Disclaimer: In no way do I own Dragon Age or its associated characters or Worlds or anything even remotely related to it.
"What is your choice, little Warden?" Danarius grows impatient, amplifies the electricity. No sound escapes me. I'll not give him that satisfaction. Not yet.
A person is born: qunari, or human, or elven, or dwarf. He doesn't choose that, Sten told me once.
Elven means lesser to humans. Oppression perpetuated by generations of slavery turned freedom barely acknowledged as more than lessers. We may not choose our race, our blood, but we make a conscious decision when we determine the worth of an individual, when we weigh their worth against our own. Societal influences or no, we still make the decision based on how we understand ourselves. Danarius' treatment speaks of self-entitlement, of self-importance, of selfish desires.
The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the color of his hair: These are beyond his control.
It is strange, the echo of those words. Never truer spoken, never more honest from one such as he. Sten did not understand the ways of different people, the weight of choice. Everything was predetermined in the Qun. He taught me that much. Women were not warriors. They did not fight or bleed or live as we Fereldans, as mages did. He seemed to think there was no concept of choice.
Screams that echo off the stone. The smell of burnt hair, of singed flesh. Oh, to be that simplistic in my own views of life. By the Maker, I wish I was that ordinary. The repetition of a question, an impatience that cannot seem to overcome the Magister's nature. The threat, the promise reiterated. Another round. The acquiescence. Begging. Master.
It ends with tears and his smile. He knows he has won. There is nothing I would not do to see golden eyes never clouded over by pain, hate, rage, not again, never for me. Still, it continues. Still, there are more lessons to be taught.
We do not choose, we simply are.
What happens to us is not simply part of existence, it is choice and blood and tears mixed with love and joy. The parts are not equal, they are not whole, but they define us, break us, make us more than we were. Don't remember, don't recall, but I do, I do. I won't let go of the choices I have made that brought me to this point, this twisted mage.
Golden eyes that crinkled at the corners in laughter. Full lips that never quite smiled. Pain. Terror. Hold on, hold on. Warmth that faded from one body to another, the press of darker skin to mine. Hard-fought, hard-won. Love.
We do not choose, we simply are.
How easy it would be to not fight against the kiss of cold metal, to let pain steal the essence of who I am. Not broken, not gone, but choice. Choice to love, choice to bleed, choice to remember. Survival to find a chance to break free, to kill the sickness that calls itself a human mage.
The pain ends, I'm still on my knees. Hadriana is applying a healing spell to the wounds, clucking over the fragility of elves. Eyes down, chin tucked into my chest, I cannot see her, nor him. The only indication of their location is the swish of robes, the patter of leather. There are more guards. I flinch at the touch that is applied to my arms, the sound of rattling chains. The links binding me to stone are cut away, dropped into a bag, taken away. On my wrists, the manacles remain.
"What a pretty pet you will make, little Warden," Danarius croons, long fingers sliding beneath my chin, lifting my eyes.
Warden. I stiffen. Words, memories, companions. Do they live? Thoughts for another time. Survival first. First step. Tone. City elves. They flinched back, spoke softly, tread lightly. Mimic. "What kind of pet…Master?" I ask voice cracking, soft.
His hand slides to my cheek and lightly strokes with his thumb. Flinch away. Too close, too intimate, not golden eyes. Pain blossoms, world tilts. Hissing, angry words. On my side, I curl around myself and watch him from beneath my lashes. He does not speak the language of spells, the magic would have already taken effect by now. They are not words I recognize. Cannot be spoken tongue of Fereldan. Different countries, different languages. Must be, has to be Tevintar. Why speak my tongue at the purchase?
The current stems and he settles into glaring at me. It softens and he kneels beside me, brushing my hair from my eyes. I want to bite him. Refrain. I was taught not to ingest poison as a child and that's all he is. "You made me hurt you, little Warden," he says, dark eyes dancing. "I've no desire to harm you further after all that it took to bring you to this point." Lie. "I want to give you a better life than what you had in that barbarian country, but I cannot do that if you will not accept me." More lies.
Survival. One step at a time. "I…I am sorry…Master," I answer, the word like acid on my tongue. "I…I am…unaccustomed to…kindness…" torture.
He doesn't try to stroke me again, just tucks my matted, dirty hair behind my ear. "Of course," he says sounding indulgent. Glancing up, he continues, "Hadriana, see to it that Fenris draws her a bath and fetches her some appropriate garments." The human woman bristles, but leaves to obey. He stands, backs away, says, "Stay," and leaves. Silence has never been so welcome, solitude never more a friendly companion. Vision blurs, chest tightens, breath in, breath out. It fades.
There are no words, there is nothing to say to the situation. One elf that stands guard over another. One gender that watches the other bathe. One lyrium-enhanced warrior ensuring that a mage does not break free. There are several levels of humiliation and mockery to this…predicament…that make me almost want to laugh.
It's a servant's bath, has to be. Dirt scrubbed but still obviously ground into the tiles, walls a lackluster ivory. It's obviously not a room meant for guests. No worse than the places I've stayed in the last year, but the circumstances are…less than ideal. Beyond the door, there is the murmur of voices, the quiet shuffling of feet through the hall.
A servant, then?
He called me pet.
He touched me.
Likely, a serving whore with special skills. Elven, feminine, and delicate are a hard combination to resist. It will take a few months to earn a reputation, acquire the skills necessary for the finer touches. Then, he'll probably start using me to lure, reward, entice. Magisters play a game, if memory serves. They don't kill each other except in formal duels. Instead, they sneak and assassinate and such a method of using me would make for a one time use only. Too costly a method even for a dangerous rival. Information on enemies will be his target. That means outings to what passes for social events.
One of those may be the chance.
Fenris moves, instincts scream, water splashes. The vibrant green of his eyes are outlined in the blue of lyrium. His hand is on my shoulder, fingers digging into skin and flexing into the dreams of forever. My fingers rest against his throat, withholding air. Water ripples from the movements. He releases me first, fingers relaxing, hand sliding from my Fade Shield. He steps away, gives a satisfied nod and fixes his gaze just above my shoulder.
There are no words, there is nothing to say to what happened…except…he's not quite what I expected in a guard dog. Somewhere, somehow, he made a choice and he's no longer just a pretty pet with special abilities.