9.22 Dragon
The Coliseum, Minrathous
The blow hit him in the centre of his ribcage.
Leto staggered backwards, landing heavily in the dirty sand. Pain swelled in his chest as the air was pushed from his lungs, but he didn't have time to feel it, rolling quickly away as a shard of ice impaled the ground.
The crowd roared in delight; a great cheer that echoed around him from all sides. A rose landed on the sand next to where he lay, thrown from somewhere in the stalls.
Giggles bubbled up from his throat as he stared at the flower, it petals already wilting in the heat. It was all so terribly funny, suddenly.
Leto finally understood how small he was, how insignificant. He was nothing in comparison to the screaming, blood-thirsty humans that encircled him on all sides. Tier upon tier they rose above him, angry, distorted faces barking and baying for blood.
Another needle of ice shuddered into the ground, millimetres from his face.
In one agonising movement Leto brought himself to his feet. He could still feel the screams of the crowds, a deep thunderous noise that slammed into him, suffocating him and drowning out the thump-thump-thump of his heart. But he was no longer laughing.
Hefting the great-sword high above his head, he pushed against the ground and charged the mage opposite him.
He had seconds to reach his target before another attack, something he could ill afford to receive. His only chance of survival was to keep the mage on the defence, make him use up his energy until he had no power left to protect himself.
Until he was weak and afraid.
Like my family.
Leto launched himself into another attack, every muscle propelling him toward his vengeance. He was running now, hurtling across the arena, the muscles in his arms screaming against the bone crushing weight of the great-sword. Sweat stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but he could see enough to know that the mage was moving his hands in faster and faster patterns, readying another assault.
Running out of time.
One, maybe two seconds to reach him.
Another to kill.
The sea of sound no longer threatened to drown him. He ceased to be aware of the insistent agony of his muscles or the burning pain in his torso. The sand shifted under his feet as he pounded forward, the air around him changing as the mage drew on the Fade, pulling in the unholy energies he would need to launch another series of attacks.
Two seconds left.
But now he was within striking distance. Tensing, Leto brought the sword down, using its impossible weight to increase the power of the swing, aiming at the neck and shoulders of his enemy, hoping that his strength coupled with the height of the swing would cleave the man asunder in one movement.
If he had to lift the sword again...
…Leto prayed he wouldn't have to.
The blade swung true.
o0o
For a moment Callum could only watch as the snarling elf leapt towards him.
And then his eyes focused on the edge of the blade as it swung at him. Callum reached deep inside himself to scrabble through the Fade, searching for anything he could use to save his life.
He was drained and exhausted, and the whistle of the sword as it cut through the air kept pulling his attention from his task.
He had no choice.
He had to concentrate, had to visualise the tendrils of power he needed entering his body, settling in his core, ready for him to manipulate into something, anything, that would save him from being split in two.
Callum closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Deep breaths, long breaths, find the balance – but so slow, so slow, the elf must be on top of him, he was going to die before he managed to regain his Ability.
And then he tasted it, the dirty taste of tin.
The air in the arena tightened.
He opened his eyes.
The elf was in the air above him, screaming.
The edge of the blade caught the sun as it flew towards his neck.
Callum flung his hand out towards the elf and, using every ounce of energy he had, focused all his being and pushed.
The weapon rebounded hard against the invisible barrier before being flung backwards with Leto still gripping it, their combined momentum working against them. Leto crashed into the high wall of the area, before hitting the ground.
Callum watched, gasping for breath.
The elf raised himself on his elbows…
…and collapsed, his chest rising and falling in a staccato rhythm.
o0o
The Tevinter audience screamed in horror and delight, their excitement reaching fever pitch as the elf crashed into the ground. When it became clear the creature wouldn't rise again, they turned to their friends to relive the most exciting moments of the battle, going over each blow in joyous detail.
What a show!
What a show!
In the stalls, patrons started to stand, looking for their bookies to cash in their bets. The odds had been low on the mage, but a win was a win. Nearer the front, in the expensive seats, the young bucks who were sat near where the elf had fallen started to climb the barrier around the arena. Their plan was to jump down onto the sand and steal something from the corpse – a lock of hair, a piece of leather, a finger – which they could then show off to their mates or use to impress a girl.
In the Imperial Box, the Archon rose from his throne, pleased the matter between the two houses was now definitively settled.
Later, everyone who was there that day would say they had been the one to spot it. They were the one who screamed so loudly the whole of the Coliseum heard them:
"HE'S NOT DEAD!"
o0o
Callum turned.
On the other side of the area the elf pulled himself to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, and then straightened. Callum watched as Leto reached down and picked up his sword.
"We are not done," Leto shouted across to him.
Callum stood dumb.
He was desperately unsure his mind would survive yet another venture into the Fade. If he tried to heal himself, to stem the flow of blood and provide his body with deeper reserves, he might be able to draw more power again. But Callum was not adept at such a detailed and painstaking craft, and he could just as easily rip his wounds open further, especially in his current state of exhaustion and fear. He also had no idea if he had time to even attempt to thread the skin and muscle back together before that bastard recovered. So that left offense.
Could I get close enough for a short range attack? Would I be able to avoid his blade, or that damned armour?
Callum had already caught a glancing blow from Leto's gauntleted fist, and his stomach was bleeding steadily as a result. Thick and sticky strands of blood dripped down towards the arena sand, measuring out what time Callum had left to decide his fate. The wound on his leg was less bloodied despite also being deep, but he tested his weight on it anyway, seeing if he would be able to get to the elf before he recovered enough to attack him first.
The anguished howl that escaped him as Callum attempted to walk was echoed back a thousand times in the gleeful roar of the crowd.
Callum looked round desperately at his fellow citizens, and knew there was no understanding, no sympathy, to be had there. The coliseum didn't know or care why he, a mage and apprentice Magister, was locked into this brutal, barbaric match with an elf. He was nothing more than a rare and indulgent entertainment to them.
Head sick with blood loss, he wondered if Varania was out there somewhere. Was she crying out for him, her high, angry voice whipped and spun away by the crowd's? Could her brother hear her?
Whose name caught in her throat as they both, lover and brother, fought to the death for her?
o0o
Leto shook his head, as if he could in some way shake the effect of nearly dying.
His vision cleared, but the high, screeching wail that had accompanied the woozy sickness suddenly fell to silence. He realised he had lost his hearing in his left ear. He reached his hand up to that side of his face and bit back a yowl of pain when he touched his fingertips to his cheek. He felt bone amid the pulp that had once been his face.
The eye still works at least.
Leto had no idea what damage had been done to him beneath his armour. He didn't care. Callum had hit with all kinds of magic, and though the strange, unnatural armour he now wore took a lot of the damage, Leto could feel his body seizing up, his muscles slowing and stiffening as the damage took hold.
Worse affected was the skin on the underside of his forearms. Exposed by the armour to allow better freedom of movement, it was burnt and blistered. The sword was heavy, and every time he lifted it he could feel his charred skin crack.
Not that it mattered. It was annoying simply because it was distracting. A weapon doesn't notice the notches and scratches it acquires, and whatever shape his body was in by the end of the 'match' wasn't his problem anyway. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was to free his family - and to finally be released from the guilt of their capture.
He looked up at Callum, and his green eyes narrowed. Leto held the grip of the sword in his hands, testing its weight, and found he had strength enough to lift it – but it was difficult, more difficult than it should have been.
"We are not done," Leto shouted at Callum, who was standing dumb in the centre of the area.
A hot wind blew through the amphitheatre.
Small eddies of sand swirled around the feet of the two exhausted men as they watched each other.
"Is this city all you hoped it would be, Mage?" Leto hollered, his voice cracking in the dry heat and dust, "Are you powerful now?"
Callum stood as best he could, leaning heavily on his stave for support. "Powerful enough, old friend, powerful enough. Your master has dressed and trained you well – do you bark for him, and do tricks?"
Both men took deep, gulping breaths of gritty air into their lungs. The crowd stomped and called out in indignation at the momentary ceasefire.
Leto spat out a tooth. "Bah. If I am a dog I have been trained well." His fingers tightened on the pommel of his sword. "You have no idea the tricks I have learnt."
And then Callum smiled, his open, friendly face lightened by a wide grin, and for one moment he was fifteen again, playing at magic in the woods, his future, bright and full of adventure, lain out before him.
Leto watched as Callum placed his palm above the gash in his stomach, and began to move it in slow, multifaceted shapes. The blood from the wound misted and took shape around him. The air in the arena tightened once again, the Veil between the worlds pulled taught by the magic Callum was weaving.
Callum looked Leto in the eye, his blood now swirling around him with ever-increasing speed.
"Nor have you, my friend."
And a thousand Tevinter voices roared in approval.
9.02 Dragon
The Master's Townhouse, Minrathous
The house had been full but silent on the morning of Aryion's escape.
The Master had been entertaining, bidding for supporters in His never-ending quest for supremacy. Aryion didn't know the details, nor did she need to. Her Master was the universe, and to deny Him His due was unthinkable.
And yet, this was what she now intended to do.
There was an atmosphere of decadence within the townhouse walls. Although the party itself had ended, soft noises filtered under the doors of occupied rooms. Shrinking at the memory of what she knew to be happening in each room, Aryion snuck down the hallway, praying the doors would stay closed.
Half way down the corridor she heard a door open behind her, and knew, knew, that this was the end. She realised her stupidity, her recklessness. Cold, clear understanding seeped through her mind... She would never see her child grow-up.
She would never even see him again.
She waited for the air to tighten, for the blood-like taste of tin that would signal her death. Nothing happened.
And then a cold hand landed on her shoulder.
"Shhh, Aryion, it's only me."
A swell of relief and nervous anger rose up in her. Aryion spun, tempted to slap Elwyni for frightening her so. Of course, she did no such thing. She didn't have the strength, not anymore. Pregnancy and birth had taken what small reserves she'd had, and Aryion was almost skeletal now.
"Do you need direction, Aryion?" Elwyni asked, her tone friendly but the question not.
Aryion scrabbled for a reason to be above stairs in the early hours of the morning, in the middle of her Master's party, and could think of nothing.
The knot rose again. The knot with which she was so accustomed. The ever sickening feeling in her stomach that had been with her ever since she had given birth and her baby had been taken from her. Ever since she had first decide to rebel.
She had never before felt anger towards her Master or her situation, but when her baby was taken she had screamed and screamed. She had seen his hand, small and fragile as the china she washed every night, wave out to her as the guards had carried him from the room where she lay helpless, exhausted and bleeding.
"Aryion?" Elwyni repeated, her arms folded, waiting for an answer.
Aryion opened her mouth, but no words came out. And then an idea, a brilliant idea, a flash of guile from the Maker himself, occurred to her.
"What are you doing here, Elwyni?"
Elwyni's eyes widened. Aryion was quiet and usually spoke as little as possible. For Aryion to ask a question, to make a comment that would require further conversation was rare at the best of times, and since the birth of the child almost unknown. Elwyni softened.
"I'm helping the Master's guests to enjoy their time here. I was asked especially to pay attention to the visiting Lord Howe," she added, a tone in her voice Aryion didn't recognise. "It is his room I am leaving, in fact. He wishes now for wine and meat. I am going to collect both."
"I'm doing the same... I mean, I'm on an errand. For a guest. Perhaps I could go to the kitchens for you? I'm going there myself. Then you would be free to fulfil the Master's wishes by entertaining another guest?"
Her voice had sped up desperately towards the end of her long speech. Aryion held her breath. She wasn't sure which was more implausible – her lie, or the fact that she had just produced it.
Elwyni's face was still as she looked at Aryion. And then she said, "You should never have named that child, Aryion."
Elwyni turn and headed towards the door of another guest, and Aryion, heart pumping, darted along the hallway and down another set of stairs to the room where her baby was being kept, waiting to be sold or killed.
She reached into the wooden box he was lain in, and pulled him to her breast, holding him tightly, breathing in his smell.
"Leto," she whispered into his hair.
