Malcolm erupted immediately. He was swearing, demanding the man leave, calling down the wrath of every god he knew. The man just stood still, a smug, conquering smirk creasing the corners of his lips, his cold, dark eyes locked onto Leto's. Leto felt the power radiating off the stranger in waves, the confidence, the arrogance. A hard shiver ran through his whole being and his knees were quaking, begging his body to give way. Every fiber of his being was trembling with the need to bow, to crouch before this mage and offer total subservience. His mind reeled in protest and fought hard against the compulsion.

And in that moment he broke. His consciousness snapped and it was all he could muster to turn and bolt out the back door, the soft mocking laughter of the Tevinter dancing after him even after he was out of earshot. That horrid low chuckle, that awful chortle of triumph of knowing, of winning. It was a laugh distinct to the mages of Tevinter, it was a cruel noise, one born of superior station and masochism. It was the laugh that Danarius used after beating a slave into submission. It was the laugh that haunted his worst nightmares and that chased him through the streets of Orlais so many years ago. Now it was dogging him again, nipping at his heels as he half stumbled half ran across the back yard.

Up the hill, managing to steady himself on the smooth incline towards the apple orchard. His mind screamed and beat against his skull, raging against it's weakness, warring against the will that still bent and bowed him over. His breath was ragged and harsh, ripping in and out of his lungs hard enough that he could swear he tasted blood. His heart bounded in his chest, blood only half rushing through it's vessels as the pace became to quick to effectively circulate it. His head spun and a roaring rose steadily in his ears.

He kept running.

Leto's fist was tight around the scroll, knuckles going white and sweat seeping steadily into the thick parchment coiled around the dense, wooden rod. He skidded around the second to last row of trees and charged onward, tearing through the narrow semi-path that he and Garrett had discovered as children. The tight twigs and branches of young trees and tall bushes caught, clung, and ripped at his face and arms. Vines and thorns snared into his hair and pants, ripping holes and tearing dark brown locks free. The pain didn't register. The elf didn't care. He streaked through the dense underbrush, feeling warm trickles of blood dripping carefully down his cheeks and neck, winding easy paths across his dark skin only to dry and crust after a few inches of travel, leaving his skin crawling and itching. He cursed under his breath and scratched hard at his face and neck, half scrubbing half trying to peel away any evidence of the tears he could feel squeezing free from the corners of his eyes.

When he was within reach of the old climbing tree he leapt the last few feet to land unsteadily on a low hanging branch. The bark bit into his bare feet, carved into his hands, scoured against the bare skin of his arms as he dragged himself up branch by branch. He scrambled, slipped, clawed, and desperately dragged his way up the towering pine. The whole tree swayed against his efforts and it took a mighty force to keep himself steadied. Finally the branches grew too thin, too sparse and began to snap under his weight and abuse.

He kept climbing.

His hands struggled for holds and his feet sought branches that would bear his weight. Finally he went one step too far and a foot hold snapped followed by his chosen hand hold, which could not take the sudden weight applied to it. Leto crashed down through the thin branches, managing to catch himself on a larger branch a few feet down, luckily uninjured from the sudden, short tumble.

He pressed his shoulder to the sturdy tree and felt his body whirling within his skin. His heart was skipping and faultering, his lungs couldn't suck in enough air. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe; his mind had forgotten how to run his body, had forgot even the most mechanical and automatic of functions, and he could feel his whole self slowly shutting down piece by piece.

How foolish. How fucking foolish. To believe he had been free, to believe he could ever have been free, to believe that freedom should even have been a thought in his mind. How childish and stupid, how utterly ridiculous. He should have known, he should have realized long before now that he was first and always property and would always be property. Maker be damned, this whole world be damned. How could he have ever hoped, how could he have ever dreamed? All those years of joyful bliss, all those years of ignorance and happiness. He had waited, Danarius had waited, had known, had picked his moment struck right when he knew it would crush Leto the hardest, the fastest, the most efficiently. He wanted his little slave back, but obedient, subservient, compliant. He just needed to break him.

It was working. Leto could feel everything shattering around him. No, not shattering. This wasn't some illusion exploding into pieces, some window or mirror; this wasn't a house crumbling to his feet. This was a fissure cracking open in the earth itself, devils and demons dancing in it's depths, a chorus of that mocking laughter. This was the very sky above him breaking open in great crevices, cleaved open and tumbling helplessly around him, smashing around his feet. This was his own mind ripping to pieces, falling into hopeless tatters. His lungs were failing, his heart was staggering under the weight of it all, under the pressure of it all, under the truth and reality of everything. No space could be big enough to allow his lungs to fill, no space could be free enough to allow his heart to beat; he was trapped, caged, slave to his own mind and body already and he needed to escape. He needed to rid himself of the burden, he needed-

A warmth spread across his shoulder and for a moment he was sure he had actually been seriously injured and was finally noticing the blood seeping into his linen shirt. His body gave a heave and he tried to wrench him self away from the feeling, it was a grounding real feeling, firm and steady, and he didn't want it, he didn't want the feeling of his life seeping away through the cracks of skin and muscle. He couldn't escape it though and so he screamed. He released a haggard and desperate bellow that rocked the very ground beneath him. He shrieked and the birds joined in, a dissonate chorus that echoed eerily through the all-too-still morning. He cried out again and again, his voice going hoarse, his calls dissolving into sobs until eventually his body was just shaking and twitching and convulsing with fear and sorrow and an uncontrollable tempest of emotions that ravaged his lithe, tired frame.

But still that warm grounding feeling stayed planted on his shoulder. Still it stayed and steadied him.

"Feel the bark."

The voice was low, quiet, as steady and solid as the warmth on his shoulder. He just cried out again in response and slammed his shoulder against the trunk of the tree.

"Feel the bark, Leto."

His breath came in shaky but he looked at the trunk, pressing one cracked, tattered and broken hand against it.

"Feel how rough it is, how cool it is from the night. Feel the sun warm on your face. Feel the breeze in your hair. Feel the branch holding you."

With each word the world came back to him. Slowly his body calmed, his mind stabilized.

"Now breathe."

It was as if the voice was his own mind, for with those words his lungs expanded, sucking in a deep breath, Oxygen filling his cells, his body singing praise as it was fed much needed air.

"Good. Steady now. What did the letter say?"

He had forgotten about the letter, clenched tight in one fist. He wasn't sure he could open his hand, he wasn't sure his mind was capable of prying his fingers loose.

"Steady... Steady. Just open your fingers."

Slowly his fingers peeled away from the damn parchment, his own mind no longer in control it seemed, his voice dictating his actions, calming him, directing his muscles for him.

"Open it."

He did so with careful, deliberate movements. Luckily the paper was thick enough that his sweat had not smeared or smudged the spidery handwriting scrawled across the page.

"Read it."

But he could not read. He was never taught to read, the markings on the page were fine, delicate scribbles and blurred before his eyes and seemed nothing more than fanciful scribbles.

"Breathe, Leto. One word at a time. Read it aloud."

The scribbles begrudgingly eased themselves into letters and eventually words, then whole sentences and paragraphs. Yes, yes, he knew this. He could read. Malcolm, yes Malcolm had taught him so long ago. This was simple, this was easy, this he could do. The realization cemented in his mind, the reality settled heavily around him. The words dragged him back from the brink, grounded him to the world. It swept away the crumbled sky, sealed up the deep gash in the earth, held him and cradled him in existence. He needed that, he needed something real, something firm, something to stay him.

Leto,

I hope you have enjoyed your little vacation. I hope you have enjoyed your time of carefree freedom. Have you? Have you enjoyed it enough for your family? Those you had abandoned ten years ago? They have suffered for you. I sincerely hope your wild flight of fancy was worth everything you've put them through.

The words rived his heart and rent a gash in his very soul. Or perhaps they had just brought to light a piece of himself that had always been missing, a piece that had been left with his real family back in Minrathos.

"Focus on the words."

Out of the kindness of my heart I have conceived of a way for you to seek forgiveness for you crimes. You may return unharmed and free of sin, provided you complete one simple task.

No, no he would never go back. He would never return. He had escaped and no promises of mercy and forgiveness would ever lure him back. He would run, he would run forever, he would run and kill and hide and whatever else it took, for however long it took.

"Words, Leto."

Or, perhaps, if mercy is not what you seek I can offer you freedom, of a different sort. If you wish your family to be free then all you need to is complete my task. By all means, feel no need to do so, they have been good slaves, faithful and loyal. Your sister especially has potential. She is so strong, so determined. Imagine how powerful her blood must be.

He wanted to roar, wanted to rip the paper to shreds, wanted to set it ablaze, throw it to the wind. He wanted to find the messenger and strangle him, to follow his filthy steps back to Minrathos itself and slay Danarius for his words, for his threats. How dare he, how dare he.

"Words."

The Archon himself is hosting the Grand Tourney, in Fereldan, no less. The prize is a secret, but there have been whispers. I have heard reports that you have turned into a fine warrior over the years, my little Leto, and I am so very proud at your dedication.

His body revolted against the words, his stomach heaved and he wanted to vomit, wanted to bash his head against the tree until he went blind, until he forgot the wretched things had every been written, that the letter even existed. But he managed to collect his thoughts before the voice spoke again, with an easy, steading breath, he turned back to the paper.

If you compete, and win, as my champion, you will be rewarded. You will return to Minrathos a hero, a Champion. You will be forgiven for your treachery and you will win the freedom of your mother and sister. That is my boon to you.

If you would like to accept my offer you need only speak to Lord Marellus, the man who delivered this letter to you. He will provide you with all necessary equipment.

I look forward to your return, my pet.

It was an after thought, a final line scribbled with half a thought, which only angered him the more. The emotional storm began to rise again but that pressure on his shoulder fought it back, held his body to the earth, grounded his mind with an overwhelming, calming force. A hand reached before him and clutched the scroll, carefully removing it from his grasp. When it was gone the air seemed to break open, a spell broke and his mind snapped back, his body sagged, a sudden endless exhaustion rolling over him. He had a flash of panic as he began to slip back off the branch but his body met something warm, which stopped him.

"You're okay. Everything is okay. Lets get home." The voice now rumbled through him from the chest of the male he was leaning against. He turned to look, for the first time, and was met with Garrett's steady, calm gaze. He just gave a slow nod and pulled himself upright, following the human down through the maze of branches and forest and back home.

Leto didn't leave his bed for four days. He remained, curled, spirit and mind still mending themselves, sifting slowly and carefully through the problem before him. The letter lay untouched on the floor by his bed, he didn't need to read it again because he knew. He knew every word. Every letter and syllable burned through his nerves like a fire.

Garrett remained with him every moment. Bethany and Carver diverted Alyssa and Aiden whenever they came to visit, shrugging and feigning ignorance about his whereabouts, or else making up some excuse about him being ill. Meanwhile he sat on the floor, back braced against his best friend's bed, hands absently weaving tight circles of fire or ice, or spinning healing magic into delicate patterns, every muscle and fiber of his being focused on control and power. When eventually he would become frustrated with the task or bored he would crush the magic viciously between his hands and imagine it was Danarius.

And when night fell Hawke would drop his head back against a pillow he propped against the bed and sing softly into the darkness,

"Oh all your life you never thought
You'd end here, hold on
And all the glass is in pieces
And the maids are in tears, hold on
Now you're waiting for a rescue
But no snow-white horse shows up for you

There's no mercy sleep under stolen sheets
In a stillborn dream when your soul is empty
When your path is dark and your compass gone
When your map is torn, torn,
Hold on, Hold on, Hold on..."

And eventually Leto would drift off to sleep, his breathing would even out and slow and Hawke would listen to the lullaby of his slumber and allow himself to drift off as well to the subtle music of the other's body.

So the routine continued, Hawke only leaving to bring Leto food, Leto only moving to eat or shift position, and no one daring to disturb the pair.

When the sun rose to noon on the fourth day Leto slowly, carefully swung his legs off the side of the bed and laboriously pushed himself to stand, followed quickly by Garrett who scrambled up from the floor next to him. The elf's voice was low and rumbling, hoarse still from disuse and the shouts of a few days ago, "I am going to see Lord Marellus." Hawke's body tensed and he reached a hand out to Leto, who side stepped it easily, "I will be competing." His bright eyes cast down, his brow furrowed, "I left. Without thought or care. They have suffered for me long enough. I will rescue them. I will free them." When he met Hawke's gaze again the human nearly staggered back a step, the intensity in Leto's eyes was so strong.

All he could do was nod and croak out, "What... what do you need from me?"

Leto's eyes turned almost sad before he set his face in impassive thought, "I need you to let me go. And to help your family let me go."

Garrett felt sorrow dig through him, crash through his body like a hurricane, "Leto, please-"

The elf grabbed Hawke's face in his hands and locked eyes, "Don't. Don't stop me."

He just shook his head, "No, Leto, no, there's got to be-"

"I will return, Hawke. I promise. No matter how far I go, no matter how long I'm away." And before Hawke could speak Leto enveloped in him a crushing hug, pulling their bodies tight together and holding on. Garrett's arms flew around his friend's body and pulled him in tighter. The embrace felt more like they were clinging to each other, holding on for dear life through a rough and ragged storm. Leto's hands fisted in his shirt and he buried his face in Hawke's shoulder, grasping tightly to the other male.

"And I will come for you. I will find you, I will tear down all of Minrathos if that's what it takes, I will-" His words choked in his throat and a little broken sob slipped free before he could stop it, "I swear to you, Leto. I swear."

Leto just stepped away, pushing his once brother away, his eyes were sad but he nodded, "Goodbye-" He paused, a slight frown creasing his brow and when he met Hawke's eyes again there was a little smile on his lips, "Goodbye, Garrett."

His heart had been ripped out. His soul was torn asunder and his body was the only living part of him left. As Leto turned and left the room, Garrett could do nothing but collapse to his knees and drop his forehead to the cold, wooden floor, allowing his body to shake and wrack with violent and painful sobs. His brother, his best friend, was returning to the man who enslaved him, who abused him, who used him; a wretched and vile man who didn't deserve to so much as know of the world, nevermind be apart of it, a man who was more demon than human, who was who full of cruelty and malice that Garrett would be surprised if it was those traits alone which sustained him. He was going back, he was fighting to win the right to return to that. And all Garrett could do was nothing. All he could do was watch and hope he didn't get killed in the Grand Tourney. All he could do was hope he won, was hope that he won so that he could return to that monster of a man.

The thought made him sick and he had to run to the window to empty his stomach into the flower garden below because the whole ordeal was so grotesque.

Everyone reacted differently. Bethany cried, Leandra stood quiet and stoic but the pain was evident in every line of her face, Carver acted sour and moody, more so than usual. But perhaps Malcolm took it the worst. He disappeared into the woods shortly after Leto left to talk to Lord Marellus and didn't return until the house had fallen into an uneasy and light slumber. Hawke couldn't sleep and so he lay awake, listening to his parents argue for the first time since his father brought a broken, half dead little elf boy home ten years ago. He heard the door slam then quiet, muffled, controlled hiccups as his mother returned to her room.

Hawke's carefully constructed world was in shambles around him. He struggled to pick up all the pieces, splintering faster than he could put them back together, grasped at solutions then shook them away and finally rolled on his side and curled a pillow against his chest. Leto was right. He had to let him go. He had to let him go so that he could hold his family together, so that he could be strong and he could bind them and he could carry them through the storm. He needed to let go because holding on was too hard, because holding on meant being ripped away from the shore and lost at see and watching his family scatter as leaves in the wind.

But that's what scared him even more. He had to hold every one together, had to stand alone against the tide that threatened to wash them all away. How could he manage that? How could he do that when he was already so broken the lightest tickle of a wave would unmake him? How could he expect to keep every one else together when he couldn't even hold himself?

He had to truly let go. He had to allow himself to forget. He had to give up hope.

"Leto, forgive me." And his heart broke completely.