You are Varric Tethras?" The voice was male, deep, and Tevinter-accented. Varric raised his eyes from the page to take in the speaker. Elven. Frost white hair, pointy armor, even pointier greatsword, and a guarded expression. Strange tattoos.
"That depends. Are you here to collect on a debt or avenge an insult?" he asked, setting down his quill.
"Neither. The Merchants' Guild directed me here. I come bearing the offer of…well, perhaps it is better if you read it for yourself." The elven man reached into a satchel and brought out a folded multipage document, slightly battered around the edges from handling.
Varric took it. " 'To whom it may concern; I, Twyla Hawke, Magister of Tevinter, seek a full-time financial advisor willing to relocate to Minrathous. The candidate I seek must have intensive knowledge of double entry accounting, practical and theoretical economics, and self-defense. They must also be able to render covert business dealings utterly untraceable, and be from outside the Imperium. A certain flexibility of mind and morals will be a distinct asset. Expect the work to be, at times, dangerous and disagreeable. Salary will be ten percent of my yearly revenues, five hundred sovereign signing bonus.'" He flipped through the other pages. "And this is a contract…with a Merchants' Guild bond for travel expenses. Do you have a name, friend?"
"…Fenris will serve that purpose," the elf said.
"Fenris, would you care to take a seat? This calls for a detailed explanation. What are you drinking?"
The elf wanted red wine, and while he wasn't happy with the quality of the plonk available in the Hanged Man, he settled down in a chair and drank half a glass before he talked. His eyebrows drew together in the center like a storm about to break, and he began.
"The Tevinter Imperium welcomes runaway mages as a slaughterhouse welcomes yet more cows and chickens. Most of them arrive with only the staves on their backs, or even less than that. Minrathous is full of such desperate, miserable wretches. Some sell themselves into slavery to buy passage there; others are kidnapped or deceived, and a few—very few—contrive a way to thrive there. Make no mistake; I do not sympathize with their plight. There is not one of them who does not arrive saying that all they want is freedom and then become yet another power-ravenous conniver ready to murder, torment, and wallow in blood to get what they want. Not one."
"Not even one?" Varric hefted the contract. "You've gone to a lot of trouble to tote this all the way from Tevinter if that's the case."
"It remains to be seen if my la—if Magistra Hawke is the exception."
"I think I heard a 'My Lady' slip out in there. Is she your—what? Your mistress? Your owner? Your owner's mistress? Your mistress's owner?" Varric was deliberately bating the elf, and enjoying it immensely.
Fenris scowled at him. "I have neither mistress nor owner in any sense. I am free. Legally free."
"And none too happy about it, it seems. You could always sell yourself back into slavery if it makes you so depress—." Varric began, but the elf cut him off.
"Do not mock me!" He slammed the goblet down on the tabletop, sloshing wine indiscriminately on himself and the stone. "There is the contract. If you are interested, take it up and sign it. If not, give it to whoever may be more serious in intent than you. I have more than fulfilled my obligation. Goodbye." He made as if to stand.
"I apologize," Varric asked, passing him a napkin. "Forgive me. That was way out of line. To tell you the truth, you've got me interested. Seriously interested. I just need context, and you're the only one who can give it to me." Unless he misread him badly, this broody elf was actually dying to talk. It was only a matter of putting on the right expression and waiting. Besides, it was true. He was interested. Not necessarily in the job, but in the story behind it.
"Who is this Magistra Hawke? What's behind this job offer? Did she free you? Begin at the beginning and build from there."
'Broody' accepted the square of fabric and blotted off his armor. "No more jibes."
"Not at you," Varric agreed. Touchy, touchy.
"Hawke was born of an apostate father and a mother from a family which regularly produced a mage every generation or so. It should come as no surprise that two of their children were born mages, Twyla Hawke and her sister Bethany. Their brother, Carver, has no magic. Of their early life, I know little. Her father is dead; so too, her sister. I do not know how her father died, but it was some time before. When the Blight came, mother and children fled their home only to be trapped between Hordes. Her sister was killed by Darkspawn. How they escaped, I know not, only that they made it onto a ship headed for Kirkwall, only to be denied even a landing. They transferred directly to a ship for Minrathous as a second choice because in the Imperium a mage might live freely." The elf said the last words with a venom snakes and spiders could only envy.
"So what kept her from being just another lamb to the slaughter?" Varric prompted.
"The Qunari. Their ship reached the Nocen Sea and encountered three war vessels patrolling the Ventosus Straits. They should not have stood a chance, but then—whatever Hawke, not yet Magister nor citizen, only one of many penniless refugees—whatever Hawke did, the Qunari vessels came apart. Parts of the sea boiled so that fish came bobbing up to the surface, ready cooked, while in other places, there was ice thick enough to walk upon. Dead Qunari washed ashore for weeks afterward. The most remarkable part was that she shed no drop of blood nor called on any demon, nor touched a lyrium potion. Yet every person on board bore witness that she saved them. What they could not bear witness to, was how she accomplished it. It was a mystery."
Fenris held his right hand over the flame of the candle which sat between them, lowered it until the fire bathed his fingers, and kept it there, in silence. Varric winced as he counted the time in breaths, and still the elf did not snatch his hand away. His face was as serene and untroubled as a millpond on a cloudless day, even as his flesh sizzled and began to smell of cooked meat. Indeed, a small smile appeared on his lips. It was not a happy smile, but it spoke of satisfaction. Finally he closed his fist.
"Somewhere in Tevinter, there is a magus crying out in agony and calling for salves and bandages, and he still has not figured out why, or how his unknown enemy can penetrate all his magical defenses to torture him, or why one should pay close attention to the fine print," Fenris said. "That magister is called Danarius, and he once owned me. It was he who 'gifted' me with these markings of lyrium under my skin. He created a link between us when he did so, an invisible leash of infinite length—except now I hold the handle." He opened his hand, showing Varric an unmarked, uninjured palm. "I don't often indulge. He might catch on."
"Lyrium, eh," Varric gave the 'tattoos' a once over, and whistled. "That's some serious coin you're wearing there."
"It's nothing compared to what he sold me for," the elf told him. "But I get ahead of myself. When these events took place, I was still then the property of Danarius, and what I heard of this was no more than third-hand gossip. Some would have it that she turned into a dragon which alternatively breathed ice and fire. Others said she was a new sort of Abomination, one which did not appear so to outward show. All knew, though, that after defeating three Qunari war vessels singlehandedly, Hawke entered Minrathous as a Heroine of the Empire, she and her family guests of the Archon himself.
"She also entered it on a litter; her exertions had laid raw every sense she possessed and left her more dead than alive. Bright lights, strong smells, loud noises all caused her as much pain as if she were flayed, and they also rigged up a tent over her to protect her modesty, for she could not bear the weight of cloth on her skin. She remained so for days, while the best healers in the Empire, the Archon's own, worked day and night to save her life. It was not entirely gratitude which inspired such generosity and effort on the Archon's part."
"They wanted to know how she did it," Varric deducted.
"Yes, they did," 'Broody' confirmed, "for neither her mother nor her brother knew. Indeed, her younger sister had long appeared the more adept and powerful of the two. She lived. Perhaps she divulged her secret to the Archon, for he chose to favor her. Not as his mistress, but as his protégé. He gave her the title of Magister, a minor mage tower of her own in the city, a villa and lands in the country, and finally, he threw a grand reception to introduce her to the magisterial ranks. That was where I first crossed paths with her. Danarius brought me along as one might a pet monkey or a prize-winning show dog, leashed and collared physically."
"Hmm. Bitter, much?" Varric drawled.
"You can have no idea," the elf replied. "Danarius—I must have had a mother and a father, but in every other way, Danarius was my maker. I might as well have sprung up fully grown from some vat, for all that I can recall. My first memories are of pain and of him." He held his other hand over the candle.
"Uh, could you please not do that? I have to drink here, you know. The smell of cooking flesh kind of puts me off my liquor."
"As you wish." Fenris said, pulling his hand from the flame.
"Back to the first time you met Magistra Hawke. Was she the one who bought you and freed you?"
"Yes," came the laconic reply.
Varric eyed the other's face. Some elves had a oddly beaky, angled look to them, as though someone had pressed their face in a book, nose first. Not Fenris. For an elf, he was broad-faced, and he had a strong chin while still retaining the uninterrupted line of brow and nose. The combination of white hair and silver markings against olive skin was exotic. Yes, he could see that a human woman could find him handsome.
The elf could read, if not minds, then faces. "I shook her hand at parting. That is the most intimate contact I have ever had with her. She did not buy me to ornament her bed."
"I said nothing!" Varric spread his hands in a gesture of denial and defense.
"You didn't have to," Fenris remarked. "The question of why, and why I should be worth so much, has been foremost in the mind of everyone who learns of it."
"If you say so. What was your first impression of her?" Varric pressed, (barely) resisting the urge to grab his quill and take notes.
"Gilded toenails."
"Gilded toenails? Come on!"
"It was the fashion that month. Do you think a slave is encouraged to make eye contact with a magister, even a new-minted one? I looked at her feet." Fenris said, setting his mouth firmly.
"What, you mean to tell me you didn't even sneak a glimpse at her face?"
"I did not say that."
"So what about her face?" Varric tried again.
"She had one. What more am I to say than that? I would have thought her good-looking enough, after a human fashion, had she not been a mage. As she was a mage, I did not like her," replied the elf.
"Norah, another round here!" he called to the waitress. "What about her hair, her eyes? Draw me a picture with words."
"I fear it is not in me. Her hair was dark, moderately long, and hung down her back. Her eyes were too dark to tell pupil from iris. That is all."
"That is the driest description I've ever heard. This woman freed you, yet you can't come up with something, I dunno, more involved or detailed than that?" Varric accepted the glasses from their waitress and pushed the wine in the elf's direction.
"No," was the answer.
"Okay, okay," Varric said. "What else happened?"
"Nothing at that time. Every mage in Minrathous and quite a few from the outlying region were there waiting their turn to shuffle past the Archon. Danarius paused, bowed, said two or three words, and moved on. I followed, having no other choice. Three days later, the Hawke family accepted my master's invitation to dine at his house."
TBC, if anyone is interested and says so by reviewing, favoriting, or alerting.