Chapter 1: fairytales and odysseys
Chapter Text
Hawke had grown up looking at maps, like, he assumed, any other child. It wasn’t out of necessity, of course – nobles and academics and other fancy folk had the means and the motivation to travel around Thedas, but the average sort hardly left their home villages or cities. Well, soldiers did, but they quite rarely came home to tell the tale. No, Hawke did not need to memorize the various capitals and rivers and seas this world had to offer, did not have any interest in or expectations of navigating these faraway foreign lands. But geography was a very basic, standard subject for the education of small, Fereldan children. One could not hope to hold any intelligent conversation without being at least oriented to where they were in the world. That’s what his mother would insist, anyway – as if there was any real need for the ability to hold intelligent conversation in little working-class Lothering. It was the nobility in her, he came to understand years later. The pursuit of knowledge and sophisticated thought was possible to those who did not have to focus on survival. Her upbringing had never quite left her, regardless of how willingly she herself had left it.
Many children would look at a map’s depiction of the vast and diverse landscape of Thedas and dream of traversing it. To see Val Royeaux in Orlais, with it’s soaring towers and more marble and velvet and gold than they could picture; to seek adventure in the inhospitable lands of the Anderfels; to join a pirate crew in Antiva and spend their lives sailing the open waters. Hawke had never entertained these fantasies in his own mind for long, forever squashing them before they could take on a life of their own – before he could learn the misery and deep dissatisfaction that plagued so many of his friends. But he understood – the world was huge, full of wonders and horrors and strange, strange things.
The carriage hit a bump in the road, and Hawke lost his place on the map of Thedas he’d been studying so intently. He sighed sharply, almost a growl, before settling the map back in place on his lap, putting his index finger back at work tracing his journey across its paper landscapes. His first real venture beyond the outskirts of Lothering was his trip to Lake Calenhad just a few short years ago. A freshly captured mage, already well into his adult age and accustomed to living with his family and free of the Circles, he did not particularly enjoy this adventure, and remembered well how desperately unpleasant and incredibly long it had seemed. Now, he examined the distance between Lothering and Lake Calenhad compared to that between Lake Calenhad and Minrathous on his handy map. His world had been so, so small, and he hadn’t even realized.
The carriage wheels creaked as it slowed to a stop, breaking Hawke out of his pondering. Before he had the chance to get up and look for himself, a face peeked in, letting in a stream of sunlight behind him. “Ser Hawke,” the man – his carriage driver, only the latest out of several he’d had during this journey – addressed him, and then paused as if waiting for permission to speak, a small gesture of respect that Hawke noticed, nonetheless. He was unused to such things, and found them frankly unnecessary, but he knew it would have given his mother a bit of satisfaction, a bit of pride.
“Yes?” The sun had clearly not set, so he doubted they were settling for the night. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all, not at all. We are about an hour or so outside of Minrathous.”
“Oh, thank the Maker,” Hawke sighed, lifting his gaze dramatically in a silent prayer of gratitude.
The driver smiled. “Yes, quite. However, if you’d like to make a stop and freshen up, might I suggest we make a quick detour and…”
“No. Maker, no. I expect the magister will be understanding. This is about as presentable as I get, anyway, I’m afraid.”
His answer is met with a chuckle and a nod. “Yes, ser. We’ll be on our way, then.”
A moment later he was gone, and another moment later, they were moving. Hawke stared ahead at nothing in particular, a small smile on his lips.
Despite his anticipation, the rocking of the carriage had lulled Hawke into a peaceful daze, which he shot out of most abruptly when he noticed they had stopped. He did not give his driver a chance to fetch him, grabbing his pack and springing from his seat and out into the hot mid-afternoon in one swift motion. The entirety of his time in Tevinter thus far had consisted of long days on the road, cramped up and weary, and stops in quaint little inns after dark, but he felt he could officially declare that he was not a fan of the heat. Expecting to be overwhelmed by the sublime, awe-inspiring mixture of modern and ancient architecture he’d heard so much about, he furrowed his eyebrows in disappointment at the distinct lack of buildings around him. “Are we nearby?”
“Yes, yes, do not despair, Ser Hawke,” he assured him, gesturing to the bridge just a few meters to their left. On the other end of it, far in the distance – an incredible skyline. He was smiling brightly – a proud man of Tevinter, eager to present the crown jewel of his homeland, perhaps. “The magister has sent a servant to take you the rest of the way. He should be here momentarily.”
Hawke knew “servant” likely meant “slave”, but he forced himself to shrug it off. The slavery business had been one of the many things that had given him pause when he’d been offered this position, but he had had ample time to prepare himself for it. He did not expect that interacting with slaves would feel comfortable for some time, but there was nothing to be done. It would not get him far here to appear overtly sensitive about it.
A few minutes passed, with Hawke growing increasingly anxious, not only to see the city and meet his new mentor, but just to stand in shade. When he saw a man on horseback, leading another unmanned horse, approaching in the distance, he almost whooped in celebration. He was grateful he restrained himself.
Within moments, the man was close enough for Hawke to take in. Elven, curly ginger hair, pale as bone. Collared. He cringed, silently praying that he would grow accustomed to that.
“Ser Hawke.” The elf put on a polite smile, clearly forced, and incredibly awkward and unpracticed. Hawke wondered if that had been an order just for his own comfort.
“That’s me. And your name?”
The elf seemed genuinely surprised by the question. Uncomfortable, almost. “Ah. I am… Neralan. I will escort you to my master’s home. You may ask of me anything you need or may want to know.”
He almost felt guilty for asking, but Hawke was satisfied. “A pleasure to meet you, Neralan. Is this one mine?” he asked, gesturing to the spare horse. The only response was a thick swallow and a nod, which he took as permission enough, and he mounted.
The city was a sight to behold, unlike anything he’d ever seen – not that that was saying much. For all of the horror he’d heard in the voices of those he’d heard discuss this city in his life, he hadn’t expected such striking beauty, such overwhelming wonder. The structures towered over him, all of a strange and alien architectural style – a friendly and ubiquitous reminder that he was nowhere near home anymore. Everything was tall, slender, pointed, as if built to intimidate. So many of the buildings appeared far too old to be standing, and Hawke shivered just looking at them, imagining the people who had first stood here and laid eyes on these monuments thousands of years before him.
And Neralan, his silent guide, had nothing at all to say.
“What is this?” He looked pointedly at a particularly old looking structure that they were currently passing.
“The Circle of Magi.” He presented no other information, and Hawke resolved not to bother him. He presumed he’d have plenty of opportunities to ask about the Circle.
They passed through the city in silence for some time until Neralan halted his horse at the bottom of a long staircase. Hawke’s gaze followed the steps up to a massive, magnificent, and strangely threatening estate. All spires and arches, colossal doors and windows… it was more of a small castle than a private home.
“Wow,” he breathed. His new friend offered no reply, only dismounted and handed his horse’s reins off to an elven woman standing at the gates. Also collared. Hawke dismounted and did the same.
“Follow, if you please.” Hawke nodded, following Neralan as he started up the stairs.
As they came near the top, the door swung open with a creak, revealing an older man. Human, very mage-y. Intimidating. Hawke could only assume he was looking at his new mentor. He smiled broadly, jogging up the last few steps. The key to dealing with intimidating people is to pretend you didn’t notice, he told himself.
“Ser Hawke.” The magister nodded in greeting, the mere ghost of a smile on his lips. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he seemingly had no interest in shaking hands or anything of the sort.
Maybe that was a Tevinter thing.
“Welcome to Minrathous. And Tevinter, if I recall correctly. This is your first time?”
Hawke snorted. “Definitely.” Realizing rather quickly that that had sounded impolite, he cleared his throat pointedly. “But I am beyond grateful to be here now. A beautiful country, and an even more beautiful city.”
A slightly more noticeable smile now. “Oh, yes. A point of pride for all of Tevinter, to be sure.” He paused, giving his new charge a onceover that accomplished the near impossible task of making Hawke squirm. “I am Magister Danarius, as I’m certain you well know. Please.” He gestured to the open door behind him, stepping aside to allow the mage in.
If the exterior had been impressive, the interior was genuinely ludicrous. The decor was so elaborate that Hawke struggled to find an inch anywhere that wasn’t decorated fancily in some manner. And the marble, oh the marble. Danarius was clearly quite fond of it.
Hawke did not try to hide his awe. “Stunning place you have.”
Danarius merely nodded. “Indeed.”
Fun guy.
The magister picked a silver bell off of a (gilded?!) table in the center of the foyer and gave it a shake, sending a sharp clang echoing into the room. “I imagine you’re famished, and quite exhausted. Which might be the more pressing matter?”
As if on cue, Hawke’s stomach gurgled angrily at him. “I’d tackle the food problem first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
A line of people filed into the room – elves, Hawke caught onto fairly quickly. Of course, collared. All so plain and quiet that he was certain they would blend right into the background as they did their duties. He was sure that was the intention.
All of them but one, that is. One man towards the end of the line managed to stick out like a sore thumb, and the blatant shock value of his appearance made Hawke believe that that was also intentional.
“Supper is ready, I presume?”
The entire line nodded in unison.
“Good. Prepare to serve.” Danarius gestured to Hawke. “This is Ser Hawke. He will be here for some time. You are to be of service to him as well.”
Another nod, and then they were off, filing back out of the room.
Too soon, Hawke thought, his eyes trailing behind them as they left. His curiosity was piqued.
Chapter 2: southern charm
Summary:
Hawke ponders freedom. Fenris ponders kindness.
Chapter Text
The food was… strange, and Hawke found himself savoring his bites despite his current hunger and his general habit of shoveling his meals down his throat. There wasn’t much to eat in Lothering that was worth tasting fully, anyway. Also, Danarius seemed keen on making conversation, and Hawke had just enough understanding of etiquette to know that he should not answer with his mouth full of food.
“Your father was a mage, then? Was he of any talent?” The magister’s eyes shifted from Hawke to something just behind him before he had a chance to answer, and he smiled. Thank the Maker for that reaction, otherwise Hawke would have surely jumped out of his skin when a hand extended out in front of him, gripping a pitcher. He turned his head just enough to observe the seemingly disembodied arm – the stark contrast of the strange white patterns twisting and stretching over brown skin catching his eye immediately.
“Thank you.” He smiled up at the elf as he poured wine into his cup. Hawke had been hoping he’d see him again – he’d been such a curious sight. There was a slight hesitation, and then a nod of recognition before the elf scampered over to his master, filling his goblet as well. His eyes stayed deliberately down.
Danarius, on the other hand, was observing his apprentice quite intently when Hawke looked back up at him. He realized quickly that slaves weren’t meant to cause interruption to conversation in such a way, and wondered if he’d offended his mentor, until the man lifted his gaze onto the elf. “Fenris.” He held him by the wrist before he could turn back. A name, Hawke gladly noted. He knew the names of slaves weren’t supposed to be important, but it made it all feel a bit better for him. “Stay.” A command, not a question, and Fenris answered with a nod. Perhaps, rather than taking offense, Danarius had caught onto Hawke’s curiosity and decided to indulge him. He immediately relaxed. He was surprised, however, when Fenris did not take one of several empty seats on either side of the table – instead, he knelt right down where he stood, taking what seemed to be a habitual spot on his knees beside his master. Like a Mabari, Hawke thought somewhat bitterly. He would just have to try to get used to it. This country was doing so much for him, and he couldn’t remain hung up on such things.
The magister took a slow sip of his wine, still eyeing Hawke in such a way that he was now no longer entirely sure he hadn’t offended him. He felt an intense need to look away, so he took the opportunity to observe this Fenris more fully. His entire body – at least, what was visible – seemed to be covered in those beautiful white lines and curls and twists. And, to be fair, much of his body was visible. A small leather vest barely covered a fraction of his slender and lightly muscled torso, and he was conspicuously uncollared. All of the others had been – small and loose, they were clearly just there to make a visual point, but Fenris did not have one at all. Hawke thought, perhaps, that it was fair to assume the markings served the purpose of keeping him visible and easily recognized well enough, but he could only wonder if there was more to it. And his hair – his hair was porcelain white. Not a pale blond, not the grey-white of old age. White. Hawke was absolutely certain he’d never seen hair that color. It was longer and somewhat messy but tucked partially behind his pointed ears. A genius choice, Hawke thought, as it would have been a shame for it to veil those striking green doe-eyes.
He thought him quite pretty, frankly.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Danarius was smirking when Hawke’s attention snapped back to him. “I call him Fenris. Quite a skilled boy.” He laid a hand atop the slave’s head, petting his white locks absently.
“Oh, I’m sure.” His stare followed Danarius’s hand back to the elf. Fenris’s apparent fascination with the mahogany floors persisted.
“You must be curious about his markings.” Of course. He had a suspicion as to what they were, and he was undeniably brimming with interest. Hawke had proven himself a rather capable and promising scholar of lyrium back in the Circle in Fereldan – while it was heavily studied in some arenas, few showed interest in experimenting with the hazardous mineral. Hawke, simply put, did not mind danger. While he had made no real innovations so far, his interest was enough to catch the attention of a visiting Tevinter official who happened to know Magister Danarius – a man far more accomplished in the realm of lyrium. It did not take a mastermind to deduce what he had done here. A remarkable triumph, if Hawke was correct. Lyrium had great potential… which came with great risk, of course, and he didn’t quite know how to feel about that sort of thing being done on a slave; as always, he quickly shoved that thought away by assuring himself there was more to the story than he knew.
“Oh, absolutely. It’s… lyrium, yes?”
Danarius slid his hand from Fenris’s hair down to his chin, his thumb stroking firmly at the markings on his skin there. The elf flinched visibly but made no attempt to inch away or stop him. “Indeed. My crowning achievement, if I do say so myself. Lucky boy.” It seemed that last part was spoken to Fenris as much as it was to Hawke. “The benefits we’ve been reaping from lyrium for countless years pales in comparison to what is possible. The abilities he’s been given… why, they are trumped only by the abilities of a mage. No non-mage – human, elf, or otherwise – could possibly match him. He was strong before, of course, but now…” He patted the elf’s head, his voice trailing off. “You will have to see it. I do not think I can do it justice by speaking.”
More powerful than any non-mage. “Is that safe? You know, to grant such abilities to…” He gestured at Fenris. The word felt strange, dirty, on his tongue when used in the context of talking about an actual specific person. Particularly when they were right there. This whole business of talking about Fenris as if he wasn’t in the room was ridiculous enough. He would avoid calling him a slave to his face as long as possible. Danarius had taken notice, he was certain, but surely, he’d understand a southerner’s discomfort towards the whole ordeal. “Unless you were unaware of the extent of –”
“I was aware.” Danarius cut him off sternly. Hawke was certain he’d offended him, but the man seemed to catch himself, softening just a moment later. “I could not have known just how impressive he would be, of course, but I had an understanding of the power I was giving him. But he is loyal. More so than any other slave of mine, past or present, though I have never had any problem with rebellion in my household. He does not have any thoughts of acting outside of my interests, and I have nothing to fear in him using his abilities at will if it is not within him to go against me. They’re quite advantageous when used to my benefit, as I’m sure you can imagine. He is no danger to me.”
“I apologize, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s quite alright. I know what your country teaches its people about Tevinter – what you learn to believe out of fear. Our slaves are not, as a whole, unhappy. They are being true to their nature, as are their masters. Many of them live far more comfortably than they would in a country like Fereldan. Fenris would be wallowing in his own impoverished and starving misery in an alienage somewhere, being abused and harassed by any bored or drunken reprobate who passes by. Here, he lives comfortably. He has a place in my estate, fed and clothed at my expense. And I’ve given him a far more valuable gift than any of the grandstanders who condemn us so loudly in the south would ever dream of bestowing on their poor and disadvantaged.” His hand was now on Fenris’s shoulder, fingers curled in a tight grip as if holding him down. Hawke thought that was probably unnecessary. “He is happy.”
Hawke looked down at the elf, almost overcome with the urge to ask him for himself. It did not seem logical by any stretch of his imagination to take one man’s word for another man’s happiness. In the most intimate of associations, you could not know the inner workings of someone’s mind, particularly not when they had something as precious as safety and security to gain from pretending. However, nagging Fereldan biases aside, Hawke could see the sense in what Danarius was saying. Everyone was free in Fereldan, but were the poor any better off for it? Perhaps not. And the elves had it even worse – Danarius’s estate would look like The Golden City compared to any alienage. Was liberty worth it? Hawke couldn’t quite say – he had never been starving in a slum, nor had he ever been a slave. On the other hand, certainly the magister was in even less of a position to make a stance. He, too, had too much to gain.
“There are many who live oppressive lives even in freedom, that much is true.” It was a neutral enough statement. True enough. He did not want to argue, nor did he want to agree so readily with the concept of slavery.
“Indeed.” There was a moment of heavy silence before Danarius shrugged, lifting his hand from its death grip on the elf’s shoulder and resuming his meal. As expected, Fenris remained tethered to the ground. “Let’s not speak of such things any longer. I do intend to discuss our culture and political structures with you in time, but there is much for you to learn first. They teach nothing of worth about Tevinter in the south. All lies. You come to me ignorant, of no fault of your own. I will set you up with some proper reading.”
Ugh. “Oh, I look forward to it. Thank you.”
His mentor smiled. “It is my pleasure. Now, we were speaking of your father.”
The dinner lasted long after the food had been cleared from their plates, and Hawke was now sure that Danarius knew more about him than anyone outside of himself. The man asked more questions than Hawke did, as if he was the one in a foreign land. He couldn’t help but question the magister’s motives, however; there were moments interspersed throughout the friendly conversation that felt more like an interrogation. He was not offended – Tevinter had notoriously bad relations with the rest of Thedas, and he was a government official. It was smart to know the foreigner who was in his home. On the other hand, perhaps Danarius was just one of those people, always fishing for an advantage. There were mages in the Circle like that; Hawke did not like it, but he understood. Throughout the lengthy discussion, his curious gaze slipped multiple times to the elf on the floor. The elf did not meet his eyes – not once. He was remarkably still.
Soon after the candles began to flicker out on their own, Danarius stood from his seat. “How rude of me to keep you so long. You must be exhausted.” Fenris finally stirred when he heard his master move, staring up at him without standing himself, like he was asking for orders without speaking. “Up,” his master replied knowingly, gesturing to him with a crook of his fingers. The elf stood quickly.
“It would take far too long to call for one of the girls now, and Master Hawke should get settled in sooner than later. You’re capable of helping him to his chambers, yes?”
“Yes, master.” Hawke was taken aback by the elf’s reply. It was the first time he’d spoken all evening, and his voice was… not what one might expect. It was deep, smoky – husky almost. And he seemed too… small. Pretty. Hawke would have found the moment absolutely hilarious if he wasn’t so captivated now. And he was going to be escorting him now? Perhaps he’d have the chance to ask him something – something careful, of course. If he was as loyal as Danarius said, he could not think to ask something controversial. Hopefully he was a tad more of a conversationalist than his old friend Neralan from earlier. Though, if dinner was anything to judge by, he doubted it.
“Good, good. I bid you good night, Master Hawke. I will call on you in the morning. A bit late, just this once, I think.”
“I would be grateful for that. Good night, Magister. Thank you.” He bowed slightly, evoking a polite smile from his mentor before he turned and left.
Once the footsteps grew distant enough for Hawke’s liking, he stood up. Fenris finally turned to look at him, ready to go in an instant.
“Just the two of us, then!”
Fenris merely stared. “I will take you to your rooms. We should go straight away.”
“Oh, alright. Shall we take a roundabout way? I’d love to make a new friend.”
He thought he saw the elf scowl for a moment, but it was gone in a flash. He seemed to assume he was joking, anyway, because he simply started off towards the hall, assuming Hawke would follow. And he did, of course.
He allowed the walk to continue in silence for some time – through to the end of the hall, and up the staircase. At the top, he could no longer resist the urge to speak. “Do you spend much time with the magister? He seems fond of you. He gave you your pretty tattoos.”
The elf froze so suddenly that Hawke had to stop too, to avoid losing him. He immediately recognized that it had been a strange thing to ask, but he did not take it back. Fenris would answer, or he would not.
Eventually, he spoke. “I serve him as his bodyguard quite often. He prefers me to serve certain guests of his. There are a multitude of other tasks he trusts mainly to me. So, yes. I suppose I spend much time with him.”
Hawke smiled brightly. Quite the conversationalist he’d revealed in this one, indeed. “I’ll likely see you around quite a bit, then?” he asked as they resumed their walk.
“Most likely.”
Fantastic. This was going great. He was getting somewhere. “I think I’ll like that. You seem lovely.”
Fenris hummed in acknowledgement. He seemed as if he was becoming gradually more uncomfortable, so Hawke decided to cut it off there. He did not want to come across like he was teasing the elf – though he was, in a way. But perhaps in a way he should preserve for friends.
At the very end of the hall, Fenris pushed open a door. In the darkness, Hawke could just make out the shape of a bed, and that was more than enough to remind him just how fatigued he was. He stepped inside, sighing in relief. “Thank the Maker.”
Fenris stepped hesitantly into the darkness behind him. “There are sconces.” He gestured at the wall expectantly.
“Yeah? Oh.” He had forgotten he could use magic openly here, and therefore the servants probably did not feel the need to carry fire-starting materials with them. He lit each candle on the wall with a flick of his wrist, slowly revealing every detail of his room.
“Oh, how beautiful.” He spoke with genuine awe, eyes scanning the gorgeously ornate room. It had a red scheme – the right color for a bedroom, if you asked him – with an absolutely unnecessary amount of gold detailing. The furniture was upholstered in red velvet, and the bed…
“Blessed Andraste, that cannot be meant for one person.” He raised his arms above his head and allowed himself to fall backwards onto the massive bed. The sheets were red silk, and the furs an unusually soft black. Oh, he could just about die here.
He was certain he heard a snicker, and he shot up, staring at the elf who was still standing just inside his doorway. “Was that a laugh?”
Fenris stiffened visibly. “Of course not, ser.”
Hawke smiled, pushing himself up and off the bed again. “It’s alright. I suppose it was funny.” It seemed common sense that slaves would not react the same to joking and banter, but apparently Hawke was in short supply of that. He’d have to remember to be less of an ass. He only wished he could have caught that laugh with his own eyes. The man seemed so damned… stoic. What a satisfying sight it would have been.
Thankfully, Fenris only nodded. “Do you need help undressing? Or shall I take my leave?”
Oh, he seemed eager to go, but Hawke was more caught up on that first question. “Is that normally requested of you?” He wrinkled his nose at the thought of lazy nobles too stuck up their own ass to remove their own clothing, but… part of him was tempted by the idea. If only for the experience. “No, no. We’ll give that some time, yeah? At least take me out for a drink or two, first.”
Fenris tilted his head in what seemed to be confusion, so Hawke just shook his head and laughed. “Only a joke. You can go. Thank you.”
The elf nodded and turned to leave.
“Sleep well, Fenris. It was good to meet you.”
Fenris paused for a split second in the doorway before heading out, shutting the door behind him.
Hawke sighed, and fell backwards on his bed once again, the weight of the day seeming to push him further into it’s pillowy depths, and a thick fog settling into his head.
The man carried himself like a slave.
Fenris was a proficient observer. He needed to be. His master lived and worked in a viper’s nest; if there were ever anything to gain from moving against the magister, someone would find the opening, and someone would inevitably make their shot. His snappy reflexes and acute observation skills could, at any time, be all that stood between Danarius and an arrow to the back of the head. It wasn’t anything like the abilities he gained from his lyrium – he’d had to train his eyes and ears in the art of hypervigilance. And that came naturally with time, given his environment.
But it also meant that he could read people for any hint of danger – or weakness. And Hawke was weak. He was a mage, and by all accounts, a talented one. He did not know the rate at which Tevinter magisters brought foreign mages to the Imperium to work for them but considering he had never met or known of one, he assumed it was not terribly high. There were no shortage of magisters’ sons and daughters who would have been quite fitting – all of which were probably fuming with rage now that a Fereldan has taken their opportunity from them. The situation called for some semblance of arrogance, which Hawke did not display. He could tell that he realized he should – he put on the show, forced himself to relax, smiled with confidence. But he hesitated far too often, listened too intently, observed too carefully, for that to be convincing.
Like a slave. Those were the learned behaviors of a slave, who needed to navigate without disturbing the waters around them in order to survive. It filled Fenris with wonder.
“Sleep well, Fenris. It was good to meet you.”
Danarius had warned Fenris and the others before Hawke had arrived. He will not know how to speak to you properly right away. It had confused him. He hadn’t known what it meant to speak properly to a slave. There was a certain level of restraint you had to maintain with the slaves of a stranger’s household, but your own? You did what worked. Do your duty as normal. He will learn in time. He could not imagine what would take him by surprise enough to break his veneer.
He understood now.
It was such a simple thing; recalling Danarius’s warning, Fenris was quickly able to recognize that it was something one person might say to a casual acquaintance. It was meaningless – polite, and nothing else. But politeness alone was so foreign that he could not merely bear it and move on. It wasn’t that everyone was unnecessarily cruel to slaves – on the contrary, a vast majority were not – but there simply was not any need for etiquette and pleasantries. Perhaps Danarius feared the smattering of “please” and “thank you” would go to their head. Fenris would not let it.
But the smile that snuck its way onto his lips as he stepped out of Hawke’s bedroom and into the long, dark hall – that was harmless, surely. It was good to meet you.
He probably did not mean what he said. Men of his stature spoke strangely, and Fenris had come to learn that certain phrases essentially meant “Please like me”. This was one them. But either way, it was a consideration he was not often afforded.
“Fenris.” A quiet but stern voice startled the elf from his thoughts just as he was about to reach the staircase. He turned, settling his face back into a picture of indifference.
“Master.”
He was leaning in the open doorway to his own rooms, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been waiting for Fenris to pass by.
“I trust he’s settled in? Everything taken care of?”
“Yes.”
Danarius nodded. “Good, good. What is it you’re smiling about?” His tone didn’t change at all, but Fenris felt a chill go through him. He should have known better.
“I wasn’t s—…I apologize.” Lying was not worth the cost.
His master smiled, almost kindly, in reply. Fenris knew better. “That’s very good. But that isn’t what I asked.”
He could not say. He very rarely kept things from Danarius and never, ever lied. But this, he could not say. Did not even know if he knew how to explain himself if he wanted to. “I…am not sure,” he replied after a silent moment, bracing every muscle in his body for the response.
Danarius was predictable; his face changed, smile melting away in an instant and betraying his anger. He grabbed Fenris by the wrist, yanking him roughly past the threshold. He stumbled in, making no effort to resist.
“I’m sor—”
He felt his back hit the wall before he even registered the shove. “You’re not. Be quiet.” Fenris obeyed.
“You wouldn’t be foolish enough to mistake that boy’s ignorance for kindness, would you? Have we not discussed this?” His face was inches from the elf’s, his voice a calculated calm. Fenris knew him well – that was far worse for him than outright anger.
It took him far too long to realize that Danarius had to have been listening from his room as he’d walked Hawke to bed. He could not control what the Fereldan said, of course, and he was sure even his master knew that. But Fenris had been weak enough to let it go to his head, and the magister could surely sniff that out.
From time to time, relations with his master conflicted directly with his warrior training. This was one of those times – he braced, rather than ducked, as he watched the man raise his hand over his head. He’d taken too long to answer.
The force of the slap against the side of his face sent his head back against the wall. The sound of it echoed in his ears, and his first thought was of the bruise that would surely form on his cheek. Danarius was usually careful about that sort of thing. He swallowed heavily, willing himself not to react in any way, not to press his cool fingers to his stinging skin.
He kept his head pressed against the wall in case Danarius decided he was not yet satisfied. “I have been foolish. Forgive me.”
His master only sighed, shaking his head. He stepped away from the elf, turning his back to him. “Go.”
Fenris obeyed.
Chapter 3: a silent warmth
Summary:
The foreign man introduces the very foreign concept of "comfort".
Notes:
Hiii, thanks to anyone who's commented or left kudos! I'm so sorry this update has taken so long. I can't promise quicker updates in the future because of school, but efforts will be made!
That said, there will be some more external conflict after this chapter, so try not to get too bored with them ~pondering~ over each other just yet.
Chapter Text
Before the Circle, Hawke had found home in the outdoors. He did not admire the beauty of nature so much as he simply breathed easier in the quiet, in the vast openness of it. Hours upon hours spent walking the outskirts of the village, tracing streams with his footsteps, exploring little patches of forest yet to be overtaken by civilization. He would inevitably find more adventure than he bargained for, as the outskirts of little villages were exactly where trouble thrived. Bandits and lost animals, mostly, and he was a strong man with a passable ability for magic to back him up if all else failed. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but he typically found his way back to the modest house he shared with his family covered in a thin layer of dirt and sweat and sporadic blood splatters. His mother would fret, scolding him for the risk he put himself in. She’d remind him of the sacrifices the family had made for him and for his sister to be free (and how they’d do it again, a million times over, of course, and how he should never feel indebted), remind him how close he always was and always would be to losing it despite all that they had done. If he drew too much attention, cast a spell in front of the wrong person…
Eventually, she was right, and he traded blood and dirt for dust. The Circle was old, slowly crumbling, clearly not worthy of maintenance, and the tower’s decrepit walls weighed heavy on him, like he was carrying the stone blocks on his back. If he breathed easier out in the perpetual space of nature, this place was bound to gradually crush him to death. And beyond the lack of physical space, the tensions of fear and control were so thick in the air that he felt he could choke on it. He had plunged himself into small freedoms, falling headfirst into the bits of research he was allowed as if he’d been a champion of education and intellectualism his entire life. This had turned out to be one of the few good moves he’d ever made.
But perhaps not. Perhaps, clearing bits of dust from his throat and sleeping off endless headaches after days spent slaving over ancient tome over ancient tome was his calling, and regardless of location or theoretical freedom, his day-to-day would not change. Perhaps that’s what the Maker intended for him. And who was he to argue? He was comfortable here, in Danarius’s home. The man spared no expense in any corner of his life, it seemed, and that had come to include Hawke’s comfort. He had everything he needed, and endless time, to study and work, and was even under the impression that he might garner some respect for whatever he accomplished one day.
He had not imagined it like this, however. His mentor had insisted that a Fereldan education in magic was no basis for any real research, that he had much to catch up on, and plenty of time to do so. And Hawke had had no objection to this – until he’d seen the stack of books that apparently constituted his “catching up”.
“All of that?” he had asked incredulously. Danarius had brought Fenris along to carry the load, the pile coming up just short of obscuring his face completely. It had been four days since he’d been welcomed to the estate, and he’d already caught on that Fenris was Danarius’s go-to attendant among the slaves for any sort of errand. The others seemed to work autonomously, cooking and cleaning and maintaining the grounds and seemingly just staying out of everyone’s way. The magister seemed to only address them sparingly. Fenris’s role here was a curious thing to Hawke.
He smiled at the elf as he passed by him and into the study, placing the stack on the desk behind Hawke (far more lightly than should be expected, given the probable weight of them, he noted). Fenris did not return the smile, as Hawke had come to expect. It had hurt his feelings for a day or so after that first night, that his new elf friend that had seemed to warm up to him ever-so-slightly was going back on his progress, but he quickly adjusted. Perhaps his friendly behavior had caught the elf off guard at first, and now he’d adjusted. Perhaps, this was just normal.
“These are just the basics. Whatever drivel they have in your Circle back home has been censored immensely to fit their anti-magic agenda. I do not need to ask what you learned – whatever it was, it was worthless.”
Hawke had nodded understandingly, bit his tongue, did not argue. He thanked the magister, watched him and Fenris walk away, and pulled a book off the top of the stack. It was better than the alternative, he had to remind himself.
Hawke woke with a start at the sound of a metallic clanging beside his head. The pain in his neck and back became apparent as soon as he tried to move. He groaned, lifting his head off of the desk and rolling his shoulders, wincing at the little cracking sound his movements made.
“Apologies. I did not mean to wake you.”
The familiar voice sent a wave of anxiety through him – the presence of Fenris usually signaled the presence of Danarius, and he did not want the man seeing him asleep at his desk. He turned to look at the intruder with urgency now, straightening his posture.
Fenris was alone. “You missed dinner.”
Ah, it was starting to come together. Hawke nodded, gazing back down at his desk. A silver tray of fruit, wine, and… some sort of meat. He sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Thank you.” Missing dinner was an embarrassment. Danarius was a busy man, but he’d made an effort to have dinner with his houseguest every night since he’d arrived – two weeks ago, now. It was the only real time he had to get to know Hawke, or to discuss his studies with him. It was purely for his own benefit, Hawke was sure, but he appreciated the effort as well. Leaving the man alone at a table set for two without warning was… not a good look for him. It was only a matter of time before he screwed something up, of course – he’d never been a perfect picture of responsibility. But so soon? “Would you mind conveying my thanks to Danarius when you return to him? My apologies, as well.”
“He has retired for the night. And… I will share your apologies in the morning, but he did not arrange for this meal. And I… would ask that you do not mention it to him.” Fenris crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin for the moment.
“Oh. Okay,” Hawke replied, unable to prevent the grin creeping across his lips. “All the thanks to you, then?” He was certain that whatever bit of rapport he’d established with the elf was still there somewhere all along. It seemed clear he had not been wrong. The mental image of Fenris going out of his way to sneak into the kitchen, steal some leftovers, arrange a plate, and smuggle it up to Hawke was a nice little treat, as well.
“I suppose.” There was a moment’s hesitation before the elf spun on his heel and started for the door.
“Wait, wait, wait. You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” If Hawke had had time to think, he might have decided against this. But now it was done, and Fenris was turning back around, and that felt right. Such a kind gesture surely warranted something other than a return to the silence they’d been existing in until now. It was selfish, mostly – Hawke wanted to see his own curiosity sated, but there was some part of him that clung to the morals instilled in him back home that would not allow him to accept the servitude of these people in Danarius’s home without making some effort to reach out. And Fenris was always there, following his master like a shadow and it just didn’t sit well with the mage to pretend he was merely a shadow, like he was not someone with his own thoughts and personality and feelings that was just as important to know as Danarius was. Regardless of what Tevinter’s ways were, Hawke knew people, and they didn’t become less complicated in a different land.
“I… do not. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“Well, you can help me finish this. I’m a light eater, you see.”
He didn’t miss the way Fenris’s eyes looked over Hawke’s fit but admittedly bulky body with an expression dangerously close to disbelief and had to stifle a laugh. “That would not be…”
“I won’t tell anyone. You needn’t worry about breaking any rules in my presence, Fenris. See, I grew up a bit of a rule-breaker myself back in Fereldan, and old habits die hard.”
Ah. A bit of a smile. Oh, how lovely that was to see, and to know that it was his own work. “I…see.”
Hawke could sense the discomfort radiating off of the elf. He was not Fenris’s master, but he still held some leverage, some authority over him while he was here; he supposed it might be unfair to ask him to choose between displeasing him and displeasing Danarius. “It’s up to you. You can go, if you like. I wouldn’t be offended.”
To his surprise, Fenris shook his head immediately, as if the clarification disturbed him from his thoughts. “I… can stay, I suppose. For a short while.”
“Yes! A short while. That’s all I ask.” Thinking quickly, he stood up, offering his own seat to the elf. It was the nicer out of the two that sat by his desk – soft and upholstered as opposed to bare hardwood. He hadn’t hosted many guests back home, and certainly not since he’d moved to the Circle, but he assumed that was the polite thing to do.
There was hesitation. “Oh, I…”
“You aren’t really going to insist on standing, are you?”
There was a long moment where the mage thought that Fenris might be legitimately considering it, but then he sat – looking no less uneasy, but it was a start. Hawke, on the other hand, was relieved. His tendency to push things past their obvious limits would get him into trouble at some point, but apparently, not yet. He rounded the desk and sat down himself.
“Are you hungry?” He plucked a grape off of the plate before gently sliding the dish in Fenris’s direction. He didn’t answer, silently eyeing the offering with something like suspicion. Hawke sighed, nudging it an inch closer. “Well, you haven’t poisoned them, have you? I hardly thought I’d been here long enough to be subjected to that famous Tevinter hospitality. And any assassin worth their salt would leave a safe share for themselves for this very moment.”
The corner of the elf’s lips curled up just slightly. “Poison wouldn’t be my method of choice.” He gave in, reaching out carefully with his slender fingers and quickly popping a piece of melon into his mouth, as if he thought Hawke would change his mind before he could get it down.
“Noted.” Hawke pondered the theoretical possibility of dying by assassination here as he chewed his fruit. He was hardly significant enough to warrant that level of attention just yet, but he assumed it was something of a goal in Tevinter to achieve murder-worthy status, and he intended to get there. He wondered what kind of enemies he’d make – an aging magister, jealous of Hawke’s rugged good looks and the way his young wife flirts when she thinks he’s not looking, perhaps. The up-and-coming son of an old and noble family, vying to steal the power of this foreign upstart. Or maybe it would come from within – Danarius himself, threatened by the potential of his own protégé, or fearful of the things the outsider in his home may have seen or heard. Would he carry it out himself? Doubtful – he was indubitably the more powerful of the two now, but by the time Hawke reached his full potential, he would be quite the match for the older man. Surely, he’d delegate such a task.
“And what would your method of choice be? I notice you carry no weapons.” He lifted the wine pitcher, filling the silver cup on the tray to the rim. It was the good stuff, the sweet red that Fenris had served on his first night there, and he was not terribly skilled at moderation.
The elf’s eyebrows knitted together for a long, silent moment. Hawke wondered if he was working through the likelihood that he was planning to use this information against him. He supposed he would, too, in his place. “Not at home, no. Not usually.”
“You mentioned being Danarius’s bodyguard, didn’t you? Is the perimeter so secure that you don’t need to be on guard here?”
Fenris chuckled, just barely. “Hardly. But secure enough not to let an army in? Yes. And I can handle one or two unarmed.”
“Oh?” He was deadly curious, but he took care to hide that fact, taking a casual sip from his brimming cup. Conversation was already starting to feel less and less one-sided, and he felt that while he had not quite broken the ice, he could hear a few cracks starting to form on its surface. He did not want to blow a cold wind over it by revealing the true extent of his interest. “I seem to recall Danarius mentioning that you are… particularly skilled. He hasn’t expanded much on that, I’m afraid.” Truth be told, Hawke hadn’t wondered too much about that until now. Of course, he could speculate – lyrium was a source of power for mages and templars alike, and Fenris surely enjoyed some enhancement to his physical strength by having it embedded in his skin. Speed, perhaps? There was almost no limit to what he imagined it could provide in theory – it was a famously mysterious resource… dangerous as well. And while he knew it could not reproduce true magic in a non-mage, it wouldn’t be entirely impossible to imagine that it might produce magic-like abilities.
But his unending curiosity about the elf had not often brought him to thoughts of his strange and unknown aptitudes, and that was unexplainable. That was why he was there, wasn’t it? His thirst for knowledge, a demonstrated capacity for innovation and understanding, a desire to leverage that capacity for even a single dose of freedom. And there was a place here for someone like him because of Fenris – because of what Danarius had done with him, anyway. A desire to understand the peculiar, twisting expanse of lines that made him special was to be expected, and no one would fault him for it. But time and time again, Hawke’s mind wandered to the whys rather than the whats and the hows; the blessings or the curses that made the elf worthy of such a thing; the befores and the afters. Scientific wonder that he may be, Fenris had not been born for that, and surely was not just that now.
“He does not mean to keep it secret. I’m just not sure he could explain it – sufficiently, at least – if he tried. Nor could I,” the elf offered. Hawke was surprised to see him take another piece of fruit from the tray.
“Ah. I suppose I’ll have to see it for myself sometime, then.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Hawke grinned at the ominousness of that, sliding his cup in Fenris’s direction. He quite liked that particular wine, but he was a sharer by nature. “You’re certain? I was beginning to think this country had more dusty tomes filled with pedantic theory and old dead relics than the drama and intrigue I’d been promised.”
“There’s plenty of both. You may come to appreciate the dusty tomes someday.” He gave the wine that suspicious glare that Hawke was growing accustomed to before shrugging and taking a (rather large) swig. It seemed to Hawke that his nonchalant rebelliousness might be rubbing off already.
The next hour or so – Hawke could not be sure – passed uneventfully. The discussion slowly died down to occasional idle chatter as Fenris shared his meal. The mage realized quite quickly that the elf might actually have been hungry, and he allowed him the time and space between conversation to take his fill. That thought threatened to take itself too far, through the implications of any of Danarius’s slaves being left hungry this late into the night, through what that suggested about their condition in general, whether the neglect was intentional or not. But he fought to keep that down for now – that was for another time, if ever.
It also eventually – after the third refill of the cup, for which Fenris was equally responsible for each emptying – became quite clear to him that the elf was not allowed wine terribly often.
Hawke did not fully recognize the tension in the elf’s body until it started to dissipate with each tip of the cup to his lips; he became soft, less angular, his face and posture relaxing, his body melting into the plush cushion of his chair. He still laughed dimly, more of a scoff than anything, as if he was afraid he’d burst into pieces if he gave too much away. But those stiff chuckles came more often, more easily, his eyes bright and engaged. It did nothing to placate the mage’s curiosity – if anything, it made him far more invested in figuring out who exactly this man was.
Hawke was not immune to the effects of the wine, either. He felt that fluttery warmth radiating from the pit of his stomach, the pleasant fog that settled over his senses – but he had his size and, probably, experience over the elf and he knew that if it was starting to feel anything at all, it would likely be wise to slow this down.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, the cadence of amusement in his voice, as he noticed Fenris’s eyes fluttering shut, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
The drawn-out, contented hum that came in reply was enough. He turned to his side, pulling his feet up onto the seat and curling up against the back of the seat. Hawke thought he might have been falling asleep, but then his hand reached out blindly towards the table, knocking the wine cup over in his attempt to grab it before the mage could stop him.
“Venhedis.” The word came out in a growl, and Hawke did not have to ask what it meant. Fenris popped just one green eye open to examine the damage; the cup had been nearly empty, and only a small puddle of red had escaped onto the table.
“It’s okay,” Hawke assured him, righting the cup and wiping up the mess with the end of his sleeve.
If the spill hadn’t brought Fenris back to full consciousness, that did. He shot back up in his seat in an instant, swatting Hawke’s arm away. He moved so quickly that it startled the human, causing him to push away from the desk, the legs of his chair squeaking on the marble floor. “No, no. I’ve got it. I’m sorry.” He grabbed a folded napkin from the tray, which Hawke had neglected to remember was there – perhaps he was a bit drunker than he thought – and stood, slightly too wobbly for the mage’s comfort.
“It’s red, the stain will blend right in,” he reasoned, examining the wet sleeve of his maroon robe with chagrin before turning his gaze on Fenris in time to see him stumble, bracing himself just in time with a second hand on the table. Hawke snorted, standing up himself, prepared to catch him if necessary. He’d offer the elf water next time.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Truly, I don’t mind. You should sit.”
Fenris only shook his head, eyebrows furrowed as he wiped at the mess with the now red-stained handkerchief. Every bit of languid relaxation that Hawke had gladly watched seep into the elf’s posture had gone away in an instant. It seemed that the calm of the evening had allowed both men to forget that one of them was a slave, a flimsy façade that was quick and easy to shatter.
“Fenris.” He didn’t know what else to say anymore. The elf clearly wasn’t affected by his reassurances. This was about more than the wine. “Relax; it’s fine.”
“Thank you. I can take care of it.”
It was clear to Hawke that he was not going to get anywhere, so he shut up, crossing his arms across his chest and keeping himself out of the way. At some point, he realized that he should have stopped watching, but he didn’t know where else to look – he felt as if he was searching for some way to fix it, make things friendly and normal again.
“Should be good.” The elf spoke up eventually, eyeing the spot on the table. Hawke followed his gaze – it was dry, and clean, and he was admittedly impressed that he’d done such a job in the state he was in.
He nodded, smiling in the elf’s direction. Fenris wasn’t looking. “Great.”
Before he could even think about proposing they stay and chat together awhile longer, Fenris was scrambling to pile everything back onto the tray, ready to take this opportunity to escape, and Hawke realized there was nothing he could do to salvage this. There was guilt in letting him go, letting him end the night feeling as if he’d done something wrong, and guilt in trying to convince him to stay when he clearly felt so uneasy. It was better, he supposed, to let him go. Allowing him the chance to make a choice for himself without question was the smallest dignity he could be afforded.
As the elf rushed out, Hawke chanced a quiet but cheerful, “Goodnight”.
Fenris halted in the doorway, his back still turned to the human. This was becoming a tradition. “Goodnight.”
Hawke smiled.
He thought he was dying, if only for the shortest of moments – long enough to leave his heart pounding well after he realized he was safe. Safe being a relative term, of course.
Fenris shot up, spluttering and choking without room for so much as a single gasp of air in between, copious amounts of water coming up with every cough. Danarius stood over him, cold and vacant, like a vindictive god.
“Thought you’d like a morning off?” The iciness of his tone sent chills over Fenris’s skin, pangs of guilt down the pit of his stomach.
“I…” he started, but the use of his throat even to talk sent him into another coughing fit.
“Whatever you’re about to say doesn’t matter. There isn’t a good enough reason.” He dropped the now-empty water bucket on the wooden floor with a clang that made Fenris jump and sat down on the edge of the elf’s cot. He simply watched, straight-faced, and waited for the choking to stop. Fenris swallowed hard and held his breath, desperate to stop it so he could speak.
“I’m…” He cleared a tickle from his throat. “I’m sorry.” He knew that’s what was expected. No excuses, no explanations. A self-insult disguised as an apology. I’m sorry, I’m miserable, I’m pathetic, I’m useless.
Danarius smiled, ever-so-slightly, and Fenris was grateful for any bit of expression. Even anger would be better than the impassive void he’d been faced with, but a smile often meant forgiveness. He was only a slave, only an elf, after all – too simple to be expected to never make a mistake. “Yes, you are.” He reached over and pushed a wet strand of hair clinging to Fenris’s face behind his pointed ear. “But you’re a special one, and you understand that. The other ones could be taken and replaced in the dead of night and I’d hardly notice a thing come morning. They’re entirely expendable. But you…” His fingers slid from behind his ear to that little spot he liked, where the pretty lines he marked him with met his lips. “You are… uniquely valuable. And you know this, yes?”
He rubbed his thumb harshly along his chin, and Fenris immediately felt every muscle in his body tighten, bracing against the sharp, radiating pain. The lyrium markings covering his body were… sensitive, to say the least – contact felt something like ice on a rotten tooth. He resisted the urge to flinch away. This was not something his master did when he was angry with him; the elf had come to recognize it as a sign of fondness, strangely enough. He trained himself to accept it, to sit still, to smile even. To encourage all of the moments that meant he wasn’t being thrown out or denied a meal today, however unwanted.
“I do, master.”
“Good.” His master’s smile grew more genuine now, and Fenris relaxed, despite the firm touch still pressed against his aching skin. “And you wouldn’t let that make you complacent, would you? You understand how much I’ve invested in you, how much of a gift I’ve given you. You understand that without all that I’ve given to you, you would be nothing special at all, and if anything, this should make you far more loyal to me than the others?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.” The markings came at a great expense to Danarius, and they were what made Fenris more than just another slave. He would never be allowed to forget that.
“Good boy.” He uses the vice grip on his chin to tilt Fenris’s head up, leaning down to press his lips firmly and briefly against the elf’s before hoisting himself off the cot and making his exit without another word between them.
Fenris was still, catching his breath for a moment.
The elf was wrong to assume he would not be punished still. It was not such a horrible fate – Fenris was to help cook dinner, and he hated cooking dinner. The slaves who ran the kitchen were not good company – the older ladies treated him like a young boy and scolded him when he, inevitably, did not know how to complete some task, and the younger girls scowled the entire time and sabotaged his every effort. He had always chalked it up to jealousy. That made it worse – to think that they believed there was anything to be jealous of.
But it was not starvation, it was not a beating, and it was not sleeping outside – in other words, it was no true punishment. A symbolic one, perhaps – just something to remind him that he was not above reproach.
Tonight, the young girls saw fit to pretend he was not there. He washed and chopped fruits and vegetables, carefully so as not to give anyone reason to harass him, and the girls did the real work behind him.
“Whatever happened to Shara? A quiet one, her – hardly noticed she was gone until just the other day. Thought, well, I haven’t seen her in some time. Do we know why?”
“Shara? You haven’t heard? The girl was pregnant.”
Fenris heard a spoon clatter. “Pregnant?”
Fenris rolled his eyes, focusing on the slick sound of the knife blade passing through the pepper he was slicing in a desperate attempt to tune them out. Their inane gossip would be enough to drive him to lunacy even if they had not been prone to mistreating him. He happened to know she was not, in fact, pregnant. Just too slow, too sad, too difficult to manage. Being kept so close to his master meant he heard all of the mundane ins and outs of the estate’s management, as well as the items of interest. Danarius made no effort to filter out any unsavory or sensitive conversations in front of his favored slave, and Fenris responded in kind by never betraying his confidence.
He caught bits and pieces, regardless of his efforts. Someone was tired of covering for someone who kept sneaking away for naps, someone else had lost their favorite tunic and had an idea of who had taken it, and someone else…
“Oh, he’s handsome. In a rugged kind of way, I guess. Different from the human men here.”
“Yeah, where’s he from again? Fereldan?”
“Yes, you can’t tell from the accent? Anyway, he could stand to bathe a bit more thoroughly. Other than that, he’s lovely.”
“Seems like he’d be an easy one, too. Not too uptight.”
This fragment of conversation was interesting enough to Fenris to distract him quite thoroughly, and suddenly he felt a sharp, stinging pain stretching across his fingers. He hissed, letting out a string of Tevene curses and waving his hand violently, as if attempting to shake the pain away.
One of the ladies let out a harsh, frustrated sigh, but made no moves to help. “Don’t bleed on the peppers, you imbecile! Just go – we’ll tell him you were here the whole time. You’re only getting in our way.” She tossed him a rag, at least, and stomped over to snatch the bloodied knife from the counter in front of him without giving him a second look.
He supposed he was okay with that conclusion. Fenris took the rag, wrapping it tightly against his wounds (where the juice from the peppers was morphing the sharp, cutting pain into hellish burning) and making a hasty exit. He heard one of the girls mutter their favorite Tevene insult for him (which translated roughly to ‘mindless lapdog’) followed by pealing laughter just as he shut the door behind him.
He couldn’t say how the girls’ conversation had rattled him to the point of stabbing himself in the hand – it was not unusual to hear them speak that way about newer acquaintances, particularly those of a male and human variety, having an exotic background of sorts put Hawke all the more at risk of their ogling. There was little to be had in the way of excitement for a housework slave, and people like Hawke were a relatively risk-free catch for a short-term fling. Naïve, excitable, and probably a temporary fixture. Gone before anyone got caught or got their feelings hurt.
Fenris was not fond of this habit of theirs – many of these men were not as naïve as they came across and knew exactly the power they held in these sorts of the relationships. They were often quite willing to take advantage – it was never truly risk-free. But this was nothing new, and it certainly was not what was bothering him. Out of necessity, the elf was an excellent judge of character, and he truly did not think Hawke was dangerous to the girls in this way.
He eventually wandered over to the stairwell at the end of the hall, settling onto the bottom step. He lifted the rag just enough to glance at his wound; it was nasty, deeper than he’d originally realized, and absolutely throbbing. The elf sighed deeply, pressing the fabric back against his skin with a wince and resting his head against the railing. There wasn’t much he could do but suffer through in silence until it healed. A hand injury was an obstacle for his everyday duties and complaining about one was a surefire way to earn some sort of punishment. He’d been accused of sustaining injuries on purpose as a way of getting out work before, as had all of the slaves. They all knew better than to mention it.
Fenris was pleasantly alone with his thoughts for some time before a loud footstep behind him broke the spell. He tried to jump to his feet, embarrassed he hadn’t heard someone coming until they were right on him, but a strong hand on his shoulder held him in place. It was not the familiar grip of his master’s hand, and a strange mixture of relief and anxiety followed that observation.
“Waiting for me?” The jaunty tone of the voice was familiar, and Fenris tilted his head back so he was staring straight up at the man.
Hawke grinned down at him.
“If I was meant to be escorting you to dinner, I was not informed.”
The human chuckled. “I was trying to imply that you’d decided to on your own. You know, for my company… a joke, in any case.” He stepped down and sat on the step right beside Fenris. The elf felt every muscle in his body tighten instinctively.
“Relax.” As it turned out, the mage was skilled at reading people as well. He nodded in the direction of the rag still pressed against Fenris’s open wounds. “You okay?”
“I am. Thank you for asking.” He didn’t know the polite way to respond to such a question, but he supposed that sounded right.
“Let me see.” The jovial edge to Hawke’s voice had faded, and the request sounded particularly genuine, gentle even. Fenris found himself immediately pulling the fabric back to reveal the deep, red line stretching diagonally across his fingers. More blood had accumulated since he’d first injured himself, providing for a much nastier sight than he was prepared for. Clean cuts could be deceptive like that.
Hawke winced, inhaling audibly through his teeth. “That looks deep. Does it hurt much?”
Fenris started to shake his head but froze in place when Hawke reached up and took his injured hand in his, careful not to touch the tops of his fingers.
Hawke felt it, again. “Relax,” he murmured again, as if it was completely normal for him to be touching the elf. Maybe, Fenris thought, it was… to the human, at least. There were few reasons to touch a slave – two, to be exact. To enact a punishment, or out of your own desire to be touched. This was not the former, and he had yet to see anything to make him believe it was the latter.
He did not relax.
A few awkward moments passed by before Hawke seemed to realize that Fenris was not going to adjust to this contact, and he pulled his hand away – gently, still. “Apologies.” This was even stranger. If he had wanted to touch him for his own benefit, he would not have cared much if Fenris was not feeling receptive to it. “I’m still trying to figure out how to act with you. You are more than welcome to give me pointers or scold me at any point.” He stood up at that, and Fenris finally exhaled fully.
“Might I suggest finding someone to take care of that, though? Before you come to dinner?”
“I should not…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell Danarius I told you to.” He paused, frowning. “I mean, I’m not telling you to. It’s up to you. I’ll just tell him that I told you… ah, don’t mind me! Just… do as you please. I’ll cover for you.”
True to his word, he turned away at that, tapping down the hallway and leaving Fenris to his own devices. The elf, in turn, weighed his options. He decided, ultimately, to listen, and headed up the stairs.
MoonHowler (Guest) on Chapter 2 Thu 04 Jul 2019 08:13PM UTC
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skeleton_ships on Chapter 3 Tue 01 Oct 2019 04:29PM UTC
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beingqueer24_7 on Chapter 3 Fri 10 Jan 2020 01:18PM UTC
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