Chapter Text
The roars of the crowd followed Fenris as he strode down the corridor that descended below the arena. His lips curled in a wide grin as even the thick stone couldn’t drown out the sound. They called and screamed for him. It was his skills and his victories that drove thousands to their feet time and again, cheering until their throats were raw. It was he who gave them the spectacle they desired, the glory the Imperium demanded, and in turn, they revered him.
In the rooms below the arena, other gladiators—both winners and losers—were gathering, being collected by their lanistae or owners’ representatives and guards. Fenris slipped through the milling crowd easily, the others instinctively parting for him as he made his way toward Danarius’s guards. There were calls and shouts from the others as he passed, and he acknowledged them with a tilt of his head or wave of his hand. His opponents had fought well today, and the crowd hadn’t called for the death of any of them. Fenris was quite pleased with that. The waste of a good fighter galled him, especially when they already had so little chance against him.
His grin faded as he approached the guards. While fighting in the arena, he felt alive. His heart pounded, blood pumped through his veins, excitement and danger combining in a heady thrill that was more potent than any wine. And back at Danarius’s villa, there was luxury and comfort that most would never see, free or not. There he could relax, tended by capable slaves, and indulge himself. It was only this he hated, having to hand over his weapon and be escorted back home. After all, as laughable as the idea was, it would be a horrific embarrassment if Danarius’s prized fighter somehow managed to escape.
But hand over the blade he did, hilt first so that the guards couldn’t misconstrue any of his actions. That had happened once and Danarius had been most displeased at having to replace his guards. Fenris smiled darkly as the man holding his greatsword quickly stepped away. Fools. As if he needed six feet of silverite to slay them. He lived an easier, more opulent life than they ever would, yet everyone feared that he would run.
The guards escorted him outside to the waiting litter. He stepped in, seating himself on the plush cushions and holding still as one of the guards affixed a small manacle to his ankle. It carried a curious and rare enchantment, designed to stop his ability to phase through the metal. Without it, any fetter, any chain would be no more proof against his abilities than ones made of wax. Secured, he waited as the guard signaled the slaves who bore the litter. The four large, human men grabbed the poles of the litter, lifting it and him easily, and set off for Danarius’s estate at a smooth, fast pace, the guards keeping pace at a jog beside him.
The trip took some time. Even with the guards clearing people out of the way, Danarius’s estate was set close to the edge of the city, away from the unwashed masses. By the time the slaves set the litter down so he could be released and get out, Fenris ached from the ride almost as much from the fighting. He rolled his shoulders and his head, trying to loosen the muscles. Today’s matches had been good, and he bore few injuries. So a bath, a meal and a massage were the first needs to be attended to, and then he might seek out the healing magic of Claudius, the crippled older mage that Danarius kept to see to his health.
As usual, the guards walked him toward his wing of the villa and locked him in before going off to inform Danarius of the day’s results. Fenris’s successes in the arena had earned his master an immense amount of power and money, and in return, Danarius had begun gifting him with better living conditions. It had culminated in his life now. An entire wing of the villa—complete with courtyards, gardens, living areas and baths—for his own private use, the finest foods and wines, lovely, skilled slaves of his own to see to all of his needs and desires. If one overlooked the barred doors and windows, no one would ever know that he was a slave himself.
Before he could get any of the things he wanted right now, however, he needed to be rid of his armor. He walked to a small room where Tacitus, a young elven boy of perhaps ten years old waited to remove his armor. Standing still, Fenris waited while the boy’s nimble fingers undid the straps that held his gauntlets and greaves on, and then the large, belt-like piece that protected his abdomen and groin. Like all gladiators, his armor was designed to protect a few key areas, while leaving the rest of him—and his markings—exposed for the enjoyment of the crowd.
The boy settled on a small stool to begin cleaning and polishing the armor, and Fenris left him to his task with a fond ruffle of his hair. His bath came next. He stepped into the tub of warm, fragrant water, and allowed Ilaria, one of his female slaves, to bathe him. When she was done, he stepped from the bath, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stretched out on a high table set along one wall of the bathing chamber. As always, Brandr was there, stripped to the waist and ready with a bottle of scented oil, already warming some between his large palms. Fenris groaned as the large man began to massage his limbs. Fenris truly liked Brandr, and not just for the way he turned his bones to jelly. There was a gentleness to the giant in all things that made Fenris seek him out when he was troubled.
“Do I need the healer?” Fenris mumbled as Brandr turned him over on the cloth covered table.
“Hmmm.” Brandr’s deep voice rumbled in his chest. “I don’t think so. It appears to mainly be bruising, and you heal fast. If there’s excessive soreness in the morning, then you probably should. Something could be torn that I can’t tell.”
Fenris nodded and waved his hand lazily for Brandr to continue. He was nearly asleep by the time his slave finished, and there was a quiet mirth in the blond man’s voice as he asked, “Do you need help getting up?”
Fenris shook his head and ran a hand through his now dry white locks. “I think I can manage.”
“Very well. Do you need anything else?”
“No, I’m fine. The night is yours, Brandr.”
Brandr bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Master.”
Hopping down from the table, still clad in only the towel, Fenris went to the small dining room that was his and his alone where he knew a meal would be waiting. And indeed, Septima and Isidora were waiting for him, filling a plate and goblet of wine for him even as he seated himself. They waited quietly off to the side while he ate, stepping forward as needed to fetch him something and refill his goblet. When he was done, he looked the two women over with a curious eye before finally beckoning to the blonde Septima. The elven girl took his hand, smiling up at him with violet eyes peeking up at him from under lowered lashes and he led her to his bedchamber.
Once the door was closed behind them, Septima slipped her tunic from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around her feet, revealing all of her lithe, pale loveliness. Fenris grinned, and with a simple tug, sent his towel down in a similar fashion. Then he stepped up to her, and as her arms wound around his neck and her lips pressed against his, he bore her down onto his bed.
A strangled cry woke Fenris just after dawn. Never a very deep sleeper, he started awake, sitting up quickly, his markings activating to fill the darkened room with eerie, blue light. Beside him, Septima also woke, and then flinched away from his glowing form with a small whimper. Fenris didn’t spare her a glance. He was kind to his slaves, treated them well, but most were uncomfortable with the displays of his power. He refused to coddle them about it. They didn’t need it to perform their duties.
He slipped from the bed, snatching a pair of trousers set out on a low bench and slipping them on. His markings faded as he tied the drawstring and eased the door open, seeking the source of the cry and trying to determine if there were any immediate threats in the hallway leading to his quarters. After several seconds of straining to hear something in the silence, Fenris stepped through the doorway. His first thought was to seek out the slave quarters, as there was really no other place there could be trouble.
His suspicion was confirmed when he’d barely stepped into the central room with the pool when Ilaria came running up the hallway. She spotted him immediately and hurried to him, her hands twisting together in agitation as she gave him a quick half bow. “Oh, M-Master, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have woken you, but N-Nadia was u-upset. It was s-such a shock, and she—”
Fenris cut her off by grabbing her upper arms and shaking her gently. “Slow down. What happened?”
Ilaria nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s Claudius,” she said quietly. “Nadia found him. He’s….”
She trailed off, but Fenris didn’t have to ask. Her pale face and sorrowful expression told him all that he needed to know. He let her go and sprinted toward the small room that the old healer had to himself. Outside the doorway, Nadia was curled on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. Except for Tacitus, she was the youngest of his slaves, and the newest. While he found her quite fetching—long, wavy auburn hair and large, green elven eyes so similar to his own—she was still quite skittish. He’d only taken her to his bed twice before deciding to wait and give her more time to adjust.
Drustan knelt next to her, patting her back sympathetically. He looked up as Fenris drew closer and stood. Shaking his head, the beads on the ends of his long, fiery red braids clicking, he pulled Nadia to her feet and shooed her off. Then he stepped back and waited for Fenris to enter Claudius’s room before following silently.
Fenris sighed as he looked at the body sprawled on the floor in the center of the room. Ignoring the smell of death—he’d experienced far worse in the arena—he moved to get a better look.
Claudius had been old, and never in very good health. For whatever reason, the mage had only ever mastered healing magic. Without offensive capabilities, he had little worth in Tevinter. He’d also been rebellious in his younger days, resulting in his ankle being broken to hobble him. Danarius had purchased him cheaply to attend to Fenris’s injuries shortly after he began entering the games. While Fenris didn’t like mages, he’d always felt bad for Claudius as he watched the poor bastard hobble around the villa. He’d needed little, asked for even less, and Fenris had pitied him. The old man had tended to him, taught him to read, and in thanks, Fenris had given him his own room and use of the women, though he didn’t think the mage had been able to do much more than give them a slap and a tickle.
Now the man lay on his back, face contorted in a rictus of pain and one hand clasped loosely over his chest. “Venhedis,” he muttered, and rubbed his forehead. “Drustan, go get Brandr. Claudius needs to be moved and Danarius informed. Use a sheet from the bed and bring him to the main door. I’ll meet you there.”
“Aye,” Drustan nodded and left.
Fenris dropped to one knee beside the body, and reached out to close Claudius’s unseeing brown eyes. “Sleep well, my friend,” he said quietly and straightened the old man’s limbs into a somewhat more dignified pose.
Drustan and Brandr came back in, and Fenris left so that they could attend to the grim task. He went to the main door, passed along the message to the ever-present guard, and went off in search of some wine. A half-bottle left from last night’s dinner was quickly found and he drank a few long swallows straight from the bottle. A muscle in his back twitched as he reached to set the bottle back down, and he grimaced, reaching back to touch the muscle just under his right shoulder blade.
What a mess.
Danarius arrived later that day and swept into the courtyard where Fenris sat reading quietly. He frowned slightly to see the book in his slave’s hands as Fenris marked his place and set it down on a small table. Fenris rose to his feet, hiding his smile as Danarius seated himself and accepted a goblet of wine from Isidora, who had set down her lute to serve him. His master didn’t care for the fact that Fenris could read, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had grudgingly provided books for Fenris after Fenris prevailed at a particularly grueling contest.
“I am told your mage died,” he said without preamble as Fenris reseated himself.
“This morning,” Fenris confirmed, accepting his own glass of wine from Isidora. This was a close to being Danarius’s equal as he would ever get, though the magister was careful to always make sure Fenris knew his place. When Danarius had first carved the lyrium into his flesh, it had been to create an unstoppable bodyguard. But barely a year had passed with Fenris serving in that capacity before a chance comment from another magister had convinced Danarius to enter Fenris in the gladiatorial contests. Fenris had won that first match easily, and the rest was history.
Danarius frowned. “I shall acquire you another, though it may take time. Until I do, you won’t be entering any more games. You’re far too valuable to risk without having a healer on hand. You will continue to train, however.”
Fenris inclined his head in acknowledgement and took a sip of wine, waiting silently for the magister to continue or leave.
His master considered him for a long moment before speaking again. “I’m told you did well yesterday. I am very pleased with you, Fenris. Even with the portion of winnings that, by law, must go to you, you’ve made me one of the wealthiest men in Tevinter. My power has grown many times over, and I may yet still reach higher. Continue to serve me well, and you will find yourself richly rewarded.”
Raising his goblet, Fenris smiled. “Thank you, Master.”
Getting to his feet, Fenris hastily scrambling up so that he didn’t remaining sitting while his master stood, Danarius handed his goblet to Isidora. “Then I will begin the search for your new slave. You’ll be informed when one is found. In the meantime, if you need anything, tell the guards.”
Fenris bowed low as Danarius strode back to the main part of the estate, and then settled back down with his book. A bit more reading, and then he’d get another massage from Brandr. In the absence of a healer, it was the best remedy he had.
He caught the look Isidora flashed him as she settled back on her cushion and took up her lute once more. She was from Rivain, and as exotic for her warm brown skin and eyes and curly black locks as Drustan was for his milk-white Fereldan skin and flame red hair. He smiled at her, watching a slight blush darken her cheeks. Well, perhaps there were other remedies for an aching body that were nearly as good.