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It has been more than six months since the ritual, and Fenris is as fluent in violence as he is in Tevene. Phasing is second-nature, and he wields a greatsword with as much ease as breathing. He has been sharpened into the deadly weapon his Master had wanted him to be, and yet nothing has come of it, until today.
Fenris is panting hard. A dozen fighters lie defeated at his feet. Every part of him aches, and he can’t tell which aches are bruises and which are muscle fatigue. He is so thirsty.
He hears clapping. He turns around to see Master approaching, paying the fallen fighters no mind as he steps over them. He is standing before Fenris now, a proud smile on his face.
“An impressive show, my Fenris,” he says with a seedy smile. He turns to Quartermaster Mattis, who has approached from the sidelines after the fight.
“Tell me, Mattis,” says Master, “has Fenris mastered everything you are capable of teaching him?”
“Yes,” answers Mattis.
“So,” Master says, “there is nothing left for him to learn from you?”
Mattis does not answer right away. He looks… apprehensive.
“No,” he says at last, “nothing.”
A sinister grin curls Master’s lips. “Excellent,” he says, “Fenris — kill Mattis.”
Fenris’ eyes go wide, his breath stuck in his chest. “Master?” he asks.
“You heard me. Kill him. With your training complete, he is superfluous,” Master explains coldly. “It’s time to take out the trash.”
Fenris’ heart is beating against his chest, his mouth gone dry. He’d known that, as his Master’s bodyguard, he would likely need to use lethal force at times. Anything to protect his Master. But — Mattis is no threat to the Master, and cruel as he could be sometimes, he was one of the few people who would speak to Fenris. As impersonal as those conversations were, they… helped. More than that, Mattis is not a slave. Slaves can be disposed of with impunity, but killing a free Soporati is murder. As unlikely as it is that Fenris would face consequences for it, the implications are…
“Fenris…” Master says, voice low in warning. Fenris turns to face Mattis who… isn’t fighting it at all, he realizes. The look on Mattis’ face is resigned, and Fenris finds his resolve faltering all over again.
Mattis has a family, doesn’t he? A wife, and at least one child. If Mattis dies, what desperation would they be pushed to to survive poverty in Tevinter? How many more people would hate Fenris, he wonders, if he were to do this?
Of course, there is no “if” about it. Fenris does not want to be a murderer, but what he wants has never mattered, and he cannot disobey his Master.
“Now, Fenris,” Master snaps. Fenris lets out a shaky breath. His time is up.
He bends over to pick up his greatsword. A tutting noise from his Master stops him. He swallows hard as he straightens up and approaches Mattis. He stops inches from the man he’d been taking orders from not a half hour ago. He’s close enough to sink his hand into Mattis’ chest — close enough to rip out his heart. And that is exactly what he does.
He feels… he feels…
He does not know how he feels. He feels like he is apart from himself, somehow. He is aware of his clumsy rummaging around Mattis’ chest, sounds of pain and anguish (whether they belonged to him or Mattis, he didn’t know), the feel of Mattis’ heart in Fenris’ hand and the way his stomach roils when he struggles to pull it out. He is aware of Mattis’ body falling to the ground, lifeless, with a fist-sized hole where his heart should be. He is aware of the blood. His arm is red with it, all the way up to his elbow. He is aware, but he is… not there. He feels like he’s watching someone else, a monster. Then he comes back to himself, and he knows that there is no monster here but himself.
His Master is pleased, is praising him, and the spark of pride he feels through the guilt is… confusing. What he did — it was wrong, wasn’t it? It was murder. He is a monster. But he did it for his Master, and Master is good. Fenris should want what Master wants, and Master wanted Mattis dead. Doesn’t that make it right? Doesn’t that make Fenris a good slave? He is… unsure.
He lets the guilt and the pride coexist in his stomach, until it is too much. The guilt will eat him alive if he lets it, and so he clings to the pride, a beacon in the darkness, and lets it wash away the guilt.
“... very good, though your accuracy and efficiency could use some work,” Master is saying, “and I am disappointed by your hesitation. You are to be my bodyguard, Fenris, and I cannot put my life in the hands of a slave who would doubt my orders. Have I not been good to you, Fenris? Are you not my most favored? I expect better of you.”
Fenris feels his heart sink. To give everything to be the perfect slave and still fall short is… “I’m sorry, Master,” Fenris apologizes hastily, “it won’t happen again.”
Master smiles. “Good. I am in a generous mood. How would you like a reward, Fenris?”
“If it would please you, Master,” Fenris says, but his expression likely gives him away. Part of him feels that there is something very wrong with accepting a reward for something like this, but… there are precious few good things in Fenris’ life, and he would be a fool to turn down another.
Master chuckles. “Good boy,” he says, ruffling Fenris’ hair. “Come to my chambers at nightfall. You will have your reward then.”
As Master leaves, Fenris looks down at Mattis’ dead body, and feels the guilt rise up again. He quashes it down. Fenris is proud to serve his Master. Fenris is a good slave.