Chapter Text
Fenris was a bit of an oddity among the slaves of Danarius' holdings. The elf was as obedient, as subservient as any well-trained slave ought to be, naturally—Danarius would allow nothing less—but the boy was different in that, unlike the others, he possessed that whimsical trait that most slaves had stamped out of them early on and which slave owners detested to see in a slave: curiosity. A curious slave was a liability, and untrustworthy. He could be incited to learn secrets about his master and sell them to outsiders; a curious slave could be distracted from her duties; a curious slave, worst of all, still had the capacity for hope.
A hopeful slave, a curious slave, was one always somewhat distracted with insidious thoughts of escape, of freedom. Most magisters had no use for a curious slave; no, rather the slave had no curiosity, no creativity, no hope, for then they would be docile, quiet, obedient. No point to rebellion when the slave had no capacity to dream of something better, no ability to hope for something more, no curiosity to look outside the walls of their master's home.
Danarius, generally, felt the same. Most of his slaves were exactly the Right Sort, the sort without dreams or hopes or curiosity or creativity. He selected them for these traits; for the sort of hopeless resignation he could see in their eyes in the slave markets, knowing that they would be anything he wished them to, would do anything he ordered them to. They would make no waves, test no waters; they would not innovate or look outside, or hope for anything more than to do a good job and escape punishment, perhaps that they might receive a slightly larger portion of food that day, or that the same would not be withheld from them.
Such slaves were excellent maids and bodyservants, too dead-eyed to even consider thinking of escape or murder, too frightened of the repercussions to dream of betrayal. They were good guards, too; rigid and uncompromising, and given even the slightest scrap of power, of higher status, were too desperate to retain it, to retain the little luxuries of a clean uniform, steady food, a slightly nicer bed and sleeping chamber, to ever do anything to risk it. These were soldiers who would do exactly as told, who would throw themselves into conflicts with abandon on his word, who would accept any training like good little automatons and never, ever think that they might use that training in anything other than his service.
Danarius saw these traits in Fenris, and yet he did not crush them out of his little wolf. He let the slave keep his wonder, his curiosity, his dreams. Fenris was just so much more interesting than the other slaves with them than he would be without. Besides, Danarius needed the boy to be more than other slaves. Were he not, he would be utterly useless to Danarius. It had not been chance that, of all of the slaves he could have selected, it was little Leto who'd walked into the workroom that day, that it was little Leto, now a little wolf, with so much precious lyrium in his skin. It could have been no other.
Oh, the lyrium was valuable, absolutely; and Danarius made sure that Fenris was aware that the lyrium was valuable, and that it was what made Danarius keep him around. He made sure Fenris knew the lyrium was what meant that Fenris would be pursued to the ends of the earth and back should he run—but this was not, strictly, the entire truth. Not that Fenris needed to know it, of course. But there was always more lyrium in Tevinter; and Danarius was certainly not so poorly off that he couldn't just buy up more of the stuff in an instant. Fenris was the real prize.
His curiosity was a part of what made him the prize he was, and therefore it must simply be borne as an inconvenient part of an object too valuable to throw out. At least, Danarius mused, the curiosity had its uses. Fenris' thirst for knowledge, in particular about himself as-he-once-was, was insatiable, and this was useful in a variety of ways which Danarius delighted in discovering and exploiting. It had never been said that Danarius lacked creativity; he was a smart man, clever and yes, cruel and utterly ruthless. It hardly mattered that what he was doing, wielding his slave's curiosity as a weapon against him, was cruel at best. It was so very practical—little tidbits of information provided in driblets and drops here or there served as excellent rewards. Like treating a dog for good behavior.
Oh, the boy was so hungry for whatever little bits of information Danarius provided; it never even occurred to the little wolf to wonder if it was true—or how much of it was. All Danarius had to do was intersperse these bits of knowledge casually as though offhand, by accident. He made sure never to look directly at the slave as he did so, knowing that as gullible as Fenris was, the boy wasn't stupid and may figure it out if he saw Danarius looking. While the boy wouldn't trust Danarius' word if it was information freely given as a gift, he would accept…accidents. That was perfectly acceptable to Danarius, and the magister liked to envision it, the way the slave followed at his heels eagerly waiting and hoping for any tiny shred of information to be dropped, as being like a pet dog at his master's heels hoping for a scrap of food to be dropped carelessly from his plate.
Fenris did look so good kneeling at his feet. A little wolf, tamed to his hand like a dog.
In truth, Danarius knew some of Fenris' life prior to infusing him with lyrium. He knew about the boy's family—freed, now, and much joy to them for it, living in squalor and struggling to feed themselves, having their own relative to thank for their new station in life—the names of his prior owners, what little training he'd received. Little enough, really, but then, what was there of import about a slave's life to know? In any case, what Danarius did not know, he—embellished.
Misinformation was a useful tactic, an excellent way to deepen his hold on the sweet, sweet little slave; why bind the boy with chains when he could ensure it never truly occurred to the boy to resist him with words? Besides, Fenris' anguish with each, agonizing, bit of falsity fed in tiny, careful tidbits to him was intoxicating. At times it was genuinely difficult to hide the shivers of excitement Danarius felt at the way the slave's eyes became damp at times, the way his breath caught in his chest and his long throat worked when some new information caught at him, ripped at his preconceptions and forced him to shift his worldview just that little bit more. Fenris was beautiful when he was breaking and struggling to hold himself together, to patch himself back up just the little bit different.
Withholding information was just as effective. This, however, had to be done more carefully still. It wasn't a simple matter of just not saying anything; rather, it was the careful art of dangling precious information, making sure Fenris knew it was there and that it might be had, and then—not providing it. This had to be done neatly or the game would be up, and it must be used sparingly. It was perhaps a crueler weapon than providing the falsehoods; always, always there was the buildup of hope, sometimes over a course of moments, and others spread haltingly, delicately, across days or weeks, then followed by a sudden ending of the hope, a removal so sudden and unexpected that he could always see it in those lovely green eyes that it left him utterly reeling, wrongfooted, stunned by the unexpected removal.
The trick to this, naturally, was to offer that very same buildup of hope—and sometimes, reward the little wolf with bits of the hoped-for information…and others, well. Not.
Danarius knew that if he were to only ever snatch the hope away from Fenris like yanking the rug from beneath his feet, if that was all the boy ever expected, this would undercut Danarius. If he did that, Fenris would simply learn never to hope. By sometimes rewarding this hope with the gift of information, it made the sudden death of that hope all the more painful at other times.
Better still was that as he was building that fragile, terrified hope, Danarius could see the war within the little wolf. The hopeful wish/want/belief that this time, this time it would work out, the soul-deep yearning for knowledge of his past and of himself warring with the scarred and frightened part of him that Danarius had put there (he always felt a warm, delighted thrill to see the darkness in those leaf-green eyes, to know that he'd put it there) saying nonono this won't end well, this can't end well, just stop hoping, it's only going to hurt, stopstopstop…. That little dark, frightened part never won, though. Fenris hurt so much more sweetly for his hope.
There were others, of course, who could have wielded the same power over Fenris that Danarius himself did, of course. More, in fact; for they were little Leto's family, and had known him his whole life—well, Before, in any case. To allow that would be a kind of foolishness Danarius wouldn't allow; instead, he'd found the best path to be to keep his word. Oh, it was a sweet sort of irony, wasn't it? That sweet little Leto's one wish in exchange for the lyrium infusion procedure had been the one thing that would cement him as Danarius' more solidly than any other action could. Danarius couldn't have planned it better, himself, really. That was why Danarius had waited until Fenris was fully recovered from the procedure before he granted Leto's wish and freed the mother and sister. It had been a pleasure to dress him in splendid armor custom-created to accentuate Fenris' powers and his—other attributes—to re-train him into the formal, upright, calm, stoic-faced creature he was now, so entirely different from the Leto he had been. It had been another pleasure entirely to have the little wolf at his shoulder when he'd called the mother and sister into his office to explain what was happening.
He'd seen the anguish in their eyes, when Fenris had looked straight at them, expression impassive and not lighting with recognition. They'd stared at him in disbelief, at this young man who was their son and brother, and yet who looked so very different to the person they'd known his whole life. The contrast between Fenris and his family had been comical—they, wearing tattered, stained rags and with that starveling look about them that indicated precisely where they are in the household slave hierarchy, unable to fight for the best scraps of food and defend their shares from the others. Their conditions had certainly declined in the intervening months between taking little Leto to perform the procedure and now; they looked hungrier, eyes more shadowed, tired. By contrast, their Leto was in excellent condition—well-fed, strong, back upright and shoulders squared compared with their curled, hunched posture, well-dressed in impeccably made custom-fitted armor. Best of all though was the utter blankness to his eyes as he looked at them; dispassionate, uninterested, with absolutely no recognition. This had been the final test of the training, of the memory removal.
It was a complete success.
Danarius reveled in his success even as he reveled in the despair growing in the mother's eyes, the shock and resentment in the curl of the sister's lips, the way the mother's chin wobbled and she swallowed hard to see her son staring at them, impassive, blank, careless.
"As agreed upon," Danarius had said, voice silky and eyes steady on their faces, drinking in the damage he was causing with so very little effort, "you will receive your freedom. Congratulations, ladies, and welcome to the ranks of the freedmen." He paused, "Of course, now you'll have to see to your own housing, clothing, and food," he mused. "Luckily for you, I am not without heart. Fenris," he purred the name silkily, eyes never wavering from the women, catching the minute flinches and widened eyes as their precious son and brother snapped to attention and looked upon him with the wide-eyed eagerness of a well-trained hound. "fetch the bag in the other room that you prepared." He'd not looked to see it, but was peripherally aware of the short, graceful bow Fenris made accompanied by the murmured, "Yes, Master," before the young man strode from the room.
The room was silent, fear keeping the women from saying anything despite the fact that they now ostensibly had their freedom. Danarius busied himself with signing the last of the papers indicating they now had their freedom. "These papers," he was saying as Fenris re-entered the room, "are the ones that guarantee your future freedom as freedmen. Do see to it that you do not lose them." He handed the papers to Fenris and tilted his head at the women, and watched with satisfaction as the man approached them and passed along the papers and the little brown bag, full of a change of clothes each, a handful of coins, and some odds and ends such as soap and washrags, a firestarter, little things. It was doubly satisfying to see them clutching the papers and looking down at them, greedy and yet dismayed. They couldn't read, and the text on the papers would mean nothing to them. He might have given them papers with poems written on them, for all they knew. They would simply have to trust Danarius' kindness and mercy, wouldn't they? Looking at the expressions on their faces, he knew they would be terrified that he'd given them something else, claiming it to be the waivers of ownership, until someone else verified it for them. What a wonderful image. Danarius smiled.
"Excellent. That's seen to. Guards, if you will," Danarius waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the women, and the two guard-slaves he kept around moved forward to hustle them out of the office and, he knew, out of the compound entirely. Fenris remained at Danarius' side, hardly appearing to notice the frightened, sorrowful looks the women kept throwing his way.
That day had left a sweet taste in Danarius' mouth and lightened his steps for weeks. Even years later just the memory of the devastation in their eyes, the betrayal, was enough to lighten his mood after a difficult day. The best part of that was that the instrument of their pain was utterly ignorant to his role in it. Danarius liked to imagine how the elf would react were he to find out, and fought a shiver at the thought. Delicious. That was a bit of information he'd withhold from the boy for the opportune moment, the moment when Danarius knew it would do the most damage. It would be an utter waste to use such a perfectly suited weapon too soon.
~ + ~
~ + ~
Yes, Fenris' curiosity made information one of the best tools to use on the boy. For years of his life (for all of his life, as far as he knew, as far as he remembered) the one thing Fenris had craved above all other things, above food or rest or even freedom was knowledge.
Danarius prided himself on being an intelligent man, a learned man, a powerful man. People feared him, oh, yes, and rightly so. He was powerful politically, but also magically, and in Tevinter, where magical power conveyed personal rights and authority that scaled with the strength of that magical power, Danarius might as well be called Prince. Well and good, but the title he truly wanted was Archon. Like any good magister—and Danarius, in his own opinion, was the best magister—Danarius had lofty goals for himself. Rather than aim for simply becoming better, for being higher up in the rankings of the Magisterium (although that was a necessary part in his machinations), Danarius had always known that the only position worthy of himself was that of the head of Tevinter, the Archon.
Archon Danarius had a nice ring to it.
Fenris and his upgrades had been a part of his plans, and his position in the Magisterium had improved significantly when he'd brought his new little guard-wolf into the Councilrooms and had shown him off. Even Archon Davan had been impressed with the feat, especially when Danarius' theories regarding the Partial Incorporeality Effect of Lyrium, which had previously been scoffed at as ridiculous, had been proven correct. The display had been delightful—Danarius couldn't have planned it better himself, really. Magister Livius Erimond had been unable to resist the way Danarius had baited him that day in the Chambers. Fool that he was, it'd been simple to get the hothead on his feet and stalking towards where Danarius had sprawled in his seat at the table indolently, deliberately acting unconcerned to flame the fires of the weaker man's rage.
Fenris had stepped in quickly, silently, and without warning, and in an instant held the young new Magister aloft with his hand through the man's chest, inside it, clutching at his heart while the man gagged and gasped, bone-white. "Hold, Fenris," Danarius warned, voice gentle and soft but easily audible in the suddenly silent chambers. The eyes of the entire Magisterium body and the Archon were riveted to them now; Danarius reveled in the attention, but kept his expression steady. This display was proof that not only had Danarius been correct, but he'd been able to put the effect to use. "Steady now, my dear boy," Danarius had stood, walked closer, made eye contact with the younger Magister who was gasping, choking, unable to breathe deep and unable to speak, unable to hide the fear he felt. "wouldn't want to…slip, would we?" Danarius hummed, watched the way Fenris' face was screwed up in a rictus of rage, lyrium burning brightly, and shivered delicately, hopefully hidden by his robes. "Mmm. I wonder how long he could continue this, don't you, Magister Erimond?" Danarius pretended innocence, "Academically, of course."
He judged the man was frightened, cowed enough, that Danarius' point had been made to everyone involved. "Let him down, Fenris." He waited until Fenris was already in motion, ripping his hand back ungently, to say, "Gently, now." In a voice mild as milk. Too late, of course, judging by the choked cry and the way the younger Magister crumpled to the ground, coughing and clutching at his chest desperately. Danarius tsked, looking down at the man at his feet. "Oh dear. You appear to have fallen, Magister Erimond. Fenris, be a lamb and help the poor Magister to his feet, would you?"
He'd watched as Fenris had hauled the man ungently to his feet with a gauntleted hand around the man's bicep, then stepped back to stand deferentially a step behind Danarius' shoulder; Danarius had reached to stroke his knuckles across the slave's cheek as he passed, idly praising, "Very good, Fenris." He'd spared a glance for the other Magister to find the man bone-white with an ugly, blotchy red flush rising in his cheeks, eyes red-rimmed. There was hate in the younger man's dark eyes which Danarius had met with a smile. He'd made an enemy that day, but not a strong one, he'd wagered; and even as Danarius' position had risen in the ranks for that little demonstration, so had Erimond's position fallen. Well and good.
Still. For all that Danarius was a powerful, feared, and learned man, he wasn't all-knowing. There was one piece of information that he'd been searching for from the moment that he'd selected Fenris as his subject, one piece of information he had yet to find: Who was Marian Hawke?