Epilogue

Varania

Varania never made it into the Coliseum. Despite her best efforts she was simply too far back in the crowd to have had any chance of reaching the arena before the large inner doors were barred against her. She stood, wedged into the stinking, disappointed crowd and screamed and cursed at the top of her lungs, her anguish lost in the pandemonium surrounding her.

She had only left the manor some twenty minutes behind Callum, but without access to the chase she had been forced to walk into the city, and by the time she had reached the theatre district and the towering walls of the Coliseum the whole of Minrathous seemed to have descended. And so she was forced to endure the buffeting of crowd, grasping onto any relayed information about the battle that was being waged, unknowingly to Varania, for her freedom.

Poor Varania. For the first time in her life she had exactly what she wanted: she was the epicentre of one of the largest and most anticipated events in the recent history of Minrathous; she was finally important. And yet all she could do, once her voice had given out and her tears had dried in streaks on her pale cheeks, was replay in her mind again and again the argument she had engineered with Callum that morning. The argument that had caused him to leave without her, and to now be fighting for his life and hers alone, not knowing that she was there with him, that she was sorry for everything, and that she loved him.

Over and over again she saw herself with him, only this time she was different. She was calmer and less afraid, she spoke to him about her fears and persuaded him to run with her, before Hadriana and the rest of the manor awoke, instead of crying and screaming and insulting him, forcing him further away from herself when all she wanted was for him to take her in his arms and run. I'll never feel his arms around me again…. I'll never smell his skin… I never knew… I'll never hear his voice… I'm alone, I'm alone…

And when she heard the scream of disbelief and misery echoing through the thick stone walls of the arena, out over the heads of the crowd and into the labyrinthine streets of the city, she knew she was right.

It was in the early hours of the next morning she returned to Egidius' manor, not, to her shame, because she realised that her mother had been there alone for hours, but because she was brought. She had been pushed and pulled by the crowd as they exited the Coliseum, and it had seemed easier to her then to allow it. She had ended up miles from the theatre district, in an area of the city she didn't know and didn't care to. She had walked, lost and dumbstruck, until the city guard had finally picked her up and taken her to the lost property cells. From there she had, after some investigation, been returned to the manor.

Hadriana had signed for her, and Varania was dimly surprised to find the other woman at home. For some reason she had expected Hadriana to be out celebrating, though she was unsure why she had thought such a thing. Hadriana had lost as well, hadn't she?

Varania followed the other woman as she led her through the house and into the room that had once served as Egidius' office. She had never been in here before, and was momentarily startled out of her gloom by the unexpected cosiness of the space. Egidius had never really taken any notice of her, and he had always appeared to her to be little more than a bumbling old man with a faintly ridiculous desire for a woman many years his junior. But now she was standing in his private rooms she wondered if she had made another mistake in not trying to know him more.

The walls were lined with bookcases, each filled with books that had obviously been well-read and well-loved, if their tattered spines were any indication. Small tables were dotted like islands around the room, some set with silver framed miniatures of landscapes or still-lifes, while others had bowls of winter fruits that begged to be eaten. A warm fire burned merrily in the grate, and large, overstuffed chairs beckoned invitingly to be sat in, and when Hadriana waved Varania towards the chairs nearest the fire she sank gratefully into its softness.

Varania watched the flames, lost in her own thoughts, until Hadriana coughed gently and offered her a glass of wine. The two women sat in silence, each thinking about what they had lost.

"Did you see him fall?" Varania asked eventually, her voice flat.

"I did not. I couldn't watch…"

"Oh."

The fire crackled and popped, the orange flames dancing for an audience that was paying them no attention.

"He knew he was going to lose, did you know?" Hadriana asked after a moment, holding her wine glass in her uninjured hand. A small sound, somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, escaped from Varania, but Hadriana, merciless as ever, continued. "He did it for you. He died for you. After the attack, I went to visit him in the infirmary. All he wanted was a life for you, and he believed that the arena was the best and fastest way to achieve it. And now he's dead."

"Why are you telling me this?" Varania asked.

"Because I made him a promise that if he died, I would ensure that you and your mother where taken care of."

Varania looked at the other woman in such horror that Hadriana couldn't help but laugh. "Calm yourself. I do not want you – Maker, if I never see you again it would be too soon. You, your mother, Callum, your… I wish I had never set eyes on the whole damnable lot of you. But we must play that hand we are dealt, mustn't we? Slightly wretched when we have in fact been the one to deal ourselves out of the game, but c'est la vie, as the Orleasians say.

"I have signed the papers to free you and your mother from the House. Did you know Callum never had you registered? Most vexing. It took much longer as I had to both register and then release you both, and frankly I would have rather spent this evening in a tavern. I have arranged for you to be indentured to Magister Ahriman in Qarinus. He is a young man, with radical views on the treatment of elves, and will look after you in a manner that I believe Callum would have wished for."

"But I don't understand… I don't want to… I want to go back to my family…"

Hadriana sighed heavily, tired and annoyed. But a Magister never lies, and she had told Callum she would see Varania and her mother safe. "Your family is gone. How do you think you would find them? To the void, girl, how do you imagine you would travel through the Imperium, with your mother gibbering at your side and no master to vouch for you? Do you expect me to accompany you on you darling quest to regain your past? No. Callum died for you today, to protect you from such an undertaking. The very least you can do now is see that his sacrifice was not in vein."

Varania shuddered as Hadriana spoke, each word out of the bitch's mouth like a punch. By the time Hadriana had finished, Varania was broken.

"You and your mother will be taken by coach in the morning. I suggest you finish your wine and begin to pack. Take anything you want – there is nothing here I wish to keep. There is just one more thing," Hadriana said as Varania stood to leave. "I require that you sign this note, stating that you and your mother have both received your freedom, and have been delivered with due care and attention to your new home."

Hadriana produced a rolled sheet of vellum, which she passed to Varania. Varania walked to the desk, surprised how new it was in a room of well-loved antiques, and then wondered why she had noticed such a pointless detail when her whole life was crashing down around her. She unrolled the scroll, and was surprised to see it was written in basic Elvhen. For a moment she sensed something else, something more than Hadriana was telling her… but then realised she simply didn't care, and signed her name. Hadriana took the scroll from her, and tucked away in her robe. She then produced yet another scroll, this one sealed with a shiny blob of wax.

"This is also for you. There is information in here that I wish you to have. Do not try to open it now; you can't. The seal will break once you arrive in Qarinus. Well, good-bye Varania."

Varania watched as Hadriana walked out of the office and, Maker willing, out of her life. She stood for a moment in front of the fire, Hadriana's scroll held loosely in her hands. For the briefest of moments Varania contemplated throwing it into the fire, if only to watch it burn. But then she decided against it. She had lost enough, and perhaps… perhaps there was something from Callum written there, a final message that she could keep and hold and have.

The next day Varania and Aryion were taken to their new lives as free women.

Hadriana

Hadriana left immediately to deliver Varania's affidavit to Denarius. She took the chase, into which she had piled her dearest possessions: her bronze mirror, her jewellery, her staff and runes; she left her books and most of her clothes. Egidius had not been poor, and had in his desire thoroughly spoilt her, but his wealth was nothing compared to the riches that would be available to her as Denarius' daughter and apprentice.

Daughter. Maker how that word stuck in her throat.

She worried over her misfortunes like a broken tooth. Here she was, on her way to move in with the only person, other than herself, that was worthy of her love and he was disgustingly infatuated with a wild, savage knife-ear. When Hadriana thought about Leto her hatred would rise like vomit from deep within her, tangible and corrosive and wholly pernicious. It was his fault that Denarius couldn't see her for what she was; it was his fault that she had gambled and lost everything; it was his fault that she was feeling, for the first time, inconsequential and second rate.

Over and over again her humiliations tumbled across her mind, her self-pity prowling and circling and never, ever being sated. The way he had looked at it as it lay unconscious on the bed, the hunger in his eyes and the flush to his face… Hadriana's jaw was clenched so tightly her teeth began to hurt, and still she couldn't stop torturing herself.

The small coach rattled and bounced its way through the milky light of dawn towards the city and her new home. Hadriana closed the curtains against the morning, refusing to acknowledge a world that had disappointed her so much. She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she was shuddered and shocked by the bumpy cobbles, and eventually she settled for staring dully at the pattern on the opposite cushion seat. It had been one of Egidius' choosing, and Hadriana had never cared for it. He had always chosen the old styles, those that had been popular in his youth.

When he had bought Hadriana her own littler she had gone hell for leather in the opposite direction, scatting soft Orlesian cushions over the seats and draping the lacquered wooden frame in the thin, translucent material from Nevarra that was so popular now. Not for her the bulky Imperium upholstery nor the heavy Ferelden style curtains that blocked out the light and constantly smelled of damp and dust.

Dust. Is that what my life is to be now, a dusty shadow of something that had promised so much?

No, she was not a creature of the past, of regret or sentiment. She was, and always would be, the woman who had connived and wheedled and fought her way into the greatest House in the whole of The Imperium.

What did it matter if she hadn't achieved her exact desire? She still had so much, and there was yet more accolades and treasures to be had. And then she remembered the letter she had sent Varania away with, and she pictured the shock and pain on her disgusting, inhuman face as she read that it had been her very own flesh and blood that had murdered her lover, and consigned her to a life of drudgery and poverty, of sexual harassment and beatings. It pleased Hadriana to think that, at least somewhere in the world, there might be someone who hated Leto as much as she did.

Her only regret was that, if Denarius was right about the side effects of the lyrium branding, she would not be able to torture the elf with his sister's misery. But then, she reasoned, there are sure to be other ways to punish him for taking what should have been mine.

Hadriana listened only to the echoes of her mind; she was walled in by her own furious inhumanity and ego, protected and imprisoned by her own indomitable sense of self-worth. By the time she arrived at Denarius' townhouse she was, and always would be, herself again.

Hadriana smiled.

Denarius

Denarius put on the simple linen robes on for the last time, and stepped quickly down the staircase to his basement laboratory, the same room that had for decades seen so many of his failures. He held Varania's scroll tightly in his hands, and even then he still kept checking to make sure he hadn't somehow managed to tear it or lose it.

Thankfully he managed to reach the cool landing without somehow the scroll spontaneously combusting or being torn to confetti by a sudden manifestation of demonic silverfish, eventualities that in his heightened state seemed not impossible. He paused for a moment by the door to catch his breath and smooth down the lines of his robe, and then, his heart hammering in his chest, he pushed the door open and, for the final time, became Tiberius.

Leto was standing by his desk, his body naked and completely shaven, leafing casually through one of his many notebooks. When he heard the door he turned quickly, his whole posture suddenly defensive and wary. But then his face broke momentarily into a smile as he recognised his friend. Denarius resisted the urge to swallow, and instead allowed himself a small smile in return.

"I have been looking through these books. I can't understand the words, but the pictures are more than adequate – quite alarmingly so. It seems that this procedure is… complex?" Leto asked, drifting back to the operating table. He jumped up onto it, and sat, swinging his long legs backwards and forwards absently. Denarius thought about what Varania had told him about the nature of the vallaslin and those who must submit to it, and couldn't help but compare the image of Leto kicking his legs like a child to the bound and screaming subjects he had worked on in the past. And then he knew, at that exact moment he knew.

It's going to work.

"Yes… It's difficult to work the lyrium. And the magic requires a great deal of focus, of course," he replied, moving to sit next the elf and then deciding against it.

"But I will be in good hands."

"Yes," Denarius reassured him quickly. "I have the letter from your sister, as you requested. You're quite sure you don't want to see her?" Denarius asked, knowing already that Leto would refuse. He had, after all, spent the better part of half a year imbedding in the elf such a vast sense of guilt and shame that he would be prevented from ever wanting to see anyone from his old life ever again. But he had to be seen to ask, and so he did. Leto shook his head, as Denarius had known he would.

Denarius paused for a moment, running a few sentences through his mind as he sought for the right phrase to help urge the elf onwards. But after a second he reached a decision, and simply handed the scroll to the boy. He was, he knew, so very good at solving puzzles, and this last little hurdle was just another problem to be worked through. He was, in fact, enjoying himself immensely.

He watched Leto as he painstakingly read the note, his full lips moving along as he sounded out each syllable and phoneme. He didn't offer to help. Instead he thought about everything that had happened to lead him here, to be in this room now with not only his heart's desire but also his life's work and felt, in his cold and analytical way, how miraculous life was. Everything fitted together so neatly, if only you had the will to see it.

After an agonisingly long time for such a short and perfunctory note, Leto finished reading and handed the scroll silent back. His leg had stopped their swinging, and he went to run his hand over his hair and then pulled away in shock when he felt the slightly clammy texture of skin against his palm.

Something flitted across Leto's face, some emotion that he couldn't read or understand, and he realised that he needed to act now, before whatever sensation the elf was experiencing took root and jeopardised his destiny.

And, as anyone who knew anything knew, nothing ever stopped Denarius.

Leto

Tiberius walked through the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts, all of which were unwanted and unwelcome.

After about ten minutes he returned again with another, extremely beautiful, human woman, and a large bag that clinked when he set it down. Leto watched as the woman began to empty the bag of its contents, placing a series of metal and stone devices onto the table next to him, each one more intricate and disturbing than the last. When she had finished she moved quickly away from him, and Leto suddenly had the sense that, if she could have done, she would have driven each sharp, evil little tool into his body.

He looked across at Tiberius, who sent him a reassuring smile as he began to light a fire in the large furnace that occupied one whole corner of the room.

"Will this hurt?" Leto asked, already knowing the answer, but suddenly needing the distraction of conversation.

Tiberius glanced at the woman, who tramped over and began fanning the flames. He left her there, sulkily working the bellows, and came and stood next to him.

"Yes, it will," he said gently, and his voice softened and Leto felt himself relax. "But you won't remember," Tiberius continued, gently easing Leto back onto the table. Leto tensed for just a second, and then remembered that he was safe, and that Tiberius would never do anything to hurt him. It never really crossed Leto's mind to question his beliefs – it would have been easier for a fish to question the sea. It was just something that he knew, in the same way he knew that his sister would never forgive him for forcing her into slavery, or that his mother would never forgive him for letting Gideon die, or Cassandra for leaving her that morning on the dock.

It will be good to forget.

He lay back on the bed, only dimly away as Tiberius began to strap him down. Instead he concentrated on the other man's voice; it was almost impossible for him not to, in fact. There was something there that just made him feel better, something about Tiberius that made him want to be with the other man, and to listen to him, and to believe him.

Everything is going to be alright.

"Everything is going to be alright," Tiberius whispered to him. Leto, now strapped down by his neck, wrists, ankles and midriff, nodded. The worst is over. "The worst is over," he heard the other man say, echoing his own thoughts. Tiberius knew him so well, he understood him better than anyone else had ever done. Tiberius was going to save him, to take away all his pain and misery and confusion and give him a new life and a new purpose.

Leto closed his eyes, and listening to the sound of his heart beating. Dimly he was aware of a hushed conversation between Tiberius and the beautiful, angry woman, but he could neither hear nor did he care what they were saying.

"Are you ready?" Tiberius asked him.

"Yes," Leto replied without hesitation. "Take it all away."

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

Five hours later, Leto died…

…Fenris woke screaming, his every nerve howling along to his own ragged voice in burning pain. It was all he knew, all the he had ever been. It was him. White hot lashes of molten agony whipped his body into a pulp until there was no way to know where he ended and the pain began. Was there even such a thing as 'him', or was he only a host to the living, breathing beast the ripped and tore him to pieces? There was nothing… nothing…else…

…and the air was cold and hard against his skin, and it burned him and stung him and he thought for one moment that he would bite through his tongue if his teeth didn't stop chattering, his fingers and toes and, oh Maker, every part of his body was so, so, so cold and it scorched him and he would die… he wouldn't die….

Fenris sat in his mansion, watching the flames as they flickered and died, until only the smallest sliver of a spark danced across the charred wood. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but the sky outside his window had taken on the bruised orange of the dawn and he knew that in a few hours he would need to go and speak to Hawke, to once again ask for his help.

And would the other man agree? They had barely spoken to each other in months, and now he was going to ask him to come with him when he met his sister. He wasn't sure what terrified him more, finally meeting someone who could help him put to rest the whispery threads of his memories or the fact that Hawke, now so entangled in the Mage Underground, might refuse him.

He pushed his head back against the soft cushion, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had been awake all night, and still he hadn't managed to reach any kind of conclusion. It was unbearable. Is this how everyone lives? Always questioning themselves and the people around them? He asked himself bitterly, angry at a world that demanded so much from him that he didn't know how to give. Is this what it means to be free?

To be free. Hawke had told him once that he although he may no longer be in chains, he was certainly not free.

Fenris stood and stretched, reaching his arms high above his head and splaying his fingers. It felt good to use his body. And maybe that was it? Maybe that was the freedom he needed. He padded over to the fireplace and stabbed absently at the smouldering wood. Could it be, he thought as he watched the embers fly up and around him in crazy patterns, that freedom is not so different from the fire? Dangerous and terrible if left to its own devices, but squashed and neutered if smothered? The fire needs to be tended, it needs to be shaped or else it ceases to be a fire…

He stared at the wood as it slowly cooled from burning white to amber and red.

If no one cares for the fire it becomes a blaze, a tragedy, harming anyone that stands in its way. Just like me. I cannot survive on my own… I need friendship, family… love… to stop me from burning out of control. It doesn't make me weak, and it doesn't mean I will burn those who tend me. Yet, if the fire is guarded too jealously, if it is over fanned or too much wood is placed on it, it ceases to burn. It is no longer a fire. It's just so much dead wood, slowly cooling down until all that is left is ashes. This is what Denarius did to me… he controlled my life to the point where I was no longer alive. I had no function without him, he was the wood that I clung to, the air that I fed off. I thought for years he loved me, and I loved him. But that can't have been true. If he had loved me he wouldn't have punished me to protect his reputation, he wouldn't have forced me to do the things he did, he wouldn't have let Hadriana torture and abuse me… if he had loved me he would have let live freely, he would have listened to me and argued with me and not simply told me how much I needed him, but also how much he needed me…

And then Fenris though about Hawke, and for the first time in a long time he smiled, a small wicked smile that spoke of a great reservoir of happiness just below the surface, a smile that reached his eyes.

The End

Thank-you everyone who has been reading this story, and to everyone who has left a comment. I've never written before and it has been certainly one the most immense and fantastic experience and challenge. I highly recommended it!

If you can spare a few minutes, I would love to know what you think now it is finished. I am going to write an *original* story for NaNoWriMo and it would be genuinely fantastic to get your feedback/constructive criticism.

And finally – phew! – if you have enjoyed the story please share it with others