In the long hours of the night

When hope has abandoned me,

I will see the stars and know

[Some] Light remains.

Trials 1:2

Dorian braced for the damp, the cold and the darkness, but above all, he braced for the smell… Unlike what he'd assumed, however, there was no smell but that of damp and moss, which he found odd; it had, after all been over two months, and he very much doubted even small mercies, such as basic dignity, would be awarded to one so hated.

Not by Cassius, in any event.

The dragons themselves had shown less personal interest in their prisoner than Dorian had initially assumed they would, but then, the Magister told himself, cautiously lowering the delicate handkerchief he had been holding over half his face, the dragons needed nothing from Solas other than knowing he was, indeed, in pain, and Cassius himself was just the blunt instrument by which that was accomplished. Searching for Arlathan gave Cassius a purpose and even further reason to be diligent – if that was even needed, Dorian thought, realising that, in the end, it was not the damp, the cold or even the lack of smell that he should have braced for. It was the mere sight; it took all of his self determination not to turn away.

He wished he hadn't come, he knew it, and yet…

Dorian had not spoken to Lexi since they had last parted, before the madness on Seheron. He'd written – nothing of what was on his mind, of course; the danger of letters being opened was too great, even in normal times. He'd simply laid out a few lines in the code they shared to let his lover know that he would not be in contact for a few weeks, and told him not to be overly concerned if correspondence was sporadic. Not that those lines might have distracted Lexi from the fact that the letter had included a sealed, authenticated copy of Dorian's will, but in that too, there had been little choice, for the chances of the dowager lady Pavus enforcing Dorian's wishes in what regarded Veldrin, if she returned from Seheron and he didn't, were absolutely nil.

He had not written again after their return from the island, once more, because it did not match their normal routine: news of the expedition's success and Solas' capture had reached the most remote corners of the Imperium, and extra correspondence was no more than a pointless risk. Lexi would know his lover was back in Minrathous; Veldrin's swearing in ceremony would give him a solid excuse to visit the capital, and...

And, oh Gods, Dorian thought, still not finding the courage to intently look to Solas, what? Clear the air?

He'd tried, for weeks now, to tell himself that the worm of suspicion that had been chewing at his heart ever since he'd spoken to Imshael on Seheron was just a demon's wicked play, no more than a distraction. For a short while he had succeeded, and forced his thoughts to cling to immediate reality, on one action at a time; he'd even felt ashamed when, on a particularly dark night he'd succumbed to temptation and tried to reach Lexi on their crystal. Lexi had not answered – there could have been a million reasons, a million good reasons for it, and Dorian had counted them all once, and twice, and then once more, as he lay awake hour after hour…In the end, dreaded dawn had come as a blessing.

Lexi would be at Veldrin's ceremony. They would make love, and speak of all of it; Lexi would laugh his doubts away, then crack terrible jokes about them over breakfast with Vel, and Dorian would be embarrassed, but relieved, and all would be well. All would be well – a simple edifice of foolish hope, one that was built during the day only to be torn asunder during the loneliness of night.

But Lexi had not come, and it had only been then that Dorian had finally admitted to himself that each time he had to push Imshael's words out of his mind, he did so with waning strength and faith, and that with each day that passed his hope, too, had been getting frailer.

For days after, he'd sought Lexi on the communication crystal hundreds, if not thousands of times; its dull glow, and the deathly silence from the other side had filled him with rage, despair and finally, fear, though fear of what, he still could not fully define. Sleepless nights had started lining one after the other, now filled not with good reasons, but with evil ghosts, and terrible, dark thoughts that neither wine or brandy could lay to rest and which he did not have the heart to share with Vel. Whatever passed for Gods knew she had plenty of ghosts herself, and he could not bear the thought of burdening her with another, not until he fully understood and accepted what he was burdening her with.

It was impossible that this had been Lexi trying to take distance from his lover; not like this. A man who loved could not have been so cruel as to stay silent for so long, while a man out of love would have no reason to torment one he no longer cared for. Lexi must have been hiding for different reasons, and those could not have been his wife or family – even in their earlier days, when they had needed far more caution then they now did, they had been letters, or signs, or mere, brief flickers of the crystal; there'd always been fear, but it had never bested them. Not without shame of each other feeding it…No.

Lexi was not scared. He was ashamed, and Dorian dreaded, dreaded his own suspicions of why to such an extent that he thought the truth preferable to even their confirmation.

He needed to be here. He needed to know, even if…

Dorian finally dared look up and focus.

For one who had reportedly taken neither food nor water during his captivity, Solas showed no sign of emaciation, and had clearly not soiled himself, yet that was where the bearable stopped. He was hanging by his elbows some six feet off the ground, his breath so pained and shallow that Dorian could only assume Cassius had thus left him hours earlier; the entire left hand side of his face was a yellowing bruise, and though the elf was keeping both his eyes closed, it was highly doubtful that he could open his left one even if he wanted to.

Fresh red welts and equally fresh burn marks, lined in black, that looked as though someone had been entertaining themselves by putting hot embers out on another's skin lined and dotted Solas' chest and shoulders.

'Oh, Gods,' Dorian whispered. 'Let him down,' he growled, towards the guards.

'Magister Cassius said…' one of the three soldiers dared.

'And now I am saying differently,' Dorian snapped. 'In a contest of authority, what the Magister who is here in the flesh beats what the other Magister said six hours ago. Let him down.'

They did, with slowness caused by confusion as well as contempt for an order they clearly did not respect but could not refuse; Solas tried to hold himself straight once his bare feet touched the ground, yet his body was in worse shape than it appeared, for he could not sustain his weight, and he staggered, then grunted in pain as the slip once more tugged at his already tortured shoulders.

'All the way down,' Dorian breathed, turning away for he did not want to see Solas on his knees, and wished to spare himself the sight or a few heartbeats longer. 'Key,' he said, extending his hand towards the soldiers of the guard.

This time, his order was not only meant with confusion and contempt. It was met with an outright hateful gleam, so Dorian stared back in open hatred of his own; judging by the looks on these men's faces, Cassius had chosen his thugs well – experience, most likely. These were not men following orders, they were adept at the tasks assigned not only by practice, but by talent and unbridled enthusiasm.

'Key,' he repeated, snapping his fingers and smiling.

'Magister Cassius will be informed,' the guard sourly said; he nonetheless relinquished the key to Solas' metal cage.

'Run along and inform him, then,' Dorian said, still smiling. 'If you can actually run in that metal calamity you are wearing, of course – close the door behind you as well. We'd hate for the…'

He sighed, and turned to look at Solas, for as long as he could stand the sight. It was brief.

'…better endowed, clearly fit, better fed and watered and obviously unbound elf to overpower a Magister and escape, now, would we? He is definitely going to that, with the ten stone worth of chains he is carrying. In other words,' Dorian hissed, 'dismissed.'

As the guards barred the door behind themselves, but none set off running; Dorian drew a deep breath. Maybe, he thought, as the bar fell, locking him in with the danger that Solas no longer was, some of them relished the thought of two people they held hatred for killing each other, in a locked dungeon.

Or maybe they imagined the deviant had other plans for the elf, ones which would be amusing to watch; the small slit in the now shut door was still open.

'Solas,' he whispered.

The elf opened his right eye, and truly worked on his left, to no avail.

'Dorian Pavus,' the elf said. 'Are you here to take from me what the other Magister could not?'

'No,' Dorian softly said.

For whatever Veldrin said, the human thought, there was a significant part of Dorian that was glad him and Solas had never truly stared into each other's eyes. As wretched as his conditions now were, there was an intensity to Solas' gaze that Dorian did not think he could ever grow accustomed to – looking into Solas' eyes simply made the human feel that he was under stern scrutiny, and that whatever test he was expected to pass, he would forever fail.

'You do understand that after you leave, they will string me up even higher just to reclaim their territory, do you not? You did not do this for me.' Solas said, pronouncing the absolutely expected verdict.

Dorian held himself in check.

'Right,' he said, arching an eyebrow. 'I ordered them to stop torturing you before my eyes because altruism is the ultimate form of egoism, and all that rousing music. I admit to my own hypocrisy, and praise your understanding of human nature...Gods, Solas,' he sighed, 'some things never change.'

'Not for the best, I would agree,' the elf weakly said; he'd been too daring with his breath, and a punishing cough ripped through his chest, bringing stinging tears to his eyes. He turned his face to the side, yet there was no hiding and no respite – Dorian bit his lower lip and looked away, allowing the other as much privacy in pain as he still could.

It was only when the cough stopped, and Solas's breath evened to short and painful gasps that he dared step forward to unlock the cage, and knelt to match the elf's height. Silently, he offered his hip flask, and in equal silence, Solas pressed his chin into his shoulder, in stubborn refusal.

'Please,' Dorian whispered; the elf met his glance and coldly sustained it. 'Please, Solas,' the human repeated. 'I'll think no less of you, and you'll have even further reason to think less of me.'

The was a crack then in Solas' icy gaze, a barely there upwards turn in the corner of his lips; he sighed and took a small sip of the flask, scarcely enough to slick his tongue, Dorian thought, yet it seemed to significantly ease his breath. He nodded, and shifted as far away from the human as his bindings allowed - understanding that this was truly the extent of kindness that would be accepted, Dorian tiredly sat back, leaning his shoulders against the bars of the cage and taking a plentiful mouthful of the drink.

'How do you…' he began to ask; he cut himself off, and took another mouthful. 'How do you survive this?'

The elf tilted his head to the side. 'The workings of my body will forever remain a mystery to your kind. Alas,' he said, his voice oddly returned to smoothness as well as lurking irony, 'without my magic, my body has grown to be somewhat of a mystery to myself, but…The only part that's of my doing is my not needing to be fed. The rest is catered to by your compatriots, with timely healing.'

'What do you wish of me, Magister Pavus?' Solas asked. 'If ascertaining my condition was your goal, you would have sent another. This is a native talent of your homeland that you seem to lack.'

'Sending a minion to smell one's dead?' Dorian shot back, frowning.

'A strong stomach,yes,' Solas replied.

'Can we not do this?' the human sighed. 'It is unworthy, for both of us.'

'True,' the elf tiredly admitted. 'I apologise,' he whispered, leaning his head back on the post and closing his eyes. 'It is just…' he followed, in a soft tone, 'that once you have, indeed, offered unexpected comfort, my own greed for it leads to wanting more – I am thinking all of the things I am saying to you, and hiding them is…unpleasant.'

'You have a compulsion to be rude?' Dorian asked.

'No,' Solas answered. 'But the magical dome you have just willingly stepped under compels me to be truthful; needless to say, not all my thoughts in your regard are flawlessly polite. I would rather save my endurance avoiding answers I truly do not wish to provide, than on repressing other, minor truths.'

'No more alcohol for you, then,' Dorian said, nonetheless acquiescing with a nod.

'A cruel taunt, if ever there was one,' the elf half-shrugged. 'Does the cage not affect you, Dorian?'

The Magister considered the question for a moment. 'No,' he cautiously answered. 'I felt nothing, but I have been nothing but truthful to my thoughts. You'd naturally assumed otherwise, of course,' the human dryly noted.

'I am understandably cautious, as I still do not know what I can assist you with.'

'Nothing,' Dorian replied. 'I simply came here to gloat…'

Pain's steely claws gripped before the thought unwound in full; he'd spoken quickly, shooting out the lie before he'd truly considered why he was lying – the instinct to test Solas' words had been as childish as the punishment had been swift. 'Fuck,' Dorian breathed, clutching at his chest. 'Fuck. Maferath's balls, this hurts!'

'You were warned,' Solas said, nonetheless narrowing his eye in curiosity.

'I was indeed,' Dorian whimpered; the searing pain immediately subsided to a throb. He took another deep drink of his flask, and did not ask the other how he survived it all again, because, despite it all, he truly did not wish to know. 'I assume this means no more alcohol for me, either.' He said, looking to the barely visible barrier above.

'Not if you have information you dearly do not wish to impart,' Solas said, softly.

'I cannot think of anything I know that you do not.' The human said, bringing one knee to his chest, and resting his elbow on it. 'How did we get to this place,' he sighed, sorrowfully shaking his head.

'You came down the stairs, and I was more or less dragged,' the elf said, with a sigh of his own.

Dorian bitterly scoffed. 'Does Magister Cassius take well to your sense of humour?'

'Not at all; it makes him fly into an insensate rage, which presents the notable advantage that his diligent henchmen render me unconscious faster, and, if I am particularly fortunate, for longer.' Solas replied, in a neutral tone.

'Lucky for you Leliana threw a strop and evaporated,' the human muttered. 'Perhaps not necessarily for you, but…for Abelas, I guess? It wasn't a question,' he hastily said, as the elf unexpectedly cringed, and bit back a soft groan. 'It wasn't a question,' Dorian repeated; this time, he did not need to look in Solas' eyes to know that he'd failed.

'We would have killed you,' he wistfully said; it was not much of an apology, and so, silence stretched coldly between them. 'We would have,' Dorian whispered at long length. 'I am…truthfully sorry we failed, condemning you to this. I am very sure,' he tiredly followed, 'that you are sitting there, thinking that I have come because I needed your acknowledgment of that basic fact to sleep at night.'

'I am merely sitting here thinking that you should not have come,' Solas responded. He took one laboured, deep breath. 'The paths that led us all to clash were all the paths I set, and I've no need of the cage's compulsion to understand you take no pleasure in this, for I do not remember you as a cruel man, and I cannot, in my worst nightmares, imagine Veldrin by your side if you were one. For a second time,' he said, lowering his glance, 'you spared Abelas…'

'For all the good that does,' Dorian said.

'Perhaps,' the elf admitted. 'It still shows that we attacked and you defended as best you could, and your intent was not to slaughter all in your path. Merely defeat me. Yet, Dorian, given that we both know you are not cruel, and you have not come to rejoice in my suffering, it stands to reason that you have a purpose for being here. Something you wish or need to know. I…' Solas said, his voice cracking as he fought to stifle another bout of cough. 'I can only forewarn you that whatever you think you can obtain from me shan't be surrendered; if you are unwilling to cause pain or witness it, you should retire. Asking about things of which I shall not speak will damage you more than it does me.'

'…so please don't ask?' the human muttered, frowning.

'You will accomplish nothing but debase us both; I see no reason to plead with you to accept the obvious,' the elf said; there was a barely perceptible tremor in his voice, though, as if he had genuinely expected Dorian to press…and, the human thought, trying to not look at his old companion's injuries too intently, reasons for that might have abounded even if he and the elf had ever truly been anything resembling friends.

He took a deep breath in his turn. 'You're right,' Dorian said. 'I do want to know something, something that only you…'

'I believe that I have made my stance clear.'

'It's not…it's not what you imagine that I wish to know.' The human rushed to interrupt. 'It's deeply personal, and I swear to you I will only ask once – if you do not wish to answer, or think that there is an ulterior motive to my question, I will not ask again…Thank fuck for this cage,' Dorian said, shaking his head. 'But for it, you'd not believe that if I paid you.'

Solas dryly chuckled, then painfully caught his breath. 'Oh, that I would believe: so,' he said, 'the human who took the woman I love for a wife is here because he needs a personal favour? One he believes that I shall grant for two more sips of brandy?'

'I did not fish her out of a bucket, Solas, nor did I steal her from your pocket. I did not take her.' Dorian angrily replied. 'I made her an offer of marriage, which she accepted, probably due in no small measure to the fact that you disappeared into the sunset, gloriously planning to destroy us all, and having ripped her arm off at the shoulder, after oh so graciously tearing out her heart. I swear,' the human said, tiredly rising to his feet, and turning away, 'of all the world's mysteries, old and new, what my Vel ever saw in you is the one I shall never unravel.'

'Your Veldrin,' Solas softly echoed.

'Yes,' Dorian responded, pointing to the ring on his finger. 'My Vel – because if you could just have loved her more than you hated everyone else, she would, doubtlessly, still be yours, for as incomprehensible as that may be.'

'Does she think that…' the elf whispered. 'That I loved her less than I hated everyone else?'

'Evidence of the contrary is very thin on the ground,' Dorian dryly replied, though clenched teeth. 'And is this you asking me for a favour, in turn?'

'I never meant to hurt her,' Solas softly said. 'She must still know that.'

'No, she does not,' Dorian curtly answered. 'What she does know is that you used her to fix one of your many monumental personal mistakes, then intended to kill her - I am sure you mean to further tell me it would have been painless, and wish that I would tell her that, in turn. As if she would still believe it, Solas, now that you have thoroughly lost. Now, that you've made us all thoroughly lose…'

The door behind him burst open, which was, to Dorian, all for the best; he truly had no wish to find how cruel the other man's pointless and cruel stubbornness could turn him, and he had already gone further than he intended – Vel was not his, not in the way that Solas would doubtlessly register the statement, but he'd indeed spoken the words in revenge, and he did not regret them - for, in the end, punching a wall could only hurt one's fists, and not the wall itself.

'Did I not tell you not to bother…' Dorian nonetheless said to the armed and armoured men, who marched in cadence through the open door.

The leader of the contingent eyed him coldly, then smiled wide. 'My orders come from a higher place than yours, Magister Pavus,' and then, all in a second, he ordered Solas to stand.

Solas could not, though he did try; standing outside the physical cage as well as the magical one, Dorian looked over his shoulder and swallowed dry, as the man of his country and heritage lifted the elf up by lodging their iron clad fingers under his chin, to prevent him from breathing. There was no way of hiding either pain or humiliation now, nor a way of hiding from them – not unless Dorian followed his first and strongest instinct and walked away before he saw too many things he feared he'd not be able to forget…or hide from Veldrin for too long…

And still he could not move, frozen in place by equal, crushing terror and fascination. These men were not here to question, not that the elf could have answered any even if he'd broken and wished to; there was no point to the brutality of the hold beyond brutality itself. These were not Cassius' men – indeed, their mandate must have been much higher.

The dragons promised he would suffer, Dorian dully thought. And they are seeing to it that he does.

'You'll kill him,' he tonelessly said; the man who held Solas aloft did not loosen his grip. He simply looked to Dorian over his shoulder with an expression that made the Magister shudder.

Not because it had been hate filled or even the blank gaze of a mindless brute; Dorian might have preferred that a thousand times over. Instead, the man's eyes were clear, his glance intelligent. Cold. Professional.

'On the contrary,' the torturer responded, calmly. 'We are ascertaining that he is not dead, or even close to it. And you are grateful for it, aren't you, rabbit?' he followed, finally setting the elf down, but roughly pushing him back as he so did. He'd employed enough force to knock even a healthy man twice Solas' size unconscious, and, for a moment, Dorian could not decide whether he hoped that Solas would, indeed, faint, or feared what more would happen if he did.

Clearly showing that Dorian's latter fear was more than justified, the prisoner desperately fought to remain standing – despite all odds, it looked as if he might even have succeeded. It was all too much though, even for him; the gathered weakness, the lack of air and the strength of the blow he'd just taken caused him to stagger, and Dorian's heart skipped a beat; for all the anger he'd felt at the elf's arrogance just a few seconds before, he truly did not wish to see him on his knees. Not before these…

The armoured man struck the elf across his already bruised face, steadying him, but not for kindness; it was merely readying him for a second, even more powerful slap – a weak whimper and a thin trickle of blood escaped Solas lips before he could bite back either. He nonetheless resumed his struggle to stand upright, and this time he succeeded by willpower alone.

His captor smiled, and once more placed his iron-gloved hand under Solas' chin; willpower alone did not help this time, and the elf visibly flinched at the open threat.

'I asked you a polite question, rabbit, and I expect a polite answer.' the man said. 'We would not wish for Magister Pavus to think that I interrupted your sharing of boudoir tales of his wife simply because I would not find them entertaining – the life and times of an exotic and well-travelled woman always are.'

He squeezed, not enough to fully cut off Solas' breath again, yet just enough to reduce it to a series of pained gasps. Dorian swallowed dry.

'You might wish to let him breathe if you're to get an answer,' he said, still not knowing what inflexion to lend his voice.

'I was merely jesting, mostly for your benefit,' the torturer shrugged. 'I do not need him to answer, as long as we both understand the rules. Which we do, as they are masterfully simple, and I have some skill at explaining.' He let go of the elf and fully turned to Dorian, not before casting a warmly amused glance over his shoulder, to see if Solas' minute strength still held. 'It is my task to assure myself that the stubborn critter is well enough to respond to Magister Cassius' attentions, and lives a long and occasionally healthy life.'

The man clenched his hands behind his back. 'I thus decide when healing is needed and how much, and, in addition, assess how close he's come to escaping his just punishment by means of his own making.'

'Like starving himself,' Dorian said, feeling his own stomach turn at the combination of the man's smooth, matter of-fact and almost pleasant delivery, and Solas' barely audible, tortured breath.

'Indeed,' the other nodded. 'I judge him fit to continue his entertaining little rebellion if he can still stand to my count of ten. He knows that if he does not comply to this reasonable trade-off, measures will be taken…'

'What measures?' the Magister breathed, before he could stop himself.

'Measures such as shoving food in him until he swallows, and holding his head under water until he drinks.' The armoured man curtly said. 'I believe,' he added, casting one more glance at Solas, who had nowhere to hide from the words and his own wretched position but behind his eyelids, and thus held his eyes tightly closed, 'that whatever he is, the rabbit is not stupid; we only needed to apply measures twice before he understood he won't be spared them, and only once needed be told that future measures may not entail food or water…As I have said, we understand each other.'

Dorian clenched his teeth, and looked away.

'Then,' he reasoned, trying to keep his voice level, 'your good work here should be done; he's stood far longer than a count of ten.'

For the first time, the torturer grinned wide. 'I did not say a count of ten, Magister Pavus. I said my count of ten, and I have not begun counting.'

The nausea Dorian felt returned with a vengeance, and he guessed he must have paled, for the grin on the unknown man's face widened – not enough for the Magister to outright accuse the other of enjoying toying with him as well as his prisoner, but just enough for Dorian to know that each further second he spent here was ill spent. There was no help that he could lend, no more than making himself scarce, and giving the other good reason to put more of a performance than they had already intended – he sought a last glance at Solas before turning, but at the very last second thought better of it.

The last thing the elf would welcome now was pity. His pity…Especially after all that he had said on Vel's account; it had not been a lie, Dorian thought, finding that his feet would not carry him far outside the door. Not all of it, he repeated to himself, leaning against the wall and pressing his fingers to his forehead, but the whatever truth did lie in his words did not undermine how pointlessly cruel they seemed in retrospect.

Veldrin and Solas, Dorian thought as he heard the count of one, and pressed his eyes tightly closed, wishing that he could be able to equally shut out the sound of Solas' faint groan…Veldrin and Solas had truly left him baffled, since their very beginning in Haven - he'd been tempted to dismiss the obvious spark as one of those inexplicable follies of lust at first sight, though one that he'd been willing to bet Varric, would lead nowhere.

There was a count of four, followed by laughter; the Magister shakily breathed out, and swallowed his own bitterness at recalling.

Yes, he'd bet Varric that Vel and Solas would lead nowhere because he'd thought Solas too shy for flirty, witty, expansive Vel. In hindsight, he should have trusted the dwarf's nose, and utterly mistrusted the ease with which Varric had taken the bet – it was easy to mistake quiet for shy, and Dorian might have been knocked over with a feather when he'd first seen the elves together in Skyhold.

Not because they'd been whispering complicitly, and not because they looked as though they'd been about to kiss, or had just done so, but because that first time, when curiosity had made him look down from his balcony, shy Solas's hand had been so firmly planted on Veldrin's behind that one might thought it had been glued on. The elven man had sensed his presence and looked up, smiling in open, smug irony, and dispelling any notion that he'd not known about the bet or that others' miss read of his character caused anything but royal amusement; Veldrin had glanced up and winked, too, and Dorian could have sworn that had been the last time the two had looked away from each other, while in each other's presence…

He had paid Varric with no protest.

A count of six; the swift crack of a horsewhip. More laughter…no other sound. But this was Solas, Dorian told himself, and he had lasted thus far, otherwise the others would not have kept counting.

Just four more numbers up to ten, Dorian told himself, so resolutely that he all but quieted the fact that the time lapse between counts was anything but equal. That in fact, it was steadily increasing, and that, indeed, out of no more than desperate selfishness, he did wish Solas would give in.

Then, with equal selfishness, and for the first time in his life, Dorian wished he could have hated the elf. Enough to walk away. Enough to linger without so much terrible regret…

But this was Solas.

Solas, who knew good wine, good music, and utterly crushed everyone who was ever foolish enough to teach him a game within an hour of having learned it. Solas, who had a monumental temper, beliefs and patterns set in stone, and a wickedly dry sense of humour – who knew all there was to know about everything, who Vel looked up to without noticing that he only ever looked up to her.

Nine…

Solas, of the infuriating, snide put downs. Of the unshakeable superiority. Of the ancient, burning hatred.

Solas, still beloved to Vel. Solas, whose love was the one thing Veldrin had never doubted.

And I, Dorian thought, have cast cold shadows on the tiny, tiny corner where, in his darkest hour, this man could have found any trace of light or warmth.

I cannot stop them, Solas. But I will tell you the full truth of she and I, if for nothing else, then because I cannot leave your heart broken after I've stood here, letting them break your bones. You'd have learned it in any event if you had just…Hold on for one more count. Stubborn bastard, you have one count left in you; you always do, don't you…

Nine and a half.

There was a thud, and a whimper, and chains rattled. Behind the door, Solas, who might have had one count left in him, did not sound as if he had half of one.

Gods fucking damn it.

He stood away from the wall and stalked in the chamber, as if possessed by a ghost, and this time he did not look away from Solas' eyes, nor from the fact that, in between counts, they'd put a dagger though the elf's thigh, just deep enough to harm, not deep enough to kill. Lashed, him and burned him, and…

Solas looked away in shame of weakness only he could see.

The torturer turned his head and smiled, in greeting.

'Welcome back, Magister Pavus,' he said. 'So keen to resume your previous conversation I see…Did we interrupt your tale sharing at a sensitive junction?'

'It's more of that I find your ability to count hopelessly lacking,' Dorian snarled. 'If you will…'

'What was it, I wonder?' the other said, taking no note. 'Pointers, perhaps? It is, I think, a bit of an urban legend that females of any kind have not been your main preoccupation until the gracious Magistra. It has to be that,' he amusedly added, 'because there is no other conceivable way in which an elf could compete with a human in that specific department…unless, of course…'

Swift as lightning, he turned and lodged one hand under the elf's chin and the other in his groin; Solas did not even have time to wince.

'Nine and three quarters,' the armoured human hissed – and this, Dorian numbly thought, he was enjoying, for he'd leaned in over his victim, and was attentively taking in the expression on Solas' features…the tears gathering in the corners of the elf's eyes…

'No,' he said, grinning, 'nothing special down there…'

'I've never slept with Veldrin Pavus, Lavellan nascita.' Dorian said, loudly and clearly; Solas' eye flew open, clouded with pain and incredulity, but still alight with desperate hope. 'Not once,' Dorian repeated, speaking to that hope alone. 'Not ever. I swear to you, Solas, never.'

The torturer looked over his shoulder, finally baring his teeth in feral fury when his captive's body escaped his double grip and Solas let himself relax.

Dorian felt joy.

'Ten, bastard,' he said, dryly. 'You're done.'

Hello, all - large first part of a two part chapter. Unusual posting day, but hey, we've just returned from holidays, we were happy to discover we like sailing, Greek wine, and come home to find we actually had...comments! Angithia and Zelest, we thank you for your kind words :) You will find our responses in the review section, as neither of you has signed in. (We do reply to every comment, but we can't do it properly/privately if you are not actually signed in to FF.)

This chapter accounts for many of a posting delay in the Abstract & IvI household, as we've had a lot of fun inventing Solas (let's be honest, we know close to nothing about the man). If one defines tragedy, head scratching, and mopey Abstract re-doing 40 pages 600 times as fun, of course.

Up Next - Well, Dorian is going to find out a bit more than we think he'd like to know.

Thank you for reading and commenting, and sticking with us,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI