This is not sad so much- dark would better describe it.

note: the Ancient Greek believed that disregardng the gods, and trying to behave as a god yourself was the ultimate sin: HUBRIS. Commiting hubris always led to the gods' punishment, nemesis.

Trigger warnings: torture, mentions of rape.

"We have captured him, my Lord."

The Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael, raised his head and looked at the armed man. He blinked then rubbed his neck; this sitting life was killing him.

"Who?" he absentmindedly asked.

"The apostate, my Lord. The one known as 'The Bane of Kirkwall'..." the man took a step back at the look of blind fury that darkened the Prince's face. He raised his head, his lips thinned into a bitter line, his whole body tensed like a bow.

"Anders? Ye have Anders?"

The man nodded. It was said that there was not a single person that the usually mild-mannered Prince reviled more than the notorious mage- and it was obviously true, if the dark, hate-filled look on the Prince's face was any indication.

He led the young Vael down to the dungeon, biting his lip a bit as they went. They had gagged and bound the mage, and tousled him up a little; the Prince would easily believe there had been a battle.

Maker knew lying didn't sit well with him, but the bounty was a lot of money and he –and the rest of the men in his company- had wee ones to feed.

Sebastian stood for the longest time in front of Anders, looking him over. He was bound and a filthy rag was gagging him. He looked older, thinner, his once scraggly stubble a full grown beard now, streaked with grey, as was his hair. It looked alien on his face, like this was a wise, harmless old man, not one that had killed hundreds and callously labelled his crime a necessary action.

He remembered back to the last time he had seen Anders, when he was so full of fire, so militant, barely apologising for what he had done. He remembered the bind fury that had blinded him when Hawke had let the murderer in front of him walk free. 143 people had died n the Chantry explosion. Amongst them, at least 20 were children. They had found Elthina's body under a fallen marble statue, and given her a proper pyre, but in the days that followed, among the chaos and destruction, many of the dead in the Chantry had gone unclaimed. What Sebastian could recall best of everything was the stench of death and decay this man in front of him had left in his wake.

Hawke had barely survived the battle in the Gallows, and only a handful of mages had made it out alive. Not that Sebastian cared. Hawke had apologised many times since then, but for him, Gareth had stopped being a friend the minute he'd let Anders walk away unpunished.

He took a deep breath. Maker, how he wanted to punch the mage in the face. How he wanted to kick him and scream and rage.

His Guard Captain appeared, followed by the Master Gaoler.

Without taking his eyes off the mage's face, he gave instructions for the necessary bindings to be set in place, explained the man's unique circumstances to the other two men, all the while feeling that wave of disgust and antipathy inside him; Anders just stood there, and looked at him with resigned, emotionless eyes. Sebastian directed his Guard Captain to pay the men that had captured the abomination generously, and then dismissed their captain. His Gaelor looked to the mage, then at his men waiting in the shadows of the dungeon.

"What do ye want done with him, my Lord?"

With one last look of contempt and rage, Sebastian turned his back on Anders. "Do what ye will, other than kill him. I want him alive for when the Seekers come."

He was already going up the stairs when Anders' eyes widened in fear and despair; the men in the dungeon- torturers, executioners- circled him like a pack of wolves.

He tried calling out to the Prince, but he was gagged, and a knee suddenly lodged into his groin, bringing him to the ground.

Sebastian raised the fluted glass to his lips, sipping slowly, enjoying the heady taste of the Orlesian wine. In the Great Hall before him, nobles mingled, drank and laughed their little simpering laughs, enjoying his food and drink. He watched some of the women cast him openly flirtatious looks and tried very hard not to wince. The rumour going around had been that the Prince of Starkhaven was looking for a wife and the nobility of the Free Marches had amassed like a swarm of locust, each family hoping that the dolled up daughters they dragged behind them would catch his eye.

He was standing by the door, so when a faint echo of an agonised scream reached his ears, he frowned, and looked towards the corridor. A faint cry, a keening shriek, a name. "Sebastian!" the voice cried. "Sebastian, please!"

The prince of Starkhaven's face hardened, and stepping back into the Great Hall, he motioned for the musicians to play louder. The voice was drowned, and so was the little twinge of guilt he'd felt at hearing it. Moving closer to the throngs of nobles, he signalled out a few attractive lasses and asked the first of them for a dance, smiling charmingly.

"I heard that if you cut off a mage's hands, they can't use magic."

"The Prince said to keep him alive."

"It's just his hands. We'll burn the wound afterwards. He'll still be alive."

A soft, resigned cry left the bloodied lips of the man writhing on the floor, among his own blood and other fluids. "Sebastian...please...Seb. Help me."

A kick landed against his already broken ribs, making him groan; he had screamed so much already, he couldn't make another sound; his throat was closed, his mouth parched. He opened his eyes to see one of his torturers approaching him with a wicked looking hatchet in his hands, and tried to summon up his magic to resist. Nothing happened. His mana was totally depleted, although he had only used it to heal himself after...after what they had done to him. Justice didn't stir, just like he hadn't in months, not since the Chantry had been destroyed.

He closed his eyes and waited. No one was coming to his aid, and justice wasn't on his side.

His mind went blank as the hatchet dropped.

Sebastian looked at the man standing in front of him with narrowed eyes, trying to remember who he was. Then it hit him, the captain of the group of men that had captured Anders.

"Aye, I remember ye,"" he said, "Ye're the one that captured the Bane of Kirkwall."

The man fidgeted a bit at that, then his eyes turned downwards. "About that, my lord..." he hesitated, then removed a large bag of coins from his pack and let it on the table. "It's all here my Lord. Every single piece of copper."

Sebastian was taken aback. "Ye're returning my money? Why?"

The man actually looked more embarrassed. "We don't deserve it my lord. We didn't capture the mage. He gave himself in, and was very willing to do so. He actually sought us out, not the other way around."

"WHAT?"

"He said he needed to atone for his crime, and asked that we should bring him to you. He said he wanted to apologise," the man looked at the bag of coins lovingly. "We have wee ones to feed, all of us, and thought we wouldn't get paid if we told you he surrendered. So...we lied. But...It didn't sit well with me...with all of us. So here it is, all returned."

Sebastian felt a cold dread spread through him. "The mage told you he wanted to apologise?"

"He did my lord. He said he had wronged a great deal of people, but none more than you." A look of curiosity lit up the man's eyes. "Did he, after all, my Lord?"

Sebastian looked stricken. "I never gave him the chance."

The Seekers arrived for Anders the next day, and a sleepless, pale Sebastian had accepted their praise and thanks, cringing inside, before leading them down to the dungeons. Those screams he had heard that night...that pleading voice. Maker. When had he become such a monster, to hear a man's pained cries, to know that man was being tortured and do nothing but dance and drink the night away? When had he become so callous, so unfeeling?

Three times he had made it to the dungeon door during the night- not once, not twice. And every single time, he hadn't been able to go inside, to see with his own eyes the evidence of how low his principles had fallen.

He stood outside the dungeons door now, shaking like a dog as the Seekers filed past him. He felt ashamed, so ashamed of himself. He had let Anders be tortured; where was his faith? Where was his believe in the Maker? Where was his mercy, his compassion?

The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
She shall know true peace.

Anders had come to apologise, and he had never given him the chance. He had repented for his crime, and he had not been allowed to show it.

Suddenly, a Seeker stumbled out of the dungeon, and emptied his stomach in a corner, pale and shaken, and Sebastian was frozen in fear; what had been done to Anders?

Maker, what had he allowed to be done to Anders?

The Seekers' leader came out of the dungeon, cast one look at his comrade in the corner and then turned her dark, condemning eyes to Sebastian. A frown was marring her attractive features, a deeply disappointed, disapproving expression.

Two seekers appeared behind her, carrying a bloodied, nearly unrecognisable body between them.

"Is he...?" Sebastian felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"No. But I'm sure he wishes he were."

A hand flew to Sebastian's mouth to stifle a cry of horror. The mage's hands had been cut off, bloody stubs left to drip blood the front of his robes. The Seeker that had approached him, holding a pair of manacles looked at him then at the shackles in his hands, then at the mage's missing limbs.

"It won't be necessary," Their leader said softly. "He won't resist. I dare say he looked almost relieved to see us."

"What will happen to him?" Sebastian asked, fighting the revulsion and horror at what had been done to the mage. What he had allowed to be done to the mage. What he had done to the mage; it was by his order that he had been tortured, it had been his indifference that had allowed this to take place.

Tears flooded his eyes as he remembered the times those talented hands had healed them all, Sebastian included, how many times those hands had soothed and relieved aches, how many times a worried parent kissed those missing hands in thanks for the saved life of his child. Guilt and shame flooded his soul; regret clenched around his soul like a vicious, steel-gauntleted fist. The same hands had placed the bomb that had ended so many lives, that had started a war...had killed the woman Sebastian respected and loved like a mother. He should be feeling vindicated, he should be feeling as justice had been server.

But this was not justice, this was vengeance.

In his ire, Sebastian had done nothing different than the spirit that had urged Anders on.

One word echoed in Sebastian's head as he contemplated that believing he was doing the Maker's work, he had tortured and maimed a man that had come to apologise, and that word was hubris.

They took Anders away, leading him by the elbow –carefully, almost tenderly. Sebastian stood in the gate for the longest time, watching as the group diminished in the distance, then staring at the spot they had disappeared into the horizon. Anders had looked back once, his face vacant, his eyes devoid of life. He hadn't said a word, hadn't even looked at Sebastian. There was a quiet and resigned dignity in his stance, in the way he stood with his shoulders straight even as his body shook in pain.

Later, Sebastian punished the men that had raped, tortured and maimed Anders, although he knew it was himself he should be punishing. He kept thinking of the mage for many years to come, wondering of his fate, aching to know what had happened to him. No word was ever heard of him again, not until Sebastian met with Hawke by accident, during a trip to Orlais. The former champion of Kirkwall had looked at him with cold disdain when he'd asked, then spit at his feet in utter distrust.

"He's dead, of course," he said. "He begged the Seekers to kill him. They had more mercy than you."

When Sebastian finally got married, his first child was born dead, and the second died a babe, from a sudden fever. Sebastian had prayed for forgiveness, taking it as a sign he had lost the Maker's favour –if he ever had it. His wife was the next one to die, in childbirth, granting him an heir, a handsome young boy that Sebastian adored. It seemed that he had finally been forgiven, that the 'Vael curse' was finally lifted.

And then, one day, his son had a fight with another boy, and fire had leapt out of his fingers. Sebastian cried as the templars came to take his baby boy away, and the same night, the whole castle heard him as he stood on the battlements, shouting out to the skies, raging as like a man gone mad.

"I'm sorry!" he cried to the empty skies. "Do you hear me, Anders? I'm sorry! What else do ye want of me?"

The people underneath cringed at the despair in their Prince's voice then shook their heads and tightened their lips in sympathy as he fell to his knees and cried.

"Maker. I'm sorry. Haven't I paid enough? I'm sorry."

But the sky didn't reply, and the Maker sent no sign. His apology was too late, and altogether useless. He knew that- he knew there was no Maker that could help him, to hear his pleas.

Sebastian had finally lost his faith.

And when the Vael curse claimed him as well, in the form of a gruesome, lingering illness, he didn't begrudge his fate, or plead for his life...what for? He had nothing else to live for.

At least, if there really was a second chance at life, an afterlife of any sort, he could apologise in person.

It was about time.