As the flames of Andraste's pyre grew ever closer to heaven

And the heat drove even the bravest of his legion back

And his heart wavered. For though Andraste did not cry out

Yet did he see her suffering.

Apotheosis 2, 10: 16-20

As usual, we do warn is something is particularly eh, not fit for the faint of heart. Heed the Chant, and stay away, if you are not already used to us. Proceed with caution, if you are not.

Solas did not have long to wait, after that, though Daren'thal had the patience for Veldrin's steps to fall out of earshot before she appeared, hovering cross legged in mid air, and surrounded by her ever-present clouds of smoke.

'You never get tired of disappointing that poor child,' she remarked, in a light, conversational tone.

The man tiredly looked up.

'I suspect you knew that I would.'

'Of course,' Daren'thal agreeably said. 'You serve, and thus we let you have your tender moment, brief as our little sister chose to make it…She did not truly mean that she'll give up on you, you know.'

'I know.'

Solas sighed deeply before following.

'She's merely calling in long past debts, and it was her alone, I'd spare no effort...Her powers are deeply compatible with mine, I could at least teach her what I can no longer accomplish, yet with you and Anaris riding her coat-tails, with Tevinter aligned by her side…I saw what you and your humans did to the world, Daren'thal. I know all too well what my crimes are. Perhaps now it is Andruil's turn…'

Mystery laughed, and uncrossed her legs, to finally stand on the floor.

'I thought you had already given Andruil her chance, when you betrayed us?' she quipped, in the same merry, amiable tone. 'And what she did with it was incite all the others to kill Mythal. After which, I wager, she would have incited the others to kill you, then June, then Sylaise…'

'You need not follow,' Solas whispered. 'I remind myself of my failures oft enough, and you, unlike Anaris need not be here in physical presence to feel my torment.'

'True,' the woman replied, taking a deep drag on her pipe, and squinting to focus though the smoke. 'I am simply here to take what you will not freely give.'

'Oh,' the man laughed, with acid irony, 'and you thought that sending Veldrin in here, first, would make me more amenable?'

She shrugged.

'We know each other too well for that, Daren'thal.'

'Uhm, no,' the woman answered, smiling sweetly. 'We know you; you know us not at all, yet you persist in the delusion that you will not do our bidding. True to her name and calling, the Lady Patience tried to reason with you – though we knew that it would not sway you, we let her attempt it. Our admiration for her grows each passing day, yet had she succeeded, it would not have altered your own fate one iota.'

'I was not aware there was to be a change in my fate,' Solas responded, drawing his knees to his chest, and crossing his elbows atop them. 'I could be wrong, however; Anaris promised me an eternity of loneliness, and here I am, receiving visits from two of my sisters within a single hour…Things must be truly dire for you…'

Daren'thal tilted her head to the side and eyed him with motherly reproach.

'Well,' she chided, 'they would grow even more dire for you, were we to lose against your insane former mate. I mean,' she wryly continued, 'we would be banished back to the Fade, the Lady Patience would be killed in imaginative ways before your very eyes, and you would spend your eternity travelling from village stocks to village stocks across all Thaedas, as random peasants throw rotten vegetables at you. Because…you do not think she'd kill you, do you, brother? You do not know us, but you do know her…'

'I see,' Solas contemptuously chuckled. 'Veldrin is, then, the carrot and you are the whip?'

'The whip would come in Contemplation's form,' the woman said, taking another drag of her pipe, and exhaling the smoke though her nose. 'I am merely truth, and to an extent undeserved mercy, though probably the latter word could be explained to you in great detail…'

She sat upon thin air as if she had been sitting on a throne, and crossed her legs.

'The Lady Patience has already informed you that Andruil wants you to serve her,' Mystery spoke.

'…and on that count, she's as misguided as you are, Daren'thal. Even if I were willing – which I am not – to lend either of you my assistance, I can no longer do it. Lest we forget…'

'…the raw gem that you accidentally found in Veldrin Lavellan took away all your powers, not only once, but twice, yes,' the woman smiled, thinly.

'Which should lead clearer heads to the self-obvious conclusion that neither you, nor Andruil can make me do anything, as there is nothing I can do,' Solas replied. 'My magic is gone.'

'What if I could restore it?' Mystery innocently asked; he looked up at her, meeting her purple gaze for the first time. Her eyes shone through the smoke, and were the only one of her features he could truly distinguish.

It was, he thought, as if he had been speaking to a djinn – yet, for a moment, Solas allowed himself to be caught in the djinn's trap, and imagine the…possibilities…forgetting that the djinn could read his mind, and saw the possibilities as well.

'A treacherous creature you have always been, and will always remain, Pride,' Daren'thal said, slightly leaning forth, and causing the plumes of smoke to swirl wildly about her long, white hair. 'Of course we've thought of what you could do with your powers restored – how your first thought would be banishing us all, again. That is not on offer, brother.'

He scoffed.

'Then what is the offer, Daren'thal?'

'The Lady Patience's freedom from you.'

'She took that for a herself a moment ago,' Solas snarled. 'She needs no assistance from you on that account.'

'Indeed, Pride; she only needs yours. Your true death,' Daren'thal repeated, 'is her way out of the cage that you have made for her. Your redemption is the way out of the cage you have made for her. You've sought to free her in the past, yet you have failed, because you thought so little of her love that you assumed that it would either wither, or turn into hate. It has not, nor will it ever.'

'My brother,' she said, looking to the ceiling as she exhaled, 'you have tried her enough – will you truly let Andruil take her world from her? Just to spite us? Do what is right for once. It's long past due.'

'And what is right, Daren'thal? My submission, to you?' the man sneered. 'Do you expect me to take a vallaslin too, perchance?'

'Of course,' she smiled. 'But worry not, Pride; it shan't be my vallaslin, nor Anaris'. You shall have a vallaslin such as no man before has borne, and none other ever will…'

'And you think you'll obtain my loyalty by a vallaslin?' Solas laughed. 'What next, lethallan, an oath of fealty? Before the Magisterium?'

'Let's say this vallaslin will be your oath. A very binding one.'

He shook his head, lips drawn thin in anger. 'I think Anaris lets you smoke entirely too much. There is no way in this world or the next that I'll submit to you…'

Daren'thal shifted on her invisible throne, dangling her pipe arm out, and bringing her right ankle to rest upon her left knee.

'Did I make it sound as if there were a choice?' she asked, her purple, deeply slanted eyes wide in theatrical surprise. 'My voice must be rusty.'

She hopped off her invisible throne, but took another moment to behold him, and puffed twice more on her pipe, as if giving him time to reconsider. All she obtained from him was a look of utter despise.

'Suit yourself,' Daren'thal said, with a shrug. 'In truth, it shall be more rewarding this way; if you would have submitted, I might have felt the inclination of simply taking over your pitiful mortal form and making it all…slightly less painful. Would have been disappointing.'

She padded towards the door on bare feet, and simply thought the door open – open it was, thus forward she strode, indifferent and white - false hope into the darkness melted.

'Guards. Take him to where Magister Daranius is waiting... Before I need to light my pipe again!' she ordered, as she glided out of the room and vanished to thin air.

It was all madness, to Radonis' eyes – madness and cruelty, both towards the bound elf, and for the drooling, visibly demented old man who was sitting quietly in the corner of the torture chamber.

Daranius the younger looked utterly prostate, but one could not guess whether it was just a side effect of his age and condition, or of the fact that the Lady Mystery was holding her long elegant fingers over his bowed head.

Radonis dared not look at the elf too intently – the Archon was, of course no stranger to blood magic; very few Tevinter mages could claim such a thing, and even those who had never dabbled in it could not earnestly claim they had never witnessed it. Yet, whatever Lady Mystery's acolytes were doing to the Enemy of all the Gods surpassed anything that the Archon had ever seen, and he was a rather knowledgeable man; they'd splayed him, nude, upon a rack and they were basically flaying the man alive, while somehow keeping him conscious at the same time.

The sight might have been fascinating, had it not been so grotesque: Mystery's acolytes were not opening veins – they were merely exposing them, thin, nimble blades pulling the skin aside, then salting the edges of the cuts – the flesh beneath them, only to meticulously pin the skin to the sides of every exposed blood vessel, with tiny, red-hot needles. Any bleeding here was incidental, leading Radonis to think that this was simply the preparation…and sadly, Radonis thought, he could guess what for.

Lady Mystery looked over her shoulder at him, and smiled.

'Indeed,' she said. 'With minor variations, of course. Magister Daranius was playing with only a little wolf. We have a slightly more interesting specimen on our hands.'

'A little wolf?' Radonis echoed.

'Fenris. It means little wolf, in our language,' Mystery answered, frowning a little, as if she had expected the Archon to know the name of Daranius the elder's original subject.

When it was spoken out loud, Radonis remembered it, however, and frowned in his turn.

'Excuse me, Lady Mystery, but as far as I recall Magister Daranius' father created a very powerful weapon that swiftly turned against him and the Imperium. Is it wise, then, that we should employ the same methods on a far stronger and more dangerous man?'

The Goddess shrugged and stood away from the elderly Magister, leaving his head to lull pitifully to the side.

'I did mention…variations,' she said, striding over to the prisoner, to run her fingers over his open wounds; Solas grunted in pain, but gritted his teeth and looked away from her.

Not that she allowed him to – she clenched his chin with her bloodied fingers, and forced him to look her in the eyes.

'Mhmm,' she purred, in obvious pleasure at his toils. 'I wonder if I should do something purely aesthetic to this bland face of yours, lethallin…Sadly, the blood flows there are too insignificant for my goals, but you did always have such interesting cheekbones...'

'Mystery,' The Lord Watcher intervened; he'd been so quiet up to now that Radonis had all but forgotten his presence. 'The Lady Patience would not approve.'

'But maybe she'd appreciate the surprise…' Daren'thal childishly pouted. 'Let's not give him one of ours, if you think a simple decoration would upset her – let's give him Mythal's; he's soon to join her anyway…Fine, fine,' she sighed, surrendering to her brother's stern glare. 'Finish his legs down to the knee,' she coldly ordered her acolytes, 'then turn him. If I cannot have his face...'

She turned back to Radonis, and beheld him with sweet benevolence.

'Want a puff?' Mystery asked, offering the Archon his own pipe. 'You are mighty pale.'

'The temptation is great,' the human dazedly admitted, 'yet…'

…yet the temptation of walking away from this sight is greater, and if you would allow it…

The Lord Watcher stepped forth from his dark corner, coming into the full light of one of the three braziers which lit the chamber, and exchanged an amused glance with his sister.

'They have all gone so soft,' he remarked. 'How the Defiler could even dream of returning our gift to its past glory, with these in charge is inexplicable to me. You've ordered people dead, Heir to Darinius,' he continued, curiously eyeing Radonis. 'You've played with this form of magic yourself – how can the sight of a man who sought to not only kill you, but utterly erase all of your kin from the world give your soul such turmoil?'

'Because I have always thought hating one's enemies clouds the mind,' the Archon bravely replied.

'Well, none of your enemies have imprisoned you in the dark for ten millennia,' Mystery cruelly chuckled, 'so that is, perhaps understandable…We'd let you go, we feel that this sight is not to your taste, but you are needed. Firstly, so that we might explain what variation to Daranius' ritual I have made, which will spare you many a future nightmare, and secondly because…'

'…you will get to first hand ascertain its success,' the Lord Watcher completed. 'Turn him,' he ordered, in his sister's stead – Radonis drifted a step forth, and spoke without himself.

'Please, my Eternal Gods,' he whispered, pleading in his enemy's turn, 'not on the wood. String him up by his arms, if you must, but…'

The mere thought of the elf's exposed flesh rubbing against the raw wood of the rack's plank did not only turn his stomach, but caused his eyes to sting with tears; he'd watched Flavius suffer thus, and been unable to stop it. And yes, he thought, it might have been weak, but of his enemy there was nothing left – all he could see in Solas now was a man's dignity in suffering, and he could not, would not…

Daren'thal laughed, but waved her fingers to her acolytes; they stopped where they stood, their eyes devoid of anything but adoration. She did not set her eyes upon the Archon, but on her ancient enemy.

'What do you make of this, Solas?' she asked. 'The highest amid the slaving usurpers begs for small mercies on your behalf. Had your positions been reversed, my brother, would you plead for him too?'

The prisoner raised his pain-dulled eyes to hers, then slowly shifted his glance to Radonis'.

'No,' he gasped. 'No.'

'Does that change your plea, Heir to Darinius?' Mystery asked.

'No,' Radonis responded, clenching his teeth; the Goddess smiled wide.

'Good,' she said. 'Knowing you are indeed the better man hurts him more than the wooden splinters in his flesh. Do as the Archon asks,' Mystery indifferently commanded. 'Let his feet touch the ground until it is time for him to truly bleed.'

The prisoner's faint moans were soon replaced by chains rattling upon a sprocket. Even this sight was unbearable, so Radonis turned away from it, swearing to himself that he would not look again until it was all done. Still, fascination and dread soon defeated both mercy and disgust, thus the Archon leaned against the wall, and continued to watch with his eyes half closed.

He had been one of the many that had seen old Magister Daranius' work first hand – the old man had not been shy to show his enhanced slave off, and Radonis was now slightly ashamed at how curious, and even somewhat jealous he had been. Had it not been for Flavius outright horror at the tales, he would probably have tried to buy the details of the ritual from the elderly Magister or his estate; not because Radonis himself had a taste for living party adornments or gladiatorial combat, but because the powers that the lyrium graft had given the elf called Fenris were indeed impressive.

It was said that the previous Magister Daranius had chased his investment all the way to Kirkwall, and even had a run-in with its…

Hero? No, Champion…Serra Hawke? It didn't matter.

It clearly had not ended well for him, for he'd not returned. His method had, however, remained a family treasure, and though the younger Daranius had not attempted it himself, he was clearly familiar enough with it that Razikale could pluck it from his mind.

Perhaps Daranius' son had shared Radonis' opinion that having such a fine weapon for display purposes only was a bit eccentric, but not the idea that if the lyrium grafts proven survivable on a larger scale, their military application might have given the Imperium an immense edge. The problem, Flavius had passionately argued, was that from what little he had learned of the grafts was that only one in a hundred slaves that Daranius had refined his method on had survived it; the ratio alone had given Radonis pause. Slaughtering one's own troops to create even a single elite phalanx might have been unwise and distinctly unpopular move during an election cycle.

Radonis had never intended to reproduce the graft on elven slaves, and their viability in humans had never truly been tested. Besides that, control over such weapons would soon demonstrate itself problematic, so the Archon had never taken the idea further than a brandy fuelled a late night debate with his scribe. Which, in the end had turned out well, for standing here and watching this…

Gods, the Archon thought, I would not have been capable of doing this to a rat, let alone…

He briefly closed his eyes and shook away the thought, not because he cared whether the Gods considered him soft or not, but because it was inconsequential. Once he got past the horror he was witnessing, the problem of control once more became poignant.

Daranius had not managed to maintain a simple fighter enthralled. How the Lady Mystery hoped she would keep her foe pliant and yet fully aware…

'The key lies in the blood,' the Lord Watcher said, casually striding to the Archon's side. 'Once, in our world, the vallaslin carried a distinct practical value – unlike the blood writing the others later employed, our markings were gifts, not bonds.'

'Which is why…' Radonis tentatively began.

'Solas and the Evanuris thought us so dangerous, yes,' Lusacan nodded. 'Our Temples gave true power to the chosen, both in the world of the elves and in the world of man. Fear not, however – we shall not let this wolf run free, as foolish Daranius did, with his puppy. Red lyrium calls to itself, its song far louder than the one of normal lyrium. The splinter cannot too far travel from the core, nor can it disobey its whispers, thus…'

He shrugged.

'Once we are done here,' he continued, in a dreamy voice, 'our wolf will not be able to stray either, from our presence or from our will. He will also not be long for this realm, or any other; the taint kills body and soul alike.'

'A mercy, in the end,' the Archon whispered.

'Undeserved as it may be, yes,' the dragon God responded. 'Yet, if nothing else, the Lady Patience merits a pardon from all this. Young power put upon too much may twist to darkness… And no,' he interrupted himself, frowning sternly, 'what is being done to him is only dark in the eyes of the unlearned. Solas could have accepted our will and our marks might have been painless; he chose to oppose us, once more, hence, he suffers.'

Radonis silently nodded and swallowed dry, wondering whether Lusacan's last words had been some sort of warning – the dragon God looked at him and smiled, warmly. It still sent shivers down the Archon's spine, for even in his humanoid form, Lusacan's eyes retained their disturbing colour and their even more disquieting vertical pupil.

'Fear not,' he chuckled. 'I doubt any mortal can harm us enough to warrant this kind of retaliation. Cruelty is indeed a useful weapon, but wield it too often and it becomes blunt…We see that our rightful revenge on him causes much pain to our friends, and we do not wish for the Lady Patience to go into the battle ahead half-hearted.'

'And won't she be?' Radonis asked. 'Knowing all this…'

'She will not know, until the very end,' Lusacan simply shrugged. 'You are too kind a man to tell her, and he, too much a coward.'

Radonis looked away before the Lord Watcher could see the sadness in his eyes – it was futile, he knew that, but he wondered how much of a coward Solas truly was. He felt a coward himself, for seeing a living man vivisected was beyond curiosity, beyond ambition, beyond...

'Our foe has, in his own voice, confessed that if this were to be done to you, he would not stop it.' Mystery amusedly reminded.

She'd waved her acolytes aside and held a finely pointed silver knife to Solas' exposed femoral artery; the Enemy of all the Gods kept his gaze hidden, but salt from tears of pain already dried marked his pale cheeks, to his chin, and then to the exposed flesh on his chest.

Imagine that, Radonis thought. Imagine your own tears causing physical pain, imagine…

'The Heir to Darinius,' Radonis blandly spoke, 'does not only wield the Ferryman's Ring. He also wields the Blade of Mercy. Hessarian believed in you,' he whispered. 'So do I, now, beyond doubt. It was still Hessarian to end Andraste's torment in the flames, and so I pray thee, Eternal Gods, to torment this man no more. Take what you must from him, but…I'm only human, after all, and I cannot bear this sight.'

Carried by Mystery's deft fingers, the blade cut across the artery in a simple, noiseless flick; the prisoner groaned faintly, and lost his footing, causing the spurt of vibrant red blood to miss the silver recipient that the acolytes had prepared to collect it in. They fast adjusted it, though, so a pint a fresh, vibrantly crimson blood flowed into it, then a second one…

Solas' knees failed, though, and never, thought Radonis, should a man be treated to such a sight of another man's muscles moving, with no skin to shadow the effort.

'Lower him,' Radonis said. 'He will die within minutes if you keep draining him like this. You'll kill him before he's even had a chance to serve our cause…'

Lusacan shook his head. 'He will not die. He is much stronger than he looks.'

'My Lord Watcher, I remind you that I have indeed played at this myself,' Radonis insisted. 'It does not matter if he is stronger than he looks – the body contains a limited amount of blood, and this…'

'…is not yet enough.' Razikale said, dryly, her attention consumed by the silver container. 'I will need some of it for the marking,' she explained. 'The rest will be returned to him for healing once the marking is complete – still your concerns, and let me focus.'

There'd been no undertone of command in her voice, but Radonis had obeyed her nonetheless, for he had understood it was useless to argue; he still measured the amount of blood in his mind, until the gush turned into a trickle and Solas' eyelids finally, mercifully fluttered closed.

It seemed as though Razikale had been waiting for the very same thing. With a swift gesture of her hand she'd caused her acolytes to disperse to other tasks, then dipped her fingers in the still warm blood, and passed them over the cut in the vein. It immediately closed.

One of the acolytes came forth, carrying a much smaller container, of a sort Radonis had never seen before – it seemed to be carved out of paper thin rock crystal, with mercury glistening inside its double walls. Razikale took it from the acolyte's hands, but rather than dip it into the silver receptacle, she caused a quivering, circular blob of blood to rise from the receptacle, and drift into the crystal bowl.

She kneeled and closed her eyes. Through the semi-transparent walls of the smaller container, Radonis could see the blood within begin to swirl, as if the woman had been stirring it – it shifted colour, too – it turned purple for a heartbeat, but it was blue the next one, then sickly green…It all happened so fast that it seemed an illusion, for the blood returned to its original crimson colour just a few seconds later.

Razikale's nails grew in this time as well, not curving inwards, as one might have expected, but growing into sharp, needle like points, some five inches in length; she set the bowl down, and dipped those very fine tips in the blood within, and, for a moment, Radonis pictured those nails beginning to pierce flesh. He unwillingly winced, yet mercifully, what he'd imagined did not come to pass.

Instead Razikale lifted thin strands of the enchanted blood, and began weaving them into thin air, as if she had been embroidering along the strings of an invisible loom. Her own breath was so shallow that it was barely there, and no motion was wasted – a fine pattern, perfectly fitting the cuts on Solas' chest emerged, beautiful beyond words yet equally grotesque. When she was done, Mystery shook the blood strands free of her nails, knotting them to a finish as a skilled seamstress might have.

A flick of her wrist caused the model to drift to the side, thin, trembling threads floating in mid-air, meekly awaiting to be used. Using similar motions, Mystery started work on the signs she wished to imprint upon her prisoner's back – a different design, this time around, but no less fascinating in proportion and symmetry; only when this too was completed did she reopen her eyes, and looked over her shoulder to her brother.

'Good,' he replied, to the un-asked question. 'Perfect.'

She nodded, in acquiescence, then rose to her feet. Moving her hands as if she'd merely been aligning tapestries, Razikale caused the first of her creations to drift above the prisoner's chest, and the other above his back – she clapped her hands, startling even her acolytes, and the two models disappeared into Solas's flesh, as if they'd never been.

Razikale shifted to her prisoner's side, and kneeled once more, summoning a barrier about herself and Solas before producing the red lyrium crystal; she broke off a splinter of it by will alone and caused it to drift towards one of her acolytes, who had a small silverite tube standing at the ready. It was precisely the right size for the shard, and the woman capped it deftly, as if she'd done nothing but handle red lyrium her entire life.

The rest of the crystal was then shattered into pieces so small that they enveloped both Razikale and Solas like a mist, but this too lasted for a heartbeat alone. Drawn to the bared flesh, like a magnet, the lyrium formed a whirlwind about the bound man's body, seeking out each exposed vein, no matter how small, and melting within them, spreading along them…Solas' eyes flew open, and but the barrier, Radonis thought he might have heard him scream for the first time during the ordeal.

He did not hear anything; outside Mystery's dome, the silence was so thick it was beginning to press on Radonis' eardrums. Fortunately for both the prisoner and Radonis, there seemed to be a limit to even Solas' endurance, for he lost consciousness once the mist fully cleared, and Razikale dispelled her barrier.

'I think some speed will be of the essence now,' she spoke, into thin air – her brother nodded, and, under the human's awed stare, six or seven replicas of himself appeared around the chamber, moving in perfect sequence, and using the rest of the blood to draw a very complex, yet nonetheless recognisable pattern of a healing circle about the captive's limp form.

The first of Lusacan's replicas put the finishing touches on the very last symbol just as the last one closed the circle; the one Watcher that still stood by Radonis then simply snapped his fingers – all the gold pins that had held the skin away from the muscles underneath it flew to the side. Like so many wings of a grotesque butterfly, the skin flapped closed over the wounds and sealed itself, as if the cuts had never been, but the patterns, the glowing patterns that Razikale had weaved from strands of blood began to surface immediately, glowing blindingly red, as though the skin itself had been transparent.

Solas stood, of his own accord and by his own strength a few moments later, when the last of his blood had drained into his body. If he was still experiencing pain, there was no sign of it, but the lyrium grafts did not appear to have given him any immediate physical strength boost either.

'What now?' he queried, in a barely there voice. 'You've taken my free will and branded me to service…what next?'

'We did not bind you to our service, Solas,' Razikale said, with wicked satisfaction. 'Too menial a prey…We've bound you to anyone who wishes to have you. Bring me my pipe and let him loose,' she ordered of her acolytes; as she strode by the line on human women some of whom had not rushed to remove Solas's chains, she reacquired her pipe, and the small container in which the last shard of the red lyrium glowed.

She passed the latter, but not the former to Radonis, who accepted it with such trembling hands that he all but dropped it.

'My…my Lady Mystery,' the Archon stuttered, 'this could well…'

'No,' Lusacan replied. 'It cannot kill you and it cannot touch your mind. It is well encased…though the none should see what lies within, Mystery,' he scolded.

Radonis barely heard him though. Freed of his chains, Solas still stood up straight, his body embellished by Razikale's markings, but his mind still in one piece, for, given what had come to pass within the last hour, his eyes were still clear. He was still emaciated, naked and visibly shivering, and Radonis wished nothing of him…

Nothing, aside the fact that he wished this man to still stand after all that had been done to him. Which was precisely what Solas was doing.

'Gods,' Radonis whispered to himself, looking down to the tiny pendant in his hand.

'Tell him to kneel.' Razikale spoke, sitting on thin air, while her acolytes rushed to rub her arms and feet.

The prisoner tuned to face his tormentors, but he did not look to Lusacan or Razikale; he looked to Radonis instead. The Archon had expected hatred or at least despise, but the man's gaze merely expressed sorrow and tiredness, and Radonis found it hard to sustain, for though he was facing the enemy of all the Gods, Flavius's ghost rose before his eyes, with a vengeance.

What would you have me do, old friend? The Archon helplessly thought. Further torment him? Pass this wicked little trinket to one who would enjoy doing it?

'I do not wish to do this,' he said, speaking to Solas alone.

The elf weakly shrugged.

'So the Gods wish it,' Solas answered, in defiant irony. 'So it shall be; in this, you have no more free will than I do.'

'Kneel,' Radonis whispered, and Solas did – not without putting up a small, pitiful and painful attempt at resistance. 'Twas all futile; his mind may still have been his own, but his muscles were not, thus his body moved forth, and he put knee to ground and bowed his forehead in unmistakeable submission to the man he must have hated most in the world.

It all looked seamless, but Radonis could still feel the prisoner resisting – his breath was laboured and the muscles in his legs tensed desperately against forces greater than himself, while the little crystal emitted piercing rays of light every time Solas attempted to do as much as lift his forehead…

'Most satisfying,' Razikale merrily said. 'You may inform the Lady Patience that it is done, and she may come collect her prize,' she ordered of one of her acolytes; the woman bowed, and slowly walked out of the chamber.

Radonis turned towards her, suddenly overcome with such anger and distaste that he forgot his place.

'You mean to give him to Magistra Pavus? In this state?'

'No better hands he could be in,' Lusacan indifferently said.

The Lord Watcher expectantly extended his hand, and Radonis placed the red lyrium capsule in in his palm without delay, thinking that if he never saw the thing again, it would be too soon. In turn, Lusacan rubbed the thing between his fingers, causing the metal caps to melt along the glass and fully obscure the crystal from sight.

Just in time, for all heard steps rushing down the corridor; at lightning speed and courage that he did not know that he possessed, he snatched the dangerous little metal capsule from Lusacan's hand, then closed his fist around it with such strength that, had it not now been encased in metal, he might have shattered it.

'Sleep,' he dryly commanded, rushing forth to catch the elf and wrap his own cape around him before Solas' forehead could make too violent contact with the stone floor.

'Is he…' Veldrin Pavus breathed, from somewhere behind; Radonis painstakingly straightened and offered her a strained smile.

'He survived,' Radonis said, in a voice he barely recognised as his own, and fighting the urge of telling her that soon, painfully soon, they would both wish he hadn't. Yet the Gods did indeed know all, and it was not fear of crossing their will, but rather the human's true, deep kindness that won out.

I've done enough to her, he thought, as if he could actually speak to Flavius' still lingering ghost. At your behest, she watched you burn, and though the wish to torment her was yours, and not my own. I've kept my promise. She'll suffer again soon enough.

'I gather it is the Gods' wish that he be your prize.' He said, out loud, looking on as the woman kneeled next to her unfortunate lover; he could not bring warmth to his eyes, but he struggled to summon some in his voice.

Veldrin Pavus frowned slightly, then turned her head to gaze questioningly at the Gods. Lusacan and Razikale exchanged an unreadable glance, and then Razikale smiled and nodded.

'It is only fair that we should make this gift to you, little sister. 'Twas you, after all, you who defeated him, not us.'

I would call that an interesting development... Not that interesting is, per se, good, mind. I think it might have annoyed Solas...just a tad. In any event, Razzy shows a bit of her dark side here, and I like it. She's been waay too nice thus far.

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI