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Soraka hadn’t wanted it to end this way.
Expected, sure. Warwick was a voracious hunter, unstoppable as a meteor, to put it lightly. There was always the chance that he would find her off of the Fields of Justice. He had already killed her hundreds of times, if not thousands by now. She had been an assistant to his demise just as often, although their duels were never by each other’s hand. While the summoner’s did control their actions on the battlefield, she always felt it when Warwick came at her. Bloodcurdling instinct, a roar so primal it almost tore her flesh, and whenever he laid a hand on her, he relished it. He lived for his bloodlust.
She had done her best.
Now here she was, on the peaks of Mount Targon, which she had come to call home in her time away from the stars. Now, the grey. smooth stone locked her in as her butcher approached. She paced backward, but stumbled; a scrape on her hands as she dropped her staff joined her injuries that were slowly enclosing her consciousness. As Warwick closed in on her, Soraka thought of the stars that had once been her home. The folly of her violence had parted her from them; she felt their rumble in her chest, but she could hear nothing. As her vision began to tunnel and her eyes began to close, she relaxed, content in all that she had done. As golden-tipped claws began to dig into her chest, reaching for the heart that was Warwick’s goal, she hoped, distantly, that they would forgive her. Perhaps, finally, she could join them in her death.
Death, however, had no plans for Soraka this day. The claws searing her burning skin froze and locked up, as Soraka, fading, felt a splash of thick, warm liquid on her torso. She heard Warwick howl in pain-more beast than man then ever before-before his weight was slung away from her. Her eyes forced themselves open to see what had happened, what sort of cruel joke Warwick had decided to play on his prey. What lay before her, however, was no such joke. Rather, there was a pair of bare, ethereal feet smoke rising and curling off of the gently blue skin, accompanied several yards behind by Warwick’s quickly escaping form, trailing blood running from a hole torn through his chest. With these feet, there came a voice.
Starchild.
Her chest heaving in pained gasps, Soraka could only look up to faintly make out the hard, angular face of the spirit of vengeance. Kalista stood before her, the ghostly armor she wore stained with blood centuries old, her hand hefting a spear.
You need not hurt anymore, Kalista said, her voice sounding less a voice and more as Soraka’s own thoughts. We have come to relieve you of your pains, as you have for so many others.
Perhaps through some intervention of Kalista’s- perhaps because she was already dead- Soraka found the strength to speak. “W...Why, Kalista?” She begged. “I have made no pact. I carry no spite. Why come here? Now?”
Kalista responded: You have done for many what you could never for yourself. You have done for us what we would not for others. You cannot die here, now, Starchild. Not while the world still needs you so. Not while we still need you so.
Soraka struggled to understand. “I have failed. I am dying. The stars have abandoned me. There is no good I can provide as a healer of wounds any further. There is nothing I may do any longer.”
Kalista retorted: Perhaps you may not heal anymore; perhaps you may die. But, perhaps you may not.
As Kalista spoke, expression unchanging, she straightened out her spear, positioning the point right at Soraka’s breast.
We have seen you on the Fields; we have fought alongside you and against you. There is no hatred in your heart; but there is vengeance to be exacted. Join us, Starchild. Take the pact, and become reborn. We may become one in the same; with vengeance comes healing. Help us.
Soraka’s eyes widened, her breathing stuttering. “J-Join you?” she muttered. “Become a spirit? Part of you?”
Or die, Kalista confirmed.
Soraka deliberated, her imminent death prolonged for however long Kalista was willing to give her.
To accept was to lose herself to Kalista, to become Kalista one day. That’s how all the other souls who had joined her had gone.
To deny was to stop, simple as that. She had never considered death; even when she had become mortal, she could always heal. Now, it was very very real, and it terrified her to her core.
There was a chance, however, that she could hold onto herself. She could become a spirit of calm, and of relief; accompanying Kalista and her targets to give them an easy transition into the afterlife. She could become more than she was now, perhaps; she had survived with the stars power, and now, she could survive with Kalista’s.
Soraka reached a weary hand up to the unflinching spear in front of her, wrapping her fingers just below the point.
She heaved a heavy sigh, and as tears welled in her eyes, the last thing Soraka said as a mortal was, “I’m so tired.”
Rest, Starchild. Kalista said.
We have vengeance to reap.