Crows for the Dead
It was a strange feeling.
He didn't really have any memory of his life before his brother's arrival. When Draven was born Darius thought of him as a pet; something loyal that would never leave him, helping each other constantly, always being there when needed. But time had taught him that a brother was more than that.
His brother had been a hug when he needed it, a smile that had made him feel better countless times. He had also been what had tied him to reality when being into the fray turned him into the monster he now was. He couldn't remember a day without his brother. The ones before his death had always been shared, even if he just crossed him on his way to the arena. Draven's smile was always strange; he didn't express happiness, but love for himself. When they were young they have talked a lot about that. "What's love for you, brother?" had asked Draven a long time ago, when they were no more than teenagers working hard to earn a spot in the army. "Love is what you feel when you are with someone that can make you smile no matter how hard the situation is. At least that's how I think of it, even though I'm not sure if I have ever felt it." Darius answered back then. "Then I have certainly fallen in love, brother." answered Draven with a big smile on his face.
It had taken him long to understand him, but one day at the arena, watching his brother Draven tear down a man from the distance by using those spinning axes of his, he caught a glimpse of what he had meant back then. While tearing corpses down, Draven was alone in the arena, at least to the eyes of the thousands of spectators that filled it up every week. But Darius knew the truth; his little brother was never alone, he was always with that person he had always loved. The only one always able to make him wear a smile no matter how hard the situation was; Draven himself.
Later that day, Darius met up Draven and asked him about it; he was curious about that. When he asked his brother about it, he didn't answer at all. He just walked out of the restaurant they had met at, alone, with a smile on his face. And that's how he made sure of it. His brother loved no more than himself; as narcissistic as a man could be, his brother would always live his life with what he considered the best company a man could have.
That kind of insanity was what brought him back to a normal life once a battle was over. No slaughters, no killing, no skinning. No heads waiting to be smashed, no Ionians to be tortured to death, no Demacians being cut a piece a week that would be sent to their homeland as a reminder of what was about to come. It was just him, his brother and their smiles. "Malcolm's execution would be way easier to handle if he was here..." whispered Darius for himself. Always overshadowed by him, Malcolm was a good man; he just hadn't been good enough to save his brother. He wished he could have protected Draven from the Chain Warden, to avoid reaching this situation. But someone had to pay for what had been done, and the one to be punished would be that noxian general.
The only danger Darius was facing now was his own madness, and nothing could save him from it.
...
The crowd didn't even dare to look at his eyes; they were silent. Some of them hated him for not being able to protect the people that had died in the arena, but they didn't dare speak a word. Malcolm had been a hero of war, one of the few to come back from the last war with a Demacian head, and it was not any common head; the Lady of Luminosity had died at the hands of that man. That was why they were so nervous yet so quiet. Fear or respect, the fact that Malcolm was not a common prisoner changed how things were.
By contrast, several crows haunted the place, their squawks following the rythm of Malcolm's footsteps. He could feel their black eyes digging deep in his flesh, but somehow he knew they saw no feast in his corpse. Why were they there then? Malcolm was certain that he wouldn't live long enough to know the answer to that question. The new executioner was eager to get his hands on Malcolm's head.
The death of Urgot in the last war had left them with little to no people wanting to become the Noxian headsman of reference; that was only until Draven got into the scene. He loved his job, he did it effectively and he committed to it with a love that no Noxian had ever felt. But the incident at the arena had forced Noxus to look for another executioner. With no permanent headsman taking the job, Darius had taken it temporarily.
When he was forced down and told to lay his head on the steel bar, Malcolm looked up a last time to see Darius' face. To his surprise, Darius was crying. "Someone had to pay for this, and you are the only one to blame for such a loss Malcolm." whispered the Hand of Noxus. He raised his axe unhesitatingly and ordered him to face the steel bar. As cold and clean as it was, Malcolm could only feel a fiery fire burning inside him. It was all over.
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