I'm sorry you're missing out on the retreat", the child whispers, cuddling up to his teacher's neck.

"I don't mind, honey. It's more of a Renekton thing anyway. I'll be myself instead: back home there's a nice book waiting for me. Maybe you'd like it too?"

And seeing the child's face light up seems to melt the Curator's heart as well.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

A little retcon

I try my best to work with the questionable and centrist aspects of Azir and Xerath’s story to write something that’s both compelling in the whole "let's take a privileged jerk, hurt him and teach him a lesson" thing, and not full of terrible messages about how to resist oppression, but there’s one canonical thing I cannot let slide: Xerath’s naming.

We’re told Xerath’s name, meaning “the one who shares” in ancient Shuriman, is given by Azir as a secret moniker, while the man himself didn’t have a name in account of him being a slave.

But why?

Did he just… not have a name? Was he born without it? Didn’t his parents call him somehow?

And even if they didn’t name him – even for reasons that aren’t as squeaky as “Shuriman slaves don’t have names” – why does AZIR choose his name?

IT’S HIS GODDAMN NAME!

What is he, a pet? Wait no, he’s actually worse than that.

Azir isn’t a bright bulb, we get it, but shouldn’t Xerath himself consider a choice in what his name is? Or at least someone on Xerath’s own side?

So I’ll do something I’ve never done before in the Azir’s New Groove verse and perform a willing, focused retcon of canon informations. And this is how it goes.

~ ~ ~

“What constellation is this, father?”

“That’s the Protector, sweet.”

Hakim of Saikal was always a lover of astronomy, and even as his lungs fall under him and his sight dampens, he clings to this love like a safety raft.

It’s the only pure thing left, aside from his child and his wife Massika, currently distracted at removing unwanted entities from the dinner rice.

“Shouldn’t they protect us, then? We’re in pain.”

“Stars don’t do our bidding. They can, however, inspire us.”

Hakim cuddles his son to his chest. He’s strong, but life has crushed greater spirits. There’s an emptiness in his eyes no one deserves.

“Your name means ‘the one who shares’. It’s filled with meaning, just like you. That's why you must learn, build a position, and find protection in a safer spot than here."

The idea of leaving his son behind shakes Hakim to his core, but their life has taken such a toll on him and Massika that they, sage people as they are, know hard choices must be made. And Xerath – that's their child's name – must face these choices as sweetly as it can be done.

"There's a little protector in you too", Massika chimes in, placing the bowl of rice between the three and kissing each one's face. There's a strange heat coming from Hakim's skin. Please, hold on. Please.

"Remember what we taught you in history, Xerath. This empire of tyrants will eat itself up, and you will be there to share the seeds."

"I hope you too, mother", Xerath says.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

So I’m making plans to make studies of Azir’s ded siblings and family – if I can find a fantasy meiker that knows how to black people.

Since there’s seven siblings and they’re not all the same gender like Qiyana’s family I can play around a bit more with the archetypes and looks.

Whatever the case, Azir’s earliest hazy memories involve a lot of people staring at him from above, as he makes baby noises and crawls about. He has hazy reminiscences of being held and swaddled and cuddled and having his cheeks pinched, and generally being a very prominent object of attention and affection.

He had an eldest brother he looked up to who lifted him on his shoulders, an eldest sister who always confided to him when he was small, and he played a lot with the younger ones.

He also remembers the long table where they used to dine suddenly going empty and hollow when his siblings were taken.

For a while his mother refused to sit at that table, preferring to eat her meals in her chambers, leaving Azir alone with his father. And he wouldn’t even talk to him.

Unless to say “eat quieter, Azir” or “don’t scrape your chair, Azir”, or “stop staring into nothingness, Azir”.

“I miss them so much, father”, he’d say one night. “I… I wish…”

“Don’t. Don’t even start.” His father stood from his chair, pouring the wine glass onto the floor. It was cleaned immediately of course. “It’s done, Azir. We cannot bring them back. Grief is the death of reason, and we must rule above all else. We must… we must proceed. Onward. Always.”

Azir covered his face, out of habit. Yet his father walked right past him and vanished out of the room. He’d not see him for the following days.

Azir was found by Xerath curled up under the tablecloth, staining the carpet with thick glassy tears. His last memory of that evening is his first and only friend kissing his forehead as he put him to bed.

You wouldn’t leave me, would you Xerath?

[talesofmetalandmagic]

I’ve been picturing Azir paraphrasing this iconic speech to the ghosts of his shit-ass parents the moment before they finally shuffle off for good and never pester him again.

“You may have created me, but you were never my parents.

Parents are kind. Parents protect you. Parents raise you.

I was protected by Xerath, whom you and all your sycophants taught me to dismiss and disvalue, and by Sivir, Taliyah, Samira, Akshan and K’Sante, whom you’d not even look upon if you were to cross their paths.

I was raised by Nasus, my true father, and his brother Renekton, whom I will rehabilitate even if you see him as of no worth.

They are my family.

This is my home. And you are not welcome here.

Arise.”

It should be noted that whenever I write of Azir having a confrontation with someone it always leaves him shaken and in need of comfort, straight-up in tears or simply upset.

Not this time.

During this confrontation Azir stands firm and fierce, staring at his ghosts in the face before they vanish for good. Almost as if he was the parent scolding his rowdy children. When he leaves, it’s in triumph.

Also the fact that his parents were shit isn’t meant to justify what he did and the system he was complicit in, but give context to how he became this way. Azir knows he’s the product of a crooked system and an abusive family, which led him to make the crucial mistakes that doomed Shurima and took all his dear ones.

Now that they’re no more he can abdicate in peace.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

When Azir and Nasus take their week off and go to the hot springs for a nice vacay, they start out by sleeping side by side, in two parallel yet separate cots.

At the second evening they hold hands.

From the third onward they cuddle up under the same blanket, Azir acting like a warm bird heat bag, shushing and soothing each other through their terrors.

One night Nasus has a terrible breakdown, where he weeps himself to sleep in Azir’s clueless arms. Azir imitates his methods of comfort and hugs him, lets him vent – poor, poor broken Ren – reminds him that he’s there, he’s not going anywhere, and covers him once he’s done.

How many have you had without anyone to embrace you?

Nasus wakes up to a sweet breakfast tea, which Azir has made by himself almost flawlessly. They sip it under the shade, nestling in each other’s warmth. Nasus pretends everything is fine and quips about old doctrines, but Azir cannot forget.

As Nasus washes his face and trims his fur for the day, the ex emperor thinks about that time he himself had a breakdown, and how Nasus helped him so gently.

He makes me feel safe too, he said.

When he, as a child, snuck into their parents’ bed when a night terror came, they’d send him right back. An Emperor must be brave.

But I only feel brave when you are there. You’re the best parent I’ll ever have… and I’ll take care of Ren for you.

Later that day Nasus falls asleep inside a hot tub. He lays there, head slumped against his back, a damp towel on the eyes, lost in a bliss he’d forgotten about.

Azir picks him up and hauls into the warmth before things get complicated. He covers him. Since there’s nothing to do, he might as well make dinner.

You’re the Emperor, his father hisses in his ear. And a God Ascended. Kitchen labor is beneath you.

Oh, shut up. I just want my friend to be happy.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

“Ruin of our dynasty, stain on our country. May you rot underground until all the lands are done for, and never see the light of day again. Shame on you, Azir, you undeserving wretch – we rebuke you.”

My most ambitious piece of study to date – Azir’s mother and father, yet unnamed.

For His Imperial Majesty I had the very specific idea of “shaved head + tight braid” to indicate a very warlike, stern emperor and contrast Azir’s lush, soft style. Her Grace is either in black because she’s mourning or (if it turns out black is not the color of mourning in Egyptian culture) just to have the day/night duality with her husband and give her a unique aesthetic.

Combining her shapes with his colours you get Azir’s style.

This Picrew allowed me to make them look even older – which would be apt since I keep referring to them as boomers, and nowadays boomers are in their 70s – but I only found out once they were finished, so we’ll settle for this. She’d have to be of childbearing age anyway.

I’ll name them… at some point.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

Better days will come, child. You’re smart. You’re a fast learner. You’re strong. There’s nothing you cannot do. Your life will not end like your father’s.

Mother. I can’t lose you too.

We will meet again. In a better place. A home for us all. Your mother loves you. Don’t you ever forget it. Now come here. Remember me with a kiss.

She was once a revered, authoritative woman. But that was back then. Before their family lost everything they’ve ever had – including their names.

And the one known as Xerath would never forget her. Or her gentle husband, who held them both as they wept through their dreadful days. Sometimes he’d lose himself in reminiscence and feel the regret and pain burn like his own electricity.

In his youth he requested Azir to find his mother at least, give her a home – even if by purchasing her – and make so that she spends her old age by her son’s side, better fed. But how do you find a woman with no name?

“I’m sorry, my friend. You have me, now. You’ll never be alone.”

Ages pass.

The son of these unfortunate scholars, who lost their freedom to a cruel empire, has taken the heir of said empire as prisoner and is forcing him to build a temple at his image.

When they make it to the altar, Azir gently asks what he wants on it. Xerath, as a response, grabs him by the face and shocks him deeply into his brain.

“M-MY LORD! LET ME GO!”

“Do you see them, Azir?”

Faces peer through the mist. A sagely looking old man, cut by the sand and burnt by the sun, saddened and benumbed. A stern, despairing woman with tears in her eyes. They remind Azir of someone he loved.

“These were my parents. My father, who died in the indifference of your people. My mother, who had to leave me so I’d not die like him.”

Azir is shedding tears of distress, but Xerath does not let go. “They were a million times your likeness, and more deserving of your power. If they were still here, they’d cherish my choice to hurt you.”

“It hurts… my lord, stop… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Azir always says he’s sorry when he’s scared. Xerath burns him even harder, and through the film of tears those faces become as crisp as new.

“I don’t recall my true name, but I remember theirs. Hakim and Massika. Don’t forget. Don’t you ever forget them, I… I…”

It sounds as if he too is in tears. An ominous creaking sound comes from his chains. Azir screams in pain, barely able to struggle in that hold.

I didn’t know. I couldn’t have helped. We just… we just…

“Burn these faces into your memory, Azir. May they torment you until you’ve forgotten who you are. And now… paint them. This is their altar. They will become the gods of my empire.”

Xerath slips off the room, heaving, trembling. He never stopped missing them for even a day.

Azir curls up in a ball, sobbing and whining in pain. He feels as if his head had been torn off his neck, and put through a wringer.

Has Xerath been through so much?

Yes. He was.

[talesofmetalandmagic]

Ceremonial couture

-Father?-

-Not now, Azir.-

His Imperial Majesty looks as radiant as a dawning star. He’s halfway through the long preparation of his ceremonial dress, which takes a staff of five people and two hours top to be put on.

Azir, four years of age, doesn’t care.

-Father, I have a question.-

-Not now.-

The child hovers around his father’s body, eyes wide in curiosity, a plush in the shape of a mountain cat dangling from his hand. His father has always been a handsome man, and now that he’s all wrapped in gold and white he looks even prettier.

-Where are you going, father? Is there a party?-

-Azir, I told you twice already…-

But that was before the death of his siblings shattered what shred of care Azir’s noble father had for his youngest. So he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath in his soft clothes, and turns to his son.

-I’m going to a jubilee.-

Jubilee. It sounds like a fun name.

-Is it like a party?-

His Majesty sighs once. -It’s not a party, and it’s not fun. It’s important. It’s a celebration for the thirty years of my rule.-

He stepped up very young, his parents lost in an unfortunate expedition. Azir’s eyes widen. Thirty years feel like an eternity to a child.

-It’s like a birthday party to your kingdom, isn’t it?-

-Ugh. Not everything is a party, Azir.-

-But it should be. We can have anything.

-Azir, can’t you just…-

Behave. Shut up. Grow up all of a sudden. Stop thinking you deserve anything you didn’t gain.

-Can’t you just… leave? Father is getting ready.-

Azir looks down for a moment, sullen and confused. But if Father speaks, he must mean it.

-Alright, father.- He blows him a childlike kiss. -Have fun at your party.-

-Azir, it’s not a…-

But the child has already skipped off, and the Emperor has greater priorities.

He’s a kid. Not much is requested on him. It’s not like he’ll ever inherit anything.

-Father?-

His Imperial Majesty looks as radiant as a dawning star. He’s halfway through the long preparation of his ceremonial dress, which takes a staff of five people and two hours top to be put on.

Azir pulls one hand out of the cocoon of gold, gems, silks and laces that surrounds him and pets his daughter’s head.

-Yes, Imani?-

[talesofmetalandmagic]

When Her Imperial Grace gave birth to Her first child, it was a great celebration. His Majesty stood by her side all throughout the labour, and the child was welcomed with grand embraces.

They were young and romantic, back then.

At child number eight, things had changed. Now His Majesty was old and cynical, Her Majesty embittered at the process of birth, and even the perspective of a new child wasn’t as swell as it once was.

Worse, this particular child came from a sadly labored night where she came close to her demise. And we’ll give this to her: she was not willing to go. She was not going to put herself at stake for a princeling they didn’t even need.

So, the first person to welcome the new child was not his father or his mother. They held each other for long, thanking the Gods of Death for having spared her.

Meanwhile, the baby waited for a bath, forgotten, lost in tears and confused despair – until strange hands of fur picked him up and washed his little head and body.

“Welcome, little one”, the owner of those hands would say, wrapping the child in a sheet and giving him his very first kiss. “It’s better now, isn’t it? Your name is Azir. It means ‘strength’. I’m sure you’ll fit it just right.”

“I wish they’d called me strength. It would fit me, wouldn’t it.”

“I’ll refrain myself from replying for the sake of this child, Renekton. Look at him… he’s so sweet.”

“Aw, look at these soft little cheeks! I just can’t with little kids. I always feel like an uncle.”

“Heh… so do I.”

~ ~ ~

“Do you need anything else, my lord?”

Azir is laying in a bath again, this time a treatment of recuperation after his long captivity. His blistered, infected talons lay upon a cushion on a stool, a soothing lotion has been smeared upon his face, and a jar full of removes parasites sits behind him, in a spot where he cannot see it.

There’s still much to do. He has thick bumblefoot in both talons, his nails and beak need a good trim, his eyes need disinfecting – all that time inside a leather hood didn’t do them good – they haven’t finished checking for parasites and he’s still weak, shaking and lethargic. Nasus will brew him a herbal mix to replenish his strength.

“I don’t know. I just… I can’t believe I’m here.”

“I know, sweet. But you are. You’re safe and sound, and I’ll bring you back right up.”

Azir plays about with the water, following the pattern of the soap and oils. I’m the emperor. I’m fine. I’ll feel better once I…

Suddenly he’s choked up.

“I’ll never be the same again.”

“Don’t think about it, dearest. What matters if you being safe, and having a good recovery.”

Azir shrugs. He blows a bubble on his hand and watches it vanish.

“He took everything. He knows me, he knows how to frighten me. He’s won.”

“Azir, dearest.”

Nasus sits by his side, massaging his neck with an oiled cloth.

“Do I not know you too?”

Azir winces at the touch. He remembers the last contact he’d had on his neck. Leather, thick and black. Nasus taps his skin lightly, patch by patch.

“I held you when you were born. I knew you first. I knew you before Xerath has a sense of self. You’re the closest thing to a son I ever had. The Emperor is here. I see it.”

But are you the Emperor, Azir?

No, my lord. I’m not.

“I appreciate what you’re doing. Truly. But I don’t see myself feeling better anytime soon.”

“I know it looks bleak, but it doesn’t have to be. Strength is your name. Azir.”

Nasus removes the cloth from his neck and strokes his forehead, as plucked as the rest.

“You’ll rise anew, like a small sun. I know you. I’ll care for you. The Emperor is still here… and he’ll return.”