#marshall adanna

[talesofmetalandmagic]

“There’s more of them everyday, my Emperor”

Marshall Adanna and Azir watch from atop the railings, walking side by side in the warmth of the morrow as refugees and nomads pour into the walls of the old Capital.

"Soon we'll not know where to put them"

"Is this a challenge?" he asks, half-joking. She steps back, as she doesn't know how to respond. Following orders is easy, as is bringing in commands, but chatting with a God is a whole another deal.

"I s'pose."

"And I shall respond and win. We'll tear down the walled up rooms, build makeshifts shelters in the gardens... even the old temples will host beds and cots"

"Not the temples..." Adanna exhales, but Azir's hand meets her shoulder. "The old Gods won't be upset at having to host their people in need. Or may they worth crumble like a house built on sand."

He's always been... peculiar, Adanna thinks. Even in a more humble disposition, he never does anything halfway.

“A lot of them are ill. Xerath rampages through the lands with a new trick every day." And am I most glad I'm not there to be tested upon. "They burn in fever. Many are children.”

And it’s as if someone had just shot Azir with an arrow to the back.

“Ch… children?”

“Yes, resplendent one. Children. Many of them parentless. The youngest I've seen was a few months at best." Azir holds onto the railing so tightly the stone crumbles in his mighty hold, and Adanna looks at his shrouded face as if to peer through his skull. "Does this upset you?"

A harsh moment of silence follows. Then he lets go of the railing, wipes his hands on his skirt and pulls up his cowl.

"Where are they?"

Azir, as an Emperor, has done many unprecedented things.

He's Ascended without being deemed as worthy by the proper authorities. He's passed reforms to require the conquered slaves with three square meals a day, fine and imprison anyone who used torture and corporal punishment, forbid the removal of names – at least in private – and provide children with compulsory education.

Which [let it be clear as day] still wasn't enough because it was not freedom. It was unprecedented but not quite enough.

And, as deserved payback, he's been unprecedentedly taken prisoner after Ascension, taken down a peg, humiliated, humbled and destitute in anything but title.

Made aware of the weight of his mistakes and driven to listen and learn in a way his lofty predecessors couldn't possibly fathom, he follows on the road of unprecedented behavior by caring first-hand for the poor people in need.

Not just empty charity or speeches of platitude. He's there, among the commoners, dressed in a practical tunic and with no jewels except his coronet.

The more stern imperialists remain aghast as he walks into the tents, speaking to each of the people present, braving the stench of disease and the uneasy crowd – until at last, greeted by the half-awake gaggle of sick children, does he sit.

"Ny name is Azir", he says. "Now each one of you will tell me yours."

To one child, he tells glorious legends of battle. To another he sings a gentle song about home, remembrance and family. To a small child, he produces the same pigeon noises his Imani loved so. Their laughter is as sweet.

He sings again later that evening, armed with a precious lute procured by Sivir. And the following e evening the lutes are two, as Nasus has joined him. He's not a fan of playing in public, but it's less embarrassing when there's two of them.

Not everything he does relates to children, and is even that adorable. He cares for the wounded tirelessly, gently. Washing festered wounds, popping and washing blisters, damping foreheads and faces, emptying chamber pots. After a few days, his cream cloak gets so stained in blood, fluids and medicines he ditches it, even though it's a comfort outfit for his sore body, and the removal of his shawl – necessary to see and be seen – was already enough to make him feel more bare.

Sometimes they fall asleep and never wake up, even children who could barely speak. And there he is: covering the bodies, cuddling them as if they could feel him, preparing them for their final ritual – every minute Shuriman culture has their own tradition for burial, some burn their dead, some bury them, some let them sink into the waters of life, and he needs notes to remember them all, written in a small notebook he carries on his belt – and most of all holding onto the grieving dear ones, comforting them in his warm feathered embraces.

And he has good reasons to relate.

"My poor child... there, there. You won't be lost. I lost my mama too in my youth, you know?" "Amhina? My sister was called that too. I'm so sorry, dearest young one." "My own son loved senet as well. I too still keep the pieces. I can have it made into a necklace, if it helps grieve.”

And even...

"Was he your father, dearest?" "No. He was my uncle, but he was like a father to me." "I have one too. They're the most precious".

When children die it's the most painful. He makes it a point to bury and burn them with their toys whenever possible, hugging their small bodies as if they could feel his warmth. When it comes to him that grieving parents like him need community to heal, he organizes a space to talk about loss and discuss it. He pays a local troupe of jesters that came into his gates to entertain the children in his stead. Sells some of the prized jewels to foreign buyers to sustain them. Organizes tours to the sea for the children who've never seen it.

And in all that, he still finds scraps of time to make Nasus his evening tisane, pay his weekly visits to Renekton and care for Hathor.

I order you to rest, he tells his Curator. Don't talk back to me. I'll make sure you don't carry too much.

Being a black pot is also very Azir.

Not everybody appreciates his effort. The most disappointed in him are those who, back in the day, would have bled for imperial grace.

"An Emperor touching such foul things... he's defaced"

"I've seen him wipe vomit yesterday. Has Azir forgotten himself?"

"What kind of a God is he?"

"He's no savior"

And the worst of them all. "We should have listened to the Magus Ascended!"

Azir can hear those whispers as clear as day. They gnaw at his mind like the maggots that once infested him, and the more he tries to focus on work to keep it out, the more it bites him.

You're not the Emperor anymore, someone says. A voice metallic, stern, poised.

And he totters to think about it. His crown is a coronet of quartz and stone, more fit for a modest trader in an elegant occasion than for the Ruler of All. He hasn't sat on a throne for the Sun Disc knows when. People don't bow to him when he steps into the room, and the ceremonial speak is never heard except in plays. When he rips his skirt during his trots he sows it himself. When a grieving parent, whom he was to carry put of a room to so their cries wouldn't frighten the children, slaps him in the face in a fit of anger, their hand doesn't fall from their wrist.

And he brews tea.

Perhaps I should... no, I can't. I'll return to the throne once it's done and rule as required. I cannot do this. Not in my father's home.