Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4871512.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age_II
  Relationship:
      Anders/Fenris, Danarius/Fenris
  Character:
      Fenris_(Dragon_Age), Anders_(Dragon_Age), Male_Hawke, Isabela_(Dragon
      Age), Varric_Tethras, Merrill_(Dragon_Age)
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Rape/Non-con, Slavery, Trans_Male_Character, Trans_Fenris
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-25 Completed: 2015-10-05 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 11375
****** I Will Come To You ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Tonight, though, Fenris didn't wish for sleep to take him. In fact,
     had he felt the slightest bit of torpor taking him, he would have
     furiously fought it. Tonight the fear was palpable in him, and
     justified.
      
      
     Tonight The Mage came.
Notes
     Please mind the tags. This story will deal with both past and present
     rape and will not make it seem pleasant. This might be triggering.
     Also, Anders in this story is unaware of Fenris's issues, but still
     creepy and an asshole, so if you want nice Anders, you will not find
     it.
***** Open Doors *****
Fenris never got much sleep. It was hard to: if the lyrium marks didn't wake
him up during the night, silently screaming from the phantom pain of their
scarring, it was the nightmares that kept him awake - or the constant paranoia,
his mind making up footsteps up the mansion's silent stairs and a hand turning
the unbudging doorknob. Danarius was dead, and his corpse rotting - he had been
for months now - but, as he'd bitterly learned, it was not a complete and
perfect solution. The fear remained, now only much more frustrating when he no
longer knew what he was afraid of. Where the much real threat of being taken
back once stood, only remained the proof of his weakness, of a vulnerability he
so wished to deny. Some nights, he sat in full armor in a chair, his sword
propped up against the armrest, until he fell asleep. He awoke feeling sore and
poorly rested, but some nights, it was the only way to find slumber.
Tonight, though, Fenris didn't wish for sleep to take him. In fact, had he felt
the slightest bit of torpor taking him, he would have furiously fought it.
Tonight the fear was palpable in him, and justified.
Tonight The Mage came.
It was how he'd taken to referring to him in his head. He didn't much use
Anders's name to refer to him internally, just like he thought of Merrill as
"The Elf", sometimes forgetting he was one himself -it was obvious and yet so
easy to forget when he couldn't remember a life with any of his kind. Carver,
Hawke's younger brother, was "The Templar" now that he'd joined the order.
Before, on the rare occasions he really considered him, he was just soberly
named "Hawke's Brother". Aveline was "The Guard", though sometimes he would
refer to her by name in his mind.
The rest of the few allies he'd made would all bear their own names as their
title; Isabela had spent enough time flirting with him and trying to get him to
drink with her at the Hanged Man that he'd grown somewhat fond of her, and
"That Pirate" had become a person of her own; Varric was, if annoying,
friendly, and even amusing, and he found that with the years, he'd learned to
enjoy his company. Hawke was Fenris's closest ally, and perhaps his only real
friend; through everything he'd had his back, and Fenris firmly intended to
return the favor.
But The Mage was no friend of his. In fact, now that Danarius, Hadriana, and
anyone else who might have wanted to find him was dead, Fenris probably would
have considered him his worst enemy. Why shouldn't he? He was everything Fenris
hated - and though he wouldn't have admitted it out loud, everything he feared.
A mage - a free mage; an abomination, yet refusing to see himself as one;
someone who wanted to free all other mages with no thought of what they were
capable of. If there was someone he feared might turn the Free Marches into
some second-hand Tevinter, it was Anders.
Though he expressed his distaste as vocally and obviously as possible at all
times and on all occasions, Fenris never made a real move against Anders. He
was no fool. First, he'd seen the mage in a fight. He could hold himself up,
and Fenris wasn't sure he could kill him if he didn't get him by surprise. And
then again, once Anders dead, what would he do? Hawke would turn on him - all
of them would. They'd never understand how much of a threat he was. They
considered The Mage a friend, an ally. No one would see his side of the story.
They all pretended they did - but none of them had had to sit a whole day in a
locked box, nauseous from the smell of vomit and urine, too warm and close to
fainting, because their master had thought it was an easier way of
transportation.
Fenris was on his own with this, which is why he hadn't seeked help from anyone
when The Mage had started making advances.
At first he'd been extremely confused by them. Anders's bitter, stinging
comments had started to grow a flirtatious edge that he didn't understand, and
it made him angry; he didn't know what it meant, how to respond, and his
ignorance was infuriating. Surely, though, this was some form of mockery humans
in the Free Marches used. He saw only that explanation relevant.
He supposed then he could only blame himself for how quickly things had gone
off road and into hostile and horrifying territory, considering he'd
reciprocated. Whenever Anders would throw a rude and suggestive comment his
way, he would respond in much the same way. Imitation was a good mechanism to
figure out awkward situations. It seemed to have amused the rest of their
friends, so surely it couldn't be wrong. It was the right way to act. It was
how he should have done it, right?
Things had only escalated from there. Going to Anders's clinic to get a few
minor injuries treated had never been pleasant at all, but it only got worse
once he noticed the necessary healing touches became lingering ones, and he'd
began to panic when he met The Mage's eyes and they looked back into his, so
different from how they'd always avoided each other's gaze with a sneer before.
But he was safe. Someone was always there - he'd never been alone in the clinic
with Anders - and no one ever seemed alarmed, so this was alright. This was
fine. This was the right way to do it.
Then one night came where he was alone at the clinic.
Hightown was dangerous at night. He usually didn't go out there alone, but he'd
been driven out by a nightmare that had left him shaking and sweaty, and he'd
been foolish enough to leave the mansion with no armor - he only wanted to feel
some fresh air and go back in. He hadn't needed to get very far away either.
He'd just began to cross the courtyard when some of those Hightown outlaws came
jumping from the nearest rooftops, demanding his money. With no armor or weapon
he was only a heavily scarred elf with little to defend himself with. Phasing
still worked, but he didn't trust himself to get many of the criminals down
before they got a sword through him. He said the truth; he carried no money.
They grabbed at his clothes to check, making him want to scream from the touch,
making his entrails burn with the disgust of unwanted touch, and once they'd
been certain he wasn't lying, they'd beaten him up. Most likely, he thought as
he dragged himself through the streets, bloody and bruised, one of his arms
bent the wrong way, the urge to kick elves around was just too strong to
ignore, even when there was nothing to gain from it. Or maybe they just liked
violence. He didn't know and didn't care to.
Thankfully, Hawke's mansion was not too far. He encountered no one through the
silent streets as he limped towards it.
Hawke seemed none too happy to see him, though he didn't know if it was
annoyance from being woken at this hour, concern for the obvious injuries he'd
suffered, or just contempt for his many ways of finding himself in deep
trouble. He could imagine Hawke's thoughts in his head. Stupid elf, never gets
tired of it. Isn't it enough I had to save him from his master, now I must
defend him against street gangs? Weak, incompetent.
Was this what Hawke really thought? He didn't know. A part of him assured him
that yes, it was, and another told him that Hawke would never think that -
Hawke was his friend. But that was irrelevant.
He just wanted to borrow some of those handy healing potions his friend kept,
but the man insisted that his injuries were just too bad and he'd rather send
him to Anders. Thankfully, he added, his estate had a secret passage into
Darktown. Great, Fenris thought desperately; now he'd never feel safe in
Hawke's estate either, knowing The Mage had a way inside whenever he wished.
Fenris needed to search his mansion's basement for similar hidden passages
thoroughly.
Hawke only led him up to the clinic - just in case any of those Darktown thugs
would come after him when he was at his weakest - but he didn't follow him
inside. Fenris understood. He needed his sleep. Couldn't stay here, holding
some fool's hand because he was scared of the doctor. Hawke wasn't responsible
for him. Fenris didn't ask for help; he simply limped into the clinic.
The Mage was still awake. He was writing, what Fenris assumed to be that
devilish manifesto of his, in deep concentration, which was promptly broken
when he heard Fenris heavily crash onto his examination table.
"How did you get in that bad a state", Anders asked rethorically as he asserted
the situation. Fenris didn't respond. He didn't need to. He just held out his
arm. It was the priority; it was obviously broken and it hurt the most. The
healing hands were warm on the wounds, the contact making it hurt that much
more before easing the pain into the familiar murmur that ran through the
lyrium in his skin. Mercifully, The Mage didn't linger. He actually seemed
concerned with the injuries, which Fenris thought odd. After all, he swore
Anders would have been just happy to hand him back to Danarius bound and gagged
on a silver platter had it been his call.
The hands kept moving on him. The leg that hurt the most was healed and so was
the bad cut on his cheek, and Fenris just wanted to leave, get up and leave -
the bruises and minor cuts, they didn't matter. He didn't want to be here alone
with Anders. He even preferred the thought of having to get all the way back to
Hightown in the middle of the night if it meant the touches stopped.
They didn't. The hands kept on him, moving over each bruise and closing each
small wound, until he felt nothing but the lyrium-issued pain. And they
remained there. Warm fingers still roamed his body, as if checking for more
injuries they both knew weren't there, and he felt panic rising as he looked up
and saw the look of hunger in The Mage's expression.
But he didn't move away. He never had, had he? Danarius's hands had never been
quite this warm, the man was cold-blooded, and they were rarely so gentle
either; but he never tried to escape them.
He'd always submitted to fists as well as caresses, never protested. Make him
proud. Make him happy, make him satiated. Deserve the next meal. Deserve your
right to sleep in the bed and not on the ground. Deserve the privilege to
remain in the Master's quarters, awaiting orders, when the other slaves are
working in the kitchens, sweating, their hands ruined by labor - you're lucky
for this. Lucky elf, doesn't deserve it, doesn't work for his keep, the
magister only keeps him because of the lyrium, the magister only keeps him
because he's a whore. Fenris knew what the other slaves thought; he read it on
their face as he watched them work from where he sat at the dinner table, on
Danarius's side, eating the meal they'd prepared when they only got leftover
scraps. Work for your keep; it was a rule he didn't betray.
Everything in Fenris knew how to react to this kind of touch by now. So he
didn't fight. He just remained motionless, still as stone; Danarius never
minded when he didn't reciprocate. Anders didn't seem to notice either. He felt
bile in the back of his throat and nausea growing in him; he wanted out - but
he did nothing. Whether The Mage didn't notice his stiffness, didn't care, or
mistook it for shyness, Fenris didn't know. All he cared about was swallowing
back the urge to vomit and praying for it to stop.
Hot lips pressing to his own were a surprise he didn't expect or want. He could
feel tears welling into his eyes, and he closed them tightly. Danarius never
kissed him, unless you counted hickeys as a form of kiss; he much preferred
Fenris's mouth to be on him than the other way around. The closest he'd gotten
to kissing anyone's lips had been Isabela - she was quite the flirt, and the
two of them had been inebriated at his mansion before, though it never ended
anywhere, which he was always thankful for. It seemed meaningless for a grown
man, a warrior, someone like him to care about infantile things such a first
kisses, but the fact remained that he wished he could've given it to someone
he'd chosen, if only for the freedom of the act. He was scared. So very scared.
In a way he felt more terrified than when he'd faced Danarius for the last
time. Back then his allies had had his back, helped him fight him off. Now
there was no one but The Mage.
And then, abruptly, it stopped. The warmth pulled back mercifully and he let
his eyes open again, finding with great relief that the tears that had started
to form had not rolled down to his cheeks. He could feel the pulsing of blood
at his temples, burning at his cheeks, and he knew he must've looked like he
was blushing with emotion or embarrassment. He felt like he might faint. The
world felt unreal, foreign, far away, everything sick and wrong. He heard The
Mage's voice as if it came from far away, through layers of fabric muffling it
maybe, or underwater.
"You need rest. Go home, sleep." He spoke with a gentleness Fenris did not
expect, and did not return. "If your door is open, tomorrow night, I will come
to you."
Fenris slid off the examination table like a man in a trance. He didn't look
back as he made his way out of the clinic, still nauseous and sick. He could
only get out of earshot in time before he had to double over and vomit his last
meal - mostly wine - on the dirt floor.
None of the doors in his mansion locked.
***** Mirror Image *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: This chapter contains references to underage sex and rape.
Fenris sat on his bed in silence. He hadn't seen Anders during the day; he'd
been at the Hanged Man, with Varric and Isabela. Varric's room was comfortable:
it was were they often met for a game of cards, usually Wicked Grace or
Diamondback. Today had been Chanson D'Argent, at which Fenris usually excelled
- if they played with the rule that lets you bet your clothes, he and Isabela
would often leave Varric with little to wear. Not today, though. He couldn't
seem to properly concentrate, his legs shaking restlessly, his palms always
somewhat sweaty. He lost the game pathetically, and when Isabela demanded he
took his clothes off, he felt a urge of horror so profound that he could only
get up and run away, stumbling down the stairs and out of the tavern. They
didn't go after him. Surely they assumed he was just angry at having lost. He
suspected they might ask him to pay back his debt with money next time they met
- he'd have to borrow from Hawke again.
He wanted to run back to Hightown, but he couldn't - he was wearing armor and
he couldn't run long distances in it. He had to take the long walk back.
And then, where to go? His mansion wasn't a safe place. It had never been, of
course: with doors that didn't lock and slavers looking for him, it had always
been a guet-apens waiting to happen. Now, though, that he knew The Mage might
show up too, it felt that much more threatening.
He gave up and made his way to Hawke's estate. At least his friend seemed happy
to see him this time, perhaps reassured that his wounds had been properly
tended to. He was surprised by his visit - Fenris never visited unless he
needed something, and usually, Hawke would be the one to show up at his house
or invite him over. He let him inside, and they sat in the library. Hawke liked
this room; it made him feel relaxed, Fenris could see it. He supposed books
held a special meaning to those who could read them. Maybe the knowledge of
being surrounded by so much information and history was pleasant. Fenris had
never known it, probably never would.
Hawke liked to read to him from the books when it fit the subject they were
discussing; he liked history, Fenris had learned, and would often talk
extensively about it. Fenris, as any other slave, had learned little of it, had
received no education, and he drank the information eagerly. He was happy when
the man stood to look through the titles on the shelves. Hawke pulled out a
book, set it down on the table, and, as he opened it, a few loose sheets fell
out. Pages, Fenris realized, of Anders's manifesto; he knew the handwriting by
now even if he couldn't read the words. He felt a sudden urge to vomit again.
It was getting late, he excused himself. He should be leaving. Surely Hawke had
things to do.
And his steps carried him back to the mansion. Where else could he go? He
couldn't avoid The Mage forever. He was tired of running, and just like
Danarius had always found him, Anders probably would too. He couldn't expect
protection from his friends. They liked Anders. Surely they wouldn't see
anything wrong with him. There was nothing to do but go home, wait for him, and
hope he only wanted a one-time thing.
He walked into his room in silence, except for the metal sounds of his armor.
He wanted to take it off - he never usually did, but it felt so heavy and he
felt so weak, he was afraid he might fall and be unable to get up. Quite a
pathetic display for Anders to find him in. He closed the door to his room as
if it might help, somehow, before taking off each piece of his armor
meticulously.
Once he was done, he sat on the bed - and he waited. There was nothing else for
him to do. He'd vaguely considered pretending to be asleep, so that perhaps it
might throw Anders off, but Danarius hadn't minded that before; just how
conscious he was or was not didn't matter when he just wanted to use his body,
and he thought perhaps Anders might think the same. He didn't want to tempt
looking any more vulnerable.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly. He figured now was one of the times knowing
how to read would have been profitable; he would have liked being able to
distract himself with a book. But there was little to do in this mansion, by
himself, except sleep or drink himself silly, neither of which seemed very wise
at the moment.
He'd started to hope that Anders wouldn't come. Surely he'd realized how
foolish this all was. He hated Fenris; they'd despised one another ever since
they'd laid eyes on each other. Perhaps, he began to hope, this had all been
some sort of joke that he was too elven and too slave to understand. Maybe
Anders just wanted to frighten him, and soon all his friends would burst into
the room laughing at his distress.
He lied down on the mattress and let out a relieved sigh as he decided that
Anders wasn't coming, thank the Maker. He was never going to, he was just
messing with him, and he could get some sleep - just at that moment, the
doorknob turned.
Fenris felt suddenly light-headed as he stared at it, feeling as if it was
moving ridiculously slowly. The old, rusty hinges creaked as the door opened.
The Mage stood there, looking at him. Fenris was paralyzed with fear, but
perhaps it did not show in his expression - Anders didn't seem to notice. He
slowly sat up.
 
The first time Danarius had wanted more from him than protection and displays
of power, he'd been fifteen, or so he thought - he didn't keep track of it, but
other magisters often marvelled over how skilled he was for his young age; he
heard Danarius tell them how old he was. It might have been wrong. He doubted
Danarius particularly cared about his birth date.
That evening, Fenris had had the first real bath he would ever remember in his
life (perhaps he'd had others before his marking, but he could never recall
it). Usually, slaves all washed together, in the bathroom of the outbuilding
their master kept them all stacked in when they weren't tending to the house.
Fenris was no exception. His markings made him a preferred slave, but not the
favorite. He aimed to become the favorite, of course. He had the potential for
it, and being the favorite meant many privileges - he heard Danarius's favored
slave slept in his bed; Fenris could barely imagine such comfort.
Therefore, when he was called to the master's personal bathroom and ordered to
bathe properly, he could hardly contain his apprehension - and excitement. He
knew what it meant. Danarius's favored slave had just been sold off that week.
He was getting too old for the use, his master said. Fenris didn't understand;
the slave couldn't be older than thirty-five at best, and clearly in excellent
shape. The reasons for it, though, mattered little to him. The place was up for
grabs and while every slave in the house wished for it he knew he had the best
chance. Danarius liked him. More than once he'd asked for him personally to
serve wine at his dinner table, when he had guests, and he would always take
him as a bodyguard even when he just went for a walk. He was his master's work
of art, his lyrium brands making him an object of pride, and envy from other
nobles. He didn't know why Danarius needed him cleaner than usual, but surely
it meant something good for him.
The bathroom was luxurious, and had he not been one of those who bathed the
magister at times, he wouldn't have known what to make of half the bottles and
vials around it. Expensive soaps and oils from all corners of the Imperium;
Danarius had told him to use them as he wished, but Fenris knew he wouldn't. He
wouldn't dare waste them.
The bath was hot. He should have expected it, as Danarius always liked them so,
but the basins of water they were given to wash themselves in the common
bathroom were always cold, and it was almost frightening to think of sitting
down in the steamy water. He couldn't help but think he might burn himself. He
hesitated for some time, pacing around the bath as he removed his clothes. He'd
never been alone in the room before, and it was somewhat intimidating. Slaves
never were alone anywhere, unless they were finishing late tasks in the kitchen
or fetching something from the cellar.
Eventually he willed himself to climb into the bath - and didn't regret it. It
was ridiculously enjoyable. The warmth seemed to make his muscles melt, all
tension desisting from his body; it felt like letting out a long-held breath...
If it was possible to hold one's breath for years at a time. He would have
practically moaned in delight. He soaked for a few minutes without moving
before deciding he should get to the actual cleaning part. Danarius never liked
slaves who were slow. He reached for a bar of soap - it was lavender, and tiny
bits of the plant were inlaid in it. Slaves didn't use soap to wash themselves,
only to clean dishes or bathe their master. Slave owners said a slave always
smells, no matter how much you wash it, so it's only a waste of money to try
and make them clean. He rubbed the soap into his hands and started to wash
himself. He always hated bathing time, usually. Naked slaves crammed together
in the room would make it hard to properly move around, and they always needed
each other's help to get the dirt off some part or another of their anatomy. He
hated all the touching that went on then, no matter how necessary. Touching
hurt. It made his markings itch and burn.
Tonight, though, they wouldnt. Danarius had given him a potion to drink that he
said would ease the pain. He'd never been given such things before and didn't
understand why he needed them now, but he hoped it was a sign that he was
becoming the favorite. Maybe painkillers were one of the privileges.
He scrubbed the dirt and sweat off his skin meticulously. The magister had
insisted that he had to be perfectly clean, and he didn't plan on disappointing
him. Rubbing his face energetically, and splashing it with warm water, made the
skin feel raw and stingy, but it also felt nice. When he dragged his nails up
his legs, he found he could scratch off what seemed to be a layer of dirt. At
first, it was fascinating, then he started to fear he would never manage to
wash himself fully. He was just too dirty. What the slavers said was right - a
slave's too dirty to ever clean out entirely. He kept using his nails to
scratch the dirt and dead skin off his legs and arms until the whole surface
was red, and he hissed softly as the skin burned when he let his limbs sink
back under the surface. The water had turned slightly less transparent and a
bit more greyish now.
He scooped water into his joined hands and poured it over his hair, then began
to wash that too, with the same soap (Danarius used shampoo, but he didn't want
to waste any of it). He found that, when he rubbed his scalp vigorously, hair
would come off, and he was worried that he was pulling it off, before realizing
that it was only fallen hairs that had remained stuck to his head with grease.
Once he understood that, it became rather satisfying to pull off the fallen
hairs and feel the healthy locks underneath.
Eventually, he was done. He rinced himself thoroughly and emptied the bath.
Dirt and white hair had stuck to the bottom, so he scrubbed it all away with a
vague sense of shame. He still felt like he was a dirty thing, and suspected he
never would feel otherwise, but he felt significantly cleaner than usual
nonetheless. If this was what being the favorite was like, he only longed for
it more.
A large mirror stood against one of the walls, and he moved to watch himself in
it. It was rare enough that he could take the time to look at himself in a
mirror, but he was always clothed when that happened. He'd never seen his naked
body from an outward perspective before. His wet hair stuck to his forehead in
a kind of ridiculous way. He looked at his markings, unsure of whether he still
feared them and the pain they brought. He'd never gotten a good look at what
they looked like all over. They were beautiful, in a way. They swirled around
his arms, dancing accross the slight bumps of breasts on his chest, pointing
down towards his navel, lines travelling down his hips towards his groin in a
way he would, later, think of as suggestive. His skin was still red from all
the scrubbing, but he looked oddly clean. Cleaner than the slaves ever were.
He'd seen enough of their naked bodies to know. He could have almost thought he
was looking at a free man, if it wasn't for the long, pointy ears sticking out
under his hair. He'd never met a free elf before.
He found a towel and dried himself with it, before turning to the clothes his
master had left for him. He supposed it made sense that he wouldn't just let
him put his dirty clothes back on, considering he'd gone through all this
trouble to get him cleaned up. He had been given a pair of black leggings and a
simple shirt, also black. This was not slave clothing. It was of better quality
- nothing like what a magister would wear, of course, but it seemed to be
soporati clothing. He pulled it on with the utmost care, amazed at the softness
of the fabric and afraid he might tear it. It fit him well; the shirt was a bit
big, but he didn't mind it. He hoped Danarius wouldn't either.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. In dark colors, he looked really
skinny - and he was. Slaves didn't get fat. Though, as he inspected his face,
he found that he quite liked the look of high, sharply cut cheekbones and a jaw
that held no kind of softness. It made him feel strong. He let himself smile
just a bit before he walked out of the room. He was to await the magister on
his bed - he didn't know why, and he hadn't asked.
He'd never had to make Danarius's bed before. That was a job for other slaves.
He himself was not to leave Danarius's side during the day, and therefore had
no business tending to his room. Therefore, he was rather surprised at how soft
and comfortable the sheets were. Slaves slept on the floor, rolled up in
blankets, either wearing their clothes in the winter, or layingg them on the
floor in the summer for extra padding. Sleeping was a way to gain strength
back, not something to be enjoyed, as the master hated a lazy slave, and Fenris
didn't see much appeal to the rough pieces of fabric they slept in, but now...
Well, if he were to sleep in a bed like this every night, he might just grow
used to it.
He climbed onto the mattress and sat down, patting it around himself to
appreciate its comfort. It was heavenly. He was tempted to lie down, but he
didn't want Danarius to catch him getting comfortable in his personal quarters.
So he sat with his legs together and his hands in his lap, in silence. He
waited for a long, long time. He wasn't used to being idle. He usually had
tasks to do and orders to obey. But he didn't move from where he sat.
Eventually, the doorknob turned.
***** Recidivism *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: this chapter contains (non-graphic) depictions of present
     rape. No longer just memories of Danarius.
Fenris woke up feeling sore, sick, and generally worse than he had in a very
long time - but, at the very least, he was alone. The Mage had left.
 
                                       *
 
The night had been painful. It had always been that way; Fenris thought sex was
supposed to feel good for both partners, he heard so, but it never quite did
for him, because he wasn't aroused at all. He supposed that was a missing key
element. To his credit, Anders had made an attempt at gentleness, which only
further reminded him of that first night with his former master (Danarius had
never been quite that careful again after the first time). Though, no matter
how gentle he'd been, there was no ignoring that he was a well-endowed man and
Fenris was unaroused, and poorly lubricated. It had hurt like hell. He never
quite let it show - Danarius sometimes hurt him on purpose, in which case he
knew he was meant to show pain, but usually he just concealed it as he could.
Sometimes his master had preferred it when he pretended to like it. He'd hidden
his face against the bedsheets as Anders relentlessly thrust into him and tried
his best to muffle noises of pain. He suspected the mage had thought they were
cries of pleasure. He didn't know which would be worse - whether Anders knew he
was hurting him, or thought he was enjoying it. Both would be humiliating.
But the pain and the humiliation were considerably relieved by the fact that
The Mage had gone. Once he was done, he didn't remain as Fenris feared he
might; he needed to be at the clinic in the morning, he said, someone might
need him, and he left with a last kiss to Fenris's lips, which the elf resigned
to accept as he had the ones before.
"I'll be back...", Anders had started, apparently trying to tell when he
planned on coming again, but he seemed unable to find the end of his sentence,
probably not knowing himself, and ended it in a mumble Fenris didn't
understand. Then, he walked out as easily as he'd walked in, almost
nonchalantly.
Fenris finally let himself crumple into the mattress, defeatedly. He was
filthy, and hurt, and there was a disgusting, warm wetness between his thighs.
He needed to get cleaned up, to move himself out of his torpor - but he
couldn't bring himself to get up. Most of all, he was tired - exhausted. He
needed some sleep. He needed to recover.
Ironically enough, he hadn't fallen asleep that easily in months. His sleep was
surprisingly, and mercifully, dreamless.
 
                                       *
                                        
He sat up slowly and asserted his situation. His stomach ached, full of cramps;
his head hurt. The wetness was still there; he reached down and found blood,
which he was only mildly surprised by. It hadn't been the first time he'd bled
after being used; hopefully it would end in a few days. Well, unless Anders
showed up again before that, and healed him - or he showed up and didn't heal
him. An unnerving thought. There were some stains of blood on the sheets. He
didn't have the energy to change them.
He got out of bed and found that his whole pelvic area was sore, and there were
hand-shaped bruises on his hips. The nausea didn't relent; in fact, it only
seemed to get worse. He found his way to the bathroom, slapped water on his
face, and, for good measure, puked into the toilet. He wondered how Anders
would feel if he knew that vomiting was Fenris's main reaction to intimacy with
him. The idea of telling him was bitterly tempting, but of course he wouldn't,
just as he'd never backtalked Danarius. He was no idiot. He knew where his
limits sat.
He was a slave again, and he knew it.
He'd been a fool to think he could run. Even with Danarius dead, mages were
everywhere. And he belonged to the mages. There was no escaping them. Why had
he thought that Anders was any different? Of course, he'd thought him stupid,
unable to see the danger he put others in, hypocritical enough to denounce
blood mages when he was an abomination himself, and generally untrustworthy -
but somehow he'd entertained the thought that he was different from Tevinter
magisters. As far as he hated to admit it, there were similitudes between his
past and the mage's. They'd both been held against their will, both emprisoned
and mistreated.
But a mage was a mage, and there was no mage out there that was harmless. He
should have known.
He cleaned the blood out, shoving a scrap of fabric in his underwear to catch
any further bleeding, and got dressed.
Where to now? He usually would turn to Hawke for company in difficult times...
But how could he now? Hawke was a mage.
Somehow, he hadn't given it that much thought before. Of course, when they'd
first met, he'd started out thinking Hawke had to be a bad man, that surely he
was dangerous... But somehow, without knowing when exactly, he had let himself
go, softened up, and at some point in those years he'd come to think of Hawke
as a friend. Now that he looked back on it, it all seemed so stupid. Hawke
appeared nice, but so did many other mages until they revealed themselves
abominations or slavers. He'd only started to work with him out of debt. When
had he let himself think the relationship between them ran any deeper than
that?
Suddenly, Fenris felt shocked with his own foolishness. Hawke, he realized, was
just as bad as them all. Just as Anders did, he would eventually reveal his
true face. Anger swelled under his skin, both at himself for never realizing
this obvious fact, and at Hawke for tricking him into trusting him. Light ran
through his markings as he shivered. What had he thought, not only forming
alliances with an apostate, but befriending him, letting him into his own
house, going to visit him? Did Hawke secretly laugh at his stupidity? How much
had loneliness and a desire for the life of a free man blinded him, for him to
let himself go to that extent?
No. He wouldn't see Hawke.
Then who else? He knew no one who wasn't a friend of Hawke's, and by
association those were crossed off the list too. Where could he go? He could
run. He could leave Kirkwall - he had gathered about enough coin to get onto
any departing ship. But then... What? Be on the run, again? Hiding in shadows,
crawling around darkened streets at night, fearing for his life - waiting for
Anders to come back for him just as Danarius had?
Maybe it was easier to just... accept it. Give Anders the price he demanded so
he could keep living like this, in relative peace. Fenris had never had a place
to call home, and while Kirkwall wasn't it either, it was the closest he'd ever
gotten to that; so was it so bad to give up a bit of his freedom to keep it? A
week ago he would have denied the idea even fleeting consideration. He'd fought
so long to be free, and he would not give it up ever again. But now...
He was so tired. So sick.
He dragged himself back to bed. His body felt very heavy, and he thought of how
stupid it had been to even bother getting dressed. He had nowhere to go, no one
to turn to. Stealing Danarius's mansion and living in it had once seemed a
proof of his freedom, an insult to his old master - now he only saw how ironic
it was for this place to be his new prison.
He crawled under the sheets in defeat and rested his head on the pillow. He
didn't want to walk, anyway. It hurt too much. Maybe he could just rest...
Sleep some more. Forget.
Forgiving sleep took him after half an hour of lying there. He welcomed it
thankfully.
 
                                       *
 
"Broody's not with you", Varric observed as Isabela walked into his suite. From
the way she held herself and the slight redness of her cheeks, he could tell
she was already tipsy. Andraste's sake, he thought, it's barely noon. At least
have the decency to wait for me until you get drunk.
"He wasn't at the bar", she answered, and she gave him a grin. "I think he's
too angry he lost the game yesterday. I don't think he's coming."
"We're short a player then", the dwarf noted, and he looked down at the cards
spread out on the table. It was too bad; he'd looked forward to playing.
"I say we take it to the bar, and ask for more players. It'll be funnier
anyway. Fenris is too good at it. We'll have more fun stripping those
amateurs."
He liked how she thought. They were friends for a reason. He returned the wide
smirk she gave him.
"We share the gains this time, pirate. Don't think I forgot you took all of it
last time we played with others. You still owe me six sovereigns."
Isabela only gave a dismissive hand motion.
 
They didn't have to play with the amateurs; Hawke showed up. It was rare for
him to come for a game, not because he didn't like it, but because he was
always running around some part or another of Kirkwall, helping random
strangers with whatever they asked of him. It didn't help that by now, everyone
knew about him - now people asked for him by name to solve their problems.
It seemed he'd taken a day off his heroism, though, and was ready to play - and
apparently get copiously drunk, judging by the size of the drink he ordered.
Varric watched him sit on the chair heavily - he was probably tired from all
the fighting and helping around he did.
"The elf ditched us", Isabela complained, though she seemed less and less sad
about it by the minute. "I bet he's in his dirty palace now, sitting in some
chair with a pile of corpses and gloomily thinking of how he lost everything to
me yesterday.
"To us", Varric corrected. She didn't acknowledge it.
"I'll get him to take off his clothes eventually, though. I wanna see how far
the tattoos go."
"Tell me when you get results, so I'll include it in my next book. Something
like, 'as he disrobed, the pirate queen saw that the elf's tattoos went farther
than she'd initially expected. They not only covered his chest; they also
dipped down his stomach and his hips to curl elegantly around'..." He paused.
"Bad idea. I don't want to think about Broody's private part tattoos, let alone
write about them."
Isabela laughed heartily, a bit too loud for the occasion.
"I saw him yesterday", said Hawke, but he visibly didn't have a point with it.
Varric suspected he was already tipsy, and just talked without much thought.
"Did he come to borrow money from you? He does owe us quite a bit if he won't
strip." He snickered.
Hawke shook his head dumbly.
"He came to talk. He did look pretty upset, left really quick too. I guess you
two did anger him with that game then."
Isabela laughed in agreement. Varric didn't answer; he wondered.
Sure, Fenris always looked angry. But by now, all of them knew how to tell when
he actually was, and when he just looked like he was having the worst, most
boring day of his life for the fun of it. There were just ways to tell when the
frown was genuine, and when it simply was his default expression. And it wasn't
usual for Fenris to get genuinely upset over a game of cards. He'd lost many
times in the past, before he learned how to play well enough to defeat Varric
and Isabela consistently. He'd always take it honorably, either paying up his
debt immediately, or demanding another game to try and get his money back.
Storming out, seeking out Hawke's company (Varric knew he never usually did),
and then leaving just as upset as he'd come? It wasn't normal, even for a moody
bastard like him.
He eventually shrugged it off. Surely Fenris had found yet another disturbance
to fuel his existential rage, and losing the game had only been the last straw.
Now that he thought of it, Varric did remember the elf seeming concerned, and
he hadn't been focused on the game - as if he had something on his mind. He'd
be over it soon enough, and he'd come back.
Or so he thought. But three days later, when they got together for their game,
Fenris was still missing.
***** Friendly Concern *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: Bit more descriptive present noncon here. I wouldn't call it
     graphic but it's definitely more than last chapter.
The bleeding stopped surprisingly early. Instead of remaining several days,
Fenris found that it was already gone by nightfall, which he was glad for. It
hadn't been as bad as he thought. His pelvis still hurt, but it wasn't as bad,
and at some point during the day, in between naps, he'd gone downstairs and
grabbed some bread to eat. He considered that he was doing alright. He'd
recover. He always did.
Except he didn't think Anders would be back so soon. Not that very night.
Danarius never had wanted him that often; most of the time he requested him to
his bed about twice a week. It was partially due to the fact that Fenris's body
could have hardly handled such treatment daily. He was a warrior, and he could
handle wounds, but the outwards type. Basically having something large and hard
shoved in his insides repeatedly wasn't the same.
He'd been laying in bed when he came back, as he had most of the day. Sleeping
shielded him from the world, and it made time pass faster too. Back when
Danarius owned him, he'd never had the luxury of losing himself in slumber when
he felt too used and disgusting. He had other tasks to accomplish, and even
when he didn't, he had to ensure his master's safety. In a way, though, it had
actually been better. Chores had kept him occupied and active. Now, he just
laid in bed, rehearsing last night's events in his head, until he fell asleep,
waking up with a start after some time, only to fall back into an agitated
sleep again.
He woke up from one of those many naps when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He
couldn't tell if this was a nightmare, or reality; he turned around confusedly
as the hand chased the covers off him, and he felt the weight of the mattress
shift as someone climbed on with him. Anders, he realized. For a second Fenris
entertained the thought that he'd been asleep for several days, before
realizing that the Mage simply had come back earlier than he expected. He was
just as passive as he'd been before as he felt the warmth of lips against his
own, perhaps even moreso as he was still half-asleep.
A large hand - well, a human hand: all human hands were big to him - slid down
to his chest, pulling his shirt up and off. The lyrium brands flashed with
light as fingers stroked them. Painful. Not a horrible, searing pain; just an
itch, a buzz of hurt that he couldn't scratch off. He gave a sigh of regret,
which he was almost sure Anders thought was pleasure.
He laid still and closed his eyes. Better to just ignore it, to pretend it
wasn't happening. The mage didn't mind, didn't even notice; by now he'd buried
his face against Fenris's neck and was covering his throat with kisses and
sucks, active enough for the both of them. Hands found Fenris's hips and he was
pulled up, his groin pressed against an intimidating erection. He didn't feel
any pleasure from the grinding, just an odd discomfort, a feeling of wrongness.
He wished he had the guts to pull away.
He closed his hands in Anders's shirt and held tightly, mostly just to have
something to hold onto and somewhere to set his shaky hands. He didn't speak as
he felt his legging being slid off, or when his underwear went along with them,
or when he felt the blunt tip of Anders's cock press up between his thighs; he
only let out a whimper when he felt it force its way into him again. It hurt
more than the first time. Just like Danarius.
 
                                       *
                                        
When Fenris hadn't shown up for three days, Varric started to get concerned. It
was a trait of him; he might have seemed carefree, too quick to joke about
anything, but he did worry about his friends. He wasn't heartless or uncaring.
He simply liked to see the humor in things.
And Broody, as he called him, had always been a subject of concern, of course -
he and Daisy, though not for the same reasons. Merrill would walk straight into
danger with no idea of what she was doing; she just seemed to figure she as
safe, because she didn't know any better. Fenris... Just didn't seem to care
much about what happened to him. He didn't want to be left alone by criminals;
he didn't want to make friends; he didn't want to get a job or a hobby. He
seemed content with what little a life he already had. Varric supposed that, to
an ex-slave, a handful of allies and even a ruin of a home to call his own was
already a lot. Still. Varric worried.
But at least, Broody made an effort to socialize with the people he already
knew. He and Isabela, mostly, but also Donnic, Aveline's husband - that had
kind of surprised him at first, but he supposed they were both usually calm and
collected men, so their personalities had to work together.
Yet now he wasn't showing up at all anymore.
Had something happened to him? He remembered Hawke saying something about
Fenris getting mugged a few days back. It was also possible that rumors had
spread that an elf, a former slave at that, was illegally occupying a mansion
in Hightown - that easily could get him in trouble. Varric kept trying to get
him to move out, and in a rush of generosity he'd even offered to let him stay
in his room at the Hanged Man while he searched for a better place, but Fenris
had flatly declined.
He should probably go check on him, Varric thought. He'd never been alone at
Fenris's house. The idea was somehow intimidating, even though he was not the
sort of man to be intimidated at all. He supposed Fenris could have that effect
on just about anyone.
Better ask Hawke along, he supposed; he was closer to Fenris somehow, even
though he wasn't the one who frequently lost his clothes to him in a game of
Chanson d'Argent, and he knew the manor enough from going there in the past.
Plus, if they ran into any trouble there, it would be better not the be alone.
 
                                       *
 
Hawke was busy watching Sandal making enchantments - quite the interesting
show, really - when the doorbell rang. He carefully patted Sandal's shoulder
before making his way to the door.
He didn't expect Varric: usually, he was the one to seek him out at the Hanged
Man, or they would meet there, not at his mansion.
"Something the matter?", he asked. Varric was alone, so he wasn't coming here
for someone else either.
"Not too sure. Broody hasn't been around at all lately. I was wondering if
something's up with him, considering the bad mood he was in the other day.
"Fenris is always in a bad mood", Hawke said, but he was already letting Varric
in and walking back inside, turning to his armor. Varric was right. Fenris
wasn't sociable, but he rarely missed the card games, let alone three days in a
row.
He had his armor on in a minute, and they were stepping outside.
"Did he say anything to you guys last time?", he asked.
Varric shrugged. "Nothing. He wasn't really... There. Thinking about something
else, you know?"
Hawke nodded. He knew. Yes, Fenris had seemed pensive the last time he'd seen
him, too, as if he had something on his mind. Was he in some kind of trouble he
thought he could deal with himself, and hadn't told anyone? That seemed exactly
like something Fenris would do.
Fenris's mansion wasn't too far, at least. They knocked on the door, but got no
answer, and there was no working doorbell, so they just walked in.
There was no fire in the fireplace, unlike the other times Hawke had come; the
place, quiet and dark, didn't look at all like anyone was living in it. When
Fenris was there, drinking and talking, giving the empty house some presence,
it made it easier to forget how much of a ruin it was; now, Hawke could clearly
see the debris, the broken windows and doors, the corpses, the broken glass.
How could Fenris live here? It was not much better than being homeless; he
suspected it was unhealthy, too, what with the dead bodies lying around, and
the lack of proper protection against the cold.
"Fenris?", he called. No answer.
"Do you think he's even here?", Varric asked.
He shrugged. Well, they'd just have to check. He climbed up the stairs and to
the bedroom Fenris had claimed for himself. A knock on the door got no
response; he opened it.
He didn't expect what he saw.
He couldn't tell if the form in the bed was a living or dead person. It seemed
ridiculously small, way smaller than he thought Fenris to be, curled up under a
heavy blanket and not reacting to their presence. For a moment, Hawke thought
stupidly that Fenris had dragged a corpse into his own bed. Then, he noticed
the mess of white hair emerging under the blanket.
"Maker's breath, he is there", Varric whispered. Hawke said nothing. He
approached the bed.
Up close, Fenris seemed even smaller. Of course, Hawke knew elves were small,
and Fenris only looked bigger from the armor he usually wore; the contrast of
the oversized bed didn't help either. Still, the curled up form under the
covers looked almost sickeningly like a child.
He cautiously reached to pull the blanket up and sucked in a breath.
Fenris was naked, but that wasn't what shocked him - he'd seen enough naked
people either. His skin, looking significantly paler than it usually did, was
littered with bruises. Some of them were hand shaped, and there were a couple
of bite marks. Judging from the way most of the bruises layered up on his neck,
his waist, and his hips, Hawke met a disturbing understanding of what they
meant. He felt nauseous when he noticed the smears of blood on Fenris's thighs.
"Maker's breath", Varric repeated. Fenris still didn't react. His eyes were
closed, and Hawke was very scared for a moment, until he noticed the slow fall
and rise of his chest. Asleep; unconscious, maybe.
He didn't think much. He wrapped Fenris in the still warm covers and picked him
up against his chest. He was worryingly light. It was odd, knowing how strong
and powerful he was. At the contact, Fenris started moving slowly, stirring
from his sleep, and Hawke could see a deep frown crease his brow.
Fenris's lips cracked open, and a pleading noise escaped him. "Not again."
"He needs a healer", Varric said matter of factly.
Hawke could only nod. "Let's get him to Anders."
***** Healing *****
Chapter Summary
     No specific warnings for this one.
It would have been a long way to Downtown, had Hawke's place not had a
practical way down there. Not for the first time, Hawke was thankful for it.
Fenris wasn't very heavy at all, but he was still a dead weight on his arms and
he didn't know how far he could have carried him, not to mention that getting
him there as fast as possible was probably for the best.
They got a few looks on their way to the clinic, but not many - clearly,
nothing was really surprising anymore in Darktown, and Hawke suspected they
weren't the first people to carry an unconscious person to Anders. In fact, he
was sure it was a frequent occurence.
The lantern in front was lit - he was inside. Varric opened the door for him
and they rushed in.
Anders was alone, for once. He sat at his table, apparently classifying healing
herbs. He turned around when he heard the door open, about to say something,
and Hawke saw his expression change to that of surprise when he spotted them -
then a clear look of concern as he saw the strands of white hair emerging from
the pile of blankets he held. Hawke wondered; usually, Anders wasn't very
concerned for Fenris at all. In fact, he was quite sure he actually wished he
could just let him die. When they'd fought Danarius, Hawke distinctly
remembered Anders mumbling something about how they should've just let them
take him as he aimed his staff at a slaver. Had their relationship changed at
all recently? He'd noticed nothing odd, but then again, he hadn't seen them
together a lot.
He set Fenris down on the table and Anders hurried close, untangling the
blankets around him, and giving a weird noise. It sounded almost like pain,
like what he saw was physically hurting him.
"Why didn't he say anything?", Anders whispered in a pained voice, his eyebrows
knit as he reached to touch Fenris. In the light of the room, he looked even
worse; his pelvis just looked like a large bruise, and the dried blood on his
thighs was only more visible. Varric coughed, clearly uncomfortable. What did
Anders mean? None of them had seen him out of his house since he'd been
assaulted, he couldn't have told anyone.
"We think he's been, uh." The word hurt on Hawke's tongue. "Raped. Maybe more
slavers? I think he's running a fever."
Anders looked up at the word, clearly shocked, and again he looked like he was
just about to say something - but he was interrupted.
"Not again", came the harsh whisper of Fenris's voice. They all looked down.
His eyes were open now, his pupils small, and a clear expression of fear on his
face. He was staring up at Anders, and trying to move away from his hands.
"He doesn't know what he's saying", started Varric, but he stopped as he, just
as Hawke, noticed Anders's expression.
He didn't look like he'd heard the nonsensical rambling of a feverish patient.
He was frozen in place completely, looking horrified.
"No", the hoarse voice came again. "No. Not again."
Anders took a step back and Hawke frowned. "Blondie?", Varric mumbled.
"Please. I'm tired. Not again. It hurts. Please, no more."
Hawke looked at the three of them in confusion, then with a sinking feeling of
horror that he could see reflected on Varric's expression.
"Blondie. What did you do?"
Anders didn't answer. He'd brought a hand up to his mouth and looked like he
was about to throw up. As Hawke looked at him, he could see a faint light
growing in his eyes, an unnatural glow that only got brighter. Shit. He could
see cracks of light through Anders's skin now, and soon his whole body was
glowing as the deep voice of the spirit echoed through the empty clinic.
"What have you done?"
Hawke had never thought he'd see a spirit turn against the one it possessed -
and he wished now he'd never had to see it.
"WHAT have you DONE?" it repeated, and Anders's own hands rose to grip at his
throat as he stumbled back, as if pushed around by an invisible force. Hawke
remembered Anders telling him that there was no true difference between he and
Justice anymore. For such a disconnect to happen, the spirit -or demon- had to
be extremely angry. He didn't dare try to fight it; he doubted such an effort
would amount to anything.
"Fenris needs healing", he said urgently, hoping that it would distract
Justice. Really, he wasn't sure Fenris actually should be healed by Anders at
all. Hawke wasn't much good at it himself, but maybe he should try his hand, or
at least find another mage who could do better.
It didn't work; Justice was just as angry - but now his hands snapped away from
Anders's neck and his eyes focused on the curled up form on the examination
table. He took a few quick steps forward.
"Why didn't you SAY SOMETHING?"
Both Hawke and Varric stepped forward at once, without thinking, forming a
bodily barrier between the entity and Fenris. They'd seen Justice turn on a
mage girl once, almost kill her - they knew its concept of right and wrong
might not be what they'd expect.
Thankfully, the spirit seemed to realize at once that turning on Fenris was a
bad course of action, and again, he stepped back - only to fall to his knees,
holding his head between glowing hands in torment.
Hawke had seen enough of it. He turned around, covered Fenris in the blanket
again, and picked him back up.
"We get out of here", he stated. Varric nodded.
 
                                       *
 
They got more odd looks as they rushed out of the clinic and back to Hawke's
estate. He suspected it was much rarer for someone to still be injured when
they came out of there. They were silent as they half-walked, half-jogged back,
until they were inside. At some point, Hawke noticed Fenris was asleep, or
unconscious, again, probably exhausted by the fight he'd tried to put up
against Anders.
How long, he wondered, had this been going on - whatever it was? He'd noticed
Anders and Fenris exchanging thinly veiled flirting when they were outside
together. Did it mean anything? He'd seen Fenris growing more and more
uncomfortable whenever Anders needed to touch him to heal him. He'd never paid
it much attention. But whatever had happened - whatever Anders had done - was
there anything he could have done to prevent it?
The thought scared him, and when he glanced at Varric, he could tell he was
thinking the same.
Hawke walked into his room and set Fenris down on the bed. Orana had apparently
noticed them and followed, clearly concerned and ready to help. He asked her to
run a warm bath, and she promptly got to the task.
He rushed downstairs to get some potions, then back to his room. He was out of
breath by now, but didn't care.
When he stepped back into the bedroom, though, he found Varric trying his best
to hold Fenris down as he trashed and tried to escape.
"He won't calm down", he said as he turned pleadingly to Hawke for help. "He
woke up and now he thinks we're gonna give him back!"
Hawke approached the bed, hoping his presence would calm Fenris down - it
usually seemed to - but this time, he only struggled more. Hawke felt a wave of
intense pity. Did he really think they'd send him back to Anders? Had what
happened broken the trust he'd put in them?
"Fenris", he called quietly. "I've got a potion for you. You'll feel better."
Fenris didn't calm down, he was still feverish and delirious, but Hawke thought
the words were getting to him. His head had snapped towards him, and he seemed
as if he might be listening. Not knowing what else to do, Hawke uncorked the
vial and held it out. Surprisingly, it worked: Fenris immediately stopped
struggling and ripped the potion from his hands, promptly starting to chug it
down. Hawke hoped he wasn't just healing himself so he could fight them more
efficiently.
"It won't heal everything, but you'll feel better. You can take a bath too, it
will make you better." Cautiously, Hawke sat on the edge of the bed, feeling
his heart tear a little as Fenris shifted away from him slightly.
"We're not giving you back to Anders", Varric said quietly, and Hawke added:
"We're not giving you back to anyone", because he wasn't sure that in this
state, Fenris remembered Danarius was dead.
Gradually, he could see the elf getting calmer - perhaps because he understood
he was in no danger, or because of the potion, or because he was tired, it was
hard to tell. Hawke reached cautiously to take his hand, and after initially
flinching, Fenris accepted the contact. In fact, soon he was holding onto his
hand tightly, desperately; Hawke shifted closer on the bed and suddenly, the
elf's warm weight crashed into him, long arms holding him tightly, his head
buried in the crook of his shoulder and his frame wracked with heavy, yet
silent sobs. Hawke held him loosely, stroking his back, and allowed him to cry
for a very long time - long after Varric decided it was probably for the best
to not interrupt the moment and excused himself, long after Orana came to tell
him the bath was ready, long after the door closed and they were both alone in
the room.
Eventually, Fenris fell asleep again, and when Hawke carried him into the bath
to wash him, he still didn't wake up.
***** The Storm and what Came After It *****
Chapter Notes
     Very short - more of an epilogue, really. This might be read as
     Fenhawke, or just as a friend being supportive.
Fenris woke to the feeling of a warm bed and the weight of someone next to him.
He didn't open his eyes straight away - he knew Anders was lying next to him,
and he didn't want to see him, or to let him know he was awake. He tried to
keep his breathing as even as he could, even as he felt himself start to
tremble. Unfortunately, it seemed he just couldn't calm down, and he cursed
himself as he felt himself start shaking so violently that Anders obviously
couldn't ignore it. He felt the weight next to him shift.
"Fenris?", came Hawke's worried voice. His eyes shot open.
He was in Hawke's bedroom. He did remember something about Hawke carrying him
there, and also to Anders's clinic, but it was vague, cut with moments of
darkness, and he'd thought it was only some sort of odd dream.
He noticed that he was dressed in clothing way too big for him. He was quite
grateful for it. Hawke was sitting next to him, thankfully fully clothed as
well, and it felt reassuring, oddly enough. He slowly sat up. His head hurt
with the remnants of a fever, but otherwise, he felt alright. A bit sore, but
better than before for sure.
"What happened?", he asked quietly. He could remember bits and pieces, try to
puzzle them together, but it was hard.
"Varric was worried about you", Hawke said, quiet as well, though probably out
of concern that he had a headache. "We came to check on you. You were hurt. We
got you to Anders." There was an exception of anguish on Hawke's face, as if he
didn't know how to continue, and some guilt as well. A slow pause. "We think he
hurt you, so we left."
It was put so simply. So easy. And yet - it was so groundbreaking. We think he
hurt you, so we left. Was that it? Was that all it took for Hawke to protect
him? The suspicion that he was being hurt? Even if it was by one of his allies,
one of his friends, a fellow mage, Anders. He thought he was hurt, so he took
him away.
He looked up to Hawke to find him staring back. He saw no reflection of the
past in his features - there was not the smirk of Danarius or his disappointed
glare, or the intimidated looks of his dinner guests, the expressions of
magisters he'd seen and felt. Nothing but Hawke, with his poorly groomed beared
and the scar on his nose. An apostate far away from home trying for some peace
and justice as he still ran from those who would see him emprisoned.
In Hawke's features, there was a reflection of himself.
Fenris raised his arms and wrapped them around him, and Hawke pulled him into a
tight hug, rubbing his back.
"Do you want to talk about it?", he asked - he always asked. He always wanted
to listen to him, when he thought no one would want to hear it. Fenris settled
against his chest and thought for a second - of how it had all started, of that
first night with Danarius, of all the ones after it; of when he'd been left
behind and found again, when he'd ran away, everytime he hid and feared and
hated. Meeting other mages, meeting Merrill and Hawke and Anders; how Anders
had touched him and how it was so much like the past, like everything he'd ever
known, how terrifying it had been. How he'd felt like no one would help - and
yet they had.
He nodded and, quietly, started to talk. He talked for a very long time, for
what felt like hours. Hawke held him through it and didn't press on when he had
to pause, and he still listened when he continued. And when he was done
talking, Hawke allowed him to embrace him again, hold him close and silence a
few choked sobs against his shoulder until he was at peace again, and he held
him still.
It felt like home.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!