This was new. He had finally gotten himself down to Her mansion, and they were currently tearing off each other's clothes. His movements faltering every few moments; repressing unwanted memories. His body going through familiar motions, but electrified by Hawke, made new and exciting by not only a different body but because this time it was his choice. He still flinched every time he was reminded of Danarius. Isabela had been so close to the truth. Glistening. But this time? There were no forced actions. This time he was not a slave. These were his own choices. His choice was to be here. Now. With Hawke. Who was asleep, curled up against him, and he was slowly falling as well…
Except he wasn't. Something about that night finally burst him through the pain of the ritual. Something about that night gave him what he'd so desperately wanted. Memories. He saw a child's scraped knee, his own. He saw a warm, familiar, but tired smile. He remembered that his mother was almost always pregnant. And that he and his sister were very often sent away on nights when she wasn't. He remembered a night when he hadn't gotten away soon enough: he remembered bruises and broken bones. Drunken laughter. He remembered little human babies quickly taken away. He and his sister were obviously elves. As a child he didn't understand. He had no memories of his father.
He remembered other bruises: training. He was pleasing enough to the eye to be a bodyguard; he had been told. He and his sister had been woken by human men and physically taken to other parts of the estate. His sister was being taught to scribe. His mother had looked so relieved. He still hadn't understood. He was 10.
He remembered his teens: following one of his master's daughters around. Compliments for him aimed at this 5 year old: such a beautiful bodyguard for such a young girl. You must be daddy's favorite. He remembered the first person he killed: a human woman who had tried to abduct his young charge. He had done his best to hide the carnage from the child, but she knew enough to be afraid. She had clung to him tightly as he fled toward home.
He remembered the day his master told him about the competition. He knew nothing of what would happen; he knew nothing of the boon. His master had told him that it was a tournament to the death, and if he won he would get a new master. He accepted this. It was also the last time anyone called him Leto.
He remembered another man. Another slave fighting with desperation, but without skill. He had killed the man easily. He had backed away covered in blood, bowing to a man who wasn't his master. Wasn't his mother's master. He ignored the loud despair of a very pregnant woman trying to run to the corpse. She was bound. And whipped. Her cries shrank to the whimpers and hiccups of the truly broken.
He remembered his new master's hungry, wandering eyes as he was measured and drawn on in intricate patterns. Danarius did not bother speaking to him before the ritual. Always touching, groping. His new master was always muttering to himself: self-congratulatory things, calling him "his little wolf" "his little Fenris", he got more excited as the drawings neared completion. He spent the entire time, several months, completely naked; his clothes were taken promptly upon arrival. The drawings were always done by other men. Lesser mages. Sometimes they would come with crate upon crate of lyrium. By this time, All he knew was that there would be a ritual, and the lyrium was a promising sign. It meant he would survive this.
The day the ritual actually happened, there were about 30 other slaves brought into the room. The first one's throat was cut, and then the burning began.
As soon as he remembered all of this, it was gone. That was so much worse.