Chapter 4: A Caged Lion
Leandra Hawke made her way down the darkened steps. Only the dimmest of torchlight shone down here, to this place where the light of the sun never touched.
It was a place of punishment, a place where someone was put so that the world could forget about them…
…the place where her youngest cousin was kept.
The noble woman tried to stay focused on the steps in front of her. They were very old, and not in the best repair. The dungeons were a throwback to darker times in Kirkwall. Times that stretched back to the very beginning.
The dungeons had always been a part of this place. During the rule of the Tevinter Imperium, they had been used to hold slaves who had been chosen to be used as blood sacrifices. During the days of Orlesian rule, political prisoners had been kept down here, people awaiting execution. The rise of the Threnholds had seen the cells expanded, both Threnhold rulers had had a long list of enemies, and there had been times when these cells had been full to bursting.
The rise of House Amell had seen an end to that practice. Viscount Aristide had done his best to make peace with the nobles, choosing to ship more dangerous criminals off to be held in the Gallows. His daughter Solona had continued this policy, it was rare to see her sentence someone to this dark place.
Daylen Amell had not shared that philosophy.
The cells had been often used during his brief reign, three of them containing Hawke and his companions. Several of Death's Hand's political enemies had been brought to this place, but they did not stay long…
Daylen's elite guard would come for them in the night, usually accompanied by the blood mage Neria Surana.
When the elf came for someone they were gone…and never seen again.
Leandra shivered as she passed by the empty cells, places like this had very long memories, and seem to hold in the pain inflicted here like water was held a sponge.
Two guards accompanied her, as they had often done since she had begun making her trips down here. As they approached the last cell in the block they paused.
Four more guards stood watch here, making sure that the dungeons sole occupant caused no trouble.
"Greetings Milady," the senior guardsman said with a respectful nod.
Leandra returned it.
"May I see what you carry?" he requested.
Leandra handed over the two books she had brought with her. The Guard inspected them for any sign of weapon or trickery.
The noble woman did not mind, there was nothing special about these books. Solona had not forbid her bringing them down here.
Even a prisoner deserved something to keep his mind occupied.
"Thank you Milady," the guard said returning them to her, "As always you have five minutes."
"Of course," she replied.
The guard approached the door, his fellows watched carefully; making sure the cell's occupant caused no problems.
Their leader rapped loudly on the heavy iron door.
"Yes," a cultured voice said from within.
"You have a visitor Death's Hand," he replied, "You know the drill."
The guard opened a waist high slot in the door, a few moments later the prisoner stuck his hands out.
One of the guards gasped.
This was his first time being assigned this duty, the other guards did nothing to prepare the newcomers, they preferred to let the new fish see for themselves what they were dealing with.
The shock was a good motivator.
The prisoner's left hand was perfectly normal, pale skinned with a signet ring of House Amell adorning it. The right hand was something else entirely.
That hand…was straight out of child's worst nightmares.
Black and shiny like onyx or oil, no flesh covered the infernal appendage. It was skeletal in nature, held together by the darkest magics of the fade. The tips of the fingers ended in long sharp claws, claws that could extend to wicked hooks with the merest thought from their master.
These were the most savage of weapons, claws that could rend both armor and flesh with ease, and had done so on several occasions.
These were the weapon that had earned Daylen Amell his nickname.
These were the claws of Death's Hand.
The guard approached the door, heavy manacles in his grip. The claws extended slightly.
The guard's eyes narrowed.
"The moment I feel claws Amell," he spat, "You feel steel."
The claws retracted.
"My apologies guardsman," the prisoner purred, "It won't happen again."
The guard snorted as he bound the prisoner's hands. Once he was done, they vanished back into the cell. Its lone occupant took up a position against the back wall, in clear view of his jailors.
The guard unlocked the cell, and opened the door.
Leandra Amell stepped inside. The noble woman sighed at the sight before.
A young boy of seventeen stood before her.
No, not a boy, she reminded herself, his eighteenth birthday was only a few months off. He was a young man now.
The prisoner was broad shouldered and powerfully built. His long black hair was unkept and dirty. The plain black shirt and trousers he wore were likewise soiled. Yet, even that could not hide the nobility in the prisoner's manner. The blue eyes of the Amell family burned brightly in his head, eyes that radiated both power and cunning, and no small amount of madness. His cruel mouth, normally twisted into a feral sneer, today wore a warm smile of greetings.
"Hello cousin," he said warmly, "It is always nice to see you."
"Hello Daylen," she replied, "It is good to see you as well."
IOI
Daylen Amell, also known as Death's Hand smiled at her. He might have lost his freedom, his throne, his wife, and unborn child, but it was clear that he had not lost everything.
Leandra Amell-Hawke still looked upon him with affection.
He was grateful for that; far more grateful then anyone could possibly guess.
Lions were pack animals after all, they did not like hunting alone, and make no mistake, he was still a lion…
A lion of House Amell, the rightful ruler of Kirkwall…The Viscount of Kirkwall…betrayed by those he loved most…
…Those who should have simply accepted his rule as divine right that should have seen him for the wonder that he was. Those that should have…
He thought of Mother and Father. He thought of his poor Angelique. Their loss crushed his strength, he almost lay down on floor of his cell and wept.
He had lost everything, everything but Leandra's regard.
How pathetic was that?
He killed such thoughts, now was not the time. Leandra was here. He owed it to her to be cordial.
She was the only member of their family who had not turned their back on him. She was the only Amell who had ever showed true strength and courage.
If he lost her regard, he truly would be lost…
He could not do that.
His smile widened. He had been practicing.
Let her see that he was not broken, let her see his strength.
"I would embrace you cousin," he murmured, "But I do not believe the guards would like that."
"It is alright lad," she cooed, "They are only concerned for my safety."
Deaths Hand chuckled mirthlessly.
"It is ridiculous," he spat, "I would never harm you. You never have to fear around me cousin."
His eyes gleamed with a predatory light.
"You are safe around me; you are likely the only one who is."
Leandra frowned.
"You should not say such things Daylen. The walls have ears, even here."
Daylen laughed at that.
"What is my sweet sister going to do?" he cackled, "Have me imprisoned for life? Oh wait…she already has! I don't my situation could get any worse!"
Leandra gave him a worried look.
It sobered the prisoner's mood.
"My apologies cousin, he said with a nod, "I do not mean to speak ill of our family, but after everything that has happened. You cannot blame me."
That mollified the noble woman somewhat.
"It hurt your sister locking you up you know," she said.
"She had no choice," he shrugged, "I suppose I should count myself lucky. She could have called for my head after…after…"
Daylen's fingers tightened into angry fists, a choked sob escaped his lips.
"I still see them Leandra," he murmured, "My poor mother destroyed right before my eyes. Ripped away from us by the darkest of magics, then…then my bride…my sweet Angelique…."
Death's Hand shuddered. He gave his cousin the most tortured of looks.
"You know what it is like don't you? To watch the one you love fade away right before your eyes. To beg and plead with the Maker not to take them from you…only to know that your cries are falling on deaf ears."
Leandra's eyes shone with unshed tears.
"I know what it is like," she agreed, "I watched my Malcolm slip away from me. There was nothing I could do."
Emotions washed over Daylen Amell's face, rage, sadness, resentment and fury!
"I'm envious of you cousin," he confessed, "When you lost your love, you at least had your children to take solace in, to carry on the love you shared…"
Daylen's claws extended to their full length, but he did not move, not wishing to bring the guards down upon him.
If he did, that would likely bring an end to his visits with Leandra.
He would not do that. Being locked up did not bother him, being held in the darkness did not bother him, but the boredom…that would kill him if he let it.
For years he had been in the thick of things. Schemes, plans, and intrigue, he had had his hand on the very pulse of Kirkwall itself. That excitement had fired his imagination, and drove him to seek out his dreams.
The boredom of this cell would crush him if he let it. He would turn into an empty ranting thing. He could not do that. He owed it to Angelique to survive, to bide his time, and be patient.
Patience was his greatest virtue; he had waited years to seize his throne, slowly building a silent powerbase…
This cell would not hold him forever, one day his sister would make a mistake, and he would be free again.
Free to punish all those who had betrayed him! Free to lay claim to his throne once again!
It was only a matter of time.
"Daylen?"
Leandra's soft voice shook him out of his black thoughts. He put them away again, at least for now.
He smiled.
"I wish," he murmured, "I wish I could have seen my child…my little boy. I…I could have endured this if I knew he still lived…that I…that I had not failed him and his mother so completely."
Leandra laid the books she had brought down and approached her cousin.
Outside the cell, the guards tensed.
"I am in no danger," Leandra growled at them, "Remain where you are!"
The fact that none entered was response enough.
Leandra Hawke took her cousin's hands in hers. They were rough from her days of living as a peasant in Ferelden. The black claws of his right hand gave her hands a gentle squeeze.
He smiled weakly at her.
"You loved your wife Daylen, I know that, and so did she," Leandra managed a weak smile, "We will see them again. Those we have lost. Have faith; take solace in that you will see your wife and child again."
His expression turned sad.
"They will be waiting a very long time I fear," he murmured, "This cell is my world now, until death finally grants me a pardon."
Leandra leaned forward and kissed his forehead, Daylen sobbed slightly.
"Thank you cousin," he murmured, "Thank you for not being afraid.
He managed a weak smile.
"Thank you for not giving up on me."
"Never," she promised, "I could not save my Carver, but perhaps…perhaps I can save you."
"Perhaps," he replied.
IOI
Their visit ended shortly after that, Leandra retrieved the books that Daylen had read, and left the new ones for him to start on.
When it came time for her to leave he kissed her hand with gratitude. She promised to see him soon.
Once she had left, the guards removed the manacles from his wrists. He rubbed circulation back into his wrists grateful to have the hard iron away from his person.
He considered getting started on one of his books, but decided against it.
He lay down on his small cot. Sleep came to him shortly after…
Sleep and another visitor.
In his dreams, Daylen Amell no longer existed; he was but a memory, a boy lost to time.
Here…in the fade…he was Death's Hand, the Viscount of Kirkwall.
Here, he was still free to give his soldiers their marching orders.
He dreamed of his throne room, his elite guards standing watch.
He dreamed of Neria, his mistress and closest ally.
"My Lord Death's Hand," the blood mage purred, "I await your command."
He sneered at her.
"I don't suppose you would kill yourself if I ordered it?"
She laughed lightly.
"If I die, you will lose the war."
"You cost me my wife," he snarled, "Your friend, our lover!"
Neria's ears lowered slightly in shame.
"I mourn Angelique," she cooed, "But I did warn you both. I advised you both to flee with me from Kirkwall. You both refused."
"You abandoned us!"
The elf's green eyes narrowed in anger.
"I preserved your army," she reminded him, "With every victory I win in your name, I convince more of your sister's enemies to ally with us. I have yet to lose a battle."
She pouted.
"A bit of bloody gratitude would be nice."
Death's Hand tried to rein in the emotions raging inside him. He could not decide if he wanted to kill the elf or throw her down and make love to her.
Love and hate were at war in him.
He rose from the throne and brushed her face with the tip of one hooked claw.
A small red line appeared on her cheek. She whimpered with pleasure, begging for his slightest touch.
His glare was cold and tortured.
"It was not just Angelique I lost that day," he whispered, "My child…my son…"
He almost sobbed.
"You said my son would sit on the throne of Kirkwall one day, How can he do that if he is ash?!"
Neria smiled shyly.
"Your son will sit on the throne one day Milord," she purred.
She began to open her robes.
"I have a surprise for you, something to give you hope in that dark place."
She let her robe fall away.
Death's Hand gasped.
Neria was as beautiful as he remembered, her pale skin, her firm body. She was practically glowing with triumph.
She took his clawed hand in hers, and placed it on her belly…
…The gentle swell of her belly.
Daylen sobbed. Part of him feared this a dream.
No…the Maker could not be that cruel!
"It is real milord," she whispered, "I have visited you many times here. The fade is a place of magic, and what is a mage if not magic? Do not doubt what you see. It is all true!"
Fire burned anew in his eyes.
All was not lost.
Neria smiled like a hungry predator.
"Your son will sit on the throne. OUR son." she promised, "He will grow to manhood and crush your sister beneath his heel. He will burn Kirkwall to the ground, and rule over the ashes! He will deal with all those who betrayed you my lord, my love."
Death's Hand shook his head; he felt new purpose fill him, strength bolstered by this small little life growing in his mistress.
It had not been for nothing! There was still hope!
He was not done yet!
New plans formed in his mind, beyond just having Neria harass his sister.
Kirkwall would burn, but it would not be his son who would burn it.
It would be him!
He would cleanse Kirkwall of the traitors and cowards. He would purge it of the Qunari, mages, and Templars.
In the end, there would be nothing left but Death's Hand, and from the ashes of the fallen city, a new better Kirkwall would spring.
A Kirkwall that he would leave to his beloved son!
He was caged, he did not doubt that, but in time he would be free.
In time, he would stand in the sun again, and his roar would shake Kirkwall to the foundations!
It would shake, and then crumble.
He smiled at Neria.
"Continue my war love," he purred, "Ready our son for his throne."
The elf bowed.
"As you command my Viscount," she purred.
Daylen smiled.
"As Death's Hand commands."