This is based off of a kmeme prompt that requested:
Ok, so this is probably quite sick. But it's an anonymous kink meme, so...
A while ago, I think I remember a slave!Fenris fic where another character asked Danarius if he'd be willing to breed Fenris. I would really, really really like to see that fic. Perhaps Hawke and crew are also slaves, or maybe just OCs who he's been put to stud, maybe with a side of 'milking' to be sold on for artificial insemination. y'know, that sort of thing.
Takers?
My fill is AU—obviously—and it doesn't quite fit the prompt, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. It's a bit different in that I've told it in present tense snippets, a departure from my usual style.
Lineage
He realizes she is foreign the first time he hears her speak. The pale skin and rich auburn hair are unusual enough, but it's the harsh cadences of the far south that catch his attention.
If the voice alone were not enough to convince him, the way she stands tall and glares at those who subdue her in the eye is. No elf in Tevinter would dare to be so bold, and he pities her foolhardy pride and courage. She will learn soon enough.
Danarius quickly tires of her willful ways. She refuses to tell anyone her name and will not answer to the one given her. He has paid good coin for strong-blooded foreign stock, and he will see his investment returned. If she will not work, then she would produce those who will.
Fenris readies his small room for her, hoping he won't have to use the leather straps to bind her. He doesn't expect this will be enjoyable for her, but he still does not want to hurt her. However, his well-being comes before hers, and he will do what he must.
The turning of the key in the lock sounds like a death knell in the closed space of his room. She stands at the door, quivering—bristling—with fury. He waits silently, hoping she will calm herself. When minutes pass and she does not, he reluctantly reaches for the straps.
Her voice stops him. "The last time sometime tried this, I killed him." Steel gray eyes meet his olive green ones, and her lips pull back in a snarl. "He started with my cousin first. He raped her, and laughed. He stopped laughing when I cut his head off."
Fenris says nothing and the lack of reaction seems to deflate her. She sags slightly where she stands.
"I can knock you out," he offers, not unkindly.
"Can you kill me?"
"I will not."
"Then I won't pretend this isn't happening." She steps toward the low bed, though her curled fists give lie to her calm veneer. "Let's be done with this."
Like the others, she is brought to him for three nights in a row, leaving with the dawn. Fenris does his best to be quick and as gentle as he can be when they couple. He does not try to give her pleasure, just as he does not make his own drawn out. She lies still beneath him, eyes turned toward the wall, and in the dull gleam of moonlight from the slit of a window high above, her eyes glisten like an oiled blade.
They do not speak, do not pretend that this is anything other than what it is. They each suffer in their own private silences, until the last morning when she finally looks at him. Really looks at him.
"Kallian," she says, just as the door opens and the guards take her.
And now Fenris has a name.
She is not brought to him again the next month, and he feels another little piece of himself break off and fall away. That he has no choice does nothing to ease the burden of knowing that each time a woman is not brought back it is because she has conceived. That through his actions, yet another soul will be born to a cruel life, and know nothing except bondage.
He sees them, sometimes, in the halls or workrooms of the mansion. Quiet, subdued women whose bellies swell with his issue.
He never sees the children. One day, the women are simply gone, and he never knows how many of them survive.
Danarius is proud of him. At parties, he is shown off to the other magisters, displayed naked for their perusal. The worst times are when they want a demonstration of his prowess, and some hapless serving girl is dragged to the floor so that they can watch and touch themselves through their robes.
On the very rare occasion, he is taken from his room to a perfumed chamber, blindfolded and laid upon a bed heaped with silks and other delicate fabrics. Then a woman will come to him, round curves and soft hands, smelling of rare spices and flowers. They take their pleasure of him, and he returns it as best he can, though sometimes he thinks the kiss of leather on his skin would be easier to bear than that of honeyed lips.
He knows—knows—that Hadriana once came to him like that, and ever after, each time she touches him, his flesh crawls.
Unlike the others, Kallian meets his eye as the pass. The pride, the defiance is still there, and something inside of him calms at knowing he did not take that from her.
She stops him one day when they are alone, catching his wrist. She says nothing as she lays his palm flat on his rounded belly. Fenris frowns, not sure what she is about, when he feels something hit his hand sharply.
Hissing in shock, he pulls his hand away. This, then, is her revenge, giving him the knowledge that the child within her is real and alive and his.
He flees, and when they pass in the halls, it is he who avoids her gaze.
Whether it is mercy or malice, he doesn't know, but he does not see her again until the night Danarius calls for her.
Fenris is standing guard over the drunken magister, and he maintains his vigilance even as his master strips Kallian, running his hands over her nude form, and uttering filthy, lewd words. Danarius taunts the both of them, seemingly delighted in their attempts to remain indifferent.
He finally tires of that game, and pulls Kallian onto the bed. Here, she knows her part well, and whispers and sighs and moans as she rides him. She arches her back and throws her head back, hands tangling in the long auburn locks.
A flash of white is all the warning he has as Kallian pulls something free of her hair and sinks it into the side of Danarius's neck. He is moving without thought, his hand sliding into her chest, even as Danarius thrashes beneath her and his life's blood pumps around the small, homemade bone knife.
All his training screams at him to move his hand and crush her heart. He can feel it fluttering in the cage of his hand, like a captured bird beating itself against the walls of its prison.
It is the distant flutter of a tinier, far more fragile heart that stops him. And then he is in motion again, throwing her clothes at her. They find her a better knife, and then they cut their way out of Danarius's estate, Kallian moving at his side as if she's done this before.
And they run.
Their child is born in the middle of winter, in a small hut in a tiny village just outside Tantervale. A good portion of their hard earned coin goes to the midwife who sees them both safely through the delivery, and promises not to breathe a word about the two hunted-looking elves who will move on as soon as the spring thaw arrives.
Kallian smoothes the boy's shockingly thick black hair against his head and kisses him between his two feather thin eyebrows. The smile she gives Fenris is tired, but genuinely happy as she hands him the tiny, swaddled bundle.
"Say hello to your father, Conan."
They make port in Denerim when Conan is a year old, and has already been walking for two months. Their son is strong, and Fenris takes grim pride in knowing that Danarius did not live to see how well he wrought.
Others give the two armed elves a wide berth as they make their way through the city toward the Alienage. A guard tries to stop them, yelling about elves not being allowed to be armed. But Fenris glows and snarls, and the guard finds something else that needs his attention.
Inside the Alienage, a red-headed woman who bears more than a passing resemblance to Kallian screams in shock upon seeing them. They are hustled toward a small house, where inside an older man breaks into sobs and hugs Kallian as if he would never let her go again. Kallian, too, grips him hard enough that her knuckles turn white.
In time, they reluctantly release one another, and Kallian introduces Cyrion and Fenris. The grateful man hugs Fenris, thanks him for his daughter and grandson, and begs them to stay as long as they are able.
The Denerim Alienage is no place for two strange elves, and Fenris's small family leaves before they can bring trouble upon the others.
Cyrion goes with them when they leave, seeking a small village somewhere in Ferelden where the villagers will grateful of their blades. They find one, on the border of the Brecilian forest. The area was not touched hard by the Blight, but many people are gone who will never return. They claim a small house without challenge, and begin to set up their new life.
Free.
AN: In case you were wondering, "Conan" is Irish Gaelic for "little wolf." I couldn't resist.