Chapter 1
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Saarebas.
Such a strange little word, from a language I never knew existed before I came to this place. What does it make you think of? A flower perhaps? Some kind of dish cooked by a long forgotten tribe in some inaccessible part of the world?
It's got a nice sound, and a good rhythm, it's a pleasant word to say. It rolls of the tongue, as they say.
Such an innocent little word.
How I hated it.
Slave. That's what it means. Prisoner. Dangerous beast, approach at your peril. Ha! You can just see it now, cant you? "Do not feed the Saarebas! He will bite." Like some animal in a zoo.
The horned bastards gave me this name when they found me. I can't remember how long ago. They saw I had magic and chained me, leashed me, labelled me and enslaved me.
And oh! How well they do it The heavy collar around my neck, the chains that bind it to my hands and feet, and that godforsaken rod! I can do nothing while they wield it. I am nothing but a tool for their use, nothing but a plaything for their desires, a pet of the Arvaarad.
The bastards.
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Today the slaughter began. The Saarebas were released to fight the enemy of the horny race. And, wouldn't you know it, they're wizards!
The irony.
Fighting free wizards with your own slave army of wizards. Whatever you can say about my captors you got to admit they know irony.
I lost track of the people I've killed. Hundreds? Thousands? Who can say? I am just a tool of the Arvaarad. They point and say kill and I kill. I can do nothing else. The damn collar and rod control me.
I cannot even feel remorse for lives I had ended, nor the places I have destroyed. Unless Arvaarad will it I am nothing but their puppet.
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I have had many Arvaarads. This is unusual.
A Saarebas without an Arvaarad is supposed to be killed. But they cannot kill me. They have tried. Many times. It is impossible.
I have had many Arvaarads. I cannot recall their faces. Some were cold, some were brutal, some were dutiful, some were cruel, but they all form one face in my mind, the horned face of my keepers, my tormentors.
I do not mourn the death of an Arvaarad, I welcome it.
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The hope of freedom has dwindled. The long years have passed uncounted. I stopped counting them many seasons ago.
I have almost forgotten who I was – who I am. It was so long ago, a different world.
When I dream I see faces, shadows of the life I once lived, the people I once knew, the friends I loved and fought for. I grasp at these memories as though they are a lifeline, a thing to keep me sane in my unending torment, and perhaps they are
I often wonder what happened to them. I'm sure I must have known once but it was so long ago.
So very long ago…
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Such a battle! I have not seen it's like in many seasons.
The walls were strong, the city seemingly impregnable. It's defenders stout and brave, flinging themselves ceaselessly against our host. Brave, but futile.
Our numbers were fewer, but our magic was stronger. Within a night the mighty city falls, its people enslaved and converted, and my hands soak in blood. I shall never be free of it.
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My new Arvaarad is odd. The strangest one I have ever had.
In public he is what an Arvaarad is supposed to be. Controlling, cold, even cruel to his charge, yet he spends the late hours of the evening talking to me, telling me about his life, all his hopes and fears, all his doubts.
I have never known one like it.
It is bizarre, but not unwelcome. I like him.
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It is a crumb of comfort to me to realise that even after all this time, a slave to the horned demons I call my masters, that I still do not understand their culture and way of life.
A small act of rebellion perhaps, but one which I embrace with open arms.
My Arvaarad tried to teach me the ways of his people. Heh, it was a battle lost before it began.
He was not the first to fail, and I doubt he will be the last.
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I have a new name, so I am told.
My Arvaarad, ever the gossip, informs me that I am called the Ancient One
I have, I am told, outlived many of their leaders, and none can remember a time when I was not here. What records they have of me can be traced back to the Tevinter Imperium.
If I knew what that meant I might be impressed.
None speak this name openly, for officially I am Saarebas and nothing more, but there is a fear behind that name. What manner of creature am I that I am undying? They fear to know the answer and hide or avert their gaze when I am near.
My Arvaarad seems to treat this as a badge of honour. For both of us. Foolish Arvaarad.
He does not know that this means they will only try harder to kill me.
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My Arvaarad is dead. Killed by his own people, though ones who held different beliefs it seems
How strange it is that this man was my keeper, my tormentor who held the keys to my freedom but never used them, who kept me in bondage and used me as a tool, as a weapon, yet I am saddened by his death.
He was a kind person. Alone in all my memories of this place did he offer me any kind of friendship. I liked him, and I shall mourn him.
Death is familiar to me after all these years, but even so I am struck by how pitiable it is. One moment you live, the next you die. A light snuffed out in an instance, though not my own. I shall live forever, and I shall live in regret.
My Arvaarad seemed to know that, to understand it. He sought to help me accept this as my lot and live on according to the teachings of his religion. Another forlorn hope. Foolish Arvaarad.
It seems almost unworthy of him to remember him as Avaarad. He deserves more than a title to remember him by. I shall call him Phil the Inquisitive, bringer of conversation and gossip.
He would have hated that…
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Seasons come and seasons go and still I remain a slave.
Arvaarad after Arvaarad, battle after battle, death after death.
So the wheel turns yet still nothing changes.
Such is life.
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The rod is broken.
After all these years. Ha! After all these years hoping and dreaming of freedom I never thought it would come.
We were sailing to some far off land when we were attacked by pirates. I was released from my cell to fend them off and I had killed several of them when a knife struck Arvaarad's hand and forced him to drop the rod. In the melee it was smashed.
It is a wonder this never happened before, or perhaps its hold had been weakened over time and this was merely the breaking point.
I feel no compulsion, no force controlling my movements nor restricting my mind and body. And magic! Oh the magic! I feel it return to me in quantities I had forgotten possible. And all mine! Mine to control, mine to wield as I wish, when I wish, how I wish.
It is a rush.
I turn to Arvaarad. He is shouting his orders at me, invoking his people and their religion, demanding I fulfil my role and do his bidding. I hated him, as I hated all Arvaarad, and I did not mourn his death, I welcomed it, I instigated it.
I felt the magic stir the air, vibrating as it surrounded him, lifted him from the deck and tore him slow limb from limb, muscle from muscle, bone from bone, atom from atom, until there was nothing left. I let him feel every moment of it. A drop in the ocean to the suffering I have faced at their hands.
The pirates want to escape. They are frightened, just liked the horned bastards who cower from me having seen the fate of Arvaarad. I spare them a glance before turning to the remains of my horned captors. Their deaths are quick and my revenge is sated for the moment.
I feel my magic run along my body, breaking the chains that have marked my long years of slavery, I throw away the collar and raise my hand to my side. A knife is summoned to my grip, I use it to cut away the stitches which bind my lips shut – a fancy of my latest, no, my final Arvaarad - and take a deep breath.
"I am free"
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