NOT ALONE

Most of the time, they pleased Master. They worked hard to be a single unit, to be the Matched Set that Master wanted them to be. They practiced their movements constantly. Learned each other's expressions, harmonized their speaking voices. Because there was such a disparity in their appearance and size, they learned to compliment, rather than match, some of the movements.

They practiced their expressions that would most please Master. He preferred fear. The two men went through repertoires, and chose those most likely to delight. The shaggy haircut was ideal for ducking the head and casting a bashful, fear-tinged gaze through the hanging fringe of hair. That was probably why Master chose the style. They created a system of simple signals using slight changes in eyebrow lifts, nostril flares, twitches of fingers. This allowed them to coordinate somewhat during unexpected events.

They practiced performing sex acts on one another. They had no desire for sex, given the abuse they endured on a regular basis. Neither was stimulated by the activity, but that wasn't the point. They rehearsed movements and positions that would be most pleasing to watch from Master's, or a guest's, point of view. They coordinated their movements for when both were called upon to please Master, or a guest, in bed.

For, he did loan them to visiting friends. Master was greatly pleased by their dual pleasures in his bed chambers, and enjoyed bragging about it. Not all of his visitors seemed pleased to hear him describe the depravities he exercised with his slaves. Not out of concern for his slaves, of course. He was simply crossing the lines of social propriety with this type of frank sexual discussion. He had less visitors as time passed.

Master also developed reluctance to leave the estate. Before Fenris ran away, Master had always delighted in attending parties, political discussions and balls. Fenris had attended many of those, with him, as his body guard. Now, Master was becoming reclusive. He cautioned all of his slaves against discussing him, or the House, with outsiders. The slaves never would have, it was against decorum. Few were now allowed to leave the House.

He threatened Anders and Fenris frequently against telling anyone that Anders had once been a Grey Warden. Master believed that the Wardens would come looking for him, if word got out. He made comments to the effect that Anders was his personal line of defense should a Blight begin. Other Magisters might try to steal them; Anders for his Taint, Fenris for his lyrium. He no longer took them from the House, in any case, and Fenris was at a loss as to whom they would tell such information.

Fenris wondered if the Wardens would look for Anders, should they learn where he was. Anders doubted it. Although in self-defense, he had killed several Templars and Wardens when he left.

They had not tried to take him in when they met him, later, in the Deep Roads. The only people who might have bothered to look for him were the same ones who had stood idle as he and Fenris were handed over to Danarius. Why would they bother, now?

Fenris and Anders discussed all these matters in the privacy of their cell. Mouths so close to their ears as to touch, they barely breathed their words. Discussing a master was risky, and best done with extreme care. They came to the same conclusion. Master was losing his mind.

He was becoming forgetful. He was paranoid. He insulted his rare guests. He forgot names. The entire household was on the watch to prevent catastrophe. With so many slaves keeping track, it was relatively easy to guide Master through his day. It wasn't without risk. Too much guidance, and he angered, and slaves suffered.

He seldom outright punished Anders and Fenris. He enjoyed them, immensely. That didn't mean that he didn't cause them pain. Most of his joy came from giving pain, in some fashion. He also had the twisted belief that others enjoyed giving pain, as well. He gave one or the other of them lust potion almost as often as he chose to have them serve him. Some part of Master's twisted, demented mind believed that it was a reward to administer the potion. Anders' worst moments were when he'd been given the potion, and knew that he would soon be brutalizing Fenris. It was certainly more physically painful when Fenris took the potion, but the former healer felt emotional pain more acutely than physical. Right now, hurting Fenris was the most painful thing he could do to himself.

Fenris had been Master's slave for many years even before he ran away, and knew his moods and preferences well. He was able to stave off most potential pitfalls with this knowledge. However, with his declining mentation, Master was less predictable. One day, for all their attention and clandestine communication, Fenris missed a cue in their Master's expression, and made a misstep. Master smiled.

Both men dropped to the floor in graceful coordination, on their knees, arms outstretched, faces to the tiles.

Master sent for the whip, which was given to Fenris. Fenris was instructed to punish Anders for Fenris' own error.

Anders resumed his position of supplication, quaking on the inside. He knew Fenris would have to whip him well, or they would both suffer retribution. Only ten lashes, Master was generous. By the end, Anders was clamping his lips between his teeth to keep the cries at bay.

Master was pleased with both of them; Fenris for whipping him so competently, and Anders for taking the lash so beautifully. As a small boon, Anders was given the honor of pleasuring Master with his mouth. Despite Anders' developed skill, Master was unable to reach completion. He fired an excruciating spell at Anders, and ordered Fenris to take over. Even Fenris was unable to bring him to climax. In ire, Master forcibly poured lust potions down both their throats, and sent them to their cell to suffer their resulting mutual attacks.

Anders was anxious. They'd never both received it. As soon as they shut themselves in, Fenris instructed Anders to take off his clothes.

"Before it kicks in, we can prepare ourselves. It will be a little less painful."

They used saliva and their fingers, and opened and lubricated themselves. They each began to sweat, and tremors shook their extremities.

Anders struggled to catch his breath and speak. "How will this happen? We can't both take the other... we're going to kill each other fighting about it."

Fenris was beginning to groan. "We'll start before the potion takes over. We might not fight if we've already begun. You take me, first... you're still sore from last time. If we end up getting switched, at least you're prepped."

Anders pushed the elf to the floor, and crawled between Fenris' legs. He felt his body reacting to the potion. Their hips began to thrust together, to slide their induced erections against each other in desperate need.

"Anders... do it... don't wait for the impulse... we could fight..."

Anders didn't hesitate. He positioned himself and slid into Fenris' accepting body.

Both groaned. Unlike the usual painful, injurious entry he would have expected, Fenris felt it like a balm. Never in his life had he felt sexual pleasure except at the height of the potion's effect, when it was a brutal madness. Right now, aroused, but in control of his mind, he was shocked by the pleasure he felt.

Anders must have understood his bewildered gasps, for he whispered into his pointed ear, "Do you feel it?"

"I do... yes, I do..."

Anders cradled Fenris' head in his hands, and rocked into him. The pleasure brought by the potion was unbelievable. Fenris couldn't stop the moans being pulled from his throat. Anders began to thrust with intent, riding the potion as it took greater hold.

Fenris felt the need, the desperate need, and began to pull Anders against him, hands on his ass, legs wrapped about his waist. Oh... the fire inside...

Anders picked up Fenris' hips, and hammered into him. Fenris shot into his climax, roaring as he spent himself between their bodies. Anders followed, burying himself in Fenris, his voice raised in victory.

The potion had them fully in its grip, now.

Rolling, struggling, they vied for dominance and to take the other. Despite Anders already having the advantage of position, Fenris had the strength and training of a warrior. He quickly wrestled Anders onto his belly, and penetrated him in a hard thrust. Anders didn't cry out in pain... he wailed in pleasure. Fenris held him pinned beneath him and rode him mercilessly.

They spent the next half-hour, more or less, wrestling, biting, scratching, rolling, thrusting. It was frantic and ruthless, but the cries were all of struggle and pleasure, not pain and injury. By the time the potion ran its course, and they'd exhausted themselves, they were gasping in disbelief. Both trembled and panted, Anders still buried inside the elf. It was the potion that caused it, but they had felt pleasure. They were sore, to be sure, but neither was bleeding or badly injured. They were covered only in sweat, bite marks, and scratches.

They fell into exhausted sleep.

The next day, Master was displeased. Although bearing bites and scratches, they lacked the injuries that should have occurred when two were given the potion. He had not sent them to their cell to enjoy themselves. He was incensed that his intensions had been overthrown.

They punished each other. Anders beat Fenris. Barehanded, barefoot, he punched and kicked him until the elf was bruised and bloody. Then, Fenris beat Anders. As Master bade. In their cell, they whispered quiet words of comfort to one another. It wasn't their fault.

In the ensuing months, when he demanded that they pleasure him, Master was still unable to reach completion. He was furious. He blamed them for deliberately failing to bring him pleasure. He blamed the Magisterium for sending assassins to poison his food. He blamed neighbors for using magic against him.

Physical torment only had so much allure. Master also delved into their minds. He asked for more details about their time together in Kirkwall. He asked Fenris what he'd hated most about Anders, then. It was hard to remember the thoughts he'd had so many years ago. How long, now? Two? Maybe, three years? Finally, he said, "His demon, Master."

He asked Anders the same about Fenris. Anders also had to struggle to recall. When had Fenris ever been other than he was, now? Finally he answered, "The hateful things he said, Master."

Master kindly granted both of his slaves punishments to fit the crimes they'd leveled against the other. As a Matched Set, both received each punishment. Fenris, who had spoken words that hurt Anders, would be made blind, deaf and dumb, in atonement. As his Match, Anders would also suffer the spell. Master chose not to warn them before he cast it upon them. One moment they knelt before Master, the next, neither could see, hear, or speak.

Fenris was terrified. He felt hands pulling him upright, propelling him across the floor. He was moved around corners, stumbling down stairs, and then pushed against a wall. His clothing was stripped from him, and then he was alone in silent darkness. He reached out with his hands, desperately searching for Anders. His feet stubbed against a soft object and he fell. It was Anders. Anders' hands reached out, and they pulled together tightly. They weren't alone.

When they finally got up, holding firmly to each other, they realized they were in their cell. The days were endless, spent in the isolation of their minds. They never lost contact, always holding onto the other. Even a brief moment without Anders' touch, and Fenris felt that he'd been cast adrift. In the routine of the kennels, they were led in turn to bathe. Leaving the cell was frightening, and they clung together for fear of being separated. Gruel was delivered daily into their bowl, as always. They couldn't hear the door open, see the light from the torch. They didn't know when it was delivered, unless the slave bringing it happened to brush against them. Time was meaningless with no awareness of light or dark, no true schedule to mark their days.

Fenris suffered. Hearing no other voice, not even his own, he was utterly alone in his mind. He knew Anders was, as well. Without the other's touch, it was terrifying, the utter sense of aloneness. The night that they rolled away from each other in their sleep, he awoke in a panic, not knowing if Anders had been taken away. He scrabbled about the floor, and finally found his sleeping body. He crawled on top of him, shaking, holding him tight.

The spell had left them with only touch, smell and taste to stay in contact with reality. As time passed, they used those senses to fill the void the loss of the others had left. They were all each other had on which to exercise those senses. They literally sat on one another, straddling laps, cradling, lying with limbs entwined. Fingers ran through hair; hands stroked and pet the skin of limbs and torso. They mapped each other's faces, gentle touches stroking along brows, noses, lips, chins, ears. They lay their cheeks against chest and belly to feel the heartbeat, the movements of their innards. They buried their noses in one another's necks and chest and underarms, breathing the scent of the other. They began to taste each other's skin, sucking gently at the salt of their necks and shoulders. Anders ran his tongue along Fenris' markings, tasting the lyrium, his lost magic tickling his memory at the taste. Fenris sucked the flavor of the bland gruel as readily from Anders' fingers as from his own.

They were generous with themselves, giving each other the comfort they found in touch, taste, and smell with no hesitation. They eventually lost any sense of separation as two people. Anders' body became as an extension of his; just as familiar, just as necessary. Holding each other, feeling their warmth and breath; mouths on each others' skin, suckling, tasting; Fenris knew that they were alive. That they still existed.

One day, as Anders lay against Fenris' shoulder, his finger began to trace a pattern against the elf's chest. Over and over, he traced it. Finally, Fenris recognized it... the mage was using his finger to trace letters on his skin. He was spelling the elf's name. Fenris put his finger on Anders chest, and traced A-N-D-E-R-S. Their world exploded. They had words between them, now. They couldn't write fast enough to tell all they felt, all they needed.

SCARED. DARK. I AM HERE. HOW LONG. YES. NO. SORRY. DON'T CRY.

It was less terrifying, then. They could share their fears, ask questions, comfort the isolation in their minds. It was a slow and arduous method of communication, but all they had was time. It was harder for Fenris; his reading was less adept, he could barely write. He would become frustrated, angry with himself. Anders gentled him with soft touches, pulling the elf to mouth along the mage's neck or chest, to let Fenris taste him, breathe him in, and know they were together. Long days, long nights, spent writing letters to each other on their skin.

Master seemed to have forgotten them there. Fenris reckoned they had been in isolation for several months, judging by the number of baths they had been given. They both feared this was permanent. Anders was worried what Master planned to do to punish them for the spirit within him. Justice had been utterly absent from his thoughts ever since the collar was placed. He didn't know if the spirit had fled, or died, or was asleep. He had no idea what Master intended. It didn't matter, knowing wouldn't help, wouldn't prevent it.

One day, after months of deprivation, suddenly light, sound, and speech returned in a blinding cacophony. Pressing their hands to their ears, squeezing their eyes shut, they tried to escape it. The return of their senses was as frightening as the loss of them. They were overwhelmed. Finally, they eased into their returned senses. Fenris slowly opened his eyes to see for the first time in an eternity. Honey-brown eyes looked up at him from under red-gold fringes of hair. Fenris thought he was seeing the sun-all fair, golden and warm. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He'd never seen any sight so beautiful as Anders' face.

When Anders nuzzled against Fenris' cheek, and whispered his name in his ear, Fenris thought the sound more beautiful than any songbird. They whispered with voices lost to disuse, gentle on their ears. They gazed at one another, not able to get enough of the vision of their other self.

tbc...

Author's Notes:

Dementia is terrible enough, on its own. Dementia in a psychopathic magister... well, you read it.

When you have only one thing in the world, that one thing becomes your world.

Some may disagree with my Anders-Grey Warden thoughts. That's fine.