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Memory of Death	By : TomaHawke Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 1771 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, Bioware does. I make no money from writing this fiction.

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Hawke’s eyes fluttered open, and he blearily stared at the ceiling for a moment before slowly coming to the conclusion that he didn’t recognize where he was. He attempted to sit up, quickly aborting the motion upon realizing movement was equal to pain. Hawke grimaced as he recalled just why he was in pain.
“Damn Danarius to the Deep Roads and back,” he muttered under his breath, “although I hope he doesn’t actually come back from it.”
Then someone entered the room, arms laden with a tray, upon which sat a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of water.
“Oh good! You’re awake! Mother said you would be. She’s always had a knack for these kinds of things,” said the stranger. “Oh, where are my manners?” She shook her head. “I’m Denebe. And you are?”
She reminds me of Merrill. “Hawke,” the injured man replied. “Any chance I can get some of that?” He gestured to the food in her hands.
“Oh, yes! Silly me. It’s for you, you know. Mother made it herself. She said that it will help you heal.”
“Did she now?” Hawke said skeptically and took a spoonful into his mouth, only to spit right back out again. “Ehk! What is this?!”
“It’s medicinal. Mother said to eat it all,” she replied cheerily.
“On second thought,” said Hawke, “I’m not very hungry right now.”
“Even if you’re not hungry, eat it all.”
The mage eyed the soup distastefully and to put off eating it for as long as possible, he asked, “So where am I?”
“You’re in Mother’s home. Big Brother saw the fight at the Hanged Man, and dragged you here. Any longer and Mother wouldn’t have been able to help you,” she explained.
“And what about Fenris? My companion? Did those bastards take him?” Hawke growled.
“My brother is not a fighter Ser. I am sorry we could not help more,” Denebe told him.
“I… I see… M-may I have a moment alone?” Toma requested, his head bowed.
“Of course,” the girl whispered and left.
The blond spoke in a quivering tone, “Oh Fenris. How shall I live without you at my side? I cannot imagine it.”
It was a few more moments before he just couldn’t hold it back anymore. The dam burst, and his whole body heaved with sobs that made his wounds spasm with pain. His sorrow, however, was greater than anything physical that could be inflicted upon him. His life, his love, Fenris was gone forever. Danarius would strip the flesh from his bones to reacquire the precious lyrium that was branded there.
“Oh Maker, why?” he cried. “Why couldn’t it have been me instead? Why did you have to torment such a beautiful soul such as his? I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him!”
He screamed and threw the bowl with all his might, and it impacted with the wall, shattering into many smaller pieces. It was a long while before his cries finally died down, and Hawke slipped into an exhausted slumber.
The next he awoke was to a sharp, stabbing pain in his abdomen as an old woman bent over him, poking and prodding it with her fingers.
“D-do you mind? That kind of hurts, you know,” he said to her through gritted teeth.
“You didn’t drink all of the soup did you? There were painkillers and a sedative in there,” the woman replied as she withdrew. “It’s not as bad as it feels, believe me. This is some of my best work.”
“Are you Mother, then?” Hawke asked, and she nodded. “I thank you for your help then. I wouldn’t have survived without it.”
“Don’t thank me just yet Ser Hawke. You will probably come to hate me in time,” Mother told him. “You see, I run an orphanage here in Lowtown, and as all things go, we are very poor, Ser.”
“Wha-“
“They will be coming to take you tomorrow morn. At least rest while you can and gather your strength. Drink this,” she said and handed him fresh bowl of the concoction he had decorated the wall with earlier. “Keep your head down and pray to the Maker, Ser, that you survive this new obstacle in your life.” The Mother quickly exited before the mage could get his bearings, in shock as he was.
“Slavers,” he said dazedly. “Oh, Fenris, the irony of it all.”
He sipped the medicine and made a face at the taste. He shook his head and downed in one go just to get it over with. It wasn’t long before the sedative went to work, and he passed out again.
Hawke groaned as he regained consciousness. “What is with me lately? All I do is sleep,” he said.
He opened his groggy eyes and immediately felt panic. He was being held in a small cage that wouldn’t even have fit a Mabari war dog, much less a full-grown man such as Toma, yet somehow they’d managed to cram him within its confines. As his panic calmed somewhat, he felt resigned. This was his life now, and he had no will to fight it. Not after Fenris… No! He wouldn’t think of it. He wouldn’t let these rats see him cry.
A group of men walked in and all of the slaves went still, trying not to draw their attention. Toma eyed them curiously. The man in the middle must have been the leader from the way he walked and talked. Said leader made his merry way to where Hawke was being held. He reached through the bars towards the mage’s face. The gold-eyed man snapped at the fingers with his teeth, but the slaver, quite used to such actions, deftly avoided injury and grabbed Hawke’s jaw in an unforgiving grip.
“It’s very rare that we get human slaves. Not many people will buy them, but you’re pretty enough to sell quickly,” the man said to the imprisoned blond. “How old are you?”
“Now that’s an impolite thing to ask,” Toma replied. “Shouldn’t you take me on a date first?”
The slaver nodded at one of his goons, who jabbed the mage’s bare foot with sharply pointed prod.
“Hey, hey! That’s not nice!”
“It can get worse, so tell me slave, how old are you?” the man repeated.
“Not spilling,” Hawke said in a sing-song tone.
His foot was stabbed again, harder this time. The mage yelped, and tried to pull away, but there was no room to move.
“Twenty-six!” he shouted. “Stop! Stop! It hurts!”
“Are you a virgin to women?” the slaver inquired again.
“What? How is that any of your business?! I- Ow! Stop! Ok, I’m not!”
“And what of a man? Has anyone taken your virginity from that end?”
The goons laughed a bit, and Hawke’s cheeks turned red. “N-no. I was saving it…”

”I suppose I don’t have to ask whether or not you’re a dominant or submissive during sex,” the man stated indifferently, writing down all the information on a scroll. “Your number is 486. Remember it well, for it will always be with you.”
The man walked away, while the goons leered at him. “Well that was ominous. What do you think?” he jokingly asked one of the henchmen.
“I think you’re going to be hurting in a minute,” one of them sneered.
“Do you now?”
“Yes, I do,” he replied as he grabbed the mage’s leg and tied it to the inside of the bars so that his flesh was pressed against them.
There was no room for struggle, so when a red hot brand was pressed into the outside of his upper left thigh, all Toma could do was scream. He didn’t fall unconscious, but he wished he had. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and when the iron was removed, black flakes of burnt, dead skin and muscle came with it. He fell limp, too pained to move, to speak. The man untied his leg, and there were rope burns along his thigh where he had been bound.
One of the other men patted his foot in mock comfort, “It’s all over now 486. Oh, wait. No it isn’t!”
They laughed at his pain and misery, his form shuddering in lingering pain. Once they were all gone, he let the tears fall.
“Oh Fenris. I wish you were here to comfort and guide me through this,” he said to himself, weeping for the loss of his love and everything he once knew.
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Memory of Death