Chapter Text
"Is everything perfect, Master Draven?" It was later in the afternoon when she asked him, soft hands holding an oval platter, an array of sweet fruits and rich cheeses sliced neatly, just for him. The hottest hours of the day had passed, and Draven, who had slept well in the shade of the midday chambers, lounged on a chaise in stillness.
He remembered lifting his head to face the hesitant voice to see the young servant girl standing over him, golden eyes watching, waiting for his reaction. Ah, it was the new one, the redhead from Freljord. For a moment he stared at her in silence, his blank expression meeting her nervous one, her body shifting under his unmoving stare. She was probably nervous, first times and all.
"Everything is going well, girl," he stated at last, his face curling into a lazy grin as he twisted his body to face her, never taking his eyes off of her face. "Draven is very pleased, don't be worried—" he drawled, in a way that she'd definitely be worried. He chuckled at her confusion and tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth, savouring her puzzled look and the taste of creamy cheese melting on his tongue. No matter who, it was always fun to watch the young newcomers squirm and stutter under his stare.
"I don't remember calling for food, was this you or the cook's call?" Whoever it was, they were smart about it—there weren't many ways of gaining favour in the household without other servants noticing and grabbing the opportunity for power before you could blink. This was Noxus after all.
At his question, a small smile caught her face. "The cook prepared the plate, but I suggested it to him first." They were working together, huh. Draven didn't expect the cook of all people to be a teamwork kind of guy. "The great master deserves such attention, so why shouldn't I, his servant, provide?" Even Draven could notice she had laid it on thick, but considering she didn't know Noxian tongue for too long, he brushed it aside.
"Trying to spoil me on my birthday? Clever girl," he purred, feeling the familiar rush of pleasure fill his head. The praise was not as smooth as he wished, but he knew this wouldn't be the only praise he would get; his grand performance in the arena would grant him the chants of thousands; his personal party would shower him with gifts and flattery of the nobles of Noxus, and Draven would see his brother again.
At last, Draven got up, lifting his arms into a deep stretch and puffing out a small groan. The arena was probably already filling up with people ready for blood—the crowd loved him, but he couldn't dilly-dally even if he wanted to. The arena had called his name—he had not even stepped a foot in the sand and he felt his mouth pool with saliva, blood thrumming in his ears.
"Is everything ready, girl?" Draven managed to say as he stuffed a handful of cheese and dates into his jaws. If she and the cook kept this up, he really would reward them.
"Your garments are clean and laid out on your bed, Master," she said with confidence, almost as if she had practised for that moment.
"Good girl. Put the rest of the platter in the kitchen and get yourself well-dressed and pretty to serve the guests after the show tonight; someone else will take your turn in washing the dishes this time."
"Thank you, Master!"
Everything was perfect.
The room was opulent in its beauty. On the floor lay thick rugs made of the finest wool and silks from across the Noxian empire, their journeys to this room would tell of Noxian conquest of completely different regions, one masterpiece never like the other.
Plush fabric of red, turquoise, and gold draped the ceiling, cascading alongside the walls like heavy waterfalls. In the soft light of the room, the intricate patterns in the fabric shimmered, almost sparkling, beckoning you to come closer and truly admire the gold-threaded designs. Sometimes Draven did just that—in the dead of night when the sudden urge to admire what his glory earned him, he would gaze at the luxuries he bought or the pricey gifts the nobles gave him as investments, almost enchanted.
Some of those nobles were here right now, surrounded by his material excellence, feasting on the fruit of their loyalties.
There Draven sits on a throne of satin pillows rich in colour, his braided hair, neck and hips adorned in gold. With every slight move, the jewellery tinkled and clinked together, his skin shimmering in the reflected candlelight.
“Ah, Draven, it’s a pleasure to meet you again,” His eyes look towards the sweet voice calling his name and notices a beautiful woman with olive skin and soft features. A very familiar face. She was the daughter of a Shuriman merchant and a Noxian seamstress, a surprisingly shy creature. A delight to tease. “You look… alluring in your finery this evening.” As she speaks her words are so breathless they almost sound like whispers.
And as she sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Her hands seem to wander around, eager to grasp something, a little desperate to touch someone, to touch him.
“It’s all thanks to your craftsmanship Aliyna,” He grins, lifting her to his lips to plant a chaste kiss. Draven feels her body shiver. “This Shuriman garb is splendid work.” He can feel her hot gaze rake down his body. Big silver eyes leer at how the vibrant turquoise cloth frames his hips and wraps around his chest. She almost seemed to envy the gold pieces that danced on stomach and the slits in his harem trousers.
If her father could see her now, he’d be furious.
“Your handiwork this afternoon was greater Draven” She giggles, already melting in his touch. “I had never expected such a show!”
“No one expected such a show, dear” A plump man said, plopping down into a sofa nearby, his glass of wine almost sloshing over the rim. “You really outdid yourself, Draven.”
Of course, Draven outdid himself, he was Draven, the executioner for Noxus. He had planned his return perfectly.
A few hours ago, Draven had stepped into the pits of the arena and given the most grand display of eye-widening skill and blood-splattering entertainment. For almost a month, there had been a lack of executions, only gladiator steel and animal blood had filled the arena and the people questioned and pried.
When were the executions coming back? Did Noxus run out of prisoners and slaves? Where were Draven’s glorious executions? His name was murmured in the mouths of everyone in the empire at some point. His critics and revilers were quick to insult and diminish him. Rumours ran wild in his absence to the point of the truth being drowned out- some said he had retired early, some whispered that a witch cursed him to be a cripple and some declared that he was taken as a wife for a sea god he was indebted to.
Either way, his fans were begging for his return, praying that Draven would face the lies and show the faithful a legendary display. There was a constant stir, a boiling anticipation to see his charming grin, to hear his roar of laughter, to chant his name and let it overflow the walls of the arena.
The people cried out. Draven provided.
By the time the show had finished at least half the pit’s sands were drenched in bright red, severed limbs and clumps of guts littered the arena and Draven's outfit was dripping in blood.
He had missed it so much.
Now here he was, revelling in the warmth of well-earned praises, sipping the sweet wine of his patience; the time away from applause and bloodshed had sown the seeds and now he was eating the fruit of his labour.
Still, the wine felt lacking. In a little corner of his mind, he could feel the ache, the want, the desire to hear and feel it and he knew why.
He hadn’t heard from Darius yet. Draven didn’t want to admit it but he had been anticipating his arrival. It had been a long time since they had both talked and Draven felt as though time had been slowly plucking at their bond. Every time he did see his brother, it would be looking down from a balcony, watching him lead the army down the streets after a victorious battle or sometimes in rare moments, he would catch him watching in the stands, just like this afternoon’s performance.
Sometimes in the late of the night, he would think of childhood, where they fought for bread, where Darius would come back to their shelter in the dead of night with a bag of coins trying to mask his face of shame, refusing to tell him what he did to get the money.
He didn’t miss those times but he did miss the way his brother would hug him for warmth and kiss him to sleep when it was cold or how he braided his hair off of his neck in the summer, praising his skill with a knife.
Draven didn’t know it, but even these small thoughts of his older brother soothed him. Even though Darius wasn’t here yet, he knew he would come eventually- Darius had always celebrated his birthday with him, praising him for coming so far and tonight wouldn’t be any different.
Though some people seemed to think otherwise.
Some people like Blackmore, who had the audacity to show his face now. The blond haired prick was one of Draven’s mouthy critics, acting as if his beauty gave him brains. With Draven’s crushing success today, you would think he would show his face despite the invitation.
Clearly he had the audacity to show up and still think he owns the place.
“With such a magnificent performance, I’m so sure your brother has already offered you his praises.”Another man said, eyeing Draven as he leaned on the back of one of the nearby sofas, bringing a goblet of wine to his smug lips. With his behaviour, Blackmore made it a little too obvious he wasn’t a friend. “I have not seen him yet, will he be here for the feast tonight?” Draven would teach him not to talk about his brother.
Draven resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. He wasn’t very subtle. “My brother will come at his own time, Blackmore, my birthday isn’t the only thing he has to attend.”
“I only ask because I wish to speak with him, Draven” He states as if it was obvious.
“If someone is of any importance, General Darius will speak to him personally and privately, not at a feast.” Draven says as he shifts his attention to a performer in skimpy red attire dancing towards his side. A series of giggles and snorts are as the blond noble huffs and lowers his head, finally shutting up.
Now it seems like the most eventful chatter of the party had ended and Draven relaxed into the pillows, hooded eyes watching the performer spin and sway in front of him, letting the sound of his guests lounge and mingle settle into the back of his mind. Until another disturbs his peace.
“Say, how many slaves do you have Draven?” probes a young man, garbed in the latest summer attire. The outfit was so recent Draven was certain he had seen the clothing displayed in the windows of a high-class shop a few days ago- a blatant flaunt of money. He wasn’t surprised.
It wasn’t hard to recognise him as Lachance’s son. With his father now earning a large fortune, the boy will start drinking money like water. Spoilt brats like him all dance the same rhythm.
“Non,” Draven sniffs, already fed up with useless questions for the evening. “Unless you count the men who fight in the arena pit.” Just like that, the conversation seems to be over and Draven turns to pull the charmed dancer closer to his side. From here he can smell the myrrh rubbed into her dark skin and his hand wanders over the large muscles of her back and the soft curves of her hips. Although Aliyna left his side a while ago, he could still sense her jealous gaze from here.
“Why is that?” A deep feminine voice asks and it makes him pause the soft kisses he plants on the smooth ebon neck. It was a voice he’s heard countless times yet her question still surprised him all the same. Matilda Alarie was one of the first to become his allies when he left the army, a strong older woman who was all about business, minding her own business especially, never curious about another man’s private life. Never asking if he does and why he does. Never cared, until now.
Suddenly, Draven didn’t feel so comfortable lazing around on pillows anymore.
“For me, there’s no need to- I have fine servants, Alarie” Draven declares. He’s facing her now, his eyes staring right at her as his free hand clenches the pillow next to him.“I have enough riches to pay them a wage, there is no need for slave labour.”
“What if the slave wasn’t used for simple labour?” He heard the young man say, his words a little impatient, a little hurried.
“What do you mean by that? Why else would I have a slave?” There was a frown on his countenance now, the confusion and annoyance settling in. He didn’t like where this was going. Of course, there was another reason one could take a slave but why would Draven of all people take a pleasure slave? Alarie may not dig into his personal life but it wasn’t a secret that Draven had many admirers, some even having the luck of tasting him for themselves.
Why would a man like him want an unwilling, miserable pleasure slave?
He had no idea why Alarie was letting this boy give him something he didn’t need later but he had to put a stop to this. “I don’t need a slave for pleasure either, boy” Draven adds as he watches the young man stand up and move to the centre of the room, already barking orders at his servants to bring something. Was he grabbing the slave now? Publicly?
“I think you’ll like this one, Draven” He declares with a proud grin, already grabbing some of the room’s attention. His smile seems genuine yet Draven’s chest does not sit so easy.
“I was thinking, shouldn’t the great executioner, the master of axes, have one more thing to rule over?”His question is loud, and bold, finally landing everyone’s attention on him. He looks so proud already and the damn gift wasn’t even here yet.
The room erupted with hushed talk and curious whispers, guests and servants abuzz from the sudden surprise. There he stood, revelling in the looks of curiosity and excitement. People’s attention was so fickle- a mere slave as a gift and everyone was turning their heads. Hardy fools were so quick to catch their eyes.
Stupid sheep.
“Dear Draven, I bought this for you in mind; with what I know I think you’ll take great pleasure in this.” Finally, Lechance’s servants arrive and drop a big iron cage in front of their master.
From here he could see a nude woman with matted white hair, her frail body curled into a ball. He didn’t understand, what was so good about this slave? She looks frail and useless as the rest of them, easy prey he would see in the arena.
Draven turns to give one more look at Alarie. It seems his puzzled expression is still on his face because she chuckles, still staring into eyes like he’s the only person in the room.
“Go on, I think you'll like it too,” She says, nodding her head towards the poor thing in the cage.
Draven didn’t understand why Alarie was helping Lechance’s son, he didn’t understand why this slave was so special and honestly, he didn’t really understand her at all. Still, he stood up and walked towards the cage, gold glittering as he moved.
“Lift your head, slave.”
It took a while for him to recognise her when all she was now was skin and bones. But when her hazel eyes looked back at him in recognition it finally dawned on him. Pale white hair, hazel eyes and the annoying lips that always seemed to complain about what he did on the battlefield.
By the gods, he thought she was dead.
“May I present to you, Riven the deserter”
Draven did not like his present.