Author's Note:
I apologise for the Author's Note as I don't usually do them. But, as it is my first fanfic in a while I wanted to say that I hope you enjoy!
A Wolf's Pelt, A Hawke's Heart
Chapter One: Tall Tales
When someone begins to judge what he or she has lost, they must remember what they had. To have lost something, you must have obtained it in the first place; otherwise you never lost anything.
An elf lay in chains upon an altar tainted with aged blood. The stains ran to the floor, as though the blood had flown as freely as a river. Upon his skin, there were peculiar burns that followed the dips and curves of his muscles and bones. They were too neat to have been obtained naturally; forking off at specific points across his naked body, much like the tongue of a vicious snake and forming precise points at their ends. From the depth of the burns, the elf must have suffered excruciating pain during the process of creating them; the wounds raw and red.
Upon one of the four sandstone walls of the small, confined prison room, a small window high above the wall exposed the elves sun tanned skin to the moonlight, seeping out from behind the cloud cover. It roused the unconscious elf; he moved to sit upward before realising his shoulders and thighs were tied with leather bounds to the altar. Terror washed over the elf's face and newly formed sweat from his abject fear made his silvery-white hair cling to his forehead.
A man entered the room, forcing the door wide open and strutting confidently up to the elf. The man had aged ungracefully; his skin was blotched with dark red and purple spots, around his eyes and chin. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones prominent and his forehead littered with thin wrinkles. It appeared as though the man attempted to make himself appear nicer, by slicking back his dark grey hair and keeping his beard neat. But, the most unsettling feature of the man was his piercing grey eyes. The way he stared at the elf on the table was similar to a man looking at his son; possessive.
As the man sneered, the elf felt his fear turn to anger. The elf knew subconsciously that whatever had happened to him, it was because of this man. It sent his blood pumping through his veins, and in a flash, the burns that spread over his body shone with a vibrant blue. The elf felt power coursing through his veins as he resisted his bounds, letting a small snarl leave his mouth. The action and the rage burnt him, leaving him in incomprehensible pain, but the adrenaline pumping through his body kept him resilient.
The man calmly reached out and touched the elf on the forehead. In the blink of an eye, the markings over the elf's body returned to their raw state and the elf felt exhaustion hit him like a boulder.
"Ah, you have spirit!" the man said, laughter laced through his words, "you are my little wolf."
The elf only had the strength to glare at the man, but inside he felt… Compelled to listen to his words. The way that he spoke was persuasive, and the elf had no choice but to listen intently.
"From now on, you shall be called Fenris," the man said, before turning around and starting to walk from the room.
"W-who are you?" Fenris called after him, his voice weak and raspy and unable to hide the resentment he felt.
"I am Danarius; Magister of the Tevinter Imperium. Your master," he said, before closing the door heavily behind him.
Fenris remained, bewildered. Master? He thought to himself, master of what? He proceeded to mull over the words of Danarius, and was perplexed by a greater problem; why can't I remember anything?
It may have been minutes, or hours, after Danarius left that two men entered the room. Gruff looking, they appeared to be mercenaries. They approached the altar, releasing Fenris of his bonds and chucking clothes in his face. Under the careful scrutiny of the men, Fenris changed into the clothes given to him, barely better than rags. The dusty shirt and breeches contained multiple holes throughout the flimsy fabric. After Fenris had finished changing, the men pushed him towards the door. Despite his attempts to be free of them, Fenris realised that struggling was futile. They guided him through sinister halls, each appearing longer than the last. Upon the walls were intricate statues, carved to look like different Gods of Old. Occasionally, there were a few lamps hung upon the walls but for the most part the small group walked in darkness and silence before approaching a dormitory. With a rough push in the back, the men guided him into the room and to what he assumed was his bed.
"Sleep here," one of the men said simply, before both of the men disappeared again into the endless halls. As the door to the dormitory closed, Fenris glanced at the people around him. They were wide-eyed and scared; a majority of them elves, but there were a few dwarfs and humans. Men, women, children; the number of people cramped into this tiny room, each designated a small, thin, dirty bed roll, equated to about two dozen.
Fenris stared at his allocated sleeping space. He was between a large man who smelt like a pig and slept like one, and a small elf who refused to stop staring at Fenris and his abnormal markings. As Fenris sat down on his bedroll and lowered his head to look at the floor, the people around him began to whisper. He heard glimpses of, "who is he?" and "... is he?" Beside him, Fenris still felt the piercing eyes of the elf beside him.
"My condolences," the elf whispered to Fenris. The sound of his voice momentarily frightened Fenris and he reacted by snapping his head around to see the speaker, "we have not had a new one in a while."
"What do you mean?" Fenris asked. The sound of his deep voice still felt foreign to him.
"You are a slave," the elf replied, "to the Magister Danarius."
"W-what?" Fenris gaped, eyebrows knitted in frustration.
"You are currently within the slave's quarters of Danarius' mansion," the elf continued to explain, "welcome to hell."
"Oh, your hell has just begun," a woman said from the doorway. Behind her, more slaves carried in plates of food. Grabbing one from a slave, the woman approached Fenris. She wore robes of deep blue and green with complimenting make-up.
"Fenris, right?" the woman smirked, "I suppose you won't be needing this, then."
And, while the rest of the slaves were supplied with their food, the woman walked out with Fenris', leaving him suddenly starving and aggravated.
Sometimes, when Fenris lay down to sleep, he dreamed of the events that soon followed his awakening upon that altar. It was as far back in his life as he could remember. Fenris had always assumed the ritual that had grafted the lyrium into his skin had robbed his mind of the memories following that venture. He refused to believe that the only life he had ever known was one filled with abuse, slavery and Danarius.
Danarius. The Magister and the blood mage. Fenris' intense distrust for magic had begun with his former slave master. As soon as Fenris had escaped Danarius' grasp at Seheron, he had realised that the power Danarius had over him was gone. The further away that he traveled, the less Fenris felt that he had to turn around and obey his master. Occasionally, Fenris had noticed the cuts surfacing over the Magister's arms, but he had thought little of it. Now, sleeping in a small, dingy room within the Hanged Man tavern in Kirkwall, Fenris finally understood why he had found Danarius so hard to refuse.
He was using blood magic to control Fenris.
While he slept, while he ate, while he entertained his master's guests, Danarius must have been watching for any sign of rebellion. As soon as it surfaced, he would pull in the reigns to prevent him from losing his greatest weapon. Fenris had felt the influence in Seheron, when Danarius ordered him to murder the Fog Warriors. The way that his words had drilled into his self-consciousness like a nail was not natural. Although Fenris had served Danarius for as long as he could remember, he never would have committed such an immoral act without first questioning it in his thoughts. It was the only explanation for how quickly he turned on those poor people, his friends.
What was in the past could not be changed, and Fenris realised that but that damned mage deserved to die. As he tossed and turned on the uncomfortable bed he had been provided with, he knew he was better off for now. Even better when he could hold Danarius' heart in his fist, and crush it within his hands.
Unable to sleep, Fenris decided to travel out to the bar to catch some gossip. Occasionally, people would talk about mercenaries and assassins from the Tevinter Imperium who searched for a weapon. While they had no idea what kind of weapon it was, Fenris knew that they were searching for him. Danarius would stop at nothing to be sure that his precious lyrium marked elf was under his control again.
Fenris ordered a drink from the barman, overhearing a rather boisterous dwarf in the corner.
"... and then, she took the ogre's head with her bare hands, and bashed it upon the stone!" the dwarf said, his hands moving to mimic the actions that he described. A bunch of men and women stood around him, mouths agape at what they were hearing.
"And you were there, Varric?" One of the men asked.
"Of course I was!" Varric defended, "how else would I be able to describe Hawke's triumphs with such detail?"
Some people gasped, while some whispered various questions to those seated around them about this "Hawke,' as Varric stood up from his seat and walked up beside Fenris to order a drink.
"It's hard to believe whether your stories are true," Fenris said offhandedly. Varric looked up upon the elf with a goofy grin on his face.
"As long as you keep their validity to yourself, I'll keep the stories coming," he said charismatically before taking his drink and returning to his seat. Fenris pondered on his words for a while. If such a person as Hawke existed, without the embellishment present within Varric's tales, they would be a handy companion if Fenris were to face his previous master. After hearing stories about her ever since arriving in Kirkwall, it wasn't hard to come to that assumption.
No matter if she's as excellent as they say or a standard fighter, Fenris thought, I would take any help I could muster. Fenris was not used to asking for help, or seeking it out;but, he knew that stepping out of the bounds of his comfort zone were necessary if he wished to be free of Danarius.
Under the frame of the front door, orange light shone through onto the dusty wooden floor boards. It was sunrise; time for Fenris to get to work. He placed his empty drink on the counter, besides a few silver sovereigns before exiting the Hanged Man. A few people were wandering about and some of the merchants were setting up their stalls for the day. Fenris wandered about, scouting his surroundings. He spotted a young female purchasing armour from the armour stand. As soon as she had passed over the money to the merchant, she handed it to an orange-haired beside her, dressed as one of the city guards.
The woman standing before the stall was intriguing to Fenris. She wore figure-hugging purple robes which easily reached to the ground and wielded a large, wooden staff across her back. From where Fenris was standing, he could only see her long and wavy black hair cascading down her shoulders and stopping at the tips of her shoulder blades.
"Thanks, Hawke," the woman said who had received the armour, "I'll be back soon."
As the other woman walked away, Fenris moved to a more inconspicuous spot while Hawke turned to talk to a man beside her. Fenris caught a glimpse of her face. Her skin was fair and flawless, adorned by minimal make-up. A straight cut fringe fell just below her eyebrows, enough that it did not fall into her eyes. She laughed at something the man said, and Fenris saw her azure blue eyes dancing with glee.
The man irked Fenris; something about the way he stood and talked made him stand on edge. He wore peculiar clothes; feathers spread across the shoulders of his clothes, while the rest was a combination of different materials to create a jacket, shirt and pants.
"Hawke! I have work for you," Varric yelled, running towards the pair, "a dwarf called Anso wants us to recover a "lost item."
"The way your eyes light up when there's the opportunity to make money amuses me," Hawke teased, "we are just waiting for Aveline."
As Hawke and Varric spoke, the man noticed Fenris watching the group and narrowed his eyes.
"What is it, Anders?" Hawke asked, as Fenris walked away from the armour stand. He felt the anger rise up within him at the sight of that man, yet he wasn't sure why.
"Nothing, I thought I saw someone watching us," Anders answered, slightly distracted.
As Fenris walked towards the Docks, to evade the suspicions of the odd man, he was slightly relieved that Hawke was the one to take Anso's job. All that was required now, was to wait for nightfall to recruit her skills and he would be free.