Disclaimer: Bioware and EA own Dragon Age. I own a letter opener.

A/N: Once again, thank you to all of those who've read and reviewed. It makes my day to see that little message pop up in my inbox saying that I have a new review, or that someone has favourited/alerted. Simple things please me!

Warning: This chapter has descriptions of abuse. You've been warned.


Loneliness is not a phase

Field of pain is where I graze

Serenity is far away

~Angry Chair - Alice in Chains~

Alistair trudged up the stairs to his rooms at the Spoiled Princess. With all of the loot they'd collected in the Tower, each party member was able to bunk in their own chamber. As he ventured down the hall, he noticed that one of the doors was wide open. Solona stood with her back to him. She was changing into a chemise, but before she pulled the garment over her shoulders, he was able to see various puckered scars running along the length of her back. At first glance, he thought that the scars were a result of her blood magic, but he soon realized that she would never be able to maneuver herself to reach such awkward positions. He wondered how she'd sustained the injuries. Life in the Tower surely didn't lend itself to such violence. Also, from the brief moment he'd seen the marks, he knew that they were no mere surface injuries. Some were an angry shade of red, despite the fact that they obviously weren't sustained recently. Realizing that he'd been staring at her (once again), Alistair politely cleared his throat to alert Solona of his presence. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded to acknowledge him.

"You know, you really shouldn't change into your bedclothes with the door wide open. Especially when you're staying at an inn with Maker knows how many rowdy perverts," Alistair chided lightly.

Solona adjusted her chemise. "And yet you are the only person to disturb me while I was in a state of undress. One can draw only two conclusions: you are wrong in your assessment of the situation, or you are guilty of being a rowdy pervert."

Alistair laughed even though he knew that Solona was not trying to be funny in the least. "Well, given the options, I suppose I'll take the former."

"Was there something you needed?"

Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "No, I was just heading for my room and I noticed that your door was open." He chewed on the inside of his cheek, contemplating whether or not to question her about what he'd seen. "Those scars on your back…what are they from?"

"I do not think it wise to discuss it with you," she replied.

Alistair frowned, his brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Your earlier reaction to Greagoir's treatment of me would suggest that if I were to further describe his actions, you might very well lose control of your anger. We do not need such distractions. We have a Blight to conquer."

He stiffened. "Greagoir did that to you?"

"As I said, I do not think it wise-"

"I don't bloody well care what you think is wise. Just what did that sick son of a bitch do to you?" Alistair's voice was low and menacing. If Solona knew fear, she would have experienced it in that moment.

"I fail to see any reason in persisting in this line of questioning," Solona remarked evenly.

"Because. I. Want. To. Know." Alistair said through clenched teeth.

Solona clasped her hands in front of her. "Very well, if you insist. The Knight-Commander grew weary of punishing me by normal means. He found no satisfaction in having me wash soiled linens, or dust the library shelves. Eventually he called me into his office for his own brand of private punishments. It was minor at first, and the infractions I was being punished for were always weak at best. Studying past curfew, taking too long to finish meals, assisting other apprentices in their spellcasting. Regardless, he looked for any reason to call me into his quarters. First he would slap me across my forearms with a ruler. He ceased doing so, however, when it became obvious that the marks he left were visible to others. Instead, he chose an area where no one would normally look. My back, and my behind. He knew that he could be more vicious in his beatings, and soon I graduated from a ruler to a riding crop. For days following one of his punishments I was barely able to sit through class, the pain was unbearable. But I slowly grew accustomed to the crop. When he started using a flail, I knew his obsession with causing me pain had surpassed even his own expectations. He experimented with the flail on two occasions. I believe the flail left the worst scarring, as it tore the flesh from my bones. Since these sessions were private, I was unable to seek out a healer. Instead, Greagoir sutured my wounds manually, hence the terrible scars. I believe after that final incident, Greagoir realized that no amount of physical torture would purify his desire of me. He began to take me in a more intimate manner. From what I recall, it was not pleasing. He did everything in his power to ensure that I felt nothing but shame. This went on for a year, right up until my Harrowing. And then Duncan came to visit the Tower…I suppose you know the rest."

"I appreciate you telling me this," Alistair ground out. "I'm sure it was difficult."

Solona shook her head. "No, not difficult. I simply did not see the point in telling you."

Alistair nodded stiffly. "All the same, thank you. I'd best let you get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow."

Solona nodded. "That we do. I had planned on leaving at dawn. Do you think it too early for our companions?"

"What?" Alistair snapped irritably. "No, no of course not. We'll leave at dawn. Whatever you say."

Solona's gaze swept over her fellow Warden. "Your demeanor. It has changed. Did my story have that much of an effect on you? It should not have. If it does not bother me, it should not bother you. To live in the past is pointless. We must concentrate on the future."

Alistair shot a cold glance in her direction. "I guess we just don't see things the same way. At any rate, I need to leave. Maybe a bit of fresh air will do me some good."

"Perhaps," Solona conceded. "Do not stay out too long, you will also need your rest for tomorrow."

Alistair had to stifle a dark chuckle at her comment. "No rest for the wicked…"

~*O*~*O*~

When he arrived at Lake Calanhad docks, he fully expected to see that insipid templar whose name he later discovered was Carroll. Instead, an older man named Kester had taken charge of ferrying passengers to and from Kinloch Hold. He didn't give Alistair any trouble whatsoever, and soon Alistair found himself within the ruins of the Circle Tower. He flagged down the nearest templar and asked where he would be able to find the Knight-Commander.

"Should be in his office," the templar replied. "He usually is around this time, it's when the templars can come and visit him and offer up their concerns and so on."

Alistair gave an appreciative smile. "Wonderful. Where can I find his office?" The templar gave him directions, and he was off. After a few flights of stairs, he was facing a pair of large wooden doors. He resisted the urge to pound on the door, reminding himself that he would at least try to be civil. He tapped on the wood and awaited a response.

"Enter," came Greagoir's gruff voice.

Alistair swept into the room, firmly shutting the door behind him. He took in Greagoir's sparsely furnished office. There were no personal touches, only a large wooden desk and a bookshelf filled with various ancient texts. Templar techniques no doubt. Alistair wondered idly where the man kept his torture devices, until his gaze fell upon an ornate strongbox discreetly standing in the far corner of the Knight-Commander's office. Alistair felt his heart rate increase.

"Warden," Greagoir drawled. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Or does your order often intrude upon other people's time?"

"No, I just came by to ask you a few questions," Alistair stopped just short of Greagoir's desk, his fists resting on the ash wood surface. "What exactly happened between you and Solona? What are those scars all over her back?"

From what Alistair could see, Greagoir grew alarmed at the mention of Solona, but the expression soon passed and his lips pursed into a grim line. "She was beyond our control, constantly flouting the rules. I'll admit, we did resort to rather…extreme punishments…but at the time, we felt we had no choice. She showed great promise as a mage, but her behavioural issues were deplorable. If I had the chance to go back and do things over…perhaps I would have been less harsh."

Alistair's eyes flashed. "You keep saying 'we'. Do you mean to say that there were more involved in her torture?"

"Torture?" Greagoir repeated incredulously. "I'll admit the methods were unorthodox, but they were a far cry from torture. To answer your question, the First Enchanter was present during the punishments."

"The-the First Enchanter? Was he involved in the…sexual abuse as well?"

The Knight-Commander's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "What? Andraste's mercy, who told you she endured that kind of abuse?"

"She did, of course!" Alistair replied heatedly. "She told me all about your need to purge yourself of the demon that tempted you, making you use her body in ways that-"

"Silence!" Greagoir roared. "I assure you, I never laid a finger on the girl with that sort of intent. Maker's breath, I don't even desire wom-" his mouth clamped shut and his cheeks flamed in embarrassment.

Alistair frowned. He ran his fingers through his hair exasperatedly. "Then why did she lie?"

"I have already told you of her behavioural issues."

"But she's Tranquil! You made sure of that. Is she even capable of lying?" Alistair wondered out loud.

"I doubt it. Though anything is possible," Greagoir shrugged.

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "That still doesn't explain those hideous scars on her back. She said that you refused to allow a healer to tend to the wounds, and that you used a flail on her. Is that part true?"

Greagoir winced. "As I said, I am not proud of what I did. At the time, I thought it necessary. She was at a high risk of being possessed by a demon."

"You took a young woman and beat her mercilessly, rending the flesh from her bones, and you thought you were helping her? You disgust me," he spat.

"How you feel is of no concern to me. I will answer to the Maker for my actions. Meanwhile, I have sent a group of templars to the inn you are staying at to collect Warden Amell. She must undergo the Rite once again. As you are no doubt aware, the effects are temporary. She will be returned to you at dawn," Greagoir stood, signaling the end of their meeting.

"What?" Alistair sputtered. "You can't do that! You have no jurisdiction over her! She's a Grey Warden, not a ward of the Chantry. You have no right!"

"Be that as it may, I must fulfill my duty to the Maker, and it is His will to have that girl cut off from her powers. I am doing her, and you, a favour."

Alistair heard the blood rushing through his head. He felt the deep thrum of his pulse, felt every nerve ending screaming at him to act. Memories of Solona invaded his senses. The chaste kiss she'd placed on his cheek in the Fade during her moment of lucidity. The being that possessed her, no doubt as a result of her Tranquil nature. The horrors she had endured. The passionate woman that had been beaten for no other reason than being different. The sight of her mutilated flesh. Alistair's nostrils flared. The edges of his vision grew red, casting the room in a crimson hue. A sharp sensation penetrated his guts and spread outward through his body. Rage. His thoughts were muddled. He was certain of one thing, and one thing only: the man in front of him needed to die. He needed to bleed. The furious cry that tore free of Alistair's throat was none he'd ever voiced. He was no longer aware of his actions. He simply fed on the blood lust. He felt and heard bones cracking, unsure if they were his enemy's, or his own. The metallic scent of copper permeated the air. He heard himself grunting like an animal. As quickly as the chaos began, it came to an end. Though the rage had abated, he still felt fuzzy, and was unable to move. It took several minutes for his faculties to return to him.

"Fool!" hissed a voice from behind him. "I came in search of you to inform you that we had to flee the inn and set up camp in the wilderness. Had I known you were in the midst of making our situation even more dire, I would have left you to rot at the hands of the templars."

Alistair turned and saw Morrigan standing before him, her arms folded over her chest and a scowl painted on her dainty features.

"What the-what happened?" Alistair glanced down at Greagoir's bruised and bloodied form.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "You snapped and attacked him. 'Tis a pity you did not kill him."

"So—he's not dead?" he chewed on his lower lip anxiously. He was horrified at the carnage he'd caused. He'd never before lost control like that.

"He will live. Though I suggest we leave immediately, lest more of his kind decide to visit and discover their leader in such a state."

Alistair nodded numbly. "Yes…good idea," he paused. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Through the window," she replied, flipping her hand dismissively. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered you beating this man senseless. I was going to leave you to finish him, but soon realized that you had gone berserk. I thought it best to stun you until you came to your senses."

"Oh," he replied lamely.

"Enough of this talk," Morrigan snapped. "We must leave, now. I shall meet you on the shores of Lake Calanhad. I commandeered the boat after that fool Kester ferried me across. Our camp is not far from the inn, but far enough to evade the templars."

"Sounds like you have it all figured out," Alistair muttered.

Morrigan shot him a sardonic smile. "One of us must make use of our brain from time to time. Apparently that task often falls to me. Now, off we go before the Tower swallows us up."