Lura stepped lightly over the carpet, intent on going back to her freshly cleaned room for the rest of the night; business had died down so a few of those who had met their quotas were released for the time being. She just wanted to go curl up in bed.

On the way up the dark stair, she saw the half-elf sitting on a bench, holding the side of his face. Ordinarily, she might have simply walked by, but the way that people were yelling down the hall made her pause. She turned toward him. "What happened?" she inquired.

He looked up, blinking with surprise that she was even speaking to him. Most people, she reflected, did not even look at him if they could help it. He looked too human, and too elven, all at the same time—like parts of his face were supposed to belong to someone else. The only parts she could stare at were his eyes and his noise, and the rest of his face seemed wrong to her. He moved his hand a little, revealing a deep, purplish black bruise. "A man struck me."

Her mouth opened in a wide "O" of surprise. "Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know," he said, touching his face again. "It was Apprentice Elden," he said, frowning a little. "He's always been…" He hesitated. "A bit violent, but he's never…" His voice trailed off a little, and he shook his head.

Lura paused and listened to the heated words down the hall, in the office. "Is that what's going on down there?" She pointed down the hall.

"'Fraid so," he admitted dryly.

She started to go again, and stopped. "Do you want some water or anything? Maybe Jairus is still up, and he can make some ice?" Jairus was the half-apprentice, half-resident healer. He was old enough to no longer need tutelage in magic, and would sometimes comment to the servants and Mistress Alesand on his progression through the ranks, with intentions of becoming a magister one day. "Why haven't they sent you to him yet?"

"Evidence," he said with a sigh.

"I'll get you a poultice at least," she said, feeling she should do something.

"Thanks," he said, and she hurried off to the infirmary. The infirmary was a very small room in the servant quarters. It had two narrow pallets with crisp linen sheets, and smelled of medicine. It also contained a worn and rather stained desk amidst its cabinets and drawers, and at the desk was a chair, and in the chair, was the tawny-haired, somewhat pimply mage that was their healer. He had a few jars open, and looked to be partially mixing herbs, and partially reading a thick book of law.

"Pardon me?" she inquired, when he still had not acknowledged her.

He jumped, as if startled. He blinked, looking at her, and set the mortar and pestle down. "Ah, Lura…?" His voice was inquiring, as if he was not certain he remembered her name. "What is it?"

She frowned a little. Whatever she had once pictured mages to be, Jairus was not that. He was messy and disorganized, always somehow managing to look frumpy and could not quite control his hair. Every time she came down, he was always engrossed in a book, sometimes whispering the words out loud to himself, or writing notes on his chalkboard, which looked like scribbles to one who could not read. And likely looked like scribbles to ones who could too.

"Master Jairus, might I have a poultice? Shanamyn is hurt, but he can't be healed yet."

His eyebrows raised a little, and he got out of his chair, knocking over a small tin as he did so. He stooped to pick it up. "He's hurt? Why can't he be healed? How is he hurt?"

She watched him set the tin back down, and move to a cabinet. "Yes, he's hurt. He can't be healed in case evidence is needed, and it seems a client struck him."

"Just a bruise then?" he said, setting the gauze down, then awkwardly picking it up again, then setting it back down. She pursed her lips, wondering how it was that he had even managed to become an apprentice to begin with.

He selected a few jars, muttering to himself, putting one back. He picked up a horn and inspected the stopper, then set it aside, then moved it again, all the while muttering to himself. He selected a few more things, and set to work. "You're going to be a magister one day?" she inquired.

"I'll be tested in this year for Senior Enchanter," he commented offhandedly, dropping a jar. It didn't break, thankfully. He sighed in relief, picking it up again. He seemed a little too uncoordinated to her to make it as a magister. She was certain that those men and women needed a touch more poise and coordination than he possessed.

"Tell Vachel to keep it on until he can come see me," he said, sounding absent-minded as ever.

"Shanamyn," she corrected, wondering who "Vachel" was.

He stopped, and hesitated. "Don't tell him I told you that, but that's his real name."

Lura stood in shock. "What?" she whispered as he set the poultice in her hands.

The human turned from her, already mostly disconnected from the conversation. "Madame Alesand changed his name when he came here. Said it made him sound more elven, if he had an elven name. 'Vachel' is an Orlesian name, but a human one. Think I'm the only one who calls him that though, but he'll just act all weird if you say his real name."

Lura thanked him, and left, and wondered what it would be like have her name changed like that, knowing every day that it wasn't her real name, but having to respond to it. Having to introduce herself to people by a name that was not her own. What would she say? My mistress calls me 'some-other-name' she would have to say, so pleasantly while she wanted to scream out, My name is Lura!

And she looked at him, and gave him the poultice, and told him to keep it on the bruise, and all she could think was, His name is Vachel.

Two hours later, she wandered down the hall, and saw him still sitting there, heard the arguing still going on, and he was lying on the bench at that point, staring at the ceiling.

"I could get you a blanket, or a pillow," she offered.

He shrugged. "Does nothing for the boredom," he complained. "I had to make a statement about two hours ago—that's what started it again." He looked up at her. "It's gotten so bad, there are two magisters in there, at each other's throats, yelling about the apprentice. Over 'damaged property'."

She looked alarmed. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" she asked, concerned.

He frowned a little. "My face is the worst bruise, sure, but he did a number on my back too. Hell," he added, flinching a little as he moved, took a deep breath. "Stomach too. And don't ask about anything below that."

She bit her lip. "You need to be healed," she insisted.

He sighed, and looked away. "Not allowed to, until the magister lets me," he said.

Lura blurted, "Who changed your name?" She hadn't intended to say it. It was rude, certainly, and she was terribly curious, but all the same, she had never intended to actually say it.

He did not seem to be offended, however. "How'd you know?" he asked, staring back up at the ceiling. Then he kind of smiled. "No, I guess Jairus must have mentioned it. He's so scatterbrained sometimes, and he hates my name."

"Shanamyn…? Or, Vachel?"

"Hmm?"

"No, I mean, he hates which name?"

"Oh, Shanamyn," the half-elf replied. "I don't even think of myself by that name anymore, so when he calls me 'Vachel' it takes me a minute to realize he means me."

She looked at him, and she felt sorrowful for some reason. It seemed sad to her. "What's it like… when you have a different name?"

He looked at her, then back at the ceiling. "I was a kid when Madame Alesand changed my name. I was upset and angry for a while. Then I just got used to it."

She felt like her name was all she had left of the life she had had before she had become a slave. She couldn't bear to have that taken from her as well as everything else. It would leave her stripped of everything she had ever been. How could she even be herself, if even her name were taken away from her?

Danarius was late. Not by design; he just didn't care enough to not keep his little pet waiting. Besides, that suited him. He didn't care if he waited and contemplated what was going to happen tonight. Let him wait, and worry, and fret. The waiting was often worse than the act. Besides, he had to go yell at the visiting magister and his apprentice for abusing his property; some things couldn't wait.

He passed the elf on his way to the door, and opened it. He walked past, leaving the door open. "Come," he told him. Leto hesitated, and followed him in. "Close the door." The door closed. The room was near-dark, lit only by long, tapered beeswax candles. He disliked torches, and didn't like gas lamps at all, as those were messy and stank, and it was entirely too warm for a fire. There was always the blue orbs of mage's light, but that required effort on his behalf and cast eerie shadows.

His robes from earlier had been ruined. That was fine. He didn't really have any attachment to clothing, aside from the minor annoyance of attaining new ones. At least they weren't his court robes. But it had really been his own fault; he really should have stripped down a bit. He hadn't been thinking… most unlike him. Roschelle…

Too late now. He removed his ring first, placing it on the mantelpiece with a sense of finality. Roschelle had given it to him-had it made special, actually. He should get rid of it. "Strip," he ordered his slave.

He didn't turn to watch; didn't see a point. He went instead to a small table, pulled out a chair, and sat. He looked back at his slave, who stood naked. Ah, so Leto hadn't seen a point in drawing out the moment either, and left the rough-spun linens in a heap on the floor. He also hadn't seen a point in wasting time folding them. Some had, had tried to push the moment as far back as possible. What they didn't realize, but what Leto seemed to realize, was that it scarcely prolonged the inevitable enough to make it worth it; the waiting was worse. And anyway, Danarius had already seen every inch of him. The henna on his skin had faded, but he could still see it. It made a good map for Raith; he should have him do that again before the ritual.

He needed this, the magister reflected. He needed the stress relief, to vent his frustrations out on his slave. The work of a magister was tedious at best, and the preparations for the ritual were even worse. He could use some relief.

The mage glanced to the table, eyes flicking to the bottle of wine. "Pour me a glass," he told him. Leto strode over to him, staying an appropriate distance away. He gingerly uncorked it, and held it in both hands. He poured it, and set it back down, but left it uncorked. He stood near, in attendance. Let him wait. Let him wonder what was going to happen, and how. He saw no reason to rush things.

He sipped at the glass, watching the elf over the brim of it. He was pale, and there was a faint trembling he detected in his hands. His earlier terror hadn't seemed to diminish much over time, but he looked like he had managed to sleep a little at least. The magister's gaze shifted back to the wine bottle. He had had a couple small glasses of it in the past. There was maybe a third of it left, maybe a bit more. He pointed to the bottle. "Let's make this easier on you. Drink it." He took another sip of his own. Leto paused as he reached forward, hesitating as if he weren't quite sure he understood the order. "Drink it," he repeated. "All that's left in the bottle."

Leto picked up the bottle, closed his eyes for a moment. Remembering something? And he put the bottle to his lips, tilting his head back. He drank, and only put the bottle down again when it was empty, licking the corner of his lips. Obedient little wolf. He swayed a little bit, dizzy, but stayed on his feet. His lips twitched and he started to make a face, then schooled the expression with some effort; the mark of one who drank only very little or not at all.

It was… potent; that was certain. He took another sip, and set the glass down. "On your knees."

It took him a moment to fully process what he had said, and then his eyebrows raised in alarm. "That… Master, that wasn't…"

His fingers drummed, irritated, on the table. "And you're my slave, and you'll do as I say."

"I… Yes, Master," he said, hanging his head in defeat, going to his knees. Danarius gestured him closer, to crawl. He liked watching him do it, delighted in it in fact. It told him a great deal about an individual, too—watching them crawl. Some were graceful and sensual, others childlike and uncertain. Leto, though, moved like it gave him great pain to do so—head low, and as if a part of him were broken. Poor thing—he really hated this. If he were well-behaved, perhaps Danarius should reward him.

It was warm in here. He rose, and undressed, tossing the robes to the side carelessly, and noted that his slave kept his eyes fixed on the floor. He sat back down, taking another sip of the wine. He had all night, after all.

He set the glass down again, looking back at his trembling slave. He casually leaned forward, wrapping his fingers in his short hair, and hauled him forward. The boy made only the smallest noise of alarm as he pulled his head between his legs, and then another noise that he imagined was that of defeat and abject misery.

He leaned back in the chair, stroking the boy's hair as he felt himself harden in his mouth. He was a bit better at it than last time—whether the drink actually made him better at it, or he just remembered what he had learned the last time, he couldn't say. Nor did he particularly care.

As the elf worked at bringing him to orgasm, he thought.

Leto was nothing if not a martyr. He had done this to save his mother's life before. He was doing it now to save his sister's. He was going through with the ritual for both of them.

And the more he thought about, the more he thought, Damn.

He was going to undergo that ritual. He was going to be his slave, his bodyguard, his personal pet, for the rest of his life, and would do so knowing that he was sacrificing everything to "save" another. He was a martyr. He would forever take solace in that knowledge.

Danarius didn't want him to take solace. He didn't want him to look back on his choices and feel like everything worked out for the best. He didn't want Leto to look at his life and feel like he had done the right thing, and take hope in that his family was free.

He wanted him miserable, and hopeless, downtrodden—because if he were a martyr, he'd begin to think, and wonder. He may even feel pride for the first time, from what he had done. No, no—he just couldn't have that.

So the magister thought, his fingers twining in his pet's thick hair. Solutions. He needed solutions. There was no solution. No matter how he looked at it, Leto was a damned martyr. The little cheeky bastard was a martyr. Even the other slaves would see that. They would look at him like some kind of damned hero. Why hadn't he thought of this before?

Now, he felt desperate. He needed a solution. Well, he would sell the slaves, for one. Get new ones—ones that didn't know. That was simple enough. He could even use all of them as the blood he needed for the ritual—that was probably the best option. But what of Leto?

The only real way to keep him from really being a martyr was to keep him from realizing he was a martyr. But how? It wasn't that difficult to see, and it was clear enough that the boy was some kind of sacrifice…

But then he relaxed again, his temporary near-panic easing.

What if the elf simply didn't remember any of it? Not just the tournament, but his family? No, his entire life? He had no need of it any more. He was certainly never going to see his family again. What need had he of memories? They would only bring him pain anyway, to think on it.

He had a book regarding the blood magic involved with memories. Most of it was in reading another's memories, but he seemed to recall… Well, he could read into it later. There was time enough yet, before the lyrium arrived. And, if he recalled correctly, he could very easily weave that spell in with the ritual.

Now there was a thought.

And his first waking memories would be of the ritual—that was fine. The elf would wake thinking it had been the ritual that had cleansed his mind. Now that he thought about it, that was ideal actually; his pet could blame the ritual for the memory loss and not his master directly. He could even mold Leto into whatever he desired of him. He would awaken frightened, confused, not remembering anything. Now Danarius felt intrigued at the idea. Yes, he wanted to do that. It was the perfect solution to everything. His little wolf would be reborn. If he were careful, he could fashion him exactly as he wanted him to be—predictable, incapable of independent thought, and perfectly obedient.

The first thing to go would have to be his name. He disliked it anyway. What should he re-name him? He considered, and decided that it would require some careful thought.

"Stop," he told him, and noted with some amusement that he didn't have to tell him twice; Leto backed away quickly, keeping his head down. His lips were moist. "Stand up."

Slowly, on shaking knees, the elf stood up. His shoulders were hunched, head down. He looked smaller than he actually was. Was that all it took? Pathetic.

Danarius offered him the glass. "Finish this," he told him. Leto carefully took the glass from him, making sure their hands didn't actually touch. Charming. He also drank from the opposite side he had been drinking, and almost seemed grateful for it. Perhaps he thought that if he drank enough, he wouldn't remember tonight. Yes, pet, you don't want to remember. You don't want to remember anything. He may be right. He also thought, snidely, that he was quite eager to get the taste of pre-cum out of his mouth.

The elf set the glass down on the table when it was drained. It lent a flush to his cheeks. The last bit of that had been enough to tip him over the edge. He was probably drunk, or would be soon enough, after the wine had time to settle.

Danarius sat back in the chair, enjoying the sight of him. He had waited for quite some time for this. Had thought about taking him for some time. He hadn't—couldn't remember why not at the moment, but it was worth the wait. "Before we begin," he said slowly, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "I don't mind if you cry. I'd like it if you screamed. But if you think to beg for me to stop…" He glowered for a moment. "I'll kill your sister and the twins."

He swallowed hard. "I understand, Master," he whispered, throat gone dry.

The magister watched him for a moment. "There's a pitcher of water on the stand. Why don't you go drink some of it?"

It was a command, worded as a question. He didn't want him fainting from exhaustion or dehydration, after all. And, drinking water after imbibing alcohol only thinned the alcohol and made it travel faster. In short, it would get his little wolf drunk that much more quickly—and minimize the hangover in the morning, and his pet still had to be painted for two hours tomorrow morning. Besides, he was his property—expensive property soon—and he had best look after and care for him.

All the same, he watched his pet pour a glass, hesitate, and drink. He waited, all too patient, not caring at all that his penis had gone flaccid; that was what his pet's mouth was for.

He let his slave stand for a while as he considered what exactly he wanted to do first. Try to make him cry, if possible. Sadism was a small pleasure he was frequently unable to indulge in, sexually anyway.

He rose, and moved the wine glass to a small stand, and picked up the bottle. A thought struck him. "Leto. Come here, bend over the table."

The elf positively jumped, and looked wooden when he walked back, and even more wooden when he obeyed his command, eyes squeezed shut, palms flat against the smooth wood. It was actually just the right height… but Danarius already knew that.

The half-elf had insisted that he had mounted Leto, and the elf had enjoyed it. But he also admitted that he couldn't make it last long, and listed off some valid-sounding excuse for it. Danarius had nearly had the boy sold for it, but his mistress was emphatic that the kid had two regulars who wouldn't come anymore if he did, so he had relented not to.

Still, it was… good to know that, under the right circumstances, the elf could enjoy it. These were not the right circumstances.

Unlike some people, Danarius had no illusions that his slave could ever like this. He had no illusions that Varania had enjoyed him taking her either. Some people would insist that the ones they raped secretly liked it, had asked for it, wanted them to. He wasn't so deluded, and, frankly, didn't care how they felt about it. He had no reason to. The elf was property, to do with as he wished, nothing more. That he could speak, move—all of it was trivial. He was the master; he was the one he served, in any manner of his choosing. The feelings and pains of his property were not even worth his thought. That he was giving his pet any kind of consideration was simply because he felt that Leto was worth some small amount of care. He had invested a lot into him already, and soon to be more. His pet had earned any kindness he gave him. The wine was one of those kindnesses.

"If you relax, it won't hurt as much," he advised him, his free hand running down his muscled thigh the same way a butcher would inspect a cow for slaughter. He moved his other hand between the boy's legs, and listened for any kind of whine or any noise he might make. He was utterly silent, eyes squeezed shut, and still foolishly tensed. He had warned him. The lip of the bottle was met with some resistance, and the elf yelped, and whined, hissing in pain, but overall stayed obediently still while the mage pushed it into him, heedless of if it hurt or not. He watched his face, more interested in watching it contort in pain. He held on to the base of the bottle and shoved, hard—harder than perhaps he should have. The elf gasped, and it ended in a low whine, fingers clenched.

"Open your eyes," he told him. His green eyes opened. Cold sweat was beading on his forehead, born of terror and, possibly, pain. The mage liked to watch his face contort with every thrust of the empty bottle, and was pleased when the elf's eyes began to water. The elf's hand rose, covering his mouth to stifle a cry of pain, but fell away when Danarius began to glare. He listened to his soft whimpering for a while, and then the elf fell silent, lower lip trembling and breathing only shallowly. Maybe it didn't hurt as much as it did initially. He noted, with some impatience, that he couldn't fit any more of the bottle into him. He pushed down on it, and wriggled the bottle, fast, pumping it into him until he whimpered again.

Finally annoyed, he yanked the bottle out, fast enough that the elf just crumpled to the floor. He slammed the bottle down on the table, and cuffed Leto, for falling.

"Get on the bed," he told him. The elf shivered, and crawled backward, away from his master, before he rose. He stalked toward the bed, hesitated, and climbed on to the silk comforter, on his knees, kneeling. Danarius watched him shake, and wipe at his eyes with the back of one hand. He had been about to cry, but in pain. "Lay on your back in the center of the bed."

He watched the elf crawl toward the center, found himself staring at his legs, his ass. The boy stopped, and rolled onto his back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, as if he were dying. Maybe, to a degree, he was.

Danarius stretched until he heard his spine pop, flexed his fingers, taking his time. He drank some water from a clean crystal cup. "Are you drunk yet, my pet?" he asked him.

A pause, then, "Uh… I think so, Master," he said, his voice deadened, but a little slurred.

He nodded to himself, and set the empty cup down. He climbed onto the bed, over to his pet. For a while, he just touched him, explored him, all the while watching for what he seemed to hate the most. His neck was sensitive, he noticed. So were his nipples, and he had a very sensitive spot around his hip that made him twinge when he gripped it. His upper thighs, toward his groin, were just as sensitive, and he almost tried to kick when he touched his ankles—might be ticklish.

He turned the elf's head to him, his hand on his chin. "Is your family going back to Seheron?" he asked him, a plan beginning to form in his mind. He saw it all so clearly.

Green eyes blinked in surprise. "I think... that was what they were talking about, Master," he said. His words were a little slurred together again, and he could see in his eyes that he was well and truly drunk.

"They'll need passage."

He blinked slowly. "You… were paying my mother for her services, Master."

He snorted. "It will barely be enough for the crossing." He smiled, slowly, leisurely. "But it's nothing to me to pay for the crossing."

A long pause, and then the boy just looked hurt, genuinely in some kind of deep emotional pain, touched faintly by anger. "Master, what else do you want from me?" he sobbed, his voice ending in a strangled cry of pain. "I have nothing left."

"Kiss me, and I'll pay for your mother's crossing," he whispered. Leto's eyes widened, breathing seemed to stop. "Embrace me when I fuck you, and I'll pay for your sister's. Convince me you don't hate what I'm doing to you, and I'll give them a generous stipend on top of it."

His eyes watered, indisputably watered. His eyes closed, and tears tracked down his cheeks. A sound escaped his throat, so pitiful and full of pain, and abject misery, that for a moment, even Danarius was moved to pity. But the moment was fleeting. He was reminded of how young he was. Seventeen? Or was it eighteen? Something around that—but so young. He had been married and a magister at that age, though; he wasn't swayed just because of the elf's age. … But his expression made him look so much younger—broken and like once not very long ago, he had been innocent. "Please, anything else, Master," he whispered, and his voice carried that same pitiful, painful, miserable sound.

That was it. That was exactly what he needed him to say. "All right, pet. But only because you cried," he said, running his thumb through the tear. "I don't want a martyr." Sage eyes opened again, questioning through the alcohol. "I think your memories are worth your family's passage, and that stipend I mentioned."

"I don't… understand, Master," Leto said, his eyes begging.

And he smiled, and ran his fingers through that ebony hair. Hair like… "You don't need to know the specifics of the spell, my pet. But, I have no desire to have you be a martyr for your family. And, tell me, do you think your memories will serve you any purpose as my personal pet? Do you even want to remember… tonight, for an example? Or that Dalish girl you murdered? Or the infant you killed? Do you want to remember any of that?"

A pause, then, "Not… really…"

"Then consent, and I will honor our bargain." He remembered the spell now—most of it anyway. One of the key components of it was that it was considerably easier, and risked less brain damage, if the subject gave consent.

He was thinking about it, considering. "But… then I won't remember my family…"

Danarius ran his hand down the boy's chest. "Do you think it would bring you any comfort to not know where they are, if they are alive or dead? Do you think it will even matter, as you won't be seeing them again? Won't it be… easier… to not remember?"

He looked away, and his eyes closed for a long moment in thought. They opened. "Can I think about it, Master?"

Danarius blinked, not at all prepared for that question. "Yes," he decided. "Tell me by the end of the day tomorrow." If nothing else, he would just get him drunk again, and do something similar, but tell him that he had to come to that decision immediately.

"Thank you, Master," he said, voice sounding a little mechanical.

The magister ran his fingers back up to the boy's neck, then to the back of his head. He lifted his head up, guiding his lips back to his crotch. He seemed… better at this after drinking the wine. It took some time still, but he was enjoying it after a bit of patience, thrusting deeper into his mouth, listening to him choke and gag on it when the movement was unexpected, felt the boy wanting to pull away, but not being allowed to. Interestingly enough, Leto's gag reflex was not actually very sensitive. Most of the gagging must just be instinctive; he thought he should be gagging, or he hated it so much that he did. He could tell the difference; Leto didn't actually vomit or even convulse.

Then the magister shoved him backwards, away from him. He gripped his shoulders, shoving him back down on the bed. There was an instinctual struggle. The elf, briefly, had no control over it; it was an instinct, and Danarius thought they both realized that Leto was, physically, stronger than he was. Then the elf let him push him down, obeyed when Danarius told him to spread his legs. The green eyes closed again, not wanting to watch.

The magister knelt between the elf's legs, positioning himself, one hand steadying himself on his slave's hip. "Open your eyes," he hissed. His eyes snapped open, staring upwards, wide and in horror. Elves had wider irises than a human, he reflected momentarily. Probably why it was said that their night vision was better, and that they supposedly saw more colours than humans. He was still fairly open from the bottle, and entry up to nearly three inches was easy. He felt the elf tense, and he gasped as he tightened around him, a feeling that made his slave whine again. The magister braced himself, and slammed the rest of him inside him, without warning or preparation—which in truth hurt both of them. A gasp escaped Leto's throat, his lip trembling, his fingers winding into the comforter. The human shoved his legs up, over his hips, and out of the way for the most part.

He was tight, hot, and overall felt good. The bed was sufficiently sturdy so it did not shift, but sometimes the wood groaned. He pushed into the elf hard enough that it drove the breath from his lungs, shoving him forcefully away even, closer to the headboard. A few more similar thrusts, and the elf had to put his hand against the headboard, to keep his head from smacking against it—that was allowed. And as he pounded into him, began to notice… His hand reached down, exploring his suspicions, and Leto bit his lower lip, his eyes wide in a silent plea.

"When you're drunk you like it?" he taunted him. Son of a bitch. He'd remember this.

"No…" he gasped in clear and obvious denial, and covered his mouth, holding back a cry that the elf was nothing but ashamed of.

Danarius paused, his eyes widening. Hair of jet, sage eyes, a hand over a mouth to stifle a cry that shouldn't be heard… If anyone knew…

Enraged, the magister back-handed him, hard enough to bruise. His fingers wrapped around his throat, and Leto took in shallow breaths, eyes wide. He cuffed him again, and suddenly wanted, not to possess him, but to kill him. His magic demanded it. His rage demanded it. His hand raised. Fire danced around his palm, demanding the boy's death.

He took deep, calming breaths, and the feeling passed. He closed his fist, and the fire extinguished itself in a blaze of heat.

He slapped him again, and climbed off of him, slipping out of him. "Get out," he said acidly. "Before I change my mind."

Leto's eyes were wide, frightened, but slid away. He heard him scurry about the room, grab his clothes. He didn't pause to dress; the boy just fled. Smart.

I almost killed him.

He shook his head, and fell against the bed, naked and alone. He missed Roschelle.

And he missed Shallise enough to want to kill her. Leto just reminded him of Shallise, that was all. Same hair, eye colour was similar enough, and they looked just alike enough for him to see it, especially in that moment.

He should have taken the bastard from behind. Then this wouldn't have happened. Should have…

It didn't matter.

Roschelle was gone. Shallise was gone. It just didn't matter.

Mieta helped her daughter with the twins before she left for the day, to work. She was supposed to find out how much the crossing would be today. Lana was very kind, and was more than willing to help her if she needed it, and Mieta had asked that she find out how much only the cheapest crossing would be. They had to make whatever she made last as long as possible.

Leto had come back sometime late the night before. She had gotten a look at him; he looked ashen, and there was a nasty bruise on one side of his face that he refused to comment on. He seemed sick to his stomach, and like he didn't want to move from bed. Mieta wondered if he had been fighting again. She had hoped he was past all that. At the same time, that was very likely the best thing it could be. She remembered, all too clearly, the magister's orders for him. She dared not consider it too deeply.

When she was finished with the day's work, she was pleasantly surprised to see her son waiting for her in the garden. The bruise had darkened to a deep shade of purple, and he seemed barely aware of it. She chose not to comment; he never talked about any bruises or anything he collected if he could help it, never had.

They talked for a little while, of mundane things. He inquired as to her current project she was working on, and she told him about it. Then he got to the heart of the matter, "Will you have enough for the crossing?"

She sighed. "Barely." Then she smiled up at her son, her chest swelling with a sort of fierce pride. "But we'll be free. Because of you."

He tried to smile, and failed, then looked away. "Won't it be difficult—being penniless with the twins? You… won't have anywhere to go when you get off the ship…"

She shrugged, simply happy to no longer be a slave. And she was certainly not staying in Minrathous a single moment longer than she had to. "Yes, I'm sure it will. But I'm a skilled tailor, and your sister is a mage. We'll get by."

He fell silent, but seemed unconvinced, even concerned. He walked with her to the compound, and looked up at the setting sun, and excused himself. She watched him trot back to the manor, and wondered what he must be up to. Her secretive son would not tell her though.

She asked Varania if he had been acting strange at all that day. Her daughter thought about it, and said, "No more than usual."