Ascent 9.5

2005, August 16: Adelaide, Australia

Adelaide was a middling city. Yes, it was one of the largest in Australia, but had Dragon not told me so, I wouldn’t have guessed. Its entire metro area boasted less than 1.3 million people. Despite that, it felt a lot like New York at the moment. Or perhaps, Mecca in the middle of Dhul-Hijjah would be a better comparison. 

Only one week after Leviathan’s death, the city was still very much in ruins. Entire sections were flooded. Some streets were submerged deep enough to swim in. A good chunk of all street signs and traffic lights weren’t even standing and the ones that were had spotty power at best. Though Adelaide wasn’t a soft target, repeated tidal waves and Leviathan’s rampage had taken their toll.

That didn’t stop the tidal wave of visitors and aid workers. They swarmed the place like pilgrims looking for a saint’s toenails or something. The death of an endbringer had certainly put Adelaide on the map.

The prime minister of Australia arrived first. Like the political animal he was, he immediately went about declaring the place Leviathan died to be the site of a new memorial. Given how my final spell had frozen and ground away a four hundred meters radius circle into constituent atoms, there wasn’t much opposition on that front.

He also made countless speeches, almost like a priest consecrating a holy site. A gaggle of reporters, interns, and fellow political bigshots followed him around like ducklings, quacking in agreement at every word that came out of his mouth. In general, they did everything they could to associate their administration with the fall of Leviathan.

I knew because I’d been dodging those idiots for days now. Hero, as the one who landed the killshot, was the world’s darling, but both Alexandria and I were unfortunately part of the limelight. Thankfully, I could abuse the “I have to rebuild my shit,”and “I’m a minor; mom wants me back home for dinner,” excuse and dump all my social responsibilities on Alexandria.

That last one wasn’t so much an excuse as a necessity. She worried, as all mothers did. I spent the better part of three days after the battle reassuring her that I was alive and well. If I left out getting my lungs crushed like grapes by Leviathan’s water echo, then all the better.

Riley on the other hand, was a bundle of excited questions. She was a parahuman, if not quite a cape, and with that came a casual disregard for danger. Hardly suicidal or self-destructive, but to her, the realities of an endbringer battle weren’t sources of trepidation and terror, but adventure in far off lands. It was an impulse I’d need to curb, or redirect in more productive ways.

That said, she’d been positively delighted with the note I brought home with me. It was a thank you letter signed by many of the capes and civilians her invention had saved. It wasn’t much, but which other six year old could claim to have saved hundreds of lives? It allowed her to feel like she was part of the adventure, in her own, small way.

Well, the public didn’t know that the mysterious “Nightingale” I’d worked with was actually a six year old girl, but that was probably for the best. It was my way of shielding her while giving her the credit she justly deserved

Family time eventually got cut short and I had to revisit the city off and on throughout the week. I wasn’t asked to help keep the peace or anything, but I did have to connect Adelaide to the Worldstone Network so everyone I’d sent to Phoenix could move back. Not all of them did right away, some of the residential areas were still totaled, but it was important to build that avenue as fast as possible.

It wasn’t just the politicians that had been clogging up the city. My little circle of flattened wasteland became an overnight tourist attraction. My only consolation was that no one had tried to hold any religious ceremonies there… yet.

Of the “pilgrims,” the most numerous, and therefore unintentionally aggravating, were Japanese people. Japan was due north of Australia and Kyushu remained a sore spot for its people. I understood, I lost my father and triggered during Leviathan’s 1999 attack, but they really could have picked a better time, like a year later.

I grunted in annoyance as I swirled my glass of nonalcoholic champagne. This gala, held in the lobby of an untouched hotel, was one of several social events I wasn’t allowed to ditch.

The heroes had to be rewarded. And, just as important, we had to be seen as willing to be rewarded. It was all about the semblance of accountability. By allowing ourselves to be publicly fawned over, we sent the message that we were accessible, at least to some, nebulous extent.

That didn’t mean I had to enjoy it. The food was nice, but that was the only nice thing I had to say. PHO had been in an uproar, but even dealing with this world’s equivalent of Reddit was better than the constant handshaking and asskissing.

The prime minister, whose name I’d already forgotten despite being told on six separate occasions, called us up by name. I stood awkwardly alongside my fellow capes as people shook my hand and said pretty much exactly what the guy before them said.

“Thank fuck that’s over,” I muttered out the side of my mouth. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, can we?” Eidolon asked, all but whining alongside me. It wasn’t often we were on the same wavelength like this. 

“You may not. Stay for dinner at least,” Alexandria pinched the bridge of her nose with a resigned sigh. She pinned the trump with a withering glare. “And you, you’re an adult, act like it.”

“Come on, we all have better things to do. Besides, Hero’s the one they really want.”

“Yes, he’s the man of the hour. We should be celebrating with him, hmm?”

“We will, with whiskey and hookers. At home.”

I couldn’t resist. “I’m so there.”

“Andy, you’re thirteen.”

“I’m thirty-eight in my heart.”

“We’re not buying you hookers.”

“I bet I could convince Fortuna to get me a hooker.”

“You will not,” Alexandria growled. “Don’t make me tell Sujeong.”

“Wow, threatening to tell my mom? Really?”

“If that’s what works.”

“Touche, Lexi, touche.”

“Now that I think about it, forget about hookers, have you ever even been on a date, Andy?” Eidolon asked. It felt weird, being the only unmasked cape, but I’d gotten used to it.

“Of course not. I’d rather saw off my own leg than deal with a girl my age,” I scoffed. I snagged a flute of appetizers from a passing waiter, mushrooms stuffed with crab and sprinkled with grated parmesan. “It’s not like your love life is any better. The only one of us with anything resembling a healthy relationship is Kei-Legend.”

“True. This life does make it hard to date around. I’m sorry for that. A part of me thinks you got into this mess way too young. Not that you’re not mature or anything, but…”

“Times like this remind us of how young you are,” Alexandria finished for him with a bittersweet smile.

“Yeah, that.”

I shrugged. “It is what it is. No one dragged me into this life. I know too much. I would’ve found myself involved one way or another anyway.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“It is, so don’t apologize for someone else’s decisions. Besides, I have mom and Riley, my old team, too.”

“Do you still do those movie nights?”

“We do. I mean, not everyone can make it every Friday, but we try. How about you? You’ve got your own weekly thing,” I probed.

“Therapy. You can call it what it is,” he said blithely. That was good. Being comfortable talking about it was probably a good sign. “It’s nice, having someone to confide in who’s contractually required to keep my secrets.”

Alexandria and I listened as he talked about some of his therapy sessions. They were going well, from what I understood. Dr. Rachel O’Leary was a hell of a psychologist. Over the past three years, she’d become something more than just a weekly appointment for Eidolon.

I’d read it all in Fortuna’s reports of course, but I couldn’t resist checking in myself. Leviathan was dead. Canonically, that meant there would be a new endbringer, one with a unique powerset that directly countered the strategy used to kill Leviathan.

That meant Khonsu, Tohu, and Bohu wouldn’t be a thing. If a fourth endbringer appeared, it would likely be immune to my ice, or maybe with teleportation and illusion powers to throw off Hero’s aim. 

If.

For what it was worth, both Fortuna and I had high hopes that these therapy sessions were doing something. There would be no number four, not if we had our way.

Eidolon’s seat of identity had been so fixated on being a hero that he “needed worthy opponents.” Dr. O’Leary had changed the man a great deal. From fighting villains to coaching a little league baseball team, he’d shifted his focus somewhat.

He remained a hero, just not always the kind that had to slay the monster. He could be a hero for his community, a hero who fixed lives and nurtured the next generation.

He didn’t need to be the Chosen One. Hero was here. So was I. Slowly, he was coming to grips with the fact that Scion was a group project, that his worth as a man wasn’t in how majestic he looked with a cape.

I leaned back with a small smile as the food was served. Really, so many things on Earth-Bet could be solved with a therapist. It was no wonder fanon considered Dr. Yamada the greatest master of them all.

X

2005, August 17: Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

“Woah, this place looks so cool!” Lulu gasped as she ran around the salt flats like a headless chicken, or a particularly sugar-drunk child.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I replied with a smile, but I went utterly ignored.

I watched as Lulu showered Riley in glitter, thankfully of the plasticky, non-wild magic variety. My little sister shrieked in faux outrage before chasing her new best friend out into the salt flats. For a moment, I considered putting a stop to it, this was supposed to be my quiet place, but quickly thought better of it. It was easier to let the little gremlins have their fun.

I instead grew myself a large pillar of ice, atop which I affixed a lens that would catch the sun from pretty much anywhere on the plains. It looked a little like a snow globe attached to a street lamp. This way, those two could make their way back whenever they grew tired of their game. Or, more likely, whenever they got hungry.

While they had their fun, I had some reflecting to do. The battle against Leviathan put some things into perspective. I settled down and began to meditate.

The World Rune was the origin of Runeterra, everything on Runeterra. People. Creatures. Nations. Languages.

I knew that, of course, but the battle brought it to my attention in a way I’d not considered before. The way I’d used the Unsealed Spellbook was new, unusual. Until recently, I’d known I could speak all Runeterran languages, but it’d been something I’d acknowledged, then promptly dismissed as a neat perk, a minor boon granted as an accidental quirk of the World Rune’s nature.

Sure, I spoke to a shade of Anivia. Yes, she understood me, and I, her, but that wasn’t as important as the blessing she bestowed on me. The various members of the Kindred I’d met were similar. Each offered me their own perspective on life and death, enough nuggets of wisdom that I’d treasured the conversation, but not necessarily the medium.

It was the Unsealed Spellbook that brought this to my attention, but I realized now that as mighty as that Keystone was, it was only the tip of the iceberg. I was growing stronger. In turn, the World Rune was expanding, becoming more versatile in its applications. Or perhaps, it was I that was now strong enough to withstand the World Rune at its most genuine.

I spoke Demacian. Noxian, too. I could converse fluently with any tribe of vastaya, or even read scripts carved into ancient Shuriman tombs. I could speak the native dialect of Ixtal and understand the gutter trash slang of Zaun’s street rats. And in a world where words held true, magical power, that meant something.

Above all, I spoke Ochnun.

That realization frightened me a little.

Ochnun was… It wasn’t just a quirky dialect. One did not simply “pick up” Ochnun. There was no such thing as “language immersion” where it was concerned. Or maybe, would it be more accurate to say everyone would engage in language immersion eventually?

To be brief, Ochnun was the language of the dead, all dead. It was the language spoken by all who crossed into the death realms, regardless of faith, nationality, or even species. It had a unique connection and power over souls. And though it was the language of the dead, not everyone spoke it with the same proficiency.

The greatest master I knew of was Sahn-Uzal, a tyrant and warlord who refused to pass into the cycle of reincarnation. He persisted in the death realm for so long that he eventually picked up the language in full, allowing him to distort the souls of others into weapons and armor. So great was his force of will that he forged a new death realm, exclusively for those who followed him in the mortal plane.

There he remained, one of the many potentially apocalyptic powers native to Runeterra. Presumably, he would one day sally forth from the land of the dead with his immortal army. His cult-like followers claimed he’d once again conquer all of Valoran, starting with the Immortal Bastion he’d once built.

That was Ochnun, a language that governed souls. With it, I could potentially reap lesser souls. I could quite literally shape them like clay, forging them into eldritch metal for myself. I could enforce my will upon them for eternity, locking them into a torturous existence for as long as I willed.

I quailed at the thought. Sahn-Uzal, better known in life as Mordekaiser, was but a man, and he managed to become one of the greatest threats to Runeterra with naught but Ochnun and his force of will.

I was no man, not anymore. I was a nascent spirit god, and one who embodied death at that. I didn’t know what aspect of death I’d represent, but maybe understanding the language of the dead would grant me some additional perspective.

I whispered the foreign words. I could feel them on the tip of my tongue, each syllable alien yet familiar. There was no gothic choir in the background. Eldritch horrors did not mutter half-forgotten secrets. My dead father did not beckon me onward into whatever afterlife awaited me.

And yet, there was an indescribable weight to each word, as if I was speaking from the soul, as if reality itself was leaning closer to hear every whisper. Maybe, it was.

‘Farya? What exactly is Ochnun?’ I asked. Learning more about it from the Kindred before I delved further sounded like a wise decision.

‘It is Ochnun,’ she said simply, almost teasingly. She’d taken on a more human facade the longer she remained with me. Sometimes, that wasn’t a good thing.

‘Very helpful of you,’ I drawled dryly.

‘What more is there to say? It is the truest of all languages, for it is the language that all souls speak.’

‘Yes, but why? Why is it that all souls speak Ochnun when they die? What makes it the “truest of all languages?” Why not Ionian? Or Shuriman? How about Vastayan? Runeterra isn’t lacking in languages with ancient histories.’

‘It is human nature to wonder, and the nature of gods to remain silent.’

‘You could have just said you don’t know,’ I deadpanned. ‘Ignorance isn’t as unattractive as false pretenses.’

‘Hmph! And who says I don’t know? I am Kindred. There is little beneath the stars that I do not know,’ the Lamb huffed. I could almost see her crossing her arms, wool fluffed out with indignation. ‘Figure it out for yourself.’

‘Fine, Wolyo? Any tips?’

‘You cannot go to Wolf because I won’t help you!’

‘Of course I can. He’s you, but more blunt. He’s the one who gives me a straight answer.’

‘Annoying human…’

‘What does it matter?’ Wolyo growled, sending a pleasant rumble through my soul. ‘We hunt those who refuse to pass on.’

That was a fair point. The Kindred were the Aspects of Death. But despite that title and their immense power, they weren’t the rulers of the death realms; they were closer to guides than sovereigns. They were akin to Earth’s myths of Thanatos or the shinigami rather than Hades or Izanami no Mikoto.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume they had all the answers just because they’d been roaming Runeterra for who knew how long. Maybe, they didn’t know any better than I did because they didn’t care enough to look.

They were like a garbage man who picked up trash and brought it to the waste treatment center. That man might have held the job for a decade, but if he never cared about how exactly the waste was treated after he dropped it off, then he’d forever be a single link in the chain, never to have the full picture.

‘I feel like I am being insulted somehow,’ Farya huffed.

‘Hmm? No, of course not. Garbage men play a vital role in society. You are also vital to the balance of souls,’ I consoled halfheartedly. Terrible metaphor aside, what she said earlier made me wonder. ‘Farya? Do you speak Ochnun?’

‘Of course we do. It is the language of souls.’

‘Yes, you keep repeating that…’ I trailed off. ‘Wait… Farya, you’re not dead.’

‘Of course not,’ she said. I could hear the hint of pride in her voice, an “Aha!” moment if I’d ever heard one. She repeated my question back to me, ‘What is Ochnun, Yusung?’

I felt my lips curl into a smile. She was helping me, in her own, teasing way. She’d been quite responsive thus far, only choosing to remain silent when the topic of conversation turned to the issue of my identity as part of our little trinity.

It wasn’t that she enjoyed my suffering. Farya wasn’t a sadist, simply a spirit doing her job. Rather, she’d said that this identity, my identity as a spirit god, was one I had to forge on my own. Which meant that for whatever reason, she believed my understanding of Ochnun to be critical to the development of my identity as a spirit god.

‘Ochnun is a language. Ultimately, like all languages, it exists for communication.’

‘I suppose that is one way to describe it.’

‘And I’d been conflating two details. Just because it is the language that is spoken in the death realms doesn’t mean it requires the speaker to be dead before first learning it.’

I considered the question more deeply. As with most things, I was a bit of an oddball. One could argue that nothing about me made sense, that as the keeper of a World Rune, I simply didn’t follow the rules of magic. And to a point, they’d be right.

But that didn’t mean what I was doing was truly unique. Under the right circumstances, was it possible for a soul to gain knowledge of Ochnun without dying? Or, to put it another way, could a soul speak Ochnun without entering the death realms?

I… I wasn’t sure. Farya just said she could. By that token, it seemed fair to assume that other Champions associated with death could also, albeit to varying degrees of mastery. Perhaps Viego could, or perhaps he couldn’t, he spent his death-like state stuck inside his own sword. But surely, Karthus? Yorick, perhaps?

And if that was true…

‘You know, Farya,’ I said casually, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call Ochnun the “language of the dead.”’

‘I have not, no,’ she replied. I could hear the smile in her voice.

‘Because it’s not, right?’

‘Go on.’

‘You said it was the “language of souls.” Maybe you meant that more literally than you let on. Maybe, it’s not really a language at all, not in a conventional sense anyway, but simply the imposition of will from one soul to another. After all, once the body is stripped away, what else is there?

‘I think that Ochnun is what you get when two souls try to communicate. Sometimes, it takes the form of a language, familiar words and intonations that form a pattern. Other times, it’s characterized by dominance, with the weaker soul becoming a literal tool for the stronger. That must be what Mordekaiser did to everyone in his death realm.

‘Dying isn’t necessary because Ochnun isn’t strictly about death. It’s about the spirit. It’s pure, untainted willpower. Or maybe presence? Authority? Desire? How would you describe it?’

‘I would not,’ she replied simply. ‘Words fail to grasp the nuance of the soul. Why do you humans insist on categorizing and defining everything, even when you do not understand it fully?’

‘That is part of the process of understanding, you know. In any case, I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘More right than wrong. Tell me then, what does this mean for you, Runeward?’

‘I can’t ignore Ochnun. It’s… It’s a part of me, both as a language I’ve been granted and something intrinsic to you.’

‘Indeed, you cannot.’

‘I won’t be like Mordekaiser either, someone who dominates others and twists their souls into playthings.’

‘Nor would we allow you to. Sahn-Uzal is an abomination, a blight on the living and an insult to the dead. It is good that he remains far from the mortal plane, far from our grasp.’

‘But he’s proof that the barrier between life and death isn’t quite so cut and dry. Life, death, and the language that ties souls together…’

I thought about everyone who had died during Leviathan’s final appearance. I’d fished heroes and villains alike out of the sea. I saw the last moments of so many, not an insignificant number of whom were caught in my snowstorm.

I thought about the Simurgh’s appearance. I’d not directly killed anyone on our side like I’d done in Adelaide, but those memories were branded into my mind by the Ymelo. I remembered Exalt as he went in for that one, opportunistic strike, distracting me at a crucial moment. I remembered Brickhouse, my Wards team leader, getting sliced in half.

Agent Morrison. Camille. The Crips. I’d seen a lot of death for someone just in his teens. I’d also saved a great many lives.

‘I can’t bring them back. Death is the end of this life; there should be no exceptions.’

‘The balance of souls must be maintained.’

‘But if Ochnun is the language of souls, if it’s true that the World Rune is the origin of all language, then I think I know what kind of god I’d like to be, Farya, Wolyo.’

‘Be a god who hunts,’ Wolyo growled. ‘None will escape us.’

‘Be a god who grants rest,’ Farya hummed. ‘The end need not be a subject of dread for those who follow you.’

Both had their place. There was something noble about one who enforced the balance of life and death, inasmuch as a facet of existence could be noble. Perhaps that would be me in the future, when I’d guided everyone I loved across the veil and nothing kept me on this cluster of earths anymore.

But that wasn’t me in the present. The beauty of a spirit god was that our existence was malleable. I could grow into such a role in time.

For now, I wanted to be a hero, someone who defined an era through his deeds. I wanted to be someone who could inspire others, be it a hope for a better future or simply that spark of creativity that led to a new invention.

Most of all, I wanted to see and hear, to remember all the highs and lows of this fucked up yet captivating world. 

So many mocked this place, saying it was a grimdark hellscape. And it was. The canon I knew was dark, often excessively so. The people, people I’d come to call my friends, were oftentimes shown to be laughably incompetent or cartoonishly evil. Theirs was a Sisyphean task, a battle against a godlike, eldritch horror.

Or, things could have been that way. They weren’t now. Neither Hero nor I would allow that kind of hopeless downward spiral. Now that I was here, living a life on Earth-Bet, I couldn’t help but think that this place was beautiful in its own way.

Yes, the villains sucked. People died by the dozens on a good day. Heroes were constantly fighting an uphill battle to protect their homes. But maybe that was part of the appeal. The world was dark, and so those few, good lights shone all the more radiantly in contrast. People like Hero and Legend never failed to impress.

I wanted to see them all. I wanted to watch them live out their lives to the very end. And, when everything was over and the curtains drew closed, whether by Lamb or Wolf, I wanted to be there to ferry them through the veil.

Someday, their stories would be lost to time. There would come a time when their names would appear on textbooks, only to be dismissed by the newest generation as “ancient history.” And then, there would come a time when people no longer bothered with even that much.

But I would remember their stories, their glories and failures. I would preserve their legacies. For as long as I remained part of the Kindred, the second death would not find them; they would remain forever beyond the Etherfiend’s grasp.

‘Let the Lamb grant rest. Let the Wolf give chase.’

‘What of you, little Turtle?’ Farya whispered, her question reverberating through my soul.

‘Good and ill, glories and tragedies, this Turtle would like to bear witness. Until the very stars wink out, I will remember.’

‘Lives are but fleeting puffs of wind.’

‘Yet, their deeds live on.’

Author’s Note

I tried PHO. Couldn’t get more than a few lines of it.

Props to that one guy who guessed where I was going with the languages theme.

Sahn-Uzal is the real name of the Champion, Mordekaiser. The Immortal Bastion is the precursor of Noxus Prime, the capital city of the Noxian Empire (or the Triarchy, depending on the section of LoL history you’re talking about).

I’m taking a lot of liberties with Ochnun, but we don’t know enough about it anyway. Meh, it’s fine… probably. Riot won’t suddenly unload a shitload of lore about death realms and Ochnun just to ruin my life, right?

Animal Fact: You cannot eat a polar bear’s liver. No, it’s not poisonous, but it does contain an absurd amount of retinol. A human would overdose on it and die. The kicker is that retinol isn’t a toxin. It’s actually a type of vitamin A.

Thank you to everyone who paid for my groceries. I have a and Kofi with dozens of chapters written across my various stories. If you’d like to read ahead, receive more frequent updates, vote in monthly polls or even commission a chapter directly, check them out.

For subscriptions, : https://www..com/c/user?u=83024152 

For commissions, Kofi: https://.com/fabledwebs