A/N: For those who are not familiar with the quote, it was carved into the walls of a concentration camp during WWII. I have had this story swimming around in my head for a while and decided to do something with it. Reviews are welcome and encouraged and I will try to regularly update.

Special thanks to HoshniNoSenshiKitty for the Beta read and helping me put my best foot forward.

Fort Drakon.

The name alone was enough to make even the bravest of men uncomfortable. The towering structure could be seen for miles; an unsettling sight for those who knew of the rumors of what took place inside the walls. For some, the tower served as a signal that even a place such as Denerim could hold dark secrets.

It was a place that everyone in Denerim knew about, but scarcely ever saw; for those who were unfortunate enough to see the inside of the prison walls were rarely-if ever-released to confirm if the sinister legends were true.

Even the bravest of men felt the shivers run down their spine as the anguished screams from the tormented prisoners echoed in the night. The stories that seeped through the stone brought whispers of the horrors the prisoners were subjected to during their time in the dungeons. The prison served as a final destination for those accused of the most heinous crimes one could imagine. Rapists, murderers, traitors; it did not matter the crime, the fortress did not discriminate against those who set foot inside the looming structure.

No matter how hardened the criminal may be in the outside world, eventually their spirits became just as broken as their bodies. Day after day more men and women were brought inside the walls, never to be seen again. Each night brought with it the sound of new anguished screams, crying out for the mercy that they would never receive.

The senior torturer of Fort Drakon, who was simply referred to as Holden, had held his current position for nearly ten winters and not only was he very good at his job, he thoroughly enjoyed it. Nothing sent shivers of excitement through him like the way his victims begged him for mercy. The sound of a whip striking flesh sent a surge of adrenaline rushing through him, making him quiver with anticipation of the tormented scream that always followed.

His greatest enjoyment came when a noble bastard found their way into his company; when they were forced to kneel for the first time in their privileged, spoiled lives. It was a rare occasion when he was blessed with the treat of flogging a high born to within an inch of their life, as their status and wealth provided a shield to keep them away from his fortress.

Today was a special day for him, for not only did Holden have the joy of being brought a high born bastard, but this particular bastard happened to be one of the elusive Grey Wardens. Holden had seen many people pass through his walls, but the feel of Grey Warden flesh being torn by his hand was something he had not yet had the pleasure of experiencing.

Aedan Cousland, the last of the now disgraced Couslands of Highever and member of the near extinct Grey Wardens knelt on the cold, hard stone floor with his arms shackled above his head. He had been stripped from the waist up, leaving his muscular torso fully exposed. Droplets of sweat rolled from his forehead, though rather from heat or fear Holden could not say for certain.

"I must say," Holden said calmly as he circled Aedan, eyeing him closely. "It is rare indeed that I have someone of your status and position grace my halls. I have heard many tales of you, each more thrilling than the last."

Aedan smirked as he stared up at the man who was no doubt about to inflict a considerate amount of pain on him. "If you desire an autograph, I fear it may be difficult to do so with my arms shackled as they are."

Holden caressed the handle of his favored tool; a custom, handmade made whip crafted specifically to fit his hand alone. At the end of the sturdy wooden handle were three short lengths of chain, each seven links long. The ends of the final link had been carefully whittled to a sharp point, making a brutally effective weapon for tearing flesh from the body. He gently ran the lengths of the chains across Aedan's shoulders as he circled around him, standing at arm's length. He carefully positioned himself in the space that would inflict the most amount of damage, flexing his arm as the familiar tingling sensation spread through him.

"You laugh now, Warden. But we will see how long your good humor lasts."

Aedan's body stiffened against the blow, his hands clenching into fists as the sharpened edges of the chains ripped into his back. He felt his flesh tear away from his body, leaving long gashes and immediately drawing blood. He managed to keep from crying out in anguish, but only just. He refused to give this man the satisfaction of a verbal response. Aedan tried not to imagine what the scene must look like as he felt the hot sticky liquid rolling down his back. Holden however, looked on in satisfaction as he gazed upon his work. He liked to think of unmarked flesh as a blank canvas, and he the artist who would create a masterpiece across the area. Little bits of flesh clung to the edges of the whip like souvenirs to mark his latest creation.

Holden walked around and faced Aedan, roughly shoving the handle of the whip under his chin and forcing him to look up at him. This was his favorite position; it let his captive know that he was in charge. The images of the helpless look that came over everyone'e faces eventually was what lulled him to sleep every night. And the look always came, no matter how hardened or determined they might be. Aedan looked back at him with the same stubborn resolve that many before him had shown, and just like all the others Holden would break him. This was the part of Holden's job that he most enjoyed for he loved a challenge, and nothing gave him greater satisfaction than seeing the light go out of a prisoner's eyes and finally give in and accept his inevitable fate.

Holden slammed a heavily armored fist into Aedan's face, eliciting a small grunt of pain. Holden gripped Aedan's hair, violently yanking his head back, putting his face inches from his. "I know what you are thinking. It's what they all think: that you are unbreakable. But trust me, my lord, I will break you. And when I do, you will beg for death to release you."

Aedan spit blood into his face, a satisfied smirk spreading across his own. "If your plan is to torture me with your rancid breath, I fear I may give in sooner than either of us expect."

Holden wiped his face and sneered in a way that told Aedan he would pay dearly for the offense he had just committed. Holden's grip was so tight on his prized whip that the knuckles on his fingers had gone white. He placed himself behind Aedan and struck out with as much strength as he could muster. Aedan could no longer hold back the screams as he felt the flesh being torn from his back. Blood splattered against the stone wall as another blow from the weapon tore into him. The last thing Aedan thought of before his world went black was a flash of flaming red hair, and the heavily accented voice that he had come to love.

Aedan was not sure how long the "interrogation" had lasted, but to him it felt like an eternity. He was beaten until he lost consciousness, only to wake up and have the entire process repeat itself. He had been questioned about the Wardens, what their plan was and if they had planned to commit treason against Queen Anora. He had been made to answer for the murder of Arl Howe, the death of King Cailan and the next move of Arl Eamon.

Aedan had managed to keep his mouth shut except for the occasional scream, though he had to admit there were moments when his will threatened to fail him. The only thought that had kept him going was the knowledge that Leliana would be waiting for him, that she and the rest of his companions would not abandon him and would be trying to find a way to release him. At least he had kept Alistair from facing the same torment that he was now experiencing. No doubt insisting that Alistair stay behind while he infiltrated the Denerim palace is what had saved him from being next to Aedan in his cell.

He was roughly assisted back to his cell by two guards who half carried, half dragged him to the small cell in the farthest corner of the keep. He was forcibly shoved through the barred door, crying out as the guards rough hands pressed against the torn flesh of his back. He fell forward onto the hard stone floor, landing on his hands and knees. The loud banging of his cell door closing echoed in his ears, followed by the retreating footsteps of his captors.

His eyes roamed around the cell, stopping as an engraving caught his eyes. Carved into the stone walls of the cell were words left by previous prisoners, though rather left by one prisoner or carved by several over time it was impossible to tell. The words stared back at him, echoing the words that so many who had come before him must have spoken to themselves.

If there be a Maker, He will have to beg for my forgiveness.

Aedan began to crawl towards the carving. His body painfully protested every move that he made, causing a wave of nausea to wash over him. He reached up ignoring the pain that the simple action sent shooting through him.

He felt his fingers brush over the etching. He traced each letter delicately with his fingers, repeating each line in his mind over and over in a chant that served as an anti-prayer.

If there be a Maker...

The edges of his vision began to blur as he felt himself slipping into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, the words still swimming through his mind as he slept.