Long time no see, strangers.

Enjoy!

"Words."

'Thoughts, memories, dreams, etc.'

Leto thumbed the leftover scraps of food between his fingers, watching as the thin nutrients dissipated between his long appendages. The lack of nutrition was confirmed with the growl of his stomach. Like a church bell, his stomach growled at regular intervals, sick from not only malnutrition, but the sickening teasing of the knowledge that this was just enough to keep him from collapsing, just enough to keep him from fading away into oblivion, and that no matter how much he worked and waited, this is all he was going to get; this tiny speck of what it means to be completely nourished, to feel the fullness and satisfaction of being well-fed. Leto felt his cheeks, noting the hollow spots beginning to take place, almost feeling the black hole emerging from deep inside of him, sucking in his life power from the inside.

He was waiting, but what for? The possibility of more scraps from his master? He was named after a dog, would it be so shameful that he should begin to act as one, too? The door was locked to prevent him from making any more dramatic flighty escapes, opened only when Danarius was in need of his assistance.

In these kinds of situations, one would look to their Maker for guidance. Yet there is no Maker amidst the streets of Minrathous as far as Leto could see. There is no Maker harboring any of the souls that resided here. There is no Maker in the magisters, who are too enraptured by their own power to even consider the possibility of a being above them, or in the slaves, too world-weary to believe in such ideals. They have seen enough to know that hope is but a false instrument, paving a taunting way of gold before them whilst they are trapped behind titanium bars. Yet, they were not without dreams. Even with the magisters sucking the last grains of hope out of the slaves in this world, at night they often dreamt of worlds where it was not so.

In reality, Leto's mind was more vast a canvas than any famous painting. He was a painter deprived of a paintbrush; a drawing stenciled in but lacking color. On the shell, Leto was a slave, a creature fated to go no further than his master's line of sight. Yet how ironic was it that it that in his mind Leto could fly up to rearrange the most intricate of constellations, to explore the deepest of crevices, and think of the most inventive notions? With that, Leto tried to imagine the landscapes of other slaves' minds, wondering if they harbored the same dreams that he did. What a better world we should have if the capacity of our physical measures matched the capacity of what we can do in our minds.

Leto leaned his head back against the stone wall, swallowing emptiness as he lay back. There was nothing to do; nothing but wait with a peculiar and slight eagerness for the one person who made him feel something other than despair. The one who Danarius had decided to throw in with him into this tiny cell after their attempted escape. Or rather, her attempted escape.

"You certain we're walking in the right direction, Merrill?" Anders asked as he looked up from the soggy map in his hands, scratching his head. He strained to see in the darkness of the night sky. The eluvian was leaning onto him, encased in a metal funeral casket. It seemed to be the least conspicuous way of getting out of the city.

"Why're you even looking at the damned thing, Blondie? I'm betting we've walked ourselves off of any map by now."

"Not far now," replied Merrill cheerily as the group continued walking through the dirt and wet ground, listening as the crickets chirped and cheered.

"Just how much more tromping through the mud are we supposed to do? These are Hawke's boots I'm walking in, y'know. Blame's not on me when we reel her sorry arse back here…" Isabela complained as she assessed the damage done to the worn leather boots.

"…if there IS an arse to reel back," she added, grumbling under her breath.

"Hey Broody, why'd you decide to come anyways? Merrill's house too bright for ya?" Varric inquired, smirking up at the towering elf. The ex-slave retaliated with a sarcastic eyebrow raise.

"An intruiging insult, especially for one whose niche is inside of a giant rock," said Fenris, watching as Varric chuckled.

"You got me there, Broody. Don't forget that I'm a surface dwarf, though, above all things."

Anders stopped in his tracks suddenly.

"Wait, before we go on any further…"

The rest of the group stopped to face him, confusion evident in their tired faces.

"Just in case, let me put a protective ward on all of us. I think we're safer off this way in case this "scholar" of yours tries anything funny, Merrill."

"You are able to do that? Impressive," said Fenris. Anders raised his eyebrows in surprise, clearly taken aback by the compliment.

"Well, it's a simple enough spell. I'm sure I'll be able to pull it off for the five of us-"

"I was referring to your apparent ability to think," Fenris stated. Anders shot him an unamused glare.

"You know what-"

"Boys, boys," Isabela interjected, rolling her eyes playfully, "if we're going to die, let's at least try to hold out until we actually reach this… scholar guy. Anders, don't leave the bloody mirror behind!"

"Oh, right," Anders perked up as he picked up the encased eluvian in his large arms, with Varric lifting the front. Together, the group marched forth, fatigue in their minds and determination in their hearts.

The dungeon doors slammed open as a thud brought Leto back from his thoughts. He perked up as he caught the familiar sight of black hair whipping through the air. Hawke fell upon the dirty stone floor of the dungeon as Danarius stood at the entrance.

"Such a good learning session today, Kitten," Danarius said smiling down at the girl," What an obedient little minx you've become. I do hope we work again in such close proximity."

He turned his head to Leto, who stared up at him with empty eyes, filled with resignation.

"Try not to exhaust the little one too much, Little Wolf. Kitten's had quite the day. I daresay I have her trained at the level you are on. Until tomorrow, then, my lovelies. Don't be naughty," laughed Danarius as he slammed the dungeon door.

'Thrown to the wolves… again.'

Hawke sat up, eyes wide, and looked at Leto. Then, with a goofy smile, she held up a peculiar white object, completely ignoring what had just transpired. Leto squinted to see what it was, then rolled his eyes in amusement. Every time she was thrown back in this cell with him after her lessons, she brought back a stolen good of some sort – a book, a broken flute, a rune – peculiar items lying around the mansion, so that every time, they would have something to talk about, or rather, he would. This time, she had brought chalk.

"And what would you have me do with it, Hawke?" he inquired, though fully knowing what she wanted. She gestured towards the walls with the chalk. Leto looked over the dirty stone walls, watching how they stretched out to reach the high ceiling of the tiny little cell. They did not have much space, but they had walls.

"If you insist," Leto said as he took a broken piece of chalk from Hawke's tiny fingers and began to draw upon the stone walls. At least this would pass the time and give him something to think of other than death.

He contemplated for a moment, pausing with his chalk midway through the air, about what it was he wanted to draw. He heard the sound of Hawke already scratching away at the wall behind him, and wondered what it was that he could draw.

Leto was, in reality, a fairly good artist. He could draw landscapes and skies and beautiful mountains with great accuracy and details. Yet, he wanted to draw something else. Something that he wanted… deeply. He closed his eyes, his chalk lingering on the stone wall.

Freedom… yet how does one draw freedom? What tangible entity could possibly embody the concept of freedom?

Leto thought for a moment. Wings… if he had only wings, he could fly up and out of here, and never have to look back. If he was a bird, he could spread his wings and kiss Danarius goodbye. Perhaps not the latter, but nevertheless, Leto wanted to be a bird.

A dark, ominous raven, or maybe an elegant eagle, or a-

Leto opened his eyes suddenly as he began to draw upon the stone. He made crisp lines, taking care to place deep attention to detail. Slowly, powerful, beautiful wings came to life on the once desolate stone wall, and Leto felt satisfaction lifting his spirits. He was good at something. He was more than good at something. As he drew, he wondered briefly how other slaves may have talents; how many could become healers, scholars, artists, writers, artisans, warriors, and other occupations.

'How great we could become, were we not reduced to lesser beings,' mused Leto quietly.

How could people be devalued so much, despite their potential worth? How do you know that that elven slave who sold you fruit at the marketplace doesn't have a mind of gold? If given the right resources, couldn't slaves amount to as much, perhaps more, than magisters? They were slaves, but they were people. There were brilliant minds among them, as well as brilliant hearts. But they were caged from the inside, and brilliant minds are of no use when you are forced to kneel at your master's feet.

Suddenly, the sound of Hawke scratching away behind him stopped, and Leto paused his drawing for a moment to peer behind him. Hawke was staring at him – no, not at him, at his drawing. Leto's eyes travelled from her to the wall in from of her, and stared in amazement.

She had drawn a wolf. Rough a sketch as it were, it was a clear drawing of a wolf, its eyes ravenous and hungry, searching for prey. Leto's eyes strayed back to his own drawing.

A hawk.

Stately and proud, with its wings outstretched, preparing for takeoff. Its eyes gleamed like diamonds in the rough, its wings sweeping its surroundings as if concocting a tornado.

Leto's eyes met with Hawke, and she smiled at him sweetly. Sometimes, they really get each other.

"Mother used to give me and my sister these to play with as children. She worked for some slave-owners who owned a quarry. There was always an abundance of these," said Leto, fingering the ancient pieces of chalk. Hawke nodded as she continued to scratch away, listening intently.

Despite her inability to answer his chatter, Leto rarely felt alone. Every shrug of her shoulders, every tense of her muscles seemed like an answer. She had learned to speak with her face, in addition, and her eyes would light up whenever he spoke of his background. Leto couldn't help but smirk at the image. It was rather charming.

By now, she had drawn mountains and roads and castles on her side of the cell, with strange, peculiar objects that Leto couldn't quite make out yet. She seemed hard at work at finishing her oddball drawing. Leto leaned back and relaxed under his picture of a hawk, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach, and instead deciding to nourish himself with words.

"I learned to draw with these. By the time I was eight, I swear I covered the walls of every backstreet alley with pictures of critters and sunsets," Leto chuckled, rolling the chalk between his fingers fondly. Hawke shuddered slightly - a giggle, Leto presumed. He felt his inhibition chip away slightly with every ticking moment. Despite their situation, he found some solace in Hawke's company. They certainly did not agree much of the time... but he took comfort in the fact that he is not alone. She was just as much a slave as he was in here - but she was a slave under the guise of a magister's apprentice - there for Danarius' entertainment.

Leto was no fool, he saw the various lash marks and cuts along Hawke's arms and legs whenever her dirty white dress rode up. She simply bit her lip and healed herself with the remnants of mana she had left when she thought that Leto was sleeping, knowing how the presence of mana disgusted him. He lowered his eyes. She was so afraid of him... and rightfully so, with the way he yelled at her when she tried to free him. Yet she still persevered, trying to help him. For what reason, Leto did not know, but he was grateful beyond words. He would hesitate to admit it, but somewhere in him, he felt a budding trust for the young Hawke.

Perhaps there was some glimmer of hope residing in this stony soul of his. Hawke turned to him and smiled at him before continuing to draw her peculiar masterpiece. For the first time in a long while, Leto smiled back.

'Hawke, you are insane. I admire you for it.'

Hope you liked (; R&R please if you can to let me know what you think!