But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit
Burning my dreams away beside the fire:
For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;
And I am rich in all that I have lost.
O starshine on the fields of long-ago,
Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;
Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,
And silence; and the faces of my friends.
Siegfried Sassoon, "Memory"
The carriage rolls slowly over roughly paved track lined with flags to indicate that there is a celebration today. The culmination of weeks of fighting, of competing for favour. The contests have been brutal, the polished floor of the Proving Grounds often running scarlet with the blood of humans and elves alike.
She has watched them all with her heart in her mouth, sitting silently behind her powerful master. He knows she loves the slave boy, knows the pain she feels in her chest every time an opponent lands a blow. This is just another way for him to torture her.
Yet each time he has triumphed, her love. Survived another day, another battle. Standing bloodied and bruised in the arena, green eyes seeking her out amid the crowds cheering for their temporary hero. Pretending he is looking at his master, bowing before him, when she knows his intense gaze is for her alone.
Twelve years she has known him, since he was a boy of seven and she a year older, bossing him around with the superiority of age. They had played together in the dirt, inventing games with their imaginations, normal childhood possessions being far out of reach of the families of slaves.
She had watched as he grew from a skinny boy to a lanky youth, taking on duties working the land. She couldn't remember the first time she had noticed the muscle and strength he had developed, the hard planes of his chest dripping with sweat in the sun, dark hair swept from his brow as he tilled the fields. She wasn't sure exactly when she had realised she was in love with him. But she could remember the day she first kissed him, as if it were just yesterday.
It had been summer, one of the hottest days of the year, and he had been on the farm since dawn. Had toiled for hours in the searing heat, no respite for a slave. It had been near dusk when he had finally collapsed, his legs no longer able to hold his weight, his skin sore and starting to blister. He had been carried none too gently back to the hovel he shared with his mother and sister, delirious and moaning.
She was training to be a herbalist then, creating potions from rare flowers to feed the strength of the Magisters. It was forbidden for any other to touch these exotic mixtures, so powerful and valuable were they. She was an obedient slave, fear and expectation keeping her compliant, but the sight of him being hauled along the street that evening was enough to push her into illicit action.
"Leto, it's me. You must drink this, please."
He had been semi-conscious, slipping in and out of the Fade, curled up in the gloom of the tiny hut. His eyes, when they cracked open, were unfocused and dark, his whole body shivering. She managed to press the tiny vial to his cracked, dry lips and tilted it, watching the crimson liquid disappear into his mouth, his throat working to swallow it.
She had held her breath, hoping. Praying to the Maker.
The potions were strong, effective, and this one was no different. In a matter of minutes his temperature was cooling, the angry red flush that had suffused his skin fading to his normal bronze tones. His eyelids fluttered, breath flowing more evenly. Relief washed over her with such force that she fell to her knees beside him.
"Leto, can you hear me?"
He turned his head to her, opened his eyes. Exhausted, no doubt, but he was alert, could see her. She sighed and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
"You were so ill, I thought…"
"Thank you." She felt his hand push through her hair, fingers tickling against the soft skin on the back of her neck. "But the potion… you shouldn't have…"
"I would not have anything happen to you, Leto."
"But if Danarius found out… I don't know what he would do to you."
"Nothing he could do would be worse than losing you."
They had gazed at each other for long moments then, conscious of the tension suddenly between them. She had felt every beat of her heart against her thin tunic, her throat dry and her hands trembling. Then she had kissed him.
Nervous at first, her lips soft on his, hesitant and shy. His eyes had widened and his lips had parted, and then they were kissing with a passion borne of desperation, of the fear of loss, the cruelty of their wretched oppression. Slaves were not supposed to feel, to care. But I am not a statue, stone hearted and blank. I am a woman, and I love this man.
They had courted in secrecy, in the dark of night when most were abed. Words whispered in her ear, words of love, of seduction. They had both been virgins, clumsy and eager, bodies coming together inexpertly, erratic thrusts and soft moans. He had filled her in a way she had never imagined, velvet soft and iron hard, the pulsing heat of him sending a feverish thrill running through her veins. The way he looked above her in the shadows, too-long hair falling into his eyes, the intense look on his face as he struggled to keep control, the sound of her name on his lips as he came for the first time inside her.
Antonina.
She loved him, and he loved her.
Today he would be fighting once more in the great green prism that is the Proving Grounds, the final battle of the tournament for the grand prize of a boon of the victor's choosing. The winner would also have the honour of being named the most treasured possession of the man she had served as a body slave ever since he had discovered the missing potion in his inventory, not three weeks after she and Leto had first lain together.
Where is it? he had hissed. You cannot be trusted. You will need a position where I can… watch you more closely, little one.
And so her life had changed.
She schooled her face into careful blankness as the carriage rolled up to the arena, and stepped down behind her master, arranging his cloak just so.