POV - Morgana
The world bloomed around me. And for a fleeting moment, I quite forgot to draw breath, even whilst occupying this form which possesses no lungs with which to do so.
Mountains. Yet to dub these 'mountains' were akin to branding the great ocean a mere puddle. They were pillars of stone and dream, rearing from the earth like the fingers of slumbering giants endeavouring to graze the heavens. Some were cloaked in verdant hue, ancient pines and foliage cascading down the slopes like the tresses of forgotten goddesses. Others were sheer grey rock, their faces scored by cataracts that plummeted from impossible heights, turning to mist long before they kissed the valley floor.
And constructed upon them, not encircling them, nor huddled at their base, but upon them, stood temples. Pavilions of dark timber with eaves curled like wings at rest, perched upon ledges that had no business bearing weight. Towers sprouting from precipices as if the mountains themselves had dreamed them into existence. Golden pagodas crowning peaks shrouded in perpetual cloud.
Connecting all were bridges. Delicate, improbable, meandering amongst the peaks like ribbons of silk abandoned by the breeze. Each appeared one misstep away from vanishing, and yet they endured, as stubborn as ancient promises.
It is akin to a canvas, I reflected. Painted by one who believed that beauty knows no bounds.
And there, upon a terrace of polished stone within one of the smaller pavilions, encircled by paper lanterns and a willow whose boughs hung like curtains of liquid jade, sat my daughter.
Azra'il.
Not in the guise I had known during our life in Runeterra. In this realm which reeked of impossibilities and the promises of immortality, this version of her was older, fifteen years, perhaps. That age where childhood has fled, yet the woman has not quite arrived; that unstable territory between what once was and what shall be.
Lupine ears emerged from hair as white as spilt moonlight, caught in a loose ponytail from which stray, rebellious strands escaped. The ears flickered independently, pivoting to capture sound, flattening as her irritation burgeoned. A language all its own, which I was merely beginning to decipher. And behind her, a thick tail of that same silvery-white whipped in the unmistakable rhythm of one restraining herself from committing homicide.
She wore training garb in shades of blue. Simple. Functional. The sort of attire one dons when the day might necessitate blows, kicks, or fleeing from beasts intent upon one's demise.
Arms folded. Jaw locked. Azure eyes narrowed at the man seated across the table with the intensity of one calculating how many bones one might fracture before being stayed.
The man appeared to be enjoying the finest day of his life.
A walking contradiction. Tall, possessing the frame of one who had once been imposing, though that stature had been superseded by something approaching 'comfortably dishevelled'. Long, raven locks that had not encountered a comb for sufficient time that the comb had evidently surrendered and carried on with its existence. A beard adhering to the same principle of organised rebellion. Dark green eyes, the hue of ancient forests where the light finds entrance, yet is reluctant to depart. Lines clustered around them, the sort derived from overmuch smiling, or from goading one's apprentices until they yearned to rend their own hair out.
And yet, behind the studied slovenliness, there was... something. That particular calm which belongs to one who has witnessed sufficient of the world that nothing can quite startle him any longer.
"Three days."
Azra'il's voice sliced through the air like a thunderbolt seeking its mark.
"Three days, Master Faruk. Three! Inside a cavern that reeked of mortality and regret. Riddled with Manticores!" She unfolded her arms to gesture with an intensity that caused her ears to flatten entirely. "Are you aware of what Manticores do? They attempt to slay one. Not in any casual fashion. They attempt to slay one with dedication. With passion. I am convinced one of them was genuinely affronted that I was still breathing."
Faruk offered a nod, the contemplative expression of a philosopher pondering the mysteries of the universe.
"Hmm. And yet, you survived."
"By a thread! A thread exceedingly thin! The sort that snaps should one merely glare in its direction!"
"Yet, it did not snap." He stated this with the finality of one declaring the sky to be blue. "And the herb? Did you secure it?"
Azra'il's ears pricked up and flattened three times in rapid succession, the signal I had interpreted as 'I am reconsidering my life choices'.
She thrust her hand into her sleeve with a sharp movement, withdrawing a cloth satchel which she flung upon the table. It bounced, spun, and skidded to the edge.
"Silver Yun-Ling. Three stems. Roots intact." Every word a pebble cast in anger. "Just as you commanded. The next time you desire to slay me, pray, be direct. It is infinitely more honest."
Faruk caught the satchel before it could tumble, unfastening it with a reverence approaching the religious. He brought the stems to his nose, eyes closed.
"Hmm. Fine roots. Gathered at the appointed hour." He opened one eye, the corner of his mouth curling. "Did you wait for the third moon as I instructed?"
"I did."
"Even with the Manticores?"
"Especially with the Manticores. Apparently, they are also fond of promenading beneath the third moon. A truly marvellous coincidence."
"Heh. Good lass."
"I am not a lass. I am nearly grown. And that does not answer my query." Azra'il slumped onto a cushion across the table with the grace of one who has abandoned all pretences. Her tail curled around her like a blanket of irritated fur. "What has this to do with cultivation? You vowed you would teach me to refine my core. Fifth-Circle sword techniques. Advanced Qi manipulation." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Instead, these past three weeks, I have meditated beneath a waterfall for eight hours until my ears were frozen, replanted your herb garden twice because apparently I 'failed to heed the direction of the wind', and now this. Caverns of death for the sake of tea leaves."
"You omit the time I despatched you to fish in the Lake of Silence."
"How could I forget? The fish therein are the size of a Blood Bear and possess fangs the size of my head."
"Yet, you secured one."
"It very nearly secured me first!"
" 'Very nearly' does not count." Faruk set down the herb satchel and studied her with an expression mingling amusement and something else I took a moment to identify: affection, concealed beneath layers of provocation, yet indisputably there. As present as roots beneath the soil.
"Master," Azra'il spoke, and her tone shifted. The irritation remained, but with an undercurrent, genuine frustration, perhaps despair. "I joined this sect nearly four years ago. Other disciples are already practising advanced techniques. Participating in tournaments. Growing stronger. And I am..." she gestured vaguely, "...tending gardens and being hunted by monsters on behalf of shrubbery."
Faruk did not immediately respond. He raised his right hand. A ring upon his finger, simple, fashioned from a dark metal that seemed to imbibe the light, commenced to glow.
And objects materialised upon the table.
A teapot, first. Refined terracotta, possessing the warm hue of earth kissed by the sun. Upon its surface, mountains and clouds were carved in relief so subtle one required a second glance to perceive, yet once witnessed, one found it impossible to cease admiring. Cups followed, small, devoid of handles, fashioned to be cradled by two hands so the tea's warmth might quicken the fingers whilst it comforted the soul. Delicate instruments of dark wood, a bamboo strainer, a vessel of ceramic.
And when I cast a keener eye toward the teapot... the world stood still.
I recognised it. Were it not the very same, one might deem it a twin. I had witnessed it countless times emerging from Azra'il's pack in Runeterra, with the regularity of ritual, whenever she resolved that the world necessitated a pause for tea. The identical shape. The identical etchings of mountains and clouds. The identical simple elegance which appeared accidental until one realised that every line had been selected with intent.
The answer was taking form before my very eyes. I had only to witness it.
"Oh, no," Azra'il groaned, sinking further into her cushion. Her ears drooped in premature defeat. "The tea ceremony. Anything but the tea ceremony."
"Do you possess a distaste for tea?"
"I possess no quarrel with tea. I simply harbour a distaste for sitting for two hours whilst you hold forth regarding 'the essence of the leaf', and 'the spirit of the water', and 'the way of the vapour'."
"It was a mere hour and a half on the previous occasion."
"It felt like three lifetimes."
Faruk disregarded her complaint with the practised ease of one who had endured variations of it a hundred times before. His movements whilst preparing the instruments were slow, deliberate, near-hypnotic.
"Sit upright. You are slumped like a prawn endeavouring to conceal that it is, indeed, a prawn."
"I do not look like a—" Azra'il began, yet something in his tone commanded her silence. She straightened her spine, crossed her legs. Her tail uncoiled and settled behind her in a relatively straight line. "Satisfied?"
"Moderately." He regarded her, and there was something disparate within his gaze now, the amusement accompanied by gravitas. "Now. Inform me. When you entered that cavern, what did you feel first?"
"Anger. At being despatched thither."
"After the anger?"
Her ears rotated slightly, the gesture of one processing something they would prefer not to admit.
"...Fear," she confessed finally. "When I sensed the Manticores' Qi. They were more numerous than I had anticipated. More powerful and more dense, as well."
"And what did you do with this fear?"
"I..." she furrowed her brow, recollecting. "I breathed. Just as you instructed. I allowed it to flow through me rather than struggling against it. Thereafter, I observed. I discerned their patrol patterns. The timing. The blind spots."
"And then?"
"I waited." The word emerged near-accusatory. "I waited an age. Two whole days meticulously planning a route that required but fifteen minutes to execute."
Faruk nodded, measuring tea leaves with meticulous precision.
"And the herb? Where did you discover it?"
"At the very bottom. In the darkest, most perilous location." Her ears flattened at the recollection. "Sprouting from a fissure I could barely squeeze through; I was forced to compress myself. Should a Manticore have encountered me therein..."
"Yet, it did not."
"No. Because I waited until they had all entered their slumber." She crossed her arms. "However, you have yet to answer. What has this to do with cultivation?"
Faruk poured water over the leaves, not boiling, at a temperature he appeared to intuit by instinct. The vapour rose in delicate spirals.
"Why do you suppose the Silver Yun-Ling flourishes within that cavern?"
Azra'il blinked, clearly unprepared for the inquiry.
"I... I know not. I have never contemplated the matter."
"Contemplate it now."
Her ears rotated as she pondered.
"It is dark therein. Humid. Perilous..." Her eyes narrowed. "Does it necessitate the peril?"
"It does." Faruk covered the teapot, permitting the infusion to steep. "The Silver Yun-Ling thrives solely where Death lurks. It requires the tension. The perpetual pressure. The dread of being devoured at any heartbeat." He gazed directly at her. "Should you transport that identical plant to a secure garden, with gentle sun and regular watering, do you comprehend what would transpire?"
"...It would perish?"
"Worse. It would flourish. But it would be weak. Devoid of savour. Devoid of essence." He gestured toward the teapot. "It would remain that plant in name. Yet everything that renders it precious would be absent."
He poured the tea, first for her, then for himself, with a reverence that transformed the simple act into something near-sacred.
"Cultivation is identical, Little Wolf."
Little Wolf.
The endearment struck me like a discordant note amidst a familiar melody. This was not the speech of a distant master to an apprentice. This was intimate. The appellation one bestows upon one whom one has watched flourish, whom one knows beyond titles. And Azra'il, the tension in her shoulders dissolving, her ears relaxing, her tail softening entirely, responded to him as a plant responds to water. Without volition. Without resistance.
"The other disciples," Faruk continued, lifting his own cup, sipping and appreciating the flavour with eyes closed, "are mastering forms. Techniques. Movements that dazzle in tournaments and compel the elders to nod in approbation. And there is naught amiss with such things. Forms possess their value."
"Yet...?"
"Yet forms devoid of foundation are but castles wrought in sand. Pleasing to the eye. Useless when the tide rises." He opened his eyes. "Each time I despatch you upon a mission which appears absurd, I am not chastising you. I am providing you with opportunities to flourish in the places where genuine growth occurs."
Azra'il gazed down at her cup, yet refrained from lifting it.
"Then the Manticores..."
"Were the pressure the herb requires. The fear you transformed into patience. The darkness wherein you discovered clarity." He gestured toward her cup. "Drink now. Ere it grows cold and I am forced to endure your complaints that I have squandered fine leaves."
She rolled her eyes, yet obeyed.
I witnessed the precise moment immediately thereafter, when she tasted it. Her ears perked up. Her eyes widened. Her tail became still.
"This is..."
"Different?" Faruk suggested, content with himself.
"It is as if I might..." another sip, smaller, savouring, "...sense the cavern? The peril? The waiting?" Her ears rotated in bewilderment. "It is all contained herein. Somehow."
"Because it is. Each ingredient carries its own odyssey, Little Wolf. Each leaf retains the memory of whence it originated, what it confronted, how it endured. When you prepare tea with care, with respect, with patience, you are not merely commingling flavours. You are honouring every narrative that preceded."
Azra'il fell silent, staring at the amber liquid within her hands.
"You could have explained this beforehand. Upon the first day. It would have spared me a great deal of complaining."
"Indeed." He shrugged, a movement that rendered his crooked tunic yet more crooked. "However, you would not have understood. Certain truths must be experienced before they can be heard. Had I uttered 'patience is the root of power' upon your first day, you would have agreed politely and forgotten the matter before supper."
"I am not so—"
"You attempted to strike an instructor within your first week because he remarked your posture was erroneous."
"...His posture was also erroneous."
"It was. Yet that is beside the point." He leaned forward, and his voice surrendered its provocative tone. "Cultivation is not merely the accumulation of power, Little Wolf. Any imbecile with sufficient talent can accomplish that. It is regarding the worthiness of the power you carry. Regarding permitting each challenge to transform you rather than merely fortifying you."
He touched his own chest, over his heart.
"Your Qi is not merely energy. It is memory. It is every battle you have survived, every fear you have confronted, every night you considered surrender and elected to proceed." His green eyes encountered her azure ones. "When you finally attain the higher realms, and you shall attain them, for you are far too stubborn to do otherwise, your power shall possess a history. It shall possess weight. And any who cross your path shall discern the discrepancy between yourself and those who merely mastered elegant forms."
Azra'il partook of another sip, her eyes adrift.
"You planned this all, did you not? Each mission. Each task which appeared random. It all possessed intent."
"'Planned' is a strong term. 'Improvising with style' would be more accurate."
"Master."
"Very well. Yes. I planned it." He smiled, and the smile transformed his entire face; it softened the lines, ignited something within his eyes. "You honestly believed I would despatch my singular disciple into a cavern of Manticores without the certainty that she would return?"
Singular disciple. I stored the words in that place wherein one deposits all that signifies.
"You knew I would succeed," Azra'il spoke. It was no question.
"I knew you were capable of success. What you did with that capability remained your choice." He reached out and ruffled the hair between her ears, a gesture so natural, so practised, it was evident this was not the inaugural occasion. "You chose wisely. As ever."
"Master!" She endeavoured to dodge, yet her protest lacked genuine conviction. "I am not a child."
"You are fifteen years of age."
"That is virtually adult!"
"Keep repeating that sentiment. One day, you might even believe it." He ruffled it once more before withdrawing. "Finish your tea now. Labour awaits."
Azra'il grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'impossible old man', yet she obeyed, sipping in slow measures.
And thereafter, near as an afterthought:
"...It is, indeed, rather fine. The tea."
"I am aware."
"You are infuriatingly arrogant regarding the matter."
"I am aware of that, too. Yet I am arrogant and I produce superior tea. That redeems at least sixty percent of my failings."
"Sixty? Last week it was fifty."
"Inflation affects even moral redemption, Little Wolf."
Azra'il scoffed, yet it was a scoff which concealed laughter, the sort that escapes when one is reluctant to provide satisfaction, yet proves unable to desist.
And then she smiled.
Not the razor-edged smile I had known. Not the calculated one. A genuine smile. Small. Near-bashful. The sort of smile children offer when they feel secure, when they dwell with one they cherish, when the world appears, if only for a heartbeat, as a place wherein it is worth remaining.
They finished their tea in a comfortable silence, the sort that resides solely amongst those who require no speech to substantiate their devotion. Faruk cleansed the instruments with the identical ritualistic care with which he had employed them. Azra'il assisted without request, her motions mirroring his with the familiarity of one who had performed this many times heretofore.
And the teapot, that teapot I recognised from Runeterra, the identical one my daughter transported across lifetimes like one transporting a reliquary, rested upon the table, cleansed, simple, harbouring within it the weight of all I had but now discerned.
Each time my daughter prepared tea with that care which seemed at odds with her customary scepticism. The patience, the reverence, the vigilance regarding the temperature and the timing; she was here. Within this terrace. With this man. Transforming longing into savour. Loss into ritual. Reliving this moment. Preserving this man alive in a manner Death could not erase. Within the heat of the water. Within the aroma of the leaves. Within the silence betwixt one sip and the next.
It was the most sorrowful and the most exquisite thing I had ever discovered concerning my daughter.
The memory commenced to dissipate; colours dissolving, sounds drifting to the periphery, like a dream that recognises its conclusion. Yet, ere it vanished, a final image.
Faruk standing upon the pavilion veranda, gazing upon the improbable mountains. And Azra'il stationed at his side. Ears relaxed. Tail swaying languidly.
They spoke naught. They required naught. They merely dwelled together. Sharing the silence and the prospect and the heartbeat.
And I discerned that this was what she treasured. Not the techniques. Not the lessons in wisdom. Not the power.
The sensation of not being solitary.
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💬 Author's Note
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Sometimes, it may seem like Azra'il's life is nothing but pain, loss, and an emotional history that definitely doesn't fit into any conventional therapy.
But that's not all there is.
She has lived a long time. Too many lives.
And in the middle of all that… there were also good moments. Simple ones. Happy ones.
Moments that didn't involve battles or grand decisions. Just… presence. Company. Peace.
This chapter is one of those moments.
Faruk wasn't just a master. He was one of the first true bonds Azra'il formed with someone mortal. Not out of necessity. Not out of interest. Just because… it happened.
And for someone like her, that means more than any technique or power.
And the tea…
The tea was how that moment refused to fade.
Because Azra'il may forget faces, names, or even entire worlds.
But she doesn't forget sensations.
And every time she prepares tea, slowly, carefully, respecting the time it takes…
she is returning to that courtyard.
To that silence.
To that man.
It's a memory she chose to carry with her.
No matter the world, the body, or the life.
Because among everything she has lost…
this is one of the things she chose to keep.