Well, I finally broke down and decided to try my hand at Leaguefiction. A visit to the Challenge thread found me my premise. It's a bit more serious than I'd intended it to be, but eh. Hopefully you all like it. I'm enjoying writing it so far. I'll update more as I get it written.
A tired form of communication
Sona gets sick and tired of everyone not understanding her but her summoners. So she starts doing things that catch the attention of the Crown Prince of Demacia, Jarvan IV.
The last chords, an echoing finale to Sona’s latest concert, slowly faded away. The concert hall was silent for a long moment and then a collective ‘whoosh’ of air could be heard as the audience exhaled the breaths they didn’t realize they’d been holding. As one, the listeners got to their feet and erupted into thunderous applause, whistling and showering both stage and young woman with flowers.
Sona Buvelle endured the ovation patiently, a gracious smile on her lips as she gathered her skirts into her hands and curtsied. Turning, then, she placed a slender hand on her etwahl and the beautifully-carved instrument shifted under her touch, turning as she did. The famous musician exited the stage and moved to her room backstage to gather her things.
It was a chance look upward into her mirror that caused the veneer of serenity to break. One moment she was fine-- lovingly packing her etwahl into its case. But her glance flickered upward to the mirror, and the next thing she knew, she had crumpled onto the chair in front of the vanity and was weeping, her hands shaking as she attempted to brush the tears away.
Being lonely was something she tried not to think about. She’d dismissed it as selfish years ago, back when she was still a child at the orphanage, desperately hoping to be adopted. But no one had wanted a child who was a mute. For awhile, Sona had felt sorry for herself. She remembered, though, that other people had it worse off than she did and she had learned to simply ignore the pain of rejection and the resultant loneliness that came with it.
However, every once in awhile, she just broke down like this. It was so stupid, she thought, weeping like a fool. It was never even anything significant that set these episodes off. It was just… one moment she’d be fine, and then the next she wouldn’t be fine anymore. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Sona lifted her head and peered blearily at her reflection in the mirror.
Stupid girl, she chided herself. You just gave a concert that moved the audience to tears. You have their adoration. You have a comfortable home and a warm bed to sleep in. Why isn’t that enough?
She didn’t have to answer that question because she already knew the answer. They didn’t understand her. Of course, when she was summoned to battle in the Fields of Justice, the summoners linked to her could understand her-- but they didn’t care. Just once, she wanted to have a normal conversation with someone. Talk about the weather, or the newest restaurant in Demacia, or-- something. Anything.
Finally calmed down, Sona delicately wiped at her eyes with the cuff of her dress’s sleeve and drew in a few deep breaths. It was a short trip home. She’d just go home and then spend the rest of the night curled up on her couch with a slice of pie. And extra cream. It was one of those nights.
Rising, the woman scooped up her etwahl’s case and slung the strap over her shoulder, shrugging a bit to adjust the weight distribution. When she left the concert hall, her expression was as serene as ever, save for a bit of redness around the eyes.
The sun was setting on Demacia, the sky painted a beautiful blaze of red and orange and dusky purple. Sona’s glance drifted away from the street toward the picturesque horizon as she made her way toward her house. It wasn’t until she walked headlong into someone that she realized she hadn’t been paying a bit of attention to the road. Completely startled, the young woman lost her balance and landed in a decidedly ungraceful fashion on her rear. The person she’d run into hadn’t even budged. When Sona looked up and realized that she’d barreled right into the Crown Prince of Demacia himself, she bit her lower lip.
Jarvan IV turned slowly, peering down at the fallen lady. His expression was as distant as ever, and he seemed to look through Sona for a moment before finally recognizing her. “--oh. Miss Sona.”
Her face flushed with embarrassment and shame, Sona rose, her hands frantically moving to make sure her etwahl’s case hadn’t been damaged even as her eyes met Jarvan’s. Her slender brows furrowed, she gave a bow of her head, trying to express to him that she was sorry for running into him.
Jarvan watched her for a moment longer, his expression still completely unreadable and far-off. Something in his face, in his eyes, had always bothered her. When she faced off against him in the Fields of Justice and especially when she was on his side in battle, he made her… uncomfortable. He communicated nothing. He was single-minded in his hatred for Noxus and it seemed to consume him. There was no trace of compassion or uncertainty behind his eyes-- and no fear, which made her more uncomfortable than anything else. Everyone was afraid of something, she’d always thought. But not Jarvan-- at least, not that he’d ever expressed.
For a moment just then, though, she could have sworn she saw something there under the surface. A stirring, a vague glance of a man haunted and plagued by too many days working himself to exhaustion and too many nights spent tossing and turning in sleeplessness.
And then she realized that he was just like her. Hiding everything under a façade. Sure, his mask was one of stoic righteousness while hers was one of single-minded gentleness and grace, but… they were really no different.
As Sona came out of her reverie, though, she realized that he’d already turned and was walking away. Once again frustrated by her inability to speak, she did the only thing she could. Raising her foot, Sona stomped it against the stone pavement as hard as she could. It was rather loud, and Jarvan turned, his lips tugging downward in a stern frown.
Exasperated, the woman stepped forward, her gown’s skirt rustling, and grabbed ahold of his wrist with one of her pale hands. Surprised by her own boldness, she gave the prince’s arm an insistent tug and led the thoroughly-surprised man down the street, ignoring his voiced half-protests about how he “had to get back to the palace” and “battle strategies.”