"Wake up."

The crack of a whip jerks you from your slumber. In the same moment, you realize that the rhythmic, booming pulse from before has returned, signaling a return to the odd dream-that-is-real and the horrors of Amell. For a moment you shudder in pain as a patchwork of bruises and cuts on your body make themselves known in one large burst. In the next moment, the ache fades, and a new strength fills you, one recent in origin. You vaguely recall drinking something sticky and red from a bottle held by Avernus, something which makes the blood from the wounds Zevran inflicted on you shift from agony to exultation.

Except… no, no, that wasn't you, it was the nameless, faceless thrall of Amell. You are still you, in mind if not in body. It is easier now to hold yourself apart from the man you consider your host, but that doesn't mean you can simply dismiss what he experiences. For the moment, at least, you feel what he feels, for better or for worse.

Considering the nature of his Master, however, you suspect the latter is far more likely.

That suspicion intensifies as you stir and realize your arms are shackled and hooked over a chain high above your head. Your shoulders ache, but retain enough feeling for you to know you have not been in this position for very long. Blearily you shake your head, trying to clear the remnants of sleep from it.

You hear a crack of a whip and jerk your head up in response, eyes wide. Your stomach churns as you see something straight from the worst brothels in Minrathous: Zevran positioned behind a naked man lashed facedown over a barrel and bound in a manner which renders him helpless, with the added indignity of a sack wrapped over his head. The elf loosely holds a whip in one hand, the tip adorned with a bloody shard of glass designed for one purpose only: pain. At random intervals, Zevran times a lash of the whip with a forceful thrust of his hips, and those are the moments which elicit a pained grunt from the victim's lips. By this point blood streams freely down the man's back from a series of small, clean cuts, a sight which makes your hands reflexively wrap around the chains restraining you, but an inner caution holds you back from a stronger reaction.

For a moment, you see in your host's mind what had happened the last time he'd attempted to save the man currently being forced to sate Zevran's sexual avarice. Quickly you shy away the memory of the elf's punishment, sick to your stomach at the brutality inherent in it. It is enough, at least, to explain why your host does nothing more than grip his own shackles until they rattle.

"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens," Zevran says with a cruel laugh, slowing his hips long enough to glance in your direction. "You disapprove?"

You feel the shudder of fear that runs through your host, even as you feel the cold hate at its foundation. Through the hatred you learn that the man being tortured so by Zevran is your host's friend, a man whose life he values more than his own. Still, that doesn't mean your host dares to openly indicate that he thinks Zevran is a monster, both for his own safety as well as that of his friend. Reluctantly you shake your head despite the disgust that fills both you and your host.

"Good answer." Zevran laughs, then casts aside the whip so that he can grasp the sack on his victim's head and pull the man's head up. As the room fills with the sound of labored breathing, Zevran's hips thrust deeper and with excessive force as a mask of concentration contorts his face. It is clearly no longer about Zevran's pleasure or even his victim's pain, but about control.

Which makes you wonder why Zevran is so desperate to assert it.

Unable to watch any longer, you close your eyes and draw your mind inward, hoping to find some way out of this madness. As you do so, the booming pulse swells once more into prominence, bringing with it an abrupt rapport with your host. As rage and frustration bloom within, your hands tighten on the chains above you while the intensity of those feelings sweep over you. Your sense of self weakens, leaving you truly a spectator tucked away in your host's world with no sense of agency.

A crack of the whip and a slash of pain across your chest makes your eyes fly open in time to see Zevran sneer at you. It seems the elf has found satisfaction, leaving your friend still tied to the barrel. As the elf stands in front of you, eyes traveling over your naked body with a lewdity which makes your skin crawl, you notice that he still wears his pants and shirt, though they are open at the waist and throat. The contrast between your forced nakedness and his clothed state announce louder than words his status over you, even more than the whip in his hand. "I admit, I like ploughing his ass more than yours, but your tongue is far more clever. I'll have to remember to wake you first when next my urges arise."

Your hands throttle the chains so hard you that a rough edge of metal cuts into your skin. The elf is trying to goad you, as he has before, but you are determined not to let Zevran win. Even a petty victory counts.

:Make you pay:

The words echo through your head, making the rhythmic pulses that much louder as they wash through your being. Hate and fury wrap themselves in a fire around you as you struggle not to succumb wholly to your host's powerful emotions. As it is, you find a way to watch without being him-if only barely.

:I will make you pay for all of it:

"Ah, you're thinking again, I see," Zevran noted, moving closer. "What are you thinking now, hmm? Some sort of elaborate scheme for revenge?" With a snort, Zevran's hand reaches down and seizes your flaccid cock, manipulating it expertly. "You know, I don't need to be aroused to enjoy you. I only need my blade and my imagination."

:Stop:

Suddenly the word is full of desperation, and you can feel why. Zevran's touch is almost preternaturally pleasurable, as if every inch of his fingers has been doused in the strongest magical aphrodisiacs available in the best whorehouses in Minrathous. Your host doesn't want to admit to the pleasure, or to the arousal, but slowly finds himself succumbing to both.

:Stop making me feel good:

This time it is not the words themselves which surprise you, but what lies beneath them, the underlying tapestry of guilt which wells up and brushes against your mind. Abruptly you realize that your host loathes the pleasure not merely because of its source, but because he feels that he doesn't deserve to feel anything good.

And your heart breaks for him just a little bit more.

"Enjoying yourself, hmm?" Zevran says, a glint of malice in his eyes. "No need to answer. I feel the truth at hand."

You squeeze your eyes shut as your mind twists and turns in one with that of your host. The humiliation and self-loathing surge through you in equal measure as you writhe helplessly before Zevran's touch, trying to escape his grasp, but in the end helplessly buck your hips forward with a moan instead.

Still, the precise nature of your host's plight doesn't truly register until Zevran leans close and whispers, "And now for the grand fuck. Thankfully I've already prepared a lovely ass for you. He's ready and waiting, and quite sturdy."

And just like that, the real horror of Zevran's torture becomes clear as you feel your host struggle not only against his bonds, but against the spell which wraps around him, bending him to the will of Amell and his elf lover. Without truly thinking before you act, you reach out and grasp that spell in your hands, trying to influence it despite its seemingly implacable strength. In that moment, the booming pulse fades away, and you find yourself better able to draw the line between your true self and your host.

Immediately you turn your full attention to the spell, wondering if there is any way you can help this poor victim of Amell's evil. Surely there is some way you can affect it...

Even as you turn your focus to the magical restraints restricting your host, the shackles fall away from his wrists, and he is pulled away from the wall cock-first. With a cruel laugh, the elf shoves your host towards the man lashed to the barrel, back still covered with oozing wounds. "Now," Zevran snarls. "I want to hear him scream."

Your host stares down in horror at his friend, trying to resist the command with all his might. In a fit of desperate inspiration, he slaps his hand across the already bruised and battered ass, then hits him again harder. To his credit, the friend catches on quickly and screams in response, and your aching length remains outside his body. You will not force yourself on him.

For a moment, two words whisper across your host's mind- :Not again:- and you shudder away from the implication, then throw yourself against the spell once more.

Pain blooms on your host's back as the whip lands in punishment for that act of rebellion, limited as it is. However, before Zevran can do more than one lash, the door to the room bursts open. Your host turns in shock, backing into the wall quickly as he stares with mute apprehension at the tall figure with glowing red eyes standing in the doorway. Something about his stance and fixed glare puts you on high alert, and your own magical assault is halted in fear that Amell will somehow sense the effort.

Zevran turns to Amell with a bright smile. "Mi amor, you return."

Amell barely gives you or the man tied to the table a glance as he steps into the room, one shoulder hitched slightly higher than the other and his half-melted face set in an rabid snarl as he moves towards Zevran. His hood flutters back and off his head, and you stare with wide eyes. Clumps of dull red hair alternate with patches of discolored scalp on his head, shouting to you larger than words that Amell's health is in jeopardy. The revelation startles you, as well as rousing your curiosity. Could that be what is driving Amell? The slowly encroaching claws of mortality?

What happens next, however, almost drives the observation from your mind as you watch Amell's hand close around the elf's neck and raise him high before throwing him into the nearest wall. The elf cries out in shock and pain, then falls to the ground and whimpers, all his bravado gone in an instant before the wrath of his Master.

"Amor," he pleads. "What did I-"

"Silence, knife ear," Amell snarls.

Zevran raises a shaking hand towards Amell. "But amor-"

A burst of magic lashes out and wraps around Zevran's hand, tossing the screaming elf across the room again. Zevran hits the metal door with a heavy thud, then falls to the ground in a twitching heap. "When I wish to listen to a failure, I will," Amell roars. "You promised me my prize, my new pet!"

You stare, astonished, as Zevran crawls to his master, weeping and begging for forgiveness. Your host and his still-restrained friend are equally silent, not daring to draw attention to themselves when Amell is in the midst of venting his wrath.

And then, something truly odd happens.

Suddenly Amell grunts and raises his hands to cover his face, and you feel an odd shift in the air as a whisper of eldritch energy washes over the room. A pulse of force, enough to disturb the dust on the floor, pushes out from Amell's body, and when his hands lower, his demeanor is completely different. He is calm and collected, and something about his face has changed. Abruptly you realize that one of his eyes no longer glows, and wonder at the nature and meaning of the change.

:Maker:

And, for the first time since joining your host, you feel true, abject terror flood through him.

:It's here:

Two simple words, filled with a dread so strong it triggers an intense shudder throughout your body. Whatever happened, whoever it is, your host has seen this transformation before, and been given ample reason to fear it.

And it certainly is sufficient reason to maintain your caution, and remain completely still.

"The Commander is not mine," Amell says as he crosses the room. Even his voice is different, more cultured, more controlled. "You promised me the Commander of the Inquisition."

Your heart quails. Cullen? In the hands of this monster? You can barely conceive of it, but quite a few little details fall into place about how and why the red lyrium managed to sneak its way into Skyhold. The mention of Zevran's 'mission' from before-could they have been discussing the effort to turn Cullen?

With every fiber of your being, you thank the Maker that they did not succeed.

Zevran gibbers as he scrambles away from Amell, eyes wide with fear. "Master, please," he begs. "I put the lyrium in his tent and potions, I hid the kit in his desk. I did nothing wrong!"

"You failed," Amell snarled, taking a threatening step towards Zevran. "I do not tolerate failure."

Raising his arms defensively over his head, Zevran pleads, "Please, Master. Give me another chance!"

"You know what I need," Amell said, inexorably drawing closer. "And you know what I said I would do if I didn't get it."

"Master, I-"

Amell lashes out with his left hand, his burned hand, scoring three bloody lines on Zevran's face. "I need an incaensor," he murmurs in a deadly soft tone. "You know this. You were the one to suggest the Commander. And now, he is not here, which means it is your failure. Your punishment. Your fate."

Your eyes widen. Amell, as far as you know, is as Fereldan as Cullen. How on Thedas would he know the word for such a uniquely Tevinter concept as a battle slave imbued with magic? And why did that terrify Zevran so?

Wildly casting his gaze around the room, Zevran points in your direction. "Surely one of-"

Amell's left hand lashes out once more, and additional wounds appear Zevran's face and neck. "I have plans for them, as well you know. Plans you cannot fulfill, flawed as you are."

On hands and knees, Zevran crawls towards Amell and wraps himself around Amell's legs, reaching up to grasp Amell's right hand and squeeze tightly. "Amor, please," he sobs, almost shrieking in his terror, "come back to me!"

Amell raises his left hand as if to strike, then pauses. You feel that eldritch shift in the air once more, and suddenly Amell staggers slightly, held upright mostly by Zevran's grip on him. The second eye, the dull eye, suddenly flashes red before settling into the same red glow as the other one. For a moment Amell touches his face, then glances down at the elf still clinging to his leg. "Zevran?"

Tears streaming down his face, Zevran nods violently. "Si, amor. It is me. Your Zevran. Remember?"

Amell takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling for a long moment, then straightens. "Let go."

Relief relaxes the tension in Zevran's body as he hastily obeys, making you wonder how many times Zevran has witnessed this peculiar change in Amell. More than that, it seems the episodes scare Zevran to the same degree as it terrifies your host, and you cannot help but wonder if somehow that fear could be used to the Inquisition's advantage.

Even as you contemplate that fascinating idea, Amell strides across the room to stand before you, narrowed eyes traveling over your host's body as he approaches. "Your time is coming," he says softly. "I need you ready." He reaches up and runs a finger across the scabbed cut Zevran inflicted earlier, and it vanishes at his touch. His hands continue to move over you, leaving flawless, fresh skin in their wake. "I've let Zevran indulge in the two of you long enough. Now we must prepare for your next steps, knowing what awaits you if you fail in your tasks."

He reaches up and runs his fingers through your hair, and an odd heat spreads throughout your scalp until you gasp on the edge of pain and pleasure. Amell chuckles, a smile twitching on his lips as if he knows the effect his touch has on you. The arousal from before has returned, but far, far stronger, and you struggle not to whimper with your need as you stare into his red eyes.

"You will do as I require. You will not fail me." The words are not a question, nor are they a suggestion. They are a force of reality, or at least, that is how your host feels them. Deep, deep down, buried beneath the power of Amell's spell, you feel an inchoate longing buried in your host, a terrible loneliness, and a sorrow which takes your breath away. But it doesn't reach the surface, where Amell might see it, and the moment passes quickly.

You watch as Amell turns to the man still tied and restrained, and watch in awe as his hands move over the bloody back, healing all the marks without a scar. Only the most powerful of spirit healers you've ever met could heal with such ease, and never a blood mage. Whatever else Amell may be, he is a highly skilled mage as well as a powerful one.

Not that that's worrying or anything.

Once the healing is done, Amell's gaze moves to Zevran as he burns away the bonds holding the man to the barrel. "I will take this one with me. He needs to be prepared in a fashion which does not expend his seed. I will forgive your transgression in failing to anticipate the Commander's resistance to our trap if you succeed in your next mission. It is time to enact the Witch's spell on the fallen angel."

Zevran swallows harshly. "You wish her brought here?" The surprise in his voice is evident, as well as more than a tinge of apprehension.

Amell nods emphatically. "Do it quickly and quietly, and use that special potion Avernus concocted to keep her unaware. She must never know she was in this place, or in our hands. Ensure she never sees how you bring her here, either. There are some secrets best kept hidden from all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," Zevran whispers, even as you mentally curse at Amell's vagueness. What did he mean? Who is the Witch, or the angel? And what did that mean for the Inquisition? "It shall be as you command."

"Good." Turning his attention back to your host's friend, Amell settles his right hand on the now-healed back. "Stand." As the man slowly gains his feet, leaving the sack in place absent an order to remove it, Amell looks to Zevran."Do not touch them again until after their next mission is done."

Zevran nods quickly. "I shall restrain myself, Master."

"Yes. You will." Amell cants his head to the side as a cold smile curves his lips, and raises his right hand in invitation. "Come here." A tremulous smile comes to Zevran's face, and he dashes to Amell's side. The mage suddenly pulls Zevran up into a deep, heated kiss, then presses their foreheads together for a long moment before speaking once more. "Always call me back."

A shudder wracks Zevran's body. "Always, amor. You know I am desolate without you."

"We will survive this," Amell whispers, then releases Zevran to rise to his full height before gesturing towards you. "Move him to their new quarters. They must prepare for what is to come."

"It will be done," Zevran promises him.

Without another word to the elf, Amell grabs the arm of the man he'd just healed and hauls him to the door, where they both disappear into the darkness beyond.

:Don't:

You feel a panic set into your host as his friend disappears from sight, leaving him alone with Zevran. It is a knee-jerk reaction, and memories of past times spent with Zevran alone flicker through his memory too fast to register. You also feel your host's intense worry that it might be the last time he sees his friend, knowing in whose clutches he is now. It isn't the love for a lover, but the deep, abiding sense of affection and responsibility you have come to know in your own role as the Inquisitor. In fact, you note that the responsibility is tied with an equally strong dose of guilt, as if the two emotions are somehow related to one another.

:Don't leave me alone:

And again your host surprises you, as those words are not laced with concern for his personal well-being, but based upon an intrinsic sense of abandonment, of a lifetime filled with too many losses to contemplate.

Suddenly Zevran releases a long, gusty sigh, then squares his feet as he gives you a dour glare. "You saw none of this," he hisses. "And you will not speak of it. Ever."

You nod mutely.

"Stay here until I return. Touch nothing. Do nothing," Zevran snaps, then glances down at the evidence of your unwilling lust and smirks. "Ah, yes. That won't go away without some attention. Your Master's touch demands an answer, after all. Still, I am not a man entirely without mercy," he says with a grin. "Attend to that yourself while I am gone, and be quick about it."

With a dark laugh, he stalks to the door, slamming it shut behind him.

You sag back into the wall, and it is a mix of Amell's spell and natural desperation that has your hand settle on your hard length, angry that even something as simple as self-indulgence is no longer a choice. You do exactly as Zevran told you to do, quick and rough and dirty, each moment an agonizing mixture of pleasure and disgust. Once it is over, your host's head drops forward, and you feel a great weight descend upon his heart.

:Forever:

His resignation and despair fills your awareness as he tries to imagine what is to come, and sees only more pain, more darkness, and more Amell. The tears rise unnoticed by your host, falling to the ground to disappear without a trace, but you notice them, and know they have not even begun to relieve his sorrow.

:I'll be here forever:

Again your heart breaks a little, even though the man is unknown to you. In that moment, you decide that you must do something, no matter how small . Quickly you resume your study of the spell with which Amell has bound your host, looking for anything you can do despite the limitations imposed upon you by this strange dream-that-is-real. As you focus, the booming pulse you still do not understand aids you in your concentration, soothing your mind and allowing you to sharpen your focus.

You do not know how much time it takes until you find an opportunity. You only know that you feel as if you had been riding an unwilling mount for the better part of a week while wrestling with a series of recalcitrant rifts. It is not a pleasant sensation, but your triumph keeps your discomfort at bay. You feel that it has only truly been an instant in this strange place, but you still move to act swiftly.

It is a small opportunity, practically unnoticeable, and only possible to budge because of the Anchor, with its unique ability to unlock what nothing else can. As you summon up its power, the rhythmic pulse swells in your mind even more, beating in time with your host's heartbeat. As he falls into a strange reverie, still forced to obey Zevran's orders to do nothing, you chip away at the spell bit by bit, until, finally, a crack appears.

Now you sit back in triumph. Oh, the spell is not broken by any means-even with the Anchor, you simply don't have the wherewithal in the here and now to dispel as powerful an enchantment as this. But at least you have altered its state sufficiently so that a constant pressure from within could widen the crack. It isn't much more than a sliver of hope, but it is more than your host had before.

And, as if it had been waiting for exactly this eventuality, the presence of the spirit you'd almost forgotten about rises once more from its task of watching you and speaks.

"That's enough for now. Wake up."

Dorian roused from sleep in an instant, shoved unceremoniously into wakefulness with all the power of a strike from a dragon's tail-something with which he was far too familiar. For a moment or two he simply stared at the stitching on his pillow cover, trying to puzzle out why he wasn't naked and sitting alone in some unknown location before his reality settled in once more.

With a groan, Dorian forced himself to roll into a sitting position. Felix had finally departed after a few bottles of decent wine and several hours of better conversation. The throbbing in Dorian's head reminded him that perhaps such a combination had not been the wisest course of action, especially the night before he was supposed to meet with his father, but it was far too late to reconsider now.

Besides, it had been that sort of day.

Rubbing his face with his hands, Dorian tried to force his mind back to the dream-that-was-real. Despite his best efforts to recall what had happened-and unlike the previous occurrence-the details were already fading. Some things lingered, albeit faintly, so he quickly found a notebook to jot down what he could, scratching the page in his desperate speed: his pity for the man who played his host, Amell's use of an old Tevene word, the nagging feeling that Amell's strange change in demeanor signaled something dire, and even the mysterious mention of a Witch and an angel.

Even as his quill moved across the page, however, those little oddities felt distant and remote, and the words he'd just written appeared almost foreign, as if written by another hand. In point of fact, it felt as if someone didn't want him to remember, but that would be ridiculous.

He paused, frowning. Or would it? He still had no idea how or why he had come to partake in these strange dreams or whatever they were, but he did clearly remember how he left them. Whatever the nature of that unidentified being, they had a purpose all their own, and Dorian had no clue if they worked for good or ill.

His main hope rested in the belief that working against Amell meant working for the good of all. And for now, at least, the feeling he got from this mysterious force was that of cooperation, not hostility.

Setting the paper and quill aside, Dorian buried his face in his hands for a moment, the steady pulse of the mark a minor background to the whole evening. Finally he sighed and rolled over onto his side. Either he would sleep, or he would not. Regardless, he felt like he had done all that could be done.

He found sleep again rather quickly, as it turned out-sleep, and pleasant dreams.