Rating: E / NC-17.
Warnings: Explicit, potentially triggering, non-consensual sexual content.
Beta: Thank you to la_baroness; mistakes remaining are all mine.
A/N: Based on one dialogue outcome for 'Alone'; see footnotes.
Careful What You Wish For
Fenris stands, quiet and still in the shadows of his master's dining hall, watching as a succession of extravagant dishes are paraded before Danarius' guests, listening to the predictable - always predictable - conversation.
It's as predictable as is the way his muscles cramp from standing in one position too long, the way the cold from the marble floor makes his feet ache, or the way the magister seated to his master's right eyes him nervously when he steps forward to refill Danarius' glass.
"You were at the Colossus, today, yes?" Danarius says and gives the barest of nods; permission is granted. The Aggregio traps lamp-light, catching it and refracting through crystal as Fenris pours the wine.
'Of course," the magister pulls a piece of duck from the carcass on his plate, frowning when a globule of fat falls to his robes. The slave attending him whisks the offending bit away. "Never miss it."
Of course he didn't miss it, Fenris thinks, returning the wine to a side table; the man lived to see blood spill.
"Mm. There is a… rumor," Danarius holds the stem of his wine glass, swirling the contents, "Senator Otho's champion was… not in fighting form."
Fenris had heard the rumor as well; the slave quarters were filled with low half-whispers. The implication, of course, was the gladiator had been drugged, effectively murdered rather than have his boon granted.
"The same rumor has reached my house as well, Lord," says another mage, her hair done in cluster of gems, the wine-reddening of her cheeks competing with the garish rouge she wears. "The senator had voiced his regret in his promise of the boon of freedom. "
Freedom? Fenris thinks. To do what? Die starving and disease-ridden in the streets of Minrathous? Freedom to become a whore, or a beggar, or captured by yet another slaver to be resold in a distant Tevinter city? One corner of his mouth twitches as he suppresses the urge to scowl. There is no such thing as freedom.
And now the man, the slave, had been murdered. Much good his boon would do him now.
"Yes, well. Wishing for such a boon. Pah," says the magister, greasy fingers pulling off another piece of duck, "be careful what you wish for."
Danarius tilts his head at that, and strangely, turns enough to glance beside him. He gives a short laugh, while looking at Fenris from the corner of one eye. It isn't the expected, predictable chortle he usually gave, one that the privileged used when demeaning the hapless creatures who had died in the Colossus' sand that day, but something else entirely that makes Fenris wary.
"Ironic, isn't it?" his master says, then turns back to his dinner, laughs the acceptable laugh, and carries on the conversation with his colleague as though he'd never looked at his slave.
Unsettled, failing to discern the meaning behind Danarius' remark, Fenris looks away, lets his eyes flick around the room.
Were he a server, or one of the body slaves decorating the room, he wouldn't have dared, of course. Even drunk on another's expensive wine, magisters could sense these small disobediences, would not hesitate to lift a napkin to painted lips - as though they'd tasted something vile- and politely nod at the offender. It was only good manners to point out the failings of a rival magister's discipline.
Fenris, though… they know is here for an entirely different reason. While they might cast nervous glances at him, they wouldn't be so blatantly rude or foolish to stare at Danarius' prize possession.
He assesses the exits and windows, then the guests. He does not expect any trouble tonight, but he is very good at what he does. He has no foolish modesty about it, no misplaced sense of pride. He is a slave, after all.
When his eyes reach the head of the table, he lowers them. It wouldn't do to favor his own master with his direct appraisal.
Danarius, though, makes the faintest of sounds, as though clearing his throat.
It is not something the guests will notice, for it is far too subtle and practiced. Even the man seated nearest Danarius doesn't note the noise, lost in the burble of voices and silver clinking on plates.
Fenris hears it. But that was the intention. He lifts his eyes slowly, apprehension rolling his stomach. Once, in his first memories of serving his master, this noise had caused him panic, almost a type of fearful attack. Now, he ruthlessly quashes the feeling.
After all, he reminds himself, there is no freedom.
Danarius stares at him and his gaze is thoughtful, predatory, cheeks faintly flushed as though with wine.
This flush is what makes the feeling in Fenris' stomach twist - the feeling reminding him vaguely of being kicked in the testicles - threatens to cause him to flinch. Instead, he lowers his eyes, bows his head demurely. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut against the nausea, but he knows better, knows what's expected of him. His hair falls away from the nape of his neck as he lowers his head a bit further.
Danarius chuckles, and this time the sound is meant for the room in its entirety. Fenris hears his master's chair scrape back, the rustle of fine silk and the clink of gold bracelets as the magister stands.
"My dear, dear friends. I fear I must be a terrible host. As you all know, tomorrow I must depart from our fair city and journey to Seheron."
There is further speechmaking, of course, and the appreciative murmurs of guests as they wish his master well and file toward the door.
Fenris hears none of it. Despite the years he has spent serving Danarius, despite the knowledge that there is no use in wishing or hoping, he still struggles to accept his role. Still, standing with eyes downcast, not seeing or hearing, he has to swallow repeatedly to avoid vomiting what remains of his mid-day meal on the smooth marble of Danarius' dining hall.
The last of the guests leave, and he hears Danarius snap his fingers. No words are necessary, but his master speaks despite this. "Coming, little one?"