Plagiarism in the Dragon Age fandom by Jaden Anderson
Hello! I discovered last night that two of my fics for the Dragon Age fandom have been plagiarized (or at least, thoroughly borrowed from) by another Dragon Age writer, one of them more extensively than the other. I've brought it to you all in the hopes that you can offer me some advice or guidance, as this has never happened to me before with written media. Details and screencaps under the cut.
Basically, what Jaden Anderson has done is taken two of my Dragon Age fics and rewritten them with a different male love interest. The difficulty I have is that the plagiarism is not a word-for-word lift but rather rewrites with identical scenes, but I've copied and pasted below the sections I feel are the most egregious offenders.
In addition, I know that this person has read both of the fics he or she rewrote. I still have the email notifications of their Favorite Stories and Favorite Author additions, though both I and the stories have been removed from their faves since then. They also have a review of the second fic I'll list still up and online as of this post. I am happy to forward any emails as needed.
The first one that I discovered was entitled Penance, published 4-28-12, which I believe is a rewrite of my fic In Salt and Gold , published 11-16-11. My fic was a Fenris/F!Hawke kinkmeme fill featuring memory loss and extreme despair; Jaden Anderson has rewritten the slave-for-a-slave aspect into a Tranquil Hawke (that is, the character is emotionally lobotomized) plotline instead, although most of the elements of my fic remain the same and in order.
Screencaps are here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, and Chapter Three.
Mine, opening scene:
The last thing he remembers is this: a slender blade slides silver-tipped and shining through Hawke's chest.
It splits the skin as easily as it might a pear, clean and smooth and without resistance; she stumbles forward a half-step and Fenris hears the soft thump of her boot against the wooden floor, the only sound in a room gone silent as a grave. She looks down and her hair falls in a black curtain around her face; her fingers rise to touch the tip in faint surprise, as if the polished steel that juts out just to the left of her sternum is no more than a narrow mirror, gleaming and unstained by her blood. Her gasp is only a breath-he feels his heart stop in his chest at the sound of it and yet he can do nothing-the claws of his gauntlets scar into the bloodstained floor as he tries to move, to surge up, to save her, but one of the slavers kneeling on his back grinds his weight deeper into the gash along Fenris's spine, and the one with the knife to his throat yanks at his hair viciously until chunks of it come away between his white-knuckled fingers, and though every muscle in his body bunches, every joint creaks as he strains with the effort, he cannot, cannot, cannot-
The dagger glides out again as if it has been greased. Hawke takes another step forward against the tug, a slender line of blood beading along the edges of the wound, and then, with a quiet sigh, she falls.
Fenris knows he shouts something. He feels the vibration in his throat against the floor, the tearing ache in his chest, but he does not hear it; he sees Isabela restrained by the arms of two slavers, kicking and screaming and crying, her face twisted in rage; he sees Varric's prone figure between the legs of an upended chair, the blood spreading thick and fast from his temple and Bianca forgotten at his side. He sees Hawke's ashen face turned toward his, her cheek flat against the wooden floorboards, her eyes so wide he can see the whites all the way around them.
Her lips shape Fenris.
Theirs, opening scene:
It all happens so fast, in a blur of movement that clouds his vision until all that remains is a broad blade, dripping in crimson as it slides through Hawke's back.
He's seen swords pitted through chests before. Maker, he's done it himself once or twice when his magic's failed him. But never does he recall witnessing a blade so large split skin so easily. It's Anders that stumbles, forgetting in the terror of that moment that they are surrounded. That thick fringe of hair he loves so much, that mussed length that's always hiding her eyes, slips forward when she looks down at the cold steel driven through her. The templars surrounding them fall into an equally distressing silence, as though they themselves are surprised at the outcome. A simple sigh, it's the only sound she makes, but Maker, it's so soft.
Hands grip at his shoulders and twist him into a harsh embrace. He struggles against them, his widened eyes refusing to turn away from the sight. His thoughts vanish and he waits for that moment of clarity when Justice sweeps over him, but he lies dormant, perhaps shocked into silence, just as Anders is.
He's spilled to the ground with a sharp kick that he hardly feels because at that moment Hawke's eyes shift to his - half veiled by fearful tears. Those nimble fingers - ones he's held close to his chest - rise to caress the blade. Her lips part in surprise and his name falls out in a rush of breath.
It isn't until the templar wrenches back on the blade, detracting it smoothly from the mess he's made of her chest, that Anders tries to surge up. His fingers are like claws, digging into the ground, tearing up the soil as he scrambles to throw clean the multiple hands grabbing at him. They're everywhere, in his hair, around his shoulders, his legs, even an armored knee lodged into the small of his back. His magic comes freely with the first call, only to have the templar pressed into his back rob him of all strength. Icy fingers rip into his insides, draining him of every last drop. Justice doesn't simply retreat, he vanishes and Anders howls his displeasure, his every muscle straining with effort as he twists beneath them.
Free of the blade holding her in place, Hawke stumbles - a tiny half step, her hands rising to cup her sternum as though that will help hold everything in. He waits for the moment her hands start to glow, just as he taught her. His fingers constrict against the soils, grass and dirt collecting beneath the nails of his white-knuckled digits. He waits. He waits.
It doesn't come.
And with another simple sigh, she falls.
Mine, chapter one: Awareness returns in a rush. There is no moment of confusion, no struggle to remember why his head aches with thudding brown pain; his first thought is the same as his last-Hawke-and an upswelling of unbearable grief chokes him as easily as a hand around his throat. His fault, his fault-she'd known, she'd tried to warn him, and he'd been so desperate for this piece of his past that he'd stolen her future-
"Fenris?"
[...]
"Hawke?" he says, low and hoarse and unbelieving, and a wretched heap of rags in the opposite corner shifts with a muffled groan.
Theirs, chapter one: Awareness slams into him.
He throws clean the remnants of that memory, for some reason his chest aches beneath it. In fact, every inch of him genuinely aches in some form or another. He can't even remember the darkness taking him. There's a fine haze surrounding his memories, but his throat burns and his head feels as though it weighs as much as a bronto. With his next breath, he sparks his magic, or rather, he intends to. Instead he's met with a cramping pain that doubles him over, burning away the fog.
His eyes snap open the exact moment his memories fall upon him.
[...]
"Hawke!" he howls again, straining furiously against the bonds.
There's a lump across the room and if he squints just right, he can make out the fine outline of her armor.
Mine, chapter one: One of them glances at the other two, and without hesitation, they reach down for their target.
Their hands close around Hawke.
Their hands close around Hawke, and suddenly Fenris realizes with terrible certainty why she was the one not chained to the wall.
"No!" The cry tears out of him, transparent in its fear, but it is too late, too late-the slavers' hands are implacable and unrelenting despite her struggles and Hawke cries out as their grip twists her shoulder in its socket-her eyes meet his in wordless pleading and blinder terror and he sees her say remember this! but no matter how he strains and braces his feet on the wall behind him he can get no leverage, and though he nearly breaks his arms in their chains the purchase is not enough to free him, to free her. "Danarius!" he howls, as if the magister might hear him, might be moved by his dread. "Danarius, stop! Take me, take me instead! Danarius!" and then, in the utter desperation of a breaking spirit, "Master!"
Theirs, chapter one: So concerned with her, he doesn't notice when the templars finally move. It's only the clang of their armor that drags his gaze back up to them. One crosses the room as another wrenches back on Anders' manacles, ensuring he can't move beyond a quick scrabble against the floor. The first - the one to deal her the blows - crouches before her, his gauntleted hand clasping her chin. He lifts her head, his other hand extended toward the seeker.
A shaft drops into the templars hand, and suddenly Anders realizes with a terrible conviction just what is about to happen.
"No!" he shouts in a mangled voice, dripping with fear, but he can't move. He calls on Justice, begging and pleading with the spirit to respond to his pleas and he feels his response, though sluggish and laggard as though he can't quite reach the surface.
[...] The templar's fingers are unrelenting even though Hawke squirms in his grip. Another templar descends upon her, the blunt end of the sword catching her against the back of her head. She spills to the ground, her eyes rolled back as her lashes flutter against her cheeks.
Anders can't even make out the words he's screaming at them, bucking and straining against the hold of the manacles. But the awkward angle of his arms locks him down.
When the templar's fingers frame her chin once more, Anders releases a desperate howl.
Mine, chapter two: Hawke's hand is on his cheek.
He turns his face into it without thinking-his head pounds and it feels like a dense fog has settled between his ears, but for some reason it seems like a long time since Hawke has touched him, and to feel that touch now eases a deep-buried ache in his chest. Her cool fingers ease the throb behind his closed eyes and he lets out a low sigh, feeling as if it is the first deep breath he has taken in months.
And then Hawke's voice, softly: "Are you all right?"
[...] Fenris sits up in a rush, ignoring the spike of agony shrieking down the muscles of his stomach. No, no, no-but the truth stares him in the face; here is his cot and high square window, letting in a thick bar of late afternoon sunlight; here is his lyrium still sparking with the remnants of a magister's amusement; here is Hawke, kneeling by his side in her white robes and her golden collar and the empty hole of her memory.
"Master?" says Hawke, her eyebrows pulling together in concern.
A vicious curse tears out of him, and Fenris pushes up from the cot swiftly enough to nearly knock Hawke over. A dream, a stupid, sentimental dream and he'd forgotten where he was, forgotten completely what he'd done to Hawke-he slams a fist into the wall by his hip, furious and beyond frustrated with himself, and it is not until Hawke rights herself without looking at him that he gains control of his surging emotions, of the dim pulses of lyrium skating up his arms.
"I did not mean to frighten you," he says shortly. His fist is still clenched against the wall.
Theirs, chapter three: Warm fingers curl over his cheek.
He hums softly and presses into the hand, his beard catching against it. The scent of strawberries settles into his lungs and his stomach knots. It's a strange sensation, one he's never felt in Hawke's presence before.
His head aches terribly, throbbing to the pulse of his heart, and for some reason he can't remember why. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Hawke last touched him and he uses it as an anchor to ease the rooted pain. His chest loosens and muscles that he doesn't realize are knotted slacken, drooping against the floor. He lets out a shuddering sigh and without thinking, he turns his lips into her palm, inhaling that blessed scent.
"Anders," his name, but said bluntly, without the usual smile he can hear in it.
The hand retracts, leaving a chill in its wake. His eyes snap open and he darts up from the floor in a rush, ignoring the exhaustion that racks his body. The previous week returns in a rush and he staggers into the wall, the truth of all that has happened staring him down. He would know the sounds of the Hanged Man anywhere - raucous laughter, clinking tankards, angered slurs, giggling women. Usually that would not be cause for concern, but his gaze falls on the cloaked woman standing in the center of the room, hands crossed before her waist, empty faced and calm. And from the thickset shadows of the hood burns a golden brand, that blighted sunburst piquing his pulse.
Foul curses spill from his already scabbed lips and he turns away, his hand bracing himself against the wall. It's more than a struggle to reign in his emotions. A moment forgotten - a moment lost to that hand, that sinfully addictive touch that even now he longs to feel against his cheek once more. That simple touch has done more damage than any of the memories he's suffered under. His other hand tightens and he slams the clenched fist into the wall over and over, laughing wildly when his knuckles split. Dark blood wells to the surface, dribbling down the side of his hand and splashing onto the floor, now sprinkled in dust.
Spent, his head bows under the despair, his shoulders hunching with defeat. His voice is haggard when he speaks. "What do you want, Hawke?"
Never has he spoken so bluntly with her before and when he slants his chin back over his shoulder to look at her, she appears undisturbed by his little outburst. She simply stands there, waiting for the moment to pass.
"I was told to wake you," she states, no caution to her voice whatsoever.
His clenched fist holds against the wall, throbbing with more than just pain. "Why?"
--
There are other "similarities" between the two fics, but as these sections are already quite long I didn't want to repost the whole thing. The second fic Jaden Anderson took is actually a much more direct copy, including some lines and whole sections left almost entirely intact. Again, the format, the plot, and the prose are almost entirely identical to mine save that the love interest has been changed from Fenris to Anders.
My original work, Mute, I published 6-23-11; Jaden Anderson's Silence was published 4-30-12. I would also like to note that aside from the author's note, which is very similar to my own for several of my fics and makes a reference to Silence probably being a three-parter (as my original Mute was), Jaden Anderson has also used the identical line-break dividers that I use (-.-) for almost all my FF.net posts. This is also evident in Jaden Anderson's Lyrium Prison, including his or her formatting of the work title, chapter titles, and dividers. Lyrium Prison does not contain any of my content so far as I can tell, but I include it as additonal evidence that Jaden Anderson has indeed read my work.
Screencaps of Silence are here: Chapter One and Chapter Two.
Since the "rewrite" of this is nearly identical to the original with much less changed, including my imagery and symbolism, I will not be pasting whole passages. Instead, I'll just add individual lines that I think show the most direct theft.
Mine: There's a buzzing in her brain behind the drumming ache that feels at once alien and familiar, like a loved voice speaking from very far away; she shakes her head, trying to dislodge it, and that is when she discovers that she is chained to the floor.
Theirs: And still beneath all is a faint chatter, an incessant buzzing that somehow feels familiar. [...]She shifts, desiring only to brush the damp locks away from her eyes, and that's when she realizes she's chained to smaller thick loops attached to a pike driven into the ground.
Mine: The manacles bore into her temples. She allows it for a moment-the pain there mutes the more insistent one in the back of her head-
Theirs: She presses the heel of her palms into her eyes, rubbing ferociously as though it'll help clear the fog hazing her thoughts. The steel presses into her cheekbones but she cares little - if anything, the discomfort helps to balance her.
Mine: Panic surges in her throat with a whitewater rush that nearly chokes her before she can tamp it down,
Theirs: So when it comes again, stark and ear-piercing, she sucks in a startled breath, struggling in vain to tamp down the sudden surge of fear she tastes at the back of her tongue.
Theirs: He grows impatient, she feels it like whitewaters rising in her throat
Mine: They leave her alone in the dark. [...]
It is impossible to imagine that she will be here for very long. It is a dangerous line of thinking, Hawke knows, blind hope that will more likely lead her to complacency than action-but all the same, she has friends, dear friends who will surely notice when she does not appear, a city full of people who know her as the Champion. Aveline, captain of the city's own Guard; Varric, with his finger on Kirkwall's pulse. Fenris. Surely, surely, she will not go unmissed.
Surely, they will be able to find her.
Theirs: The light never returns. [...]
The only thought that keeps her moderately sane is that at any moment her companions will come swooping in and rescue her, before those screams touch her own lips. Any moment. But it doesn't matter how often she says those words, her lips moving in an impassioned prayer, it never happens. There's no sudden rushing of feet, no swords being drawn from a scabbard, no one shouting her name. There's simply nothing - until the next round of screams rises. [...]
Anders.
She thinks of him to help retain her sanity. Surely, surely, he must know she is missing by now. And she knows that he and the others will do everything in their power to find her. A bright light amongst the dreary darkness is that her mother will know she is missing. And she will go to them. Soon.
Anders.
Mine: ...with the sudden silent violence of lighting, a fist comes out of nowhere to slam into her jaw.
Theirs: She doesn't see it coming, her vision still hazed, but she feels it when his fist suddenly slams into her jaw.
Mine: "Hobble," Hawke slurs through swelling lips.
Theirs: "Mother?" she slurs through swelling lips.
Mine: "My poor child, oh, you poor thing," groans an old man's voice in her ear.
It hurts, it hurts, oh, it hurts-
[...] she remembers, vividly, the sound they'd made as each bone had been broken.
Theirs: "Wake up, ma fleur," a grating voice rasps in her ear.
[...] The pain is sudden and she bows under it, eyes streaming. Oh, Maker, it hurts - it hurts.
[...] Quentin had ordered Gascard to ensure she couldn't fight back and he'd done the job. She remembers vividly the sound of her knees as they were broken.
Mine, in a good-dream-gone-bad scene: "Fenris," she whispers, and he looks down at her where she crouches over the iron ring-
-and his lip curls in disgust. "Beast," he says in his low voice, and his eyes narrow in a sudden viciousness that shocks her.
She-she cannot believe it, and she stretches her hand towards him, her hand that is broken and buckled in on itself, and Fenris recoils in revulsion. "Contemptible," he snarls, "and weak."
"Fenris," she whispers again, and this time it is choked with tears, "Fenris, please-"
Isabela shakes her head in the doorway, her earrings jingling softly. Aveline looks nauseated and pale behind her freckles. "Such a shameful thing," Fenris hisses, and then he turns his back on her, and he stalks away from the cell-from her, weak and wrecked and useless.
"So long, Hawke," Varric says sadly, and the door closes behind him.
She wakes up weeping in the wild delirium of terror and shame and agony, barely recognizing the faint burn of magic dribbling away from her, and the sound of the door closing echoes in her mind like an old song, over, and over, and over, until it is the only thing she can hear.
Theirs, in a good-dream-gone-bad scene: "Anders, please," she begs, reaching out with her other arm toward him.
His face twists gruesomely, his lips pressing into a grim line. "Why you ever thought I could love someone as pathetic as you, I'll never understand."
The pain settles into her bones but it's nothing compared to the shattered mess of her heart. He turns to leave again and she moves as best she can, her arm swinging out. The arrangement of flowers next to the bed spills to the ground and they both fall silent as they turn to gaze down on the mess. Shards of glass have sprinkled across the floor, refracting what light streams in from the window.
"Useless," he jeers. "Broken. Why would I want someone so hopeless?"
She sobs his name brokenly, the thought that he might leave her here in this condition more than she can bear.
With a grimace, he stalks back over to her, plucking at the rose with every step. She meets his eyes once more, pleading silently for him to help. Pathetic... Hopeless.
One by one the petals drift down onto her chest, carried by an unseen breeze, and she flinches away from them. She doesn't want to smell the fresh scent, or gaze upon the red petals. The stem is the final piece to fall upon her chest, like a flower upon a grave.
"Goodbye, Hawke," he growls before stalking across the room.
Just a dream, it's just a dream... She clenches her eyes shut, pleading to wake. She waits, and waits. But the startling reality never sweeps down on her. Footsteps, loud and even, retreating. Her lids open to the sight of Anders walking away, his back the last thing she sees.
Mine: "Hawke!" Fenris's voice is desperate and violent and wild and her eyes fly open. Aveline is staring at her in horror and somewhere Merrill screams, but they're not the ones she's searching for. The Mother is speaking words of magic behind her that she does not know and the terror rises with the knife-and then she sees him.
He is spattered with blood, his own and others', and he strains against two men in battered plate who block his path, but Fenris is not looking at them. He is looking at her, and his eyes are savage and sorrowing and too, too bright-
"Hawke," he says, and it is as if the entire room has gone silent save the sound of his voice, "fight."
She must obey-she must fight. No, she mustn't fight, must not disobey the Mother. She wants-to be the vessel-she wants to fight-
She sucks in a breath. The knife skates over her skin with the movement but she hardly notices it-his command is piercing through the fog like the clear ringing of a bell at dawn, a beacon blazing in her mind to burn away the veil that hides her-
Fight.
Theirs: here's a strange thought at the back of her head. No, no she can't fight. Those words fall incoherently. Displeased, his fingers clench around her jaw and squeeze until she cries out. The magic swells and she sags beneath the weight of it. Strings hold her up that stretch from him. It's his strength lent to her. She feels the ties and knows she must not disobey.
You will fight.
She nods once more. Yes, there is no question. She will fight. Something cold slides into her hand and her eyes drop to the chilled steel.
"Hawke!" Voices.
Her head rises. Fight.
He leads her from the cell, pulling sharply on her chains when she doesn't move fast enough. Twice, she stumbles, her legs for some reason, refusing to hold her up. He grows impatient, she feels it like whitewaters rising in her throat. He pulls harder and sharper until she spills into the room, crashing to her knees. For a moment, she's blinded by pain and a stark fear chokes her.
Fight.
[...] Hands curve over her shoulders and turn her around. This time she holds no dagger. And she stares up into this face, suddenly knowing him. Her eyes follow the wide arc of his jaw to those lips that she somehow remembers tasting. But it isn't only that she remembers. In her mind's eye, she sees them twist, as he names her pathetic and useless.
"Fight," he whispers so softy, his voice brushing away that unwanted memory.
Mine: Varric shifts at her shoulder and she feels the pressure of his hand slide under her head to lift it-and then a skin sloshing full of water is pressed to her lips, and she forgets everything at the taste of it. Hawke sucks at it greedily, unable to control her gasping breaths between swallows, barely caring that her whimpers are almost wanton under the crackling of the fire. She drains the thing in a matter of seconds and leans back to the pillow with a choking sigh that sounds more like a sob.
Theirs: He lifts the waterskin to her lips and slowly, the liquid streams into her mouth. It's like nothing she's ever tasted and she draws greedily from it, her shaking fingers rising to clutch at his hands. A great cough consumes her and he lowers the waterskin, his hands curving over her shoulder to hold her steady.
There's obviously more, but this is long enough already. Thank you very much for your time, and I greatly appreciate any help or advice you can offer!
Basically, what Jaden Anderson has done is taken two of my Dragon Age fics and rewritten them with a different male love interest. The difficulty I have is that the plagiarism is not a word-for-word lift but rather rewrites with identical scenes, but I've copied and pasted below the sections I feel are the most egregious offenders.
In addition, I know that this person has read both of the fics he or she rewrote. I still have the email notifications of their Favorite Stories and Favorite Author additions, though both I and the stories have been removed from their faves since then. They also have a review of the second fic I'll list still up and online as of this post. I am happy to forward any emails as needed.
The first one that I discovered was entitled Penance, published 4-28-12, which I believe is a rewrite of my fic In Salt and Gold , published 11-16-11. My fic was a Fenris/F!Hawke kinkmeme fill featuring memory loss and extreme despair; Jaden Anderson has rewritten the slave-for-a-slave aspect into a Tranquil Hawke (that is, the character is emotionally lobotomized) plotline instead, although most of the elements of my fic remain the same and in order.
Screencaps are here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, and Chapter Three.
Mine, opening scene:
The last thing he remembers is this: a slender blade slides silver-tipped and shining through Hawke's chest.
It splits the skin as easily as it might a pear, clean and smooth and without resistance; she stumbles forward a half-step and Fenris hears the soft thump of her boot against the wooden floor, the only sound in a room gone silent as a grave. She looks down and her hair falls in a black curtain around her face; her fingers rise to touch the tip in faint surprise, as if the polished steel that juts out just to the left of her sternum is no more than a narrow mirror, gleaming and unstained by her blood. Her gasp is only a breath-he feels his heart stop in his chest at the sound of it and yet he can do nothing-the claws of his gauntlets scar into the bloodstained floor as he tries to move, to surge up, to save her, but one of the slavers kneeling on his back grinds his weight deeper into the gash along Fenris's spine, and the one with the knife to his throat yanks at his hair viciously until chunks of it come away between his white-knuckled fingers, and though every muscle in his body bunches, every joint creaks as he strains with the effort, he cannot, cannot, cannot-
The dagger glides out again as if it has been greased. Hawke takes another step forward against the tug, a slender line of blood beading along the edges of the wound, and then, with a quiet sigh, she falls.
Fenris knows he shouts something. He feels the vibration in his throat against the floor, the tearing ache in his chest, but he does not hear it; he sees Isabela restrained by the arms of two slavers, kicking and screaming and crying, her face twisted in rage; he sees Varric's prone figure between the legs of an upended chair, the blood spreading thick and fast from his temple and Bianca forgotten at his side. He sees Hawke's ashen face turned toward his, her cheek flat against the wooden floorboards, her eyes so wide he can see the whites all the way around them.
Her lips shape Fenris.
Theirs, opening scene:
It all happens so fast, in a blur of movement that clouds his vision until all that remains is a broad blade, dripping in crimson as it slides through Hawke's back.
He's seen swords pitted through chests before. Maker, he's done it himself once or twice when his magic's failed him. But never does he recall witnessing a blade so large split skin so easily. It's Anders that stumbles, forgetting in the terror of that moment that they are surrounded. That thick fringe of hair he loves so much, that mussed length that's always hiding her eyes, slips forward when she looks down at the cold steel driven through her. The templars surrounding them fall into an equally distressing silence, as though they themselves are surprised at the outcome. A simple sigh, it's the only sound she makes, but Maker, it's so soft.
Hands grip at his shoulders and twist him into a harsh embrace. He struggles against them, his widened eyes refusing to turn away from the sight. His thoughts vanish and he waits for that moment of clarity when Justice sweeps over him, but he lies dormant, perhaps shocked into silence, just as Anders is.
He's spilled to the ground with a sharp kick that he hardly feels because at that moment Hawke's eyes shift to his - half veiled by fearful tears. Those nimble fingers - ones he's held close to his chest - rise to caress the blade. Her lips part in surprise and his name falls out in a rush of breath.
It isn't until the templar wrenches back on the blade, detracting it smoothly from the mess he's made of her chest, that Anders tries to surge up. His fingers are like claws, digging into the ground, tearing up the soil as he scrambles to throw clean the multiple hands grabbing at him. They're everywhere, in his hair, around his shoulders, his legs, even an armored knee lodged into the small of his back. His magic comes freely with the first call, only to have the templar pressed into his back rob him of all strength. Icy fingers rip into his insides, draining him of every last drop. Justice doesn't simply retreat, he vanishes and Anders howls his displeasure, his every muscle straining with effort as he twists beneath them.
Free of the blade holding her in place, Hawke stumbles - a tiny half step, her hands rising to cup her sternum as though that will help hold everything in. He waits for the moment her hands start to glow, just as he taught her. His fingers constrict against the soils, grass and dirt collecting beneath the nails of his white-knuckled digits. He waits. He waits.
It doesn't come.
And with another simple sigh, she falls.
Mine, chapter one: Awareness returns in a rush. There is no moment of confusion, no struggle to remember why his head aches with thudding brown pain; his first thought is the same as his last-Hawke-and an upswelling of unbearable grief chokes him as easily as a hand around his throat. His fault, his fault-she'd known, she'd tried to warn him, and he'd been so desperate for this piece of his past that he'd stolen her future-
"Fenris?"
[...]
"Hawke?" he says, low and hoarse and unbelieving, and a wretched heap of rags in the opposite corner shifts with a muffled groan.
Theirs, chapter one: Awareness slams into him.
He throws clean the remnants of that memory, for some reason his chest aches beneath it. In fact, every inch of him genuinely aches in some form or another. He can't even remember the darkness taking him. There's a fine haze surrounding his memories, but his throat burns and his head feels as though it weighs as much as a bronto. With his next breath, he sparks his magic, or rather, he intends to. Instead he's met with a cramping pain that doubles him over, burning away the fog.
His eyes snap open the exact moment his memories fall upon him.
[...]
"Hawke!" he howls again, straining furiously against the bonds.
There's a lump across the room and if he squints just right, he can make out the fine outline of her armor.
Mine, chapter one: One of them glances at the other two, and without hesitation, they reach down for their target.
Their hands close around Hawke.
Their hands close around Hawke, and suddenly Fenris realizes with terrible certainty why she was the one not chained to the wall.
"No!" The cry tears out of him, transparent in its fear, but it is too late, too late-the slavers' hands are implacable and unrelenting despite her struggles and Hawke cries out as their grip twists her shoulder in its socket-her eyes meet his in wordless pleading and blinder terror and he sees her say remember this! but no matter how he strains and braces his feet on the wall behind him he can get no leverage, and though he nearly breaks his arms in their chains the purchase is not enough to free him, to free her. "Danarius!" he howls, as if the magister might hear him, might be moved by his dread. "Danarius, stop! Take me, take me instead! Danarius!" and then, in the utter desperation of a breaking spirit, "Master!"
Theirs, chapter one: So concerned with her, he doesn't notice when the templars finally move. It's only the clang of their armor that drags his gaze back up to them. One crosses the room as another wrenches back on Anders' manacles, ensuring he can't move beyond a quick scrabble against the floor. The first - the one to deal her the blows - crouches before her, his gauntleted hand clasping her chin. He lifts her head, his other hand extended toward the seeker.
A shaft drops into the templars hand, and suddenly Anders realizes with a terrible conviction just what is about to happen.
"No!" he shouts in a mangled voice, dripping with fear, but he can't move. He calls on Justice, begging and pleading with the spirit to respond to his pleas and he feels his response, though sluggish and laggard as though he can't quite reach the surface.
[...] The templar's fingers are unrelenting even though Hawke squirms in his grip. Another templar descends upon her, the blunt end of the sword catching her against the back of her head. She spills to the ground, her eyes rolled back as her lashes flutter against her cheeks.
Anders can't even make out the words he's screaming at them, bucking and straining against the hold of the manacles. But the awkward angle of his arms locks him down.
When the templar's fingers frame her chin once more, Anders releases a desperate howl.
Mine, chapter two: Hawke's hand is on his cheek.
He turns his face into it without thinking-his head pounds and it feels like a dense fog has settled between his ears, but for some reason it seems like a long time since Hawke has touched him, and to feel that touch now eases a deep-buried ache in his chest. Her cool fingers ease the throb behind his closed eyes and he lets out a low sigh, feeling as if it is the first deep breath he has taken in months.
And then Hawke's voice, softly: "Are you all right?"
[...] Fenris sits up in a rush, ignoring the spike of agony shrieking down the muscles of his stomach. No, no, no-but the truth stares him in the face; here is his cot and high square window, letting in a thick bar of late afternoon sunlight; here is his lyrium still sparking with the remnants of a magister's amusement; here is Hawke, kneeling by his side in her white robes and her golden collar and the empty hole of her memory.
"Master?" says Hawke, her eyebrows pulling together in concern.
A vicious curse tears out of him, and Fenris pushes up from the cot swiftly enough to nearly knock Hawke over. A dream, a stupid, sentimental dream and he'd forgotten where he was, forgotten completely what he'd done to Hawke-he slams a fist into the wall by his hip, furious and beyond frustrated with himself, and it is not until Hawke rights herself without looking at him that he gains control of his surging emotions, of the dim pulses of lyrium skating up his arms.
"I did not mean to frighten you," he says shortly. His fist is still clenched against the wall.
Theirs, chapter three: Warm fingers curl over his cheek.
He hums softly and presses into the hand, his beard catching against it. The scent of strawberries settles into his lungs and his stomach knots. It's a strange sensation, one he's never felt in Hawke's presence before.
His head aches terribly, throbbing to the pulse of his heart, and for some reason he can't remember why. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Hawke last touched him and he uses it as an anchor to ease the rooted pain. His chest loosens and muscles that he doesn't realize are knotted slacken, drooping against the floor. He lets out a shuddering sigh and without thinking, he turns his lips into her palm, inhaling that blessed scent.
"Anders," his name, but said bluntly, without the usual smile he can hear in it.
The hand retracts, leaving a chill in its wake. His eyes snap open and he darts up from the floor in a rush, ignoring the exhaustion that racks his body. The previous week returns in a rush and he staggers into the wall, the truth of all that has happened staring him down. He would know the sounds of the Hanged Man anywhere - raucous laughter, clinking tankards, angered slurs, giggling women. Usually that would not be cause for concern, but his gaze falls on the cloaked woman standing in the center of the room, hands crossed before her waist, empty faced and calm. And from the thickset shadows of the hood burns a golden brand, that blighted sunburst piquing his pulse.
Foul curses spill from his already scabbed lips and he turns away, his hand bracing himself against the wall. It's more than a struggle to reign in his emotions. A moment forgotten - a moment lost to that hand, that sinfully addictive touch that even now he longs to feel against his cheek once more. That simple touch has done more damage than any of the memories he's suffered under. His other hand tightens and he slams the clenched fist into the wall over and over, laughing wildly when his knuckles split. Dark blood wells to the surface, dribbling down the side of his hand and splashing onto the floor, now sprinkled in dust.
Spent, his head bows under the despair, his shoulders hunching with defeat. His voice is haggard when he speaks. "What do you want, Hawke?"
Never has he spoken so bluntly with her before and when he slants his chin back over his shoulder to look at her, she appears undisturbed by his little outburst. She simply stands there, waiting for the moment to pass.
"I was told to wake you," she states, no caution to her voice whatsoever.
His clenched fist holds against the wall, throbbing with more than just pain. "Why?"
--
There are other "similarities" between the two fics, but as these sections are already quite long I didn't want to repost the whole thing. The second fic Jaden Anderson took is actually a much more direct copy, including some lines and whole sections left almost entirely intact. Again, the format, the plot, and the prose are almost entirely identical to mine save that the love interest has been changed from Fenris to Anders.
My original work, Mute, I published 6-23-11; Jaden Anderson's Silence was published 4-30-12. I would also like to note that aside from the author's note, which is very similar to my own for several of my fics and makes a reference to Silence probably being a three-parter (as my original Mute was), Jaden Anderson has also used the identical line-break dividers that I use (-.-) for almost all my FF.net posts. This is also evident in Jaden Anderson's Lyrium Prison, including his or her formatting of the work title, chapter titles, and dividers. Lyrium Prison does not contain any of my content so far as I can tell, but I include it as additonal evidence that Jaden Anderson has indeed read my work.
Screencaps of Silence are here: Chapter One and Chapter Two.
Since the "rewrite" of this is nearly identical to the original with much less changed, including my imagery and symbolism, I will not be pasting whole passages. Instead, I'll just add individual lines that I think show the most direct theft.
Mine: There's a buzzing in her brain behind the drumming ache that feels at once alien and familiar, like a loved voice speaking from very far away; she shakes her head, trying to dislodge it, and that is when she discovers that she is chained to the floor.
Theirs: And still beneath all is a faint chatter, an incessant buzzing that somehow feels familiar. [...]She shifts, desiring only to brush the damp locks away from her eyes, and that's when she realizes she's chained to smaller thick loops attached to a pike driven into the ground.
Mine: The manacles bore into her temples. She allows it for a moment-the pain there mutes the more insistent one in the back of her head-
Theirs: She presses the heel of her palms into her eyes, rubbing ferociously as though it'll help clear the fog hazing her thoughts. The steel presses into her cheekbones but she cares little - if anything, the discomfort helps to balance her.
Mine: Panic surges in her throat with a whitewater rush that nearly chokes her before she can tamp it down,
Theirs: So when it comes again, stark and ear-piercing, she sucks in a startled breath, struggling in vain to tamp down the sudden surge of fear she tastes at the back of her tongue.
Theirs: He grows impatient, she feels it like whitewaters rising in her throat
Mine: They leave her alone in the dark. [...]
It is impossible to imagine that she will be here for very long. It is a dangerous line of thinking, Hawke knows, blind hope that will more likely lead her to complacency than action-but all the same, she has friends, dear friends who will surely notice when she does not appear, a city full of people who know her as the Champion. Aveline, captain of the city's own Guard; Varric, with his finger on Kirkwall's pulse. Fenris. Surely, surely, she will not go unmissed.
Surely, they will be able to find her.
Theirs: The light never returns. [...]
The only thought that keeps her moderately sane is that at any moment her companions will come swooping in and rescue her, before those screams touch her own lips. Any moment. But it doesn't matter how often she says those words, her lips moving in an impassioned prayer, it never happens. There's no sudden rushing of feet, no swords being drawn from a scabbard, no one shouting her name. There's simply nothing - until the next round of screams rises. [...]
Anders.
She thinks of him to help retain her sanity. Surely, surely, he must know she is missing by now. And she knows that he and the others will do everything in their power to find her. A bright light amongst the dreary darkness is that her mother will know she is missing. And she will go to them. Soon.
Anders.
Mine: ...with the sudden silent violence of lighting, a fist comes out of nowhere to slam into her jaw.
Theirs: She doesn't see it coming, her vision still hazed, but she feels it when his fist suddenly slams into her jaw.
Mine: "Hobble," Hawke slurs through swelling lips.
Theirs: "Mother?" she slurs through swelling lips.
Mine: "My poor child, oh, you poor thing," groans an old man's voice in her ear.
It hurts, it hurts, oh, it hurts-
[...] she remembers, vividly, the sound they'd made as each bone had been broken.
Theirs: "Wake up, ma fleur," a grating voice rasps in her ear.
[...] The pain is sudden and she bows under it, eyes streaming. Oh, Maker, it hurts - it hurts.
[...] Quentin had ordered Gascard to ensure she couldn't fight back and he'd done the job. She remembers vividly the sound of her knees as they were broken.
Mine, in a good-dream-gone-bad scene: "Fenris," she whispers, and he looks down at her where she crouches over the iron ring-
-and his lip curls in disgust. "Beast," he says in his low voice, and his eyes narrow in a sudden viciousness that shocks her.
She-she cannot believe it, and she stretches her hand towards him, her hand that is broken and buckled in on itself, and Fenris recoils in revulsion. "Contemptible," he snarls, "and weak."
"Fenris," she whispers again, and this time it is choked with tears, "Fenris, please-"
Isabela shakes her head in the doorway, her earrings jingling softly. Aveline looks nauseated and pale behind her freckles. "Such a shameful thing," Fenris hisses, and then he turns his back on her, and he stalks away from the cell-from her, weak and wrecked and useless.
"So long, Hawke," Varric says sadly, and the door closes behind him.
She wakes up weeping in the wild delirium of terror and shame and agony, barely recognizing the faint burn of magic dribbling away from her, and the sound of the door closing echoes in her mind like an old song, over, and over, and over, until it is the only thing she can hear.
Theirs, in a good-dream-gone-bad scene: "Anders, please," she begs, reaching out with her other arm toward him.
His face twists gruesomely, his lips pressing into a grim line. "Why you ever thought I could love someone as pathetic as you, I'll never understand."
The pain settles into her bones but it's nothing compared to the shattered mess of her heart. He turns to leave again and she moves as best she can, her arm swinging out. The arrangement of flowers next to the bed spills to the ground and they both fall silent as they turn to gaze down on the mess. Shards of glass have sprinkled across the floor, refracting what light streams in from the window.
"Useless," he jeers. "Broken. Why would I want someone so hopeless?"
She sobs his name brokenly, the thought that he might leave her here in this condition more than she can bear.
With a grimace, he stalks back over to her, plucking at the rose with every step. She meets his eyes once more, pleading silently for him to help. Pathetic... Hopeless.
One by one the petals drift down onto her chest, carried by an unseen breeze, and she flinches away from them. She doesn't want to smell the fresh scent, or gaze upon the red petals. The stem is the final piece to fall upon her chest, like a flower upon a grave.
"Goodbye, Hawke," he growls before stalking across the room.
Just a dream, it's just a dream... She clenches her eyes shut, pleading to wake. She waits, and waits. But the startling reality never sweeps down on her. Footsteps, loud and even, retreating. Her lids open to the sight of Anders walking away, his back the last thing she sees.
Mine: "Hawke!" Fenris's voice is desperate and violent and wild and her eyes fly open. Aveline is staring at her in horror and somewhere Merrill screams, but they're not the ones she's searching for. The Mother is speaking words of magic behind her that she does not know and the terror rises with the knife-and then she sees him.
He is spattered with blood, his own and others', and he strains against two men in battered plate who block his path, but Fenris is not looking at them. He is looking at her, and his eyes are savage and sorrowing and too, too bright-
"Hawke," he says, and it is as if the entire room has gone silent save the sound of his voice, "fight."
She must obey-she must fight. No, she mustn't fight, must not disobey the Mother. She wants-to be the vessel-she wants to fight-
She sucks in a breath. The knife skates over her skin with the movement but she hardly notices it-his command is piercing through the fog like the clear ringing of a bell at dawn, a beacon blazing in her mind to burn away the veil that hides her-
Fight.
Theirs: here's a strange thought at the back of her head. No, no she can't fight. Those words fall incoherently. Displeased, his fingers clench around her jaw and squeeze until she cries out. The magic swells and she sags beneath the weight of it. Strings hold her up that stretch from him. It's his strength lent to her. She feels the ties and knows she must not disobey.
You will fight.
She nods once more. Yes, there is no question. She will fight. Something cold slides into her hand and her eyes drop to the chilled steel.
"Hawke!" Voices.
Her head rises. Fight.
He leads her from the cell, pulling sharply on her chains when she doesn't move fast enough. Twice, she stumbles, her legs for some reason, refusing to hold her up. He grows impatient, she feels it like whitewaters rising in her throat. He pulls harder and sharper until she spills into the room, crashing to her knees. For a moment, she's blinded by pain and a stark fear chokes her.
Fight.
[...] Hands curve over her shoulders and turn her around. This time she holds no dagger. And she stares up into this face, suddenly knowing him. Her eyes follow the wide arc of his jaw to those lips that she somehow remembers tasting. But it isn't only that she remembers. In her mind's eye, she sees them twist, as he names her pathetic and useless.
"Fight," he whispers so softy, his voice brushing away that unwanted memory.
Mine: Varric shifts at her shoulder and she feels the pressure of his hand slide under her head to lift it-and then a skin sloshing full of water is pressed to her lips, and she forgets everything at the taste of it. Hawke sucks at it greedily, unable to control her gasping breaths between swallows, barely caring that her whimpers are almost wanton under the crackling of the fire. She drains the thing in a matter of seconds and leans back to the pillow with a choking sigh that sounds more like a sob.
Theirs: He lifts the waterskin to her lips and slowly, the liquid streams into her mouth. It's like nothing she's ever tasted and she draws greedily from it, her shaking fingers rising to clutch at his hands. A great cough consumes her and he lowers the waterskin, his hands curving over her shoulder to hold her steady.
There's obviously more, but this is long enough already. Thank you very much for your time, and I greatly appreciate any help or advice you can offer!