Hey, guys, ZotWT here. I have a new account = The-Dancing-Robin. I'll be posting stories there from now on.

In fact, when the 3-day waiting period is up, this story will go on there.

For now, enjoy. This is my first time writing with Dragon Age, so reviews would be loved!

Chapter One - This one - is about how Fenris got his tattoos. It contains violence, blood, and hinted sex. You've been warned.

More memories from him coming later!

Fenris sat down in front of the fire, his hands coming up under his chin and his elbows resting on his knees. He was still dressed in his armor, as always. He had taken off his gauntlets, however, and the markings that marred his hands glowed faintly silver in the flame's light. He rubbed one of his knuckles and sighed, watching the fire dance around and trying desperately not to remember the agony burning had brought him over 6 years ago.

He supposed gazing at fire wasn't helping, but there was nothing else to look at.

It came to him as easily as breathing, and he wished there were other things to remember.

"Move it, slave. Danarius is waiting."

He was walking down the halls of Danarius's mansion, though it was a place he'd never been permitted before. He was a young teenager, but couldn't remember his exact age. The stone was cold under his bare feet. He watched his feet moving, not daring to look up at the guards.

He was very scared.

He did not remember much of the walk.

Now he was lying on a table. Black hair fell into his eyes, long and ragged. He felt some of it splaying onto his shoulder – Danarius liked it when his hair was long and so had not permitted him to cut it for some time. The table was cold.

Two guards stood on either side of him. One was a female, with red hair. Her eyes were a very bright blue. She was young. He could not remember if she was an elf or a human, but she was staring at him with sadness in her eyes, and pity, and tears. The other was a male with a scraggly brown beard and seemed to be stubbornly not looking at him, but ahead, at the door. Both wore robes of black.

He was bound. His wrists were pinned to the table with chains, as were his feet. Chains, ice cold, also wrapped across his thighs, his chest, and even around his neck. He was naked, and the room was chilled enough to make him shiver in his binds.

He wondered when Danarius would get there, and what exactly was going to happen to him.

He lay there for a long time. His breath was smoke.

Now Danarius entered, though it was apparent Fenris had been lying on the table exposed for a very long time.

He was carrying a knife and his staff. Behind him were two other mages, clad in white. One carried a bowl. The other carried an odd-looking weapon he couldn't recognize. He didn't remember their faces.

Danarius inspected Fenris with a careful eye. Fenris felt exposed, and shame poured through him. He watched his master grazing him with his eyes, and knew suddenly that, whatever was after this, it would be agony.

"Little wolf. How are you? I hope you weren't waiting too long." Danarius ran his fingers lightly across Fenris's chest and the slave shivered, closing his eyes in horror. He didn't answer his master.

"A quiet one?" Danarius grabbed Fenris's chin and jerked his face up until he opened his eyes. His master's blue gaze was cold, but he smiled and brushed his thumb over the elf's lips. "For now," he said, and even as cold as he was, Fenris felt an entirely new kind of chill take him.

The mage moved back and gestured to the two mages following him. "Today, little wolf, your life changes. Today, you become beautiful."

Now he was screaming. The black-robed mages on either side of him were holding him down by his chest as he writhed in agony. One of the mages that had entered with Danarius was down by his feet, carving into him with his knife. Fenris felt bits of his flesh being pulled from him, and occasionally the mage's weapon would jar a bone, sending a cry of anguish from the elf.

The pain took him.

Now he was still screaming, but the mage was at his chest, carving still, along lines that had been drawn on his body. Danarius was above his head, stroking his face, though the feeling barely registered against the agony the mage was creating.

Fenris's throat was raw, but still he cried. Blood was all over his body, slick and drying on him. The second mage approached with the bowl, near his feet. Fenris, through his haze, saw something glinting silver in the bowl, and then it was being poured into the open wounds in his feet and winding up his legs.

Fenris wailed anew as the mage quickly began sealing the silver liquid into his body. He felt as if there was a metal rod implanted into his leg, and it was on fire.

"Shh," whispered Danarius, "there is more coming, and if you cannot handle this, I fear you will not survive. You are far too pretty to waste." His master trailed his fingers up the elf's neck and across his ear, and now he was screaming not only with agony but with rage and horror. He desperately wanted to speak, but there was only agony, and there was nothing to say.

There was only crying.

"Little wolf," murmured Danarius, sounding amused, "the little wolf howls."

Now he was filled with the silver liquid, covered in intricate markings and dots and swirls. Blood filled his mouth and spilled over his hands. His chin and neck ached and burned. He suspected only magic kept him alive.

The red-haired girl from earlier was crying openly and staring at him in horror. His vision was blurring in and out, but Danarius was always there, stroking him, murmuring.

His master looked up. "We need to get his back."

Fenris could only moan at the thought of movement, and of being cut into even more. They had already gotten the back of his legs, his backside, his shoulders, and the back of his neck, simply by unchaining him and lifting the body part they'd been working on. He had been in too much agony to resist, only wailing and moaning and weakly trying to fight. One of the mages had even laughed when he'd tried punching it in the stomach.

Danarius looked down and stared into Fenris's eyes. "Then again, if we cut him anymore, I am not certain he will live. Another time, then, little wolf." He brushed his hand across Fenris's cheek.

Fenris could not even feel it anymore. Everything on him ached – and it really was everything. Yes, he'd been cut into even on his most personal of areas. That had hurt the worst, though he suspected it was more than just the blade; it was also the shame and the horror, the feeling of being so violated. He had been taught by his mother that he was to never allow anyone to touch him or love him below unless he was truly in love with them. Now he felt filthy, and, deeper than that, that he would never be able to love someone now that he had been so horridly destroyed. And that, perhaps, no one would ever truly love him in the first place.

Especially not as he was now.

Danarius moved back to admire the handiwork. Fenris felt his throat working and felt weak and powerless. He knew he was doing this for someone, and it brought him strength, but now he could not remember who they were.

"Now," said his master, "there is only the spell-work, and… his memory."

Fenris stiffened, growing motionless; the only sound a short puff of breath to clear the blood draining down his throat. Danarius saw him still, and looked down at his slave again. "Yes, little Fenris. I'm afraid that soon, you will remember very little."

The elf lowered his head back against the table, his breath growing shorter. He wanted desperately to curse and scream at Danarius, to tell him to go to Hell, if it existed, which, if Fenris was here, experiencing this, than it certainly must be.

But then he was stunned at his own anger and, when he spoke, it came as a whimper. "Why?"

Danarius grabbed him by the chin and squished his cheeks together, only bringing further agony to him. "Because if you remembered before this, what kind of pain would that bring, knowing you'll never have it back?"

Fenris felt stabbed in the heart, and wrenched his face from Danarius's grip, looking to the side and fighting tears. Danarius did not react, only waved his hand as if swatting a fly and tugged on Fenris's neck chain. The elf gagged slightly, but kept his mouth shut, making only a small sound of distaste as blood dribbled from the corner of his lips.

Now he was against the wall, chained once again, but only by his wrists. He was not able to stand, so hung there, his head falling against his chest as he attempted to breathe normally. He stared up at the five mages with his serpentine green eyes, black hair sticking to him. Sweat ran down through the blood, making little streams on his body, crossing over the metal imbedded in his skin. Fenris had finally realized it was lyrium by the way the mages look hungrily at him. It buzzed within him and felt implanted.

Danarius looked at him with as much hunger as the others, but his eyes had more than hunger for the lyrium, and Fenris again felt dirty, standing here naked in front of a man who owned him and was clearly going to try to make use of it. Fenris vowed to never let him.

There were worse things than death.

Finally Danarius stopped letting his eyes graze the elf and raised his staff. "Now, we'll set the lyrium."

Fenris panted, his heart picking up, fear taking him. Danarius was not known for his merciful behavior towards his slaves, especially elves. The other mages stepped forward next to the magister. Fenris met eyes with the red-headed girl. She stared back at him mournfully, her blue eyes irredeemably sad. Fenris stared deadly back at her, his hair in his eyes, and her lower lip began trembling.

Do not pity me, he thought angrily, I do not want it. She seemed to hear his thoughts, and her eyes dropped to the floor, though her very posture suggested she did not want to be there.

Fenris's eyes flashed back to Danarius as he began to move his staff around in smooth, intricate motions. The other mages followed suit, even the girl, though she did so more sloppily. Fenris's instincts kicked in, and he began to move, getting onto his feet and straining against the chains, though he knew it was useless. He would go down, but he would go down standing and facing his enemy like a man.

Danarius let out no sound whatsoever, but suddenly, Fenris was on fire. It seemed the flames were invisible, but his entire body was ablaze, his skin, his blood, his hair, his eyes. Writhing and crying out, he fell off his feet again, hanging by his wrists and spasming, his screams echoing off the sides of the walls and returning to attack his overly sensitive ears. His eyes remained open, and his vision blurred and then unblurred, becoming stronger. He could see every wrinkle on Danarius's old face. He could see the tears wriggling in the girl's eyes. He could see his black hair transforming before his eyes, bleaching with the agony and shock his body was absorbing. Almost as if his hair was turning inside out, dying, petrifying like the trees and turning to stone. Fenris pulled against his chains as his blood blazed and roared through him, his vision going red for a moment. The lyrium in him sang, but the song was a screeching harpy, rocking and shaking through his skull and his spine and killing him. His brain pumped in his head, his heart crashing and palpitating against his chest. Every organ in his body cried out, and he threw back his head in agony, moaning a deep, animal roar.

It was this moment that Fenris remembered every detail of.

Danarius watched him with eyes dead to his wailing, and kept his staff dancing.

He did not know how long he hung there, shaking and throwing himself against the wall, trying to end it, trying desperately to end his life, for death was indeed the better option. Never had he experienced such awareness and pain.

His hearing suddenly and drastically improved, along with his sense of touch. His body wracked even more violently now that he could feel the lyrium burning into his body. Now he could hear each of them breathing, each of their heartbeats. Could hear their fingers sliding on the staves, could hear his sweat hitting the ground in loud plops, could hear his screams amplified a hundred times.

It never ended.

Now he was falling to the ground, shaking and twitching.

Now Danarius was casting one last spell.

Now he was being carried down a hallway made of stone.

Now he was looking up at the face of the red-haired girl, who was crying as she washed him.

Now he had a small vision-dream of two statues, two men holding their heads and curled against opposing walls, and a figure standing in between them, holding out its hand, its eyes kind, with others behind it; an elf with markings on her face, a man with troubled brown eyes and a staff, a dwarf with a crossbow.

Now he was waking up, focusing his eyes.

There was Danarius, his eyes not the kind ones he wanted back. His master held his face and blinked at him.

"Little wolf," he whispered, "you are alive. What do you remember?"

And then, at that, now there was nothing.

Only the agony, the blood, and the man who had caused it standing above him, the only reason he was alive.

"Nothing, master," he whispered, and his voice had become rough and deep, "nothing at all."

Fenris pulled away from his memories, clenching his fists against his chin. The feeling of long hair against his back was gone – it only touched his neck now, brushed his ears. The agony was gone, his blood pumping normally. His head fell into his hands, and he sighed, digging his fingers into his hair.

"Fenris?"

He jerked his face up, tensing.

But it was only Hawke, blue eyes kind and looking at him with concern. She watched him from the other chair that faced the fire, her black hair falling messily around her face.

Fenris felt an odd emotion in him now – affection. The only person who'd ever summoned the feeling from him now sat there, looking like she wanted to take his hand but knowing him too well to try.

He did not try to force a smile onto his face, because she would know. Instead, he fell back into his chair and sighed, casting his eyes back to the fire. "Just thinking, Hawke. Thinking about the past, or what I know of it."

The worried look only intensified, and he knew he had not tricked her in the least. She leaned forward, towards him, and he looked back at her, the affection intensifying within him.

"How about some wine?" she said, very slowly, and he smiled, gazing at her.

He reached forward and gently touched her cheek. It was strange, knowing now that touching did not have to be painful, but there could indeed be nothing better. Hawke relaxed again his hand, and he realized this was the first time he'd touched her without his gauntlets on. His lyrium markings glowed faintly on his knuckles, not with pain, but with a small happiness.

"That sounds brilliant," he said quietly, and stood, letting his hand slip up from her cheek to her hair. "I think I might need the Aggregio tonight."

She looked up at him softly, and smiled, and Fenris knew that she would make him forget his past.

At least for a little while, he would be okay.

Again, reviews would be soooo loved. This is my take on how it went. Yes, I think Danarius wanted to use Fenris sexually, but I'd never allow it. ;D

Don't own any of these characters.