#kid!dorian

Hissrad found Farad in what looked like a practice court, going through complex practice forms with a pole arm. The elf’s dark skin was flushed darker, his braid trailing behind him as he blazed through the motions. Dust rose in thin clouds everywhere his feet fell, particulate billowing around him in the still air.

“So that’s how it’s going to go, huh?” Hissrad snapped, losing no time. His anger seared hot in his chest. “Every little thing you hear, you run to the magister?”

Farad slowed just enough to catch Hissrad’s eye, his eyes darkening.  "That surprises you?“  Hissrad opened his mouth to respond; the elf did not give him time to do so, following the sweep of his weapon back across the ring. "I look after my own,” he growled, still spinning and striking, moving seamlessly from one strike to the next.  “You have yet to decide whether that includes you, and so have I.”

“That right?” Farad barked something that sounded like a ‘yes.’  “Isn’t that against the slave code?” “It is, but you are no slave, as you so frequently point out.” Farad snapped the weapon down, finishing the kata with a deadly flourish. His smile bared every one of his teeth, meeting Hissrad’s scowl inch for inch. “I have not been untruthful with you. Neither have I been unkind.”  He spat on the ground, chest still heaving from the effort of the practice dance.  "I may start.“

Hissrad shrugged his shoulders back, cracked his neck side to side, feeling tension build on the air like a static charge.  This. This was what he needed, a good throw down to settle his nerves after Dorian’s ignorant bullshit and Halward’s equally infuriating explanations.  Farad certainly seemed willing to oblige his need to fight, brown eyes nearly blazing as he rolled the stave through his fingers. "That a threat?”

“No. I do not make threats.” Farad’s tone bore no challenge; he stated it like fact. “I find I do not need to.” Hissrad barked a laugh at that, his own back straightening as he felt the familiar warmth of battle seeping into his bones, sharpening the sights and sounds around him as his senses keyed into full responsiveness.  Farad tossed him a different practice weapon: a two handed sword, blade dulled but obviously well made. It was weighted perfectly and it cleared the fugue in his head, having a weapon in his hand again. A weapon was a tool that had one use, clarity of purpose symbolized. There was a simplicity in a weapon one rarely found anywhere else.

The weight of it shook loose his tongue, as well as his arrogance. "Big words, old man.” “When have you known me to mince words, little calf? It is the truth. Now come,” Farad fell back into a ready stance, feet bladed shoulder width apart on the opposite side of the ring. His smile was unkind. “It is high time we sparred again, don’t you agree?”  Hissrad grunted an affirmative, hefting his practice sword to his shoulder. “Three rounds.”  Farad was nearly humming with tension now, Hissrad could see it in his shoulders, in the bobbing of his weight before they’d even attacked. Still Farad waited for Hissrad’s agreement, the smallest nod of his head.

Farad exploded into motion, staff leveled perpendicular to the ground and gripped in one hand. He leapt sharply right to avoid Hissrad’s first sweeping swing, the blade whistling as it sliced the air behind him. Again he swung and again Farad dodged, twice then three times more. Hissrad squared his feet, rotating to meet the next follow-up to his strike, anticipating one of the flourishes Farad typically used when rapidly changing direction.

The error made itself known as pain blossomed in Hissrad’s jaw, a straightforward jab that brought the butt of the pole arm to meet the juncture of bone. The weapon wasn’t bladed, thankfully, but the weight of it still shot stars into Hissrad’s vision and snapped his head back. Before he could correct the imbalance in his weight he felt the heavy wooden pole crack into the back of his knees. Hissrad buckled, landing on his ass in the dirt.

“First round, mine.”

“Someone’s pissy today,” Hissrad growled, irritated he’d fallen so fast.  He’d expected Farad to fight less cleanly, given the clear influence of his emotions on his form.  Rather than an influx of mistakes, however, the elf had simply cut out the flow out of his normal style. Moves meant for redirecting energy and inertia had become choppy, jabs rather than sweeps and spins.  “‘The fuck crawled up your ass and died?”

“How pathetic that you have to ask.” Farad shot back.

“You can’t be this mad over what I said to the ‘vint.”  Farad made a feral sound low in his throat and launched himself forward; Hissrad, barely back to his feet, rushed to defend. When he’d managed to trip the elf and break the assault he stepped back, eyes wide. “Holy shit, seriously? You’re defending your owner from the big bad Qunari? Shit. You’re a loyal dog, I’ll give you that.”

Farad came at him, diving, striking, attack after attack that left no room for quarter.  His blows were fierce, his swings deliberate. Frenzied. The elf was always fast but this was different, a rabid channeling of something far deeper. It took him from ‘light on his feet’ to 'utter force of nature’ and frankly, fighting against the lightning-fast elf wielding a 6 foot pole arm, Hissrad found himself outclassed on speed.

Utterly outclassed, if his inability to land a solid hit was any indication. He nicked Farad as the man darted about, glancing blows with blade or fist that would do little more than bruise. Hissrad opted to play it conservative, forcing Farad to get closer and initiate repeatedly, his bare feet digging into the pounded dirt of the ring each time he leapt. He had to get the man to fall into a pattern so he could break into a weak moment, knock him off balance as his guard fell, but that proved difficult.  They circled and struck as the minutes stretched on, the breeze dying down. Both fighters made no sound beyond their heavy breathing; the low thud of each block; the small, guttural noises as each of their attempts to advance was rebuffed.

Farad took the second round as well, breaking the pattern of attack and riposte when he abandoned all pretense of a clean fight and dove, rolling past as Hissrad’s sword point stabbed into the ground. The Qunari snarled as a heavy pull on one horn dragged him sideways and down, the rest of his weight forced to follow as Farad dropped him like a rogue steer.  The imagery wasn’t lost on Hissrad. Instead of getting angrier, though, he deflected the surge of emotion right back at Farad.

“You really are pissed off, aren’t you? All because I told the kid the fucking truth?” Hissrad sneered, thus initiating round three.  Farad’s face flushed darker with more than just adrenaline as the two resumed, more bursts of purple and black blooming on both.

“This whole thing is bullshit,” Hissrad taunted, backing out of attack range. “They own you. Own you, treat you and your family like animals, and you…what, you actually care about their fucking kid? Why the hell should he matter? Never mind his poor feelings.”  The elf launched himself at Hissrad with a vengeance but still he kept back, blocking and moving away.  Farad couldn’t get in close enough to connect. “You mad that I fucked up your little illusion? Or are you just upset that I called you on enjoying it?”

Farad bared his teeth and struck too low, and Hissrad saw his chance: he kicked, knocking Farad back, and followed the motion with a horizontal swing. The heavy blade was a blur; Farad shifted his grip, hands parting to let the staff take the blow rather than his fingers.

The heavy CRACK of the stave snapping in two echoed like a gaatlok blast, sharp and loud.  Hissrad roared and pressed his advantage, swinging again and bearing down on the smaller man. Farad danced away, using the the halves of the staff to knock Hissrad’s blows wide until one sweep allowed Hissrad to get a step too close.  He pulled back on the greatsword and let go with his left hand, snagging Farad’s wrist as the elf countered with a right-handed swing.  Hissrad clutched hard and yanked his arm up and back, Farad’s entire self following. One half of the staff fell unheld to the dirt.

A second crack split the air as Farad slammed to the ground. His arm snapped, twisted awkwardly under him; the disconcerting force of the break reverberated to Hissrad through his fingers. He felt as well as heard the bone break and he let go, stepping back as Farad gasped an invective. The wrenching twist in his gut actually gave Hissrad pause, slicing through his anger.

There was no such delay from his opponent.  Farad was back upon him in a breath, working arm slamming into Hissrad’s stomach. The air fled his lungs and he bent double, just in time for the follow-up hit to catch him in the side of the head.  He grunted and toppled sideways, falling gracelessly, even though he rolled through it. The inertia of the roll brought him instantly back up. By the time his eyes were, though, he was a hand’s breadth from a charging elf.  Farad’s knee caught Hissrad center mass and took them both back to the ground in a pile of limbs and a cloud of dust.

One of Hissrad’s arms wound up pinned beneath them. Farad’s knees spanned his chest, the remaining staff piece poised at Hissrad’s throat like an assassin’s blade.  Farad panted on top of him, dark skin going pale with pain, and Hissrad felt, of all things, a moment of uncertainty. Not anger. Something else, something he couldn’t quite place as Farad stared down his nose at him, face twisted by disgust. “What I am or am not matters little. What you are, matters little. All the finesse and training in Thedas mean nothing when you cannot see past your own hate. Skill and brilliance and potential, all wasted.” He gathered his legs under him and stepped back, letting Hissrad sit up. “Loyal or not, slave or not. Let the anger rule you and you will pay for it.” Hissrad’s eyes drifted to Farad’s left arm, tucked protectively to his torso. Farad beat him–always beat him, even though Hissrad was fast and talented. He knew the elf’s style, knew how he moved, and yet…

Very suddenly he realized two things: for one, Farad was talking to himself just as much as he was Hissrad. For two, either way, he had a fucking point. That made something sour in Hissrad’s stomach, the clarity this owned man seemed to have that he, a freeman and agent of the Qun did not.

"You seem distracted today," Hissrad heard, jolted from his thoughts. He turned to find Dorian watching him. It was not one of the boy's better days: he'd been dozing more than he’d been reading the heavy tome Halward had brought him to study, and hadn't left his bed all day.  His skin was washed out, pale and peaked, and his eyelids were already drooping even though he'd just woken up.  

Hissrad didn’t see any of that, not this this time. The lax nature of the boy's routine was just one more source of accelerant, fanning flames from the embers of his festering irritation. There were children on Seheron at risk daily from attacks that Hissrad wasn't stopping because he was stuck in Qarinus.

Here. Because of this child, his fucking parents, and the collar around Hissrad’s throat.

"Is there something wrong?" Dorian persisted. "Yeah," Hissrad growled, all ten fingers curling in anger. Dorian tipped his head a little, confused and waiting for the rest. "Okay, so...can I...?" "You," Hissrad snapped, "You are my problem. You and your kind. I am not meant for this, a pet for some magister and his brat. I have a role and a purpose, neither of which are here." The sleepiness faded from Dorian's face rather quickly, open surprise taking its place.

"I didn't know you are so unhappy here." "Happy? Happy?! No one is happy to be a slave, Dorian! People are not property!" Dorian swallowed hard and dropped his gaze, his book all but forgotten as his hands knotted into his blankets. "Our servants aren't--" "Your servants aren't servants," Hissrad snapped. There was little for Dorian to do about it, perhaps, but his complacency and birthright meant he was part of the problem rather than its solution."Your slaves are furniture by the logic Tevinter uses. Why would I want that? Why would anyone want that?" "I...I don't know." "You're right, you don't," Hissrad felt his nails digging into the meat of his hands and did not care. "You don't know, and you don't care. So long as the little mage has what he wants, who cares that everyone in the house is just a tool for him and his parents to use and throw away?"

For several long moments Dorian didn’t answer, didn’t look up, didn’t do anything save stare at his fists, all the twisting emotion of moments before gone from his face. “I think I’m tired,” Dorian said finally, tucking his book onto his nightstand with a hand that shook, “I should...maybe take a nap.”  He wriggled himself down into his blankets and rolled over, his back to Hissrad.

Hissrad wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t for Dorian to curl into a ball and not make a sound. Somehow the dismissal just made him angrier. Dorian was sleeping, clearly not at risk, so Hissrad headed for the hall, grateful to see Farad approaching. The elf’s eyes narrowed as he took in Hissrad’s body language, drawn and angry, and the lack of Dorian’s presence at his side.

“He’s sleeping,” Hissrad snapped, by way of explanation, “I have other things to do.”

“Consider yourself relieved, then,” Farad said simply, quirking an eyebrow in lieu of asking a question that Hissrad had no desire to answer.  “You may go in search of food or some exercise, if it pleases you.”

“I’ll be outside,” he growled and for once, cared not at all that the emotions were being broadcast clear as day. Farad saw them, certainly, but what did it matter?

No one much cared what a tool felt, anyway.

---

When Farad entered the young master’s bedroom, it was to find him in bed, much as Hissrad had claimed. The quiet sniffling told at least part of the story, as did the slight shake of the small form under the covers.

“Lord Dorian?” Farad stepped to the boy’s bedside, frowning as all the sounds stopped. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t feel well,” Dorian murmured. It was only half a lie, as Farad was certain that was true enough...but it also did not speak to his question and both of them knew it.  Leaning on the corner of the mattress Farad placed a hand on one small shoulder, feeling it quiver under his fingers.

“Is that all it is?”

“Yes.”  

“Dorian,” Farad’s tone brokered no argument; the boy allowed himself a small, miserable noise.

“...Do you hate me?” The elf’s hand fell still, gentle motions paused in his surprise.  

“What sort of nonsense is this?”  Dorian just sniffled and buried his face in his pillows, smothering a sob. Farad circled around the bed and knelt down.  “Dorian, come now. What’s this about?”

“Answer the question,” came the muffled demand, nearly as forceful as the gust of a spring sparrow’s wingbeat. Farad shook his head a bit, taking a moment to ask the Creators for strength, and leaned onto his folded arms, face not far from where Dorian’s was entombed in blankets.

“I do not hate you,” Farad supplied, voice firm and solemn.  Dorian shuddered, made another unhappy sound, and curled tighter around his pillow as though he could meld with it, should he apply himself to the task.

“...you have to say that.”

Farad allowed himself a small chuckle. “I need do no such thing.”

“Yes you do,” Dorian argued, finally lowering the pillow enough to squint at Farad, one reddened eye visible. “You’re my slave. You have to say what I want to hear.”

“I am your slave, true,” Farad agreed, reaching up to brush the flop of dark curls from Dorian’s forehead. The skin beneath his hand was hot with fever, “but I have no requirement to humor you, youngling. Nor did I humor your father, when he was my charge. I have never had to hold my tongue in service to your family, not within these walls, at least.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You...we own you--”

“Yes, but it is every altus’s job to lie to his fellows and tell them whatever falsehood is easiest. I am a servant as well as a confidant, Dorian. I have long told your father exactly what he did not wish to hear, simply because he needed to hear it.”

“That doesn’t mean you like me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because no one does.”

“Dorian--”

“I know I disappoint Mother and Father but I thought,” his voice cracked and he brushed Farad’s hand away with his own, scrubbing at fresh tears welling in his eyes, “-I thought that you and Miri and-” whoever else he thought to mention was swallowed by a sob, “-I thought maybe we were--” but the rest was lost as Dorian broke down crying in earnest again, sobs wracking his small frame. Running his hands through the boy’s hair just made him cry harder, as though every touch were a reminder of everything he didn't have. Farad allowed himself a small sigh, shifting to rub gentle motions on his back. Dorian hiccuped, curling himself into as tight a ball as he could; Farad just kept contact with him, soothing as best he could while the lad cried himself into an exhausted slumber.

Easing himself from the room with a frown, he called for Miri to ready some tea, and to keep an eye on the boy just in case. Dorian was sick in body--hardly new, though he’d been doing better--but the sickness in his heart, as large as it normally was, that was something else entirely.