#rise melvik nation RISE

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

the melting point of precious metals (Mel/Viktor, 1/20)

[Read on Ao3]

Mel steps into the Council chamber and out of the tower, all at the same time, like a magic trick.

Like stones skipping a perfect seven times across still water, her wavering toddler's steps steadied on the arches of Father's feet. Or bronze turned to silver and silver to gold with a wave of her hand and the silken words: A pleasure doing business with you. Like doubtful scowls turned to smiles, greed and trust and adoration in the palm of her hand, all dusted to ash in an instant with a bored shrug of her shoulder. Or air clenching like a fist in an instant's hot vengeance, unleashing light, and a blazing world of fire.

She's pretty damn good, isn't she.

Too good to be jumping the gun, when the fog of ruin still shrouds both her starting line and the finishing, when she can't see her opponents on either her right or the left. A sprint, a marathon, or something tricky in between - she'll know which race she's running before the day is through.

And too good to be getting a big head. Hard to hold up, and so much easier to cut off.

Still, because she damn well deserves it, Mel leans back against a notch in the gear of what remains of the Council table like a child nestling into the cradle of her mother's lap, and she sucks in a cool, bracing breath like she's drinking the simmering orange evening down in a sweet spiced slide, the sea glittering like electricity far below, birds wheeling beyond the great ragged hole torn in Piltover's world.

The falling debris almost adds a majestic touch.

It slams into the floor not two steps to her left with a sharp crack, stone and twisted iron striking stone. A piece of the shattered tower's mortar skitters into her foot and, unflinching, she kicks it away.

Enough magic, she supposes. Time for whatever remains, when it's not around.

"Oh, Councilor Medarda!" squeaks a voice, and Mel turns, brow raised, in time for the page in a vest shining with gold to scuttle past her, his bob of gold hair gleaming twice as brightly, broom and dustpan in hand. Odd - she'd reveled in the echoing vastness of the Council chamber, the drama of every footstep, and here now that it's been cracked open like an egg, innards exposed to the harsh outside air, she hadn't heard the man approaching at all. "I am so, so very sorry - we were certain it had all come down already, of what was apt to come down, I suppose - we would never compromise the safety of our beloved Council members - but to insist that you meet here, of all places, after everything that's happened -"

"It's a terrible idea, isn't it?" she says, smiling when he turns in shock to look at her. Though the terribleness is, of course, surely the entire point. "Which is how you know it was not my idea. Between you and me, that may be a bit meager for the job at hand."

She nods with her chin, and the page blinks down at his dustpan. "Oh - yes. I was told -"

"Don't trouble yourself. We're already well accustomed to being compromised. Especially to foreign objects falling from the heavens, I think."

The page, pale to begin with, goes white as a sheet. "You're quite right, Councilor. Forgive me. I - I will only be a moment."

Damn him. But instead of gritting her teeth, she favors him with a laugh. The deep one that men like to hear when there's no one else around. It's rusty from days of disuse. Best to limber it up in advance.

"You're forgiven, but I wouldn't have you scuffing your shoes on this mess. They look new. I think we'll survive a few fallen pebbles, after everything." If that falling bit of ceiling had waited only a few seconds longer, it would've cracked this page's head open like a summer melon. But optimism is all the rage these days, and Mel intends to be fashionable indeed. "It's still early, but if you see any of the Councilors below, tell them I'm eager to see their faces. To know they're with me, safe." She lowers her voice in conspiracy. "I think they'll need the nudge. Don't you agree?"

She's looking the page directly in the eyes when his face changes, and she knows she's won. His gaze drops to where her hem meets her sandal, and the victory is so sweet that she doesn't even notice him leaving.

Perhaps, proving the odds after all, she is still -

No. What could be missing, here in the afterglow of her triumph? The metal cupping her skin may have gone cold, but the sun overhead is warm on her neck. Every step snatches pain through some part of her, but what of it? Her smile had come so easily, and she had stood perfectly straight. The way she'd been born to it. As if her spine had never known the compassionless press of a hospital mattress. 

Her movements are slow, painful, and flowing with the sure stubbornness of the tide. She finds her seat. The same seat she has always taken, no matter if the Council table is a whole gear or a jagged, destroyed half of one. Alone, she faces the worst part of all. The waiting.

Or not.

She stiffens. Loud, thumping footsteps from below, winding up and up the curl of stairs to the landing like the final awaited ticking of a great clock. And then in no time at all, a chair seized by the back, and dragged squealing on two legs over to hers.

...

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