Topography: "spoken dialogue," "flashback dialogue," 'thoughts,' emphasis
A/N: Brought to you by the Excessively Detailed Headcanon Meme on tumblr and a prompt from taranoire asking for ficcage of 'Fenris stuck in a dream and mage!Hawke going in after him.' So that's essentially what this is.
Please be warned: this story features fourteen-year-old Leto interacting with Danarius. They don't have sex or anything, but there's some pretty dark shit in here, so if you're triggered (or just made very uncomfortable) by evil, fucked-up adults being their evil fucked-up selves toward defenceless slave children, then go ahead and close the browser now. No harm, no foul. If you do keep reading, please proceed with caution.
~Broken Mirror~
A voice called out to him, forgotten, yet not.
"Leto! Illic es! Ubique ego dolentes quaerebamus te. Damnant eam, Leto! Putabam voluisti exercere et ecce inquit vos somniare!"
'Leto?'
He knew the name. Because it was his. Yes, he remembered. Leto. It belonged to him. But the fit was…off. Like a well-worn garment long since outgrown.
"Leto!"
"Yes, yes, I heard you, Eséndir! And I was not daydreaming!"
He flushed as his voice cracked, boyish falsetto dipping briefly to the deeper timbre of adulthood. Mother had said it was the way of such things; that he should not feel shame for becoming a man, but he could no more stop the embarrassment burning up to the tips of his ears than he could the sporadic changes in the pitch of his speech. The tropical summer was at its zenith. Sweat prickled his brow, even in the shade of the great tree where he sat. Eséndir reached down, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. As he rose, Leto glimpsed his own skin, contrasting against the Rivaini-born elf's chestnut complexion, and felt a niggle at the back of his mind. Something was…amiss. Eséndir released him and he tarried a moment to study the appendage.
He'd been assigned to the kitchens with Varania that morning, acquiring a burn on his forearm when that haughty, half-human scullery maid failed to mind his presence in her path. Other than that, it was simply his arm: olive skin, slightly paler below than above, and sinewy muscle. His vision flickered, then. For an instant, an intricate pattern of tingling white lines flashed across the limb, the ghost of pain haunting him all the way down to his fingers.
"You are a strange one, aren't you?"
Blinking, Leto glanced up from what he realised must have seemed a very odd inspection. Despite the exasperation of Eséndir's words, he found the older youth's lips curved in a wry, albeit fond smile that brought heat to his cheeks for reasons other than chagrin. Feeling sheepish, Leto tucked an auburn tendril behind his ear, smiling back as he fell into step with his friend.
He'd braided his hair to keep it out the way and as they walked he reached back, lifting the plait and shaking it slightly to circulate some air against his nape. The heat was truly oppressive, far from ideal for sparring, but as a member of the household guard, Eséndir's duties were many and his opportunities for teaching a house slave which end of the sword to grip, few and far between. Leto strove to learn what he could on his own as well. He was diligent in practising his balance and his footing as Eséndir had shown him and he slipped away from chores as often as he could to watch the sentries rehearse their drills in the courtyard.
He'd found an alcove, bordered by two bronze statues (likenesses of the Archon Hessarian and Andraste if old Athenius was to be believed) that allowed him sufficient freedom of movement to imitate their routine. Their master was one of few Imperial magisters with the wealth and clout necessary to maintain an estate on Seheron, and attacks from Qunari and raids from the island's scattered bands of guerrilla fighters were an ever-looming threat. He'd received many a clip about the ears for his 'prideful fancy' as his sister called it. And prideful he might well be, but Leto refused to accept that peeling potatoes and lugging water for the wizened estate steward's baths would be the sum of his life. Not that he really expected Rani to understand. She had magic. She could do what their master could and for her, something greater was all but a given. For him, though, a castoff sword was the only hope he had. He might have been born a slave, but he would not resign himself to dying as one. If he could gain enough skill as a warrior to prove himself, then perhaps…
Perhaps he would be allowed to join the guard rather than remain with the household staff. Those warriors who distinguished themselves in the estate's defence were sometimes permitted to transfer to the mainland and...well, his knowledge of life in Minrathous was sparse, but as large and thriving as the tales painted the city to be, it would certainly hold opportunities that the island did not. He'd heard other rumours too. Spread in hushed, hasty whispers, about the horrors inflicted on slaves and particularly those who served in the more affluent magisters' fortresses at the capitol's heart.
Most of it verged on absurd to Leto's ears. When he'd shared this assessment with Eséndir, the other slave had agreed, though not without a word of caution, "I've not encountered many mages, Leto, but there are many stories of what they can do. Blood magic is forbidden, but how would anyone be able to judge if the man wielding it could pluck the memory of his crime from their minds?"
Eséndir was the first full-blooded elf Leto had met who hadn't been born into bondage. His parents, whose love and his subsequent birth had rendered them Tal'Vashoth, had fled from Rivain to Seheron, hoping to escape the Demand of the Qun that would sunder their ties. It was a hope that'd held for many a season – until the day it did not, bringing a wounded, half-starved youth to his knees at the gates, bartering his autonomy in exchange for protection. Steward Cortenius had left the decision to the head of the guards; another elf-blooded human by the name of Meren, though not nearly as self-important as that scullery maid. He'd assigned Eséndir to a room in the slave quarters to heal and it was there that Leto had come to befriend him.
Even hurt, weak and grieving for the loss of family and freedom, Eséndir had spoken to him, asking questions about his hopes and his plans – as though such things weren't mere folly for an Imperial house slave to have – until at last, Leto had told him. He remembered waiting for this unconventional boy-man, in that halfway place between child and grown where he found himself now, to laugh or scold him for his vanity. But that was not what Eséndir had done. He'd turned thoughtful for a moment, studying him with a critical gaze. Then, he gave a single nod. "My father taught me the ways of the sword, little one. I—" he'd faltered, not yet acclimatised to the conditional vernacular of servitude, "if permitted, I will teach you."
Five winters had come and gone since that promise was made and Eséndir had proven true to his word.
"You must hold firm to your weapon, Leto. Your form is good and you're quick on your feet, but neither are of much use if your enemy tears the sword from your hand."
Leto blinked, startling as the solid impact of wood upon wood jarred along his arms. The question of when they'd started sparring flitted through his mind – hadn't they just been walking toward their usual place by the stream? – when a second sweep of Eséndir's 'weapon' had him blocking in reflex. The sultry air swirled against his skin and he remembered: they'd arrived, Eséndir had pulled the leather-wrapped training rods from the hollowed tree where they stored them, and then, they'd shed their breeches and tunics in deference to the heat, leaving only their loincoverings for modesty.
His face was flushed, hair sticking to his skin. Sweat drenched his body and compromised his hold on the whittled length of timber serving as his blade. Eséndir was in a similar state. His skin gleamed like the dark metal statues in the courtyard, and even as Leto parried and swerved, he felt a tug low in his belly as ridges of muscle danced along his friend's side, catching the sun.
It was a split-second's distraction. Not even that. But Eséndir was a warrior and his intuition was keen. Rather than completing his advance in a cleave from above, he swept low, thrusting the staff between Leto's ankles and twisting, hard. Leto's eyes widened as he felt himself fall. However, almost instantly, Eséndir's hand closed around his wrist, halting his descent. A smug smile shaped his mouth and something mulish rose in Leto. Quick as a viper's strike, he rotated his hand, gripping onto the other elf's forearm as he kicked outward. Catching Eséndir behind the foot that bore his weight, he wrenched, throwing the full mass of his body into the pull.
Eséndir began to curse, but they hit the ground before he could finish. Leto came down half sprawled atop his friend, breath fleeing his lugs upon impact. He tried to scramble upright, but they were too close to the water's edge and moss made for treacherous footing. He slipped, collapsing against the elder lad's larger frame and Eséndir didn't waste the advantage. His arm slammed across Leto's back like the bolt of a door, crushing him close. And suddenly, the clammy chill of lichen-covered soil hit his skin from behind as the taut heat of Eséndir's torso held him pinned him from above.
Leto's mind blanked. Sparring fled his thoughts as impetus of a different sort flared in his veins, sending a rush of blood to his face…and elsewhere. Leto froze, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he stared up at Eséndir, wide-eyed. The other youth had stilled as well, looking bewildered. The hundred beaded braids of his hair rustled around them, working with the babbling water to drown out the world. There was them, and this moment, and that was all.
The uncertainty on Eséndir's face confirmed that it was not only Leto who felt the uncanny hum of anticipation between them. But, anticipation of what?
Hitherto dormant instincts stirred and Leto found himself acutely aware of the briny musk of their mingled sweat; of the shivery friction as their bodies pressed together. His muscles had softened, turning pliant as the mossy grass beneath his back. Another part of him was rapidly stiffening, though, and there was nothing he could do to quell it. Eséndir, for his part, stared amazedly down at him, as though Leto were suddenly unique; something never before seen as his pale grey gaze became riveted to redhead's mouth. Leto's breath caught and without thinking, his tongue flicked against his lips.
At that, Eséndir's reverie turned pensive. "I've never looked twice at a lad, you know," he confided gruffly, reaching up to brush a sweat-soaked auburn tendril from Leto's brow, "but you're pretty as any maiden." The phrasing was gauche, verging on offensive, but the sincere affection in his liquid silver eyes negated any inference of slight. Leto felt his heart flutter in his throat. Rapid and feint as a rabbit's as he watched Eséndir's face close in.
Slow.
Cautious.
As though affording him the chance to turn away. He had no wish to do so; did not want this to end, but neither did he know what was expected of him. He'd eavesdropped once on a couple of chamber maids, Esmira and Silona, as they gossiped about being kissed by a boy. He recalled them saying something about closing one's eyes and right then, that struck Leto as a brilliant idea. Lashes drawing down, he titled his head back and offered his mouth.
Eséndir was strong and handsome, self-assured. He was popular among the household's women (even a few of the humans) yet the kiss he pressed upon Leto was tentative, almost careful. At least, that was how it began.
At first, there was only the soft, yielding touch of lips; the barest hint of friction. With the length of their virtually nude bodies aligned, that small point of contact should have been the least of it, and yet, that alone made him dizzy with sensation. Then those lips—
Parted.
Long, calloused fingers cupped his jaw. Air rushed against his cheek in a shuddering exhale and then, he felt it: the flick of a tongue against the seam of his mouth, seeking entry, and Leto obliged.
His awareness narrowed to the slide of skin and lips and tongues; the occasional clink of teeth as their ardour climbed. His fighter's resolve allied with his need and what had begun as his passive surrender, became a more mutual siege as he moved with his body's demands. With hands locked onto Eséndir's shoulders, he arched up, hooking a thigh across lean hips and pulled their loins into contact. The hot ridge of his best friend's manhood slid along his own – only two layers of linen between them – and Eséndir broke the kiss on a gasp. "Venhedis, Leto!" He was breathless, lips swollen, eyes heavy lidded as he touched Leto's cheek and dove back in.
Amidst the churn of sensations, a smile tugged at the redhead's mind. He rather liked this kissing business, he decided.
They found a rhythm of a sort. Uneven, rougher than was comfortable against the hard, damp ground, yet somehow the slight grievances only served to sharpen his desire. His abdominals flexed with his thrusts as pleasure flooded his nerves and the breaking of tension came before he was ready. He choked on a moan, rending his mouth from Eséndir's as his climax shuddered out of him. His friend's lips moved to the arch of his throat. A tight hold on Leto's thigh maintained the friction between their groins until his gasped, "Too much, Sén!" had the other elf rearing up on his knees, stroking himself through his underwear until a grimace and grunt marked his release.
Panting, Eséndir rolled to the side, only to bolt upright with a hiss as the chill of the loam hit his overheated skin. Having recovered somewhat, a laugh bubbled from Leto's throat where he sprawled, acclimatised to the dichotomy of cool earth and sultry air. Eséndir turned to him, brow arched. He drew a breath to speak, the dimples in his cheeks promising good humour, except—
"Am I to understand that this is the customary fashion in which the servants here avail themselves of their duties?"
The voice settled across Leto's senses like frost, banishing the heat of the season and their shared passion both. It was that of Danarius Tarquin. Magister of Minrathous and master of the estate, currently in residence. Meren and one of the senior guards trailed behind him, looking uneasy.
Eséndir was already on his feet, the fastenings of his loincovering riding low on his hips. "We were training, Master," he said, not untruthfully, though the hoarseness of his voice made it sound unconvincing. Leto rose as well, eyes downcast as a flush of pure mortification spread from chest to hairline, fierce enough to ache. He was sorely aware of the expanse of his skin on display; of the mud on his back, the twigs in his hair. The urge to obscure the wet spot on his undergarment with a hand was a struggle to suppress.
"What is your name, boy?"
Silence hovered and Leto glanced up as much as he dared. He found the master's eyes on him – or rather, on the damp fabric covering his manhood. His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat, but an instinct deeper than shame pushed only words from his mouth, "Leto, Master."
"Come closer," the mage commanded and it was on watery legs that he stepped into the centre of the now obtrusively quiet clearing. The master began to circle around him. Once at his back, he stopped, and every hair on Leto's skin rose as he felt the human's gaze trail along his spine, invasive as a touch.
"And what precisely were you 'training' in, Leto?"
"S—swordcraft, Master," he stuttered, throat threatening to close. Leto did not know where his fear sprang from. He and Eséndir had done nothing wrong. Why the master would concern himself with the desire between slaves, he could not guess, yet the thick tension in the air warned that this was a very unsafe exchange indeed.
"The practice canes are there. On the grass. We were taking a respite...Milord." It was Eséndir who spoke and the knots in Leto's belly twisted tighter. Slaves never addressed a magister of the Imperium unless spoken to first, their owners least of all.
"I see," the master replied after a pause, though whether the acknowledgement condemned or absolved, Leto couldn't tell. He heard the rustle of footsteps as the mage's circling resumed, gaze dragging along his unclothed skin and raising prickly gooseflesh in its wake. Peering through his fringe, he tried to keep the master in his sights without raising his head, but the attempt proved futile as the magister remained just beyond his field of vision.
"Meren!" the master addressed the soldier, but Leto felt his eyes on him still.
"Aye, Milord?"
"How long has this boy served at this estate."
"He," Meren cleared his throat, "he was born here, Sire." The reluctance in his tone was hardly blatant, but Leto had listened to this man speak nearly every day, for more than half his life.
"His family remains?"
"Aye. His mother and a sister. The, um," again, the half-elf vacillated. "The mage girl, Milord," he added at last, a hint of defeat in his voice.
"I see," Danarius repeated, sounding inexplicably pleased. "The sister. She is older or younger?"
"I…"
There was another uneasy pause that Leto failed to grasp. Meren knew the answers to the master's questions. The sooner he provided them, the more swiftly this unnerving scrutiny would end. Why was the soldier hesitating so?
"I believe they're twins, Sire."
"Excellent," the master muttered. The approval in his tone sent a wave a of relief washing through Leto, though, why the nature of his and Rani's kinship should be a thing to warrant praise was beyond his ken.
"Tell me, lad," the master's focus turned to him once more, "how long has this 'swordcraft' training been underway?"
"Since five winters past, Master."
The magister stepped closer then, and Leto's breath stilled. He kept his head down, swaying slightly in place as he fought the urge to retreat. "Your diligence is admirable," the master said, tone light, pleasant even as he tilted Leto's face up with a couple of fingers beneath his chin.
"Th-thank you, Master," Leto husked, eyes darting as he strove to avoid meeting the human's direct gaze.
A slave never looked a magister in the eye.
As close as the master stood, it was impossible not the notice the odd smell that clung to him. Beneath the freshly laundered scent of summer robes, loose and billowing to ward off the heat, and hints of fresh herbs and cologne, lurked an odour like rust and lye and something bitter, yet cloying. Like days old death. It filled Leto's lungs, coating his throat until it settled like an unpleasant tang at the back of his mouth.
From the corner of his vision, he saw the master smile before finally stepping back. The mage's touch left his face and Leto's gaze settled back on the ground as he swallowed surreptitiously to clear the strange essence from his senses.
"Meren, see that he participates!" came the cryptic order and with that, the master strode from the clearing, heading to the path that led back toward the estate.
Eséndir's advance was immediate. "Participate in what?" he whispered urgently, directed at Meren as he passed.
The soldier's face was grim, gaze flashing a warning as he gave a sharp shake of the head. "Best if you return to your quarters," he instructed, eyes on the magister and his fellow sentry as they paced on ahead. Meren made to follow, then dithered, appearing as though he wished to say more yet no words left his mouth. His gaze, however, was undeniably troubled as he gave them a nod of farewell and hurried to keep up with his charge.
Disturbed, Leto looked to his friend. Eséndir's hands settled on his shoulders and he found himself pulled into an embrace that promised protection, sealed with a lingering kiss to his brow. When Eséndir drew back, a smile curved his mouth, yet it did not reach his eyes. "Well, I suppose we should do as he says." With a sigh, he turned away and bent to collect the training rod nearest to where he stood.
Not knowing what else to do, Leto sought out his own and did the same.
As he rose, light glinted off the weight in his hand and he knew without looking that he clutched an actual sword. The shadows had lengthened and when he looked up, it was to find the forest gone. In its place, was the sentries' sparring grounds and dusk was rapidly approaching.
"Cedo tibi! Misericordiae, rogo te!"
The shrieked entreaty had him glancing down to find another elf crouched at his feet.
A girl.
Older than he was but not by much.
Her short blonde hair was soaked with sweat. Dirty leather armour garbed her torso while smears of dust and blood covered nearly every inch of visible skin. Absently, Leto noted the sprinkling of freckles across her nose as he watched her clutch at an eye, scarlet gushing from between her trembling fingers.
As he stared at her, a trickle of grimy sweat dripped from his brow. His breathing grew laboured. Chainmail and gambeson pressed upon his chest – heavy; too hot – he couldn't draw a deep enough breath. The air itself weighed like lead upon his shoulders and his limbs burned with fatigue. With the thud of his heart roaring in his ears, he turned toward the dais at the far end of the arena.
The master sat straighter in the ornate chair from whence he presided over the fighting, elevated above the reach of ricochet mud and spattering gore. He raised a hand, palm up, stopping the combat. One of the estate's guards approached, lifting the girl in his arms as through she weighed nothing, and bore her from the field. Leto had lost count at a dozen, but he knew she'd fought through the same number of rounds as he had. If the master was impressed with her showing, he would grant her healing by magic. If not, she was in for painful few weeks; at worst, a lingering death from gangrene.
A breath like a sob broke past his lips and he let the sword drop from his aching hand. His knees folded beneath him and he followed the pull until his face was an inch above the blood-soaked ground.
It was over.
"One more match, I think," the master's voice rang out.
Leto looked up, horror-struck at the announcement. All those who'd fought in previous rounds had been bested. There were none left to contend against. Who—?
His eyes widened as a familiar figure stumbled into the arena, flanked by two human sentinels. They were decked in the dark, hooded armour of Tevinter's elite, marking them as the master's personal guards; those who'd accompanied him from Minrathous.
Leto blinked. 'Eséndir?!'
But…the master had dismissed his request to compete on Leto's behalf. Why would he—?!
His mind stalled as another of the tall, black-clad men strode onto the field and wrenched him upright. A potion vial was pressed to his lips and he caught a glimpse of an amber sheen as his braid was gripped and his head yanked backward. The bottle tipped against his teeth with a brusque command to "Drink!" forcing him to swallow or choke.
He did a little of both, struggling instinctively against the coerced ingestion. The potion filled his belly and to his shock, he felt strength seep back into his overtaxed limbs. Twisting free, Leto turned to his friend. Eséndir's face was a worrying shade of ashen. He bore a mottled bruise on one side and a seeping cut in his lip, making it plain that he'd been beaten.
Abruptly, Leto's vision altered and he saw Varania, older than she was, in a place beyond memory. Pain shone in her eyes. Cold, hard and brittle. "…You wanted it! You competed for it!…"
No.
No, he had not.
There was no choice in this!
This, was never what he'd wanted!
The world shifted again and he was back in the arena. "Retrieve your weapon!" the guard ordered and Leto's bones turned molten as he realised what was happening: a 'test of fealty,' was what the stories called it – when a retainer was made to cull one of his kin in a show of ultimate devotion to his patron.
The refusal crouched behind his teeth. If the master slew him, so be it. He looked to the dais, intending to declare exactly that, but defiance turned to alarm as he watched the mage drag the business end of a dagger across his wrist. Leto shuddered as a rush like lightning swept across the ground. And that was when it happened.
Something dark and vile rose around him, unseen, but felt. It fed on the blood in the soil, lapping at the cuts in his skin. And then, it reached inside, taking hold of his limbs. He screamed, but his mouth produced no sound. He tried to scramble backward; instead, he felt himself advance.
Helpless, he could only watch as Eséndir – his confidante and mentor; his best friend and first kiss – was flung down before him like the spoils of a hunt. He saw him clutch his side, writhing, choking as blood spilled from his lips. Leto yearned to help, throw himself down in the mud and pull him in close.
Instead, he stooped, and felt his fingers curl around his sword.
He was vaguely aware of Meren's desperate supplication, "Sire, please!" but all else faded as Eséndir glanced up and spoke his name, disbelief in his tone and a question in his eyes.
'It's not me, Sén! It's not me! Please Master, don't!'
The words remained trapped and so did Leto. Unable to look away, unable to intervene as the sword rose above his head. His gaze stayed riveted to Eséndir's, watching as doubt morphed to shock; the question answered with betrayal.
'No!'
In his soul he was weeping, yet his eyes remained dry as the blade descended in an arc.
….but it did not finish falling.
An arm wrapped around his waist, dragging him flush against a solid human torso. A hand closed around the pommel of his blade and plucked it from his grip. The spell broke and his chest began to heave, throat stopping up with anguish. As the sword was flung aside, that same hand settled on his shoulder and spun him 'round, drawing him close, holding on tight.
"It's over, Wolf. This isn't real. Let go. Come back to me."
The scene changed and he found himself looking down at a corpse, blood spreading across a dirty wooden floor. Lifeless eyes stared up at him. Shocked. Betrayed. But instead of dark skin and silver eyes, he was looking at his master. And he remembered.
Danarius was dead.
He was safe.
He was free.
Fenris gasped as his mind tore itself from the Fade. He bolted upright, the semidarkness in the room growing deeper as the phosphorus burn receded from his skin. The lights that throbbed behind his eyes remained, though, and nausea clawed at his insides. The same strong arms from the dream encircled him as a low, worried voice spoke soothing nonsense in his hair; a gentle hand stroked across his back.
"I killed him, Wreath! I killed him!" Fenris husked, voice raw with self-recrimination.
"Danarius killed him. You avenged him."
"He thought I…He didn't know I was—"
He was shaking like a new-born colt, voice quavering near to the point of incomprehension. Hawke's magic flared around them, cleansing the memory of the Maleficar's stain from his flesh.
"Never again, my love. Never again. If I succeed at nothing else, I will keep you safe. I swear it."
How long they stayed like that, Fenris didn't know. The room's light had turned from black to grey by the time exhaustion trumped his fear. Lying in Hawke's arms, with clean, unsoiled magic lapping at his markings like a balm, he slept.
And with his lover there to guard him, no dreams intruded on his rest.
End A/N: If anyone is left wondering how all this ties in with Varania, then check out my tumblr for a post at some point. I've read (and written) a bunch of fic where Fenris can sense Hawke's magic through his markings and Hawke can draw on Fenris to boost his mana, so I figure little scenario isn't too much of a stretch. Just to clarify, this is nothing like what Feynriel could do. Wreath is inot/i a Somniari; just a fairly capable spirit mage, well attuned to his boyfriend. Also, just in case anyone's curious, here's the English version of the dialogue in Tevene (aka Google Translate Latin):
Eséndir: "Leto! There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. Damn it, Leto! I thought you wanted to train and here you are, daydreaming!"
Leto's opponent: "I yield! Please, show mercy!"