Chapter Text
They are three years old and carried in their father's arms, drifting in and out of consciousness. Their father chuckles, warm and happy when they nuzzle into his neck, seeking warmth against the chilled night air. Cracked lips kiss their forehead and he asks his wife to pull the scarf from the bag, holding still for her to drape the cloth over their child's neck and head.
This is the first time they hear the term knife-ear. Someone says it while they are almost asleep, and it is Mama's reaction that wakes them in their father's arms.
“Say that about my daughter again, Lieutenant and I'll have you digging latrines for the rest of your pathetic life.”
Father urges Mama to calm and move on, not wanting to make a scene at the banquet held in his honor.
“Of course, Ma'am. Wouldn't want to do a slave's job anyway.”
Ferin doesn't understand what's happening, but Mama punched the man so hard he collapsed. Papa sighed and hurried his family away, waving down a mage to tend to the Lieutenant.
Mama and Papa argue at home, trying to keep their voices down while they believe Ferin sleeps. The little elf listens to their parents argue, clutching a stuffed dragon to their chest. They don't like it when they talk like this.
“You know better than to listen to those soldiers, Veris. Their words are harmless.”
“To you! Not to our daughter! What if she heard them tonight? What would it say of her parents that they won't stand up for her against their subordinates? If we can't correct them, Ferin will never believe we can correct anyone. She'll assume, and we will have effectively told her she's right, that she should never speak up for herself.”
“She's three, Veris.”
“Which is exactly why you need to make your mind up now! If you don't start defending her and showing her she should be willing to defend herself from even words, you'll be out of practice when she can actually remember it!”
“Don't raise your voice at me, Veris, and don't tell me how to care for my daughter. I found her in Ventus, not you. She knows she's safe and cared for with us. With me. You don't have to punch my lieutenant to prove yourself the better parent. It just makes you look unstable. Now, I have to get up early tomorrow and deal with the problem you started. Good night.”
Ferin hears Papa's heavy steps go upstairs to his bedroom. The door creaks open and closed and Papa gets ready for bed.
Mama's quiet, choked sob is cut off by her anger, and she walks to Ferin's bedroom door, cracking it open slightly to see if her daughter is awake.
If it had been Papa, Ferin would have been pretending to sleep. Mama just sighs sadly when she sees they are still awake, the magic nightlight casting soft stars over their tired face.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Mama coos, quietly walking to their bed and sitting on the end. She looks sad, her eyes sparkling with tears she doesn't want to shed in front of them.
“Did you hear us, little one?” Ferin nods, crawling into her lap. Their mother cradles them in a warm embrace and kisses the top of their head.
“I'm sorry, sweetie, you shouldn't hear us fight. It's not good for you. I'll make sure we don't argue like that in the house again.”
Mama cradles them and rocks them gently, humming to soothe them both.
“I am right, though. Your father should stand up for his daughter. He should stand up for all elves… ah well. I'm here. I love you, little Ferin. Are you ready for bed?”
Ferin is wide awake, but they tell their Mama they're sleepy. She tucks them into bed with a soft kiss and closes their door. Her footsteps disappear to the other side of the house and her bedroom.
Ferin still doesn't know what a knife-ear is.
They are eight years old the first time someone tells them they're a slut.
They're out with Papa, General Mercar, walking around the Ventus Market when a man twice their size knocks them and their basket of purchased items to the ground. They shout in surprise and anger when everything goes flying, calling for their Papa to help them pick everything up.
“Stupid slut, watch where you're going.” Spits the pale man in long robes. His staff hits them in the ankle hard enough to bruise immediately. They angrily shout in indignation and stand up to tell the man to watch where he's going, but Papa ungently shoves them behind him.
“Sincere apologies, Magister Baris. My servant was too focused on getting her duties done she must have missed your eminence in the crowd. She will be punished severely for the transgression. Up, girl. Gather your things and don't embarrass me further.”
Ferin's expression must have been confused, because Papa's hand connected with their jaw hard enough to make them see stars.
“Gather your things and go home. I will deal with your impertinence later.” Father's words are sharp and commanding, like the way he speaks to his lieutenant when he looks at Ferin for too long. Their heart picks up and they race to reclaim the unbroken items the Magister had made them drop. They try to ignore how their ankle and face hurt, but it's hard when they want to cry.
“Your servant needs retraining, General. It does you no credit that the worthless thing requires cajoling.”
“Yes, I've been burdened with retraining it from its previous master. They favor a light touch and as you can see, the thing has not learned its place.”
“Ah. You can only blame the failures of others for so long, Charon. Fix the stupid thing before it embarrasses you further.”
Ferin sprints home, crying into their Mama's arms when they cross the threshold.
The fight that happens when Papa gets home is the worst one they ever heard.
They are in their room, hiding in the closet, trying to block the sound of their parents fight with every blanket, pillow, tunic and scrap of fabric they can find. The voices are muffled but they are still hearing the anger and outrage of Mama and the fury of Papa.
“He called your daughter, your eight year old daughter, a slut when he pushed her down!”
“He's a Magister, Veris. He could have killed her and I would have had to thank him! I did what I had to do to get her home alive!”
“You didn't have to call her stupid and a slave! You didn't have to hit your daughter!”
“He would have done worse if I hadn't! He already nearly broke her ankle! I had to get her home fast or her impertinence would have cost us-”
“Ah-ha! There it is! The real thing! It would have cost you standing! You sold your daughter out to save your own skin!”
A sharp slap is heard even through the layers of protecting fabric. Mama's cry of pain and shock follows, as does the sound of running feet.
The feet run upstairs and Mama's door slams. Ferin stays very still. They hold their breath, not wanting to miss a sound if their father comes close.
Heavy footsteps walk into their bedroom and search the space. A knot of tension builds in their stomach. The feet get closer. If Papa saw them under the fabric in the closet, would he be mad? Would he hit them like he did today?
The closet door doesn't open. There is no sound of a knock. All they hear are Papa's feet walking away and out of their room. He walks upstairs to his room and closes the door.
Ferin wakes up in the closet, sweaty and struggling to breathe through the layers of fabric. The sun is just rising when they leave their room, and they don't say anything to their father while he sits at the table, staring at the newspaper but reading nothing. Mama smiles at them, her cheekbone bruised like theirs. She asks if they would like some pancakes that the kitchen maid had prepared. They shake their head and ask for an apple. Their mother picks up two and invites them to sit on the patio with her. They don't talk.
Mama hums and runs their fingers through their hair. She doesn't say anything about the tears that wet her shirt.
They are fourteen when House Mercar is reminded of their place and their life is upended completely. Soporati cannot stand against the Magisters, even if they command legions.
Father had ignored a direct order from the Magisterium, an order that would have killed a massive number of his soldiers but spared a handful of Altus lives. The Magisterium was displeased, and Magister Halward Pavus had been sent to remind the Soporati General where his allegiances should reside.
It began with a public scolding and removal of honors. A decree of losing social standing as well as the land a General was literally entitled to. All of House Mercar's servants were rescinded to the ownership of The Imperium, regardless of previous slave status. The punishment of working for a General with a backbone for the lives of his men.
The outrage for the Imperium reducing twenty of its own free people to slaves was immense, and Magister Pavus quickly quelled any uprising with a spell that sent reverberating force through everyone in attendance. Knees quake and buildings shake, a deep fear of what a truly powerful mage can accomplish silencing and stilling aggression.
“Do not strike those who did not harm you. The price of disloyalty to the Imperium is marked by those who did not ask for their lives to be changed. When you act against the Imperium, you act against the people. Your fate is sealed by the man who believed himself a better strategist than The Archon.” Ferin squeezes Mama's hand as she clutches them tight, trying desperately to hide them from direct sight. They are family, but a Magister may not agree if he saw their ears. They were told to wear a hat today, and even as sweat rolls down their neck, they know they have to keep it on. Even if their eyes are too big to be human. Even if their nose is different. Mama said to keep their ears hidden to be safe. Mama always wants to keep them safe.
“General Charon Mercar, you retain your command and nothing more. You will rebuild the reputation and standing you squandered so frivolously from the ground where you buried six Altus mages. Now, I offer you a choice; as the Magisterium is ever merciful. You may either buy your former servants’ freedom, or you may retain your home and finances.”
Ferin knows what Father should choose. He should choose to free the servants. They didn't do anything wrong and might be willing to let them live with them until they can get their own house again. It's what Mama would have done. It's what Ferin would have done.
“I graciously accept to retain my home, your eminence.” Charon Mercar breathes, eyes locked on Magister Pavus. The roar of the servants slaves makes Ferin jump, and Magister Pavus’ eyes flick to them for a moment. He smiles as if he knows a secret and returns attention to their father.
“As you choose, General. You may go. Commander Vinus, gather the slaves and bring them to the ship. They are needed in Minrathous.”
Mama's hands shake as she pulls them along with her, following Father closer than she has wanted to be in years. A gold plated Templar steps towards them and forces all three of them to stop. Father stands tall and demands to know what they think they're doing.
“All slaves are the property of the Imperium, Sir.” The Templar asserts, reaching out to grab Ferin's shoulder.
“Don't touch my daughter.” Mama hisses, slapping a metal gauntlet away from them.
“Do not make this difficult, Ma'am.” The soldier sighs, faceless behind his helmet. He sounds irritated.
“My daughter is not a slave. Get out of the way.” Papa tries to intimidate, standing tall and proud, even if his uniform is empty of his decorations and threads stick out at odd angles because patches were cut from him.
“You have no record of a child, General. Unless you mean to tell me you never paid accurate taxes for a child of the Imperium.” Magister Pavus accuses, voice lofty and imperious.
“Magister, the girl is adopted. I filed all the papers at the time of her appearance after a battle in Ventus. I have committed no crime in claiming my daughter as my own.”
“Perhaps not. If the child is as human as the paperwork indicated. Magister Baris found it interesting that he never met your daughter on his many visits. But he does recall an elf servant that humiliated you on a few occasions. A child.”
Mama's hand hurts around theirs. They cling back just a tight. They taste salt in their mouth. This is bad. They know this is bad.
Father stands frozen in place. His expression unreadable. Magister Pavus stands a few inches shorter than the General but seems to tower over him in this moment.
“Something the matter, General Mercar?”
“Sir, I know I made it clear on the adoption papers that my child was an adopted Elf. I received countless questions, Sir. I remained steadfast in my design to raise her as my own.”
“How interesting. Every copy of paperwork we uncovered during the investigation of your most recent actions, indicates that you had adopted a human daughter.”
Silence hangs in the air. A threat as real and deadly as any blade to a throat. Ferin knew the concept of a conspiracy, but they never thought there would be one surrounding them.
“I wish to free my former servants from slavery, Magister Pavus.”
“Truly? I am a forgiving man, General Mercar. I am happy to release all of your accounted servants. Your home is a significant loss for your treacherous activity.”
“I am certain, Sir. Release my former servants and leave my daughter alone.”
Magister Pavus’ face folds into a patently false miserable expression.
“I wish I could, General, but I am simply a servant of The Imperium and the letter of its laws. You do not legally have a daughter, and as such, she becomes a ward of the Imperium.”
A metal hand rips off their hat and grips their shoulder tight, beginning to drag them away. Mama's hand refuses to let go.
“Magister Pavus, please!” Veris Mercar cries, fighting to keep her child at her side. Her husband has a hand around her right arm; keeping her still. He stares, dead eyed at the Magister.
“I do wish this did not have to happen, Lady Mercar, but the laws of The Imperium are clear; an unclaimed child within the borders of The Imperium is the responsibility of The Imperium. The elf will be well cared for. I will see to her comfort and training personally.”
Veris Mercar screams and wails and fights her husband and the Templars around her, trying to get to the crying elf child being dragged away.
Ferin screams for their mother and father to save them. Help them. They cry and cry until they cannot cry anymore. They are manacled next to the people that they had lived around for their entire life. The servants who had taught them to cook and tend garden and properly care for the animals in the stable. The servants whose children they have played with since adoption.
They all turn on them now, as their father had sold them into slavery instead of losing his mansion. The kind cook spit on them and called them knife-ear and worthless rabbit. Until Magister Pavus returned and spoke that the General had begged to have his people freed instead.
“The good General has reconsidered. You are all once more, free citizens of The Imperium, and I am certain you will judge the good General for his hesitance. Gentlemen, please release them all, save the elf.”
Not a single person gives them another look. They are far too betrayed by their father to feel any sympathy.
Magister Pavus looks them up and down, nods, and closes the hold; shutting them in darkness.
They are sixteen and a well trained slave. They do not make eye contact, and serve anyone without hesitation. They are not happy, but they are not abused. They are friends with some of their bunk mates. They heard about Dorian running away a few months before they came to work here.
They've never been outside of Ventus before being enslaved. Minrathous is an interesting city. It had more magical infrastructure than Ventus. Maybe that's why there are no Circles in Ventus. All the magic training happens in bigger cities with more Laetan and Altus. There were no training mages in Ventus; just a bunch of soldiers swinging sharp things.
It's bad, being a slave. They knew this before, and they hate that they can't leave. They never thought it would happen to to them, and maybe they should have. They are, after all, an elf in Tevinter. Every last elf they had known had been a slave and had not been permitted to speak with them.
Ferin had believed that their parents would protect them.
Mama had at least tried.
Some of Magister Pavus’ slaves hate them. They are jealous that they were free before. They had a good life for the most part. Some of the elves are Dalish. They were stolen from their clans or sold by a city that had captured them.
Ferin doesn't try to tell them Tevinter can be good. They don't expect anyone to believe them. They don't believe it anymore, either.
Master Pavus had them taught to read and write Tevene, not just Trade. He said that he won't have any guests speaking ill of him without his slaves reporting to him. A hundred spies ready to report in at any given time. No one notices a slave in the corner unless they are wanted for service. No one cares if a worthless slave overhears a secret.
Magister Pavus isn't a cruel master for the most part. He has high expectations and punishment fits the failure most of the time.
“A punishment should not debilitate, but encourage better action.” He had explained when they were being trained in the early days. He had them trained to cook and clean, not to cater to dignitaries. Halward made no secret that he didn't want his prettiest elf slaves to be around some of his more common guests. Halward usually kept them in the kitchens to keep them from being harassed. As much as they hate being enslaved, the care that Halward took for his property was appreciated.
Ferin received no scars from their master or his guests. Magister Pavus punished those who sought to take advantage of his property. His slaves are not whores, and he does not tolerate such abuse. It is refreshing to know that the Magister can guarantee the truth of a situation. There have been too many drunk guests that think they can take anything they want from their host's property. Ferin fought a soldier off one of their friends and carried the bruised boy to the Magister immediately. Master Pavus had cast his spell and condemned the soldier immediately. It was the first, and truly last time, that Ferin appreciated the Magister.
They are halfway to their seventeenth year when the dreams start in earnest. No more were they nightmares that could be awoken from. They were more often trapped in their dreams and speaking with spirits to simply pass the time until they were shaken awake. Or the Magister pulled them from their fade-dreams.
Magister Halward Pavus knows exactly what they are, and he makes a plan for their best use. The Magister had been eyeing them for a long while. They were his property, and his favored pleasure slave had lost his interest in recent months.
Every slave of House Pavus knew that Dorian refused to marry a woman. Every slave knew that Master Halward had tried something horrid and lost his nerve before he could force his son to comply. Every slave knew Lady Thalrassian-Pavus had no interest in her husband, and less than that in bearing another child.
Magister Pavus valued nothing more than his legacy. When it was reported to him that young Ferin was developing potent magic that had been thought lost entirely, Halward knew what he must do.
They are nearly seventeen when Magister Halward steals them from themself.
“This is a gift, Mercar. No more nightmares. No more dreams. All that you are is your body. All you need to do is let it take.”
The brand had seared into their flesh, cooking, cracking, melting their skin and blinding their eyes with utter agony. They had screamed until their voice broke. Until it seemed pointless to make a single sound. The pain will not end because they scream and beg. It will end because Magister Halward Pavus decided it should.
Tevinter once worshipped dragons as their old gods. The creatures that, in myth and legend, allowed the Imperium of old to raze Arlathan and enslave the elves they spared.
“My little dragon. May the Old Gods see you as the gift you are.” Human hands trace the scars, the scales carved into their forehead by a careful, unflinching master. A rite never performed in Tevinter. A blasphemy to the natural order of mageocracy; of the Imperium, even if done to a knife-eared whore. None other than their master knew what they had once been.
What they can never be again.
“No more nightmares, Ferin. No longer do you need fear the Fade and its demons. My children will be somniari, and you will know only comfort.”
Comfort. The comfort of a life spent on their knees. Always available for his pleasure. His convenience. Bangles of pure gold and platinum to decorate his pet. Piercings for his interest and enjoyment. They never wanted for anything. Not a thought in their head for themself. They would not have noticed the blackening of their scleras had their master not praised the change. Their green and gold irises almost glow in sick black pools. If they could feel anything, they would possibly feel horrified.
They do not scream when their Magister carves further scales into their flesh. Dark scarring shining with silver and gold ink stabbed into their tan skin. Screaming does not ease the pain as the enchanted blade sears and cuts from their scalp to their toes. Magister Pavus wanted them to be beautiful. They knew he needed them to be beautiful.
They knew him better than they knew themself. When he sat in his home, they were at his side. His hand out for a glass of wine when thirsty. An offering of delicacies from the kitchen on a plate so expensive they held it on a pillow to avoid touching it.
Halward snaps his fingers and they are on their knees before him; eyes on his chin until they are deemed worthy to look upon him properly. He never speaks their duty anymore. They are well trained. A gesture is all they need to know their mouth is required.
Halward never shared them. He alone was allowed to make use of his pet, as often as he flaunted them. As far as any of his equals knew, he was simply selfish. Had anyone asked the slaves of the house, they would know the truth.
Halward was breeding his legacy where his son had failed. Even a half elf bastard would be of greater value than a selfish, prideful, useless son. Halward’s nerve failed him in forcing his son to yield to propriety, but a Magister must ensure his bloodline continues.
Even if it is diluted.
The Magister had held out hope until his son returned home. He had been irate all day, fuming about Magister Tilani’s interest in forming an alliance with his house. With Dorian specifically. Halward had taken his frustration out on them. His hands bruised their throat and collarbone, and he refused to heal them, even in the presence of his son.
He pressed them under his desk as he did every day. Nothing special. Nothing different. They knelt between his thighs and took his length into their mouth as they have hundreds of times. This is a reprieve compared to earlier. This is a kindness.
When Dorian came back, Halward knew he could no longer hope his son would do the right thing. Magister Pavus stopped flirting with the back up plan he had created, and made certain that his legacy was assured within his shackled Somniari.
Chains around their wrists and ankles. Bangles of a different kind. Never out of his sight unless he was required elsewhere. Tended to by loyal slaves that never spoke to them. Pushed and prodded and bathed by uncaring but gentle hands. They would be punished if they left marks or harmed the master’s child within the whore.
The child came early. They screamed as the healer cut their nethers open to allow the half human child an escape. They were not built to birth human children. They cry and scream and never touch their child. The babe’s cries disappear down the hall, and the healer, the human mage, she says nothing to them. She looks upon them with disgust as her hands force their flesh to mend.
“It should have time to heal. A week at minimum unless you can heal it, your grace. Do you require anything from me in regards to the child?”
“Assertion of its parentage is required. It was a surrogate birth, you understand.”
“Of course, my lord.”
He never spoke of the child. They could not ask. They did not want to ask. They did not want anything. They did not want to eat. They did not want to sleep. They did not want to step back from the balcony edge. They did not want to come inside when the cold might kill them. They only do as their master demands.
They did not want to die.
They did not want to live.
They did not want to bear the second child.
They are in Minrathous when their labor hits. The Magisters sneer at them and their bloated stomach. Their master gives them a disappointed look and makes the excuses he must to attend the birth. They do not make a sound as they walk with him to the suite they have been staying in.
They are not allowed on the bed. They never are.
Halward and his attendant healer, the same woman as before, force them to birth on the floor again. They scream and cry, but they do not beg. Begging never helps, and the master has not asked them to speak.
The child tears from them. Too much, too big. Too human for their elven body to bear with comfort. Halward had been needed in the last months, his magic fixing complications from a fetus not designed to be mothered by their body.
Two healthy births for their master. Two new sons for House Pavus. Neither ever held by the person who birthed them.
Their milk is taken from them as it had been last time. This time, only two months passed before their breasts dried. Halward was preoccupied with a crisis in the Magisterium and had not been able to focus on seeding his third. It had not taken last month, and the master was beginning to get impatient. He had mentioned Dorian going south to a council of some kind.
Halward storms into his suite and orders them to present. They do, despite the ache in every fiber of their being. Begging has never helped.
Halward rapes them one last time. He spills inside them and they shift to the position they know will aid conception. His hand on their stretch marked stomach thrums with magic as he urges his seed to take.
His death is quick and silent. His head crashes onto their chest with a spray of warm blood over their naked body.
They do not scream. They do not feel anything as they pick up Halward Pavus’ head in their hands. His blood runs down their arms. A small bone drops onto their stomach from his severed neck.
He looks… displeased. He always looks displeased.
His clothed body is sprawled beside them, urine and feces marring the once dignified Magister’s corpse. Death is never a dignified thing.
Two men are speaking to them. One wears a mask over his face, but his bright blue eyes stare into their empty soul. He promises safety. He promises respect. He tells them they need to get dressed and follow him and his fellow masked friend. The man who killed Halward walks to the window and hands the sword he murdered Halward with to someone Ferin cannot see. Someone who didn’t want the man to carry a bloody sword in the building where a Magister was slain.
“We’re getting you out of slavery, friend. You have to be silent and do as we say until we’re safe.” The blue eyed masked man says, helping them wipe off blood and get dressed. His hands are soft on their skin. He does not touch them except on their shoulders and arms.
“You are safe with us. Please be quiet and do as we tell you. We are getting you somewhere safe. Where you will never be abused like this again.”
Being silent and doing as they’re told is all they know.