A/N: This idea, along with a few others, has been bouncing around inside my brain rendering me unable to focus on my main fic, so in order to remove this pesky version of writers block, I am writing this story. It's a one-shot, from Surana's point of view. Liberties were taken with the dialogue, but the gist is still there.
Warning: Rated M for torture and adult themes
Disclaimer: Hail BioWare, full of awesome.
There are, perhaps, many moments when one should begin to rethink some life choices, though surely none so ominous as the ringing clang of the cell door closing and the feel of cold, unforgiving stone on her bare skin.
She groaned as she pushed herself to a seated position, still a little sore from the rough handling of Cauthrien and her guards, and thought about how she had gotten herself into the mess.
Maybe she should have brought Alistair to "rescue" Anora from Howe's estate, at least then she wouldn't be alone. With him by her side, she'd be more willing to try an escape. She certainly couldn't do it on her own. Even if she managed to get out of her cell, one mage was no match for a tower full of armed and armored guards.
She sighed; bringing Alistair would not have helped; one mage and one ex-Templar would have no more luck than she would have had alone.
A shuffle nearby brought her mind back to the present. She was not, in fact, alone. The cell adjacent to her own was occupied. Haggard and dirty, the man moved closer to the shared wall of bars to get a better look at her. "What you in for friend?"
"Killing Howe." She answered, though the sound of their voices made her head hurt a little. She must have hit it when they tossed her in here. She rubbed her temples and allowed a small amount of healing magic to remove the ache.
Her neighbor whistled, impressed. "Glad someone did that bastard in, but I'm 'fraid that's bad news for you, my friend."
"Oh? Why's that, beyond the obvious?" She gestured to her surroundings
"Lot a friends to the Arl in Drakon. Lot a people gettin' richer off his graces. Lot a people gonna want to take a piece of them that killed him."
She sighed again, to cover up the chill that ran down her spine. She was in Fort Drakon, the torture capital of Fereldan, with a bunch of Howe sympathizers. She put her head in her hands. Maybe she should have fought her way past Cauthrien when she'd had Sten, Oghren, and Zevran to back her up. Surrendering peacefully might have been a mistake, a possibly fatal, definitely painful, mistake. And all three had told her so at the time.
Of course Anora would no doubt have turned on them all had she tried to fight her way out. That damn manipulative bitch! She probably set her up to be arrested. Or killed. If she made it out of here, she was going to give that human a piece of her mind.
Not if. When. When she got out of here.
"I will come for you, mi amora."
"My friends will come for me." She told herself.
"Is that right?" She'd forgotten about her audience.
"Yes," she smiled slightly at the thought; "Zev won't let them keep me here for long."
"Oh? A one man assault is it?"
She glared at him. "No, Alistair—"
Before she could say more, the door to the prison block opened. Hope flared within her chest before she saw who had entered. It was not her friends. Judging by the smirk on his face and the tools at his belt, this was the jailor.
"Hate to say it, my friend, but it looks like Howe's friends have arrived before yours."
She tried to hide in the shadows of her cell, but she was not Zevran. Her bright red hair and pale skin stood out too much she simply had no skill with disappearing.
Her cell door opened and she was hauled to her feet, roughly, and dragged out of the cell. She expected to go through the door the jailor had entered from, but she was led down into a pit, instead. Blood was everywhere; the walls held devices that she had never seen before, most of which she couldn't identify their purpose; tables with giant cranks at either end were familiar to her only because she saw one in Zevran's nightmare at the Circle.
This was the torture pit.
Her eyes lingered on the racking tables, recalling Zevran's nightmare. She wished she hadn't brought the assassin into the tower that had been her home, only to spare him the pain of that nightmare. It had looked so painful then, and she had no doubt it would be just as painful in the mortal realm.
A small part of her was relieved when she was led away from the tables. She tore her eyes away and focused on what was happening now. She stood in front of a wall bare of everything save for the chain that was attached to a hook near the top of the pit.
Before she could wonder at its purpose, her wrists were snatched up and clapped in manacles that chaffed they were so tight. She belatedly realized that these manacles were also attached the chain. The man looming over her brandished a whip as he grinned down at her. "Recognize this, elf?"
It was a whip. She looked at it closer and saw the initials RH branded into the leather of the handle. She remembered, then, that Rendon Howe had had a whip on his belt when she confronted him. It must be his.
She also recognized the purple liquid he applied to the lash. Magebane. Once it got into her bloodstream it would make casting spells or wielding her power all but impossible without subjecting herself to sizeable amounts of pain. It would also make the wounds impervious to magical healing so long as the poison remained in her system.
She was far more scared of the Magebane than the whip, but she would not show it. She would not give him the satisfaction!
He motioned to someone and suddenly she was yanked up, slamming into the wall before rising up. Arms painfully above her head, manacles biting into her wrists, feet completely off the ground, she quickly cast Rock Armor. The spell went off moments before a blade sliced through her breast binder. It would have cut her skin too if not for the spell.
The man tsk'd as he ripped the now useless fabric away. "Cheater, you'll regret that."
She heard the clink of glass and then something very cold was pressed against her delicate ear. It followed the outline from lobe to pointed tip and back, spending a little extra attention to Zevran's earring. As it trailed along, his voices heated her cheek. "That's a nice earring you've got there."
Then there was red-hot pain as the Magebane coated dagger pierced the cartilage of her ear. The poison went to work and the heat seared across her entire body until she let go of the spell. The pain remained at her ear and she screamed as the dagger tore its way free of her flesh. Warm blood spilled forth, coating her neck and shoulder.
The recently amputated piece of her ear appeared in front of her; dangling by Zevran's token from grubby, blood-soaked hands. "Now, don't you wish you'd let me cut you?" Laughter filled the pit as she screamed again, this time in anger, and tried to fight her bonds.
The laughter and the ear reminded her of Connor when they'd first arrived at Redcliff so many months ago.
"I cut off their ears and fed them to the dogs!"
The demon that possessed the young boy had kept Eamon alive, but had wrecked havoc on the Arling. At the time, she had desired to protect the village from the evil that attacked with only her own merry band of adventurers. The militia, the town's people should not have had to face such a threat. She should have told Bann Teagan to keep everyone inside the Chantry; should have argued with Murdock. Instead she had convinced more people to stand and fight and die. None of those people should have died. Too many had.
And it was her fault. She had foolishly gone to the elves when they left Lothering, her own curiosity driving her more than any logic. If she had listened to Alistair and gone to Redcliff first, they would have arrived in time to stop all of it.
The first sting of the whip brought her back to the present. It was dull compared to the throb of her ear, but at each crack of the whip the pain grew more and more intense. Tears poured down her face, she did not scream, would not scream again.
She felt the blood drip down her back, over her legs, and fall onto the ground from her toes. She prayed for the blackness to take her. Blood loss should consume her soon.
She knew nothing but pain; time was meaningless; the sounds of laughter drowned out by the throbbing pain, pulsing with each rapid beat of her heart.
When she was finally lowered to the ground, water—cold and salted—soaked her, causing already stiff muscles to seize and rinsing the blood off. She lacked the energy to scream, had long since run out of tears, and did nothing as she was brought back to her cell.
When the cell was locked and the footsteps of the retreating guards faded, she rolled onto her stomach and tried to steady her breathing, to relax tight, painful muscles.
"You did good." Her neighbor had returned. "Most never stop screaming their first few times down."
She could not answer, did not have the strength. She acknowledged the truth to herself though: She wasn't sure she could resist again.
She just stared at him.
"Sleep." He told her gently. "You may not get another chance."
Her eyes closed and she slept, too exhausted to do anything else.
She awoke and wished she hadn't. Everything hurt but she dare not try to heal herself with all the Magebane in her system. Not that it would have worked.
"So you live. Not sure I should be offerin' congratulations or condolences."
She groaned, but sat herself up. Her hand went to her ear and she let out a small sob. It was raggedly cut almost exactly in half, but that was not what made her cry out. Zevran's earring was gone. He had finally accepted how he felt and had offered the earring as a token of affection, a proposal, and it was gone.
Her heart ached and she did nothing to stop or hide the tears.
"There now, stop it." The man actually sounded panicked. "You can't let'em hear that."
"I can't help it, I'm sorry." She mumbled, trying to silence the tears. Once she had herself calm again, she turned to him. "How long was I asleep?"
"Hard to keep time down here, but three guard shifts? I'd say about half the day, give or take."
The door to the cellblock opened again and she collapsed back to the ground. If they thought she was unconscious they wouldn't want to torture her. She hoped.
Hope faded when she heard her cell open. "Rise and shine magey!" Calloused hands pulled her to her feet and out of the cell. As they descended the steps to the pit the man gleefully told her, "We went easy on you last time. You aren't leaving here 'til we get tired of your screams."
More laughter from below and someone commented, "Music to our ears it is."
"Elves have the best screams." Another added.
She was shoved into the arms of a torturer and tied to a racking table. Her back stung from the lashing she received yesterday, her wrists had bruised horribly from the manacles, but they clearly did not care. She felt every splinter in the non-sanded wood on her back and the rope would leave welts on her wrists and ankles.
She did not look at the men that surrounded her. She kept her gaze on the ceiling far above, and did not scream as they started the racking. Her limbs screamed, but she did not give voice to them.
She never imagined the training mages went under to resist demons would have to be applied like this. She controlled her body, would let no demon possess it; she controlled her mind, would let no demon corrupt it. No she was using that resolve to keep herself silent. She did not know how long she could last, the racking was even more painful than it had looked in the Fade, but she had to resist.
When she did not scream a face filled her field of vision. "This one has spirit, boss."
"Not for long. Give me the pliers, we'll get some music out of her yet."
Her left hand was grabbed then, and she had just enough time for cold understanding to slither down her spine before the first fingernail was removed.
She screamed but quickly shut her mouth, biting her lip to keep her mouth shut. Tears leaked down her face and she could not stop them.
"Don't think she liked that, boss." One of them laughed.
Each fingernail on her left hand was removed. By the third she was screaming, unable to stop herself. When it was over her screams subsided into sobs, gasping and wet.
When her wrists dislocated she cried out, but managed to keep it short.
"Fool! Release some tension, we don't want to actually tear her apart…yet."
Abruptly, the pulling against her joints lessened. It was still there, but it was less intense and she could manage it. Barely.
By the end of the session, her shoulders had also dislocated, her throat was raw from the screams that she could no longer hold back, and she felt the sharp pain of hunger begin to eat away at her remaining strength.
When the guards are gone and she is once again in her cell, her neighbor helps her put both shoulders back into their sockets; an awkward process through bars, but it is done. He winces when he sees her left hand and lets her sleep.
When she awakes she hurts everywhere; she shakes, either from hunger or pain she doesn't know anymore.
Her only companion waits for her sit up before speaking, trying to make light of the situation. "They seem to be goin' all out for one so small as you. Didn't think Howe was that well liked."
She manages a small smile, feeling a little better after sleep and now that her joints were where they belonged. "Killing Howe was just an excuse to get me here. I'm sure they're more interested in the fact that I'm a Grey Warden."
"You? A Warden? How'd that happen?"
She closed her eyes. "I betrayed my friend at the order of my mentor." She said softly.
How she regretted that day. How many times had she gone over every moment and thought what she should have done differently. She should have warned Jowan, or never told Irving what he and Lily had planned.
He was a blood mage, but that hadn't bothered her as much as the lies. He lied to her, lied to Lily; he swore he wasn't using the forbidden magic. She had believed him, even when Irving said that he had proof of Jowan's blood magic, she had believed her friend's lies.
The Chantry taught that blood magic and those who used it were evil, but Jowan… She knew him as long as she could remember. Evil did not describe her friend. Naïve and foolish, maybe, but not evil.
If she had just gone through with his plan—never told Irving—Jowan would be free, Lily would be free, and she would not have been conscripted into the Grey Wardens. She would never have seen the death that had become so commonplace; Jowan may never have poisoned Eamon if he'd had Lily with him; she would not have lost friends like Duncan; she might have been able to stop what happened at the Circle before it started, might have been able to save Cullen from what those abominations had done to him.
She had no way to know how things would have turned out if she'd never gone with Duncan. No way to know, but she couldn't stop her mind from asking and picturing how it would have been better.
She flinched when the big metal door is opened. Knowing if she is tortured today she would break. She would scream until she can't any longer and she could only prey that death found her before long.
The sound of a fight drew her attention. She used the bars to stand and watched, relief and elation making her giddy, as Zevran and Alistair carved their way through the guards. When the jailor charged, Alistair shouted a war cry in response and engaged the torturer with sword and shield. While he was distracted, Zevran snuck behind him and dug both blades to the hilt in his back, skewering the heart.
Her assassin kicked the man off his daggers, wiped them clean, and sheathed them with a flourish. "Search him." He instructed Alistair before he turned and ran to her cell.
He quickly picked the lock of her cell door and swung it open, "Did you miss me, My Warden?"
She flung her arms around his shoulders and kissed him fiercely. He returned the kiss and held her close.
There may be many things she wished she could have done better, she decided, but she couldn't regret any choice that had led her to Zevran.