I MISSED YOU

Master was pleased. Although easily startled by sounds and changes of light, the Matched Set he had created was even more tightly bound, more gracefully in tune than before. He spoke as though they'd only been under the spell for a few weeks, but Fenris knew it was three or four times that.

Seeing him for the first time after their isolation, his decline was obvious. Master smelled badly. His robes had stains, and looked as though they'd been worn for several days. When he stood up and ambled across the floor, to urinate in a potted plant, Fenris quailed. Master was much, much worse.

Still, the slaves of his House conspired to keep things as normal a possible. He still managed his day-to-day affairs with at least with some level of competence. He rarely asked Anders and Fenris to attend to his body. He would ramble on about one subject or another, and then repeat what he'd just said. Fenris wasn't sure what was more alarming, that he talked to his slaves, or that he was so confused when he did so.

When in Master's presence, he and Anders maintained their perfect attention, their choreographed grace. They replied when told to, or asked a question. They responded without hesitation to any command, no matter how unusual. They hoped for no pain, for one more day.

At night, or when left idle in their cell, they whispered of what was to come. The entire Household was held captive by a madman. As Master's body slaves, they had closer contact with him than any others. He remembered their names, and when upset or angry, called for them; whether or not they were the appropriate choice to address the issue at hand. There was nothing they could do about it, no one to whom to turn-except each other. Arms about each other, mouths worrying necks and throats, they huddled in their cell against the madness of their world.

One day, Master was in good spirits. He seemed clearer than he had for a while. And, he had a surprise for his pets.

He held up a potion. It was not a lust potion, which was dark red, like blood wine. This was black, viscous, evil-looking. It was for Anders. It would destroy the demon within him that Fenris had so hated. They had hoped that Master had forgotten about the demon in his declined memory, but, as usual, they were not so lucky. Apparently, he'd ordered the potion to be made, back when he'd first thought of it, and it was delivered yesterday. He was delighted to be reminded of it.

There was no potion for Fenris, for he was not a mage, and such a potion would kill him. But, the potion would make Anders very ill. Master felt that would be appropriate punishment for Anders having taken the spirit within him. As his part of the punishment, Fenris would be required to attend to Anders in his illness until it wore off.

Fenris looked on with trepidation as Anders, kneeling opposite him, raised the vial to his lips with shaking fingers. He choked down the liquid, fighting his stomach's attempt to reject it. The mage wrapped his arms about his belly, convulsing, grunts rising in his throat. He bit back cries and whimpers. Suddenly, he grasped his skull with both hands, threw back his head and screamed. He screamed as Fenris had never heard anyone do. Anders' back arched until he was bent backward, legs twitching and kicking, torso twisting into unlikely postures. The scream stopped briefly as Anders drew a rasping breath, and then resumed. Fenris watched, not having permission to move, trying to school his features. He thought he would die from the pounding of his heart, from the breath he held in fear.

In a few moments, Danarius tired of the ceaseless noise, and left the room. Fenris was to stay with Anders until it stopped, clean up after him, and return them to their cell.

As soon as Danarius left the room, Fenris pulled Anders to him. Anders didn't seem to know what was happening around him, or feel Fenris against him. His screams continued, ringing in the chamber, echoing off the walls and vaulted ceilings. His voice eventually broke, the screams then coming breathy and harsh. He began to weep, sobbing with broken cries.

Then, his body rejected the potion. With great lurching spasms, Anders expelled the black fluid in projectile streams. Fenris held his head so that he wouldn't inhale the stuff, kept him from falling into the puddle.

Finally, Anders simply wept. Quietly, painfully, he curled in on himself, and wept silent tears. Fenris pulled him away from the pool of sick, and stepped into the hallway to call for a cleaning slave. Together, they cleaned the floor. Fenris washed Anders' face. He picked him up, cradled in his arms, and carried him down the long flights of stairs and hallways back to their cell.

It was a long time before Anders would respond to him. His eyes were open, but no emotion, no recognition played across them. He slumped onto the floor when not supported. Fenris held him, cupped his face to look at his own. He whispered soothingly to him, then frantically. He slapped his face firmly, pinched him. When Fenris tried to give him water, Anders simply let it run out of his mouth.

Fenris felt raw inside. Anders was all that he had. Anders was part of him. Anders was his world. He felt him slipping from him.

For days, he cradled the mage against him. He tried to feed him, tried to drip water into his throat. When Anders soiled himself, Fenris cleaned him as best as could, reassuring him with soft words.

When they were summoned to Master's presence, Fenris felt stark fear flow through him. The best he hoped for was that they would both be killed, quickly and painlessly. The worst was that they would be separated. That shouldn't happen to Matched Sets, but Master was lost in madness.

He cradled Anders, dropping his head to the mage's chest, and said a desperate prayer. He stood with him in his arms and retraced his path to Master's rooms. He dropped to his knees, bowing low over Anders' limp form.

Master grinned down at them. He swept Anders' frame with an evil, demented gaze. He asked Fenris about the mage's condition. Fenris told him with a voice not quite able to remain steady.

Master sighed dramatically. The only use for a slave in such condition was to fertilize the fields. Anders would be killed, and Fenris might be worth retraining.

For the first time in his remembered life, Fenris wept. He prostrated himself before Master, sobbing frankly. He begged for Anders' life, begged them not to be separated.

Master was delighted. He'd never seen Fenris so broken. He let the elf weep on the tiles, body covering the mage's protectively. Then he spoke.

He would allow Fenris to keep Anders. As a pet, of sorts. Fenris would be responsible for his care, feeding, behavior. Anders would be kept on a leash, which Fenris would hold. Master felt this promised to be very entertaining.

Fenris wept again, in gratitude. He left Anders long enough to crawl forward on his belly and kiss Master's filthy feet humbly.

Master then declared that both Anders and Fenris smelled offensive, and sent them to bathe, and to obtain a leash and collar from the supply room.

Fenris picked up his mage, and cradled him to the baths. He washed them both. Anders stirred a bit when he was submerged into the cold water, and Fenris felt a small, reluctant bit of hope.

He fitted a rough collar to the mage's neck, and attached the leash to it. It was a status statement, at this point. Anders wasn't walking. But, for Anders' leash to be held by Fenris, meant the mage was now the lowest of life-forms. Slave to a slave.

Back to their cell, which had, fortunately, been hosed out in their absence. He trickled water into Anders' throat, again, and after coughing and choking, Anders swallowed a small amount.

Fenris doted on Anders. Every moment was spent on his care. He learned to sit him over the lavatory hole in the floor, and the sensation of the hole against his body seemed to trigger his elimination. If water was put into his mouth, and his head tilted back to avoid it running out, Anders would swallow compulsively, and so drink the fluids.

He still had no expression in his eyes, no recognition. Fenris spoke to him in a constant, low murmur. He spoke his own name, and Anders', frequently. He held the mage so that his face buried into his neck, that Anders could smell him, taste him if he tried. Eventually, Anders began to sit up on his own. He bore weight on his legs during transfers from blanket to toilet, or out of Fenris' arms into the bath.

When, after not eating for nearly a week, Anders finally moved the bit of gruel placed in his mouth; finally used his tongue to test the texture and taste, and then swallow it... Fenris rejoiced.

The food rations delivered to the cell were now only enough for one. There were also only clothing changes for one. Fenris knew, it was due to Anders' new status. He'd been given to Fenris. Fenris was responsible for feeding him, as Master had said. Master would no longer provide food for Anders.

Fenris did not need to think about it. He simply shared his food with him, equally. He could not give him his clothing. The clothing belonged to Master. Anders was naked, but for the two collars on his neck.

One night, Fenris woke to the sensation of a light caress on his cheek. He opened his eyes, slowly, thinking it was a rat, and hoping to catch it. A rat would extend their food a day, though how he could kill it, he didn't know. He still had wards on his lyrium. Instead, he opened his eyes to the honey-brown eyes of Anders. They looked back into his, and saw him. Anders was stroking his face with light fingertips.

Fenris sobbed, once. He pulled Anders to him, and buried his face in his golden hair, breathing deeply, relief expanding his chest.

Anders' voice, rough with disuse, spoke. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head, and spoke into the soft hair. "Oh... I missed you."

Anders' arms wrapped about him, in return. "I'm sorry."

tbc...

Author's Notes:

They're having a rough time, but stick with it...