"Can't you hold me up any higher?" your sister says, and you honestly consider dropping her.
You don't, of course, not least of which because Mother will box your ears if you pick a fight. But you think about it, grudgingly and with no small amount of resentment, as you redouble your grip on Varania's shins and, with a soft hup, hoist her further up your shoulders. She's eleven now, five full years younger than you, entirely too big to be riding around on her brother's shoulders. And yet still here you are, carrying her anyway, because you're a good brother.
(Also: she'll owe you for this).
It's Wintersend, a holiday even the slaves get to celebrate. Your master's son (soon to be the master himself, for his father is getting on in years) has given you all leave to do as you like for the day, and of course Varania immediately dragged you to the Proving Grounds in the amphitheater. It's where everyone is going today. What better way to celebrate the end of a long winter than to drink spiced cider and watch the mages fight? The elites sit in the marble seats surrounding the ring, sipping wine and treating this as nothing more than a social event, but everyone knows better. All the second sons and daughters, bred only to be sure there was an heir in the family, need some way to prove themselves. Glory earned via tournaments isn't much, but it's better than nothing.
Not that you particularly care. It's just fun to see them fight one another.
The crowds in the lower levels are enormous, though. Bodies pack in tightly around you, not claustrophobic so much as simply crowded. You've sort of resigned yourself to not seeing anything worthwhile.
"Oh!" Varania squeals. One hand slaps excitedly at the top of your head, and you hup her again, trying to discourage her. "Oh, they're using elemental magic! Both of them!" A few of the slaves around them glance up, interested despite themselves. Varania, unwitting as to her sudden promotion to announcer, keeps slapping at you. "Marcellus put up a barrier, but it's . . . weird. Oh! Oh, it's a reverse barrier, it's not meant to protect him, it's meant to—"
Push it right back at one's attacker. A flare of magic and heat both blows through the crowd, followed by a scream of agony (and, sadly, a few disappointed grumbles from those who had bet on the wrong mage).
"Ohh," Varania says. It's more disappointed than horrified. "Cicero got burned. I think he's tapping out . . ."
And you know what? Suddenly you're kind of glad you can't see what's happening. There's another match starting in an hour, and more than a few people are going to stick around and watch, but that's quite enough for the day. Like, you're no stranger to blood— you're sixteen now, practically a man, and you've been learning how to wield a sword for nearly a year now. So yeah, you know blood, but like, you have your limits.
"Someday I'm going to be able to do that," Varania tells you, apparently feeling no such limitations. Confidence falls off her in waves as she climbs down off you. You hesitate, torn between two replies. Oh no you won't is the first one, not just because she is a slave, but because you think that kind of life too dangerous for her. There is a chance of a better life there— some slaves with magic can live quite comfortably as an assistant to their master— but there's also the possibility of exploitation too. And then there's the other reply, which is duller but nicer, and somewhat of a lie. You'd default to the first on any day, but . . . it's a holiday.
"Perhaps you shall," you settle upon as you emerge from the crowd. It isn't much of an answer, but perhaps Varania is feeling the same spirit of keeping the peace as you, for she doesn't scold you. The scent of fried foods fill the air; music plays, fast-paced and amateurish, and you can hear a few pleased shouts as a new song begins.
"Leto," Varania says. Her tone is that of petulant insistence, a childish demand she is getting entirely too old to indulge in. "Come dance with me."
Of course that's what she wants. But the thought isn't so displeasing, not today. For once, you aren't exhausted from work. Your hands don't hurt; you aren't warily waiting to see what new unpleasantness the day will bring. There's just your sister grinning up at you, holding both your hands, swinging them encouragingly.
Why not?
Neither of you know how to dance; neither of you care, really, for what's dancing but spinning around in time to a beat? You forget you're sixteen and far too dignified for such things; you laugh as you spin around, twirling Varania at random, the two of you leaping around one another utterly off-beat. It's giddying and stupid and childish, and it's the most fun you've had in ages.
You stand in the hallway, trying hard not to move.
The marks hurt when you move. They're intricate things, and pretty, if you've the right mind for it. Silver-blue tattoos dance over every inch of you, swirling in intricate patterns, glowing faintly in the dim light. But they hurt, and they hurt worse when you move around, your skin tugging at them. Sometimes you wonder if your skin will simply split if you pull hard enough, like a scab rupturing and tearing apart. You have not tried yet. Your master does not like his slave marred or filthy.
You wear nothing save loose trousers and your collar. The former is an afterthought, an excuse for modesty and little else; the latter is what always has your attention. The collar is an enormously bulky thing, chilled iron at least two inches thick wrapped around your throat. A strip of metal goes down your chest and splits, wrapping beneath each of your pectorals. It's fitted exactly to your body; if you breathe too deeply, you can feel them pressing tightly against your skin. A leather leash is attached to the front, right above the lock that rests on your breastbone. You can touch it. You could, perhaps, even break it, but you don't think about things like that. Fish don't think of flying. Some things are too far beyond comprehension.
A kitchen slave passes you. Her eyes dart nervously up at you before focusing down at the food she carries. She wears no such collar, but of course she doesn't. The point isn't to mark you as a slave— the long, tapering point of your ears does that already, elven as you are— but rather to serve as a joke. Tevinter is at war with the Qunari, you have been told, and those oxmen chain and bridle their mages, keeping them on a leash. And so here, now, is the mirrorglass version of that: you, magic and yet not, magic thrumming throughout every inch of you, powerful and yet only at your Tevinter master's say-so. But ah, here's the similarity: Qunari mages have a handler, but more often than not, they simply fall into obedience. They recognize that their Arvaarad knows better, and allow themselves to be guided.
You, too, see the sense in this. Your master tells you what to do and you do it. It isn't a question of obedience; it's a question of sensibility.
After all: he knows so much more than you.
Everything, for a start.
And what do you know? Not much, and all of it knowledge he has bestowed upon you. Your name is Fenris; you were born in Seheron. You are somewhere in your twenties, though Danarius couldn't remember the exact number. And you are so, so lucky, for you are the elf who will further Danarius to glory. You are special, for among all the slaves he has, he looks upon you with fondness and affection. You are his favorite. You are his triumph. You are his pet, and soon you will be his bodyguard, for he loves no slave so much as he loves you.
You're so grateful.
Around you, you can hear the noises of the party. Not just the guests themselves, but the preparation. To your left, the kitchens. You can hear elves and humans moving swiftly, the slam of pans and the hiss of food being cooked, all overpowered by the shouted orders the staff call out. One voice rises above it all, louder and sharper and meaner than anyone else. It does not just passively demand perfection, but rather moves throughout the kitchen, pausing to sample this glaze or peer intently at that meat. The head chef has her pride, and tonight is a special party. She will not let her master down.
To your right, the party itself: much more subdued in comparison, for who would raise a voice at such a cultured event? It would be unseemly. Musicians play faintly in the distance, almost muffled by the murmur of voices. The guests walk in pairs and trios, dressed in silk and dripping in jewels, talking about this and that as their eyes always face outwards, focusing on the other duos doing the exact same thing. Gossip is exchanged, but it's more perfunctory than anything. Everyone is killing time, waiting for the main event to begin. A clear bell rings out, silencing those voices, and his voice begins to speak. He offers a speech, the details of which escape you. They are not relevant.
"Fenris," he calls, and you straighten to attention. That's your cue. You walk through those double-doors, blinking at the sudden increase in light, suddenly and starkly aware of just how many people are staring at you. At least thirty of them, their eyes raking over you in shock and— and other emotions, emotions you cannot recognize or understand, and so you ignore them. Your master has told you how you must appear, indifferent and callous, and so you keep your expression still as you walk to his side. He waits with a glass of wine in hand, his expression so terribly pleased.
It's hard to describe the emotion you feel when you see your master, but perhaps the first place to start is relief. No longer are you alone, staggering endlessly through the darkness, idiotic and naive. There is so much you do not understand about the world and how it works, but he does, and perhaps that's his job: to interpret the world for you. You need not understand; you need only obey. If you obey, you've done well, and isn't that what everybody wants in life? To succeed at their purpose. Your master's purpose is to explore the limits of magic; your purpose is only to execute his will. So . . . relief, hot and heady, a subtle exhale as you mentally migrate towards him, allowing your world to once more be complete.
His hand rests heavily on your bare shoulder, his thumb absently stroking over one of the lyrium marks embedded in your skin. Agony flares, but you do not move. You're very good at not moving when he touches you, because that's the first undercurrent to your feeling of relief. You do not know the name for it, nor why it begins. You only know the physical sensations: your pulse picking up, rigidity wanting to settle into every inch of you. You want to pull away; you know you cannot, and so ignore the impulse, burying it away.
"Pure lyrium embedded into the skin of a living creature," your master says. "A feat not seen in hundreds of years, since the magisterium of old." An unseen hand pulls at your trousers; you do not fight it as you are stripped in front of the crowd. You knew this was coming. Your humiliation is not a concern. His fingers tug lightly at your leash and your head bows, chin sinking against the collar. You look more like the saarebas that way. It's a playful joke, validated by the few chuckles from the surrounding guests.
"I have transformed a crude elf into a work of art," Danarius says. His voice is so terribly proud, and you raise your head, meeting gaze after gaze. The collar cuts deep into you at every breath (and they come too quickly now, frantic pants instead of deep, steady breaths, and you don't understand why that should be). The metal bites into your throat again and again, a constant reminder, as you feel yourself tremble. "Behold Fenris, my wolf."
"Girl!" he adds in a shout. The woman you'd seen in the hall before freezes. She'd been busy collecting dirty plates, but now she attends. Approaching Danarius, she bows deeply.
Danarius' hand drags from your shoulder to the center of your back, his palm flat. He nudges you towards her, then glances around expectantly at his guests.
"Fenris? Kill," he says, and the woman's head snaps up, her eyes widening in horror as she realizes what's about to happen. She screams, begs you not to, tears streaming down her cheeks as you grip one arm and hold her still. Your marks flare, agony flaring through every inch of your body; you ignore it in favor of plunging your hand through her chest. Your fingers pass right through her, skin-muscle-blood-bones-there right there, and all at once you rematerialize. Blunt nails dig into her heart, and with a grunt you rip it out.
Her corpse falls to your feet. Her expression is twisted in agony; already blood is soaking into her dress and dripping onto the floor below. Her heart pulses in your palm once, twice, then goes still.
Around you, the party bursts into applause. Danarius smiles, and finally, you feel relief. Oh, you think, the tension sloughing off you in waves. Oh, good, he is pleased.
You stand in the ocean, the water lapping at your shins. You've rolled your breeches up, but you can already feel salt water soaking into them. The setting sun's turned the water into molten gold, rippling and scattering over the darkened water. It's beautiful in theory, but in reality means you have to squint as you watch it go down, greenish afterimages filling your gaze whenever you glance away. And yet you do it anyway, one hand half-raised to block out the rays.
"You're going to ruin all the hard work I did," a voice behind you calls. A faint smile tugs at your lips, but you don't look back at Shokah just yet.
"I have no intention of swimming," you reply. The white paint she had applied to you this morning has just stopped itching; you will not ruin the day's progress by ducking into the sea. Even now, the memory of her fingers painting applying careful white pigment to your face, the length of your arms, your chest and stomach, lingers on your skin.
Funny, isn't it? You'd think you'd hate being marked up even more. But whereas Danarius's brands left you his property, the Fog Warriors do not seek to possess or contain you. Their pigment does not brand you or shackle you. Merely marks you as one of their own.
"Then what are you doing, imekari?" Your nose wrinkles. Imekari, she calls you, and at her age, perhaps she has a right to it. But you are not a child, and you certainly aren't as helpless as you were that first day. Hot shame lanced through you, embarrassment at your stupidity as the memory (within the memory) plays out, though you know no one holds it against you.
You'd begged for orders. You were so lost that first day, staggering out of the tent and looking at the Qunari around you. You had never not had a master; your life had never once not been structured around his pleasure and his whims. You had no idea what to do with yourself, and so you begged them for the very thing you had just fled.
They tolerated it. They did not entertain it, but they tolerated it, and by the third day you had learned to take things slowly. Minute by minute, Shokah had told you. Freedom had stretched out before you, vast and terrifying, an enormous possibility that you had no idea how to face, never mind conquer. It had left you panicked, breathless, and yet . . . eat, imekari, she told you. Eat. Breathe. Sleep. That is all you must do now.
You ate. You slept. And you learned, slowly but surely, who you were.
You learned you had no talent for whittling, but enjoyed it anyway. You learned you were good at fighting, though not as good as some of the other warriors; you learned that it was okay to lose, because they would not punish you for it. You learned that you had a taste for spice, the hotter the better; that you hated fish and found the thought of squid repulsive, but any other kind of meat suited you. You learned that dancing was something you more enjoyed watching than participating in, though there was a woman who would laughingly try to change your mind if you seemed amenable to it. You learned that you had a sense of humor, wry and sharp; that you enjoyed hard work when it had a purpose, and that you enjoyed earning your keep.
You learned that you were capable of feelings things other than dull submissiveness or festering rage and hatred, because you looked at them and felt something warm and content in your heart.
"Nothing," you say aloud, returning to the present. That answer isn't sufficient and you both know it. The sun is starting to go from gold to orange, which at least hurts your eyes a little less. You put your hand down. "I simply . . . wished to watch it."
Idleness. Wasting time standing around watching the sun set instead of running to fulfil your master's whims. Even now it feels daring; you half-expect Shokah to snarl at you for the impudence. What good is an idle slave?
But free men do not have such limits. You can stand and watch the sun set, and that is your right. To idleness, to laziness, to artistry . . . to whatever it is that drives you. You savor it, just as you savor every new behavior and impulse.
With one last burst of blazing crimson light, the sun dips beneath the horizon. You watch as it goes from a circle to an arc to a sliver . . . and then, all at once, disappears. It's a satisfying feeling, seeing it through to the end, and you turn with a faint smile.
The sky is still light, though dusk will soon melt into true night. It's still plenty of light enough to see Shokah. She stands on the shore, and suddenly it's all wrong. She is not smiling. She is staring at you in horror; her lips part, but no sound comes out. Slowly, as if in trance, your eyes drop.
A blade pierces her stomach. Blood has already begun to flow; within a few seconds it spreads, soaking into her leathers. She falls to her knees, still staring at you, but suddenly you realize there is more to see.
The entire beach is covered in corpses. They're scattered with cruel callousness, mutilated, limbs cut off and throats slit, grasping hands reaching for weapons now gone limp. Blood has turned the sand scarlet; the scent of it is thick in the air, familiar and nauseating all at once. You stumble out of the water; you're soaked by it somehow, despite being dry moments ago.
You intend to fall to your knees when you reach Shokah. You intend to pull the sword out of her; to scream for a healer, to stop the bleeding, to do something.
Instead: you stand over her, watching her passively as the horror and shock and grief all pass over her expression. Blood— for that is what covers you from head to toe, soaking into your clothes, smeared on your skin— drips down onto her. She tries to speak again, but nothing more than a croak slips past her lips before she slumps down.
A heavy hand wraps around the back of your neck. It grips too tightly, nails digging into your skin, keeping you still as you stare at the cooling corpse at your feet.
"Good," Danarius praises. His fingers stroke through your blood-slicked hair. "Very good. I knew you would not disappoint me, pet."
You turn. Stare at him as though his presence is a shock, but it shouldn't have been. Not when you are intricately bound to him; not when your master will always, always find you. You know he will. You are his dog, his pet, his; you are good for nothing but pleasing him, servicing him, keeping him safe, that is all you are good for.
"Freedom was nothing more than a fantasy," Danarius tells you, as though he has read your mind. "A delusion. Come home, Fenris, and we will forget all this."
That's a lie. You know he won't forget this. He'll punish you, he'll make you go through agony for not staying put, and it's this lie that pushes you from shock into screaming horror. You stumble back, and then again, and suddenly you're turning, running, racing for the trees— you can hear his roar of fury, taste the crackle of magic, but you know these jungles far better than him. You're out of sight within a minute, but you don't stop running. Your lungs are burning and your muscles are screaming, but you do not stop, because if you stop then you'll have to think about what you just did, the murders you just committed, the blood you can never, ever wash off your hands, the sins that you will never once make up for.
You're planted as solidly as you can manage in the sand, which isn't very. Kirkwall's coast isn't exactly the best place for a fight, but beggars can't be choosers. Sweat drips down your temple, mercifully avoiding your eyes. It's irritating, tugging at the fringes of your attention, as insistent as an itch that demands to be scratched. You ignore it. Taking even a split second to wipe it away would result in a mistake that, while not actually fatal, would at least be very, very painful.
After all: Isabela never holds back in these competitions.
Reddened lines are raised all over your body, a testament to that very fact. The blades Isabela wields are deliberately dulled, just as your sword is, but that doesn't mean she doesn't strike with every bit of strength she has. Once the adrenaline wears off, your body will have a hefty list of complaints to offer, bruises and minor cuts and aches that sink all the way down to your bones, but that's for later.
Your eyes are locked on her. She's beautiful, you think. It's a split-second thought, a faint flicker, but it's there. She's beautiful like this, sweat gleaming on her dark skin, her hair all lit up by the twilight sun she's strategically put behind her. She's crouching a little ways away, her body thrumming with taut energy. She's grinning, but there's nothing but hard concentration in her golden eyes. You're both waiting for that split-second in which you might have the advantage, knowing one another well enough to know that a straight strike won't work.
"Sweep him off his feet!" a blond man calls from the sidelines. He leans up against a staff, watching the show with no small amount of amusement. Anders prefers playing healer afterwards, healing bruises and soothing minor injuries, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy the show. They all of them are skilled fighters, but sometimes it's nice to see who rises to the top. "He's on his last legs, finish the job!"
"Don't count him out yet, Blondie," the dwarf next to him chides. Their voices tug at the fringes of your attention, but only just. Whatever happens next will happen soon, and you can't afford to be the least bit distracted. Their audience, who have no such concerns, continue to talk anyway. "He's just getting warmed up. You think that claymore is for show? One solid hit and he'll take it."
She's panting hard from exertion, and it's inappropriate, maybe, but for just one moment your eyes flick down. She wears an incredibly low-cut tunic, her breasts constantly half-out, and you can't help what you're attracted to. You can't help but notice the really interesting way her chest moves as she catches her breath.
It's only a second's inattention.
It's a second too long.
All at once Isabela is a blur of movement, blades flashing and a shout from their friends. You bring up your sword, swinging frantically, but it's far too late: one knife glances off the blade, steel skittering against steel, as her legs come flying. There's the pressure of muscles seizing and you have half a moment to think oh no before the world blurs and suddenly—
Oof!
— you're flat on your back. She's on you a second later, kicking your sword away as she pins you in place. A knife's edge presses to your throat, and you tip your head up instinctively. A blade is a blade, dulled or not.
"Yield," she tells you. It isn't a request, for all that she's grinning at you. "Or I'll have to cut your throat, and that would be such a shame after all this, sweetling."
And it's not the right time at all, but still you can't help but smile. She really is beautiful, though it isn't her body you're looking at right now. Rather: you stare at the whole of her, the entirety. Brilliant and bright and deadly, and you have never once met anyone who embodied freedom like she does. She answers to no one; she chains herself to nothing. She looks at a mutilated slave and does not pity you, but rather gleefully takes advantage of your distraction, because she looks at you as an equal. Not better, not worse. Not a pitiable creature or a threat, but just a man.
You love her. Not romantically, but the way you love all your companions. You love them even when they annoy you; even when you find them idiotic and foolish, high off their own fumes, eagerly plunging themselves into the wrong choices. You love her and you love them, because they are yours, and you in turn are theirs. No matter what happens, no matter what insanity this city throws at you all, you have become a family.
"Yield," you say, and you do not mind the friendly laughter as she helps you to your feet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I, Leto and Varania
You don't, of course, not least of which because Mother will box your ears if you pick a fight. But you think about it, grudgingly and with no small amount of resentment, as you redouble your grip on Varania's shins and, with a soft hup, hoist her further up your shoulders. She's eleven now, five full years younger than you, entirely too big to be riding around on her brother's shoulders. And yet still here you are, carrying her anyway, because you're a good brother.
(Also: she'll owe you for this).
It's Wintersend, a holiday even the slaves get to celebrate. Your master's son (soon to be the master himself, for his father is getting on in years) has given you all leave to do as you like for the day, and of course Varania immediately dragged you to the Proving Grounds in the amphitheater. It's where everyone is going today. What better way to celebrate the end of a long winter than to drink spiced cider and watch the mages fight? The elites sit in the marble seats surrounding the ring, sipping wine and treating this as nothing more than a social event, but everyone knows better. All the second sons and daughters, bred only to be sure there was an heir in the family, need some way to prove themselves. Glory earned via tournaments isn't much, but it's better than nothing.
Not that you particularly care. It's just fun to see them fight one another.
The crowds in the lower levels are enormous, though. Bodies pack in tightly around you, not claustrophobic so much as simply crowded. You've sort of resigned yourself to not seeing anything worthwhile.
"Oh!" Varania squeals. One hand slaps excitedly at the top of your head, and you hup her again, trying to discourage her. "Oh, they're using elemental magic! Both of them!" A few of the slaves around them glance up, interested despite themselves. Varania, unwitting as to her sudden promotion to announcer, keeps slapping at you. "Marcellus put up a barrier, but it's . . . weird. Oh! Oh, it's a reverse barrier, it's not meant to protect him, it's meant to—"
Push it right back at one's attacker. A flare of magic and heat both blows through the crowd, followed by a scream of agony (and, sadly, a few disappointed grumbles from those who had bet on the wrong mage).
"Ohh," Varania says. It's more disappointed than horrified. "Cicero got burned. I think he's tapping out . . ."
And you know what? Suddenly you're kind of glad you can't see what's happening. There's another match starting in an hour, and more than a few people are going to stick around and watch, but that's quite enough for the day. Like, you're no stranger to blood— you're sixteen now, practically a man, and you've been learning how to wield a sword for nearly a year now. So yeah, you know blood, but like, you have your limits.
"Someday I'm going to be able to do that," Varania tells you, apparently feeling no such limitations. Confidence falls off her in waves as she climbs down off you. You hesitate, torn between two replies. Oh no you won't is the first one, not just because she is a slave, but because you think that kind of life too dangerous for her. There is a chance of a better life there— some slaves with magic can live quite comfortably as an assistant to their master— but there's also the possibility of exploitation too. And then there's the other reply, which is duller but nicer, and somewhat of a lie. You'd default to the first on any day, but . . . it's a holiday.
"Perhaps you shall," you settle upon as you emerge from the crowd. It isn't much of an answer, but perhaps Varania is feeling the same spirit of keeping the peace as you, for she doesn't scold you. The scent of fried foods fill the air; music plays, fast-paced and amateurish, and you can hear a few pleased shouts as a new song begins.
"Leto," Varania says. Her tone is that of petulant insistence, a childish demand she is getting entirely too old to indulge in. "Come dance with me."
Of course that's what she wants. But the thought isn't so displeasing, not today. For once, you aren't exhausted from work. Your hands don't hurt; you aren't warily waiting to see what new unpleasantness the day will bring. There's just your sister grinning up at you, holding both your hands, swinging them encouragingly.
Why not?
Neither of you know how to dance; neither of you care, really, for what's dancing but spinning around in time to a beat? You forget you're sixteen and far too dignified for such things; you laugh as you spin around, twirling Varania at random, the two of you leaping around one another utterly off-beat. It's giddying and stupid and childish, and it's the most fun you've had in ages.
II, Enslavement
The marks hurt when you move. They're intricate things, and pretty, if you've the right mind for it. Silver-blue tattoos dance over every inch of you, swirling in intricate patterns, glowing faintly in the dim light. But they hurt, and they hurt worse when you move around, your skin tugging at them. Sometimes you wonder if your skin will simply split if you pull hard enough, like a scab rupturing and tearing apart. You have not tried yet. Your master does not like his slave marred or filthy.
You wear nothing save loose trousers and your collar. The former is an afterthought, an excuse for modesty and little else; the latter is what always has your attention. The collar is an enormously bulky thing, chilled iron at least two inches thick wrapped around your throat. A strip of metal goes down your chest and splits, wrapping beneath each of your pectorals. It's fitted exactly to your body; if you breathe too deeply, you can feel them pressing tightly against your skin. A leather leash is attached to the front, right above the lock that rests on your breastbone. You can touch it. You could, perhaps, even break it, but you don't think about things like that. Fish don't think of flying. Some things are too far beyond comprehension.
A kitchen slave passes you. Her eyes dart nervously up at you before focusing down at the food she carries. She wears no such collar, but of course she doesn't. The point isn't to mark you as a slave— the long, tapering point of your ears does that already, elven as you are— but rather to serve as a joke. Tevinter is at war with the Qunari, you have been told, and those oxmen chain and bridle their mages, keeping them on a leash. And so here, now, is the mirrorglass version of that: you, magic and yet not, magic thrumming throughout every inch of you, powerful and yet only at your Tevinter master's say-so. But ah, here's the similarity: Qunari mages have a handler, but more often than not, they simply fall into obedience. They recognize that their Arvaarad knows better, and allow themselves to be guided.
You, too, see the sense in this. Your master tells you what to do and you do it. It isn't a question of obedience; it's a question of sensibility.
After all: he knows so much more than you.
Everything, for a start.
And what do you know? Not much, and all of it knowledge he has bestowed upon you. Your name is Fenris; you were born in Seheron. You are somewhere in your twenties, though Danarius couldn't remember the exact number. And you are so, so lucky, for you are the elf who will further Danarius to glory. You are special, for among all the slaves he has, he looks upon you with fondness and affection. You are his favorite. You are his triumph. You are his pet, and soon you will be his bodyguard, for he loves no slave so much as he loves you.
You're so grateful.
Around you, you can hear the noises of the party. Not just the guests themselves, but the preparation. To your left, the kitchens. You can hear elves and humans moving swiftly, the slam of pans and the hiss of food being cooked, all overpowered by the shouted orders the staff call out. One voice rises above it all, louder and sharper and meaner than anyone else. It does not just passively demand perfection, but rather moves throughout the kitchen, pausing to sample this glaze or peer intently at that meat. The head chef has her pride, and tonight is a special party. She will not let her master down.
To your right, the party itself: much more subdued in comparison, for who would raise a voice at such a cultured event? It would be unseemly. Musicians play faintly in the distance, almost muffled by the murmur of voices. The guests walk in pairs and trios, dressed in silk and dripping in jewels, talking about this and that as their eyes always face outwards, focusing on the other duos doing the exact same thing. Gossip is exchanged, but it's more perfunctory than anything. Everyone is killing time, waiting for the main event to begin. A clear bell rings out, silencing those voices, and his voice begins to speak. He offers a speech, the details of which escape you. They are not relevant.
"Fenris," he calls, and you straighten to attention. That's your cue. You walk through those double-doors, blinking at the sudden increase in light, suddenly and starkly aware of just how many people are staring at you. At least thirty of them, their eyes raking over you in shock and— and other emotions, emotions you cannot recognize or understand, and so you ignore them. Your master has told you how you must appear, indifferent and callous, and so you keep your expression still as you walk to his side. He waits with a glass of wine in hand, his expression so terribly pleased.
It's hard to describe the emotion you feel when you see your master, but perhaps the first place to start is relief. No longer are you alone, staggering endlessly through the darkness, idiotic and naive. There is so much you do not understand about the world and how it works, but he does, and perhaps that's his job: to interpret the world for you. You need not understand; you need only obey. If you obey, you've done well, and isn't that what everybody wants in life? To succeed at their purpose. Your master's purpose is to explore the limits of magic; your purpose is only to execute his will. So . . . relief, hot and heady, a subtle exhale as you mentally migrate towards him, allowing your world to once more be complete.
His hand rests heavily on your bare shoulder, his thumb absently stroking over one of the lyrium marks embedded in your skin. Agony flares, but you do not move. You're very good at not moving when he touches you, because that's the first undercurrent to your feeling of relief. You do not know the name for it, nor why it begins. You only know the physical sensations: your pulse picking up, rigidity wanting to settle into every inch of you. You want to pull away; you know you cannot, and so ignore the impulse, burying it away.
"Pure lyrium embedded into the skin of a living creature," your master says. "A feat not seen in hundreds of years, since the magisterium of old." An unseen hand pulls at your trousers; you do not fight it as you are stripped in front of the crowd. You knew this was coming. Your humiliation is not a concern. His fingers tug lightly at your leash and your head bows, chin sinking against the collar. You look more like the saarebas that way. It's a playful joke, validated by the few chuckles from the surrounding guests.
"I have transformed a crude elf into a work of art," Danarius says. His voice is so terribly proud, and you raise your head, meeting gaze after gaze. The collar cuts deep into you at every breath (and they come too quickly now, frantic pants instead of deep, steady breaths, and you don't understand why that should be). The metal bites into your throat again and again, a constant reminder, as you feel yourself tremble. "Behold Fenris, my wolf."
"Girl!" he adds in a shout. The woman you'd seen in the hall before freezes. She'd been busy collecting dirty plates, but now she attends. Approaching Danarius, she bows deeply.
Danarius' hand drags from your shoulder to the center of your back, his palm flat. He nudges you towards her, then glances around expectantly at his guests.
"Fenris? Kill," he says, and the woman's head snaps up, her eyes widening in horror as she realizes what's about to happen. She screams, begs you not to, tears streaming down her cheeks as you grip one arm and hold her still. Your marks flare, agony flaring through every inch of your body; you ignore it in favor of plunging your hand through her chest. Your fingers pass right through her, skin-muscle-blood-bones-there right there, and all at once you rematerialize. Blunt nails dig into her heart, and with a grunt you rip it out.
Her corpse falls to your feet. Her expression is twisted in agony; already blood is soaking into her dress and dripping onto the floor below. Her heart pulses in your palm once, twice, then goes still.
Around you, the party bursts into applause. Danarius smiles, and finally, you feel relief. Oh, you think, the tension sloughing off you in waves. Oh, good, he is pleased.
That's all that really matters.
III, The Fog Warriors
"You're going to ruin all the hard work I did," a voice behind you calls. A faint smile tugs at your lips, but you don't look back at Shokah just yet.
"I have no intention of swimming," you reply. The white paint she had applied to you this morning has just stopped itching; you will not ruin the day's progress by ducking into the sea. Even now, the memory of her fingers painting applying careful white pigment to your face, the length of your arms, your chest and stomach, lingers on your skin.
Funny, isn't it? You'd think you'd hate being marked up even more. But whereas Danarius's brands left you his property, the Fog Warriors do not seek to possess or contain you. Their pigment does not brand you or shackle you. Merely marks you as one of their own.
"Then what are you doing, imekari?" Your nose wrinkles. Imekari, she calls you, and at her age, perhaps she has a right to it. But you are not a child, and you certainly aren't as helpless as you were that first day. Hot shame lanced through you, embarrassment at your stupidity as the memory (within the memory) plays out, though you know no one holds it against you.
You'd begged for orders. You were so lost that first day, staggering out of the tent and looking at the Qunari around you. You had never not had a master; your life had never once not been structured around his pleasure and his whims. You had no idea what to do with yourself, and so you begged them for the very thing you had just fled.
They tolerated it. They did not entertain it, but they tolerated it, and by the third day you had learned to take things slowly. Minute by minute, Shokah had told you. Freedom had stretched out before you, vast and terrifying, an enormous possibility that you had no idea how to face, never mind conquer. It had left you panicked, breathless, and yet . . . eat, imekari, she told you. Eat. Breathe. Sleep. That is all you must do now.
You ate. You slept. And you learned, slowly but surely, who you were.
You learned you had no talent for whittling, but enjoyed it anyway. You learned you were good at fighting, though not as good as some of the other warriors; you learned that it was okay to lose, because they would not punish you for it. You learned that you had a taste for spice, the hotter the better; that you hated fish and found the thought of squid repulsive, but any other kind of meat suited you. You learned that dancing was something you more enjoyed watching than participating in, though there was a woman who would laughingly try to change your mind if you seemed amenable to it. You learned that you had a sense of humor, wry and sharp; that you enjoyed hard work when it had a purpose, and that you enjoyed earning your keep.
You learned that you were capable of feelings things other than dull submissiveness or festering rage and hatred, because you looked at them and felt something warm and content in your heart.
"Nothing," you say aloud, returning to the present. That answer isn't sufficient and you both know it. The sun is starting to go from gold to orange, which at least hurts your eyes a little less. You put your hand down. "I simply . . . wished to watch it."
Idleness. Wasting time standing around watching the sun set instead of running to fulfil your master's whims. Even now it feels daring; you half-expect Shokah to snarl at you for the impudence. What good is an idle slave?
But free men do not have such limits. You can stand and watch the sun set, and that is your right. To idleness, to laziness, to artistry . . . to whatever it is that drives you. You savor it, just as you savor every new behavior and impulse.
With one last burst of blazing crimson light, the sun dips beneath the horizon. You watch as it goes from a circle to an arc to a sliver . . . and then, all at once, disappears. It's a satisfying feeling, seeing it through to the end, and you turn with a faint smile.
The sky is still light, though dusk will soon melt into true night. It's still plenty of light enough to see Shokah. She stands on the shore, and suddenly it's all wrong. She is not smiling. She is staring at you in horror; her lips part, but no sound comes out. Slowly, as if in trance, your eyes drop.
A blade pierces her stomach. Blood has already begun to flow; within a few seconds it spreads, soaking into her leathers. She falls to her knees, still staring at you, but suddenly you realize there is more to see.
The entire beach is covered in corpses. They're scattered with cruel callousness, mutilated, limbs cut off and throats slit, grasping hands reaching for weapons now gone limp. Blood has turned the sand scarlet; the scent of it is thick in the air, familiar and nauseating all at once. You stumble out of the water; you're soaked by it somehow, despite being dry moments ago.
You intend to fall to your knees when you reach Shokah. You intend to pull the sword out of her; to scream for a healer, to stop the bleeding, to do something.
Instead: you stand over her, watching her passively as the horror and shock and grief all pass over her expression. Blood— for that is what covers you from head to toe, soaking into your clothes, smeared on your skin— drips down onto her. She tries to speak again, but nothing more than a croak slips past her lips before she slumps down.
A heavy hand wraps around the back of your neck. It grips too tightly, nails digging into your skin, keeping you still as you stare at the cooling corpse at your feet.
"Good," Danarius praises. His fingers stroke through your blood-slicked hair. "Very good. I knew you would not disappoint me, pet."
You turn. Stare at him as though his presence is a shock, but it shouldn't have been. Not when you are intricately bound to him; not when your master will always, always find you. You know he will. You are his dog, his pet, his; you are good for nothing but pleasing him, servicing him, keeping him safe, that is all you are good for.
"Freedom was nothing more than a fantasy," Danarius tells you, as though he has read your mind. "A delusion. Come home, Fenris, and we will forget all this."
That's a lie. You know he won't forget this. He'll punish you, he'll make you go through agony for not staying put, and it's this lie that pushes you from shock into screaming horror. You stumble back, and then again, and suddenly you're turning, running, racing for the trees— you can hear his roar of fury, taste the crackle of magic, but you know these jungles far better than him. You're out of sight within a minute, but you don't stop running. Your lungs are burning and your muscles are screaming, but you do not stop, because if you stop then you'll have to think about what you just did, the murders you just committed, the blood you can never, ever wash off your hands, the sins that you will never once make up for.
IV, Isabela
After all: Isabela never holds back in these competitions.
Reddened lines are raised all over your body, a testament to that very fact. The blades Isabela wields are deliberately dulled, just as your sword is, but that doesn't mean she doesn't strike with every bit of strength she has. Once the adrenaline wears off, your body will have a hefty list of complaints to offer, bruises and minor cuts and aches that sink all the way down to your bones, but that's for later.
Your eyes are locked on her. She's beautiful, you think. It's a split-second thought, a faint flicker, but it's there. She's beautiful like this, sweat gleaming on her dark skin, her hair all lit up by the twilight sun she's strategically put behind her. She's crouching a little ways away, her body thrumming with taut energy. She's grinning, but there's nothing but hard concentration in her golden eyes. You're both waiting for that split-second in which you might have the advantage, knowing one another well enough to know that a straight strike won't work.
"Sweep him off his feet!" a blond man calls from the sidelines. He leans up against a staff, watching the show with no small amount of amusement. Anders prefers playing healer afterwards, healing bruises and soothing minor injuries, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy the show. They all of them are skilled fighters, but sometimes it's nice to see who rises to the top. "He's on his last legs, finish the job!"
"Don't count him out yet, Blondie," the dwarf next to him chides. Their voices tug at the fringes of your attention, but only just. Whatever happens next will happen soon, and you can't afford to be the least bit distracted. Their audience, who have no such concerns, continue to talk anyway. "He's just getting warmed up. You think that claymore is for show? One solid hit and he'll take it."
She's panting hard from exertion, and it's inappropriate, maybe, but for just one moment your eyes flick down. She wears an incredibly low-cut tunic, her breasts constantly half-out, and you can't help what you're attracted to. You can't help but notice the really interesting way her chest moves as she catches her breath.
It's only a second's inattention.
It's a second too long.
All at once Isabela is a blur of movement, blades flashing and a shout from their friends. You bring up your sword, swinging frantically, but it's far too late: one knife glances off the blade, steel skittering against steel, as her legs come flying. There's the pressure of muscles seizing and you have half a moment to think oh no before the world blurs and suddenly—
Oof!
— you're flat on your back. She's on you a second later, kicking your sword away as she pins you in place. A knife's edge presses to your throat, and you tip your head up instinctively. A blade is a blade, dulled or not.
"Yield," she tells you. It isn't a request, for all that she's grinning at you. "Or I'll have to cut your throat, and that would be such a shame after all this, sweetling."
And it's not the right time at all, but still you can't help but smile. She really is beautiful, though it isn't her body you're looking at right now. Rather: you stare at the whole of her, the entirety. Brilliant and bright and deadly, and you have never once met anyone who embodied freedom like she does. She answers to no one; she chains herself to nothing. She looks at a mutilated slave and does not pity you, but rather gleefully takes advantage of your distraction, because she looks at you as an equal. Not better, not worse. Not a pitiable creature or a threat, but just a man.
You love her. Not romantically, but the way you love all your companions. You love them even when they annoy you; even when you find them idiotic and foolish, high off their own fumes, eagerly plunging themselves into the wrong choices. You love her and you love them, because they are yours, and you in turn are theirs. No matter what happens, no matter what insanity this city throws at you all, you have become a family.
"Yield," you say, and you do not mind the friendly laughter as she helps you to your feet.