.xxi.
Mist hangs heavily over the bleak, empty horizon of the darkened forest. Sickly trees twine their way up from the ground, like rotting fingers, grasping for the sky. The moon and stars are obscured by heavy clouds, roiling and black. Hawke walks amidst it all, barefoot, and nothing protecting her save for a simple shift and chemise. She fumbles at her back for her staff, but it is not there. She casts a spell of light, but the shadows devour it, leaving little to guide her. Still she walks, trying to find her way out of the forest. Behind her, noises begin to ring out: thunder in the distance, branches rustling, the snap of a twig underfoot.
"Who's there?" she calls with what she hopes is a commanding voice, and brings flames into being with her hands, crouching defensively. The fire does not even begin to permeate the darkness. No one, nothing answers. But still she hears the sounds. Something is approaching.
"Show yourself," she demands, sounding far more courageous than she feels.
"Hawke."
She turns, looking for the owner of the voice, and from the shadows comes a form she knows well.
"Anders!"
"No," it answers, "Justice. How have you come to be in this place, Hawke? Mortals do not often travel this part of the Fade." He stares at her with scrutiny. "You should not be here. Dark magic is abound in this place. Where are you?"
His question make her think. Where is she? Why is it so hard to remember?
"I don't know," she answers, shaking her head in bewilderment. "I don't know, but but I think something is... wrong. Tell Anders, I need you to tell Anders-"
"I am being cast from this place," Justice interrupts, and it appears to be true, his form is flickering and fading like a dying flame.
"Tell him! Tell him- I think I'm in danger!" she yells, and Justice nods, calm and decisive.
"Aid is coming for you, Hawke. Hold fast-" He disappears with the last word, leaving nothing in his stead, and then the world around her begins to shake and shift, growing darker if at all possible. The mossy ground beneath her bare feet cracks open and she plummets into the abyss.
"Ava."
She bolts up in bed, hands still clawing at the air, desperate to find purchase.
"Ava!" She realizes it's Alba and she stops fighting, breath coming in gasps, terror still coursing through her.
"You had a nightmare," the woman tells her, and she almost snarls in response as to how obvious that is, understanding in time that the woman is trying to comfort her.
"I apologize," she manages after a few moments. The adrenaline is starting to subside, and the familiar weariness that has been growing in her over the past few weeks returns in increments. Alba kneels by her bed side, a pitcher of water on the floor near her. Outside, the sky is the inky black indicative of early morning hours.
"There is no need for apology. I have brought you water. The Master requested your presence early today.
"Again." She says tiredly. Alba nods. It has been weeks since she has arrived. Weeks of sleepless nights and long days at Danarius' side, often being used as the power for his more draining spells. Fresh cuts and old scabs litter her forearms. And the collar still around her neck prevents her from healing herself, assuming she had the strength to do so after being drained by the magister. Danarius. Her hate for him grows more and more every day. Oh how she prays to the Maker for the power of forgiveness, but in truth she finds herself less and less willing to give it.
"Ava," Alba pleads, holding the pitcher of water to her. "Clean up quickly. You don't want to make the master wait."
She is too tired to think of a joke to make at his expense, so she simply takes the pitcher and drags herself off of her cot. Her arms and legs feel like lead, and when she stands, the room tilts for a moment. The pitcher slips out of her hands and plummets, splashing cold water across the tile floor. She watches it go, reflexes so dulled by weariness that she can not even try to catch it before it falls.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, staggering across the room in search of a rag. Alba lays a hand on her arm, and through the haze of fatigue, she can see the pity on this woman's face. The look scares her. It has been a very long time since she has seen this look, one she would be content to never have directed at her again.
"I will clean this up. Please go eat something." She nods and walks away, unable to express her thanks to Alba but with an obedient nod.
She walks from the slave quarters to the main estate, after a small, barely nourishing meal of bread an cheese, morning light rising and spilling over the grounds. The other slaves are stirring, preparing for the duties of the day. She walks past, garnering stares from a few. So far she has earned only the trust of Alba.
The walk is long, so she focuses simply on the act of walking itself, one foot after the other. Her dream comes creeping back into her consciousness as she travels. Anders, she had dreamt Anders- no, Justice had spoken to her in her dream. But that was impossible. Since her capture, she had slept in the collar, which cut her off from the Fade she knew so well, secluding her in some fiendish side she had never once encountered before. It is a nice thought to entertain, though; the possibility that the spirit had found her somehow, and would send aid. She focuses on the swetness of the thought as she enters Danarius' study.
He is crouched over his desk, scrawling something on a parchment. He doesn't acknowledge her presence as she enters the room, as quietly as she can, moving to stand by his desk, arms folded behind her back. He continues to write, and she stands stock still, willing the trembling in her legs to cease. The thought of Justice in the Fade distracts her from the revulsion she feels standing in this man's presence. She keeps telling herself it isn't possible what she had seen, but she wants so very much to believe.
"Your mind is elsewhere, little bird. What thoughts are you dwelling upon?"
A moment's hesitation is all it takes for him to use the spell of compulsion on her. Already she has given up secrets previously unheard by anyone, so she speaks immediately, padding the silence with chatter while she thinks of a passable lie.
"Oh you know, just the usual. I wonder if anyone is feeding my dog. Or watering my house plants."
His eyes cut to her under his meticulously groomed eyebrows. "Is that so?"
"And wondering about this party the de Launcets were throwing. I was looking forward to that one." He's not moving threateningly, so she hopes for the best. "Their parties are always fun. Plenty of family drama."
"You would like a party, little bird?" he asks, setting down his quill and steepling his fingers, leaning back in his chair. Not quite what she had expected, to say the least. She shrinks under his scrutiny, but tries to appear unperturbed.
"It would be fun, wouldn't it? More so than the countless blood rituals you've been performing as of late. What's the rush, anyway? Trying to get thrown into the Void before your time?"
His impassive face flickers at the mention, partially with humor at her sharp tongue. "You know it is in poor taste to mention such things, Ava."
"Pardon me, I've never been much of a lady." An image bursts forth in her mind, vivid and unheralded, of a soiree she had attended in years past after having been named Champion of Kirkwall. An event thrown in her honor, as well as that of her companions. A lavish affair it had been, with half the city in attendance, all vying for their attention. Even now she can feel the lush velvet of her dress (one with an exorbitant price bought, at Isabela's behest), deep wine red and edged with creamy lace, and see her friends, all done up themselves. She'd seen Aveline in a ball gown for the first time ever that night. Varric nearly had a coronary event over that. It had been great fun. Even Anders had been convinced to leave his clinic, and Merrill her ancient mirror, and Fenris... He too had dressed up for the occasion, albeit grudgingly. He had looked so handsome in his finery, and they had danced into the night.
"I think a party is a splendid idea." He speaks, drawing her out of her rumination over the past, so far away and out of reach. "Perhaps a welcome back affair. A chance to show you off. I would like that."
"As you will, Master," she assents, glowering, suddenly wishing she had chosen some other lie. "Should I go tell Alba?" Any excuse to escape his proximity.
"No, not now. Why don't you have a seat, sweet thing, you look so very tired."
Her pride wants to say no, but her buckling knees give her no choice. She slides down into a plush padded chair, head lolling slightly to the side. She's never been this tired in her life.
"I expected this would happen," he sighs, clicking his tongue and running his fingers along the silverite band about her neck. "I originally created this to contain my little wolf, you know."
She knows. She can still remember the hatred on his face, the grit of his teeth when he had told her about Danarius dragging him around on a chain like the Qunari did to their saarebas, a mocking of their custom. She wonders what he would say to her being in the same position.
"Unfortunately, it was not designed for use on a mage. Long periods of time without using our power-"
"-is deadly. I am aware." All too late she realizes how impertinent the words sound. He only seems to abide by her sarcasm when she speaks with a sweet tongue. She waits for the retribution, the customary slap or blow, but nothing comes. It seems 'Master' is in a good mood.
"Well, we can't have that, can we? Can I trust you to behave yourself?"
She snorts incredulously. "I can't see why you wouldn't. I don't think I'm much of a threat at the moment." In all likelihood, she wouldn't make it to the door before collapsing on herself.
"No. You are not." If she wasn't before, the way he had spoken those words were warning enough to not try anything.
He produces a small, delicate key seemingly from thin air, and brushes her hair aside, slowly and deliberately. She shudders, and hears him chuckle under his breath. It feels like a small eternity but he finally unlocks the blighted thing and lifts it from her shoulders.
"Praise the Maker," she sighs in relief. Liberation is a wonderful feeling.
"Better?"
"Yes." Already she feels her strength returning, magic pulsing unrestricted in her veins. On a whim, she shoots a fireball into the hearth, and watches the logs go up in bright flames. Danarius grins at her, pleased at her show of strength instead of intimidated like she had hoped.
"Impressive. It usually takes some time for the magic to resurface after having been bound for so long."
Knowing that such comments from are supposed to be answered with gratitude, she dips her head. "Thank you. I aim to please." She wonders how many other mages have been forced to wear the damnable thing.
"I'd like to see those fabled healing powers of yours." He circles her, with easy slinking steps. She stays in her chair, eyes on the floor.
"If you insist. Who needs it?"
"One of my slaves, Balazs. He had an... incident. I want to know if you can fix him." Fix him, like he's an object. She frowns at the wording, but listens anyway. She knows Balazs, Alba's little brother. She had only seen the boy a few times, he stuck to the shadows and fringes of fields of vision, but she had seen his scars: thick, rope-y strands of bright white skin spreading out across the expanse of his face, neck, and shoulder like a spiderweb. The wound they were caused by undoubtedly was painful.
"What kind of 'incident'?" she asks.
"He irritated me."
"You did that to him because he irritated you?" For a moment she is struck dumb by the concept. Brutality and senseless cruelty she has seen in droves, but never before such callousness, or disregard for the life of another.
"Sometimes I forget my own strength." He shrugs languidly as he speaks, as if it is of little consequence. "Surely you have done the same?"
"No. I have not. I believe magic should serve what is best in me, not that which is most base."
"An interesting ideology. And of course, you are above such barbarism aren't you, little bird? And yet..." Tilting his head, is eyes bore right into her. "I can see it in you, I can feel it, roiling in your soul, the darkness you try to hide."
"You must have me mistaken," is her instant denial, voice wavering with discomfort. "I've never had a bad thought in my life. Well, unless you count the excessive swearing and-"
""Laughter and jokes to hide behind. What is the shadow in yourself that you hide from? What is it that you fear?" He is rapidly approaching her now, stalking with intent, with purpose. She stumbles up from her chair, scrambling back toward the fire as he advances.
"Spiders, the dark, small spaces, pigeons-"
"Enough posturing, my bird." He raises his hand, flicking his wrist almost imperceptible. The overwhelming command of blood magic washes over her, tendrils of whispers probing her mind for secrets.
"What are you hiding in there?" he grasps her face in one hand, still commanding his foul magic in the other. She can't break away, too consumed with the fight against his spell and not the murmurings of demons drawn to the scene.
"I fear," she grits her teeth, trying to keep the words from him, though she herself is not even sure what they will be, "I fear-"
The door creaks open and his hold on her is broken, attention drawn to Alba, who enters, head bowed.
"Magister, ego-" she raises her head and her face pales, eyes widening. "Oh! Your pardon. You are...busy."
Danarius relinquishes her from the vise of his fingers and fluidly clasps his hands behind his back with composure. Hawke, however, supports herself on the bricks of the fire place, breathing a relieved prayer of thanks to Andraste for sending Alba in that moment. Part of her wonders what she would have said had she not arrived...
"I brought you Balazs, as you asked." Sure enough, the younger elf peeks out from behind his sister, though in truth he is far too large to effectively hide behind her, tall as a human man.
Danarius looks to her with a smirk. She stands tall, hoping to appear blasé. "Send him in."
Hawke notices the moment's hesitation it takes for Alba to comply. Understandable, in light of Danarius' admission. She watches Balazs receive some quiet commands, or perhaps words of comfort from his sister, and then he enters the study, doors closing behind him. He jumps when they click shut.
"Introductions need not be made, yes? Child," he turns to the quaking young man, who could not hunch down any farther into himself if he tried. "Allow her to heal you."
He glances between the two of them, and then all but stampedes to her when Danarius moves, diving to his knees in front of her with a barely audible whimper. She manages to keep her scathing gaze from Danarius, crouching down to Balazs' level.
"That can't be a comfortable position," she smiles, slowly reaching out to him. "Why don't you come sit over here?" He doesn't meet her eyes, but follows her instructions, rising and walking beside her with quick, skittish steps to the chair she had been in not minutes before. All the while, Danarius watches, arms folded, expression inscrutable. She keeps a wary eye on him as she goes.
"Alright, Balazs, may I take a look at your scars?"
His stare bores into the floor, chest rising and falling rapidly. Semi-reluctantly, he allows her tilt his head up an expose the marred skin hidden beneath long straw colored hair.
The damage is extensive. She has studied healing for a long time, and managed to repress the nauseating feeling that used to pass over her when looking at wounds, but what she sees almost brings that feeling back. Crisscrossing raised lines of knotted white scars run from his brow to the base of his neck, and continue down his back, out of sight underneath his linen shirt. They crowd up on his cheek, almost reaching his eye, and go as far back as the tip of his pointed ear. It is even worse than she had imagined it to be from Danarius' description.
"What did you do?" she accuses, and Balazs jumps at her words, flinching beneath her fingers. Even though she is not addressing him, she lowers her voice, but can do nothing about the anger it holds. The magister smiles, falsely apologetic. "It is as I said. I misjudged my strength when disciplining him. It is never wise to anger a powerful mage." Under her touch, the young man shudders. She does not bother with further questions.
"I can heal him. Fortunately, they are mostly superficial. It may take time to fully remove them, but it can be done."
"Excellent. I had quite regretted scarring his face..." He stares lasciviously at Balazs, who shrinks under the scrutiny. Hawke steps in between the two with a smile, just as 'apologetic' as the one he has flashed at her, bodily blocking the one from the other. Whether it is the removal of the collar, or the unwillingness to stand by while he is harassed. "Then I'll start immediately. But I will need absolute silence."
"I will not make a sound."
"No, I mean I need you to leave." His face darkens at her impetuousness, and her courage falters for a just a moment. It is foolish bravado that encourages her to keep battling his will, yet she does not stop. Balazs, Alba, they remind her of Orana and Fenris. And she can no more see these strangers suffer than she could her closest friends. "The less distractions, the better my work will be, you understand. I wouldn't want to cause any more damage."
He watches her for an disquietingly long moment, eyes locked with hers. "I will allow it, this once. In the future I expect that you will be able to work even amidst the greatest of distractions." Surprisingly, he flashes her a cold, toothy smile before exiting the room.
"I'll work on that," she snipes at the open air. "Well, good to finally be rid of him, don't you think?" she turns with an exaggerated air of insouciance. He meets her gaze for only a moment with grim eyes, disorienting in their familiar guardedness, snapping back to the floor in an instant.
"Could it be that you don't speak Common? Hmm, lets see if my Tevene has improved any... Homo qui est culum."
Success! He laughs, though he quickly tries to hide it by letting his head fall forward, curtain of fine, straw colored hair obscuring his face.
"Ah, so I'm making progress."
"Your pronunciation is very good, mistress," he finally speaks in heavily accented Common.
"It's just, Ava, not mistress. And I can't really claim much credit, it's just something I've heard a lot since coming here. It sounded fairly unflattering, so I figured it was applicable." He lifts his head timidly risking a look.
"It isn't-" he begins, voice barely a whisper. "Is it true what you said? You can remove these?"
"I'm fairly sure. My friend Anders taught me how to. He... had his fair share of scars to heal." Both those own and that of others. For a moment she thinks of him, wondering how he is doing, a concern she had not been able to review while under the draining effect of the collar. Snapping back to the present, she notices Balazs does not look very convinced of her ability.
"Yes. It can be done. Surely I've not gotten too rusty..." She means to set him further at ease, but he stares at her, as if puzzling something out.
"You must miss your friends," he observes, sounding... sad?
"Oh, a little," she lies. Eager to avoid his possible line of questioning, she diverts. "Are you ready? It will take some time. Might want to grab a good book."
"I can't read." She resists the urge to smack herself. Of course not. Neither could Fenris. "Will it hurt?"
"No, it won't. Have you ever been healed with magic before?" A nod. "It'll be just like that."
He allows her to pull up a stool beside his chair, and holds her hands out over him, one poised over his jaw, the other over his upper back. She brings the magic up and out, not fast and reckless like with fire, or or lightning, but carefully. It is a wonderful feeling, like scratching an itch. Power held hostage within her body is released, swirling around his wounds in an aura of white-blue light. Gradually, the edges of his scars begin to visibly recede.
By the time she's done, she's reduced the marred flesh to at least half the area it had taken up before. Balazs rises, touching his face in disbelief as he looks into the mirror over the fireplace, smiling wildly. It had only taken a few minutes, but the difference is vast. She is again tired, but it is a satisfied kind of weariness, not a barren fatigue.
"You have blessed me, Ava," he says reverently, bowing deeply. She stands, and makes him stand as well. "Oh, none of that. I'm not even finished yet. One or two more sessions and you'll be good as new."
"There is nothing I can give you in thanks for your kindness."
"I'm just glad I could help. Though I would like to know..." she wonders if it's wise to ask the question, and then asks anyway, "What was it that earned you this wound?"
His joy disappears, and his shoulder slump; he falls back into a protective posture.
"It is as the Master said. I angered him."
"By doing what?"
"He would not leave my sister alone." He stops short there, staring down at his feet, muscle in his jaw twinging.
"But he made you pay for it?"
"I do not regret what I did. I would-"
Danarius enters, and Balazs' mouth snaps shut. The gray bearded magister looks over him approvingly, grin spreading across his face. "Well done, well done indeed. He is much improved." He approaches, and takes Balazs' face between his fingers, looking over the healed skin, purposely oblivious to the boy's uneasiness. "You may go."
As he skitters for the door, he casts one last thankful glance at her before leaving.
"It will take some more time before I'm completely finished, but as you see, it can be done." He picks up the collar, and her stomach turns.
"I've proven that I'll not be running off any time soon, haven't I? Must I continue to wear that?"
He strikes her, with no preamble, dazing her long enough to clamp the collar shut around her neck.
"Remember your place, my little bird."
She grits her teeth, rubbing her sore cheek. "Of course, Master."
"Now shall we continue where we left off?" he raises that threatening hand. She backs away instantly. "I already told you, I have no more secrets. You have already heard all I have to tell." If not all, most, she's sure. She had already been forced to confess how she felt she was entirely responsible for Bethany's death at the paws of that blighted beast, even with her mother's absolution. Guilt over her brother's forced induction into the Grey Wardens. The negligence that led to her mother's murder, all her fault. What more can she reveal?
"There is more you hide, perhaps even from yourself."
She's not sure what unsettles her more, Danarius, or the threat of some dark secret so terrible she's hidden it even from herself. "You know what they say, 'let sleeping dogs lie'."
"But it is so much more entertaining to rouse them..."
She steels herself, ready for the attack, but it never comes. Instead, he sighs contentedly, returning to his desk and letter.
"Go tell Alba that I would like to throw a party in a month's time, little bird. Tell her to begin preparation."
She nods, and walks to the door as quickly as she can without appearing to run. A sigh of relief escapes her lips when she slips from his study into the bright hallway.
"A party?" she utters under her breath, shaking her hair loose. She cannot help but feel there is more to it than his desire to preen and show off his new slave. "What is this man truly planning?"
Author's Note: And so we see that Danarius is planning a party! How delightful. I wonder why he's performing all of those blood rituals though...
Avatarfan444: I look forward to your reviews so much:) I'm glad you like Carver and Merrill together! It wasn't something I considered originally, but I took the two of them running around the Wounded Coast and all of their banter was just so cute I couldn't resist throwing a little in here. And Alba indeed aims to be a good friend, even though in truth she's never had anyone but her little brother.
LostSpace: I'm glad you're excited to find out what happens! I won't lie though, I'm spacing out updates because I'm not writing them as quickly as I'm churning them out;)
Soon to come: Our favorite guard captain and her lovely husband. Stay tuned!