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.
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.