AN: All established characters and pretenses belong to Bioware, the rest is mine.
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
~George Eliot
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Run.
It was all that could be done. It was all that could be thought. There was no turning back. All around there were shouts of disbelief, anguish, hate, but all were ignored as each thought was focused on placing the next step, dodging the next branch, leaping over the next stream. There was no distance that was great enough. There was no road that would lead far enough away. There was no sanctuary.
All that existed now was fear and the drive to flee.
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"If you want him, he's yours."
No, he had heard her wrong. The mage was many things. Things he hated, things he feared, but she was not this. He rounded on the woman that he had followed and fought with for the past six years.
"What!"
"I thought I was the only one thinking that," the abomination mumbled behind him.
The dwarf scrutinized the dark haired mage as if it were all a bad joke, "You're kidding right?"
She wasn't. In the pit of his stomach, he knew she wasn't, but he still clung to the feeble tendrils of hope that this was all some ruse, a plot like so many others the manipulative mage had come up with in the past. But instead of the smug look Hawke usually had after one of his outbursts, the woman was stoic and refused to look him in the eye.
His old master smiled at this, "I knew a mage would be sensible. Of course, I'll make it worth your while. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal."
"Don't do this Hawke," he practically pleaded to the mage. "I know we are not friends, but I can't face him without you."
It was only then that Hawke turned to him without even the barest hint of compassion, "You're on your own, Fenris."
It was as if he were frozen in place. His heart which had been racing with fear and panic now seemed to still with the sudden realization. It was over.
He dropped his head, "I suppose I should not be surprised."
"That's our Champion," Varric spat.
"What'll it be Fenris? Will you throw your life away?"
A part of him that still clung to the hope of some semblance of life reared up after his old master addressed him once more. He could fight and he could die right here. But what difference did that make? Despite everything, despite all that he thought he had gained, it would be all just so he could die like any other disobedient slave. He…he didn't want to die, not like this.
"No. I will go with you."
The bitterness of the words should have sickened him, but he was numb now. He didn't care.
"Lovely," Denarius purred. "Here's a token of my appreciation, Champion. I'm sure I can arrange for something more…appropriate sent along soon. Come along everyone. The boat for Minrathous leaves within the hour."
He didn't see their faces as he passed. He could bear to see them. He kept his eyes down and followed his master like the obedient pet he was trained to be. All the while, the fire that had been sparked all those years ago, the one that had inspired him to run, the one that had been nurtured and grew during his desperate race for freedom, was slowly dying. It didn't matter how much he had gained over the years or all that he had learned. By the time they reached the docks, he was hollow and felt foolish that it all could have ended any other way.
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This was wrong.
Where did it all go so wrong?
The dreams were haunted by unwanted memories while waking hours were plagued with guilt and shame. All that could be done was to forget and hide. Forget what it meant to be a part of them. Forget all notions of loyalty and honor and duty. Forget oneself entirely. For memories only served to way you down, to remind you of not only your failures but what you have lost and will never again be able to attain.
Desperation and pride had been the catalyst and now regret was to be worn as a mantle.
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The ship groaned from the onslaught of the waves and wind. It was cold in the hold beneath the deck and his thin clothing did little to stave off the chill, but he hardly took notice of it. Because his meals were given infrequently and at random, his days in the darkness had melded into one long, eternal night. He knew not how long they had been out to sea, where they were, or how much longer it would be until they reached their destination. The only time when his isolation was interrupted was when his master would call upon him.
At first, he merely wished to inspect him. He would have him disrobe as he and one of his apprentices inspected every inch of his flesh for any damages or breaks in the lyrium bands. But when the apprentice suddenly grasped him, a lingering part of his old self came unbidden. He shattered the mage's arm and before he could even brace himself, the lyrium in his skin responded to his master's magic and fell to his knees besides the whimpering apprentice.
And so the rest of the voyage had been "to correct" his newly learned behavior. Some days had been easier than others. Those were the ones where he would force his head down and forget the six years he had spent in his mock freedom. Other days, the ones that left him hungry or in lingering pain, were the ones in which they could see that the last of his defiance had still not perished. Today had been one of those days.
As he sat in the hold, his bruised and battered body protested against the churning and pitching of the ship. In the distance, he heard as much as felt the thunder. It shook the planks and the wood beneath him. In the back of his mind, he wondered how far off the storm was. He closed his eyes, but it made little difference in the perpetual darkness. He had heard Denarius's displeasure from his actions over the past couple of days. There were rumors from his apprentice that they would have to take more drastic measures once they reached Minrathous.
The ship shuddered again under another heavy roll of thunder. This time it was followed by distant but frantic shouts from the crew above. The ship lurched to the side and he was thrown into the wall of the hull. Then, without warning, the ship itself seemed to explode around him. Shouts were swallowed up by the roaring water and wind. Already the cold sea water was almost to his knees. His first instincts were to run, but the heavy chains kept him tethered to the hull wall. Fenris struggled against them as the water rose each second, but they held fast. It wasn't until the water reached his chest that panic began to set in. He looked up through the hole that had once been the deck but all he saw was the churning black clouds of the storm and the brilliant flash of lightning that shattered the sky.
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We fight.
Not because we want to or because it's required of us, but because it is all we know now.
Perhaps there had been a time when to fight meant to protect, but now it is merely a hollow notion. The meaning long forgotten like so many other reasons. It has become instinct, and like so many other impulses, it is fed by our own lack of reasoning and desolation.
To fight is to kill. To kill is to survive.
But now it seems as though we fight for the same reason one would cast a stone into the darkness. To sound out into the emptiness that we are still here, we still draw breath, and to call out to others who would still hear us.
To survive is to exist.
This monster *ahem* I mean story, has taken on a life of its own and because it is still a W.I.P constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated. Thanks all!
