INTRODUCTION
FROM A LIVEJOURNAL KINKMEME:
Fenris and Anders don't like each other.
Hawke hands Fenris to Danarius. Then says to take Anders, too.
Danarius is a sick bastard.
Anders and Fenris learn to work together to survive Danarius' treatment-torture, rape, isolation,etc.
Eventual consensual Fenders.
+Fenris accepts being Danarius' slave again
++Anders puts up a good fight against being broken.
++++They meet Dorian Pavus in Tevinter
+++++Rescue comes a long time down the road, after permanent damage has been done to one or both
++++++Fenders = love, not just sex
The first chapters ARE painful.
This is not torture-wank fic.
This is a story of healing and growth.
I play with canon lightly.
Triggers for rape, violence, PTSD, things you might imagine happening from this prompt.
Lots of healing, support, friendship.
Lots of consensual loving.
Lots of Fenders.
Lots of fluff.
CHAPTER 1
SURRENDER
Fenris could barely remember what life had been like during the decade spent in Kirkwall, during his years of freedom. Returning to his master was like being sent straight to Hell. Nothing else existed, in the past or in the future. Just the present. Just the terror, the pain and the master. All three were one and the same.
He remembered that life as though it was someone else's story that he'd been told. Had he once been free? Once lived in a house, gone to a tavern, purchased ale, played cards, had friends? He barely remembered Anders, or their rivalry, from that time. He knew he'd hated him, knew he'd despised the choices he'd made. How petty. How distant and unreal.
Anders was his life, now. He was all that mattered. He was a part of him, as much as his limbs or organs, and had been for some time.
When Hawke gave Fenris over to Master, his heart and will had broken. He knew then that his time of freedom had been a dream, a joke, a tragic mistake. Just like his time with the Fog Warriors. When Hawke had laughingly told Master to take Anders with him, while he was at it... it became a nightmare. He knew he, himself, would suffer more with the abomination in his life. He wasn't sure how, exactly, but he knew it was a bad omen.
He hated being right.
Falling back into slavery hadn't been difficult for Fenris. In one action, Hawke had cut all of Fenris' ties, destroyed his hopes, betrayed his trust, quashed his pride, twisted his reality. The long boat ride to Tevinter had given him time to find clarity. He was alone, Anders apparently contained elsewhere. Thrown into a cage in the hold, forgotten for the journey, Fenris made peace with his fate.
Once again, all he had was Master. He hated his master. For years, he had run from him and struggled to maintain his freedom from him. Yet, Master had always been with him; in his memories, in the scars upon his body, in his nightmares. Somehow, he felt the finality and appropriateness in returning to him.
At his first audience with his master upon returning to Tevinter, he begged for forgiveness. He fell to his belly and proclaimed his fervent devotion to his master. Master had come for him, after all. He had never stopped looking for him. Hawke had given him away. Master, at least, wanted him.
Fenris begged to be punished for his actions, for his foolish tantrum in leaving Master's side. He could only hope that he could once again resume his proper place at Master's feet, as his slave, as whatever master wished him to be.
His punishment was extreme, as deserved. He screamed for hours. For his temerity... for his pride... for his thoughtlessness... for his master's pleasure. When it was over, he crawled to Master, kissing his feet, thanking him for setting him straight, again. He knew Master was right... he was a slave, nothing more. His freedom had been folly.
Anders did not fare so well.
Anders didn't know how to be a slave. He didn't know how to be chained, how to embrace his position, how to live for his master. He had run from imprisonment his entire life. He didn't understand that he could not fight this. As he had all of his life, he resisted, he argued, he disobeyed. He fought with his magic, with his demon, even with his fists.
At first, Master was amused by the defiance of the mage. He enjoyed watching Anders struggle, hearing his false threats and foolish convictions. Master asked Fenris details about the mage; his magical abilities, his strengths and weaknesses. He asked him what he, Fenris, had personally thought of the mage, what feelings he'd had for him. Fenris told him everything. Holding back, lying, was not possible. A slave that lied was brutally punished. Slaves were allowed nothing less than complete and utter transparency to their masters. A master owned all of a slave, even his thoughts. And, Master had ways to discern dishonesty. Fenris feared them, greatly.
Master laughed when Fenris told him of Anders' clinic in Darktown, of Fenris' hatred for Anders. He was very interested in the demon Anders carried within him; Master called it a "spirit", as Anders always had. But, Master was disappointed that it was a spirit of justice. It was not a demon that he could put to use. Finally, a suppression collar was placed on Anders. It quelled both the demon, and Anders' magic.
Even losing access to his magic and his demon didn't subjugate Anders. He continued to fight against his slavery. Master allowed Anders to resist for a long time, months. He took great pleasure in the mage's foolishness. Fenris knew that there were ways to cow a new slave, techniques to end the fight, assert them into their place in the world. Master did not use those, not for a long time. He seemed to look on Anders as a spirited horse, and admired his mettle. Anders' behavior and ignorance amused him.
During the time that Master allowed Anders his delusion of resistance, Fenris had submitted completely, of his own will. He had not returned to the position he'd held prior to running from Master. He was not given his weapon or armor, again. Master did not trust him with them. Until he became completely assured of Fenris' devotion, he would simply serve as his man-servant, his body servant, as decor.
Master delighted in Fenris' appearance, as he always had. Master took pride in his lyrium lines, in his physique, in his perfect obedience. He took him into the garden with him most mornings. He had him strip down to a loincloth, and perform his swordplay exercises, using a wooden practice sword. Master watched him with delight, telling Fenris how much he'd missed him, how perfectly beautiful he was. Often, he would bid Fenris to use his mouth to pleasure him, then, and choke the elf with deep, punishing thrusts into his throat.
He had returned to Master's bed chambers at night, chained to the foot of his bed as Master slept. Before he'd run away, Fenris had slept in Master's bed, or on a pallet on the floor. Close at hand, he'd be able to respond quickly should danger appear in the night. Or, should Master desire to use him. Now, Master used him-painfully, degradingly, as always-and then chained him out of reach, for Master's own safety from him. Fenris was privileged to be in Master's chambers, at all. It was one of the highest honors a slave could attain, to sleep in the room with his master.
Fenris was not happy... but, he was satisfied. He did not seek happiness, he was a slave, after all. He'd been happy in Kirkwall, and look what it had gotten him. Here, he knew his place, knew Master could never betray him. He could only be betrayed by those he trusted. Fenris did not trust Master. His master owed him no allegiance. His master would let him live or die, eat or starve, have peace or pain, all at his whim. Fenris understood that. It was more honest, to him, than the false friendships he'd had in freedom. For who, among Hawke's companions, had fought for him? Only Master was willing to fight to keep him.
In time, Master had his fill of Anders' attitude. He stopped laughing at the mage's behaviors, lost admiration for his spirit, and began to teach him his place. Well, most often, he had others do the actual teaching, upon his orders. Master didn't rush the process. Unwilling to give Anders a clean break from his fantasy of resistance, Master allowed Anders to believe there might be a way to pretend he had been broken. Sometimes, the mage went weeks without being harmed at all.
And, then, the breaking would begin, anew. During the times when he was taught his place, Anders was whipped and beaten, starved and sleep-deprived. Anders was surprisingly strong. Fenris wondered if he'd received such punishments from templars. Or, if he was simply too stupid to understand the punishments. When Anders didn't respond as Master hoped, Master considered what Fenris had told him of the mage. With his evil cunning, Master called for child slaves to be brought to Anders' punishments. The children were beaten in his stead. Anders' reaction was perfect. Master had found his greatest weakness. Anders could not bear the suffering of innocents.
There were times, when Master oversaw Anders' breaking, that Fenris was present at Master's heel. A few times, Anders had actually called-out to Fenris for help. Fenris half-expected Master to place the whip in Fenris' hands. But, Master didn't trust him enough, yet, to take part in the training. Instead, Fenris would be compelled to watch, or to serve Master's body so that Anders would see that Fenris had no allegiance to Anders; that his sole purpose and desire was to serve Master.
Fenris knew, that had Anders ever begged him during his days of folly in Kirkwall, Fenris would have laughed at him. But, he didn't feel like laughing, now. He knew that, despite his own feelings regarding the abomination, Anders was a gentle person. He was a healer, a champion of the downtrodden. He had run from oppression his whole life, but he couldn't run from this. Fenris felt the cruel irony in the situation. Anders had come to the only land where a mage could be free. The only place in Thedas where a mage could have what Anders had fought so long to give all mages; and had only found a greater oppression than he'd ever imagined. Fenris didn't like Anders, but he didn't want this for him. It may have been Fenris' proper place, but it wasn't Anders'.
In time, inevitably, Anders was cowed. He learned the fear that every slave knows. He learned that resistance was useless, and would only result in the terrible pain of innocents. The fire left his eyes, his shoulders bowed, his gaze remained on the floor. He was finally broken.
He was doomed.
He had no real skills to apply in his slavery. Master had no need for a healer, he preferred to use healing potions. Master didn't trust the spirit Anders harbored, in any case, and would not risk removing the pretty, jeweled suppression collar from Anders' neck. Fenris wondered what fate awaited the abomination.
Master was pleased with Anders' submission. He called for him to come from his cell in the slave kennels, frequently. He enjoyed watching the complete obedience that now defined the mage. Anders was awkward. He didn't have the years of training and habit that a House slave possessed. He was not graceful in kneeling or serving. Master seemed to miss the challenge that Anders had been. He'd never so enjoyed the breaking of a slave's spirit.
So, one night he said he had a surprise for Anders. He took him to his bed.
Fenris knew the ways of his Master's pleasures. He understood what was expected of him, was prepared for the pain, degradation and humiliation. He knew not to resist, and he willingly performed as bade... however foul or painful. He remained quiescent as Master moved him, twisted him, fucked him, hurt him. He knew this part of pleasing his master. Anders didn't.
Fenris was sent to kneel outside the bed chamber door when Master dragged Anders, choking on his leash, into the room. Fenris knelt quietly, unmoving, as he heard the cries, the muffled pleas, the slap of skin on skin, the gagging; and Master's terrible laughter and moans of pleasure. Fenris knelt in the corridor, hearing the mage's cries weaken, well into the early hours.
When it was done, Master called Fenris into the bedchamber. Anders lay crumpled on the tile floor, bruises blooming on his naked body. Fenris barely glanced at the battered man, and knelt before Master, his face to the tiles. Master, reclined on the bed, satisfaction in his countenance, and instructed Fenris to return Anders to his cell. He followed this with the order for Fenris to stay in that cell with him, from now on. Fenris replied as was expected, stood, and moved to Anders. Inside, he worried. Being used by Master was a nightmare, but a slave kicked from the master's bed chamber was a slave on his way down in status. No good could come of it.
He lifted the barely conscious man and half-dragged, half-carried him, from the room. He took him down the hallways and stairs to the slave kennels, and into the cell Anders had occupied. It was a small cell, not meant for two. One blanket, one set of bowls for food and water. He lay Anders on the one blanket, and pulled the door shut. Slaves locked themselves in, in Danarius' House.
Fenris hadn't been relegated to the kennels since he'd taken the lyrium lines. Except as a temporary punishment, he was too valuable, to preferred by Danarius, to live in slave quarters. He was anxious about his sudden change in status, but tried not to think about it. It wasn't necessarily caused by anything he had done... it could simply be Master's whim. Not that it mattered, there was nothing he could do about it. He was a slave.
He sat beside the shivering mage. Anders was hurt, barely conscious. He was cold, too, but Fenris knew better than to remove his own shirt or pants to cover him. If Master wanted Anders clothed, he'd have given him clothes. The clothing Fenris wore belonged to Master. Giving it to another was stealing, and a slave could be killed, or at least lose a hand.
The kennels were small. In length and width, they were slightly more than the height of a human male. A hole in the corner led to the sewers, and served as a toilet. The bowls were served with gruel and water once each day. Occupants were taken on rotation every few days to the cold waters of the slave bath to wash. Clean garments were given at that time. Torches at the end of each corridor were the only light.
Fenris sat, idly wondering his fate, and that of the abomination. It was very late. He was tired.
In time, Anders spoke. This was the first time they'd been able to speak, since leaving Kirkwall... how long ago? Was it a year? Less? They'd never been alone, before now.
Anders' voice, raw and painful, floated up to him.
"Fenris... please...if there's any kindness in you... kill me."
tbc...
Author's Notes:
I know, it's dark, but stay with me.
Comments are my sustenance!
