Chapter Text
In the early morning, the Captain sends word that they’re approaching their destination. The former lands of Camavor, recently cleared of Mist by unknown forces. Vladimir emerges from his cabin for the first time in days. The salted air and the cold spray of sea water mist his skin as he studies the horizon line. One could consider this an overdue homecoming.
Yet the distant shores of the ancient Alovédra offer him no feelings of joy. There’s not even a trace of amusement at the suffering of this vapid bloodline. He must be going into a depressive state over this affair if he can’t even manage that. It is unseemly for a creature of his status and poise to sigh and pout like a child, alas, family will prod at old wounds like no other. Even if said family is naught but apparitions of the mind and shadows etched into ruins. They discarded him like waste, it was only just to return the favor. Now, there was none left to disappoint him.
Save for one. Unless there were any other royal wraiths roaming about.
Viego. The boy was an idiot, truly. Such a waste of immense power. He accidentally meddled with necrotic magics that twisted the whole of Runeterra with foul corruption. And all for one soul! Had he not been so short sighted and stupid he may have searched for more tangible solutions. Necromancy is a trifling matter to Vladimir and his cohorts. All they would need to do is construct a vessel and lure the spirit within…
If Vladimir could simply harvest Viego’s strength for his own whims he would, alas wraiths definitively lack in any vital fluids to be manipulated. He would need to exploit Viego in other ways. Psychologically. Perhaps giving him his freedom would be a step in the right direction in that regard. And even with his lack of familial loyalty, it offends Vladimir to see one of his bloodline laid low by valiant heroes. A reflection of his own narcississm.
Traveling to Camavor has been no easy feat. This was no Black Rose matter, Leblanc had no say in this. Vladimir had to find his own resources in secrecy. The safest routes have been lost to time thanks to Viego’s Harrowings upon the land. Even the most daring of grave robbers still refuse to venture here. Superstitions fuel the simple-minded, and the memories of the Ruination are still fresh as unripened fruit. It required a handful of gems to even get the ship out of Bilgewater, and the promise of more upon a healthy return to propel the pirate captain here.
If this had been supported by the Black Rose, Vladimir would have his own vessel manned by loyal acolytes and bloodsworn soldiers. The course wouldn’t have taken nearly as long and no longer would the culinary fare haunt his dreams. But alas, his plans were to be hidden from his long-time ally and adversary. T’would not be the end of the world if Leblanc discovered Vladimir had ventured to this side of the map, but she will not learn of his intentions towards Viego. To anyone else, this is a vain errand, for artifacts or knowledge. No madman would touch the cage containing the source of Ruin.
Elise’s retelling of what transpired here is rather vague. Veiled by the unimpressive mental capacity of her pawns. He must find out the details for himself. Certainly Viego’s point of view is bias-proof.
Vladimir chuckles and prepares for the day ahead.
The long path towards the castle is eerily silent. Whatever wildlife still dwells in Alovédra refuses to draw near Viego’s prison. The soldiers under his command pay it no mind. They couldn’t if they tried, he’d commandeered their brains long before this journey. Any independent thought was stifled, but they were still capable of the martial feats of the standard Noxian. He couldn’t have any wagging tongues spread word of this venture. These pawns were sacks of meat with armor, spears, and little else.
The Bilgerats remain aboard their vessel. Only the depths of Vladimir's pockets tether them here. If he did not make haste he and Viego will certainly be stranded in this dreary place.
An overcast gloom blots out any warm rays from reaching the land. Oppressive greys and a mild chill ensure Vladimir has traveled cloak-clad. This weather is anathema to the Camavor of his era. It was as if the earth itself had gone dormant when its king had perished. Like an insect trapped in a tomb of amber—time could not change a thing. The warmth of twenty odd summers caught beneath the surface, distorted by the rounded lense. It had been hot then, so much so that Vladimir rarely dared to step foot outside in its height. His skin had been darker then, tanned and full of life.
The rest of his face was a blurred reflection, lost to ashes. Weathered by betrayal.
On the ascent to his childhood home, the soldiers clear the way of any debris and bodily remains. Bones so ancient that they crumble to dust from mere contact. Vladimir spares himself a small smile, leisurely striding over the rotting corpses of his family’s legacy. Even his fraying mind can vividly recall the sight of his Darkin army besieging his father’s pathetic kingdom. Vladimir had watched his people flayed alive by his own command, had seen their bodies twisted into shambling monstrosities by blood magic. He recalled laughing so gleefully that his Master had thought him mad. Then, after killing his family, Vladimir presented his father’s severed head to his Master in humble awe. The belligerent crown was marked in blood upon his forehead.
That night, his Master stripped down Vladimir’s garments and used him upon the throne of his forebearers. He shed no tears in the moment, but after the act he vomited in revulsion when the other slaves began to wash the residue from his flesh.
Vladimir is numb to such things now. His Master has paid the price for their sins against him centuries before the founding of nations. It is a forgotten history. The only remnant of their triumphs is the power in Vladimir’s veins.
But the carnage of his familicide is not the cause of this rubble strewn across Alovédra. The monarchy moved on, passing to some cousin or nephew that had escaped his grasp. Like vermin, they multiplied, carrying on for countless more generations. No, this mess is Viego’s make. He had succeeded where Vladimir had failed.
The city surrounding the castle is all but a smear on the map. Any wooden frames have been eaten away by time, but the stonework still stands. It’s crumbling and caked with grime, but yes, there is no doubt that a civilization once cowered here beneath the eyes of their cruel overlords.
He expected more resistance. Something like an army of mindless wraiths or shambling monstrosities. Vladimir is nearly bored by the fact that he walks straight into the dismal courtyard. The vegetation is simultaneously overgrown and barren. Suspiciously, the gates are unsealed. As if whoever tucked The Ruined King away could not predict someone would try to free him.
Or they knew he couldn’t be freed.
The castle interior is nearly alien to Vladimir, it had been used for many years after he’d last stepped foot inside. Redecorated with each royal inauguration, and passing architectural trend. He wonders if his portrait is still locked away somewhere, or if he had been entirely erased.
One such painting that stands prominently against the scenery is a warm piece of a becrowned woman. Her smile is slight, and does not reach her eyes. Something about her expression feels empty, despite the golds and reds of the palette. Vladimir decides that this must be Viego’s wife, since it is displayed in such a position of honor. He tucks the image of her appearance away in his mind for later usage.
Viego himself is found within the center of the throne room. His body is encased in a soft blue glow. His garments are torn, exposing the flesh of his chest and putting that strange hole between his pectorals on display. Tendrils of light restrain his limbs, the pose he’s stuck in making it clear he was resisting to the end. That mouth has been stuck around a snarl for several years at this point. Vladimir wonders if any insects have crawled inside.
This magic stasis is unlike any Vladimir has seen before. Even from across the room he can feel it radiating with a strange heat, almost like a heartbeat. It washes over him leaving an unnatural sensation of calm. The soldiers fan out across the chamber as Vladimir climbs the steps to the raised central platform. He reaches within his coat and finds that which he seeks hidden within an inner pocket. Mordekaiser’s crown. The artifact he had retrieved from Fayette’s vault during one of the Harrowings. It alights the dark room with a green glow, sending shadows dancing along the walls. The contact of his bare fingertips on the cold metal sends necrotic energy rolling beneath his skin. Vladimir cackles in delight as a surge of power invigorates him.
As he places the crown upon his head, he swears he can hear someone whispering his name.
“Traitor…”
Now, Vladimir’s presence makes the spell containing Viego falter. Whatever this perverted Mist is, it recoils from him as he strides forward. The scales of balance tip as he begins to cast a spell. A ball of glowing green energy spawns in his palm, growing until it’s the size of his head. Then when it’s nearly too unstable to maintain, he releases it from his fingers in a dozen lightning-like forks. It arcs through the tendrils shackling Viego and slowly spreads across the stasis field. Ripples of necrotic magic grow until nothing else remains.
Then the shackles crumble.
Viego lets out a deafening shriek that only a wraith can. He lurches forward as if struck from behind, bending his spine in half as he falls face first upon the dais. His pallid color returns to him as the blue fades. A rush of air inflates his imaginary lungs as he shivers around a gasp. A pathetic pantomime of life. Vladimir strides close enough so that his pointed boot brushes against Viego’s splayed hand.
Viego jerks backwards as if he’d been burnt. The green pinpricks of his eyes dart up to find Vladimir’s matching red pair. As if he had not sensed his presence until it was forcibly brought before him.
“W-where is Isolde?!” Oh, the boy sounds absolutely wretched. Dry sobbing, choking around his words as he struggles to decide between fleeing or biting at Vladimir’s ankles. “Where?! W-what have you done to her! I will KILL you! I WILL FLAY YOUR SOUL FOR ENTERNITY!”
Vladimir looks down, watching this desperation with a wicked grin. “Now dear boy, is that the proper way to thank your liberator?” He tuts in disappointment.
That gives Viego enough pause to use whatever’s left in that head of his. The hollow echo and level of intensity in his voice decreases tenfold. “You…you are not one of the Sentinels? Who are you?”
“Oh my. You don’t recognize me?” Vladimir jests. “Surely you see the family resemblance.”
He hasn’t had a body similar to the one in his youth in millenia. Of course there’s nothing to recognize. Not even the accent of Camavor still graces his tongue, though he may tap into it with some intentional effort. The punchline is clearly lost on Viego, for he simply tilts his head like a confused dog and frowns severely.
“My family is long dead. Y-you are mistaken. I do not know why you have freed me, but we are not—”
“I am Vladimir,” he rolls his eyes, interrupting. “We never officially met. I was busy corralling barbarian tribes, and then you went and sent the entirety of this continent tits up. Forgive me if you haven’t had the pleasure of my acquaintance until today.”
Viego balks at him, mouth hanging agape. No insects. “I think—no, I remember…You sent a letter,” he gasps.
Now that is something to go from, though lacking in context. “I have sent many of those in my lifetime, dear boy. But yes, I have cordially reached out every now and then in the years following my enslavement. What a curiosity that I’d never received a reply.”
Massacring the bloodline must be a social taboo, who knew?
“I saw it, I read it. But I thought it worthless to reply. Nothing else mattered, only her. To save her. She needed me, but I failed her!” Viego all but cries.
Oh, if this brat derails every damned conversation back to his dead wife Vladimir is going to be very unhappy.
“That, I do not know, counting the days of travel. But in practice, there are very few medical cures beyond my reach.”
Viego stills his trembling to pin him down with a look of pure hatred for even suggesting such a thing. “No! I will not hear this! You lie!” He grabs at Vladimir’s calves, climbing up them like some feline. Through his rage he has found the strength to stand, though he leans heavily upon Vladimir, clinging to his coat. It is only with this level of proximity that Vladimir notices that isosceles shaped hole of Viego’s is lazily puffing out a black smoke.
“What killed her?” He asks, unmoved by this little tantrum.
“Poison…a poisoned dagger. There was no cure! No antidote, no magic that could heal her! We tried every remedy. Even the best healers in all of Helia failed. I will steal your tongue for lying to me, family or not!” Viego bares his teeth.
In his many years of experience, Vladimir has found the easiest way to silence a simpleton is to show them they’re wrong. That is why he flicks his wrist and relieves the nearest soldier of all his blood. It explodes from his orifices so suddenly that the fragile wrapping of his skin and muscle explodes into a mist of gore. It pelts the room and splatters both of them with red. Viego stumbles backward, barely capable of staying on his feet as Vladimir ushers the blood forward like coaxing a nervous beast to heel.
“There’s so little inside just one person, really. It would take no time at all to draw the proverbial poison out.”
He then reverses the flow, returning all he’d taken back to the soldier’s husk. It takes a moment for Vladimir to reconstruct the damage, but when he’s done the man is only slightly worse for wear.
“As well…how do you believe I’ve survived this long? You can sense my vitality, yes? My soul, my heartbeat. It is the ‘gift’ passed to me by my former Master. I can heal in ways no other can.”
“No! Stop lying! You could not—nothing could! It cannot be…Isolde. It is not my fault!”
“What a pity, all this misery over an unreplied letter. But you couldn’t have known. Who could blame you?” Vladimir twists the dagger in his heart harder, placing a comforting hand on Viego’s cheek. Inky black tears spill over Viego’s white eyelashes, catching on Vladimir’s nearby thumb. He resists the urge to taste them.
“Forgive me, Isolde…” Viego mourns. “I did not know. I could not see.”
“What’s done is done. You are here now…” And testing my patience, Vladimir does not add. “Time marches on.”
“Why? What is the point? I am nothing, without her, without my purpose.”
Vladimir sighs loud enough to make the castle shake. He draws his manicured hand away from Viego’s face, biding the urge to slap him. The tear stains are wiped away on Viego’s shredded garments. “Surely you must have hobbies besides brooding?”
“Vladimir,” Viego hisses. “To what end? I have lost everything.”
“You aren’t the first person to rebuild their life, dear. You can manage just fine.”
“How? How do I move on?!” Viego demands. He claws at his own bare chest like he may rip out his imaginary organs. He pulls on the edges of his open heart, dragging the flesh apart. “Take this pain away from me!”
“Believe me, I would if I could. Unfortunately we are…shall we say incompatible?” Vladimir gives a sly smile. “But to move on, you must start again. There will be no retreading old ground, no vengeance. You need change. That is why I’m taking you with me.”
Viego blinks in surprise. “What?”
“It’s no grand castle, I suppose, but you will have your own wing as my guest. And my staff will serve you regardless of your reputation—”
“Y-you think you are taking me? Where?” Viego takes a few steps back, his distrust becoming palpable.
“Noxus, I have an estate there. It’s truly lovely in the spring time, my butterfly gardens are the envy of all my neighbors.”
“You have always meant to do this? To free me and bring me to your estate? Why?” Viego watches him warily.
“Well, I couldn’t let you rot,” Vladimir says simply, as if confused that he’s even being questioned. “And I can always use more capable allies.”
Especially ones with no one else to turn to.
“And if I did not wish to leave? This is my home. My birthright. I am sworn to rule these lands, even in death.”
“I must insist. You won’t find your purpose here, whatever it is. And I didn’t come all this way for nothing. It would be rather rude to deny me that, wouldn’t it?” He says almost playfully, but there is a hint of a threat beneath his lilt.
“So you are looking to gain something, yes? But this is rather one sided. Am I to simply follow along as your loyal nephew? Hah…” Viego shakes his head and turns away, stalking towards his throne. He drops into the seat in one practiced motion, arms taking to the rests and legs splaying open confidently. “You forget yourself, you speak to a king! Next to me, you are nothing.”
Those leather pants are so unnecessarily tight. Vladimir fights all instinct to roll his eyes at the display.
“I do not care for measuring of endowments. If I leave you here, what do you hope to accomplish? As you said before, you have nothing. Nobody. Just me. I am a formidable partner and far more versed in the world beyond these shores,” Vladimir gestures vaguely towards the direction he’d arrived from. “And I am certainly the only one left who cares about your wellbeing after all the damage you’ve done.”
Viego’s pallid face tightens, his lips thinning in a line. His unusual green eyes study the ground rather than meet Vladimir’s gaze. He is uncomfortable, likely mulling over Vladimir’s final words and disliking their validity. He has burnt more bridges than he’s built over the course of his life and unlife. Focusing all of one’s attention on a glorified peasant girl is bound to do such a thing. His immortal subjects found him mad beyond reason, and the power hungry vultures have realized he’s too unstable to be of any benefit.
But they do not have the means that Vladimir has. Nor the scope of view. Mortals can only think in the short term, it’s a limit of their condition. Vladimir and Viego have eternity.
“If you truly cared, why have you not returned here sooner?” Viego asks with a raise of his brow. “Why now?”
“I had moved on—it’s not as if my leave was voluntary. But living as a Darkin’s slave tends to give one a different perspective. By the time I considered reconnecting, I was unwanted, and the second time ignored. Tribes across Valoran worshipped me as a god, and any interest in my remaining family disappeared.” Sensing no immediate threat, Vladimir plucks the crown from his head and returns it to his coat. The excess power wanes, fading from him like blood dripping from a wound. He makes a small sound at the sensation.
“But, Isolde,” Viego brings back his favorite subject. “If you possess the strength to dissolve the Hallowed Mist, and to control the living—is there not some way for you to return her to me?”
Vladimir thinks it over. This would be a rather simple carrot and stick to rule him with. The promise of his deceased wife’s return is both an incentive to motivate him and a threat to keep him loyal.
“You are in luck. In fact, I am one of the most informed individuals on the workings of the death realm and potential ways to drag souls out of it. In time, anything is possible”
There is hope in Viego’s eyes now. “You confuse me,” he admits with a low growl. “I cannot trust you, but I do not fear your magic. I have no blood to puppeteer. There is no harm in joining you, for now, I suppose.”
“Excellent. I am glad to have you.”
“But do you wish to be seen traveling with me? The terror that haunts the nightmares of every living creature upon this earth? Think of your reputation, uncle.”
Vladimir is momentarily stunned that Viego is capable of lighthearted teasing. He breaks into a wry smile he cannot contain, beckoning Viego towards him. “Do not worry, my dear, I know how to keep a secret. Let us head to the boat while we discuss?”
Viego stirs on his throne before disappearing into nothingness before his eyes. A burst of necromantic power flashes the castle with green light before his body manifests only a few feet away. He now bears the memory of a zweihander strung over his shoulder. Sanctity. The slayer of Camavoran princes. The blade that determined whose ass sat upon the throne. Vladimir’s cowardly father had never borne it into battle, using it more for decoration than warmongering.
Seeing it now feels strange.
Viego holds it so naturally, like an extension of his ethereal self. But Sanctity is no longer the sacred weapon of Camavor. It has been changed, transformed into a beacon of death magic. Viego must notice the way Vladimir studies his sword. His pinpoint eyes dart over Vladimir, calculating and cold. There is a moment where Viego leans in, shoulders raised and looking down at Vladimir like a posturing animal. It’s close enough that those little phantom breaths brush over Vladimir’s nose. If it’s supposed to be intimidating, it’s not working. But then those eyes dart lower. For the briefest of moments Viego’s attention is seemingly drawn to his lips and…ah.
Vladimir would hate to think he’d underestimated him.
It passes in less than a second but there is no doubt that something has just begun whirling in Viego’s mind. Whether he’s aware of it or not is another thing entirely.
“I will not agree unless you swear me this; Isolde will be in my arms once more,” Viego says firmly. “And if you make any attempts to trick me out of my reward, I will end you." Sanctity is now aimed at Vladimir’s neck, giving him no doubt as to Viego’s sincerity.
“She will not be revived within a fortnight, mind you, but I swear,” Vladimir lies. He lowers himself with a humble bow, appeasing Viego’s ego for the moment. Anything to trick him into a more susceptible position. “I do love a pet project.”