Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“One day, you will be the one true ruler of the whole Imperium, my child. That I promise you.” Danarius whispered into his son's ear with a smile, bouncing the precious infant in his arms as he slept. Even as a newborn, Danarius could feel his magical potential swelling within him. He knew mixing his own talents with that of that Anderfel bitch would create the best potential candidate for what he and his close colleagues had planned. He would raise the boy well, spoil the little prince, let him not want for anything, but get anything he'd want. He'd be a lavished young man, trained in the art of magic by the best and the brightest. His power will surpass even Danarius, he was certain.

He just had to be patient, now. Allow the child to grow, see the kind of man he would become. Everything else, Danarius had done his best to set the pieces into place. The only thing he still had yet to find was the perfect weapon for this future God.

“One day, Anders, you will be a vessel for greatness.”

--------

His magic manifested far sooner than most. An infant's crying tantrum turned into a crib set on fire. A dislike for a certain food turned into the plates and bowls being thrown across the room and shattering on the ground. His fear of their stone-faced nanny ended up in a frozen corpse that Danarius had to rush to dispose of. Anders was a hard boy to please, but at the end of the day, Danarius felt his pride swell at the chaos his child was able to create. If he was this powerful now, he would be tenfold as strong when he reached maturity, that Danarius was certain.

And while Anders grew from infant to toddler to child, Danarius was busy putting together what he had taken to call “The Games.” It was a marathon of sorts, a series of trials and tests that would weed out the weak and incapable. At the end of this challenge would stand one lone victor, the last living contestant, and he or she would be not only the strongest in muscle, but the most intelligent, the most loyal, and more importantly, the most desperate. They would be designated as Ander's personal slave, created to be his own living weapon, and in order to keep such a powerful creature in check, they needed to be wholly devoted to their master.

And so Danarius had begun the propaganda as well. He was already practically the highest regarded man in the Imperium, just below the Divine and the Archon, but he would make Anders seem like the very Prince of Tevinter. He brought toddler Anders with him to meetings with the other Magisters, flaunted him in public whenever he went out, and even threw parties in his name, gathering more followers for his precious boy. Anders soon grew into a young child of four, and he was already relishing the attention he earned every time he stepped outside. Luckily for Danarius, when Anders began to develop a personality, it was a sociable, kind and bright one. He was a child who never stopped smiling, who laughed at the smallest joys and forgave the worst grievances, even if it were from a slave. He never really punished his slaves or guards for doing anything wrong, but Danarius was there to step in when he needed to. If a slave became too much of an issue, Anders never mentioned their sudden disappearance, nor did he seem to be bothered by it.

The populace was practically in love with his bright little boy, and Danarius couldn't wish for anything more. Especially when the Archon himself contacted Danarius, asking to take Anders on as his apprentice once he reached his magical maturity—which was typically around the age of twenty-five. Danarius couldn't respond any sooner, sealing the deal and promising him his son... so long as the Archon would back him in his current research. After a few more letters passed back and forth and a brief summary on Danarius' theory along a quick outline on how he would prove the theory, the Archon was suddenly backing him, providing him with adequate funding where he needed it. Other Magisters assisted him with The Games, and when Anders turned eight, they held their first one. They offered the winner gold, as Danarius only needed to obtain more data on how The Games worked out. He wanted to make the challenges grueling, nearly impossible, and it wouldn't meet his standards on the first try.

He brought Anders with him to the first Games. He also allowed another Magister to 'lead' The Games so that Danarius could obtain the best information with the least distractions. Anders sat at the edge of his seat the entire time, jeering with the crowd at the action and the bloodshed, applauding when each victor came out on top, and laughing when the bodies were dragged away. Danarius took dutiful notes, but he would flash his son a smile and a laugh whenever Anders looked his way. The excitement in those bright blue eyes was a reward in itself, and Danarius couldn't wait to hold The Games in Anders' name.

When the Champion had won and been rewarded, the crowd gave a loud round of applause. Slowly, they began to disperse, and Danarius was satisfied with his notes. He began to stand and Anders followed suit, and together they walked through the rows of seats hand in hand. The Champion was still in the arena, shaking the hand of the Magister and accepting his reward of fifty sovereigns. Anders began to look around, and Danarius smirked down at him. He tucked his notes away in his robes and asked him gently, “What are you looking for, my child?”

“Where are the others?” Anders asked him, keeping a hold of Danarius' hand, “They were all so amazing! I was wanting to get an autograph. Can I, Daddy?”

Danarius laughed, genuinely surprised by the question, and he shook his head before he explained, “My boy, this is no Orlesian play. Those were real men and women down there in the arena today, fighting one another with real swords and arrows.”

Anders' brow furrowed, and he looked up at Danarius with a wary smile in place, “So they are... not actors?”

Danarius shook his head no, still smirking, “No, Anders. They are dead.”

And for the first time in all of Anders' short life, Danarius saw him frown.

-----

Anders was ten when Danarius realized there was a problem. Anders had been given lessons daily for a few years now, and slowly the tardiness and absences grew. Soon enough, Danarius was confronted by Anders' tutor personally and told that Anders had not shown to his lesson for a full week.

Danarius was embarrassed and enraged. He descended upon Anders' bedroom to confront the child, but when he opened the door, he found the room empty and the window wide open. A long, thick vine had grown from the windowsill to the ground, and Danarius flushed in rage... and a bit of amusement. So the boy was entering his rebellious age. So be it, Danarius would be prepared. If he was going to skip out on classes, he was going to earn it.

He waited for Anders to return to his bedroom, entering it the same way he exited, and he scolded him harshly. Anders went back to lessons for a few more days, and then the attempts resumed. Danarius was ready for him, though, and he laid a few hexes and magical traps where he believed Anders to tread.

The next brisk, sunny morning began with an explosion and a cry, and Danarius soon found his arms full of a sobbing Anders, nursing his wounded pride. He had been covered in hot wax and goose feathers—nothing that could hurt him, but surely enough to humiliate. Danarius coddled and comforted, but he wouldn't let it end there. He needed Anders to realize that his place was at his lessons, and that the more he learned, the better and stronger he would become.

He continued to hex the space around Anders' windows and any other odd escape routes he may be tempted to take, until Anders learned that there was no point in escaping unless he learned how to combat such defenses. He attended lessons, learned more about magic, and when the challenge had been met and Anders began sneaking out again, Danarius upped the danger and complexity. They did this silent dance for two and a half years before Anders began to merely do it for the joy of knowing that he could, and he ceased trying to escape altogether. Danarius still laid his traps and his hexes, letting Anders know that those challenges were there when he needed them to be. He would keep his son's mind active, let him see how real these lessons could be if he knew how to apply them. He showed him this way that there was nothing Anders couldn't achieve if he just put his mind to it and spent a little time learning his way around it. He would see his son become Archon.

But even though Anders attended his classes and learned more and more daily, Danarius began to notice his now teen-aged son beginning to leave the house at night. His guards and slaves would spot the boy running across the garden and slipping through the gates, and they reported their findings to their master as any loyal servant should do. Danarius allowed him to explore for some time, but he told his stealthiest spies to keep an eye on him, and his most loyal guards to wheedle out any information they could as they protected him.

A month later, the truth came to light. The spies managed to track Anders down to a hole-in-the-wall building across the city, and the slaves told Danarius stories Anders shared with them of healing the poor and feeding the starved. They spoke of it in awe, but the more Danarius heard, the more incensed he became. He wouldn't have his son giving hand-outs to those who didn't deserve it. He heard he hadn't even been taking coin for the hours spent working in the crude excuse for a clinic. And who was even teaching him Creationism? Surely his tutors didn't think Anders would need to heal himself or anyone else when he was Archon, and would have an entire arsenal of healers and slaves and doctors to aid him. All he needed to know was the magic that would let him crush his enemies, all he needed to be was strong and powerful. For him to fall into healing, though it was an admirable career, it was not what Danarius thought an Altus of Ander's social standing was destined to do.

He put an end to the issue discretely. Told Anders he had made a rather formidable enemy, allowing him to station guards and servants in and around his room, switching out at eight hour intervals. He would sleep, eat, and study under the many watchful eyes of his men, and they would stop him from stepping even a toe outside of the gardens. He saw Anders' gloom far before his slaves reported it to him, but he knew it was for the boy's own good. Leave it to the foolish child to think he was helping people, only to catch the plague himself and perish before Danarius could even try to help him.

But alas, gloom turned to depression, and again Anders refused to attend classes. This time, however, he merely laid in his bed and stared out the window, longing to leave the mansion and to fulfill what he thought was his purpose. Danarius visited him often during this time, trying to convince his boy that there was so much more to life than pitying the unworthy and wasting his energy on them, but the more he spoke, the more upset Anders would become.

Eventually, Danarius decided it would be best to just... tell him.

He sat on the bed beside his son, their backs facing each other, and Danarius said in a quiet voice, “Anders... there is so much that I have done for you that you aren't even aware of.”

“Guilt tripping,” Anders responded lazily, voice muffled by his pillow, “That's new.”

Danarius sighed and rubbed a hand against his eyes, then his temples, and finally his cheek. He stared down at the floor, considering how to continue, to move on from this, “I arranged for your tutor for your own good. I want to see you become a strong mage, Anders. I want to see you become stronger than me. I want you to be better than the Magisters, better than all of Tevinter... better than the Archon.”

Anders stayed silent, but Danarius felt him shift, rolling onto his back far enough to look at his father. Danarius didn't look back at him, he merely kept his eyes to the ground and his shoulders hunched. He continued to say, “He has shown a great interest in you, Anders. Ever since you were a boy, in fact. He was excited to take you under his wing when you matured, but...”

“But...?” Anders whispered, hope and curiosity and fear in his voice all at once. Danarius turned his head away a bit more to hide his smirk.

“But your recent marks have him doubting you. He thinks you are lazy, that you will aim to be nothing but another Altus, spoiled rotten and too afraid to achieve something more. I convinced him to wait on his final decision, give it another year, told him you were just in a rut or in a mood, but if you continue on like this... Well, you will never receive his blessing.”

Anders sat up now, his eyes practically burning into Danarius' back, and he whispered to his father, “The Archon wants... me? I don't believe you.”

“What isn't there to believe?” Danarius chuckled out, shaking his head slowly and still not meeting Anders' eye, “You showed great potential in your budding years. Your magic is already so strong, Anders. You only need to hone your skills, learn as many spells and master as many classes as you can. You already have Elementals under your belt! You are meant for so much more than what you think you are, Anders.”

Finally, Danarius turned to look at his son, young and naive and curious about the world. He could see his own teen aged self in Anders, bright eyed and pure, and he would not dare crush it. But he needed Anders back on the right path.

In a low, warning voice, Danarius told Anders while staring him straight in the eye, “And your activities outside of this mansion has not been as secretive as you thought.” Anders' head dropped down immediately, shame and anger forming tears in his eyes, “Wherever have you learned to heal?”

Anders' eyes flickered, tears falling onto his blankets, but he refused to answer. Danarius set his jaw and sat up straighter, looking down at his crying son with a scowl.

“Fine. If you will not tell me, I will have to find out for myself. Not even a healer can be immune to the temptations of blood magic, I'm certain.”

“No!” Anders suddenly cried, his head bolting up and his blue eyes sparkling in fear, tears rolling down his cheeks now, “Please, Dad, I won't do it anymore! I swear, j-just leave him alone!”

“Him? Who is it, then, Anders? You must tell me!” Danarius demanded. He loved his son, he truly did, but he wouldn't trust him as blindly as this. Anders still refused to give a name, instead shaking his head, but when Danarius scoffed and stood, Anders sobbed louder and reached out to cling to his robes.

“Just promise me you won't hurt him! Please, he has been nothing but kind to me!” Anders begged, and Danarius stared down at the pitiful image of his son for a long moment before things began to click.

“A crush, is it? You merely learned from this man because you were infatuated, weren't you?” Danarius guessed, and by the way Anders sobbed more and clung tighter to him, he knew it to be true. He smacked Ander's hands away, and Anders crumpled to his bed as if he had struck him across the cheek. His shoulders were shaking and his sobs were loud and heavy, but Danarius wouldn't let the grief touch him.

“Tell me what his name is. I will not harm him.” Danarius promised in a stern tone, and Anders slowly peered up at him again, meeting his eyes and trying to determine if he was telling the truth.

When Anders believed he was, he whispered in a shaking breath, “K-Karl... Karl Thekla... He is a spirit healer, Dad, and a talented one at that! He is so kind and so giving, I.... I couldn't help myself! I needed to get to know him, and he offered to teach me his magic and I.... I...”

Danarius scoffed again, a wry, cold smirk stretching on his face, and he muttered in a dark voice, “Karl Thekla... You will never see him again, Anders. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Father,” Anders whimpered, bowing his head again and letting more tears fall, his entire being screaming defeat.

“And this spirit healing you have learned... I want to see no more of it. You are to be learning only what I deem useful. Do you understand?” Danarius continued, laying down strict rules for his foolish son to follow.

Anders nodded weakly, sobbing out a final, “I do...” and Danarius was finally satisfied. The man ran his fingers through Anders' hair, then brought his fingers under his chin to lift his head and look him in the eye. “I love you, Anders,” He told him, though his son continued to cry, “I do this only for your benefit.”

Anders sniffled, his eyes red and puffy and the tears beginning to dry salty trails along his cheeks, but he stiffly nodded and mumbled, “I know.... I love you too, Dad.”

“You will return to class tomorrow and you will think no more of this Karl Thekla. I want to see you completely enveloped in your studies, my boy.” Danarius told him, and Anders nodded again, his eyes glued to his sheets, tired of looking up at Danarius.

They both kept their word. Danarius kept Karl Thekla away from Anders, and Anders resumed his classes dutifully. Danarius didn't touch a hair on Karl's head, and Anders put away his spirit healing.

And how Karl ended up in that year's Games, Danarius claimed he didn't know. Anders sat there, pale and rigid, even long after Karl had been slain and his corpse carried out of the arena. That night he cried, and Danarius did nothing to comfort him. It was Anders' fault for falling for this man. It would be up to Anders to get himself out of it.

The next day, Anders went to his lessons with no complaint, and no word of the night before. Danarius was told by his tutor that he had been especially attentive that day, and Danarius was more than pleased.

The Games were almost complete, now. Next year, Danarius told himself. That was when the final pawn would be set in place. He would arrange for The Games to run on Anders' birthday, and finally Danarius would be the one to lead them.

When the year began, he immediately announced the prize. The winner is to be Ander's personal body guard, rewarded with a power no other could achieve on their own and worth twice Danarius' weight in gold. Anders himself seemed a little miffed at being part of the prize, but he played the part in public quite well, telling anyone who asked him that he would be swooning for whoever won his hand. He acted as if he were being married to the victor, and that did nothing but increase every man and woman's desire to win. Not because they were solely infatuated with Anders—though there was a handful of obsessed fans—but because being with Anders meant being in Danarius' estate. And they equated that with being in his family.

It was simply mass confusion, a misunderstanding at best, but Danarius nor Anders did anything to remedy it. Danarius wanted to draw in as many contestants as possible, to really diversify the potential Champion. In fact, he even decided to allow slaves and servants to enter in this years' Games, though he often voiced his belief that none of them would even be a match for the Imperium's greatest warriors. Anders kept his own opinions to himself.

They ended up gathering so many contestants that the Games was set to take nearly a full week, and Danarius and the other magisters knew they would have to really put everything into this one. They arranged for the space around the arena to be cleared so vendors and merchants could set up wares. They created a tight schedule to fit in every challenge and challenger. They decided to allow time for recuperation as well, and set up a neighborhood of tents for the contestants that traveled from afar to rest in. It was all so much bigger than any other Game had been, and Danarius was thrilled to find that even Anders seemed excited by the prospect of them.

When the first day of the Games came, Anders and Danarius sat in the elevated booth, a slave for each standing behind them and a guard watching the door. They had a few more guards planted in the crowds as well, armed with bows and arrows, but Anders thought it was overkill. The contestants for the Games slowly began to fill the arena, having to stand shoulder to shoulder in order for them all to fit. As they filled the space, Danarius leaned towards Anders and said to him, “Look upon these desperate people, my boy. See how they rush to their impending deaths in order to serve you and only you. Some are free men who are looking to be under your boot. Doesn't it feel amazing to have such power?”

Anders glanced at his grinning father, then looked down at the crowds before he took in a deep breath, “I just hope the victor doesn't actually insist on me marrying them.”

Danarius barked out a laugh, clapping his hand down on his knee twice before he sighed and stood, bringing the chatter in the crowds to an end. He lifted his arms and called out with a booming voice, amplified by magic, “Citizens of the Imperium! This week, we have quite a show set up for you! You are all familiar with the battle and bloodshed of the Games, you are all fans of watching these men and women slaughter one another in the hopes of achieving the grand prize,” He gestured vaguely at Anders, who lifted a hand for a wave, “But this year's Games will be one you will never forget! Our victor, whosoever he or she may be, will have the honor to not only be at young Anders' side, but will be rewarded with a weapon so powerful, so unheard of, that they will become the strongest in all of Thedas! In all of the world!”

The contestants and the crowds cheered. Anders' smile grew tighter, but he clapped along.

“But first, you must all prove yourselves! Not only will you need to be the strongest, but you will need to be the fastest, the most cunning, and especially durable. These Games will allow for you all to rest and recuperate, but we will make up for that in sheer difficulty and danger in each challenge. If you wish to turn back now, flee, but be warned that you will never be allowed within the Games again!”

The contestants looked at one another, a few of them shaking, a few others standing rigid. Some shuffled about, considering leaving, but none of them actually did. They all stood their ground, though some more reluctantly than others. Anders felt pained for them. Why did they subject themselves to this mayhem and chaos just to be his slave? Why was his father doing this for him? He didn't really understand it all, but he had no right to speak against it. He leaned further back in his seat, brow furrowed.

“Then you all shall participate! Fantastic,” Danarius chuckled, clasping his hands together, “Then we shall let the games begin!”

The first part of the Games was, as best described, battle royale. The gates to leave the arena were shut and locked, and the contestants were ordered to fight one another for five minutes. This was to immediately weed out the incapable, or anyone who was not quick enough on their feet and good enough with their fists. Danarius sat in his chair and watched as the bloodshed ensued, and Anders sighed and leaned his chin on his fist, watching as well.

And it was a good two minutes in when Anders first spotted the boy. No, the young man. He must have been a year or two older than Anders was currently, though it was often hard to tell with elves. He had dark, roughened skin, shiny black hair and vibrant green eyes, almost bright enough for Anders to see clearly all the way on his perch in the booth. His back straightened and he leaned forward, and Danarius caught on to the slight movements. An amused smirk played on his face before he asked his son, “See someone you like?”

“I do,” Anders admitted, leaning forward a bit more now that it was obvious. He was short, but that was a given since he was one of the few elves in the mass of humans, but he was agile. Anders gasped when he managed to trip one of the taller men with a swift kick to their shins and climb atop them, slamming his fists into their face. When that didn't give as quickly as he wanted it to, he clamped his hands on either side of his head, drew it up, then slammed it back down. A minor cheer erupted from the nearby crowd. It seemed like it wasn't only Anders who was watching him closely.

“Well? Which one is it?” Danarius egged on, grinning as he scanned the fighting contestants.

“That one there. He is strangling that woman,” Anders pointed out, and Danarius' eyes slowly zoned in on the elf. His grin seemed to falter at the sight of what was obviously a slave, if not a low-class servant, and he looked back at Anders with a disapproving scowl.

“He wouldn't last.” Danarius huffed, leaning back in his seat, “You really ought to stop rooting for whoever you find prettiest.”

“I—what?” Anders looked back at his father, frowning, “Well, he is pretty, but look at him! He's facing that giant of a man all by himself! And I daresay he's winning.”

Danarius scoffed and tossed his head back, saying coldly, “He will not make it to the end. That I can assure you.”

“You're certain?” Anders frowned, looking at his cocksure father as he nodded, “Certain enough to bet on it?”

Danarius' eyes sparkled at the challenge, but then he was smirking and he asked him, “And what, pray tell, would you have us bet?”

“If the elf wins, he is granted an extra boon. Allow him any one thing he will ask for, be it his freedom, a ticket out of the Imperium, or gold. You will answer to his one plea without any issue.” Anders demanded, and Danarius rose a curious brow before he nodded.

“And what if he does not win? What will you give me?” Danarius asked, eyes narrowing as Anders considered it.

“You are my father. You have everything from me,” Anders muttered sullenly, his brows furrowing when he could think of nothing to give. Danarius chuckled at that, nodding a little at the truth of it, but he knew better.

“If the elf dies, you will learn the art of blood magic. No complaints, no backing out.” Danarius offered, and Anders' frown turned into a look of sheer horror.

“You wish to turn me into a maleficar?” Anders questioned in a hushed voice, and Danarius smirked at him.

“I wish to make you the strongest mage in the Imperium. To make you the most feared. You cannot fight maleficarum without being a maleficar.” Danarius spoke wisely, and before Anders could say any more on the subject, the bell signaling the end of the five minutes began to ring. Danarius turned to look at the subjects left, pleased to see a hefty portion of them left, though many were wounded already, and he slowly stood.

His eyes caught the gaze of that elf, bearing a few scratches and tears, but otherwise untouched. His smile faltered again, but he didn't allow himself to worry over it.

“Now that the incapable and incompetent are gone, we shall begin our first trial!”

The rest of the day was spent watching the contestants completing the first challenge, consisting of a dangerous maze meant to test their intelligence, filled with vicious animals such as vipers, tigers, and even a hulking bear. They had all been driven mad by poison, and the bear was already three kills in when the elf ended up in its path. Anders was biting on the bottom of his lip as he ran from the charging bear, and Danarius began to chuckle, especially when the creature swiped at him and caught him in the middle of his back. Anders' eyes widened and he stood, leaning forward to get a better view as the bear began crawling on top of the collapsed elf, teeth glinting in the sunlight and growl echoing through the arena.

“No!” Anders whimpered, clinging to the rail of the booth, “Get up! Get up, you stupid elf!”

The bear was practically blanketing the elf's body by now, its hulking form hiding him from the view of Anders and the rest of the spectators. Danarius laughed again and shook his head, saying a simple, “He is dead, Anders, as I said he would be.”

Anders slowly shook his head, still clinging to the railing. The bear was merely standing there, he soon realized. It wasn't chewing or scratching, it actually looked like it was sniffing. Perhaps the elf had died when he was struck by its claws, and now the bear had lost interest? Slowly, the bear stepped away from the elf, who had curled up into a fetal position and was bleeding heavily from his back. His tunic had been torn, pieces of it scattered on the ground. The bear turned the corner, catching scent of another nearby contestant, and it resumed its hunt.

Once gone, one of the mages tasked with cleaning out the bodies as they died crept into the maze using a hidden passageway within the walls. They looked both ways before they fully stepped out of their hidden nook, and he approached the curled up elf to remove him from the arena. Once his hand was on the elf's arm, however, the elf was darting back up to his feet, fist drawn back and a deranged look in his eye. The mage cried out when he was struck, but the crowds were cheering and howling for the elf once more. Anders shouted in glee just as well, clapping loudly for the elf who had reluctantly let the mage go and watched him disappear back into the wall. The elf staggered for a moment, the strike to his back obviously hindering him now, but he moved on through the maze, determined to reach the end of it where three humans had already been waiting. Luckily, he only ran into the vipers on the way to the end, and he evaded them with ease.

When he made it to the end, which was a safe room for the contestants to rest in until the others either perished or succeeded, the elf collapsed into a nearby bench, his back still bleeding. One of the women stepped forward and spoke to him, but the elf waved her away and merely curled up on himself, tugging off the rest of his tunic and wrapping it around his torso to try and stop the bleeding. He flopped back onto the bench and sighed, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes, awaiting the next challenge. Anders dropped back in his chair and shot his father a huge grin, one the man couldn't return with anything but a scowl.

“He got lucky,” Danarius muttered, and Anders laughed in disbelief.

“He's going to win.” he told him, absolutely certain.

When the sun fell below the horizon, the games were called for a pause. Danarius wanted to watch in the best light possible, so he allowed the remaining one hundred and twenty contestants to go to their tents, each taking a free meal provided by the magistrate. Danarius allowed Anders to run off to the rest of the festival, telling him to enjoy himself in the games set up for the citizens or to shop around in the stalls surrounding the arena. Anders was left to his own free reign and he used the chance to slip away from his guards and to blend in with the crowd. He hid himself behind a stall until he was sure he was alone, and then scurried off to the tents.

It had been a close call that first day, and Anders wasn't thrilled at the idea of becoming a maleficar, so he decided he'd take a page from his father's book and... better his odds a little. It took a little bit of slinking around and a few awkward peeks into tents before he found the elf, curled up on his side and shaking inside his tent. Anders swiftly squeezed in, startling the poor thing into sitting up, which only made him wince in pain.

“Hush! It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you,” Anders said to him in a whisper, and he summoned a ball of mage light so they could see each other better in the dark tent. The elf was gorgeous up close, his dark skin with a olive undertone, his green eyes glittering in the dim light, and his jet black hair looked so silky Anders wanted to run his fingers through it. The elf looked over him twice before confusion filled his eyes, and he scooted back a bit more.

“You're the Magister's boy we're fighting for,” He said, and his voice was surprisingly deep, almost luxurious to listen to. Anders smiled wide at him, already feeling his weak heart falling for him.

“Yes, but that isn't important,” Anders said with a grin, and he scooted closer to the elf, “Show me your back.”

“Why?” He questioned immediately, defensive and surprisingly unwilling, if he truly was a slave. Anders refrained from rolling his eyes at him and merely pushed and shoved until he got a good view of the deep gashes on his back.

“I can't heal them completely or else my father will suspect foul play, but the least I can do is this,” Anders told him, allowing the healing magic to swell within him as Karl had taught him to do. He rubbed his fingertips against the elf's skin just beside where it was torn, soothing the pain and earning a relieved gasp. The wounds closed up so they wouldn't tear open so easily, but the red lines were still visible and inflamed. Anders hated that he couldn't just heal them completely, unhappy to know that they would merely scar, but by the looks of the whip marks on the elf's back, it wouldn't be anything new.

When the elf turned back to face him, he immediately asked, “Why are you doing this? Surely you wouldn't want to be served by an elf who couldn't last with a wound such as that...”

“It's not about that,” Anders sighed, shaking his head, “Look, I really want you to win. I saw you down there, fighting for your life and outsmarting that bear. I saw you punch the mage in the face—which, by the way, was absolutely hilarious. I don't really want some random beefy guard to hound me in my sleep. I want a friend.” Anders reached out and touched the elf's hand, smiling at him, “I took one look at you and knew you would be that kind of person. Surely you wouldn't turn down my help?”

“If the Game Master finds out--” He began to say, but Anders hushed him with a shake of his head and an intimate touch to his lips.

“He won't. I promise. Just... don't die, okay? Seriously, I can't afford your death right now,” Anders sighed, his fingers skirting along the slave's jaw, brushing back his hair.

The elf looked confused and a little conflicted, his eyes trying to follow Anders' hand, but he gave the mage a brief nod in answer, mumbling under his breath, “Then... I won't die.”

“Good. I'll return tomorrow night to heal you up again. I'm certain you can win the Games, elf. Just promise me you'll be more than my slave, okay?” Anders begged, and when he was met with nothing more than sheer confusion, Anders shook his head and said, “Well, we'll have more time to talk once you're mine. Win the Games. Don't die.”

“Yes,” the elf replied, and Anders slipped out of the tent without another word.

A few hours past sunrise on the next day, the Games resumed. The contestants filled the arena once again, able to stand more comfortably now that there were less present. They all were waving to the applauding crowd, even the elf lifted a hand to appease them. Anders grinned to himself, hiding it beneath his hand, but he felt nervous deep down. Already the elf showed promise. Anders was almost certain that if simply healed him at night when he needed it, the elf would come out triumphant.

Anders glanced towards Danarius, seeing he had a bitter look on his face, but no hint of considering foul play on Anders' part. It was only reasonable, it usually took Danarius a week or two to catch on to the latest of Anders' schemes.

As the contest resumed, Anders settled back in his seat. They were testing for magical resistance and agility. A line of mages and a single magister stood in a row at the front of the arena, throwing spells and hexes at the flailing contestants. It was a little abhorrent, in Anders' opinion. Throwing fireballs and cones of cold in the middle of the arena was like electrocuting a barrel of fish. They had nowhere to run and no means of protecting themselves. More men and women fell, and Anders could hear Danarius grumble under his breath about too many people perishing at once. Anders didn't know why, a week long game seemed too excessive. Yet as he looked out at the spectators, he realized they wouldn't be getting bored of the bloodshed any time soon.

Turning his attention back to the elf, Anders watched as he narrowly dodged an incoming fireball, only to leap away from a strike of lightning. As he ran out of reach of a burst of ice, he shoved a young woman into a hex, setting off the trap and causing the floor within the circle to set ablaze. Her screams were loud, but the crowd's cheer was louder. Anders grimaced and turned away. He wanted the elf to win, mostly for his own benefit, but he didn't have to like it.

He was inclined to turn back around when he heard his father laughing, and when he looked down into the arena, he found the elf being grabbed around the shoulders by a human. The man was using the elf as a shield, cowering from a line of fireballs headed their way. Anders heart jumped into his throat and he moved to stand from his seat to watch closer, but the elf was quick. Using all of his strength and momentum he could muster, he threw his weight down and flipped the human over his back, reversing their roles and shielding himself from the direct blast of fire instead.

The elf was small, but even Anders could see the flames reaching around the meat-shield he garnered. When the burned carcass was finally dropped, the damage became apparent, and the elf hopped from foot to foot as the skin on his calves and feet bubbled and burned. Tears began to stream down his cheeks, and Anders clenched his cheeks, feeling sympathy pain radiate through him.

“He is injured,” Danarius observed eagerly, “The magister will finish him.”

And the magister definitely aimed to, calling forth one final, grandiose ball of flame just above his hands. He was using the last of his mana, Anders realized. The rest of the mages seemed drained already. This would be the end of it.

The elf had doubled over in pain, uselessly fanning at his legs to try and cool the burning skin, but the crackling of flame caught his attention. The magister's gaze settled on him, and the elf seemed to realize he was the last target. He attempted to run at first, but he collapsed after the second step, crying out in the pain that overwhelmed him. The fireball was thrown, aiming straight for the collapsed slave. Anders cried out desperately, and those teary eyes jumped to him instead of his impending doom.

Danarius was laughing. The elf could hear it easily, even all the way down in the arena as he was. As he gazed at Anders, he was struck by just how fearful he was, as if Anders' life was on the line just as much as his. The elf considered it, considered his pale face, wide eyes, and rigid form. He could easily mistake Anders as the one with a fireball on his back, and seeing this man who they were literally fighting to serve look so utterly distraught... well, he was a good slave, and he promised his future master he wouldn't die.

With that in mind, the elf realized the fireball had gotten too close. The heat was beginning to burn, and he needed to get out of its way. Running was no longer an option, but his hands definitely were. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself through the pain in his calves long enough to propel himself into the air, balancing himself gracefully on his hands. With incredible balance and speed, the elf hand-walked himself out of the fireball's path, though the stray flames and the way it burst upon hitting the floor was enough to lick at his stomach and chest, singing his tunic black and turning his dark skin an angry red. He collapsed onto his back once he was safe, but he curled up into the fetal position and groaned in pain anyways. Everything was burning and he didn't think he'd be able to stand. It was only distantly that he heard the spectators shouting their approval for his skill, and then a hand was on him, hoisting him up and helping him stand.

Looking over at who it was, the elf saw another competitor, holding him up and keeping him there. The human woman shared a small smile with him, but said nothing.

Back in the stands, Anders turn to his father with a grin and declared, “He's the one. I know he is.”

“Impossible. He merely got lucky,” Danarius sniffed, taking the elf's survival as a personal affront. Anders couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled out of him. Luck had nothing to do with it, but if it was what Danarius would fool himself with, then it would also be luck that the elf would heal indescribably fast tonight.

Danarius decided to cut short the games for that day in an attempt to keep them from ending prematurely. The contestants were sent back to their tents, and once again Anders was allowed freedom to enjoy the festivities around the arena. He took a different path to evade his guards this time, flirting with a girl and bringing her away to scare away any lingering spies. Once alone and hidden, he easily knocked her out with a mind blast and slunk away, creeping into the contestant's quarters once more. He found the elf much easier than the night before, glad he hadn't moved tents.

When he opened the flaps to the tent, the smell of still burning flesh caught him off guard. He gagged at first, but climbed into the tent the rest of the way, careful not to jostle the pained elf as he lay in the center, trembling.

“You're making this hard on me, you know.” Anders tutted, getting comfortable in the cramped space and lifting his hands, calling upon his healing magic and going first for his calves. The elf cried out in relief, his entire body shuddering as the burn dulled and the skin mended enough to numb the nerves, but not enough to rid him of the red skin and scars. Anders moved to work on his chest next, but the elf caught his wrist in a hand, his eyes wide as they stared at him.

“Why?” He asked hoarsely. Anders rose a brow at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Why heal me? Have I not been proven unworthy to you? I cannot go on without your aid.”

Anders rolled his eyes and resumed healing him, forcing the elf back down so he could get to his chest easier. As he worked, he considered the answer, and finally mustered up a meek, “You are strong and agile and... pretty.”

The elf seemed to stiffen at that, and when the pain was no longer an issue, he pushed himself upright so he could look Anders in the eye, something else a slave shouldn't have been able to do.

“And that.” Anders said, smirking. The elf blinked, his brows furrowed, then he seemed to catch himself and he averted his gaze, but Anders only clicked his tongue and ran his fingers beneath his chin, urging him to make eye contact once more.

“I am no bed slave,” The elf said almost shyly, as if worried that this truth would cause him punishment, “I have not been trained to--”

“I wouldn't want you for that.” Anders cut him off, scooting a little closer. The elf glanced down at where the mage's hands rested on the ground right beside his hip, then back up at his face, obviously not believing him.

“You called me pretty.” He pointed out, his tone bitter, and Anders laughed delightedly.

Shaking his head, Anders allowed silence to fill the air before he admitted, “You are unlike any slave I've met in Tevinter. You are practically thrumming with a challenge, even to a mage. I like that. I need that. If I am to have a bodyguard, it will be a man who will not only protect me from assassins but from my father as well.”

“The Magister?” The elf questioned, surprised, “He would not dare hurt you. You are like a prince to him—to all of us.” The words were genuine, even coming from such a slave. They made Anders feel ill inside.

“He wishes to turn me into a maleficar. If you do not win, I will be forced to perform blood magic. I'm not sure if you can tell, but I prefer to give people life, not take it away.” Anders explained, ducking his head a little. The elf continued to stare at him, not saying a word about it. Perhaps he had been trained not to speak of things such as this, especially around a mage. Perhaps he just didn't know what to say. Anders wasn't sure, but he nervously filled the silence, “You are healed. Don't die, okay? And stop putting yourself in danger like that, too. I can only do so much before my father catches on.”

The elf ducked his head this time, murmuring a quiet, “Yes, Master,” before Anders could even urge him to look back up. Anders shifted uncomfortably, but he nodded to himself, then slipped out from the tent.

It was only on his way back to the estate that he realized he forgot yet again to ask for the elf's name.

The next day was another maze, though this time, whoever reached the flag in the center first would be rewarded a night with Danarius and Anders. A good meal, a bath, and a few healers at the winner's disposal, it would all do well to boost the winner's chance of survival. The race began with a shot of electricity, both signaling the start of the race and pointing the contestants to where the flag was. The elf, who was tucked into the far corner—certainly Danarius' doing—shot out from his nook and ran through the halls. He barely stopped to confront other players, he merely ran forth and sought out the flag.

Anders watched with a frown. It wasn't that he didn't want the elf to win, but he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted him to get there first. Sure, Anders would be indisposed for the night, unable to heal him should he come across any injuries, but if Danarius got a closer look at the elf, he might notice Anders' hand in keeping the elf healthy. Already, Anders saw Danarius beginning to suspect something, what with the way the elf was sprinting through the maze on feet that had been barbecued the day before.

“He is a resilient little thing, isn't he?” Danarius wondered aloud, and Anders struggled to keep his face neutral.

“Starting to believe me?” Anders asked Danarius instead, hoping a bit of light banter would be enough to distract him. Danarius hummed and looked Anders' way, then gazed back down at the arena, watching as the elf literally vaulted over another contestant and continued to run. Anders felt a bead of sweat run down his neck.

“Well, if he gets there first, I may not have to worry any longer about it.” Danarius mumbled, causing Anders to look at him in confusion before he gazed back down at the flag. It was flickering in the wind, making the sigil on the cloth hard to see, but with a bit of squinting and concentration, Anders put two and two together.

“You hexed the flag?” Anders all but shouted, his eyes going wide, “But I thought the first to get it--”

“Would spend a night with us, should he survive the agonizing pain that hex will dispel on him.” Danarius smirked, looking over at Anders, “And if he dies, then that's one less guest to entertain, isn't it?”

Anders watched in fear as the elf made it to the flag before the other contestants. His heart was pounding, and he wanted to scream at his father. This was cheating! Surely it had to be! He watched as he elf drew closer to the flag, his heart racing, and a shout rose in the back of his throat to warn him of the danger.

But then the elf paused, his hand outstretched, fingers just about to graze the metal pole.

Danarius’ cocky smile slipped as the elf then circled the flag, considering it, then finally ignoring it and looking around the small, circular clearing instead. “What is he doing?” Danarius questioned, but Anders couldn’t even think of answering, just as lost himself. They were forced to sit and wait impatiently as the elf kicked about dirt and wandered the walls of the maze.

Finally, the elf seemed to find something, and with a large smile on his face, he picked up a forked stick. He wandered back to the flag, hopping back up on the dais it had been placed upon, and with the stick he picked he flag up, never setting off the hex as he did so.

“No…” Danarius murmured in disbelief, leaning forward in his seat. Another contestant rounded the corner, scowling when they saw the elf with the flag. They ran forward to try and tackle it from him, as if that would make a difference, but the elf didn’t seem up for the fight. He glanced at the flag, then at the opponent, and with a deft swing, he threw the flag at him.

In seconds, the flag burst into flames, catching the poor man on fire as well. The crowd cheered, Anders whooped in delight, and Danarius cried out in despair, “No! How did he--?”

“Because he is clever, father!” Anders grinned, looking at the enraged man.

“He is an elf!” Danarius countered as if that made a difference. Anders waved him off with a laugh, and he watched as the elf picked the still burning flag back up with the stick and used it to ward off and defeat other contestants. The stick soon caught fire as well, but by that time, the hex was expiring, and the elf dropped the flag and merely fought any others who dared attempt to take it from him.

By the time the flame died and the flag was no more than a tattered cloth and stick, the elf had successfully warded off the other contestants, protecting the flag as if it were Anders himself. He picked the thing up, the hex no longer active, and he thrust it into the air, eliciting a round of applause for the victor. Other contestants who were smart enough not to attempt to fight him lingered back near the entrance of the clearing, neither advancing nor retreating. Danarius continued to scowl and grumble under his breath, his arms crossed over his chest.

With a snap of his fingers, Danarius called over one of their slaves. As the woman leaned down to listen, Danarius whispered to her, “Remove the elf from the games for today. Prepare him for dinner with Anders and me at the estate. I will not entertain a creature so obviously a slave...”

Anders' smirk grew, and he settled comfortably back in his seat. The slave scurried off to relay the message, and five minutes later, a mage was stepping out of a false wall within the maze, approaching the elf carefully, afraid he, too, would be struck.

He explained what Danarius had ordered them to do, and soon the mage and the elf were stepping into the false wall, leaving the rest of the contestants in the maze. Danarius stood, putting on his facade of a pleased spectator, and announced that the elf would be joining him and his son as promised. The rest of the contestants, however, still had quite a few trials to pursue before he called the day to an end. Anders sighed and resigned himself to watching the rest of that day's competition, though his mind did wander to what the elf may be going through right now. Certainly Danarius' slaves and servants wouldn't be kind to him, as he was a slave himself and already he was being treated better than any of them had been. Anders hoped idly that they didn't attempt to hurt him, and found himself looking forward to the time they'd be spending together. He entertained the idea of having the elf follow him back to his bedchambers, perhaps to pretend that the elf truly won and became his bodyguard.

The Games seemed to be over sooner than usual since Anders spent most of it within his own head, playing around with fantasies and entertaining the thought of the defiant elf aiding Anders' escape attempts and perhaps even slipping into bed with him. His father had been racist all Anders' life, but he himself found elves rather appealing in an odd sort of way. He had enjoyed his time with Karl, of course, but he could never get over those large eyes, the small frame, and the almost innocent look they had to them. Anders briefly wondered if it made him like his father in a way, to lust after his own slaves...

He didn't allow himself to wallow in such thoughts, especially when they headed to their estate directly after the Games ended that night. When they reached the door, dinner had already been prepared and served, and they sat in the dining room with Danarius at the end of the table and Anders sat near the middle, though he was closer to Danarius than he would be to the elf, who would be sitting at the other end of the table.

When the elf was escorted inside, he looked confused and a little worried. He immediately dropped to his knees like a good slave and bowed, and Danarius didn't cover the chuckle that passed through his lips. Nothing pleased his father like a good ass-kissing, Anders knew, and he restrained an eye-roll at the elf's actions.

“Sit with us, slave.” Danarius said, gesturing gracefully to the chair the elf was meant to occupy. With a graceful touch of force magic, the chair was pushed back from the table, the wood screeching against the marble floor angrily. The elf glanced up hesitantly, but he stood and walked to the chair, sitting in its plush seat and pulling it and himself closer to the table.

“Thank you, Masters.” He all but whispered, his deep voice making Anders' skin tingle in desire. Oh, he had it bad for this stranger. He briefly chastised himself for how easily he found himself falling in lust with others.

“You have come far for a slave of your kind,” Danarius began the conversation, and already Anders could feel the air grow tense. The elf refused to lift his eyes past his plate, and Anders realized he was trying to restrain himself from merely shoveling the rich food down his throat. His eyes flickered to the glass set before him as well, and he carefully lifted it, peering down into the red liquid that sloshed inside. He took a sip and grimaced. Anders smirked around his own glass.

“How is it that you became so skilled?” Anders decided to ask, leaning his elbow on the table despite his father's grunted protest, “You are so agile and quick in the arena. A fair creature like yourself must have had some intense training to be able to perform some of those feats.”

The elf almost snorted, but he covered it by patting at his mouth with a napkin. He seemed to consider the question before he cleared his throat and said, “I haven't the honor of any formal training. My current Master tasks me and my family to tend to the horses and cows.”

“A farm slave.” Danarius tutted, leaning back in his chair in distaste, “No wonder the smell of shit clings to you.”

Anders shot his father an ungrateful look, but he turned back to the elf with a warm smile and said, “Well, it certainly works, doesn't it? You're very well ahead of the other contestants. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you could cut them all down given the proper training.”

“But it is not my skill that guides me, Master.” The elf said with a frown, genuine in his words. Danarius peered back at the elf, curious, and Anders felt panic well within him. Surely the elf wouldn't admit to Danarius that Anders had been helping him cheat? He thought of shaking his head, throwing something at him, perhaps even mind blasting him, but he knew it would all just make Anders look even more guilty than he felt. Danarius' eyes slid to his son, but Anders didn't return the gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the elf.

“O-Oh?” He all but squeaked, and the elf nodded with certainty.

“It is you, Master,” He said with certainty, yet before Danarius could accuse or Anders could feel an ounce of being stabbed in the back, the elf said in such absolute reverence that it made Anders nauseous, “The idea of protecting the precious Prince of Tevinter, to be his right hand, to live and breath and fight for him... It is enough to push me to prevail.”

Danarius' eyes sparkled at the words, and Anders wasn't sure if he liked the look he saw in them. His father steepled his hands together, still staring at the elf, and he said nothing. Anders cleared his throat awkwardly, then smiled once more at the elf before saying kindly, “How chivalrous of you. I'd be honored to be protected by such a formidable warrior, to be served by such a loyal slave such as yourself. Yet to win will not only earn you a place at my side, but a gift, a weapon from my father as well.”

“No weapon is powerful enough to match the sheer desire I have to protect you, My Prince.” The elf said smoothly, and Anders felt his heart palpitate for a moment. The elf was good, he thought to himself, and he narrowed his eyes briefly at the slave, though the slave didn't respond with any emotion beside sheer honesty, and Anders half wondered if the elf actually believed any of the propaganda he was spewing at them.

Anders looked back to his father, seeing a calculating look deep in the man's eyes. That was never a good sight, and Anders felt his once racing heart sink low into his stomach. The elf had given him an idea, one Anders wasn't particularly excited to discover what it may be. Danarius finally noticed his staring son, and he lowered his hands and relaxed his posture before gracing the elf with a smile.

“I may have misjudged you, slave.” Danarius said carelessly, though it didn't sound entirely like an apology, “Please take this night to become acclimated to our estate. I am beginning to think you may have to grow used to it soon enough.”

The elf's eyes brightened at that, and he bowed his head and replied, “Yes, Master.”

“Now, I must be going. I have a Game to prepare for tomorrow,” Danarius sighed as he stood from the table, “Elf, you are to escort Anders back to his bedchambers. Ensure he doesn't escape, he has a habit of getting lost even within his own home.”

The elf nodded his head, murmuring again, “Yes, Master,” and he kept his head lowered as Danarius bid Anders goodnight, leaving them alone in the dining room. A few of the slaves crept in and cleared the table, and Anders grabbed one last apple before they carried it all away. When they were alone once more, table cleared and doors shut, the elf finally raised his eyes at Anders, who was leaning back in his chair lazily, one arm strewn across the back of it, with a leg crossed over the other. He bit into the apple carelessly, staring at the elf.

“I feel I should be swooning,” Anders finally said, his voice loud in the quiet hall, and the elf flinched at first before he raised his head more, eyes leveled with Anders', “'Prince of Tevinter' he called me. 'Precious' he called me!” Anders continued to cry out to no one in particular, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as he threw his head back, “Take me now, elf!”

A snort filled the room, and Anders peeked at the elf to see the blighted thing was laughing at him. He felt slightly embarrassed at first, but soon began to laugh himself. When the two settled and the room emptied of their laughter, Anders leaned forward in his seat, taking another loud bite of the apple.

“You played the man like a lute,” he complimented him, and the elf ducked his head, his cheeks coloring in shy gratitude, “You had him eating out of your hand.”

“I did not lie, Master. The weapon does not appeal to me, not as strongly as the thought of being a high slave in the estate of a Magister. I apologize if my intentions are selfish...” the elf muttered carefully, obviously still walking on eggshells even though Anders didn't need him to. The mage rolled his eyes and stood, tossing his apple at the elf who flinched and caught it.

“Eat the rest, I'm no longer hungry,” Anders suggested, but the elf took it as an order and bit into the fruit. His ears twitched and his eyes fell shut for a moment, savoring the sweet taste before he quickly finished it off. When nothing but the core was left, Anders made him leave it on the table and grabbed him by the arm, “Come. You're supposed to escort me to my bedchambers. Perhaps even tuck me in, give me a goodnight kiss and all.” He winked at the elf, who looked almost taken aback by the forwardness of it all. Still, he followed Anders out of the dining room and into the halls, looking around the luxurious and expensive home in awe. It would probably be one of the only times he'd be able to admire such a place, for even if he won, he'd be stuck babysitting Anders for the rest of his days.

Anders lead him through the house and soon brought them to his bedroom. He waved away the guards at his doors, telling them Danarius had ordered the elf to watch over him for the night. He spun a tale of his father wanting to see the elf prove himself, and the guards seemed to buy it. Either that or they were eager for a night to themselves without hearing the mage snoring in blissful sleep.

With them gone, Anders slipped into his room, tugging the elf in after him. The poor creature looked absolutely terrified at what might transpire, and the look of innocent fear sent a shock of thrill up Anders' spine. He half wanted to lean in and kiss the fear off of him and half wanted to throw him onto the bed and allow his teenage hormones to guide his way around a new body.

“The elf has earned himself a good dinner and a night with a Magister's son. What ever will he do with it?” Anders flirted casually, letting go of the elf and sitting down on his bed, pushing his robes off of his shoulders in one smooth motion, baring himself in his underclothes for the elf, who looked interested for a mere moment before he turned his head away. Anders frowned at the action. Perhaps he wasn't alluring enough? Perhaps the elf didn't have an interest in men? Well, Anders would fix that...

“I shall do as I was told. I shall guard my Master.” the elf decided, stepping away from Anders on his bed and instead siting cross-legged before the door, resolute. Anders pursed his lips at the action, then sighed and stood again, dropped the robes to the floor completely. He paused and contemplated for a moment, then continued to tug off his undershirt and his leggings, leaving himself only in his smallclothes. It was a warm Tevinter night, after all, and Anders sleeping near nude wasn't a new sight to behold in the estate. Though for the elf, who had made almost a choking noise at the sight, it definitely was, and a pleasant one at that.

“Then I shall go to sleep. Alone. Unprotected. Vulnerable.” Anders inflected, and he proceeded to crawl onto his bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. He strewn himself out atop his sheets, laying out on his stomach, bearing his back and legs to the staring elf. He sighed loudly, tugging a pillow to him so he could rest his head, and he said, forlorn, “I hope no assassin sneaks in through my window. No rapist creep into my bedchambers. For I am alone in my bed--”

“Oh, you will be the death of me!” The elf spat out in the least polite way, and Anders grinned in victory as he watched the elf stand from his spot by the door, “Do you often have your guards and spies slip into bed with you?”

“Only when they're dark, sexy and poetic as you,” Anders winked at him, and the elf actually rolled his eyes at him, though he caught himself a moment later and cleared his throat.

“Poetic, Master?” The elf asked, tacking on the term as if he were apologizing for his earlier offense, and he awkwardly crept towards the bed, obviously uncomfortable and untrained in the ways of pleasure as he earlier said. Anders didn't mind. An innocent partner could be even more fun than an experienced one.

“Any word that slips past those plush lips of yours is like music to my ears,” Anders continued to flirt, enjoying the way the elf's face darkened with a blush, “Even the way you move is enough for me to wax poetic.”

“Eugh, stop.” The elf groused, finally crawling into the bed beside the half-naked Anders, though he didn't attempt to touch or scoot closer to him. He was thoroughly embarrassed, and Anders grinned at him and decided he pushed the elf enough. He would take the first moves from here on out, seeing as he was better versed in these acts than the elf. He reached a hand forward and began pushing the threadbare tunic from the elf's shoulders, knowing full well that this was a tunic Anders himself had worn when he had been younger and thinner in the shoulders. It fit the elf well, despite him most likely being older than him. The elf didn't fight being undressed, though he looked progressively more distressed the less he was wearing.

“Are you and your family the only slaves your soon-to-be-former Master has?” Anders asked with a smirk, and when the elf nodded, Anders' smile only grew more desirous. He pushed the elf onto his back, moving to sit atop him, and he began unlacing his trousers. He could feel him grow rigid beneath him, his fingers digging into the sheets and his eyes remaining glued on Anders' face.

“So you've never rolled around with another slave girl, so to speak?” Anders asked next, a brow raising and his hands itching to tug those trousers down and touch, but he wanted to go slow, to drag out this feeling to being this elf's first caress. Said elf shook his head no, and Anders scooted down his thighs, curling his fingers around threadbare trousers and beginning to inch them down oh so slowly. He was teasing himself more than he was teasing the elf, but he was sure the elf was enjoying it too.

“Then shall I be the first to be graced with the sight of your manhood?” Anders asked, but the elf gave him a look that made the mage realize it had never really been a question.

“I am yours, Master.” The elf reminded him in a small voice, his brow furrowing a little, “Take from me what you wish...”

Anders paused, sitting upright and looking down at the elf with raised brows. Take? No. Surely not. The elf was enjoying himself too, wasn't he? Here he was, laying in his bed, which he had come to willingly! Sure, Anders hemmed and hawed a little in order to encourage, but that was all it was; encouragement.

His fingers slipped away from the elf's trousers, settling instead on his own thighs. He didn't move from the elf's lap, though. He merely continued to stare down at him. The elf shifted and glanced away, growing anxious with the silence.

“I apologize if I said anything distasteful, Master,” The elf began to say, and Anders felt even more repulsed, more so by his own actions than by the elf beneath him, “I will speak no more if you wish it of me... Should I... finish disrobing?”

“No,” Anders said quickly, his voice low, irritable, and he finally extracted himself from the elf and stood, stepping towards the fireplace in his bedroom and casting an excessively large fireball into it. He could hear the bed creak as the elf sat up on it, and he could feel his eyes on his back. He didn't bother to explain himself, his mind too preoccupied to even attempt it. What did this mean for him, to treat an elven slave as nothing more than a bedwarmer? To nearly rape the poor creature who had so obviously been too scared to say no to him? Was he no better than his own father?

He heard the elf take a few steps on the marble floor, though the noise was light and fleeting. Anders thought the elf may have been returning to his spot by the door, and he wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling too bare in his smallclothes.

He nearly jumped when he was suddenly being swathed in blankets. A hand came up to hold the sheet to his body, and he turned enough to look at the elf, who was looking up at him in confusion and a desperate desire to please. It made Anders feel worse and yet the gesture was so genuinely sweet. “Thank you,” Aster whispered, turning more so he could face the elf directly. Green eyes sparkled in satisfaction and his ears twitched, then he bowed his head.

“Anything for you, Master.” He said dutifully, making Anders sigh.

“You are a good slave,” Anders muttered half a compliment, half an admittance of defeat. Perhaps he had misjudged the elf himself.

The elf... Anders blinked and looked up at him once more, then finally asked him, “Your name. I never asked you your name.”

The elf blinked in surprise, and he took a step back, letting go of the blankets that he had still been holding closed around the mage. He seemed to regard the man for a moment, before finally relenting and whispering it secretively, “I... Leto. My name is Leto.”

“Leto,” Anders whispered back, a smile pulling at his lips, calm and intimate, unlike the lecherous ones he must have been passing him minutes before, “A handsome name for a handsome elf.”

Leto blushed once more, ducking his head and toeing at the marble floor. A moment later, Leto was suggesting lightly, “Perhaps it is best to sleep, Master? I shall keep guard.”

“Mm... Perhaps you are right.” Anders relented, smiling more. He walked his way back to his bed, his sheets trailing behind him, and he flopped onto the bed without any of his previous grace. He curled up with the blanket, tucking it around himself before he looked at Leto and said, “There is room for you yet...”

“I must keep guard.” Leto refused gently, glancing at the door, then back at Anders. The mage smiled, then sighed and closed his eyes.

“Good night, Leto.” He bid him before he allowed himself to sleep.

Leto took a slow breath, then quietly stepped around the bedroom until he found his tunic. He laced up his trousers properly once more, then tugged on the tunic and sat back down by the door, crossing his legs and keeping vigilant. It was hard, of course. He had never truly been trained to guard like this, and he grew tired quickly. He found himself nodding off once or twice, but he forced himself awake each time. It wouldn't do to have Anders harmed the first night he was in the estate, not if he wished to obtain this position. His mind ached for something to keep it entertained and active aside from his own imagination—which easily slipped into dreams—that when he heard the echoes of a conversation traveling down the halls, Leto took it upon himself to investigate.

He opened the door carefully, surprised to find a guard stationed beside the door once again, though he was quite obviously asleep. Perhaps they didn't trust Anders' story as much as Leto originally believed. He easily slipped away from the guard and continued down the hall, only slightly nervous about leaving Anders alone. But if they were to station a guard even when Leto shared his room, surely they took even more preemptive measures.

He followed the voices carefully, pausing when they grew too quiet to cover the shuffling of his feet. When he finally reached a door hanging slightly ajar, where the voices seemed to originate from, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation between the Magister Danarius and what seemed to be his female apprentice, a teenage girl, dressed as a mage similar to him. Leto's ears twitched and strained to continue listening to their quieted conversation, though luckily their voices carried quiet well on the stone and marble.

“But he is an elf,” The girl squeaked out, “He hasn't the means of protecting Anders!”

“As I thought as well before I spoke to the slave.” Danarius agreed, a sly smirk on his thin lips. “His loyalty towards Anders, despite not even being his slave yet, is absolutely impressive. And I seek to test it on the final day of the Games, as well...” Leto's ears perked at that. How would Danarius be able to test such a thing, aside from throwing his own son in the heart of danger and telling Leto to go fetch...

Well, he is a magister. He has seen them do worse.

The apprentice didn't allow Danarius to elaborate, much to Leto's chagrin, and she instead asked him, “Do you fully expect a creature as frail as an enslaved elf to be able to wield such a blessing as the Old God Toth's flame? He will shrivel and die, and you will be left without a warrior! What will you do with Anders then?”

“The elf has survived fire and beast already. He will survive the procedure.” Danarius spoke plainly, not in the mood to argue with this girl who was obviously way over the line with the way she spoke to her Teacher, “And we will continue to test him in the Games. If he truly does fall, then you will be right, and Anders will learn blood magic, and the world will still be leaning in my favor. Yet if he lives, then Anders shall be pleased. He has been eyeing the slave ever since the Games began, the fool boy. I wonder where he gets his libido from.”

The girl rolled her eyes when Danarius' back was turned, obviously thinking the answer to be obvious. Still, she didn't seem convinced with Danarius' final decision, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't know why you insist on going through all this trouble. I still doubt Anders will be strong enough to embody the spirit of Toth. And why start with the Flame anyways? Wouldn't you rather know for certain if you can even recreate Toth's power in Anders before going through with the procedure? Even you said it was an expensive process...”

“The spirit of Toth will not be lured lest his Flame is within reach. If I am to recreate his ethereal being within my son, I want to gift the Old God with what once was his greatest weapon. Think of it as a 'welcome back' gift, Hadriana.” Danarius paused, then turned to look at the girl with a face of pure distaste as her words caught up with him. “What makes you think Anders will falter under such power?”

Hadriana shrank back immediately at the confrontation, her eyes wide when she realized just how far over the line she managed to stumble. Her mouth flopped for a moment before she blurted out, “He is but a healer! He has no potential to be a maleficar, and even if he did, he has no desire to be one either. You had to offer up the lessons as the bitter end of a deal!”

“Then who, Hadriana, do you think should be the one to receive Toth's spirit?” Danarius spat out the question, fully expecting her to back down. Leto did too. Even as an apprentice, she had less of a place to be questioning her Teacher like this.

But the girl was a fool, and instead of apologizing or begging for mercy, she merely cried out in exasperation, “I should! Haven't I proven myself to you, Master Danarius? I have trained under you for two years now! I have excelled at what you taught me, especially in blood magic! I am more than what Anders could ever--!” she shrieked, and the sound of skin on skin echoed loudly in the room directly afterwards. Her head had been thrown aside, Danarius' hand still hanging in the air as a silent dare for her to keep talking. When she did not, Danarius lowered his hand, then pointed a finger at her.

“Speak of my son like that again and I will use you in the procedure as an offering, girl.” He hissed out, not even caring when Hadriana began to spill tears, a small hand coming up to cradle her injured cheek, “You have overstayed your welcome in my presence. Return to your rooms and do not show your face to me until I call for you.”

Hadriana bowed her head, more tears falling, and she began to walk towards the doorway where Leto stood listening. The elf panicked and moved to skitter away, but Danarius was calling out before she could step outside. “Hadriana,” He called, and she turned to face him, her eyes wide and round and teary, “Don't forget, you are still a Laetan as well as a girl. You will go nowhere in the Imperium unless I wish it.”

Hadriana was quiet for a long moment, but finally, she whispered a defeated, “Yes, Master Danarius.”

Leto took this as his cue to actually leave, and he hurried down the halls. He knew he wouldn't get far without being caught by the retreating girl, so he found himself a niche to hide in, crouching low so she wouldn't notice him.

Hidden in the shadows, Leto watched Hadriana all but run down the halls, sniffling and quietly whimpering as she made her way to her quarters. Her pitiful noises echoed for a minute afterward, until it was cut off by the sound of a door shutting. Staying put where he was, Leto continued to wait until he heard Danarius shuffling out of the room, walking languidly down the hall, though he headed for the stairs opposite of Leto. The elf covered his mouth with his hands and watched as Danarius' figure came into view, then vanished as he ascended the staircase. He waited still as Danarius' footsteps faded, then went quiet behind one more door closing.

When he was sure there was no danger of being caught, Leto stepped out from his hidden corner and hurried back to Anders' bedroom. He paused at the end of the hall when he remembered the guard was still there, but a moment after he appeared, he heard the man's snores and sighed. He slipped back into Anders' room just as quietly as he had been when he left. Closing the door behind him, Leto resumed his position before the door, cross-legged and awake. He was determined to see this through, not only to sate the sheer curiosity he had at what Danarius and Hadriana had been discussing concerning the Old God Toth, but also to figure out what Danarius' true intentions were for Anders. If he was to be his bodyguard, that meant protecting him from anything ill-intended for him.

If he hadn't been determined to win the Games, he certainly was now.

The very next morning had Leto leaving the estate and being escorted back to the arena. He stepped inside along with the other contestants, all of whom seemed to leer at Leto jealously. Of course they were upset. He, an elf as well as a slave, had spent the night in a Magister's estate, perhaps even with the beloved Prince of Tevinter himself. He thought back on how Anders had nearly taken him as well, amused in his recollection of advances the mage made. Yet the man acquiesced... Leto still didn't understand why. Perhaps he was just off-putting. He had been told by his sister Varania that he had a rather intimidating face when he wasn't paying attention, even when Leto insisted he had been thinking positive thoughts.

But he couldn't allow such thoughts to distract him. A night spent at the estate was a night bolstering Leto's determination to win the Games, to win Anders' hand, and to accept whatever weapon it was Danarius wished to bestow upon him, be it this Toth's Flame or not.

The Games that day seemed mediocre, Leto thought. Where the day before they had been fighting for a night with their possible new Masters, and the day before that going up against a Magister and his line of mages, this challenge consisted mostly of puzzle-solving. Traps and hexes were set into the makeshift walls and floors, but a keen eye and a light foot allowed Leto to slip past them without much trouble. The only real worry he had was whenever he came side-by-side with another contestant, and the thought of shoving them in the way of a trap and forcing it to set off came to mind, lest he risk them doing the very same to him. This typically resulted in a sort of silent challenge between himself and whoever the contestant may be, but more times than not, they would turn away from one another. One human man did attempt to shove Leto in the way of a false floor that gave to a pit of spikes, but the fool lost his footing, allowing Leto to spin him around and send him headfirst instead.

Above them, the sun rose and fell, keeping time on how long they had to endure the traps and contestants. The numbers were dwindling quickly, Leto noticed. When he caught a moment of reprieve from the bloodshed, he sent a look up towards the elevated booth Anders and Danarius sat in. He saw Anders watching him, smiling his way when their eyes met and discretely waving his smallest finger at him. He also saw Danarius whispering to a slave, who was nodding slowly, eyes distant but face drawn in focus. Moments later, the slave stepped away from Danarius and went to Anders, leaning in to whisper to the boy. Anders frowned and glanced up at the slave, then at his father before he rolled his eyes and stood, following the slave out of the booth and out of Leto's sight. When Anders was gone, Leto's eyes slid back to Danarius, who smirked almost knowingly at him.

A moment later, Leto was being tackled and slammed right against a false wall. A thick forearm was pressed against his neck and Leto squirmed, clawing at the human's arm and gagging from the pressure. He had been distracted, and now he was going to pay the price, it seemed. He struggled harder, then decided he hadn't the strength to usurp this man, so instead he allowed his eyes to roll back in his head and his entire body to go limp. He still had the urge to gag and cough, his lungs screaming at him for air, but he held off. The human, assuming he had finally killed the elf, let go of Leto and let him crumple to the floor. Leto's throat was relieved, but he still refused to gasp in air, or else he would blow his cover. Instead, he waited, waited until the man was turning away and about to head down the maze to make his move.

With his back turned to Leto, he allowed himself a slow, quiet breath, and focused his eyes on the human once again. He slowly stood, digging his fingers into the dirt beneath him and grabbing a handful. He drew back his arm, then shouted out in poorly accented Elvish, “Dirthara-ma, shemlen!”

The human spun around in surprise, but Leto had thrown the dirt, temporarily blinding the man as he shouted in pain and scrabbled at his face, attempting to wipe the fine dust and rock away. Leto used this chance to run at him, throwing himself at him when he got close enough and tackling the man to the ground. He grabbed his head with both hands, and he began to press his thumbs down directly on his eyes, feeling them beginning to give. The man was screaming and flailing, trying and almost succeeding in shoving Leto off of him, but the elf forced him back down and pinned his arms to the ground with his knees.

“Stew in it, shemlen. Defeated by an elf, a slave, when you are... what? A servant? A merchant, maybe? I have bested you,” Leto hissed out at him, and then he felt the squelch of his eyes, and fluid and blood filled his sockets. He let go of the man then and stood, stepping away from him with a scowl. “Suffer for it.”

His eyes turned up to the booth, and he scowled deeper when he saw Anders had yet to return. Danarius was tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair, a sick smirk on his face even as he looked down at Leto, and the elf knew Danarius had something evil planned.

He only hoped Anders would not be a part of it. He recalled Danarius saying he wanted to test Leto's loyalty, and the thought scared him. It definitely wouldn't be today. Yet tomorrow was the day before the official final day of the Games. Would Danarius hold off until then, or would he end it all tomorrow with Leto's final test?

Given that he lived to that point. He reminded himself he needed to focus, especially when he heard a girl screaming halfway across the arena. He had no time to wander in his own thoughts, he needed to survive. For his sake. For Anders. For his family.

If it still worried him, Leto would warn Anders of what he had overheard when Anders came to him that night. While that would almost mean admitting he had been eavesdropping on Danarius, he felt Anders would understand his concern. Besides, what good would a bodyguard be if he didn't even consider Anders' closest and most personal companions, family included? His soon-to-be Master had already proven to be the understanding type, if not a little lecherous, but what more could Leto hope for? His current Master beat him and his family for the smallest grievances, constantly raped his mother, and was starting to eye Varania a bit too closely for Leto's liking.

He ducked into a dead end, pressing himself against the wall and watching as another elf sprinted by. He didn't go after him, half out of respect for his own kind. He was also partial to not risking too much injury if there was a chance he would have to risk himself for Anders at the end of these Games. He stepped out of his hiding spot and continued to roam the maze. Unlike the last one, there was no final objective aside from survive. The only reason he and the other contestants kept moving instead of cowering in one spot was the desire to win.

As the sun hit the horizon, Danarius called an end to the challenge. The spectators applauded politely, though it seemed this round had been a lot less exciting than previous ones. Leto half thought that could have been due to himself. He didn't exactly have a chance to show any exemplary skill, unlike the last few days. The remaining contestants bowed and waved to the crowd as they emptied the arena and walked to their tents. Leto made sure to keep a distance between himself and the rest of them, though fighting outside of the arena was strictly forbidden. He still didn't really want to risk it.

Stepping into his tent, Leto waited. Anders usually appeared about an hour after the Games ended for the day, but the elf had no way to pass the time any faster than by just sitting there, cross-legged and contemplating. He could hear the other contestants outside, talking amongst one another, breaking bread and laughing. He wondered why they would put themselves through this, or why they would put on this facade. At the end of the Games, only one would remain standing. Wouldn't harboring friendships only make it harder for one to win?

Leto leaned forward pushing open the flaps to his tent to watch them as they stood around the campfire, warming themselves in the flickering firelight. One woman had begun to sing while clapping her hands. They had no means of real instruments, but the others took to the song and began dancing. Leto rose a brow, and he carefully stepped out of his tent, still watching them.

Their laughter and joy were tantalizing, and he almost wanted to go over and join them. He hesitated by his tent, though... he needed to wait for Anders. Of course, he wouldn't show if the others were still up like this. They'd spot him in seconds.

The woman stopped singing abruptly and a few others spun around to look at him directly, their faces cast in shadows, unable to be read. Leto felt panic well up in him. Surely he wasn't the only slave there... was he? Deciding not to risk any undue punishment, he slipped back into his tent, his heart racing. He could hear their voices, though he couldn't decipher their words. He tucked himself further back in his tent as if he could hide in it, especially when footsteps began to approach.

Suddenly, the tent flap was being yanked back, and a human woman was looking into it at him. She was the same woman who had helped him to his feet the day they went up against the Magister. She smiled at him, but he averted his eyes.

“Come break bread with us, elf. Celebrate with us.” She bid him, and Leto glanced fleetingly at her face before he drew his knees to his chest.

“Celebrate what?” He questioned her quietly, not wanting to be defiant, but truly curious. What could they celebrate about their situation that they had all willingly put themselves in? They were all standing on death's door, tempting the fates by being in these Games.

“Being alive, of course! Probably won't be able to celebrate it for long, you know?” she said wisely, then she reached in and grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of his tent with surprising strength. She tugged him with her, bringing him to the campfire, the other twenty or thirty contestants already surrounding it. They all watched them, some of them murmuring to one another behind their hands. Leto felt horribly out of place.

“This is all that's left of us,” The woman continued to say, gesturing to their group, “Twenty-eight contestants out of a little over two-hundred applicants. Amazing, isn't it?”

“Ever the optimist, even in the face of death,” A human man called out, getting a few chuckles from those around him.

“And that optimism is what got me through the games thus far!” the woman claimed, crossing her arms and raising a brow, despite the groans and jeers from her equals.

“Shut it, Briala!”

“Take your damned optimism elsewhere!”

“Maker take you, foolish girl!”

Leto pursed his lips at the shouts, but Briala merely threw her head back and laughed, as if they had been joking with her, when a mere glance at their body language proved otherwise. She suddenly threw an arm around Leto's shoulders, leaning heavily against his side, and she asked the slave, “And what say you, hmm? You've been quite the talk of the town recently, or so I've heard. That Elf Boy is on everyone's lips!”

Leto shifted, wholly uncomfortable, but it was a direct question, and he was inclined to answer. Bowing his head, he murmured loud enough for those closest to him to hear, “One must have faith in something... be it baseless optimism or the strength of one's own desires....”

A few others whispered to each other, asking what he had just said, but Briala was looking at him with wide, sparkling eyes as if moved by his words. She patted his shoulder twice, then let go of him and grinned.

“See what a night in the Magister Danarius' estate does to you? Already waxing poetic about faith!” Briala joked, and Leto grimaced when poetry was brought up once more. He shook his head and crossed his arms, toeing the ground awkwardly. However, Briala bringing up Leto's night with the Magister and his son ended up raising questions from the rest of the group.

“So were you really inside Danarius' mansion?” One man asked, and Leto nodded silently, “What was it like? I heard the walls are built of pure gold.”

“I heard they had grand, luxurious baths, enchanted to always smell of roses,” A woman called out, eyes sparkling in desire, “Did you bathe while there?”

“Don't be a fool, the elf is a slave. There's no way Danarius would have let him bathe in his estate! He probably took the elf home and forced him to scrub the floors, dinnit'e?”

“Ha! It was probably just a test run to see if Danarius actually wanted an elf slave! Could you imagine this scrawny knife-ear being a bodyguard to the Prince? A strong wind would blow the boy over!”

Leto bristled, as did the other two elves who had survived thus far. The three of them glanced at one another, one a female and the other male, but none of them said a word. They knew better than to argue with a crowd of humans. Leto ducked his head, glaring at the dirt.

“Elves are supposed to have brilliant eyesight and hearing, though. Plus, I heard there's no better archer than an elven one!” Briala spoke up, and while Leto understood the sentiment, he couldn't help but feel it were merely more stereotypical remarks. Sure his senses were better than a human's, but he had never even touched a bow and arrow, much less excelled in the art of archery. If anything, he was better with a cow prod. He still sent Briala a brief smile when she bumped his elbow purposefully.

Still, her words did little to quell the imagination of the group.

“I bet he cleaned out their chamberpots! How's the Magister's shit smell?”

“I say he was thrown to the kitchen and forced to cook for them, then kneel there and watch them eat it!”

“Poor elf, promised dinner and a relaxing night and probably spent it washing the windows of Danarius' estate!”

“I wouldn't be surprised if we found fresh cane markings on his arse!”

“I bet--”

“I slept with the Prince.” Leto suddenly blurted out, arms crossed and head still ducked, but it was enough to quiet the crowd. When he realized they were all staring at him, he decided to continue with the lie, “The Magister sent me to guard his bedchambers. The Prince pulled me inside. Brought me to the bed with promise of a better reward than dinner.”

The crowd stayed quiet, still staring at Leto expectantly, but when he didn't go on, one of them shouted an almost violent, “That's bullshit! Why would Anders want to sleep with a scrawny knife-eared bastard like you? You probably dreamt the damned thing!”

“If that's what you care to believe,” Leto sighed, turning his head away without care, “You can enjoy your fantasy as you fill your fist tonight. I get the memory of filling the favored Prince of Tevinter. Much warmer.” Even as he spat the words out, Leto saw most of the humans tensing in disgust and rage—perhaps even jealousy in some of them. The two elves were grinning down at the floor. No matter if they thought Leto was being honest or not, the reactions he was earning was much appreciated to the racist slander.

“I'll fucking murder you, you damned elf!” One of them shouted, getting to his feet along with a few others, “You dare slander the Prince's name like that?! You're a dead elf!”

“Tel'abelas, but I must retire,” Leto said with a wave of his hand, and he began to head back to his tent.

“Dareth shiral, Lethallin.”

“Fen'Harel ma ghilana.” The elves called to him, amusement in their voices. Leto slipped back into his tent, the grin all but glued to his face, and he laid back and waited. He still expected Anders to show, but even hours after the last contestant retired to their tent, the mage didn't appear. Perhaps it was because Leto hadn't gotten hurt. Surely he didn't want to risk coming here unless there was a purpose for his visit, but Leto felt a little bummed out by it.

With a sigh, he decided he waited long enough, and he allowed himself to sleep. Whatever happened in the Games tomorrow, Leto could only hope Anders wouldn't be a part of it.

But of course, Leto was an elf, and not even his own Gods would grant his wish. He stepped into the Arena with the other twenty-seven contestants, immediately greeted by the sight of Anders kneeling at the far end, tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. The spectators were all oddly quiet, uncomfortable with the sight of their Prince in the middle of what had been a bloodbath for the past few days. Danarius kept his seat in the booth, a delighted smirk on his face and his eyes trained particularly on Leto, who felt his stomach sink in anticipation.

“What a fine week it has been,” Danarius began, his voice carrying with the assistance of magic through the arena. Slowly, he rose from his seat, and he walked to the rail of the booth, leaning heavily against in. “What began as a small army of contestants, and now not even thirty men, women, and elves stand before me.”

Leto and the other two elves glanced at each other, the woman crossing her arms with a pout.

“Now I regret not making this year's Games challenging enough. I fear it may all end today. Alas, the festivities shall continue on until the morrow, as promised, but I think at the end of the night, we will have our Champion.” Danarius paused, letting the crowd absorb the information, a thrilled murmur rolling over them like waves. Leto eyed the space around Anders, who was currently struggling to get free. He mustn't have consented to this... but there were no hexes or circles in the ground around him. Leto didn't even see a hint of a trap nearby, either...

“The contestants will each be rewarded a weapon of their choosing.” Danarius announced, and suddenly four mages were rushing in, carrying with them carts of weapons, all ranging from bows and arrows to broadswords to daggers. Slowly, they all approached the carts and rustled through them. The larger human men chose the larger swords, Briala grabbed a set of daggers. The female elf the bow and arrows, the male elf a lone knife. Leto warily approached the cart himself, looking over the weaponry with hesitation. It would be suicide not to grab anything, but he had never been trained or even practiced with a weapon such as these. He reached out to push some of the knives aside, but then one of Danarius' mages was approaching Leto, lifting a hand to stop him.

“And I present a gift to Elf, the crowd's favorite as well as my son's.” Danarius announced, and the mages produced a large, heavy-looking sword that could have easily been the the exact size of Leto's arm. It was as if the blade were made specifically for him, and he grasped the handle with both hands, giving it a test swing. He had never held a blade before, but with this in his hands, the world felt right.

A glance at the other contestants and Leto knew that whatever happened this day, he was going to be their main mark. He better learn how to handle the blade quickly...

“The purpose of the final challenge is to truly test your loyalty to my son. A bodyguard is useless if he gives into temptation... And who better to tempt?” Danarius grinned, discretely cutting open his forearm just below the railing, and summoning forth not just a handful, but a small battalion of demons, ranging from the mere shade to three fierce rage demons. One desire demon floated in the center as well, her lustful laugh filling the air for a moment. The crowd sat silently for a long moment, then erupted into awed cheer, already excited at the prospect of the day's challenge.

Anders was screaming behind his gag. Leto's ears twitched at the noise, the urge to run forward almost irresistible. He saw the other elves could hear him, too. The elves glanced at one another, Leto knowing he would easily cut them down if they got in his way.

“Ir-abelas, sister,” The male elf whispered to the girl, “Only one elf will make it to the end and it isn't us.”

“I will not harm you without reason,” Leto told them, but the elves merely smiled at him.

“Perhaps, but they will,” The girl said, glancing back at the humans, “Win for us, elf. Show them that we are more than our ears.”

Leto gave them a dutiful nod, and even as Danarius continued to explain the game to the crowd, Leto knew what was going to happen. Anders was distressed, and he needed to protect him.

The words “let the games begin” had barely slipped from Danarius mouth when Leto darted forward, shoving through the front lines of the contestants and aiming straight for the first shade. Arrows flew past him, the female elf, and they sunk deep into the shade's inky hide. Leto roared and swung his blade about carelessly, striking the creature more than cutting into him. He readjusted his grip quickly, and brought the sword down on it, managing to wedge it into the space between its neck and bony arm. The creature squealed and squirmed, black liquid oozing from the wound, and Leto had to yank the blade out of it before he could swing again.

The desire demon had made itself comfortable guarding Anders, running her hands up and down his chest, slipping under the collar of his tunic even, whispering into his ear. Did Danarius truly trust his son strongly enough that he wouldn't accept a demon's offer, Leto wondered. He didn't want to find out if Anders was as weak willed as any other mage could be, and he shoved past the wounded shade, dodging and weaving past other battles between demon and contestants. He heard a shrill scream behind him, but didn't look. No more arrows flew.

Leto nearly made it halfway to Anders, but his mad dash his way was cut short when a molten rage demon slid in front of him. It reared back its lump of a head and roared, the beast only growing in size, and Leto felt the fear he was trying to ignore within him grow.

He raised his sword, prepared to defend himself, but in a blur of color, suddenly the rage demon was jumped on, twin blades dug into its shoulders. Briala cried out as she yanked one blade out, dragging with it a line of lava, and she thrust the blade right into the creatures skull—if it even had one. Leto thought for a moment that he should help, but that wouldn’t get him to Anders any faster.

Silently wishing Briala would forgive him, he skirted around her and the demon and resumed his run to Anders. The desire demon caught his eye, then smirked and whispered something else to the mage, making him shake his head violently. After, the demon began to pull away from him, and she slowly walked towards the still running Leto. When the elf realized she was headed straight for him, though, he slowed, then stopped a few paces in front of her.

“What a fanciful sight,” she all but moaned out, running a hand down her torso and stomach before resting it on her hip, “an Elven warrior. How cute he is, so weak and delicate and yet swinging around a long-sword as if he knew how to use it.” She advanced towards him, and Leto took a single step back before he grimaced and stood his ground. When she was in reaching distance, she ran a hand over his shoulder, then down his chest and right to his trousers, tugging at them briefly. She leaned into the elf, and said in a mocking voice, “I heard you the night before, Elf. Claiming you had yourself in the mage boy behind me. Telling everyone how you spilled within him. But I know the truth, don’t I?”

“Silence,” Leto gritted out, but she only laughed at him, shaking her head.

“You were scared to let him have you. Scared to become emotionless and empty like your mother. Scared that you wouldn’t. And you knew you wouldn’t. You would like it. No, you would beg for it. But you don’t want him to know that, do you? The poor, touch-starved elf… how you wanted him to rip your clothes off that night and take, take, take.” She tugged at his trouser, and he didn’t react more than a startled grunt, but his eyes were wide and glued on her.

“I can make it happen, Leto.” She whispered to him, “I can make him do anything you wish of him. All you have to do is one… little…. Favor…” she drew closer, her head tilted and her lips aimed to crash into his. She was almost there, too, but at the last moment, Leto drew back from her. She stared at him, frowning, and she glanced down at his lips before she said, “Come, elf. Let us seal the agreement.”

“I agree with nothing.” Leto declared, and he lifted the blade and shoved her back by the flat side of it, “I will not betray my Prince. Now step aside or I will force you.”

The demon’s frown turned first into a hurt look of confusion, and then one of pure anger. “You are a fool elf if you think you will win. Even if you are the last contestant standing, you are a dead slave.”

With a turn of his wrist, Leto rolled the blade, setting the sharp edge of it on her neck. She stilled for a moment, and Leto hissed out angrily, “Step. Aside.”

They stood there, staring each other down tensely for a long moment, but finally the demon relented, taking a few steps back and allowing Leto passage to the still bound and gagged mage. Leto kept his eyes on the desire demon still, not trusting her to keep her claws to herself. He kept the blade tilted her way as he began to walk past, but when he was well out of her reach, he gave up the slow pace and ran to Anders' side, dropping to his knees in front of him.

“I beg you, be calm, Master,” Leto whispered gently to the still struggling mage, but at the sound of Leto's voice, Anders made a exasperated noise and slumped forward, resting heavily against the elf. Leto let out a short breath of his own, but he reached up and tugged the blindfold from Anders' eyes first, immediately being met by a thankful gaze. The gag went next, and as he worked on Anders' bound wrists, the mage groaned and worked his sore jaw.

“This is so fucking insane!” Anders cried, flexing his fingers as Leto continued to struggle with the knot, only to finally give up and use the blade to cut the rope, “On my birthday, my father decides to cast a sleeping spell on me and throw me into the middle of the arena!”

“My sincerest apologies, Master. I came as fast as I could,” Leto said, and his voice absolutely dripped with shame. Finally, Anders' wrists popped free, and he groaned and caressed the reddened skin before he finally allowed himself a look at their surroundings. Ten bodies lay strewn across the arena, the female elf being one of them, while the remaining handful were left fighting the last two rage demons. No one had touched or gone near the desire demon, who continued to stare at Anders and Leto, floating in the air as if she were lounging casually. Some of the other contestants, weak willed as they were, had ended up making deals with the demons, and were turned into abominations themselves. Anders grimaced, and he turned his head away for a moment before his face wrinkled in disgust.

“Well, I am only glad that it is you who reached me.” Anders told Leto, looking at the elf with a genuine smile. The elf quickly averted his gaze, clutching the sword in his hands tightly.

“The competition is not over, Master. It will not end 'til only one stands.” Leto warned the mage, and he stood slowly, holding onto Anders' arm to help him up alongside him, “Please stay back. I must protect you.”

“Fuck that.” Anders said bluntly, and Leto flinched both at the animosity of it and at the word itself. His soon-to-be-former master never had such... colorful language as the Prince. Leto's shock went unnoticed, though, and Anders patted off his cloaks, turned to glare at his father, then declared, “I'm fighting with you. It's what Daddy wants.”

Leto snorted, his head ducked, and he muttered under his breath, “Daddy,” but he stiffened when Anders glanced his way. Leto instead gripped his sword tighter and stepped forward, gritting his teeth in anxiety, “Then allow me to take the front, Master.”

“Fine, but that demon bitch is mine.” Anders huffed, cracking his knuckles. He was weak without a staff or stave, but that didn't mean he couldn't cast magic at all. It might be just a bit more... messy than usual. “You are to keep the shades and rage demons off of me, understood?”

“Yes, Master.” Leto replied automatically, and Anders cringed when he realized he had just given the slave an order. It was too late to rephrase it now, however, and he cast a shield around himself and Leto. The slave jolted at first when the magic touched him, but he didn't hesitate or question Anders about it. Instead, he surveyed the arena and the remaining living. When a shade drew close, Leto took it as his cue and ran towards the demon, attacking it with all he had.

With Leto busy, Anders turned his focus on the desire demon, who smirked at Anders and slowly lowered herself back to the ground, stepping up to him with that sultry walk of hers.

“You have yet to accept my deal, my love,” She whined at him, getting close enough to pet at his chest and tuck her nose against his neck. Anders shuddered, but he didn't let it get to him, and he took a step back so he could properly shove her away. She stumbled backwards, her eyes wide and hurt, and then they began to turn green. Changing alongside her eyes, her skin turned darker, smoother, and her body's frame grew more rectangular yet remained relatively thin. Jet black hair sprouted from her head, though the horns remained. A mockery of Leto stood before Anders, and the mage scowled even more, lifting a hand to ward her off.

“Just say yes, Master,” She said in his voice, though it warbled and echoed strangely. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl towards Anders, reaching his feet where she bent and began to kiss the tops of his shoes, “Agree to be mine, Master, and I will do anything for you.”

“Disgusting,” Anders scoffed out, kicking her away as if she were but a bug, but she continued on with the act, rolling onto her side and whimpering in pain.

“Is this what you want?” She asked him, and in a shimmer, shackles appeared on her wrists, chaining her disguise as Leto to the ground, “To rule him? To put him in his place? He is such a defiant creature. Punish me, Master. Make me beg for your mercy.” It was lecherous, the way she said it. It was tantalizing, imagining Leto displayed for him, begging him willingly.

Anders heard Leto shouting loudly, followed by a human woman's scream. A glance over his shoulder displayed the elf cutting down an abomination, only to spin around and parry a human man's sword. Only one rage demon remained and the shades were all but destroyed, but the contestants were turning on one another now, and Leto was their collective enemy.

“He will die by your hand.” The desire demon was suddenly whispering right into his ear, and Anders shouted and jolted backwards, blasting her away with a strong pulse of force magic. She cried out wantonly, slamming back into the wall of the arena before grimacing in pain.

“Master!” Leto called out to him, and Anders spun around again to see worry in the slave's eyes. Two more humans were tag-teaming him, almost to the point of actually overpowering him. Anders focused on the hexes and spells he was versed in, and he sent a spell of electricity upon Leto's sword. The blade all but exploded in power, electrocuting one opponent, and causing the other to rear back in regret. Leto stood in awe of the power, and then his expression turned absolutely violent. He ran after the retreating contestant, shouting at him in accented Elvish.

Anders turned back to the desire demon, still dressed in a mockery of Leto's skin, and she grinned at him with knowing eyes.

“I know things.” She told him, and a pulsing blue light began to creep up her skin in swirls and dots, curling around her limbs like vines and stopping at her fingertips, her feet, and just below her lips. Anders' lip curled in surprised distaste, and she chuckled darkly at him. “I know what Danarius plans for you, Old God. Come to me. Take me in. Let me share with you my knowledge.”

An applause was heard distantly, Anders slowly being pulled in by the lure of knowledge. Was she lying? It was a possibility. But for a long time, Anders knew his father had been up to something. He had been surrounded by bodyguards all his life, and now his father ran a week long festival to choose yet another guard? Something was going on, Anders knew it, but he never suspected a desire demon to know as well...

He took a step closer but stopped when a figure stepped between him and the demon, a blade aimed at her throat.

“Master,” Leto's true voice came, and Anders blinked harshly, snapping out of whatever pull the demon had managed to get on him. The elf had his eyes on the demon, but his ears were twitching, listening for Anders, “It is but a ruse. I am here.”

Anders looked between Leto and the demon, his mind struggling to catch up. Leto had been tasked to protect Anders from the demons, not intrude. He turned around, looking back at the arena he had turned away from, and found a pile of bodies behind him, flanked by two still standing competitors. The woman with twin blades was twirling them skillfully in her hands, while the small elf boy was merely staring down at his feet, forlorn.

“The demons are all gone, Master,” Leto was saying, and Anders turned back to him and the desire demon, who was slowly melting back into her original form, “All but this one.”

“I will take care of her,” Anders said, stepping forward, but Leto tensed at that and gave Anders a wary glance. It made Anders bristle a little. Did the slave have no trust in him to not succumb to her lies? Of course, had Leto not stepped in, perhaps he would have... but he was not weak willed. He wouldn't fall again so easily. When Anders leveled Leto with a look, the elf's ears drooped a little, but he acquiesced. He lowered his sword and relaxed his stance, but he didn't drop the fight from his muscles completely.

Anders lifted a hand, focusing on the Entropic magic Danarius had pushed him to learn, paralyzing the demon, then subduing her to a life drain. She gagged and shuddered, her vivid purples and blacks dulling to a dull grey. Leto watched it all with wide eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. He was awed by Ander's power, and the spectators—still watching the action—were all on the edges of their seats.

“Spare me,” The demon begged in a choked whisper, and Ander's lips curled back in a disgusted grimace.

“And miss the chance to peacock in front of an entire stadium of people? Now, now, little demon, I thought you knew better. I'm Tevinter. I love peacocking.” Anders sneered, and he set a hex upon her, which burned into her skin as if her were to have branded her.

“Cut her down,” He commanded Leto, and the elf moved to obey. Lifting the blade, it took but one strike for the hex to work, and the demon shrieked shrilly as she disintegrated. Another applause filled the air, the elf and the human woman behind them joining in, and Danarius stood once more, looking down at the Arena.

“Very nicely done,” he complimented, smirking, “Especially you, my dear Anders. I do love seeing you perform your magic.”

Anders refrained from telling his own father to sit on it.

“However, I am afraid my eyes do not deceive me. There are three contestants left within my arena. I expect only one to walk out of here alive.”

Ander's anger turned to disbelief, and he looked over at Leto, who looked just as shaken by what was being proposed. The elf spun around, looking at the other two, his blade still held tight in his hand.

“No,” He whispered almost pleadingly, and Anders rushed to end it before it could even begin.

“Enough, father! We have our Champion. I am done with the bloodshed. Let him be mine already!” He begged, invoking the adoration of the crowd to lean on his side. Danarius frowned at this, knowing full well what Anders was doing. Leto looked at the mage as well, surprised and confused, but ultimately grateful for the attempt.

“The rules are rules, my boy. Only one Champion per Game. If you wish the elf to be yours, he will have to kill the others.” Danarius sneered, then, and he proposed a question to no one in particular, “For what kind of guard would he be if he were not able to kill even those he is familiar with to keep you safe?”

The crowd seemed to murmur in agreement, and that murmur became an endless chant, demanding the elf finish the game and kill the remaining contestants.

Briala frowned and dropped her daggers, lowering herself onto her knees and bowing her head, resigned to her fate. The elf boy hesitated at first, but ultimately did the same, though he twitched and shook in fear. They were giving up, giving their lives to Leto so that he may come out as victor. At the sight, Leto suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He mentally reprimanded himself, knowing it had been a bad idea to show an interest in the others as they celebrated their final night alive. It would have been so much easier had he never made their acquaintance.

But he had to do this. He needed to come out on top. If he didn't, then he would die instead. He gripped his sword tightly, then sucked in a strong breath and began marching towards them. Briala closed her eyes and the elf began to cry, shaking even harder. Anders took a few steps after Leto, but stopped a distance away, not wanting to watch.

“I am sorry,” Leto said to them, and the elf cried harder. Leto walked behind them, keeping his actions hidden, and he raised his blade above his head, the tip of the sword aimed down. He brought it down on the elf first, piercing him in a swift move, only to have to use his foot to wrench the thing out of him so he could kill Briala.

As he stood behind her, Leto whimpered out again, “I am so sorry...” and he lifted his blade once more.

“I forgive you.” Briala replied to him, halting Leto's movements for a moment longer, but the sword fell upon her, too, killing her quickly. When he tore the blade from her body, the crowd cheered again, but Leto felt dizzy. He dropped his blade, took a step towards Anders, then fainted, collapsing to the ground with only Anders' shout to follow him into the Fade.