Chapter Text
Her fondness for Blackwall had always given Fen’Harel pause {she craved the company of liars}. From the moment they’d found the Grey Warden by Lake Luthias, she’d shown {far too much} interest in the shemlen’s stories {lies}. He suspected she wasn’t interested in the Warden {she lusted after elven men} so much as The Warden {another quick shadow}, but he couldn’t be sure.
Many more pressing concerns {the fade}{Wisdom}{the Breach} demanded his attention, yet he could not abide the idea of his magic {the Anchor} in Grey Warden hands— literally {nauseating} or figuratively {dangerous}. So Fen’Harel became the hunter in the woods once more and waited for her to stumble across his path {she smelled like panicked prey}. There he proved that if she {the elf} wanted Grey Warden stories, he knew all the best ones {Alistair gave his elf a rose}.
Fen'Harel had never seduced a mortal before {why bother?}, and it felt every bit as hollow {boring} as he’d expected. He simply smiled and closed his lips around the mouth of her flask {he imagined her nipple}, and she blushed {the Wolf could smell her sex}. That was all it took. Her {ridiculous} obsession with the Wardens {and Blackwall} evaporated, and a {rightful} interest in “Solas” emerged.
This pleased him. Fen’Harel could not influence the Inquisition by insinuating himself into the {racist, shemlen} War Council, but what did he care? He could {control it directly} become her mentor. By virtue of their pointed ears, the world saw only a doddering mage fool enough to prattle on and a shy apostate {slave} too polite to escape his lecturing {the Anchor would never escape him}.
She showed {natural} interest in his {well toned} aura, and it took some research {hysterical} to better understand why {flabby modern magic}. His disguise needed work. That brought the Wolf's interest to a rabbit hole of a different sort: the Circle. As he struggled {not to laugh} with centuries of magical {mis-} understanding that he so desperately needed to learn {to hide}.
Then came the curiosity of Redcliffe {something new!} and he became so preoccupied {could he go back?} that he failed to notice weeks had slipped by {only a heartbeat!}. After returning a few of the Enchanter's tomes {garbage} one night, he spotted the {shemlen} Warden leading the elf to her cabin {outrageous}.
From his vantage on the hill, Fen’Harel saw that when the shemlen kissed her hand {his Anchor!} she did not pull away {was she perversely curious?}. The bearded man bowed and called her “my lady” {he wanted to fuck her} and she smiled {would she actually let him?}. The thought of her hand {HIS ANCHOR} wrapped around a shemlen cock {GREY WARDEN} sparked outrage like he’d never known.
Exactly how much attention did the {fickle} child require?
He’d been the first god to smile upon one of The People in two thousand years and in the span of a month {an instant} she’d forgotten. His careful machinations and subtle plotting felled the entire pantheon to bring Elvhenan low, a fall {folly} that persisted in legend and changed the face of Thedas. Yet in the new world he'd created, Fen’Harel now faced a prey too quick for the slow arrow— a fleeting shadow.
Subtlety would no longer do. The Dread Wolf nicked a longbow to gift the elf in her sleep {delicious irony} and resolved to take her into the woods {alone} for a display of blatant innuendo {sexual domination} and raw power {bloodshed}. And when next they found a rift a few days {seconds} later, he followed through by letting a Pride Demon sweep her off her feet {the irony} so that he could rescue her {the Anchor}, straddle her {such narrow hips}, trail his mouth along the edge of her ear {her quick pulse quickened}, and whisper a single word {fascinating}.
It was heavy handed to be sure, but so was she {the Anchor}. If he were to ever regain his magic {his birthright}, he could not let her {the Anchor} slip from his grasp; he could not lose {control of} her {the Anchor}.
But a month later {minutes at best}, he nearly did— Corypheus {pretender} fell on Haven. That she {the elf} stood toe to toe with a magister {however pathetic} to bring down a mountain {hardly} impressed Fen’Harel {his magic burned inside her}. What impressed the Wolf was how the shemlen fell to their knees before her {his Anchor}. Millennia had passed since he’d last craved worship, but to see it second hand stirred something within {arousal}.
The humans were awed by his {divine} power {his Anchor}, and yet however {masturbatory} his pride in her {the Anchor}, Fen'Harel could not help but relish the idea of the rest of him inside her as well. So after he told her about the orb {royal we} and called her lethallin {his own kin!}, he determined to enthrone her in Tarasyl'an Te'las {his pride!}. Then the Wolf lured the Dalish First from the safety of her camp {ironically, something he'd never done}.
In the warmth of the hot spring, Fen’Harel wondered how long a mortal would last {days?}. Even in the extremity of his youth he’d taken no less than a month {a week once, alone}. In his prime, years seemed an embarrassment {oh, how Andruil insulted him} and he’d taken his pleasure with {he could not even recall her name} through four ages. The idea of mere hours {the blink of an eye} seemed inherently wrong {shem}, and therefore illicit {furtive}. His curiosity was piqued, at any rate {he loved a challenge}.
But when he saw the impossibly quick throbbing of her carotid artery {like a hummingbird}, he began to doubt. Could he even comprehend that pace? He determined himself to make no move {he would need to practice}, when she {suddenly} offered herself to him. He’d known {hated that} she was branded, but seeing it was something else {stomach churning}.
Poisoned blood dripped down her throat and seared the top of each {otherwise perfect} breast, a {vile} rune that crossed {shackled} her hips to claim her children, her legs to claim her freedom, her mouth to claim her worship, her eyes to claim her sight. However little Fen’Harel cared for the Dalish, it grieved him {broke his heart} to see anyone {of The People} so marred {disfigured} by blood magic. To know that she {his Anchor} took pride in having June’s fingerprint spoil every inch of her?
{OUTRAGE}
{Mercifully} the rune lay dormant and {mercifully} June could not claim her {his Anchor}. Yet {yet}. The thought sobered him {June would waste her}. She {the elf} had been only a means to an end {his Anchor}, but she {the elf} did not deserve that {slavery}. He would have to bind her {claim the enchantment} and release her {the spell: ar lasa mala revas} to dispel the rune’s power.
This {her guaranteed freedom} would require an altogether different approach {a trick}. He didn’t need her to fuck him— he needed her to trust him.
He needed the slow arrow after all.
{He always did.}