Omen 6.8

2001, December 21: Washington, DC

I let out an annoyed sigh as I made the four dragonfly drones do loop-the-loops in the air, one after the other. The lead and the third split off from the second and fourth so they could fly in spirals that sent light trails through the air. Each drone was the size of my hand and were the same gray and cobalt-blue of my costume. They had been rigged with LED lights for the minor display.

They were the only reason I agreed to this bit of PR. I could test my drones in the city, the kids could have something to go gawk at, parents could pretend they enjoyed holiday shopping, and Powell could get me to sign the toy shields.

'At least the pads were a joke,' I grumbled in my head. I thought so, but with Armsmaster's logo on the queen's crotch, I didn't want to make assumptions I scribbled something onto a toy shield and gave some kid a fist bump before his mom waved him along.

"Someone's popular," Gold Rush said, nudging me with her foot. We had a brief lull in the lines as Frosty the Snowman ambled by.

"Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn't have kicked Stage Crew's asses that hard," I muttered under my breath, making sure to not be overheard.

"I'm surprised you got to avoid this for so long honestly."

"I had more important things to do. Even today's more of a favor to Powell than anything."

"You tinkers have it good," she pouted. "If any of us pulled something like that, we'd be on nothing but PR and volunteer work to try and clean up our image."

"We do. It doesn't hurt that I really did need to build more Worldstones." That was my excuse and I was sticking to it.

Brickhouse tapped us both on the shoulder. "Look alive. We've got more people. Oh, and good job with the multitasking. I didn't know you could move your drones like that."

"They're mostly interfaced with my armor," I shrugged, the fib coming out easy. My eyes were directly connected to my optic nerve and there were entire runic matrices carved into the surface to make information processing easier. Intent-based runes were awesome. Up above, one of the drones stuttered a bit because I got it confused with another for a second. "Still need a bit more practice."

Off a ways, Verdeer was rocking the single most ridiculous Rudolph the Reindeer costume I'd ever seen, glowing LED nose and all. He at least didn't seem to mind letting kids hang off his antlers. Next to him, even Whiteout was out and about today, signing some movie case or other that was the Earth-Bet equivalent of Die Hard, or the third installment of it, where he got to have a small cameo.

We Wards were alone. The original event was meant to be a Protectorate-Wards cooperation thing, but Powell decided last minute that we would be on our own because Eugene headed off on a tour of the major departments alongside the other Founders. PR must have figured that not having our glorious leader would look too awkward.

I for one was glad for it. From what I heard, David, Eugene, Rebecca, and Keith were also taking the chance to catch up, something they didn't get nearly enough chances to do.

All told, the winter holidays were proving to be a peaceful season.

X

I'd begged off movie night with the Phoenix Wards. Today was the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. Just because the Tear of the Goddess was embedded into Winter's Approach didn't mean I stopped charging it. If anything, it required more mana than ever, like a cocoon getting ready to metamorphose into a butterfly. It was only thanks to my increased connection to the World Rune and the second Keystone that I had the mana to burn like this.

Technically speaking, Winter's Approach would gather enough mana and "evolve" for lack of a better word into Fimbulwinter, or Fimbulvetr if you were feeling particularly Nordic. All that was required was that I wear it often, imprinting my memories and experiences onto it along with my magic similar to how Avarosa's bow seemed to have a mind of its own. The main reason I was in such a rush was because I wanted that change to come during the winter solstice.

I didn't need a formalized ritual or anything, but I felt that it was a good chance to try something on my end. So far, the Kindred and the Mask Mother were all creatures whose impressions bled through into my soul. With each meeting, I could feel their experiences and powers imprinting onto the Mask.

I didn't really get a say in our meetings once I decided to make the Mask. Now, I wanted to use the opportunity to contact another powerful spirit-god, to seek her blessing.

Anivia, the Cryophoenix. Frostbringer. The Undying Eagle.

She wasn't just some magic turkey with ice powers. For Freljordians, she was the goddess who embodied the concepts of life, death, and rebirth, the endless changing of the seasons, and the all-consuming winter that their region was so known for. She was the Frostbringer, but also the one who ushered in a new spring. Though she was not the eldest of the Firstborn, it could be said that she more than any of her siblings embodied the Freljord itself.

She was their goddess of hope, for she was the one who nurtured humanity when the first tribes found themselves in the northern wastes.

She was also the creator of True Ice, the very power I'd been so indulging in thus far. I made a few hundred pounds of the stuff by now. Anivia? She made glaciers at will.

I didn't need to, but it felt only right to call on her on the winter solstice. Surely if the Mask Mother's influence could bleed through, then the most benevolent of all the Firstborn wouldn't deny me a conversation?

With that thought, I stepped out into the rooftop of the main facility in Babylon. December in Ukraine was a bitter, miserable thing. The people who dwelled here, both Peter Pan's host and the human tribes who were migrated from other worlds, had long since sheltered in the homes we'd constructed for them. By now, the Garden of Babylon was entirely overseen by three Guardian robots and countless Wrenchbots, hardened against the frigid air.

Tonight was a clear night, with the moon and stars out in full and not a single light on earth to pollute the view. It had snowed for days prior and my feet made satisfying crunching noises against the rooftop.

The ritual, if it could be called that, was one I'd been working on ever since I first touched the Mask and realized what was happening. My insight into our connection grew with every member of the Kindred I met until I finally felt ready to attempt to replicate it.

To start, I required a medium. The unfinished Mask was enough to act as the bridge. Here, my own armor, constructed with True Ice, would play the same role.

Second, I needed the right environment, to set the stage for lack of a better comparison. The winter solstice in a heavily magical forest of my own creation? That'd suffice.

I sat cross-legged on the roof in three inches of snow and began to meditate.

I'd been doing this for so long that it only took me a moment to sink into a focused trance. Inside, the mana surged up to greet me like an old friend and my body was filled with the warmth of a comforting fire despite the winter chill.

There were dozens of tribes in the Freljord, and hundreds more that either died out or moved southward to warmer pastures over the millennia. Everyone knew the big three: Avarosa, Winter's Claw, and the Frostguard. Most weren't like that. Lesser tribes tended to be tight-knit family units comprised of a single warmother and perhaps up to her second or third cousins. Every last one of them had their own traditions and rituals in the same way that not every Native American tribe told stories about the rainbow crow or the wendigo.

But there were some commonalities. Some stories were universal. After all, to them, the spirit-gods were not simply characters from fables to be passed down, but tangible entities who shaped the world around them. Their influence could be seen in every spell and potion, every shard of True Ice. There was a bridge over the Howling Abyss that stood testament to their existence. It wouldn't do to forget their tales.

Most tribes sang and danced, beating out deep, undulating rhythms on one-sided drums made of walrus bladder or drüvask or elnük hides as the elder or shaman of the tribe told tales of their gods. Some included medicinal herbs and incense, others did not; it depended on where the tribes lived and how common they were. For one and all, these ceremonial gatherings around the fire were sacred, a blend of community, religion, and oral history that escaped modern definition.

I had no one to beat a drum for me, nor would anyone hear tales of Anivia here. I could have made some incense, but I wanted my mind clear for this. The humans here called me the god of the harvest, but it was a title I emphatically rejected. Nor would I dare claim godhood before Anivia. Perhaps someday, I would have the right to greet her as an Aspect, but I sure as hell wasn't her equal now.

So, I made do and stood, flowing into a dance of my own making. It was nothing like my normal moving meditations and certainly nothing like the rapid exchange of blows between Armsmaster and I.

This dance was more rugged, meant to be performed by people who'd never considered a formal tradition in the arts. Each footstep of mine stomped into the rooftop, packing snow into ice and generating a ripple of frozen spikes around my feet. I'd have likened it to a wartime march, but it lacked the rigidity of military discipline.

And yet, despite the unrefined nature of it, or perhaps because it was so wild and raw, I found myself losing control. I felt the winds pick up, blowing through the Petricite trees all around the facility. They started to howl and whistle, as though providing me with accompaniment.

The mana stirred from within, reinforcing more than my body. Ribbons of icy energy flowed from my fingertips as I clawed and punched the air. I found myself mystified even as I used my whole body to weave the spell. After a certain point, I couldn't tell if I was weaving the spell or if the spell had taken me over.

I stopped when I felt the first snow land on my hand. Then two. Then a descending flurry as mana coalesced and rose into the sky. I stood on that rooftop, breathing heavily despite my enhanced stamina, and waited.

And then there was silence. Somewhere in the middle, the wind had died and I failed to notice.

Then I felt it. Her presence was a paradox, massive yet fleeting, frigid yet warm, judging yet compassionate. She was here, yet not. It only took me a moment to realize that like with the aspects of death, she was a mere avatar of herself, a pale reflection of who she truly was.

I looked up and met violet eyes like gemstones, a single amethyst orb larger than this entire facility. It was said her wings could stretch past the horizon. Even as barely more than an illusion, it was a breathtaking sight. Every flight feather could dwarf a Petricite tree. Her beak and talons were easily hundreds of feet long.

I swore to myself then that one day, I'd travel to Runeterra and meet the real deal. I'd seek out all the Firstborn and earn their acknowledgement. The thought filled me with an electric thrill.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Anivia," I breathed, the name misting into the night sky.

"I am, fledgling. And called to such a foreign land, too," she mused. Her voice made the very air tremble, as though the winds feared to move without their mistress' leave. Despite the obvious power in her voice, it was almost caressing in its tenderness. Of all her siblings, she had always been the kindest to mortals.

By this time, I had seen several members of the Kindred, those who bore the Mask Mother's gift and acted as agents of death on Runeterra. They were, all without fail, so much younger than this Firstborn.

The aspects of death, each mask, was crafted in regard to a legend. So great did Elise's presence loom over Noxus that the Soulspinner came to be. So great was the legend of the Kinkou and their philosophy of balance that the First Wave and Last Wind came to be. By that token, these aspects of death were no older than the civilizations whose legends they embodied. Mighty? Yes. Dangerous? Without question. But oh so young in the grand scheme of things.

Anivia was different. She was there with her siblings at the dawn of the world, born alongside the first winter. It was her wings that sheltered the first tribes from the winter winds. She was the one who guided them to the few habitable sanctuaries in the Freljord, oases among a desert of barren ice.

Her presence felt heavy, ancient in ways I could scarce imagine. There was experience in her amethyst eyes, the kind that could not be bridged by power alone. Only the Mask Mother compared in the sheer worldliness she exuded.

"Have you no words for me now that I am here, fledgling?" the great eagle asked, mildly chiding.

I had a speech ready and memorized. I had a list of requests and things I wanted to bargain with. Words fled my mind and I spat out the first thing that I could think of. "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"Actually, I came first," she cooed. It was delightful to hear, something halfway between a laugh and a chirp.

I stood there, feeling like a fucking idiot. I'd laugh at the meme when I wasn't so close to pissing myself. Still, the joke helped me catch my breath and center myself. "Is… Is it true that you burned your brother's house down?"

She… squawked with surprise and annoyance. "I did no such thing!"

"Didn't you tickle Ornn's nose when he was sleeping?"

"Well, it was certainly not I who set fire to that ball of kindling he called a house. And if he did not wish for a sister's vengeance, perhaps he should not have cut down my favorite perching tree."

Regaining a bit of courage, I smiled wryly. "A house that runs the length of three valleys is kindling, she says... Of course. It was just karmic justice."

"Quite. He is not to hear of this. He's still so very proud of Horn-Hall. Oh, he won't say it, saying how pride ruined his work, but what is stubbornness if not pride of a sort?"

The two of us shared a conspiratorial smirk. Amusingly enough, that great blaze was also how Anivia made the first snow, or so went the Freljordian fable. Of the many tales about the Firstborn, that was among my favorites. Their sibling squabbles made them seem so… human.

"Anivia, are you real?"

"I am as real as the winter, as true as the newfallen snow."

"I mean... here. You're the guardian of the Freljord and this is… not the Freljord."

"But it is winter, is it not? It was you who called to me on this longest night." A single, massive wing reached out and touched the crystal embedded into my chestplate. That lightest brush nearly stopped my heart, such was the cold. A reminder. A gentle rebuke. "And with such a powerful artifact to anchor my presence here. True Ice is mine, fledgling. It will not melt so long as I live. It has not melted, thus I must be real."

I nodded and chose to ignore that bit of circular reasoning. "And that connection was enough to draw you to me."

"No. That connection and your lovely little dance was enough to draw me to you," she spoke, every word the part of some great melody only she could hear. "So here I am, fledgling. You have called and I have answered. What is it you seek?"

"Power," I said, bolder now. That initial blaze of awe hadn't gone away, but it had simmered a little before her motherly friendliness. "I want power. I want your blessing."

"You demand much."

"I demand nothing that has not been granted before. You led the first tribes to sanctuary. You granted Avarosa her bow. You protected Ulla Shatter-Spear for a hundred winters until age caught up to her and she finally chose to die in combat, old and storied. Of all your siblings, you've always been a friend to humanity."

"I did all those things. The Three Sisters gave me a grand treasure in turn, a united Freljord, whole and strong. And yet, even their legacy fractured and fell away. Tell me, fledgling, why do you seek power?"

"I want what Avarosa wanted. I want to protect my people. It just so happens that 'my people' is a lot bigger than a tribe or dozen."

"You seek to do what she could not. Many have promised to be different. Many a great warmother has pledged to unite the Freljord, only to fall short, by choice or circumstance."

'What makes you any different?' I heard the unspoken query. This wasn't going as well as I'd expected. Truth be told, I'd been naïve to think she'd just give me what I wanted. Benevolent or no, she was a millennia-old goddess who had likely forgotten more than I'd ever learn.

I wracked my mind for an answer, anything to earn her blessing. Winter's Approach could be turned into Fimbulwinter without her, but it'd be lesser for it. Now, when the armor was being enchanted anew, was the best time to add a spark of divinity to the mix.

I did the only thing I could think of. Slowly, I pulled the Ymelo from the air beside me and offered it to her. "I'm different," I said firmly. "I don't seek your power for my own gain. There is a threat I cannot overcome on my own, a threat that will consume this world and so many others should I fail."

"A repository of memories."

"See for yourself, then judge me."

"My, aren't you a bold fledgling," she spoke with a knowing smile. The wind stirred the gently falling snow into spirals around the Ymelo. As though on invisible hands, it rose into the air until it floated at eye-level with the great eagle. "It's well crafted. Perhaps my brother could say more, but such creations have never held my interest. Still, I can see that he would have been delighted to call you Hearthblood."

"Thank you, Anivia," I said respectfully. The Hearthblood were disciples of Ornn who traveled from all across Runeterra to learn from the god of the forge. They dedicated themselves to bettering their craft, until they were one day caught between Ornn and Valhir. Knowing that Ornn himself would have respected my craft was both humbling and uplifting.

The Ymelo burst into azure flames as Anivia began to delve within the memory bank. The winds stilled and the snow died down as she saw through my eyes. She saw how I arrived, how I came to possess the World Rune, and how I became a killer at the tender age of eight. She saw Cauldron in all its successes and failures, Scion in his apathetic altruism, and the Mask Mother's influence on me.

I stood there for what seemed like hours, heart pounding in my chest. This was quite literally divine judgment, one I volunteered for. It was a wonder I remembered to breathe.

Finally, she turned her gaze from the Ymelo. It floated down to land in my hands.

"Oh, fledgling…" Her voice was tender still, but filled with sorrow. "You bear heavy burdens."

"I do. That's why I need your power, Anivia. I don't know if I can do this on my own, but I hope I don't have to. Even if you're just an avatar of your true self… even if this world isn't Runeterra… I want your blessing over my armor. Protect me like you protected Avarosa and Ulla and Ashe. Give me the strength to inspire hope."

"A brave soul in one so young… You seek the protection I granted to Ulla Shatter-Spear so that is what you shall have. So long as you remain true, fear not the winter night, for the snow and winds shall ever be your friends." So saying, she reached down and touched my armor again.

That was the trigger. Mana colder anything I'd ever felt before flooded Winter's Approach. I could feel my blood chill from my proximity to her magic. Had I not been Iceborn or had she been crueler, I knew my very blood would have frozen into jagged barbs, rending every vein and artery in my body. Even prepared as I was, the cold raced through my body, leaving behind electric numbness that made breathing difficult.

Then the twin orbs of True Ice in my skull reacted with Anivia's mana and my world became pain.

True Ice was dangerous. It could kill a normal man on contact. Different Iceborn had varying degrees of resistance to the substance, with the likes of Ashe and Sejuani capable of wielding True Ice weapons with barely a grimace. It was only the combination of Glacial Augment and the elixir crafted using the Veraza azaleas in Babylon that kept my body from thoroughly rejecting the enchanted eyes.

Anivia's mana completely overrode both protections. For a moment, my vision was consumed by hallucinations of what seemed like every winter there had ever been since the dawn of the Freljord. In that moment, I saw every snowstorm, the formation of every glacier and snowbank. I felt every clattering teeth and every pang of starvation.

For a moment that stretched out into an eternity, I got to experience both the breathtaking majesty and raw terror of the Freljord.

There was something else amidst that pain, a spark of potential. It was the memories of my own experiences. I relived them all, from the very first shard of True Ice I'd crafted back in Phoenix to every practice session and sparring match against Armsmaster to the way I'd steamrolled through Stage Crew. It was as though the memories of my interactions with Winter's Approach was locked in the ice itself.

They became my anchor in the storm, keeping me grounded as the weight of Anivia's magic, her own memories, threatened to strip away my very identity. The clarity they offered gave me the chance to push back against the goddess' presence. Inspiration flared and I heard the great eagle let out an impressed hum. As I pushed back, I felt her concede and withdraw her will, handing me the reins of the magic that swirled inside of me.

Her frost was slowly subsumed by the World Rune before being shoved outward towards my armor, enacting the changes I envisioned. I could feel the armor molding into a new shape around me even as I fell to my hands and knees.

Eventually, the pain faded and I looked myself over. Fimbulwinter looked nothing like the armor I remembered from the game. That armor was impractical at best, meant for a towering raider and designed to intimidate. That armor had jagged spikes of True Ice that sprouted from its pauldrons and a helmet with honest to god bull horns like the historically inaccurate Vikings in popular media. This was not that.

My new armor kept to the same thematic colors of black, gray, and cobalt-blue but that was where the similarities ended. It was lean, with a complex matrix of blue scales making up the base layer. Overlapping plates of matte-gray covered my chest, left shoulder, forearms, and shins. If I didn't trust the quality of my work or the blessing of a Firstborn, I'd have had concerns about leaving so much of my body covered in only scale.

The chestplate still held a shard of True Ice, but I'd removed the long spikes on my pauldrons. The last thing I needed was some idiot impaling himself on my shoulder and dying because his blood got frozen over via magic icicle. The right pauldron was much smaller than the left, leaving a gap meant to house the mass accelerator and dragonfly familiars.

Over it all, I had a form-fitting white cloak with a large hood I could drape over my head. The sleeves, hem, and hood were trimmed with black fur that seemed to amplify the shadows. I'd made it with expectations of one day wearing the Mask. Mask on and hood pulled up, I wanted to look like the fucking grim reaper. The back of my cloak displayed my personal sigil, a stylized drawing of the thirteen scutes of a turtle.

Hoarfrost clung to the armor and so potent was the ice magic locked inside that I couldn't will it to thaw. Tiny icicles dripped from my pauldrons, hands, and the hem of my cloak.

"Holy hell, that hurt," I groaned.

"You are a gifted Iceborn. Be proud. Being in such proximity to my magic would have killed most."

"Ugh, well, I don't feel particularly gifted now."

"Pain is how you know you are alive," Anivia clucked chidingly, "Or that is what my brother likes to say."

I swallowed to keep myself from saying some less-than-charitable things about the storm god. "What exactly did you give me?" I asked. "I could feel your magic. I saw how the armor changed to fit my image, but the enchantments themselves…"

"I told you, the snow and winds shall ever be your friends. Call on them and neither flame nor steel will reach you."

I remembered the tales. Once, a southern king claimed he would conquer the Freljord. He paid no heed to the traditions of the tribes. He disregarded the warnings of shamans. In his arrogance, he believed he could hold the Freljord. Worse, he believed he could shackle the wild magics of the land for himself. It was the first and last time a mortal so brazenly challenged Anivia.

Anivia sent a storm to freeze him in his tracks. The cold made hardened steel more brittle than glass and the winds shattered the king's army to unrecognizable pieces. So enraged was the great eagle that she did not let the storm die for a century and a day. The tribes still called the place the Scouring Plain and icy rocks could still be found dotted throughout, the last remnants of that army.

"Anivia… I can't use that kind of power. I'd kill everyone around me indiscriminately."

"Then you'd better start practicing. Your armor contains a taste of my experiences. Make them your own."

"Is… Is it even possible to control that?"

"I do. All the time," she chirped out a laugh.

"You're a goddess."

"And you're not so far off. Is the World Rune a mere trinket that you underestimate it so? Perhaps it's time you start to truly utilize the immense magic that dwells within you."

"I… Yeah, that's…"

"I look forward to seeing you take flight, fledgling. When you have your wings, perhaps you can visit me next time."

And with that, she was gone.

I sat there in the snow, breath ragged and feeling like I went a few rounds with Rebecca.

"Well… that could have gone worse."

Author's Note

At sea level, the horizon is three miles away, giving Anivia a wingspan of over six miles. She's a big bird. Hopefully I gave her the respect she's due. The Firstborn are some of my favorite characters in League.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.