It was only by the grace of Andraste herself that Leto was not currently being kept in chains.
Lord Marellus was rather confident the elf would not run away. That or he was confident in his own ability to be able to catch him and drag him back, should he attempt it. Whatever the reason was didn't matter. What mattered is that he was trapped. Even if there were no shackles holding him in place his own mind were manacles enough to bind him. With the Hawke's he had a freedom, an independence, a pride even. He could walk with head high, dine at their table, converse openly, smile, laugh. But not here. All he had gained over those ten years quickly fled in the presence of a Tevinter mage once more.
He hadn't dared to look up, to meet this man's eyes, he knelt in the corner until he was dismissed to sleep, or else told to go complete some other task- often sparring and practicing for the Grand Tourney. True to Danarius' word, he had been provided with more than sufficient equipment. The armor he donned each day now had taken three weeks to craft and was tailored perfectly for him. Each time he pulled the weighty pieces into place a small voice at the back of his mind chuckled and reminded him how fitting Garrett would find the garb. Pointed, spiky and sharp. He would have had a field day laughing about it.
He didn't need to shake the thought, or the memories, a heavy sigh washed them all out. He would need to forget, would need to practice putting aside such thoughts without frustration or obvious struggle. When he returned to Minrathos all memories of freedom would need to be discarded. He would not be able to live if they carried on in his mind. He had a year before that day came, he was going to use it wisely and forget and package and box it all away now.
The months leading up to the tourney were filled long days and longer nights. When, finally, he collapsed onto his pad on the floor of a storage closet he felt the weight of the past decade come tumbling down upon him. He would take long, slow breaths and squeeze his eyes closed against the reality of his life. Carefully, haltingly he would push each memory from his mind until none were left, until all that existed was the damp, stale closet and the threatening cloud of the Grand Tourney looming over him. And with each passing week the memories began to fade. As the months themselves began to roll by he found that, if he wanted to recall something, he was forced to dredge it up from the depths of his subconscious and wrestle it into the open. A small part of his soul cringed and ached at the loss but the rest of him swept past it without a second glance. It was for the better.
At last the day came. After three long months of training, solitude and silence Leto stood in a long, staggered line of warriors, rogues and mages awaiting entrance to the Tourney ring. They were hidden from view from the admiring crowds by a large, white, canvas tent and every single person fidgeted and picked at their armor or gear or teeth, anxiously or absently waiting for the entrance horn to sound. Leto noted solemnly that he was not the only elf, this was a good thing, he would not stand out. It was never good to stand out, then you got cocky, then people would challenge you, then people would know to prepare for you. No, it was best to keep hidden, keep low, keep quiet. A small elf of 16 with mousy brown hair and a Tevinter accent was nothing to raise alarms about. From the looks of some of the other elves, he was not the only one of those either.
At last a fanfare rang throughout the stadium and the curtains at the front of the tent were drawn back and the great procession of competitors began. A slow, winding snake of bodies wove their way through the light, dry dirt of the fighting ring, circling in a wide arc around the edge of the stands. Some people waved and blew kisses, others riled up the crowd with shouts and jeers, some kept their heads bowed, or just looked forward with stoic confidence. Leto did none of these. Instead he searched the faces of those around him, sizing up the competition, putting numbers of various species and fighting styles into place, picking out those who would be easy prey, and those it would be best to avoid.
Eventually they all stood in a large spiral at the center of the ring, all facing a raised podium, halfway up the stands where a pair of figures stood. One wore a smile visible from the end of the ring, he was obviously the announcer. The other... it was unclear. Well, until he spoke. The low voice rang out around the audience and half the elves in the spiral, Leto included, stiffened unconsciously, legs trembling, trying to fight the need to sink down before this man. The voice was clearly Tevinter and, from the way the audience hushed around them, and the way the other slaves quaked in his presence, Leto could easily guess this man was the Archon himself. He was the one hosting this year's event, it would make sense for him to be present, at least for the opening ceremonies. Leto's face hardened and he fought his instinct to avert his eyes. Ultimately, he failed, but when he cast his gaze down into the dirt it was with a stubborn grimace of frustration and disappointment.
The elf was so caught up in his own, inner monologue that he missed the mage's speech entirely. All for the better, he supposed, 'Vint mages were insufferable and proud, nothing he had to say would be worth hearing. And even less of it would have been directed at the competitors, all of it would be boasting and grand standing before the eclectic and gathered audience. Damn Magisters could never resist a chance to boast about the Imperium and all of it's might and wonder. Applause rang out and Leto clapped his hands obligatorily before looking back up to the smiling man, now standing along on his small stage.
"Now! Let us cheer our brave competitors on their way so that the SHOW. CAN. BEGIN!" His voice was high and nasally and made Leto wince with it's sharp, piercing tone. Wonderful. At least he had that to look forward to throughout this long event. Maybe an arrow or spell would fly amiss and strike him down instead... A terrible thought but not a terrible fate for Leto, at least.
The crowd errupted in cheers and the carefully arranged display of fighters quickly dissolved as they shuffled back into the tent from whence they came in one, large, mob. Leto took a seat on a long bench and drew his sword off his back, carefully polishing it, running a stone along the blade to sharpen it and pick out any dents from training.
"Let the show begin." He muttered sourly, his face scrunching in what might be taken as anger, but felt closer to anguish. A heavy sigh rushed from his body and he looked up to the mass of fighters still slipping into the tent and shook his head, "Let the show begin, indeed."
The carnival would be grounded in Denerim for a year, though the tourney only lasted a day and wouldn't take place for another few months yet. There would be plenty of fighting in the mean time. Contestants could spar each other, could put on shows of agility or strength, could participate in the non-lethal Melees, Ranged and Magic competitions that would occur in the meantime. Leto would participate in some of them, but not within a week of when the Grand Tourney would take place, and only at Marellus' behest. The mage wanted to make some good money off the elf before they went home and betting on him during the smaller fighting competitions would be a good way to do so. Or, in some cases, betting against. It was with a cruel and confident smirk that Marellus approached Leto one day to announce that he would be throwing matches when it was demanded of him.
"If you'd like, think of it as giving people a false sense of your abilities. If that makes you feel better. Really, it's the only dependable way I'll make any money off you. Just don't put up the charade of winning for too long, no sense in getting yourself injured." Leto had bowed his head and nodded. Allowing him to believe it was a strategy, allowing him to deceive himself from the fact he was simply being used. It was a gift. Slaves were not offered the comfort of imagination and pretending to be greater than a mouse caught in a stew. To be permitted to live in a fantasy world in which he was a warrior mastermind, setting out to deceive his opponents and carefully learn their techniques and skills, and most importantly, their weaknesses was a greater offering than he would likely ever see again. He quietly murmured a thank you to the mage before shuffling back into his corner to await further instruction.
Thus Leto was thrust back in to the tedium of Marellus' demanding routine. He participated in the mock competitions 3-4 times a week and spent the other days practicing with any one, or several, of the bodyguards the Tevinter had brought with him. That grew boring quickly, as Leto picked up on each of their styles and quickly learned to turn it against them. The large, plodding guards were easily taken down which swift dodges and a quick slip around behind followed by a solid thwap to the back. The smaller, more agile opponents were often confused by standard weapon forms. They were used to improvisation and quick thinking, when faced against a steady, constant opponent they were unsure how to react. There were no inherent weaknesses in forms and so they found nothing to exploit and were quickly beaten back and into submission. All the while Marellus watched with a small, satisfied smirk, scribbling notes into a small book.
Leto would have scowled at the documentation and record keeping- he was not some prize horse or hunting dog to be tracked- but his own walls and defenses wouldn't let him. Instead he averted his eyes whenever he noticed the mage looking at him and continued on in whatever the exercise of the day was.
After a long stretch of weeks and months, in which Leto competed in a countless number of training, spars and weapon technique showings, the Grand Melee was finally upon them. The Grand Magics had been first, and contained the smallest number of opponents. That meant odds were good for everyone involved, as the top 20 from each section would be allowed to compete in the Grand Tourney. Then the Grand Ranges, all archers, spear, axe or dagger throwers, which was a fairly sizable group. Then, lastly, was the Grand Melee. It was the largest of the competitions and by far considered the most prestigious. The winner of every Grand Tourney thus far had come from the Melee pool. Every one had been a Warrior of some denomination.
As Leto strode carefully behind Marellus and a handful of body guards towards the competitor's tent he carefully ticked the time by on his fingers. Nine months since he'd left the Hawke's. Six months since the carnival, and the tournaments, had started. Magics had been in the second month, Ranges had been in the fourth, and now the Melee in month six. Now another four months of competitions among the top 60 fighters, 20 from each group, then, in the last month of the event, the day of the Grand Tourney, where the top ten fighters of the entire pool would face off.
Then, should he win, he would be shipped off to Tevinter. Then, should he win, his family would be freed. If he didn't win he would be dead, so he wouldn't be around to worry or care about any possible consequences anyway. The last day all fights were to the death, how typically dramatic. How horribly cliche.
Leto snapped from his thoughts when Marellus snapped his fingers impatiently in his face. "Focus, slave." The word rolled over his tongue with a flourish and burned in Leto's ears, stinging and stabbing at his ear drums and shrieking laughter in the deep recesses of his mind. "This is your first real test. You'll need to be one of the last 20 left standing. If you are not-" there was something gleefully malicious in his smile here, "- or if you fail anywhere else along the way at this point, your Master will have no more use for you." Marellus swept the curtain aside for Leto to enter the tent, that stupid, cruel, awful smirk still tugging coyly at the corners of his mouth.
The elf didn't need him to explain what no more use for you meant. He didn't need a detailed description of what would happen to him should he fail. He knew. He knew what happened to slaves that didn't obey, that couldn't follow orders, that didn't know their place. He knew what happened and the thoughts made him shudder, caused him to shrink back, skirt through the opening the mage offered as quickly as possible, keeping as far from him as possible. Marellus noticed and, as he let the curtain drop behind him, he laughed low and hauntingly.
He had all the power. He had all the power and Leto had nothing. Leto had his armor and sword and the hope of winning so that he might achieve some kind of goodness for someone in his lifetime. Some of the other competitors looked up at him as he scurried into the holding tent, but most were focused on looking scary and menacing, or sharpening their weapons of choice, or pacing, or rocking with fear. Leto scoffed at that, what was there to be afraid of? This was a non-lethal competition. Sure people could lose limbs or eyes or ears but nothing serious. Nothing that the medics on hand couldn't close up in seconds. Nothing they would die from. Fear would only cloud their minds, fear would only lead to mistakes, fear would only drive them to run when they needed to focus and fight.
Leto sat by himself off in a corner and placed his blade across his lap, taking slow, deep breaths to calm his mind, push out all distractions, and center himself. He went through the motions of a fight, put himself in impossible situations, worked his way though every typer of combatant he could think of. His muscles twitched as his thoughts moved through the motions, his breathing evened out, his heart slowed and he felt his body settle into a kind of meditative state. He was ready. A few more, deep breaths and the world seemed to slow around him, the sounds seemed to wash out, only the schliiink of rock on blade, the heavy pants of those around him, the nervous drumming and tapping of the other combatants rang in his mind.
He would win.
They were positioned in a large circle in the freshly raked, dirt ring, surrounded on all sides by a jeering, cheering, chanting and excited audience. For the last time Leto took stock of the men and women around him. Some were nearly wetting themselves, he would leave them be, they would weed themselves from the mixture. Others were reveling in the joy of the audience, distracted, showy, simple. Others were too serious, trying to look tough or menacing, and on a weaker mind it might have worked. Leto had to keep himself from laughing. What did they understand of guts? Of toughness? Or bravery or courage? Leto wanted to start laughing. He was fighting for his life, he was fighting to throw himself back into slavery for the sake of a family he couldn't remember and would probably never meet again.
He was a madman. He was insane. He was laughing in the face of all these people held dear and smashing it to pieces. Freedom, love, life, happiness. Fuck it. Fuck it all. They should be afraid. Each and every one of them should be quaking in their boots. There was nothing more terrifying than a man with nothing left to lose. Nothing more frightening, more horrifying, more intimidating that someone who had nothing left he loved, nothing left he cared about, nothing left in his life that mattered. Live, die, it didn't matter, he'd end up in the same place either way. Let them come. Let them slash and hack and stab. He would shriek laughter in their face as he sliced them down one by one.
The horn sounded. The world creaked to a crawl. The battle had begun.
Leto charged forward with the rest of the warriors, sword braced, angled down, ready to slice up and under the shield or weapon of the first opponent he came to. It was a young Templar, solid and sturdy in his plate and shield. Leto stepped into him, managing to set his foot just on the inside of the tower shield. The man jabbed at him with his long sword, the elf twisted and leaned sideways, away from the shield, to dodge the blow. His foot lifted and swept out, dragging the shield with it and yanking the young man suddenly off balance. He slammed the hilt of his sword against the side of the heavy helmet then brought his knee swiftly up into the Templar's face. A loud clang run out and he hit the ground with a quiet grunt, momentarily unconscious. Leto moved on quickly while medic mages rushed in to clear away the collapsed body.
Next was a middle aged man dual wielding short swords. He made the mistake of sweeping out at Leto with one of them. Leto quickly bowed back, allowing the blade to wiz past his armor, catching the very tip of the spike or metal on his chest with a quiet clicking noise. Now the man had his back partially turned to him. Foolish move, there was no way he would recover with a backhanded swipe in time. Leto slashed his great sword down in a carefully controlled arch, ripping a large gash in the man's leather and hide armor, meeting skin and drawing a fat line of blood that quickly pooled in the divot before pouring out and down his back and legs. He gasped and cried out in pain, Leto side stepped, and absently lashed a foot out to buckle one of his knees, moving on to the next combatant with only a brief backwards glance, to make sure he was really out of the fight.
And so it continued. Not all Leto's opponents were so slow, stupid or careless. In fact most of them were highly skilled and had him on the defense, dipping and dodging for what felt like an eternity before he spotted an opening. But the fight was long and he was tiring faster than he would have liked. As more people fell only the best were left and his body was getting weary. He had taken several good blows and could feel the bruises on his ribs and legs start to blossom. Leto wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going, or how much longer he would need to, there was constantly someone in his face so he had been unable to check his surroundings to see how the field looked.
Suddenly a splitting pain rocketed through his skull, all but shattering his teeth, causing him to bit off a small piece of his tongue. His spine gave a great shiver and gave way, his whole body plummeting to the ground. He only just managed to catch himself, spitting out the small chuck of muscle as well as a fair amount of blood. He rolled to the side just in time as a large sword planted itself in the dirt he had just occupied. He locked eyes with the visious, towering man above him and immediately knew his match was made. It was all he could to to scramble backwards, leaving his weapon where it was, this was past fighting, all he could do now was pray he'd lasted long enough to secure his place in the top 20. The man advanced easily on him and planted a foot in his chest, shoving him back to the ground, knocking all the wind from his lungs before stomping hard over his ribs.
Leto heard the snapping and cracking of severing bone. He would have cried out but even breathing, even just existing was a blinding, blistering pain he'd never known before. Before the pain had time to process the world gave a mighty swirl and blackness overtook his vision, everything went silent. One final thought drifted through his mind in a high, ringing laugh is this death? Does it even matter? Can I even care?
He awoke an undeterminable amount of time later in a bed, the wrenching pain in his side nothing more than a dull ache. Marellus sat silently next to him, once again scribbling in that blasted journal. He wanted to reach out and snatch it away, to rip it from his hands and throw it into a puddle, a lake, the ocean itself anything, he didn't care, he just wanted it gone. Marellus must have sensed his thoughts because he snapped the book closed and tucked it into his robes before turning his gaze to the wounded elf before him.
"How do you think you did?"
Leto hadn't expected him to ask how he was doing, how he felt, how his ribs were healing. He didn't consciously expect him to care, it would have bothered him more if the mage had. But still, after so long with a family, in freedom, with friends and parents it stung a little to be back in this life again. It ached in a small fraction of his soul that was still not accustomed to this new way of life. He didn't reply, simply looked away from the mage's piercing eyes and shrugged. He wasn't being beaten, he was still alive, and he was still conscious and sane so he must have done something correct... right?
"You placed 16th." The mage picked at his nails and sighed, "I was rather disappointed in your poor showing, but I trust you will get better. Now, get up, I will finish healing you myself and then you will return to training. I had my guards analyze your flaws and weaknesses. These next six months will not be pleasant. Nor easy. Alas, you've brought it upon yourself so I shall tolerate no complaining. In fact you are not to speak until you make it through these petty squabbles and to the Grand Tourney itself. Get up, now, we're leaving." His voice was bored, tired, almost as though he was some kind of burden. It only fueled the anger and resentment in his chest. Though, not for Marellus, but for himself. How could he let himself fail? How could be be so stupid and blind and weak? He would do better. He must do better. If he didn't do better... If he didn't do better what did it matter in the long run?
Ignoring the pain stretching and pulling across his chest and abdomen, Leto swung his legs off the side of the bed and rose sharply, following Marellus with his head down, a few paces back. He had to stop thinking like that. If he allowed himself to stop caring he would never win. If he allowed the thought of death to rival that of slavery his family had no hope. He was doing this for them. His fate didn't matter. His fate had been sealed for 16 years, and it wasn't going to change now. He had to care about his life because it was the only thing that mattered in giving his family the freedom they deserved. He had to care for them.
In the far, murky depths of his mind a small voice echoed quietly, You made a promise to return. You made a promise you would see him again. You have to care. You have to live. Garrett will be waiting. You made a promise.
Six more months. Scores of battles yet. His body sagged under the weight of it, under the density of it all, under the incomprehensible distance and time of everything. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go...
