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Nyota was an idle God.
Unlike Janna, who actively assisted and interacted with her believers, Nyota preferred a more off-handed approach. Only stepping in if something piqued her interests or she was bored.
Maybe idle wasn’t a good descriptor. She kept the Fates and Histories balanced. Often swamped with keeping threads from tangling and preventing temporal collapse.
It was like this that Janna found the Spirit God, green dress flowing as she focused on three threads.
“It isn’t often the Blue Bird of the Sea graces me,” The dark-skinned God said as she plucked a book from mid-air and wrote in it. There was an immediate shift in the threads, the middle one frayed a bit as she wrote. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
Humble was an understatement, as the Fate keeper’s domain went on for miles and if transferred to the Physical realm could easily be the size of the largest continent. It didn’t look like that, with all the threads floating and books zipping around the room. There was always a fury of activity when Janna visited, the stillest things being Nyota herself and the Past and Future books. The most she ever saw those books moved were when they flipped pages.
“I heard you singing.”
“Didn’t know singing was a sin.”
“It isn’t but you don’t sing.”
The green-clad goddess hummed in agreement.
Nyota was one of the oldest, if not the oldest, Spirit God that Janna knew. When she was newly formed, she would spend much time with The Keeper, fascinated by how one Goddess managed to organise the time books and fate threads of an entire Realm. The entirety of Runeterra’s past and probable futures existed here.
‘There is no Present child, the illusion of present is just a transitionary period of the Future to the Past. The Present is so impermanent, you blink, and it’s gone.’
Nyota guided these timelines, watched the fates of citizens flash, and die in fleeting moments. She once tried to explain the connection between the threads and the books. Something about them being connected to each other, if she wanted to control the narrative of someone’s fate or time, she had to write it in their book and the corresponding thread would reflect the change. If she just wanted a unique change, she just had to affect the state of the thread.
‘Fate is what the denizens say to explain their powerlessness. All their lives are intertwined, and one decision can cause a ripple effect so strong, even I can’t stop it. Fate is nothing more than a consequence of choice. Most time, it’s another’s choice affecting their life. Fate doesn’t make a King declare war nor a child born poor.’
Sometimes Janna worried that Nyota’s lifespan had skewed her opinions.
Nyota rarely interfered. Often stating that when one lived this long, it was easier to just let things play out. Which was why her singing was so concerning.
Nyota doesn’t sing.
Not unless she was actively interfering.
“What caused you to sing?” Janna could count how many times she’s seen Nyota interfere. Brown eyes finally settled on her for the first time since she entered.
“Isn’t intriguing how one’s lost in another’s gain?”
She hated when those eyes looked at her like that; as if they were unspooling her entire lifeline.
“One action can cause one person to lose their essence and being all while another gains the world,” Nyota had released the book. Janna watched as it zipped past and joined the other books around her, “and in all of this, there’s a person unaffected. Someone who would never know that your life is dishevelled while another just began to blossom.”
“What did you do?”
“One action change so much and nothing at once. One life unended and yet another remains pristine.”
“Nyota”
“Jan'ahrem,” her true name rolled off the elder's tongue, “I have endless work to do, so leave if your visit is pointless.”
One, two, three, four.
Four walls.
No, no, no, no.
Wrong!
Three. One.
Three walls, one door.
A door that might as well be a wall. She didn’t have the key and those that did never used it because they wanted her free.
One. One.
One ceiling. One Floor.
No Window.
Three. One. One. One. Zero
The numbers that confined her. Three walls, one door that might as well be a wall, one ceiling, one floor and zero windows. One large prison.
No Room.
She was confined, in more ways than one
One.
One bed. One pail.
No room.
Days blur into night as night blurs into days. Time flows and remains stagnant simultaneously.
Months?
Weeks?
Years?
No room. No air. No Vander.
One door that might as well be a well be a wall. Things were good when the door was a wall. When the door worked as it should there was a chance that it’ll bring Enforcers. Enforcers bring their batons and pain.
Three. One
Three enforcers. One Vi.
Pain and darkness.
Disorientation.
They would beat her bloody, especially on days she misbehaved. It was as if they were waiting on her. Waiting for the chance to assert their dominance. She often left her body in those moments. It was easier when she wasn’t there.
They’ll leave soon, she’ll be in pain and another night will bleed into day.
Still.
The physical pain was better than the mental one.
Better than the mental one.
The suffocation of her very being. Painful events haunt her memory garden. Pests fed on everything till there was nothing but a wasteland of pain, scrubby weeds, and jinxes.
Jinxes, Jinxes. No Jinx, only Powder
Powder, Powder, Powder.
Was Powder safe?
She had to be. She must have gotten away from Silco. Vi wasn’t particularly religious but hope is as strong as Janna’s Gail that Powder was alive.
One.
One mistake, a Jinx. Her Powder.
No room. She can’t breathe.
Vander.
No Vander, no Powder, no room.
Why can’t she breathe?
Three. Two. Two.
Three walls. Two hands. Two Feet.
She must move or suffocate.
Onetwothreefourfivesix punches. One wall.
Vi was losing her mind. The same way she lost Vander. She lost everything.
No room. No Freedom. No Family.
No Vander.
The Fates were cruel and Nyota their heartless mistress.
Vander kept her company, pushing her most nights.He was the only reason she hadn't hurt herself most days. Lost in the mind prison of her own making. His ghost fought the painful of memories, made her open her eyes for each new day.
Reminded her what she lost. What she had to do.
She had to survive. For Powder.
One Punch. Silco
A Kick. Sevika
This couldn’t be what Fate and Time planned for her. So much loss, endless pain.
No mom, no dad, no Vander, no Mylo, no Claggor.
No Room.
Three walls, one ceiling, one floor, one bed, one pail.
One door that was a wall until it wasn’t. Until it opened to either pain or food. Sometimes it was both.
No room.
Two Prisons.
The physical one and the mental one.
She must move.
No Vander, no Mylo, no Claggor.
One mistake. No Jinxes. Only Powder.
Live for Powder, as Vander wanted.
Powder, Powder, Powder.
Today was a Good Day. The voices weren’t as loud and Silco had no meetings. It was just the two of them in his office as he read some boring reports and she took up half his table improving a design.
“Silco, why do you call me a thistle?”
“Do you not like thistles child?”
“They’re kinda ugly,” she stuck her tongue out as she coloured a particularly tiny portion of her nail bomb, “and I’m not.”
“No, you’re not,” he agreed as he read a report, with a small smile on his face, it was barely noticeable, but Jinx had learnt his small shifts.
“So why?” She hadn’t meant to sound whiny, but it made no sense. All his other endearments made sense. Child and dear were because the man lacked originality sometimes. My Little Monster was born after a particularly irate shopkeeper had stormed in ranting about Jinx’s ‘destructive tendencies.’
Thistles came out of nowhere; he had just started calling her ‘his precious thistle’.
She felt it when he finally looked at her. She always knew when she had his full attention. After all this time, she never got used to it. Having one person focus so much on her.
Only her.
The other person who placed so much attention was Ekko. When she lived with Vander and the others, attention was never only hers. There was always someone else who required it at a point. Even with Vi.
Vi, who gave Powder so much of her time, told her stories and scared off the monsters.
Vi who hated her.
Vi who was not the voice and the monster. The only one Silco couldn’t completely scare away.
You’re a Jinx! Jinx, Jinx, Jinx, Jinx.
“Jinx,” cool hands touch her cheeks as Silco swept her hair behind her ear, “focus on me.”
There’s a beat.
“My precious thistle.”
She hated him so much, “I’ll not a thistle.”
“Don’t pout, or I’ll take you shopping.”
Shopping by itself didn’t sound like a threat but it was terrifying. Shopping, in the sense that Silco meant, was stuffy uncomfortable clothes that matched his wardrobe. It meant formal clothes and the only thing more terrifying clothes was the horrid functions that the Chem-barons sometimes held. Because then she would have to wear those stuffy clothes.
Silence fell again as Silco just watched her. It was as if she was the most captivating thing he had ever seen. His fingers drummed the books next to him as he seemed to have decided.
“Put on something warm, we’re taking a walk.”
***
They were still in the upper levels of Zaun, Silco never took her lower without a week’s worth of prep. The area was quiet, compared to the usual buzz of activity that was always seen in the Lanes.
Stale air and Zaun grey skies welcomed them as they walked the open field like area. She hadn’t released his hand since they started walking. It was grounding always being in contact with him; contact meant that the world wasn’t going to steal him away in the dead of the night. He wouldn’t leave her.
Leaving her, like Vi did.
Vi, Vi, Vi, Vi.
Vi hated her.
Silco loved her.
“Did you know thistles grow in harsh environments?” a soft voice broke through.
“What?”
“Thistles.”
He stopped and looked down at her, still wearing the small smile from earlier. He crouched until they were at eye-level before he continued, “You, Thistles and Zaun. Do you know what those three things have in common?”
A shake of her head.
“All three strive to blossom to their fullest potential. They all have terrible circumstances against them, circumstances that would cripple a weaker man. Thistles have harsh, dry soil, and withstand droughts. Zaun has the polluted Pilt, continuous abuse and exploitation from Topside. And you-”
“And me?”
“Yes you, my little monster, my precious thistle, hounded by the hurt and demons of your past. Just look at you, with your gadgetry and wondrous mind. Jinx, you are Zaun personified, Nyota placed extra care weaving your thread and Janna envies the air that you breathe.”
Silco would never lie to her, not about this. Not after he promised. So, it had to be true.
She was crying.
Didn’t even realise she had tackled him till Silco started talking about his back and how big she was getting.
She couldn’t lose this. Janna winds.
She gained so much at such a heavy expense. The fates wouldn’t take this from her too.
Would they?