The infant twins had thus far survived their first week of life outside the womb. Varania had yet to name them, and when her brother or mother questioned her on this, she only replied that it was an age-old custom not to name children until it was more certain that they would live. When Mieta and Leto made faces at this, she would follow this up with the stubborn fact that they had been unnaturally born, and that they were premature to boot.

While her mother reluctantly conceded the point, Leto's eyes would only narrow in suspicion. But wasn't he always suspicious lately?

She had the sheet pulled over her shoulders as she nursed the girl. It was getting better, but she still hated it—hated all of it really. She didn't really know why she even did it, except that it was expected of her. Her brother sat on the bed opposite her, his back to her. He had the boy, and had been watching him. Now, it seemed like he was purposefully trying to irritate him. She hated hearing them scream; it was awful. Why would he be tormenting the babe?

"What are you doing, Leto?" she finally asked, exasperated.

He held his hand a short distance to one side of the infant's head, and snapped his fingers. The infant turned its head in that direction, then he snapped the fingers of his other hand, and it jerked toward that sound. He waved his hand in front of the child's face, a frown upon his lips, brow creased. His fist closed, slowly, then opened his palm suddenly. The babe didn't jump, despite the close proximity to his face.

"He's blind," he said, certain after many minutes of testing, and being suspicious of that for a few days.

She had half-expected that, given everything: The boy had the most unnaturally pale shade of blue eyes she had ever seen, even in elves, even compared to his father's pale eyes. The girl looked almost completely human, but the boy was another story—and she found the boy to be the more tolerable of the two as such. His ears were human in shape, with a very faint but distinctive point. Time would tell if he began to look more human when he got older—even a slave had heard that half-elven children were human in look (these things did happen), so she did not expect the boy's elven looks to last. The girl began to fuss, finished. She picked her up, and got a rag to burp her on her shoulder. "Of course he's defective," she muttered under her breath.

Her brother shot her a glare. "Don't ever say that," he snapped.

She glared back. "They're that bastard's children, and you defend them?" she said, inclining her head in the direction of the manor that loomed over them like a threat.

"They're yours too," he insisted. "And, like it or not, they've done nothing."

"They almost killed me," she countered.

His eyebrows drew into the most menacing glower she had seen from him. Her mouth snapped shut. "Don't blame them for something they cannot help."

She fell silent for a moment, and when the girl burped, she brought her to Leto. "Here, switch me." He did, and she went back to the bed to nurse her blind, bastard son. Half-elven and blind? She might as well let him die; it would be less cruel than letting him live.

"Do you think one of them will be a mage?" she asked bitterly. She didn't want to train another mage, not really. Least of all in just a couple of years before their talents started developing. "I'd hate that; I don't know if I could handle it."

He shot her another glare. "What did I just say?" he said seethingly.

She sighed, looking away. "'Don't blame them for something they can't help,'" she quoted, irritated.

He seemed mildly satisfied that she had been listening. "I don't care if they're both mages," he said. "And neither should you." Varania chose, wisely, to stay silent.

A while later, she noticed he was performing the same tests on the girl. "She's not blind," she called to her brother. Her eyes were an extremely vivid shade of green, and she was always alert and looking around. She couldn't be blind. She may have forgiven the girl, in fact, for her eyes were the shade Mother said her own father's were, but she had the hair of the magister that raped her, and she hated her for it. Mieta had only been amused that she had been born with a full head of hair.

Leto shook his head. "That's not what I think." They both fell silent. More snapping fingers, the babe suckling at her breast. In a time, Leto announced, "I think she's deaf though."

Varania sucked in a long breath through her teeth. What could be worse? A blind twin, and a deaf twin. They couldn't even communicate with one another. Lovely—and half-elven to boot, and, worse, bastard children the product of rape. She hated them. "That would explain why she screams so loudly and so often," Varania said, deeply annoyed.

"It's not her fault," Leto said, his tone that of thin patience.

The mage rolled her eyes petulantly. "Of course not."

He took a deep breath, and his temper seemed to fly. "Maybe they're blind and deaf because you insisted I hit you until you bled all those months ago?" he hissed acidly.

She was stunned to silence, and was just grateful that Mieta was away. He was saying that it was her fault they were… ruined. Well, that couldn't be. It just… couldn't be. Mother had told her about her forced march, their escape and capture, the trip over the sea. She had been but a form in her mother's womb too, yet she had survived unscathed. It couldn't be her fault. How could he say something like that? Her eyes threatened to water. She was emotional—they said that happened after birth. But his words were scathing, and hurt. "Leto…" she whispered.

He turned toward her, and the anger left him. "Oh, Maker…" he whispered, and got up, away from the babe, and to his sister. She was upset, and near tears at his remark. "I'm sorry." She started to shove him away, but he held her hand, and she stopped, wanting to cry. "I'm so sorry, 'Nia." He looked sorry; his eyes sorrowful, face contorted in sympathetic pain. "I… I didn't mean…"

But he did mean it. Even if only for a moment. Her big brother, who she so adored and looked up to, who was her only companion and solace, had truly meant that. Did a part of him hate her? Was that it? She wanted to cry for the thought, and embrace him, and shove him away, and say something just as hurtful, and to tell him that she loved him—all at once.

In the end, she simply did nothing.

She was almost certain of it. Leto hated her, hated her for what she had asked him to do and never forgiven her for it. And Mother viewed her with open contempt every time she was trying to talk about anything she felt was important. She desperately wanted to talk to someone, and have that person understand her when she said that she hated her children. Why wouldn't anyone listen and understand?

She didn't want this. She was a child herself. She didn't want children! This had been forced on her. She hadn't been ready. And now here she was with two: Two children, with problems, half-breeds with a mage for a mother and father. They were doomed from the start, didn't anyone see?

Varania just wanted to talk about it.

But no one would listen. Mieta scolded her, tried to convince her to love her children for what they were. But she couldn't love them. They were worse than abominations. They were the living evidence of what had happened to her that night nine months ago. She couldn't love something like that. She couldn't bring herself to.

Was it so wrong that she wanted to meet someone who would see her for herself and love her? Had that been wrong of her to wish for? Elven, a mage, with two bastard children, one blind and one deaf—who would ever learn to love that? She'd be… alone… forever. Raising these two brats that she hated, who she felt had ruined her life in more ways than it already was. It wasn't fair. She was too young for her life to be over, but that was what it felt like had happened.

Every time in her life she could have been happy, maybe, something had to happen to make her life miserable. She was born a slave, found out she was a mage, was raped and had been a virgin, and against all odds became pregnant and gave birth to these two. Why? Why did this have to happen to her?

She wanted to be someone else. Anyone else. She hated being herself, hated her life. Hated everything.

… She just wanted to talk to someone. She had no friends though. Just her family, and Mieta was of no use, Leto less so. She tried to talk to him too, but he would have none of it, and after a while, she lost the heart to try. She didn't want him to hate her any more than he already did. She was incredibly lonely.

She cried herself to sleep a lot, and woke to the tune of the horrid cries of those babes she despised. Leto had won her freedom, only for her to be put out in the world with these children. If they had been stillborn, she might have had a chance at happiness. Rather, her life would now become devoted to her children, her blind and deaf children.

How could she even communicate with the deaf girl? She didn't understand. She hated it. She thought, she would want to die if she were deaf or blind.

These thoughts tumbled about in her mind for days, driving her deeper into a state of depression, and in her depression, the thoughts blackened. By the week's end, she knew what she had to do. It was for the best. Best for her, best for the twins. But mostly, it was best for her. She didn't want them. What child would want to be with a mother that didn't want them? And they were blind and deaf anyway.

Late at night, she ascertained that both Mieta and Leto were asleep, and she rose quietly from the bed. She picked up one twin, the boy, and used the sheet to wind him, quietly, to her chest. The girl, she carried in her arms. She tiptoed from the room, and was grateful neither of the children stirred enough to cry.

She quietly opened and closed the door, and thought she saw Leto stir, but assumed he must just be rolling in his sleep. She walked, decidedly, certainly, toward her destination. She knew what she was doing. She was sure of herself. She had to do this. It was necessary. She hated the twins, hated what they meant, what they were. She would want this too, if she were they.

Varania walked past the gate, down to the orchard. She set the girl down gently in the spring grass by the stream. Taking her time, she rolled up her sleeves, humming a little to herself as she did, to take her mind off the necessary task before her. She unwound the boy, and set him beside his sister.

She cradled the infant for a moment, looked at her, and the babe opened her eyes, beginning to fuss. Wet, hungry—didn't matter. She had leaf-green eyes, but hair like her father, and her deaf ears weren't even elven. It was better that she didn't have a name.

She plunged the babe and her hands under the water, continuing to hum to herself, even as the tears dripped down her face. It was better this way. And she hated them both so much, more than she could bear.

Her hands were beginning to get cold, but the babe was still kicking, struggling as best an infant could struggle. The boy had begun to scream, an ear-piercing wail that made her shiver, like he knew what was happening.

He couldn't know; he was a baby. A stupid, bastard-born child of rape that had ruined its mother's life. She hated his father, and hated him. She would rid herself of everything having to do with the magister that had raped her. This was for the best.

She thought she heard footsteps, but dismissed it; she was tired, after all. And once the task was done, when both of them had stopped moving and their bodies would grow chill and stiff, then she could rest. Then she would have a chance at life she would not have had if they continued to live. Once they were gone, she could begin to heal. She would never get over the rape, but she could learn to live with it. But every time she looked at the twins, it reminded her of that awful night, and she could not forgive them for it. She could not move on with her life, and she could not heal, though she wanted to.

The babe had stilled, but it was better safe than sorry; she would hate to see it come up coughing, after all. A little while longer perhaps.

Hands grabbed onto her shoulders, hauling her bodily backwards. She dropped the infant in the water, and the person who had grabbed her dashed forward, picking the infant out of the water. Her brother knelt, cradling the body of her child, a look of astonishment and horror on his face.

He looked at Varania, his eyes wide, unable to speak.

And Varania began to cry. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just… I hated them so much…"

And he swallowed, and set the body down gently on the grass. The boy continued to cry. Leto wrapped his arms around his sister, sheltering her, embracing her.

"I never wanted them," she whispered against his shoulder, her body racking with sobs as he crushed her against his chest. "I would rather… die… than keep them."

"I don't want you to die, 'Nia," he insisted, and his voice sounded just as broken as hers.

Her fingers twined in his tunic. "I… couldn't… I couldn't do it, Leto," she whispered. "I'm sorry… I… I just wanted someone to understand… And…"

He held her tight. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't listen."

He held her until she stopped crying, but he picked up her son, wrapping him in the long cloth she had used to carry him, hushing him until he fell to silence again. He looked down at the limp body of the girl twin. "Varania, pick her up. We have to bury her."

She started to argue, then looked down, and nodded. She picked up the corpse, and followed him out, to the small slave graveyard behind the compound. He went to the storage shed with the broken lock and came back with a single spade. He gave it to her and said, "You'll dig this grave alone, but I'll stay with you."

She looked away, and understood. It was her fault. It was her mess. No one else did this; it had been her. She knelt, and dug in an empty patch. It was small, but deep, and Leto stayed with her all the while, holding her infant son.

It didn't change things. She still hated the children for the sins of their father, for the burden their lives had placed on her. But digging the grave stilled her rage for it. Burying the body sobered her, and she patted the earth, and felt inclined, for the first time in her life, to pray. She wasn't sure to what god or saint she prayed, to the Maker, Andraste, or Ginger's gods, but it didn't matter to her; she prayed. She prayed for her soul, for the soul of the one she had killed. She prayed for forgiveness, that she may move on. She prayed for Leto, and her mother. And, even for the blind boy she still had, his eyes the palest shade of blue she had ever seen. She even found herself, improbably, praying for the boy's father. What happened to a man to make him want to do the things he did?

When she finished, she walked with Leto back to the compound, leaning against him heavily. She told him that she loved him, and thanked him for what he had done. He looked down, and shook his head. "I love you too, sis. That's why I do it."

She tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage to.

Mieta, blessedly, said not one word about the girl, who was missing. Not to Varania, anyway, but Leto did walk with her to the manor that morning, and the mage suspected, but whatever was said, she never found out.

It was better that way. She didn't know what she would do if her mother said anything about it. Cry, she supposed, for her sin. Varania's Sin. It was wrong, something born of a madness that had gripped her for a time. She felt like it had passed, and she was all right now. She had made her apologies, prayed for forgiveness—she didn't know if that were granted or not, but she felt better for it.

It wouldn't change her Sin, but she knew… she had to do better for the boy for it. But he was blind. What kind of life could he ever have?

She just didn't know.

Leto kept telling her that everything would be all right, if she just waited, and saw. But she only half-believed him, because she wanted to believe.

Raith felt like he could paint the markings blindfolded, and he knew he still painted in his sleep. They had doubled the hours he painted—twice a day now. A week before the ritual, they would paint the elf in henna again, which he was not looking forward to.

Leto was… disciplined enough to stay still for long periods of time, but some places he just couldn't get to all at once, and the henna didn't dry as fast as the paint, so he had to wait, and let Leto move a little bit. He didn't care too much, but standing with locked legs for too long will make a person faint.

Danarius had to stop Raith on more than one occasion when Raith hadn't been paying too much attention to the elf, and the slave had nearly blacked out. When Raith had looked at his face, he had noticed his shallow breathing, the pale features, clamminess, but he had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn't noticed before. His master had not been pleased, and Raith had made an effort to pay more attention in the future.

For the actual ritual though, he was informed that Leto would, in all reality, be in a trance state, so fainting wouldn't be an issue.

The pattern, he was now more than confident with. His strokes were assured, measured, precise. He used exactly the same amount of paint every time. He did not shake from nervousness. He was self-confident in that. After all, that was the easy part.

The truly difficult part was that the lyrium couldn't just be implanted. It was a liquid. They could make flat lines along his skin like a tattoo, but that was the difference between painting and engraving something in this. No, the best use of it would mean more lyrium, and it would be carved into his flesh rather than tattooed. Which meant he had to construct, out of Leto's own body, something rather like thin arteries, but to hold the lyrium. It was temporary, in reality, to hold it in place until the ritual was over and it could be seared into him, down to the depths of his soul and the Fade. Once the ritual was over, it would settle, resting in his skin, very unlike a tattoo. Frankly, he was quickly becoming annoyed at anyone who inquired about it who referred to the procedure as a tattoo. It was nothing like a tattoo.

They would know if something went wrong almost immediately, because the lyrium would start… bleeding. He shivered at the thought. All that work…

He had a slave they plucked from the compound for him to practice on—shackled in the dungeon. He created and destroyed the arteries just as quickly. The sensation, apparently, caused an unbelievable amount of pain for the subject. The girl had taken to sobbing whenever the door opened, and pleading with him not to do it again.

Out of curiosity, he had asked her, just yesterday, if she remembered her name. She had stared at him, blinking slowly, and trying to remember. She did remember, eventually, but it took her a while and she seemed uncertain of it-Raenya. She confessed to not remembering what the sun was like, sometime in her inane babble. She had taken to babbling lately, about nothing mostly, and half of what she said was nonsense.

It seemed, the ritual to erase Leto's memory would go smoothly. Moreover, it was extremely simple to write in. It fit very nicely into a particular part of it, like it was made to go there. It was probably for the best anyway. The nastiest bit of the ritual, the elf wouldn't remember to be horrified by it.

When the paint was drying on Leto's skin, his master inquired as to the state of his sister's twins. It seemed, one of them died recently. Leto had looked away, and nodded, giving the affirmative that this was true.

That meant there was only one left—a shame. Those children were the perfect link in the spell. They could maintain the link without the babes, but it would require a few more slaves, a bit more blood.

Raith inspected the library they were using for the ritual. Well, it had been a library up until a few weeks ago. It had been utterly gutted since then—the rugs, the tapestries, especially the books and the shelving, had all been removed. Some of it went into storage, and other bits just into different areas. Not only was the space just what they needed, but the skylight there was exactly where they would need it to be for the ritual, for it must be done under starlight. True, they could have done this in the ballroom, which was larger, but the hexagonal shape was also important. But the most important bit was the stained glass. It was over an inch thick, and created so that one could see out, but not in—though this was not their greatest purpose. They had been forged with mage-fire, imbued with enchantments by the Tranquil. Magic would be safely contained in that room.

Some of the tools they would need were already in there. Tall tapered candles, candlesticks, a couple ceremonial daggers, a glass chalice, among a few other things. Leto was also going to need to go through the conditioning soon.

He went down to the dungeons to see the slave girl. He didn't suspect that she would live for much longer, though.