redwesteinde:

atelier-dayz:

starrose17:

He had heard of sacrifices to these ancient Gods, Gods that ruled over the darkened land beyond the Northern boarder, yet never had he seen one in person, and never a human sacrifice.

Quintus had his men to lead, to find a way back home through this unforgiving land, but could he just walk on by as this young man was left to the darkness? To be tormented and killed by fellow humans, or maybe just left to the savagery of the land, to unknown beasts pulsating for blood to appease those cruel Gods.

He looked to his men moving onwards across the hills, not one of them noticing this poor human boy - man, tied by ropes to the stone alter, feebly struggling against his restraints, his remaining strength seeping away into the freezing winds. How long had he been left there? How long would it be until his clan returned to finish him off? Or before the wolves would tear him to shreds?

The conflict on what actions should be taken did not last long.

Quintus was a Roman, these Gods did not rule over him.

Leto had been struggling for hours against the ropes tethering him to the altar. He hadn’t chosen this fate; he didn’t hold faith in the Gods like his people did. He knew the Gods held no interests in the affairs of humans. His sacrifice would be in vain, and he had no desire to die, to be starved and left to the wolves. He couldn’t die - simply couldn’t - not while his sister, his dear sister, remained trapped under the rule of the elders.

But the ropes held tight, every tug chaffing and stinging the skin on his wrists and ankles until they were bloody. 

His strength was leaving him as steadily as the sun was setting. The winds brought a chill to his lungs, sucked the warmth from his bones, and raised the gooseflesh on his bare skin. How much longer did he have before his body succumbed to the cold?

The ropes refused to give.

He was going to die there.

He was going to die and never see Ghani again —

— Like a vision, a man appeared, running to the alter, towards him. At first, he thought he was hallucinating, the cold finally getting to his head, but then the man bent over him and pressed a callused hand to his chest, and that single touch sent a rush through Leto’s body and stilled his movements.

This man was real. And this man was - different.

“I am setting you free,” the man said, his voice low and accented. 

And Leto didn’t say anything in return - couldn’t find the words - as the man pulled a knife from his belt and cut him free from his bindings.

The man was freezing to the touch, his limbs trembling as the ropes slackened in their restraint.

He appeared dazed as Quintus eased him into sitting, his eyes, blue as any sky, blinking confusedly up at him from beneath gritty lashes. It was only now, the saved sacrifice unbound before him, that Quintus realized the repercussions of his actions. He had released him, yes, but to what end? He may risk the wroth of foreign Gods but he could not subject their fury, if there was to be any, upon his own men. He’d promised them home. This stranger could not travel with them and the obvious signs of the first stirrings of fever evident in the flush of his cheeks; if Quintus left him to his own survival he should not have bothered at all to cut him free.

Withdrawing his winter cloth that he tucked away earlier from his satchel, he draped the thick material around the man’s shaking shoulders who continued to look at Quintus as if he were nothing but an illusion, a cruel trick sent by the Gods he’s been so viciously tied down for.

Quintus took one last look over at his men just now beginning to vanish over the rise of a hill before turning back to the small man on the alter; decision made.