Whumpmass in July day 21
At some point I really need to start whumping some other characters... but I saw this prompt and my first thought was far too well formed not to run with...
Fandom: Dragon age 2 Character: Fenris @whumpmasinjuly-archive day 21 - Prompt abandoned. Premise: When Danarius left Fenris in Seheron, when the only person he had every really known, and the only life he could remember sailed away leaving him alone in a world he couldn't possibly understand... as much as years later that could be framed as his escape from slavery, on that moment is was an abandonment.
The battlefield was chaos; screams, clashing steel, the hum of the arcane, the scent of blood, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Through the maelstrom, he moved with skill and precision, without conscious thought, his master's orders guiding his every action. Each strike, each parry, a testament to the brutal training he had undergone.
The tide of battle shifted, the call for retreat echoing across the field. He looked around desperately, he eyes finding his master amidst the fray, struggling against a relentless enemy. Without a moment's pause, he fought his way through, his body a shield, his sword an extension of his will. Blood slicked his hands, not all of it his own, and pain lanced through him where a blade found its mark. Yet, he pressed on, driven by the singular purpose of protecting his master.
They reached the boats at the edge of the shore, his master was usured aboard, but he was stopped.
"There is no room for a slave."
His eyes widened in disbelief as the guard's words sank in. The chaos of battle still raged behind him, but the true storm was within. He glanced at his master, hoping for a word, a glance, anything to suggest that this was some kind of mistake. But his master's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, cold and distant.
“Master?” He managed to choke out, his voice a strained whisper. He wanted to believe it was a mistake, that the master would call him aboard, that this was some cruel joke.
The master’s eyes briefly met his, an emotion flashing through them—a flicker of something distant, perhaps pity or regret, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The guard's firm hand gripped his shoulder, conflicting instints warred within him, to gight, to comply, he looked to the master, needing guidence.
"We have no space for an injured slave," the guard reiterated.
His world shattered in that moment, a crack that splintered his very soul. The words, the finality in them, were a hammer blow to his heart. His master’s gaze, once a beacon, was now a void, unfeeling and detached. The guard’s hands were firm, unyielding, as they pushed him back towards the shore.
“Move aside. You’re slowing us down.”
“Master!” His cry was a raw, desperate plea, but the boat was already pushing off, its oars cutting through the water with a relentless rhythm.
He staggered, the pain of his injuries forgotten in the face of this new, deeper agony. He tried to follow, feet stumbling over the wet sand as the waves lapped at his ankles. The wet sand clung to his feet, the waves lapping at his ankles, growing higher with each wave. But he could not swim—slaves were not permitted to learn such skills. The cold salt water stung his wounds, mingling with the blood, and the chill seeped into his very bones.
But the boat sailed on, his master’s figure growing smaller and smaller, until it was nothing but a speck on the horizon. He had never known anything but his master’s commands, the cruel affection that had shaped his existence. Now, abandoned, he was adrift in a world that suddenly felt vast and hostile.
He stumbled back to the shore, the salty water mixing with the blood from his wounds. Each step was a struggle, his strength ebbing with every movement. Collapsing onto the wet sand, he lay there, gasping for breath, the agony of his injuries merging with the deeper pain of abandonment. His master's face haunted him, that final, indifferent look a knife twisting in his heart.
For a long time, he lay there, the sounds of the battlefield fading into the background. When he finally mustered the energy to move, the sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the shore. He forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and looked around. The beach was littered with the remnants of battle: broken weapons, discarded armor, and bodies of the fallen.
He was alone.
(accompanying art)
