Danarius smiled. His little wolf had come back, just before the sun had truly gone down, and told him that he accepted his terms.
"Good. I'm glad to hear it, pet." He raised an eyebrow. "It will be… easier… for you if you don't remember. Though I don't recommend telling your family about it." The elf shook his head a little, but said nothing, and bit his lower lip, like he wanted to say something more. The magister quirked an eyebrow. "Is there anything more?"
His eyes flicked upwards, then back down again. "The… whore… Lura. From the brothel, the House of Jade…"
He was vaguely amused. "Do you want her again? I'm sure something could be… arranged." In truth, he was so pleased by the way that events were going, he saw it as nothing but an investment that would be quickly repaid if he were to keep his little pet occupied and satiated for the time being. He wouldn't want him to start to doubt. It was imperative that the elf remained certain and resolute, and determined to live most of all.
He shook his head a little. "Master… What must I do… for you to let her go?"
What an interesting turn of events. Danarius leaned back in the chair, and thought for a moment. He considered his schedule, really thought about it. He didn't need anything more from his pet, not really. He had his body, his willingness, his memories and mind. He would even sear his mark onto his soul. But when he thought about it, one of those twins would make the perfect link between them—their living blood, a bridge of blood between them during the ritual. "I would let the girl go for either one of the twins."
Leto visibly paled, but chose his words carefully. "Master, they are not mine to give."
Very well. He thought Varania could be easily swayed to give one of them up anyway, if he chose to ask, though she might refuse out of spite. "True enough." He paused in his thought. "Do you love the whore?"
The question made his slave blink in shock. "I… No, Master…" Lies, he thought, but hadn't bothered to use blood magic to tell. This was just intuition speaking. But he was a child, overall, still—if he did love her, he may not really realize it yet.
He frowned. Then why make the request, though, if he didn't know how he felt about her? Had she asked him to? Was Leto really that much of a damned bleeding heart? He was suddenly assured by the fact that he had consented to the memory wipe. "Did she put you up to this?" he demanded.
Leto's eyebrows arched. "No, she didn't, Master."
His frown deepened, brow creasing in thought. Then why…? "If you don't love her, and she didn't beg you to do this, why are you?"
The elf stared downwards, at the floor. He chose his words carefully, and they came with the utmost disinclination. "I… I can't stand to think of her like that, Master."
He raised an eyebrow. Yet he was fine with all the other slaves? No, there was something more to it than that, and now he was certain. "What is she to you?"
Leto seemed reluctant. "I… knew her, Master," he admitted. "In Seheron."
He remembered someone from when he was three? He had spent two nights with her. Perhaps they had talked, and realized they knew one another. It was possible, he supposed. Unlikely—bloody unlikely—but possible. It only served to give validity to his former thoughts.
He didn't like that idea—Lura-at all. He leaned back in his chair. He had done some research on the memory spell since last night. There were things that could trigger his memories. Seeing someone he knew would do it. He should have Lura killed. It was a good thing that his family wanted to be away from Minrathous.
But the slave compound, the mansion, the coliseum, all of those things could trigger his memories. It was such a precise spell—powerful, but exacting. It required that the individual be utterly removed from their life. The first couple of years would be the most difficult, and the most interesting. He would be like a blank book, waiting to be filled. His capacity to learn would be that of a child, but with the mental capabilities of an adult. He needed to be in an environment with people he had never met, places he had never seen, for at least the first two years. Those were the crucial stages of the spell, the time it settled, sunk its roots into his mind. Anything—anything—could shatter it in the first two years. Except Danarius himself; because he was the caster, he was shielded from it.
Well, he had a manor out in the country, on a vineyard. It was high time he visited it.
But, if he were to return after the two years, he had best sell his current slaves—whichever ones he didn't use for the ritual-and buy new ones, new household staff, possibly remodel part of the mansion—that was actually an excellent idea, and the perfect reason to be away at the country manor for so long.
He had best get rid of the whore too. He could simply have her executed, he supposed. But why, when he may have use for her later? Leto had some kind of attachment to the girl. If ever he needed Lura, he had best keep her alive. Under his thumb, but alive. He could track Varania at any time; she was a Circle mage, even if she were a slave, and she had a phylactery. Mieta, the tailor, would not turn away Lura if they were from the same city, and Varania would not leave her mother.
He almost forgot about him, but then suddenly remembered the half-elf. Well, he could eliminate that problem right now, and he saw now that getting rid of Lura like this would be beneficial for himself as well. "Tomorrow night, if you obey me, I'll release the whore with your mother and sister."
Leto nodded, and bowed low. "Thank you, Master." The relief was evident in his voice.
"Go," he dismissed him.
Tonight, Danarius decided to redirect his plans, and visited the House of Jade. The girl was apparently just finishing with a client, so he waited in their tearoom, one of the whores all too eager to giggle and hop onto his lap. When Lura came downstairs, he didn't even look up until she went to him. She kept her head down, respectfully, but smiled softly, peering up at him through thick lashes.
She was a delightful little thing, and as lithe as a weasel, tireless too, and had a lovely belly. Yes, he saw what would make Leto care about her, though he was stupid for doing so.
… Danarius had once been just as stupid. Oh, Shallise…
Leto could learn a few things from Lura about sucking cock. He debated, briefly, on bringing her with him for tomorrow night, but decided that, no, his little pet's mind was delicate enough right now. He wanted just enough pressure on his slave's mind to bend it, maybe break it, but not destroy it.
It was dark, but not the eternal, inky blackness of a void, just dark. He saw a dim amount of light from a flickering torch farther up the hall, beyond the cell they had put him in. He wondered how long he would stay here. What had happened? He didn't even really know where he was.
Shanamyn's legs drew up against his chest. His arms wrapped around his legs, clasping loosely in front of him. Had someone said something to him that they shouldn't have? If so, he didn't know what it could be. And he didn't care! He honestly didn't care. If someone had accidentally told him military secrets, or something, he didn't remember it, and it meant nothing to him anyway. What did a whore care about anything like that?
They had brought him out of the whorehouse. There were whispers, and he could feel people watching him from the shadows as his wrists were bound behind him, and a sackcloth bag was thrown over his head, so he could not see. A cord was put around his neck, and it felt so nostalgic that he balked at first, then followed the person leading him.
They kept the cord too tight around his neck, and sometimes jerked it as they walked, either on purpose or on accident, it made little difference to him; he still stumbled and nearly fell. Someone had pushed him forward, and his knees had hit a step. Someone told him to step up, and he did, slowly, uncertainly. And another step, and a gloved hand to the small of his back made him fall into the carriage. It was a prison transport carriage, though he couldn't really tell.
He had lain on the wood of the bottom of the carriage, and listened to the horse's hooves, the sound of the cobblestone and the wheels turning. It had been ages since he had so much as left the House of Jade. And this was how he was to leave it?
He wished he could at least be told why.
He had tried to ask them, when the door opened again, but he was cuffed for speaking, and he quickly fell silent. He was led, by the cord around his neck, up a path. It was cobblestone at first, then gravel, and he had to tread lightly on it. It was uncomfortable on his bare feet. Elves, he suspected, had somewhat stronger feet than humans—than he did certainly. But he had no real need of shoes in the House, so he didn't actually own any. They said it made him a little more elven that way anyway. Point being, the gravel was painful, and he wished they would let him walk over dirt rather than this.
But he was then led up two steps—more quickly than he was comfortable with, and his feet again touched wooden floors. He tried to keep some amount of slack on the cord, but it was difficult without the use of his hands or eyes. There got to be a long stairwell, and he fell twice before one of the—three?—men there just picked him up, and tossed him over his shoulder like deadweight. One of them made some snide comment about how Shanamyn was a whore, and the other two laughed.
They had carried him down the steps, and he could smell burning pitch, and see light through the sackcloth, but that was all. They got to the bottom of the steps, and he heard a heavy door groaning open, the jangle of keys. The guard walked away, shouldering him as if he had gotten heavy with time. He heard more creaking as another door was opened, and was dumped to the floor. The bonds on his hands were cut, and the cord around his neck removed, then someone pulled the sackcloth from his head, just in time for him to see the guard leaving, and the iron door clang shut with an ominous bang.
The lock clicked shut, the keys jangled, and the guards walked away. The outer door shut, leaving him in semi-darkness.
The cell, he had discovered, was approximately six paces deep, and four paces wide, with a small pile of rotting hay in the corner, a cracked chamber pot in another. There were manacles toward the back too.
He leaned his head forward, until his forehead touched his knees. He just wished he knew why he was here. Maybe… maybe if he knew, he could dispute it. Maybe he could convince these people that, whatever it was, it wasn't worth locking him away like this, or killing him.
He touched the scar on his neck. He didn't want to die. Maker, he didn't want to die.
A small slot on the door opened, toward the bottom. A tray was shoved through. Shanamyn shouted for help, pleaded to have someone listen to him, but the footsteps only grew more faint, and the outer door shut again. He sighed, and crawled over to the meal. His joints ached. His vision had adjusted to the dimness, and he suspected it had been hours. He was used to eating well, for a slave.
He was used to three meals a day, something healthful and light, but good food for a slave. Mistress Alesand had said that no one wanted to hear their stomachs grumble during sex, so they had best stay well nourished.
He inspected the broth. It was an onion broth, and a cup of water, stale bread. He wasn't hungry enough for the food. Maybe he was spoiled, but he wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe, if he were hungry enough, he would eat it then. He drank the water, in sips, trying to make it last throughout what he assumed was the day. When it was empty, he set it down on the tray.
His stomached growled. He glanced at the tray, and sighed, not hungry enough yet. This was surely a mistake.
It had to be a mistake. Just a simple mistake. He would get to go back to the brothel, and it would make for an interesting story to tell, that was all.
He had an appointment for this evening. His client would be furious.
He closed his eyes. The rich man he was supposed to service would not be pleased that his favourite whore had gone missing. Someone would have to apologize to him. And, when Shanamyn came back to the House, he would have to offer, of course, a complimentary visit, which would end in a scolding for him, though it mattered little when he technically wasn't paid for it.
Though… it wasn't so bad that he missed that appointment. The man was fairly regular. Not daily, but perhaps at least once a week. Privately, Shanamyn hated him with a burning passion. The man was overweight, and his dick was so small he could fit his fully erect penis and balls in his mouth with no trouble; didn't even have to swallow. He could jerk him off with two fingers, and did sometimes. Thinking about the man's breathing, some of the stupid things he would say during sex—it disgusted Shanamyn. Maybe it was shallow, but he didn't like the man's personality either. He was always wanting him to do things… things he didn't really like. The pig liked him to do things to humiliate himself. There were a few lines the House drew, but very few. Unfortunately, hunkering down on his knees with his ass in the air while a girl with big breasts rammed an ivory phallus inside him with the pig's cock in his mouth was not one of those things.
His eyes slid closed, and he tried not to think about it too much. Not all his clients were like that. He wished that more of them could be like Leto had been. He hadn't wanted him to do anything humiliating or asked for something difficult or disgusting. Moreover, he had been… kind to him. Not very many people ever were, and most people were only ever polite because they felt inclined to be, like many of the other whores. For example, he knew that Lura was uncomfortable around him, because he was half-human, but it wasn't just her. A lot of people were. He always thought it was vaguely amusing, in a hateful sort of way, how an elf and a human may get along with one another just fine but couldn't help but stare at him and treat him like something else.
He tried to sleep, his back against the wall. He nodded off now and again, and missed the big bed at the House.
He woke with a start, not having realized he had even fallen asleep. He heard a squeaking noise, and jumped again, eyes going wide. The dim light illuminated the creature, its whiskers twitching over the brim of the bowl. The animal looked at him when it sensed him stir.
Shanamyn was terrified of rats. When his mother had sold him to the slaver, after the transport, he had been put in a small room with a few other boys his age. There had been straw on the floor, rotting and rat droppings were in it, and that first night, he discovered why. Night would fall, and the rats would come. Big, hungry, terrifying rats with scratching claws, sharp teeth, and beady eyes. They would dig through the hay, scurry throughout the room, looking for scraps. He had been scared then, afraid of the rats in the dark that he couldn't see. When the furry creatures would crawl across him, or nip his toes, he would shriek. They came every night. They were fed a single bowl of gruel every day, and they quickly learned to lick the bowls clean, because even more rats came otherwise. One day, a boy got sick. They tried to tell the slavers, because he was very sick, but they were ignored. The boy was sick for two days, and one morning, the half-elf saw him, nothing but a corpse. A rat was chewing on his lips, other teeth marks across his flesh.
He had been terrified of the vermin ever since.
But the rat didn't care. It snatched the bit of stale bread, and scampered through a crack in the wall with the bread in its teeth. Shanamyn heard someone whimper, and realized it was him.
There were rats. Oh, Maker, there were rats. Of course there were rats. It was a dungeon—why wouldn't it have rats? Why hadn't he thought of that before?
Now he searched for the holes, but only found the one. Desperate, he grabbed fistfuls of the straw, shoving it into the hole. His attempt was feverish, and he stuffed it as far back as he could, as close together as he could. His fingernails broke in his attempts. When he finished, he swiped his palms on his pants, picking at the broken nails, eyes fixed to the wall.
He slept not at all after that, and though he grew ever more hungry, he left the bowl untouched; the rat had been in it, after all. He wasn't that hungry yet.
It was just cool enough here to be uncomfortable. He wished he had a cloak or something—anything. He stuck his fingers in his armpits in an attempt to warm them. He wondered if he would just be left down here and forgotten, and was again struck with the sad reality that there wasn't a soul who would mourn his passing.
He didn't want to die. Even though he was alone in the world, and a slave, he really didn't want to die. Even being a half-breed, he just didn't want to die. He had come close once, and it was painful. He had seen other people die, and it looked horrifying. Life may not be pleasant, but it had to be better than the alternative.
He didn't really believe in the Maker. He couldn't believe in something he couldn't see and experience and he had known at a young age that he could never believe in it. How could he believe in an uncaring god, who had made him half-elven and a slave, whose own mother had sold him? How could he believe in a divine prophetess that was a god's bride? Who was to say that she wasn't simply mad? And why would a good person who did not serve the Maker be condemned to the same Void as the slaver? That wasn't right. It wasn't fair, and he didn't believe in it.
He wasn't sure there was an after-life, which gave him all the more reason to want to live. If this was all there was, he would rather experience as much as he was able to.
He reached up, and touched his throat, the scar around his neck. Was he going to die down here? Was his body going to rot somewhere alone? Would no one stop and wonder what had become of him? Would they care if they knew? Would anyone even pretend to care, even for a moment?
He felt like he should be crying. Felt like he should weep. But if no one else cared, why should he? He wanted to live, but… what for? He had nothing and no one, would amount to nothing.
The mood swings came, back and forth, as he struggled with his situation, but he came to no real conclusions, and knew that even so, he had no choice in the matter. The decision would always lie with someone else—that was what being a slave really meant, after all. When he thought about it, really thought about it, he sometimes realized that the number of slaves in, say, the House of Jade, outnumbered the guards there, and their mistress. But they wouldn't revolt. Even the ones who really hated being whores, or just being slaves-they wouldn't revolt, because that was hard. It was hard to take up arms, not just when one doesn't know how, but because it means pain and death and hardship. It was easier to keep one's head down and quietly do as they are told. It was easier to let someone else make the decisions, even when it was your life.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He wished this place wasn't the last place he would ever see. The House had a beautiful garden in the spring. He would have liked to have seen it again, or the sea.
He had once asked why the House of Jade was called that, as there really wasn't a whole lot of "jade" to be had in the House. One of the older whores had told him that, before their master bought out the House, the owner's name had been "Jade" and named it after herself. To help keep the clientele, the name stuck. But it reminded him of misnomers like none other.
Thinking about mundane things helped to keep his mind off of his impending death, but it was still difficult to escape. No matter what he seemed to do, he kept thinking about it.
Would they hang him—finish what his mother had tried to do? Or was it the chopping block? Perhaps they would just tie him up and throw him in the bay. The magisters were mages, though, and did that mean he could suffer some worse fate?
He didn't want to think about it. What was worse than hanging, beheading, or drowning? He supposed that they could burn him as well. The stories said Andraste suffered in a pyre too. But he doubted anyone would take pity on him and end his suffering, like they had her.
He waited, alone in the dark with his thoughts, and looked up only when the outer door creaked open. He half-hoped it was food, or at least water; he was so thirsty. He heard keys, though, instead of the small slot opening at the bottom. He sat up, eyes wide against the darkness, wondering if it was time. Already? So soon?
He wasn't ready to die.
The door opened: A guard, nameless to him, didn't even speak to him. He grabbed the boy by the arm and half-drug him from the room. It was hard for Shanamyn to climb to his feet being manhandled like that, but he managed, having to bend nearly double, as the man would not change his grip on him. He marched him to the outer room, past the heavy door that creaked.
Once there, another guard bound his wrists together, behind his back, another cord around his neck, and he was hauled forward. At least they didn't put the hood over his head this time, and he could see to make it up the stairs, and the guards were slow in their armor. His stomach felt like it had been bruised from being carried down the stairs last time.
He was led up the winding staircase, up to a long hall, and another staircase. The hall at the top of the second staircase was wooden instead of stone, which meant he was aboveground again at least, or he was getting closer and this was more decorated. Either way, he followed the guard, head down and frightened.
He was led by what he suspected were servant quarters, through passages designed so that the servants could traverse the building unseen and unnoticed. The passages were droll, but clean and well-lit, though slender.
The guard opened a door, and led Shanamyn through it. The door was obscured completely from the room by a large tapestry hanging two feet from it. It wasn't a lot of room, but it was enough to get by. The room beyond the tapestry was obviously a banquet hall. The trestle tables had been put away, but it was more than big enough for it. The roof was a spider's web of glass in metal frames, and he could see the stars beyond it. He was glad he could see the sky once more.
At the far end of the hall, he saw a high-backed, cushioned chair, almost a throne. In the throne sat a man with hair beginning to visibly grey, the beginnings of a beard forming on his jaw. He wore pale green robes. The colour was supposed to be fashionable right now, he had heard. He imagined that it was either simple coincidence, considering the demeanor of this man, or he cared just enough about the way he appeared to others to make himself presentable.
He was brought before the man, and the guard shoved him down to his knees, hard enough that it hurt. The cord around his neck was removed, and the guards moved away, to stand in attendance.
Shanamyn's eyes flicked to the man in the chair, and back down. His heart palpitated in his chest like a galloping horse. He could hear his blood ringing in his ears, or so it felt. He was so terrified. What was going on? What had happened?
This was no court to decide his fate. What, then, was going on?
"Please, just tell me why I'm here!" he pleaded after the longest silence he felt he could endure.
A guard moved to cuff him, but the man in the chair waved him off. "Another word, and I'll have your tongue cut out."
Shanamyn snapped his mouth shut, and his eyes slid closed. He was going to die. It didn't matter that this was no court. He was going to die.
Were the rumors true? This man was a magister, maybe even the one who owned the House; he had never met Danarius. Were they really blood mages? Did he need half-elven blood for some vile spell? Shanamyn felt his skin crawl.
He may not believe in the Maker, or an afterlife, but it still felt unholy to do something like that, like his soul, if he had one, would be forever tainted if he were sacrificed as such.
His hands shook in their bonds, but still he could not find the tears he should have found. He was scared beyond belief, but still couldn't cry.
A door opened. He did not look up. He stared at the wooden floor in horror and pondered his fate. He heard footsteps, then they stopped. He heard the sound of a blade being drawn. The sound made him raise his head.
Was that… It couldn't be… Leto? It was, though the elf tried very hard not to look at Shanamyn. Instead, he looked at the knife, at the floor, at anything but Shanamyn. He accepted the knife from his master, and slowly, painstakingly slowly, turned to face the half-elf.
"No!" Shanamyn cried instinctively, remembering the threat to have his tongue cut out too late. His eyes opened wide when the magister signaled, and the guards came toward him. "Don't do this! I don't want to die! I didn't do anything! Please!"
Strong hands grabbed his arms.
"No…" Leto gasped.
"Don't! Please don't! Don't let them do this!" he shrieked. But Leto was frozen, too subservient, too much his master's property to do anything else.
He watched Leto, not the guards. A man grabbed onto his jaw, and he tried to fight it, but couldn't. They were stronger. They were always stronger. His mouth was forced open. Someone else had a pair of tongs, and found his tongue. He saw Leto, over the shoulder of one of the guards, his eyes wide, appalled, but unmoving. He had gone pale, Shanamyn saw, even as the half-elf screamed, trying to fight back, but unable to. He felt the cold metal against his tongue.
Leto's mouth opened, and a tiny sound escaped his throat in an echo of the scream. It was all over in an instant. A swift motion of the sharp knife, a flick of the wrist, a moment of agony, and then his mouth filled with blood. The guards walked away, letting him sag, whimpering, making a sound like half of a scream. The bloodied, severed muscle was tossed into a fireplace, discarded. Blood spilled from his mouth, down his chin, soaking his chest, his knees, dripping on the floor. He coughed on it, wished he could wipe his chin and lips of the blood. He could smell the discarded muscle of his tongue as the flames took it, and the smell made him gag anew.
Blood coated his teeth, and he could taste it in the back of his throat, but only there, and it was the strangest sensation not to taste it more strongly. And, beyond all the minor discomforts, the pain, the horrible pain of having a muscle severed, coupled with the horror of the manner in which it had been cut: He realized that tears were streaking down his cheeks. He sagged, and slumped to the floor, lying in his own blood and able to do nothing.
And all the while, the magister watched, a bored expression on his face. His slave stood beside him, pale and horrified, looking like at any moment his legs would simply give out on him.
"As you were," the magister instructed the elf. But Leto didn't seem to have heard him, or even recognized his existence. He was staring at Shanamyn in a sort of mute horror, and Shanamyn saw something else touch his eyes: Realization.
It had taken fifteen years, but Leto had realized, truly realized, what sort of life he had won in the tournament for himself. And he knew, without doubt, that his master was the worst kind of sadistically cruel—and there was no escaping it. And maybe, just maybe, it hadn't been worth the prize of his family's freedom. But… no. No one would want their family within easy reach of this man.
The magister, though, grew annoyed. He nodded to the closest guard, and glanced toward the elf. The guard walked up to Leto, very casually, who still didn't seem to hear or see anything. An armored fist rose. Leto still didn't seem to see it. The fist flew, and the elf dodged, automatically and without thinking. The blow sailed past his head.
"Leto," Danarius snapped. The elf stood, back rigid. He heard him now, and he could see now. The guard was looking to him, and the magister nodded. The guard looked back at Leto, and the elf glanced away, not wanting to watch the fist land on his jaw. The blow sent the elf back, nearly making him fall. He caught himself, and started to cradle the blow, but stopped. Perhaps he had been instructed in the past not to do that. It was red, and starting to form an ugly bruise. "Enough. Kill the whore, and I will free the other."
Leto started to walk toward Shanamyn, and paused mid-step when the half-elf looked up at him pitifully. He didn't drop the knife in his hand, but his lower lip quivered for a moment. He lowered his head. "Why?" he whispered. "I understand killing Ginger, but why Shanamyn, Master?" His voice sounded broken, even to Shanamyn.
He signaled to the guard again, and he backhanded Leto across the other cheek. Shanamyn gave a cry of dismay, and realized just how much he had relied on his tongue; he couldn't speak anymore. He could only make some amount of noise, and spitting or swallowing the blood he was halfway drowning in was difficult or impossible. Easier to open his mouth and let it flood out of him slowly. Leto stumbled a little, touching the side of his face.
"Go to the infirmary after this—I don't want any of your teeth falling out," Danarius hissed.
Leto looked down. "Master, I… Shanamyn is…"
"Again. Not the face this time," he told the guard. The next blow was delivered to his stomach, and it made him bend double. Shanamyn wanted to cry out, to plea to make them stop hurting him, but he had no words any more—just a worthless sound. Leto hadn't helped him, but Shanamyn, another slave, understood why enough not to begrudge him that. "Leto. You agreed to this."
The elf shook his head, gasping. "No. Not to this…" he denied.
Danarius paused, and Shanamyn saw a slow smile spread across his face. "That whore-Lura," he began. Leto looked up. "She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" Leto's fingers tightened around the knife, his jaw clenching. "You could learn a few things from her about oral sex."
The guards snickered. Leto's brow drew down in a glare. Shanamyn wondered if Leto would kill the guard nearest to him and risk everything in an attempt at his master's life. He looked ready to; the elf was enraged.
The magister smirked at his slave. "But I could see why you liked her; she's very limber in bed." He sat back in his chair. "If you don't want to free her, I won't complain; I might like her in my bed more often."
Leto's eyes squeezed shut, in some personal prison of pain. When he opened them again, they were wet. "No," he whispered. "No." But he didn't attack his master. He did not turn on the guard. He looked back to Shanamyn, and walked toward him.
Shanamyn's eyes fixed on the blade, and he tried to beg Leto not to kill him, tried to plead for his life, but there were no words left to him. Just sounds, and blood. The elven slave knelt beside the whore. His eyes were wet, and sad, and filled with regret. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. The whore began to kick, to struggle. A strong hand held him in place. He thrashed against it, but could not manage to do more. "You didn't deserve this."
The knife came as a surprise to him, a sharp stabbing pain to his chest, and then a twisting motion. Just a sharp pain, then… nothing.
Danarius watched the half-elf's bloodied body go limp, and fall to the floor. Leto systematically cleaned the blade on a clean bit of the half-elf's clothing, as if it were not a body, but instead a thing. The elf tracked right through the blood and didn't seem to notice, or care. He didn't really seem to see anything around him, not truly.
He sheathed the knife, and, head down, gave it back to his master. Danarius was pleased, overall. Leto had killed his friend and had killed a one-night lover—all on command. He owned him, utterly. Anything that might once have been an individual had been crushed. He didn't think Leto had any more free will, or thought for that matter. He didn't even seem to see anything that was going on around him. The boy moved as if in a dream, as if he didn't believe in the reality around him.
"The infirmary, pet," he told him, his voice gentle.
Leto turned and looked at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears he didn't seem to realize were there. He saw the question in his eyes. He was struggling to understand his words. Something in his mind had snapped when he killed Shanamyn. Ginger had been a mercy, he supposed. Leto had seen her suffering, seen her beaten and bruised. She would not have lived long had he not killed her, and she had not struggled like the half-elf had; she had gone almost nobly to her death. The infant had been hard on him too. Shanamyn was something else. Maybe because it wasn't only an order; Leto had consented to this, though he had not known at the time.
The half-elf had begged for his life, had struggled against the blade. Leto had watched him mutilated, and a part of that had been key to breaking him. How horrible was it for the boy to watch someone else be hurt like that, when they had begged for their help?
Danarius sighed, but almost happily. He put a hand to either side of his pet's face. Healing magic flowed through him, but could not touch his mind, which was swimming through a numb haze.
When he pulled his hand away, the red marks that promised to be bruises were gone, the teeth that had been knocked loose back in place.
The magister hadn't really intended it, but he glanced back at the bloodied corpse, and told the guards to dispose of it. Leto turned and looked too, and he made a small gasping noise. His legs buckled, falling to his knees. His hands touched the floor, keeping him from hitting his face on the floor, but the movement seemed wooden. His eyes were wide, breathing shallow.
Danarius leaned a bit forward, casually stroking his little wolf's hair. He watched his guards pick up the body, his fingers twining in the boy's hair. Leto raised his hands a little bit, staring at the splattering of blood on his fingers in silent horror. Danarius traced a finger along his ear, lamenting that soon enough they would have to shave of all of Leto's blue-black hair. He had been putting off that part for last.
He gave another order to the remaining guard, and he hauled Leto to his feet. He yanked the elf forward, and Danarius glowered. The guard froze. "Gently, with my pet," he admonished him. The guard muttered a hasty apology, and gently led Leto from the room.
The door swung open and banged against the side of the wall. Mieta jumped, and the twins cried out. Varania grumbled, turning to look at the door. Leto was more shoved through the door than walked, and he stumbled, and fell to his knees. The guard behind him turned away.
Mieta rushed to him instinctively. Varania sighed, and picked up the louder of the twins, the girl, trying to shush her, but couldn't hold them both.
The mother noticed the blood almost immediately, how it looked as though he had walked through it. Much of it had come off, but she could still see it. Most of it, though, was on his hands and forearms—not a lot, just a splattering, and a few droplets on his front. There were track marks from where he had cried, and his eyes were red. When she lifted his face, he moved his head without resistance, and as if he didn't really see her. His eyes were glazed, and he just… seemed numb.
What had happened to him? "Leto… What happened?" Mieta asked him. He only swallowed, and slowly shook his head, as if he might have finally heard her, but as if from some great distance. The children continued to wail. She needed to help Varania quiet them.
Instead, the young mother set her infant child down, still wailing, and went to her brother, who she considered to be more important by far. Varania knelt beside him, looked at his hands, the stricken look on his face. "You killed someone, again?" she whispered. "Who? What would make you so upset?"
He just shook his head, eyes sliding closed, and bowed his head. "Varania, help me get him into bed," Mieta urged her.
But Leto was finally coming out of the haze he had been in. "No," he insisted. "I'm fine. Just… leave me be."
Mieta tried to help him, regardless, but he just shoved her away. Varania helped him to his feet, and left Mieta with the twins when she and her brother walked out to the well to clean off the blood. Mieta had just gotten the twins back to sleep by the time they returned. Leto still looked ashen, but better since the blood was washed away.
He left in the morning, like he normally did, to be painted for two hours, but when he came home, he just washed off the paint and fell back onto the thin mattress, his legs curled up against his chest, as if he were sick.
While Mieta was away working, Varania sat on the bed opposite her brother. His eyes tracked her with the infant she carried. "What happened?" she asked him, her voice gentle.
He paused for so long that she wasn't sure he had heard her, or was going to answer if he did. "My master told me to kill someone. So I did." His voice was flat, bland, and lifeless.
Varania looked at him, and knew it was so much more than that, to make him like this. "… Was it… very awful?"
He swallowed, and licked his dry lips. "The… person I was told to kill… He was innocent," he whispered. "He… did nothing wrong. I can't understand why…?" His voice trailed off, and she thought she understood. Maybe the other person he had mentioned having killed, maybe that person hadn't been innocent, or something. But this bothered him. "They… The guards cut out his tongue when he pleaded for his life. He begged me to help him, and I didn't… I just… watched. Then I was told to kill him. And he tried to beg me while he choked on his own blood, but he couldn't speak. He thrashed, and… He was so terrified…" His voice faded away, and his eyes squeezed shut.
It was guilt. That was what was doing this to him. Someone had died, and he had been the cause, and he felt like it was his fault. "Leto, you were just doing as you were told. What could you do?"
He seemed angry at that, briefly, then it faded. "Ginger once told me that I'd be a slave all my life, even if I were free." He laughed, hollowly. "And I obey my master even when I don't want to, or when I know what I'm doing is wrong… so I guess she's right."
Varania didn't know what to say. Was that the rest of it? Was that what so disgusted him? This self-inflicted illness he seemed to have, it was borne of those things? He was guilty beyond measure, and regretted his actions, and at the same time, was trapped in them, and, for him, knew there was no other way—and that sickened him too. She didn't… quite understand. If her master gave her an order, she had to carry it out. If she didn't like it, it didn't matter. If she thought it was wrong, that didn't matter much either. The way she saw it, she wasn't the one doing the deed; it was her master. But Leto… He didn't see it that way, not really. She had tried convincing him of this before. He had insisted that it had been himself then too.
He went to his drawer in the small clothespress and opened it. He rummaged through it for a moment, and lifted something out of it, and looked down at it in his palm. He closed his fist over it, and turned.
Varania hesitated, and left the twins sleeping and went to follow her brother. She found him behind the compound, on the other side of the low wall. "Didn't Ginger used to hide things here?" she asked him.
"Yes—I imagine her stolen goods are still buried here," he offered.
Varania kind of smiled. "Let's leave them here," she said.
He looked up at her, and returned the smile in kind. "I'd like to." He wriggled at a loose stone in the wall, and it pulled free with some effort. He set the stone aside. Varania frowned, curious as to what he was doing. He picked up the small item he had removed from his drawer, and she gasped when she recognized it.
"Is that-? Can I see it?" she asked him, reaching for the trinket. He did not even hesitate before he handed it to her. She looked at the small, carved wolf. It wasn't a good carving, but the wood was pretty and worn smooth from years of handling, and it was made by a friend, and that meant more than anything. "Can we put my halla with it?"
"Run and get it," he said, and she turned on her heels and hurried back. She checked on the twins, and found her own small halla carving. The other horn had broken off years ago, and now it looked more like a deer or a goat, but it was a halla to her. She gave it to her brother, and he hid the wolf and the halla behind the stone, fixing it like it had never been touched.