The heat was immeasurable.
There was not a cloud in the sky, offering no buffer as the sun blazed unforgivingly down upon the field of battle. Or, rather, what would soon be the field of battle. For the moment it was merely an open arena, the hard-packed ground baking in the heat until that heat rose from the dry dirt in wavering ribbons, giving a strange, hazy effect to all below. Were there a breeze, it might have been more tolerable, but today, at least, there was no breeze and there was no shade.
Leto's eyes went to the sky. Not a cloud, not a hint of any to come. He frowned slightly; without any rain, the arena would continue to soak in the heat of the sun, until the stones radiated with warmth through the night. Without rain, there would be dust and grit. He could almost taste it coating the inside of his mouth, could almost feel the sand grinding between his teeth. Rain would bring relief and create a more forgiving battlefield. This, however, only made the brow creasing at his forehead furrow deeper — a difficult battlefield was something he could use to his advantage. He could use the heat, the dirt, the blinding sun — as long as he was prepared for it, that was all that mattered.
He fingered the talisman at his neck — a piece of worked metal twisted and twined and hidden under his clothes, at his mother's insistence. The symbol of Elgar'nan meant little to Leto, beyond that it was a gift from Mamae — and when she had so little to give, Leto knew better than to scoff. Indeed, in that quiet, still place where secrets and dreams were allowed to exist and grow inside of him, he treasured it. He had little opinion regarding Dalish traditions, regardless of how tightly his mother held on to every little ritual, every story. To Leto there seemed very little point in clinging to the beliefs of a people they'd never known — or at least he'd thought so.
Regardless of this, for as long as he could remember, since he and Varania were small, Mamae had told them both stories of the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, tales of Elvhenan, of aravels and halla. It was a life neither he nor his sister had ever known; their mother had been captured by slavers and taken away from her clan as a young girl. Leto imagined Mamae told them stories not only so they'd remember, but also so that she would not forget… despite all appearances indicated that her clan had forgotten about her.
Leto also had little opinion of a people who never bothered to find those taken from them.
She had been taken away and summarily forgotten by her own people; if they had cared — cared enough — they would have found her. Instead she was, Leto was sure, forgotten by her clan. That seemed enough reason to forget them entirely.
"You're scowling again."
Leto turned with a start, despite how well he knew that voice, and its owner. The aforementioned scowl melted away into a smile, his pulse tripping lightly in his veins at the very sight of her. "Liaria. How did you know I was—?"
She tilted her head, brown eyes twinkling as a bit of hair fell free from the ponytail she wore. With an impatient flick of her fingers she sent the auburn lock away from her face, looked down at the open and empty arena, and back at him. "You really have to ask?"
He shrugged. "It… is helping me to prepare."
"It's the same arena it's always been, Leto," she said with a tired smile — the bridge of her nose was pink with sunburn and dusted with freckles and he wondered where she'd been stationed today.
"Not true," he countered, lifting his eyebrows as he took Liaria's hand and guided her to the railing he'd been leaning against. He pointed to the north end of the arena. "The last time I fought here there had been rains the entire week before the tournament."
"You twisted your ankle in the muck. Believe me, Leto — I remember. You nearly gave your mother, Varania and me all heart attacks."
"I still defeated Tanius." And there was no denying the note of pride in his voice — he had beaten the other warrior handily, even injured as he was. Liaria only chuckled and shook her head.
"And spent how long afterward trying to heal?"
Leto grimaced at that particular memory — it was difficult enough to heal the injury at all; Varania hadn't the training to elevate her talents beyond the most basic spells. She'd done what she could, but time to heal was a luxury he hadn't had. Foul-tasting potions, though — those were much more plentiful, and he'd downed more than he truly liked to think about. "As you love me, do not remind me of that."
She smiled. "As you wish, my own one." She looked down and tilted her head a fraction. "How is it? The ankle, I mean."
He picked up his foot and rotated the joint in question. "Fine. It's been fine."
"Stubborn will counts for something, I suppose."
He acknowledged her tease with an indulgent shake of his head. "My point, my love, is that the arena is never the same from battle to battle, tournament to tournament."
"And it may not be the same place tomorrow as it is today." She tugged at his hand, pulling him away from the railing. "Come, Leto. It's getting late."
"Late? It is still full daylight—"
"And you would spend it in the sun and heat trying to anticipate every opponent you will face tomorrow?" She pressed close and wound one arm about his neck, lifting herself onto her toes and kissing him sweetly. "I think what you truly require is… distraction." Liaria let the word linger temptingly, her full lips curving into a smirk.
"You," he countered, taking her free hand and kissing the knuckles, "are a brazen temptress."
"But I am your brazen temptress."
"And I am forever thankful for that." His eyes raked over Liaria's face, frowning again at the sunburn — she was far fairer than he was; Leto could remain in the sun for hours on end and only wind up sweaty and annoyed, never burnt or blistered. "You look as if you've been on the wall all day."
"You know they won't station slaves on the wall. And you look as if you're trying to change the subject." She kissed him again. "Come. If nothing else, you must allow your mother one more opportunity to talk you out of this contest."
He sent her a slantwise look. "And not you?"
She sighed and squeezed his hand, then looked out at the very arena he'd been scrutinizing earlier. "I know better than to try and deter you. I… it is true I wish you wouldn't compete in the contest tomorrow. But… there are… stories about Danarius, Leto. It… it is a better position, I know. But… well." She smiled a little, but the edges of that smile were a little more ragged than he'd like. "The women in your life worry. Is that so bad?"
He reached up to cup Liaria's cheek with his free hand and frowned. Her skin was hot with the warmth of the sun and perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip. He wiped away the moisture above her lip with his thumb, then placed a gentle kiss against her mouth. "Should I win this contest," he murmured against her lips, "the women in my life will have no cause to worry about anything, ever again."
"They will not allow you to include me in your boon, love. Surely you know that. I am… no one."
"It is my boon to make. It will be allowed."
"And what then," she countered tiredly, "if it is allowed? What will we do with freedom, Leto?"
"What will you… do with it?" he echoed softly, staring at her, blinking once, then twice. He could not grasp that some of the slaves among him not only knew nothing but a slave's life, they yearned for nothing but a slave's life. He certainly wanted more, and perhaps status was one way to achieve it. "You live," he answered softly, kissing her again. "You build a life of your own where you are beholden to no one. Go where you want, live how you wish."
"And leave you behind?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Unless you aren't particularly bothered by being left behind."
"Such markings, Liaria…" He held out his hands, imagining the glowing, twining lines — the true prize for any warrior worthy enough to be Danarius' bodyguard. "Can you not imagine the power, the strength I would have at my disposal?" He laughed and held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. "At my very fingertips?"
But Liaria was unmoved. "With such a prize, Danarius will never allow you freedom, Leto. Surely you know that. You will be too valuable."
He sighed. "Your freedom — Mamae's, Varania's… that is what is more important right now. Mine… will come. I am sure of it. These markings are but one step on a longer path."
This time Liaria was the one who scowled. "Don't lie to me, Leto — you want those markings, and even if an extra boon weren't offered, you would still be competing for them."
She wasn't wrong — not entirely, anyway — but the words still grated upon his ears. "And why shouldn't I want them? You know as well as I that I am the strongest among the other warriors. I can win this, Liaria. I can, and I will."
"And you will not be deterred. You will force freedom on me, whether I want it or not, so you can have your status and your—"
"Force it on you?" Leto took a step back, hating the way she flinched when he pulled away, though it did not stop him. "Do you not want freedom?"
Liaria rounded on him, suddenly. "You've never asked me what I want, Leto! You want me to be free, but what do I know of freedom? What would I do with it? And why would you give me something you yourself would not take?" She flung and arm out and pointed at the arena, then let it fall, clenched her fists and paced, shaking her head. "Mistress wants me to marry, Leto — she wants me to marry a warrior and have dozens of fat children, so they too will grow to be warriors and protectors of my Mistress' house."
He blinked, rapidly processing this. "Then— then stay. I'll use the boon for Mamae and Varania, and… and you will stay and I— we…"
She laughed, a harsh, unpleasant noise, shaking her head at him. The sweat-damp lock of hair fell loose again, but she only shook it out of her eyes. "You will not be permitted to marry a lowly house guard, my love." Her smile was heartbreaking, doubly so when the acerbic tone fell from her lips as she added, "Don't forget the importance of status."
"What… what are you saying, Liaria?"
"I'm saying that…" She bowed her head and rubbed hard at her forehead. "I'm saying that winning those markings may not be the answer to your prayers. And I beg you to reconsider."
They did not speak on the matter for the rest of the evening; instead, Liaria walked with Leto to the small home he shared with his mother and sister. The smell of cooking food met them the moment they opened the door and Leto's stomach gave a hungry growl. It was a modest dish his mother made, and though she'd been young when the slavers took her, she still knew better than most how to find and collect all manner of edible plants and herbs. The Dalish, as she liked to remind her children, had always lived off the land, and she'd learned to gather herbs and roots and wild-growing fruits before she'd even left her mother's skirts. Slave or no, his mother was not the sort of woman willing to see her children go hungry, especially not when there were forests to forage; one did not need coin to eat well, Marillani reminded her children, frequently.
The moment she heard the door open, Leto's mother looked up from the aged, dinged pot where the stew currently simmered. Despite what had not been an easy life, his mother's face remained youthful and, in Leto's opinion, beautiful — green eyes so much like his own warmed when her gaze fell on him, and her lips eased into a tired smile. For a moment he wondered for a moment when she'd had the time to gather the ingredients for such a meal. Swiftly following on the heels of that thought was another, harsher one: She is the reason you are doing this. Never lose sight of that.
He would win his mother her freedom, or he would die in the attempt.
"You're back earlier than I expected, da'len."
Leto chafed inwardly at the endearment, but Liaria only smiled and went to his mother's side to help. "I don't doubt he'd have stayed there until sunrise if he could."
Varania stood by the table, setting down bowls for dinner, but did not look up. Things had been tense between the siblings from the moment Leto announced his intentions to enter the contest and compete to be Danarius' bodyguard.
"It is allowed," he countered, looking first at Liaria, then his mother. "Warriors are permitted to view—"
"And bake in the hot sun until the heat addles their wits?" Liaria tossed back with a wink.
"He wouldn't have had very long to wait, then," Varania said quietly, her eyes trained on the spoon she held.
Before Leto could let loose the retort forming upon his tongue, he saw Liaria shaking her head quickly at him. Not now, she mouthed. Frowning, he nodded and subsided.
Dinner was a quiet affair, livened, as it frequently was, by Liaria's enthusiastic tendency toward storytelling. He leaned back in the chair, letting her words wash over him. It would not be so bad if she remained, he thought. Surely the situation was not so dire as she believed — surely he would be permitted to marry, wouldn't he? The question of status between slaves was a formality, but Liaria wasn't a maid or a cook — she was a trained fighter. Surely it would be permitted. Surely.
Once the meal was eaten and the mess cleared away and cleaned, Liaria went to Leto's side and, lifting herself on tiptoes, whispered invitingly in his ear: "Your mother wishes to speak with you about the contest. If nothing else, hear her out. Then come find me later. I believe I made a promise to… distract you." Then she pressed a kiss next to his ear, smiling wickedly when he shivered, and left.
He found his mother sitting by the window, doing her mending by the meager lanternlight. It was far too warm to light a fire in the hearth — beyond which to cook with, at least — but she seemed not to need to see as the needle dragged thread through the material. He stood by the arm of the chair, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Without looking up, his mother smiled.
"Just like your father," she murmured. "He had difficulty standing still, too." Leto could manage no response beyond surprised silence — Marillani seldom ever spoke of her husband, and she still felt the grief of his death keenly. Though he'd not been Dalish — an elven mage from Seheron who was fleeing Qunari and templars alike when Tevinters had managed what warriors of the Qun and Andraste could not: he'd been all of sixteen when captured — Marillani had loved Arthal dearly and deeply.
Leto and Varania had been too young to fully understand why their father had been killed at all. It wasn't until Leto was much older that he discovered the reason behind his murder: his father had rebuffed the advances of a magister intent upon taking him to her bed. Whether she'd been angry and insulted that a mere elf — and slave — had rejected her so soundly, or that her secret infatuation was decidedly less secret, no one knew. Leto only knew that this woman had killed his father, and soon thereafter, she was likewise killed, put to death by Arthal's own master. But Leto didn't delude himself into believing the man had any tender feelings toward the slave he owned, or that slave's family. No, the man was simply furious that his property had been taken away from him in such a manner.
It didn't help that the murderous bitch in question had also been his wife.
"I hope you are not too old and wise to sit and listen to your old mother speak, da'len," she said, almost teasingly, giving him a little half-smile in the fading light.
Without a word, Leto knelt by his mother's chair, resting his hands on the roughly carved wooden arm. "Never, Mamae," he answered, looking up at her.
Her smile grew impossibly sad for a moment as she ran her fingers through his hair. "You… look so much like him," she said, resting her fingers beneath his chin. "He would have been so proud of you."
Some bit of tension inside Leto began to unwind. Perhaps she would not try once more to—
"But I beg you to reconsider what you are about to do, my son."
Leto sighed. "I am doing this for you, Mamae. For you and Varania — so you can be free."
"And what is freedom if we must leave you behind?"
"I will catch up with you, somehow."
She sighed and rested a hand upon his shoulder. Soon her fingers crept to his neck and pulled free the long strip of leather from which the symbol of Elgar'nan hung. She let the talisman rest in the palm of her hand for a moment.
"Had you grown up among the People, you'd have received the vallaslin when you came of age, rather than a piece of worked metal." Her smile was wistful, as if she were imagining his face adorned with twining blood-writing. "And now you are about to compete for markings of your own, and I… am afraid, my son. Afraid for you."
"All will be well, Mamae," he said, clasping her hand in his. "I give you my word."
"You cannot know that. And even you, my son, my da'len, with your father's iron will… there are some things even you cannot promise."
#
Rain still had not come.
Late afternoon sun still shone down on the arena, boring down into stone and earth until waves of rippling heat rose all around him as he'd fought — and won. Today the heat was augmented by the hundreds of bodies crammed upon benches and in private balconies, their combined breath a humid wind as they cheered and screamed with each fallen warrior and each victor; more often than not, they were cheering for him. Him. The carved tunnels beneath the arena shook with the noise — Leto could even feel the vibrations beneath his feet. Contests as grand as this, with prizes as coveted as this one, did not happen often; when one did occur, it was well attended. Even more so than the more common tournaments. The prize attracted the fighters, which in turn attracted spectators — and such a prize attracted warriors from all over the Imperium.
Leto had been fighting them — and winning — since the early morning. The early rounds weren't enough to capture the attention of many spectators. The hour was too early and there was less bloodshed; younger, less experienced warriors lost only their pride and a little blood, not their lives. Once the herd was thinned and the stakes raised, people came out to watch and wager.
The day had been long — Leto had been there since before sunrise, nerves making sleep impossible — and his body now felt every demand he made on it. His clothes and hair were soaked through with sweat — he wasn't the only one; there was a well below the arena and many of the contestants were just as likely to drink the water as drench themselves with it. He cupped cool water in his hands and first splashed his face with it, then cupped more and drank greedily from his hands.
The contest was nearly finished, and he was still standing.
Soon, he told himself, listening to the crowd's screams rise nearly to deafening as another warrior fell.
Soon he would be in Danarius' employ and would have the power the lyrium markings afforded. Rumors abounded, as they always did — some said the branding gave the recipient more strength, more resilience, more speed. Others said that the powers came from the Fade itself, and anyone possessing the markings could walk through walls or crush a man's heart with bare hands.
He wanted that power. And Leto knew — he knew — that once he was in possession of such abilities, whether the rumors were true or not, he would not remain a slave for long. Powerful men were not slaves. Sooner or later he would find — or make — an opportunity to leave Tevinter. He would catch up with Mamae, Varania, and — he dearly hoped — Liaria, and they would live freely.
He would give his mother the one thing her own clan had failed to provide: freedom.
His fingers drifted across his talisman once again and he closed his eyes, sending a lone, silent prayer for strength up to Elgar'nan. He did not make a habit of praying to Dalish gods — he often felt they'd abandoned his mother when she needed them most — but perhaps this once, an exception could be made. He traced the symbol slowly with a fingertip; he knew the shape of Mamae's gift by heart.
A small boy came careening through the hold, his rapid footfalls against the dirt floor grinding softly. "Leto! Leto! Domitia has been defeated! Domitia has fallen!"
The fighter in question had been a favorite among the betting crowd; she was an elf, lightly built and possessing both a reputation for speed and a preference for dual blades — usually poisoned — in the ring. If she'd fallen, then Leto's own opponent would certainly be a challenge.
"Who remains?" he asked the boy.
"Ionus," he breathed. "You will be fighting Ionus in the final round."
Leto nodded slowly. Ionus had the advantage of size and bulk over him — while a slave, Ionus was no elf — but that was an advantage he could quickly turn against the larger man. Ionus preferred a greatsword, as Leto did, which gave Leto an intimate understanding of a fair number of Ionus' weaknesses. It would not be an easy battle, but Leto remained confident. When rumors filtered down that Ionus was Hadriana's favored pick for the match, it was all Leto could do not to laugh. It would have surprised him not at all that similar rumors were making their way to Ionus' ears — more games, of course. But only a fool would fall prey to them.
And Leto was no fool.
The spans of time between each battle were long enough for the fighters to catch their breath, but not so long that there was any chance of their muscles growing cold and stiff. …Not that there was much of a chance for anything to get cold in this heat, Leto thought wryly. For his part, he'd kept moving even when he was not slated to fight; he wanted this too badly to lose because he'd been stupid or shortsighted.
In the interim, the packed dirt floor of the arena was raked smooth for the final round. Blood that had been spilled earlier only soaked into the dirt where it was then left beneath the merciless sun to grow hard and dark, destined to be removed only by pounding rains. The ground itself was smooth, but nothing could be done about the dark splatters soaked into the hard, dry ground. They were baked in and glinted in the golden afternoon light like so many black gems.
As he waited, hearing and feeling the crowd's roar above and around him, Leto ran his hands slowly up his arms, imagining his prize adorning his skin, imagining the enhanced strength, the power…
To fail now would mean death. It would mean no freedom for those he loved. Everything hinged on what happened next. He touched the talisman again.
I will not falter.
The arena trembled with noise, and just when he thought the cries couldn't get any louder, they doubled.
It was time.
Leto strode out into the heat of the arena — the cheering he'd heard before doubled yet again. He knew better than to think they were cheering for him — an elf and a slave? Hardly. No, they were cheering for the promise of bloodshed; they were cheering for the promise of a few more coins lining their purses when all was over. He did wonder how many were betting on him to win — and then he wondered how many more were betting on him to lose. Were the odds in his favor, or against him? Leto had never been a particularly gifted gambler, and usually didn't have enough spare coin to lose, but still he wondered.
From the other end of the arena, he saw Ionus' imposing silhouette as the two fighters slowly approached the center of the ring. He took in his opponent, keen eyes searching for any injury he could exploit, wondering whether it had been luck or skill that had allowed Ionus to fell Domitia. Leto hoped it had been luck, and then hoped Ionus' luck had run out.
The two fighters met in the center of the arena, eyes meeting. They did not speak; there were no barbs traded, no dark promises to make the other suffer a long, painful death. There was no emotion here — there was no place for it. Here, the fight was merely part of a larger business transaction.
They both waited for the signal to begin, but instead of the pounding drums, the entire crowd fell suddenly and deathly silent. Ionus' eyes widened as they met Leto's — the only hint of anxiety either fighter showed. But there was excellent reason to feel such anxiety, as it turned out.
Danarius had left his private balcony and was at that moment walking out into the ring. The arena, filled to capacity and only seconds before deafeningly loud, was now so silent that Leto heard the soft crunch of dirt and gravel beneath the soles of Danarius' prohibitively expensive boots.
The two fighters watched the man destined to be master to one of them as he approached. His gait was leisurely, his mien relaxed, as if he were merely out for an afternoon stroll. As far as Leto knew, no one had ever interrupted the final round of such a contest before — but this was Danarius' affair, and if anyone could be permitted to break the rules, it was him.
"Dreadfully sorry for interrupting, lads, but I fear there has been a slight… change in the program."
Leto had only enough time to exchange a brief, wordless look with Ionus before Danarius flung one hand up, letting a blindingly white chain of crackling lightning leap free from his palm. With as much speed and force as anything that charged down from the skies, the lightning struck Ionus and his eyes widened as his muscles tensed and jerked, his mouth stuck in a wide, silent scream. Still upright, his body twitched and jumped, like a puppet dangling from a string. His mouth began to foam and smoke started to rise from his skin as the sickening stench of cooking flesh leeched into the air.
The spell ended with as much warning as it had started and Ionus smoldering body fell, hissing, to the ground. Leto stared, feeling bile rise to his throat, both at the sight and the smell of it. He lifted his shocked gaze to Danarius, who was tilting his head and regarding Ionus as if he was marginally disappointed the man had died so quickly.
The magister then smiled and raised his arms, addressing the crowd. Those who were not still gripped by shock cheered and applauded this deviation. Once the noise had subsided somewhat, Danarius cleared his throat and addressed the masses.
"Due to…" he looked at the dead warrior at his feet, his lip curling in evident contempt for the dead, "unforeseen events, I fear I am left with no other choice than to provide another challenger for our contestant." He stepped aside with a flourish and Leto wondered for a mad moment what he was doing when he realized someone had been walking into the arena behind Danarius. The blood roared in Leto's ears.
Liaria.
He could do little else but stare. The breath had left his lungs in a rush, leaving him speechless. His heart pounded mercilessly against his ribs as his mind struggled to understand what she was doing there at all.
Then, slowly, he realized what Danarius had said: a new challenger.
"Do either of you require additional time to… prepare?" asked Danarius. Leto tore his eyes away from Liaria and stared at him; the man was doing a poor job of hiding his mirth.
He knew.
Leto's eyes went once again to Liaria, but her own gaze was impassive and defiant. Without taking her eyes from Leto, she said, "I do not."
"And you?" prompted the magister, a knowing smile twining snakelike about his lips.
His throat was dry. Words would not come. Leto swallowed once, twice. It was as if all the grit and sand in the arena coated his mouth, his throat. "I… I do not."
"Very well." And with another flourish, Danarius strode away, back to the cool privacy of his balcony, its awning rustling in a breeze too gentle to feel. The crowds remained still and quiet, but the blood roaring in his ears drowned out every footstep Danarius took as he returned to his private seat.
He forced himself to look at Liaria, but she stood still and silent, her back perfectly, painfully straight.
"What are you doing?" he breathed.
"What I must."
They had lain together the night before, and images from that night were now plaguing Leto's mind — the glow of her skin as moonlight snuck through slats in the shutters, casting patterns on her body; the taste of sweat against his lips as he kissed her shoulder, her back; her throaty cry as she came, her body trembling against him; her sleepy sigh and whisper as she drifted to sleep in his arms: I love you, Leto.
"Why? Why are you— why?"
From his seat, Danarius made a lazy gesture, and then the sound of pounding drums thundered in his ears. The noise took him by surprise.
It had not, as it happened, taken Liaria by surprise. Sword and shield drawn, she rushed forward, clashing her shield against his sword, the force of the blow sharp enough to make him take a staggering step back. Survival and self-preservation kicked in and he sidestepped her next advance, swinging his greatsword around and blocking Liaria's blade as it cut a great, sweeping arc through the air.
"Why? Are you truly asking me that, Leto?" She advanced again, and again he lifted his sword to block hers. Baring her teeth, she slammed her shield against his blade with enough force to knock it aside, and tried to slip her blade into the vanishing window of space her move had made. "Didn't you hear a word of what I said to you yesterday?"
His sword came up to meet hers and the blades ground hard against teach other, locking at the guard.
"I do not recall the part where you revealed your own interest in becoming Danarius' bodyguard," he said, his voice a low growl.
"I told you Mistress wants me to marry, didn't I?" She pushed harder against him, but Leto did not budge.
"And I told you—"
"That you would marry me instead. But Leto, I don't want to put down my sword to churn out brats just so that bitch can brag about how many knife-ears she owns. Don't you see? You cannot fix this." She pivoted, pulling her blade and shield back and angling both for another attack. "You can't save me."
"And I will not kill you," he ground out through clenched teeth.
The crowd, which had taken time to warm up to this new development — and surely there was a flutter of activity as people ran to change their wagers at the last minute — was now as loud as they'd ever been. Once again the ground trembled beneath Leto's feet, but now he felt no exhilaration for the fight — or the prize — only fear and dread.
Liaria was skilled with a sword; Leto had already known that much. They trained together, sparred together, and knew each other's moves as well as they knew their own. She blocked his attacks with as much ease as he blocked hers. The only difference between them was the lack of hesitation in her advances.
Then, with a yell, she lunged forward; Leto dodged at the last instant, but Liaria's sword still cut a deep wound at his right shoulder. He stared a moment at the blood, then back at her — had she been trying to remove his sword arm entirely?
"If I am Danarius' bodyguard, I will own my own fate, Leto. You said it yourself — those markings mean power. Status. Respect."
"I would have freed you."
He slowly became aware of the fact that the sun wasn't beating down quite so mercilessly anymore. The awning above Danarius' balcony fluttered with more force now, and the breeze that met Leto's overheated, sweat-soaked skin was… cooler. He glanced up to see clouds gathering overhead. The oppressive heat was about to come to an end.
"Freedom," she spat. "You wouldn't have been able to free me, Leto. Mistress never would have allowed it. But you— you didn't see that, did you? You thought only of yourself, thought only that because you willed it, you could make it happen. You never even asked if I wanted it, Leto. You simply assumed that because you want to be free, so must we all." Her eyes hardened and she circled him with nimble footwork, swinging the shield suddenly — three times, in rapid succession — then lunged forward, her sword at the ready.
He'd never imagined — never dreamt…
"You… never wished for it?" he asked. "Never wanted it?"
"What I want, my love, are those markings."
The cold truth of it glittered in her eyes. She wanted the prize, the boon, for herself.
Above, thunder rumbled, a low, threatening sound. The wind picked up, sending loose sand and grit into swirling eddies all around them. Still they circled, still they danced — slashing swords and raised shields sliced skin and bruised muscle, but still they fought. Leto had stopped trying to understand — he knew he couldn't understand.
He also knew he could not die here. He knew it in his bones, as cool rain fell, slowly at first, then faster as the sky continued to darken and turn strangely yellow. If he met his end here, his mother and sister were doomed to remain slaves for the rest of their days.
Leto could not allow that to happen.
"Forfeit," he breathed, swinging his sword with purpose now, rain pouring down upon them both, plastering their hair to their heads, soaking their clothes. Somehow the crowd sensed the intent behind his maneuver and screamed. "I beg you, Liaria," he yelled, though he could barely hear himself above the noise, "forfeit."
"Are you mad?"
"Do not make me kill you."
"You arrogant bastard!" she yelled, setting her jaw and swinging her sword — a killing stroke. It was meant to be, anyway. But Liaria's shield was raised too high, her sword arm held out just a fraction too far.
Leto had only to angle his sword and watch with horror as, propelled by her own momentum, Liaria flung herself upon it. Her eyes went wide, first with surprise, then with pain. Closing his own eyes — a fruitless endeavor, for he knew he would see this moment in his mind's eye for the rest of his days — Leto bowed his head, and as rain coursed down his face and neck, he pushed. Her body gave against the blade, and he felt rather than heard — the crowd had exploded into chaos and noise; it was loud, so impossibly loud — the snap of her spine.
He dropped the sword and forced his eyes open. To turn away now was a coward's path. He deserved to see what he'd wrought.
Liaria's crumpled body looked too… small. Her legs were bent awkwardly beneath her, but if the blank, sightless gaze was any indication, she was beyond caring. A tremor wracked its way through him, and Leto fell to his knees, lifting trembling hands to her face. Her pert nose was still sunburned, and the freckles still stood out against the skin. Her lips were parted, and blood stained her teeth — a tiny splash of red showed at the corner of her mouth.
He'd kissed that nose, those cheeks, those lips the night before.
Shuddering, Leto brought his fingers to her eyes and closed them, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. She was still warm.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. I had to. Forgive me. I beg you, forgive me.
Rain continued to pour down upon them both, pooling beneath Liaria, the gathering water tinted red with fresh blood.
"Well," drawled a voice from behind him. Shuddering, Leto looked over his shoulder to find Danarius standing there, looking immeasurably pleased — though whether the magister was pleased with Leto or simply pleased with himself, it was impossible to tell. The rain did not touch him; a shimmering light seemed to surround him and the water simply beaded up and slid off. "To be honest, I wasn't sure you truly had it in you. But…" he nudged Liaria's body with the toe of one boot, "it would appear you do. Most excellent."
He knew. He'd known.
Leto's trembling fingers smoothed back Liaria's wet bangs, trailing down her temple and lingering against her cheek. The rain coursing down on them both was cold now and he was nearly sure he could feel the heat draining from her body. When he looked up, he saw her blood surrounding them. There was nothing he could do for her now; indeed, he had done enough "for" her. He was the reason she was dead in his arms now, her skin growing slowly colder. The sunburn across her nose was fading.
"Stand, lad."
For a moment his limbs would not obey. His movements were jerky as he lowered her head gently to the ground and pushed to his feet. His hands and clothes were soaked through, streaked with Liaria's blood. Slowly he turned to face his new master.
Danarius' thick, steely brows twitched together and his cast a quick, disdainful glance down at Liaria's body. "Oh. That." He sighed and shook his head. "Now, really, what kind of bodyguard would you be if I had any cause to doubt you? I need to know you'll kill anyone, lad. And if you'd kill your sweetheart for a boon, you'd surely kill to protect me. Don't you see?"
Leto was numb throughout; he couldn't think, could barely speak. "It… was a… test?"
Danarius' smile was sharp and cruel. "It was a test, Master."
Leto shuddered. His guts wrenched, and for a moment he felt like he was going to throw up. "…Master," he echoed dully.
"Something like that. You're clearly skilled. I just needed to know you were… devoted." He waved a hand at the scene surrounding them. "If this was a test, my boy, you've passed with flying colors. Now," he smiled and it struck Leto there were too many teeth in that smile, "I believe we have a small matter of a boon to negotiate? Perhaps you'll follow me up to my balcony; this mud is positively ruining my boots." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode away, the shimmering barrier still protecting him from the elements. He did not look to make sure Leto was following him; it was merely expected.
When he was able to walk, his steps were stiff and halting, as if the rest of his body had forgotten how to move. Everything hurt, inside and out, and it took too much concentration to walk. But walk he did, following Danarius with halting steps as the rain continued pouring down on him. His body, no longer burning with heat and exertion, began to feel slightly chilled, and he willed his teeth not to chatter. But the chill, it seemed, went deeper than his skin; it seemed to permeate him completely, settling in his bones, icing over his guts. Finally they reached Danarius' balcony and the magister settled into a seat and looked up at him expectantly.
His teeth were chattering now. "The boon I… h-humbly request, Master, is freedom. For my mother and my… m-my sister."
"That's all? Really? Oh, that can be arranged," he replied, looking eerily amused. "Now, tell me your name, boy."
He was shivering, but did not dare to bring his arms around himself. He wasn't sure it would help, anyway, so deep was the chill. "…It is L-leto, Master."
Danarius' eyes dropped to the talisman at his neck. "And you are… Dalish, Leto?"
He swallowed hard and willed his voice to be steady, his teeth not to clack together with the cold he felt. "My mother is, Master."
His eyes did not waver from Leto's neck. "That is the symbol for… Elgar'nan, is it not?"
He nodded once, suddenly strangely apprehensive. "It is, Master."
Tilting his head, Danarius reached up and took the piece of worked metal into his hand and pulled. The leather snapped. Leto did not move, though his hands slowly curled into fists.
"An interesting choice," he murmured.
The faintest glimmers of anger sparked dimly, somewhere deep inside of him. "A gift from my mother, Master."
"Oh, well that does make sense." He held the symbol in his hand, looking entirely too thoughtful as he considered it. "But I don't quite think it suits you."
The talisman vanished in a pocket. Leto felt his eyes widen as that anger flared to life in his chest. For the moment, even the chill permeating his bones seemed to burn away. "…I do not understand, Master."
"Admittedly my knowledge of the Dalish tales is… a bit rusty. You can tell me the story of Fen'Harel, can you not?"
He looked around, briefly. The seats were far from empty, and there were several other magisters watching him with thinly veiled interest. Hadriana did a poor job of hiding her laughter behind one hand. "…Now, Master?"
"Unless you have somewhere better to be?" he chuckled. The others laughed. The anger that had begun a slow burn in his bones slowly grew hotter.
"Fen'Harel is… the Dread Wolf, Master," answered Leto, his tone neutral and even, at odds with the burning anger and twisting grief threatening to engulf him.
"And he betrayed the gods, did he not?"
Leto felt another wave of nausea as he nodded, but he did not dare look out again where Liaria's body lay. "Yes, Master. He—the Creators called him brother and the Forgotten Ones believed him their ally. They trusted him and he sealed them both away, betraying them all."
Danarius' smile was slow and unpleasant. "Yes, that's the tale I was thinking of. Hmm — do you know, I think that suits you admirably. But you are not quite a dread wolf," he said, his mocking tone scraping its way down Leto's spine, "still too… little for that."
Leto stood up a little straighter, but said nothing. Finally, Danarius waved him away. "We'll discuss that more later. I believe you have a prize yet to collect, do you not?"
He was startled and realized it probably showed. "…May I… speak with my mother and sister beforehand, Master?"
Danarius made a careless gesture as he plucked up a glass of red wine. "Oh, why don't you do it afterward?" he asked airily, taking a drink. "I'm sure they'd love to admire the work."
Leto began to agree, but hesitated. What had seemed such a clear path before now was irreparably muddied. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to see his mother, to beg her forgiveness, but he couldn't bear the thought of confessing his sin to her — if she did not already know what he'd done. He knew she would not have wanted him to pay quite such a high price for anyone's freedom, including her own. After a brief internal debate, he nodded. "Very well, Master. I will… see them afterward."
The magister's smile was inscrutable and enigmatic — and unpleasant — and Leto's anger struggled under the chill of sudden uncertainty. "Provided it doesn't… slip your mind, my little wolf."
