He who fights with monsters must take care, lest he thereby become a monster.
"If you want him, he's yours."
These words signal the end of everything. Yet Fenris only gapes at Hawke in stunned disbelief. Betrayal like this needs heat, hatred, anything but the calm, callous offering left echoing through him. Blood rushes through his body and makes his heart ache; a potent concoction of dread and adrenaline; it has fueled his fury at being lured into Danarius' trap here at the Hanged Man. A ploy perpetrated by no other than the elf with the red hair standing timidly behind Fenris' old master, Danarius.
Varania, his sister.
"Hawke, no…" Fenris says, his voice weak.
Hawke refuses to look at him. In a rush that makes Fenris' guts lurch, the revelation is reality. Fenris glances back at Merrill and Anders, aware in this moment that they are mere strangers to him, standing in on the most personal moments of his remembered life. When Fenris went to Hawke for support to meet his lost sister, he should have known something was strange when Hawke chose the mages. It was foolish in retrospect, consolidating such power in one place, but all Fenris cared about was recovering a piece of his past. A sister. I suspected a trap, but this...
Merrill senses the silent accusation behind Fenris' narrowed glare. With a soft gasp she drops her gaze and keeps her eyes anchored on her feet. "You knew," Fenris hardly breathes. Fenris doesn't doubt for a moment that the Dalish would attempt to kill him at the snap of Hawke's fingers. The blood mage worships Kirkwall's Champion. But right now the elf looks ready for the ground to swallow her up.
"And you." Fenris shifts his eyes to Anders. Unlike Merrill, Anders unflinchingly stares back at Fenris. The mage presses his lips together, perhaps to stop himself from replying, but there is nothing plaintive on his face. He's enjoying this, Fenris thinks. Fenris curls his lip in familiar disgust at the mage. Perhaps the idea of betraying Fenris to Danarius began as his whisper in Hawke's ear.
The alternative is too painful to accept.
"Interesting." Danarius purrs, a subtle sway in his step as he slowly descends from the top of the stairs. "You will be well-compensated of course, Champion. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal."
Fenris' eyes snap back to Hawke. "Don't do this, Hawke." Despite his efforts, even Fenris can hear the rising desperation in his own voice. "I need you."
"You only need me when I can be useful to you." Hawke snaps. The anger in Hawke's voice is like the crack of a whip, its stunning ferocity forcing Fenris to take a step back. "Like fighting your bounty hunters and chasing Hadriana. I'm sick of being your attack dog. Sorry, Fenris but you're on your own."
Is that... how you seen me?
"Alone, yes, as always!" His markings flicker as he fumbles with his anger. Let anger drown out the pain.
"You pushed everyone away, Fenris." Hawke says, stabbing an accusing finger into the space between them. "Not that I didn't damn well try! Merrill tried harder than any sane person should have, yet you treat her worse than garbage."
Merrill unsuccessfully tries not to squirm at being mentioned.
"So don't act surprised we don't leap to your rescue, you hateful little shit."
"Not everyone." Fenris tries to lash back, but his voice is thick.
"For the love of the Maker, don't drag me back into that." Hawke sighs with exasperation. "Fenris, we were together one night. And then you were as fast to get back into your clothes as you had to be out of them. For a slave, you don't hesitate to make use of other people."
"And he calls me a hypocrite." Anders mocks, his lips drawn in a sneer.
This elicits a churlish chuckle from the Tevinter slave-hunters. Fenris shoots daggers with his eyes at them, but not one of them appear the least threatened.
"I… I explained why I had to leave!" Fenris cries in outrage, whipping back to face Hawke.
"There's always been some excuse." Hawke dismisses him. "It's done, Fenris."
"Far from it." Fenris growls.
"Now, now, Fenris," Danarius says with the soft click of his tongue. The magister's admonishment is softened with amusement. "Don't work yourself into a fuss. Be a good boy and come quietly."
"And what do you intend to do with me?" Fenris demands. "If you're after these markings, I won't lay still for you to carve them out."
"I have never known you to simply lie still, my little wolf." Danarius says, a sly curl to his lips.
The crowd snickers and Fenris narrows his eyes at Danarius in disgust, his lips pulling back from his teeth.
"What a savage look. Has living in the streets made you feral?" Danarius strokes one of the small braids in his gray beard. "I could reassure you that my intention is not to kill you, but that would give the impression that a slave's approval matters." He pauses, leveling his gaze on Fenris. "So let us instead observe that you are standing before me now, alive, when I can have you otherwise. You may change my mind by resisting further. It is up to you."
The elf, his sister - no, not mine, I refuse - hesitantly takes a step toward him. One dangerous look from Fenris causes her to retake that step. "Don't throw your life away, Leto," she urges softly.
Fenris looks around him, trying to not feel hopeless, even as hopelessness descends on him with a heavy hand. He knows he is fast enough to kill the nearest guards before Danarius could bind him with a spell. If he plays it out right, he could slaughter his way to the front door to escape; he may make it outside if Hawke and the other mages don't intervene.
But then what? Flee to the mansion like they would expect, lock the doors and hide under a blanket? The weight presses on him, until he hangs his head in defeat. "No." He says. The chase is over. "I will go with you."
"Lovely!" Danarius smiles. "Here, Champion. A token of thanks for returning my lost property. A more appropriate reward will be delivered once I return to the Imperium." He passes a velvet pouch to Hawke, who tucks it into a belt pocket with the vaguest of nods.
Danarius gestures to Varania and the guards. "Come along, everyone. The boat for Minrathous departs within the hour."
The lieutenant of the guard steps up to Fenris from behind, and in one quick, practiced movement encloses a slender collar around the elf's neck. Fingers brush against Fenris' hair as they slide a pin into its place, locking it. Fenris jerks away from the contact, a scowl engraved around his mouth. What is the point of such a trinket, other than to shame him with its symbol? It does not surprise Fenris, however; Danarius has always pushed the theatrics. But the lieutenant is not intimidated by Fenris' warning look and to prove it he shoves Fenris hard between the shoulders. "Walk, slave."
Fenris reluctantly obeys, his shoulders stooping. His steps are minced, the path back to slavery as difficult to walk as broken glass. He glares up through the veil of white hair over his eyes as he passes Hawke. Rage boils through him when Hawke meets his eyes and smiles. Fenris doesn't recognize those eyes. Eyes that once scorched him with desire now burn cold with contempt. Fenris stops and stares. The thought of slinking back to Tevinter, wearing no less than Danarius' collar once more, grips Fenris. The injustice would make Andraste weep. Fenris has far less kind feelings.
"You won't get away with this, Hawke." Fenris swears, his teeth grinding together. "I won't let you." He bids the lyrium brands on his skin flare to life. Even the magical lines beneath his clothing shine through. As soon as Fenris thinks to act, the lieutenant behind him is reacting, and he is fast; immediately he extends a hand to grab Fenris. With one fluid twist of his body Fenris evades the grab. He swings his hand and spins around, grabbing the man's throbbing jugular. Fenris allows his incorporeal fingers to materialize around the esophagus as his hand phases through the neck. Body tissue tears like a wet napkin between the serrated edges of Fenris' fang-tipped gauntlets and he opens the lieutenant's throat in a fountain of gurgling blood.
Fenris closes his fingers in a fist after his hand frees from the guard, and his body follows the momentum of the swing, completing the spin to face Hawke. Mere seconds have elapsed in the time required to slash open the lieutenant's throat but Fenris instantly realizes that killing the man was a mistake; Hawke, his true target, has pulled back outside of his reach. It's too late to stop; as his arm stabs past where Hawke had been moments ago, he adjusts his aim by inches. His fist punches through Merrill's chest instead. His hand bursts through her body, exploding from between her shoulder-blades. The Dalish's large green eyes instantly roll backward, blood bubbling from the corners of her mouth. Blood sprays in stinging fissures around Fenris' fingers with incredible pressure. It paints the far wall, managing to make the Hanged Man even filthier. Merrill's staff falls from her twitchy fingers.
Then time catches up to him.
Anders screams, hungry flames rippling up his arm. "Evil bastard—!" With a furious slash of his hand a ball of fire hurtles toward Fenris.
Fenris whirls to Anders, lashing out his arm to throw off Merrill's weight. He frees his hand from her chest with a sickening sound, and her body sails toward the blast of fire roaring toward him. The walls of the room shudder under the backlash of concussive force the moment Merrill's body impacts the fireball. Anders staggers backward, unable to dodge Merrill when her body crashes into him. He's knocked down to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
Before Fenris can take another step agony suddenly branches through him. The pain cuts him deeper than any knife, rushing through the tracks of embedded lyrium in his skin. Magic, Fenris' instincts scream. Fenris tries to run, to escape from magic's knife flaying him on the inside, but his legs give out at the first step and he falls to the floor. The pain, oh Maker, no, please no, it felt like dying and being born again; as if his markings were reliving their creation, cut by cut.
"Heel, Fenris." Danarius sighs, sounding almost bored.
Fenris writhes until the blue glow of his markings abruptly vanish. He's left panting between strained whimpers, darkness flickering at the corners of his vision. He feels the burn of bile rising to drown his lungs as he forces himself to push himself up by his hands and unsteadily get back on his feet. I'll die on my feet free, not as a slave on his belly. Brave sentiment for a man who was all but weeping, he thinks bitterly.
No sooner has Fenris straightened on his feet then a fist punches into the side of his face, shredding the inside of his cheek against his teeth. The room spins, swallowing Fenris up. He slips in the pooling blood on the floor and hits the floor on his stomach. His head knocks against the wood planks, momentarily stunning him. As the tavern shifts back into focus, Fenris doesn't try to stand again.
Danarius continues stroking his beard. "That's good, Fenris. Be still." A silver band twinkles on one of his fingers. Fenris can't see it clearly through his swelling eye, but he... hears it, feels it. Like a soft, soft song, or... the memory of one? Before Fenris can decipher the strange feeling, rough hands grab him by his clothes and roll him onto his back. Hawke stands over him with a sword in both hands, prepared to plunge it through his chest. To put him down like a wild dog.
But the deathblow doesn't come.
"Champion, my apologies." Danarius quickly approaches, his hands spread in supplication.
"He killed Merrill!" Hawke shouts, face wracked with anguish. Fenris stares in amazement, that someone so tore up over a dead blood mage is the same person selling him into slavery and torture.
Anders grunts as he frees himself from beneath Merrill's body. The elf's body turns over and her lifeless eyes stare unblinking at the sparrows in the rafters. Anders is covered in her blood, his feather pauldrons sticky and ruined. "He nearly killed you, love!"
"Yes, his manners are terribly lacking." Danarius sighs, not sparing a glance down at the gore. The death of his lieutenant laying face-down on the floor just a kick away doesn't seem to merit an acknowledgment. "Of course I will provide restitution for your dead elf."
Fenris laughs. "The magister is generous."
Hawke's knuckles drain white, squeezing the hilt of the sword. "I felt sorry for you." Hawke snarls at Fenris before backing down and shoving the sword back into its sheath. "But you're an animal. You belong on the end of a leash."
"He's a monster." Anders readily agrees. "I have always cautioned he is more dangerous than the mages he condemns."
Hawke steps back, allowing Fenris to be dragged to his feet by more of Danarius' guard. "I won't kill you. You deserve worse."
"I'll return someday, Hawke." Fenris forces himself to smile. "And you'll wish you had." His voice dries up in a whisper but the hatred in it could not have felt more potent. "But I'll come for you last."
Hawke's hand snaps out and roughly grabs Fenris by the chin, calloused fingers smearing the blood by his ruined mouth. Hawke jerks Fenris' closer and peers deep into the slits of Fenris' green eyes. "I doubt that." Hawke breathes against his face. "You're going to be far too busy coming for someone else." The words are so caustic its all Fenris can do not to squirm in Hawke's grip. The Champion shoves Fenris' face away and smiles coldly. "But I'm flattered that you'll be thinking of me."
Hawke looks at Danarius. "Get him the fuck out of my bar."
"With haste." Danarius offers Hawke a simpering smile before snapping his fingers at his attendants. "Strip him, quickly. I won't have those filthy clothes rub off on the upholstery in my cabin."
Fenris is seized upon by several pairs of hands. The sounds of fabric tearing make him wince as his shirt is ripped from his body, and his armaments stripped away. "Do not touch me!" His intended snarl only squeaks out. Fenris is grabbed by the hair and his head forced down toward his knees. His leggings are pulled down and torn away, leaving his markings stinging from the brusque contact.
"He's so thin," Varania whispers to her master. Fenris' feels his skin burn in response, and he tries to tune her out from among the round of murmurs and snickering. He doesn't doubt it is Danarius' intention to rob him of any dignity, so Fenris makes it his mission to deny the magister, and stand straight and unfettered by shame. He watches as every piece of clothing, even his gauntlets and chestplate, are tossed in the crackling fireplace. The flames hiss beneath the bloody garments, and they begin to smoke.
"That will have to do." Danarius sighs. "Now we must keep up a pace. I won't have this little stunt delay our departure."
A guard grabs and squeezes Fenris by the neck, forcing him to walk toward the tavern entrance. Naked, Fenris steps outside and the hand lets go. Blinking in the sunlight, Fenris sees the gawking crowds which have already gathered outside the Hanged Man. A slave in the City of Chains must hold some novelty for them, Fenris thinks with disgust.
As Danarius leads the procession toward the docks, the following of curious onlookers grows until the streets become clogged with people. Fenris can feel the many pairs of eyes staring at his bare skin and the elaborate tattoos thereupon, and his white hair streaked with blood and dampened by sweat. Not to mention his knife-ears. The Imperial guards in their ornate, glittering onyx armor encircling him would have been enough of a spectacle itself. He's just a bonus. Fenris keeps his head down as he is herded through the twisting alleys and markets, his eyes burning from the sunlight glinting off sandstone streets. The dampness in his eyes is not from shame, he must remind himself. They can't have my dignity unless I give it.
Without him having noticed, someone is walking beside him. "Leto."
"Don't call me that." Fenris hisses. That name is a curse as sure as the collar he wears.
"Fenris." Varania tries again, "You need to know that I didn't have a choice."
"A slave isn't required to understand anything."
"This was the only way for me to become an apprentice. To have a chance at a better life."
"Mother would be proud." He sneers.
"Mother would understand." Varania frowns slightly. "When you used the boon from Danarius to free us, we no longer had a home, or food, or means to survive. When mother got sick, her only option was to die." The frown turns sad. "You lived pampered in a mansion while I scavenged the streets all on my own. If I didn't want to spend a night sleeping in garbage, I had to accompany someone else to their bed."
Fenris shuts his eyes to block her out, shaking his head. "Why tell me this! You'll never be able to justify—"
Varania looks at him calmly. "You think you know true suffering, but there are countless slaves in Tevinter, Leto. Compared to them, you were truly blessed. You threw away a life anyone else would be grateful for. Now that the consequences have caught up with you, you're angry. But I don't deserve your anger. I-"
"Shut your mouth, Varania!" Fenris snarls. He refuses to even consider this!
Varania does, thankfully, give up on him. Without another word, she leaves his side and hurries ahead to accompany Danarius.
Fenris looks up at the sky, seeing the masts and sails of ships rising over the docks. The many colors of flags roll out in the warm breezes. He recognizes the emblems of Amaranthine and Highever, Ostwick, Wycome, even from parts as faraway as Antiva. And, to his dismay, the colors of the Imperium flying black midst their more colorful array.
As Fenris nears, the Tevinter heraldry of the entwined Dragon and Snake is clear. It's a tight vessel, below the extravagant standards of a magister of Danarius' standing. A clipper, built to cut through water like a spear. Danarius must have been in a hurry to reach Kirkwall and claim his prize, Fenris thinks with chagrin. Fenris also doesn't fail to notice the carving of the prophetess Andraste at the prow, as her architect clearly intended; the Bride of the Maker is proudly naked but for flames that billow around her body and wind into her hair.
She seems to smile down at Fenris knowingly, but never has he felt so alone.