AN: Warning for torture.
"Fenris, sit."
Fenris came before his master woodenly, and sat at the man's feet, eyes staring blankly at the floorboards of the rocking ship. They had been at sea for three days now, on a ship bound for Minranthous after dropping cargo off in Rivian.
"Little wolf," Danarius said quietly. "Look at me."
Fenris raised his head, eyes settling just off to the side of his master's face, as was proper.
"You are…troubled, I take it? From what happened back in Kirkwall?"
There was no emotion in him, other than a dull pain, located somewhere in his chest. He had no dreams anymore, had no desires. He just didn't care anymore.
"I…I am serviceable, Master," Fenris replied quietly.
"You didn't answer my question," the man returned softly. "Are you troubled by what happened?"
Fenris glanced at his master's face, ears dropping as he started to shake. "Master…I…why did she…"
"Why did she betray you?" Danarius finished, looking thoughtful as Fenris nodded. "I am not sure myself," he admitted. "You were, and still are, very skilled. I was expecting to fight for you. Did you ever displease her?"
Fenris shook his head, looking back down at his hands, which were clenched in his lap.
"Little wolf," Master said gently. "Did you…love her?"
Fenris choked on a sob, eyes clenching shut as he fought against his body's reaction; the memories flowed like water, all of the happy ones, the intimate ones, over shadowed by one pivotal event. Despite his silent pleas, his body shook, and the tears started to build up.
"I-I don't un-derstand," he whispered. "I did, did whatever she wanted and-and enjoyed pleasing her, why-"
"Shh," Master hushed, one of his hands starting to run through Fenris' hair. The elf didn't even have the will to shudder.
"It was unavoidable, Fenris. It's true," he added at the shocked look on the elf's face. "I am sure that you adored her beyond anything in this world…but for a woman like that to truly love you? Don't be naďve Fenris. You know better than that. You always have been a slave, and you always will be a slave. Slaves do not earn or deserve love. You are there to aid the whims of your master, nothing more. You were looking for, and found, a substitute mistress in her. Tell me, did you enjoy following her? Did you obey her command without thought? Did you beg for her to take you, use you, to make you scream until you begged for mercy, only to receive none?"
"Yes," Fenris whispered. "Yes."
"Then you were doomed from the start, my pet," Master said sadly. "You know, you're not the only one to have loved and lost."
"Master?"
Master offered him a true smile; sad, bitter, but a smile nonetheless. "She was my betrothed. I became Magister after I ripped apart the man who violated and murdered her."
"I am sorry, Master." And it was true; he was sorry. Sorry that he fell for another, and that he was seeing his Master now in a more human light; the old, freer Fenris would have snarled and fought against this disturbing feeling.
Now-present Fenris did nothing except try to make his Master feel better, noting and then studiously ignoring the gleam in the man's eyes.
"You do realize, of course," Master said, standing and starting to pace. "That I will have to punish you when we get back home. All those years running from your rightful place, all those men that I hired that you killed, all those hours wasted."
"Yes, Master."
"So you won't even try to beg your way out of punishment, my little pet?"
Master indeed sounded stunned; even before he had tasted freedom, Fenris had had…moments. Spirited, he was called. Never outright disobedience, just little moments here and there; Danarius had learned quickly that unless he wanted his wolf to 'get creative', he would give him specific, no-loop-holes instructions. Perhaps he had been spirited and alive once, but now he lacked not only the spirit to try, but lacked the will and heart to pull anything off.
He felt nothing, wanted nothing, desired nothing other than to lie down, and sleep.
"No, Master."
It had taken months of preparation, but now Fenris knew exactly what his punishment would be. As he was strapped down to the table, he glanced over at the unconscious slave who would receive his markings; a young boy, probably no older than Fenris had been when he had first received Danarius' gift. His body was thin and malnourished, as most slaves were, and his body held temporary lines to mark where they would cut into the skin, and then pour the molten lyrium into the wounds. Would he suffer the same pain, the same agony that Fenris had? Would he lose not only his memories, but his sense of self and who he used to be?
What did it matter, Fenris thought as he turned back towards the ceiling, unflinching as scalpels and knives appeared in his vision. His markings were of no benefit to him anymore; a dead body could not utilize them as Danarius wished.
Not even Danarius could convince or beat him into caring anymore. Threats of punishment for not being fast enough, tender entreaties to try to get him to explain why he wasn't over what had happened; nothing yielded the results the magister wanted- Fenris changing back to his higher performing, albeit willful, service. Fenris just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.
Why would he, when the person he had trusted the most, loved even, had sent him away like he was nothing?
He was nothing. Hawke had made sure of that.
"Please," he whispered. "Cut out my heart, if you have any mercy in you."
Even though he didn't flinch when the knives descended, even in his apathy he couldn't keep the screams inside.
They carved into him for what seemed like eternity; time slipped away from him as the lyrium was slowly, painstakingly gouged from his skin. It had hardened over time, and it was with long, thin tweezers that the surgeons pulled out small bits and pieces of the lyrium. Fenris' voice gave out long before they finished, and when they finally pronounced him done, he was still miraculously conscious, covered head to foot in his own blood, and whimpering at the pain.
He didn't answer Danarius when his Master questioned him, and it was only when he was thrown into a dark, windowless cell that he finally fell into blessed darkness.
Fenris no longer had any sense of time. He awoke from the darkness slowly, body aching, and then after some time, truly burning as if he had been set on fire. Infection, he realized dimly. It was only to be expected; he was not properly nourished to begin with, no disinfectant had been used during his procedure, and now he was stuck with open and bleeding wounds in a pitch black cell that had probably not been cleaned in years.
He could have been there for only hours, or days, or months even. He slipped constantly from awake and struggling with his body to unconscious and struggling with his mind.
Fever dreams hounded him ruthlessly, always there when he slipped away from the world, trying to escape the pain in his body, seeking rest, and finding none to be had.
His memories, what little of them there were to be had, were replayed, sometimes with utter and clear clarity, and other times warped beyond imagining. In some of them, the Abomination looked on him with not only hatred, but lust. Merrill went from being naďve and innocent one moment to demonic and perverse the next. Isabella constantly morphed into Hadrianna, and Hawke, blessed and strong and beautiful Hawke, was always there to welcome Fenris with open arms. Sweet words always fell from her lips while her hands tore and ripped at his skin, drawing blood and screams from the elf. Even the more intimate moments they shared were not safe; Fenris lost count of the many times the gentle love making turned nasty unexpectedly, much like Hawke's betrayal.
Memories of Seheron made appearances as well, most of the faces shapeless and formless. The sights, sounds, even the smells of his time spent with the Fog Warriors were intact- up to when he had killed them all. Even that was spectacularly vivid.
Then there were the dreams that seemed like memories, but Fenris was positive were not memories. Hawke was female, not male, but he kissed with the same passion, shoved with the same force, and made him curse and scream with the same smiles, tricks, and words. Isabella sometimes did not stay beyond the Qunari repulsion; sometimes she did. Sebastian appeared and disappeared with the same consistency, and sometimes the people they had killed were spared, or vice versa. It seemed so real, so consistent, that Fenris soon gave up trying to sort fact from fiction; it wouldn't matter much longer, he would probably die from his wounds, and he would go to the Maker's side…if Sebastian (or the Chantry, whoever told him that) were to be believed.
One of his dreams was upon him now, and it seemed quite real. Light blinded him, and he wished idly for the energy to curl up and hide his face from it, for it was painful. Eventually the light dimmed, and he felt someone, something, grab a hold of him and start dragging him from his prison.
If he had been of a better mind, he would have been weeping his gratitude to them. As it was, he could only let himself be pulled along, ignoring his body's cries for mercy.
He drifted in and out of awareness, as had become the norm for him. One moment he was being dragged through the dungeon, the next he was staring up at the spire-filled skies of Minranthous, and the next he was under the canopy of a forest, and being hauled to his feet.
Voices drifted in and out around him; speaking gibberish and nonsense, but it would probably have made sense if he could just gather enough will to concentrate…
He winced, drawn back to the world for a few moments of clarity as the knife cut into his thighs. One of the men who dragged him away dipped his fingers in the cut, dragging and smearing the blood around Fenris' groin, and belly. After wiping his fingers on the grass, the man got up and left.
Fenris took stock of the situation as best as he could; he was naked, held upright and tied against the trunk of a tree, and he was in the middle of a forest that didn't seem to be near any village or town. Oh, and judging by the rumble overhead, it would start raining soon.
He sighed. He, and any other slave, had heard of this punishment before; when a slave lived out their usefulness, or especially drew the ire of their master, they were left in the middle of the wilderness to feed the beasts. A woman was usually cut around the belly (for that was what any female slave was good for- for breeding) and the men cut around the thighs or genitals, and blood was smeared to encourage the beasts to attack at the perceived weak point. It was a gruesome, painful way to go.
So this was how it was going to end, he thought, not even bothering to test his restraints. Betrayed by the woman he loved, sold back into slavery, heartbroken, and now to be food for any beast that came upon him. Perhaps it would be a wolf; there would be irony in that fate that he was sure his former Master would appreciate.
Fenris sagged, no longer caring to try to stay upright and letting the rope take up his slack. The wind picked up, sending a welcome chill through his feverish body, and then the sky opened up. Even the generous leaf-filed branches of the tree did not protect him long; soon he was drenched.
He felt a small bit of annoyance at that; the rain would mask his scent longer, and prolong his agony. Why couldn't something (or someone) come along and finish him off? He would welcome death now, in fact, he craved it. Death would be his release from this pitiable excuse of a life. What was freedom to him anymore? It had earned him nothing but pain beyond comparison.
Fenris was…hyper aware now, of the rain drenching and rolling down his skin, of the wind biting at his bones and bringing the sweet scent of wet foliage. He felt the dirt beneath his feet churning into mud, and felt every dent and crater in the bark of the tree that was digging into his back. His ears even picked up the sound of the rope soaking up the water, creaking as it adjusted.
A strange snarl reached his ears, and slowly, painstakingly, he drew his gaze up.
"Tigris," Fenris sighed.
An extremely large, extremely proud creature stood before him. A large feline, burnt orange fur coat decorated in black stripes whose large head easily came up to Fenris' shoulder. Large amber colored eyes stared at the elf, ears laid back flat against its skull as it started pacing in front of him, almost as if it was thinking or considering him.
"I'll make it, easy," Fenris murmured, pushing his head up and against the trunk of the tree, baring his throat. "Tigris, just…finish it, quickly."
He closed his eyes as the feline stalked forward, waiting patiently for the feel of teeth clamping down, of his life coming to a sharp, sudden halt.
Instead, his eyes flew open in surprise as he felt gravity betray him, the ropes suddenly gone, and he fell to the ground in an undignified heap. Fenris coughed, tilting his head up to look at the animal.
There was something strange about this creature, he decided, thoughts hazy and indirect as the large cat opened its mouth, fangs flashing before it bent its neck, and gently gripped his ankle, and started dragging him away. Odd, but there was a strange rhythm to the ground he was being dragged across…it lulled him downward, the odd rocks and sticks and dips in the ground not really hurting him anymore, just adding different tugging sensations that lulled him down into complete darkness.