"He who asks for the mercy of the masters

Will stand accountable for murder and theft

And be made example for the slaves of other cities,

That they might not have the courage to rise up.

"They will taunt you and humiliate you

While they hang you in the marketplace.

They will pelt you with offal while they call you

Broken, a coward, and a failure.

Shartan 9: 21-30

'Another count of ten?' Solas asked, seeking not to look behind the human whose numbers while he delivered pain were always spread in thirds and quarts, and certainly not to the overly small, yet heavily barred oubliette that other humans had dragged into the dungeons, and set just as far out of clear sight that it demanded to be looked at.

'Not at all,' the human answered, smiling pleasantly. 'A triumph, and you are a most honoured guest.'

'I shall refuse, and stand for ten.' Solas said, dryly. This man was now familiar to him, all too familiar, and all too human.

The human smiled wide. 'Refuse your own victory? We do insist you will attend – lift him,' the man ordered; the other humans did, ripping the skin and flesh of his wrists and ankles open as they removed chains and fetters. He turned and left.

Standing to counts of ten had taken much, so, once pulled to his feet, Solas missed his restraints, for without them, he was without balance as well – the men who came to pull him out of his cell enjoyed the sight, and put all too much strength in lifting him, their help as bruising as their hatred.

All bar one tried to trip him, and all bar one left eager painful marks where they touched him; they marched him forth towards the moving cage in which he could not stand nor truly sit. Its door creaked open; he noticed then that it was placed on tiny, ill oiled wheels, and saw the wheels before he felt that a collar was being placed about his neck.

It had sharp barbs on the outside of the already biting leather; by how it had been slipped over his head, Solas could guess that it could be loosened as well as tightened with a mere tug. One of the men tried to turn the spikes inwards; all bar one laughed.

'Go in,' they ordered, giving him not a heartbeat of decision before they pushed him forth, into this rolling cage. They'd done it fast, maybe, too fast, for the collar bit at his throat, chocking him. The one who had neither laughed nor left a painful imprint on his body lowered himself on one knee to lock the cage.

'Your good lady bids me to warn you,' he whispered.

'What of?' Solas managed to whisper.

'You will need strength for this day,' the man who had not laughed said, standing.

''Tis not enough,' the torturer said; the roll of the cage was halted by such a jerk of the leash that Solas all but lost his gift of bread, and knocked his head back on the thick, rusting bars of his newly appointed public abode.

'Strip him bare,' the torturer he knew so well spoke, in a commanding voice.

Forgetting all else, Solas looked upon himself and found himself lacking; he had not soiled the tattered remnants of his breaches, but they were the last, the very last dignity afforded him.

Within this cage, he could neither stand nor sit – he could barely seek respite on his knees, but that too would become pain after a while…

They pulled him out, by the leash, and laughed, and laughed…

'Strip him bare and give him back a wolf pelt,' the torturer once more ordered. 'He wore that one with pride!'

'Lord Watcher,' he heard Veldrin say, 'No, please. Not this.'

She was somewhere near, but out of sight, and sounded slightly out of breath too, as if she'd just been running…to warn him, the strange guard had said…But of what?

He tried to think, yet there was no clarity to be had, as if his senses had completely taken over his reason – the only certainty he could have was that Veldrin's plea had at least caused his gaolers to stop short; not because of her presence, he knew all too well, but because…

'Such is my will,' a voice Solas had not heard in over ten millennia spoke. He recognised it instantly however.

Anaris.

'And I am not best pleased by your attempt of preparing Pride of what is to come,' Anaris followed, in an oddly calm voice.

'We had no agreement to the contrary,' Veldrin responded, her voice now settled, but still laden with pain and fear. 'Knowing a heartbeat in advance won't hurt him less...'

'We disagree, little sister,' Daren'thal breezily replied. 'But,' she added, in ancient, familiar chimes, 'the Lady Patience does have right in saying we had not an agreement that no warning would be given.'

There was a silence then, a hesitation from all three, and Solas suddenly wondered whether Veldrin even knew that he could hear them. Anaris and Daren'thal, on the other hand...His heart sank. Whatever these two had in store for him now might have been less painful than hearing them speak to Veldrin as if they had considered her one of them, or hearing her speak back as if she'd easily accepted the status. More painful still, the fact that Veldrin was still trying to spare him at least part of this unknown, terrible thing that was coming; perhaps the purpose of the wine dipped bread had been to numb him to some extent too. By all this, he gathered it must have been truly worse than all that had happened to him thus far.

And still, he wished her away from these two with such intensity that his own plight was secondary; and still, he wished that he had had a slither of power left, to clear her mind and heart of himself, as he might have cleansed her features of the vile markings which marred them. There was no such luck, and he had no such power left. All he could do was listen.

'After this day, we will have taken all from him,' he heard Veldrin whisper. Her voice was honey to his ears, her plea acid vinegar to his stomach, yet, as if her words had truly carried weight, the guards did not move to further humble him. They, too, listened, seemingly entranced.

The pause amid the three lingered for a second longer, and though he could not see Veldrin, Solas had no other word for her in his heart other than vhenan.

'If you so treat him, it will be me you will be punishing, Lord Watcher,' he heard her say.

Almost bare as he was, and knowing he would soon start to shiver, Solas wondered why Veldrin assumed her little words would make a difference; Daren'thal, had, after all, foretold that Solas' small cage would never be as painful to him as knowing that the entire world was Veldrin's cage. Perhaps the one who saw the knots of fate had been dreaming of this very moment when she had spoken thus.

'I am powerfully disinclined to grant this,' Anaris said, dryly.

There was a movement, a shuffle of robes.

''Tis undeserved, the reprieve sought,' Daren'thal lightly agreed. 'But then,' slyly added, 'one minor pain can distract from another, greater one…'

'Fickle are both my sisters,' Anaris muttered, now, in obvious frustration. 'He'll have no warning,' he said, 'nor should he be spared any…'

'He will not. He will be humbled and mocked enough,' Veldrin bravely responded. Her courage lasted but a second. 'Please, Lord Watcher,' she begged, 'please. Not…not for him,' she whispered. 'For me. I cannot…'

Solas could imagine her kneeling as the words were uttered, and so he took a step forth and tried to say no, that nothing could be worth this; the collar bit back as soon as he inched forward though, and caught the word in his throat.

'For you, Lady Patience,' Anaris said, in an unreadable tone. 'Set thyself strong on the task ahead, your wishes shall be heeded,' he added, his voice decisive, but neither cold nor commanding.

There was more shuffling of robes – an assured step aside a hesitant one trailing the staircase, thus Solas guessed Daren'thal was leading Veldrin away of his small cage, and out into the great open cage that was hers. Anaris hesitated too, and so did the men paid, by faith or gold, to enforce his will.

And so, silence stretched amid all, again, and Solas began to shiver in earnest.

'Lord Watcher,' the head gaoler dared, 'should we proceed with your first orders or…'

Anaris stepped into the chamber, and, though he was not in his true form, Solas nonetheless recognised his features as quickly as he had remembered his voice. The colour of his eyes had changed somewhat, shifting towards the unnatural; his human form may have been solid, but it was still a projection of the power he had left nestling in his dragon body, and the glow of his eyes showed it. It made little difference in overall - his presence was the same, and there was a familiar smirk pulling the left corner of his lips upwards. It exuded authority, and a kind of quiet, chilling satisfaction, far more, Solas thought, than crude and public humiliation, which could have been inflicted at any point, could inspire.

The dragon god measured his defeated nemesis for a few long seconds, but the expression on his features did not change in at all; he shifted his glance to the guards, seemingly pondering his next words – none dared lift their eyes off the ground.

'Lord Watcher, should we…'

'You've heard the words I spoke to Lady Patience,' Lusacan distractedly said. 'Leave him as he now is,' he said, for a heartbeat looking straight into Solas' eyes; there was no change of expression in his own, though his followers barely subdued a collective gasp of surprise. 'Besides,' he added, 'the Lady Mystery too, is in the right – we should not distract him from his triumph…'

He turned to leave, hands clenched behind his back.

'The enemy of all the Gods should still be appropriately attired,' Anaris said, not looking over his shoulder. 'The wolf pelt, to mine thoughts should fit the fine audience.'

'Yes, Lord Watcher,' the head gaoler said, sounding relieved for things to have returned to whatever he recognised as normality; still, as he'd been so unexpectedly robbed of part of his pleasures, he made sure that the rest of the ministrations still to be delivered were applied with far more than the regular diligence.

Any yet, as nothing worked as intended – though to the human's experienced eye, the shackles they used to secure the elf's wrists and ankles within the tiny oubliette cut to the bone; he turned the spiked collar with its biting side inwards before he actually needed to control the creature with it, and made sure one of his henchmen tied a blindfold that the head gaoler found completely unnecessary so roughly that they violently hit the back of the elf's head against the cutting, wide bars of the cage, leaving a two inch gash…despite it all, it felt as if they had been handling a body with no feeling whatsoever, for the prisoner made no sound, nor resisted anything, even reflexively.

Limp in pain or fear, the human had thought, unsure of whether to be glad of it or not; he too had no inkling of a suspicion of what was in store for his charge, and was not particularly pleased by the fact that the transfer of the prisoner would not be a repetition of the first time he had been brought to Minrathous, but it seemed that this time, the enemy of all the Gods was for the Magisterium's eyes alone. Perhaps he would be shown afterwards, he considered, giving Solas a final, bruising prod before the cage was set on its way.

There was no reaction to this, either – and for once, the torturer was right; Solas was truly frozen in pain and fear. Not for the reasons that the human imagined, though. Hearing Veldrin plead for him before his enemies and knowing that the display had probably been intended for his benefit had turned it all even more heart-rending, yet that was merely the pain. The fear had not truly started until, freed of his enemies' presence, he'd recalled something that he might otherwise have gladly forgotten.

He'd not seen Magister Cassius in almost two days; it'd been two days since he'd been asked for Arlathan, and he could think of only one reason why.

They've found them, he thought, and he was grateful for the blindfold, for it swallowed his tears.

He squinted in the sudden light, but the cacophony of cheers, insults and even applause deafened him even before that; it was all overwhelming, especially for one who's only source of light had been a weak torch or a burning brazier upon which irons of various forms were heated to incandescence…

Slowly, however, his eyes adjusted to the brightly lit room – at first, enough to discern that he had indeed been granted a position of mocking honour, for his cage had been placed at the foot of the marble podium doubtlessly intended for the speaker. He thus had view of all, and all had view of him, those sitting below, and above the pulpit.

Immediately above him, a row of seven seats, behind a semi-circular, high teak wood desk, with an elaborately gilded row of carvings on its top, but surprisingly simple panelling below. While his eyes still adjusted, Solas judged that the head carvings were quite old, but that the plain ones were obviously new, given the polish's sharp gleam. Perhaps, he thought, Chantry symbolism hastily removed.

Above that, in the second row, alone upon its grey marble podium, the Archon's seat. There was no religious symbolism to the desk before it – its embellishment was carved in the likeness of the Ferryman's Ring; the Archon, he, Clodius Radonis who was the heir of Darinus, would sit suspended between the unchanging world and the unpredictable one, for above his seat there was another ring of seven.

On opposite sides of that desk of seven, Anaris and Daren'thal already sat, five chairs between them left for the dead and the forgotten.

Below, he could not see Veldrin. He could see Dorian Pavus in the very front row, though, and he focussed on him, before noticing that the scene below him had tiers too; in an amphitheatre of such size and build as Solas had never truly seen, there were slices of colour within the mass of black mage robes.

Three quarters of the circular room, he judged, wore black robes embellished with a variant of Tevinter heraldic which saw the two rising dragons embroidered in blood red, or fiery orange silk; it was not Venatori symbolism, not outright, but it was sufficiently reminiscent of it to be evocative. Another slice of humanity wore robes embroidered in grey or faint blue – these were few, and they seemed to have been deliberately seated to separate those who liked their dragons in the colour of blood from the other side of the room, which was…

…which was, to his tired eyes, an exuberant explosion of colours.

The Tevinter heraldic was present here too, of course, but those who occupied the ascending rows around Dorian Pavus chose what Solas could only assume were their house colours for the weave that depicted the rising dragons – bright blue, warm yellow, green and even purple. The dragons were not even stylistically the same, in obvious sign that while these mages too were subjects of their Gods, there were variations in the way the Gods were perceived.

Unlike in the rows of uniform red and orange, the Tevinter crest was smaller or larger, sometimes only discretely placed upon a collar or a sleeve, and sometimes outrageously large. Dorian himself had the rainbow-coloured peacock feather crest of House Pavus on one sleeve, and the Tevinter banner on the other; still, all of these wore one or more tiny pieces of mirror sewed on their garments, like those Dorian had worn during the year of the Inquisition.

And I mocked him for it, Solas thought, dully, without knowing that what this meant was signalling political allegiance.

And a dangerous one at that, the elf realised; the little sparkling mirrors, the small lights in the dark, the Lucerni…that name too he remembered, from the year of the Inquisition…were, in comparison to the others, painfully few. A quarter of the Magisterium, perhaps less, given the non-aligned grey and faint blue.

None of these had risen and clapped when Solas' cage had been dragged in. None had cheered. In stark contrast to the crushing majority, those around and behind Dorian Pavus were still, tense and attentive, as Dorian himself was.

All of them though, the fire and blood ones, the undecided ones and the lights in the dark were armed; he could see focus gems, most in staves, but others in necklaces or earrings, or even carefully embedded in the bindings of books. Even more frighteningly, none seemed ill at ease, in sign that while their dress might have been ceremonial, bearing weapons was truly habitual.

The little the elf knew of Tevinter history rose and writhed in his mind. It was true, then, he realised, that Magisterium was not a boring political assembly, and not only the literal cesspool he'd always liked to imagine. This was a gladiator scene, Solas thought – none who entered here were certain they would walk out alive; the doors, he numbly saw, were only at the back. The closer to the inner, lowermost ring one sat, the lesser were one's chances of escape.

And Dorian is in the very front row.

Solas had not intended to let his glance linger on Magister Pavus for too long, yet he failed in controlling himself – perhaps it was the need for the reassurance of a familiar face in the storm. He still looked to Dorian long enough for the human to notice and meet his glance, and become even more tense than he already was. Dorian nonetheless pressed his eyelids together slowly, and breathed in deeply.

He's telling me to…be patient? Or brave? Solas thought, feeling that the tendrils of fear were embedded so deeply in his heart that each beat spread them though his veins, instead of bringing air and blood. Where is Veldrin? The elf's mind raced.

As if he could read the question in the elf's eyes, Dorian nodded, and once more closed his eyes and breathed in deeply; he pointedly looked to his right-hand side, directing the elf's gaze to two empty seats. The gesture had clearly been meant as reassurance that his vhenan was safe and about to occupy one of the two chairs - Solas could feel nothing of the sort. Whatever was in store for him here, Veldrin was not only about to witness, but she'd be in the front row too, even more, sitting on the narrow, cutting tip of a small arrow.

They are few, these men and women, Solas thought. If the others draw on them, they would be overpowered in seconds, by sheer numbers…and still my Veldrin…

'All rise!' an usher called, his voice akin to thunder. The way in which the room was built made sense now, so much sense...

If I breathe even a sigh, Solas thought, it will echo and rise and grow along these walls, and all will hear it.

All rose.

Names were called out loud as the members of the conciliatus filed in, one after the other. The usher spoke them too fast for Solas to retain them in his mind, but, given the room around him, he knew that names were not truly the thing to pay attention to – the colours of the robes however, were, and in the row of seven just above him, all bar one wore black embroidered in red.

He recognised Cassius' name and face as he was counting.

The only person not wearing the fire and blood embroidered robes wore grey, and she came in last, so her name at least lingered in his mind, pointlessly.

Maryam of House Tullius, most recently of Vol Dorma, Solas thought, why even bother showing you are unlike the rest? what can you do alone against these six others?

The voice exploded in his thoughts, then: What can one woman do against the world who is against her, Pride? What did you do, when worlds against you stood?

Unwillingly, he looked up and met Daren'thal's eyes, immediately knowing that she was not speaking of the human Magistra.

Everything. That is what she can do. Everything.

Solas closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

Hey all, we've been busy with Abstract's original fiction, but don't think we've forgotten about you :) As you might have might have guessed, Solas has a lot still we have to put him through ;)