Passionate Pride

I do not walk away with good impression from that first meeting with Shartan, and I think it is quite mutual. I believe him an uncouth, blind savage who cannot appreciate tool freely given. He, from the few remarks that reach my ears, considers me a much overrated, stuck-up skank who likes to wise-ass her superiors.

Never mind that I never acknowledged, in any way whatsoever, his presumed superiority.

But being a lone wolf can only take me so far before I encounter a danger I will not be able to face head on. And Alarith, my former guide, is right, in that we share a common goal. So with a lot of bite from both sides, we learn to work around each other, trying not to step on one each other's toes, or preferably, just stay out of the way. Once the routine settles, I pay little attention to the illustrious leader, focusing on my tasks instead.

I find many means to assist the organization, mingling, fitting in, once a slave, another time, a free person. My hair, if bound appropriately, allow me to hide my ears, and since I'm considerably taller than average elven female, and never cower under the scrutinizing looks of others, the ruse is not easily seen through. People see what they expect to see – if one grovels they instinctively position themselves higher in the hierarchy. Never in my life have I bent my knee before anyone, when it wasn't a ruse to lure them into complacency; and somehow, when I walk with my head held high, it makes others step out of my way. This allows for an enviable freedom of movement, and finally, I manage to see Minrathous properly.

The city is of low-rise, typically two-stories buildings, aside from the central square, where the Magisterium, University Courthouse and Temples to Shemlen gods are placed, but even these are merely three floors high. In comparison, Arlathan spiked upwards seemingly endlessly, slender and ethereal.

The Magisters' villas surround the square; even Archon has his city residence here, but it is, apparently, less impressive than his outer palace – or so the people claim.

The colouristic of the city is also much different to Arlathan, more caramel and cream shades instead of muted whites and greens. But what 'Vints truly revel in are gems, of any kind, or their replicas. And that's why the streets brim in colours; those who can afford them encrust jewels into stone and wood and iron, making it all glitter; and the others use coloured glass to achieve similar mirages and illusions. With the changes of daylight, the surroundings glow in mirage of rainbows, as the stained glass and intricate, jingling trinkets cast elaborate shadows.

It is beautiful, and I steal some time each week to perch up on some roof, appreciate the changing by the hour sights.

Of course, that ostentatious wealth is of the inner town only, the outskirts are mostly dirty slums and dangerous back alleys, very little decoration. It's a place where people fight for survival, worrying about having enough to eat; in such circumstances, frivolities like ornaments mean very little. Nothing, aside from the resell value, to be exact.

But what I truly love about the city is how it overflows with magic, the Veil thinned by the daily practices of the Magisters. I can breathe deeply here, feel the cling of power against my skin, and it's just marvellous. This new thing, blood magic, tears into the barrier, forcing spirits into human service, to provide them with more power.

Because that's what demons are – or at least, were, initially. Spirits. I do not know whether first demons appeared as a result of human actions forcing them across; or whether the initial distortion was a consequence of the Veil's creation itself. Fen could have known, or found out, with his extensive understanding of their nature; but I was never that knowledgeable about them.

What do I know is that there are many of them, and they're a treacherous, and somewhat double edged sword to wield.

Apparently, they tempt mages while they sleep; those that fall for the sweet promises can; not necessarily have to, but it's a distinct possibility; wound up as horrible abominations, their bodies merely hosts for the parasites. During my studies, I come across many different reasonings for that, and none which convince me, nor none which explain why I do not suffer from this particular affliction.

Meanwhile, I manage to earn my place among the Wings, spying, playing messenger, and sometimes even assassin. I am at a loss as to overall purpose or aims they are trying to achieve, but I'm not very high up the food chain. Even if Shartan finally, begrudgingly admits, I might not be all talk. I thank him sarcastically for his observation, as we would all, surely, be completely lost without his astute insight. He scowls, as a muted giggles spread among those surrounding us.

As I've become a trusted member now, the things I deal with are of more sensitive nature. I journey to the other hideouts, meet with People stationed in other cells in the Empire, in Solas, Carastel, Qarinus and others. We plan a larger scale operations against the slavers and slave rings, trying to squash the core of the deplorable trade.

I use the opportunities travelling brings to reach out to merchants and scholars. My search for understanding leads me to another dead alley, as I pursue the nature of demons. Since they are twisted spirits, it is little wonder they are linked to emotions.

I do not consider it surprising at all, that it is Pride demons that are considered the most powerful and dangerous. Scholars outright warn against them, advise against any deals or bargains.

Pride gives great strength, thus, that's how they are; and it can tear apart those who falter in their convictions. No, it is not much of a surprise. But why am I not affected? It is what drives me, surely, it ought to interest them?

Finally I come to the conclusion that there's only one answer for my doubts, and decide to summon the answers for myself. Considering the popularity and universal usage of blood magic, getting a hold on instructions for the appropriate rituals is merely a question of coin for the instructions, and not a problem otherwise.

I consider all aspects carefully, before settling on summoning a Desire demon. Any lesser demon, like a shade, would not guarantee any answers, as their intelligence is dubious. They're rather mindless, according to my findings. It is quite tempting to try summoning my namesake, but I'm new at this, and would rather not pay for my undue cockiness. I feel quite confident about being able to resist Desire in particular, after my experiences. I wouldn't dare summon Nightmare or any of his ilk anytime soon, for example, while Arlathan still burns in my dreams.

At first I was a bit worried my disability might have prevented me from using this magic, but the most basic rituals all require the runes to be laid down on stone. The more advanced and flexible ones, more commonly used, require the usual weaving of power, and would be quite beyond me. As I have no intentions of practicing it on a daily basis, on battlefield or elsewhere, I'm not very disappointed.

I carefully draw the runes on the floor, and uncertainly, reach to the power, cutting the skin on my wrist, and focusing on desire. Not hard to recall, as Fen's touch comes to mind, and the many shameful scenarios I played in my mind while held by June. The shadows in the room intensify, and I can feel the keen interest from the spot over my pentagram, where the droplets of blood start swirling. Darkness gathers around them, sharpens around the edges, and in a sudden burst of power, a beautiful male demon appears.

I take a moment to analyse his slender features, and the strange black wings sprouting from his back. They're bat-like, and seem too small to actually support his flight, but I've no doubts they're sufficient for his needs. He is as attractive as I would expect for someone who is supposed to embody desire, a true feat for eyes, with a fiendish note to it.

I'm recalled from my inspection when he groans in irritation, clearly disgruntled.

'Of all the… My luck is atrocious, to be caught in the net of one like you, who has only academic interests. I suppose you would like to stick me in a cage, and poke experimentally for the next ten years?'

Oh, what an interesting idea! I consider it seriously for a moment, before discarding it, with a touch of regret. While finding more on demonic nature would be quite an experiment, the world is moving faster now than it used to, and I can't risk wasting that much time. I might catch attention of one as dangerous as Corypheous, again.

'I've something I desire from you.'

'Sure you do' he snorts in irritation. 'Listen, elf, we can feel you pathetic mortals' emotions, and they tell me perfectly clearly, there's nothing I can offer you.'

I did not know that. Though, considering spirits could do that, there's no reason why demons can't, too. My fact association and logical thinking appear somewhat impaired, as of late, I really should straighten up.

'I just need you to answer me two questions, and I promise, I'll let you go, find another prey.' I offer, trying my best to be convincing.

Desire perks up, and urges me on impatiently,

'Well then?'

'Why I remain undisturbed during my sleep?'

'Because we don't do charity!' He snorts derisively. 'Your desires run deep, that is true, but you keep your pride around you like a shield, and you wouldn't deign yourself to any bargains that might in any way compromise it. You could be a demon yourself, with how strong and deep it runs, right to your core.' There's a begrudging respect in his voice.

'So that means I cannot really wield the blood magic, can I?' I muse out loud, but he takes it as a second question, and replies immediately,

'Not like others, you can't. The mages who reach to it hold up themselves as bait, but you, all of my kind will avoid. Why waste time on impossible, when there are plenty gullible fools out there?' After a moment, he adds reluctantly, 'You can of course use summoning, like with me. But you would have to use a lot of your own mana to make me do your bidding, and that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?'

I know the demon is only as helpful as he is because he wishes to be gone as soon as possible. I can guess there are things he withholds from me; not to mention, he likely overstates the effort it would take to force him under my control. But he had answered my questions comprehensively; my curiosity is sated, and I do not back down on a deal, even with one of his kind. My pride, again.

With a light flick of a hand I distort the magic of the pentagram, and the last thing I see is a devious glint in his yellow eyes, before he vanishes into a cloud of darkness, which also quickly disperses.

Huh. So I'm too proud to deal with them, and they can feel it from me, so they don't even bother. Interesting.

Of course, it is not a fool proof safety measure, I know, if I ever fall as low as during that night in Arlathan, I might be in danger. It is rather fortunate there were no demons then, yet. But I rather hope I've wizened up since the time, and I doubt I'll forsake my pride ever again, even in the direst of circumstances.

With that particular concern finally answered, I focus more of my attention on the slave freedom movement I've engaged in. With some indignation, I discover the general lack of self-defence skills among the members of the organization. Most of their former masters did not see the necessity, preferred it in fact, if their toys and close servants posed no threat. The magisters and nobles employ skilled guards for protecting their property and persons. It is a respectable retirement option for former professional soldiers.

I can understand that Wings of Freedom members' previous lives did not allow much chance for acquiring these skills, but it has changed since then, for goodness sake! But a tenth of them is suitable for the task force, when we arrange the raids – and barely any female among them. I grit my teeth, as it is the females that are most in need of the defensive techniques.

I badger Shartan about that until he relents, and allows me to host lessons, for any and all who wish to attend. I am not surprised to find most of the people from the headquarters gathered, on the first day of the training.

The overwhelmingly enthusiastic response forces me to work closely with Shartan, as he is one of the better trained people around, and subsequently, one of the very few teachers available. He changes his mind regarding the issue, and earnestly takes care of the arrangement of a schedule that would allow everyone to participate. With time, we rotate some of the trainers to other hideouts as well, and slowly but surely, the overall prowess rises.

I change my opinion of him to a slightly more favourable one, after that. He is, at the very least, capable of admitting his mistakes, ad rectifying them – not a bad trait in a leader.

I find out some of his rather bleak history, too. Not that I inquire about it, but the others share it freely, and whether I want or not, it's there for me to listen. They're rather proud of him.

Shartan was born to an unassuming slave family in one of the large estates belonging to one of the members of the Magisterium. From his early childhood, he was a contrary, and wilful slave, until his master grew fed up with him, and sold him to a battle ring.

Battle rings are a relatively recent fad in the empire, where slaves are forced to fight against one another, or wild beasts, sometimes even demons, for their lives; while the freemen bet on the results. A popular pastime for the bored with too much coin, or the poor with too much free time.

Shartan was barely fifteen, and the stakes were against him, but his determination was like no other. With his miraculous, lucky win he had secured his new owner a fortune. Though he barely survived the ordeal, the man who owed him saw him as a possible gold mine, and went extra mile to ensure Shartan regained top form.

He was granted a proper training afterwards, and reigned undefeated on the Rings, ominously titled Beast. His master took pleasure in collaring him to add to the savage image of his slave, right until Shartan had torn him to pieces, and fled.

He returned to Minrathous a few years later, with some of his first subordinates in tow, and started Wings of Freedom. They all share similar stories, those oldest members, mostly runaways, some of them freed by Shartan's hand before they had their first master, others more experienced by life. His legend soon grew, and now, even slaves who never met him have begun placing their hopes on him.

Although I understand where he and his barely leashed, always close to the surface anger come from a bit better now; it does not mean our cooperation is smooth riding, by any means. Being in close quarters often, puts a strain on both of our strong personalities. With Fen, we complimented each other, but Shartan just rubs me the wrong way, so much that my typically more restrained tongue loosens.

One day, picking a fight with him, I criticize the lifestyle the Wings had taken on, and the hovels we dwell in.

'Take some pride in the freedom you've earned!' I throw in his face. 'There's no need to live like a fucking rats, squatting together! Let's make something more of ourselves, and our surroundings!'

He rejects both my criticism, and my pride in stride, not even looking my way as he proceeds to instruct one of the newer members on her fighting stance. He is interested in practicality and his goals, first and foremost, and does not understand what pride has anything to do with it.

The other members are already used to our heated exchanges, so they proceed with their usual exercises, even as I literally seethe in rage.

'You are still a slave, deep inside, even with the chains gone from your neck. Unable to see yourself as anything but a tool, you treat others in similar manner' I detest being ignored in such manner, and that makes me more forthright than I initially intended. 'Your people deserve better than that, even if you can't learn to appreciate yourself.'

Ok, so that might have been a bit too close to home, from the way he suddenly freezes, and glares my way. I got him good, this time. But he bites his tongue, clearly, and grunts, before proceeding with the training as if nothing happened, and I do the same quickly enough, regretting my wagging tongue and cringing internally in procrastination.

But those are my honest feelings, even if the delivery leaves a lot to be desired; and so, I do not apologize for them. I pity him, he can't even see he deserves better than that. That he should strive for more than bare necessities, and find pleasures in life.

Something changes between us after that passionate outburst of mine, though I do not realize it, at the beginning. At first I do not understand why Shartan seeks my presence, draws me into moral arguments and disputes. We strongly disagree on many issues, he is much more unrelenting and ruthless than me. Shartan believes the system and people of Tevinter are irredeemable, and only through blood and steel will the elves, and other slaves, ever have a shot at true freedom.

I do not dismiss all of the magisters out of hand as inherently evil, nor do I feel the empire's citizens are so rotten. Take my former master, Erasthenes; while he was undoubtedly self-centred, disregarding of my will, there was no malice in his actions. He simply didn't see me as anything else than a commodity which happened to draw breath.

If we are to ever conquer slavery, it is that outlook that must change, I argue. The 'Vints must see all as living beings, not necessarily equal, because that is an impossible utopia, but of certain worth, enough to deserve their own choices in life. Even in part of my life on Earth, there are those who, by accident of birth, have a better standing and better chances in life. I honestly admit that I count among that number, born with a relatively well-off family in a peaceful country. But that does not make all those who start lower worthless; or their efforts, which often achieve less, simply by necessity of spending more time tending to their essential needs; meaningless.

During a particularly heated exchange on the issue, we come to blows. It is a glorious fight, when I use all of the tricks up my sleeve versus his vastly superior experience with many types of adversaries. The tempo of it is staggering, and exhilarating, as for a first time in ages I meet a worthy adversary, capable of keeping up in my speed – even if not in movement, he more than makes up for his slowness with anticipation of my actions. I lose, of course; he has spent his entire life doing what for me is merely an unwelcome, rare occurrence; but I manage to get in a few decent strikes, before ending pinned against the floor by his firm body.

'Yield' he growls, caging my wrists in a vice-like grip, his deep voice rumbling next to my ear. I feel a sudden flush, assaulted by unexpected awareness of his masculinity. Desire sparks between us, I can see the same intensity radiating in his eyes, and my breath hitches, as I escape with my gaze replying quickly,

'I yield' and push him off myself immediately after the pressure on my wrists lessens. We pick ourselves up, and I try to cover for my flustered arousal, dusting off my practice outfit; waiting for the heat to recede from my cheeks. Stealing a covert glance, I see from the mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he had, obviously, caught onto the effect his proximity had on me, and curse internally his animalistic magnetism to seven hells.

There's no way it was a coincidence, and looking at the events carefully, Shartan must have been aware of the underlying tension between us for a while already. I suppose I would have been, too, if not for the fact I had not been interested in anyone in that way for… decades, already. I suppose he must have gotten impatient with my obliviousness, and decided to manipulate events in his favour.

Now that I watch for it, it's clear as day that Shartan gives me much more leeway and considers my opinions much more than of an average member. He consults with me on our next actions, even if it's in a form of a quarrel, and not official counsel-seeking. I had unwittingly, unofficially, assumed a role of his second, and Alarith allowed it without as much as a word. He easily let himself be pushed lower in the hierarchy, and I hadn't even realized. Oh, Creators, just how blind can I be?

Once I become aware of it, though, I try to keep my distance. Someone like me, who hardly experienced any real hardships in her life, always in some way privileged and shielded, and a broken up, former slave with a lot of unresolved baggage on his shoulders? A recipe for disaster, if there ever was one.

And let's not forget Fen, who is still a very prominent – major - part of my heart.

But Shartan has very different idea than me, and does not allow me to simply sweep the hunger between us under the rug. I use as many methods as I can think of to reject him, starting by pointing out our much different origins, subtly and less subtly informing him of Fen's existence and meaning in my life, and more or less indicating all the reasons why it's a fucking terrible idea.

But he is like a dog after a bone, aware that I'm not indifferent to him – once I try lying about that, he just laughs in my face – slowly, yet steadily, wearing down my defences.

The evening does not differ from many others, after a rather stressful action on the downtown slave market people settle in for the night. I've already oiled my leather armour, and apply finishing touches on the throwing knives which lost some of their sharpness during the frequent usage. It's a skill I picked up only recently, but a useful one, since my magic does not have any reliable options to strike from the distance. Shartan joins me, and stays quiet for a while, observing my sure movement. I can feel a tingle of my nerves, caused by his mere presence, but proceed to ignore him, focusing my attention on the task at hand.

'You claim that as long as they do not prove you otherwise, all people, be they human or elves, slaves or freeman, deserve chance in life' he says suddenly, interrupting my pace. I lift my head, looking at him in guarded confusion.

'Yes…?' I reply hesitantly, wondering where is the point of quoting my sentence from long ago, spoken in some magisters' defence; at this particular moment.

'And yet, I feel that you hold yourself above us, there's this… insurmountable distance, when you do not allow anyone truly close.' He continues prodding, and my eyes flash in irritation at the sultry tone entering the last of his words.

Still, I analyse his opinion seriously, pursing my lips – is it truly what I do? Have I become a hypocrite, somewhere along the way, holding myself superior against those I feel most kinship with in this fallen world?

Once I turn back, from the patient look in his eyes I see he is not finished.

'Is a chance too much to ask?'

I look to him in disbelief, at the glee in his victorious smile, as he throws my own words back in my face, knowing he had already won.

Hook, line, and sinker. And fuck common sense.

I cannot help laughing, charmed in spite of myself – the man is really impossible to resist. A person with an ounce of self-respect would have choked on these words; comparing oneself to his worst enemies; Shartan suffers from no such inhibitions.

He has enough self-restraint to not gloat too much when my laugh quiets down, and I allow him to take my hand, and lead me to his bedroom.