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Memory of Death	By : TomaHawke Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 1770 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, Bioware does. I make no money from writing this fiction.

Chapter List
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A/N: No, I have not played either Dragon Age game, and I've only watched my friend do an entire play through the second one. I used my resources as best I could, but as I am not knowledgeable about this universe, do not blame me for inaccuracies. Yes, it starts quite abruptly, but that's how it came out. Blame the muse for that one. It begins in the middle of the battle with Danarius. If you haven't reached that far in-game, you may not want to read this. This will not be entirely Fenris's POV. This story is finished, so there will be no delay between updates. :D
P.S.: Once I get a picture of him, there will be a link to what Hawke looks like in my DeviantArt.
This is dedicated to one of my best friends in the whole world, who forced me to watch hours of gameplay, and made me fall in love with Fenris. <3
o0O.O0o
“GAH!!!” Fenris cried out as Danarius forced his magic into the lyrium markings branded on the elf’s skin. He fell to his knees, sword falling from his hand. He reached desperately for it, but it skittered further away from his grasp.
“Fenris!” Hawke yelled, and ran towards his lover, only for an arrow to pierce his shoulder from behind. He stumbled and one of Danarius’ men came forward, stabbing his sword into Toma’s stomach. Blood dribbled from his lips.
“Hawke!” Fenris tried to stand, but the pain was too much. Just before he lost consciousness, he witnessed Toma collapse to the floor, red pooling around his still body. The last thing he saw was his lover’s normally glittering gold gaze dull and glaze over before Hawke’s eyes finally closed in death.
When Fenris next awoke, he was shackled to a table with Danarius hovering over him. The old mage gave the elf a twisted leer.
“I’m glad to see that you’re awake, my Pet. We need you conscious for this process, you know,” Danarius spoke as he stroked Fenris’ hair in false affection.
Fenris shivered and tried to cringe away from the human’s slimy voice and tainted touch, but he was held fast.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m going to do, Little Wolf?” he crooned at the slave.
“Knowing you, it will be sickening to hear it,” Fenris snarled.
Danarius just laughed, brushing off the bound elf’s insults. “I’m going to erase your memory,” he said. “You’re much easier to deal with without those pesky thoughts of rebellion and escape and whatnot.”
The elf froze. Lose his memories again? To forget what freedom tasted like? Forget the friends he’d made? Forget his lover? Forget Hawke? He wouldn’t allow it! The elf snarled and bared his teeth like the wolf his master like to compare him with, thrashing in his bindings.
Cold hands touched his temples and he closed his eyes unwilling to accept that he would loose his lover to Danarius twice. He focused on the way Hawke would walk, striding with purpose and confidence. Fenris visualized the way he would teasingly smirk, how his skin was darkened with the sun, the feel of his silky strands of blond hair between his fingers. He remembered how Toma’s eyes glittered in the light, how his cat-like gaze would turn predatory every time they were alone. His gold irises would spark with mischief every time he said something sarcastic or witty, and they shimmered with tears when he was upset and seeking forgiveness. Hawke’s eyes were where his soul had lied. They had been the most beautiful thing about his lover, but they’d never be so vibrant again. He recalled how they had dimmed and glazed over in death.
Against his will, tears slowly fell, trailing slowly down his cheeks. Then everything went blank.
Fenris blinked open his eyes. His first thought was, The ceiling is white. He looked around him. The walls are beige. This room is small. This cot is uncomfortable. These and other similar things were running through his head as he studied the area around him. Then he spotted a mirror, and he sat up to look into it and spotted his legs. I have two legs and two feet and two knees. There are white markings on my skin. He reached a hand out to touch them and saw his arms and hands. They have markings too. He touched a marking on his wrist, and practically yelped at the pain. He swiftly moved away from the hand touching him and withdrew the hand he was touching with, too quickly in fact, and it unbalanced him, causing him to fall to the floor.
“Ouch,” he muttered to himself. Then he realized, “I can talk.”
He shakily stood and walked over to the mirror. He peered at the pale-skinned, narrow face in the looking glass. It seemed odd for some reason to see silvery-white hair, green eyes, and pointed ears. He felt as if he were expecting to see tanned skin, blond hair, and glittering gold eyes. He stilled in thought. Gold eyes… there was something about that…
“Fenris!” the mage yelled, running towards him. An arrow pierced his shoulder from behind, and he stumbled. He caught himself on his staff and reached his hand out desperately. Gold eyes were filled with fear for Fenris and himself. One of the enemies the mage had been fighting came towards the injured blond and ran him through the stomach with his sword. Blood spilled from his mouth as he gasped for air, his lips formed Fenris’s name, but no sound came forward. He watched as those beautiful eyes slowly faded, the life in them draining away, and the lids shutting over them in death.
“Ah, Fenris. You’re awake at last, my Pet. How are you feeling?”
The voice startled him from something that seemed so real and yet so much like a far away dream. He turned towards the speaker, and the sight sent disgusted shivers down his spine though he wasn’t entirely certain why.
“That’s my name,” the elf stated, for now that he had gazed into the mirror, he knew that he was one.
The old man was startled a moment, a flash of fear on his face. Had the ritual not worked?
“What do you remember?” he asked cautiously, readying his staff just in case.
“Nothing before these walls,” Fenris replied, purposefully neglecting to mention the vision he had just had.
“Excellent!” the man clapped his hands, pleased. “Cloth yourself then knock on the door when you’re done. One of the other slaves will show you around the estate and explain your duties to you. Ah! And one more thing…”
The mage grabbed Fenris’s jaw in one hand, the fingers of his other petting the markings on the elf’s neck. The silver-haired elf hissed in pain and tried to pull away, but the man tsked in a scolding manner and tightened his grip.
“Now, now Pet. Don’t struggle. Now that you’re mine again, I need to retrain you,” he said.
“T-train me?” the elf’s hands came up to push the mage away, but excruciating pain shot up his arms and he cried out, flinching backwards.
The man let Fenris fall to the floor as he watched on with sick pleasure, grinning cruelly. The elf curled into himself, trying to get away from a torture that was already branded into his flesh. By the time the mage released him from the magic, his muscles were quivering and his eyes had rolled into the back of his head.
“You will call me Master; are we clear, Slave?”
“Y-yes, M-master,” Fenris stuttered out.
“Good boy,” the master grinned and walked out.
It took Fenris a few minutes to gather strength enough to even sit up, let alone stand. He groaned, his markings burning with residual pain.
“I might as well get this over with,” he said to himself as he heaved his body onto the cot.
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Memory of Death