[How stunned had he been that first night with Marian? It's hard to remember, for it's been over a decade, but he can still recall if he tries. That initial wary shock, like a beaten dog finally offered a kind hand— and then, later, came the suspicion. The terror that she would be like everyone else Fenris had ever met, there only to serve herself and exploit him all at once. How long had it taken him to realize she truly meant it?
Years. Years. Maybe not fully, not until Danarius had showed up; maybe he had always half-feared that she might sell him, and only laid those fears to rest when she proved she wouldn't.
Would he have done the same if it was Riftwatch instead of her? If he had fallen through into some new, strange world, and those who found him said here, we will feed you, we will give you shelter, we will tell you how the world works, we will care for you— and all we ask in exchange is your service.
Yes. He probably would have, Fenris thinks faintly.
Lance and Nathan, and he does not immediately ask after those names for the same reason he never says Isabela or Varric, not anymore. They were friends, and now they're gone, and sometimes it's too hard to remember the dead. He focuses instead on the story: the overfamiliar tale of captivity and infantilization, an organization that insisted they knew better and wanted only the best for their prisoners.
(A basement, lightless and too hot, Varaina's hand gripping his own as they stared dully up at one of their master's servants, telling them all about how kind it was that Danarius was letting them have the night off, for he was so busy with attending a party he didn't need all his slaves on hand.)
But the story goes on. It becomes more and more fantastical— understand, he fully believes her, for why wouldn't he? It sounds like magic, and magic is always unpredictable at best and dangerous at worst. Power being unable to dissipate sounds reasonable enough, if not quietly horrifying; he can't imagine—
Well, he can, actually. That's the problem.]
They tasked you with fighting it, I imagine.
[It's how it would go in Tevinter, after all. But oh . . . she goes on about her friends, and something in his chest twinges.]
no subject
Years. Years. Maybe not fully, not until Danarius had showed up; maybe he had always half-feared that she might sell him, and only laid those fears to rest when she proved she wouldn't.
Would he have done the same if it was Riftwatch instead of her? If he had fallen through into some new, strange world, and those who found him said here, we will feed you, we will give you shelter, we will tell you how the world works, we will care for you— and all we ask in exchange is your service.
Yes. He probably would have, Fenris thinks faintly.
Lance and Nathan, and he does not immediately ask after those names for the same reason he never says Isabela or Varric, not anymore. They were friends, and now they're gone, and sometimes it's too hard to remember the dead. He focuses instead on the story: the overfamiliar tale of captivity and infantilization, an organization that insisted they knew better and wanted only the best for their prisoners.
(A basement, lightless and too hot, Varaina's hand gripping his own as they stared dully up at one of their master's servants, telling them all about how kind it was that Danarius was letting them have the night off, for he was so busy with attending a party he didn't need all his slaves on hand.)
But the story goes on. It becomes more and more fantastical— understand, he fully believes her, for why wouldn't he? It sounds like magic, and magic is always unpredictable at best and dangerous at worst. Power being unable to dissipate sounds reasonable enough, if not quietly horrifying; he can't imagine—
Well, he can, actually. That's the problem.]
They tasked you with fighting it, I imagine.
[It's how it would go in Tevinter, after all. But oh . . . she goes on about her friends, and something in his chest twinges.]
You miss them. Nathan— Nate— and Lance.