[ How could she know? The things he was made to endure? The literal demon in himself that he fought, the thing that made him so dangerous to the people whom he called his family? How could she know? How much it hurt (physically, perhaps, but emotionally? Mentally? Never.), how much he cried, cursed the world, cursed fate, cursed God. Cursed everything.
How that scar, how that day, how that instant changed everything. How could she know? He would never tell her.
She didn't care about the damned scar at this point. She since stopped caring the moment she knew the true nature of why he got it in the first place. And Lux wasn't a stranger to seeing that sort of thing; a magician normally would never experience such a wound, and, if they did, live to tell the tale.
But she had seen what war did to a body. She was no stranger to it.
(Sion, the undying juggernaut of Noxus, his body reanimated even after being cut down by the first king of Demacia, only to return the favor. His body stitched back together by some dark magic, corruption and greed; and his insides practically hollowed out, replaced by a hellish magical furnace that kept the dead husk alive.
Urgot, the Noxian executioner who had sold his body for experimentation. And what was left, reanimated by gears and steel and wild Zaun magic, was a monster. A bloated, disgusting thing, with what "humanity" he had left stitched back together like an old doll.)
So Allen, you so thoroughly missed the point, if you thought she was fixated on your scar, the broken and ragged reminder of something that, in her eyes, had gone so wrong. No, that wasn't what set her blood to a rolling boil. She wasn't angry at him.
She was angry at the existence he was made to endure. That something like that could almost be a joke to him. That he could tap her nose and smile and laugh as if it was all right and this was fine, it was all fine.
And at that smile, that disgusting, sanguine grin, how practiced it was, how easy it was. How inhuman it was. ]
I know that.
[ She was strangely quiet then, her voice level and calm. Controlled. But could he see it, even in that briefest touch, how absolutely dark her mana ran? How it burned so cold that it was hot, nearly painful (...did it hurt her as well?). How all the colors that made up her entire being, the light shining so bright, so strong, only made that darkness more profound, more apparent.
She was a woman who felt everything so strongly and so brightly it's almost blinding to look at. Those were his words, weren't they? If he wanted, needed proof of that, he need only just touch her briefly. Even a tap on the nose would do.
[1/2]
How that scar, how that day, how that instant changed everything. How could she know? He would never tell her.
She didn't care about the damned scar at this point. She since stopped caring the moment she knew the true nature of why he got it in the first place. And Lux wasn't a stranger to seeing that sort of thing; a magician normally would never experience such a wound, and, if they did, live to tell the tale.
But she had seen what war did to a body. She was no stranger to it.
(Sion, the undying juggernaut of Noxus, his body reanimated even after being cut down by the first king of Demacia, only to return the favor. His body stitched back together by some dark magic, corruption and greed; and his insides practically hollowed out, replaced by a hellish magical furnace that kept the dead husk alive.
Urgot, the Noxian executioner who had sold his body for experimentation. And what was left, reanimated by gears and steel and wild Zaun magic, was a monster. A bloated, disgusting thing, with what "humanity" he had left stitched back together like an old doll.)
So Allen, you so thoroughly missed the point, if you thought she was fixated on your scar, the broken and ragged reminder of something that, in her eyes, had gone so wrong. No, that wasn't what set her blood to a rolling boil. She wasn't angry at him.
She was angry at the existence he was made to endure. That something like that could almost be a joke to him. That he could tap her nose and smile and laugh as if it was all right and this was fine, it was all fine.
And at that smile, that disgusting, sanguine grin, how practiced it was, how easy it was. How inhuman it was. ]
I know that.
[ She was strangely quiet then, her voice level and calm. Controlled. But could he see it, even in that briefest touch, how absolutely dark her mana ran? How it burned so cold that it was hot, nearly painful (...did it hurt her as well?). How all the colors that made up her entire being, the light shining so bright, so strong, only made that darkness more profound, more apparent.
She was a woman who felt everything so strongly and so brightly it's almost blinding to look at. Those were his words, weren't they? If he wanted, needed proof of that, he need only just touch her briefly. Even a tap on the nose would do.
Old anger. Old, newly realized anger. ]