Merrill found herself suddenly in a dining quarters, one that tilted and rocked subtly. Which meant she was still on the ship. Elgar'nan, couldn't Fenris dream of somewhere that wasn't making her seasick?

She slid along the wall, hoping to remain unobtrusive. If the dreamer became aware of her presence, the dream would abruptly end. And he would realize what she had done, which would be awfully unpleasant. No, she must make certain to hide herself from him as best she could.

These walls were paneled with fine dark wood, giving the room a nice scent of forest that momentarily relaxed her. The smell of food drew her attention over to a huge table that looked like mahogany, heavy, bolted to the floor. Pictures, tapestries, and a mirror (not an Eluvian) were also bolted to the walls, giving the room the appearance of a sitting room in a house, not a tiny quarters on a ship. Very fancy, very fine. These must be the Captain's quarters. But the Captain was not keeping them, not while Magister Danarius was on board.

The Magister sat at the long table with his hands folded in front of him, elegant, aristocratic fingers laced together, awaiting his meal. He was a tall human in dark robes, with a finely trimmed short beard, and he had the grey eyes of a thunderstorm.

He reminded her of someone.

Merrill racked her brain but she couldn't place it. Something about this man was intensely familiar, as though she had met him before. But that was impossible, of course. She had never been to Tevinter, and this man had never been among the Dalish, that she knew for certain. She had not been with Hawke and the others when they confronted him at the Hanged Man weeks ago. She has never seen him before, she couldn't have.

Watching him made her uneasy. His outward demeanor was calm, but something churned inside him, an impatience and contempt that radiated like heat from the sour human even as his expression remained perfectly detached, polite. The air around him crackled with unspent power, invisible lightning waiting for his command. The Fade gathered darkly around him in a way she had never seen before, even among the Keepers of the Dalish. Clearly this was a mage of incredible skill.

The dreamer was kneeling behind him in a dark corner. His head remained bowed and his body stiff, holding himself perfectly still as if the slightest movement could bring a reprimand. Only because Merrill watched him so closely did she notice his eyes flickering up to the table, only for a second, almost invisible.

There was more food on the table than one man could eat in a week, much less in one meal. There was poultry and venison and great bowls of gleaming fruit: grapes, apples, dates. Steaming fresh loafs of bread lined up in a half-dozen different varieties, so that one could choose according to their mood. Sweet rice pudding waited for desert.

In a huge goblet a blood-red wine was poured by a shaking female elf, a galley slave who did not know Master Danarius but knew his reputation. She looked quite young. Merrill was reminded of one of her girlhood companions who had the same chestnut hair, though this girl was very thin and pale, nowhere near as healthy and sun-kissed as the Dalish. This girl was terrified of the Magister. She knew that a single mistake could cost her life, and that if she drew attention to herself in any way he may kill her anyway. He was unpredictable, unfathomable.

Merrill knew this in the way you know everything in dreams. The same way she knew that it had been days since the tattooed elf has had anything to eat, and that he could think of nearly nothing else.

The smell of food and wine was vivid in the dream. It pierced even Merrill with a desperate hunger.

The poor frightened elf girl finished pouring the wine and retreated from the room as quickly as she could, curtsying hastily. As the Magister ate, Fenris stayed kneeling on the floor, eyes staring emptily at the floorboards.

It was so confusing; Merrill couldn't understand it. If not for the white hair and the markings, she would not have recognized him at all. He was like an entirely different person. The Fenris she knew was so dignified, and he would sooner die than kneel on the floor in chains. He never listened to anybody, really, he did whatever he wanted and kind of snarled at you if you suggested otherwise. This Fenris was perfectly obedient, even willing.

It was all wrong, upside-down and backwards.

She had always imagined him a resentful, defiant slave, furious and hating all of them and plotting his escape. There was no fight in this Fenris at all, except for when he killed that man. And that was at his master's command, not on his own.

Could this be right? It was a dream, after all, even if a memory. It could be that he remembered wrongly. This couldn't possibly be Fenris, this pitiful creature abashed and powerless before her. It had to be some sort of mistake.

"You've done well, my pet," the magister spoke out of nowhere, making Merrill jump. "It could have been faster, but it was certainly a flashy performance. Don't you think?"

His voice raised into an address at the end, an amused query directed to the ship's captain who had just entered the room. A red-bearded human, who looked strangely nauseous in the ship's dining quarters - of course he wasn't seasick. He was something else.

"Very impressive, my lord."

"Ah, but something is on your mind, Captain." Magister Danarius paused in his carving of the steaming venison on his plate. "Enlighten me, dear man - what is your concern?"

The Captain cleared his throat. "Ah, it is your bodyguard here, your... little wolf, you said? We'd like not to house him in the Galley, if we may. He frightens the others."

Danarius chuckled at this. "Little rabbit-hearted elves. They know a predator when they see one."

"Indeed so."

"We will not be traveling with you long, and I'm afraid I must insist. It will do them all good, you see? My pet should know firsthand how he would live with a less kindly Master."

"And the others, ser?"

"They should know fear, from time to time."

Danarius resumed eating, and the Captain turns as if to leave. But he hesitated, with his eyes on the white-haired elf.

"What?" The magister asked with some annoyance.

"Perhaps we should prepare something for... your pet? We have not fed him. You see. And he must be—"

"Are you suggesting I do not care properly for my little wolf?" Denarius's voice curled around the man dangerously, like smoke.

"No— no." He stammered in reply.

"I am entirely too kind, in fact. I spoil him rotten. Isn't that right, Fenris?"

The kneeling figure looked up at last, and when he spoke it was in a voice that Merrill had never heard before. Flat, dull, and submissive, entirely unlike the Fenris she knew.

"Yes, Master. You are too kind."

"You see?" Danarius reached across the table to a bowl of apples, and plucked one. "Let's have that serving girl back, I require more wine."

"Yes, ser. Right away." The captain nodded and retreated, shuddering.

"Are you hungry, my pet?" The apple rolled around his nimble fingers as the collared slave tried not to look at it. He didn't answer one way or the other, but it was clear that he was starving.

"Ah, here we are." Danarius greeted the serving girl and flicked the apple over his shoulder like so much garbage. It fell several feet away from Fenris and his eyes alighted on it hungrily.

As the serving girl refilled the magister's wine and his attention drew to her, the slave stealthily tried to retrieve the apple. But he was chained to the wall, and the apple was just outside of his reach. It was a bit pitiful, the way he struggled with the chain to get just one more inch over, and Merrill averted her eyes to watch the Magister instead.

He was running his hands along the elf girl's arm, sliding under her sleeve to skim the soft skin beneath. The girl watched his grey hand touching her, frozen in terror.

"Rather a pretty thing, this one. She would be a nice addition to this evening's recreation. Wouldn't she?"

Meanwhile the chained man has reached the apple with his bare foot and flicked it close enough to grab. With his chains ringing lightly he scurries back to the corner and his kneeling position, and hungrily devours the apple within seconds. Core and stem and seeds, all.

"Come, my pet. I need you." The magister motions him to the table, and Merrill has a flicker of hope that more food will be shared, and not thrown to the floor like scraps to a dog. But the slave has no such hope; he seems to know what's coming.

"This girl will be joining us tonight. Wouldn't you like that, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he said dully.

"She is much too frightened to be any good, sadly. We will have to persuade her." He grabbed at his slave's wrist and pinned it onto the table, and from his robe he proffered a long, shining knife.

Oh no. Oh, no no no.

Merrill watched in horror as the magister bared the knife. Surely he wouldn't. But of course she should have known. Danarius cut Fenris down his arm, a long clean cut, producing a trail of dark red blood. "I suppose I could use hers," he said to himself, "but this blood is the most delicious. It makes my magic sing."

Merrill recoiled. Though a blood mage herself, she would never use someone else's blood for a spell and certainly not against their will. It would be a violation of the highest order. She had seen the results of blood magic sacrifices when they had hunted Hadriana, but she had never actually witnessed such a thing herself. No wonder he hates blood magic, she thought. So much of his own blood must have been used to fuel this awful man's spells.

He constructed the spell elegantly, with a terrible beauty that Merrill could appreciate, even as it made her sick to her stomach. It was an intimate thing, blood magic. It calls upon the very life essence, taps into your innermost self. He drew the blood from his slave and the spell he cast was flavored with his very being – even to Merrill, an observer, the spell felt sickly Fenris-like.

As it enveloped the elf girl all of her fear and inhibition fell away, and she looked upon both of them with lustful eyes.

Enough of his blood was used that the slave's eyes glazed over, and he sat back against his heels, his arm pulling out of the magister's grasp and bleeding onto the floor. Danarius paid him no mind now; he was done with him. His attention now was on the elf girl, a new distraction who was now confidently feeding him grapes and letting him lick the syrup from her fingers.

Merrill moved around the table to look at Fenris, kneeling with perfect stillness with a faraway look in his eyes. A slowly spreading puddle of blood was gathering under him that he did not seem to notice.

She was forming a half-baked idea to interrupt the dream somehow and rescue the dreamer from all of this degradation. But she worried that it might be worse for him, to see her here witnessing this particular scene. What could she do?

Merrill glared up at the Magister. He was the reason. The reason people hated and feared blood magic, the reason her own clan had cast her out. People like this who abused their magic and used it to control and enslave the minds of others. To drain a man's very soul away to satisfy your whims.

You're dead. You're dead and gone and I'm GLAD you're dead and you shouldn't be haunting him like this anymore. What are you still doing here?

Danarius had the elf girl in his lap now, straddling him, and starting to remove her own clothing. He laughed, a low and threatening sound, and turned suddenly away.

The elf girl was dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

"Patience, little rabbit," he said without looking at her. "I haven't finished my dessert."

She looked wounded. The sudden loss of his attention provoked a desperate need for his approval that was commanded by the very blood in her veins. She crawled beside him and began to strip, as provocatively as she could imagine, and when he ignored her still she began to cry.

There was a very small smirk on his lips as he finished the rice pudding and pushed back from the table. Danarius straightened his robes, neatly, and dabbed at his mouth in a prim sort of way with a linen napkin.

And Merrill's stomach dropped.

She knew, suddenly, where she had seen him before. Many times before, in fact. Because she had seen Fenris do the very same gesture a thousand times before. In precisely the same way.

In fact, nearly all of his mannerisms were the same. Exactly the same. The way he sat, the way he ate, the way he fussed with his clothing. Even the way he spoke, sometimes, and the sneer on his face.

The Fenris she knew was a nearly exact copy of Danarius.