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When she was small, she would sit in her mother's lap, wherever she was— war council, study, kitchen, library, bedroom, carriage. There's a memory Mel had of her mother delegating a training exercise to her soldiers, sitting on the bench because her daughter wanted to sit on her lap. She can remember a dinner with Great Grandfather Menelik, from when she must have been around eight years old. She ran to the table and sat on her mother's lap while she fixed her plate. Was she starting to get too big for it? Maybe, but her mother still allowed it, until her Grandfather scoffed.
The child is too big for your lap, wouldn't you say so, Ambessa? You won't give them a sword and you have spoiled them rotten. I wish I had known motherhood would make you so soft.
Her mother frowned at him, but she wasn't defiant with him like she was with anyone else. He was her father figure, since her own had died when she was so young. Her siblings showed no warrior's grit; Menelik had molded her into a daughter of war and she aimed to please him.
She put Mel into the chair beside her.
Mel watched her mother in the mirror and stared at her face, then her own. Her mother was going to a gala and applying her makeup. Many Medardas and other noble families had people to do this for them, but it seemed like something her mother enjoyed.
She looked at her face, "Mother, can I try?"
Her mother looked at her with a hint of a smile on her face and slid her the shimmery eye palette. "Pick a color, Mel." She had covered her own eyelids in a dark smoky black and underlined them in a sharp red. She took the lipstick next and painted her lips a bold red. Her mother was beautiful.
Mel picked a sparkly color, her mother pointed to a brush and showed her how to place the eyeshadow. Mel looked in the mirror after she finished brushing her eyelids, "I wanted to look pretty."
Her mother looked at her and chuckled, while placing her favorite lip cuff on, "You are beautiful, child."
"I want to look like you," Mel grabbed her mother's cheek.
Ambessa touched her daughter's face, and a distant smile crossed her face, "In time," she said.
When her mother thought her fit to be accustomed to some of the more unsavory things in life; she was allowed to visit her on campaign with her father.
The grounds she followed her father into had soldiers walking about. Rictus stood guard, at the general's tent. Her mother was wiping blood from her katars when she heard their footsteps and turned around. She had an inkling to hide it from Mel, but she was no longer a child who needed to be shielded. She had grown, older than she was when her Grandfather put a sword in her hand. She wiped it down and put her hands in the water basin. She smiled at her husband, no teeth.
"Bessa," he kissed her mouth. She reciprocated, a little too long. Gross. Mel was still standing there. "It's been too long, what is your progress?" Azizi asked.
She stepped back from him to accept the hug Mel reached for, she felt her daughter's tension, she was uneasy. She let her go and looked at her, "Are you well?"
"Yes," but her voice was small. She picked at her dress.
Ambessa frowned, she ran her hand over her Mel’s hair. It was braided back in two french braids, she didn't know what to say to her daughter. She let her hand linger, caressing her head and addressed her husband, "They are fighting harder than we initially expected, but we have gotten the upper hand. It shouldn't be more than another month. All things should be in order soon."
Mel pulled at her dress as she waited for her parents to finish talking. They were sorting house business that needed her mother's input. She had wanted to visit with her father, it had been a few months since she'd seen her mother; but she had watched the destruction on the way here from the carriage window. Places that used to be lived in were barren, half burned buildings, she thought she might've saw a few lifeless bodies before her father turned her attention. Had her mother done that? Her armies, her soldiers? Whose blood did she clean from that sword? It had all troubled her.
"We can show the people we are merciful!"
…….
"A wolf has no mercy."
Her mother cut the Ionian's girls head from her neck before Mel could even blink, she recoiled.
The cut was so precise her sword was almost bloodless. Her gaze was heavy, she felt her mother's disappointment. She shook her head and turned away. She knew her mistake, Mel was clever, but she had felt too much empathy for the girl; they were too close in age. Her daughter was squeamish, she proved what Ambessa knew deep down. She wouldn't pass this test, she couldn't do what needed to be done. She didn't have the mercilessness of the wolf.
Mel thought about that moment on the ride in the carriage. Her mother tried to speak to her, she reached to touch her, but Mel flinched and she let her be.
.
.
Mel always thought about that moment. She saw the dead girl in her dreams—her nightmares. What was wrong with mercy? It was always death, always war, always blood and violence to solve any problem. She remembered her mother's sinking disappointment in her. She was nothing like her mother.
Her mother must have felt defeated, once again, she couldn't present a wolf like, Medarda worthy heir to her grandfather. Both tries had been a miss, perhaps it was her own fault. Her children had silver spoons in their mouths, they didn't know death; clawing their way to survival, they knew the wealth and safety that Ambessa and Azizi provided them. And Ambessa had fought hard to garner the glory, the title of general, so any enemy would be wary to trifle with her. She was strength personified and she would slaughter any who threatened her family. Perhaps, this was her fault. She should have been more strict and raised them to abide by the Medarda Code. But when her children were small and she saw their smiles, and laughter, she couldn't bring herself to rip it from them. It was weak of her. She had never wanted them to suffer their childhood, as she had.
Her mother had called for her while she was getting ready. She was much too big to sit on the counter and watch her reflection in the mirror like she used too. When Mel looked in the mirror she saw the dead girl's eyes.
I want to be nothing like you, she thought. She wanted to lead with mercy, diplomacy, because there had to be other solutions.
Her mother looked down at her, disappointed ever since that day—maybe since the day she was born. She had a sweet child, no matter how she tried to mold her; she should have known she would never be what she wanted.
Mel had to stop her mother, fight her own mother to keep Piltover safe. To keep thousands from dying because of her mother's disregard for their lives. Mel didn't want thousands to die to satisfy the bloody feud her mother had with the Black Rose. She didn't want to destroy the city she spent so many years in, most of her life… this was her home.
She caught her mother's weakening body. She cradled her in her arms, like she once did; when Mel was a small and fragile thing. Her mother garnered her last bit of strength, to look up at her daughter, "You are the wolf," she smiled as the light left her eyes.
With her last breath, she was finally satisfied. She had lived up to her mother's expectations. She was strong, cunning, capable of fighting and surviving, and standing on her own. She was worthy of her love. Worthy of being the wolf she so wanted her to be.
And she was dead.
So was her life in Piltover.
.
Before she boarded her mother's Noxian ship, she had done her makeup slowly. She covered her eyelids with glittering dark purple and drew the sharp red under liner, like her mother used too. She picked up the golden lip cuff, one of her mother's favorites; she had gifted one to Mel years ago after she begged for it. She dressed herself in the red Noxian garbs; it was only right as she was going back to Noxus to hold rites for her Mother. She was the only remaining Medarda heir.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her reflection was almost foreign to her— the golden lines imprinted on her skin, her face filled with grief; the weight and expectations already so heavy. She slowly turned her face side to side, then looked at herself head on.
She looked so much like her mother.