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Mel had always slept lightly. Nowadays it took only the slight creak of the inner door to stir her body from sleep, and by the time the sound of bare feet on stone floor had crossed to her bed, she would be at the edge, arms outspread to offer a hug.
“Mama?”
“I’m here sweetling, I’ve got you.”
Mel didn’t open her eyes as she felt the mattress dip under Aziza’s weight. She just waited for the press of that small yet sturdy body as it burrowed into the warm nest of pillows, bedclothes and Mama’s arms. Sure enough, Aziza tucked herself against Mel, leaving her to curl around her daughter.
At four-going-on-five Aziza was too big for Mel to wholly wrap up, the way she so often did when her daughter had been born. Still, Mel did her best to bind as much of herself around the little form, resting her chin and cheek against Aziza’s curls.
“It’s okay, Mommy’s here, I got you - “
Mel hummed an old lullaby as she rubbed her daughter’s back. Aziza didn’t reply, shaking with repressed sobs instead. Mel no longer tried to coax her into letting go, crying away her fear. Despite her efforts, too much Noxus had gotten into Aziza, and her daughter viewed tears as a weakness she’d long outgrown. So instead Mel pretended not to notice how Aziza shivered within her embrace, or how the front of her nightgown was growing damper where her daughter had hidden her face.
She didn’t bother asking what had driven Aziza from her bed. She’d asked, once, what her nightmare had been, and she’d been unable to sleep for days.
Dolls. Hands. A man with two faces trying to grab me.
Slowly, Aziza settled herself. Her breath grew regular, her form quiet. Still, Mel kept rubbing Aziza’s back, waiting for the racing heartbeat beneath her palm to slow.
It was still at a rabbit-quick pace when Aziza pulled away. Mel loosened her arms but didn’t let go.
“My head hurts.” Aziza grumbled. “Can we get a glass of water?”
Mel smiled but her heart ached. “Even better, let’s make some hot chocolate.”
Aziza slid out of bed first, one little hand still wrapped around two of Mel’s fingers. Mel followed, stopping only to grab dressing gowns for herself and Aziza, one more step in the post-nightmare routine both knew by heart.
Aziza hummed to herself as they walked to the kitchen, trying to time her steps to the beat of her composition - pat-pat-pat-STAMP pat-pat-pat-STAMP, under a light, lively melody. No doubt tomorrow Mel would get Aziza for breakfast only to find her still in her nightgown, hair and teeth unbrushed, sitting at her upright plinking out the song she was now turning over in her mouth. Dragging Aziza away from her instruments to more mundane concerns like baths and meals was a never-ending battle, but Mel couldn’t fight the sense of pride beneath the exasperation whenever she saw her daughter working at her music. Her mother had never discouraged her from painting, but she’d never cared for how Mel preferred it to more martial pursuits.
Mel blinked hard, swallowed the lump in her throat, pulled her mind from the thought. The past only has value in that it informs our present, Jago had told her soon after she’d arrived in Piltover. Learn what you can then think no more on it. Brooding over old wrongs like a drunkard over his empty cup will no more undo them than it will refill that cup.
Jago, dead for over two decades. Her father - her real father, the one who had raised and loved her - dead. Her brother, dead, her mother -
She rubbed Aziza’s knuckles. Not for the first time she wondered if that was why, in spite of every logical objection, she’d kept her daughter. The selfish, careless need to perpetuate her family’s legacy, to believe she was not the last of the Medardas.
The two guards at the kitchen door saluted as the pair turned the corner and came into view. The Rokrund kitchens never went unguarded - not in her childhood, and not now with Noxus still roiling under the new Trifarix. The one on the right sprang to unlock the door when they drew near.
“Good evening m’lady,” He said, opening the door for them. “Tsh’var and the visitor came down a bit earlier for a midnight snack as well. I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of letting them in.”
The visitor. “No, not at all. Thank you for letting me know.”
They sat at the opposite end of the kitchen, buying Mel further time to ready herself. Aziza was too preoccupied by her song to notice that their pace had slowed, or that her mother’s free hand clenched and unclenched in nervousness. He’s been here two months by now she scolded herself. You should be used to him.
And still her traitorous heart fluttered when Jayce Talis looked up from his overstuffed sandwich at the sound of approaching footsteps, freezing mid chew.
Tsh’var looked up as well, though he continued eating his equally ludicrous sandwich with complacency. He had been her mother’s chief steward, left in charge when she’d departed for Piltover. Brown, gnarled and tough as an old tree root, he and Mel had circled each warily at first, Ambessa’s memory a wall between them. But with Aziza’s birth he’d proved utterly devoted to his honorary granddaughter, and soon Mel found herself trusting the old retainer the way she had trusted Elora and Lest.
So when, one stormy night, a flash of lightning and thunder deposited a naked, raving Jayce in the inner courtyard, she assigned Tsh’var as his guard and attendant.
Jayce certainly needed both. The guardsmen, startled by his sudden appearance had not been gentle in apprehending him, and despite the lack of clothes and hammer Jayce had put up quite a fight before someone knocked him out. By then Mel had arrived, summoned by the commotion, and the sight of of him, unconscious and propped up between two men, nearly knocked her out as well. She barely managed to get out an order having him locked away in the castle’s most secure dungeon, unable to believe this was anything more than some clumsy assassination attempt.
But no, when he’d finally woken up, his body fed and clothed, his injuries tended, she’d spoken to him. And not even the best mage the Black Rose offered could have captured that precise mixture of desperation and hope in his eyes that despite her best efforts she could never forget.
“Mel - I’m sorry, I was just feeling peckish and - well Tsh’var said we could come down for a snack.” Jayce set his sandwich down, wiped his hands on his shirt. “This was my idea.”
“It’s all right,” Mel drifted to the nearby pantry. The two men had already started a blazing fire in the hearth next to them. “Would you two care for some hot chocolate as well?”
“If my lady is offering,” Tsh’var said, voice a low rumble. Jayce just nodded, suddenly unable to speak; Aziza had taken a seat at their table, across from them both.
Mel practically ran to the pantry, where she took her time finding the ingredients. For one wild moment she considered lying to Aziza, telling her they were out of cocoa or sugar so they could leave. But she steeled herself, willed her hands to take down the ingredients. Her steps grew leaden as she returned to the table, where Aziza and Tsh’var chatted. Jayce remained silent, seemingly absorbed in tearing away bits and pieces of his sandwich.
“- Master Gerold showed me an old book today.” Aziza said. “He said I can’t touch it, but he turned the pages for me. It was all goldy and big, this big.” She held her hands apart to shoulder width.
Tsh’Var smiled. “Mighty big book for a mighty little girl.”
“M’not little! I grew another inch! Mama measured me today!”
“Mm-hm,” Mel added “- you’re getting bigger every day.” Without thinking Mel brushed a kiss to the top of Aziza’s head as she set down the ingredients. From the corner of her eye she caught Jayce still staring, and sped off to the creamery before his expression completely undid her. She’d only recently allowed Aziza to meet Jayce, once he’d recovered enough of his health and wits. To her he was simply Mr. Jayce, the odd stranger who had showed up one night, an old friend of Mommy’s who would be staying with them until he was well enough to…to what? Leave back to the still-recovering Piltover? Stay here, a living ghost haunting her with her failures and regrets? Wander into the night in search of Viktor or magic or who knew what else?
Which one did she want? Which one did she fear?
Tsh’Var and Aziza were still arguing over how tall she was getting when Mel returned with the small kettle of milk. Aziza broke off to fetch a spoon for measuring and stirring, while Mel set the kettle on the table.
Mel finally risked looking at Jayce. “I’m surprised you’re already up and about. I thought the healer recommended another few weeks in bed.” She gave a significant look to the wood-and-leather crutch propped at the table besides him.
Jayce shrugged. “I was having trouble sleeping, thought a walk and a snack would help. Tsh’var did try to stop me but I told him if he didn’t let me pass I’d whack him over the head with my crutch.”
Tsh'Var snorted. “And I told him this pate of mine’s had far worse weapons crack across it, but I wasn’t letting him waste good wood and besides I was hungry myself.”
Mel felt a faint grin on her lips. Jayce may have had youth and weight on his side, but Tsh’var had survived a dozen of her family’s campaigns, and an untold number of private fights. No doubt the old soldier considered it unsporting to pummel a man still healing from a rebroken, reset leg.
Jayce rolled his eyes and leaned back. “And then I told Tsh'var that repeated head trauma explained quite a few things about him.”
“He didn’t tell me, he muttered it under his breath when he thought I couldn’t hear him and when I told him - “
Aziza returned with her favorite wooden spoon, cutting off whatever blistering riposte Tsh’var had prepared. “Mommy, can I mix?”
“Yes - “ Aziza stood up the table bench to better stir.” - but be careful sweetheart.” With Mel holding open the jars and Aziza using her fingers and spoon, mother and daughter added sugar, chocolate and spices. “Mix, mix, mix, stir, mix, mix, mix!” Aziza warbled, to the tune she’d composed on their way down. “Mixy, mixy, milky, stir, mix, mix, mix - Mommy you’re squishing me!”
“Sorry, sorry sweetheart,” Mel eased her hug on Aziza. “Didn’t want you to fall in the kettle.”
“I’m too big!”
“Mm, I don’t know,” Mel took an exaggerated look into the pot. “I still think we could fit you in there. Make a nice hot Aziza soup.”
“Yucky!” Aziza giggled.
“Aziza’s right,” Tsh’Var scratched his stubble, thoughtful. “Besides, don’t know if a little girl like that would make more than a mouthful of soup.”
Aziza made a face at Tsh’Var, and knocked her spoon against the kettle rim. “No cocoa for you! Only I get cocoa!” She sat down and wrapped her arms around the kettle.
“Oh, no, that’s too much cocoa for one girl!” Mel crossed to the other side of the kettle, made a show of trying to pry off her fingers one by one.
“No! All mine!” Aziza dug her fingers in tighter.
Mel manages to pull her forefinger off the kettle, breathless with laughter - then warm brown hands engulf her daughter’s.
Unnoticed by them both Jayce had slipped behind Aziza, and now helped her hold the pot, his fingers brushing Mel.
Aziza giggled again, looking up at the mountain of a man standing over her. “Hey!”
“Hey yourself,”. He smiled down at her. “You look like you needed help.”
“Nuh-uh!” Aziza shook her head.
“Yuh-huh,” His smile broke. “Your momma is a very strong lady.”
How? How could he still slip through her defenses like this?
“Hardly,” She croaked out at last. “And besides its two against one. Not exactly fair.”
“Hmm, that’s true I suppose.” He wrapped his hands around Aziza’s and Mel couldn’t miss how easily Aziza let him take them off the kettle.
“-But I think it’s time for your momma to heat up the cocoa, don’t you?”
Mel took the kettle off the table, Aziza hopping down from her bench and hurrying over to stir as it heated. As she hung the kettle over the fire she saw Tsh'var's face return to careful neutrality. When others asked about Aziza she spun a vague yet amusing anecdote of a wild night with a Noxian sailor, and left it at that - besides, Noxus took a lenient eye towards bastardy. But while Tsh'var never openly questioned, she sensed his skepticism even before Jayce's arrival. Now, seeing the two together, his keen sentry eyes couldn't miss Aziza's thick eyebrows and hazel eyes.
As for Jayce, well - Jayce was always brilliant at math.
"Slowly sweetheart, slowly," Mel murmured to Aziza, kneeling to hold her a safe distance from the fire. "You don't want to splash."
Aziza stirred accordingly, humming to herself. The three adults meanwhile held an uneasy silence. Finally, Tsh’var stood up.
“I’ll get us some mugs.”
Mel heard his retreating footsteps, and felt Jayce’s eyes boring into her back.
“You know, Aziza,” He said. “I used to make hot cocoa with my momma too.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hm. It was a lot fancier than this though. You made it with corn flour - “
“Corn!”
“Yes, made it nice and thick - you can’t taste it when you add the chocolate and sugar. Then we had a special whisk I’d mix it with, when I was your age.”
“How old are you?”
“…Thirty-six.”
“That’s old.”
“Not that old,” Jayce grumbled, and he sounded so much like Jayce from before - half-wounded pride, half-self deprecation - it tugged a giggle from Mel.
The milk had started to bubble by then, and after a few more stirs and a quick trip to a nearby cupboard for oven mitts, Mel pulled it from the fire with Aziza’s supervision. By the time she’d set the kettle back on the table, Tsh’var had returned with the cups and a ladle.
Aziza bounced with excitement as Mel poured the thick drink into her mug, though she pouted when Mel refused to fill it to the brim. With a loud smack of her lips she took her first sip, and declared it yummy.
The men were likewise sincere in their praise of Mel and Aziza’s cooking, though Mel discretely ignored when Tsh’var added something to his cup from a flask hidden in his belt. Jayce drank without seeming to taste, eyes too full of the little girl who, at four-going-on-five, had developed a gap in her two front baby teeth.
For a moment, she imagines that they are an ordinary family - a grandfather enjoying time with his granddaughter, a husband and wife basking in the warmth of the miracle they created together.
It won’t last, of course. But she’ll treasure it for now.