Title: Some Kind Of Redemption
Author: Inkcharm
Summary: They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.
Warnings: Fury Road AU, Angst, Violence, Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Mentions and Depictions of Slave, Mentions of Minor Character Death, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of Underage Rape
Disclaimer: The video games of the "Dragon Age" series does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. The world of the "Mad Max" franchise does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. I make no profit out of this story, it is written merely for fun and entertainment of other fans.
Part: 1/?
Author's Notes:
Fic will mostly be written from Fenris' POV, but the prologue is Varania's POV to offer exposition and flesh out surrounding circumstances for those two in particular.
Character chart regarding the Mad Max verse:
Wives = Dolls (not all female, but all elven) = Fenris, Merrill, Velanna, Zevran
Furiosa = Varania
Max = Hawke
Immortan Joe = Danarius (and literally no one was surprised)
Some Kind Of Redemption
Prologue
Varania gains her freedom not because she's grown too old or lost her appeal in a different way, the way these things usually go. No, she's still young enough and beautiful enough with her rather fair skin and bright red hair. Not a strand of grey, not a line on her face, that would warrant turning her out into the wasteland, no longer fit to wear the flimsy white of Danarius' Dolls and serve in his private quarter. No disfigurations either. Like all Dolls she's well protected, far removed from any harm. Her looks have not become obsolote, as Shianni's did the day Varania arrived and Danarius believed one redhead was quite enough. He appreciates variety. She also hasn't displeased him.
No.
No, the day Varania is released from her existence as a slave, an object, a Doll, is the day her little brother grows old enough to appeal to Danarius. And so he is collared, and takes her place.
They only see one another once in passing when it happens. He's 15, all long legs and wide eyes, much darker in skin than she is, with a mop of black hair. She'd told him to stay out of sight five years ago, when her own developing body had caught attentions. Had told him to make himself unappealing. Born an elf, he could never be a War Boy, broken in different ways, but perhaps he would be lucky – remain invisible, poor, and die unnoticed and young. No such luck.
Now he will get a name. Will be branded on his face, the back of his neck, between his thighs, clad in almost see-through white and allowed to live in the lap of luxury.
The price is insignificant – merely his existence.
Varania holds his gaze, and chokes back words. Wants to trade places with him again immediately, because being nothing has to be worse than not knowing how to be something, doesn't it? How dare he grow up handsome despite her warnings? How dare he draw Danarius' eye, casting her out of easy misery into difficult freedom? It's not his fault, and yet Varania has to blame him a little, because the alternative is to break apart knowing exactly what he will suffer through.
That night she finds no sleep on the cot she's been assigned, paralyzed by fear of what freedom entails. It's a dark weight pressing down on her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. There are no other elves curled up around her on a massive, soft bed. The air is filthy. She has a future, and that's the most terrifying thing she could have ever imagined. She twists onto her side, trying to find some peace of mind. But how could she, when she has not seen her brother in five years, and will likely not see him until he's tossed out of Danarius' service years from now, if she even survives that long. Varania doesn't even know what his voice sounds like now. And yet she knows exactly what his screams would sound like tonight.
It's three years later that Varania catches a glimpse.
Her own red hair is shorn short. A prosthetic has replaced her left arm. Freedom is still agony, and the way she longs for the simply days of being a Doll disgust her. She's working as a mechanic now, and occasionally makes deliveries. She delivers a new Doll today, a thin girl with skin as white as milk, and hair as black as tar. Elven, because what else would she be. Someone has to replace Seranni, who died in child birth and took the babe with her. Varania didn't know her long enough before being released to mourn her now, and yet she feels a strange pang of regret. Over her death, or over the kind of work Varania's doing these days, she's not sure.
The air is different up here, and it seems to delight the little bird of a woman at Varania's side. Poor thing has no idea what life holds in store for her. The Dolls are lingering around in silence, more naked than dressed in white, revealing cloth.
It takes her a long time to recognize her brother.
Except there's almost nothing left that looks like the darling boy she yelled at never to draw a human's eye when they dragged her out of the hovel in which their mother had died.
Danarius likes to improve his Dolls, and tattoos are an easy way to achieve this. Varania is one of the few whose face remained bare, although she bears his designs elsewhere, and will never be able to remove him from her skin. Most of them are branded in easily visible places. The face, bare arms, ankles. The white lines curling around her brother's dark skin are a shock, winding over his arms, around his calves, where the skin is still reddened. His markings are an ongoing process, then, which is unusual in itself. And his hair... He's grown it out, but there's already plenty of white mixed in with soot black.
He's not going to last. Danarius won't care that he's only 18 when his hair is already turning white. He'll be discarded. She'll deliver his replacement up here, because that's what she does now, apparently.
Danarius should have kept her. Her little brother, the way she remembers him, is strong beyond his age, but it's glaringly obvious in the scowling line between his brows that he's not made to last. And yet he has the audacity to look at her with thinly veiled disgust. Varania meets the stare, wonders if he even recognizes her. Dares him, silently, to accept responsibility for her fate, the freedom he forced upon her. The luxury he grabbed for himself.
And yet as the elven woman is taken from Varania's grip, she knows deep down inside that the only true luxury she had up here was the knowledge that her little brother was nameless and safe and far away from Danarius. And because she's free to go, she looks away from him and leaves this place.
That's not her brother up there. It's just a Doll.
Just what she used to be.
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New chapters will be posted regularly.