#tuxedo mask vc: my job here is done

[dreamedfyre-a]

dreamfyre is almost as big as vermithor thanks for coming to my ted talk

[deathdxnces]

The first thought she has is that he does not look as frightening as she remembers. Not as tall, either. The admiral is taller than she is, and clad in dark iron he cuts the impressive figure of a dangerous foe — but not as dangerous as the one who had haunted her nightmares for years, robbing her of peace at any moment of possible rest. He had always seemed insurmountably large, a shadow behind the soldiers he ordered to do his dirty work. Now he looks less a monster and more a man; a scared one at that.

She looks at him and sees the last name on her personal list; her family's murderer. What does he see when meeting her gaze? Death, Irelia would wager from his frightened looks; his near future and the fact nothing lay beyond it. The thought fills her with some sort of vicious pleasure, the delight of the hunted turned hunter.

Dig another grave and get rid of her. His voice is what she remembers more clearly, the words as clear in her mind as the day she heard them. Even that doesn't sound quite the same. He had been barking orders and threats, but there is a shake to it now, an uneasiness. He is afraid and she lingers on it, dwells longer than she ought to, savors the taste of satisfaction she will only get once. He will die afraid. It's not enough, but it is still the best form of justice she can offer to those she lost.

"I know who you are, girl," Irelia can see recognition in his gaze, and for a moment that too pleases her, before his words make clear where it stems from. "The one from the Placidium — the one who cut off Swain's arm." Of course. He has yet to realize the little girl from a small village in Navori is the same now in front of him, the same who had fought his High Command in the Placidium, the same who would now take his life. Maybe he doesn't even remember that happened, she considers, frown deepening at the thought. Why would he? It had been just a little girl, just another family killed and buried in their own gardens. How many others had he killed? How many Ionians had met their end due to the orders of this man, who didn't even have the decency to wield the blade himself?

"We don't have to be enemies — under Noxus' banner, Ionia would have the strength to defend itself from anyone — and you! You're strong, a natural leader. The empire values such talents. The Hand himself hails from one of the annexed territories. If you join us —"

"You disgust me." She understands his words (learned to, as most Ionians did, out of need); her retort is viciously spoken in her mother tongue, nonetheless, dripping with venom and bitterness. "After all this, to think I would join you?" A scoff, blue eyes as sharp as the steel she is armed with. "Pathetic."

A fluid hand motion and he reaches for his sword, though the man still does not use it. Her blades, hovering in the air between them, return to their original shape, her family crest reformed.

"You said you know who I am, but you don't, Admiral Duqal. Do you recognize that crest?" He does not reply; instead, the noxian finally leaps to action, an attempt at attacking her that is as predictable as it is simple to dance around. Irelia spins away from his edge, the careful formation of her blades undone as they flow into action. As she twirls, so do the weapons match her rhythmically, meeting their target not in her opponent's weapon but his flesh. The dancer needs not to block a blow she can easily dodge; instead her blades replicate a blow she had become famous for, the man's arm severed while he screams. At sixteen, the sight is far from unusual. She had seen enough battle that severed limbs were nothing anymore. She had cut off enough of them that even the sight of her blades wet with blood makes her feel nothing.

Well, not nothing. That isn't entirely sincere. There is an ugly satisfaction to it, dark and shameful; he is in pain, suffering, and she is the cause. This should be a grim task, but it isn't. She likes that it was her brutal blow that left him like this.

They would be ashamed of her, Irelia is certain. If they had answered his violence in kind they would still be here, a part of her retorts bitterly. But they are dead and she is not and outside thousands of people look up to her to lead them — to save them. She can't do it if not by fighting back. She wouldn't want to do it without fighting back.

Noxus deserves no mercy. That is for beings with hearts and souls and spirits. The monsters deserve nothing.

"I asked if you recognize the crest, Duqal." The inquiry is repeated sharply, the form of her blades now stained with the man's blood. His face is pale; whether from the blood loss or fear she is uncertain. The noxian replies with a shake of the head, confirming what she suspected. To her, it had been years of fear and nightmares, years of dreaming of revenge; to him, it had been nothing. Her family died because of him. How could that be nothing? How could it be so insignificant it eluded his memory entirely?

"You killed the family who bore that crest — all of them, from an elderly woman to a boy of not even four. All of them but one. The girl who stole this back from the hands of your soldiers survived. The one you would have killed for her defiance," She watches horror and realization bloom upon his face, knowing full well where this leads. "The one who will kill you now."

There is no time for a reply; a single swift motion and his throat is slit, despite a pathetic last effort to raise his arms to shield himself from her blades. For a long moment, Irelia stares at the man's fallen form, the blood pooling beneath him. She wonders if it would be enough, if this night she would not have to fight troubled sleep, if her family would rest more easily now.

It won't bring them back; the ache of grief and loss unmoved, no matter who she killed. And yet few things could have left her more satisfied. No, this would not bring them back — but it still felt good.